It’s been a busy morning this morning, sorting through the drawers of cages, sorting the steel from the silicone, the heavy ones from the teasing little ones that leave almost nothing free. Everything lined up, cleaned, ready. The smell of metal and rubber still hangs in the air. I like it.
First official lock-in of Locktober happened before lunch. He arrived already half-hard and nervous, which is always my favourite combination. I made him strip, hold himself out for inspection, then slowly worked the cage over that thick, twitching cock and those tight little balls until the ring clicked home and the lock snapped shut. The look on his face when the key left his sight and disappeared into my palm… pure. He tried to adjust himself afterward, of course. Futile. That pretty cock is going nowhere for the rest of the month unless I decide otherwise.
Three more to do today. Different sizes, different attitudes. One of them has already been begging over messages, promising he’ll be “so good” if I just lock him up tight. We’ll see how long the good behaviour lasts once he’s sealed inside cold steel with no way to touch himself.
Tomorrow is going to be chaotic in the best possible way. A full day of locking every single one of my regulars. One after another. Cages going on, keys coming off, that soft little whimper when the lock engages and they realise they’re properly owned for Locktober. I’ll be collecting keys all day. By the evening my desk will look like a trophy case.
Speaking of which… one of my more eager boys decided to get creative. He turned up with a lovely shiny chain, heavy, polished, clearly expensive, specifically for me to hang all my keys on. Sweet, really. As if dangling a pretty piece of jewellery in front of me is going to buy him softer treatment or earlier release. It won’t. The chain is lovely and it will look perfect draped over the key hook, but he still gets locked the same as everyone else. No special favours. If anything, I might keep him sealed a little longer just to make the point. He’s welcome to keep buying me pretty things though. I’m not unreasonable.
I still have room for the rest of this week if anybody else would like to participate. If your cock is currently free and you’re thinking about surrendering it for Locktober, message me. Tell me what size you need, how long you want to stay locked, and how desperate you’re prepared to get. I’ll decide the rest.
October has only just started… and already the sound of padlocks clicking shut is becoming my favourite soundtrack.
Mistress Eve
x

Darlings, if you thought August was sweaty, September has been an absolute deluge. I’ve barely had time to reapply my lipstick between sessions, let alone polish the boots. The culprit? Pegtember

.
Yes, that’s what I’m calling it. Some months the universe just decides every submissive within a fifty mile radius needs their prostate rearranged by a woman in latex. The dungeon has been running hotter than a sauna full of remorseful CEOs. I’ve gone through more lube than a mid budget porn shoot, and my hips are filing formal complaints. But a Mistress does not complain… she simply adjusts her harness and keeps swinging.

Here are three of this month’s standout specimens. Different flavours of slave, different flavours of pegging. All of them left walking like they’d just discovered religion. Or lost it.

1. The “I Only Came for a Taste” Corporate Softboy
Sweet, soft spoken, still wearing his wedding ring like a nervous tell. Thought he wanted “a little light pegging, nothing too intense.” Cute.

I had him on his back, knees to chest, while I slowly worked a thick, curved silicone cock into him with the kind of patience usually reserved for roasting a joint of beef. Every time he whimpered “Mistress, it’s too much,” I simply smiled, leaned in, and whispered, “Then why is your cock leaking all over your stomach like a broken fountain?”

He came untouched. Twice. Then cried a bit. Then asked if he could book next week.
Type of pegging: Slow, deep, almost tender… until it isn’t. The kind that makes a man realise he’s been starving for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

2. The Bratty Painslut Who Thinks He’s In Charge
This one arrived with a smirk and a list of “hard limits” that somehow didn’t include “getting his prostate pounded until he forgets his own name.” Classic.

I had him face down, ass up, wrists cuffed to the far ends of the bench, while I used a ridged, heavy harness that made a wet thwack every time I bottomed out. He kept trying to top from the bottom (“Harder, Mistress… no, wait, not that hard”). So I stopped, pulled almost all the way out, and waited until he was begging in that delicious, broken voice. Then I gave him exactly what he’d asked for.

