You kneel before me in one of the slave positions I have taught you. Being this close to me is a rare privilege, and as I bend to fit the collar of servitude around your neck, you are in a state of bliss. This is what you want, to feel owned.
The symbolism of the collar is not lost on you. But the sensation of that circlet of leather around your neck feels good too; and just for a few precious moments, my beautifully clothed form is up against your face, my body touching your body, you feel the heat from me and your skin tingles. You inhale deeply and your head spins in a vortex of desire.
Next, the leash. You present your neck to me and I clip the leash to the collar. Now I can lead you on all fours, a wonderful demonstration of my total power over you. “Keep your eyes fixed on my heels,” I command, and as I begin to lead you around my domain, you are torn between the need to obey and the desire to look up at my slender legs, my shapely bottom, my long raven hair. You are my possession. I can use you as an object, a plaything. You might be a piece of furniture, like a footstool: imagine feeling the shape of my legs as I rest them on your back, or the imprint of my stiletto heel on your flesh. Or I might use you as a table on which to place my lunch and a glass of wine: can you keep still enough, or will I need to punish you for fidgeting?
Perhaps I will discard you as worthless object, a shoddy piece of furniture, and place you in the corner, facing the wall, head bowed in shame. You will hear my footsteps as I go about my business, hear me on the phone to my friends, sense my presence near you; and all the time you will long for some attention, your senses heightened to my every move.