Part 2 brings my sadistic appetite to a feverish pitch, as I return to do what I love and do best: whipping the daylights out of my helpless slave with my collection of brutal implements. I trade in my cat of nine tails for my dreaded leather rosebud flogger, and the result is pure, inexorable agony for my helplessly bound slave. The rosebud's heavy tails bite deeper, strike harder, and leave his flesh ruined beneath my hands.

I am at my most sadistic best, thrashing his back, shoulders, legs, and ass, his flesh welting and bruising from my unrelenting onslought. From the top of his chest, to his nipples, stomach, cock and balls, thighs, calves, and even the soles of his feet, not an inch of his body escapes my vengeance. Every strike is deliberate. Every welt is a signature. Every bruise is proof of my ownership.

He hangs there and takes it, because he has no choice. Because his body belongs to me. Because I am the huntress, the relentless Goddess of pain. The Woman born to rule you. Born to be served and feared like no other.

Could you survive my rosebud flogger, or would your flesh and spirit both shatter beneath it?

I've been called The Thinking Man's Mistress. And it's true. I am smart enough to be the one doing the slapping, rather than taking the punishment like too many weak women do. I am the one in control. I am the one with the power. And this slave is about to learn exactly what that means.

I mislead him with a gentle caress of my feminine hand against his cheek, lulling him into a false sense of softness, of safety. Then I claw his chest with my long fingernails, raking them across his flesh, watching him wince as my marks bloom red against his skin. And before he can recover, I follow with a vigorous slap across his face. The crack of my palm against his cheek echoes through the room. His head snaps to the side, and I smile.

Then I begin in earnest. Slapping with power. Two hands simultaneously striking both cheeks. I jar his cranium with every blow, rattling his skull, letting him know from the outset exactly who the boss is. There is no question. There has never been a question. I am the dominant power in this room, and he is merely the target of my intellectual amusement.

I overpower him with a barrage of intense face-slapping, my palms raining down on his cheeks with precision and presence, punctuated intermittently with thick spit into his gaping mouth. He swallows my degradation while his face burns crimson from my hands. The pain is so great he struggles to hold back his tears, his eyes glistening, his lip trembling. I taunt him: "Are you crying?"

"No," he murmurs, understanding that if he admits it, I will batter him senseless and give him every reason to break down weeping. His denial changes nothing. I see the truth in his watering eyes. I feel the truth in the tremble of his skin beneath my palm.

The slap-fest continues. And continues. For him, it is pain. For me, an intellectual exercise in the complete dismantling of a man's dignity, one slap at a time. And I am enjoying every moment of my experiment.

How many slaps across your face before you broke down and admitted you were crying?

In this clip, I slap my slave simply because I can. I unload a merciless slap attack upon my slave's face, and he immediately slips into a state of submissive euphoria. I have him kiss the very hand that smacks him senseless, as a gesture of his surrender to me. It is his purpose to give me whatever I desire, no matter how sadistic the request may be. I escalate the speed and intensity of my strikes, until my sadistic hunger is satiated, which may take quite some time. Harder and harder I slap his face until both his teeth are rattled and his brain sufficiently scrambled. I allow him a momentary reprieve, just long enough to spit directly in his eye. The shameful look on his face is priceless as I continue to slap him silly, one stiff blow after another. This may go on all night long, as I am not stopping until his offering of pain pleases me.

Empress Jennifer loves nothing more than humiliating her useless, pathetic loser slaves. They exist for one reason – to be used, tormented, and trodden upon by her divine perfection. And this particular slug of a loser is about to learn exactly what that means.

She strips him naked, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable on the floor, then proceeds to trample him mercilessly like a human bath mat. There is no hesitation. No mercy. Just her feet and his worthless body beneath them. Up and down the length of his body she takes a leisurely stroll, her full weight pressing into his stomach, his chest, his throat. He wheezes beneath her. She doesn't care. He's furniture. He's a rug. He's nothing.

But the real fun begins when she stops to crush and stomp his cock and balls under foot. She grinds her sole into his pathetic sack, flattening his balls against his body while he gasps and squirms. She stomps down on his shaft, driving the air from his lungs with each brutal impact. His most sensitive flesh is her personal playground, and she destroys it with casual, practiced ease.

Empress Jennifer is sheer perfection as she torments her minion effortlessly, a smile of pure joy playing on her perfect lips the entire time. She could do this all day. Honestly, she plans to.

How long could you endure being Empress Jennifer's personal human bath mat before you were crushed into complete submission?

With my slave completely naked and vulnerable to my evil whims, I instruct him to fetch one of my favorite and most feared pieces of dungeon furniture, that being my Genital Torment and Stomping Platform. A look of dread immediately washes over his face, in anticipation of the punishment which will soon befall him.

