Hidden Control

The morning sunlight slants through the venetian blinds, striping the lecture hall in pale gold and shadow. Standing at the podium, I smooth the front of my white dress shirt, feeling the familiar tightness of the lace bra beneath against my chest. The underwire digs in gently, a constant reminder of the secret I carry beneath this respectable facade. My slacks are tailored, but I know the lines of the black garter belt pressing against my thighs when I move.

The classroom buzzes with the low murmur of students settling in. I glance at the clock—8:47 AM, three minutes before the bell. My heart is already racing, but not from the lecture ahead. This morning, I chose the black lace set: a delicate balconette bra that makes my small chest look softly full, matching high-waist panties that hug the curve of my hips, and thigh-high stockings held up by the garters. And beneath everything, the silicone plug—cool and smooth when I inserted it an hour ago, now warmed to my body temperature. It rests against the deepest part of me, a token of anticipation I have worn all morning.

I turn to write the day’s topic on the whiteboard—Psychological Dynamics in Adolescent Development—and as I stretch to reach the top, I feel my shirt lift at the back. The fabric catches, and I know a sliver of skin is exposed. I freeze for a moment, my pulse quickening, but I force myself to continue writing. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a brief flash of waist. No one noticed.

But in the third row, near the window, a pair of eyes does not look away. I feel his gaze like a physical weight, and when I glance back over my shoulder, I see him—a heavy-set male student, plain-faced, with an unremarkable cap pulled low. He is staring directly at the small of my back, where the shirt still clings to the top edge of my stockings. The black lace must have been visible for a fraction of a second. My stomach drops.

I finish writing and turn to face the class, forcing a neutral expression. “Today we’ll be covering attachment theory in late adolescence,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor inside me. “Please open your textbooks to chapter twelve.”

The student—I don’t know his name yet, though I’ve seen him in this class before—lowers his eyes slowly, but not before I catch the faintest curve of his lips. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s the expression of someone who has just filed away a piece of useful information. My skin prickles.

I launch into the lecture, my words automatic, my mind elsewhere. The stockings feel tighter now, as if the scrutiny has made them more real. Every time I move, I imagine the students seeing through my clothes, imagining the layers beneath. The bra straps press into my shoulders, and I adjust my collar, hoping no one notices the slight bulge of the underwire.

The class drags on. I pace the front of the room, trying to keep my body turned away from the windows, away from that student’s seat. But somehow, he seems to be everywhere. I catch his eyes in my periphery when I turn to the board, when I look down at my notes, when I pause to sip water. He is watching, always watching, with a stillness that unnerves me.

By the time the bell rings, I am sweating through my shirt. I dismiss the class with a curt nod and hurry to gather my materials, feeling the plug shift with each hurried step. I need to leave this room, need to breathe.

But before I go, I see him—that student—still seated, lingering as he packs his bag slowly. Our eyes meet for an instant, and he nods once, casually, as if nothing has happened. I turn away and almost run out the door.

---

The afternoon passes in a blur of office appointments and meetings. I am distractedly checking email when I realize I need to use the restroom before my next lecture. The faculty bathroom is on the second floor, but the nearest one is the student restroom on the third floor, near the lecture hall. I hesitate—faculty bathrooms are safer, but I am short on time.

I push open the door to the student restroom. It is empty, but the far stall is closed. I choose the next one, lock the door, and let out a shaky breath. The plug pulses gently inside me, a reminder of the secret weight I carry. I lean against the tiled wall, closing my eyes, trying to center myself.

When I finish, I quickly adjust my clothes. My hand brushes the remote control in my pocket—the small plastic device that operates the plug. I had intended to turn it off before class, but I had been flustered. Now, in my haste, I pull it from my pocket to check the settings. It is still on the lowest vibration.

I hear a flush from the far stall, and my heart jumps. Someone is here. I quickly stuff the remote into my pocket, but it slips, clattering onto the floor. I scramble to pick it up, shove it back into my pocket, and unlock the stall door just as a student walks out of the far stall. It is him—the heavy-set student from the morning class.

He pauses, our eyes meeting again. He is washing his hands at the sink, and I can feel his gaze slide over me, lingering for a fraction of a second too long. I smile weakly, mutter “Excuse me,” and rush out the door.

I don’t realize until I am halfway to the lecture hall that the remote is no longer in my pocket. It must have fallen out when I snatched for it. I stop dead in the hallway, my blood turning cold. I pat my pockets frantically, but it is gone. The plug is still inside me, inert for now, but the remote is somewhere in that bathroom.

I consider going back, but the next class is about to start. I am already late. I weigh the risk—someone might find it, but perhaps they will just throw it away. Or perhaps they will recognize it. I try to calm myself, but my hands are shaking as I step into the lecture hall.

---

This class is larger—about sixty students. I take my place at the podium, forcing a confident pose. The plug is silent now, and I begin my lecture on Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development. My voice sounds thin to my own ears, but I press on.

Ten minutes in, I feel a faint hum deep inside me.

My knees buckle. I grip the edge of the podium, gasping silently. The buzz is low and steady, a gentle pulse that starts and stops, then starts again. My mind freezes. The remote—someone has found it. And they are pressing the button.

I scan the room, trying to see if anyone is watching me. But the students are taking notes, their heads down. I feel my face flush, the heat spreading across my cheeks and down my neck. The vibration strengthens, moving from low to medium. My thighs press together involuntarily.

I try to continue speaking, but my words stumble. “In E-Erikson’s… in stage five… identity versus role confusion…” The buzz stops for a moment, then resumes at high—a sharp, insistent pulse that makes me gasp out loud. A few students look up, and I force a cough to cover my sound.

I grip the podium harder, my knuckles white. The plug rubs against the most sensitive spot inside me, and I feel moisture gathering in my panties. I am both terrified and aroused. The shame is a hot wave, but beneath it, there is a secret thrill—the knowledge that someone is controlling me, that they are watching my reaction.

I lift my head, trying to see who it might be. And then I spot him—the student from the morning, sitting in the very back row, his cap pulled low, his phone in his hand. He is not looking at the phone screen, though. He is looking at me, and his mouth is curved in a smirk.

Our eyes meet for a split second. I freeze, and the buzz intensifies again. I have to look away, biting my lip to suppress a moan. My legs are shaking. I cannot stand much longer.

I lean against the podium, my voice cracking. “Let’s… let’s take a five-minute break,” I manage to say. “Stretch your legs.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk toward the door, my steps unsteady. I feel the plug continue to throb in irregular pulses—he must be pressing the button, experimenting. Each jolt makes me stumble, and I have to hold onto the doorframe to steady myself.

I make it to the hallway, and the buzzing stops. I stand there, panting, my forehead slick with sweat. I should go back. I should find the remote. But I don’t. I am frozen in place, wanting to escape, yet feeling an ache of disappointment that it has stopped.

---

When the break is over, I force myself back into the classroom. The evening session shows no sign of his presence, and I manage to finish the lecture without incident. But as I gather my things to leave, I feel the plug vibrate once more—a long, deep hum that makes my thighs quiver.

I look around, but I don’t see him. I hurry out of the classroom, my bag clutched to my chest. The vibration stops as I cross the threshold, then starts again just as I step into the hallway.

I am walking now, and the buzz comes in random intervals. A pulse when I reach the stairs, making me grab the railing. A longer hum as I start to descend, forcing me to pause, my legs weak. I bite my lip, willing myself to stay upright. A moan escapes me, and I cover my mouth, my face burning.

Behind me, I hear footsteps. I don’t turn around. I know it is him. I feel his presence like a heat against my back. He is following me, pressing the button, watching me tremble.

I take a step, and the buzz strikes again—a deep, vibrating pulse that makes me gasp. My knees give way for a moment, and I lean against the wall, my breath ragged. The footsteps stop behind me. I can almost feel his breath.

“Are you okay, Professor?” His voice is casual, almost mocking.

I nod, not trusting my voice. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

I push away from the wall and walk faster, but the vibrations follow me, teasing, testing. They stop when I reach the first floor, and I hear the footsteps turn and fade in the opposite direction.

I stand in the empty hallway, my body trembling, the plug still warm inside me. I should go to the restroom and remove it. I should find the remote. But instead, I lean against the wall and let out a shaky sigh, feeling a strange, perverse excitement curl in my stomach.

Someone has seen me. Someone has touched me. And for a moment, I feel more alive than I have in weeks.

I stay like that for a long time, my heart racing, my cheeks flushed, my body aching for more. I know this is dangerous. I know I should stop. But I don’t. I can’t. Because deep down, I have been waiting for someone to find me, to claim me, to take control.

And now, someone has.

I walk out of the building into the cool night air, the plug silent inside me. I don’t know when he will press the button again. I don’t know when the next tremor will come. And that uncertainty thrills me more than I can say.

I go home, undress slowly, and lie on my bed, my hand resting over the plug’s base. I wait. I listen. I hope.

Tomorrow, I will go back to the bathroom and look for the remote. But a part of me—the part that has always wanted to be seen, to be known, to be controlled—hopes it is gone. That he has kept it. That he is waiting for me.

The silence stretches on, thick with anticipation. And I smile in the dark, my body humming with a need I cannot name.

# Chapter 10

The darkness of my room wraps around me like a shroud, the only light filtering through the gap in my curtains casting a pale silver stripe across my bare legs. I kneel on the cold wooden floor, my knees pressing into the hard surface as I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.

