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Cole
She was mine.
There's a kind of sub, usually one who is strong and proud in her everyday life, who cannot bend to meet the dom's demands.
Annie had sought me out. She'd followed me and researched me, her inquiries leaving a trail that was reported back to me. She had never been out of my sight or far from my control, even when she headed into the most recent undercover operation.
At the same time, she resisted so beautifully. Breaking her would be a delight. It appealed to the sadist in me. To watch her crumble. To leave her finally reduced to tears.
And at the same time, breaking her down worked with the therapies I could put together. Pharma only goes so far. There's a need to break down the ego that says I can handle this, I'm stronger than it. She kept trying to prove she was.
She kept failing.
No matter how it seemed, I wasn't driven by hate. I didn't want to break her to see her ultimately fail or die. I wanted to save her. I wanted to free her into being who she was.
But I would enjoy the fuck out of the struggle on the way there.
She'd signed the contract faster than I expected. I was almost sorry about that. There's an anticipation that builds before the first time I'm able to take a new sub and punish her.
It wasn't just the resistance. It was the shame. That was so delightful to watch. The way she blinked when I ordered something, either doing it myself or ordering whatever it was through one of my people, like the nurse who’d greeted her when she was cuffed to the bed. Annie colored beautifully when she was humiliated, her skin darkening from its usual olive to a dusky pink. She was angry and embarrassed; beyond embarrassed, humiliated at being forced to strip and worse still, it was all on her. Her own responsibility. Her own decision. Because she had made the choice. She could refuse to comply and find herself knocked out, waking unharmed in a posh and paid-for hotel on The Strip.
She didn't know that. Her fear might be to wake in the desert, too far from civilization to get help when she was on foot, without water.
Or she might anticipate not waking at all.
Neither of those were true, but I didn't bother disabusing her of the notions.
Her own acquiescence of the acts, choosing to strip, submitting to the search, her first punishment – they all burned hotter as she was required to decide. To choose the acts. To make her say please would be the next step.
When her shirt had been cut from her, that was undoubtedly a relief. How could it not be? She hadn't been required to make that decision, to choose whether or not to allow it. She had been unable to stop it and it had simply happened to her.
I might be imagining it or assuming too much too soon, but I thought there was a part of her that enjoyed that.
She'd never admit to it.
And she didn't know yet, because she’d searched for me, that it doesn't change for most subs. The anticipation, the imagining, the fantasizing about the pain will always, always, be better than the actual pain itself.
The comedown after.
The orgasm during.
The self-care or aftercare when she's survived. All of those are better than the actual moment.
She'd learn. The moment hurt. The moment was what mattered.
The moment was transformative.
I'd let her go. Eventually. And when I let her go, she will have been transformed.
