She’s always been good, never mistreated a guy. She treated them as equals, or even submitted to them because she thought that was all there was. And then, for the first time, she looks into the eyes of a guy kneeling in front of her, offering his body and soul for her amusement.

It was about a year ago, at a kinky techno party. There were hundreds of people, and to my amazement, most of them were young and attractive. I hadn’t been abused for a while, and I felt a dark craving building up inside me. But at first, I wasn’t sure if I really dared to go that way. It wasn’t specifically a BDSM event, and I was also there with friends — quite open-minded lads— but they had still never seen that side of me.

I’ve been to a few kinky parties before, and yet the entrance never failed to give me goosebumps. This time, I felt even more nervous than usual; perhaps it was because there were so many attractive people around me. I had a few drinks to calm my nerves.

I was dressed a bit gay-ish, as I didn’t want to risk being refused at the gate. My group drifted apart, which I was actually happy about, as it pushed me to meet new people. Most of the conversations were quite basic, but then I met a slender blonde girl, and we managed to move past the usual small talk.

I really enjoyed glancing at her leather high-heeled boots. They were so beautiful. Sharp and glossy, they made my knees feel weak.

The music was too loud for a proper conversation, so I suggested we go upstairs to the “play room.” She said she’d be happy to, as she was curious to see what happens there, but warned me in advance not to expect anything, as she was in a relationship. I was fine with that.

We went upstairs and sat on a sofa. The room was relatively empty, just a few couples making out, as the night was still young. Our conversation gradually became more intimate, and I eventually mentioned I’m submissive. She was intrigued. She never met a guy like this, she wanted to hear more. I told her stories about the cruel things women had done to me, and I absolutely loved the look on her face as she listened with wide-eyed curiosity.

I confessed that I loved her boots. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. They were so damn beautiful. Sharp and shiny, tightly hugging her slender legs. Elegant, but with a hint of sadism. I asked if I could touch them, and she let me.

Our conversation grew quiet. I couldn’t focus on anything else. She quietly observed me.

I asked if I could kiss them. She allowed.

I kissed them gently with all my admiration. She didn’t say anything; she just watched with fascination. She didn’t move much, only occasionally glancing at the other people in the room. I asked if she was enjoying it. She nodded.

“Would you like me to do anything else?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“You can do anything you want with me.”

“Give me some ideas.”

“You can slap me and see if you like it.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

She slapped me, but quite gently. I told her she could do it harder. The second slap wasn’t shy at all. I smiled. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She wasn’t shy anymore.

“Did you like that?” I asked.

“Very much,” she replied.

“May I kiss your hand?”

She gave me her beautiful hand, the same one that had just slapped my face without mercy or hesitation. I kissed it like a gentleman.

I don’t remember our conversations, it was quite some time ago. But the images —those I will probably never forget.

I was lying on the floor, and her beautiful boots were digging sadistically into my stomach. She wasn’t shy at all. My fists were clenched as I endured her torture, and she really enjoyed pushing her pointy heels deeper and deeper.

Her eyes grew cold. Something about her had changed, and I was completely captivated observing that. She looked down at me with scorn, and it felt real. I looked up at her, eager to endure, to take it all for her amusement.

She called me up a few times and slapped my face without mercy. Then she held her hand to my mouth and made me thank her with a kiss. It became our ritual. I loved looking at her face as I did it. That cruel expression made me realize this was real. She had taken me exactly the way I had always wanted to be taken.

We never kissed. There was this gorgeous woman towering above me, doing all these cruel things, and she never even gave me a kiss. She belonged to someone else. I was her stress relief, her toy for the evening, but not clearly worthy of her kiss.

Maybe I could have her spit instead. A one-way kiss, in a way. All I had to do was ask. She spat right into my mouth. That beautiful, warm saliva from a mouth I’d never touch. I was lucky; I only had to ask once, and then she kept spitting all over me purely out of joy.

My face was wet, my body bearing the traces of her shoes, and all I wanted was more. It felt real. I wanted to be destroyed, annihilated by this beautiful woman who had never, in her whole life, treated a man that way.