He came so hard he left a puddle. Then he thanked me. Then he tried to negotiate a discount. I made him clean the floor with his tongue instead.

Type of pegging: Mean. Relentless. The kind that turns cocky little shits into grateful, dripping messes.

3. The Quiet, Intense One Who Barely Speaks
Tall, dark eyed, the sort who looks like he reads philosophy and has complicated feelings about his mother. Barely said a word beyond “Yes, Mistress” and “Please.”

I put him on all fours, slow fucked him with a long, smooth toy that hit that perfect spot every single stroke, and simply held him there… deep, steady, relentless pressure while I stroked his hair and told him what a good, open, eager hole he was being. No theatrics. Just ownership.
He shook for a full minute when he finally came, silent except for this wrecked little gasp. Then he kissed my boots like they were holy relics.

Type of pegging: Deep, rhythmic, almost meditative. The kind that doesn’t just fuck the body… it rearranges the soul a little.
So there you have it, my filthy little diary entries from Pegtember to September. My straps are tired, my wrists are strong, and the waiting list is getting longer than my patience for men who still think “no homo” applies once the dildo is inside them.

If you’re reading this and shifting in your seat… good.
You know where to find me.
Bring lube. And manners.

Mistress Eve

Still the one holding the harness

Darlings.

Drop to your knees on the cold concrete while I write this. I am in The Edge right now, still poured into the PVC catsuit that fought me like a jealous lover this morning. A glass of something sharp sits in one hand. Residual cane heat still glows on the last boy’s arse in my memory. The air reeks of leather polish, latex, sweat, and that sharp metallic tang of fear mixed with the thick smell of desperate cock.

This is no playroom. This is my cathedral of controlled filth in Walsall. Stone walls swallow screams. Heavy chains lock with finality. The St Andrew’s Cross is bolted so tight even a thrashing ballbustee cannot shift it. The bondage bench is still slick with today’s prostate cum and spit. The seven foot coffin waits with its single breathing tube. The wheel has held more scarlet latex arses and mascara streaked faces than I can count.

Last weekend was pure Edge programming.

Friday brought a latex sissy, polished mirror tight and ordered to scrub floors on all fours with her arse high. I left her to it. When I returned, my thick veiny BBC dildo was buried so deep in her throat that the outline pressed against her cheek. Eyes rolled back. Chin dripping long strings of spit onto the filthy floor she was meant to clean. The wet gagging noises were pure filth. I cleared my throat. The look on her face was exquisite. Onto the wheel she went, strapped tight. I gave her a methodical hard spanking until the latex stretched over furious scarlet flesh. She sobbed real helpless tears and thanked me between every crack. Then it was back on her knees to finish the floors and lick the dildo clean while I watched and told her exactly how pathetic she looked. She came untouched from the humiliation, of course.

Saturday was eight hours of focused ruin. First came the ballbuster, stripped, spread, and worked until those soft hanging balls turned deep aubergine purple. Kicking, squeezing, twisting, and slapping continued until the lightest fingernail graze made him convulse and drip sweat. He left limping and tipping. Next was the edging gimp, fully restrained and ball gagged for three solid hours under the Doxy wand. Pre cum ran in continuous threads down his shaft and pooled on the bench. His hips rutted uselessly. I edged him until he wept around the gag, then pulled away at the exact moment so his orgasm became nothing but a weak watery dribble and a broken muffled sob. I left him strapped while I drank tea. Finally the chastity boy was unlocked and immediately fisted to the wrist. His prostate was worked hard and deep until he leaked thick clear fluid all over his stomach, the bench, and my arm, babbling and shaking like the open dripping hole he is.

Sunday’s newest toy spent hours sealed in the coffin darkness. When I returned I fed him every warm drop of my divine nectar through the tube. He swallowed it all and thanked me properly.

