My property's orgasms belong to me. It's that simple. She relinquished that power the moment she gave herself over. I edge her for days just to make her squirt halfway across the room. I force her into an endless string of orgasms because wearing her out makes me smile. Seeing her motionless and babbling gibberish brings me joy. I admit this power corrupts me. I stumble through the streets at night, shouting in a slurred speech, "Fear my wrath!" My tyrannical rule knows no limit. Rebels will have to drag my corpse from the presidential palace before I surrender control. For example, today I noticed a list of chores my property wanted to finish. I rewrote the list to include all the places I expected her to finger fuck herself:
Grocery shopping
Orgasm in the bathroom. Think about me kissing you with my hand on your throat
Get a dress for sister's wedding
Orgasm in the dressing room, thinking about a hot stranger coming in and you sucking his cock (or eating her pussy).
Get the car washed.
Use the drive-through and orgasm before you get all the way through. Imagine I'm in the car. You straddle me, move your panties to the side and fuck me like a good little slut.
Do the laundry.
Lean against the dryer and imagine I have you bent over with my cock deep in your ass as the vibrations send you into an orgasm.
My property returns home from chores and stumbles across the living room carpet. She passes me without speaking. I watch her put the groceries away, unable to handle more than one item at a time. She steadies herself, grasping for the granite counter. Her legs wobble.
All around town, my property stashed my orgasms like slutty Easter eggs. I conjure images where the next woman to use the restroom at the grocery store or the changing room at the mall feels them. They stop in their tracks, touching their neck, trying to figure out why the temperature suddenly spiked.