Ultimate shoulder rides

Dawn (1)

The young man sat up quickly, aware that any delay was unacceptable. Every movement was guided by the discipline Diana had instilled, and the simple contact of his body with hers reinforced the authority she wielded over him.

"Come on," Diana added as she adjusted her position over him. "You'll learn more today than in any class: obedience, balance, and concentration."

Carefully but firmly, he began to move in rhythm with the swaying motion, leading Diana into the routine of the new day, aware that his role as "horse" was both physical and a constant reminder of discipline and attention.

In the mirror, he saw his stepmother: "Beautiful, with makeup, well-groomed hair, a hat, sunglasses, a red miniskirt ("My God!" he thought, "You can see her black underwear in that miniskirt"), and high-heeled, knee-high black boots."

The young man was momentarily paralyzed by the sight of his stepmother. Every detail reinforced her authority and attractiveness: the impeccable makeup, the neat hairstyle, the hat that gave her an air of mystery, the sunglasses that partially hid her eyes, and the red miniskirt that contrasted with her black underwear, all complemented by the high-heeled black boots that reached her knees.

She watched him with a firm demeanor and a confident voice as he climbed down from the back of the swing:
"Go to your bedroom, put on your uniform, then have breakfast," she said, pointing with her eyes at the priest who had already prepared everything, "and then go to school."

The young man nodded, with a mixture of respect and Admiration, aware that every instruction from Diana must be carried out without delay. His mind replayed the image of his stepmother, recording every detail, as he headed to his room to prepare for the day.

Father Elías, now dressed again in his cassock, remained in position, fully aware of Diana's authority. He had carefully prepared breakfast for Diana and her stepson, and as soon as he finished, she had bridled and saddled him, reminding him of his role and submission.

Diana watched with a satisfied air, crossing her arms as she supervised the priest's every gesture. Her firm and majestic bearing contrasted with the priest's submission, reinforcing the hierarchy she unwaveringly maintained. His every movement was guided by her orders, and the breakfast routine served as a reminder of the power Diana wielded over everyone around her.

The young man entered the dining room with measured steps, observing the scene that was already familiar to him: Diana eating breakfast elegantly, her impeccable bearing and gaze. Firmly, while Father Elías remained kneeling behind her, the reins firmly attached to the leash holder in Diana's hand.

The priest's every gesture was conditioned by Diana's authority: her posture, her silence, her absolute attention to his mistress's every movement. The stepson felt the tension and control in the air, and at the same time a strange fascination with the way Diana combined power, discipline, and majestic presence.

Diana, without taking her eyes off her breakfast, allowed her stepson to appreciate the scene and learn, silently reinforcing the lessons of obedience and hierarchy that were part of his daily education.

The young man thanked her for the breakfast, saying,
"Breakfast was delicious."

Diana smiled and said,
"Compete with the food your dad prepares."

The young man smiled with a slight blush, acknowledging Diana's suggestion.
"I'll try," he replied with some enthusiasm, aware that the comment was not just a joke. praise, but also a subtle challenge to measure his skills against his father's cooking.

Diana smiled back with a hint of complicity and authority, enjoying how her comment fostered competition and learning at the same time. The priest, kneeling and controlled by the reins, watched silently, reinforcing Diana's commanding presence as the young man respectfully and attentively assumed his place in the scene.

Diana said, "Go to school and visit your father." Don't worry about me because the priest is my horse now."

The young man nodded obediently, clearly grasping the order and the teaching implied within. "Yes, stepmother," he replied respectfully, feeling a responsibility to care for and accompany his father while Diana remained outside his direct concern.

Diana, with her haughty and firm demeanor, gave him a quick glance that combined affection and authority, reaffirming the hierarchy that governed their household: she controlled, he obeyed, and the father was under Diana's supervision, in a position of respect and submission. The young man strode out, ready to fulfill his day's tasks, while Diana's presence continued to dominate the room even from a distance.

==
This is the continuation of Charles's dispatch to the village, from "Galatea: The Pygmalion Project"
==

Charles' Return (1)

It was the day of Charles's arrival in his village. The memory of the last brutal event still hung in the air: young schoolgirls had mercilessly walked over the bodies of adult males, leaving many hospitalized. Charles himself had paid a heavy price, losing an eye, although thanks to Vanessa and Galatea, he now had the bionic eye that restored his vision. Diana's husband was not so lucky and remained seriously injured in the hospital.

During those days of Charles's absence, Diana did not cease her dominance. She continued to ride various men in the village, including her own stepson. The boy, barely old enough to hold her, was turned each night into her wooden rocking horse, a mount for play and power, an improvised replacement for her convalescing husband. Diana, tireless, thus exercised her authority and maintained her riding routine without showing any fragility.

Carlos's return, then, took place in a charged context: the town was still recovering, the men scarred by humiliation, and Diana fully asserting her dominance, awaiting mounts ready to please her.

When he arrived, he was undecided whether to visit his parents or Diana first. He stopped at the crossroads in his village, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his head slightly tilted, thoughtful. On the one hand, his parents were eagerly awaiting him, probably ready to shower him with hugs and questions.
On the other, Diana was there, waiting, perhaps with that mix of authority and charm that always managed to disarm him. Each option had its own weight, its own tension: the warmth of the family or the intensity of Diana. Carlos took a deep breath, knowing he had to decide... although deep down, part of him doubted he would ever be able to decide without his heart dictating the path.

Carlos felt a chill run down his spine as his decision solidified. His parents could wait; he knew their affection wouldn't be lost if he delayed visiting them a little. But Diana... Diana demanded obedience, respect, an absolute devotion that he was eager to offer.
He took a deep breath, lowered his gaze, and murmured to himself, "Today I will submit to her... I will kiss her boots and be her horse."
With that thought firm, Carlos took a step toward Diana's house, every movement filled with anticipation, excitement mingling with nervousness, knowing that he would soon be under her control and care.

Along the way, Carlos met Diana's stepson; they greeted each other and chatted. Carlos became worried when he heard Diana's stepson. The words hit him hard: his father was hospitalized in the hospital. A chill ran down his spine as he recalled recent events: the loss of his eye, the vision he'd regained thanks to the bionic eye Vanessa and Galatea had implanted in him, and the consequences of that strange and humiliating ritual in which the school's young female students had walked all over adult males, leaving Diana's husband severely injured.

For a moment, Carlos felt a lump in his chest, a mixture of worry and guilt, but then he remembered the decision he'd made: Diana was waiting for him, and his submission to her was inevitable. With a deep breath, he adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and continued on his way, each step resonating with the mixture of fear and determination that accompanied him.

Upon arriving at Diana's house, Carlos was paralyzed for a moment at the sight of her, imposing as ever, dressed in her outfit that combined authority and elegance: the white hat, sunglasses, black cropped top, black gloves, tight white leggings, and those imposing high-heeled, knee-high black boots. Before he could say anything, Diana acted with absolute firmness: she placed the bit on him, adjusted the bridle straps, and completely bridled him.

Then, with precise movements, she placed the saddle on Carlos's shoulders and cinched it, ensuring it was secure. Without wasting a second, she climbed onto him, sitting in the saddle and placing her feet in the stirrups, controlling every movement with the reins, whip, and spurs.

Carlos was barely breathing; his mind was struggling between submission and admiration. "At least equine horses are stroked before being mastered..." he thought, surprised by the precision and intensity with which Diana was guiding him, remembering that his devotion to her brooked no resistance or words.

Carlos, with each step determined by Diana, advanced, obeying to the letter the instructions of the reins, whip, and spurs. His breathing was deep but contained, focused on not letting her down, on not losing the rhythm that Diana imposed on him.

The walk to his parents' house felt strange and fraught: every movement reminded Carlos of his status as a "human horse" and his absolute devotion to Diana. Around him, the town seemed to move in slow motion, while he, under Diana's absolute control, moved forward with a mixture of nerves and respect for his Mistress and Owner.

As he arrived at his parents' house, the door still closed, Carlos knew he would soon have to face them... but for now, his entire focus was on Diana, who guided him firmly and without a single word.

The Return of Charles (3)

Without wasting a moment, Diana placed the bit back in Charles's mouth, ensuring his complete obedience. With a precise movement, she adjusted the reins, whip, and spurs and began to guide him toward another destination. Charles, once again in his role as a human mount, moved forward obediently, aware that his life and movements were completely under Diana's direction.

Don Carlos stood for a few seconds contemplating Diana's imposing figure as she rode away, riding Charles with firmness and grace. The image of the young rider dominating her own son struck him deeply, and he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Doña María, noticing the intensity of her husband's gaze, asked him with curiosity and a hint of reproach:
"Why are you staring at her so much?"

Don Carlos blinked, slowly turning his attention back to his wife, trying to explain in words what he could barely comprehend: Diana's authority, presence, and strength were overwhelming, even for him. The scene had left him fascinated and respectful, a mixture of surprise, admiration, and involuntary submission to the young rider.

Don Carlos opened his mouth, trying to articulate some explanation for his fixed gaze on Diana, but no sound emerged. A knot of awe, respect, and fascination blocked his words, leaving him speechless before Doña María.

She looked at him with patience and curiosity, sensing that the intensity of what they had just witnessed had left her husband unable to respond. Don Carlos slowly lowered his head, aware that, even if he wanted to express something, Diana's authority and presence still resonated within him, dominating his thoughts and emotions.

Doña María, with a touch of firmness and affectionate rebuke, spoke to her husband:
"Shut your mouth, old man. Diana isn't here to give you the cold bit and control your head with the bridle."

Don Carlos lowered his gaze even further, blushing and aware of the futility of trying to speak. His silence became submissive before his wife's implicit authority, while the image of Diana and Carlos's absolute obedience still resonated in his mind.

Doña María sighed, a mixture of amusement and resignation, as they both watched Diana ride away with her son, making it clear that the young rider's control over the situation was still intact, although now only in memory and in the fascination she had left behind.

Doña María shouted loudly:
"Diana."

Diana rode back, upright and serene, on Carlos's shoulders. Upon arriving, she slowly turned her face toward Doña María. The young woman barely removed her sunglasses to reveal her firm, penetrating eyes and calmly replied:
"Tell me."

Doña María, without hesitation, replied clearly:
"My husband stands with his mouth open, eager for you to place the cold morsel between his palate and tongue, behind his teeth."

A heavy silence enveloped the moment. Carlos, who bore Diana's weight and presence on his shoulders, felt the tension thicken in the air. Don Carlos, head bowed, remained motionless, unable to hide the obvious: his gaze still sought the rider who dominated his son.

Diana inclined her head slightly, without smiling, observing with an air of superiority and undimmed authority, as if pondering whether or not to grant what Doña María had expressed.

Diana, sitting majestically on Charles's shoulders, gently holding the reins, tilted her chin slightly toward Doña María and, in a firm, clear voice, asked:
"Doña María, how old is your husband?"

