I was inspired by an orgasm report written by one of my owned boys, volunteer subjay, to write this piece of erotica:

He was already in my black panties when I gave him permission. That thin stretch of fabric hugged him so sweetly, so obscenely, I could practically feel the tremble in his thighs when he slipped beneath the covers.

“Touch yourself for me,” I had whispered earlier that night, “but only as my hand. No more, no less.”

And so, like the obedient thing he is, he did.
He caressed his face like I might trace it with a single nail. Brushed down his furry chest, along his arms, his legs. When he reached his buttocks, he lingered—kneading it, then smacking it hard. Again. And again. Until he whimpered. Until he was mine in every inch of sensation.

When his fingers found his cock—my cock—he didn’t stroke. He honored. Revered. The touch was devotional, slow, obedient. I could almost hear his breath catch with every pulse of pleasure he imagined as mine.

He told me later that he pictured another submissive boy in the bed with him. Both of them curled around my thighs, lips soft, eyes wide, desperate to please. One tonguing, one massaging, trading places at my command. He longed to be pressed against another body while serving mine—to feel my hand push his head lower, whispering, “That’s it, boy. Worship with your mouth. Share me.”

And when he finally came—trembling, panting, bound by nothing but my voice and his filthy, faithful imagination—he said it wasn’t even his orgasm. It was mine, flowing through him, lighting up every nerve like I had taken root in his spine.

He felt me. In his hand. In his body. In his soul.
Good boy.

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