I enter the submissive's house. He's just as we discussed on Grindr, on his knees, blindfolded, dressed in his wife's lingerie. I close the door behind me, making barely any noise, and observe the scene: medium build tending towards chubby, pale skin, incipient beard, on his knees right in the center of the living room, with his back straight. He's wearing a black lace bodysuit that barely covers his belly, stockings held up by a garter belt, all trimmed and tight on his thighs. His bare feet, his nervous toes moving over the cold tile. He has a black blindfold covering his eyes completely, and a slight tremble is noticeable in his arms from tension.

I approach slowly, drop my backpack next to the sofa. There's a dense silence: only his agitated breathing is heard, muffled gasps, the slight creaking of the lingerie every time it tightens against his diminished and vulnerable body.

A sharp knock of my boots on the floor makes him shudder. I've been waiting for this moment since we first talked, reminding him exactly who's in charge in his own house, seeing him turned into the whore he's always wanted to be. I lean down and speak into his ear, my voice low and cutting:

—Don't move. No one but me decides when you can speak, breathe… or use that mouth. —My breath grazes his cheek, he trembles, noticing my presence but not daring to whisper anything, nor turn his head.

I let my fingers run over the fabric from his nape to his buttocks, pressing the seam between his buttocks. The vibration of his shame rises into the air; his skin becomes erect. My words enter softly, loaded with contempt and control:

—Do you know how pathetic you look right now? You don't even recognize yourself. You'll do everything I order, have you understood?

I keep my hand firm on his neck, pressing just enough for him to feel my dominance. His face is stuck to my crotch. I rub his face against my crotch.

I pick up a photo from the table, hold it with one hand, examining the expression of his wife: long brown hair, white smile, defined body, that typical pose of a perfect happy couple. While I look at it, I grab the submissive by the nape, force him to incline his head and stick his face right against my crotch, my pants come down slowly, leaving my package well marked by the tight underwear—the dense, masculine smell mixes with his accelerated breathing.

I crush his face against the bulge, rubbing his nose and lips, noticing how he agitates. The hot cotton against his skin provokes a humid, twisted friction of desire and humiliation. I speak in a low but firm voice, letting each word weigh:

—What a photo, dude… Your wife is very pretty. Good body, curves to jerk off to, huh? I'm sure you came just thinking about fucking her from behind. I imagine that ass in a thong.

I grab harder and bring the photo closer to his ear, almost crushing it against his head while I insist, mockin...