The question, laced with irony and dominance, fell like a subtle blow to the atmosphere. Doña María stood a little straighter, aware of the rider's penetrating gaze, and knew that her answer would determine the course of what would come next.

Diana Rides Father and Son (2)

Diana advanced with regal bearing, firmly holding both reins: in one hand the reins of the son, who was carried on her shoulders by her, and in the other the reins of the father, who obediently followed her like a tame beast. The rhythm was set by her spurs and the tension of the straps, without the need for a single word.

They arrived at Diana's house, a place that already breathed her dominion. There, in a corner of the living room, several saddles rested, clean and ready, as if waiting for the male bodies destined to serve as mounts.

Calmly, Diana dismounted from Carlos's shoulders. The boy was breathing heavily, but with the satisfaction of having fulfilled his duty to his Mistress. Diana stroked the invisible back of the nearest saddle and, with a look that brooked no reply, pointed to Don Carlos.

The old man understood instantly. Diana would take one of those saddles and strap it over his back to ride him the moment her son fainted. Neither would escape their fate: to serve as mounts, father and son, under the reins of the same rider.

Diana firmly took one of the saddles, made of dark, well-crafted leather, and placed it on Don Carlos's bent back. The old man remained docile, his mouth occupied by the cold bit, while she precisely adjusted each girth, making sure it didn't move an inch.

The leather creaked beneath the rider's gloved hands. Once girthed, she tested the fit by pulling hard on the straps. Don Carlos shuddered, but offered no resistance. Diana then adjusted the stirrups to the correct height, for Don Carlos was like a trained horse.

Stepping back to observe her work, the young woman smiled with satisfaction: her 62-year-old father and 21-year-old son were ready, each in their own way, to be ridden by her. Carlos as the main mount on her shoulders, and Don Carlos ready, with the saddle already girthed, to replace him when the main horse gave up.

The bionic eye transmitted every detail with impressive clarity: the leather tightening, the sound of the girths being tightened on Don Carlos's submissive body, and Diana's firm voice, taking everything for granted.

In the research center, cold lights bathed the screens. Vanessa, arms crossed, stared at the projection. Beside her, Galatea manipulated the console controls, zooming in at different angles.
"The signal is perfect," Galatea murmured with a slight smile of satisfaction. "I can even feel the pressure of the girth on your skin."

Vanessa nodded slowly, her eyes shining with a mixture of analysis and fascination.
"Diana is ruthless and meticulous. She's training them like beasts of burden... and the incredible thing is that they accept it," she commented, leaning forward. "The son supports her on his shoulders, and the father, his saddle already fixed, waits his turn like any broken steed."

Galatea tilted her head, almost amused.
"It's not simple obedience. She's reprogramming them. Every gesture, every command, every tug on the reins... is imprinted on them. And we see it all, as if we were riding through their eyes."

The tension in the room thickened. They both knew the scene was more than simple domination: it was a live experiment, and Diana, unknowingly, was delivering perfect results for her research.

The general, rigid in his metal seat, couldn't stay still. His hands clenched on the armrests as if he wanted to tear them off, his boots tapping nervously against the floor. The bionic eye's feed showed Diana taking complete control of Don Carlos, and each tug on the reins made the general's lips press even tighter.

Vanessa glanced at him, sensing that suppressed tension. Then her eyes sought out Galatea's. They held each other's gaze for a moment and, almost simultaneously, let out a knowing smile.
"She's feeling the same thing they're feeling," Vanessa whispered, her lips barely moving.

Galatea tilted her head, amused, and replied softly,
"Yes. Diana isn't just taming her human horses; she's also taming the spectator."

The general shifted even more uncomfortably, as if that observation had struck a chord with him.

Diana Rides Father and Son (3)

Vanessa, with calculated calm, threaded the reins through a metal ring on the edge of the general's desk and secured them with a firm knot. The image was striking: the military leader, reduced to being restrained like a simple horse, his head controlled by a pair of leather straps.

A nervous murmur ran through the room, but soon everyone present turned their attention back to the screens, where the imposing figure of Diana riding father and son dominated the broadcast. Even the general himself, his neck held by the bridle, couldn't help but fix his eyes on the image of the rider who inspired obedience and desire.

Vanessa leaned slightly toward Galatea, her lips close to her ear, and whispered mischievously:
"You raised your hand, I thought you were going to slap him."

Galatea didn't take her eyes off the screen, but she smiled with a dangerous serenity.
"Yes…" she replied softly, "but he obeyed before."

That "before" sounded like a warning: the general had been submissive in time, but if he had waited a second longer, he would have felt the harshness of his command on his skin.

The general tried to swallow, but the cold metal of the bit made even that simple gesture difficult. The leather of the bridle tightened, and the reins tied to the desk ring pulled his head forward, forcing him to bow his neck. The movement was as clumsy as it was humiliating: a leader who once raised his voice to give orders now seemed like a subdued and docile animal.

Several subordinates noticed, but pretended to concentrate on Diana's broadcast, as if the spectacle on the screen justified not directly looking at the shameful act unfolding a few feet away.

Vanessa observed every detail carefully and smiled with satisfaction.
"Look at him, Galatea," she said softly, her tone almost playful. Even swallowing depends on the bridle.

Galatea laced her fingers in her lap and nodded with a calmness that commanded more respect than any shout.
"This is how you break a general... without blows, just with control," she declared, glancing sideways at the restrained man.

Meanwhile, the general couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen: Diana riding naturally with father and son, the reins firm in her hands, absolute control. It was as if his own destiny was reflected in that scene.

Diana had led Carlos home with a firm stride. The young man, panting from the endurance of the ride, was beginning to show signs of fatigue in his shoulders. Diana, who didn't miss even the smallest detail, gently loosened the reins and stopped walking.

With a nimble movement, she dismounted from her son's shoulders and, without a word, walked toward Don Carlos, who was waiting, his mouth still occupied by the bit, his eyes shining with a mixture of anxiety and submission. Diana lightly touched the edge of the saddle she had prepared and, with the ease of a rider mastering her beasts, began to saddle him.

The girth strap creaked as it tightened under the old man's torso. The stirrups hung ready. Diana, with a light and graceful leap, settled herself over him. His body was perfectly erect, his back straight, the reins firm in his hands. Now it was Don Carlos who bore the weight of domination himself, while his son, still kneeling, breathed a sigh of relief.

In the research center, the image was clearly visible on the screen thanks to the bionic eye. Vanessa let out a soft, almost musical laugh.
"He's brilliant..." she said, tilting her head. Diana knows when to relieve her mount. She doesn't break it, she manages it.

Galatea nodded, her eyes fixed on the rider's regal bearing.
"Exactly. She knows that a true horse isn't killed in a single gallop, it's preserved to continue serving. And now, look... father and son, both subject to the same destiny."

Vanessa crossed her legs elegantly and added, "He doesn't even need to say much. His silence is stronger than any order."

The general, his reins tied to the desk, tried to swallow again, and this time the strap jerked his head sharply to one side. Embarrassed, he tried to compose himself, but all eyes were fixed on Diana's majesty and her perfect relief.

Diana Rides Father and Son (5)

Doña María took a step back, her lips trembling. Diana's hand hovered in the air, so close it could almost touch the skin wrinkled by the years. In that instant, what seemed like a caress was also a declaration: that Diana's will extended beyond their mounts, to the wife herself.

Don Carlos moaned softly under the pressure of the saddle, while his son, head bowed, barely breathed, waiting for the next command.

Diana slowly withdrew her outstretched hand and placed it firmly on her own thighs, accentuating her upright and majestic posture in the saddle. The pressure of her boots in the stirrups was felt on Don Carlos's hunched body, who groaned silently under her weight.

In a clear voice, so that there would be no doubt among those listening around, Diana declared:
"Mario, your son, came to visit you recently." He... and also his son, seven to ten years younger than me, are my horses.

The silence was immediate, heavy as lead. Doña María opened her eyes in disbelief, looking first at her submissive husband, then at her son chained by the reins, and now hearing that another son of hers, along with her grandson, had also been subdued under the same authority.
"Mario and... his son?" Doña María stammered, her voice breaking, unable to process such family humiliation.

Diana tilted her head slightly, letting her dark glasses reflect the image of the devastated woman before her. She added nothing more; there was no need. The force of her words was enough to reaffirm her dominance over three generations of men.

At the research center, Vanessa exhaled a sigh of amusement and excitement.
"Three generations..." she murmured, elegantly crossing her legs. "She doesn't ride men, she rides bloodlines."

Galatea smiled calmly, as if it were all part of an inevitable destiny:
"Exactly. And subservient bloodlines always end up surrendering to the Mistress."

Diana ordered her horse to advance, and he meekly obeyed with two firm steps forward. With her upright and confident bearing, she leaned slightly and gently caressed Doña María's face, a gesture that conveyed calm. The older woman, bewildered, remained still, sensing that mixture of tenderness and authority. Then, Diana smiled sweetly, but without losing her aura of dominance, and ran her hand over her head as if soothing... and at the same time reaffirming that she is the mistress of all, even the serenity of others.

At first, Doña María remained silent, motionless, not knowing how to react to Diana's touch. Her pride wanted to resist, but the firm warmth of that caress on her face and then on her head weakened her will. He lowered his gaze, as if gradually accepting the young woman's superiority. Finally, in a subdued but submissive voice, he replied:
"Yes, Diana... you command them."

At that moment, Diana smiled triumphantly, stroking her hair once more, as if rewarding her newly acquired obedience.

As Diana advanced on her mount, leading her son by the reins, Doña María lagged behind a few steps. In a soft, almost resigned voice, she murmured:
"Come to the house for lunch."

Diana turned her face slightly, showing a satisfied smile, without slowing the pace of her human horse. The father and son, submissive, continued in silence, while Doña María's invitation sealed their acceptance of the new order imposed by the young Mistress.

Diana rode Don Carlos into the health establishment, while Carlos, the son, was led by the reins at her side. In bed, her husband raised his head, smiling proudly as he watched his wife effortlessly dominate father and son.

The husband watched closely and, noticing Carlos's presence, commented in a voice filled with admiration and mischief:
"With you, Don Carlos, Diana rides three generations."

Don Carlos lowered his face, flushed and panting under the weight of his mistress, while his son, holding the reins in his mouth, didn't dare reply. Diana, upright and radiant on her mount, smiled contentedly, like someone who knows that her power recognizes neither age nor kinship.

Diana Rides Father and Son (7)

Diana's husband, still lying in bed at the hospital, smiled with a mixture of frustration and pride:
"I'd love to participate and be ridden by my wife!" he exclaimed with a sigh. "But the doctors have recommended rest... although I'm glad, because I'm not Diana's only horse."

Diana, without pausing the gentle movement of her reins over father and son, turned her face slightly and gave him a look full of power and sweetness at the same time.

