I Am Not Submissive, so Mistress Lynne asked for my Fantasy

I am not submissive, and I need you to hold that fact in your mind while I describe what I paid Mistress Lynne to do to me for the very first pre-paid fantasy scene at the Lair with Mistress Lynne. It is because I have pre-paid for this scene and the fact that I created and willed this fantasy to happen to me just proves how not submissive I really am. A truly submissive man would not create his own fantasy and pre-pay for a specific scene because a true submissive man would only care about what Mistress Lynne truly wants. And, it is clear now, that no one at the mansion truly even knows what Mistress Lynne wants. The checked in slaves only do as told by Mistress Lynne or create pre-paid scenarios for their own benefit. I truly wonder if really any checked in slave is truly submissive when they enter the underground mansion. But, I know, for sure, that I am NOT submissive.

Mistress Lynne was due to arrive to my first pre-paid scene at three in the afternoon. My body had taken complete control of my brain and was running one program and one program only: Mistress Lynne is on her way and I was extremely excited. I was wearing my best suit and tie, and I was extremely not in control of what was happening inside it, thank goodness for my required tiny cock cage. I was a man with a doctorate, three companies, and a very expensive watch sitting behind a desk while being slowly destroyed by anticipation for a woman who had not even touched me yet.

Mistress Lynne walked into the room and looked at the watch. “Expensive,” she said. “Yes,” I answered. She told me to take it off and put it on the desk. I did. She picked it up, turned it over in Her hands, examined it for a moment, and set it back down. The entire exchange lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but somehow, it established everything about the next three hours with complete efficiency. She sat on the edge of the dungeon bed, crossed Her legs, and looked at me still sitting at the desk like an idiot. “Come here and kneel,” she said. Here is the specific, infuriating, humiliating thing about that moment: my body stood before I had finished formulating my objection. My legs carried me across the room. My knees struck the floor in front of Mistress Lynne with a solidity that suggested they had been waiting for the opportunity and were relieved it had finally arrived. I was kneeling in front of Her in my suit, looking up at Her, before the part of me with the doctorate had finished saying, now wait just a moment. That part of me has been losing consistently since I arrived.

She looked down at me and reached out to loosen my tie with two fingers. She did it slowly, not removing it, merely opening the collar enough to make me feel the difference. It was the specific gesture of a woman making Herself comfortable with something that belonged to Her. “Tell me what you want,” She said. “I don’t—” I started, but She put two fingers beneath my chin and lifted my face. She looked at me with an expression that said She had all the time in the world, that my body had already told Her everything She needed to know, and that the words were merely a formality She intended to extract at Her leisure. So I told Her. I told Her exactly what I wanted, and once I began, there was no stopping. I told Her I wanted to be pushed face-first into the mattress and made to confess every filthy, humiliating thing I had been thinking about since She first entered the room. I told Her I wanted to be held down, called a pig, and reminded that the man who put on an expensive suit every morning to convince the world he was powerful was, in this room, something much simpler. I told Her what I wanted to do for Her afterward, and I told Her the amount I intended to transfer when it was over—not the number She had asked for, but the real number, the amount that reflected what this was worth to the part of me that had been waiting for it since the first time I understood what I was. I watched Her face while I spoke, and something shifted in Her expression that sent such a sharp jolt through me that my hands tightened against my thighs. “You forgot something,” She said. Then She told me to beg. I begged. The first please came easily because it had been living in my throat for two hours. The rest was harder, but once it started, it came without resistance. The man who might once have resisted had apparently disappeared somewhere around the fourth minute of Her sitting on the edge of that bed with Her legs crossed and looking at me as though I were already Hers. I begged Her to use me. I begged Her to call me what I was. I told Her exactly what I was willing to admit in that room: that beneath the suit, beneath the doctorate and the companies and the watch and every carefully constructed piece of my professional identity, there was another version of me that wanted nothing except Her attention. I told Her that I had transferred money before She arrived because the transfer was the first thing I gave Her, and because I could not seem to stop myself. She listened to every word with Her fingers still beneath my chin, holding my face up so She could watch the transformation happen in real time—the dissolution of Peter Grant, the shedding of everything I used to convince myself and everyone else that I was something other than this.

