Read Part 1 HEREYou will endure agony in Ms. Sierra's tiny dungeon.

I always like to make sure my slaves are cared for, even during the harshest sessions.

I raised the sewing thimble filled with water to his lips. His little pink tongue desperately lapped at the water. When he finished, I dumped the rest over his head just to make sure he was fully awake. Then I looked over my toys and made my next move. I picked up a birthday candle and flipped the lid on my Zippo. As the candle started to melt, I tipped it just a little bit and watched as a tiny droplet landed in the middle of his back. A pink splotch spread, causing my little man to moan with delicious agony. Three more droplets landed, and if I had added a wick, I could have made a slave candle.

I watched his wiggling ass and I knew just what I wanted to do next.

I picked up a tiny shoe, you know the one from Monopoly. First, I held it in front of his tiny face. Automatically his tiny lips puckered, and kissed and licked it. When it was good and slick, I moved the shoe to another opening. Slowly I pushed it between his ass cheeks. He wriggled and moaned, but I could see that his tinsy, weensy cock was hard and dripping microdots of pre-cum, which landed with a ‘plink’ in the puddle of sweat at his feet. I continued, alternating the rhythm, bringing him oh-so-close to release. And then slowly denying him. Tiny men are so easy to tease.

The poor thing finally collapsed.

I picked him up and dropped him into a yogurt container that served as his bathtub. I used my finger to dip him in and out, and swished him around until he was clean, and then allowed him to dry off using the silky fabric tag from one of my bras. I then laid him down on the special little bed just for my tiniest slaves. It was an empty box that had once held kitchen matches. I had lined the box with a layer of soft, fluffy cotton balls. “Sleep well my itsy, bitsy slave,” I told him as I flicked his tiny cock with two of my fingers. His moan was music to my wicked ears. I couldn’t wait to get him on my tiny St. Andrew’s cross, blindfolded with one of those band-aids people use on the smallest of cuts. But first, I needed to rest.

Come, little man, are you ready to be next? Don’t be scared.

 

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