Got a cold? Don't worry, the rubber leader knows what to do. A strict urine scent inhalation will bring the slave's lungs back into top shape, just like his pathetic cock. Quickly, piss into the inhaler and firmly clamped to the back, let's go. Piss for the lungs, spiky blows with the paddle for the horny, fat balls, and lots of sadistic pleasures from the rubber-horny goddess who visibly enjoys the treatment. What a happy, rubber-horny pig's life this rubber pig has.

First, on all fours, I spanked his fat, trembling ass bright red until his cheeks were burning and his asshole was twitching with shame.

Then I shoved in the fuck machine- fucked hard for 12 minutes, deep, fast, without mercy, until he was drooling, whimpering, and his ass was gaping open like a door.

But his pathetic little dick? Not a drop! Just blue balls, trembling legs, and a wailing loser who couldn't even cum.

What a pathetic, lazy asshole.

Restrained and completely at my mercy, he lies on the pillory bed – arms and legs spread wide, body stretched, buttocks perfectly raised. No escape. No mercy.

The whip in my hand. With each lash, I teach him a lesson: obedience. The leather straps crack hard and rhythmically against his buttocks, thighs, and back. Red welts appear as his body twitches with each blow and the restraints creak.

Between the blows, I run the whip over his skin, whispering in his ear what an obedient slave he must become. Every twitch, every groan, every whimper is recorded.

"You belong to me. And you will learn what it means to obey me unconditionally."

Intense, harsh flagellation on the pillory bed with a clear emphasis on discipline. Nice welts, trembling, and the slow but sure breaking of his will.

Ready to learn obedience?

The cold bondage frame encircles the slave. Tightly bound by his hands and feet, he stands there motionless, submissive, and unsuspecting. His nipples scream beneath my long, red claws, which dig deep into his sinful slave flesh. A sigh, a soft moan escapes the slave's mouth. His cock twitches and dances. Then I attach the electrodes. The loops tighten. Nice and tight. Hot pulsation meets cold metal, the controls turned up to the max, the claws drilled deep into his cock and balls until he is exhausted and completely drained of his juices.

You little money-grubbing asshole – today you'll learn what true devotion costs. I'm sitting in front of you, the shiny heavy rubber strap-on already strapped on – thick, black, hard. You're kneeling naked, cock in a cage, balls bound, trembling with lust and fear.

Come closer, I'll open your mouth wide: "Open your mouth wide, you cash-grubbing whore. Suck my strap-on like a real cock – deep down your throat, gag, until you're drooling and tears are flowing.

I'll fuck your mouth with the strap-on—slowly, then hard, until you gag and saliva runs down your pathetic man-tits. "See? That's how you make your money—with your filthy whore mouth. Now turn around, ass up."

You crawl on all fours, your asshole already gaping with anticipation. I spit on it, ram the strap-on in—deep, mercilessly, in thrusts, until you scream and whimper. "Take it, you money-grubbing pig—every thrust costs more. Beg for harder, beg for deeper, or I'll stop and leave you dripping without release."

I'll fuck you senseless, milk your prostate until it drips from the cage—but come? Never. When I'm done with you, you'll obediently go and sell yourself for my luxury, no matter how little you're paid. You're worth no more than hard cash anyway. I'll keep ramming until you come—just from anal sex, without even touching your cock, howling and trembling. In the end, you'll lick the strap-on clean—every last drop of your own filth.

That's your training: pay, suck, take, come—and never get enough.

Bound and spanked – oh yes, that's exactly how I like my little, whining toys best.

Imagine: You're lying across the spanking bench, your hands and feet strapped to your legs with thick rubber straps, your ass sticking up in the air so that each cheek is nicely plump and useless. The cage around your useless little penis rattles with every twitch – and you know perfectly well that you're not going anywhere.

I'm standing behind you, in my shiny nylons and bodysuit, heels clicking slowly closer. The whip in my hand is made of thick leather, the ends already a bit worn – from all the asses I've already made burn.

"Well, you little asshole... didn't you obey again?" I let the whip glide gently over your cheeks at first, so you can feel the cold, the tension, the anticipation. Then the first blow – not too hard, just enough to sting and leave a red streak. You flinch, you groan, the cage rattles loudly.

"Count along, you loser. Each blow gets a number. And every time you count wrong, the round starts again."

One... wham! Two... wham! Three... wham!

By the time I hit ten, your cheeks are already dark red, burning hot, and you're trembling all over. I step closer, pressing one of my heels into the back of your neck so your face is almost kissing the floor. "See how beautifully you're glowing? That's only half the battle. Now for the other side."

I switch to my open hand—hard, rapid slaps that crack like whips. Left, right, left, right—until you're whimpering and your voice breaks. "Say it, you little slut: 'Thank you, Mistress, for spanking my ass.'"

You stammer, saliva dribbling from the corner of your mouth, and I just laugh softly as I run my fingernails over the hot, red marks—lightly scratching, just enough to make it burn even more.

You whimper, and I lightly kick the cage: "Good boy. Again tomorrow. And then it'll be even harder."

You belong to me. Bound. Spanked. Broken. And you'll come back tomorrow—because you can't help it.

In my extremely tight, high-gloss gold latex catsuit, I stand before you—the thick rubber stretches like a second skin around my big tits and plump ass. My nipples press hard against the latex,

my pussy is already wet and clearly outlined.

