Helena walked slowly around him, the cold, dry sound of her heels reverberating off the walls of the room. The soft lighting created sensual shadows, but he, kneeling in the center of the carpet, didn't dare look up to see her expression. His collar was tight around his throat, the leash hanging between the hands of the Mistress, who watched him with that sharp, calculated look that made him shrink with shame and excitement. "Look at you..." her voice cut through the air like a whip. "Ridiculous. Kneeling, naked, with that little collar, thinking you deserve some attention." Lucas swallowed hard, his shoulders shaking. He wanted to answer, but he knew that obedient silence was his only option. Humiliation burned on his skin like a cold fire, making his cock harden, throbbing, even though he wasn't allowed to even move. Helena pulled the leash hard, causing him to lose balance and fall with his hands on the floor. "On all fours!" — she ordered, her voice harsh, cruel. He obeyed, crawling to the middle of the room, while she approached with feline calm, her heels scraping the floor with each step. Helena crouched beside him, pulled his chin up and forced him to look at her. — A stupid little dog, that's what you are — she whispered, with a wicked smile. — Not even a man... just a useless little thing that lives to lick my feet and obey. Lucas's gaze filled with submission, shame and desire. He gasped, his breathing uneven, knowing that each word of hers broke him a little more... and he wanted to be broken, wanted to be dismantled and rebuilt by the firm hands of his Mistress. Without warning, Helena spat in his face. — Clean up, dog. He extended his tongue and licked his own face, tasting her mixed with the sweat of his own humiliation. Helena laughed softly, pleased with the spectacle. — That’s how I like it… — he murmured, before standing up and picking up the plug with his tail. She positioned herself behind him, caressing his buttocks with her sharp nails, scratching the skin until she left a mark. Then she leaned over and whispered: — You deserve to be fucked in the ass like the pathetic little animal that you are, don’t you? — Yes, Mistress… — he moaned, his voice breaking. — Say it loud. — I deserve it! I’m a pathetic animal, Mistress! She smiled, satisfied with his humiliated obedience, and without delay, she lubricated the plug and pushed it deep, making him let out a muffled grunt, his tail now hanging between his legs. — Look at this deplorable scene… — she teased, walking to the mirror. — Come, crawl. Like the worm that you are. Lucas crawled across the floor, his knees and palms burning from the friction, his tail shaking with each movement. When she got to the mirror, Helena made him kneel, pulling on the leash to keep his head up. “Look… look at the trash you’ve become because of me.” She tightened the leash tightly, making him choke slightly. “And you know the worst part? You like it.” He closed his eyes, moaning, shame and pleasure inseparably mixed. When he opened his eyes, he stared at his reflection: his exposed body, his face stained with saliva, the tight leash, the inserted tail… all under the satisfied gaze of the Mistress. “Tell me what you are,” she ordered, her voice merciless. “I am… your little dog… your toy… your trash…” he stammered, unable to contain the blush that rose to his skin. Helena pulled the leash tightly, forcing him to bring his face closer to her feet. “Then prove it.” He began to lick the soles of her shoes, his tongue wet and reverent, like a trained little animal desperate for approval. She stood up straight, looking at the scene with satisfied contempt, occasionally kicking him lightly in the face, pushing him back, only to see him crawl back to her feet. After long minutes of silent humiliation, Helena pulled on the collar, making him get on his knees and lift his face. “You’re nothing more than a thing, Lucas. An object for my pleasure, a toy that I use when I want to… and discard when I get tired of it.” “Yes, Mistress…” he replied, his voice trembling, but his gaze completely surrendered. Helena leaned in, running her fingernail down his throat until she reached his lips. She squeezed his face tightly, as if holding the snout of a rebellious animal. “But today… you behaved well. Maybe I’ll let you sleep at the foot of my bed… like the faithful little dog you’ve proven yourself to be.” He smiled, a small smile, embarrassed, but full of pride. For him, that was the greatest prize: the approval of the Mistress, the recognition after the humiliation and the power play. Helena released the leash and stroked his hair, gently loosening the collar. “Lie down.” He obeyed, curling up at her feet, his head resting on her chest, who was now caressing him with an unexpected but deserved sweetness. In the comfortable silence that followed, the dog and the owner breathed together, in an intimate and perfect rhythm.

