You’ve been naughty, haven’t you? You forgot to refill the Brita again. Time for your punishment: a long, eye-contact-heavy talk about hydration while I sip your last glass of filtered water.

Strip down. That’s right. Now put on these compression leggings that have no discernible front or back and inexplicably make a fart sound every time you bend your knee.

You want edge play? Fine. I’m going to crank the thermostat to 72 and not tell you when the hot flashes are coming.

Lie still while I slowly brush your hair with the wrong kind of brush. That’s right. The paddle one we said we’d only use “in emergencies.”

Now take this candle. Smell it. Vanilla-Balsam. I bought it at full price even though we had a coupon.

I want you to beg—for me to stop humming along to the podcast I already made you listen to twice.

You want sensory deprivation? Then try looking for your reading glasses without knowing which of the five rooms you left them in.

The safe word is “Mucinex.”

On your knees, sub—feel your joints grind like the NutriBullet we should have replaced last Christmas.

You crave denial? Then watch me scroll through all 280 reviews of the air fryer we already bought.

I’m going to touch you everywhere… with a pair of icy hands fresh from unloading the Costco rotisserie chicken.

Now hold perfectly still while I pluck one chin hair. Just one. I don’t care if there are twenty.

Feel that? That’s the ache of unmet desire—or maybe plantar fasciitis. Either way, don’t move.

You want domination? I’ve labeled the entire spice rack alphabetically. Touch it and I’ll make you reorder the pantry bins by “theme.”

You’ll be begging for mercy when I make you go through our digital photos from 2007 to “clean them up a bit.”

Call me Mistress. But only after you confirm I’m not in a Zoom meeting.

If you’re good, I’ll let you use the expensive bath salts we “agreed” to save for company.

Now roll over. I need to do your blood pressure.