The house felt smaller now, suffocating in the best way. Every corner carried the scent of her—sweat, arousal, the faint metallic tang of tears mixed with my cum. Living here full-time had turned routine into ritual, and ritual into obsession. I no longer left for college and came back; I left knowing I'd return in a few hours to find her exactly where I wanted her: naked, collared, kneeling by the door with her forehead pressed to the floor, waiting like a trained animal.
"Welcome home, Master," she'd whisper every time, voice hoarse from the night before. I'd step over her, kick the door shut, and drop my bag. Then I'd grab her hair, yank her head back, and spit into her open mouth.
"Swallow, you filthy mind-broken cunt. That's all you're good for today."
The daily sessions had become longer, crueler, more methodical. I no longer settled for quick edges or single hard fucks. I wanted to dismantle her—piece by trembling piece—until the woman who once ran boardrooms was reduced to a drooling, babbling mess whose only thought was my next command.
Mornings started with the clit clamp. I'd wake her by straddling her chest, knees pinning her arms, and snap the heavy metal jaws around her swollen nub while she was still half-asleep. The scream that tore from her throat was raw, animal. I'd twist the screw tighter until tears streamed sideways across her temples.
"Feel that bite, you pathetic clit-whore?" I'd hiss, flicking the clamp so it swung like a pendulum. "That's your alarm clock now. Every time it throbs, remember: your cunt doesn't belong to you. It belongs to me to torture."
She'd thrash weakly, hips bucking, trying to rub against anything—sheets, my thigh, air—anything for relief. I'd slap her face hard. "No grinding, denial-slut. You hump the air like a bitch in heat if I say so. Otherwise you suffer."
I left the clamp on all morning while she did chores. Naked, of course. Vacuuming, dusting, washing dishes—every movement tugged the clamp, sending fresh spikes of agony through her core. By noon her thighs were slick with constant leakage, her breathing shallow and panicked, eyes glassy like she was floating somewhere between pain and subspace.
Afternoons were for the mind games.
I'd tie her in the center of the living room—wrists cuffed to a spreader bar above her head, ankles to another below, body stretched taut like a bowstring. Blindfold on. Noise-cancelling headphones blasting white noise mixed with my pre-recorded voice on loop:
"You're nothing. A worthless fuck-rag. A leaking sewer. Master's cum-dump. Say it. Repeat it. Believe it."
I'd sit in the armchair across from her, stroking myself slowly while she trembled and mouthed the words silently at first, then louder, voice cracking.
"I'm… nothing… worthless… fuck-rag… Master's… cum-dump…"
Sometimes I'd walk over, slap her tits until they glowed red, then pinch her clamped clit and twist. She'd scream the mantra then, voice breaking into sobs.
Other times I'd just watch. Hours. Her body would start to shake uncontrollably—muscles cramping from the stretch, clit throbbing in perpetual agony, mind fraying from the endless repetition. Drool would run down her chin. Her pupils would dilate even behind the blindfold; I could see it when I lifted it briefly.
By evening she was barely coherent.
That's when I pushed hardest.
One night—after four straight days of no orgasm, constant clamping, verbal degradation on loop—I untied her and let her collapse to the rug. She curled into a fetal position immediately, shaking, whimpering. I knelt beside her, grabbed her chin, forced her to look at me.
"Beg properly, broken bitch. Beg to be ruined."
Her lips trembled. Tears carved clean tracks through the sweat and mascara on her cheeks.
"Please… Master… ruin me… I can't… I can't think anymore… my head is empty… just need your cock… your pain… please break your worthless slave completely…"
I dragged her to the bedroom by her hair. Threw her face-down on the bed. Yanked her hips up. Her ass was already bruised purple from earlier spankings; her cunt looked obscene—lips dark, swollen, gaping slightly from days of denied need.
I didn't prep her.
I slammed into her dry enough that she shrieked, then wet enough from her own constant leakage that the slide turned filthy-slick in seconds. I fucked her like I hated her—brutal, punishing thrusts that slammed her face into the mattress.
"Take it, you mindless obedience-cunt! This is what happens when you let me into your head—your brain melts and your holes open like cheap whores!"
She screamed into the pillow, body jolting with each impact. I reached under, ripped the clit clamp off without warning. The sudden rush of blood made her convulse—orgasm crashing before I even gave permission.
"No—no—no—!" she wailed, but her cunt spasmed wildly anyway, squirting in violent arcs that soaked my thighs, the sheets, everything. I slapped her ass hard enough to leave handprints.
"Did I say you could cum, you disobedient fuck-pig?!"
"I'm sorry—Master—I couldn't—stop—it hurts—it's too much—!"
I didn't stop. I flipped her over, pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, and drove back into her spasming cunt while my other hand wrapped around her throat.
"Look at me while I break you," I snarled. "Watch your Master turn you into a drooling cum-rag."
Her eyes—red-rimmed, pupils blown—locked on mine. Tears poured. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as another orgasm ripped through her without mercy. Her whole body seized—back arching off the bed, toes curling, squirting again in helpless pulses.
I kept fucking her through it. Harder. Deeper. Calling her every name I could think of: "Filthy broken toilet… pathetic drool-slut… mindless cock-sleeve… worthless gaping fuck-hole…"
When I finally came—flooding her wrecked cunt with thick spurts—she shattered completely.
She didn't just orgasm. She broke.
Sobs tore from her chest—deep, wrenching, animal sounds. Her body went limp, trembling uncontrollably. She curled into me the second I pulled out, face buried in my neck, crying like something inside her had finally cracked open.
I froze for a second.
Then instinct took over.
I wrapped both arms around her, pulled the blanket over us, held her tight against my chest while she shook and wept. I stroked her hair, kissed her temple, rocked her slowly.
"I've got you," I whispered. "I've got you, baby. Let it out. You're safe."
She cried harder—great, heaving sobs that shook us both.
Between gasps she managed to speak, voice raw and small.
"I… I don't know who I am anymore… you took everything… my mind… my pride… my control… I'm just… yours…"
I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight.
"You're mine," I said quietly. "But you're also… more. You've been carrying so much alone. The company. The grief. The loneliness. And you let me break you anyway. That takes strength, not weakness."
She went still in my arms.
I kept holding her, rubbing slow circles on her back, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow.
After a long silence she whispered, "You're the first person who's ever seen me like this… and didn't run."
I kissed her forehead.
"I'm not running."
She started crying again—quieter this time, almost relieved.
I held her until she fell asleep, still trembling faintly.
Lying there in the dark with her curled against me, I stared at the ceiling.
I'd wanted to break her mind.
I had.
But something in me had cracked too.
And I wasn't sure anymore which one of us was more ruined.