“Nursery of the Harvested” is a title that has me throwing shade at the boring nursery sessions I see floating around. Truly, is there no other Mistress who can think even a little outside-the-box? Why is this such a cookie-cutter industry? Soft lighting, frilly outfits, a Mistress cooing “who’s Mommy’s good little boy?” while the slave sucks on a pacifier and pretends he’s regressing into some adorable fantasy. Fuck that. Fuck vanilla. Fuck pretending. It’s Cute. Predictable. Vanilla BDSM at its finest. I haven’t done a proper nursery session yet … not the one that actually lives in my head … because the logistics are brutal. To make my version real I’d need ten to twelve submissive slaves, all of …
The Birth of Sofa Unit 01 ‘s premise asks, quite simply: What If Foot Worship Could Turn a Man Into My Sofa? What if foot worship could be … something more. Something way more. Not the usual slave on his knees pretending he is humiliated by sniffing soles and socks. Hell, you could drag a hundred girls into one room and order him to worship a thousand toes … he would just float away in bliss and call it paradise. For those of you who have been lucky enough to session with me … you know that the one thing I detest more than anything else is a slave thinking he is in paradise. “If you are enjoying it … …
The Extreme Ladyboy Gauntlet session – actually I should call it an experience rather than a session – was born from the original Ladyboy Gauntlet which happened late in 2019. Until now I’ve been a bit reluctant to write about the Extreme Ladyboy Gauntlet(s) as they happened many times during the covid lockdown time in our history and it was from arranging and watching those sessions unfold that caused this split-personality disorder I have been dealing with ever since. To be very clear, I don’t like arranging such extreme things for slaves to endure. I did it at the time because there were suddenly no femdom sessions to be had and it was on my shoulders to support my two …
True ball torture? Pfft. Most of what you see in the world’s definition of a “bdsm lifestyle” is a farce. It is a coordinated dance where the slave counts the strokes. One. Two. Three. “Oh thank you Mistress” or “Oh please Mistress, no more, I beg you.” ptttf. He feigns resistance while secretly reveling in the friction he paid for. It is a safety blanket. He knows the limits. He knows the script. He is essentially trying to masturbate with my hand as the instrument, play acting a struggle he ultimately controls because he is the customer. To which I have always said : screw that! That dynamic disgusts me. It is hollow. It is theater for children. My punishment …
I was so much more, before I arrived here. I was an explorer, a father, a priest. I was a soldier of God, at war with the devil itself. I was the very hand by which the human race perfected itself. So much faith I had. So much life experience. Now I cannot remember all the things I was. I can only remember that I once was them. I remember only this chair, though I admit, the chair at first excited me. It has since killed the soul of who I once was. , but a fragment of me has crawled from the wreckage of my old self: a few trillion cells, a soul too weak to keep them in …
