Dora was already panting her pleas as she answered the phone.

 

"Please don't say it, Mistress!"

 

Her voice was strained, almost frantic, not quite cracking but instead with a fatigued edge from long days of working and longer nights of preparation. Sleep was, she had learnt, something that had to be stolen, taken when nobody was looking and clung to for short hours in between her other obligations.

 

Nails uneven and edges bitten, the hand not clutching her phone as if it were driftwood in a stormy sea was digging its fingers hard into her palm, knuckles paling as her mind warred. As the two parts of her - the part she hated and loved, and the part she feared and needed - scrabbled for dominance. A foregone conclusion.

 

The part that wanted her to throw the phone away, smash it against the wall, ignore the special ringtone she'd set for Mara's number and never, ever talk to "Mistress" ever again. The part that had searched online, dark night after wet night, looking for a cheap therapist, then for any therapist. The part that, a few weeks later, had started looking for deprogrammers. Had looked once or twice, in the delirious grasp of sleeplessness, for exorcists.

 

There was another part too, the larger part, that wanted her to grovel and scrape and beg forgiveness for speaking without being spoken to. The part that had kept talking to Mara even when Mara told Dora what she'd wanted to do to her, what she wanted Dora to consent to Mara doing to her. The part that had been melting hotly inside of her thinking of being a brainwashed slavegirl ever since she'd been old enough to understand what arousal was. The part that kneeled before Her altar and prayed to her one true Goddess.

 

Dora, vision blurred and wet through the panicked moistness in the corners of her eyes, heard a soft, high laugh on the other end of the line. The sound was like snorting cocaine, like an experienced tongue trailing across her tight nipples. The worshipping part pressed the phone harder against her ear; the cowering, quivering victim managed to whisper a soft moan of terror, not at her Mistress but at what her Mistress could make her do. Could make her crave.

 

Dora knew she was sobbing openly, not quite long enough for the tears to drip down her cute button nose and splash against the hem of her too-short-to-be-professional skirt, but loud enough for the cheap smartphone's microphone to carry it to Her ears.

 

Mistress' voice, when it did come, made both parts of her gasp.

 

"Oh, My stupid girl, my fucked-up little whore...

“Tell Me now: why should I not?

"Answer."

 

Dora whined pathetically, like a dog that strained against its leash so it could feel the bite of the rope and the scent of the leather. Dora's voice was trembling, effort dripping from her words like the cold, black oil she felt was pouring into her head listening to Her expectant silence.

 

A direct order had been given. Dora had to obey. Wanted to obey. Obedience was... was not even obedience anymore. It simply Was.

 

But no order had been given as to her tone, or her words.

 

"I... my presentation t-to the f-foundation... I can't, please, it’s o-on Friday, it's-! I can't... I can't stop working, n-not... M-Mistress I need th-this funding-!"

 

Dora's voice, deeper than might be expected for her high cheekbones and long, curling hair, did crack then as real, ice-cold terror shattering the fragile remnants of her self-control. It could not be said that she had pride anymore, not around Her, but she tried at least to be cool and level and not the babbling, whimpering sycophant she knew she'd be if Mistress gave the slightest hint that She desired Dora to be so.

 

"Mistress, please! I c-can't fail, I've already... there's no...

"Mistress, I-I'll g-give you anything, anything I have left, I-I'll give you everything, just p-please don't-!"

 

"Quiet and still now, girl."

 

It was quite calm, but hit her mind harder than a swung bat to the head.

 

Mistress' voice was utterly controlled. Utterly focused.

 

Just like Dora. It made Dora's soul want to die with ecstatic, awestruck terror. The fear of Goddess was in her, and she quailed. Spasmed. Creamed.

 

Mistress' voice held a trace of a hint of controlled, and perhaps even amused, anger. Dora wondered, in the frothing tip of the terrified waves that lapped inside her head as her body was forced into silent stillness, if the deity she called Mistress didn't enjoy this feeling. The feeling of both joy and rage, of excitement and fury.

 

If Dora had had the willpower to ask a question, or the inclination to feel Her hazelwood cane thrash Dora's back into a bloody pulp the next time Mistress had Her hands on Dora's quivering flesh, she might have put it to Her.

 

She simply wept, silently, instead.

 

"You will not give me anything, girl, because you have nothing left of value that is still yours to give."

 

Despite the command, her body could not help but sob great, racking, heaving sobs that shook her chest and flung thick tears across her smart black crop-top and faded denim jacket. The outfit was one that, a year ago, she would never have selected - never even believed she could suit, much less scald passers-by with the heat of her strut in stockinged legs and oh-so-high heels. But that was before Mistress had unlocked Dora's "true potential", as She said. Before Dora had been Hers, pounding heart and trembling soul.

 

"You are My slut, girl, and I know you know this.

"You have no right to ask of Me what I did not tell you to ask. Your begging is as talented and endearing as ever, but I did not ask for it and thus I will not tolerate it.

