Please and thank you


It’s only good manners to say please and thank you when someone does something nice for you. I could never have imagined, though, that such simple words could have such a profound effect on me.

It started simply enough. When the boy and I embarked on our power play journey, he was nervous of the boundaries. Skittish about how to dominate (and how much bossing around I would accept), I suggested he have control over my vast toy collection. I wasn’t to use any of them without his permission — whether he was there or not. Over Gchat (god bless the protective power of a monitor), I could feel the grin spread across his face. He could get used to this, I thought. And he did.

It didn’t take too many nights of bedtime texts for him to realise I had no problem pleading for release. In fact, he came to expect it. Credit allowing, I’ve never been denied… but a few miscommunications (and impatience on my part) have resulted in me paying for presumptuous disobedience at a later date.

Such fun we had, teasing eachother this way… it was only a matter of time before he craved the same deference in person. And so, one night, I was informed that I had to say please before I took my pleasure. And he fucking knows how to time his requests — at that moment, I’d have called the parish priest and asked permission if that’s what it would have taken to be allowed an orgasm. The half-smile that crept onto his face under hooded lids as I pleaded with him was all I needed to see to know this would become standard practice.

At least, it’s standard practice when he allows it. The evil in him sometimes says no, just to hear me whine and plead. More often than not, his greed for my pleasure wins out — luckily for me.

“Please can I” soon led to “please may I”, followed closely by “thank you”. Sir. I’m to think of each orgasm as a gift, he says… bestowed on me because HE wants it, because HE enjoys it, because it gets him off to see me that way — wild and wanton and truly myself. All because he said so. My pleasure is merely a fortunate byproduct.

He owns my every orgasm. Whether from the toy drawer or from him, without his say-so I’m left a squirming mess of desperate girlflesh.

My pleasure is dependent on saying please. Please, sir. Saying it is like flipping a switch, now. Simply typing the words into my phone is electrifying. It leaves me tingling, the anticipation. The waiting is foreplay. And tonight… he hasn’t text me back.

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