People misunderstand when I say that I use you to get off. They think I use your hands, your junk, your tongue… They’ve got it all wrong.
I use your whimpers, your gasping, your crying, your shuddering, your fear, the delicious spasms that run through your body, your twitching muscles, any-and every-thing I can put my cunt on. They don’t understand that I’m most pleased by your suffering.
By teasing them, complimenting them, making them feel like pretty objects, making them completely dependent on me.
By telling them what to wear, what to eat, what to say.
By washing them off in the bathtub, by telling them to bend over so I can shave their cocks and their taints and their tight, pink boy-holes, by telling them how smooth and lovely their skin feels under my hands.
By pushing my fingers into their mouths and feeling only wet softness.
By watching them walk around the house with an unmistakeable expression of pure hunger on my face.
By not allowing them to orgasm.
By forcing them to orgasm, over and over and over, until they are a moaning, slutty mess, covered in sweat and sticky white cum.
By pulling them into my lap, no matter how big they are. Because with me, they are always made small.
That’s how I humiliate boys.
Imagine wrestling with your brat, and he’s bigger than you, and stronger than you. You promise that whoever wins gets to do whatever they want and be the top for the night.
And then, when he pins you, and you admit that he’s won, he looks a little lost, like he’s not sure where to begin. You smirk, and raise a brow at him. “You won, pup. What now? You can pin me, but you don’t know what to do with me?”
He blushes adorably, and stammers a bit, still looking lost. You coo at him, and grind your hips up into his teasingly. “Such a big, strong boy.” You sit up slowly and peck his lips, and when he sighs and goes in for more, you quickly flip him onto his back and straddle him.
He blinks several times, stunned.
“There, that’s better.” You lean down and nip at his ear. “You and I both know this is where you belong anyway, isn’t it, puppy?”
The Red Light Blog 