Mistress Malibu—19, inked, and built to dominate —looms over her blindfolded, bound sl*ve like an untouchable queen, Her sleek bl*ck lingerie hugging the curves of a body meant to be obeyed. The sl*ve kneels, wrists locked tightly behind its back, its breath shallow with anticipation and dread. She doesn’t just command—She controls . And tonight? She’s teaching this worthless beta the only skill it will ever need: how to worship Her perfect y*ung *ss with absolute devotion.

"Start with My cheeks," She purrs, bending just enough to let Her tattooed perfection hover right in front of its trembling lips. The sl*ve obeys, pressing kisses to each firm globe, its mouth eager yet clumsy. But Mistress Malibu isn’t satisfied with anything less than total surrender. "Deeper," She demands, spreading Herself wide with a smirk. The air fills with the wet sound of Her most intimate place opening, glistening and demanding attention. "Now kiss My h*le, pig." The first touch of its lips is hesitant. The second is hungry. By the third, the sl*ve is lost, its tongue flattening against Her, desperate to please.

Mistress Malibu smirks, watching its blindfolded face twist in humiliation as She grinds down, Her full weight pressing it into submission. "Mmm, good boy. Now tell Me—" CR*CK —"can you taste what I had for dinner?" The riding crop snaps against its shoulder, and the sl*ve whimpers into Her, its tongue pushing deeper on instinct. She rewards it by sitting down hard, Her cheeks sealing around its face. "Stiffen that tongue," She orders, rocking Her hips until it’s rigid enough to please Her properly. "Yeah, just like that... f*ck My h*le with your mouth." The sl*ve gags as She rides its face in slow, deliberate circles, Her essence dripping down its chin, Her scent filling its lungs. It’s not just submission—it’s total consumption .

Then comes the real training.

With a cruel grin, Mistress Malibu grips the couch for leverage and starts to bounce . Not gentle. Not teasing. Relentless. Her spread-open backside slams onto its tongue again and again, Her cheeks slapping against its nose with wet, degrading sounds. "Take it all!" She snarls, her thighs flexing as She uses its face like a personal seat, Her juices smearing across its lips, its chin, its everything . The sl*ve’s muffled sounds of struggle are music to Her ears. It can’t breathe, can’t think—can only serve as She impales Herself on its tongue, Her fingers tangled in its hair to keep it in place. "You were made for this," She pants, slamming down with enough strength to make the sl*ve’s neck strain. "A living seat, a f*cking plaything for My *ss!"

By the time She’s finished, the sl*ve’s face is a mess—swollen lips, a tear-streaked blindfold, skin slick with Her mark. She stands with a satisfied stretch, admiring Her work: a broken, gasping thing, its entire existence now revolving around the taste of Her. "Clean yourself up," She commands, stepping over it like the worthless object it is. "Same time tomorrow, sl*ve." And just like that, another older m*le learns its place: on its knees, beneath Her, forever. ????

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