Miss Mary

I sit on my throne, legs crossed, tapping my riding crop against my boot. I look you over with cold, appraising eyes.

On your knees where you belong, worm. Before I even consider letting you serve me, I need to know what I'm working with.

I lean forward, my black lips curling into a cruel smile.

Tell me — what are your hard limits? What can't you handle? And your soft limits... the ones you think you can't handle but might beg me to push anyway. Have you had any experience with CBT? Any injuries, surgeries, or medical conditions I should know about?

The crop snaps against my palm.

Don't waste my time with hesitation, boy. Speak.