The room is dimly lit, the air thick with anticipation. I’m lying here, my head propped up on a pillow, my body exposed and vulnerable. She stands over me, her presence commanding, her eyes gleaming with a mix of lust and dominance. Her black stockings hug her legs, accentuating every curve, and the belt around her waist glints with jewelry, a symbol of her power. I can feel the weight of her gaze, the promise of what’s to come. She’s almost ready to cum, she says, her voice a low, sultry whisper. ‘I want to blast you all over your face and watch you eat it while I fuck your ass.’ The words hang in the air, a taunt, a promise, a humiliation.
What Does It Feel Like to Be Her Plaything?
The question echoes in my mind as she moves, her body fluid and confident. I’m her plaything, her toy, her submissive. The thought both excites and terrifies me. I can feel the cool air on my skin, the soft fabric of the bed beneath me, the hard edge of the pillow against my head. Every sensation is heightened, every nerve ending alive. She straddles me, her weight pressing down, her control absolute. I’m at her mercy, and she knows it. The power dynamic is clear, and it’s intoxicating. I’m her slave, her bitch, her fucktoy. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.Her hands roam my body, exploring, teasing, tormenting. Each touch is a claim, a reminder of who’s in charge. I can feel her breath on my skin, hot and heavy, her words a constant stream of dirty talk and humiliation. ‘You’re mine,’ she whispers, her voice a low growl. ‘My little bitch, my fucktoy, my slave.’ The words are a drug, a high, a rush. I’m lost in her, in this, in the intensity of the moment. The room fades away, the world narrows down to just us, just this. Her and me, her and her toy, her and her slave. And it’s perfect, it’s intense, it’s everything.





