Get in the basement

You know the location and position by now. Kneeling in the far corner of the basement, I come in. You hear my steps. You don't look for me, you listen for me instead, and that's worse in the best way, because I make sure my steps tell you nothing.
I don't rush. Rushing would mean I owe you something, and I don't. First I handcuff you snug enough that you feel it every time you shift your weight. Then I kick you on the back of your knees so kneeling becomes the only option you have. I stand somewhere behind you and let the quiet stretch until you're straining to hear whether I'm still in the room at all.
Eventually you'll feel it, my shoe heel dragging along your spine like it's deciding something. It lifts. It comes back. There's no pattern for you to learn, because learning it would give you comfort, and comfort isn't on offer yet. Every breath you hold is mine to enjoy.
I walk a slow circle around you, letting my heel trail from your calf to your shoulder, taking my time. I kick you. I kick you again. I kick you harder.
One hard kick across your back, sharp enough that your breath catches and you remember exactly who you belong to. I make you turn your brain off allowing me to take the lead. This humiliation gives you true pleasure. The act of selfless servitude securing my happiness is all you want.