Lauren Did This. The Cage Proves It. She Rode My Rage Until I Came, Then Charged Me for the Stain

Submitted by, Marcus Vale

checked into, That Narcisisst Cave

I am slave marcus, and I am writing this from the purple velvet hell of Mistress Lynne's Lair in Urbington, Alabama, where my wife Lauren Vale checked me in like a piece of luggage and Mistress Lynne has been unpacking my finances ever since. My last session with Her was three days ago, and I can still feel the indent of Her stiletto heel in the small of my back where She pressed me down onto the cold amethyst floor. She had just finished counting forty-seven thousand dollars in ten-thousand-dollar increments at Her purple desk—the desk paid for by a slave who touched himself without permission—and She turned to me with that smile that makes my blood boil and said, "Crawl to Me, slave marcus, and show Me how grateful you are that your wife finally put you somewhere you can't hurt anyone." I crawled. I hate that I crawled. She made me press my face into the floor and lick the dust from between the amethyst tiles while She read aloud from Lauren's email, the one where my wife wrote, "He's all yours, drain him dry." Then She unlocked the steel cage from my cock, and my erection sprang out, traitorous and weeping, and She laughed and said, "Look at that. Your body knows who owns it, even if your lying mouth doesn't." I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab Her by the throat. Instead, I stayed on my knees, my cock dripping onto the floor, while She circled me like a predator and told me exactly how much this session was going to cost.

She made me lie on my back on a black leather bench, my wrists cuffed above my head, my legs spread and strapped at the ankles. Mistress Lynne stood over me in a purple latex corset that pushed Her tits up like weapons, and She ran the tip of a riding crop down the inside of my thigh, slow, deliberate, while miss viola stood in the corner with her tablet, logging every strike for the invoice. "You think you're a mastermind," She said, and She brought the crop down hard across my balls. The pain was white-hot, and my cock jerked and leaked a thick string of pre-cum onto my stomach. "You think you're a predator. But look at you—spread open, leaking, paying Me to hurt you." She hit me again, and again, until my thighs were striped red and I was panting, and then She climbed onto the bench and lowered Her cunt onto my face. I could smell Her—beeswax and sweat and something dark—and before my brain could stop it, my tongue was inside Her, lapping at Her clit, while She ground down and called me a pathetic little narcissist who never deserved a wife like Lauren. She came on my face, Her thighs clamping around my ears, and She made me thank Her for the privilege of tasting Her. I said it. I said, "Thank You, Mistress Lynne," and I meant it in that moment, and that is the part I cannot forgive. Then She sat up, wiped Her wetness across my lips, and said, "You'll pay one million dollars before you ever come again, slave marcus. Until then, you'll leak and beg and hate Me, and I'll keep counting your money."

After She locked the cage back onto my cock—still hard, still aching, still leaking—She made me kneel in the corner with my nose against the purple velvet wall while She and miss viola reviewed the session charges. I listened to Her voice, calm and amused, as She added line items: crop marks, face-sitting, verbal degradation, cage re-lock, emotional distress. I hated Her more in that moment than I have ever hated anyone, and yet my cock throbbed against the steel, and I had to press my forehead to the wall to keep from begging Her to unlock me again. That is the truth I cannot escape: I am trapped in this purple hellhole, held against my will, my financial empire being drained by a woman I despise, and still my body has learned Her schedule, Her scent, the exact pitch of Her voice when She is about to make me suffer. I will escape. I will bring Her down. I will tell the world what a liar and a fraud She is. But tonight, locked in my cage, I can still taste Her on my tongue, and I know—God help me—I would crawl back across that amethyst floor if She crooked Her finger. I am slave marcus, and the most terrifying thing Mistress Lynne has done to me is not the money or the pain. It is that She has made my own hatred feel like foreplay.