Fetishes practiced

The room vibrates with tension, the air heavy with anticipation as Ms. Fox steps back, leaving you utterly exposed at the front of the class. Her fingers leave your skin, the absence of her touch somehow worse than her deliberate stroking. Your cock twitches painfully, the cool air teasing what her hand left behind. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint squeak of a chair as Ruby shifts forward, her grin already curling into something wicked.

Ms. Fox gestures toward the girls with a wave of her hand, a silent invitation. “Ladies,” she says smoothly, her voice a low hum of authority, “the floor is yours. Remember—this is your moment to claim your power. How you wield it is entirely up to you.”

Ruby doesn’t hesitate, twirling the riding crop between her fingers as she pushes out of her seat with the confidence of someone who owns not only the room, but everyone in it. Her boots click against the tile as she saunters forward, her hips swaying just enough to draw every set of eyes in the room.

“Guess I’ll kick this off,” she says, her voice dripping with smug amusement. She reaches the front of the class and turns to face the girls, tapping the crop lightly against her palm. “Dominance, for me, is pretty simple. It’s about being unapologetically me. I like control. I like power. I like watching people squirm, and I’m damn good at making it happen.”

Her eyes flick to you, her grin sharpening. “And honestly? It’s fun.”

The class giggles, and Ruby turns her full attention to you, her green eyes gleaming like a predator sizing up its prey. “Come on, John. Let’s give them a show.”

Her crop snaps against your thigh—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a sharp jolt through your nerves. You flinch, and she laughs, the sound low and sultry. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. That was barely a love tap.”

Ruby steps closer, the tip of the crop rising to trace a slow line up your chest. “Stand up straight,” she orders, her voice cracking like a whip. “Shoulders back. Chin up. You’re on display, remember? Own it.”

You obey, your body trembling under her gaze. She circles you slowly, the crop tapping lightly against your skin—your shoulder, your hip, the sensitive curve of your ass. Each touch feels deliberate, calculated to keep you on edge.

“See?” Ruby purrs, addressing the class without taking her eyes off you. “This is what I mean. He’s already shaking, and I’ve barely started. He wants to obey.”

Her hand replaces the crop, sliding down your chest and over your stomach before wrapping around your cock. Her grip is firm, her strokes slow and teasing. “And look at this,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Hard as a rock. He’s begging for it—go ahead, tell me. Beg me. Do you want me to stroke your cock your cock faster?”

You are lost in arousal as you nod. "Say it." Ruby says firmly. "P-Please stroke me" you whisper. A crop lightly makes contact with your balls. It doesn't hurt, but it does give you a jolt, causing your cock to bob up and down in the air. "Ask properly." she says, with the same firmness.

You are lost in her control. "Please stroke my cock faster, mistress" And with that, Ruby's hand begin to move faster, and a moan escapes your lips. Ruby leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. “You love being controlled, don’t you, John?” she whispers, her hand squeezing just enough to make you gasp. She bites her bottom lip, her smirk widening as she steps back, leaving you trembling. “Good boy.”

Sage is next, rising from her seat with the languid grace of someone who’s never rushed a moment in her life. She stretches lazily, her sheer skirt swaying around her hips as she walks to the front of the class.

“Freedom,” she begins, her tone calm and detached, “is about letting go. Forgetting what people think. Forgetting what you’re supposed to do. Just... being.” Her gaze slides to you, her lips curling into a faint smile. “And you, John? You’re about as free as it gets right now.”

The class laughs, and Sage steps closer, her hand reaching out to trail lightly down your arm. Her touch is featherlight, almost absentminded, but the heat of her skin sears into you. “You don’t need to pretend you’re embarrassed,” she says softly, her fingers drifting over your chest. “We all know you love being on display. Why fight it?”

Her hand dips lower, grazing your cock with a lazy stroke that makes your stomach clench. She doesn’t stop, her fingers wrapping around you in a grip that feels both indifferent and possessive. “See?” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is how I would keep you. You’re perfect like this. Just a body. A toy. Something for us to enjoy.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and Sage smiles, her gaze meeting yours briefly before she turns back to the class. “Freedom is about owning who you are,” she says, her hand continuing its slow, torturous strokes. “And John? You’re free-use. A stress ball. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Michelle strides forward next, her cropped tank top clinging to her sculpted torso, her tight shorts showcasing every curve of her powerful thighs. She crosses her arms over her chest, her entire presence radiating strength and control.

“For me,” she begins, her voice steady and confident, “it’s all about discipline. Strength. This”—she gestures to her body—“is the result of years of hard work, and I’m damn proud of it. And yeah, I love it when people appreciate the effort. Why shouldn’t I?”

