Men write to me like I run a charity. They beg for a chance to serve, to worship, to belong to me, as if submission were a raffle and sincerity were a ticket. It is not. Serving me is a position, positions have standards, and standards require an audition. Last week a new applicant called for his. He had read everything I have ever posted. He had prepared, he said, for days. I sat down in my leather chair with my clipboard and informed him that preparation is what the audition is designed to survive.
"State your name, your age, and the last time you touched yourself without permission from a woman," I said, pen ready. "Lying fails you instantly. I can hear lying."
He answered all three, and the third answer cost him visible effort, which I noted approvingly. Honesty under pressure is the entire entrance exam. Then we began in earnest. Posture first. On your knees, back straight, phone on speaker, cock out and untouched, because an applicant's first lesson is that wanting is not a qualification. I had him hold position and describe his own state in clinical detail while I took my time, asked about his work, his habits, the exact shape of his loneliness, and let the ache build the way I let all my instruments build, slowly and on schedule.
"Mistress, may I stroke?"
"You may stroke ten times," I said, "when I finish this sentence, and you will count them like they are worth money, because at my rates, applicant, they are."
He counted beautifully. Voice steady until seven, honest by nine, and at ten he stopped on his own before I had to correct him, shaking, hand frozen, and waited in the silence for my verdict. I let the silence do its work. Silence is where a dominatrix keeps her best tools. Then I gave him his second task. He would spank himself, twelve times, alternating his thighs, on my count, and after each one he would thank me by my correct title, and if his rhythm or his gratitude faltered, we would restart the count at zero. We restarted once. Only once, which I also noted, because a man who learns that fast is either talented or terrified, and I accept both.
For the final stage I took him to the edge three times and left him there, describing exactly what a full session with me would do to him, the confessions I would extract, the leash my voice would become around his whole week, while he knelt in his own apartment with his cock throbbing and his hands obediently still. When I finally granted him release, he came saying thank you in a voice that belonged to a man who had just been hired by his own destruction, and I wrote one word on my clipboard and read it to him.
"Provisional," I said. "You may call again Thursday. Men who pass my audition become mine in stages. You have earned stage one, and stage one is more men than you would think never reach."
He will call Thursday. Applicants who pass always do, because nobody else has ever examined them that closely and found them worth grading.
Now you. Do you think you would pass? Could you kneel untouched through my questions, count your strokes like currency, restart your own punishment without being asked twice, and hold your edge through three of my silences? Most applicants are certain, right up until the posture check. If your certainty is already sweating, that is the most promising thing about you. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, a dollar a minute. The audition is real, the clipboard is real, and if you have read about the boy who confessed at the gym, you know I do not grade on a curve. Kneel first. Then apply.