“Still a weak little bitch for me, aren’t you?”
- Sissy Crystal
- Mar 30
- 6 min read
Sissy Crystal's slutty little brain has gone off on a tangent, Samara and Ashley have been put on pause, a new girl Stacey has come in to take over this little puppet's mind.
Ten years. A full decade since Stacey had shredded my life into pieces so small I’d never find them all. She’d used me, sucked me dry emotionally, financially, socially, dragging me through her twisted game until I was nothing but a husk. She’d fucked her way through my friends, laughed in my face as I begged her to stay, then tossed me aside like a used tissue. I’d spent years clawing my way back from that abyss, convincing myself I was over her. But one phone call, her voice dripping with venomous honey, sharp enough to cut through a decade of self-delusion, and I was hers again, a puppet dangling on her strings.
So there I stood, in the sweaty chaos of a packed pub, clutching a drink I’d bought for her without even thinking. She lounged against the bar, her dark eyes glinting with cruel amusement, her lips curled into a smirk that said she owned every inch of this place and every pathetic shred of me. The noise of the crowd faded under the weight of her presence, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and her expensive perfume.
“Still a weak little bitch for me, aren’t you?” Her voice sliced through me, cold and commanding, as she snatched the drink from my hand. Her fingers brushed mine deliberately, tauntingly, before she tipped her head back and drained half the glass in one gulp. She didn’t thank me. She didn’t need to. “Move. Follow me. Now.”
I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. My feet moved like they’d been trained for this, trailing her as she cut through the crowd, her hips swaying with the confidence of a predator who knew her prey was already bleeding out. People parted for her, sensing the storm she carried. I stumbled after, heart hammering, dread and longing twisting in my gut like a knife.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She knew I’d follow.
The bathroom door banged open under her shove, the fluorescent lights flickering as she stormed inside. She spun on her heel, grabbed my shirt, and yanked me into a cubicle with a force that made my teeth rattle. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking with a sound that felt final, the bass from the pub’s speakers throbbing through the grimy walls. The space was claustrophobic, stinking of bleach and stale piss, but Stacey filled it like a queen on a throne.
“On your fucking knees,” she barked, her voice a whipcrack. She didn’t wait for me to process it—she pulled her phone from her pocket, thumbed it to record, and aimed the lens at my face. “Now, you useless piece of shit.”
I dropped. My knees hit the cold, sticky tile, my breath catching in my throat. She loomed over me, her shadow swallowing the light, and reached into her purse with a slow, deliberate menace. My eyes widened as she pulled out a dildo, long, thick, obscene in its size. It wasn’t a toy; it was a weapon, and the way she gripped it told me she’d never let it anywhere near me in the way I’d once dreamed.
Her laugh was a jagged blade, cutting through the air. “You thought I’d ever let your sorry ass touch me again? After all the whining, all the begging? You’re delusional.” She stepped closer, her boots clicking against the floor, her free hand tangling in my hair and yanking my head back until my scalp screamed. “But don’t worry, worm. I’ve got something special for you.”
Before I could brace myself, she jammed the rubber shaft into my mouth, forcing it past my lips with a brutality that made my eyes water. I gagged, the taste of plastic and her contempt choking me as she shoved it deeper. My hands clenched on my thighs, nails digging into my jeans as I fought to stay still, to please her, to survive this. She held the phone inches from my face, the red recording light a merciless eye capturing every second of my muffled choking, the drool pooling at the corners of my mouth, the tears I couldn’t stop.
“Suck it, you disgusting little paypig,” she snarled, twisting her grip in my hair until I whimpered around the intrusion. “Harder. Show me how fucking grateful you are.” She thrust it in rhythm with her words, each push a punishment, each pull a tease that left me gasping for air I didn’t deserve.
Her laughter ricocheted off the walls, a sound so cruel it drowned out the thudding music beyond the door. She didn’t stop until my jaw ached and my chest burned, until I was nothing but a trembling mess at her feet. Then, with a sudden yank, she ripped the dildo free, leaving me coughing, shaking, a puddle of spit and shame dripping onto the floor.
“Pathetic,” she spat, literally this time, her saliva hit my cheek, warm and humiliating. “That’s all you’ll ever get from me, you sniveling fuck. Get up. You’re not done being useful.”
I staggered to my feet, legs unsteady, face slick with her spit and my own disgrace. She flung the cubicle door open and strutted out, phone still in hand, her laughter trailing behind her like a leash. I followed, of course, I did, back into the pulsing crowd, the world blurring around me as she led me deeper into her game.
The night stretched into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. Bar after bar, I trailed her like a whipped dog, my wallet bleeding out with every round she demanded I buy. Her friends, vultures in tight dresses and fake smiles, watched me with pity and amusement as I handed over my card again and again. Stacey’s gratitude came in slaps, sharp, stinging blows across my face that left my skin raw and my pride in tatters. When she was in a darker mood, she’d lean in close, her breath hot against my ear, and spit on me instead, her saliva streaking down my cheek as her posse cackled.
I lost track of time, of how much I’d spent, of how many eyes had seen me unravel. The pubs blended into one endless haze of neon and noise, Stacey’s voice the only anchor, sharp, unrelenting, pulling me under. She didn’t let me sit, didn’t let me rest. “Stand there,” she’d snap, pointing to a corner like I was a disobedient pet. “Don’t fucking move until I say.”
The final act came late, when the streets outside were slick with rain and the air smelled of asphalt and regret. She dragged me to an ATM, her nails digging into my arm hard enough to bruise. The machine glowed in the dark, a silent witness to my ruin.
“Time to prove you’re not completely worthless,” she hissed, her eyes glittering with something feral. “Take out the money. All of it.”
I froze, my hand hovering over my wallet. Five hundred dollars, everything I had left for the month. Rent, food, survival, all of it balanced on the edge of her command. My stomach twisted, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.
Her grip tightened, her voice dropping to a growl that made my blood run cold. “I said, take out the fucking money, or I send that video to every single person you know. Your boss. Your mom. That sad little group you call friends. Do it.”
My hands shook as I slid the card into the slot, the machine’s beep like a gunshot in the quiet. I punched in my PIN, each number a surrender. The cash slid out, crisp, damning, and she snatched it before I could even touch it, her fingers brushing mine with a mockery of intimacy.
“Five hundred,” she sneered, stuffing the bills into her purse. “Not bad for a night’s work, huh, loser?” She stepped back, sizing me up like I was roadkill she’d scraped off her boot. Then, with a final, vicious slap that snapped my head to the side, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the night.
I stood there, alone, the rain soaking through my clothes, my face stinging, my bank account empty. Five hundred dollars gone. My dignity, whatever scraps I’d had left gone. And yet, as her laughter echoed in my skull, I knew the truth: if she called again, I’d answer. If she snapped her fingers, I’d run. Because Stacey didn’t just get what she wanted, she took it, and I was too broken to stop her!
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Mistress V