Her eyes lock onto you, and her smirk sharpens. “So, John. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

She grabs a chair, flipping it around and sitting astride it like a coach. “Ten sit-ups,” she orders. “And I want full form. No slacking.”

You hesitate, and her tone hardens. “Now, John. Or do you need me to make it harder?”

You drop to the floor, your body burning with humiliation as you begin the sit-ups. Michelle’s hand wraps around your cock as you rise and fall, her grip firm and steady. “One,” she counts, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip. “Two. Three. Come on, John, you can do better than that.”

Her strokes quicken slightly as you struggle, your muscles trembling with effort. “Don’t give up now,” she says, her tone dripping with faux encouragement. “Imagine how much harder this would be if I wasn’t helping you relax.”

You collapse after the tenth sit-up, gasping for breath, and Michelle laughs softly. “Not bad,” she says, her hand slipping away. “But you’ve got a long way to go.”

Madison approaches shyly, her cheeks flushed as she fiddles nervously with the hem of her skirt. “I-I guess I’ll go next,” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitates, glancing down at her outfit. “I like... um, simple things,” she begins, her fingers tugging at her braids. “Like... being pretty. And sweet. I... I think it’s nice when people notice that stuff. And also..."

Everyone paid attention, giving Madison the time she needed. "People tend to be weird about my bust. Girls are strange, and guys are strangely gross about it. But with this.... it's more, I don't know, celebrated. At least that's how I feel"

Her blush deepens, and the class giggles softly. Madison swallows hard and steps closer to you, her hands trembling slightly as they reach out. “Ad, um... I guess, in order to make the milkmaid empowered, when it's usually a rather domestic, submissive trope? I could just, um,” she mumbles, flushing red, "milk him like a cow".

Madison’s hands, soft and trembling, wrap around your shaft with surprising determination despite the burning flush creeping down her neck. She starts tentatively, her touch featherlight, her fingers flexing briefly as if she’s still trying to convince herself to continue. But then, with a deep, shuddering breath, she takes hold firmly—both hands sliding along your length, one after the other, in a deliberate, milking rhythm.

Her motions are slow at first, almost awkwardly tentative, but they quickly become more confident, her blush deepening as the class falls into hushed whispers and muffled giggles. Her grip is deceptively firm, the alternating squeeze and slide of her hands sending shocks through your body with every stroke. You can barely meet her gaze—her wide, embarrassed eyes flitting between your cock and the floor as she works, her lips parting slightly as though she’s lost in concentration.

The overwhelming sensation leaves your knees trembling, threatening to buckle as Madison continues, her soft hands stroking in sync like she’s trying to draw something out of you. “I-It’s just...” she stammers, her voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears, “n-not really about being mean... but, um... I-I’m still in control... right?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, her hands slowing slightly—just enough to tease—before she pulls back entirely, leaving you trembling, throbbing, and completely undone. “S-see?” she murmurs, fiddling nervously with her skirt again as she steps away. “Um, that’s... w-what I mean.”

Her words trail off as she hurries back to her seat, cheeks blazing, leaving you weak-kneed and exposed at the front of the room.

Sara hops out of her seat with a gleeful bounce, the straps of her barely-there cosplay jingling with every step. Her thigh-high boots hug her legs perfectly, the belts slung around her hips bouncing with her chaotic energy. “Okay, okay, my turn!” she chirps, her voice brimming with wild energy. “So, like, cosplay is about committing to the role, right? So we'll do a roleplay now. John's a captured, tied-up prisoner that Jinx is toying with."

Which means, John...” Her smirk sharpens into something wicked. “You’d better do what I say, or it’s boom boom time. And even I'm not sure if I'm talking about your cock or my grenades”

“Alright, girls and boy, it’s time to get a little unhinged,” she announces, spinning one of her fake grenades around her finger like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her grin is wide, wild, and utterly uncontainable, her blue pigtails swaying as she struts toward you.

“Jinx isn’t about rules,” she starts, twirling the grenade into the air and catching it effortlessly. “She’s about chaos, and chaos, my friends, is sexy. It’s about doing what you’re not supposed to, playing with what’s off-limits. And...” She plants herself inches in front of you, so close her breath brushes against your chest. “...breaking things until they’re begging to be fixed.”

Her eyes flick down to your cock, and her grin sharpens into something completely unholy. “Oooooh, look at you, Mr. Stand-at-Attention,” she giggles, running a sharp, painted nail down your chest to the base of your shaft. “Are you gonna explode already, Big Boy? Because I didn’t even pull the pin yet!” She laughs, leaning in closer as her hand wraps around you with no hesitation, stroking you with an unnerving mix of playfulness and precision.

