Kneeling in the kitchen, you look up in awe at your goddess; Angel. She towers over you, effortlessly divine in a skimpy black dress so short it barely conceals her body. Her sheer tights highlight every contour of her long, elegant legs, and her sharp, gleaming PVC stilettos glisten under the lights. You are nothing beneath her, a groveling insect, a devoted servant who lives only to worship her.
She swirls a glass of wine in her delicate fingers, regarding you with a mixture of amusement and disdain. Her voice is like honey, dripping with cruelty as she berates you, making sure you understand the insignificance of your existence. But tonight, obedience means nothing. Your devotion, your submission, none of it matters. Because Angel doesn’t punish you for disobedience. She punishes you simply because she enjoys it. It turns her on. Hurting you brings her pleasure. And your pain? That is merely the byproduct of her entertainment.
When her wine glass is empty, she sets it down with a satisfied smirk. With a single gesture, you know what to do. Crawling on all fours, nose to the floor like the pathetic creature you are, your world is reduced to the rhythmic clicking of her stiletto heels. You follow them, entranced, utterly owned by her presence as she leads you to the punishment room.
The air is thick with anticipation. She stands before you, flexing a selection of whips and canes, allowing you the privilege of seeing your fate before she delivers it. Her voice, both sultry and commanding, teases you, reveling in the power she holds over you. Then, without warning, the first strike lands. The pain is searing, but her pleasure is undeniable. She delights in your suffering, each lash a symphony of her dominance over your feeble existence.
Eventually, she tires; not of punishing you, but of standing. With an air of lazy indulgence, she perches atop the dressing table, stretching her legs before you. Her feet, clad in sheer tights, rest in your face. Worship them. It is your purpose. You press your lips against the soft fabric, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her power, knowing that this moment of worship is not a kindness. It is merely a brief pause before she resumes your torment.
Rested and reinvigorated, she picks up the cane once more. A cruel smile plays across her lips. Your suffering is far from over. After all, she is a goddess, and you—a mere worm—exist only to serve her pleasure.
