Convincing Her to Say: “Miss Autumn, Please Take My Husband and Use Him Hard”

There are women who want to watch. There are women who want to participate. And then there are women who simply want to hand their husbands over to me, knowing I will use them without mercy, without limit, without a shred of pity.

“Miss Autumn, please take my husband and use him hard.”

That is when the real, brutal fun begins.

Consent is simple in these cases. The woman provides it fully, and by stepping through my door, the husband has agreed to everything. No negotiations. No safe discussions. No whining. By showing up, he has surrendered all control.

I take him as my property.

And when I say “use him hard,” I mean exactly that.

I strip him immediately. His clothes are gone. His name is gone. He becomes “it” – an object, a fucktoy, a slab of trembling, twitching meat.

The first few hours are for breaking him down. Gagged, blindfolded, restrained. My cock – thick, unforgiving – is shoved into his mouth until he gags and chokes, learning quickly that struggling only earns him crueler treatment.

I fuck his ass with no warmth, no gentleness. Just the relentless pounding of a tool used for my pleasure. I do not care if he is ready. I make him ready. Stretching, punishing, filling him until he sobs into the mattress.

Pissing is a given. I do it wherever and whenever I want – over his face, into his mouth, down his chest. He drinks what he is given, or he is beaten with my flogger until he begs properly.

Cock and ball torture follows swiftly. I tie his balls tightly, beating them with a leather strap until they are just a bit swollen and slightly purple. I flick his cock with riding crops, cane his thighs, crush his balls under my boot as he weeps.

If he dares to get hard, I laugh. Because there is no orgasm for him. No pleasure. His cock exists for my amusement, and I ruin any climax he dares to approach, milking him only to leave him aching and humiliated.

Extreme face-fucking is common. I bind his head between my thighs, peg his mouth hard and deep, driving until he gags, retches, drools all over himself. I leave his face streaked with my scent, with spit, with whatever fluids I decide to mark him with.

Sometimes I keep him hooded for hours, plugged in both ends, chained to a post, forced to endure the slow, agonizing build of unmet need while I ignore him completely.

I might ride his face for a while, using his mouth as my personal seat, coming again and again while he suffocates, clawing at the restraints, learning that my pleasure is the only oxygen he gets.

I use toys so large and brutal that he screams into the gag. I fist him slowly, ruthlessly, until he is broken open completely for me.

I beat him for my amusement. I fuck him until his hole gapes. I laugh as he sobs and trembles and begs without words.

And the best part? These sessions are not short. I often accept overnight engagements. Sometimes even weekend-long stays.

During those hours, he is given no rest, no comfort, no relief. He is slapped awake, face-fucked before breakfast, pissed on in the middle of the night, dragged out of whatever fitful sleep he manages to get just to be brutalized all over again.

Nothing – and I mean nothing – is off the table. By the time I am finished, he is not a man anymore. He is a used, ruined, mindless fucktoy who exists only because I allowed him to survive it.

And when I send him crawling back to her – battered, sore, degraded beyond anything he could have imagined – she welcomes him home with a smirk.

Because he is hers.

And he will never, ever forget what it felt like when she said:

“Miss Autumn, please take my husband and use him hard.”