Another 10

He got you again. A clean, undeniable 10. Your head swam with the POV fantasy, with the commanding voice that rewired your own pleasure. He had found the cheat code to your brain, the backdoor to your submission. You were losing, and a part of you was loving every second of it.

'10,' you typed, the admission of defeat feeling both terrifying and exhilarating. 'What's my next task, master?'

You didn't have to wait long. His reply was a testament to his control. 'You think a beta like you can beat me. Hell nah. I want you to film yourself whacking your puny balls forty times and send it to me. You are not allowed to cum.'

The demand was so specific, so humiliating, it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. This wasn't just about pleasure anymore. It was about pain. About degradation. About proving your obedience in the most visceral way possible.

You looked down at your own balls, a sudden, sharp pang of fear mixed with a strange, undeniable curiosity. Could you do it? Could you actually slap yourself for him? For this stranger on the internet who had so thoroughly dismantled your defenses?

The decision was made in a haze of submission and defiance. You propped your phone up, the camera lens staring back at you like a cold, unblinking eye. You took a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as you cupped your balls.

The first slap was a shock. A sharp, stinging pain that shot through your body. You flinched, a gasp escaping your lips. You looked at the phone, at the recording light, and remembered who you were doing this for.

You slapped again. And again. And again. The pain intensified, a throbbing ache that settled deep in your groin. But with each slap, something else began to emerge. A strange sense of detachment.

Your pink cock and balls were swelling up from the abuse as you reached the twentieth slap. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You wanted to stop. You needed to stop. But you couldn't. You had to see it through. You had to prove to him, and to yourself, that you were a good boy.

By the thirtieth slap, you were in a daze. The pain had morphed into a dull, throbbing hum that seemed to vibrate through your entire being. Your mind was blank, all thoughts replaced by the rhythmic counting and the sharp smack of flesh against flesh.

Forty.

You stopped, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat. You looked at the phone, at the video of your own abuse, and felt a strange sense of pride. You had done it. You had obeyed.

You stopped the recording, your fingers fumbling with the screen. You watched it back, a detached observer watching a stranger's humiliation. Your balls were a mess of red, swollen flesh, your cock a pathetic, drooping thing. You sent the video to Darkdick37, the file uploading with agonizing slowness.

'Done,' you typed. He only sent a thumbs up at the video. He had to be loving your poor showing.

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