I love this so much! It's beautiful and moving; your man is a very lucky fellow. Thanks for sharing!
If you push too fast, you’ll awaken his shame.
If you lead too slowly, the moment might pass.
But if you guide him with calm, quiet certainty... you’ll own him.
Not just sexually.
Emotionally.
Completely.
Arch your back..... Good boy.
I could see it in the way he moved…
how carefully he knelt.
How the stretch of his thighs reminded him
exactly where I had been the night before.
I didn’t let him come.
Of course not.
He gave me everything,
and I took it all...deep, relentless, cruel in all the ways he craves.
Now he wears his denial like a perfume.
It clings to him...
between his legs, in the quiet tension of his breath,
in the steel I locked him into after.
The cage presses against him when he serves me,
and gods, it’s beautiful...
the way his arousal leaks through obedience,
the way his body remembers me
with every painful, perfect step.
I sip slowly.
I let him kneel.
I let the moment stretch.
Because I want him to know
this is where he exists now...
in the pause between worship and need,
in the heat of my coffee
and the ache I left behind.
There’s something strange and sacred about it...
the way his body opens to me when I reach inside.
Not just physically… it’s deeper than that.
It’s like his whole self yields...softens under my will,
as if even his pride dissolves the moment I curl my fingers inward.
It doesn’t feel like anatomy.
It feels like a secret,
tucked away in the dark, pulsing gently, waiting to be caressed.
It swells under my touch.
It greets me.
That’s the only way I can describe it.
As if it recognizes me now...like a mouth opening for worship,
or a heart catching its breath.
And I milk it, slowly…
with reverence, with precision.
Not to give him pleasure...
but to claim him.
The way his hips twitch,
the way his cock dribbles in its cage, helpless and glistening,
the soft, broken sounds he tries not to make...
they all pour into me like heat.
I feel them.
I feed on them.
His body doesn’t lie here.
There’s no pretense, no mask.
Just raw nerve and surrender.
He is undone in the most exquisite way,
and I get to witness it...no, own it.
This isn’t just release.
This is harvest.
This is devotion extracted
from a place he can’t guard,
a part of him that only I can reach.
And gods, how I love the way it pulses...
like it’s whispering yes
with every stroke.
When it begins to leave him...slowly, inevitably...
it’s as though the very center of him is pouring out, drop by drop,
into my waiting hands.
I guide it gently into the mouth of the crystal vessel beneath him.
Clear, cold glass...delicate and perfect...
meant to hold nothing but this:
his purest, most unwilling offering.
Not from pleasure.
From surrender.
I watch, in awe, as the thick, pearlescent cum gathers at the bottom...
slow ribbons of him curling in glass like liquid silk,
each one trembling with the memory of my touch.
His thighs shudder. His lips part.
And I press the pad of my finger beneath the head of his caged cock,
scooping a small, jelly soft glob of him onto my skin.
Warm. Heavy.
Still twitching with the last echo of his body’s need.
I lift it to my nose.
The scent makes my breath catch.
Sharp. Animal. Metallic at the edges.
But beneath that...something almost sweet.
Something his.
I inhale slowly.
It smells like devotion.
Like the heat of broken pride.
Like the ache of a man who has forgotten himself in service of me.
And gods, how it stirs something deep inside...
not just hunger,
but possession.
Tender. Total.
He’s still dripping.
Still emptying into the crystal,
as if his body can’t bear to hold what belongs to me.
And I let it fall,
let every last trace be captured...
because I want to see it.
I want to own it.
But right now, I simply watch.
Watch as the last of him leaves...quietly, obediently...
and know that I’ve touched the place inside him
where nothing can lie.
Where even silence confesses.
It doesn’t matter how long your fingers are—you’ll barely coax out a quarter of it, if you’re lucky. If you truly want to empty him… every last drop… your whole fist must go in. That’s when you gain full control, and full feel.
Start with two fingers. Let his body get used to you. Watch for the moment his pre-cum begins to thicken, or when that first subtle pulse comes through the prostate—you’ll feel it. He often squeezes gently around your fingers at that point. That’s your signal.
As soon as his opening relaxes after that soft squeeze, slide in fully. Don’t rush. Don’t force. Ease your hand into him like you belong there—because you do.
Soon, the pre-cum will give way to actual cum. Be slow and gentle. Use a good lube—one called Kink works wonders for us.
Now you get to decide what kind of release he deserves.
