First, you tape down the edges of a tarp, because fluids would ruin the floor.
Then, you layer blankets and foam padding to create a cushioned surface. Sandbags on the corners, of course, to hold the whole thing down, because when she squirms (and she will), you don't want the padding to get rucked up.
She's been waiting, outside. She thinks it's just one of your usual sessions, fun with whips and crops and fingers. So she waits, disciplining herself for what will come.
Most of the time, you start as equals; with a tug of hair, the power moves and flows, and the equality shifts and becomes fluid. You go out to her and find her sitting, finishing up what she was working on, half-distracted with thoughts of others across the miles.
“Bitch, come here.”
Her eyes widen. Startled, she looks toward you. This is something you haven't done before, something she doesn't know how to react to. There are no clues, no patterns, no familiar routines for her to follow.
As she stands, you step into her space. With a slap to her pretty face, you correct her. “On your knees, whore.”
She does better with directions, with firm control. As if with relief, she drops to lay her head on your feet.
“Raise your ass.”
Squatting in front of her, you run your hand down her spine, under the top of her skirt, under her panties, across her asshole. Teasing, circling, pressing just a bit to remind her of what is possible. You pull upon the back of her underwear, so that it rides through her slit, across her clit, on the edge of pain, and barely over it.
As she gasps in response, you draw back. “Look at me, my pretty cunt.”
When those blue eyes meet yours then look away, as she struggles to maintain eye contact in her already half-flown-away state, you smile. “You remember your safe words, don't you, little slut? You remember to let me know if I go too far, don't you? You remember to tell me about yourself? You remember to take care of my property, don't you?”
With a whimper, she licks her lips and nods.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it—tell me what you are and what you want. Tell me that you'll be my good girl.”
The blush looks painful on her cheeks. Again her eyes fall downward, her voice a hushed and small thing barely reaching your ears. “I am yours. I want you to do to me whatever you wish. I will be good.”
With a tug, you raise her chin, pinching it between your fingertips. “Close. I want you to be more specific.” You can feel her heart speed up, feel the heat of her cheeks as the blush spreads across her face, down her neck, over her body. Sweet blood rushing to the surface, a sign of her arousal.
“I want you to use me, to fuck me, to make me your whore. I want to be your slut. I want you to beat me, to slap me, to rape me. I want you to leave your marks on me so everyone will know what I am.”
“Better.” You reach into your back pocket and pull out the collar. As you fasten it around her neck, you can feel her shivering. Collar in place, you add a new element: a blindfold.
On her knees, blinded, she waits for what your will shall bring her. Her hair makes a good handhold, as you drag her to the prepared space in the next room.