Read slowly. Follow every command. This is for mature audiences only. Perfect for audio narration – male or seductive female voice.)
You sit alone in your room, the door locked, lights low. Your heart is already pounding because you know what’s coming. You’ve been thinking about her all day — the Masturbatrix. The velvet voice that slips into your mind and takes complete ownership of your cock. Your hand hovers near your zipper, but you wait. You always wait for her permission.
“Strip,” she whispers in your imagination, that sultry, commanding tone you can’t resist. You obey, peeling off your clothes until you’re completely naked, cock already half-hard just from the anticipation. The air feels cool against your skin, but heat is building low in your belly.
You lie back on the bed, phone or screen ready if you’re listening to her audio. But tonight, she’s here with you in full force. Close your eyes for a moment and picture her: a stunning woman in black lace and leather, red lips curved in a wicked smile, eyes that see straight through your pathetic need. She’s your Masturbatrix, and tonight she’s going to ruin you.
“Hello, my desperate little toy,” her voice purrs, low and intimate, as if she’s right beside your ear. “You came crawling back again. Good boy. You always do. Because no one else can make your cock throb like I do. No one else owns every single stroke the way I do.”
Your hand twitches. You want to grab it already, but you know better. You wait.
“Wrap your fingers around the base of that cock for me. Lightly. Just hold it. Feel how it jumps in your palm, begging already? Pathetic. Leaking for your Masturbatrix before I’ve even started.”
You obey, fingers encircling the thick base. It’s warm, pulsing. A bead of precum is already forming at the tip. You can feel your heartbeat in it.
“Now, slide your hand up… slowly… all the way to the head. Squeeze just a little at the top. Twist your palm over that sensitive head. Yes, just like that. I want to hear how slick it’s getting already. That filthy wet sound of skin on skin while I decide how long you’ll suffer for me tonight.”
You stroke upward, slow and deliberate. The sensation is electric. Your breath catches.
“Down again. All the way. Nice and slow. This is my pace, not yours. Faster and I’ll make you stop completely. Understand, pet? Nod for me. Say it out loud: ‘Yes, Masturbatrix.’”
“Yes, Masturbatrix,” you whisper into the empty room, voice already husky.
“Good boy. Such an obedient little stroker. Keep going — up and down, long, luxurious strokes. Feel every inch. Imagine my voice wrapping around your mind the same way your hand wraps around your cock. I own both now.”
You settle into the rhythm she sets. Slow. Teasing. Your cock swells fuller in your grip, veins standing out. The head is shiny with precum now, making everything glide smoother.
“Stop.” The command is sharp. Your hand freezes mid-stroke. “Hold it. Squeeze the base hard. Feel that throb? That’s me, controlling the blood flow. You don’t cum until I say. You don’t even get close without permission. Breathe through it. Let the edge fade… but keep holding.”
The denial hits immediately. Your cock strains, begging for more movement, but you obey. Seconds stretch into a minute. Your balls feel heavy, aching.
“Start again. Faster this time — but not too fast. Medium pace. Up… down… up… down. Twist at the top. Milk that precum out. I want you dripping for me.”
You resume, the pleasure crashing back harder after the pause. Your hips buck slightly into your fist. Moans escape your lips.
“Tell me how it feels,” she demands, even though she’s not really there — the fantasy is so vivid you answer anyway. “Say it: ‘My cock belongs to my Masturbatrix.’”
“My cock belongs to my Masturbatrix,” you groan, stroking steadily.
“Louder. And keep stroking.”
You repeat it, voice breaking with need. The words make you throb harder.
For the next several minutes she guides you through building waves. Slow strokes to edge you gently, then faster bursts that bring you dangerously close, only to command “Stop!” at the perfect moment. Each denial leaves you more desperate, precum flowing freely, coating your hand and shaft in a slick mess.
“Edge one,” she announces after the fourth build-up. “Stroke faster now. Full strokes. Don’t you dare cum. Get right to the edge… and hold it there. Squeeze if you have to. Fight it for me.”
Your hand flies up and down. The pressure builds fast — balls tightening, that familiar tingle at the base of your spine. You’re right there, right on the precipice…
“STOP!”
Your hand freezes again. The orgasm retreats agonizingly, leaving you whimpering, cock twitching wildly in the air, denied.
“Good toy. You’re doing so well. Most men would have failed by now. But you’re mine, aren’t you? Say it.”
“I’m yours, Masturbatrix.”
She rewards you with praise mixed with more commands. You stroke in patterns — three slow, two fast, stop. Circle just the head with your thumb and fingers until you’re shaking. Edge again. And again.
By the tenth edge, you’re a mess. Sweat on your skin, sheets damp beneath you, cock an angry, throbbing purple-red, hypersensitive. Every touch feels like fire and heaven at once.
Now the story deepens. She begins weaving a fantasy around the control.
“Imagine I’m in the room with you,” she murmurs, voice dropping even lower. “Sitting in that chair across from the bed, legs crossed, high heels dangling. I’m wearing nothing but a black corset that pushes my breasts up perfectly and thigh-high stockings. My lips are painted crimson. I’m watching you stroke for me like the desperate slut you are.”