"Cease it. Now."

 

It was like a switch had been flicked, somewhere in the darkness behind Dora's eyes where she had neither sight nor touch. The tears would not come, the sobs would not arise, and something in the back of her head quietly, unceremoniously... snapped in half.

 

Dora blinked like a cat, trails of her mascara running down her once-beautifully matted foundation. Like the miniskirt and crop-top, she had scarcely even known how to wear makeup like this before Mistress had entered her life. Now, she never left home without it, grateful only that Mistress deigned to grant her an allowance to pay for such things. Her salary from the lab was pitiful, and it was only by Her grace that Dora could afford to meet Her standards for Dora's appearance.

 

Dora was so pathetically grateful. She sighed, and heard the sigh become a moan of animal bliss somewhere deep inside her belly.

 

On the other end of the line, Dora fancied she could hear Mistress' lips curl in the cruelly loving smile that Dora found so utterly irresistible.

 

"Better.

"Which presentation is this, that you would attempt to defy Me over it?

"...Ah, of course.

"The conference, yes? Your research? Your funding is riding on this, yes?"

 

Dora could barely speak.

 

"Yyyyyes, Mistress..."

 

Her body trembled. It was in the presence of its Goddess.

 

"I see. Yes, that would change matters."

 

Mistress sighed, a wistful little note of regret and a piccolo piping of understanding for Her girl's actions.

 

"Dora.

"You will not be punished for your actions. You are forgiven.

"You are no longer afraid. You are now aroused."

 

Dora's vision was unclouded and unaltered, but her mind painted the edges with the pink softness of deeply erotic trance. Beneath her miniskirt, she felt the soaking wetness as her ever-soft cock dripped into red silk panties to the tune of her mindless arousal, nipples rubbing against the matching red silk of the lace demi-bra Mistress had paid for behind the soft black cotton blouse She had selected for Her doll.

 

Mistress did so love to dress Her slut in fineries. It was simply so much more fun to open a present draped in beautiful wrappings and silken ribbons.

 

Dora was no longer afraid. She was now very, very aroused. She groaned, knees finally buckling, collapsing to them on the floor of her living room. Her free hand, loosed by Mistress' command, shot to her tits to begin lovingly cupping and cruelly flicking her nipples through their cloth covers. Her plush thighs squeezed tightly as she felt phantom fingers trail through the slickness found there to run long nails across the underside of her cock. She was barely more firm down there than she ever was, not without Mistress' command to harden for Her enjoyment, but the sensation had only grown since Mistress had taught her how to play so many fun little games.

 

A need seized her. A need to thank, to praise, to babble and worship.

 

"i am now aroused!"

 

She didn't know why she said it, but knew better than to question a compulsion in Mistress' presence, even through the phone.

 

"Thank You for Your forbearance, my Mistress! i submit, i surrender, i obey."

 

Dora was kneeling in penitent position, knees locked together, head pressed against the rough carpet. She didn't know when she had assumed it, but knew it was correct.

 

She fell silent. No other words arose to her lips from Mistress' darkness behind her eyes, and she knew better, too, than to attempt to formulate her own. That wasn't what Mistress' slut was for.

 

"Yes, My Dora. I know you do."

 

Mistress sounded pleased, sounded aroused Herself. Dora knew she was permitted to fantasise about Her, was even allowed to touch herself thinking of pleasuring Her, but it was so hard now to conceive of anything so complex as an independent train of thought. It was better to receive, to obey, to follow. Dora was so good at following Mistress.

 

"When did you last sleep, girl, and for how long?"

 

The words were in her mouth before Dora's consciousness understood the question.

 

"i slept last night for five and a half hours, Mistress. Before that, i had been awake for approximately thirty-six hours, having slept almost eight hours-"

 

"Cease.

"you are not taking adequate care of my girl, Dora."

 

Pain. Shame. Loathing. Dora failed to scream only because she knew it would not please Her.

 

 

Dora did moan, now. It was permitted to moan in exultation before her Goddess.

 

"However, you will rectify this situation.

"I will inform your head of department you have been taken ill. He is a good man, he will not ask questions.

"you will move to your bed, now."

 

Dora was moving. Was climbing into her bed. Reflected vaguely, with some part of her mind she barely realised was still halfway lucid, that she was glad she hadn't left the stove on.

"When I end the call, you will sleep. you will not awaken until sunrise.

"you will attend Me at My office by one tomorrow afternoon for further instruction.

"you are at fault, but are not to be blamed."

 

Dora felt the words in her mouth as she said them.

 

"That which never tries is never faulted;

"That which never chooses is never blamed."

 

she heard Mistress smile, and smiled mindlessly in return.

 

"Yes, girl.

"Do not try, simply do. Do not choose, simply act.

"Comply, now. Sleep well."

 

By the time the beep-beep-beep of the line going dead hit Dora's ears, she was already too deeply asleep to hear it.