I sit down on top — wet, commanding.

I grind you into me through the fabric — hard, brazen, greedy.

You feel every hot curve, every throbbing fold, but you cannot enter.

You only feel.

Only serve.

Only exist for this slow, humiliating, exquisite use.

24:T47f,

Black, thick tights cling to the legs like a second skin.

The heavy heels — black, mirror-shiny — still bear the traces of your recent capitulation.

First — the dirty sole onto your tongue.

Lick obediently while I slowly press the heavy heel straight into your testicles.

A crunch, a flattening, a sharp, tearing pain that turns your pathetic erection into a useless rag.

This isn’t just pain.

It’s the sensation that your flesh no longer belongs to you — as if it has been surrendered to Me:

to this shoe,

to this weight,

to this slow, methodical, precisely measured pressure,

to this beautiful torment from which there is no escape.

And then, while you are still trembling and gasping from pain and humiliation,