Ballbusting joy with Mistress T-Rex and a humbled slave
He's locked in the cage on his knees and elbows — gagged, wrists bound, balls pulled out through the bars in a humbler so every twitch is a negotiation. There's nowhere to go and nothing to say.
I'm in shiny thigh-high boots and a black body stocking, and I've come to play. Stiletto heel tapping, probing, pressing into his swollen balls. Then my hands: a slow, deliberate squeeze. Then the leather mallet — measured little taps that land far harder than they look. Then open-palmed slaps that echo off the bars.
He can't speak. He can groan, yelp, and rattle the cage all he likes. And the whole time I'm fighting back laughter at how ridiculous and desperate he looks, losing that fight more than once.
Tattooed, merciless, and clearly enjoying myself. He won't be sitting comfortably for a while.