Mistress Ayn sits tall on the steel cage, white riding trousers tight on Her legs, black-and-white corset hugging Her waist, glossy leather thigh-high boots shining under the lights. She clicks Her fingers and the chattel crawls closer, eager to worship. With a slow smile She pinches his nipples hard until he gasps, then taps the metal cage round his locked cock so the pain shoots deeper. Only when his body shakes does She lift one boot. “Lick,” She says. Tongue meets leather. He kisses every crease, polishes the toe, tastes the sharp heel that marked him a moment ago. Mistress Ayn watches, calm and sure, letting him thank Her for every sting. When She is pleased, She leans back, promising rougher games next time. Her boots stay perfect; his place stays on the floor. That is how it must be.
