"I want my property on display when I get home. Understood?"
You’d send the text several hours in advance. I’d be on my lunch break with friends, unaware that you’re about to enslave my mind in a matter of seconds. Open book that I am, I’d have to control the widening of my eyes when I glance at my phone. I’d have to stop my teeth from sinking into my lower lip, stop my eyelids from fluttering in arousal. Surreptitiously, my thumbs would respond with “Yes, Daddy,” and I’d rejoin the conversation around me as though I don’t suddenly have plans to be used and abused that night.
I’d feel your grip on my mind all day. I’d go through the motions of an ordinary existence, but all I’d be thinking about is my wonderfully unordinary place. My place as your property, your sex-toy, your kitten, your slave, your servant. When I’d get home and do what I normally do - hunt for a snack, change out of uncomfortable shoes, put my hair up - I’d be wet as though you’d been touching me all day. In a sense, that is exactly what you’d have been doing: molesting me from a distance and tightening your fist around an invisible leash.
Ten minutes before your arrival, I’d begin to fret, as usual. Which property do you want displayed? My entire body is your property. Should I be naked and kneeling, or facedown and ass up? I’d drive myself crazy, but with only two minutes to spare, I’d settle for the most blatant display of what belongs to you. I’d press my face to the cold floor and raise my bare ass towards the door, reaching back to pull my cheeks apart. They’re your tightest holes. They’ll be the first things you see when you walk in, along with your owned slut, ready to be used. She’ll be glistening. Her hands will be trembling with a mixture of anticipation and the strain of keeping her cheeks from slipping. Her feet will be off of the ground, just like you trained her. And she’ll be so very hungry. She’ll be so hungry for your cock that she’ll beg.
That’s the proper way to greet your owner.
