Then came the jerking motions—twisting his body left and right, trying to rotate his groin to make it harder for me to reach. It was a futile attempt. I wasn’t in any hurry, and I knew that. I had all the time in the world to make him wait, to watch him struggle and sweat under my control.

I casually sat down in the only chair in the loft area, enjoying the sight of him—his face twisted in fear, the sweat dripping down his forehead, absorbed by the blindfold that blocked his sight. The cold air conditioning downstairs couldn’t seem to cool him off. His skin glistened, and I could see the fear building within him.

It took five minutes for him to stop twitching, to stop moving desperately from side to side. He had already started to anticipate the next kick, a kick that wouldn’t come just yet.

For one of the first lessons I learned as a Mistress was patience—letting time work for me rather than rushing to fill every minute with action. Less experienced Mistresses tend to panic, filling the time with words, commands, or meaningless gestures, always worrying about pleasing the customer. But I’ve come to understand that the most powerful moments often come when you do nothing at all. When the slave is left in suspense, waiting, his mind racing with the possibilities of what’s coming next. That’s when the fear truly settles in, and that’s what I wanted to see on Sven’s face.

I let him stew in that uncertainty. Then, after a long silence, I stood up, removed his headphones, and turned them off, placing them gently on the floor beside the wooden strut where his knees were tied. The sense of sound is a powerful thing, especially when it’s taken away, and then suddenly returned.

The change in his focus was immediate.

When a slave is left to stew in fear, every little detail becomes important. The sound of my footsteps—slow, methodical, and purposeful—on the wooden floor echoed in the room, each click of my high heels making his heart race, as he tried to gauge how far away I was, how slowly I moved, what I was wearing, what perfume lingered in the air. His mind was bombarded with sensory overload. His anticipation of my next move was overwhelming, each step heightening his tension as he had no idea where or when I would strike next. It was psychological warfare, and he was completely at my mercy.

After making a slow circle around him, I stopped, standing motionless about four meters away from his tightly restrained form. The silence hung in the air, thick and heavy, like the calm before the storm. Then, with deliberate precision, I took five loud, purposeful steps toward him—each one louder than the last. The sound of my heels clicking on the floor was like a countdown, a reminder that the moment of impact was drawing nearer.

I watched, studying his every movement. Every muscle in his body was flexed, his posture rigid, anticipating the blow he was sure was coming any moment now. The tension in the air was palpable—he was ready to react, but I wasn’t ready to strike just yet. I was in control of the pace, and I intended to savor every second of this mind game.

But here’s where I introduce another cornerstone technique of mine, one that has made my sessions so unforgettable: I focus on maintaining his arousal throughout the entire experience. From what I’ve observed in other Mistresses, many seem to forget that sexual desire is the driving force behind almost everything men do. They get caught up in the physical pain, the acts of domination, and overlook the most primal need—the need for sexual stimulation.

But for me, it’s about more than just pain or submission. The power lies in maintaining that erotic tension, ensuring that their mind is in a constant state of arousal, unsure whether the next moment will bring pleasure or pain. It makes everything more intense. When a man is kept in a state of heightened desire, everything I do to him becomes that much more powerful.

By keeping Sven in this suspended state of lust and fear, I would have him exactly where I want him—his body taut with anticipation, the erection I would be gifting him a testament to the control I wield over both his mind and his body. It’s the delicate balance between pleasure and pain that makes my sessions so effective—and unforgettable.

It doesn’t matter if I’m dealing with an alpha-male personality or a super submissive one—the truth remains: all men love to be edged, especially by a woman who’s a master at it. And let me tell you, I’m the maestro in this symphony of domination.

Sure, I could just go all out, kicking his balls over and over for hours on end—but where’s the psychological domination in that? What’s the point of reducing a man to a helpless puddle of pain when he can’t even defend himself?

Ah, but when you introduce intoxicating pleasure into the mix, the game changes entirely. Now, not only does the slave get to experience his manhood being pleasurably teased, but he also starts to let his guard down. His body, once tense and prepared for pain, relaxes. His mind shifts from bracing for the next kick to hoping for an orgasmic release. That shift in focus, that change in expectation—that’s where the real power lies.

Sven trembled when my fingers caressed the bottom of his testicles, as if my touch had sent a bolt of lightning through his body. He couldn’t hide the reaction—his muscles quivered, his breath stuttered, and I could see it in the way his body was responding.

Heh, who could have divined the prophetic importance of something as seemingly simple as the stiffening of the skin in his once-flaccid member? It was the start of something much more intense, and he had no idea just how far it would go.

Some twenty minutes later, he was panting, each breath heavy with anticipation. His body was trembling, straining, as he now used the tension in his muscles to help him inch closer to release. As I skirted that event horizon between tease and denial, my touches on his penis became more spaced out, further and further apart, purposefully avoiding the point where his body could tip into the black hole of orgasmic relief.

