Recently I've been having some fun on another site that specializes in Doms keeping subs in chastity. So last night I had this one guy... mid 30s... glasses.. looks like a real computer nerd approach me. I was not going to give him the time of the day and I sensed he was going to be a bit of a brat. But he begged, begged and pleaded. Eventually after a lot of negotiating and exchanging some links I agreed to put his dumb ass in chastity for a simple 2 hr lock. Guess how many times he messged me begging to be released during that 2 hour  span of time. 37x. I can't make this shit up even if I tried lol.  So naturally when I returned to the site after getting dolled up for the day I see the messages. And I'm pissed. Becuase I specifically told him to sit his ass in the corner with his cage on and butt plug in and wait for me to return. He got called every name after the sun which I'm sure he enjoyed and I extended the timer for the rest of the day. I also have access to his dildo machine via lovesense and let's just say today he could barely sit down without a pillow. He thanked me this morning :) he loved it. 

I just saw a profile that consisted of only a BDSM test. When I read it I realized something that is missing and likely is the most important thing. Where is the reference to interest in a real life encounter? Where is any reference relating to an actual time frame of when it might occur? So many of the kink or BDSM tests address interests but do not differentiate between those who want to masturbate to being a rope bunny and those who honestly want to be a rope bunny tomorrow, a week or a month from now. Being interested in being a slave is totally different than being a slave.  Someone who has slave tendencies or wants to be a slave someday is a waste of my time.  While I try to be understanding, I do not want to spend weeks, months, or years getting to know someone who might someday meet me in real life. I do not have any interest in exchanging erotica or demanding pornography.  If someone is not willing and able to leave their current life for a year or two, it does not mean that they are fake.  That is worth repeating, If someone is not willing and able to leave their current life, it does not mean that they are fake.  It does mean that even though our interest may align our timeline does not. I am mentally, emotionally and financially stable and could move a slave into my home anytime.  I can take care of myself and do not need a slave.  Having a slave in my home makes my life more comfortable.  My slave does all of my domestic duties, I provide rituals, structure and you will not be required to work outside my home or office. I do not want to rescue a woman who is in desperate need to leave her fucked up life.  I do not need to complicate my life with a whole lot of drama.  I accept that everyone will come with a certain amount of baggage but I live a happy, peaceful life in paradise. I am looking for a woman who has a desire to fully commit to a life as my slave.  Expereince, age, location is not as important as the desire and ability to meet in real life.  If you are at a point in your life where you are prepared to relocate within a resonable time then we should talk.

Deal or No Deal?Deal breaker is, 'no sense of humour!'I will put up with a lot of stupid shit but thats a hard limit for me lol! This profile is written wiith some tongue in cheek humour, as we spell it in the former UK. Readers need to 'get it' and take that onboard. Put another way Good Sense Of Humour (GSOH) is required to have dealings with me. And as it says on my FL profile, "Please note: taking the piss is only enacted in the context of consensual humiliation, degradation and taking the piss play, I hope that's clear!" Now read on lol..☠️☠️☠️

