M4F - Abject Permanence

When I'm not in front of her, how long do I linger in her mind? Does the weight of my presence, imposing and solid and firmly grasping, imprint and impress upon her with permanence? Or does her mind regress, transforming back to the shape-memory of before. Like kneading clay, or working tough dough...fingers flexing and clenching...forearms tense and tired...I exert myself on her, then leave her to bake and set.

She's worked up. Pink and red and wet. Writhing and wriggling. Urging. Heated to a soft plasticity. Castable and formable. Receptive to my input. She watches me as I depart, and I am tempted to wait and watch her settle. To calm herself into the mental shape I've been molding her to. To let the glaze of overwhelming sensation and singular, dominating focus cool back into a smooth and slick surface. Her new essence solidifying.

Each time I come to her, I sense the minuscule difference. Each time I encourage her cries. Her moans and whimpers. Each time I feel her...touch her and stretch her. Ply her taut surfaces and intricate inner passages...Every time I have her and own her, I feel her change, in jerking gasps that bear creedence to my efforts. Every time she is more acquiescent. More delectably subservient and honestly naked. Repeatedly confronted with a firm hand and simple commands, her mental form is becoming more and more what I desire of her. Just as her physicality is.

The door shuts. Dark and warm. the pitch black she's in should be eminently familiar to her now. The silence and the bonds perhaps even comforting? Perhaps not yet, but in time. With progress. She'll be made to learn her pleasures. In time, she'll greedily devour my presence, with wanton and desperate words and strenuous, aching, action. But now, she'll wait, and helplessly feel her mind march inexorably towards her permanent final state - an accouterment. A toy. An object.