You picture it vividly. Her eyes locked on your hand, on your leaking cock.
“I’d lean forward and whisper instructions right against your ear while my fingers trace your thigh, never quite touching where you need it most. ‘Slower,’ I’d say. ‘Make it last. I want to see you break.’”
Your strokes match the fantasy. You’re lost in it — her scent, her warmth, the power radiating from her.
“Pick up the pace again. Think about how I’d laugh softly at your pathetic whimpers. How I’d make you confess all your dirty secrets while you edge. What’s your deepest fantasy, toy? Tell me while you stroke.”
You mutter filthy admissions between strokes — whatever comes to mind: being watched, denied for days, forced to eat your own cum, serving her and her friends. Each confession makes the pleasure sharper.
“Such a nasty boy. I love it. Faster now. Edge for me again — number eleven. Get right there… feel it building… closer… closer…”
You obey, hand a blur, body tensing.
“Hold it. Right there. Don’t you fucking cum. Breathe. Count backwards from ten in your head. Slowly.”
Ten… nine… the edge is excruciating. Your cock pulses violently in your fist.
“Eight… seven…” You fight every instinct.
When you reach one, she allows a tiny bit more stroking — just enough to torture — then another full stop.
This cycle repeats. She builds a long, hypnotic narrative: You are her personal Masturbatrix project. She’s trained dozens of men, but you’re her favorite because you break so beautifully. She describes future sessions — chastity cages, ruined orgasms where she makes you cum just as she says stop, forcing you to spurt weakly and ruin the pleasure. Cum-eating commands. Public risk fantasies. All while your hand never stops obeying her current rhythm.
Word after word, stroke after stroke. The room fills with the wet sounds of your hand, your heavy breathing, your broken moans of “Please, Masturbatrix…”
By edge twenty, time has lost meaning. You’re floating in subspace, completely surrendered. Your cock feels enormous, ultra-sensitive, every ridge and vein alive under your fingers.
“Now, my good boy,” she coos, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “it’s time for your reward. But not the one you think. We’re going for a ruined orgasm tonight. You’ll get to cum… but only barely. And you’ll lick up every drop afterward like the obedient pet you are.”
Your heart races with a mix of fear and desperate excitement.
“Stroke fast now. Hard. Full fist. No holding back — but when I say ‘ruin it,’ you stop completely and let it happen hands-free if you can. Ready?”
“Yes, Masturbatrix! Please!”
“Faster. Think about me standing over you, laughing as you lose control. Edge… edge right to the very top…”
The pressure is unbearable. You’re going to explode.
“RUIN IT. Stop stroking — now!”
Your hand flies off your cock. It twitches wildly in the air, purple and straining. For a terrifying second nothing happens — then the orgasm crashes through you anyway. Weak, ruined spurts shoot out, landing on your stomach and chest, but the full explosive pleasure is stolen. It’s intense frustration mixed with release. Your cock pulses and dribbles, oversensitive, as the ruined climax fades.
You lie there panting, covered in your own cum, mind blank.
“Lick it up,” she commands softly but firmly. “Every drop. Use your fingers and swallow for your Masturbatrix. Show me how grateful you are.”
Trembling, you obey, scooping the warm fluid and bringing it to your mouth. The salty taste seals your submission.
“Swallow. Good boy. Such a perfect toy.”
She praises you for long minutes as you recover — soft words, gentle commands to breathe, to clean yourself, to reflect on how completely she owns you.
But the story isn’t over yet.
After the ruin, she begins a second, slower round. “We’re not finished, pet. You’re going to edge softly for me while I tell you more about what I plan to do to you in future sessions…”
She describes prolonged chastity, ruined orgasms every day for a week, training you to cum from prostate only, making you her live-in stroke slave. All while you lightly, torturously stroke again — never getting fully hard at first, then building once more.
The narrative expands into rich detail: imagined scenes where she visits your home, ties you to the bed, edges you for hours with her voice and light touches. She brings friends to watch. She makes you wear panties and stroke through them. She films you begging.
You lose track of how many more edges she pulls from your exhausted body. Twenty-five. Thirty. Each one deeper, more humiliating, more pleasurable in its denial.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of blissful torment, she grants a full, explosive orgasm.
“Stroke as fast as you can now. No stopping. Beg me for it.”
“Please, Masturbatrix! Let me cum! I need it so bad!”
“Cum for me, toy. Cum hard. Flood your hand. Show me who owns that cock.”
The orgasm rips through you like lightning. Rope after thick rope of cum shoots across your chest, your stomach, even hitting your chin. Wave after wave, longer and more intense than any solo session you’ve had before. Your vision whites out. Your whole body convulses with the force of it.
You collapse, utterly spent, covered in sweat and semen, mind blissfully empty.
She stays with you in the aftercare — soft voice guiding you to clean up, hydrate, breathe deeply. “You did so well tonight. My perfect little stroker. Rest now. Dream of your Masturbatrix. You’ll come back for more soon. You always do.”
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