You Asked For Pain

He found Me online.

Of course he did.

It always starts the same way: a message soaked in politeness, wrapped in nervous curiosity. He wanted to "talk about CBT." Said he'd been thinking about it for years. Fantasizing. Searching. Reading forums in the dark with his hand between his legs, imagining what it would feel like if a woman like Me told him to strip... and then slowly took everything that made him a man and used it against him.

But I don't do fantasy.

I do reality.

We talked for months.

And I let him get hooked. Fed him stories. Gave him tasks. Showed him My stilettos once and told him to beg Me not to use them on him. He did. Whimpered in the comments like a good little coward. Then he'd vanish. Then come back. Then vanish again.

But craving doesn't fade.

Not when it's Me.

Eventually, he admitted it:

He was obsessed.

He couldn't stop thinking about Me. Couldn't jerk off anymore without picturing My hand around his cock... not stroking, no. Squeezing.

"I want the real thing," he wrote. "I want to serve You. I want to feel it."

So I let him.

When he showed up at My door, he looked like a wreck. Pale, nervous, hard. He wore loose pants, like I told him to. No underwear. No safeword. Just desperation.

And I? I was a vision.

Tall. Towering over him in six-inch black patent heels, the kind that catch the light like blades. My dress was skin-tight, thigh-high, slit on one side so he could see the curve of My leg whenever I moved. Black latex gloves clung to My hands, already powdered for precision. A satin choker hugged My throat. My long, dark brown hair spilled down My shoulders in soft, taunting waves. Green eyes locked on him with something between pity and hunger.

"Take your clothes off," I said.

He obeyed. Of course he did.

The room was already prepped: warm lighting, a padded bench, leather restraints, and a gleaming tray of instruments. Some familiar. Some... not. He looked at them and gulped. I saw his cock twitch--already semi-hard from fear alone.

"On your knees," I said.

He dropped.

Shaking.

"Tell Me what you're here for."

"...CBT, Miss Velvet. Please."

"Say it like you mean it."

"...I want You to hurt my cock and balls. Please. I want You to ruin them."

I smiled. That was better.

The first act was gentle--only to lull him. I took a silk rope, looped it once around his balls, twice, then tighter with each pass. When they turned a delicious shade of red, I paused. Let him feel that dull ache building. Let his mind race ahead to what would come next.

I snapped the end of the rope.

He flinched.

"Color?"

"...Green," he breathed.

Good.

I flicked My nails against his testicles, slow at first. Then harder. Tap. Tap. Thwack. His thighs jolted.

Then came the clamp.

A stainless-steel ball stretcher, chilled in the freezer just for him. I snapped it open and locked it around his swollen sac. He whimpered. I twisted it slightly to make sure it was aligned. Then tightened it one notch further.

"Miss Velvet--"

I slapped his face.

"You don't speak unless I say so."

He nodded. Bit his lip.

I looped a leather cock ring around the base next, just to make sure he stayed hard. His cock looked ridiculous--purple, twitching, already leaking.

So I denied it.

"You don't get pleasure. Only pain."

I reached for My next tool: a simple bamboo stick. Slim. Flexible. Brutal.

I tapped it once. Twice. Then struck.

Right across the head.

He screamed.

One. Two. Three sharp smacks across the shaft, each a little harder. Then I cupped his balls and slapped them with My gloved hand--hard enough to make him jerk back.

I yanked the rope.

"No retreat. You asked for this."

He was sweating now. Tears threatening. Breathing ragged. His cock still hard.

So I knelt. Right in front of him. Eye to eye.

"Do you still want Me?" I asked, voice dripping in mockery.

"...Yes," he whispered.

"Even when I'm breaking you?"

"...Especially then."

I kissed his cheek. Soft. Sweet.

Then punched his balls--once, hard, straight-on.

He collapsed forward, but I caught his throat and made him look at Me. That's when I brought out the weight hooks. Little metal clips, attached to fishing line, each one fastening to the base of his sac. I hung two small weights. He winced.

Then four.

Then I made him crawl.

Back and forth across the room, his testicles swinging, slapping between his legs with every shuffle. I added pegs to his shaft--one, two, four. The skin stretched tight, trembling. Then I twisted one. Slowly.

"Color?"

"G--green--Miss Velvet--please--"

So I stood.

I put My stiletto heel right beneath his cock. Pressed up. Gently at first. Then crueler.

"Give Me your cock."

He looked confused.

I slammed My heel into his shaft, grinding just below the head. He howled.

"That's right. Suffer for Me."

I held the pressure. Let it sear into him. Then removed the weights. One by one. Each removal sent a jolt through him. I could see it in his eyes--his body confused, his brain overloaded.

And still, he whispered, "Thank You."

I crouched again. Ran My gloved fingers along his ruined cock. Red. Bruised. Leaking.

"You'll never be the same," I whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

He nodded.

"Say it."

"I'll never be the same, Miss Velvet."

I cupped his face in My hand.

"Good boy."

Then I tugged the ring off. Let his cock go soft. Slapped it once more--just because.

The night ended with him back on the bench, balls packed in ice, whimpering softly as I slid My heels back on and fixed My hair in the mirror. I looked divine. He looked... spent. Used. Grateful.

He had what he wanted.

And I? I had a new toy.

One I could stretch. Break. Twist.

Over and over.

Until the only thing he feared more than My hands--was losing them.