Many of you ask me, usually with that wide-eyed mix of terror and excitement “Mistress Eve, how do you come up with these ideas?”
Well… sometimes it’s pure imagination, sometimes it’s my own rather colourful experience, and quite often, it’s because a brand-new little toy wanders into my web and I decide to weave something around their particular… flavours.
You see, my darlings, so many of you come to me with your specific tastes, from the exact colour of my lipstick to the way I cross my legs when I speak to you, and I love building a world around those cravings. Sometimes you give me instructions, sometimes just hints, and from there I take great pride in crafting something that makes fantasy a very tangible reality.
The truth? Once you’ve had a taste of what I can create, you’re hooked. It might start with your idea… but by the end, you’re in my world, and you’re never quite the same again.
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Case in Point: The Cheating Wife
Take, for example, a recent little masterpiece I staged.
We started in Costa. Very civilised. Coffee, a casual debrief. I was in a classy little dress the kind that makes people underestimate you until it’s far, far too late. To the outside world, I was every inch the sweet wife meeting her adoring husband on his birthday.
Oh, and he was adoring. Poor thing. Said he’d missed me terribly while I’d been “working late” (we’ll get to that). Couldn’t wait to spend his special day with me.
Fast forward to our swanky central London apartment, my gift to him was “waiting” in the bedroom. A quick trip to the bathroom and voilà: Honey Birdette lingerie, stockings, suspenders. I let him drink in the view before I told him to lay back… and relax.
Then came the rope. Wrists tied to the bedposts, legs bound, I do like my easy access. I went to find his gag but, alas, only found a pair of boxers in my “bag of tricks.” Perfect. Stuffed between his lips, followed by a blindfold.
Now for the real present: the truth.
You see, I’d been “working late” because I’d been fucking my boss. Oh, and darling, he’s incredible attentive, commanding, hung. I described every detail, right into his helpless little ear. Then I showed him exactly how my boss takes me…
Strap-on. Harness. A slow rub against that tight little arse before pushing inside.
“You see,” I told him, “if our marriage wasn’t so boring, maybe I wouldn’t have strayed.”
From there it was pure, glorious corruption. Making him take it like a good boy. Telling him about office table fucks, about teasing myself in front of panoramic windows while my boss takes me from behind. About the remote controlled toy my boss uses to keep me obediently wet during his meetings.
And then I let him know: this is the new marriage. I’m the boss now. I want my cake and I’ll eat it, sometimes in front of you, sometimes on top of you, sometimes with someone else inside you at the same time.
He begged me not to tell him the details. Which, of course, only made me tell him more. Vanilla is dead. Long live the deviant.
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And that, my sweet pets, is how a fantasy takes root, blooms, and completely consumes.
Sometimes you think you’re coming to me for your scenario… but once I’ve had my hands on it, it’s no longer yours at all.
It’s mine.
And so are you.