Erotica: Strategic Surrender in Melbourne

Some men spend years building empires. And in one night, they seek Me to crash all of it down, so they can feel human again. The thing about high-functioning men: they don’t break easily. But when they do? They make the prettiest sounds.

He tells people he took a sabbatical to “rebalance”.

But I know what men like him really mean.

When they say they want to slow down, it means:

“I want to feel something. Anything. Even if I have to beg for it.”

_________________________

THE TEASE:

So here we are.

Lunch for two, three courses.

Not too heavy before play.

Flinders Lane.

Timothy showed up looking like shame in charcoal wool.

Pressed.

Quiet.

Impeccably groomed.

Hair slicked back.

Husky Australian accent with no longer a trace of a certain Asian descent.

Ex-banker of a transnational bank,

the kind of job that sounds like he’s in charge of entire nations but can’t manage his own pulse when I cross My legs.

”Miss Kate”, he greeted Me, pulling out my chair.

I didn’t sit.

I looked at his pocket square, crisp and trembling. "Handover your keys..."

He freezes. Then slowly reaches into his inner blazer pocket, his chastity keys.

“This afternoon, every course comes with rules...”

”Rule One: you don’t speak unless I ask a question.”

I make him describe what it’s like to be empty inside.

”Tell Me,” I said, eyes never leaving his,

“When did you realise control was your prison?”

He paused. Then murmured:

”… I think when I got promoted to VP and felt nothing.”

”Nothing?”

“Just… numb. I thought success would feel like arrival. But it felt like suffocation.”

I smiled.

”Then tonight, I’m going to let you... exhale.”

”Rule Two: No eating until I say.”

His eyes widen. Arousal. Panic.

”Rule Three: you’re wearing something under those trousers, aren’t you?”

Timothy nods, barely. I open up the application on My mobile phone and it started buzzing in him.

Every chew, I edge him once. No sound. Just a twitch under the tablecloth.

By the time the main course is served, he’s already leaking through his trousers, trembling as I casually shift the intensity on My screen.

He grips the edge of his seat, trying not to whimper.

I lean in and whisper, “Now look at you. Getting hard because I told you not to blink.”

By the time dessert comes, Timothy is shaking like a margin call.

“Final Rule, as I slice the cake,

”you don’t cum until you confess why you really invited Me tonight.”

THE SURRENDER:

After lunch, W/we hop on the tram for a few stops, before Timothy leads Me into the elevator, silent and tense as he rolls My cabin luggage with sinful secrets. The suite smells like marble, soft leather and guilt.

W/we took turns to shower and start of with a clean slate.

He prepared hot green tea for Me. He had a glass of still water next to Mine to keep himself hydrated throughout.

Went through the pre-briefing with custom safewords:

”Quantitative easing”

and

“Risk Management”

That’s the difference between power and cruelty.

I don’t play with boys who want funishment.

I play with men who want release.

And only when I know they’re ready, do I take them apart.

He was naked except for his tie and the discreet plug I had him wear during lunch.

“Crawl to Me. Not like a man. Like a thing.”

“Yes, Mistress Caittrin”

He crawl across the room like a prayer undone.

“How did it feel,” I whispered, pushing him to his knees, “to tell sovereign banks how to manage their money… but never admit to anyone that you can’t manage your own shame?”

“I… I hated it,” he gasped. “The pretending. The ego. The fucking spreadsheets.”

“What do you want now?”

“To be emptied.”

Bankers are trained for performance. But they crave permission to fail. Even after they left corporate.

I tied his wrists behind the chair with My jute ropes, not too tight, just enough to remind him who he belonged to.

I sat on his lap.

“Eyes on Me.”

“Yes, Mistress Caittrin”

“Tell Me what you do again.”

”Long-term strategy. Resource-backed de….”

SLAP.

”WRONG! you do whatever I say.”

His breath caught.

He shuddered.

I pulled his CV from My handbag, printed in full, double-sided.

”Let’s go over your career, shall We?”

”Yes, Mistress Caittrin…”

I read it out loud.

Mocked the corporate lingo.

Deconstructed the bullet points like a bad thesis.

Each time I hit a keyword like “value-add” or “stakeholder engagement”, I slapped his inner thigh.

“Tell Me, did this paper make you cum?”

He whimpered.

“No, Mistress.”

I trace My fingernails on his chest, staring into his eyes, while I feel Myself getting wetter too. Timothy looked so hot with his tie on but, still naked.

His cock throbbed, untouched.

The room is silent except the sound of Melbourne CBD outside. Trams passing. Lives being lived.

But here, in this box of velvet and silence, the ex-banker isn’t a man.

He’s Mine.

“If anything hits too deep, say the word,” I remind him slowly, mid-slap.

He moans. “Don’t stop.”

His consent, loud and clear with his body movements and through tears.

“You think any of this matters here?”

”No, Mistress Caittrin…”

”Then beg Me to erase it.”

”Please… please erase it, Mistress Caittrin…”

I reach out for My mobile phone and played with the intensity again on the app.

I edged him.

Three times.

The plug.

Biting his nipples until it’s so sore.

My fingernails tracing near the back of his ears.

”On your knees.”

”Yes, Mistress Caittrin…”

”Say it. What do you miss more, power or punishment?”

“….Punishment, Mistress Caittrin.”

”Good boy. Let’s liquidate that ego.”

Each time he got too close:

”STOP. Don’t you dare!”

He whimpered.

I watched his eyes flutter, the internal war between pride and surrender.

That’s where men like him live. That’s where I find them.

By the end, he was trembling, aching, restrained and wrecked.

I knelt beside him, fingers curled gently in his sweat-slicked hair.

”Why do you really want to serve Me?”

”Because you make me feel like I never have to perfect.”

”No…,” I corrected him, smirking.

”Because you like being My failure…”, as I bit My lower lip.

Timothy turns Me on so much and he drip his pre-cum all over the pee pad that I laid underneath him. So hard that it is screaming to escape out that chastity cage.

This man once told boardrooms when to breathe. Now he’s nose-to-floor, begging for permission to exist.

“You know what I hate about bankers?” I purr, lifting one foot to his chest, sinking in My stiletto boots.

”you pretend you’re not desperate. But your whole life runs on needing approval, needing the next win, needing someone to spank the shame out of you before it eats you alive.”

”Then say what you are”

”I’m… a desperate, broken little fucktoy for Mistress Caittrin who can’t cum unless you let me.”

And when he finally begs to cum, gasping, wrecked, stripped of his pedigree, I whisper:

”Only good boys get returns.”

When it’s over, I unlock his chastity cage, untie him gently, cuddling him from his back.

I applied aloe vera gel and massage his wrists for circulation.

I fed him his glass of still water and strawberries I bought from My favourite QVM Asian stall. Read excerpts from FT, mocking every article. He’s curled up, head in My lap.

”Still think you’re in control?”

He shakes his head, smiling through the wreckage.

No word needed, just presence.

Aftercare is sacred and non-negotiable for Me.

It’s when the real dominance lies, in the holding, not the hurting.