Final Girl
Recently, I had a very memorable scene with a submissive, slave m, who has participated in the scene in varied capacities and submissives roles for over forty years. This was to be his final session. I wrote the following piece of erotica based on O/our time together.
Some lore you may not know about Me: I used to be a creative writer. I’ve been published, received two poetry fellowships, and performed in front of live audiences. It brings Me immense joy to fuse My literary craft with My practice as a Dominant. Enjoy.
m knocked. I waited. Testing his patience. Testing My own.
I recall a mantra I’ve been invoking recently: It’s a pleasure to wait for the one you admire.
I looked through the peephole of the door to find it standing calmly, patiently. I opened the door, greeting m as I usually do with other clients. But this one was not the same as the others.
slave m walked in, damp and musty from Chicago’s summer heat, neck craned over, eyes fixed on the floor. As soon as I closed the door, m lowered itself onto its hands and knees, cowering as it offered Me a box adorned with a shiny, bright green bow.
Tribute.
Along with a handwritten letter.
Without any reminder, the slave took off its shoes, its glasses, and placed them beneath the bench in the dungeon lobby. The floorboards creaked gently as it moved toward Me, slowly, reverently. I remember slave telling Me about age claiming its knees. I tossed a pair of knee pads across the floor—an act of both care and protective satisfaction.
I want My subs to endure pain for Me.
I also want to make sure My toys don’t break before I’m done playing with them.
The room was still, humming with anticipation. The air felt thick with the scent of sweat, sterile cleaning fluid, and worn leather as the space closed in around us.
The only sound was the faint creak of m’s knee pads against the floor as it moved toward Me. I remained standing, letting the moment stretch. Letting m feel the weight of My presence before I even touched it.
I reached for a leather collar, feeling its smoothness between My fingers. The scent of worn hide rose from it—familiar, grounding. A symbol, not just an accessory. I held it suspended in the air between us, letting the weight of it settle into the room like smoke.
slave had been collared before. It had told Me once—voice trembling with a mixture of pride and shame—about the first time someone looped leather around its throat and claimed it. That first collar had been rough, rushed, given too easily. slave wanted to believe it meant something, back then.
But it didn’t. Not like this.
This was not a token. This was ritual. Consecration. Finality.
I let the collar sway gently, the buckle clinking like a distant bell calling it to kneel deeper.
I saw slave’s breath hitch, its posture stiffen slightly. The instinct to reach for the past was still there. I gave it none of that. Only the present. Only Me.
“You remember what the last one said to you, don’t you?” I asked. “The one who collared you before.”
It nodded. Barely.
“And do you know what I’m saying by doing this now?”
Another nod. Slower. Heavier. Its eyes brimmed.
“Then be still,” I instruct. “And understand—this is not a collar you wear. This is a collar you become.”
I stepped behind it and slowly buckled the collar around its neck, savoring the sound of leather tightening into place. A closing. A claim. A kind of mercy.
I leaned down.
“Is this really the last time you will ever serve a Dominant, slave?” I whispered in its ear.
A slow nod followed. A deep, watery sadness filled m’s eyes.
“Then remember this: you will go back to a useless, sad, inferior life.
But for these two hours, you have a purpose.
you are Mine.
When you lay on your deathbed and think about everything you ever did in your pathetic fucking time on this Earth, nothing will ever be as beautiful, or as important, or as moving as what happened during O/our time together.”