There is a ridiculous diary quality to running this place. Note to self: the heavy cane leaves prettier welts but the bamboo makes them jump higher. Must stock more Sudocrem. The real pain sluts go through it like wine. And I still need a chef slave. Apron only. Kneeling between courses non negotiable.

The Edge is where the performance ends. Where confident men discover how fast their cock leaks when their prostate is owned. Where sissies learn their place is nose to the floor and throat full. Where the only time that matters is the one I control.

I am sweaty, satisfied, and already planning next weekend’s menu of suffering.

You are not ready.

But you will come anyway.

Mistress Eve

For those of you who have been following me for some time, you may have noticed that over the last few months a certain familiar face has appeared more and more frequently throughout my content, projects and adventures.

That isn’t by accident.

Over recent months AJ and I have been working together across a variety of creative projects, content collaborations and selected double Domme experiences. As our partnership has grown, so too has the amount of content we’ve created together, and it became increasingly obvious that it deserved a home of its own.

So, I am delighted to officially introduce our new shared platform:

Mistress Eve & AJ the Bull.

Now, before anyone starts imagining board meetings and spreadsheets, let me reassure you that this is far more interesting than that.

This page is designed to give you a deeper glimpse into our world.

Not simply the finished photographs or polished videos, but the people, personalities, creativity and energy behind them.

You’ll see the reality of building content, running events, creating experiences and exploring ideas that often begin as a passing conversation and somehow evolve into something much bigger.

You’ll see life through my eyes as a Mistress.

The planning.

The leadership.

The creativity.

The challenges.

The victories.

The glamorous moments and the not-so-glamorous moments.

The reality of creating a lifestyle, a brand and a world that so many people only ever glimpse from the outside.

You’ll also see what happens when that world is shared with somebody who brings his own energy, perspective and strengths to the table.

AJ has become an important part of many of the projects I am building, and together we’ve created some fantastic content, memorable experiences and exciting plans for the future.

This isn’t simply a page about a Bull.

Nor is it simply a page about a Mistress.

It’s about collaboration.

Partnership.

Creation.

And the journey of two people building something together that is larger than either of us could create alone.

Of course, AJ remains very much AJ the Bull.

You’ll get to know him.

You’ll see his perspective.

You’ll see why he has earned that title.

And, regrettably for many of you, you’ll discover that he is every bit as confident, capable and effective as the rumours suggest.

Life isn’t always fair.

But then fairness has never been particularly high on my list of priorities.

What excites me most about this project isn’t simply the content we’ll create, although there will be plenty of that.

It’s the opportunity to bring you further into our world.

To show you more.

To share more.

To create more.

And to take all of you along for the ride as we continue exploring, building and expanding everything that comes next.

So follow the page.

Follow our individual accounts.

Watch closely.

Because this is only the beginning.

And if the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that when AJ and I start working on a project together, things have a habit of becoming far bigger, far more ambitious and far more entertaining than either of us originally intended.

Welcome to the next chapter.

Mistress Eve

Let me paint you a picture of my weekend, darlings. Pull up a chair. Or get on your knees, whichever feels more appropriate for you personally.

While the rest of the world was out there doing their barbecues and their garden centres and their perfectly tedious Sunday routines, I was exactly where I belong, deep inside The Edge, working my way through some of the most depraved, devoted, deliciously filthy souls it has ever been my pleasure to break down and rebuild.

Let me take you through it.

FRIDAY. THE SISSY AND THE DILDO.

I had one of my latex sissy slaves in the dungeon on Friday. She arrived polished and trembling as they always do, poured into glossy black latex so tight it left nothing to the imagination and everything to my amusement. I had given her a task. Simple enough. Clean the dungeon floors on her hands and knees, nose to the ground, arse in the air, exactly the way a creature like her was designed to exist in my space.

I left her to it. I had things to attend to.

When I came back to check on progress, and I want you to really picture this, she was not cleaning the floors.

