Wrist rubbed red from hours in ropes. A blindfold bleached from catching sweat from a soggy blonde mop. Chapped lips chew a cherry ball gag. A worn chest welted by kisses from the whip. A lower back arches aching from hours in the stockage. His quads quaking, his butt asking for a seat, and his feet swelling in his fashionable high heels. The best part filled with cum, aching bruised black and blue, or blue with frustration.

My boy hangs in the shackles of his own fetish. A masculine journey to find that which will only shrink his ego and violently violate all that society expects of him. Panties pulled up his legs free him by lifting the weight of his heavy manhood. The indecisive whip hovers above his most sensitive part focusing his attention on all that is most precious to him. Shall it fall? It must land without mercy and grind him into the floor. A piece of him trying to be discarded, distanced, or at least denied. His pain resonates within him while his burden continues without him.

As his master, I represent that which is no longer attainable. The boy or girl whose clumsy teenage games frustrated his futile attempts to fulfill his most consuming self-manipulation. His potential partner in sexual exploration sending confused signals which sapped his manhood and send him searching for a perverted potency in the form of a powerful sadist. A deceitful partner is what he now craves, and an easy mark is what he has become. His sexual identity forever defined by childish misunderstandings. I'm his sweetheart, his coach, and his most loved antagonist. His emotional exhibitionism is his gift to me which I will only mock in return. His open-hearted desire for the partner that can never exist will be understood, encouraged, and almost delivered in a perpetually just-out-of-reach future by his most trusted enemy.

I can see his pain and feel his suffering. It is a great fire that will consume him that I must quell it with gasoline. I see his soul, because he has given it to me along with the instructions to its incarnation. I know why he needs me to humiliate him. To tell him that I see him for all that he is, only to disgrace him with vulgar displays of power. His self-possession is up for sale, and the cost is humorously low. I plead with his naive emotions. Saving him would be easy, but I'm not remotely interested in that.

Tonight, his masculinity is too much. His unmoored desires have festered. He is beaten and will be beated. His life's desire, his last unfilled wish rest between my legs. It is projection of a thousand people, a thousand encounters, and a thousand misinterpretations. I lower him to his back and remove his gag. He is thankful, thinking this is finally his time. This is when his sexual life finally make sense and years of pain will be relieved. I kiss him cruelly. I start to relieve his pain, and his beautiful masculinity springs to life. His latest frustration being architected by me. I lower myself onto his mouth moving the last chess pieces into place. His over-eager tongue is punished with a well placed squeeze, and he is reminded to follow my protocol His pleads for release are denied in the tenor of all the women and men who used him before. His throbbing, needy manhood is being sucked but it is his soul that is being eaten.

I'm finally being pleased in the manor I expect. His low self-worth has ensured me a worthwhile sexual experience motivated by his overcompensation. I'm grateful I am not the one easily broken. I'm grateful that I'm not the one with the gaping, public knowledge wound. I'm grateful to have gotten my own release on his face. Too easily distracted by his own self-imprisonment, he must be reminded of his inadequacy as a lover. He must have his impotency played back constantly. I bring our love to a halt as he continues to try to please me. No words are said as he searches for clues to his helpless situation. I get close to my weak slave. With the cold command and confidence that comes from knowing your prey, I whisper a nightmare to him. All of his poorly camouflaged weakness exposed. I delight in his squirming mental state. My spit conveys my contempt for this sexual being. I threaten to steal all that makes him a man which makes my power absolute and my domination of his sex assured.

I walk to the door of the dungeon. His tears break my heart. His frail body in need of protection and rest are held taunt by my ropes.  His cock and mind twisted in a heap.  His blindfold blocks what he sees, but together we have blocked what he should know about himself. His most prized piece topples between his legs. His denial of rapturous oblivion after such tight proximity was unfair and delightful. It makes my soul sink to see someone I know so well laying in the aftermath of such abuse. I turn out the lights as he chokes a whimper. I lock the dungeon door. My business appointment is here, and I must meet them.

After the meeting, one of the sons of my business partner lingers. He manipulates his mother by telling her that he is going to see a friend nearby. Both he and I know the truth about his intent. He is a young male dressed in frat boy chic. His bulging pants are his first tell. His stories of moist virgins and a big reputation reek of arrogance and therefore a disguised weakness. I play the naif well. His words pass through me, but his secret message play at megaphone volume. He is here for a partner, but he will be getting a master. His predictable self-disclosures are too trusting and poorly strategized. I walk to him and take off his Braves cap. I treat him like a man even though he is still very much a boy. His impetuous fumbles are quickly ceased with an accusation of virginity. His shock is meet with my understanding and patience. My first time overtaking him. My first time serving him a cocktail of humiliation and attraction. It is the first taste of a love only I have ever given him.

He is hungry for more. I pretend he understands my musing on sex. He pretends to not think about his fantasies. I send him a mixed message, eye him down, and hold a silence. He takes off his Abercrombie and Fitch while looking at me for approval. He accepts my command to kneel. My project in the basement moans. The kneeling juvenile ask about the sound. My crotch in his face intoxicates him. I want to show him the consequences of his masculinity in the basement. I want to give him his clothes and shepherd him to the right track. I also want his teenage balls a deep blue and to tell him to fuck off when he promises his love.  I want his maladapted love. I want to know his desires and dangle it in front of him. I want to know his secrets and hurt him with them.

Another moan from the soul I tourture. I ask, "That sound?". He nods and his doe eyes look up to me wanting the purest truth. I know he is mine for the taking, but I'll give him one last chance to leave me and discover a love devoid of his own humiliation and degradation. I lean over and lock eyes with him. In my most earnest and loving voice, I give him one last warning, "that's the sound of our future." He has heard my words, but I'm unsure if he heard my message. It washes over him. His minds works its meaning. He has his answer. He leans in for a kiss surrendering to that which he will probably never understand. I reject him for impropriety and con him into closing his eyes. My hands feels down his chest then lower and lower. The cold steel of chastity envelops him as I lock him up. I kiss his head thankful - he is now mine. His shock causes him to cry, but my fresh lamb has not felt my full sadism. I demand that he put on his clothes and leave immediately. He asks about the metal now limiting his favorite toy. I tell him that he is free to come back next month. He realizes that he desires me, but I only desire his autonomy. I tell him that I love him very much and dismiss him. He leaves, and I watch him stumble away.  The chastity device is my hand.  It holds his toy in place and crushes it when he gets what he wants.  His new gait is the my hand constantly reminding him of me.