I rub myself against the squeaky rubber, kneading my big tits, twisting my nipples, and pressing two fingers firmly against my wet slit. The latex becomes increasingly slippery as I fuck myself

more and more intensely. Moaning and drooling, I rub my dripping pussy through the catsuit, pushing the sexy toy deep inside until I can no longer hold back and come with a loud moan—all in the gleaming gold latex.

Pure, kinky rubber masturbation with big tits, a wet pussy, and lots of squeaking.

Want to see a sexy latex goddess bring herself to orgasm?

you lowly worm, look at yourself! What are you?

No name, no authorization, just my word?

You crawl on all fours, ass up, mouth open, waiting for the next protein shot.
You're an ass whore, you fuck the bums behind the train station because I want it that way, because my word is your command, because they too need some distraction from their dreary lives.

No pity, just the stench of your stretched and used asshole full of cum while the next customer is already coming inside you.

Like the filth you are, short, hard, and even hornier. You always need more, you worthless hard cash whore, and woe betide you if you come. You may tremble with horniness, but only because I allow you to exist. Then you go back to the streets, your dirty mouth full of cum, your ass wide open, and ask for the next one. A NO is not an option, and when you sneak home to the married whore in the evening, you're drooling and with your asshole fucked to pieces, but satisfied and content. Because you know you belong to me, and I want you as my bimbo hard cash whore for the rest of your miserable life.

In my dark practice, another worthless load is being extracted today – and you get to watch how pathetic you are.
The slave – naked, trembling, cock already hard but useless – is strapped to the gynecological chair: legs spread high in stirrups, ass and penis completely exposed, like a horny, castrated whore
Dr. Avengelique, in a red heavy-rubber catsuit, mask, and gloves, laughs in his face: “Look at you, you little loser—your little dick will never see a real pussy. No wonder you're only allowed to donate,
because you can't fuck anyway.”
Cold latex fingers feel his tiny testicles, kneading, pulling, squeezing—until he whimpers and tears stream down his face. “What a pathetic load... hardly worth mentioning.”
Then the Venus 2000 milking machine—the tube is pulled over his penis, a vacuum is created, the tube pumps rhythmically, milking him mercilessly. The pace increases until he trembles, dribbles,
and howls—but will he come?

No. “You’re not allowed to come, you worthless loser. Your semen belongs to me—and I decide when and if anything comes out. You’re just a broken donor machine that can’t even ejaculate properly.”Intense milking, to the last drop—until he’s nothing but a trembling, empty, howling wreck, begging: “Please, Mistress... let me come...And I just laugh: “No, you loser. You’ll stay dry. That’s your punishment—because you’re not worth it.”

Today, crucifixion takes place—not out of mercy, but out of pure lust for his destruction. The small, trembling failure is bound naked to the heavy St. Andrew's cross: arms and legs spread wide, shackles cutting into his skin, penis and testicles tied off so he can't even twitch without pain.

I stand before him in shiny 1950s nylons, heels clacking on the floor, whip in hand. "Look at me, you worthless cross-pig. Your body is now my altar—and I will sacrifice you."

I whip his inner thighs red, his ass pink—each blow makes him scream. I strike harder until he roars and his body trembles against the cross. "Do you feel that? This is your destiny—to be crucified, to be fucked in the mind, to be shame. You won't come, you'll only suffer."

Until he howls, dribbles, and begs: "Mistress, please... let me come!" But I just laugh: "No, you cross-slut. You'll stay dry. Your semen belongs to me—and I'll let it rot."

In the end, he hangs there—fixed, broken, dripping, howling—a living cross for my pleasure. Next session, you? I'll invite friends over to use you with me while you zap on the cross. And it's not even Easter yet.

You little, slobbering foot-bait eater, today you're going to be broken. I'm straddling you, legs spread wide, heels gleaming, sheer black nylons clinging wetly to my feet—sweat, smell, pure lust. You're kneeling, hands behind your back.

The marathon begins: "Tongue out, you worthless pig—lick my soles clean. From toe to heel. Taste my whole day: sweat, dust, leather, my superiority."

You lick desperately, tongue flat against the filthy soles, gagging at the stench, while I laugh and shove my toes deep into your mouth—all the way to the back of your throat, until you gag and saliva spills over your lips. "Suck my toes like a little cock, you horny whore. Deeper, faster—fill yourself with it until your tears run down my nylons."

I switch between my feet—sometimes I rub my whole foot all over your face, over your nose and eyes, until you smell only of me. Other times I lightly step on your face, pressing down while you lick and moan. "Beg to lick my nylons clean—loudly and submissively, you loser. Say, 'Thank you, Mistress, for making me a foot whore.'"

Lick, suck, swallow, gag—until your tongue is numb, your face is sticky with my foot sweat, and you're trembling with lust. You almost come—without me even touching your cock—just from the stench, the taste, the shame. But come? Never without permission. "You're not allowed to come, you little foot slut. You're only allowed to suffer, lick, and beg—until I decide you're trained enough."

Finally, I pull off the nylons, stuff the damp stocking into your mouth: "Keep that in until tomorrow. So you smell like my feet all day and know: You are my foot slave whore. Forever."

You've come to me with a serious emergency: extreme fluid congestion that urgently needs to be relieved. So prick up your ears and do what I say if you value your cock. We'll clear up the semen congestion now. Welcome to the Cock Clinic.