My BBC dildo. My personal, substantial, thick, veiny BBC dildo, which lives in this dungeon as my property and my property alone, was buried so deep in this filthy little sissy’s throat that I could see the outline of it pressing against the inside of her cheek. She was on her knees, eyes rolled back, latex creaking with every desperate bob of her head, saliva running down her chin in long wet strings and pooling on the very floor she was supposed to be cleaning. The sounds coming out of her were obscene. Wet, hungry, desperate little gagging sounds, the kind that tell you this was not the first time and certainly would not be the last if she had any say in the matter.

She had absolutely no idea I was standing there.

I let her enjoy herself for a moment. I’m not a monster. I simply believe in letting people truly commit to their mistakes before I address them.

Then I cleared my throat.

The look on her face. I will cherish it.

I didn’t raise my voice. I never need to. I simply told her, very quietly, very clearly, to put the dildo down and come to the wheel. And she did. On shaking legs, latex squeaking with every step, chin still wet, mascara already starting to track, she came to the wheel like the obedient little wretch she is underneath all that defiance.

I strapped her in tight. Arms spread. Ankles fixed. That latex arse presented perfectly, stretched and gleaming under the dungeon lights. And I spanked her. Not quickly, not carelessly. I worked through her slowly, methodically, each strike landing with a crack that echoed off the stone walls and made her yelp and writhe and clench and beg. Her cheeks went from pink to red to deep, angry scarlet, the latex pulling tight across each cheek with every blow, the heat radiating off her skin even through the rubber. She was crying within ten minutes. Proper crying, not the performative sniffling some of them try, real helpless choked sobs that I found deeply satisfying.

She thanked me after every single strike. As she should.

When I was done I unstrapped her, handed her the mop, and made her clean the floors anyway. On her knees, exactly as she had been told, arse still burning, chin still damp. She was the picture of contrition.

And the dildo? I made her clean that properly too. With her tongue. Under supervision this time, while I watched and told her exactly how pathetic she looked. She loved every second of it, the greedy little thing, which rather defeated the purpose of the punishment but gave me considerable entertainment regardless.

SATURDAY. THREE SUBS, EIGHT HOURS, NO APOLOGIES.

Saturday was a long, full, deeply productive day in The Edge. I worked through three of my boys in sequence and by the time the last one left I was tired in the way you only get tired when you’ve done something truly well. Let me walk you through them.

The Ball Buster.

He arrived already half hard just from pulling into my driveway. I know the type. Has been dreaming about this all week. Counting down the days. Woken up at three in the morning thinking about it. There’s something deeply satisfying about a man who arrives at your door in a state of pure, helpless anticipation – it’s like being handed something already gift-wrapped.

I got him stripped, positioned, and secured. Spread and exposed, everything soft and hanging and utterly vulnerable. And then I went to work.

I want to be precise about what I mean when I say I worked his balls. I am not describing a gentle introduction. I am describing an extended, deliberate, escalating session of kicking, squeezing, twisting, slapping, and applying every implement I have that was designed for exactly this purpose – and several that weren’t but work beautifully regardless. I watched his face cycle through agony and ecstasy so many times they stopped being two separate things. His balls – and I say this with genuine professional admiration – turned a shade of purple I have honestly never witnessed on a human being. Not bruised purple. Deep, vivid, almost aubergine. Swollen, radiating heat, tender to the lightest touch by the end of it, at which point even the softest graze of my fingernails against the skin made him convulse. He was dripping sweat. His thighs were shaking. He was making a continuous low noise that wasn’t quite screaming and wasn’t quite moaning but was somewhere between the two, the specific frequency of a man being pushed to the very edge of what his body can absorb and loving every moment of it.

When he left he could barely walk. He tipped me on the doorstep. I considered both of these appropriate responses.

The Edging Gimp.