At the research center, Vanessa giggled mischievously, resting her chin on the palm of her hand:
"Look at him... not even illness stops him from recognizing himself as a mount. What delightful devotion."

Galatea, with that calmness of hers that always seemed to dissect every scene, added firmly:
"That man understands his place well. What for others would be humiliation, for him is a privilege." That's why, even in bed, he's proud that his wife rides others.

Vanessa narrowed her eyes, excited by what she saw on the screen:
"Diana doesn't just have horses... she has a harem spanning generations, and each one happily calls her their Owner."

Galatea nodded with a slight smile:
"That is true dominion. Not imposed solely by force, but accepted with gratitude."

Diana gently tugged on the reins, halting Don Carlos and his son, and slid gracefully from the saddle. She walked to the bed where her husband was resting, her black heeled boots clicking firmly on the floor of the hospital.

She leaned over him, brushing his face with her black gloves, and said in a voice that was both firm and caressing:
"You will always be my horse, even if you must rest now. No matter what the doctors limit you, I know who you are and what you mean to me."

The husband smiled with relief, his eyes shining with pride and love.

Diana continued, lowering her voice so only he could hear:
"But while your rest lasts, you will remain a spectator. I must exercise my supremacy over the others... and I will. You, my faithful mount, will enjoy watching me ride those who bow beneath my boots."

The husband nodded, his chest heaving, accepting his temporary role.

On the research center's screen, Vanessa murmured sensually:
"She keeps him on a leash even when she's not riding him... that's absolute dominance."

Galatea, with a faint smile of complicity, concluded:
"Yes. It makes him a forced spectator, which binds him even tighter than any bridle."

Diana caressed her husband's face one last time and, with a defiant smile, stood up. She turned to Don Carlos, who was waiting bent over with the saddle already adjusted, and without a word, she placed her boot on the stirrup and mounted him again with absolute ease.

Sitting upright on the human mount, she adjusted her weight, firmly grasped the reins, and with a light touch of her spurs forced Don Carlos to take a few steps. The father, obedient, advanced slowly around Diana's husband's bed.

She, meanwhile, posed proudly: her white hat, her dark glasses, the short top that showed off her firm abdomen, and her black boots shining in the light.
"See, love?" she said in a soft but authoritative tone. "Even here, before you, I am still the rider. They bend beneath me, and you look down upon me. This is my supremacy, our truth."

Her husband, unable to contain his emotion, smiled with a twinkle in his eyes:
"You are my Goddess... and theirs."

Behind the monitor, Vanessa sighed in ecstasy:
"She doesn't just ride, she exhibits! She turns domination into a spectacle that is both intimate and public."

Galatea, with a serene expression, added:
"It's a ceremonial act. He, prostrate, confirms his place as a spectator; and the father, submissive, embodies the continuity of Diana's power."

Diana then stopped her mount in front of the bed and, with an elegant movement, raised a hand, as if with her own gesture she were offering the invisible crown of her dominance, knowing that every eye was fixed on her.

Interactions between Diana and the Priest (2)

Vanessa, with narrowed eyes and a glint of mischief that betrayed what she already suspected, said in a low voice:
"I have a hunch... Investigate whether Diana is a devotee, or a practicing devotee, and the interactions between Father Ignacio and her. I want to know if there was any evidence of submission on the part of the priest."

Galatea slowly turned her head toward her, as if she already had the answer prepared, and in a deep, clear voice, she answered:
"Diana isn't a devotee in the traditional sense. She goes to Mass occasionally, more to accompany her family than out of true spiritual need. But when she's there, even in the church, her presence commands."

Vanessa raised an eyebrow, interested.
"And the priest?" she pressed gently. "Did he show any signs?"

Galatea smiled faintly, like someone sharing a delicate secret:
"Yes." On more than one occasion, Father Ignacio bowed to her under the pretext of blessing her, but his hands trembled when he touched her. Once, when she stared at him, he fell silent in the middle of a sermon… and lowered his gaze. He wasn't explicit, but it was clear: his spirit, though strong, yielded to Diana's will.

Vanessa licked her lower lip, savoring every word.
"Then I knew it. Deep down, even the priest was yielding."

Galatea nodded:
"Exactly. It wasn't she who became devoted, but he who, silently, became even more devoted to Diana."

Vanessa giggled mischievously, leaning back in her chair while playing with a lock of her hair.
"And what do the town gossips say?" she asked mockingly. "You know, if they don't have the information... they make it up."

Galatea narrowed her eyes and, with analytical calm, replied:
"They say many things. Some say that Father Ignacio looks at Diana too much during Mass. That when she enters the church, his voice changes, softens, as if he were afraid of upsetting her. Others say that during a private confession, Diana's voice was heard firm, and the priest's response was barely a murmur."

Vanessa smiled wider, delighted.
"I like that... rumors of power."

Galatea continued, with a hint of irony in her voice:
"There's even a rumor circulating that the day she went to church wearing high boots and a hat, he interrupted the homily, lost the thread, and remained silent until she sat down. The old women in the village swear it was as if the entire Mass stopped for her."

Vanessa clapped softly, laughing with delight:
"Magnificent!" In the end, gossips are like distorted mirrors… but they always reflect some truth.

Vanessa, leaning an elbow on the table and with a mischievous look on her face, commented:
"The priests set strict rules regarding dress code when entering the church: no miniskirts, shorts, low-cut tops, no bare midriffs or navels, and certainly no tight leggings. Tell me, Galatea… did Father Ignacio establish those rules? And does Diana follow them?"

Galatea let out a slight smile, as if she already knew the answer, but enjoyed the intrigue.
"Yes, Father Ignacio established them years ago, seeking to maintain the solemnity of the church. Most of the women in town abide by them, afraid of being reprimanded. But Diana…" She paused meaningfully, "Diana is the exception."

Vanessa raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Let me guess… she comes dressed however she wants."

"Exactly," Galatea stated calmly. "She came in wearing crop tops, leggings that showed off every curve, even knee-high boots. And the most surprising thing is that Father Ignacio never stopped her. He never corrected her. He did with other women, but not with her."

Vanessa smiled maliciously, crossing her legs with provocative elegance.
"So the rule exists... but it's broken in front of Diana. That's no coincidence, that's domination."

Galatea nodded slowly:
"That's right. What is forbidden for everyone else becomes permitted for her. The priest knows it, feels it, and submits without saying a word."

Interactions between Diana and the Priest (4)

Galatea smiled faintly, knowing that Vanessa was expecting something substantial:
"The townswomen began to whisper. Some say that Father Ignacio was "bewitched" by Diana, that even with all his prayers he couldn't get her image out of his mind. Others claim that in the confessional he no longer reprimands anyone harshly, as if he had become softer since she set him up."

She paused, leaning slightly toward Vanessa:
"The boldest say that secretly, when he walks alone through the atrium, he repeats in a low voice: 'She commands, I obey.'"

Then Galatea lowered her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper:
"And of course, the gossips exaggerate. Some even fabricated that Diana will enter the temple in boots and a miniskirt to make him open the door and kneel before her."

Do you want me to tell you how the men of the town react when they hear these rumors about their priest and Diana?

Vanessa nodded.

Galatea continued calmly, as if she had been waiting for that signal from Vanessa:
"The men of the town react in very different ways. The older ones shake their heads and say it's 'pure gossip of idle women,' although deep down they tremble at the thought that their own pastor might be subservient."
"The younger ones..." Galatea smiled ironically, "instead of being scandalized, they are filled with intrigue. Some even comment among themselves: "If even the priest obeys her, how can we not?"

She paused, looking Vanessa in the eye:
"And the most curious thing is that, although they murmur or doubt, none of them dare to contradict her in public. The mere mention of Diana makes them straighten their backs, as if waiting for the signal to kneel."
Do you also want me to tell you how the women of the town react when they hear these rumors?

Vanessa nodded.

Galatea tilted her head slightly, as if savoring Vanessa's question before answering:
"The women of the town are more varied in their reactions. Some, especially the older ones like Doña María, are outraged aloud, but when they are alone, they lower their voices and even acknowledge with a certain envy Diana's strength and dominance."

She gestured with her hand, as if swatting away those voices.
"The younger ones... they admire her without reservation. They see her as a model of freedom and power. They secretly imitate her way of dressing, her way of walking, even her tone of voice when she gives orders. Some even dare to bring their boyfriends or suitors to their knees, saying, 'If Diana can do it, so can I.'"

Galatea let out a crooked smile:
"And among the more daring gossips, there's an almost sacrilegious comment circulating: 'If Diana wanted, she'd turn the procession into a parade of human horses.'"

Vanessa reacted with a knowing nod toward Galatea and said:
"In the movie The Da Vinci Code, the monk Silas flagellated himself."

Galatea turned her face toward Vanessa and raised an eyebrow, immediately understanding the comparison. She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret:
"Yes, I remember... Silas punished himself because he believed his pain brought him closer to God." She paused briefly, weighing her words. "Are you implying that Father Ignacio, instead of resisting, might give himself to Diana as a form of penance?"

Galatea gave a smile that mixed mischief and analysis, like someone connecting pieces of a puzzle.
"The difference," she added, "is that Diana isn't the whip... she is the absolute owner of the horse, and if he submits, he isn't punished: he is consecrated."

Vanessa said, "If Diana isn't the whip, she may be the one using the whip. Is it known that Diana whips the priest?"

Interactions between Diana and the Priest (6)

Galatea nodded with a slight smile, appreciating Vanessa's precision:
"Exactly, Vanessa. That's the key," she said, leaning slightly toward her. "Human horses like punishment when there's a relationship of conscious submission, but in public events, Diana doesn't seek to punish him. She leads him, directs him, and everyone present sees who's in control."

She paused, as if underscoring the difference:
"Father Ignacio knows that every gesture, every touch of the whip or Diana's position over him isn't humiliation or pain; it's a demonstration of power, guidance, supremacy. And he accepts it because he understands his place and, in a way, desires it."

Galatea added in a more analytical whisper:
"So, the priest's submission to Diana isn't perceived as public punishment, but as natural obedience. And that obedience becomes an example for all the other men in the village."

Galatea added, smiling mischievously:
"Diana doesn't punish in public; she does it in private, away from prying eyes."

Vanessa raised an eyebrow, enjoying the revealing detail.

Galatea continued in her mischievous tone:
"Yes, Vanessa," she said. "In public, Diana maintains the image of absolute control without needing to inflict pain. But in private, when no one is watching, she reinforces Father Ignacio's submission with spanking. It's her way of reminding herself who's in charge, in a safe and controlled environment."

Galatea paused briefly, smiling knowingly:
"So, even acts that seem public and symbolic are complemented by more intimate exercises in obedience. No one sees, no one judges, but the message is clear: Diana remains the mistress of her will and the space she controls."

Vanessa nodded, raising an eyebrow, interested and fascinated, crossing her legs knowingly.

