The soft clinking of the delicate silver chains between my wrists seemed as distant and dreamlike as the impossible goddess before me. I lifted a cigarette to Her awaiting ruby red lips, slightly parted as if anticipating a kiss. As though in a trance, or perhaps underwater, I moved slowly and consciously, with my eyes affixed on the movement of Her lush mouth closing over the end of the cigarette. The delicious rosy smudge that She surely left behind fed the flame of longing that rose from my abdomen and bloomed in my throat. I was jealous of the cigarette that was blessed to wear Her marks.

With purposeful and practiced movements, I lifted the lighter from the table, flicked open the cap and lit the trembling flame to Her unlit cigarette. I hoped that in the careful way I cradled the lighter She saw my devotion, which was only Hers. I could not multitask, even if I had wished it so, because the bondage of my wrists prohibited my hands from moving farther than about twelve centimeters apart. My ankles were likewise bound. I lit the cigarette and returned the lighter to the table and my hands to my lap.

My eyes remained fixed on Her as She inhaled slowly, deeply, sumptuously, and held it there. She reached forward, hooked a finger in the metallic ring of my collar, and pulled me forward until Her face was just before mine. I sucked in a half breath as Her startling eyes pulled me in, holding me as powerfully as Her hand. Then She released the hazy, swirling smoke, which made me want to cough and turn away, both urges that I in equal parts resisted and was prohibited from indulging by Her command over me. My eyes stung and prickled with tears that tangled in my lashes and dripped to my flushed cheeks, but I refused to break contact with Her fierce gaze. I felt as if I were sleepy, naïve Alice and She the caterpillar, or perhaps if such a character existed, a magnificent spider in whose smoky web I could never, would never want to, escape. Intoxicated. I loved it.

When the last whisp of bitter smoke trailed from between Her rosy lips, She smiled, now more like the devious Cheshire Cat than the Caterpillar. More of my sparkling tears spilled over. I saw the devilish pleasure plainly across Her angelic features - She always said I was prettiest when I cried for Her, though in my servitude I was always pleasing to the eye. Her finger slipped from the ring of my collar and Her hand roughly gripped my face, squishing my lips together and apart, pressing into the bones of my cheeks, Her soft palm under my chin. I felt the sharp edges of bright red fingernails against my skin.

"What do you say?" She purred in a low, sultry voice that intensified the aching between my legs. Her accent made everything sound like a song to me.

"Merci beaucoup, Madame," I nearly whispered back, careful to pronounce it carefully, as She had instructed me. I felt every bit a timid white lily swooning under the boldness of a towering, thorned, blood-red rose.

She hummed a chuffed note and leaned yet closer, unbearably close, and scooped up my salty tears with Her darting tongue. I pathetically leaned in to Her and sighed dreamily. She laughed and again She reminded me of music.

...Les effluves de rhum dans ta voix, me font tourner la tête / The smell of rum in your voice makes my head spin

Tu me fais danser du bout des doigts, comme tes cigarettes / You make me dance with your fingertips, like your cigarettes...

I was Hers, entirely, obscenely, painfully. Forever and since the beginning. She would remind me again today.

She said I always had a far-away look about me, like I was caught in the sweetest dream, to which I always responded that the sweetest dream was She. My Madame. She cherished my adoration and rewarded my worship. Most of all, sacred was my suffering for Her and by Her hand. It was pleasurable in its own right, distinct from what we consider pleasure, but more profound than pain.

She released my face and in a dazzlingly swift movement grasped a fistful of my hair behind my head and yanked, provoking a yelp, so that my chin was upturned and neck exposed, and I had to look down past my cheekbones to hold Her gaze. With Her free hand She lifted Her cigarette again to Her lips, inhaled, and shook Her dark hair away from Her face. Her eyes studied me, especially the movement of my neck as I near panted with desire. She exhaled that spellbinding smoke. My mind felt floaty and hazy. My fingers fidgeted in my lap in anticipation. She rested Her cigarette again in the glass ashtray at Her side and lightly rasped the surface of my vulnerable and ticklish neck with Her sharp nails. I felt the small hairs on my nape prickle as a shiver passed through me. She tugged my hair again, forcing my head further to one side, and I whimpered, struggling to keep my eyes on Her. She laughed, cruelly, beautifully. In everything She was unapologetic and entirely in command of Herself, Her sexuality, and Her surroundings. It was this unwavering ownership and enjoyment of Herself and what was Hers that drew me to her so strongly sealed my fate as Hers as well. She was my Divine Feminine and She did not tolerate anything less than what She deserved. I loved that about her.