I instruct him to lay his body beneath the platform and position his cock and balls through the hole, until they rest upon the platform. Once his testicles are completely exposed and vulnerable to my sadistic whims, I press my full body weight onto my slave's ball sack. Using my sadistic dagger like 7" stiletto heels, I kick, stomps, jab and crush his testicles flat as a pancake.

Completely trapped below my stomping platform, my slave is helpless to do anything but gaze up at his Empress and beg for mercy, as I relentlessly torment his most prized possession with my sadistic stilettos. And I will continue to mercilessly stomp on his nuts until my sadistic hunger is satiated.

Goddess Jasmine has at it with the piggie punching bag. She unleashes a can of whoop-ass as no other Asian Mean Girl has before. Not knowing it at the time, it was later revealed that she was an expert Muay Thai fighter. The poor fool never had a chance, as Goddess Jasmine gives him an introduction to "the art of eight limbs," combining the use of punches, elbows, knees, shins and feet. OUCH! She hits him with a flurry of knee jabs, foot thrusts, and elbow slashes that wear out her punching pigboy in mere seconds. After a roundhouse kick to the head, he drops to the floor confused and immobilized. In less than one round he is out for the count. Maybe in some places they use smelling salts to arouse consciousness, but here some good swift kicks to his balls are all that's needed to revive him for another round of torment.

I give my slave blow after brutal blow to the face with my open hand. I may be small in appearance, but I have a powerful slap. I can almost hear his head is ringing from the intense smacks I inflict upon him. He wants to know what he did wrong to deserve such a harsh punishment; the answer is: nothing. I do it simply to fulfill my need to inflict harm on men, to fulfill my sadistic desires. My slave will take more for the simple reason that I wish it, and always the devoted one, he will gladly take it to prove his loyalty to me.

I stop and place my soft leather gloves over his mouth and nose cutting off his air. The smell sends him into a dream state. Then I abruptly wake him up with another round of vicious slaps. He starts to whimper like a little bitch. I find this so amusing I go at it again, hitting him twice as hard. I finish him off with an intense volley of slaps, going harder each time. He is going to have quite a hangover tomorrow morning, but he still must perform his labors, or it’s back to the dungeon for more suffering. This time he will deserve it.

With Seductive Sadism,

Mistress An Li

Features: face slapping, spitting, latex, verbal humiliation, Asian, BDSM, female domination.

Goddess An Li has lost her patience with her "useful idiot" of a domestic servant, and a swift and severe punishment is in order. But this Goddess is a benevolent dictator, and her houseboy's punishment must fit the crime. So what crime is this fool guilty of? An Li sent him to the market to pick up her weekly groceries, and he forgot her favorite container of mixed nuts. Can you see where this is going? HA HA!

What better way to teach this imbecile a good lesson, than to crush those useless nuts between his legs with a cruel and merciless ball busting? Kick after excruciating Kick, An Li pulverizes his testicles until they are flat as a pancake (because he also forgot the wrong pancake mix) Ha Ha! Idiot gets EXACTLY what he deserves!

Mistress Lynn Pops' slave is long overdue for a serious attitude adjustment. He seems to forget his place of subservience all too often, and there's nothing like a humiliating beatdown to bring him back in line. Mistress tightly binds her pet to her steel spider web and then proceeds to put a never ending face slap beatdown on him untill his cheeks turn a bright shade of rosy red. Mistress unloads a rapid-fire hail storm of slaps, one after the other. Left, right, left, right. Backhand, forehand. Her slave is so rattled in the brain from the slapping, he can barely remember what day it is or his Mistress' name. One thing he will remember, is the severity of this beatdown and the consequences that face him if he continues with his disobedience.

Nothing breaks down a man's ego and arrogance faster than a humiliating face slapping from a woman half his size. By the time Mistress Lynn is done with his punishment, he will truly understand his place as her loyal, devoted and subservient minion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Mistress Bella Blackheart's true sadistic nature is on full display as she takes her naked, bound, and helpless slave far beyond his pain threshold. There is no warm up. There is no pretense of mercy. There is only her reign of cruelty, and it begins with one of her most cherished and excruciating riding crops gripped tightly in her hand.

She beats the daylights out of her pain puppet with savage enthusiasm, the crop cutting through the air before landing with sickening cracks against his exposed flesh. Strike after agonizing strike, the leather tip bruises and welts every inch of his body. His back. His ass. His thighs. His chest. No part of him is spared from her methodical destruction. She paints him in shades of purple and red, each welt a signature of her ownership.

The more he screams, the more pleasure Mistress Blackheart takes in his demise. The more he begs, the harder she swings. His desperate pleas are for nothing, because Mistress is intent on breaking this pet physically, mentally, and spiritually. She will reduce him to nothing but a sobbing, welted mess who understands that his suffering exists solely for her entertainment.

And when her voracious appetite for pain has finally been satiated, when he hangs spent and broken in his bonds with nothing left to give, then and only then will she release him. She will put him on his knees before her, where he belongs, and allow him to show his appreciation the only way a broken slave can: by worshipping her leather boots with his trembling, grateful lips.

