mi**** Posted May 9 He showed up the next time just like I told him— Pink lace barely hiding how eager he was. His jeans couldn’t hide the twitch. I didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask how he was. I just whispered, “Show Me.” He hesitated—only for a second. Then ducked his head, cheeks flushed, and unzipped his jeans like a good little toy. I ran a finger along the waistband, smirking. “You really wore these for Me?” He nodded. “Say it.” “I wore them for You, Madam…” That’s all I needed. I made him kneel right there—living room lights off, blinds still open. Anyone walking by could’ve seen him, pink and pathetic, mouth open, ready. But he didn’t care. He was mine now. I circled him slowly. Told him all the things I’d make him do. How I’d ruin his holes. Make him serve drinks in heels. Edge for hours while I scrolled through texts. He moaned at every word. And when I finally leaned in and whispered, “You’re not My date—you’re My doll,” He whimpered. Shook. Begged. And came untouched. I didn’t praise him. I wiped his chin, looked him in the eye, and said, “Clean up. And next time—bring a collar. I’m not done breaking you.”
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