She had owned me before. Treated me like a puppy dog, or a pony, a slave in perpetual celibacy, whatever her whim, whatever she thought a Mistress was supposed to do, derived from whatever trashy porn novel, or blog, or pervert social media site she could find. The emphasis was on doing something, whatever. Pegging me with that horse cock of a dildo in that leather harness, perpetual foot worship to the brink of boredom, pony training til my gaits were perfect.
Finally one night, she looked at me, tears in her eyes and declared, “This isn’t me.”
I knew. The power she had, she loved. The service I gave pleased her. It flattered her that a man-slave could lick her cunt with eagerness and consummate skill, with no reciprocity expected in return. But she felt that Mistress was not an expression of who she was deep down, but a job. The cunt-licking was merely the wage earned.
Mistress-slave was nothing more than a mutually boring game. So that night, I unbuckled the dog collar she had once buckled around my neck, put my clothes back on and walked out the door. My service was my gift and it was no longer wanted. Perhaps she never knew what it meant to receive it, nor did she appreciate its value.