"Combien c'est pitoyable," how pitiful, She said, clicking Her tongue as if She were not responsible. "My sweet thing. How can I be nice to you when you are so perfect for hurting?"

Sweet thing, I thought, Her thing to use, a toy for Her amusement. A mouse on a string to a cat. I licked my lip, hungering for Her touch.

"I suppose," I dared to speak, though in a low and hushed voice, "you must hurt me then, Madame."

I saw the malicious spark in Her eye, Her excitement at my complicity in my own suffering.

"Oui," She smiled as Her free hand glided down my naked flesh, over my clavicle, around the swell of my naked breast, and stopped at my ribs. She held it there a heartbeat before tracing Her nails upward under my breast, letting the weight of it rest in Her hand. "So I must, ma chérie."

I felt my heart racing in my chest as if it might escape. What would She do? Hurt me, surely. It all came down to how, but that wasn't worth dwelling over; it wouldn't make it any less painful, and the anticipation was itself part of the fun. I braced myself, all my senses on edge, waiting.

She did not hurt me right away. Instead, to my surprise, She was tender. She pressed Her painted lips to mine and blessed me with a deep, luxurious kiss. My eyes fluttered shut. Our tongues danced as She massaged my breast, caressing and lightly pinching my sensitive nipple. I found myself melting, as I always do, and surrendering myself entirely to Her addictive touch. My thoughts faded into the hazy background, replaced by the glorious sensation of Her skin, Her nails, Her breath, Her teeth delicately nibbling on my bottom lip.

She withdrew Her mouth from mine and though I did not open my eyes, I felt Her gaze on me as She expertly teased my nipple. I knew She wanted to watch me tremble and hear my mewls, and that I gave Her freely. In giving myself entirely over to pleasure, I forgot to brace myself, and the sudden, sharp slap to my breast shook me deeply and caused me to yelp and intensify the warm wetness between my thighs. My body jerked instinctively away from Her and my eyes shot open. She corrected me with a firm yanking back into place with the hand that still held my hair tightly. Her lustful eyes roved over me and stared deeply into mine once again.

Mine, her eyes seemed to say. Then She slapped my breast again. Again. Again. The stinging pain came in waves that moved closer and closer together as She struck the same spot again and again, with a steady pace that drove moans and cries from between my trembling lips. I began to gasp and then to weep as the pain built.

"Cry for me," she murmurred tenderly, and I gladly obliged, though truthfully I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I knew the hot tears flowing from my eyes pleased Her from the way Her breathing changed to a warm, sensual pant. When my breast had sufficiently reddened, She moved on to the other, continuing my torture. The pain made a sheen of sweat break out on my forehead and upper chest. The bouncing of my chest after each slap embarrassed me. I cried shamelessly, naked as emotionally as I was physically before Her, and I knew it pleased her by her smile. The air around us felt charged with sexuality, invigorating, inescapable, perfect, all-encompassing. Nothing existed except this moment.

She moaned, almost growled, taking my battered breast into Her hand and digging Her nails deeply into it. Her arousal felt palpable. I whimpered softly in response, though glad She stopped slapping me. "Look at Me," She growled again, and I blinked rapidly, struggling to see Her through the wet curtain of my tears. As She spoke, She found new ways to torture me: a rough tug on my nipple, a harsh rasping of Her nails over my ribs, or a bruising hold on my breast. "You are Mine always, and you know it. You cannot escape it. You are bound to Me. You need to hurt and I am the only one who can give you what you deserve. You crave this," She purred, now softly sliding Her hand down my stomach and hip to my inner thigh, which She stroked lovingly. I felt the pulsing between my legs and knew the chair beneath me was glistening, even without seeing it. I knew what She said was true. Hearing it made me even wetter.

