It was one of those quiet Thursday evenings in Los Angeles, the kind where the city hums softly beneath the smoggy sunset. I had just finished a long day of filming custom clips when I opened Teams for my scheduled “personal consultation” with a long-time subscriber. His username was simple: DevotedPup92. His messages over the months had been polite, generous, and increasingly desperate. Tonight he had paid triple for a one-hour private session with a very clear request in the booking notes:
“I want the complete treatment, Mistress Alexa. Everything. No limits. Please.”
I smiled at the screen. Thirty-three years old, petite frame, big breasts straining against my favorite black leather corset, brown hair cascading over one shoulder, brown eyes that could switch from warm to cruel in a heartbeat. I knew exactly what “everything” meant to men like him.
I clicked “Join” and there he was—nervous, shirtless already, kneeling in what looked like a dimly lit bedroom somewhere on the East Coast. Early thirties, average build, eyes wide with that delicious mixture of fear and hunger I love so much.
“Good evening, puppy,” I purred, voice low and smooth, letting the slightest hint of my Spanish accent curl around the words. “You’ve been such a good boy with your tributes this month. Look at you… already trembling.”
He swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mistress Alexa. I… I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
I leaned closer to the camera, letting my cleavage fill most of the frame. “I know you have. I read every pathetic little message. Every time you begged to be ruined. Every time you sent that extra $200 just to see my boots. Tonight you get the full menu. No safe words on Teams, puppy. You paid for the complete treatment. You take it all.”
He nodded frantically. “Yes, Mistress. Please.”
I started slow—because I like to savor the breaking.
“Hands behind your back. No touching that worthless little thing between your legs until I say. Show me.”
He obeyed instantly, wrists crossed at the small of his back. I made him hold the position while I sipped my wine and described in exquisite detail how small and useless I imagined his cock to be. SPH is an art form. I painted the picture until his cheeks burned red and his breathing turned shallow.
“Good boy,” I cooed. “Now… stroke. But only with two fingers. And count out loud every time you reach the head. If you go too fast, you start over from one.”
He whimpered as he obeyed. I watched the humiliation settle deep into his bones. After twenty agonizing strokes I told him to stop. Edge denied.
“Pathetic,” I laughed softly. “Now open your mouth.”
I held up my favorite black ball gag, dangling it in front of the camera. “If you were here in my dungeon, this would already be strapped tight. But since you’re safe behind your screen… you’ll gag yourself with your own dirty sock. Do it. Now.”
His eyes widened, but he didn’t hesitate. He disappeared for a second, returned with a balled-up sock, and pushed it into his mouth. I could see the shame in his eyes. Delicious.
“Perfect. Now for the fun part.”
I stood up slowly, letting the camera take in the full view of my leather corset, thigh-high boots, and the thick black strap-on harness already buckled around my hips. The dildo was realistic—eight inches, veined, intimidating.
“You said complete treatment, didn’t you, puppy?”
He nodded, muffled sounds leaking around the sock.
“Then get on all fours. Ass to the camera. Spread yourself.”
He scrambled into position. I made him hold it while I described exactly how I would stretch him open if I were there in person—slow at first, then merciless. I had him lube a finger, then two, then three. I counted him down, made him beg around the gag for permission to push deeper.
When he was trembling and open, I switched to JOI mode.
“Stroke again. Slow. Match my rhythm.” I began to stroke the strap-on in long, deliberate motions. “Imagine this is me. Fucking your worthless hole while I laugh at how small and leaky your cock is.”
His hips bucked involuntarily. I denied him twice more, each time making him slap his own balls—hard enough to make him yelp into the sock.
Then came the finale.
“Hands off,” I commanded. “You don’t get to come with your hand tonight. You’re going to hump the floor like the desperate bitch you are. Face down, ass up, cock dragging against the carpet. And you will not stop until I count down from ten.”
He dropped immediately. I watched, sipping my wine, as he rutted desperately against the floor, moaning into the sock, body shaking with need.
“Ten…” I began, voice velvet and cruel.
By “three” he was sobbing muffled pleas.
“Two…”
His whole body tensed.
“One… come for your Mistress, puppy. Now.”
He exploded—long, helpless ropes spilling onto the carpet beneath him while his hips jerked uncontrollably. I let him ride it out, whimpering and spent, before I spoke again.
“Clean it up,” I said softly. “With your tongue. Show me you’re grateful.”
He hesitated only a second—then lowered his face and obeyed.
When he finally looked back at the camera, eyes glassy, cheeks streaked with tears and shame, I gave him the smallest, sweetest smile.
“Good boy,” I whispered. “You took the complete treatment beautifully.”
I ended the call.
Afterward, I sat in the quiet of my Los Angeles apartment, the city lights glittering beyond the window, and smiled to myself.
Another devoted soul properly ruined.
Another tribute well spent.
Until next time, puppy.
