Housework

I decided that he needed some training. A compulsive masturbator, he was too keen to cum and very orgasm-fixated. All in all, not a very satisfactory state of affairs. He needed to know that he was mine.
I arrived at his house wearing a trench coat, stockings and stilettos. A little cliched perhaps. But guaranteed to send all men into a priapic frenzy.
I let myself in. As agreed, he was kneeling, naked by the door, his erection already ridiculously hard.

I slipped off my coat and made him look at me in all my fucking naked Mistress glory. I wanted to torment him with my ass, tits (nipples hard from travelling in just a coat…) and my cunt (which let me down by inevitably being wet – my mind is strong but my body is sometimes weak – the curse of an out-of-control sex drive).

I put his hood on and made him lie face down (I didn’t need to see that pathetic cock)
He made no sound while I walked up and down his back. He uttered not even the tiniest squeak when I turned him over and crushed his cock (looking swollen and painful and desperate) with my heel.
The only sound he emitted was a sort of strangled cry when I dripped the hot wax onto his balls.

After making him clean up the mess he had made with wax (it gets everywhere) I sat him in a chair with his hands tied behind his back.
I brushed the tip of his cock with my lips and gave it one, long, lingering, wet lick. 30 seconds with the Doxy (google it) and I had put him out of his misery. I’m not totally heartless. I just have a blackened heart.
I made him orgasm because I could, and to teach him that he belongs to Mistress Natasha. He had ceased to function as an individual. Free will (and all the autonomy, spontaneity and impulses that most people experience) was a distant memory for him.

I left him kneeling by the door, and as far as I know, he’s still there.

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