"You are nothing more than a cunt, a pair of tits, and a mouth to use and abuse. Look at you. Dripping all over My chair, eager to be beaten," She dragged Her nails against my tender skin and I writhed in Her grasp, panting like a bitch in heat.

"Yes, yes," I moaned without even intending to, losing control of myself under the influence of Her intoxicating domination. She smiled viciously, flashing Her teeth.

"Embrace your true nature," She said seductively, caressing my inner thighs and edging closer, closer, closer, but never touching where I wished She would. She leaned close to me and I smelled Her sweet perfume and bitter cigarettes. "A sacred whore. Elevated by your servitude. Exalted by your worship at My altar of pain and pleasure... made beautiful, worthy, by your suffering, because it pleases Me," She whispered into my ear. I felt myself trembling.

"Say it, my sweet, poor creature," She whispered, and I heard the quiver of pleasure in Her voice, her words turning her on as much as they did me. She finally released Her vice grip on my hair and caressed my face, stroking my wet lips. "Beg for it. Beg for your Goddess to use you like you deserve," She said with noticeable need, hot and heavy, "confess your sins to Me."

I could barely stand it. Everything in me felt on fire. I allowed myself to be everything She said, no, She knew I was, and wept. My hands and ankles bound, my body naked, my breasts bruising, my legs spread, begging Her to touch me. I felt so full of emotion and so overwhelmed by it. I felt a storm tearing through me, scaring and yet thrilling me. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss. I wondered if I could handle any more. I had always been sensitive, a cry baby, a delicate flower. That was why I was so beautiful in pain, physical or emotional, because I felt it so deeply, so fully. I yielded to it entirely. Just as I yielded to Her. And in doing so, I found acceptance for myself. A pride for all parts of me, even the shameful parts.

I cried brazenly to Her, my eyes locked on Hers, not thinking, only speaking, letting go of control to this deafening emotion that was so good and so bad, "please, please, my Goddess, my Madame, hurt me, use me, take me, do whatever pleases You, please, I am Your sacred whore, Your plaything, whatever You want me to be," I gasped for air, "I am so low, so useless, so wet, fuck, I'm so wet, I want to be worthy of you, I want to be beautiful for you, I want You, oh my Goddess, I want You, please, please -"

She shut me up by crashing Her lips to mine and I felt as if She might devour me entirely. I tasted my own flowing tears. Her hands grabbed the back of my head and held me close to Her. My cuffed hands clutched Her leg. We clung to each other as if we would drown otherwise. When She broke the kiss, She breathed deeply and looked into my eyes.

"On your knees, whore," was all She said.

I scrambled to slide off the chair kneel before Her. I looked up at Her in adoration.

"It is time to worship at My altar."

Her knees parted and Her silk robe slid up Her smooth thighs to reveal Her dark, wild bush and Her glistening pink pussy. She scooted forward slightly and leaned back, and I wasted no time in diving right in. Her pleased moans sounded like heavenly music as I lapped and sucked Her sweetness. She relit Her cigarette and took a slow, smooth drag, luxuriating in hedonistic bliss. I kissed Her clitoris tenderly and She wrapped Her legs around me, pulling me in deeper.

As I fervently serviced my Madame, I felt a deep sense of catharsis and fulfillment. This is where I was meant to be, I thought, as I came down from the emotional high and settled into a peaceful and slightly-worn out state. Floating. It was heavenly to feel Her tense and soften on my tongue as She reached a fierce climax. The smell of cigarette smoke and the taste of Her on my tongue reminded me of the same song from earlier...

...Les effluves de rhum dans ta voix, me font tourner la tête

Tu me fais danser du bout des doigts, comme tes cigarettes...

I rested my head on Her warm thigh and closed my eyes as She lovingly stroked my hair. I felt warm, safe. Broken apart and put back together, more whole than before.

"Very well done, my pet," She cooed, bending forward to lightly massage my shoulders. "You are so beautiful. So loved. So worthy. I am so proud... Rest, mon cœur, you have done so well..."