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!

I left the seat warm for you three minutes ago and you're already down there breathing it in like it's the only air you've got. Lick slow — the rim first, then that ridge underneath where my thighs pressed, then pull it through your nose the way you do when nobody who loves you is watching. I'll lower myself onto your tongue and drag it through the crease where my cheek meets my thigh, laughing at how hard you get doing the one job you've ever been good at. This is what ass worship looks like for a man with no other talents: leftovers, and a thank you.

Twelve-fifteen and you're locked in the executive washroom while your team orders Beverage two floors down. Suit still buttoned. Waistband already twisted in your fist. Yank it. Higher. The bowl smells like bleach over something older and you put your face in it anyway, because I told you to, because you've wanted someone to make you do this since the day they gave you an office. Flush. Come up dripping, hair flat, staring at yourself in the chrome. Your phone recorded all of it — that's mine now, sitting two clicks from your team channel. Pull your trousers up over the red line and go run your one o'clock. Every time you shift in that chair you'll know exactly who owns the body inside the suit.

No bra. Just two little stars of tape and the rest of me out in the open, and you can't make your eyes go anywhere else. Watch — my hands come up my ribs and I cup myself, lift, let the weight settle back into my palms. That's all it took. You're already leaking. I bounce once, sharp, and I feel the jolt land in you from here. She's sitting ten feet away with no idea, and you're comparing. I know you are. You'll pay for the glance and you'll pay more for the next one, because I set the rate and you've never once walked away. No countdown tonight. No permission. You go home aching and you thank me for it, and her skin won't taste like anything anymore.

I reviewed your entire sexual résumé. Blank page. I recross my legs, skirt drags higher up my thigh, and you follow the movement like it might teach you something. It won't. Last night a real cock stretched me until I sobbed into the pillow; this morning my sheets still smell like him. That's your only reference material. Breathe it in. Your cock grows on cue and the size comparison writes itself. We don't need a ruler to know you've never made a woman clench, never made one beg, never been inside. It's the virginity in you that makes you jerk faster while you let it drip down your own stomach in four wet seconds while I count. Four seconds, and the only thing you've ever been inside is your own hand.

Prop the mirror where you can watch your own face take it. You don't get to look away from what you're about to do. I keep you hands-off leaking, until I give the word, and then it's fast and upward: right across your mouth, your nose, your eyelashes. No towel. Every time you stall I turn and give you my ass in this bikini, a reminder of what your mouth doesn't get near until it's clean. Then the tongue. Corners of your lips, the sides of your nose, both cheeks, and that thick glob swinging off your chin — open, let it land, chew before you swallow. Somehow your life has come to this. Cum eating instructions with no exit at the end, self facial and verbal humiliation stitched into one long clean-up. When your face is spotless you say it out loud: you licked it off, you swallowed every drop, and you kind of liked it.

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!