Good Girl

Two small words that have come to mean the world to me. They fill me with elation and send a shiver down my spine; it’s all I can do to keep from purring when I hear him praise me with these two, small words: Good Girl.

The first time Master used it on me, barely weeks into his claiming of me, I rankled at the term. “I’m not a girl” I explained, “and it sounds so condescending. Like you’re patting me on the head.” I could feel his amusement at my reaction, and looking back on it now I am sure this is another moment where he already knew what was to come, but decided to let me have my little moment of independence. He knew that soon enough I’d abandon independence willingly and entirely.

As such, Master let the term go for a while, but was wise and strategic enough to bring it back into play later. When he did he chose just the right time, linking for me the phrase with a feeling of pleasing him. Of being a good slave, and of stroking my head or patting my ass or otherwise making me feel like a quality pet or possession. In no time my rejection of the term became a deep desire to earn the words whenever I can. I sought out those little actions that I knew would let me stroke my ego and my need for proper obedience all at once.

Not long after that the phrase “bad girl” popped up. To my amazement those words brought me angst and despair and even a sense of almost panic. My reaction was so significant that Master has purposefully avoided using the phrase ever since, and the few times its popped out he’s corrected himself and soothed me immediately. In the same way that “good girl” fills me with joy and pride and peace, “bad girl” empties me of all good feelings, replacing them with a blackness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm me.

Amazingly the things that I didn’t like about “good girl” initially are now some of the very things that make me crave it. The feeling of his condescension. The idea that I’m a silly, little thing from which he can take pleasure when he likes; that I’m his toy or pet, who lives only to earn that tiny pat of approval from him. It still reduces me, as I told him the first time; the phrase never changed. The change was all in me. I now enjoy being reduced and simplified and redefined. I prefer the definition this gives me. I live to be his toy; his pet; his plaything, and to dance and beg and serve him to hear two small words. And to feel that shudder through me that means “I’ve fulfilled my purpose once more.” To be Master’s Good Girl.