Will it be:
A simple cum release,
A prostate orgasm with release,
Or a prostate orgasm with little to no cum at all (ready to have a change of sheets for tomorrow)
You can even keep him right on the edge—hovering. If you choose.
As his prostate begins to pulse like a heartbeat faster, more desperate, gently take his balls in your other hand. Don’t just pull. Squeeze one, softly but firmly, until he reacts and the rhythm slows just a little. Then continue… as long as you wish.
Even if he fully releases, you can go on. He can have another prostate orgasm without needing to stop. It’s often best to have his hips supported or bound, because many men can’t hold a doggy position during p-gasms and will collapse. If he’s new to this, he may instinctively try to stop your hand. Let him tremble. Let him collapse if he needs to. You keep your rhythm steady.If he’s about to collapse, don’t pull on his balls. Just let him fall. Let him give in.
You can go for hours like this, if that’s what you want.
If you’re aiming for less cum—or none at all—simply grip his scrotum early on. Better yet, use a ball stretcher, or tie the base with silk. This should be done before the session begins—ideally right after his worship of you, just before the milking. He’ll feel that stretch for days afterward.
Feel what’s happening—not just between your hand and his body—but between you and him. This is not just sex. This is a ritual. You could even say, it’s sacred.
Once you’re experienced, you’ll develop your own signals, your own rhythm.
For example—when I want him to know he’s only allowed a cum release and not a p-gasm, I take his balls in my other hand and press the left one into my palm, before I go fully inside.
If I want to give him both—a p-gasm and a cum release,I gently massage his scrotum downward from the beginning.
But if I want only a prostate orgasm with little to no fluid, I “tenderize” the balls beforehand with my heels (or you can just take the balls onto your palm and slap them a few times until he can barely feel them) and his scrotum is bound. If he’s still too eager, despite all that, I just flick each ball softly while he’s trying to push toward release (You’ll know what I mean when it happens.). When you flick, he pulls away from you but you can hold the balls tightly without yielding. This is done purely for punishment.
When you own your man like this…
he becomes something rare.
Something sacred.
Something only yours.
And when it comes...thick, warm, unwilling...
I take it.
Not with my mouth, not with my hands.
With something deeper.
With my presence.
The scent rises... primal, salt-heavy...
It clings to the air,
to my fingers,
to him.
It smells like surrender.
Like need scraped raw.
Like the echo of my name whispered into flesh.
I hold it in my hand for a moment,
watching it glisten...this offering pulled from the core of him,
harvested without permission,
without his pleasure,
yet completely his truth.
It’s not just fluid.
It’s the residue of worship.
The proof that I reached the part of him
no one else ever will.
I wipe it slowly across his chest,
press it into his skin,
let him wear it like a mark...
not shame,
but belonging.
And as it dries,
a part of me drinks it in too.
Not into my body,
but into that deep, quiet place where power lives.
Where love is laced with control,
and devotion is not just given...
it is taken,
and kept.
The elevator doors slide apart. And there he is...all carved muscle and coiled control, stepping off just as I step in. Our gazes crash, a silent collision of want and will. The sleek wool of his suit strains where his cage presses, tight and unforgiving, a cruel contrast to the heat beneath. My lips curve, cold and knowing. The smile never touches my eyes.
The doors seal shut.
But the air still hums...thick with the ghost of his obedience. It clings, intoxicating, like stolen perfume. Or sweat. Or the salt of a promise he’s not allowed to keep.
I prefer them swollen.
Swollen for me.
Let my lips graze his just once,
watch him ruin himself. 💏
I keep his balls pinched between my fingers
middle and ring, a casual vise.
One squeeze, and he’d choke on his own devotion.
But I don’t. Yet.
The doors part, and I step into the hush.
Silk slithers against my thighs, my heels biting marble as the crowd’s breath tangles...half gasp, half hunger. The air is thick with bergamot and salt-sweet sweat, the chandeliers dripping light onto bare skin.
At the center, two males are tangled in motion, sweat-slicked and gasping. One kneels, caged, and trembling, while the other grinds into him with aching precision. The rhythm is obscene, sacred. The watching women say nothing, their glasses forgotten. Their eyes flick to me...as if I’d summoned this rite with a whisper.
I don’t sit. I claim the space, one leg crossed with the indifference of a queen. I let them watch my silence. The way the men falter when I smile.
“Louder,” I murmur.
And they obey.