Woke up today with a groan and the creeping realisation that it’s only Monday. Already feels like I’ve lived three full lives, one of which involved a suspicious amount of PVC.
Had grand plans for a calm, goddess-like departure to London. Instead: chaos. No chauffeur. No slave to ferry me like the queen I am. Just me, three bags of kink gear, and my own questionable driving skills. Parallel parked like a legend. Nearly took out a recycling bin. 10/10.
Made it to the station by some miracle (and an illegal number of roundabout shortcuts). Stumbled into Costa, feral and caffeine-deprived. Bought overpriced coffee. Ping! Message from a hopeful minion: “Mistress, I’ve sent you a Costa voucher!” Naturally. Classic slave timing. Love the effort, loathe the delay.
However…. redemption arrived promptly in the form of a Greggs e-voucher. Now we’re talking. Steak bakes: the breakfast of champions. Stuffed two into my handbag and inhaled a third while speed-walking to the platform like an angry pastry-powered goddess.
14:00 – Wrestling Session
First session: wrestling. Full-body, no-holds-barred grappling. He came in confident. Left flattened. I channeled my inner WWE diva: if she wore patent leather and laughed maniacally.
He tried his best. But let’s be honest: he didn’t stand a chance. Arms everywhere. Legs flailing. We both ended up on the floor, breathless — me from giggles, him from a well-timed scissor hold. Five stars. Would suplex again.
16:00 – Sploshing Session
Round two: Sploshing. Twelve paper plates, each one lovingly loaded with shaving foam “cream pies.” The poor fool barely knew what hit him. I launched those pies like frisbees of chaos. He took it with impressive dignity for a man dripping in foam.
By the end, he looked like a dessert that had lost a fight. I looked fabulous (and mildly sticky). It was glorious, ridiculous, and deeply satisfying. Therapeutic, even. Like art, but messier and louder.
21:44 – On train, full of Greggs and existential questions
Now on the train. Smelling faintly of sugar and power. Bag bursting with rope, foam, and the ghost of sessions past.
Have consumed at least three steak bakes. May be leaking pastry flakes. Desperate for a long shower and a glass of red the size of my head.
Absolutely no more wrestling. Or splashing. Or foam-based slapstick. Mistress is done for the day.
Mistress Eve on the move, fuelled by Greggs, and mildly pie-scented