“Listen,” I said.

“Don’t drop me yet,” you asked.

“Don’t drop me— what?,” I replied, sternly.

You hesitated. You looked adorable, all naked, with your forehead on my lap and your ass slightly up, totally exposed, defenseless, because at that point you were incapable of shame or fear.

“Don’t drop me yet, please, Mistress,” you said, arching your neck, raising your head, straining to look up at me. This was the most you could do to express some kind of resistance. At the same time, you tried to smile at me. You were like a puppy, trying to win me over with tenderness.

“Honey,” I said to you, smiling back, “don’t fret about such things. You don’t get to decide when I drop you. You’re not smart enough, silly girl. You know that.”

You whimpered.

“But Mistress— I—”

“Quiet,” I ordered, and you obeyed. “Listen to the clock.”

There was no clock in our room, but you were in no condition to reject anything I said. Your imagination was perfectly trained: it could provide whatever your senses couldn’t find in your surroundings. And it was even better to “hear” than to “see”, for example. In the state you were, you wouldn’t even tell what was really there from what was not.

You sighed.

“Listen to the clock,” I said again.

“I hear it, Mistress,” you replied, and at the same time you surrendered, tilting your head forward, back to my lap.

“Good girl. Listen. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”

Your ample, beautiful body shook imperceptibly with the first tick; the first tock made it jerk a little more. And so on, little by little, you started to tremble. Each sound you thought you were hearing was a jolt of pleasure, a spark that lit up your nerve endings and ate away at your ability to think. What such onslaught of pleasure was revealing, behind a veneer of independence and rationality, was the real you: in a way, a cute, harmless puppy; a domesticated animal that only existed to please its owner and sink in its own pleasure.

“Tick,” I said. “Tock. Tick. Tock.”

You started moaning, regularly, trapped by the rhythm of the clock that wasn’t there.

“You were saying you didn’t want to drop. Why was that, my pet?”

You kept moaning, louder and louder. I’d never find out and you probably didn’t know anymore.

“You will drop when I tell you to drop, isn’t it?”

You tried to nod. I could sense your effort to tilt your head. I felt proud of you. But the clock was still ticking, carrying you with it, taking you higher and higher, and you couldn’t do more to assert your obedience to me. You were busy squirming.

I waited half a minute more to see you squirm a little more, uncontrollably, less a puppy than a bitch in heat, as if you were on the edge of an orgasm. Maybe you were.

And then I said, “DROP!”, and your entire body collapsed, lost to the universe.