I can hear his breathing in the darkness, slow and deliberate, the sound of a man who knows he has all the time in the world. He sits in the chair I placed in the corner of my bedroom, the same chair I brought from my living room earlier this evening, arranging it just so, positioning it to face the bed. I didn't know why I did it at the time. Perhaps some part of me knew this was coming. Perhaps I have always known.

"Come here," he says, his voice low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade.

I crawl forward, my stockinged knees sliding across the floorboards, the black lace of my babydoll dress brushing against my thighs. The fabric is thin, almost translucent, and I can feel his eyes on me, tracing the curves of my body, the outline of my nipples beneath the sheer material. I have dressed for him, as he commanded, and the shame of it burns in my cheeks like a fever.

When I reach his feet, I pause, my head bowed, my hands resting on my thighs. I can smell him, the musk of his skin, the faint trace of sweat from his body. It is intoxicating and repulsive all at once, and I feel my cock stir beneath the lace of my panties, hardening despite my shame.

"Look at me," he says.

I raise my eyes slowly, my lashes fluttering, and meet his gaze. He is looking down at me with that expression I have come to know so well, a mixture of amusement and contempt, as if I am a curious specimen he has found beneath a rock. His lips curl into a smile, thin and cruel, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are rough, calloused, and they linger on my cheek for a moment before he grips my chin, tilting my head back further. "All dressed up for me. Did you enjoy putting on your little outfit?"

I swallow, my throat dry. "Yes," I whisper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... sir."

He releases my chin and leans back in the chair, his legs spreading slightly. I can see the bulge in his pants, the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric, and my mouth goes dry. I know what he wants. I have known since the moment I received his message, the simple command that sent a thrill of fear and excitement through my body: *Be ready for me tonight. Wear what I told you.*

"I want you to suck my cock," he says, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, as if he is ordering a cup of coffee. "And I want you to do it like you mean it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

My hands tremble as I reach for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every move, and the weight of his gaze presses down on me like a physical force. I undo his pants, pulling down the zipper, and free his cock from his underwear. It is thick and hard, already glistening with precum, and the sight of it makes my stomach clench with a mixture of fear and desire.

I lean forward, my lips parting, and take him into my mouth.

The taste of him fills my senses, salty and bitter, and I gag slightly as his cock hits the back of my throat. I force myself to relax, to breathe through my nose, and I begin to move, my head bobbing up and down as I take him deeper. I can hear him groan above me, a low sound of approval, and the sound sends a thrill through my body.

"Good boy," he murmurs, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head. "That's it. Take it all."

I feel a rush of shame and pride at his words, a confusing mix that leaves me dizzy. I want to please him. I want him to be satisfied with me. And yet, every part of me screams that this is wrong, that I should not be here, on my knees, dressed like a whore, sucking a man's cock.

But the thrill of it, the danger, the humiliation—it calls to something deep inside me, something I have tried so hard to deny.

His other hand moves to my chest, slipping beneath the fabric of my babydoll dress to find my nipple. He pinches it, hard, and I gasp around his cock, my body arching into his touch. He laughs, a low, cruel sound, and pinches harder, rolling the sensitive nub between his fingers until I whimper.

"Look at you," he says, his voice dripping with contempt. "So eager to please. Such a little slut. You love this, don't you? Being used like this?"

I cannot answer, my mouth full of his cock, but I make a sound, a desperate moan that he takes as confirmation. He grips my hair, pulling me closer, forcing me to take him deeper, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

"That's right," he says. "Take it all. You're nothing but a hole for me to use. A pretty little hole in a pretty little dress."

The words cut through me like a knife, sharp and painful, but beneath the pain, there is something else. Something warm and dark and shameful. I feel my cock harden further, pressing against the lace of my panties, and I hate myself for it. I hate the way my body responds to his degradation, the way it craves his approval.

He lets me continue for a while longer, his hands exploring my body, pinching and groping, leaving marks on my pale skin. I hear him groan, feel him twitch in my mouth, and I know he is close. But he pulls away, his cock slipping from my lips with a wet pop, and I look up at him, confused.

He reaches down, grabbing my chin again, and forces me to look at him. "Not yet," he says. "I want to fuck you first."

My heart stops. I knew this was coming. I have known since I felt the familiar burn inside me earlier tonight, the heavy presence of the butt plug he commanded me to wear. But knowing and facing it are two different things, and I feel a wave of fear wash over me.

"Turn around," he says. "Bend over the bed."

I obey, my body moving before my mind can catch up. I crawl to the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, and bend forward, presenting myself to him. I can feel the cool air on my exposed skin, the thin fabric of my panties doing nothing to hide the shape of the plug inside me.

He walks up behind me, his footsteps slow and deliberate, and I hear him unbuckling his belt. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting, trembling.

His hands find my hips, gripping them tightly, and he pulls down my panties, letting them fall to my knees. I can feel his breath on my skin, hot and heavy, as he examines me. He reaches down, his fingers brushing against the base of the plug, and I flinch.

"You wore it," he says, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Good boy."

He pulls the plug out slowly, agonizingly slowly, and I feel a wave of emptiness as it leaves my body. My hole clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled, and I hate myself for the need I feel.

He positions himself behind me, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I tense, bracing myself, but he doesn't enter. Instead, he slaps my ass with his cock, a sharp, stinging blow that makes me gasp.

"Tell me," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

I hesitate, shame flooding through me. I am a man. A grown man. And yet here I am, bent over my bed, dressed in lace, about to be fucked by another man. Every part of me screams that this is wrong, that I should run, that I should fight. But I can't. I am frozen, caught between desire and disgust.

"I asked you a question," he says, slapping my ass again. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir. I want you to fuck me."

"Good boy."

He pushes inside me, and the pain is immediate and overwhelming. I scream, my vision going white, my hands scrabbling at the bedsheet as he forces his way into me. I feel like I am being split open, torn apart from the inside, and the tears I have been holding back finally spill down my cheeks.

"Stop," I gasp, my voice breaking. "Please, stop. It hurts. It hurts too much."

He pauses, but only for a moment. "Quiet," he says, his voice calm, almost bored. "It's not that bad. You can take it."

But I can't. I struggle beneath him, trying to push away, to escape, but he holds me tight, his hands gripping my hips, keeping me in place. I am trapped, pinned beneath his weight, and the realization of my situation crashes over me like a wave.

Why am I here? Why am I doing this? I am a counselor, a respected professional. I have students who look up to me, colleagues who trust me. And yet here I am, on my knees, dressed like a whore, being fucked by a man whose name I do not even know.

I don't know why I gave in. It happened gradually, seduction without clear signs or signals, until I yielded. I gave in to the thrill, the danger, the feeling of being wanted. Now I am being fucked by a stranger in my own bed.

Tears stream down my face as I struggle, but he only laughs, a low, cruel sound that makes my stomach turn.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, thrusting deeper, grinding against me. "You wanted this. You begged for it. And now you want to run away? What a silly little slut you are."

"I'm sorry," I sob, my voice muffled by the bedsheet. "I'm sorry, I changed my mind. Please, just let me go."

He laughs again, harder this time, and I feel my face burn with shame. "Changed your mind? You don't get to change your mind. You're my toy now. My little plaything. And toys don't get to decide when they're done."

He pulls out slightly, then thrusts back in, and I cry out, my body shaking with sobs. I feel so violated, so dirty, so used. And yet, beneath the pain and shame, there is a small, secret part of me that feels alive, that feels wanted, that feels like I finally belong somewhere.

I hate that part of me.

"Look at you," he says, his thrusts becoming slower, more deliberate. "Crying like a little girl. You're pathetic, you know that? A grown man, crying because he's getting his ass fucked. What would your students think if they could see you now? Their handsome counselor, dressed up like a slut, getting his hole stretched open?"

"Please," I beg, my voice a broken whisper. "Please, don't... don't say that..."

"Why not? It's true. You're nothing but a whore. My whore. And you're going to take every inch of my cock, and you're going to like it."

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and I feel the pain begin to fade, replaced by a strange, dull pleasure. My body betrays me, my hips beginning to move with his, my hole opening to accommodate him. I don't want this. I don't. But my body seems to have a mind of its own, and I find myself moaning, my voice low and desperate.

"That's it," he says, his voice approving. "You're learning. You're starting to understand your place."

All the way inside now. I feel every inch inside me, a part of me. He stops, fully sheathed, and I feel him twitch inside me. "Look at you," he taunts, breath ragged but controlled. "See how well you take it? Your hole doesn't know what to do, does it? Such a tight little thing." I can't even form words. I just lie there, tears wetting the sheets beneath my face, mortified beyond any rational thought. He doesn't wait for a response. He grips my hips and begins to move, slow and languorous, savoring my helplessness.

I think about how I got here. How every small step I took, every indulgence, every thrill I allowed myself, led me to this moment. I thought I could control it. I thought I could keep it separate, keep it contained. But I was wrong. I am not in control. I never was.

I am his. Completely, utterly his.

The realization should terrify me. It does terrify me. But beneath the terror, there is a strange, twisted sense of peace. A surrendering. A letting go.

I am his toy. His plaything. His whore.

And deep down, in the darkest part of my soul, I know I wouldn't have it

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The door clicked shut behind me, and I stood in the dimly lit room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The familiar shame already coiled in my stomach, but beneath it, that insistent flutter of anticipation stirred. I had been summoned again, and despite every rational thought screaming at me to run, my feet carried me deeper into the space.