I left her my phone number. I really hoped she’d reach out someday. Perhaps out of curiosity about the unusual man she’d met that night, or perhaps because she needed to unwind again and reclaim her toy. I didn’t hear from her for a month and almost lost hope. But then, out of the blue, I got a message:

“Not sure if you remember me. But I just wanted to say thank you for showing me a different side of myself I didn’t know existed before. That evening, I had no idea I’d have such an experience. But it was really hot, though unexpected. Unlike you, I had no clue that I had this dominant side in me. And that I could feel so natural and effortless in that role. I’m glad it was you who showed me there’s another side to things. And that I, too, can be different.”

I used to be a switch. Although I always felt more thrill in my submissive role, I also enjoyed taking the other one from time to time.

I used to enjoy vanilla sex. Long legs passing by on the street, a slutty look on a pretty face in a nightclub, or a fit bum glowing in the morning light…

I feel like a different person now when I look back at those years.

Submission always felt thrilling, different. An exciting spice reserved for special occasions, while I never really considered myself “submissive.” It held excitement, like the entrance to an amusement park, but I never saw myself living there.

But some things began to change as I spent extensive time in that park. It was a very intimate period with a very special Mistress. For the first time in my life, I was with someone who liked my kinks even more than I did. Someone who took them seriously and pushed me deeper.

I was used. I got used to being used. I focused on her pleasure while willingly suppressing my own.

I remember a time when I was thrusting her with a strapon while locked in a tightly clenching chastity. The dildo I wore was much bigger than I ever was, and it gave her immense pleasure. My squashed manhood was nothing more than a bulge underneath. I made love to her as passionately as if it were truly me pulsing inside her. I felt both her divinity and her earthliness — both above me — and then I felt her climax as I pushed that thing all the way in. I inhaled her exhale, the breath of a Goddess, as if it were the last breath I’d ever take.

Perhaps the best sex of my life was a period when I didn’t even have sex in the physical sense. It was deeper than that. The dynamic we shared was its own reality — a perfect mix of pain and pleasure, and the inequality of our sensations. I wouldn’t even know how to explain this to a vanilla person.

The cage hurt — but only physically. Knowing that she wanted me to hurt felt right. She sentenced me to pain while selfishly taking all the pleasure for herself.

It wasn’t play. It was real. She fell asleep, but my cage stayed on. She was fulfilled, and I was undone.

I felt something deeper as I lay restless at her feet. A subtle tingling sensation stirred through my body. It was subtle, yet at the same time stronger than anything I had ever felt before. Something so deeply addictive that it perhaps changed me forever. A spice that possibly numbed me to all the other flavors. How can I even taste vanilla again?

“Imagine if you only did this for the rest of your life. We might reprogram you.”

Those were her words, and they stayed with me longer than I reflected at the time. She was right. I could totally be reprogrammed.

So there I am, months later, lying with a beautiful girl. She’s fit, gorgeous, sweet, and innocent. She has no idea about my submissive side; the concept probably doesn’t even exist for her. I admire her beauty. I make love to her softly.

But taking her doesn’t feel natural. The part of me that would ravish her is gone. It withered in the shadow of my other side.

A kinky thought pops into my mind. I imagine somebody else ravishing her.

Holy shit. Was I broken beyond repair?

I try to enjoy her blowjob. It feels pleasurable. I penetrate her, and that feels nice too — both physically and aesthetically.

But that is all there is.

Some wider concept is missing. It’s just two bodies grinding. She moans. I sweat. We do it faster. We do it slower. We kiss, but it feels more hollow than it used to. I try to feel her, but she somehow feels distant. I look into her eyes. Is she still here? Not fully. She drifted away. She is focusing on her pleasure while I focus on mine. Is this what vanilla sex is about?

If it is, then I don’t need it anymore. Perhaps I really could be sexless. I could give it all away to someone who would take me selfishly. The pleasure and thrill in those depths go beyond the physical.

I didn’t choose to be like this. I didn’t choose the path of submission as some artistic decision. I was sucked into it. Something about it felt too tempting to resist, and the deeper I went, the more disconnected I became from life on the surface.

The world out there is different. I sometimes struggle to fit.

It feels like my personality is split. Perhaps, on a deeper level, there is no split — just a very specific balance in how I work. But on the surface, I sometimes feel broken in certain ways.

She wants me to take control. She expects me to, because that’s how I’ve been leading up to this.

And I don’t blame her.

I rule the world I live in. The attention in the room effortlessly gravitates toward me, and I’m aware of that. So I guided her through our spotlight, lovingly but assertively, as a dancer would guide his partner.