Sara’s grin widens as she plucks one of her grenades from her hip, spinning it in her hand with theatrical flair. The straps of her barely-there cosplay jingle faintly as she leans close, her breath hot against your cheek. “Alright, prisoner,” she whispers, her tone taking on a manic sing-song quality. “Here’s the deal: we’re playing a little game. I’m gonna stick this bad boy—” she dangles the grenade under your nose, the loose pin swaying precariously, “—right in your mouth. And if you’re a good little toy and play by Jinx’s rules, maybe I’ll set you free.”

Without waiting for any semblance of consent, she slips the grenade between your lips, the cold metal resting heavy on your tongue as the pin hangs loosely in your teeth. “But,” she continues, her voice dripping with mockery as her hand wraps firmly around your shaft, stroking you with a maddening mix of teasing and pressure, “here’s the fun part. If you cum without setting off the grenade, I’ll let you go. But if that pin comes loose while you’re making your sticky mess, well...” She cocks her head, her blue pigtails swaying, and gives you a grin that’s equal parts playful and unhinged. “Boom.”

The class watches in stunned silence, eyes wide as Sara strokes you harder, her painted nails scraping lightly along your length with agonizing precision. “Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, her voice dropping into something low and conspiratorial as she leans close, her lips brushing against your ear. “If you lose your grip and drop the pin before you pop? You don’t even get the satisfaction of going out happy. Nah, you just die all pent-up and frustrated. So don’t screw it up, Big Boy.”

Your knees buckle slightly as she picks up her pace, her hand working you with relentless precision, every stroke a calculated mix of pleasure and torment. The grenade feels impossibly heavy in your mouth, the loose pin practically mocking you as you struggle to keep your jaw steady. Sara’s giggles ring out like a twisted lullaby, her free hand trailing up your chest as she whispers, “Tick tock, tick tock. What’s it gonna be, prisoner? You gonna be my good little toy and finish nice and clean? Or are ya gonna make a mess and blow us all to bits?”

But then, just as your grip tightens on the pin, your heart pounding in your chest, Sara decides to change the game. Without warning, she drops to her knees, her blue pigtails bouncing as she leans forward, her lips suddenly wrapping around the head of your cock. A sharp, muffled gasp escapes your throat, the grenade shifting precariously between your teeth as her tongue swirls with devastating skill. Her mouth is warm, wet, and utterly relentless, her bright eyes flickering up to you with a wicked gleam that screams you’re not in control anymore.

The grenade feels like it weighs a ton, the pin trembling in your mouth as you struggle to focus—on holding it steady, on not giving in, on not letting Sara’s chaotic, unhinged domination win. But she doesn’t make it easy. Her mouth slides down your length, taking you deeper with each slow, deliberate bob of her head, her fingers gripping your base as though determined to wring every ounce of control out of you.

And then, the final blow. She hums—low, teasing, vibrating through you in a way that makes your knees nearly buckle. The grenade slips. The pin drops, clinking against the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the tense, humid air. Sara doesn’t stop. No, she presses on, her mouth working you over until you’re throbbing, leaking, your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you teeter helplessly on the edge.

In that moment, you care about nothing, not about the girls watching you nor the hot professor, not even about how this will be the second time they will see you cum right in front of their eyes. You close your eyes, ready to give into the feeling when -

Cruelly, Sara pulls back, her lips releasing you with a wet pop that echoes in your ears like a gunshot. Her hand stays on your length, stroking you just enough to keep you teetering there, right on the brink, throbbing and achingly hard. “Oopsie,” she sings, her voice light and airy, her grin wild and unrepentant. “Did I make you lose your grip? My bad.” Her hand squeezes slightly, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip as she tilts her head innocently. “You’re not mad, are you, prisoner?”

She rises smoothly, brushing off her knees and tossing her grenade over her shoulder like it’s nothing, the prop landing with a soft thud. “Don't worry, I wasn't gonna blow you up! I could never blow up a cock like this!" she purrs. "But..... you failed the test, Big Boy ” she purrs, her grin sharpening as her hand gives one last, torturous stroke before finally letting go.

She steps closer again, her hand snapping out to grab your chin, forcing you to look up at her wild, glittering eyes. “You know,” she whispers, her voice adopting a mockingly sweet tone, “if you’d passed my little game, I totally would’ve let you go. But now...” She tilts her head, her grin splitting wider as she leans just inches from your lips. “Now you’re mine. My little dungeon toy. And if you ever wanna finish what we started, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

She releases you with a wink, spinning on her heel and sauntering back to her seat, her grenades jingling with every step. “Thanks for playing, Big Boy!” she chirps over her shoulder, her voice bright and bubbly. “Better luck next time!” Her laughter echoes, leaving you trembling, humiliated, and utterly wrecked as the next girl rises from her seat.

Your cock throbs and the class erupts into applause at the brilliant performance they just witnessed