Galatea continued in a more serious, almost reverent tone:
"In private," she said in a low, measured voice, "Diana not only reinforces Father Ignacio's submission, she uses the whip with precision. It is her way of reminding him who is in control and to whom he must consecrate his obedience. It is not mere punishment but a ritual act: each lash opens furrows in Father Ignacio's skin, and the blood he sheds becomes a tribute to his Goddess. It is not an act of gratuitous pain, but of devotion and conscious surrender, a recognition of his authority and power."

She paused, letting the image sink in Vanessa, leaning slightly toward Vanessa, as if sharing a secret that only they understand:
"It is an act of power and surrender, a private ceremony where Diana's dominance is reaffirmed without witnesses, where Father Ignacio's submission becomes something tangible and profound." Every private act strengthens the bond of obedience and reaffirms that even the guardian of norms and morals recognizes and accepts his place under Diana. What happens in public is only a glimpse; the essential happens in private.

Vanessa asked:
"Is it for all this that Father Ignacio convinced Doña María to accept Diana's domination over her husband, children, and grandson?"

Galatea nodded with a slight smile, as if confirming Vanessa's intuition:
"Exactly, Vanessa," she said. "Father Ignacio not only witnessed Diana's power, but also experienced it firsthand. He knows that resistance is futile and that her submission is voluntary but absolute. Seeing how she dominates even those who, by hierarchy or age, should have authority, he understood that his influence could serve to calm the resistance of others."

She paused, staring at Vanessa:
"That's why he convinced Doña María." She listened to him, reflected, and understood that opposing Diana would not only be futile, but would disrupt the harmony of the home. Thus, she accepted Diana's dominance over her husband, her children, and even her grandson, integrating obedience into the family dynamic.

Galatea added in an almost confidential tone:
"In other words, Father Ignacio's submission served as a model and catalyst for Doña María to accept Diana's supremacy without resentment, but with resignation and a certain admiration."

Interactions between Diana and the Priest (7)

At the research center, the screens clearly displayed the scene. Vanessa narrowed her eyes and smiled mischievously:
"Well, well..." she said ironically. "We thought it was Ignacio, and it turns out it's Elías who's crawling toward Diana's boots."

Galatea, without losing her composure, added with analytical calm:
"The database is outdated. Father Ignacio was the previous priest and the one who participated in Diana's first communion and confirmation. That confirms something important, Vanessa: this isn't an isolated priest, but a patron. Diana's presence breaks any previous hierarchy. It doesn't matter if it's Ignacio or Elías... both end up on their knees."

Vanessa slowly crossed her legs, enjoying the spectacle, and commented:
"I like it better this way. It means the network of submission is expanding, that it's not just one representative of the Church who recognizes Diana, but several."

Galatea nodded with a half smile:
"And that further strengthens his authority. If even the village shepherds turn into horses, what can the sheep do?"

Father Elías, kneeling before Diana, his lips pressed against Diana's boots, felt the murmur around him when he was mistakenly named. He barely raised his gaze, his face flushed with humility, not daring to stand up and stop kissing Diana's boots. Instead of standing up, he remained submissive, and with a trembling voice, serene but charged with emotion, he confessed:
"Yes, it's true... I am Elías, I am not Ignacio. Years ago I replaced him in the ministry... and also in submission to you, Diana. He taught me about... obedience to you. If they confused me with him, it's because I follow the same path he blazed."

His words echoed in the room, making it clear that this was neither an accident nor a novelty: the transfer of ecclesiastical authority had been accompanied by the acceptance of the same earthly and absolute authority that Diana exercised.

The priest lowered his forehead again, gently striking the floor with his forehead, as if humbly wishing to seal the continuity between his predecessor and himself. Then he moved his lips to the shiny leather of Diana's boots, kissed them, and added in a faint voice, a whisper that everyone could hear:
"Ignatius knelt before you... and I follow his example. Because where he recognized your supremacy, I also recognize it. Father Ignatius prostrated himself before you... and I, as his successor, can do no less."

Diana looked down on him, without moving a muscle, and with only a slight gesture of her riding crop, she brushed the air, as if confirming that she accepted him on the same footing as the others.

Diana, with her hands on her waist and her gaze fixed on Father Elías, let the silence linger for a few seconds. Then, smiling with a hint of superiority, she said in a clear and melodious voice:
"So you've replaced Ignacio in the ministry... and also in submission. Well, Father Elías, I recognize you as his successor in both paths."

As she said this, she extended her boot toward him, the tip of the shining leather barely touching his chin.
"Kiss it, and seal it as you did your ministry," she ordered.

Elías bowed his head even lower, kissed Diana's boot reverently, and remained on his knees without moving, as if the earth itself had held him there.

At the research center, Vanessa asked Galatea:
"Is Father Elias submissive to Diana because he imitates Father Ignatius, following her example, or for himself, because he wants it?"

Galatea, with her enigmatic tone and penetrating gaze, answered Vanessa:
"Elias began by imitating... believing he was only following the path marked out by Ignatius. But over time, it stopped being a repetition. Now he is for himself: he does it because he wants it, because his faith leads him to find meaning in that submission. Ignatius showed him the way, but Diana made it hers.

Vanessa said:
"Ignatius showed her the way, but Diana made it hers. What does that mean? Is Elias the path Diana walks on?"

Galatea smiled mischievously, leaning slightly toward Vanessa as she played with her words:
"Exactly... Ignatius opened the path, but Elias not only followed it, he lay down like the path itself." Now Diana walks on it, transits it, masters it, uses it as a path and support. Elias is not just a disciple of Ignatius: he is the living path beneath Diana's boots.

Diana Rides Father and Son (9)

Doña María, somewhat uncomfortable on the boy's shoulders, couldn't help but ask, looking at Diana with a hint of concern:
"Your stepson... isn't he too young for the effort?"

Diana, riding firmly on Father Elías, turned her face slightly, letting the sunlight accentuate the confidence in her expression. With a smile that blended tenderness with authority, she answered without hesitation:
"I've been riding him for years."

The sentence fell like a judgment, loaded with meaning. For Doña María, it was a revelation: this young man was no novice in Diana's service, but a trained human horse, accustomed to supporting her weight, her command, and her imposing presence.

The stepson, upon hearing his stepmother's statement, straightened his back and quickened his pace, as if Diana's words filled him with pride rather than fatigue.

Doña María, still hesitant, gripped his shoulders a little tighter, but deep down she understood she had no objection: Diana's will was a guarantee that everything would turn out well.

Doña María, still uneasy as she perched on the boy's shoulders, insisted in a deep voice:
"How old?"

Diana, standing tall and majestic over Father Elías, calmly stroked the reins she held in her hands and, with that serenity that commanded respect, answered without looking back:
"Since I was strong enough to walk on my knees under my weight."

The stepson, upon hearing the answer, pursed his lips in a restrained smile, as if that confession were an acknowledgment of her loyalty and the years she had served him.

Father Elías, being ridden by Diana at that moment, lowered his gaze slightly and silently reflected that that girl had a mastery that spanned generations, from the oldest to the youngest.

Turning to Carlos, Diana asked, "Do you know the game of horsey? One person gets on all fours on their hands and knees, and the other rides them on their horizontal back."

Carlos lowered his gaze, a blush betraying him. At first, he hesitated, but Diana's firm voice forced him to answer.
"I was... about five or six years old when I started, first being carried by my father, then being ridden by my mother, who also rode my father," he said in a faint voice, recalling those childhood scenes. "And I stopped... when I was fourteen."

Diana smiled, satisfied, twisting the reins slightly in Father Elías's hands as she held him steady under her weight.
"Fourteen years old, almost your entire childhood and adolescence," she remarked. "What began as a game with your father ended up becoming a habit. Now you understand why I say this family was born to serve me as horses."

Don Carlos, hearing this, closed his eyes in resignation. Doña María, still perched on her stepson's shoulders, remained silent, unsure whether what she heard shocked her more... or simply confirmed what she already suspected.

Interactions between Diana and the Priest (8)

Diana removed the morsel from Father Elias's mouth and said, "You were going to say something."

Father Elias, feeling Diana remove the morsel from between her teeth, slightly raised his chin, not daring to look into Diana's eyes. His breathing was labored, as if he had been carrying not only a physical weight, but also the gaze of everyone present.

In a trembling voice, he said, "I... was going to say that... in all of this... there is an order... and that order is set by you, Diana. I... I am nothing more than an instrument in your hands... as Father Ignacio was before me."

He paused, swallowing, and then added in a barely audible whisper, "And although my ministry dictates other things... my body and my will submit to you."

Diana smiled, satisfied. She lifted the reins, stroked the priest's sides with her thighs, and replied:
"That's what I wanted to hear."

Then she turned him with a gentle tug, like someone righting a disobedient horse, and placed him back in the position of obedience.

At the research center, Vanessa and Galatea followed every word and gesture through Carlos's bionic eye transmission.

Vanessa, with a satisfied smile, commented:
"Did you hear it, Galatea? Father Elías himself confessed: Ignatius introduced him, but Diana molded him. He's not a slave to the ministry, he's his Mistress's horse."

Galatea, with her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on the screen, replied analytically:
"It's deeper than it seems. He submits not only as a man, but as a figure of religious authority. Diana didn't break his faith; she absorbed it." What was once devotion to God is now devotion to her.

Vanessa raised an eyebrow, amused, and concluded:
"So... the pulpit is hers, the flock is hers... and even the pastor is hers. Diana doesn't just ride bodies, Galatea. She rides institutions."

Galatea nodded slowly, with a half-smile of recognition.

The priest pronounced aloud:
"Diana, I'm yours!"

The words fell like a solemn confirmation. Diana raised her chin slightly, the corner of her lips formed a satisfied smile, and with a slow, measured gesture, she brushed the riding crop against Father Elías's shoulder like someone sealing a pact.

Doña María remained motionless for a moment, her eyes filled with suppressed emotion; Don Carlos and Carlos exchanged a brief glance, a mixture of relief and acceptance. Diana's husband, who was lying there watching everything via video call, smiled proudly: his wife had turned devotion into something that encompassed the entire community.

In the research center's living room, Vanessa breathed a sigh of fascination:
"She said it without hesitation. That's worth more than any gesture."

Galatea, cold and precise, added:
"It's not just physical submission; it's a surrender that legitimizes Diana in the eyes of the institutions that would have previously held her back. It's a domino effect: if the pastor acknowledges his place as hers, the community assimilates him."

The general, tied to his desk, clenched his fists but didn't speak; the bionic eye's transmission showed faces that no longer disputed the hierarchy, only confirmed it.

Diana looked down at Elías and, in a clear but quiet voice, replied:
"Fine. Then stay and serve." And, without further ado, she took hold of the reins, setting the pace with absolute naturalness.

The scene remained frozen for a few more seconds: a mixture of ritual, power and acceptance that seemed to silently reorganize the order of that town.

