My sweet phone sex simp didn’t know what he was walking into.
That’s the best part, really — when they think they’re in control. When they knock on my door with swagger in their step, thinking I’m just some fantasy in black lace who plays along.
But I don’t play.
I own.
He came to me because he said he wanted something “different.” Something “darker.” He didn’t use the word Mistress at first. Of course not.
That would mean admitting the truth: that he wanted to be broken like a phone sex simp.
I greeted him in silence, barefoot, draped in sheer black that clung to my curves like smoke. My eyes met his — and that was the last moment he had to himself.
“Take your shoes off,” I said.
He did.
“Speak only when given permission.”
He nodded, slowly, like his mind hadn’t caught up to his body yet. I led him through the candlelit hallway and into the chamber. Heavy velvet curtains, a polished onyx mirror, a circle drawn in salt and ash. He stood in the center, and I walked in slow circles around him, dragging a raven-feather fan across his chest, his neck, his lips.
“You are the offering,” I said. “And I am the fire.”
He trembled — just a little — but I saw it. That twitch in his jaw, the first flicker of obedience flaring beneath his pride.
I moved behind him, whispered against the shell of his ear. “What do you think you’re offering me, pet?”
He swallowed. “My cock, Mistress?”
I laughed. Cruel. Low. Delicious. “Your cock is irrelevant. I want something far more valuable.”
He didn’t understand — not yet. But that didn’t matter. I reached around, cupping his length through his pants with just two fingers. The lightest touch — and his knees buckled.
“You came here to lose yourself,” I whispered. “You just didn’t realize I would take your ego.”
The ritual began.
I lit the incense — sandalwood and sin — and traced symbols on his chest with my fingers. He had no idea what they meant, only that they burned in the best way. Every pass of my hand stole something: a memory, a defense, a shred of that false confidence.
I knelt in front of him — not as submission, but as ritual. My lips brushed his inner thigh. My breath dragged over his cock. But I didn’t take him. Not yet. I watched him.
“You’ll never fuck without permission again,” I said softly. “You’ll never come unless I allow it. From this moment on, pleasure belongs to me.”
He whimpered.
I didn’t touch him.
Instead, I made him undress like a pathetic phone sex simp — slowly. Piece by piece. Each garment removed like a layer of armor shed at my feet. He was trembling, naked, fully exposed in body and spirit.
Then I marked him.
A sigil on his chest. A whisper at his crown. A kiss laced with something old, something binding. He gasped — and in that sound, I heard his surrender.
His knees hit the floor. His voice was broken glass. “Mistress Astrid… please…”
I looked down at him like the goddess I am.
“From this moment forward,” I declared, “you are no longer a man. You are a simp. A servant. A sacred offering to my pleasure.”
He moaned. Loud. Beautiful.
Then I leaned in, voice dripping power.
“Now stroke — slowly — and tell me who owns you.”
And he did.
♥ Mistress Astrid ♥