“Good,” She said. “Now get on the bed. Face down. Keep the suit on.”

I obeyed. I climbed onto the bed and lay face down in my suit while She settled behind me, close enough that I could feel the weight of Her presence. She leaned down until Her mouth was near my ear and told me to say it all again, to keep going until She told me to stop. So I did. My face was buried against the mattress, my tie loosened, my expensive suit still on, and I said every filthy, humiliating truth I had been trying to keep buried beneath that suit. I told Her what I was. I told Her what I wanted. I told Her what I thought about in boardrooms and what I imagined people would think if they could see me now. I talked about the watch sitting abandoned on the desk and what it meant that She had made me remove it. I told Her what I would give beyond money if She ever asked for it. I said please so many times that eventually it stopped sounding like a word and became something more primitive, something closer to a reflex. She listened to all of it. Then She took control of the rest.

She took her time. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to make my desperation grow. She circled me slowly, her fingers trailing over the expensive fabric of my very best suit jacket before she started to peel it away piece by piece. The jacket hit the floor. Then the vest. She loosened my tie with agonizing patience, letting the silk slide through her fingers before she wrapped it around her own wrist.

"Look at yourself," she commanded, turning my face toward the mirror. I saw exactly what she wanted me to see—the forty-seven-year-old executive reduced to a trembling, disheveled mess. My shirt was half-unbuttoned, my tie askew, my face flushed with humiliation and need. "This is who you really are, Peter. Not the man who signs contracts and makes decisions. This." She grabbed my chin harder. "A desperate, cock-hungry slut who needs permission to exist."

She pushed me to my knees in front of the mirror. "Say it. Tell me what you are."

"I'm your whore," I whispered, the words tasting filthy and true on my tongue. "I'm a pathetic, middle-aged man who pays to be used."

"Louder."

"I'm your fucking whore," I said, louder this time, my voice cracking. "I want you to destroy me. I want you to take everything I have and leave me empty."

She smiled, cold and satisfied. Her fingers threaded through my hair, yanking my head back. "What do you want, Peter? Be specific."

"I want your cunt," I gasped. "I want to taste it. I want to bury my face between your legs until I can't breathe. I want you to use my mouth like a fucktoy."

"And?"

"I want you to fuck me," I continued, the words spilling out now. "I want you to stretch my ass and make me scream. I want you to call me names while you do it. I want you to make me cry."

"How much will you pay for that privilege?"

"Everything," I answered immediately. "My bank account. My dignity. My fucking soul. Just please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me be your bitch," I begged, the word coming out raw and broken. "Please use me. Please hurt me. Please don't make me pretend to be a man anymore."

She kept me there, kneeling, for what felt like hours. Every time I thought she'd give in, she'd step back, make me wait, make me ask again with new words, dirtier words. I told her I'd lick her boots clean. I told her I'd let her film me. I told her I'd sign over my company if that's what she wanted. I meant every word.

When she finally pushed me onto the bed and straddled my face, I nearly sobbed with relief. Her thighs pressed against my ears as she lowered herself onto my mouth. "Eat," she ordered. I did. I licked and sucked like a man possessed, my tongue working desperately against her clit while she ground down on my face. She came twice before she was satisfied, flooding my mouth with her taste.

Then she flipped me over. I heard the snap of latex, felt cold lube against my hole. "Beg for it," she said, pressing the head of her strap-on against me.

"Please fuck my ass," I moaned into the sheets. "Please stretch me open. Please make it hurt."

She pushed in slowly, making me feel every inch. I gasped and clawed at the bedding as she filled me, my cock leaking against the mattress. She fucked me with long, deep strokes, each one punctuated by filthy words. "Look at you," she taunted. "Peter Grant, getting his ass pounded like a two-dollar whore. How does it feel to finally stop pretending?"

"Good," I sobbed. "It feels so fucking good."

