While some women spend their weekends debating whether to serve the Chardonnay chilled or room temperature, I spend mine in the dungeon, PVC gleaming under the lights, whip in hand reminding the male species exactly where they belong. And where is that, you ask? On the floor. Always on the floor.
There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, quite as exquisite as having a filthy, pathetic, useless man trussed up in PVC, tethered like a show pony, grovelling at my feet. The way they beg, the way their voices go soft and drawling as they plead for the privilege of touching my shoes, inhaling the scent of my feet… it’s intoxicating. It’s power in its purest form, all mine.
I adore kicking them, smothering them, disciplining them until they squirm and whimper, stripping away every last ounce of the man they think they are, until what’s left is nothing but an obedient, eager little animal. A creature desperate to please, desperate to serve, desperate for the smallest scrap of my attention.
Pathetic human specimens, yes, but delightful ones. And make no mistake, this is how men should be. Reduced to their base animal selves, stripped of the absurd delusions they carry through life, broken, and then shaped into something vaguely useful. Whether that usefulness is holding my crop between their teeth, polishing my boots, or simply lying still while I use them as a footstool, it’s all the same, they exist to serve.
This weekend has been… gratifying. A revolving door of slaves, each eager to outdo the other in how far they’d sink for me. I’ll be sharing some of their pitiful performances in my next few entries, partly for my own amusement, partly because some of you need reminding of the standard I demand.
And later this week? London. I have a fresh batch of losers flying in, all convinced they’re ready for me. They’re not. They never are.
But for now, I must go. There’s one kneeling before me, on all fours, head bowed, PVC creaking as he trembles and I think it’s time he learned what the sole of my shoe tastes like.