Bound and spanked – oh yes, that's exactly how I like my little, whining toys best.

Imagine: You're lying across the spanking bench, your hands and feet strapped to your legs with thick rubber straps, your ass sticking up in the air so that each cheek is nicely plump and useless. The cage around your useless little penis rattles with every twitch – and you know perfectly well that you're not going anywhere.

I'm standing behind you, in my shiny nylons and bodysuit, heels clicking slowly closer. The whip in my hand is made of thick leather, the ends already a bit worn – from all the asses I've already made burn.

"Well, you little asshole... didn't you obey again?" I let the whip glide gently over your cheeks at first, so you can feel the cold, the tension, the anticipation. Then the first blow – not too hard, just enough to sting and leave a red streak. You flinch, you groan, the cage rattles loudly.

"Count along, you loser. Each blow gets a number. And every time you count wrong, the round starts again."

One… wham! Two… wham! Three… wham!
By the time I hit ten, your cheeks are already dark red, burning hot, and you're trembling all over. I step closer, pressing one of my heels into the back of your neck so your face is almost kissing the floor. "See how beautifully you're glowing? That's only half the battle. Now for the other side."

I switch to my open hand—hard, rapid slaps that crack like whips. Left, right, left, right—until you're whimpering and your voice breaks. "Say it, you little slut: 'Thank you, Mistress, for spanking my ass.'"

You stammer, saliva dribbling from the corner of your mouth, and I just laugh softly as I run my fingernails over the hot, red marks—lightly scratching, just enough to make it burn even more.

You whimper, and I lightly kick the cage: "Good boy. Again tomorrow. And then it'll be even harder."

You belong to me. Bound. Spanked. Broken. And you'll come back tomorrow—because you can't help it.

I stand over you, legs spread wide, sheer, flesh-colored nylon stockings glistening wetly on my thighs, the stockings already soaked with my arousal. My skirt is hiked up, my wet pussy right above your face—you see it throbbing, the first drop already trickling down.

"Open your mouth wider, you worthless piss-soak," I hiss and let go. The first hot stream shoots out—golden yellow, steaming, salty, straight into your throat. You gag, swallowing in panic as I laugh and squeeze even harder.  "Shwallow, you filthy pig—swallow everything your mistress gives you. Not a drop wasted, or I'll whip your balls raw."

The stream intensifies, filling your mouth, running down your chin, dripping onto your chest. You tremble, you howl softly, but your little tail still twitches – because you know that's all you're there for: my personal urinal, my pissing bowl.

I move my hips, squirting in your face, in your eyes, in your nose—until you smell only of me, of my warm, salty load. "Look at me while you swallow. Show me how much you love my piss. Say it out loud: 'Thank you, Mistress, for pissing all over me.'"

You stammer it through the stream, gagging, coughing, swallowing some more—and I just laugh as the last gush runs down your forehead and drips into your eyes. "Good little pisshole. Now lick my nylons clean—every single drop you spilled. Tongue out, and woe betide you if you leave anything behind."

You lick desperately, tongue flat against my wet stockings, tasting piss, sweat, my arousal. "You're nothing but my toilet,"

Today, crucifixion takes place—not out of mercy, but out of pure lust for his destruction. The small, trembling failure is bound naked to the heavy St. Andrew's cross: arms and legs spread wide, shackles cutting into his skin, penis and testicles tied off so he can't even twitch without pain.

I stand before him in shiny 1950s nylons, heels clacking on the floor, whip in hand. "Look at me, you worthless cross-pig. Your body is now my altar—and I will sacrifice you."

I whip his inner thighs red, his ass pink—each blow makes him scream. I strike harder until he roars and his body trembles against the cross. "Do you feel that? This is your destiny—to be crucified, to be fucked in the mind, to be shame.  You won't come, you'll only suffer."

Until he howls, dribbles, and begs: "Mistress, please... let me come!" But I just laugh: "No, you cross-slut. You'll stay dry. Your semen belongs to me—and I'll let it rot."

In the end, he hangs there—fixed, broken, dripping, howling—a living cross for my pleasure. Next session, you? I'll invite friends over to use you with me while you zap on the cross. And it's not even Easter yet.

You little money-grubbing asshole – today you'll learn what true devotion costs. I'm sitting in front of you, the shiny heavy rubber strap-on already strapped on – thick, black, hard. You're kneeling naked, cock in a cage, balls bound, trembling with lust and fear.

Come closer, I'll open your mouth wide: "Open your mouth wide, you cash-grubbing whore. Suck my strap-on like a real cock – deep down your throat, gag, until you're drooling and tears are flowing.

I'll fuck your mouth with the strap-on—slowly, then hard, until you gag and saliva runs down your pathetic man-tits. "See? That's how you make your money—with your filthy whore mouth. Now turn around, ass up."

You crawl on all fours, your asshole already gaping with anticipation. I spit on it, ram the strap-on in—deep, mercilessly, in thrusts, until you scream and whimper. "Take it, you money-grubbing pig—every thrust costs more. Beg for harder, beg for deeper, or I'll stop and leave you dripping without release."

I'll fuck you senseless, milk your prostate until it drips from the cage—but come? Never. When I'm done with you, you'll obediently go and prostitute yourself for my luxury, no matter how little you're paid. You're worth no more than hard cash anyway. I'll keep ramming until you come—just from anal sex, without even touching your cock, howling and trembling. In the end, you'll lick the strap-on clean—every last drop of your own filth.

That's your training: pay, suck, take, come—and never get enough.

I sit before you, legs crossed, sheer black nylons glistening over my long legs, heels flashing dangerously. You kneel naked, eyes fixed on my feet—and finally get to learn what true devotion means.

I slowly pull off my heels—the scent of my sweaty nylons fills your nostrils as I press my foot against your face. "Stick out your tongue, you worthless foot-dung eater. Lick my soles clean—from toes to heel. Taste my sweat, my day, my superiority."

You lick desperately, tongue flat against the nylon, swallowing every drop of sweat, while I laugh and shove my toes into your mouth—deeper, until you gag. "Suck my toes like a little cock, you horny slut. Show me how much you worship my feet."

Then the other foot—I rub it all over your face, over your nose, until you smell only of me. "Beg to lick my nylons clean—loudly and obediently, you loser."

I lightly press down on your cock while you lick and moan—almost coming without me even touching you. "You're not allowed to come, you little foot whore. You're only allowed to taste, smell, and suffer—until I decide you're trained enough."

Your training only ends when my nylons are clean—and your face is covered in my foot sweat. Who's paying for the full education? Who wants to be the next nylon slave?