You came before I finished my first sentence last time. No stroking. No begging. Just spurt. You didn't even say thank you. So tonight the clock belongs to me. One inch of movement, up, down, on my voice, in lingerie you will never once be inside of, then hands off while it throbs and you learn what waiting costs. That thing standing up between your legs is not what men have. It's a fear boner. It already knows how this ends. Two hours of barely lightly edging and going soft, edging and going soft, until your premature ejaculation problem solves itself the only way it can: erectile dysfunction, on purpose, by my design. Then I let you finish. No arch, no flood, just a cold clear smear you stare at wondering why it felt like nothing. Ruined orgasm, virgin humiliation and cum denial in one breath. Lick it off your finger. Same edge tomorrow. Same nothing forever.

Put me on my knees in your head. Feel my breath come through the gaps, my tongue flicking the bars, tracing the ring and every scrap of skin the metal left exposed, and then feel me lift away the second you swell against it. This is cock sucking you only get to imagine, blowjob instructions delivered through a chastity device you can't grow out of. Hands off. I mean it. You climb on my voice alone, handsfree, and when your body jumps without my permission it's a trickle through the bars, not an orgasm. Barely sticky, shaking, ashamed. Then I build you back up and strip it away again, cleaner this time. No release. Just the ache, the empty, and the forever ruin.

Your secret was never safe, and part of you prayed I would find it. I don't even have to push, since you reach for the padded push-up yourself, which is why encouraged feminization works so well on you. Once 20 denier nylons hug your thighs, my pantyhose domination stops feeling like a rule and starts feeling like relief. You wobble in stilettos while posing for my screenshots, and it dawns on you that your boss is only one post away from seeing them. How could you let this happen? Your profile has grown so massive. But the panic makes you harder, doesn't it? This exposed fantasy play is where you feel honest and vulnerable. Keep it on, because going back to normal was never your call.

You spent years pretending that little thing carries weight, and I'm done humoring you. Next to a coffee stirrer, even the plastic wins, and that is where small penis humiliation stops being a game anymore. Those things are so fucking short. AND YOU ARE EVEN SHORTER! You can't even pump that tiny dick in your own fist, it's obviously so useless. so I click it into a cage to give it something to do. Being locked in chastity is the first honest thing anyone has done with you, right? The key might be in a landfill or between my breasts, and you will leak through the steel either way. This is key holding, sweetie: Runt dicks such as yourself shouldn't worry about keys, because they clearly never had them in the first place!

You are the worst hire this department ever made, and I finally worked out why. Miller and Thompson close deals like men, while you hid a softness built for kneeling, and the only thing you researched this hard was straight male anal. It took me a bit to place my finger on it, but now it's so obvious! You are clearly asking for it, so I buckled a harness over my bikini and put you on my carpet, folded in half ass up. The way you push back onto my strap-on says you were made for service, not sales. Your hands stay off your cock, so when I hit that switch inside you, all that masculinity only has one way out. After experiencing hands free orgasm this way, I don't think you'll ever go back to cumming any other way!

Ho lasciato il sedere caldo per te tre minuti fa e sei già lì sotto a respirarla come se fosse l'unica aria che hai. Lecca lentamente — prima il bordo, poi quella cresta sotto dove le mie cosce premevano, poi tirala su attraverso il naso nel modo in cui fai quando nessuno che ti ama sta guardando. Mi abbasserò sulla tua lingua e la trascinerò attraverso la piega dove la mia natica incontra la mia coscia, ridendo di quanto ti viene duro facendo l'unico lavoro in cui sei mai stato bravo. Ecco come appare l'adorazione del culo per un uomo senza altri talenti: avanzi, e un grazie.

