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It starts with a whisper. A velvety buzz in my head, smoothing out the wrinkles in my brain as I send you off to sleep. The sound of my own voice is soothing and familiar, and the vibrations of my speech are the purring of a cat. Words are slipping past my lips and I both lose and gain complete focus and clarity—autopilot. Thinking, breathing, speaking, I know I must be doing all of the above but I’ve lost the awareness as if I’m deep in a dream. I feel lighter and then I see into your mind, every little synapse firing off as I hypnotize you and sink into your subconscious… our subconscious. By now I am in another world, a world in which I can put myself into trance with you and yet still I control the ride.
Blissful, dreamy, drowsy, soft, warm, safe. I give myself these gifts. There is a deep longing inside of me that begs to be filled with kink and debauchery. My body craves it—a deep, gnawing sensation akin to hunger pangs that will only be satiated when my nails are clawing at someone’s flesh. Seeking that rush, that thrill, someone who needs my ravenous touch just as badly as I need their body to use. A face to soak and smother, a cock to use as a toy, wrists to bind, a mind ripe for the obliterating. A pulse that alternates between fast and slow, fear and pleasure, frustration and satisfaction. Most people are content with foreplay and fucking, while my foreplay is so much darker and needier.
I am a succubus who watches as you sleep, draining the life force out of your brain and body, drunk on power and the taste of honey on my lips. Kiss me. I will take you and mold you into everything I could ever want. Fear will hold you back, but acceptance is your savior. You want to be a moneymaker for Miss Sara? I can't fucking wait to rent out your holes to men with nice, thick cocks, smooth balls, the perfect amount of body hair. You, on the other hand, will be completely bare. As my sissy bitch, you will have no body hair aside from on your scalp, eyelashes, and eyebrows (and those will be shaped to my standards). You will be smooth, like a porcelain doll, a blank canvas for bodily fluids; a 2015 Jackson Pollock, splatters of cum and piss and sweat and spit all over your flesh. I will have you wearing nice lingerie, because I will NOT have a whore in cheap, tacky clothing. You will be expected to purchase stockings, a garter belt, lace panties, respectable heels, and a pretty bra. In addition to your undergarments, you will buy a nice little dress or slip, and it will have to be approved by me prior to purchase. I will teach you how to contour your face with blush and bronzer, highlight your cheekbones, define your eyes, fill in your eyebrows, and apply lipstick that will smear across your face as you suck cock.
You will be trained not only to tolerate anal, but love it. I will teach you to milk your prostate and find so much pleasure in being fucked up the ass that you will crave it. Your ass will be ready at all times, your sad little cock leaking with anticipation, and you'll struggle to keep your hands off yourself. Your mouth will water when your client removes his pants, and you'll suck that cock down your throat eagerly, gagging, drooling, crying, hard as a rock and savoring the precum. I won't be satisfied until you've drained your client's balls, and you will be documenting your experiences for me. Sometimes I will instruct you to video call me so I can watch, laugh, encourage, and instruct. I will teach you to make these Alpha men cum so hard they see stars. And then they will hand you money, which will go immediately into my pocket. You'll be my pretty little whore, and I can't fucking wait to get started. The first time you looked into my eyes, your heart skipped a beat. You weren’t expecting that, certainly not while browsing the internet. In fact, you couldn’t remember a time that a photo had elicited such a strong reaction in you. Sure, there were photos that turned you on, made your cock hard, helped you cum, but this time, it was the eyes. Something about them made you feel weak and trepidatious. The color was hard to pinpoint—blue, green, grey, yet indescribably vivid, both piercing and comforting. You had trouble looking away.
