Who am I ?

Do you understand how many sluts would beg to gag on this cock, and you’re trying to tap out because you need to breathe? Are you serious? Do you know how pathetic that sounds?

I’m so close. I’m right there. And those little convulsions your throat makes when you’re desperate for air, that panicked flutter around my cock while you try to save yourself… that’s exactly what I need. That’s what’s going to push me over. You’re doing such good work and you want to stop now?

For oxygen?

I promise you can breathe when I’m done. All you want. Big gulping lungfuls. I won’t stop you. But right now I need you to be a good little suffocating fuckdoll for about thirty more seconds.

Don’t ruin the moment for me.

Ashtray + Drink holder + Fucktoy >>> Respected woman

to visit and feed my girls. Walking down the stairs and the air smells like pennies, faint rust and old water. I close the door behind me, locking it just in case. Then I continue down, each step has a creaking sound, then I hear them, heavy breathing, sobbing while trying to hold back.

They're huddled in the furthest corner like wild animals caught in a trap I cannot help but crack a smile, I'm so happy to see them and when the light spills across the room, they flinch like it burns them. They let out whimpers, sharp sobs and small cries.

I missed them!, my favorite girls in the world. I walk closer and they whimper louder, scrambling back even though there's nowhere left to go. I bark "oh shut up, I brought food"

left overs from the night before and what I or my dogs didn't eat. I know they are hungry, its been two days since I last saw them. Time gets away from me. The only thing I have for them in abundance is water.

They're shaking like leaves, I encourage them to eat and that I did not warm this up for nothing. They don't move. They just stare at the container like it's a trap. I say "you girls don't want to be difficult, nitwit was difficult and she is not here anymore"

As I stand up I reach out and grab Kimberly's hair and start walking towards the special room in the basement. Howls and cries burst out of all the bitches. The others reach out and grab her hand, trying to keep her with them. Its no use, it never is.

Their cries go in one ear and out the other, my mind is too focused on Kim, her soft body, her warmth, how her hair is much stronger than Daniela's. How it didnt feel like I was going to pull her hair out as my hand grabbed a fist full of her hair.

I effortlessly drag her into the special room, closing the door behind me and the door shuts with a soft, padded thump. I tell her to get onto the bed. An old mattress with no sheet sits on the floor.

It starts simple. I make you cum and I tell you to say thank you and you do because that’s easy. That one makes sense. Someone made you feel good, and you express gratitude, that’s just good manners. You don’t even think about it. Thank you. Of course. That felt amazing. Thank you.

But then I have you say it again the next time while my hand is around your throat. Say it. And you do, thank you, a little choked and sputtering, and something about forcing the words out while you can barely breathe makes them feel different in your mouth. Heavier. More real. You said thank you while I was hurting you and you meant it and that’s a new piece of information about yourself that you have to carry around.

Then I start expanding the territory. I want to hear it when you’re wet. Not just when you cum. When you’re wet. The moment you notice that your body is responding to me I want you to stop whatever you’re doing and say thank you. Because that arousal doesn’t happen without me. That drip between your legs is something I built. I put it there through weeks and months of conditioning you to respond to my voice and my hands and my words and the least you can do is acknowledge where it comes from. So every time you feel it. Thank you. In the morning when you wake up thinking about me and you’re already soaked before you’ve opened your eyes. Thank you. In the middle of your workday when something I said three nights ago surfaces in your brain and suddenly your thighs are pressing together under your desk. Thank you. You text it to me like a little status report. Like a prayer you send throughout the day to the person responsible for keeping you this ruined.

But we can push further. I’ll have you thanking me for the things that should horrify you: Thank you for taking your limits away. Say it. Thank you for crossing every line I drew. Thank you for making me need this. Thank you for making it so I can’t cum without your permission. Thank you for showing my friends what I look like when I beg. Thank you for the bruises. Thank you for the photos you keep in a folder I pretend I’ve forgotten about. Thank you for making me say all of this out loud.

Say it after I make you do something new and degrading, and hear the thank you come out before you’ve even processed what just happened to you. Your brain skips straight past the shock and the shame and lands on thank you as your default setting. No matter what I do to you the first thing your body produces in response is a thank you that I’m the one doing it.

So now when you’re desperate and shaking and you beg me to cum, I just spit in my palm and wrap my hand around my cock. And you don’t even flinch. You don’t correct me. Your eyes get heavy and your breathing changes and you watch me squeeze the base and stroke up, slow, dragging the skin tight, letting the head swell between my fingers. You watch the pre-cum bead up and spill over my knuckles and your mouth falls open a little like you can taste it. Because somewhere in that pretty rewired head of yours, this is what cumming feels like now. Watching me get myself off while you soak through the sheets next to me.

And I’m in no rush. I’ll let go entirely just to watch my cock twitch and throb on its own while you whimper like something was taken from you. Then grip it again, tighter, faster, fucking my own fist while you lie there clenching with your hips rocking in rhythm with my hand. Your body trying to sync up with what your brain says is happening to you. I can hear how wet you are every time you squeeze your thighs together. You don’t even register it. You’re too focused on my cock. On the way my stomach tenses when I’m getting close. On the way my breathing gets ragged and my grip gets sloppy and I stop performing for you and just start chasing it.