She reached around and grabbed my cock, stroking it in time with her thrusts. "Come for me," she commanded. "Come while I fuck your worthless hole."

I came harder than I ever had in my life, shooting across the sheets while she continued to pound into me. When she finally pulled out, I collapsed, shaking and spent.

She stood up, adjusting her hair in the mirror as if nothing had happened. "Transfer tonight," she said without looking at me. "The real number. Not the polite one."

"Yes," I answered from the bed, my voice hoarse. "Whatever you want."

Mistress Lynne circled him with deliberate slowness, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she studied the man kneeling before her. Peter Grant, forty-seven years old, still wearing the remnants of his expensive suit, his cock locked away in the steel cage she had fastened around him hours earlier.

"Look at that pathetic little thing," she said, tapping the cage with one manicured nail. "Already trying to get hard. Already leaking. You really are a desperate creature, aren't you?"

Peter kept his eyes down, his hands clasped behind his back exactly as she had instructed. The cage pressed tight against his swelling flesh, the metal bars digging in just enough to remind him who controlled his body now.

"Answer me," she commanded.

"Yes, Mistress Lynne," he whispered. "I'm desperate."

She grabbed his chin and forced his face upward. "What are you desperate for?"

"To serve you," he answered immediately. "To please you. To do whatever you want."

"Good." She released him and stepped back. "Crawl to the bed. On your stomach."

He obeyed without hesitation, his knees scraping against the floor as he moved to the mattress and stretched out face-down. The cage pressed uncomfortably against the bed, his trapped cock aching for release it would never receive.

Mistress Lynne climbed onto the bed and straddled his lower back, her weight settling over him. She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, gripping tight enough to make him gasp.

"You want to come, don't you?" she asked, her voice low and mocking.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Too bad." She leaned down, her breath hot against his ear. "That cage stays on. Your cock belongs to me now, and I decide when—or if—you ever feel pleasure again."

She shifted her position, moving up his body until she was straddling his shoulders. Then she lifted herself and settled her pussy directly over his mouth.

"Lick," she ordered.

Peter's tongue immediately found her clit, working with desperate enthusiasm. He licked and sucked, tasting her arousal as it coated his lips and chin. Mistress Lynne ground down against his face, using his mouth like the tool it was.

"That's it," she moaned, rocking her hips. "Use that tongue. Show me how grateful you are to be my property."

She came once, flooding his mouth with her juices, then again, her thighs squeezing his head as she rode out her orgasm. Throughout it all, Peter's cock strained uselessly against the cage, precum dripping from the tip onto the sheets below.

When she finally climbed off his face, she was breathing hard. She reached down and wiped her wetness across his cheek, marking him.

"Now," she said, standing beside the bed and adjusting her skirt. "Tell me how much you're going to pay for the privilege of being my locked-up little bitch."

Peter's voice was hoarse, his face glistening with her cum. "Everything, Mistress Lynne. Whatever you want. My accounts. My salary. My dignity."

"Good answer." She smiled coldly. "Transfer it tonight. The real amount. Not the polite one."

"Yes, Mistress," he answered without hesitation. "Immediately."

She turned toward the door, leaving him there on the bed with his cock still locked away, his face still wet, his body still trembling with unfulfilled need.

"And Peter?" she said without looking back. "Don't you dare touch that cage. You're not getting out of it anytime soon."

Mistress Lynne watched Peter kneel in silence, the steel cage gleaming between his spread thighs. His cock pressed uselessly against the bars, leaking a steady stream that dripped onto the hardwood floor.

"Speak," she ordered, crossing her legs as she settled into the leather chair. "Tell me what filthy thoughts are running through that locked-up head of yours."

Peter's voice cracked as he began. "I want to be used like a whore, Mistress. I want strangers to fuck my mouth and laugh at how desperate I am. I want to be passed around, made to service anyone you choose."

Mistress Lynne's lips curved into a cold smile. "Interesting. And who do you think deserves to use my property?"

"Anyone," Peter whispered. "Anyone you want."

She stood and walked to the intercom on the wall. Her finger pressed the button. "Ava. Come to the study."

