Warehouse

I fantasize about entering a dilapidated warehouse, in a full-on dominatrix ensemble. One of the rooms is occupied by a group of men, except they're all on their hands and knees, blindfolded, cuffed at the wrists and the ankles, naked. They are lined up next to each other, every ass in the air, all of them vulnerable; all of them in my possession. The only other things in the room are an armchair, and a cabinet full of toys, restraints, gloves, dildos, e-stimulators, medical tools, lube, and many other fun things. I strut inside, slamming the door, causing the men to flinch. My heels forcefully tap the floor, walking beside them, examining their bodies, making sure they keep their heads down. I assign them each a number, which is how I will call and identify them. From then on, I control them. I can do whatever I want to them. I want to use floggers and canes on them, in case they forget their number. I want to examine their tight little assholes with my gloves and tools, to see how much they can stretch. And if they scream, they get a lash, and a gag in their mouth. I'm going to make them line up like pigs at the trough, and command them to eat and worship my pussy like it was their last meal. I'll make one bend down and become my chair, as I instruct two to lick and kiss my royal cunt, and the others to kiss my thighs, calves and feet. I will sit on them, slap them, cum on them, spit on them, fuck them, step on them with my heels, pull their hair, and make them perform debauchery on each other while I watch. They are my obedient little sex slaves, my minions who tend to my every need, my devoted followers who look like grown men, but internally are lost little boys. I give them what they need: discipline. And they refer to me as Mistress. Always.