He talked to me slowly, quietly at first. His voice was low, but I could hear the edge in his voice, the desire. He talked about what I need and what he'll give me, even if that isn't always the same thing. He talked about beating me and I murmured that I need that so badly.
His words became harsh and degrading, pulling me deeper into that submissive headspace. He told me that I am his cunt and a little whore. He made me repeat it so the words would sink in.
He told me about the training - or, actually, the retraining - that he was planning for me. He told me about the belt, and the palm of his hand, and the candle wax. He drew elaborate pictures of me hogtied on the bed and about fucking me until I scream. He told me about the torture of not being able to come and how I would soon face that. He told me how much he would enjoy that and he laughed.
I could feel the heavy calm descending as he spoke and I wecomed it. I wrapped myself in it and felt it all around me. I was reminded. I needed to be reminded.