Minutes later, the door opened. Ava, the mansion's cleaner, stepped inside wearing her simple gray uniform. She was younger than Peter, maybe thirty, with dark hair pulled back and callused hands from years of work.

"Yes, Mistress?" Ava asked, her eyes flicking to Peter kneeling naked on the floor.

"This one wants to be treated like a slut," Mistress Lynne said, gesturing to Peter. "Show him what that means."

Ava didn't hesitate. She walked over and grabbed Peter by the hair, yanking his face toward her crotch. "Open your mouth," she commanded.

Peter obeyed immediately. Ava ground her clothed pussy against his lips, using him like a piece of furniture. "That's right, lick through my panties. Get them wet for me."

She pulled her underwear aside and shoved his face between her legs. Peter licked desperately, his tongue working over her clit while his caged cock throbbed uselessly. Ava moaned and rode his face harder, her juices coating his chin.

"Look at you," she laughed. "A grown man on his knees for the cleaning lady. Pathetic."

Mistress Lynne watched from her chair, legs crossed. "Make him beg for it."

Ava pulled back and slapped Peter's face with her wet pussy. "Beg, whore."

"Please," Peter gasped. "Please let me taste you. Please use my mouth."

Ava shoved him onto his back and straddled his face, grinding down hard. She came twice, flooding his mouth each time, while his locked cock leaked a puddle onto the floor. When she finally stood, she wiped herself clean using his hair.

"Good boy," Mistress Lynne said. "Now thank Ava for using you."

Peter's voice was hoarse. "Thank you, Ava."

Mistress Lynne smiled. "Ava, you may use him whenever you want. He's community property now."

She was not hurried. That was the part that destroyed me most completely. She had all the time in the world, and She knew it. She made me feel every second of it. Eventually She turned my face toward Hers and looked at me, and I knew exactly what She saw: the ruined suit, the loosened tie, the man beneath all of it completely stripped of the composure that had carried him through forty-seven years of life. No one in my professional world has ever seen that expression on my face. No one ever will. It was more honest than anything I have ever presented in a boardroom, more honest than any negotiation I have ever conducted, because there was nothing left to negotiate. She asked me questions, sometimes with words and sometimes without them, and I answered. What are you? What do you want? Who does this belong to? I answered every question completely, specifically, and truthfully, in terms that I will deny until the day I die if anyone outside that room ever asks.

She made me beg again. I begged extensively, inventively, with a fluency that suggested I had been practicing without realizing it for most of my adult life. I described what I wanted, what I was willing to pay, what I would say, what I would surrender, and how badly I needed Her to give me permission to finally stop holding myself together. I said please until it was the only word I had left. She kept me there at the edge of what I could bear until I stopped feeling like a person at all. There was no doctorate, no company, no reputation, no expensive watch, no Peter Grant sitting somewhere beneath the surface trying to regain control. There was only the wanting. Only the asking. Only the word please, raw and continuous and stripped of everything else. When She finally said yes, I think I left my body for a moment. When I came back to myself, She was standing at the mirror fixing Her hair. “Transfer tonight,” She said. “The real number. Not the polite one.” I replied “Yes,” I answered from the bed, immediately and without hesitation. I had transferred it from the floor the last time, and I would have done it right then if my hands had been working properly. She left.

I lay there in the suit for forty minutes before I finally managed to move. Then I transferred the real number. I am in the Cave now. I have been here long enough that the staff know my coffee order, and they know not to make eye contact with me after She leaves because of what my face does. Every morning I sit at the desk, open the acquisition proposal, and write nothing. Instead, I listen. I listen for the sound of Her heels in the corridor, and somewhere beneath all the reasoning and rationalization and professional discipline I have spent a lifetime cultivating, my body is already running it's one program. I am not submissive. This room is named correctly.

I have bought eleven new ties since I arrived, and I have no intention of leaving this mansion for as long as She keeps walking through that door. She is going to read this. She is going to smile. Then She is going to walk in at three o’clock and take the new tie in Her fist, and I am going to be on my knees before She finishes Her first sentence.

I am not submissive.