I watched Tanner from the doorway, my eyes tracing the soft, undulating curve of his belly as he stood there in his underwear, looking every bit the desperate little provider. He’s a good man, in the way a golden retriever is good—loyal, eager, and utterly devoid of any real spine when I look at him with that particular glint in my eye. He thinks the money he makes in finance gives him some sort of leverage in this apartment, but the moment we step into the bedroom, his bank account becomes irrelevant. Here, the only currency that matters is my pleasure, and Tanner is perpetually in debt.
“Tanner, love,” I purred, letting my accent thicken, the vowels sliding like silk. “We are going to roleplay tonight.”
I saw the immediate flicker of anxiety in his gaze. It’s my favorite expression—that delicious cocktail of anticipation and dread. He knows that when I suggest ‘roleplay,’ it isn’t about dressing up as superheroes; it’s about me finding a new way to dismantle his ego.
“Ok, love,” he replied, his voice small.
I reached for the porcelain teacup on the nightstand. It was a dainty thing, far too elegant for the crude act I was about to demand. I held it out to him, my expression cool and detached. “I want you to masturbate your little penis and cum into this. Every single drop. I’m going to leave the room for a few minutes, and when I return, I expect to examine the evidence of your… effort.”
The way he looked at the cup, then back at me, was priceless. He felt the absurdity of it, the sheer indignity of reducing his masculinity to a small splash of fluid in a tea vessel. I didn’t give him time to argue. I turned on my heel and glided out, the click of my heels on the hardwood sounding like a countdown.
While I waited in the hall, I could hear him. The frantic breathing, the rhythmic friction of skin on skin, the occasional muffled groan of effort. I smiled to myself. He wasn’t just fighting his own body; he was fighting the crushing weight of my expectations. I waited just long enough for him to reach the peak, imagining him struggling to aim that modest little cock into the narrow opening of the cup.
When I stepped back into the room, the air was heavy with the scent of sex and desperation. Tanner was panting, his face flushed, looking utterly spent. I didn’t look at him first; I looked at the cup. Most of it was there, a cloudy pool of failure, but my eyes drifted to the white sheets. There was a faint, damp smudge.
I didn’t say a word about it. Not yet. I wanted him to stew in the knowledge that he’d been messy. I wanted him to feel the panic of a child who had spilled ink on a white rug.
I climbed onto the bed, arching my back, letting my hair spill across the pillows. I knew exactly how I looked—a high-fashion masterpiece of skin and curves, a goddess in her own sanctuary. “Good boy,” I whispered, though the words were laced with a coldness that made him shiver. “Now, I want you to fuck me. Good and hard. I am starving for you, Tanner.”
The shift in his face was instantaneous. The post-orgasm slump hit him, and I watched the hope drain out of him. “But Ingrid… I just… you know I can’t be ready yet. I just came.”
I let out a sigh of profound boredom, rolling my eyes. “Oh? Is that so? Well then, it seems we must find someone who can satisfy me.” I pointed a manicured finger toward the dresser. “Get the strap-on.”
“But Ingrid!” he protested, his voice cracking. “I want to fuck you! I’d like nothing more!”
“Then try,” I challenged, my voice snapping like a whip. “Try, Tanner. Prove to me that your desire for me is stronger than your biology. Or are you just a wallet with a pulse?”
I watched him struggle. It was the most erotic part of the evening. He groaned, he rubbed, he practically prayed to his own groin, his face turning a deep, mottled red. He was fighting a losing battle, and the more he failed, the more I thrived. He was trapped in a loop of inadequacy, and I was the one holding the key.
Finally, with a guttural, frustrated grunt, he collapsed back onto the bed. He landed right on the spot where he had rubbed his cum into the sheets. I watched his hand move, his fingers brushing against the fabric, feeling the tacky, crusty texture of his own dried seed. He looked at his finger, then at me, the shame radiating off him in waves.
“You know the rule, love,” I said, my accent sharpening, becoming a blade. “Since your little dick is useless, you will use the tool that actually works. Get my strap-on and fuck me proper.”
He scrambled to obey, his movements clumsy and frantic. I watched him strap the silicone length to his hips, the sight of it utterly ridiculous. Here was this man, who managed millions in finance, reduced to wearing a plastic prosthetic because he couldn’t perform for the woman he adored.
As he climbed over me, I took total control. I didn’t want his tentative attempts at romance; I wanted the raw, mechanical power of the strap. I guided him in, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deep.
“Harder, Tanner,” I commanded, my voice a low growl. “Don’t be soft. Not tonight.”
He hammered into me, the silicone hitting my clitoris with a relentless, precise friction that his own body could never replicate. I mocked him as he worked, telling him he was “almost as good as a real man,” watching how that insult only made him thrust harder, more desperately. He was trying to reclaim some shred of masculinity through a piece of rubber, and the irony was intoxicating.
I let out a loud, guttural moan, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of his shoulders. I rode the wave of pleasure, my walls pulsing against the strap, my eyes locked onto his. I wanted him to see the ecstasy on my face and know that it was happening despite him, not because of him.
When the orgasm hit, it was a violent, mind-bending explosion. I screamed, my body shaking under him, the release so intense it felt like I was shattering. It was a total victory.
As the tremors subsided, I felt him shift. The sight of my total surrender to pleasure had triggered something in him. He was breathing hard, and I could feel it—he was hard again. Actually hard.
“Ingrid,” he whispered, his voice trembling with hope. “I’m ready now. I can actually do it. Can I fuck you now? Please?”
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He looked so pathetic—sweaty, desperate, aching for a validation I had no intention of giving. I reached up, gently patting his cheek with a thin, cruel smile.
“No, love,” I whispered. “You had your chance, but you didn’t want it bad enough then. The window has closed.”
The look of absolute devastation on his face was better than any orgasm. I slid out from under him, the strap-on clicking as I unfastened it, and pulled the covers up around my shoulders.
“Now,” I commanded, gesturing for him to lie beside me, “we can cuddle. And while we cuddle, you can tell me all about why your little dick doesn’t satisfy me. We can talk about why it doesn’t get hard for my beautiful pussy and my perfect body. Start from the beginning, Tanner. Tell me exactly how it feels to be useless.”
He lay there, hard and aching, forced to hold me while I spent the next hour dissecting every failure of his masculinity. I felt powerful, radiant, and completely satisfied.