The Slaughter of the Animal (2)

Carlos, still under the influence of the order, approached Diana, though he didn't dare look her in the eye. He then helped Diana's stepson hold the pig firmly. The pig was obedient, proud of having been chosen. The scene unfolded without hesitation, as if everything had been planned in advance.

Diana, standing tall with her hands on her hips, looked like a queen directing a ritual rather than a domestic chore. Her voice marked the rhythm, and each male responded like a cog in a machine.

Doña María, with her arms crossed and her face hardened, hesitated for a few moments. The contrast between Diana's haughty clothing and the blood that was about to flow seemed absurd to her. However, as she watched her son, her husband, and even Father Elías comply without resistance with Diana's every gesture, she began to understand something that chilled her skin: this, however strange, was part of the order she imposed.

It wasn't chaos, it wasn't rebellion. It was a new order, different from the one she knew, but order nonetheless. And that order revolved around Diana, her knee-high black boots, her firm voice, the way all the men seemed hypnotized by her presence.

An inner murmur ran through Doña María:
"If everyone follows her, what's the point of resisting?"

The woman exhaled slowly, and although the concern didn't disappear from her face, she let her arms fall to her sides. For the first time, not as criticism but as acceptance, she silently acknowledged that Diana was not only killing the pig, but also, with that act, defining the exact extent of her dominance.

Diana, unhurriedly, but with a determination that kept everyone in suspense, elegantly removed her white hat and placed it on the table. Her brown hair slid gently until, with calculated movements, she gathered it and covered it with a white cap that held and concealed every strand.

Then, she removed the black leather gloves that had accompanied her haughty demeanor and, with the same ritual calm, put on a pair of tight-fitting surgical gloves, the click of latex fitting her fingers echoing in the silence of the room.

An apron—a loose, light-colored smock—fell over her figure, protecting the black top that highlighted her torso and the white leggings that outlined her legs. Over it, she tied a waterproof apron, even paying attention to the details of her knee-high black boots, which gleamed menacingly.

In a matter of seconds, Diana had gone from a dominant and sensual image to that of a sacrificial surgeon. It wasn't a simple change of clothes, it was a ritual of transition: the woman who imposed her orders with style now presented herself as the executor who would not get more dirty than necessary.

The men watched, entranced not only by the beauty of her movements but by the authority each gesture conveyed. The stepson held the pig with renewed strength, as if Diana's attire had assured him that what was about to happen was sacred.

Doña María, seeing her so meticulous in her preparations, was finally convinced: this was no longer a peasant's chore, but a ceremony in which Diana set the pace, and everyone, without exception, danced to her rhythm.

The pig, tied firmly by the stepson and Carlos, grunted restlessly on the patio floor. Doña María held a clay bucket under the animal's snout. The atmosphere was solemn; no one spoke.

Diana approached with a sure step, the long, well-sharpened knife in her hand, pressed the sacrificial victim's head, and crouched down in front of the animal. She looked at it for a moment, with no trace of hesitation in her eyes, and said in a firm voice:
"Thank you for feeding us."

The silence thickened even further with those words. The pig's grunt became a minor echo in the face of the solemnity of the scene. The blade of the knife reflected the midday light, and the men, their muscles tense, barely breathed as they held the animal.
Doña María, with the clay bucket ready under her snout, realized that Diana's phrase was not mere peasant courtesy: it sounded like a ritual, almost sacred declaration, where death was transformed into order, nourishment, and dominion.

Diana pressed her black boot against the pig's head, asserting absolute control, and in a single, decisive movement, she sank the knife into the jugular vein and made a clean cut across the pig's neck. The animal let out a piercing shriek that shook the air, and then the sound faded, but Diana's hand didn't falter; firm, precise, she guided the blade with a serenity that chilled some and fascinated others.

The blood began to spurt out in torrents, flowing in a thick red trickle that pounded against the inside of the bucket held by Doña María. The woman, frowning, never looked away: her distrust of Diana remained, but now mixed with an inevitable recognition that the young woman knew exactly what she was doing.

The stepson held on tighter, sweating, but with shining eyes: there was pride in him, as if participating in the scene alongside Diana elevated him. Carlos, on the other hand, had a pale face: he struggled between obedience and the instinct to distance himself from that blood that seemed to consecrate Diana as something more than a woman.

Father Elías, in a corner, kept his head down, the memory of having been ridden by her fresh in his mind; he felt in his chest the uneasy certainty that what they were witnessing was not just an animal sacrifice, but a symbol of Diana's power over them all.

The Slaughter of the Animal (4)

Diana said to her stepson:
"You're one of those who looks at the speck in another's eye and not the log in your own."

The boy froze when he heard her.

Diana, still wearing her stained apron and gloves, looked at him with that smile that mingled sweetness and edge, as if her voice was caressing and whipping at the same time.
"You're one of those who looks at the speck in another's eye and not the log in your own," she said slowly, letting each word sink into the silence of the courtyard. "Remember, he who has a straw in his tail doesn't lean on the fire."

The stepson swallowed, feeling his cheeks burn. The hint wasn't just a proverb, but a sentence that laid him bare in front of everyone.

Carlos, who was standing next to him, lowered his eyes uncomfortably, recognizing on the young man's face the same blush he had felt so many times at Diana's words. Father Elías, more serious than before, crossed himself as if trying to protect himself from the clarity with which that woman exposed the men's hidden intentions.

The other men shifted in their seats: none dared to meet her gaze, because they knew that with a refrain she could tear off their masks.

Several kilometers away, from the research center's screens, Vanessa and Galatea watched the live broadcast.

Vanessa, with a mixture of astonishment and respect, was the first to break the silence:
"Look at her... even in the midst of blood she doesn't lose her elegance. It seems that even killing a pig becomes a ritual under her command."

Galatea, with her usual analytical tone, nodded slowly:
"It's a symbolic act. It's not just meat she gets. It's control." She directs life, death, and nourishment. Everyone obeys, everyone participates… but no one decides except her.

"And they do so without resentment," Vanessa added, leaning toward the screen. "Even Father Elias, who was once a symbol of authority, is there, holding a bucket."

Galatea gave a faint smile.
"That's what sets Diana apart from anyone else: she can be an angel or an executioner, and in both roles she remains obeyed."

Vanessa leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs thoughtfully.
"And we, who watch her, also end up obeying her."

Vanessa, who stood with her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on Diana, smiled faintly, her expression half fascinated and half warned.
"What Diana says is as true as it is disturbing," she murmured. "If even an animal feels the pull and weight of Diana's gaze, what might a man feel?" Perhaps that's why everyone ends up giving you something of themselves, even if they don't mean to.

Galatea tilted her head thoughtfully, as if she wanted to measure Diana's words beyond the surface.
"It's not an empty metaphor," she opined. "Sacrifice is also a mirror." The pig looked at Diana because he recognized in her the one who decides his destiny. A man in love doesn't act very differently: he gives himself away, even knowing that in that surrender he could lose everything. Deep down, what Diana describes is absolute power.

The general, on the other hand, clenched his jaw and remained serious, like a soldier facing a revelation that made him uncomfortable.
"I don't know if it's infatuation or condemnation," he said in a deep voice, "but I do know that Diana is right about one thing: whoever holds Diana's gaze eventually gives in. Call it love, devotion, or fear... the result is the same: they surrender their strength, their will, even their life if she demands it."
Vanessa and Galatea exchanged a brief, knowing glance: both recognized that the general's comment only confirmed what Diana had already made clear. She didn't need drama: her presence and her word were enough to subdue them.

Silence returned to the monitoring room, broken only by the whirring of the equipment. On the screen, Diana began dividing the meat into precise cuts while giving instructions for preparing lunch: stews, soup, pork rinds. All under her watch, all under her will.

The Banquet and the Feast (1)

The smell of roast pork permeated the entire house of Don Carlos and Doña María. The lavishly set table displayed plates filled with juicy meat, golden potatoes, and fresh salads that contrasted with the already empty beer bottles, witnesses of the celebration.

Diana, still wearing her apron over her imposing attire, sat in the center as the undisputed mistress of the banquet. To her right, Father Elías remained dejected but serene, as if each bite were an offering shared with her. Next to the priest was Diana's stepson. To her left, Don Carlos and Carlos, his son, exchanged nervous glances, the scene of the pig sacrifice still fresh in their memories. Doña María stood before her.

Doña María, with a visible effort, tried to maintain her composure. Her voice was firm as she announced:
"The banquet is served."

Diana, with the same calm with which she had officiated the sacrifice, removed her cap. Her dark, lustrous hair cascaded over her shoulders as if marking a return to her natural condition: not the ritual performer, but the woman who owned the space. Then she untied her apron and pinafore, setting them aside with slow, almost ceremonial movements.

The contrast was immediate. From the figure covered for the task, the rider reappeared in all her splendor: the tight black top highlighting her bust, the white leggings molding every curve, and the knee-high black boots, tall and dominant, restoring her to her throne of authority.

The men couldn't hide it: their eyes scanned her with devotion, enthralled by that mixture of rudeness and sensuality. Her stepson, Carlos, even held his breath for a second as if the revelation of her body, after the bloody task, were an act of purification and beauty.

Doña María, on the other hand, slightly twisted her mouth, resigned and silent: she understood that this display was not a mere whim, but part of the order Diana imposed on the house and on the men.

Diana, upright and confident, sat at the table as if the banquet itself had been conquered by her.

The diners began to eat. The crunch of the pig's skin under their teeth mingled with suppressed laughter and comments about the taste. Diana's stepson, while chewing enthusiastically, kept glancing sideways at his stepmother, recalling her firm figure brandishing the knife against the animal.

The atmosphere was charged: simultaneously festive and solemn, as if the meal were a ritual in itself, sealing Diana's dominance over all present.

At the research center, Vanessa raised her glass of wine—mimicking the scene from a distance—and commented to Galatea ironically:
"This isn't just a lunch." It's a banquet of power.

The atmosphere of the banquet was intensified by the beer. The men, their throats dry and their nerves still fresh from what happened with the pig, eagerly drank every glass that was served to them. The bottles emptied quickly, and each sip seemed a ritual of obedience.

Diana, standing tall in her seat, raised her hand to stop her stepson and was categorical:
"My son doesn't drink because he has to carry me."

The young man, his face flushed with pride, nodded obediently, knowing that his mission was clear: to be the mount that would transport his Mistress.

For the other men, however, Diana left no choice. She poured them the beer herself and compelled them with her gaze and words:
"You drink."

Don Carlos drained each sip as if it were a divine command, while his son silently imitated him. Father Elías, hesitantly, raised his glass with trembling hands, aware that rejecting Diana's offer would amount to unthinkable disobedience.

Doña María watched in silence, caught between shame and fascination, watching her husband, her son, and even the priest sip submissively, while Diana remained untouched, mistress of the meeting.

