Dear filthy little journal (and nosy admirers),
This weekend was… hot. I don’t mean a flirty wink wink kind of hot. I mean skin-m slicking, mascara-smearing, air-con-is-dead-to-me, full-leather-welding dungeon hot. And while the rest of you sluts were lounging in the sun or melting into iced coffee, I was once again doing what I do best m – gracing the dungeon with my divine presence and pushing my slaves to their breaking point… because let’s face it, they live for it. And so do I.
Saturday began with my favourite little chastity pet. He’s been locked for so long I think he dreams in padlocks and drips precum when he hears a key jingle. He turned up, desperate, hungry, and credit where it’s due – prepared. Sushi (my favourite, obviously), bottles of kombucha, and the exact chocolate I like when I’m deciding whether or not to ruin someone’s orgasm. Thoughtful. Eager. Pitiful.
I strapped him to the bench, tight enough to make him twitch, loose enough for him to hope. For two deliciously slow hours I edged and teased that poor, swollen cock, whimpering, red, and completely mine. He was practically begging. You could see it in his eyes. That “please, please Mistress” look I know so well and adore even more. And just when he thought his suffering had paid off…
… I let him go.
Not fully, of course. Where’s the fun in that? No. I gave him a messy, ruined, cruel release that left him twitching, spent, and humiliated. He’d waited a whole month, and that’s all he got. His reward? My pleasure. And that’s always what matters most.
But my day wasn’t done. Cue boot-sissy, stage left. My diary (which I really need a minion to manage better) meant my next slut was waiting as the first one left, wobbly and destroyed. This one arrived squeaky-clean and head-to-toe in PVC, like a shiny gift-wrapped perv with a tongue that won’t quit. He dropped to his knees immediately, lips trembling as they met the sweat-soaked leather of my favourite dungeon boots.
Lick. Kiss. Worship. Repeat.
The bootlicking turned into moaning, the moaning turned into writhing, and that turned into me pegging the ever loving filth out of him with a new strap-on. Not just any strap-on a glorious beast I’d been saving for someone who could take a bit of a stretch. And oh… he took it. He screamed into the gag with every thrust, not quite sure if he wanted it to end or go on forever.
By hour five, I was dripping with sweat, lube, and the smug satisfaction of a day well dominated. No air con. No mercy. Just three hours of edging, three hours of pegging, and two very broken subs.
But they didn’t come empty-handed. My chastity slut brought birthday offerings that almost made me consider unlocking him early next month (almost…). And my boot-slut? He gifted me a new pair of boots. Tall, black, and practically begging to be defiled. I plan to wear them every day this week through mud, sweat, and filth until they’re ready for his tongue again.
So yes. Mistress Eve’s birthday weekend may have involved sweat, humiliation, and ruined orgasms… but wouldn’t have it any other way.
Until next time,
Keep licking, keep begging, and remember: your suffering is my cake.
Mistress Eve 💋