Perfect Pet
Copyright© 2026 by yekangi
Chapter 2: Niece Wants a Similar Jewellery
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2: Niece Wants a Similar Jewellery - This is bit new format of writing i tried where it's like a conversation between domina and her male sub (I have used AI for writing)
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma Slavery Fiction Cuckold FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Snuff Exhibitionism Pegging Body Modification AI Generated
The silence in the house was a physical presence after Cum Sponge was gone. The final, quiet plucking of his flower had been a performance of absolute control, a masterpiece of my niece’s artistry. She had orchestrated a perfect, peaceful end, and in doing so, had created a void. She had retired her greatest creation, and now her own hands, which had once been so busy crafting suffering, felt idle.
She watched the empty pedestal in the grand hall where the vase of withered petals had sat. It wasn’t sadness she felt. It was a hollow, gnawing envy. Cum Sponge had been released. He had been given the ultimate gift: an end. He had been plucked, and his story was over. She, the artist, remained. The creator was trapped while her creation was free.
A dark, consuming desire began to bloom in her chest, a thorny, jealous thing. She didn’t want to end anyone’s suffering anymore. She wanted to feel the thrill of the plucking for herself. She wanted to be the one to find a new, perfect flower and nurture it just to the point of breathtaking beauty, only to snap its stem herself. The city, with its endless, anonymous garden of souls, called to her.
She left the estate behind, moving into a sleek, minimalist penthouse in the heart of the city that never slept. She rebranded herself, not as an heiress, but as an artisan of domination. “Mistress,” she was called, a title that felt both generic and thrillingly powerful. Her reputation grew, built on whispers of her unnerving patience and her psychological precision. She wasn’t a screamer or a brute; she was a sculptor. Men came to her seeking pain, but she offered them transformation. They wanted to be broken; she wanted to be the one to break them.
But they were all disappointing. They were all already cracked. They came to her with their kinks and their limits neatly listed, their desires pre-packaged and pathetic. They wanted to play at submission, to wear the collar for an hour and then go back to their lives as CEOs and bankers. They weren’t flowers waiting to be plucked; they were weeds, already dead and rotting at the root. She was growing restless, the hunger inside her becoming a constant, dull ache. She was beginning to think the city was just a desert of broken toys.
Then she saw him.
He wasn’t in a dungeon or a club. He was at a stuffy gallery opening, one she was attending purely out of boredom. He was an artist, or so she overheard, standing by his own pretentious piece—a chaotic splash of color meant to represent “urban ennui.” He was tall, with a quiet confidence that wasn’t arrogance, but a deep-seated self-possession. He had intelligent eyes and hands that looked strong and capable. He was whole. Unbroken. He was the most beautiful, arrogant flower she had ever seen, standing tall and oblivious in a field of mediocrity.
She didn’t approach him that night. She watched. She learned his name was Julian. She learned he had a small but loyal following and a disdain for the commercial side of the art world. He was proud. He was authentic. He was perfect.
It took three weeks to orchestrate their first meeting. She “accidentally” ran into him at a coffee shop he frequented, feigning interest in a book he was reading. She didn’t mention her work. She was just “Elara,” a patron of the arts. She was intelligent, witty, and she hung on his every word. She didn’t flatter him; she challenged him, engaging him in debates about art and passion that left him energated and intrigued. She became his intellectual equal, his mirror.
The seduction was a slow, meticulous burn. She was a spider weaving a web of silk and steel. She became his confidante, his muse, his lover. In the bedroom, she was a revelation—passionate, adventurous, and intuitively in tune with his every desire. She explored his body with a reverence that made him feel worshipped, all while subtly probing the edges of his comfort zone. A hand on his throat during a kiss, a playful command in his ear, a tie used to bind his wrists to the headboard. He loved it. He saw it as a fun, kinky game, a spice added to their profound connection. He had no idea he was being conditioned.
The first crack came six months into their relationship. He had a piece rejected from a prestigious show. He came to her penthouse, angry and deflated. He ranted about the critics, the system, the injustice. She let him vent, sitting calmly, sipping her wine. When he was finished, she looked at him, her expression unreadable.
“Stop whining,” she said, her voice dropping all its warmth.
It was the first time she had ever spoken to him that way. He stared, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re acting like a child who had his toy taken away. An artist doesn’t complain. An artist endures. Your suffering is the point, Julian. It’s the fuel. Right now, you’re just letting it spill all over the floor like a amateur.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. But before he could get angry, she was on her knees in front of him, her eyes filled with a fiery intensity that was both terrifying and intoxicating. “Let me show you,” she whispered, taking his face in her hands. “Let me help you use it.”
That night, she broke him for the first time. She didn’t tie him up. She used her words, her gaze, her touch. She made him stand in the center of the room and recount his failures while she circled him, poking and prodding at his insecurities with a surgeon’s precision. She stripped away his anger, his pride, his excuses, until all that was left was a raw, trembling core of vulnerability. When he finally broke, sinking to his knees and sobbing, she didn’t comfort him. She straddled his lap, held his face, and kissed him, consuming his despair like a fine wine.
