flexible kinkster

I’m nothing but soft, open flesh for you.

I belong on a leash at your feet

I renounce every feminist thought that ever tried to make me feel like more.

My body is yours! my ass reddening under your hand, my neck marked by the leash, my cunt already dripping just from being owned.

The click of my heels on marble was enough to straighten spines. I signed multi-million-dollar deals with a single stroke of a pen. My name carried weight. My voice carried power. Men who towered over me still lowered their eyes when I spoke.

Now I can’t even close my mouth without a gag or someone's cock between my lips

The red ball gag sits heavy between my teeth, stretching my jaw the same way authority once stretched my influence. Every long, wet, rhythmic pull of the machines on my swollen tits forces another soft, muffled sound from my throat. The same body that once commanded boardrooms is now locked in a wooden restraint bar, kneeling in straw that smells of dust, sweat, and absolute ruin. My heavy breasts hang free, nipples sealed inside clear plastic cups that suck and release, suck and release, slow and relentless. Thin tubes trail away from me like leashes of their own.

The thick leather collar locked around my throat used to hold diamond necklaces. The man holding the other end of my leash used to call me “ma’am.” He was one of my subordinates, quiet, efficient, always three steps behind me in the hallway. Now he stands in front of me, remote in one hand, the vibrating bullet buried deep in my cunt controlled by the other. Every time the machines start their hungry pull, he turns the vibrator up just enough to make my thighs shake.

When the company started bleeding money, the suits needed a scapegoat. Someone high enough for the sacrifice to look like justice. Someone whose public fall would distract from their own quiet theft. They chose me. They stripped me of title, shares, reputation, every asset I had built. The debt was still too large. So they sold the last thing of value I had left: my dignity.

I am no longer a CEO.

I am a broken, leaking, collared set of tits and a cunt that still soaks itself every time the machines begin their slow, wet rhythm. The same men who once answered to me now watch me get milked like livestock. And the worst part, the part that makes me drip even harder, is the dark, shameful place inside my chest that has started to thank them for it.

I used to make strong men go quiet.

Sweet little memories.