He hated her. At least, that’s what he told himself every morning. Clara, his domineering boss, was unbearable. Cold, distant, authoritarian, he felt like a scolded child with every interaction. Every word from her mouth was like a sharp blade. She had no respect for him. And yet, at night, he couldn’t stop thinking about her, her heels clicking on the office floor, her legs crossed behind her glass desk. Her perfume, always the same, was a blend of leather and vanilla.
Thomas was 38, an engineer, divorced. Fairly conventional, he wasn’t the type to let himself be walked over. But with Clara… something was off. She made him doubt himself. She stole his authority. Worse: she stirred something in him he refused to name.
Clara’s Command: A Tale of Submission Under a Dominant Gaze
Everything changed one evening. He had stayed late at the office, alone. Or so he thought. Clara was still there, in her glass-walled office, dim lights, dressed in a black suit and glossy heels. She called him in a neutral tone:
- “Thomas, come here!”
He stood up mechanically as if obeying an invisible force.
- “Close the door!”
He obeyed.
- “Sit down!”
He obeyed again.
- “Do you know why I kept you so late? Because you’re slow. Weak. And I enjoy watching you struggle.”
She stood, circling him slowly, like a predator.
- “But there’s something else. Something I see in your eyes every time I humiliate you in meetings. You don’t hate it. You’re aroused.”
He blushed and tried to deny it, but his eyes betrayed him.
- “Look at me!”
He obeyed. Again.
- “That’s what I like. The man who thinks he’s still in control, when he’s already on his knees, mentally.”
She stepped closer, sliding her shoe between his legs.
- “Do you want to lick my heels?”
He didn’t answer, but his eyes spoke for him.
Clara’s Cruel Dominion: Thomas’s Descent into Submission
She smiled.
- “You’ll learn, Thomas, to be useful, to obey, to suffer to please. I’ll break you, slowly. And when you’re nothing but a crawling animal, you’ll thank me.”
He should have fled, protested, screamed. But instead, he dropped to his knees. And she placed her shoe on his tongue.
The leather was warm on his tongue, a bitter, almost acidic taste, mixed with polish and something indefinable. Shame burned his cheeks, but his erection betrayed all his resistance.
Clara stayed silent as he licked. She watched, impassive, dominating every second. Then, she slowly removed her pump, holding it by the strap, and pressed it to his face.
- “Sniff. Deeply. That’s it. This is your new role: breathing controlled by my feet.”
He obeyed. With each command, his will crumbled, replaced by a damp, painful heat between his thighs. He could have stopped, stood up, fled, or quit. But no. Something about her, her icy way of imposing her world, drew him in, broke him with cruel delicacy.
- “Come back tomorrow evening, same time.”
She slipped her heel back on and dismissed him with a wave.
- “You can crawl to the door because you don’t deserve to walk.”
He crawled. The carpet burned his palms. His crumpled suit reeked of her leather shoes. And yet… he had never felt so alive.
Clara’s Collar: Transforming Thomas into ‘Nothing’
Each following day, she tested him further.
One evening, she stood waiting, dressed in a silk blouse and a tight skirt. Beside her, a black box. She opened it without a word: inside were collars, tail plugs, nipple clamps, a ball gag, and a muzzle.
- “Choose! But choose wisely! What you wear tonight determines your worth.”
He trembled. His fingers reached for the studded collar.
- “Good choice. A mark of belonging. You’re no longer Thomas. You’re ‘nothing.’ You answer to that name now.”
She made him lie on the floor, pressed against her feet. Then, she ordered him to speak.
- “Tell me what you are!”
- “I… I’m nothing.”
SLAP. A sharp slap.
- “Look at me when you say it. Louder.”
- “I’m nothing!”
- “Better. You’re learning. Now, nothing will show me what it’s good for. You’ll clean the soles of my heels with your saliva. If I see a speck of dust, I’ll tie you up in the bathroom for the night.”
He licked. Licked like a starving man. Dust stuck to his tongue, the hard plastic of the sole made him gag, but he continued. And Clara filmed.
- “This will be your evaluation file. Each video, a grade.”
He moaned.
She laughed.
Clara’s Cruel Reeducation: Thomas’s Total Surrender
Weeks passed. Thomas became “nothing” with every moment spent with her. He masturbated in secret, thinking of her voice, her laughter when he cried, the smell of her dirty pumps.
