Today I brought home my classmate, a confessed submissive who’s spent ages craving real female authority. The moment we crossed my threshold, I knew exactly how I wanted to break him in. I commanded him to lie down at my feet, eager and compliant, ready to worship me as I truly deserve. He began with my shoes, then my bare feet, his lips and tongue devoted, every gesture a perfect contrast with my old submissive couldn’t be sharper. Locked in chastity, banished to the sidelines, he’s reduced to watching as someone new and far more worthy receives my attention. My order is ironclad. I am the mistress, and in my world, fresh, eager submissives always take priority over the desperate, discarded ones. With my new pet, I delight in teasing and testing his limits, pressing my feet against his face, tracing my toes over his mouth, watching him squirm and tremble with anticipation. The old one can do nothing but beg and whimper, utterly aware that my touch now belongs elsewhere. When I choose,
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