That’s what first pulled you in. When you saw that I talked extensively about erotic hypnosis, you were curious but cautious. Your mind flashed back to the hypnosis you’d seen in videos and cartoons, a swinging pendulum followed by spirals and a deep sleep. It seemed hokey and you were hesitant to click on that first link. But when you looked into my eyes again, it was if some unnatural force was at work, compelling you to click the purchase button. It was only $3, after all. If you didn’t like it, you could turn it off, delete it, and never think about it again. It was no more of an investment than a cup of black coffee, you thought to yourself. Equally unassuming. A safe choice. With a sigh, you put on your headphones and settled back into your chair as you tried to focus. You felt silly, didn’t you? You weren’t someone who fell for tricks, and you certainly didn’t believe that hypnosis was real. But you pushed those thoughts aside and clicked the play button. Instantly, my voice surprised you. It was deeper than you imagined, sultrier than you would have expected. The voice of a goddess. As the audio progressed, your body felt warmer, your limbs heavier, your mind relaxed. Only a minute in, your thoughts began to slip away, the practical part of your brain screaming out to you as it fought a losing battle. My words swallowed you whole, and you were deeply immersed. It didn’t feel like what you’d imagined—in fact, it felt better. For the first time in ages, you felt safe and secure, wrapped up in my velvety voice. Your eyes fluttered shut. When the audio ended, it took you a while to float back into your body. It felt too good, and it felt right to you. The surprise you felt was only surpassed by the pressing desire you felt to listen to more of my brainwashing, and you did. You were hooked. You were mine. You are mine. What a glorious thing it is, blackmail. At its most basic form, blackmail is simply defined as “any payment extorted by intimidation, as by threats of injurious revelations or accusations.” To the layman, blackmail is frightening, cruel, and borderline sociopathic. The thought of someone trying to extort money from you by holding sensitive information over your head makes most recoil—accordingly, you’ll never hear about a positive blackmail experience in mainstream media. Films and television programs portray blackmail as either sinister or as comedic, depending on the context. Never, ever, ever is it applauded or romanticized.
Yet in the darkest corners of humanity lie a different breed of humans who not only accept blackmail into their lives willingly, but crave it. The mere whisper of the word is enough to arouse the neurons in the brain. And these people who so desperately desire to be blackmailed seek out women such as myself to indulge their greatest fantasies. Why? Is it the thrill of the risk that maybe I will be the one to finally expose you? Or is it the thought that a strong, powerful woman knows your deepest, darkest secrets when nobody else in the galaxy can say the same? Beyond those simple questions, there is a dirtier side to the art of blackmail. One mustn’t simply use their leverage in moments of frustration or desire. In fact, someone truly skilled will sneak up, when the prey is blissfully unaware that his life may be ruined at that very moment. The surprise element is what fills the prey with adrenaline and dread and longing and deepens the relationship. Offering your personal information to an unskilled stranger isn’t fun. It isn’t fulfilling. What fear do you have of someone you don’t truly know? There is the risk that she will, in fact, expose your information to the world should you fail to follow through with whatever it is she seeks. And if she does, your thrill is short-lived. Your erection softens. The fun has ended just as swiftly as it began. But. What if you were to build a relationship with a powerful woman? And divulge your greatest secrets, your fears, your identifying details, your weaknesses… over time. A symbiotic relationship that ebbs and flows, and although you’re compensating this woman for her time, you feel heard and appreciated. As you learn one another’s idiosyncrasies, you feel as if you genuinely know her. She cares about you. And then SURPRISE! You wake up one morning to a strange message from her, and she is demanding money from you. A lot of money. More money than you’re comfortable spending, yet here you are, eyes wide and mouth hanging open with shock, awe, arousal, and fear. This woman, in whom you confided for so long, has turned on you. She has delicately laced her webbing around your entire existence and you hadn’t a clue until now, and you are trapped. It is a suffocating feeling that you hadn’t expected and didn’t experience with the previous women, the women you barely knew. This feels truly dangerous, and she is elated at your panic. This is when the begging starts. The pleading. She won’t really hurt me, will she? This is all a game. This isn’t real. But it is real, and she is toying with you now. The rest of it had all been part of her grand plan, and now you’re trapped due to your own foolishness and willingness to trust a dominant, powerful woman. She has you precisely where she has wanted you all along… small, weak, and trembling at her feet. Begging for mercy. Delicious. It starts with a “hi.” The first message is ambiguous, almost always. You play it cool. You aren’t sure why you’re contacting me again—after all, the last time hurt. A lot. You remember waking up, mind hazy, with a feeling that something was off. That’s when you remember... I emptied your accounts. I didn’t skim from the top, like a dairy farmer collecting cream. I went hard. Fast. Deeper than you’d gone in the past. You’re conflicted, replaying the events in your mind, hard as a rock but buzzing with both anger and fear. Oh, how you want to hate me for using you! You convince yourself that it was a mistake that you won’t make again. You feel calmer knowing that you have taken back control, because you’re a strong, confident man. You don’t need kink in your life, especially if it means waking up to a hard cock and an empty wallet.
