“Get your fucking pants down, now!”
Heart racing, you struggle with your belt. She doesn’t have a right to treat me like this, you think to yourself. You try to ignore the clammy grip of nervous sweat around your balls. I ’ve paid good money after all; she is really nothing more than a whore when you get right down to it.
The more you think about it, the braver you’re feeling. Mistress, my ass! Just who in the hell does she think she is to talk to me like that?
Ignoring your own better judgment, forgetting that your pants are now down around your knees and your dick is sticking straight up, you look up to say something, to somehow defend yourself against my scornful abuse.
“You timid, little piece-of-shit, loser. Who in the fuck do you think you are looking at?”
My voice is cruel and unforgiving as I look at you with cold, icy blue eyes—first straight into your face and then down to your naked, twitching cock. I smirk, and you know you are beaten, that I have you, that I know you for the warped and twisted degenerate that you are. Your bravado is gone, your words caught dry and useless in your throat.
Wiggling my slender hand into a latex glove, stretching and pulling the latex to fit snugly between my fingers, I continue, my voice a wicked snarl, “Don’t even think about smart-mouthing me, asshole. You’re the one who called me. You’re the one who was so damn curious about a “FemDom” handjob. You’re the butterfingers who evidently can’t jerk off your own dick. You’re the underachiever who evidently needs an instruction manual on how to fuck pussy correctly.” My voice is sharp and cold and you know now that there will be no kindness, no mercy. But your cock is throbbing as you watch me squirting lube into the palm of my gloved hand.
“Five.”
I spit the number out at you as my slithery fist grabs your prick and moves down the length of it. The shock, the suddenness of it, is so visceral that you almost shoot your load right then.
“Don’t you fucking dare, weasel boy. This dirty, nasty, useless prick of yours doesn’t cum until and when I say so. And that would be when we get to the number one. Got it?”
“Christ! Fuck! Shit! Yesssssssssss, Ma’am.”
You hear yourself, a whimpering, blubbering, mindless automaton. You are my toy: a helpless, filthy cock-toy to abuse and molest at my whim.
“Four.”
As my hand moves—once up and once down—you feel my grasp tighten ever so slightly. Oh, she is a gifted Goddess. You know that now and your urge to cum is almost overpowering. You can’t help yourself and begin to actually wail. “Please, Mistress. Please let me cum now. Oh, please.” You hear yourself and are ashamed, but cannot stop. “Please, Mistress. Let me cum now. Let me be your dirty filthy boy and cum now. Please, please, please, please.”
Abruptly I loosen my grip and—before you even understand what is happening—smacks your cock. Once. Twice. Three times. There is nothing, nobody but you and me, my hand and your dick. You actually swoon and feel yourself buckling when I grab your arm and pull you you back up.
“No you don’t,” I whisper sweetly, lips grazing your ear. The unexpected change in my manner has you spinning and powerless, totally focused on me. You struggle to speak, to tell me you adore me, to tell me you belong to me while your abandoned cock twitches and drips, pointing directly at me: your Mistress, your Queen.
“You came here for a FemDom handjob. Don’t you remember? Or did your brain melt and drain into your balls and leave you stupid? If you spew already, you’ll miss the show.”
I giggle as I move away from you to sit in a nearby chair. You are tempted to beg me to come back, to jerk your cock again, that you will be a “good boy.” But seeing the look on my face you think better of it and are silent.
“That’s more like it,” I say, pointing between your legs. You are helpless, exposed. “That dick is now my property, my personal gear shift. Got it?”
Afraid to look at me, you nod, staring straight ahead. “Yes Mistress.”
“I’m going to start again in a moment, but this time I’m going to start counting back from ten.” Unable to stop yourself, you moan in frustration.
“Make that fifteen.” You bite your tongue.
“You’re learning,” I almost—but not quite—purr as I stand up again and walk toward you.
“Now stand there with your pants down around your ankles like the gimp-loser dick-wad you are while I lube this glove up one more time.”
“And then we’ll try again.”
