As an author of female domination novels, I had seen it all, my dear readers. Years of swapping stories with you—my wonderfully warped fans—had taught me to expect anything. I studied your fantasies, your kinks, and frankly, I got used to every twist in the genre. Some of you craved confident, commanding women who ruled with an iron grip. Others fancied them barely 18 and already have men wrapped around their little finger. Then there were those turned on by, say, canine companionship or the thrill of a daughter dominating her father with unrelenting authority. I absorbed it all, hosting every shade of perversion with a nod and a smile, because I saluted you for embracing your deepest desires, no matter how wild. Whether you fantasized about executions or familial power plays, I had seen everything.

My latest beta reader, though, opens my eyes to a new corner of submission: men who slip into frilly female clothes, fully aware that no “normal” woman finds them sexually attractive—wink, wink. Let’s be honest, he doesn’t have the physique to catch a woman’s eye, not with that baby cock of his. Women, you see, don’t settle for such… modest endowments, if you catch my drift. He knows he isn’t cut out for what most adults do—no romance, no chasing hearts, no steamy nights of passion. And you know what? That’s perfectly okay. Everyone has their quirks, their little kinks, and there’s no shame in it. But here’s the twist: he does have a girlfriend. Oh yes, surprise, surprise! Her name? The mattress in his tiny room. Let me tell you how this charming love story unfolded.

It was 3:00 a.m. in my Norwich, Vermont home, the house cloaked in the stillness of early morning darkness. I rose to check my property, my body a brazen display of dominance in a completely sheer white two-piece loungewear set, so transparent it was practically nonexistent, as if daring anyone to ask why I wore anything at all. The cropped, long-sleeve blouse clung to my torso, its bell sleeves flaring at the cuffs, the lace-like trim brushing my skin, my breasts fully exposed through the gossamer fabric. The matching high-waisted short shorts hugged my hips, the sheer material revealing every curve, my pussy starkly outlined in a vulgar, unapologetic display. My wedge sandals, high and strappy, accentuated the elegant shape of my legs, my French-manicured toes glinting in the dim light. My scent—jasmine, amber, and a hint of coconut—trailed me, heady and commanding, as I descended to the first floor, my bare feet silent on the cool wood.

I moved with purpose, checking the windows, ensuring each was secure, my fingers grazing the locks. The front door was bolted tight, my domain safe. Satisfied, I glided toward my beta reader’s tiny room, where he lay asleep on his tummy, buried under his absurd pink princess blanket, dressed in pink little girl pajamas—a pathetic sight that fueled my amusement. I leaned close to his ear, my breath warm, my voice a low, commanding whisper. “Don’t you dare move.” His eyes fluttered open, wide and startled, but he froze, obedient even in his groggy state. I repeated, my lips grazing his ear, “Don’t you dare move.”

With a playful tug, I pulled down his pajama pants, exposing his bare ass, and delivered a light, teasing slap, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Now rub, you little baby, on that mattress, just like you said in your tweet,” I said, my voice dripping with mockery. “Rub your little wee-wee, or how I should call it… your baby cock, and you should call it that too from now on. No adult sex for you—just rubbing your baby cock on the mattress to climax, isn’t that right?” I leaned closer, my cold hand resting on his warm, slapped ass, feeling him tremble. “You’ll keep rubbing your baby cock on the mattress, thinking about me, how sexy I am. And in the morning, before I wake, I want a climax report—every detail of how you humiliated yourself thinking of me.”

I straightened, my sheer outfit catching the faint light from his room, my breasts and pussy brazenly exposed, a silhouette of unyielding dominance. I smirked, relishing how I had reduced him to ashes with my words, his submission complete. Without another glance, I turned, my touch vanishing as swiftly as it came, my sandals clicking softly as I glided away, my laughter—light, cruel, and triumphant—echoing in the darkness. He was left rubbing his baby cock on the mattress, his body quivering with desperate arousal, obediently fulfilling my command, his place firmly beneath my control.

I didn’t witness his intimate moment with his “girlfriend,” of course—it’s not polite to watch, or so they say. But his mandatory climax report was a revelation. He wrote that right after I left, he began rubbing his baby cock on the mattress, thinking only of me, humping it like a lover while picturing my dominance. He described grinding harder, consumed by thoughts of my commands to clean, my slaps, my hair-pulling, my stern orders that stripped him of dignity. He imagined begging me three times, licking and swallowing the “filth” from my “Superior Ass” for scraps of freedom, his body feverish with need. My image—my hair, my legs, my manicured toes—pushed him to a dizzying climax, his baby cock aching as he came, soaked in his own defeat, feeling me gloat over his broken state. Even as he wrote, trembling, he was aroused again, ready to repeat the cycle, owned by my will.

Later, he told me about another sub whose “girlfriend” was a toilet bowl, kissed with lipstick before he… well, you know. I had to step in for my beta reader’s well-being, so I told him: Oh, that was such a thrill to read, and I absolutely loved the third detail! But you don’t need to fuss over those kinds of experiences, do you, beta? Your girlfriend is that trusty mattress, isn’t it? It’s been your companion for years, hasn’t it? You’re not out there doing what most adults do, chasing romance or connection. Instead, you’ve found your perfect little solution, haven’t you? So simple. No need to woo or court women when you already know they wouldn’t see you that way, right? Just a few days ago, I made it oh-so-real, didn’t I? At 3 a.m., I slipped in and woke you with some playful pats on your ass, ordering you to get busy with your girlfriend, the mattress. Oh, the humiliation—your face burning as you obeyed, helplessly grinding away, lost in thoughts of your favorite author and her wicked dominance. How perfectly degrading, knowing that’s your reality, your girlfriend. Now, here’s a naughty idea: what if I weave this into a future book? Or better, splash it across my blog, playfully insisting it’s not fair to tease you for not knowing women—because you’ve got your mattress girlfriend, don’t you? I could make you admit it’s you, right there for all to read. What do you say, hmm?

So there you go, dear readers. Some men have women as girlfriends, but for those who can’t? There’s always a solution. A mattress, a toilet bowl—whatever sparks their fancy. No shame in it, right? They can always make love to something else instead. It’s all perfectly natural… or so I say with a wink. So, my sweet readers, tell me: who’s your girlfriend?