He could barely type the correct words as he entered the private room: “I am ready, Mistress.” But she knew. She knew he would never truly be “ready.” Not for what she would do to him. Her image appeared on the screen: flawless, monumental, unattainable. She wore a leather corset that molded her perfect waist and made her breasts stand out as a challenge to his nonexistent masculinity. Her long legs ended in sky-high heels. But it was her gaze that destroyed him: indifferent, superior, as if observing something insignificant… a grotesque anomaly. “So… the insect has returned,” she said, her voice cold as steel. “Are you eager to be reminded of who you are… or rather, what you are?” He swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he activated the camera. “Show me. Now.” He obeyed, pulling the covers aside, revealing what so embarrassed him and, at the same time, kept him irremediably tied to her: his physical insignificance. Her laughter was immediate, cruel, without any compassion. — Oh my God… — she tilted her head, pretending to analyze with scientific curiosity. — That… that’s a joke, isn’t it? It can’t be real. He shriveled even more, as if he could shrink and disappear. — I can’t even call it a ‘dick’. It looks more like… a manufacturing defect. A leftover tissue that your body must have absorbed in the womb. Do you look at yourself in the mirror and not feel disgusted? He squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation drowning out any possibility of a response. — Speak! — she ordered, her tone dry, implacable. — I feel… disgusted, Madam… — As you should. You have nothing there. You’re not even good enough to piss with dignity. I bet even when you cum it looks like you’re spraying water from a cheap spray bottle… He stifled a groan of embarrassment, his face blushing violently. She laughed even harder, leaning toward the screen as if observing a deformed insect. — Imagine… a real man… an alpha male… with pulsing veins, thick, imposing… and then there’s you: this shrunken, soft, useless little thing… A disgrace to the male race. He let out a shaky sigh, unable to look directly at her. — I bet you’ve never made a woman cum, have you? — she continued, sharp as a blade. — You’ve never heard a real moan, just that pathetic noise you make when you masturbate alone, looking at women who would never know you exist. He tried to answer, but she wouldn’t let him: — Shut up! — and then she softened her tone, as if caressing before crushing. — You want to cum, don’t you? You want my permission to relieve yourself… like the despicable worm that you are… He nodded, desperate, dragged by the spiral of shame and desire. — Well, then, touch yourself… but first… say out loud: ‘I have a useless dick, I’m a sexual failure, and I’m only good for being humiliated.’ He shuddered, tears welling up, but he obeyed: “I… I have a useless dick… I’m a sexual failure… and I’m only good for being humiliated…” She let out a satisfied sigh, as if appreciating the masterpiece she had just completed. “Now… look at it, look closely at that useless piece of flesh between your legs… and know this: no one will ever respect you. Not as a man, not as a human being. You were born for this… to be exposed, trampled on, despised.” He groaned, masturbating in a mixture of pain and abysmal pleasure, until, in a final spasm, he spilled himself, soiling himself completely… smaller, more miserable, more ruined than ever. She watched him in silence for a few seconds, before finishing with icy contempt: “Clean yourself up… trash. And next time… come prepared to be crushed even more.” And she ended the call, leaving him alone, wrapped in his own humiliation, with the only certainty that remained: that woman had destroyed everything he still dared to call dignity... and he desired her even more for it.

"Submissive Under the Heel" The red light bathed the room, casting dense shadows on the walls. Clara was in the center, dressed in a black corset that molded her waist, lace stockings and high heels that tapped firmly on the floor, like the rhythm of the power she wielded. In her hands, a leather leash and a short whip, rolled lazily around her fingers. At her feet, on all fours, was the sissy — whom she called only “Lola” — with her mouth painted red, her eyes submissive, her body trembling and dressed only in tiny white lace panties. “Get on your knees, Lola,” Clara ordered, her tone firm but full of desire. Lola obeyed immediately, lifting her chin and exposing her neck. Clara fastened the collar around it, tightening it until she felt her breathing quicken. “Do you know why you are here?” she asked, as she pulled the leash, forcing Lola to tilt her head back. — To serve you, Mistress… — she replied, already out of breath. Clara smiled at the corner of her mouth and, without ceremony, gave her face a firm slap, only to feel the warm skin under her palm. — Exactly. And you will serve me with every part of that ridiculous and delicious body. The Domme walked around the submissive, her heels clicking on the floor. She stopped behind her, pulled her lacy panties to the side and slid a finger, slowly, between her open thighs. — Wet… As always — she teased. Lola gasped, squeezing her knees, but Clara gave a sharp tug on the leash. — No! Spread those legs wide. I want to see everything. Lola obeyed, exposing herself completely. Clara ran the tip of the whip across her thighs and, suddenly, cracked a sharp blow on her skin, marking it with a red line. — Thank you. — Thank you, Mistress… — Lola moaned, biting her lip. Another blow. Harder. — Louder! — THANK YOU, MISTRESS! Clara smiled with satisfaction and bent down, licking the newly made mark, feeling the warm taste of her skin. Then she grabbed Lola by the hair and pulled her to her groin. “Show me that you know how to use that mouth.” Lola didn’t hesitate: her tongue slid obediently over the skin, while Clara held her head firmly, guiding her movements, squeezing, forcing more and more, until the sissy was panting, drooling, not knowing for sure if she was asking for air or more pleasure. Clara let go of her hair and slapped her wet cheek hard. “Ridiculous. Look at you: a little slut on her knees, begging to be used.” Lola moaned with pure lust. “Turn around, on all fours. Now.” Lola obeyed, offering herself in an obscene way. Clara grabbed the plug that was on the table, lubricated it skillfully and, without much ceremony, pressed it against the submissive’s exposed entrance, who moaned loudly as she felt the object settle inside her. “You’ll only cum when I let you, understand?” — Yes, Mistress… — she answered, her voice breaking. Clara then positioned herself behind her and, with one hand, began to stimulate the plug, turning it slowly, while with the other she pulled the sissy’s hair, forcing her head back, making her arch even more. — You’re on the verge of orgasm, aren’t you? — Clara whispered, biting Lola’s earlobe. — Yes… Mistress… I can’t take it anymore… Clara laughed maliciously. — Then hold on. She let go of the plug, leaving the submissive moaning, frustrated, and walked to the mirror. — Come here, Lola. On your knees. Lola crawled, her knees already marked by the carpet. Clara pointed in front of the mirror. — Look at yourself. See what you are: my property. A mounted, marked and horny little slut. Lola stared at her reflection: smeared makeup, red marks on her skin, the plug visible, her breathing panting. — Beg for me, Lola. I want to hear it. — Please, Mistress… let me cum… Please… I’m yours… only yours… Clara lifted the submissive’s chin with the tip of her heel, leaned in and whispered: — Cum. And, as if those words were the final key, Lola exploded in an intense orgasm, writhing on the floor, moaning loudly, her entire body in spasms. Clara watched, satisfied, unhurried. When the submissive finally collapsed, exhausted, Clara bent down, took off her collar and gently caressed her face. — Very good, my sissy… you gave me exactly what I wanted. Lola smiled, still breathless, and rested her head on the Domme’s lap, while Clara lit a cigarette, contemplating her work. In that room, between moans, orders and absolute surrender, they both knew: there was no room for doubt. Only for desire, raw and uncontrollable.