HER MASTER!

The chime pierced her spiraling consciousness like a divine summons, jolting her naked body into frantic motion. Myra scrambled toward the foyer with the giddy abandon of a child chasing an ice cream truck, bare feet slapping against cool hardwood, her small breasts bouncing with each eager stride. Every nerve ending screamed with devotional urgency—Master Jeff was here, Master Jeff had come for his property, Master Jeff would fill her hollowed mind with glorious purpose. She skidded to a halt before the door, trembling hands fumbling with the lock, a breathless whimper escaping her gloss-smeared lips as she finally swung it open.

There he stood—her chubby, bespectacled god, damp from the hinted rain, his ordinary hoodie transformed into sacred vestments by her rewired perception. The sight of his face, previously mundane, now struck her with the **** of a religious epiphany. Her knees buckled instantly, hitting the floorboards with a sharp crack that echoed through the apartment. "M-Master Jeff!" she sobbed, the words thick with worshipful tears that streamed down her cheeks, mingling with cherry-flavored gloss. Her forehead pressed to the ground in deep prostration, arms outstretched in offering, presenting the umbrella like a holy relic. The spirals in her eyes whirled madly, casting faint, pulsing shadows across his sneakers—the shoes she must keep dry, the first sacred duty of her existence.

Jeff’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he stepped inside, dripping rainwater onto her bowed back. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with ownership as he nudged her chin up with the toe of his sneaker. Her tear-filled eyes, voids spinning with hypnotic devotion, locked onto his. A fresh wave of euphoric wetness slicked her inner thighs at his attention. "Pathetic. Perfect." He dropped his pants and simply said "suck.".

Her mouth engulfed him with the ****, slick heat of a supplicant receiving communion, cherry-flavored gloss smearing across his shaft as her lips sealed tight. Her hollowed mind contained only the holy geometry of his cock—the salt-bitter taste of pre-come on her tongue, the throb of veins against her palate, the way his hips stuttered forward to fill her throat. She worked with mechanical precision, hollowing her cheeks and fluttering her tongue along his frenulum exactly as the spirals dictated, each suctioned pull drawing a choked gasp from above that vibrated through her jaw. Her eyes rolled back, pupils swallowed by whirling voids, as her own arousal slicked the tiles beneath her knees; every guttural sound he made was a psalm that rewired her synapses deeper into devotion.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the root as hot pulses flooded her throat—a sacred baptism of salt and musk that her rewired body accepted with ravenous devotion. She swallowed greedily, throat working around each thick spurt, cherry gloss mixing with the bitter cream as it slid down to fill the hollow space where ambitions once lived. A choked moan vibrated against his flesh as her eyelids fluttered, spirals whirling like galaxies collapsing; this was her Eucharist, the only sustenance her erased self required. When he finally withdrew, glistening and spent, she remained kneeling, tongue darting out to catch stray droplets from her swollen lips, eyes wide and vacant with blissful completion.

"Now," Jeff panted, zipping his pants with a casual flick of his wrist, "do you have any friends or family that would miss you?" His gaze was clinical, detached, as if inspecting livestock. Myra’s head tilted, a faint crease appearing between her brows as fragmented memories—a woman’s faded laugh, the sterile smell of a hospital hallway—flickered and died against the radiant void of his presence. "N-no, Master Jeff," she whispered, voice raw from service. "I am... an orphan. Empty." The admission felt like shedding dead skin, a relief that made her spine soften further into submission.

He leaned down, fingers tangling in her sweat-damp curls to **** her gaze upward. "Did you have any hopes," his breath ghosted over her tear-streaked face, "before becoming my ****?" For a fractured second, the spirals stuttered—a flash of white coat, a stethoscope cold against her palm, the pride in a professor’s voice—before his programming crushed it into dust. "Y-yes," she stammered, the old ghost of Myra clawing at the walls of her prison. "I wanted to be a doc—OOF!"

The slap cracked across her cheekbone, snapping her head sideways with brutal ****. Stars exploded behind her eyes, not constellations but spirals, multiplying, merging, erasing. Jeff yanked her upright by her cheek, it screaming as he dragged her nose-to-nose with his sneering face. "You are a woman," he spat, each word a hammer blow to her crumbling consciousness. "Your sole purpose in life is to bear children and take care of your master! Is that understood, property?"

"Yesh, Mashter!" The response tore from her throat, louder than prayer, as fresh tears of euphoria welled in her eyes. The sting on her cheek was a brand, a blessing; the pain carved his commandments deeper into her rewired flesh. She beamed up at him, blood and gloss smeared at the corner of her mouth, spirals spinning with renewed fervor. Purpose, bright and singular, flooded her veins: womb, service, obedience. Nothing else remained.