Vivienne's Domination: Power Ch. 02

The first flush of dawn paints Vivienne's palatial bedroom with hues of gold, and she stirs from her peaceful slumber with a mounting sense of anticipation that invigorates her. The prospect of witnessing Thomas in his desolate predicament fuels her arousal, offering her a perverse sense of joy she craves more than anything else.

In the seclusion of her private quarters, Vivienne turns her gaze to a monitor. It displays the feed from Thomas's meager confinement. The room, stripped of any luxury, houses only a bare cot -- his world reduced to this. Thomas is on display for her amusement, every shudder of his naked form magnified on the screen. The sight of him, a man once strong and assertive, now broken and vulnerable, sends a delicious thrill down her spine. His tears, falling freely, amplifying his humiliation, send her desire soaring to new heights.

"Look at you, Thomas, so beautifully broken," she whispers to herself, a wicked smile dancing on her lips. Her fingers trace the screen, longing to feel his despair. "You have no idea how much pleasure your tears bring me."

Guided by the hunger stirring within her, Vivienne reaches into her nightstand drawer, retrieving her favorite bullet vibrator. Settling back amidst the plush bedding, she lets her robe fall open, exposing herself to the warmth of the morning light. As her eyes remain glued to the image of the weeping Thomas, her hand strays towards her intimate regions, guided by instinct and unfulfilled desire. The vibrator hums into life against her, sending waves of pleasure cascading through her.

Each whimper, every sob that filters through the speakers only fans the flames of her arousal, turning the act into a symphony of suffering that she revels in. His misery is her ecstasy, every tear shed becoming the lubricant to her pleasure. The closer she comes to the brink of climax, the louder his cries resonate, guiding her journey into the throes of orgasm. With a sigh of delight, she succumbs to the overwhelming sensations, her body convulsing in the grip of intense pleasure.

The aftermath of her pleasure leaves her craving more. Pulling her robe over her, Vivienne makes her way down the ornate hallway, her destination - the room housing her pet project, Thomas. His crying ceases as she steps in, the sight of her causing a mix of fear and confusion to flicker in his eyes.

Witnessing his teary-eyed state, she chuckles, her words laced with cruelty. "You're making quite a puddle with your tears, Thomas. But don't fret, I've brought you a little something to quench your thirst." As she hikes her robe, revealing her exposed self, Vivienne holds up the remote in her other hand.

The color drains from Thomas's face at the sight of her nakedness and the promise of the remote. She revels in the naked terror on his face, the power she wields over him amplifying her pleasure. The terror barely has time to settle in his eyes before she engages the remote. A jolt of electricity surges through his chastity cage, bringing him to his trembling knees in front of her. As his pained whimpers echo in the room, he opens his mouth to receive the warm, salty offering, a harsh reminder of the depth of his servitude.


Basking in her triumph, Vivienne redresses and graces his head with a condescending pat. "Good pet," she murmurs, before exiting the room, her laughter fading into the background.


As Vivienne leaves, the silence of her departure replaced by the voice repeating its relentless mantra, "You are a slave. You belong to Vivienne." As the door locks behind her, Thomas is left alone, his thoughts echoing the mantra, painting a grim portrait of the long day ahead. His nakedness, the cold room, and the repeating voice are constant reminders of his current reality, serving to heighten Vivienne's sadistic pleasure.


The chill of dawn seeps into the sparse room, a sharp contrast to the heat of Thomas's humiliation. His body trembles, both from the cold and the anticipation of the tasks ahead. Through the relentless monotony of the intercom, Vivienne's commanding voice slices through, ordering him to prepare her morning coffee. Sleep, his brief escape from the harrowing reality, is brutally ripped away by her command. He is acutely aware that any delay could fuel her capricious wrath, making the forthcoming torment even more severe.

Under Vivienne's imperious orders, Thomas prepares her coffee with trembling hands, his every movement dictated by the dread of her temper. He carries the steaming mug to her private quarters, where she awaits him, sprawled indulgently amidst the luxurious silken sheets. The sight of her resplendent, uncaring ease strikes him with the force of a thousand blows, as if seeing her in all her domineering glory for the first time. The intimidating aura that surrounds her snuffs out any remnants of his former pride, and his humiliation swells, mixing with a profound sense of helplessness.

Without a word, Vivienne beckons him with a languid wave of her hand, uttering the chilling command, "Take your place." Her icy gaze bores into him, allowing no room for disobedience. His heart throbs painfully in his chest as he positions himself between her splayed legs, his apprehension heightened by the visceral humiliation of his current situation. But her authoritative hand on his head secures him in place, further emphasizing his servile role.

Vivienne initiates her daily ritual, releasing her warm, golden fluid. The briny flavor floods Thomas's mouth, a harsh reminder of his debasing predicament. As the flow ceases, he mistakenly anticipates a release from his duty, but her grip stays firm, holding him in place. With a shudder-inducing, impassive tone, she utters her next command, "Proceed."