She liked me that way. She followed my steps softly and elegantly, with the feather-light steps of a ballerina. She looked so beautiful.

And now she’s ready, warmed up and attuned to my rhythm. She wants to surrender. She wants me to take her — fully, selfishly, ravenously.

But that part of me is missing. I either lost it, or perhaps it was never truly there. I’m stumbling around as if the music has stopped.

I can’t say I like myself this way. But I also wouldn’t say I want to be different just to fit expectations. I could pretend, as many people on the surface probably do, but I’m self-aware enough not to.

I’m not going to end this with any conclusion. I’m just finding my way. Don’t see me as a teacher.

I guess I need to find my balance, as we all do.

There is a deep paradox surrounding findom that puts men into two camps. Most dismiss it — I once did too. I already wrote about this topic here, and it caught a lot of attention.

In this article, I will mostly focus on the moment of my own realization. I thought I understood it just by knowing the theory, but I was wrong. It took an “aha moment” for me to truly understand it.

The paradox is so bizarre, yet so simple, that you could almost compare it to Schrödinger’s cat. To simplify it for those less geeky than me: in the world of quantum physics, where an atom can simultaneously exist in two different states until it is measured, a cat locked in a box with a potentially radioactive atom can be both alive and dead until you open the box.

When it comes to findom, I was trying to judge what was inside the box without ever opening it. I found the idea hot as a specific dimension of domination, but because it is transactional by nature, it also felt somewhat superficial.

And it can be both — simultaneously — until you open that box.

Now you might ask yourself, why would you? It’s not a cheap box to open, and finding a dead cat would kind of suck. But let me tell you — the cat isn’t dead. It’s very much alive. And it’s about to jump into your face.

You might arrange to experience your kinks for free, or you might pay for the experience. But in both cases, you are experiencing your kinks. You’re getting what you want, even if that means doing something for someone else.

• In the first case, you might feel good about yourself, thinking: “I’m living out my sexual fantasies for free, while so many suckers pay for them.” You came for domination, but you ended up boosting your ego instead. In doing so, you’re drifting further and further away from what you’re actually craving.

• In the second, you might think: “I’m treated badly and I pay for it. I’m such a loser.” And you might get off on that. But in both cases, you’re still chasing your own pleasure. On a deeper level, neither experience is as real as findom can become.

You might lick thousands of feet or get pegged by an entire cheerleading squad. And then you’ll realize that something was missing all along. You wanted to offer yourself fully, but you habitualy kept one hand on the steering wheel by negotiating your own terms.

And this is what findom is not. It’s not a negotiation. You shouldn’t expect anything in return. Getting a photo, a session, or even a “thank you” could take away all its magic. So if you’re trying to balance investment and return, as our logical minds love to do in every aspect of life, it truly doesn’t make much sense.

And I agree, it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense to the mind, but it triggers something far deeper within you. Something that your previous mind-orchestrated experiences kept missing. Something you kept coming so close to, but never quite reached.

If you want an ice cream, you find a way to get an ice cream. It might taste good, but it’s still just an ice cream. Our mind is the go-getter. It gets us the things we want. It satisfies us, but it doesn’t fulfill us. We keep craving something our minds simply can’t understand.

Following the mind is one of life’s deepest sources of dissatisfaction. It’s like asking a deaf person where the music comes from, or a blind person which way the arrow points. There is a dimension our minds simply cannot comprehend.

And so it is with findom. Why would sending someone €100 turn me on? I’m into feet, not numbers. It’s a lot of money when I compare it with many other pleasures life can offer. If I want to be aroused, I can instead pay for things that arouse me.

Which I did. Many times. And I kept ending up in circles. I wanted an ice cream, so I got an ice cream. Eventually, I got sick of ice cream. Yet somehow, I wanted more.

I was guided by my mind. It led me rationally, and it left me unhappy.

When I was first told to send money, I felt puzzled.

“Well, that’s not very nice,” my mind thought.

My Mistress and I already had a well-established dynamic. I’d already spent plenty on our time together.

I always thought she’d take money from other losers, not me. I thought I was special.

Which I was, in so many ways. But she was still above me — she could use me in any way she wanted. At least, that’s what I regularly promised her. I guess I wasn’t fully aware of the extent of that promise, because my mind was doing everything it could to stop me from opening that gate.

Was that a boundary? I felt strangely uncomfortable. Maybe I should say so. I almost did.

