“What are you?” I ask.
They could give any number of answers,
But they know the ones I want.
They know the game we’re playing,
The rules, the objective, the reward.
It starts, of course with resistance.
It's not disobedience to say “A good bean,”
Because in the moment, it’s honest and true.
And it’ll still be true later,

Albeit for very different reasons.
So for now, we play the game.

“Are you sure?” I reply.
They try to hide the squirm,
And maybe makeup hides the blush,
But they compose themselves and nod. “Yes.”
Again, not dishonest.
But it’s not the truth we both want them to confess, so I prod.
“Are you sure you’re not a horny slut?”
Their body responds, trying to hide.
Hide from me, and hide the clenching of their thighs,
Hide the drying of their lips,
Hide the parts that stiffen,
Hide the stirring desire to please.
“No…” they reply, almost concealing the whimper.
“No, what?” I prod, then add “Are you saying you are a horny slut?”
“No!” they protest. I smile, and chuckle.

I don’t need to see the growing redness in their cheeks,
Or the subtle thrusting of their hips,
Or the fingers closing over a sudden case of itchy palms,
Or see the goosebumps run over their arms,
To know what’s going on inside.
Conditioning they didn’t choose tells them
To be innocent,

To be pure,
To be wholesome,
To resist the wild, wet desires bubbling up within.

“So then, what are you?” I repeat,
Dropping my voice into my chest, letting that purr creep in,
That always makes them shudder with sudden want
To obey,
To submit,
To succumb to desire, and surrender to pleasure.
“I…” they stammer, not daring to meet my gaze,
Not wanting to see the knowing look,
Not ready to let my gaze pull out
The words we both know are coming soon.

“I’m…” they repeat.
“Yes?” I probe, amused.
They hide from my tone,
Hide from the truth,
Hide from knowing how good it will feel to speak it.
“I’m… innocent.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it,” I reply, a playful scold
That nonetheless makes them whimper and shrink.
“What are you?” I repeat.

“A good bean!” they protest, a little too much
To convince me, or them.
“Tell me what you are,” I command.
They break.
The desire to obey wins out.
“I’m a horny s-slut,” they admit, stuttering over the last word,
Interrupted as the conditioning they did choose gives its shuddering reward.
But, we’re just getting started.
“And what does my horny slut want?” I inquire.
One last, final attempt to resist.
They hide, and squirm, and blush,
But already the truth is forming on their lips.
“I… I want…” they begin,

“Say it,” I order, and they helplessly comply.
They babble, gushing out naughty fantasies,
Each more scandalous than the last,
Stumbling over the words that give them shame to utter:
“F-fuck,” “s-suck,” “c-cock,” “c-cum,” “c-cunt,” and more,
But with the shame, their obedience brings pleasure
That grows stronger and stronger the more they give in,
Until each dirty word makes them hitch, clench, and bend with want.
They’re ready.

 And so a final time, I ask
“What are you?”
They whimper, they squirm,
They obey.
“Your h-horny s-slut,” and then “Fuck!”

Hands fly to steady a body

Whose legs are no longer up to the task alone,
Weak and wobbly from the release.
Lost to the rolling, roiling waves of bliss,

They moan, and seize, and succumb.

Till finally they are spent.
They meet my gaze,
Words failing, but not needed.
I don’t need to see the mess between their thighs,
Or hear their soft, sweet thankfulness,
To know that it’s there.
“That’s right, you are my horny slut,” I confirm,
Then add,
“Good bean.”