Overwhelmed by dread and despair, any semblance of resistance that still clung to Thomas's spirit crumbles. He complies, using his mouth to pleasure her, the residual taste of her waste mingling grotesquely with her rising wetness. Vivienne, lost in her world of power and pleasure, climaxes multiple times, her grip on his hair growing more forceful with each wave of ecstasy. His face, slick with her juices, is a cruel testament to his utter humiliation.

Once she's basked in her fill of pleasure, Vivienne releases him. As he pulls away, the lingering taste of her lingers on his tongue, acting as an enduring symbol of his abject subservience. The stark realization pierces his heart - every morning would begin like this, an obligatory session to satiate his mistress's intimate and demeaning whims. This overwhelming reality sinks into his being, branding him as nothing more than a slave, her possession.

In the wake of his torment, Vivienne's cold laughter rings out. "I must admit, Thomas," she begins, her voice curling with chilling amusement, "I didn't expect such a thrill from using a man's mouth as my personal lavatory. Tell me, do you find the taste of my waste appealing?"

His occupied mouth prevents him from responding, a fact that only elicits another round of cruel laughter from Vivienne. "You're quite adept at this," she muses, her hand carelessly ruffling his hair. "Your mouth, it seems, has found a new purpose in serving my desires and accepting my golden gifts."

Her laughter echoes through the room like a haunting melody, a poignant symphony of dominance and sadistic pleasure. "This experience surpasses all my expectations. Your expressions, the way you obediently swallow... it's deplorably pathetic. It ignites a fire in me, an unparalleled desire you couldn't possibly comprehend."

As the flow ceases, he naively anticipates a release from his duty, but her grip stays firm, holding him in place. With a shudder-inducing, impassive tone, she utters her next command, "Proceed."

Overwhelmed by dread and despair, any semblance of resistance that still clung to Thomas's spirit crumbles. He complies, using his mouth to pleasure her, the residual taste of her waste mingling grotesquely with her rising wetness. As he works, he can sense Vivienne's mounting excitement, her breathing becoming ragged, her grip on his hair growing tighter.

Her fingers brush his cheek in an uncanny imitation of tenderness, a stark contradiction to her malevolent intentions. "Don't stop, Thomas. You're remarkable at this. Never forget, your sole function is to satisfy me. Your existence revolves around my pleasure."

Vivienne, lost in her world of power and pleasure, is driven towards the precipice of ecstasy. Every moan, every gasp that escapes her is amplified in the quiet room, echoing in Thomas's ears. Her climax hits her like a powerful storm, consuming her in a whirlwind of pleasure. Her fingers tighten around his hair as waves of pleasure rack her body, and she throws her head back, a low, satisfied growl rippling from her throat.

A slow, cruel smile curves her lips as she takes in his tear-streaked face.

"Crying already, Thomas?" she purrs, her tone teasing, her fingers ghosting over his wet cheeks. His tears only seem to fan the flames of her sadistic pleasure. "You're going to make my mornings a lot more interesting."

The sight of his broken spirit, the salty taste of his tears mingling with the residue of her pleasure, sends a jolt of perverse delight coursing through her.

His tears don't stop - they fall, unchecked, down his face, moistening her thighs further. But Vivienne is far from sympathetic. Instead, she finds his despair delectably satisfying, the tears a tangible symbol of his defeated spirit. "Don't stop crying, Thomas," she coos, her words laced with a twisted affection. "Your tears are just as sweet as your submission."

"Never stop, Thomas! I am going to cum again." she screams, her voice laced with raw pleasure. The command is clear and brooks no argument. With her free hand, she clutches at the sheets, crumpling the silk fabric in her grip. Another wave of pleasure surges through her, making her gasp and tremble, her hand involuntarily clenching on his head.

Even after her climax subsides, Vivienne holds him there, not ready to relinquish the source of her pleasure. She basks in the aftermath of her orgasm, the euphoria washing over her like a warm wave. As her grip eventually loosens, her chest rises and falls with heavy, satisfied breaths. The remnants of her pleasure, her release, coats Thomas's face, a symbol of his humiliation and her utter dominance.

As Vivienne bathes in the intoxicating aftershocks of her orgasm, she looks down at Thomas, her icy gaze drinking in the pitiful sight of his tear-streaked face. His tears, a liquid testament to his degradation, mingle with her juices, creating a stark portrayal of his submission and her supreme control.

Once she's had her fill, she releases him, her laugh a chilling soundtrack to his distress. "Remember this, Thomas," she warns, her voice echoing ominously in the sparse room. "From now on, this is how you'll start every morning - serving me, pleasuring me, swallowing my waste. You are mine, and I intend to enjoy every moment of it."