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.

Title: In Their Service When Lucas met Diana, she was sweet, reserved, but with eyes that hid storms. They married young, for love—an intense love, but full of mysteries. It was only years later, when they were mature and comfortable with each other, that Diana revealed what really burned inside her. "I want more. I want to be adored, served... and not just by you, my love." Lucas looked at her, surprised. Not by her boldness, but by the clarity with which she said it. Their marriage had always been solid, but that night, something changed. A new layer of desire revealed itself—raw, powerful, and dangerous. Diana began to transform. From a loving wife, she became a self-assured Domme. She discovered the pleasure of dressing for herself—sky-high heels, lace garters, leather necklaces. Lucas, on the other hand, began to occupy a new place in the home: no longer as the dominant husband, but as the silent and devoted submissive. She called him “my good boy.” And he loved it. It all started with glances and flirting at bars they frequented together. Diana made a point of taking Lucas, seating him at a reserved table, ordering him a drink, and then walking to the bar, where she would choose her prey for the night. It was there that she embodied her persona: confident, powerful, deliciously irresistible. Lucas watched, swallowing hard, as men approached, drawn by that animal magnetism she exuded. The first time she brought one of them home, Diana was clear: “You watch. You don’t touch. You don’t talk. You just obey.” The man was tall, muscular, with a smug smile and a hungry look. Lucas served the drinks while the other undressed her. Every piece of clothing she dropped on the floor, Lucas picked up, with a mixture of devotion and humiliation. Sitting in his chair, he watched the woman he loved being adored, possessed, worshipped by another—and every moan she let out was like a sweet, cruel stab in his chest. Diana rode like a goddess, her eyes fixed on Lucas’s. It was to him that she moaned loudest, as if to say: See what it is to be desired. See what you have given me permission to do. See how much I am yours… and no one else’s. And then—when the visitor had left, sated and exhausted—she would return to Lucas’s lap, naked, sweaty, triumphant. “Now it is your turn to worship me, my good boy.” Lucas would clean her with his tongue, kiss her feet, thank her for being included in that universe of pleasure and power. For him, there was no greater humiliation—nor a deeper honor. Over time, Diana went further. She began to plan meetings in advance, to select lovers who would bow to her will but who would treat her like the queen she was. She gave orders, set rules, and made Lucas watch everything, recording it on video, taking care of the details, preparing the environment. On one of those nights, with candles lit and soft music playing in the background, Diana brought a couple. A Domme like herself, and her own submissive. “Today you will see what it is to be truly tamed,” Diana whispered in Lucas’ ear, while the other woman ran her hand over his chest, laughing mischievously. The couple performed as if in a ritual. The two women exalted each other, exchanged knowing looks, dominating their submissives like queens on thrones of lust. Lucas felt small, but never so alive. Little by little, their routine adapted to their new lifestyle. Lucas loved and served Diana absolutely. His fidelity was not measured in jealousy, but in obedience. Diana, in turn, reigned with wisdom: she knew exactly how far to go, when to provoke, when to console. In a world of clear limits and confessed desires, they found fulfillment. He, in the role of submissive servant, devoted voyeur. She, as the merciless, sensual and magnetic hotwife. Together, they explored the extremes of pleasure with trust, surrender and, above all, love. Because, in the end, it wasn't about infidelity. It was about worship.