The air was cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. I could smell him—that musky, masculine scent that had become entwined with my every forbidden fantasy. He was here, watching me from the shadows, though I couldn't see him yet. My breath came in shallow gasps as I waited, my hands trembling at my sides.

"Strip," his voice came from behind me, low and commanding.

I flinched, not having heard him approach. Slowly, I turned to face him, but the light was too low to read his expression. What I could see was the bulk of his silhouette, the way he stood with absolute authority, as if the very air around him bent to his will.

My fingers moved to the buttons of my shirt, clumsy and shaking. Each button came undone with a soft pop, revealing the lace bra I wore beneath. The humiliation burned across my cheeks, but I continued, sliding the shirt from my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. My trousers followed, pooling around my ankles, and I stepped out of them, now standing in nothing but the delicate black lace, stockings, and the chastity cage that pressed against my trapped flesh.

"Good boy," he said, and the words sent a shiver through me.

He walked closer, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against my cheek, and I leaned into the touch despite myself. His palm was rough and warm, a stark contrast to my soft, smooth skin.

"You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" he asked, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

I nodded, unable to form words, my throat tight with a mixture of fear and longing.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through me. "Spread yourself on the bed. I want to see how ready you are."

My face burned hotter, but I obeyed, moving to the bed and positioning myself on my hands and knees, presenting myself to him. I could feel the cool air against my exposed skin, the way the stockings clung to my thighs, the sharp points of the bra cups digging into my chest. Every sensation was amplified, every nerve ending alive and humming.

He took his time, walking around me, his gaze heavy and judgmental. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the scrutiny, but a sharp slap against my right buttock made me gasp.

"Eyes open," he ordered. "Watch yourself in the mirror."

I lifted my head, meeting my own reflection in the large mirror mounted on the wall opposite the bed. I saw myself—a man in women's underwear, bent over and waiting to be fucked. The sight should have filled me with revulsion, and it did, but beneath that revulsion, a dark thrill pulsed through me.

His hand traced down my spine, over the curve of my back, and settled on the base of my tailbone. "You're trembling," he observed. "Nervous?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Good. Now, tell me what you are."

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. But his hand squeezed warningly, and I forced them out. "I'm a slut," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Louder."

"I'm a slut," I repeated, my cheeks burning.

"And what do sluts want?"

"They want to be fucked," I said, the words tasting like ash and honey.

He laughed again, a sound that made my stomach clench. "That's right. Now, lower yourself. Show me how eager you are."

I dropped my upper body to the mattress, my face pressing into the sheets, my hips still raised high. I could feel the cool air against my anus, and I knew he could see the plug I wore, the way my body had been prepared for him. The shame was overwhelming, but I didn't move, didn't hide.

His fingers brushed against the base of the plug, and I moaned at the contact. "You've been wearing this all day, haven't you?"

"Yes," I breathed.

"Such a needy little thing," he said, and I could hear the mockery in his voice. "You can't even go a few hours without something inside you."

I wanted to deny it, to defend myself, but I knew he was right. The emptiness I felt without the plug was unbearable, a constant ache that demanded to be filled. I had grown to need it, to crave the fullness, the pressure, the reminder that I was owned.

He pulled the plug out slowly, and I whimpered at the loss, my muscles clenching around nothing. He took his time, making me wait, making me feel the emptiness acutely. Then I heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself.

"You're going to take all of it," he said, his voice hard. "And you're not going to make a sound until I tell you."

I nodded against the sheets, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely think. The head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I braced myself, but the feeling when he pushed inside was still a shock. He filled me completely, stretching me in a way the plug never could, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

He held still, letting me adjust to his size, and I could feel every inch of him inside me. My body was hot, my anus clenching and relaxing, secreting a moist slickness that eased his passage. The sensation was overwhelming—a mix of pain and pleasure that left me breathless.

"You're so tight," he said, his voice strained. "But you're taking it so well. Almost like you were made for this."

The shame coiled tighter in my chest, but I couldn't deny the truth of his words. My body had adapted to him, accepted him, craved him. I felt my hips begin to move, a subtle twist that I hadn't consciously commanded, and I heard him chuckle.

"Look at you," he said, his hand gripping my hip. "You're moving on your own. You want it, don't you?"

I didn't answer, my face buried in the sheets, but he pulled out slightly and thrust back in, harder this time, and I let out a choked moan.

"I asked you a question," he said, his voice a warning. "Do you want it?"

"Yes," I gasped, the word torn from my throat.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... I want it," I said, shame flooding through me.

"Tell me how you feel," he ordered, beginning to move inside me, slow and deep. "Tell me what a slut you are."

My face burned, the humiliation reaching a fever pitch. But his cock was inside me, filling me, and I felt myself beginning to lose control. "It feels... good," I admitted, my voice thick with shame. "I'm a slut who needs to be fucked. It feels so good."

He laughed, a triumphant sound, and began to thrust faster. Each stroke hit deep, brushing against my prostate, and I moaned, the pleasure surging through me like electricity. I felt my hips moving of their own accord, rocking back to meet his thrusts, and I heard myself whimpering with each impact.

"Such a good slut," he said, his breath coming faster. "Taking my cock so well. Tell me more."

"It feels so good," I repeated, my voice high and breathless. "I love being fucked. I love your cock inside me. Please... please don't stop."

He didn't stop. He drove into me harder, faster, and I lost myself in the rhythm, my mind going blank, my body taking over. I could hear my own moans, wanton and desperate, and though a part of me screamed with shame, the larger part reveled in the sensation.

He reached around, his fingers finding my trapped cock through the cage, and he squeezed. The pain was sharp, but the pressure sent a jolt through me, and I cried out. "You don't need this to feel pleasure," he said, his voice rough. "Your ass is all the cock you need."

"Yesss," I hissed, the word drawn out.

He pulled out, and I whimpered at the loss, but he flipped me onto my back, spreading my legs wide. He positioned himself between them, lifting my hips, and thrust back inside me. The new angle was deeper, more intense, and I arched my back, my hands gripping the sheets.

He leaned forward, his mouth finding my nipple through the lace bra. He sucked and bit, the fabric rough against my sensitive skin, and I moaned, my hands tangling in his hair. He alternated between my nipples, teasing and tormenting, while his cock continued to pound into me.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice a growl against my skin. "To be used like a whore?"

"Yes," I breathed, the admission freeing something inside me.

He sat up, grabbing my ankles and pushing my legs back, folding me nearly in half. The position exposed me completely, and he drove into me with renewed vigor, each stroke hitting my prostate with perfect precision. The pleasure built, coiling in my lower belly, and I felt a strange pressure, a tingling that spread through my entire body.

"I'm... I'm going to... I think I'm going to come," I gasped, the sensation unfamiliar and overwhelming.

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice thick with exertion. "Come like the slut you are."

And I did. A shudder wracked my body, starting from my core and radiating outward. My cock, locked and useless, leaked precum, but the real orgasm came from deeper inside, from my prostate, a concentrated wave of pleasure that left me trembling and breathless. I moaned, long and low, my body arching off the bed, and I felt the wetness of my release between my legs.

He didn't stop, riding out my climax, his thrusts becoming erratic. He groaned, a deep, animal sound, and I felt him pulse inside me, felt his hot release filling me. He stayed there for a moment, his breathing heavy, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

When he finally pulled out, I felt the emptiness acutely, a sense of loss that followed the pleasure. He collapsed beside me, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my thigh.

"Clean me up," he said, his voice rough but satisfied.

I pushed myself up, my limbs weak and trembling. I crawled to him, positioning myself between his legs, and took his softening cock in my mouth. The taste was salty and musky, my own fluids and his mixed together, and I lapped at him, cleaning him with my tongue. He sighed, his hand stroking my hair, and I felt a perverse sense of pride at pleasing him.

When I was done, he reached down and unlocked the chastity cage, the metal falling away with a soft click. My cock was red and swollen, still weeping precum, and I looked away, embarrassed by my body's reaction.

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You were born for this," he said, his voice soft but absolute. "A natural-born slut. Fucking you feels too good."

My face burned, a mix of shame and something else—a dark, twisted satisfaction. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing, my eyes dropping to the bed.

He lay back, pulling me against his chest. My body was still humming with the afterglow, the soreness between my legs a pleasant ache. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling of being held, of being owned.

I hated it, and I loved it, and I didn't know which feeling was stronger anymore. But as I lay there, in his arms, my body still tingling with pleasure, I knew I would come back. Again and again, as long as he wanted me. Because despite the shame, the fear, the self-loathing, this was where I belonged.

I was his. And that truth, terrible and beautiful, settled into my bones like a second skin.

The morning after that first night in the dimly lit bathroom, I woke to find a black silk blindfold folded neatly on my pillow. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, the fabric so soft against my skin that it felt like a promise—or a threat. I knew what it meant without being told. That person wanted me to wear it, to surrender the last of my sight, to become completely dependent on his commands. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild mix of terror and anticipation flooding through me. I slid the blindfold over my eyes, the world dissolving into darkness, and I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me, as if I had been waiting for this moment my entire life.

The first time he came to me after that, I was kneeling on the cold tile floor of my apartment bathroom. He had texted me the instructions the night before: "Be ready at 7 p.m. Wear the blindfold. Wait for me." I had obeyed without question, my stomach churning with nervous excitement. When I heard the door creak open, my breath caught in my throat. Footsteps echoed on the linoleum, slow and deliberate, and I could feel his presence like a weight pressing down on me. He didn't speak at first. He just stood there, watching me, and I could almost feel his gaze traveling over my body, appraising me like a piece of livestock.