One of my favourite pictures is a before and after of a girl I used to love and who, if not for the universe, would still be my girl now. I'll call her Leigh.I have a huge clothing fetish, and not just for lingerie. A well-dressed, well presented girl, will stiffen my resolve like few other things, and on this day she had spent the time showing me how well she could feed that side of me. Typical porn secretary in a lot of ways; white silk blouse, mid-thigh black skirt, hair back in a ponytail, but the devil was in the details. I could see she wore a cincher underneath and, through the shapes under the tight fabric of the skirt, that suspenders and stockings were in my future. Around her neck was the collar I'd got her, a simple and supple strip of black leather with a single ring in the middle. Her nails and lips were the same seductive, decadent arterial blood red, and her eyes were framed by mascara and eye-liner I knew wouldn't be waterproof. The black-framed, business woman style glasses she wore to work every day were somehow the cherry on top. All of this perched on 3 inch heels that clicked on the hardwood floor, while a nervous, playful and hopeful smile playing on her lips. That was the 'before' image. Much of that day is etched in my memory, but the highlights are those devilish details. She was pristine and smooth to my mouth when I stood her back to wall and knelt to devour her, first through her underwear and then, once they were around her ankles, skin to skin. She was achingly, exquisitely wet for me and I very much drank her in before leading her to the bedroom, sitting her on the edge, wrapping those nylon-clad legs around my head, and just devouring her. The taste of her, the scent, the sounds of her response, the way her thighs gripped and relaxed and gripped and relaxed as I teased her to the edge of release, but never over. Not yet. I laid her back, straddled her and opened her blouse to the bra underneath, pushing that up and over her breasts and turned my attention to those pale, rose-tipped wonders. Shortly after that, we would induce lactation, making her delicious and nutritious. Leigh was so very, wonderfully versatile like that. Once my base appetites were sated, I remember telling her was I would be hurting her that day, that I couldn't promise she would enjoy all of it, but that I would. I told her that, in the end, she would be fed well beyond her appetites and she frowned at that. I remember thinking that was kind of oblique even for my pretentious Domly waffling, but she smiled, licked her lips and said 'I'm yours, daddy, all yours', and she was. The next couple of hours were spent edging her. I don't fuck when I dominate; its always felt like a confusion of purpose, so even as she was divested of her clothing down to cincher, hells and stockings, I remained fully dressed. That, to me, felt like control and control always, but always, begins with the self. The 4-walls theory can sometimes take a backseat, after all. I would use toys, big and thick and heavy or slim and nimble and buzzy. I would make her bury her head in the pillow as I pushed my hand deep into her, something she found a deep, resonant joy in, even as mouth and tongue enjoyed her clit. Clamps on cords, pulled tight as she reached for the summit so she could roll down the other side. Zipper lines, running up her sides or around her breasts. Each time she approached orgasm, I would stop, stand her up, and hurt her. Zipper lines tugged slowly or quickly off, clamps pulled shriekingly taut before giving way, pussy spanked, clit flicked, slapped wherever seemed appropriate, hair pulled vicisouly taut. Whatever came to mind, as I needed to administer it. And often, I would use a cane or stick on her body. Ass, breasts (top and underside), thighs, soles of her feet, palms of her hand... anywhere, really. I knew that certain types of pain were like gasoline on a flame, so I avoided them and gave her what I knew she didn't like. Thuddy canes, for instance, she responded to with deep arousal, but thin and whippy she couldn't abide. Nonetheless, she took them until she was welted to my satisfaction. When I called a halt to this cycle, she had the look of a fish you haven't hit hard enough with the bonker, a kind of stunned, defeated confusion. She was slow to respond, sluggish to move and looked utterly drained. That's when I began giving her release. That went on for quite a while, too. The thing about the female orgasm is, even that can be made into an enemy.  By the time I turned my attention to her pleasure, something that I had deliberately built up and denied throughout the day, it was buried under pain and torment. But not buried deeply. Laying her down, mouth and hands gentle, toys gentle, vibrations insistent but considered, it was there to be rediscovered, brought out and given time in the sun. Her first orgasm elicited something like a sigh of relief, and involved little more than her arching off the bed, shuddering and gasping and then sinking back. But onwards I went anyway, same gentleness, same consideration, same relentless stimulation. She came repeatedly, initially with a kind of rich, savoured appreciation of the ecstacy, but, after a while, with increasingly obvious sensitivity. At that point, I restrained her with the cuffs mounted, in the best vanilla with a twist tradition, to the corners of the bed. Spread-eagled, I put a spreader bar between her ankles, not to keep her legs open but so I could kneel on the bar (under a pillow) and stop her twisting almost entirely. And then I went to work. At some point, I gagged her with a bit gag, so she could clench hard as her pleasure stopped being pleasure and become torment. Once I got her over that sensitivity, forced her beyond the limits of her own tolerance for sensation, she kind of broke, accepted her fate. At some point she began to cry, shaking her head furiously as the stimulation continued and her body ignored completely what her mind was saying, and went where it was led. When I called a halt and took the 'after' picture, she looked ruined, purely and simply. She followed where I led with a kind of plodding acceptance, no comment or hesitation, no thought really. In the shower, she knelt and began to cry again as I urinated over her, shoving my cock into her mouth and putting the last of that into her belly, indifferent to her choking and gagging. She threw up a little, but nothing that seemed untoward, all things considered.  It was in that state, puke on her striped tits, hair sopping and dripping with piss, abused, degraded, stunned and utterly beyond sense, that I stood her up, turned her to the wall, lifted her leg, and claimed her, once again, as mine. She barely responded and certainly didn't orgasm, but she was hot and wet and that was all I needed that day. I don't know how long I indulged my lizard brain, but at the end I told her to kneel, which she did, and I came on her face and then in her mouth. Again, she barely responded, barely reacted and somehow, that was glorious. And after? After, I undressed us both fully, and showered with her. I soaped and rinsed her with a kind of reverence, a deep gratitude at the gift that was Leigh and how she matched, met and fulfilled me in so many ways. I washed her hair, her feet, between her thighs, softly, tenderly and with pure love. Then I dried her with equal devotion and kindness and took her to bed, where we lay naked and spooning until lshe fell asleep in my arms and, shortly after, I joined her. The next day, when we went out for breakfast at a cafe just up the road from her place, she winced when she sat down and, when I smiled she smiled back and blushed, but not too much. I miss her every day, and I miss who I was with her ever

As an experienced Dominant in the leather community, I can certainly understand the appeal of consensual objectification within a safe, sane space. When I discover that my submissive derives pleasure from being treated as an object of desire, it elicits a complex range of emotions.   There is a sense of power and control, knowing I can shape their experience and push the boundaries of their submission. But there is also a deep well of trust and responsibility that comes with that. I must handle their vulnerability with the utmost care, ensuring their needs are met even as I strip away their agency.   It's a delicate dance, really.    On one hand, there’s the thrill of reducing them to a mere plaything for my enjoyment.    On the other hand, there’s the profound connection of being entrusted with their most intimate desires. It's a privilege to be granted that level of trust and intimacy. And with that privilege comes the duty to wield it wisely, to push just to the edge without ever compromising their safety or well-being.   Does that resonate with you? The heady mix of control and care, power and responsibility? Please speak to me, and let us explore this dynamic further in the confines of our sacred space.