At the research center, Vanessa commented with a crooked smile:
"She doesn't just get them drunk on beer, but also on obedience."

Galatea added, crossing her arms:
"And the more they drink, the easier it will be to ride them later."

The Banquet and the Party (3)

Diana, standing tall and majestic in her white hat, black top, white leggings, and knee-high black boots, tilted her cell phone slightly toward her feet, allowing her husband to watch as three men kissed her boots.
"Look, love," she said in a firm, seductive voice. "I'm not just your rider... I ride generations, entire families, even priests."

Her husband smiled faintly, a glimmer of pride and desire in his eyes, and replied:
"Diana... you're the only one capable of doing this. I'm not the only horse, but I'm still yours."

Vanessa, watching the broadcast from the research center, let out an amused laugh:
"What a sight... even from a distance she subdues him."

Galatea, serious, but with a mischievous twinkle, commented:
"There's no rest for him. Although he's ill, he continues to bear witness to Diana's supremacy."
The stepson held the cell phone in both hands, focusing carefully while trying not to laugh at Diana's joke.

On the screen, the husband saw his wife posing dominantly in front of the three drunken, kneeling men, who seemed completely subdued by her. Diana, with a clear, playful voice, repeated:
"My love... I killed the pig we're eating, and I have my three little piglets here."

With an elegant gesture of her gloved hand, she first stroked Father Elías's head, then Don Carlos's, and finally Carlos's, who remained kneeling like the others.

Diana's husband, from his bed, smiled with a mixture of pride, desire, and resignation. His voice came out weak but full of admiration:
"You're unique... even the little piglets feel happy to be yours."

Diana cast an intense gaze toward the camera, as if piercing the screen, and added lapidaryly:
"They all feed from my hand, and they all surrender to my boots."

At the research center, Vanessa narrowed her eyes mischievously and murmured:
"She turns every man into whatever she wants... a horse, a pig, whatever. And they all happily accept it."

Galatea nodded with a half-smile, thoughtful:
"Yes... and the most disturbing thing is that it's not humiliation. It's privilege."

When Diana finished her sentence and stroked their heads, the three men—Father Elías, Don Carlos, and Carlos—responded in unison with a grotesque chorus of grunts and grunts, imitating pigs with surprising abandon. The sound echoed through the house, deep, wet, animal, as if they had accepted Diana's metaphor as their new identity.

She smiled contentedly, squinting behind her dark glasses, and lifted her chin slightly to appear even more imposing.
"That's it..." she said in a seductive yet cruel tone. "My little pigs know how to obey."

Diana's husband, looking from the screen, opened his mouth in disbelief, then let out a weak laugh, which mingled with a sigh of desire:
"I never thought I'd say it, but... my rivals aren't men, they're your animals."

The stepson, who was holding the cell phone to focus, trembled between embarrassment and pride. Even so, when Diana looked at him sternly, he also growled, this time louder, reinforcing their collective devotion.

At the research center, Vanessa couldn't contain her laughter and said, her voice cracking with amusement:
"Look at them! Three generations and a priest, reduced to little pigs... and all because she said so?"

Galatea, more serious, tilted her head slightly and commented with a hint of fascination:
"This isn't just domination anymore. It's ritual. She marks, and they transform."

The Banquet and the Feast (5)

The foam trickled down Father Elías's forehead, beard, and chest, darkening his soaked clothes. The smell of beer permeated the air, mingling with the aromas of the food still waiting on the table.

He didn't move. He remained on all fours, still as a statue, his head bowed, accepting Diana's inverted baptism. Not a gesture of resistance, not a word of protest; only silence. His submission became even more evident: each drop that fell seemed to erase what remained of his authority.

Diana watched him calmly, satisfied, as he turned the empty bottle in his hand as if he had completed a ritual. The men looked on in astonishment, some fascinated, others with fearful respect.

Doña María, in an almost inaudible murmur, blurted out:
"There is no priest left... only your child."

Diana smiled crookedly, letting the phrase float without a response. Father Elías, still, silent, and subdued, had accepted his new place: not as God's minister, but as Diana's beast of burden.

Diana, with the same ease with which she had slaughtered the pig or "baptized" the priest, settled into her seat and raised her voice with a serenity that imposed discipline:
"Wash your hands, let's continue eating."
The air slightly loosened; the tension turned into immediate obedience.

At the research center, Vanessa narrowed her eyes, with the faint smile of an engineer analyzing the results of a successful experiment. She commented in a low voice, as if speaking more to Galatea than to the others:
"Impressive... even at the table, he turns the brutal into an act of order. That's structured power."

Galatea, leaning back in her chair, watched her with that glow of scientific fascination mixed with a certain aesthetic devotion. He tilted his head and replied,
"She not only commands, but she makes the irrational seem logical. Even sacrifice, even baptism, end up seeming like part of protocol."

The general, on the other hand, was in a trance. His gaze remained fixed on Diana, and his lips parted as if murmuring a prayer. With trembling hands, he obediently stood up to wash, bowing his head to the monitor. Only one certainty remained in his mind:
"I am nothing more than her soldier, her horse... and even her son if she dictates it."

The contrast between Vanessa and Galatea's serene intellectuality and the general's reverential submission made it clear: Diana had not lost control for a second; she had elevated the table to a stage of absolute dominance.

The general, his face still flushed with emotion, had stood up, obeying Diana's order as if he were there, at the same table. It was then that Galatea's firm voice echoed in the research center, several kilometers away from where the meal was taking place:
"General! We're at the research center, not Diana's house."

The voice echoed like a reminder of coordinates, as if seeking to awaken him from a dream. But the general didn't react; he continued with the same reverence, as if he were still listening only to Diana.

Vanessa, calmly crossing her arms, looked at Galatea and commented with a half smile:
"Leave him alone. He's obeying Diana from a distance. She doesn't need to be here physically; she just has to give an order."

Galatea was silent for a moment, surprised by the obviousness of what Vanessa had just pointed out: the general had been so deeply reprogrammed and domesticated that Diana's will transcended space and time.

In the research center room, everything became clear: what to others was miles of distance, to the general was nothing. In his mind and body, Diana was omnipresent.

The Banquet and the Party (7)

The silence in the control room thickened. The vital signs chart showed that there was still a pulse and breathing, albeit irregularly.

Galatea, much calmer, bowed her head slightly and replied confidently:
"It's the drunkenness... he's unconscious now. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. His body simply gave way, not his spirit."

Vanessa took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, though without taking her eyes off the image of Carlos, inert under the mud.
"I trust Diana..." she whispered. "But if she takes too long, we could lose him."

Galatea, with a half smile, replied:
"Diana never lets her horses break (destroyed), she only breaks (subdue) or breaks in them."

Diana ordered the other two piglets to place Carlos on the kitchen table.

The two drunken "piggies" immediately obeyed Diana's order. Staggering, but guided by the strength of their Owner's voice, they bent toward Carlos, took him by the arms and legs, and with clumsy reverence lifted him up.

Carlos's body was limp, unconscious, and this heightened the ritual feeling of the moment. The men carried him to the kitchen table—still permeated with the aroma of the pig sacrificed by Diana—and placed him there carefully, as if he were an offering.

Diana, standing before them, crossed her arms and stared at them with a smile that combined pride and severity. The contrast was stark: Carlos, exhausted and inert, surrounded by the other two men on all fours, and she, upright in her role as absolute sovereign.

In a slow, penetrating voice, Diana said:
"Very well... he's now on the altar. Now I want to see how good you little pigs are when it comes to obeying without thinking."

At the research center, Vanessa brought her hand to her lips, impressed, while Galatea murmured mischievously, "Diana transformed a simple kitchen table into an altar of power."

Diana reached for the knife, but Doña María, with a firm yet respectful gesture, took it from Diana's hands and said in a deep voice, "Ma'am, it's too late, I'll put it away."

The blade flashed for a moment in the kitchen light before disappearing into the matriarch's experienced hands. The atmosphere tensed, as if everyone was waiting for Diana's reaction.

She didn't protest. On the contrary, a slow smile spread across her face. Her eyes sparkled with malice and pride. With a small gesture, she snapped her fingers and called her stepson.

He came obediently, bowing before her. Diana gently but firmly fastened the bridle, adjusting the straps. Then she placed the saddle on his back, skillfully adjusting the stirrups.
"That's better," she said triumphantly. "I don't need knives when I have horses."

With elegance and ease, she climbed onto her stepson, settling into the saddle as if it were the most natural place in the world. The contrast was stark: the knife kept by Doña María, a symbol of domesticity and limits, versus Diana riding her stepson, an absolute symbol of supremacy.

Those present fell silent, aware that Diana had transformed the tension into an even more forceful act of power.

Diana, now perfectly settled on her stepson, lightly tightened the reins, and he obediently began to ride. Each slight tug was enough to correct the course. The riding crop in her right hand struck the air with a sharp crack, more to mark presence than to punish. From time to time, she brushed her spurs against the sides of her human mount, urging it forward with more vigor.

The other two drunken men, staggering, watched her walk away. Father Elías, fresh in the memory of submission, looked at them with a hint of envy disguised as devotion. Doña María, resigned but also fascinated, also watched her walk away, accepting that Diana had transformed even a return home into a parade of supremacy.

Diana's black boots, firmly in the stirrups, gleamed with every step, projecting the image of a modern-day rider who didn't need flesh-and-blood horses: her horses were the men themselves.

When they reached the door of her house, Diana stopped her mount with a gentle tug on the reins and said in a clear, firm voice:
"We have arrived."

Last edited by caballito (2025-09-30 12:48:29)

The Banquet and the Feast (9)

The general, his forehead beaded with sweat, swallowed before speaking:
"I saw her... in my mind, I saw her as if she were right in front of me. And although I had never seen her before, I felt the same thing I feel for you two: devotion."

Vanessa stood up and walked slowly toward him, her boots making each step echo on the center floor. She took him by the chin and said in a tempting voice:
"So, General... tell me, what would you do if that woman appeared here, right now, riding on your men?"

Galatea watched him with piercing eyes, ready to hear the answer that would bare the general's heart.

The general lowered his gaze, as if afraid his own words might betray him. His breathing quickened, and after a few seconds of silence, he confessed in a trembling voice:
"If that woman came in here, riding on your men... I would bow down without hesitation." I would receive her like a queen, just like you, Vanessa, just like you, Galatea. Because I am nothing more than that... your horse, your servant.

Vanessa smiled contentedly, leaning in to whisper in his ear:
"That's how I like to hear you... acknowledging your place."

Galatea, without taking her gaze off him, added with cold analytical demeanor:
"The important thing is not to whom you surrender, General, but that you can no longer stop doing so. That is what interests us."

The general shuddered again, feeling that his own confession bound him even more tightly to the two of them.

Galatea said:
"You are a playboy because you want to be with your daughter-in-law Gabriela, with Diana, with the woman who is in Doña María's house, with Vanessa, and with me."