“See?” she murmured against his lips. “That’s real. That’s beautiful. Don’t you dare hide that from me again.”
The game was over. She had dropped the veil. In the following weeks, his transformation accelerated. The name “Julian” was used less and less. He became “pet.” He moved into her penthouse permanently. His clothes were replaced with a simple, black silk robe. His art supplies were put away. His only purpose now was to be present, to be shaped.
She began his formal training. It started with his posture. He was to kneel by her chair whenever she was home, his back straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes downcast. He would hold the position for hours, his muscles screaming in protest, until his body began to remember it as its natural state.
His voice was next. He was forbidden from speaking unless given a direct command. He learned to communicate with his eyes, with the tilt of his head, with the press of his lips against her shoe. She taught him the meaning of silence, how a quiet, attentive presence could be more profound than any spoken word.
She broke his ego by making him perform the most menial tasks. He would hand-wash her lingerie, scrub her floors with a toothbrush, and serve her meals on his knees, his head bowed so low he could only see her feet. He was no longer the artist, the lover, the man. He was a function. A utility. And with every act of service, she could see the light of his old self dimming in his eyes, replaced by a hazy, devoted worship.
One evening, she returned home to find him kneeling in his designated spot by the fire, exactly as he had been left eight hours earlier. He hadn’t moved. He lifted his head, and his eyes met hers. There was no trace of Julian in them. Only a perfect, beautiful emptiness. Awaiting a command.
She walked over to him, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She cupped his chin, her thumb stroking his cheek. He leaned into her touch like a starved animal.
“It’s time to choose your new name, pet,” she said softly, a smile playing on her lips. The hunger inside her was finally sated, replaced by the profound satisfaction of a creator looking upon her perfect, plucked flower. “What will you be for me now?”
He knelt before her, the firelight casting long shadows across his naked form. For weeks, he had been empty, a vessel waiting to be named. Now, as she posed the question, a flicker of the old, desperate-to-please artist returned. He wanted to give her a gift, a symbol of his total devotion. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the cool marble floor.
“Please, Mistress,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Call me ‘Blank’.”
She raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Blank?”
“Yes, Mistress. Because I am nothing. My past is gone. My will is gone. I am a blank page for you to write on. A blank canvas for you to paint. My only identity is the one you give me.” He lifted his head, his eyes shining with pathetic, hopeful tears. He thought it was the most profound, most submissive thing a person could offer. He thought it was a play. A beautiful, dark, erotic play he was starring in with the woman he loved.
Elara smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. “Blank,” she mused, tasting the word. “It’s perfect.”
But she saw the truth in his eyes. He wasn’t blank. He was an actor playing a part. He thought this was a scene with a safe word he had simply forgotten to ask for. The final, most stubborn piece of Julian the artist was still there, hiding behind the performance, proud of his own “brilliant” submission. It was a flaw in the masterpiece. And Elara did not tolerate flaws.
A month later, the play came to an abrupt end. Elara dressed Blank in his silk robe, led him to a car, and drove him to a part of the city he had never seen. They entered a nondescript warehouse building, inside of which was a private, exclusive club. She didn’t explain. She simply walked him to a large, heavily built man with a thick, graying beard and a leather harness stretched across his massive chest.
“This is Blank,” Elara said, her voice cold and transactional. “He has a vivid imagination. I’m selling him to you for one month. I want you to fuck it out of him.”
The man, who went by the name “Bear,” grabbed Blank’s chin, his grip like iron. He looked the terrified young man up and down, a hungry gleam in his eye. “He’s a pretty one. I’ll have him whimpering like a pup by morning.”
Blank’s mind reeled. Sold? This wasn’t part of the scene. He looked to Elara, his eyes wide with panic and betrayal, but she was already walking away, not even looking back. The door to a private room opened, and Bear dragged him inside. The play was over. The reality had begun.
The first week was a blur of pain and violation. There was no artistry, no psychological game. There was only brute force and overwhelming, animalistic lust. Bear was relentless. He was an expert in breaking in new boys, and he treated Blank like a wild animal that needed to be tamed. He was collared with a heavy steel ring, his robe was taken, and he was kept nude on the floor at all times. He was taught to present his body, to open his mouth and his ass on command. Any hesitation was met with a sharp, painful slap or the yank of his collar.
By the end of the first month, Blank was unrecognizable. The “actor” was gone. The artist was dead. His body had been trained to respond with a Pavlovian desperation to the simplest commands. His gag reflex was gone. His ass, once so tight, was now a pliable, eager hole that could take Bear’s thick cock with practiced ease. He had become, as Bear had promised, a perfect twink. A beautiful, broken, sex-toy. He was an expert in the arts of anal and oral sex, not because he wanted to be, but because his survival had depended on it. He no longer thought. He only obeyed.
A few months later, as he was kneeling by Bear’s feet, licking his boots clean after a particularly rough session, the door to the room opened. He didn’t look up. New visitors were common. But a familiar, chilling scent of jasmine and leather cut through the stale air. He froze.
It was Elara.
