He had to lube up twice. Thursday's dildo was a monster—seven and a half inches long, nearly two inches wide, cherry red, and angry. The head flared hard, with a vein that ran like a ridge down the shaft. It looked cruel. It looked like it wanted to hurt him. The moment Nick picked it up, his caged clit throbbed in anticipation and fear. His hole was still tender from Wednesday. Stretching to 1.75 inches had left him open and aching. But today was bigger. Today was deeper. And Mistress didn't allow excuses. The rule was burned into his mind now: Think of Mistress. Ride the toy. Anywhere. No matter what. It happened the second he stepped out of the shower. He caught his reflection—red lips still stained from his nightly ritual, tattoos glowing beneath the steam. Tiny Clit – No Cock Here. SISSY SLUT. And without warning, the word whispered across his brain like a command: Mistress. He didn't even towel off. He got on his knees, soaking wet, pulled the toy from the drawer, and lubed it with trembling hands. The first push felt like pressure against bone. His hole stretched wide, twitching, resisting—and then yielding. His breath left in gasps as the thick head popped inside, and he collapsed forward onto his elbows, crying out into the tile. "Mistress…" he moaned, cheeks flushed, hole spreading for the next inch, and the next. When it was fully in, the stretch made his whole body shake. He didn't even move. He just sat there, filled, caged clit drooling onto the floor, ass stuffed full of Mistress's demand. By afternoon, he thought maybe he'd recovered. But Mistress didn't wait. She never did. He was in a bookstore, of all places, and overheard a woman say, "He's so obsessed, he calls me Mistress now." That was it. The name hit like lightning. He sprinted to the restroom. Occupied. The family restroom. Locked. Outside. Alley. Alone. He dropped his pants behind the dumpster, pulled Thursday's monster from the bag, slapped it to the cement wall, and bent over. His hole burned from the first thrust. The thickness made his knees buckle. But he rode it. Loud. Messy. Exposed. And when the dildo bottomed out, his caged clit jerked, spraying a useless, dry orgasm against the brick as he moaned, "Thank you, Mistress… use me…" By night, his body was wrecked. Hole sore. Knees bruised. Muscles shaking. But the addiction didn't care. The final video showed him lying flat on his back, legs spread, feet up on the dresser, pushing Thursday's cock into himself like he didn't care what was left. The app buzzed. Thursday: Complete. Your body is no longer yours. Let's see if your mind breaks tomorrow. Nick whimpered. Tomorrow was black. Eight inches. Two inches thick. Friday was a test. Saturday was a threat.