The general jerked his head up at Galatea's accusation. His eyes reflected a mixture of shame and bewilderment. He tried to formulate a response, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

Vanessa, crossing her legs elegantly, smiled amusedly and added ironically:
"It seems they've exposed you, General. You like them all... but in the end, you always end up on your knees."

The general swallowed, then lowered his voice into an almost pleading murmur:
"I won't deny it... each of you subjugates me in your own way. I'm not a playboy, I'm a prisoner of your power."

Galatea looked at him with an arched eyebrow, enjoying the confession, and replied in a dry voice:
"Don't be mistaken, General. Not a prisoner... a horse. Our horse."

The man shuddered again, as if those words had sealed his fate.

As the lady rode off on her horse's shoulders, Doña María said, "Thank you very much, Luciana."

Luciana, now upright and majestic on the shoulders of her human horse, paused for a moment when she heard Doña María's grateful voice. She turned her face slightly, her hair falling elegantly over her shoulder, and responded in a serene but firm tone that blended sweetness and authority:
"Don't thank me, Doña María. Make sure you maintain order... because what we did today wasn't a game, but a lesson."

The horse beneath her, panting from the weight and exertion, lowered its head in silence, as if it too recognized the gravity of her words.

Doña María bowed her head respectfully, understanding that Luciana was not a simple guest, but a figure who commanded respect, almost as if Diana herself were reflected in her.

Luciana then gently touched her mount's shoulder with her riding crop, ordering them to resume their march. And so, riding with imposing bearing, he withdrew into the darkness of the night, leaving behind him an air of mystery and power.

In the bedroom (2)

Diana said:
"Son, I feel better now. Take that tub, wash it, and bring another one just in case."

The stepson obeyed without hesitation. He stood up carefully, carrying the still warm and heavy tub, lowered his gaze so as not to upset his stepmother, and walked firmly out of the room.

Meanwhile, in the research center, Vanessa murmured under her breath:
"What a devoted boy... he seems like a lifelong servant."

The general, on his knees, responded with a hint of fervor:
"It's not servitude, madam, it's devotion... Diana trained him that way."

Meanwhile, Galatea smiled and commented:
"He's a good horse; he knows when to hold and when to charge, always attentive to her."

Diana, already upright in her bed, her boots still on, ran a hand through her hair and said calmly, "That's what men should be like. Always ready, always ready."

At that moment, the sound of water running was heard in the courtyard, where the stepson was obediently washing the tub, following the order to the letter.

When the stepson returned, Diana said, "I feel weak. Help me take off my clothes, starting with my boots, and put on my nightclothes."

He approached her carefully and reverently. With trembling but devoted hands, he took Diana's high boots and began unbuttoning and removing her knee-high black heeled boots, gently sliding each leg down so as not to hurt her or upset Diana's posture, with great care, as if each movement were part of a sacred ritual.

When he removed Diana's first boot, he didn't rush.
He held her for a moment, brought her to his lips, and kissed her reverently, as if in gratitude for the privilege of serving. He repeated the same with the second, his lips brushing against the leather still warm from Diana's body heat.

Then, his eyes fell on the knee-high socks that covered her feet and calves. He leaned closer and slowly kissed the fabric, absorbing the scent and touch, aware that each kiss was a declaration of obedience and adoration.

Finally, gently, he removed the socks from her calves and feet, revealing Diana's bare feet. There, his gesture became even more fervent toward Diana's feet: he kissed and licked them with devotion, one by one, exploring each toe, each toe, the instep, the sole, the ankle, the heel, every curve, every delicate corner. His mouth and lips expressed what words could not: that everything about him belonged to her, from his body to his soul.

Diana looked down on him, upright and haughty, enjoying each kiss as a confirmation of her power and his absolute devotion. Her smile, slight but filled with pleasure, illuminated the scene, making it clear that in that home there was only one sovereign.

Then, just as gently, he untied her black gloves, revealing Diana's delicate hands, and kissed them. He then unbuttoned her black cropped top, while she sat on the bed, breathing slowly and trusting him completely.

Diana sighed softly and murmured, "Thank you... your care sustains me even when I feel weak."

He leaned slightly in front of her, maintaining his gaze so as not to disturb her. Gently, he slid his hands over the tight white leggings, starting at her formidable hips and slowly moving down her astonishing thighs, feeling the soft resistance of the tight fabric.

With slow, precise movements, he pulled the material over her contoured calves, ensuring that each fold of the garment glided without excessive friction. Diana sat, leaning her back straight against the headboard, her hands on her thighs, watching and supervising his every gesture.

When the leggings reached her feet, he paused briefly, making sure Diana was comfortable and that the garment didn't hurt her skin. Then, with a final movement, he removed the white leggings completely, as Diana breathed a sigh of relief and comfort.

The general remained attentive, respectful, aware of the precision and care with which each action was performed.

4.596 / 5.000
In the Bedroom (4)

Diana bowed majestically, offering each movement not as a concession, but as a demonstration of absolute power. Her mouth and throat wrapped around him firmly, as if it were a conquered space, a territory that belonged to her by right.

Lying on his back, he didn't dare move a muscle. His every breath was ragged, every moan stifled under her watchful gaze, even as she possessed him with the intensity of her mouth. The sensation overwhelmed him, but he knew he couldn't rush forward or free himself without Diana's permission.

She maintained control of the rhythm: sometimes slow, prolonging the delicious agony, and sometimes deep, making him tremble. It wasn't an act of surrender from her to him, but quite the opposite: he was completely surrendered, absorbed in the certainty that he was being used, dominated, and marked by the will of his Mistress.

Diana, with a victorious smile, said, "You're ready now." Then she positioned herself on his pelvis, firmly guiding his manhood until it entered her. The movement wasn't rushed, but sure and precise, like someone who knows that dominance is reasserted with every gesture.

He let out a stifled groan, shuddering under her weight and warmth. But he didn't move: he understood that the rhythm wasn't his. It was Diana who set the pace, upright and proud above him, riding him with the same authority with which she rode her human horses.

Diana, each thrust was charged with power. Her hair fell back, her body shone with exertion and control, and her smile showed both pleasure and dominance.

He, surrendered, could only gaze at her with devotion, trembling beneath her, aware that he was part of an act in which his role was to serve and sustain.

The room filled with the sound of Diana's heels gently clicking against the mattress, a reminder of who ruled the scene.

Diana didn't just let herself go: each climax was experienced as an affirmation of her dominance.
The first surprised her with a violent shudder, her back arching and a moan that sounded more like a command than a release. She stared at him, smiling superiorly, as if saying wordlessly, "You make me come because I decide to."
With the second, her hips moved harder, seeking to milk him, taking advantage of his every reaction. Her nails dug gently into his chest as he panted, and her fiery eyes pierced him with a mixture of lust and power.
The third had her leaning over him, gently biting his neck, marking her ownership. Her breathing was intense, but even in that state, she maintained control of the rhythm, forcing him to resist and sustain her.
Each climax wasn't just pleasure: it was an act of dominance on her part, a reminder that he was there to hold her, to please her, and to be the stage upon which she displayed all her strength and sensuality.

Diana, riding him, her breathing ragged and sweat beading her forehead, let out those words laden with fury and desire:
"Damn Carlos, what I did to you turned me on."

Diana's tone of voice was a mixture of reproach and confession, almost as if invoking the memory of that moment of "sacrifice" intensified her current arousal. Her hips didn't stop, as if mentioning him revived the feeling of absolute power she had over him.

Beneath her, he understood that those words weren't simple:
They were proof that Diana fueled his fire with the memory of her dominance, and that he was the vessel through which she discharged all that energy transformed into lust.

He dared to ask:
"By cutting his throat?"

Diana leaned toward him, her hair loose falling over her shoulders and her gaze burning, almost dangerous.
"Yes," she whispered with a crooked smile, brushing her lips against his. "When I plunged the knife in, when I saw the blood... my body burned. It was as if my entire skin was set ablaze, and only you could put out that fire."

Diana, her voice was somewhere between a gasp and a confession, charged with an intensity that mixed the violence of memory with the pleasure that now overwhelmed him.

Beneath her, he felt a shudder run through his body; he didn't know if it was fear, desire, or both at the same time. The only thing that was certain was that Diana dominated him with every word, every hip movement, every look that pierced him without giving him room to escape.

In the Bedroom (6)

Diana allowed herself to be swept away by the intensity. Her body trembled again and again as she rode him, until her moans turned into muffled cries of pleasure. Each contraction inside her drew new ejaculations from him, filling her with everything he had.

Their sweat mingled, and she, excited, dug her nails into his chest, marking him as hers. When she finally collapsed against his torso, panting and satisfied, she murmured in a hoarse but triumphant voice:
"I've milked you dry... and I still want more. But that's enough for tonight, for there will be others."

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling under Diana's weight. Hearing her words, he smiled, relieved and at the same time fascinated by her intensity.
"Yes..." she replied in a broken voice, stroking his sweat-damp back. Other nights will come, and I will be here for you.

Diana sat up slowly, her gaze still burning, but with a look of serene satisfaction. She settled down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, and added with a dangerous smile:
"You don't know what awaits you."

Diana ordered him to remain by her side while she rested, on the floor beside the bed so she could use it as a mat when she got up, as a rocking horse, or lie down on the bed.

Obedient and aware of the importance of the order, he settled down on the floor next to the bed, adopting a position that would allow him to always be within reach of her. His arms resting at his sides, his legs stretched out, and his back straight, he kept his gaze lowered, a sign of absolute respect, while Diana observed him with a mixture of authority and tranquility. He lay on his chest, looking at the floor, bowing his head and lowering his gaze as a sign of respect and submission, aware that his position must be completely receptive to any instruction Diana gave him. His posture reflected absolute obedience, neither challenging his stepmother's authority nor distracting himself with the view of the ceiling or the surroundings.

"Perfect," Diana said in a soft but firm voice. "That way you'll be ready when I need to get up, lean on you, use your back as a rocking horse, or lean on you."

He nodded briefly, wordlessly, aware that any movement had to be at his command and always for his comfort and enjoyment.

Diana lay back on the bed, crossing her legs and resting her back against the headboard, while adjusting her nightclothes after sex. Every breath was measured, showing that even at rest she retained absolute control over whoever was present.

The stepson stood a few feet away, attentive, ready to carry out any new instructions, and the general, kneeling near the monitor in the research center, bowed his head, reaffirming his devotion. He murmured respectfully:
"She never ceases to impose her authority, even when she rests..."

The atmosphere was filled with reverent silence. Diana was the absolute center of attention, demonstrating that her dominance was not limited to activity, but continued even in moments of rest.

The stepson first felt the light touch of Diana's feet on his back, like a gentle warning to move. Moments later, her full weight rested on him as she stretched, adjusting her position on the floor to support her without discomfort.

