Mistress Eve’s Diary: Entry #2
PVC Suitability: Medium (glossy but sweaty)
Implements Selected: Heavy cane & bare feet
Slaves Handled: Two (with wildly different… needs)
Mood: Smug, fragrant, and slightly annoyed in Waitrose
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This morning started, as many do, with a brief battle against a full-length mirror and a particularly clingy PVC catsuit. After a mild workout and some undignified grunting, I managed to zip myself in — victorious and gleaming like a sin-drenched toffee apple. Nothing says “good morning, slaves” like the sound of latex squeaking in quiet menace.
My first session of the day was with one of my most eager masochists — a slave who adores nothing more than being thoroughly beaten. He arrived early (as all good pets should), eyes already glazing at the sight of my implements. After a brief internal debate, I selected the heavy cane, knowing full well it would leave the kinds of marks that last longer than just a day or two.
As usual, he didn’t use his safe word — not once — which is as impressive as it is frustrating. I do like to know when I’ve truly pushed someone to the edge, but with him, it’s all blissed-out groaning and dreamy little smiles, even mid-strike. A beautiful session, if a bit of a guessing game.
Session two was a far more… fragrant affair. My foot fetishist had booked a session specifically to enjoy my feet in their most “natural” state. So — sigh — I forwent my shower, skipped socks, and made sure to wear my boots long enough for a proper, full-bodied funk. By the time I peeled them off, he looked near tears with gratitude. The moaning, the kissing, the sniffing… I won’t lie, it was rather amusing.
By the afternoon, Mistress duties shifted to the far less erotic, though no less satisfying: a trip to Waitrose. I brought along one of my devoted paypigs, who has a love-hate obsession with watching me toss luxury items into the trolley while completely ignoring him, save for the occasional sharp command.
He followed me dutifully, wallet at the ready, as I swanned through the aisles — wine, wild mushrooms, overpriced truffle cheese… the usual. Naturally, he paid. Then loaded everything into the car while I flicked through my messages and told him he was too slow. He loved every second of it. They always do.
And now, as I sit here with a glass of that very nice pinot noir, I realise one thing:
I still don’t have a chef slave. If any of you can cook (properly — this is not an invite to serve me beans on toast unless you’re also going to lick the plate), do get in touch. Interviews will involve apron-only attire and a willingness to kneel between courses.
Until next time, darlings. Be good. Or don’t — I’ll enjoy correcting you either way.
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Mistress Eve