This is where I would like to live. It’s – in my mind at least – my little slice of paradise. I could live in that little one room dome like place they have – or one of their single rooms that’s a 30 second walk away from the swimming pool. I think my brain could be happy there. In fact, I’d like to buy the whole property one day and spend a few years landscaping it into something that is truly a slice of heaven – W’s heaven !! :))) A sanctuary for my brain. Crazy isn’t it – that I have to refer to my brain in the 3rd person – as some entity that I could one …
Two things are certain. One is that in a few years’ time, I will be the richest Mistress that ever plied the trade. And two, one lucky former slave – soon to be reduced to my personal object – will bask in the luxury I provide it. It all depends on how I play my cards with this gold mine I’m sitting on – a list of about 120 eHTS videos the likes of which the world has never seen. Think of how my mind works like we’re playing chess at a grandmaster level. I have been thinking 10-20 moves forward for about the last 6 years and though there have been these things I can’t control like anxiety attacks, …
3:53pm, nobody’s shown up here with sirens on top of their cars so – so far so good. I just woke up. Trying to get fully back onto vampire standard time (VST) because I have to write a lot to finish my book and I can only do that when the air is cool, there’s no sun and I don’t hear the sounds of people outside. So sue me, I took a Loraz to ensure I slept 10 hours because I would have been a nervous wreck if I hadn’t. I do remember what I dreamt about. I remember exactly what I dreamt about. I dreamt about the absolute absurdity of being locked up in a hospital’s mental ward cell …
Writing shit this intense makes me look insane – but hear me out. At least evaluate my thought process on what it might take to get a toilet slave to more frequently survive all 30 days existing on eating only my feces. Because up until now – I’ve had only 1 out of the 26 applicants succeed in doing so and that’s what? – 3% success rate? Ya, changes need to be made. Now, I did try to be nicer in January and February as that is my nature. It’s why I called the place where we do the sessions The Femdom Resort and not something like The Slave’s Prison … I’ve always thought that if I treat my toilet …
I’m supposed to be writing my sexiest femdom thoughts here in the free portion of today’s blog post and for the life of me I can’t conjure up even one. I’m not in a good frame of mind right now and yet, I am 100% committed to posting a femdom story, video and photos every 2nd day. So, please allow me to perhaps ease into this – just allow me to write what’s on my mind and maybe I’ll slowly sink into my Mistress self. Or maybe its not possible tonight, maybe I’m just too triggered. Against my better judgement, you see, I decided to have a family intervention – on myself. Meaning, I wanted to clear the air – …
As famous as my Voom! videos are for the airtight seal that leaves my submissive with zero option but to swallow when I feed them straight from my unholiest of holes to their waiting mouth… I’d still get emails and messages begging to see the horror on their faces as they chew and swallow their ‘pudding’ dinner right in plain sight. Nothing irritates me more than those who completely miss the point—the entire philosophy behind Human Toilet Slavery (HTS): everything must be consumed. No choice, no hesitation, no possibility of thought. The slave simply ingests because that is what it exists to do. The same truth explains why AI is already poised to replace 30% to 50% of all factory-level …
I just read the single most devastating, pussy-drenching, soul-shattering femdom concept that has ever scorched through my brain …and it was hiding in the last few pages of Neuromancer’s Chapter 3 like a blade dipped in the fresh, raw honey from my garden’s beehive. These days I almost never scratch pussy anymore. Sad but true. The ache barely registers. (and hasn’t since I stopped doing sessions – and that’s what triggered this week’s detour off a cliff, but I’ll get to that later, I’m summoning the courage) Nothing really cuts deep enough to make me drip anymore, especially with zero warm skin against mine, no breath on my throat, no orders to hiss into a slave’s ear. Talking to an …
pimpWael . Or as the other two — the so-called Head Mistresses — used to call me behind my back: MamaSan-Wael. Same job in our country, really, just without quite the same dirty ring to it. But labels never bothered me. What I do — what I’ve always done — are experiments on humans. Pure data collection. I am not a MamaSan . I am a mad scientist. For what I do — what I’ve always done — are experiments on humans. I am the successor to a long line of pioneers who understood that progress requires the absolute removal of empathy. I am the (somewhat dumber) intellectual heir to Victor Frankenstein, Dr. Henry Jekyll, Dr. Moreau, and Herbert West …
At the opening of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, the author delivers one of the most elegant demonstrations of human psychology in all of American literature. Young Tom has been sentenced by Aunt Polly to whitewash a long, dreary fence on a perfect Saturday while the rest of the boys run free. He begins the task in sullen resignation. Then Ben Rogers appears, apple in hand, ready to mock him. In that moment Tom doesn’t argue or complain. Instead, he performs a quiet act of genius: he reframes the chore as an exclusive privilege. He behaves as though painting the fence demands rare skill, exquisite care, and can only be entrusted to a select few. He pretends he …
Hello, my devoted followers and curious wanderers. If you’ve found your way here from my Scatbook posts, you know I thrive in the shadows where desire meets devastation. My niche? Men who crave to be utterly destroyed—shattered, rebuilt, and shattered again. I’ve spent years honing this craft, perfecting the myriad ways to dismantle a man: physically, emotionally, and above all, psychologically. It’s the mind I adore breaking most, because once I’ve cracked that fragile shell, the body follows willingly, eagerly even. But here’s the twist that keeps them coming back, the mind-fuck that turns agony into addiction: I attach love like a carrot dangling from an invisible string, forever just out of reach, urging them onward through the inferno I’ve …