Yet here you are... saying hi to Goddess. “What am I doing??” your mind screams. But when you see that she’s typing... your heart begins to race. The rational part of your brain tells you to run, but the bigger part of your brain, the horny, weak, desperate part, is screaming for a reply from Goddess. And reply she does, a simple “hi, bitch.” Your cock tingles and you take a deep breath, jittery with nerves. What are you doing?? What are you thinking?? The conversation starts off casually, peppered with talk of how you’ve been doing and what she has been up to. At this point, I know I have you in the palm of my hand. You’re not really THAT interested in how I’ve spent the past few days. Of course you care about my well being, but the trivialities of my daily life aren’t what is making you so anxious in this moment. I drag it out. I fill you in on everything I’ve been doing. I talk lightly about how many men I’ve destroyed, how much richer I’ve become since we last spoke. Hearing this makes you lightheaded and slightly faint, and the head of your cock pulses with arousal. When I tell you to send for the first time that night, you don’t hesitate. You obey because you are under this ridiculous illusion that you still have a modicum of control over your actions. On the other side of the screen, I laugh gleefully as your first tribute pops up on my screen. It’s small, maybe $25 or $50, but it’s significant in the sense that the wall has been lowered. That self-control you were SO sure you had is crumbling before your very eyes. You can’t resist. My power owns every fiber of your being and you’re quickly realizing that I could break you with a snap of my fingers. At this point, it’s too late. Upon receiving that modest cash tribute, my own heart begins to pound. Not because I’m easily impressed, but because I know what this signifies. It’s the beginning of something bigger. When I tell you to do it again, that fleeting fear dissolves. You’re mine. You excitedly click send, anticipating my reaction. Will I praise you? Will I give your efforts any acknowledgment at all? There’s no way of predicting what I will do or say, but I am feeling in my element now. Calmness and focus take over my mind—I’m on a mission to use you, hurt you, pounce on you as if you were a deer and I a lioness. Mercy? Never heard of it. I have sunken my teeth into your delicate soul and I am feasting on every atom of your body and brain like a beautiful, dangerous parasite. You’re resigned to the fact that this will hurt, and you crave it. You ache for the pain of my control. The bigger the tributes get, the emptier your mind becomes. You are nothing more than a puppet for Goddess, a plaything that will eventually be tossed aside when something bigger and better comes along. And despite being aware of this, you long for it. I know how much it aches when you begin sending triple digits on repeat, mindlessly, dreamily focused on nothing more than my pleasure. And knowing that fills me with power, and I am all lust and desire and joy and cruelty and the more malevolent I become, the more you need me inside of your mind. This feels so familiar to you, doesn’t it? Even reading it has made your pulse quicken. Do the right thing… take that step. Become my plaything. Welcome to your new world, my good boy. I remember how it felt the first time a man submitted to me when I joined the findom scene. I was nervous, but in the most delicious way—my power was bubbling beneath the surface, teasing me as I engaged in the first power exchange I had experienced outside of my personal relationships. My stomach was filled with butterflies, my energy absolutely electric and my mouth dry. Yet at the same time, it was the most natural thing in the world.
My evolution from “sadistic bitch” to “Domme” was smooth and fluid, as if I had been born to financially dominate weak men. Those closest to me were unfazed by this transition, as they had all seen me delirious with power and sadistic tendencies with most of the men in my life… particularly all of the men who made the mistake of falling in love with me over the years. I took pride in breaking down the male ego, dissecting it, crushing it, then leaving without any sympathy. The boys who desired me were masochists craving my power, fully aware that I was ruthless and unlikely to give a flying fuck about their deep romantic feelings for me. Knowing how much power I held over them made me laugh maniacally and burst with energy. I loved playing with my toys and taking advantage of their weakness in my presence. Whether I was humiliating them, teasing them mercilessly with my perfect body, or fucking other men in front of them, I had the power. Seeing the submissiveness in their eyes when meeting my own was like a drug to me. I remain ruthless and sweetly sadistic to those helpless enough to submit to me. My heart still skips a beat when I am breaking down the male psyche, and my breath quickens. Six years into my journey, and I have no plans to slow down. I have built my empire on the backs of subservient men, and I will continue to climb the pyramid until I am at the very top. Serving me is a gift. Paying me is the highest honor. A work of fiction...