Does this broken pet have enough strength left to properly show his gratitude?

A deusa Mena tem seu escravo exatamente onde deseja — totalmente indefeso, completamente exposto e amarrado na situação mais humilhante imaginável. Seus inúteis testículos e patético pênis estão firmemente atados, a corda esticada e presa aos seus dedos dos pés, forçando-o a ficar nas pontas dos pés numa posição de absoluta vulnerabilidade. Cada pequeno movimento que ele faz tensiona ainda mais sua própria masculinidade. Ele está preso. Preso justamente pelas partes que mais valoriza, aquelas às quais sua mente masculina, guiada pelo ego, se apega tão pateticamente.

Ele já sofre uma dor excruciante só por estar em pé ali. A corda corta seu saco inchado. A tensão mantém seu pênis esticado e sob esforço. A circulação para o pênis e os testículos foi interrompida, a carne tornou-se hipersensível, cada terminação nervosa gritando. O menor impacto causará imenso tormento, e Mena sabe disso. Ela conta com isso.

Ela dá voltas ao redor dele lentamente, segurando um chicote de couro, admirando seu próprio trabalho. Ele treme, os olhos arregalados de terror, sabendo exatamente o que está por vir. Não há para onde fugir. Ele literalmente não pode se mover sem arrancar seus próprios testículos. Sua preciosa masculinidade — essa coisa da qual tanto se orgulha, essa carne inútil que ocupa sua patética mente masculina — é precisamente o que o mantém aprisionado aqui. Quão magnífico.

Mena levanta seu chicote e desfere um golpe nítido sobre seus testículos. Ele guincha, todo o corpo se contrai, o que apenas aperta mais a corda contra seus testículos. Ela nem espera que ele se recupere. Outro golpe atinge seu pênis. Depois outro no saco. Repetidamente, o chicote de couro inflige fortes e severos golpes à sua carne mais sensível, cada impacto enviando ondas de pura agonia através do seu corpo. Seus guinchos e gritos enchem a sala, e Mena os absorve como música.

Ela lembra a ele, com cada golpe, que sua masculinidade só lhe traz dor. Foi ela que o colocou nesta situação. É ela que o mantém aqui. É a fonte de todo o seu sofrimento. E ela tem toda intenção de machucá-la igualmente, ensinando-lhe que seu inútil pênis e testículos nada são além de um fardo, nada além de uma fraqueza para ser usada por ela.

Lá ele permanece, acorrentado e quebrado, sua carne hipersensível recebendo golpe após golpe, completamente à mercê de sua Deusa. E a deusa Mena não possui misericórdia alguma para oferecer.

Quanto tempo você duraria amarrado pelos seus próprios testículos inúteis enquanto o chicote da deusa Mena lhe ensinava exatamente o quanto sua masculinidade realmente é inútil?

Dou o mais leve dos sorrisos ao meu escravo. Apenas um esboço de sorriso. O pensamento do que estou prestes a fazer com ele me excita além da conta. Meu braço se enrola lentamente como uma cobra se preparando para atacar, então dispara em ação com velocidade brutal. Minha chicoteada corta o ar e acerta sua carne, e o grito que rasga de sua garganta é apenas o começo. Desfiro uma série de golpes maliciosos, cada um calculado, cada um devastador. Seu pênis e testículos estão amarrados ao teto, esticados e vulneráveis, deixando-o sem onde correr, sem onde se esconder, sem onde escapar da destruição que planejei.

Paro. Lambo sedutoramente os lábios, meu olhar tornando-se lascivo enquanto absorvo seu terror. Danço à volta dele como um gato, lenta e sensualmente, permitindo-lhe absorver o momento, fazendo-o acreditar que talvez consiga sobreviver a isso. Meus movimentos são hipnotizantes. Sua guarda cai. E então, subitamente, sem aviso prévio, transformo-me novamente.

Rápida. Letal. Implacável.

Desencadeio uma fúria de chicotadas por toda as costas dele, cada impacto atingindo com precisão devastadora, transformando sua pele numa tela de agonia. Ele grita desesperadamente, sua morte iminente consumindo-o, seu corpo lutando freneticamente pela vida enquanto eu o destroço. Meu chicote simples é mais do que ele pode suportar. Uma pancada após outra reduz suas costas a ruínas, vergões surgem, a pele se rompe, seu corpo convulsiona a cada estalo do meu instrumento.

Suas costas logo estão repletas das minhas marcas. Permanentes. Belas. Minhas. Dou um passo atrás e admiro minha obra, sabendo que ele foi alterado para sempre por esta experiência. Abatido por uma mulher superior até um estado de total submissão. Meus chicotes mudam homens. Transformam-nos. Quebram-nos e reconstróem-nos como meus escravos, eternamente devotos, eternamente marcados, eternamente meus.

Quantas chicotadas seriam necessárias antes que você fosse transformado na minha propriedade para sempre?