The days passed slow. His tattoos itched beneath his clothes, healing but impossible to ignore. Every time Nick stripped to shower, he had to look at them—mocking him in pink cursive and blocky black ink. Tiny Clit – No Cock Here. SISSY SLUT. CUMDUMP. He'd stare, breathing shallow, wondering if it was too late to take any of it back. Of course it was. The heart with the "M" on his thigh said so. He tried not to touch himself. Tried to be normal. But he couldn't. Every stroke reminded him of her voice. Every ache between his legs made him feel smaller. Softer. Owned. The app stayed quiet—no new task. No new reward. Just an empty feed and a blinking notification that read: "Mistress is waiting." On the third night, he broke. It was past midnight. He sat naked on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, the camera open. He hesitated. Then turned on video. He lay down, knees bent, legs spread, cock tucked between his thighs. The tattoos were on full display. "Mistress," he whispered. "Please…" He stopped, then looked into the lens with flushed cheeks. "Please use me. I want another task. I want to serve." His voice cracked. "I don't want to think anymore. Just tell me what to do." He sent the video. Instantly, the phone buzzed. Mistress is pleased. Then a voice message appeared. It was her. "Good girl," she purred. "That's what I wanted to hear. My little clit begging, finally understanding her place." He moaned involuntarily at her tone. "Tomorrow," she continued, "you'll be tested. I want to see if you're truly ready to be seen. Don't touch yourself tonight. In fact—don't even look at your pathetic little clit until I say you're allowed. Understood?" Nick whispered into the silence, "Yes, Mistress." But it wasn't silence anymore. Not inside him. It was a growing echo. A craving. A calling. One that sounded a lot like hers.