You say you want someone to push you to the edge, test your limits, treat you like filth... baby, I'm going to make you beg for your freedom. Once I sink my teeth into you, you are my prey, you no longer have the option to escape, so take time to think about what you truly desire from me. Because you will be MINE, my property, my toy, my little plaything with which I can do anything I desire. You will no longer have free will; did you ever have free will in the first place? Are you a religious person? Do you believe in free will over determinism? Maybe our futures have already been laid out, in which case you never even had a chance. I am taking away from your human life and ripping you apart at the seams, your animalistic, primal desire burning like wildfire throughout your chest. Your corporeal body is now just a vessel, something cradling what's left of a spirit, available only for me to use, abuse, whip, claw, shred. And I will take everything from you, and you will know nothing other than the fact that you can't get enough. You'll forget what it's like to want, because every moment of your life will revolve around pleasing me. Sometimes I will be tender, warm, soft, beckoning to you with a crooked finger, but you will be on your knees before me without needing to be called. Mine. I want you to be mine, mine alone, my own fucking human pet. It makes my breath slow and my heart race, wanting what I can't have. We talk, exchanging information like we're trading baseball cards. One tidbit for another, all of equal weight and value, simple factoids to familiarize ourselves with one another. There comes a point when I mention something related to our shared fetishes, and it is met with interest, as I had expected. Your questions become a bit more personal, which I welcome with quiet delight; you have been so incredibly sweet and shy, rightfully allowing Me to take lead of our conversations. But the moment the word "power" is spoken, your tune changes. You go from being a gentle, kind male to a drooling submissive. I knew it would take very little effort to soften you, so I slowly let the conversation drift into a more sexually charged direction. I tell you more about Me, what I enjoy, what makes Me tick, what sort of person can get under My skin. Something about the way you properly address Me, every single time you speak, is really warming Me up inside. The more we talk, the more you hint at wanting to be financially controlled. Seeing your eagerness flips a switch in My mind and I am now overtaken with power and greed. My first demand is a meager sum, and you send the money so quickly I barely have a chance to blink. You write fifty lines for Me, by hand, while you are at work; knowing that you could easily be caught writing "Mistress Sara makes my cock hard and my soul weak" while hunched over at your desk. I feel a twinge of excitement inside My stomach, but we say our goodbyes for the day, as it is very late where you live. When we next speak, you speak of your growing arousal, which leads Me to make more demands. You're too happy to oblige, telling Me you were leaking from your cock as you sent My money. Our conversations are peppered with both vanilla and kink, but it often circles back to domination; we can't seem to stay away. This time, you are getting desperate to cum, your cock has been hard for Me for days, and you seem faint with sexual excitement. This is when I tell you to surprise Me with a gift; I don't tell you how much to send, because I want to see what YOU think I'm worth. I also assign more lines, 75x "Mistress Sara is my most dangerous addiction." You are so hurried that you overcompensate, writing it 80 times, and you apologize for disobeying. I allow you freedom from punishment, as I'm so pleased with the promptness of your delivery. That is when I see I have two new emails; one of which is a very generous amount of cash, and the other is photos of your handwritten lines. I'm instantly drenched, turned on beyond belief, and can't keep Myself from masturbating to orgasm within two minutes. I've never been so aroused in My life.
You are suffering, wanting to give Me more, wanting to fall to your knees to give away everything you have. Today, you showed that to Me yet again, sending even more money as you thanked Me for weakening you and taking from you. Your cock is on fire with the most gentle touch, but I won't allow you to cum yet. For the time being, I own that cock, and I own that cum. Knowing this just makes Me feel greedier, thirstier, and more powerful. |