Then his hand landed on my head, fingers threading through my hair, gripping hard enough to make me wince. "Open your mouth," he said, his voice low and rough, just as it had been in my memory. I parted my lips, and I felt the head of his cock pressing against them, slick and warm. I took him in without hesitation, my tongue curling around the shaft, tasting the salt and musk of him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through me, and he began to thrust into my mouth with a rhythm that was both brutal and practiced. I gagged at first, tears streaming down my cheeks beneath the blindfold, but I didn't pull away. I wanted to please him. I needed to.

This became our ritual. Every day, at a time he chose, I would don the blindfold and wait for him to come to me. Sometimes it was in my bathroom, the familiar tile and porcelain grounding me in the darkness. Other times, he would lead me somewhere else—I never knew where, because he always kept the blindfold on. I could feel the change in air, the different textures under my feet: smooth laminate, rough concrete, soft carpet. He would push me to my knees, and I would take him in my mouth, my jaw aching, my throat burning, but my body responding with a hunger that terrified me.

On the days when he wanted silence, he would fasten a ball gag in my mouth before he fucked me. The first time he did it, I felt the rubber sphere press against my tongue, the strap cinching tight behind my head. I could barely breathe, let alone speak, and when he entered me from behind, my muffled cries were swallowed by the gag. He fucked me in the bathroom of my apartment, my body bent over the sink, my palms flat against the cold porcelain. The towel I had placed on the floor did nothing to cushion my knees, but I didn’t care. All I could focus on was the fullness of him inside me, the stretch of his cock as it drove deep into my ass.

At first, the pain was sharp, a burning reminder of my inexperience. But day after day, he came to me, and my body began to adapt. My anus, once so tight that even a finger was a struggle, started to accommodate him with less resistance. The butt plug I wore during the day helped, its tapered shape stretching me slowly, preparing me for his size. I would walk through the corridors of the university, my students and colleagues oblivious to the silicone plug lodged inside me, its base pressing against my perineum, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through me with every step. The vibrator, too, hummed against my prostate, a constant, low thrum that kept me on edge all day.

I became obsessed with the sensations. The way his cock moved inside me, the way it filled me completely, made me feel whole in a way I had never experienced. I began to crave it, to count the hours until his text arrived, telling me where to go and when. My body was learning his rhythm, his preferences. I knew when he wanted me to take him deep, when he wanted me to lick and suck at the head, when he wanted me to swallow every drop of his seed. I was becoming a perfect little fucktoy, and the thought sent a shiver of sick pleasure down my spine.

One day, he led me out of my apartment, his hand firm on my shoulder, guiding me down stairs, into a car, and then up more stairs. I felt the softness of carpet under my knees, the scent of lavender and clean linen in the air. A hotel room, I realized. He pushed me onto the bed, my back hitting the duvet, and I felt his weight settle on top of me. He untied the gag and replaced it with the blindfold, which he had removed for the ride, and the darkness closed in again.

"You're going to be loud today," he said, his lips brushing against my ear. "I want to hear you."

He entered me slowly, inch by inch, and I moaned, a long, drawn-out sound that I couldn't hold back. He began to fuck me with a steady, unhurried pace, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through my entire body. My hands gripped the sheets, my back arching off the bed, and I let myself go, giving in to the ecstasy. I cried out, my voice raw and desperate, as he drove into me again and again. I didn't care who heard. I was his, completely and utterly.

The pleasure built until I felt like I was going to explode. Pre-cum leaked from my cock, soaking into the sheets, and then I came, a violent, shuddering orgasm that shook my entire body. But he didn't stop. He kept fucking me, thrusting into my oversensitive ass, and I came again, this time from my prostate, a dry, internal orgasm that left me gasping and weeping. He followed soon after, his seed flooding inside me, and I felt a sense of completion that was almost spiritual.

He lay beside me, his hand resting on my hip, and I could feel the warmth of him through my skin. "You're so tight," he murmured. "No matter how much I fuck this hole, it's still tight. Like you were born for it."

I blushed beneath the blindfold, a mix of shame and pride surging through me. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice hoarse.

From that day on, he took me to the hotel room more often. Each time, he fucked me until I was a whimpering mess, my words slurred, my mind blank. I had multiple orgasms, both from my cock and from my prostate, and I learned to enjoy the pain, to crave the burn of his cock stretching me wide. I was a tamed bitch, kneeling on the bathroom stool or sprawled on the hotel bed, my legs spread wide, my hole gaping, waiting for him to fill me again.

The blindfold became a part of me. I never saw his face, never knew his name, but I knew his scent, his taste, the sound of his breath when he came. I knew the way his hands gripped my hips, the way he grunted when he was close, the way he would sometimes stroke my hair after, a gentle gesture that felt almost like affection. I was addicted to him, to the training, to the feeling of being controlled.

I started to call him Master, the word slipping out one day when he was fucking me in the bathroom. He had paused, his cock buried deep inside me, and his voice was rough with surprise. "What did you call me?"

"Master," I repeated, my cheeks burning. "You're my Master."

He didn't answer, but he rewarded me with a particularly deep thrust that made me see stars. From then on, I called him Master every time, and he seemed to approve, his grunts growing louder, his thrusts more aggressive. I was his, body and soul, and the thought of belonging to him filled me with a dark, twisted joy.

But even as I sank deeper into submission, a part of me still wondered who he was. I would lie awake at night, my body aching from his use, and try to remember details. The sound of his voice, the smell of his skin, the way he moved. But I never dared to remove the blindfold, never dared to look. The fear of losing this—of losing him—was greater than any curiosity. I would rather remain in the dark, his perfect little toy, than risk shattering the illusion.

And so, the days blurred together. I wore the blindfold for my Master, I wore the vibrator and plug for my Master, I knelt and spread my legs for my Master. I was completely, utterly, irreversibly trained. I was his plaything, his whore, his bitch. And I loved every second of it.

There was one particular night in the hotel room that I will never forget. He had been rougher than usual, his pace punishing, his hands bruising. He had tied my hands behind my back with a silk scarf, and he had gagged me with his sock, the fabric tasting of salt and sweat. He had fucked me for what felt like hours, his cock never leaving my hole, his breath hot against my neck. I had come so many times that I lost count, my body trembling, my mind hazy. When he finally finished, he pulled out and collapsed beside me, his hand coming to rest on my stomach.

"You're mine," he said, his voice flat, final. "You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," I gasped. "I'm yours. I'll always be yours."

He kissed my shoulder, a brief, almost tender gesture, and then he was gone. I lay in the dark, the blindfold still covering my eyes, his cum dripping down my thighs, and I smiled. I was happy. I was fulfilled. I had found my purpose.

The next morning, I woke to find a keycard on the nightstand, a small slip of paper bearing a room number: 1212. My heart raced as I dressed, my body still sore, my mind still foggy. I went to the hotel, my steps unsteady, and let myself into the room. It was the same one from the night before, the sheets still rumpled, the air still thick with the scent of sex.

I waited for him on my knees, my hands clasped behind my back. When he entered, I bowed my head, my voice soft and reverent. "Master."

He didn't say anything. He just walked over to me, his shoes clicking on the floor, and placed a hand on my head. His touch was like a blessing, a benediction. I had been chosen, and I would never be free. And I didn't want to be.

From that day on, I was his completely. The blindfold became my crown, the butt plug my scepter, the vibrator my constant companion. I lived for his commands, for his approval, for the feeling of his cock inside me. I was a slave, a pet, a toy. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

The days grew shorter, the nights longer. I wore the blindfold every day, waiting for him, longing for him. My body ached when he was away, and when he was near, it sang. I was a well-trained whore, and I reveled in it.

One afternoon, as I was kneeling in the bathroom, waiting for him, I heard the door open. His footsteps were light, almost playful, and I felt a smile spread across my face. He didn't speak, but I felt his hand on my chin, tilting my head up. His breath was warm against my lips, and I parted them instinctively, waiting for the familiar taste of his skin.

But instead of his cock, he pressed something else to my lips. A note, I realized, scrawled on a piece of paper. I read it in the darkness of my mind, the words burning into my memory: "You've been very good. I'm proud of you."

Tears welled in my eyes, gratitude and joy flooding through me. I had done it. I had pleased him. I had become exactly what he wanted. I was a perfect, tamed bitch, and I would never escape.

And I didn't want to.

The morning light filters through the blinds, casting pale stripes across my bedroom floor. I lie still for a moment, my hand drifting instinctively to my chest. The soft curve of my breasts presses against my palm, and I feel a familiar mixture of shame and satisfaction. They've grown fuller over these months, filling out to a B cup now, and the sensation of them shifting beneath my shirt has become both a secret I guard and a thrill I cherish.

I rise slowly, my body moving with a fluidity that no longer surprises me. The way my hips sway as I walk to the bathroom, the gentle bounce of my breasts beneath my loose shirt—it all feels natural now, as if this has been waiting beneath my skin all along, just needing the right catalyst to emerge. I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. Long hair brushes my earlobes, my skin glows with an almost translucent fairness, and my waist curves inward before flaring out to fuller hips. The man looking back at me is beautiful in a way that defies easy categorization, and I cannot look away.

"You've changed," I whisper to myself, tracing the line of my collarbone with a fingertip. "He's changed you."

