Your Turn

The box arrived at dawn.

A square parcel, wrapped in matte black paper and tied with crimson rope—tight, like a corset pulled for show. No return address. No card. Just a gold wax seal with a familiar engraving.

A wolf’s eye.

Dominique opened it slowly, already bracing herself.

Inside lay a note scrawled in ink-dark red:

“You made me kneel. Now make the world do the same. —W.”

Beneath the note lay a velvet pouch, and inside that—three items:

A clit stim collar, elegant in design and brutal in intent.

A set of golden clamps with etched roses.

And a metal leash, coiled like a challenge.

Dominique closed the box.

Her hands trembled once—just once—then steadied.

Back at the WREC Room, the night smelled of burnt amber and sweat. The red lights buzzed like desire waiting to be obeyed. Smoke curled through the ceiling grates like spirits watching from above.

She wore her high boots and nothing beneath her robe but leather straps that framed her body like a throne. Her lips were painted the same deep wine as the room—ripe, forbidden, meant to stain.

The chat was already exploding.

[Domica Returns LIVE. Is it true? A new pet? A woman?!]

[She’s gone feral again—YESSS.]

[Punish us all, Mommy.]

She let them wait.

Until the curtain lifted.

The submissive was already on her knees.

Slender, curvy, bare but for a velvet collar. Her eyes were downcast, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her anticipation. Her hands rested palm-up on her thighs, trembling slightly.

Dominique stepped forward and circled her slowly.

“You begged for this,” she purred. “Didn’t you, little rabbit?”

The girl nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then offer yourself.”

She bent forward without hesitation, spine curving like poetry, presenting herself with perfect posture.

Dominique let her fingers trail down the girl’s neck—light as mist—before fastening the collar and clipping on the leash. The sound of the clasp echoed like a gunshot in the room.

She turned to the camera.

“Tonight, I remind you who owns the word pleasure.”

The clamps came next.

Cool metal grazed soft skin.

Dominique didn’t just apply them—she choreographed it, turning tension into ritual. Every movement was purposeful. Every flick of her wrist a command.

The girl gasped as the pressure tightened—just enough to sting.

Dominique knelt behind her, letting her breath ghost over the girl’s ear.

“Good girls don’t moan without permission.”

“I’ll try,” came the trembled reply.

“You’ll obey.”

The stream watched in silence as Domica took control of the toy's remote. The collar’s setting was low at first—barely a pulse.

The girl shivered.

A second pulse, stronger.

Dominique licked slowly along the girl’s spine, every taste a reclamation.

When she whispered “now,” the stimulation climbed, and the girl let out a breathless moan—cut off by Dominique’s fingers gripping her jaw.

“That wasn’t permission,” she hissed.

“I’m sorry—Mistress, I—”

A higher setting. A pause.

Then Dominique’s hand slid down, slow and firm, as the girl writhed beneath her.

She didn’t just touch.

She owned.

As the final climax built—tension choking the room, gasps muffled behind bitten lips—Dominique leaned into the mic, sweat beading at her temple.

“This is for every one of you who disobeyed,” she growled.

The camera caught her smirk, her teeth, the flushed wildness in her cheeks.

And then—

One last pulse.

One scream.

One long, trembling silence.

She stood tall.

Hair tousled, lips parted.

And smiled.

Turning to the camera, leash still in hand, she gave the world her final message:

“I am the ALPHA.”

“And your obedience…”

She yanked the leash gently, bringing the girl to heel.

“…is not a request.”

She raised two fingers to her lips, kissed them, and signed off.

Back in the empty room, the chat still buzzed. Screens flooded with gifs, edits, worship.

But it was the ping in her private inbox that made her pause.

A single message from W:

“You are rising, wolf. And I’m watching.”

She let her head fall back against the red-lit wall and laughed.

Not from amusement.

From hunger.

The box arrived at dawn.

A square parcel, wrapped in matte black paper and tied with crimson rope—tight, like a corset pulled for show. No return address. No card. Just a gold wax seal with a familiar engraving.

A wolf’s eye.

Dominique opened it slowly, already bracing herself.

Inside lay a note scrawled in ink-dark red:

“You made me kneel. Now make the world do the same. —W.”

Beneath the note lay a velvet pouch, and inside that—three items:

A clit stim collar, elegant in design and brutal in intent.

A set of golden clamps with etched roses.

And a metal leash, coiled like a challenge.

Dominique closed the box.

Her hands trembled once—just once—then steadied.

Back at the WREC Room, the night smelled of burnt amber and sweat. The red lights buzzed like desire waiting to be obeyed. Smoke curled through the ceiling grates like spirits watching from above.

She wore her high boots and nothing beneath her robe but leather straps that framed her body like a throne. Her lips were painted the same deep wine as the room—ripe, forbidden, meant to stain.

The chat was already exploding.

[Domica Returns LIVE. Is it true? A new pet? A woman?!]

[She’s gone feral again—YESSS.]

[Punish us all, Mommy.]

She let them wait.

Until the curtain lifted.

The submissive was already on her knees.

Slender, curvy, bare but for a velvet collar. Her eyes were downcast, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her anticipation. Her hands rested palm-up on her thighs, trembling slightly.

Dominique stepped forward and circled her slowly.

“You begged for this,” she purred. “Didn’t you, little rabbit?”

The girl nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then offer yourself.”

She bent forward without hesitation, spine curving like poetry, presenting herself with perfect posture.

Dominique let her fingers trail down the girl’s neck—light as mist—before fastening the collar and clipping on the leash. The sound of the clasp echoed like a gunshot in the room.

She turned to the camera.

“Tonight, I remind you who owns the word pleasure.”

The clamps came next.

Cool metal grazed soft skin.

Dominique didn’t just apply them—she choreographed it, turning tension into ritual. Every movement was purposeful. Every flick of her wrist a command.

The girl gasped as the pressure tightened—just enough to sting.

Dominique knelt behind her, letting her breath ghost over the girl’s ear.

“Good girls don’t moan without permission.”

“I’ll try,” came the trembled reply.

“You’ll obey.”

The stream watched in silence as Domica took control of the toy's remote. The collar’s setting was low at first—barely a pulse.

The girl shivered.

A second pulse, stronger.

Dominique licked slowly along the girl’s spine, every taste a reclamation.

When she whispered “now,” the stimulation climbed, and the girl let out a breathless moan—cut off by Dominique’s fingers gripping her jaw.

“That wasn’t permission,” she hissed.

“I’m sorry—Mistress, I—”

A higher setting. A pause.

Then Dominique’s hand slid down, slow and firm, as the girl writhed beneath her.

She didn’t just touch.

She owned.

As the final climax built—tension choking the room, gasps muffled behind bitten lips—Dominique leaned into the mic, sweat beading at her temple.

“This is for every one of you who disobeyed,” she growled.

The camera caught her smirk, her teeth, the flushed wildness in her cheeks.

And then—

One last pulse.

One scream.

One long, trembling silence.

She stood tall.

Hair tousled, lips parted.

And smiled.

Turning to the camera, leash still in hand, she gave the world her final message:

“I am the ALPHA.”

“And your obedience…”

She yanked the leash gently, bringing the girl to heel.

“…is not a request.”

She raised two fingers to her lips, kissed them, and signed off.

Back in the empty room, the chat still buzzed. Screens flooded with gifs, edits, worship.

But it was the ping in her private inbox that made her pause.

A single message from W:

“You are rising, wolf. And I’m watching.”

She let her head fall back against the red-lit wall and laughed.

Not from amusement.

From hunger.