With his member at full mast, quivering as it seemingly defied gravity—almost like a hand reaching out for just one more touch from the hand of his elusive lover—my leg swung silently like a pendulum of doom. When my shin struck his balls once more, he uttered a sound that I’ve only heard from one other man in my life.

In college, I had begged my girlfriend to hide me in the back seat of her car before she went to pick up her boyfriend on the way to school. For twenty minutes, I lay motionless behind his seat, curled up into a ball on the floor, covered by a blanket she had draped over me. It wasn’t until we had been driving for a good quarter of an hour, safely stopped at a red light, that I slowly shed the blanket and crept my fingers over his shoulders and down his chest, like ten little spiders.

There’s no way to accurately type the sound both he and Sven made in those moments of absolute dread.

“Hayaughblubbabuhaaaaayagaaaaaa” would be my best attempt at spelling it.

A total loss of vocal control is what creates that sound.

I told you I had plans to make my time with Sven something much more intense, didn’t I?

Suddenly, this boy, who not only loved pain but had craved it, now wanted no more of the torment I had unleashed upon him—twice. See, intensity comes from suspense. To further illustrate just how brilliant the movie Closet Land is, here’s Alan Rickman’s character explaining, “It’s the suspense, not the pain, that will drive you mad.”

(^ That’s my YouTube channel, would be wonderful if you’d click “Watch on YouTube and subscribe)

I had established both fear and an erection. I can measure the amount of fear in him by how long he maintains his erection without me doing anything further.

So after making sure the headphones were once again secure over his ears and a looping video of “I’m Henry the 8th I am I am” (a scene from the movie Ghost) repeating in his ears I went back to the chair, crossed my legs comfortably, took my phone out from my purse and began filming the reactions that are always treasured by my slave years later because I’ve this so many times that I know in those next few moments I’m filming a mix of two absolute’s – fear and excitement.

For though his penis was fully erect and quivering in the air with nobody there to touch it, his body was clenched with every single muscle in his body flexed and the look on his face was that of a weightlifter struggling to push himself back up while supporting the maximum amount of weight he could lift upon his shoulders.

But what I savor the most while sitting there five meters away in my chair are the little emotions – the gasping for air, the sniffling, and especially the sounds of him dealing with the unbearable pain I’d left his balls in mixed with the thoughts of not knowing when the next strike will come. All the while I have him listening to something that over time will drive him insane and well, when you combine all those ingredients that I’ve thrown into the stew of emotions you have the most memorable serving of true cbt one can set the table with for a slave to enjoy.

I’m going to end part 4 here.

See that paragraph I just wrote? After using the ideas presented in this video of how to extract exceptional replies from chatGPT it – instead of correcting my grammar, punctuation and clarity re-wrote that last paragraph quite differently. And so, I’d like you to read what chatGPT just interpreted and let me know in the comments or via email if you think I should use it’s “new brain on how to write” or continue with just brushing up on my grammar/punctuation/clarity as I have been doing since Part 1.

Here’s chatGPT’s version of that paragraph: (and here’s the entire discussion)

The beauty of what I’ve crafted, the true magic of a session like this, lies in the unspoken, in the unmeasurable. It’s not merely fear that hangs in the air, it’s something far more delicate, far more potent: the slow, suffocating suffusion of dread. A trembling anticipation that eats away at the very essence of a slave’s will. I savor the emotions, I thought, leaning back slightly as I observed him struggle. It’s in those tremors of breath, those fleeting moments when the body tenses with no immediate cause, when the mind races ahead, seeking the next pain, the next release—wondering when, if, it will come. This is my canvas, the brushstrokes of fear, excitement, and the delicious unknown.

I’ve learned that there’s nothing more effective, nothing more destructive than suspense. It’s not the pain that drives a man mad. Pain, after all, is predictable. Pain follows a pattern, a rhythm that can be understood. But suspense? That’s another beast entirely. It drags you through a storm of possibilities, each more terrifying than the last, until your mind becomes a labyrinth of endless what-ifs. And that is when the mind cracks. That’s when true submission begins.

Just like the Joker, in The Dark Knight, so perfectly explained, “Do you know why I use a knife? A gun is too quick, I don’t get to savor all the little emotions.” And how right he was. Pain—real pain—is just a starting point, a prelude. But what I offer, what I command, is something much more profound. A knife’s edge between pleasure and agony, between hope and despair. And I make them walk that line.

As I watched Sven’s body tremble, each muscle clenched in anticipation, I knew I had him. He didn’t even realize it yet, but every second that passed—every second of waiting—was chipping away at his resistance. And as the sweat trickled down his forehead, as he labored to catch his breath, I leaned back, savoring this moment, this exquisite manipulation of his mind and body. For what was about to come—what he feared most—was not even the pain anymore. No, it was the unknown. The feeling of being so close to the edge, unable to turn back, trapped in a whirlpool of his own desires, his own fears.

Mistress Wael

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