I think of him then, the person who holds my remote control, my secret, my surrender. I still do not know his name or face, only the commands he sends through vibrations and heat, the way he pushes me to my limits and beyond. The fear of exposure lingers, but it has become a dull ache rather than a sharp wound. Excitement has grown in its place, a constant low thrum of anticipation that colors every moment of my day.

I dress carefully, choosing a shirt one size too small so the outline of my breasts is just barely visible, a pair of trousers that hug my hips and thighs. I take my time, smoothing the fabric, adjusting the fit. When I am satisfied, I slide the vibrator into place, its silicone cool against my skin, and then the butt plug, feeling the familiar fullness as I settle it deep. The remote control sits in my pocket, waiting.

The walk to work is uneventful, but I cannot shake the feeling of being watched. My body moves differently now, more sway, more softness, and I catch the glances of men and women alike. Some are curious, some dismissive, but I find myself arching my back just slightly, letting my hips roll more freely. The vibration of the plug against my inner walls reminds me that I am owned, that every step I take is for him.

The first class goes smoothly. I stand at the lectern, my voice steady, but my attention wanders to the students' faces. Is he among them? That quiet boy in the third row, the one who always looks down when I pass? The lanky girl with the sharp eyes? I cannot tell, and the uncertainty only makes the game more intoxicating.

By midday, I am standing in a hallway lined with lockers, waiting for the next lecture to begin. The building hums with the rhythm of a hundred students moving between classes, their chatter echoing off the walls. I lean against the wall, one hand resting on my hip, the other holding a stack of papers. The remote control is warm against my thigh through the fabric of my pocket.

The first pulse comes without warning.

A low, deep vibration starts in the plug, sending a jolt through my spine. I gasp softly, my fingers tightening on the papers. My body responds before my mind can catch up, my back arching, my hips tilting forward as if seeking more. I press my thighs together, trying to contain the sensation, but it only amplifies.

One of my students approaches, a young man with a friendly face and a concerned expression. "Professor Lin? Are you all right? You look a bit flushed."

I force a smile, the vibration still humming inside me. "I'm fine," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Just a bit warm today."

He nods and walks away, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The vibration subsides, leaving me trembling and wet. I feel a rush of relief, but also disappointment. The building tension makes me crave more, even as I fear it.

The remote pulses again, stronger this time. My knees buckle, and I grab the edge of a table to steady myself. I can feel the wetness pooling in my underwear, the heat spreading through my belly. This is not playful teasing; this is a command, a demand for my attention.

I turn and walk toward the men's bathroom, my steps quick and unsteady. The door swings shut behind me, and I lock it, leaning against the sink. My hand moves to my pocket, but I stop myself. He is in control. I cannot interfere. That is the rule.

The vibrations intensify, turning into a steady, insistent rhythm. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, my head falling back as I ride the wave of sensation. The butt plug presses deeper, the vibrator pulses, and I feel myself unraveling, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I come silently, my body shuddering against the counter, and the vibrations cease almost immediately, as if he knew exactly when to stop.

I clean myself up, my hands shaking. My reflection in the mirror is flushed and glowing, my lips parted, my eyes bright. I look like a woman after a night of passion, and the thought both shames and arouses me.

The next hour is a blur. I teach my lecture in a haze, my mind still drifting to the sensation of being used. When the final bell rings, I gather my papers and walk to the faculty lounge, hoping for a moment of quiet.

The lounge is empty, but I feel a presence watching me. I look up, scanning the room, but see nothing. The remote control rests in my pocket, silent now, but I sense it waiting, like a coiled spring.

That evening, I find myself back in the hotel room. I don't remember calling the number or setting the meeting, but here I am, standing in the dim light, waiting. The room is sparse, functional, but familiar now. The bed is made, the curtains drawn, and the air smells of cleaning solution and something else, something I cannot name.

He arrives silently, as always. I hear the click of the door lock, the shuffle of footsteps, but he remains in the shadows, his face hidden in the dark. I drop to my knees without being told, my hands clasped behind my back, my head bowed. My body knows the ritual, my mind has accepted the surrender.

"Good boy," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "You've been waiting for this."

"Yes, Master," I whisper, my voice trembling with need.

He walks around me, his footsteps heavy, deliberate. I feel his hand in my hair, tightening, pulling my head back. "You've changed," he says, his voice carrying a hint of approval. "Your hips sway when you walk now. Your chest fills your shirts. What are you becoming?"

I swallow, my throat dry. "I am becoming what you want, Master."

"A good body," he says, his hand moving to cup my breast, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. "A natural breeding body. Narrow shoulders, wide hips, that soft skin. You were born for this, weren't you?"

I want to deny it, to cling to the shreds of my old self, but the words die in my throat. The truth is too powerful—I was made for this. The anticipation, the surrender, the feeling of being completely filled—this is what my body craves, what my heart desires.

"Yes," I say, and my voice is steady. "I was born for this."

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down my spine. "Good. Don't forget it."

He pulls me to my feet and pushes me toward the bed. I fall onto the mattress, my legs spreading automatically, my arms reaching for the headboard. He removes my clothes slowly, not roughly, but with a deliberate, savoring pace. When he pulls down my trousers, the vibrator and plug are revealed, still in place, still ready.

"You've been wearing them all day," he says, more a statement than a question.

"Yes, Master," I breathe.

"Good boy. You are learning."

The first thrust steals my breath, my cry muffled by the pillow. He fills me completely, his thick length stretching me, the plug adding an extra dimension of fullness. I moan, my hips pushing back to meet his rhythm, my fingers clenching the sheets.

He fucks me relentlessly, his pace punishing, his grip bruising. I am lost in sensation, my mind blank except for the sound of his breathing, the weight of his body, the feeling of being used. Pre-cum leaks from me, mixing with my own fluids, the sheets growing wet beneath us.

"Moan for me," he commands. "I want to hear you."

I oblige, letting out deep, guttural sounds of pleasure. The vibrations of my voice mix with the vibrations inside me, and I feel myself climbing again, the orgasm building like a wave. I come, my body shuddering, my muscles clenching around him. I hear my own cry, raw and desperate, as I spasm through the release.

He does not stop. He continues to thrust, his hands holding my hips in place, driving into me again and again. The second orgasm follows the first, then a third, each one wrenched from me with merciless precision. I am sobbing now, tears mixing with sweat, and still he fucks me.

"One more," he says, his voice tight. "Give me one more."

I shake my head, my body raw, but he ignores my denial. He reaches around and flicks the vibrator's setting to the highest level. The sudden surge of power sends me over the edge, and I scream into the pillow as I come again. This time, he joins me, his body shuddering as he fills me with his release.

We lie there in silence, our breathing harsh and uneven. He does not hold me after, but I do not mind. There is an intimacy in being used, in being wanted, that transcends comfort.

Before he leaves, he presses the remote control into my hand. "I will see you soon," he says, and then he is gone, swallowed by the night.

I lie in the darkness, my body humming with residual pleasure. The fear and shame have faded, replaced by a sense of belonging. I am his, and that feels more right than anything I have ever known.

The following week, I am standing at a university open day, the buzz of students and parents around me. I am at my booth, answering questions, handing out brochures. The remote control is in my pocket, a constant reminder of my true purpose.

The vibration starts as a low hum, barely noticeable. I ignore it, focusing on the student in front of me. But the vibration grows stronger, more insistent, and I feel a flush rising to my cheeks. My hips shift involuntarily, and I press my thighs together to contain the sensation.

The student, a young woman with bright eyes, does not notice. She asks another question, and I respond, but my voice is distracted. The vibrations intensify, climbing to a level I have not felt before. The butt plug pulses deep inside me, the vibrator buzzes against my most sensitive spot, and I feel my knees weaken.

The world tilts, and I stumble. My hand reaches out for the table, but it is empty space. I fall, my knees hitting the floor, my papers scattering around me. I hear gasps, whispers, and I look up into the faces of students and parents, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Professor Lin?" someone says, their voice distant. "Are you okay?"

I nod, unable to speak. My body is still vibrating, the sensations flooding through me. I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a moan, and I feel the heat of humiliation rising in my cheeks. But beneath the shame, there is something else, something electric. The feeling of being watched, of being controlled in public, sends a thrill straight to my core.

A student helps me to my feet, and I thank them, my voice squeaky. I pick up my papers, but my hands are shaking, and I drop them again. I see a boy in the crowd, his face impassive, but his eyes are fixed on me. He is tall, with a round face and a thick, strong body, dressed in a heavy coat despite the mild weather. He is not looking at my face, but at my body, at the way I am trembling, at the way my hands shake.

The vibrations continue for another minute, then cease. I take a breath, composing myself, and turn to face the crowd with a strained smile. "I'm fine," I

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The hotel room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint rustle of my own trembling hands as I smoothed the fabric of the dress over my thighs. I had chosen the black lace one tonight—the one with the high slit that exposed most of my leg when I moved, the one that hugged my narrow waist and flared just enough to emphasize the curve of my hips. The stockings were already in place, the garter belt digging into my skin with a familiar, comforting pressure. I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, watching in the mirror as the reflection of a slender, feminine figure stared back at me.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I had planned this carefully. Tonight, after he had his fill of me, after he had used my body as he pleased, I would take off the blindfold. I would see his face. I had to know who he was—this man who had been controlling me for weeks, this voice that came through the remote and the phone, this presence that haunted my every waking moment. I needed to put a face to the domination, to understand what kind of person derived such pleasure from breaking me piece by piece.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the sheets cool and crisp beneath my thighs. The room was dimly lit, just a single lamp on the nightstand casting long shadows across the carpet. I had arranged everything just as he liked it—the water on the table, the temperature set to his preference, my body prepared and ready. The blindfold was soft velvet, black and thick, and I held it in my hands for a long moment before tying it around my eyes.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

The anticipation was unbearable. Every creak of the building, every distant elevator chime made my breath catch. I sat perfectly still, my hands folded in my lap, my legs pressed together. The lace of the dress scratched against my thighs, and I could feel the cold metal of the butt plug pressing deep inside me, a constant reminder of my place. I had worn it for hours already, and my body had grown used to the fullness, had started to crave it.