Clara never stopped innovating. She made him drink from a bowl on all fours while she ate a refined dinner above him.
She made him strip completely before each session, forcing him to wait naked, knees on the floor, eyes lowered, while she read emails or made calls.
One evening, she took him to her place.
The apartment was vast, modern and dark. She tied him to a submission cross, fully naked, with a large, cold plug inserted in one swift motion.
- “Men like you need reeducation. Forget dignity. You’re just a training object now.”
She whipped him, pinched him, made him scream. And with each moan, her smile grew. The next day, he sent a message.
- “Clara… may I come back tonight? I want… to serve.”
She replied with a single emoji: a leash.
Clara’s Chastity Lock: Enslaving ‘Nothing’ in Total Control
The next day, Clara waited with a rigid black box on the coffee table. Thomas—or rather, “nothing”—was already naked, kneeling, eyes down, breathing heavily.
- “You’re aroused, aren’t you?” she asked, her finger brushing his erect member.
He nodded, cheeks red.
- “That’s over. From now on, that little thing decides nothing.”
She opened the box: a polished steel chastity cage, sleek, cold, gleaming like a trap.
- “You won’t come without my permission. You won’t get hard without pain. It’s no longer a penis. It’s my lock.”
She fitted it slowly, savoring tightening the rings, locking away what remained of his dignity. When the final click sounded, Thomas whimpered, half-terrified, half-fascinated.
- “There. Slave locked. Want to come? Beg. Cry. Plead with your tongue. And maybe… maybe I’ll unlock the key. Someday.”
She showed him the small silver key, which she hung on a necklace around her throat.
- “See it? That’s your freedom. Worn at my throat. Untouchable.”
That night, he slept in a cage. A real one. Metal, at the back of her room, next to her worn pumps. He had only a thin blanket, a bowl of water, and a moldy pillow.
The following days blurred. Each morning, Clara woke him with the heel of her boot striking the bars.
- “Wake up, vermin. Today’s program: silence, service, supplication.”
She made him clean naked, his caged genitals aching. She controlled everything: his diet, schedule, and positions.
He ate on his knees, head bowed. Sitting was forbidden. Speaking too, except to beg or thank.
Clara’s Cruel Paradise: ‘Nothing’ Bound by Chastity and Control
One day, she made him kneel before her, face against her crotch, while she read a novel.
- “You breathe my scent, that’s all. No movement. No words. This is your temple, your prison, your paradise.”
The chastity cage tortured him. Every urge, every image of her, triggered unbearable tension in his groin.
And she knew it.
She loved frustrating him. Making him watch videos of her pleasuring herself… without letting him touch anything.
- “Watch me come, thing. And cry. Cry because you can’t do anything.”
He cried. He thanked. He begged. And she laughed.
By the end of the month, Clara no longer spoke of “Thomas.” He no longer existed. “Nothing” was just furniture, a trained animal.
She made him walk with a leather leash around his neck. She introduced him to her friends as a training project. A “will-less creature,” she said, amused.
One evening, she sat him at her feet, his head resting on her lap, petting him like a dog.
- “You were a man. Now you’re my creation.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out a small remote-controlled vibrator. She slipped it into his chastity cage, smiling.
- “Every mistake you make, I turn it on.”
Clara’s Final Breaking: ‘Nothing’ Rebuilt in Shameful Bliss
She spent her evenings testing him. Forcing him to recite humiliating phrases: “I’m lucky scum at her feet.” Or: “My existence only matters if she comes.”
If he stuttered? Bzzz. A sharp jolt in his caged genitals.
One day, she laid him on the floor, caressed him at length, then looked into his eyes.
- “Want to come?”
He nodded frantically, in tears.
- “Then say it like a bitch. Beg. Crawl. And maybe…”
He crawled. Screamed. Licked her feet, legs, buttocks. Cried while begging.
She unlocked him. Once.
And never did it again.
Today, Thomas no longer exists. He lives in a corner of Clara’s apartment, in a cage, wearing a dog mask and a leash bolted to the wall.
He no longer knows the time. He lives to wait for her. To serve her. To suffer.
He smiles when she humiliates him.
He gets hard painfully when she ignores him.
He comes… only when she decides. And even then, it’s a punishment: she makes him smell his own semen and forbids him from coming without shame.
And deep down, amid the pain, frustration, and shame, he knows:
He is happy.
Broken, emptied, rebuilt.
He has become what he hated.
And he loves it.