She looked down at him, at the nude, collared creature on the floor, and a faint smile touched her lips. “I’ve come to collect my property, Bear. I believe he’s learned his lesson.”
Something inside Blank shattered. The memory of her, of their “play,” of the love he thought they had, crashed into the brutal reality of the last few months. This was his owner. This was his Mistress. The one who had sold him. The one who had saved him. A guttural sob escaped his lips. He scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, ignoring Bear completely, and threw himself at Elara’s feet. He pressed his face against her expensive leather boots, licking them frantically, his body wracked with sobs.
“Mistress, please,” he begged, his voice a broken, pathetic whine. “Please take me back. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I’m yours. I’m nothing without you. Please.”
Elara looked down at the whimpering mess at her feet. This was what she had wanted to see. Not an actor playing a part, but a truly broken soul, begging to return to the source of its shattering. She had her blank canvas now, truly and finally.
“Your worth is not proven with words, Blank,” she said coolly. “It is proven with flesh. You will be marked. You will be decorated as my property.”
The piercing procedures were a ceremony of ownership. He was taken to a private studio, strapped to a chair, and forced to watch as the piercer prepared the needles.
The first was mandatory. The Prince Albert. A thick, heavy ring was inserted through the tip of his cock, the cold steel a constant, jarring reminder of his new purpose with every step. It was a leash for his cock.
But that was just the beginning. To prove his absolute submission, he needed more.
Nipple Rings:* Not small, delicate hoops, but thick, heavy barbells through each nipple, designed to be sensitive and to be pulled, twisted, or chained. They were handles.
A Septum Ring:* A thick, circular ring that went through the center of his nose, giving him the look of a farm animal. It was perfect for leading him around with a single finger.
An Anal Ring:* Four small, interlinked rings were pierced through his perineum and the rim of his asshole, creating a literal “rosebud” of steel. It served no purpose but to humiliate, to make his most private orifice a permanent, metallic display.
A Tongue Stud:* A simple barbell through his tongue, to enhance the oral services he had become so proficient at. It was a tool for his new function.
He screamed through each one, but he never tried to run. He endured it all, his eyes locked on Elara’s, who watched with a look of intense, artistic satisfaction.
When they returned home, he was a new creature. A walking testament to her ownership. His training resumed, but with a new, crueler dimension. He was no longer just her pet. He was a tool to be used for her entertainment and profit.
She began hosting small, exclusive gatherings. Men would pay a premium for an evening with her beautifully marked pet. Blank would be made to serve them drinks, to kneel at their feet, and to offer his body. He would watch with his head bowed as Elara, the woman he worshipped, would laugh and chat with these men, sometimes holding his leash while they used his mouth. He became a cuckold to an entire rotating cast of strangers, his love for her twisted into a tool for his own degradation.
His life was now a constant state of service and humiliation. He was a pierced, nude servant, a sex toy for her guests, and a devoted, broken pet who rushed to lick his Mistress’s shoes the moment she walked in the door. He was Blank. And he was finally, truly, hers.
The final layer of Blank’s humanity was a stubborn, resilient thing. Even after being sold, pierced, and whored out, a core piece of him still saw himself as a partner in a grand, dark performance. He was Elara’s prized possession, her masterpiece. He needed to understand that he wasn’t even a masterpiece. He was a prop. And the most disposable kind of prop, at that.
The opportunity presented itself through an old, discreet contact of Elara’s—a group that ran exclusive, underground bestiality shows. Their star male performer, a dog they called “The Tyrant,” had recently gone through his human bitches at an alarming rate. They were desperate for a new male subject, as their current roster of females wasn’t drawing the same high-stakes crowds. They had heard of Elara’s legendary training methods and came to her with a proposition and their prize stud.
The Tyrant was a massive, brindle-coated mastiff, all muscle and primal instinct, with a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in your chest. He was brought to Elara’s penthouse, his handler keeping him on a thick chain. Blank, kneeling by Elara’s chair, stared at the animal with a mix of fear and confusion.
“This is Tyrant,” Elara said, her hand resting on Blank’s head. “He is not a pet, Blank. He is a partner in this house. He is an equal. You will treat him with the same respect you would show me.”
The command was bizarre, but Blank obeyed. He was made to prepare Tyrant’s meals, to clean his bowls, to groom his thick coat with trembling hands. He learned to anticipate the dog’s needs, to bow his head when the dog sniffed him. The humiliation was subtle at first—the indignity of being a servant to an animal. But Elara’s plan was far more insidious.
She began to elevate the dog’s status while simultaneously degrading Blank’s. Tyrant was allowed on the furniture; Blank was forbidden from touching it. Tyrant was fed prime cuts of meat from a silver platter; Blank ate his nutrient paste from a bowl on the floor. The hierarchy was being rewritten before Blank’s eyes. He wasn’t just serving the dog; he was becoming lower than the dog.
The next phase was the shattering point. “Tyrant is our equal, Blank,” Elara announced one evening, as the dog lay panting on the expensive rug. “And he has needs. As his caretaker, you will service him.”