Next up, one of my most dedicated little sufferers. Strapped down to the bench, wrists, ankles, chest strap, the lot. Ball gag filling that useless mouth so the only sounds he could make were muffled, desperate and completely incoherent. And then I introduced him to the Doxy wand.

Three hours.

I want you to sit with that. Three hours of my Doxy wand applied at varying intensities to his cock while he lay there completely unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do a single thing except feel everything I chose to give him. I edged him until he was weeping around the gag. I edged him until the pre-cum was running in a continuous thread down his shaft and pooling on the bench beneath him. I edged him until his hips were attempting to thrust despite the restraints, that completely involuntary desperate rutting that tells you the body has entirely overridden whatever remains of the mind. His cock was so angry by hour two – flushed, swollen, the head an almost painful red, every vein standing out, twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat, absolutely furious at me for what I was doing and yet absolutely incapable of making me stop.

When I finally decided he had served his time I let him get close. Very close. And then I pulled the wand back at exactly the right moment and watched his orgasm happen anyway, or the pitiful, leaking, unsatisfying ghost of one. His body shuddered. His cock pulsed weakly. A thin, watery dribble ran down the shaft. No relief, no release, no satisfaction. Just the cruel mechanical aftermath of too much stimulation and not nearly enough permission. The noise he made around the gag when he realised what had happened was genuinely one of the finest sounds I have ever produced in this dungeon.

I left him strapped down for another twenty minutes while I had a cup of tea.

The Chastity Release.

My final appointment of the day had been locked for an extended stretch and was, to put it delicately, absolutely ready to burst. He arrived jumpy and desperate with that specific glassy eyed look chastity boys get when the end is finally in sight. This combination of overwhelming relief and abject terror that makes them so wonderfully malleable.

I had him on the bench, knees up, completely open to me. I worked him slowly at first, fingers, lube, taking my time while he gasped and tried not to beg too early because he knows better by now. And then I really got into him. Deep, hard, deliberate, working that prostate with everything I had, my whole hand inside him to the wrist, feeling every shudder of his body from the inside. He was incoherent within minutes. Babbling, drooling slightly, his cock leaking so freely it was running down over his stomach in long glossy trails without him having been touched there at all. His whole body was shaking. He was making the most extraordinary wet, desperate, broken noises.

He leaked and leaked and leaked. Completely soaked himself, soaked the bench, soaked my equipment. Absolutely everywhere. A complete and utter mess.

I was quite proud of him, honestly. Not that I told him that. That is not how it works.

SUNDAY. THE COFFIN AND THE NECTAR.

Today I have something a little more contemplative happening.

My newest sub, still very fresh, still learning exactly what it means to belong in my world, is currently sealed in my coffin. Just a small breathing tube protruding from the lid. Nothing else. No light. No sound except his own heartbeat. No sense of time. No way of knowing when I will return. Just the darkness and the wood and the knowledge that he is entirely, completely, in my hands.

I have nipped out to do some shopping. A woman still has to live.

He is in there right now counting seconds that are blurring into minutes and minutes he cannot distinguish from hours. Thinking about me. Thinking about what is coming. Possibly regretting certain decisions. Almost certainly not regretting them enough to mean it.

When I return, he will be rewarded.

I have been saving something for him. Something warm. Something personal. Something that belongs entirely to me and will now, through that small tube in the dark, belong entirely to him. Every last drop of my divine nectar, fed to him at my leisure while he lies sealed in that box and takes it gratefully, because that is the only appropriate response to a gift from your Mistress. Because this is what devotion actually looks like when the performance drops away and only the truth remains.

He will swallow every drop. He will thank me.

The sun has been gloriously out this weekend. Every normal person in the country has been in their gardens, at the beach, in the pub. Good for them. Truly.

I have been in my dungeon, in my element, doing the finest work of my week with some of the most wonderfully depraved human beings I have the privilege of owning. I am sweaty, satisfied, and completely without regret.

My hottest new content drops in two weeks. You are not ready. But it is coming anyway.

Mistress Eve💋