How it might go

You go to kiss me. I push your head down, not meeting your lips.

“Kneel,” I say. It’s not a request.

You do.

“What do you want?” I ask.

You’re silent. You look down.

“Look up at me.”

A beat passes.

Another beat passes.

Your eyes face the ground. Your hands, reflexively, are clasped behind your back.

“Look up at me, I said,” I say. My tone is… impatient.

You do. Your eyes meet mine, daring you to look away.

You don’t.

“What. Do. You. Want.”

Not a question. At all.

“Your cock.” You’re whispering.

“Excuse me?”

“Your cock,” you say, a little louder.

“What about my cock?” I ask, again, somewhere between a question and a command.

“I want it,” you say.

“You want what?”

“Your cock.”

I turn around, start to walk away.

“I want your cock,” you try.

“You do?” I ask, still walking away, over my shoulder.

“Please?” You’re asking.

I stop. Turn around.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Please’.”

“I see,” I say. “Is that all?”

“Please, may I have your cock?” you ask.

“Have?” I ask.

“Suck,” you say. “Lick. Taste.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Please may I suck your cock?” you ask.

“Are you asking me?”

“No. I’m begging you,” you say, finally acquiescing.

“Good girl,” I say, and walk toward you, unbuckling my black leather belt as I walk.