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?

You whimpering, worthless worm—welcome to my world, where your sole purpose is to be shamed.

I'm sitting over you, high heels in your face, nylons gleaming, latex stretched across my plump tits and wet pussy. You're lying strapped to the floor, cock bound, caged, balls blue from the pressure—and I'm laughing in your face.
"Look at you, you little castrated cunt. Your tiny penis is so useless that even your balls are laughing at it. Your family has given up on you—
I step on your balls with my heel, slowly pressing down until you cry: 'Mistress, please...'—and I spit in your mouth: 'Please? You have nothing to ask for, you pathetic loser.'"

I whip your glans red, milk you with two fingers, always stopping you before you come, until you're drooling and begging. "Don't come, you loser. You're only allowed to suffer. Your semen? It belongs to me—and I'll let it rot."

You howl, tremble, come without being touched—only from the pain, the shame, my voice. And I laugh: "Good little piece of trash.

You are nothing. You never were anything. And you never will be anything. Just my whimpering queen-victim cunt."

In my dark practice, another worthless load is being extracted today – and you get to watch how pathetic you are.
The slave – naked, trembling, cock already hard but useless – is strapped to the gynecological chair: legs spread high in stirrups, ass and penis completely exposed, like a horny, castrated whore
Dr. Avengelique, in a red heavy-rubber catsuit, mask, and gloves, laughs in his face: “Look at you, you little loser—your little dick will never see a real pussy. No wonder you're only allowed to donate, 
because you can't fuck anyway.”
Cold latex fingers feel his tiny testicles, kneading, pulling, squeezing—until he whimpers and tears stream down his face. “What a pathetic load... hardly worth mentioning.”
Then the Venus 2000 milking machine—the tube is pulled over his penis, a vacuum is created, the tube pumps rhythmically, milking him mercilessly. The pace increases until he trembles, dribbles,
 and howls—but will he come?

No. “You’re not allowed to come, you worthless loser. Your semen belongs to me—and I decide when and if anything comes out. You’re just a broken donor machine that can’t even ejaculate properly.”Intense milking , to the last drop—until he’s nothing but a trembling, empty, howling wreck, begging: “Please, Mistress… let me come…And I just laugh: “No, you loser. You’ll stay dry. That’s your punishment—because you’re not worth it.”