Minutes passed. Or maybe it was hours. Time lost meaning when I was like this, suspended in a state of waiting, of wanting.

Then I heard the key card slide into the lock.

The click was soft, almost delicate, but it echoed through the room like a gunshot. My spine straightened, my fingers curling into the sheets. The door opened and closed, the lock engaging with a quiet thump. Footsteps crossed the carpet, deliberate and unhurried. I could hear his breathing—slow, controlled, the breath of someone who knew exactly what he wanted.

He stopped in front of me. I could feel the warmth of his body radiating against my skin, could smell the faint scent of soap and something else, something musky and male. I tilted my head up, my lips parting slightly, waiting.

His hand touched my cheek.

The contact was light, barely there, but I shivered as if I had been struck. His fingers traced down my jaw, along the line of my neck, pausing at the hollow of my throat where my pulse was hammering. He could feel it, I knew. He could feel how terrified and aroused I was.

"You've been good," he said, his voice low and rough, just like always. "Waiting for me like a proper slut."

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

His hand slid lower, over the collar of my dress, down to the swell of my breasts. He cupped one through the lace, squeezing gently at first, then harder. I gasped, my back arching involuntarily. He laughed—a dark, amused sound—and pinched my nipple through the fabric.

"Already hard," he murmured. "You're so eager for me, aren't you?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, I am."

He circled my nipple with his thumb, the friction of the lace sending jolts of pleasure straight to my groin. My cock was straining against the confines of the panties I wore, the tip already wet with pre-cum. He knew it, too. His other hand drifted down my stomach, pressing against the fabric, feeling the outline of my arousal.

"So hard," he said. "So ready. But we're not in a rush, are we, Teacher?"

The word hit me like a slap. Teacher. He always called me that, and it always made my face burn with shame. I was a respected counselor, a man with a degree and a position, and here I was, blindfolded and dressed like a whore, waiting to be used by someone who probably wasn't even thirty.

No, I corrected myself. I'm going to see him tonight. I'm going to know.

He pulled my dress up, exposing my stockings and garter belt. His fingers traced the line of the elastic, following it down to the top of my thigh. I shivered again, my skin prickling with goosebumps. He was so slow, so deliberate, drawing out every moment of my humiliation.

"Spread your legs," he ordered.

I obeyed, my thighs parting, the fabric of my dress pooling around my waist. The cool air hit my exposed skin, and I felt the dampness of my panties, the way the fabric clung to my cock. He made a sound of approval, low in his throat.

"Look at you," he said. "So wet. So ready. You love this, don't you? Being my little slut."

I wanted to deny it, but my body betrayed me. I shifted my hips, pressing against his hand, silently begging for more.

He laughed again. "Yeah, you do."

His fingers found the waistband of my panties and pulled them down, freeing my cock. The air was cold against the sensitive skin, and I gasped, my hips jerking. He didn't touch me right away. Instead, he let me hang there, exposed and aching, my need growing unbearable.

"Please," I whispered.

"Please what?"

"Please touch me."

"Where?"

Everywhere. I wanted to scream it. But I only managed, "My cock. Please."

He hummed thoughtfully, then leaned down. I felt his breath against the tip, warm and moist, and I moaned, my fingers digging into the sheets. He licked me once, a long, slow stroke from base to tip, and I cried out, my hips bucking.

"Shh," he said, his voice amused. "You don't want anyone to hear, do you? Not when you're so good at being quiet."

I bit my lip, nodding, forcing myself to still.

He took me in his mouth then, and I lost all ability to think. His tongue was hot and skilled, swirling around the head, dipping into the slit, tracing the sensitive ridge just beneath. I moaned helplessly, my hands grabbing at his hair, my body writhing. He sucked hard, and I felt the orgasm building, an unstoppable wave.

"No," I gasped. "Not yet. Please—"

He pulled off immediately, and I whimpered at the loss. He laughed again, a dark, satisfied sound.

"Not yet," he agreed. "I want you to suck me first."

He stood up, and I heard the rustle of his belt, the zipper of his pants. Then his cock was in front of my face, pressing against my lips. I opened obediently, taking him into my mouth as I had done so many times before. He was thick and long, and I had to relax my jaw to accommodate him. I tasted myself on him, salty and musky, and it only made me harder.

I sucked him with practiced devotion, swirling my tongue around the head, taking him deeper, deeper, until my nose pressed against his pelvis. He groaned, his hand fisting in my hair, guiding my movements.

"That's it," he breathed. "Such a good little cocksucker. You love this, don't you? Love having your mouth filled."

I hummed in agreement, the vibration making him gasp. He thrust into my throat, and I let him, my eyes watering, my jaw aching. The shame burned hot in my chest, but so did the pleasure. I was his. His to use, his to degrade, his to own.

He pulled out suddenly, and I gasped, coughing, my mouth wet and swollen. He laughed, stroking his cock slowly.

"You're so pretty when you choke on it," he said. "Now get on your hands and knees. I want to fuck you."

I hesitated. This was the moment. My hand went to the blindfold, my fingers trembling.

"Not yet," he said sharply, and I froze. "I didn't say you could take it off."

"I know," I said, my voice shaking. "But I want to see you. I need to see you."

There was a pause. I could feel his gaze on me, weighing me, judging me.

"Fine," he said finally, his tone amused. "Go ahead. Take it off. See who's been using you like the whore you are."

My hand moved slowly, the velvet slipping through my fingers. The darkness gave way to blurred shapes and colors, the lamp on the nightstand blinding me for a moment. I blinked, my eyes adjusting, my heart pounding so loud I couldn't hear my own thoughts.

And then I saw him.

The face that looked back at me was young, round, unremarkable. A thick jaw, a faint shadow of stubble, eyes that were dark and flat and utterly devoid of surprise. He was leaning against the dresser, his pants open, his cock still wet from my mouth, and he was smirking.

Chen Gang.

The name hit me like a freight train. Chen Gang. My student. The quiet, overweight boy who sat in the back of my seminars, who never spoke unless spoken to, who always had that same blank, unreadable expression. The boy I had helped with his coursework, who I had tried to encourage, who I had thought was just another shy, awkward kid.

He was the one who had been controlling me. He was the one who had brought me to my knees, who had made me beg, who had seen every inch of my shame and degradation.

"Teacher," he said, and the word dripped with mockery. "Surprised?"

I couldn't speak. My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The room spun around me, the walls closing in. I felt like I was falling, like the ground had opened up and swallowed me whole.

"You thought it was someone else, didn't you?" he continued, pushing off the dresser and walking toward me. "Some faceless stranger? Or maybe one of the other teachers? Someone older, more respectable?" He laughed, the sound harsh and cutting. "Nope. It's just me. Chen Gang. Your student."

I finally found my voice, though it came out as barely a whisper. "How... how did you..."

"Find out?" He shrugged, settling onto the bed beside me, his weight making the mattress dip. "I saw you at that party. The one for faculty and staff. You were wearing a skirt under your coat, and when you bent over to pick something up, I saw the strap of your garter belt. I knew then. I knew what you were."

My face burned. I remembered that night. I had been so careful, so sure no one had noticed.

"I followed you home," he said, his voice casual, as if he were recounting a trip to the grocery store. "Found out where you lived. And then I found your remote. You dropped it in the parking lot. That was the best day of my life, Teacher." He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming. "Because I knew then that I could have you. That I could own you."

I shook my head, a weak, useless gesture. "No... no, you can't... I'm your teacher..."

"Exactly." His hand moved to my thigh, squeezing the stockings. "My teacher. The man who's supposed to be in charge of me. And look at you now. Dressed like a whore, blindfolded, waiting to be fucked by your own student." He laughed, the sound echoing in the small room. "You're pathetic."

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to push him away, to scream, to run out of the room and never look back. But my body wouldn't move. I was frozen, trapped under his gaze, under the weight of his words.

"Get in position," he said, his voice dropping. "I told you I was going to fuck you. Don't make me repeat myself."

I didn't move. I couldn't. My mind was a storm of shame and shock and something else, something darker that I didn't want to acknowledge.

He sighed, but there was no frustration in it. Only amusement. "You need a little encouragement, don't you, Teacher?"

His hand slid up my thigh, under my dress, and found the plug. He pressed it deeper, and I gasped, my hips jerking. He circled it, twisting it, and I moaned, my head falling back.

"See?" he murmured. "Your body knows what it wants. It's your mind that's the problem."

He kept playing with the plug, pulling it out just slightly, then pushing it back in. The sensation was maddening, my hole clenching around it, craving more. I c

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I stared at my own reflection in the darkened glass of the office window, the evening campus lights flickering like distant stars below. Chen Gang stood behind me, his presence a weight I could feel pressing against my back even though he hadn't touched me yet. The remote control he held was mine—the one I thought I'd lost, the one that controlled the vibrator currently nestled deep inside me, pressing against my prostate with a constant, low hum that made my knees weak.

