My chattel hangs from the ceiling, bound, helpless, c*mpletely at My mercy. But today, there will be no mercy. I am in a sadistic mood, and his s*ffering is all that interests Me.

I see the way he twitches in his tiny chastity cage, aroused by the sight of Me: My exquisite lingerie clinging to My curves, sheer stockings tracing My perfect legs, My boots clicking against the floor with purpose. But his desires are meaningless. his pleasure does not concern Me. The only thing that matters is the exquisite t*rment I choose to inflict.

In My hand, I hold a long, elegant bullwhip crafted for one purpose: p*in. With a simple flick of My wrist, it coils around his body, searing his flesh like a lover’s cruel embrace. his sharp intake of breath and his pathetic whimpers only fuel My desire to hear more.

But this is not enough.

As I light a cigarette, the glow illuminates his trembling form. I take a slow, indulgent drag, exhaling smoke into his face, watching him squirm. And then, with a lazy flick of My fingers, the ash falls into his open mouth. he swallows without hesitation, his only purpose is to serve.

Yet I crave more. More p*in. More screams.

Reaching for My favourite single-t*il whip, I prepare to paint his skin with fire. The first lash lands, and his cries pierce the air; music to My ears, a symphony of s*ffering that sends a delicious shiver through My body. Each strike leaves its mark, his writhing only deepening My arousal. He exists for this. To endure. To be broken for My pleasure.

A second cigarette gives him a brief respite—but only for a moment. This is merely the eye of the storm. When I exhale, it is a signal: the t*rment resumes. His body j*rks, his cries grow desperate, but there is no escape. I will whip him until I am satisfied.

And when I am done, when his body is covered in the evidence of My amusement, he will drop to his knees and clean every trace of My cigarette ash from the floor, just as a devoted chattel should.

S*ffering and smoking: Matriarch Ezada Sinn whips Her human ashtray