The screen flickers to life, and there you are—waiting, obedient, already feeling the subtle pulse of anticipation through your body. I see you sitting there, exactly as I instructed—knees apart, hands resting on your thighs, eyes lowered. You know better than to look directly at me without permission. Good boy

I speak softly, but firmly. “Did you follow every instruction I gave you earlier?” Your breath catches, and you nod, whispering a meek “Yes, Ma’am.” My lips curl into a sly smile. “Prove it.” Slowly, you hold up your wrists, showing me the marks left by the restraints—exactly as I demanded. You’ve been wearing them for hours, haven’t you? Good. I want you to feel me, even when I’m not there.

My voice drops lower, commanding your attention. “Now, touch yourself—slowly. But don’t you dare look at me until I give you permission.” You hesitate, just a fraction of a second, and I raise an eyebrow. You know better than to hesitate. Your hand moves down, tentative and trembling, and I watch with satisfaction as you surrender to my will, desperate to earn my praise.

As your movements grow more desperate, I murmur warnings—“Slower. I didn’t tell you to rush.” You whimper, needy and aching, but you obey. I watch you squirm, struggling to hold back, and it only fuels my desire to push you further. I know exactly how to break you down, to make you beg for release, but you’ll wait until I say. You exist solely to please me right now—nothing else matters.

Finally, I lean closer to the screen, my voice a low, dangerous whisper. “Good boy. You’ve done well. Now beg me to let you finish.” Your eyes finally rise to meet mine, pleading, desperate, willing to do anything just to hear that one word—permission.

And just maybe, if you beg sweetly enough, I’ll let you have what you crave.