We go to a party and I run into Domina Amanda

Master Felipe’s announcement arrived with the same aristocratic coldness with which he managed his companies: that night we would attend an exclusive private gathering at an estate on the outskirts of Madrid. The dress code for me left no room for imagination. I had to wear a black satin suit, but completely open at the chest, exposing the steel bars crossing my nipples and the fine web of chains that descended subtly until disappearing beneath the rise of my trousers, where it connected to the titanium Prince Albert. The nape of my neck, with his Gothic initials now perfectly healed, remained exposed thanks to a millimetric haircut.

“Tonight you are not just my submissive, edumiso,” Felipe warned me in the car, while his gloved fingers stroked the initials on my neck. “You are my work of art. I am going to lend you out as the main toy of the evening for the Masters and Mistresses of the circle. Show them the education I have given you.”

Upon entering the estate’s salons, lit by a dim purple glow and scented with sandalwood and leather, the jingling of my internal chains immediately drew attention. Several men and women of high society, dressed in Venetian masks and leather garments, approached to inspect me. Felipe ordered me to kneel in the center of a circular dais of black velvet.

“He is all yours,” Felipe announced, taking a step back and folding his arms, keeping his watchful gaze on me.

The first minutes were a whirlwind of stimuli and forced submission. A tall, robust Master yanked harshly on the central chain of my chest, causing a simultaneous pull on my nipples and my urethra that forced me to arch my back with a muffled moan. A Mistress with a feline gaze used a silk riding crop to strike my thighs rhythmically, demanding that I keep my arms crossed behind my back. I was exposed, touched, and used as an object of entertainment, keeping my mind anchored in Felipe’s rules: no complaining, no moving without permission.

Suddenly, the murmurs in the room softened slightly when firm, perfectly recognizable steps echoed over the parquet. A purely psychological shiver ran down my spine long before my eyes could confirm it. The scent of jasmine and Russian leather filled my space.

“Well, Felipe... I see you knew how to polish the rough stone I sold you,” said a feminine voice, drawing out the words with implacable elegance.

Domina Amanda.

My former owner, the woman who had broken my will for the first time and taken me to that auction, stood in front of me. She wore a black lace mask and held a short whip of braided leather strips. Upon hearing her voice, my body reacted by pure reflex instinct: I lowered my head immediately, pressing my chin to my chest, adopting the posture of absolute submission she had demanded of me for months.

“Raise your head, edumiso. You belong to Felipe now, but tonight you play by my rules,” Amanda ordered, usi...