Today's session with my Canadian submissive played out like a shadowed opera—a crescendo of control, denial, and absolute surrender.
He lay before me, stripped bare of agency, his breaths uneven with yearning. His body was my canvas, my playground. I stepped onto him with precision—first in heels, then barefoot—each move calculated to unravel him. The bite of stilettos on his palms. The deliberate drag of my soles across his chest. He flinched. He groaned. He yielded.
But the physical was merely the prelude. The true torment was in his mind.
The key to his chastity dangled just out of reach, glinting cruelly on the floor. It teased. He stretched for it. And then—snap—my heel slammed down, halting him. I crushed his fleeting hope, again and again, until his straining arms fell limp, his resolve melting into utter submission.
No more reaching. No more dreams of release.
Only denial. Only the cage. Only the weight of my dominance anchoring him to his rightful place beneath me.
So, my sweet submissive—tell me: would you choose the sharp pierce of my heels… or the slow, consuming press of my bare feet?