"So," he said, his voice casual, almost bored, "are you going to keep pretending, or are you ready to admit what you are?"

My breath caught in my throat. I'd known this moment would come. From the first day he'd found that remote, from the first time the vibrator had come to life in a lecture hall full of students, I'd known. But knowing and facing it were two different things.

"I..." My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."

He laughed, a low sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Don't play dumb, Lin Fei. Or should I say... Lin Fei in her lace panties and stockings? The counselor who can't sit still because he's got a plug up his ass?"

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I felt myself trembling. Not from fear—or not only from fear. There was something else there, something shameful and hot that pooled in my belly and made my cock twitch in the cage I wore beneath my slacks.

"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for.

He stepped closer, and I felt his breath on my neck. "Please what? Please stop? Please continue?" His hand came to rest on my hip, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. "Or please fuck you like the bitch you are?"

The word hung in the air between us, and I felt something inside me crack open. All those years of hiding, of pretending, of playing the dignified counselor while burning with shame and desire underneath—it all came crashing down in that single syllable. Bitch. He'd called me a bitch.

And I wanted to be his.

Slowly, as if moving through water, I turned to face him. My eyes were wet with tears I hadn't realized I was crying, and my lips parted to speak, but no words came. Instead, I reached up and unbuttoned my shirt with shaking fingers, one button at a time, revealing the black lace bra I wore underneath. The one that pushed my small chest up, that made me feel pretty and wanted and dirty all at once.

Chen Gang's eyes darkened with satisfaction. "That's it. Show me what you are."

I shrugged off the shirt, letting it fall to the carpet. My hands moved to my belt, unbuckling it with the same trembling urgency, pushing down my slacks to reveal the black garter belt holding up sheer stockings, and the chastity cage locked around my pathetic, useless cock. I stood before him in nothing but my secret underwear, exposed and vulnerable and feeling more alive than I had in years.

"Please," I said again, and this time I knew what I was asking for. "Please... master."

The word tasted strange on my tongue, but also right. Like I'd been waiting my whole life to say it.

He smiled, and it was the smile of a predator who'd finally cornered his prey. "Good boy. Or should I say, good girl?"

I blushed so hard I could feel the heat radiating from my skin, but I didn't look away. "Whatever you want to call me."

"That's the right answer." He reached out and ran a thumb across my bottom lip, and I opened my mouth without thinking, taking his finger inside and sucking gently. He laughed again, soft and approving. "Look at you. So eager to please. I knew it from the first moment I saw you walking across campus, all tight and prim, pretending you were better than everyone else. But I could see it in your eyes. The need."

He pulled his finger free and grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You want to be owned, don't you? You want someone to tell you what to do, to use you, to break you down until you're nothing but a hole for their pleasure."

My breath came in short, shallow gasps. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes... master."

"That's better." He released my chin and stepped back, pulling out his phone. "Now, I want to record this. I want to be able to watch it later, to remember the first time my little bitch gave herself to me properly. Is that okay?"

I should have said no. I should have run, should have grabbed my clothes and fled into the night and never looked back. But instead, I felt a surge of excitement so powerful it made my head spin. He wanted proof. He wanted to own this moment, to keep it forever. That meant he wanted to keep me.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, you can record it."

He tapped the screen and set the phone on my desk, propped against a stack of papers. The camera pointed directly at the couch where I'd been sitting just minutes ago, pretending to grade papers while my insides vibrated with secret pleasure.

"Get on the couch," he ordered. "On your back. And spread your legs for me."

I moved without thinking, my body responding to his commands before my mind could catch up. The leather of the couch was cool against my bare skin as I lay back, and I felt a shiver run through me as I slowly, shyly, spread my legs apart. The garter belt pulled taut against my hips, and the stockings whispered against each other as I opened myself to him.

He approached, his phone now in his hand, the camera clearly recording. "Look at you. So beautiful like this. A perfect little slut, all spread out and waiting." He reached down and ran a finger along the edge of my chastity cage, making me gasp. "And your cock all locked up, just the way a bitch should be. You don't need that thing, do you? You don't need to be a man."

"No," I whispered, and the admission felt like freedom. "I don't need it."

"Open your eyes," he commanded, and I realized I had squeezed them shut in shame. I forced them open, looking up at him through my lashes, seeing my own reflection in his phone screen. His thumb pressed the record button, and a red dot appeared in the corner of the display. "I want you to watch this later. I want you to see yourself the way I see you."

My cheeks burned, but I kept my eyes open. "Yes, master."

He stepped between my spread legs, his body blocking the light from the ceiling, casting me in shadow. I could feel the heat coming off him, could smell his sweat and something else—something masculine and dominant that made my mouth water. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock.

It was thick. Thicker than I'd imagined, than I'd seen in any of the videos I'd watched late at night when I was alone and ashamed. The head was flushed dark red, and it curved slightly upward, intimidating and beautiful. I could feel my mouth go dry.

"See something you like?" he asked, amused.

I swallowed. "Yes, master."

"Good. Because this is going to be inside you soon. Every day, from now on, this is what you're going to crave. You're going to dream about it, beg for it, do anything to get it. Understand?"

"Yes, master." My voice was barely a whisper.

He leaned over me, his weight pressing me into the couch as he positioned himself between my thighs. I could feel the tip of his cock pressing against the base of my chastity cage, then sliding lower, searching for my entrance. The lubricant from the plug I still wore made it easy, and I gasped as he pushed the plug deeper, not removing it, just pressing against it.

"You've been preparing for this all along, haven't you?" he murmured against my ear. "Walking around with this plug in your ass, getting yourself ready for a real cock. Such a good little whore."

I moaned, unable to form words. He pulled back slightly, then pushed again, and this time the plug shifted, and I felt the head of his cock press against my rim.

"Please," I begged. "Please, master, I want it. I want you inside me."

"Say it again."

"Please fuck me, master. Please put your cock in my slutty hole."

He groaned, a sound of pure approval, and then he was pushing inside, the plug sliding deeper as his cock replaced it, filling me in a way I'd never experienced before. The stretch was intense, almost painful, but my body had been trained for this, had been desiring this, and I opened for him like a flower.

The first thrust made me cry out, a high, keening sound that I barely recognized as my own. The second made my toes curl inside my stockings. The third made me forget my own name.

"Look at you," he grunted, his rhythm steady and punishing. "Look at the camera. Look at what a slut you are."

I turned my head, and there on the screen I could see myself—face flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure. My body was arched beneath him, my legs wrapped around his thick waist, my hands gripping the leather of the couch. I looked obscene. I looked beautiful. I looked like what I was: a bitch being fucked by her master.

"I was made for this," I heard myself say, the words spilling out without permission. "I was always meant to be someone's whore."

"That's right," he growled, slamming into me harder. "You were born for this, Lin Fei. You think I haven't seen it? The way you walk, the way you dress, the way you look at men? You're desperate for it. You've always been desperate. I've never seen someone so naturally obedient, so perfectly designed to be a slave. Not even on the internet, and I've seen plenty."

The praise—because that's what it was, twisted and cruel as it might seem—sent a wave of heat through me. I twisted my hips, meeting his thrusts, moaning wantonly as he filled me again and again. The vibrator inside me was still going, and the combined sensations were overwhelming, pushing me toward a climax I couldn't reach because of the cage locked around my dick.

"Please," I begged. "Please let me come. Please, master."

"Not yet." He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "You don't get to come until I say so. That's not what you're for. You're here for my pleasure, not your own."

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, I'm here for you. Use me. Use your bitch."

He fucked me for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. The camera recorded everything—my cries, my pleas, my body writhing beneath his. At some point, I stopped feeling ashamed and just felt. Felt the stretch, the fullness, the heat. Felt the weight of him on top of me, the force of his thrusts, the sound of his grunts mixing with my moans.

When he finally came, I felt him pulse inside me, felt the warmth spread through my insides, and I cried out as if I'd come myself, even though the cage held me back. He stayed inside me for a long moment, breathing hard, before pulling out and collapsing beside me on the couch.

The room was silent except for our breathing. The phone still recorded.

"That was..." I started, then stopped, not knowing what to say.

"That was just the beginning," he finished for me. He reached over and grabbed my chin, turning my face to his. "From now on, you belong to me. When I say suck, you suck. When I say spread, you spread. When I say crawl, you crawl. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

He smiled, that predator's smile, and leaned in to kiss my forehead almost tenderly. "Good girl."

After that night, my life became a pattern of obedience. Every morning before work, I would insert the plug and the vibrator, and Chen Gang would lock my chastity cage with a small padlock that clicked shut with a sound of finality. The keys lived on a ring attached to his belt, a constant reminder of who controlled my pleasure.

I got used to the pressure inside me as I walked across campus, used to the constant stimulation that kept me on edge but never let me fall. I got used to the weight of the cage between my legs, the way it made me feel less like a man and more like something else—something created for a purpose.

In the faculty bathroom, during my lunch break, I would kneel in a stall and suck his cock until he came down my throa

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The night air is cool against my skin as I stand before the mirror in my apartment, my reflection staring back at me with eyes that hold both terror and anticipation. I've done this before—dressed up in secret, paraded around my empty rooms—but never like this. Never for someone else to see. Never to be taken outside, where the world could witness my shame.