But there was also something else. A feeling that if I went through with it, I would truly be letting her use me. And in its own way, that felt intoxicating.

Then my mind came back with its usual arguments about rationality. It wasn’t a trivial amount. It was enough to argue with a friend over, enough to influence my travel plans, enough to make me bitter if I lost it over something reckless, like a speeding ticket.

People fight over money. It’s one of the strongest forces behind rational thinking. So how could I do something so irrational for nothing more than a fleeting moment of sexual pleasure?

But I did it. You might call it irrational, as most people would, or you might call it the bare minimum. Both arguments have their merits.

But what truly felt irrational was what came afterward. It wasn’t physical arousal, like seeing a hot photo. It was something much stronger and much deeper. Something I had always fallen just short of.

I can already hear your next argument.

“Yeah, but most of it is fake,” [troll voice]

What is fake? The accounts can be. You might get dommed by a guy, or these days, probably even by AI. But findom itself can never be fake because the transaction alone gives it its purpose.

You give something you genuinely don’t enjoy giving, and they receive something they genuinely do. You get nothing in return. The dynamic is real at its core. Yes, it’s a transaction, but not a balanced one. It’s something life rarely offers, yet something we irrationally crave precisely because it throws the scales out of balance.

I was too stubborn to try it before. I wouldn’t send a tribute to an online dom because I thought the cat was dead. But it’s impossible to know the answer until you open that box.

Is it healthy, though? I think my vanilla friends would stage an intervention if they knew how much I’ve spent since that first taste. Then again, anything can become unhealthy depending on the extent of it, so set yourself a limit and communicate it. As with any other D/s activity, there’s a healthy boundary, and where that boundary lies depends on each individual. But if you objectively compare it to the other thrill-seeking indulgences we tend to get hooked on, this one is actually quite innocent.

So here you go — a simple conclusion to end with: it is real, and it’s worth trying.

Silence the mind, do the irrational. Feel the imbalance you actually crave. Go down on your knees and let Her take it all.

This is the story of the first time I was truly, genuinely, and completely dominated. It is also the only time it happened without me giving any hint of my submissive desires. Needless to say, I enjoyed it. It happened many years ago, and even though I barely remember the face of that beautiful, sadistic girl, I still often try to relive those few bizarre hours. It all unfolded so naturally that it still amazes me. However, I have to warn you that it carries a bitter twist.

I was 22 years old at the time. I’d barely dipped my toe into my submissive side, and only with a partner who knew me very well, respected me, and only engaged in it because she knew I enjoyed it. It was fun. A safe place to start. But at the same time, I always craved something more raw, something wilder and crueler. I always fantasized about a stranger. And actually, I still do.

A stranger who would push me down and do cruel things to me purely for her own pleasure. Mistreat me, humiliate me, and genuinely treat me as a worthless object for her amusement. It might seem scary, but it also feels more real with a stranger, at least in a fantasy. Someone above me who doesn’t worry about my feelings because they simply don’t care about them. It doesn’t sound healthy, I know. I never claimed my writings was.

Sometimes I truly crave something like that. When water tastes empty, sweet drinks too sweet, beer kind of boring, and I just crave a bourbon to burn my throat. Oh yes, sometimes my body just craves some toxins.

However, for a BDSM rookie, a taste of something truly bitter might not be easy to swallow. Being disrespected in a role-play is one thing, but being disrespected for real can actually hurt, especially your ego. And when the ego hurts, your natural defenses kick in. That’s why it might actually be good to follow the general guidelines of consent and boundaries, no matter how boring they sound. But more on that later.

What I wanted to point out was that, at the time, I didn’t even dare to look for anything like this. I would only admit my kinks after a well-established state of affairs. After I had proved myself as a “real man,” as I was raised to be. I couldn’t even imagine being dominated before that — or, in other words, being dominated for real.

However, I didn’t even have to look for it. She decided to do it completely out of nowhere and I don’t think she was even concerned with what I was or wasn’t looking for.

So let’s get to it.

It all started with a match on Tinder. I presented myself as a sporty guy, with a witty description and photos that proudly showcased my adventurous lifestyle. She, however, had no description and only two photos, one with sunglasses and another blurry shot taken during a hike. On one hand, it made me suspicious, but on the other, I was intrigued by her mysterious concern for privacy.

I received a third photo, in which I could finally see her clearly. She had dark, curly hair and remarkably expressive eyes. She was pretty.

