Back from a five-day, all-expenses-paid holiday (courtesy of useless paypigs) sun, sand and a refreshed appetite for ruining the pathetic. Short and sweet; exactly what this queen needed.
This month has been a delicious blur of orders and obedience. I set the scene, they perform, trembling, eager, utterly ridiculous and I shape them until they’re exactly mine: breathless, broken, and grateful for it.
My wrapped trifle is a favourite humiliation sport. The clingfilm chap fumbles, strains and sends me laughable photos at two in the morning. He fails gloriously, apologises like a grovelling fool, and comes crawling back. Watching him try, and fail, is worship.
The ball-busters arrive cocky and leave humbled, their bravado reduced to a careful limp. One newbie used his safe word like a child offering a tantrum, and I answered with precise punishment. He begged for more; of course he did. I’ve already pencilled him in.
Sissies and their devotion make me smile and smirk. One eager tart flies in from Europe to polish my boots and be pegged until she’s perfectly trained; the darker, harder sessions make her ache for approval. It’s craftsmanship: breaking them gently, building them greedily.
My encouraged bi slave lives in weeks of trembling until I unleash the bulls. The theatre of fear turning to frantic surrender is exquisite: heat, grunts, and the messy, combustible need I adore.
A staged kidnap humbled a novice who mistook rehearsal for reality; he left planning grander scenes and a firmer place in my diary. Consent and safewords remain law but realism is delicious.
This isn’t work. It’s domination, theatre, and my private amusement. You bring the confessions and the grovelling; I bring the heels, the rules and the punishments. Now, messages to answer, a trifle to judge and a new sissy to break in. Remember: I am your purpose. You are my entertainment.
Mistrys eve