My hands tremble as I apply the lipstick, a deep crimson that makes my lips look full and inviting. I've practiced this enough times in private that the motions are familiar, but tonight they feel different. Tonight, every stroke of makeup feels like a brand, marking me as what I truly am beneath the facade of the respectable counselor.

I dust a hint of blush across my cheeks, darken my lashes with mascara, and line my eyes with black pencil until they appear larger, more feminine. When I finish, I barely recognize the face in the mirror. It's beautiful in a way I've always secretly wanted to be—delicate, soft, inviting. The kind of face that belongs to someone who exists to be looked at, to be wanted, to be used.

Under my trench coat, I wear the outfit Chen Gang selected for me through a series of texts that made my stomach clench with each new instruction. A black lace bra that barely contains my flat chest, the cups filled with silicone pads to give the illusion of curves. A matching garter belt holding up sheer black stockings that shimmer under my apartment's harsh lighting. A thong that disappears between the cheeks of my plump ass, the fabric so thin it might as well not exist. And beneath it all, the plug he made me insert an hour ago, a constant pressure deep inside me that reminds me of my place.

Around my neck, I've fastened the leather collar he gave me last week. It's thick and black, with silver studs that catch the light, and a metal ring at the front where he instructed me to attach the leash before leaving. The leash itself is black leather, about four feet long, and I hold it coiled in my trembling hand as I take one last look in the mirror.

The trench coat covers everything, but I know what's underneath. I know that anyone who looked closely enough, who saw the bulge of the leash in my pocket or the way the collar rises above the coat's lapels, might guess. The thought sends a thrill of terror through me, and with it, something darker. Something that makes my breath quicken and my cock stir beneath the thong.

My phone buzzes. A text from Chen Gang.

*Come. Now.*

I take a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs, and step out the door.

The walk to the park is the longest ten minutes of my life. Every passing car feels like it might slow down, might see through my disguise, might recognize the youngest counselor at the university walking with a leash in his pocket and a plug stretching his ass. I keep my head down, my hands shoved deep into the coat's pockets, one of them clutching the leash so tightly that my knuckles ache.

The night air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass from the park. Streetlights cast pools of yellow light along the sidewalk, and I stay in the shadows between them, my footsteps quick and anxious on the concrete.

When I reach the park entrance, I pause. The gate is open, the path beyond it dark and empty. The park closes at dusk, and it's well past ten now. No one should be here. No one except him.

I step through the gate, and the world seems to change around me. The trees loom tall and dark, their leaves whispering secrets in the night breeze. The grass is damp with dew, and the path stretches out before me, leading deeper into the darkness. I follow it, my senses heightened, every sound making me flinch.

I find him on the bench near the old oak tree, the same bench where he first approached me weeks ago with a knowing smile and a remote control in his hand. He's sitting casually, legs spread, arms resting along the back of the bench, looking like he owns the place. Looking like he owns me.

He's wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, the hood down, revealing his round, ordinary face. But there's nothing ordinary about the look in his eyes. It's hungry. Possessive. It makes my stomach flip and my cock twitch.

"Good evening, Master," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn't reply immediately. He just looks at me, his eyes traveling slowly down my body, taking in the trench coat, the collar visible above it, the way I'm trembling despite the warm night air. A slow smile spreads across his face, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

"Show me," he says. "Take it off."

My hands move to the belt of the trench coat, fumbling with the knot. My fingers are clumsy with nerves, but finally the belt comes loose, and I shrug the coat off my shoulders. It falls to the ground in a heap at my feet, and I stand before him in all my shame.

The night air kisses my exposed skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs. I can feel his eyes on me, drinking in the sight of the lace bra, the garter belt, the stockings, the thong that barely covers anything. I see his gaze linger on the bulge at my crotch, the evidence of my arousal straining against the thin fabric.

"Turn around," he commands.

I obey, turning slowly, showing him the curve of my ass, the thong's string disappearing between my cheeks, the slight outline of the plug beneath it. I hear him inhale sharply, and the sound sends a thrill through me.

"Good," he says, his voice low and approving. "Now kneel."

I drop to my knees without hesitation, the damp grass cold against my stockings. The ground is uneven, and the small stones dig into my knees through the thin fabric, but I don't dare move. I kneel before him, head bowed, hands resting on my thighs, waiting.

He stands and walks around me, and I can feel the heat of his presence as he circles me like a predator examining its prey. He stops behind me, and I feel his hand on the back of my neck, fingers tracing the edge of the collar.

"You've done well," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice that makes my heart swell with a twisted sense of pride. "You followed all my instructions perfectly."

"Thank you, Master," I whisper.

He clips the leash to the ring on my collar. The sound of the metal clasp clicking into place sends a jolt through me, a physical reminder that I am his. That I belong to him. That from this moment on, I am not a person—I am a pet.

"On all fours," he says.

I lower myself onto my hands and knees, my ass rising in the air, my back arching in a way that feels both humiliating and natural. The grass tickles my palms, and the dampness seeps through the stockings at my knees. The plug shifts inside me with the movement, a constant reminder of my submission.

He takes the leash in hand, giving it a gentle tug, and I begin to crawl.

The first few steps are awkward, my movements stiff and uncertain. But as we move deeper into the park, away from the path and onto the soft grass beneath the trees, something shifts inside me. My hips begin to sway, a natural rhythm developing as I crawl. I wiggle my ass, exaggerating the movement, showing off what I have for him.

"Look at you," he says, his voice carrying a note of genuine pleasure. "You're a natural. A beautiful bitch on her leash."

The words cut through me, sharp and sweet. Shame burns in my cheeks, but underneath it, there's a warmth that spreads through my chest. A sense of belonging. A sense of purpose. This is where I belong. On my hands and knees, being led by my master.

We crawl past the playground, the swings swaying gently in the breeze, the slide looming like a ghost in the darkness. I wonder if anyone can see us, if someone might be watching from a nearby apartment window. The thought sends a thrill of fear through me, and with it, a spike of arousal that makes my cock ache.

"Faster," he commands, and I obey, my hands and knees moving quicker, my ass swaying more enthusiastically. The leash pulls taut as he guides me toward a copse of trees near the back of the park, a secluded spot hidden from view by thick bushes and low-hanging branches.

When we reach the spot, he stops, and I stop with him, my breath coming in quick gasps. The darkness here is complete, the moonlight blocked by the canopy of leaves above. I can barely see him, but I can feel him. Sense him. Smell him—the faint scent of sweat and soap, the musk of his skin.

"Suck," he says, and I hear the sound of his zipper lowering.

I crawl forward, my hands finding his jeans in the darkness. I tug them down, and his cock springs free, hard and warm against my cheek. My lips part instinctively, and I take him into my mouth.

The taste of him fills me, salty and masculine, and I moan around him as I begin to move. My head bobs up and down, my tongue swirling around the head, my hands cupping his balls, feeling their weight in my palms. This is what I was made for. This is what I need. His cock in my mouth, his hands in my hair, his voice guiding me, praising me, owning me.

"Good bitch," he groans, his hips beginning to thrust, fucking my face in a rhythm that leaves me breathless. "You're so good at this. You've been practicing, haven't you?"

I moan my agreement around him, and he laughs, a low, satisfied sound that makes my dick twitch.

"Open your throat," he commands, and I do, relaxing the muscles, letting him slide deeper. He pushes all the way in, his cock filling my throat, and I gag, tears streaming from my eyes. But I don't pull away. I can't. I stay there, taking it, letting him use me, letting him take his pleasure from my body.

When he finally pulls out, I'm gasping for air, saliva dripping from my chin, my makeup likely smeared beyond repair. I look up at him in the darkness, my eyes adjusting enough to see the outline of his face, the satisfied curve of his lips.

"Now," he says, "I want you to fuck me."

He guides me to the ground, onto my back, my legs spreading automatically. He kneels between them, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against the plug. He pulls it out slowly, carefully, and I gasp at the sensation of emptiness, of being hollow and waiting.

"Begg for it," he says.

"Please, Master," I say, my voice desperate and needy. "Please fuck me. I need your cock inside me. I need to feel you. I'm nothing without you. I'm just a hole waiting to be filled."

He laughs, but it's a cruel laugh, a laugh that reminds me of my place. "You really are a bitch, aren't you? Born to be fucked. Born to be used."

"Yes," I whisper, the word tasting like both surrender and victory. "Yes, I am."

He pushes into me, and I cry out, a sharp, high-pitched sound that I try to stifle with my hand. But he grabs my wrist and pins it to the ground, his other hand gripping my hip as he begins to move.

The rhythm starts slow, deep, each thrust reaching places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyes. I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, but moans escape me, soft and breathy, filling the darkness around us. The cold grass presses against my back, the stockings are torn at the knees, and I don't care. I don't care about anything except the feeling of him inside me, the way he fills me, the way he makes me feel so complete.

"Look at you," he says, his voice ragged with exertion. "Lying there in your lace and stockings, taking my cock like the good little bitch you are. Do you like this? Do you like being my whore?"

"Yes," I gasp, my hips meeting his thrusts. "Yes, Master, I love it. I love being your whore. I love being your bitch. I was born for this."

He slaps my ass, hard, the sound sharp in the night air. I yelp, but the pain is sweet, and I arch into the next slap, craving more.

"Tell me what you are," he demands.

"I'm a bitch," I say, the words coming out in a rush. "A fucking slut. A whore. I'm your property, your toy, your hole. I'm nothing without you. I'm worthless. I'm—"

"Good," he says, cutting me off with a particularly deep thrust. "That's exactly what y

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