Being a brat domme means I always win. This cuckold JOI is my playground—you stroke when I say, stop when I snap. Every humiliation drips with tease and denial, and every smirk makes you crave my voice more.

I lounge on my throne of thorns and velvet, ankle-length blonde braids spilling over crimson cushions. My big blue eyes glitter as you kneel at my feet, greedy for permission. I toy with the golden crown that marks me as your Queen—and your delicious humiliation.

“Let’s begin,” I purr, tracing a manicured nail down your cheek. “Strip. Show me how quickly you obey when I’m watching.” Your hands shake. I guide your wrist toward your cock, then yank it away before you can stroke. “Patience, pet. You’ll earn it—if you can endure what I have planned.”

I lift my mic, a wicked grin curling my lips. “We’re going to play a listening game,” I say—consenting, curated audio filling the room while I keep you on edge. “Eyes on me. Breathe when I say. Touch when I say. Stop when I snap.” Your focus is a leash; I tug it with every command.

I circle, heels clicking, voice low and lethal-sweet: “You won’t finish without my word.” Denial swells into devotion, obedience into worship. By the time I finally whisper now, you’re wrecked on the floor—my perfect puppet, dancing on my strings. And we both know you’ll beg for the crown again.