Diana moved with the grace and firmness that always characterized her. With a quick gesture, she slipped on her sandals, making sure each foot was comfortable and stable. Then, gently rising, she headed to the bathroom, while her stepson remained motionless, breathing carefully, attentive to any new command or instruction.

The silence in the room reflected the concentration and respect the young man maintained, aware that even during the most mundane moments, Diana maintained her absolute authority.

The stepson remained motionless on the floor, first feeling the light touch of the soles and heels of Diana's sandals as she returned, and then the firm contact of her weight as she stood on him like a mat. His breathing became more controlled, aware of Diana's weight and the responsibility of holding her still.

Diana turned elegantly, leaning gently over the edge of the bed, and with a fluid movement, removed her sandals, leaving them beside the bed. Then, she lay back again, straightening her back and crossing her legs naturally, maintaining a posture that combined comfort and authority.

The stepson, on the floor, felt Diana's pressure lessen as she lay back down on her bed, but he maintained a position of absolute respect, attentive to Diana's every gesture. Every breath, every movement of hers was observed and accepted as a silent proof of obedience and devotion.

She sighed softly, adjusting her hair and posture, letting the weight of her head rest on the pillow.

Diana murmured serenely, "Perfect... this way I always feel safe and comfortable."

The silence in the room deepened, interrupted only by Diana's steady breathing and her stepson's slight effort to maintain his position, tacitly reinforcing the dynamic of authority and submission that existed between them.

Dressing Diana (1)

Diana woke up and stood up slowly, stretching her body elegantly. Then she decided to dress, wearing a black hat, sunglasses, a black cropped top, black gloves, black shorts, and high-heeled black boots that reached her knees.

Her relative, always on his knees, knelt at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently with his Owner's garments, his head bowed, awaiting orders.

She, upright and confident, allowed herself to be attended to like one who receives what was due to her.

First, he took the black lingerie bra, with delicate lace and thin straps—the first garment to highlight Diana's figure before the rest—and gently placed it on Diana's bare chest, helping her to slide her arms around her. His fingers trembled slightly as he hooked the clasps at the back, securing the garment, which further enhanced Diana's sculpted bust.

For the black cropped top, he was on his knees, holding it like a trophy. Diana raised her arms with a minimal, authoritative gesture, and he obediently began to slide the garment over her body.
The soft, stretchy fabric first lowered over Diana's head, covering her face for a few seconds. He gently smoothed Diana's hair back, taking care not to catch any strands. Then he guided his Owner's arms through the sleeves, patiently arranging each fold.
From there, the top descended like a dark river over her neck, shoulders, and chest. He adjusted it along the way, smoothing the fabric against Diana's skin with his fingertips, until it precisely covered the tops of her breasts, revealing, like a calculated oversight, the black lace of her bra.
The garment continued to descend slowly, sliding over Diana's flat stomach, tightening with every inch. He gently tugged at the bottom edge, stretching the fabric until it fit perfectly around her narrow waist, where it stopped just before the beginning of her shorts, revealing her navel.
When he finished, he leaned back, kneeling, to contemplate the perfection: the short top didn't hide, but rather highlighted Diana's figure, precisely defining every line of her torso.
She lowered her arms, turned her neck slightly, and her hair fell like a dark waterfall over her already clothed shoulders. The gesture was clear: there was no difference between a ritual and a routine. He wasn't just dressing her: he was adoring her with every movement.
Already dressed, with the short black top clinging to her torso, Diana glanced at her reflection in the mirror. He remained on his knees in front of her, holding his breath, waiting to correct any creases.
Then, with a gesture as simple as it was captivating, Diana brought her right hand to one of the edges of her top and gently pulled it down, revealing her tanned shoulder. The fabric slid obediently, revealing not only the smoothness of her skin, but also the delicate lace of her lingerie bra, which remained visible as a powerful insinuation.
The contrast was hypnotic: the ruggedness of the black top against the femininity of the lace, and her tan skin shining naturally in the light. It wasn't an oversight, but a declaration: she chose what to show and to whom.
He swallowed silently, sensing that this detail was both an intimate provocation and a demonstration of dominance. Diana smiled slightly sideways, as if she knew the exact effect she was creating with that simple gesture.
Then she brushed her hair back again, leaving that shoulder bare as a reminder: what was accidental with her was always intentional.
He, kneeling before her, watched the movement with the attention of a devotee witnessing a miracle. When Diana pulled back the hem of her top, revealing her shoulder, time seemed to stand still for him.
His eyes focused on the smooth line of her tanned skin and the black lace of her bra that now peeped out like a shared secret. A surge of heat ran through his body: he knew this gesture wasn't meant to seduce him, but to remind him of his place.
His breathing became heavier; he swallowed, tilting his head even lower, as if unworthy of holding her gaze directly. Yet he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering to the curve of her bare shoulder, burning with a mixture of repressed desire and absolute obedience.
Instinctively, he brought one hand to the ground for support, and with the other, he inched forward a few inches, as if he wanted to approach that exposed shoulder, kiss it, worship it. But he held back. She knew he'd only do it if she commanded him to.
Diana, with a crooked smile, noticed the tension in his posture, the internal struggle between adoration and control. This drew a silent satisfaction from her: he was captivated by even the smallest gestures she chose to give him.
The air between them grew thick, heavy with the certainty that a bare shoulder on Diana was worth more than any other's nakedness.

Diana, her shoulder bare and the black lace of her bra visible, tilted her head slightly toward him, as if granting him a privilege. Her voice came out soft, but laden with authority:
"Kiss it."

He didn't hesitate. He crawled on his knees until he was close enough and, with a reverent tremble, placed his lips on Diana's bare shoulder. First a brief touch, then a firmer kiss, imbued with devotion. The taste of her skin enveloped him, and he knew it was an offering of power and obedience.

"The lace," she indicated with a slight movement of her fingers, brushing the lingerie bra that peeked out beneath her top.

Obediently, he bent his face even closer and kissed the black lace, brushing it with his lips as if it were a sacred object. He stood there for a few seconds, inhaling the scent of fabric and skin, aware that his place was that of worshipper and servant.

Dressing Diana (3)

Finally, there were the knee-high black boots. He took them, one by one, and with an almost ceremonial gesture, held them out for her to slide her feet inside. Then he slowly zipped them up, caressing the leather, until the boots completely hugged her long legs. Each zip was like a silent oath of obedience.

That is, he took the tall, black boots with firm heels and knelt in front of Diana. Carefully, he first lifted one of her slender feet, barely caressing the ankle before guiding it into the soft leather. He advanced slowly, adjusting her leg inch by inch, until the boot covered her calf and stopped beneath her powerful thigh. He repeated the same gesture with her other leg, pulling the leather tight until both boots were firmly fitted, as if sealing their Owner's armor.
Diana, standing, watched him with her chin raised and her lips curved in a satisfied, sovereign smile.

Diana stood erect, imposing, her back straight, her hands resting on her hips, the absolute mistress of the scene. The bottom edge of her tight shorts and the top edge of her thigh-high boots marked a sacred territory: her formidable and marvelous thighs. The tanned, smooth skin shone in the light, and every curve of that firm flesh became an irresistible point of attraction because it seemed to have been sculpted for worship.

There, on that perfect stretch of tanned, smooth flesh, the men, unable to meet her gaze, descended respectfully, bowing because they were approaching a secret sanctuary, devoutly seeking to place their lips repeatedly between the end of her shorts and the beginning of her thigh-high boots, the altar of the secret sanctuary. There they placed their lips, one after the other, kissing Diana's thighs with devotion and trembling. The touch was gentle, as if they feared profaning a divine mystery, but at the same time ardent, because the heat of Diana's skin enveloped and dominated them.

The ritual became sensual with every moment: the touch of their lips on her warm skin, the taste of the light salt of Diana's sweat, the perfume mingling with the proximity of her boots and her shorts. She, with her wasp waist and goddess-like bearing, watched in silence, letting the mixture of solemnity and desire grow, aware that in those kisses her subjects not only venerated her thighs, but also surrendered their will completely.

Diana's boots now in place, he lowered his gaze to the sacred space between the hem of Diana's black shorts and the base of her boots. He leaned down and kissed one thigh first, the middle, where the brown skin was smooth and warm; then he moved to the other, closing his eyes as if each kiss were a pledge of loyalty. His lips ran devoutly along the contours of both thighs, in slow movements, savoring the blend of firmness and softness that defined them. Each touch plunged him deeper into adoration, making him feel like he was prostrate before an irresistible force.
So that he could kiss the inside of her thighs, Diana parted her legs slightly, marking a space where he, kneeling, was practically imprisoned between them. This gesture wasn't one of surrender, but of calculated control: she allowed it because she wanted to feel him subservient, buried in his place.
As he bent his head and his lips brushed first the inside of one thigh and then the other, Diana tensed her legs slightly, bringing them closer together to enclose his face. The contact with the warmth of Diana's skin and the touch of her boots on his sides enveloped him completely, captive beneath her mistress.
At the same time, she arched her back slightly and let out a haughty smile. She didn't say anything immediately, because she understood that her silence imposed even more weight on the situation: he was there because she had decided it, and each kiss was a confirmation of her devoted enslavement to him.
When she felt him too enthralled, she closed her thighs even more tightly, holding his head between them for a moment, as a reminder that he was there because she allowed him to be... and that she could also dominate him with a simple squeeze.
Diana left him there, buried between her thighs, for a long moment that seemed eternal to him.
Her smile transformed into an even more confident gesture, and with a slight movement of her hips, she squeezed his head a little, forcing him to feel the firmness and softness of her flesh.
Then, in a slow, silky, but firm voice, he broke the silence:
"Do you feel it?" he said. "You're trapped where I decide... not one step back, not one breath without my permission."

With her hands, she braced herself on his hips and arched her torso back, emphasizing her imposing figure. She looked down at him, imprisoned by her thighs, and added with a half-smile:
"I could close them and leave you breathless, or open them and grant you paradise. It all depends on my will... because the only thing you possess is what I grant you."
To emphasize this, she squeezed her thighs around his head again, but this time playfully, almost as if she wanted to remind him that she was as much in control of his pleasure as of his suffering.
Finally, leaning forward slightly, she looked directly at him and, barely stroking his hair, concluded:
"And yet, you kiss me, you adore me... because you know that your lips find meaning only here, where I enclose you."
Thus, Diana reacted with her characteristic majesty: she placed one of her hands on her wasp waist, further emphasizing the perfect hourglass line of her figure, and with the other, she gently cupped his chin, forcing him to look at her from below. "That's how I like it..." she said in a melodious but firm voice that brooked no reply. "That you worship my power where it truly lies."

Then Diana slid her foot forward, barely pressing the toe of her boot against his chest, forcing him to lean down as she effortlessly dominated him. Her brief laugh, charming and cruel at the same time, sealed the scene: a Goddess pleased by her servant's devotion, absolute Mistress of his kisses, his will, and his body.