Our conversation was very basic — and perhaps out of boredom — we agreed to meet quite soon. However, our communication was only possible through a translator. I told her that my Spanish was “no muy bueno,” but I didn’t tell her that even that was an overstatement. My Spanish was (and still is) so basic that I could only form simple sentences, but I’m like a wall when somebody replies to them.

But she was pretty…

As she sat in my car, her looks even exceeded my expectations. Why was she hiding this on her profile? I lit up with excitement, and we got along quite well while I compensated for my linguistic incompetence with plenty of laughter and hand gestures. Who wouldn’t like a dog who exuberantly wags his tail just by your presence?

She was wearing black ankle boots and dark nylons decorated with elegant floral patterns. I always had a weakness for that look.

I could barely focus on driving, as I wanted to glance at her crossed legs every few seconds. We stopped at a viewpoint not far from where I had picked her up. It offered a beautiful view over the colonial Spanish settlement, and the sun was just about to set. I opened a bottle of white wine and realized I had forgotten to bring cups. She was playfully annoyed by my mistake as we began to pass that bottle.

I couldn’t resist her legs any longer, so I nervously asked if I could touch them. She seemed to enjoy my meekness. She said I could, so I gently touched her knee and slid my fingertips down her calf before tracing them back up. I was breathing deeply, and I even began to tremble slightly. She seemed to enjoy that too.

I kissed her, perhaps in an attempt to regain some control, but during the kiss, I felt myself surrendering even further. It was then that our true positions began to reveal themselves.

We finished that bottle and went to buy another. That one got empty quite soon too. I was a nice guy, as I am by default. She was playful, but also controlling. We were a good match. We were in my car, but it soon felt like it was hers. As she got drunker, her dominant nature began to flourish.

Her playfulness gradually changed into something colder. At some point, she lit up a cigarette, even though I had already told her that we couldn’t smoke in the car. I pulled over so she could step outside. She didn’t say anything. She was just observing me with a coldness in her eyes.

It was already here that my character started to split. Part of me wanted to control her, tell her off, and not allow her to rule over me. But another part just wanted to drop to my knees and apologize for my misalignment with her wishes.

I kept to the middle ground. I stayed quiet. I was anxiously curious to see what would happen next.

When we arrived at my place, she told me:

“Esta noche nunca la olvidarás.”

I had no idea how right she was…

As we entered the house, she curiously wandered around, not giving me much attention.

“Pour me a drink,” she said.

I asked what she would like, and she said, “Anything.”

I asked if she would prefer a beer or wine, and she shot me a mildly irritated look.

“Anything.”

I poured us two beers and led her to the rooftop terrace. I expected her to be impressed, but she didn’t say a word. Not even a thank you for the beer. By most standards, that would have seemed rude, yet something about her indifference intrigued me. It was a melody slowly building up…

She leaned against the railing, looking into the distance, and lit a cigarette. I came up behind her and caressed her curly hair. I leaned in and kissed her neck. She kept staring ahead, not responding with any affection.

That’s when she coldly said, “Go down.”

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that.

“On your knees,” she said.

I wasn’t sure I had understood her correctly…

She turned around and pointed to the floor in front of her. I could feel a trembling sensation spreading through my chest. It felt like a roller coaster slowly tipping over the edge of a cliff.

And I let myself fall.

She touched my face gently while looking down at me. I was looking up at her, perplexed by what was going on.

Her fingertips traced my lips, as if me being her toy was already obvious. The scent of cigarettes didn’t bother me. I even offered her my tongue. She squeezed it between her fingers and pulled it out. Her eyes glowed with something dark and wicked.

She turned back around and said, “Kiss.”

I passionately kissed the backs of her upper thighs, those beautiful nylons I had admired from the very beginning. She pulled up her skirt and told me to lick. I had never licked ass before, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. It was slightly hairy, and I had some momentary hygiene concerns, but I didn’t dare question her command again. She kept telling me to do it better, harder. She pulled me in by the hair and started grinding against me with full force.

At that point, my silly mind found yet another concern, and this one was about our neighbors. The rooftop was visible from the building across the street, and what if someone recorded us? I truly regret that I couldn’t submit as naturally as she wanted me to. As for the video, I’d probably pay a fortune today to see it.

I stopped and told her that we should go inside. I saw the same disappointment in her eyes that I had seen when I pulled the car over for her cigarette. I kissed her hand and apologized.

