Look at that paddle, slave. "SLAVE" in red against the leather. That's not decoration. That's your title. Your identity. Your only purpose in my presence. I know why you're watching this. Your hand is already resting on that spot. The one that aches for impact. The one you've been neglecting because your own palm isn't enough. It never is. You crave the sting. The heat. The way your skin blooms red and tender under a hand that doesn't care about your limits. Goddess Medusa cares about one thing. Your complete surrender. Every smack is a reminder that you're beneath me. Every welt is my signature. My mark. On your body. On your soul. You'll flinch. You'll whimper. You'll feel that burn spreading deep into the muscle and you'll thank me for it. Because this is how you feel alive. This is how you feel owned. Not by gentle touches. By force. By impact. By me. Present yourself. Bare. Waiting. You know the position. You've practiced it alone in your room hoping someone would finally deliver what you deserve. I'm that someone. Bend over.