Slavery Phone Sex Dana Obeying Every Command of Her Master

The basement is colder than I expected, concrete biting through my bare slave feet as I stand there listening for him. By the time the door shuts behind me, I now understand how I was sold to being his personal nigger slave, something closer to Slavery Phone Sex but lived instead of imagined.

I’m not panicking, but I’m not floating either. My heart is beating fast, not from fear exactly, more from the awareness that I gave up control and now have to sit in that decision. The light is dim, just enough to see the walls, the chair, the space he told me to stay in all day.

He doesn’t rush. That’s what makes it intense. The waiting stretches my nerves thin, makes every sound feel louder. I shift my weight, reminding myself to stay where I’m told. I could speak up if I wanted to, but I don’t. I like the tension too much.

When he finally comes down the stairs, I drop to my knees instantly waiting for his next command. “You look so filthy and drained, from last where I left you last night, with the dried up fluids of my sticky cum melting all over your face and body. I now want to fuck you all day long since you belong to me now, you hear me you fucking nigger?” He yells. “Yes Master, I’m all yours eternally.” I say softly, with my nipples getting colder from the basements temperature.

He tells me where to put my hands. I follow. He tells me not to look at him. I break eye contact. Each command strips something small away… my pride, my resistance, my need to be clever or in charge. I feel smaller, quieter, but also sharper, more aware of my body and my reactions.

I don’t feel owned in some poetic way. I feel watched. Evaluated. Tested. And that’s what turns me on. I like knowing he’s paying attention to whether I listen, whether I hesitate, whether I need reassurance or punishment or silence.

Sometimes he lets the quiet sit between us. Other times he corrects me with his voice alone, and that’s enough to make my stomach flip. I don’t need constant praise. I need direction. I need to know what’s expected and how far I’m allowed to go.

By the time he leaves me alone again, my legs are sore and my head feels light. I stay where I am, not because I have to, but because moving too soon would break the spell. This isn’t about being perfect or endlessly obedient. It’s about choosing to stay right here, in the tension, until he decides what happens next.