One night, Miss Nia and I paraded him through the gay bars, leash tight in our hands, collar gleaming under the lights. Every gaze that landed on him was a reminder of his place beneath us. The next day, he sits caged with his equally pathetic friend, both stripped of pride, awaiting their turn to entertain Goddess Meraki and Miss Nia. She and I take turns tormenting them with our laughter mixing with their pitiful whimpers. Every whip, every stroke, every calculated touch is for the amusement of the livestream viewers, throwing money at the screen to watch their humiliation deepen. We don’t just own their bodies ... we own their shame, their dignity, their very existence. They’re not just subs; they’re our entertainment, our profit, and our proof that submission is meant to be utilized.