"You are not here to think, only to please," Mistress explains, her voice like velvet and ice. She sits on her throne, the slave kneeling before her, eyes downcast. She pulls out her favorite crop, running it along his bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You will learn to take my crop, my whip, my cane. You will learn to crave my touch, to yearn for my approval." She stands, towering over him, her heels making him feel small, insignificant. "You are my toy, my plaything. And you will learn to love it."