Dodici e quindici e sei chiuso a chiave nel bagno dei dirigenti mentre il tuo team ordina bevande due piani sotto. Completo ancora abbottonato. La vita dei pantaloni già attorcigliata nel tuo pugno. Tira. Più in alto. La tazza puzza di candeggina sopra qualcosa di più vecchio e ci metti la faccia comunque, perché te l'ho detto io, perché hai voluto che qualcuno ti facesse fare questo dal giorno in cui ti hanno dato un ufficio. Tira lo sciacquone. Vieni su gocciolante, capelli piatti, fissandoti nel cromo. Il tuo telefono ha registrato tutto — ora è mio, a due clic dal canale del tuo team. Tirati su i pantaloni sopra la linea rossa e vai a gestire il tuo appuntamento delle una. Ogni volta che ti muovi su quella sedia saprai esattamente chi possiede il corpo dentro il completo.

Niente reggiseno. Solo due stelline di nastro adesivo e il resto di me allo scoperto, e non riesci a portare lo sguardo da nessun'altra parte. Guarda — le mie mani salgono lungo le costole e mi prendo, sollevo, lascio che il peso si adagi nei palmi. È bastato questo. Stai già gocciolando. Rimbalzo una volta, decisa, e sento la scossa arrivarti addosso da qui. Lei è seduta a tre metri senza sapere nulla, e tu stai confrontando. Lo so che lo stai facendo. Pagherai per lo sguardo e pagherai di più per il prossimo, perché il prezzo lo fisso io e tu non te ne sei mai andato. Niente conto alla rovescia stasera. Niente permesso. Torni a casa con il desiderio e mi ringrazi per questo, e la sua pelle non avrà più sapore.

Appoggia lo specchio dove puoi guardare la tua stessa faccia prenderlo. Non puoi distogliere lo sguardo da ciò che stai per fare. Ti tengo a mani ferme, gocciolante, finché non do la parola, e poi è veloce e verso l'alto: proprio attraverso la tua bocca, il tuo naso, le tue ciglia. Niente asciugamano. Ogni volta che esiti, mi giro e ti do il mio culo in questo bikini, un promemoria di ciò a cui la tua bocca non si avvicina finché non è pulita. Poi la lingua. Gli angoli delle tue labbra, i lati del tuo naso, entrambe le guance, e quel grosso gocciolone che dondola dal tuo mento — apri, lascialo cadere, mastica prima di ingoiare. In qualche modo la tua vita è arrivata a questo. Istruzioni per mangiare lo sperma senza via d'uscita alla fine, auto-facial e umiliazione verbale cucite in un'unica lunga pulizia. Quando la tua faccia è immacolata lo dici ad alta voce: l'hai leccato via, hai ingoiato ogni goccia, e ti è piaciuto un po'.

Say it flat for me. Clinical. "I've never made a woman cum." Good. Now say it again slower, because we both know exactly which nights I'm talking about — the performed moans, the sudden roll-over, her hand drifting between her legs while she tells you she's satisfied. I don't even have to work for this one. Your flaccid dick humiliates you every single night without my help, and I just get to sit here in my lingerie and watch it do my job for me. That's what makes this inescapable.

No stress excuse. No timing excuse. I'm walking you through the whole ceremony — the pill, the dry mouth, the clock-watching, that borrowed erection you clutch. You aren't broken, and that's the part that eats you alive. Broken means it worked once. This is just how you were made.

Erectile dysfunction humiliation, virgin humiliation, and small penis humiliation folded into one flat verdict: you're a pussy-free let down...Not a threat. Not even a real option — just the guy that knows to shut up and stay soft while I decide what I feel like using you for.

There are hundreds of you on my drive and I genuinely cannot tell you apart. Same dark room, same pants around the ankles, same hand already moving before the file finishes loading. I recorded your last session, and now I screen it for you in my dress with my nails resting on the scrub bar. Pause. There's your ahegao at the peak — slack jaw, eyes rolled back, that vein climbing your forehead. I circle it. I zoom in on the sad little sack you're somehow proud of. Of course you kept edging while I told you to stop. You call it stamina, I call it Muscle Memory. Then the finish: no thrust, no power, one drip. That's the frame I keep. Masturbation humiliation as archive work — femdom POV humiliation, laughing, a blackmail fantasy where nothing ever gets deleted because I get paid to mock you. You're not unique. You're the default setting for male failure. Smile for the camera!