She sighed and said, “Fine, let’s go inside…”

She pointed to the cups and told me to bring them.

She stopped on the staircase and pointed to her boots.

“Remove them.”

I dropped back down to my knees and started kissing them. They were so damn beautiful, and the fact that they were worn by a genuinely sadistic girl — the first one I had ever met — just drove me crazy. She observed me for a little while and then kicked me away. Her order was clear — and so was the fact that this was not about me. I removed them, and we proceeded to the bedroom.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and I instinctively knelt back down. She lit another cigarette. She was looking at me, and her eyes seemed to say: “Don’t you dare to say something.”

I didn’t.

I was allowed to kiss her feet while she smoked. I lay flat on the floor, and she placed one foot on my chest while sliding the other up and down my tongue. Then she flicked ash from her cigarette onto my face. She looked down at me and watched the ashes land. She leaned over, moving her hair out of the way, and spat.

I was just breathing and observing. No words were spoken, no agreement was made. She took me so naturally that it was hard to believe.

She spat again. I tried to catch it, which made her laugh. She asked if I liked it, and I nodded. She leaned in closer and honored me with a big one right onto my tongue. Then she sprinkled some more ash on top.

Soon my face was wet, sticky, and smeared like a coal miner’s. Her glass was empty again, and she ordered me to bring more. I asked her what she would like, and she said:

“Everything!”

I didn’t dare to question her instruction, so I gathered all the liquor into a plastic bag and brought it upstairs. I lay back down on the floor beneath her.

She really drank a lot. She could probably hold more than I could. At first, we were drinking equally, but ever since I ended up underneath, she was the only one drinking.

She opened a Desperados (a sweet local cider) only to say that she didn’t like it. Then she started pouring it over my face. I was choking, my eyes burning. I started coughing and had to roll away. I looked back up at her and there was barely any emotion on her face.

“Go clean it up,” she said, as if she sensed my concern about the flood spreading across the floor.

The night went on like this. She smoked one cigarette after another, and my face grew dirtier and dirtier. I enjoyed watching her up there, sadistically observing me and destroying whatever remained of my dignity. Her foot slapped me every now and then when she got bored, and from time to time she asked me something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

I couldn’t really comprehend how we had ended up here. How did she come up with this idea? Does she always treat guys like this, or did she choose me for some specific reason?

I enjoyed every moment of it: every movement of her foot, every condescending look, every falling piece of ash. I enjoyed being completely objectified and mistreated, humiliated beyond measure. But most of all, I enjoyed the fact that she had been a complete stranger just a few hours earlier. A pretty girl walking down the street, invited out on a date, perhaps with mean intentions, perhaps not.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t even give her a single hint that I would enjoy it. She simply put me in that place, as if it were obvious that was where I belonged. In her mind, I genuinely did. In her mind, I was a toy that she could push even lower, one kick at a time.

She drank a lot. Her detachment began to feel somehow scary.

She told me to give her my money. I was a bit hesitant, but she seemed absolutely certain. I opened my wallet and started counting. She said: “Everything.”

I gave it to her, but I was no longer feeling safe with this stranger in my house.

I didn’t know what to do, so I lay back down at her feet, trying to sink back into my pleasures. She was listening to her music and ashing her cigarettes over me. I still kind of enjoyed it, but I was also beginning to worry about where this was heading.

She told me to go wash myself, and when I came back, she was naked. She turned around and told me to fuck her from behind.

I wasn’t that surprised, to be honest. She was looking away; she didn’t even want to look at me. I truly was just a sex toy. Maybe that’s how she likes to treat men: break them completely and only then use them for sex. I liked that, actually.

I wasn’t hard, so I started licking, like she wanted me earlier. She turned around and slapped me.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she said.

That worked.

Her words were still echoing in my head while I was thrusting her from behind. The warmth of her body, her soft curves moving in front of me — what a worthy reward. I had never experienced sex from this perspective before. Her body, which I had only been allowed to adore from underneath, was now moving in the rhythm of pleasure.

She was so tight and wet. I felt the tension building. I tried to slow down. But then I heard the echo of her warning: not to disappoint her. It was too late, it pushed me right over the edge. I came embarrassingly fast.

As I went to the bathroom, I experienced a PNC like never before. PNC stands for “post-nut clarity,” but I think that in some cases it can also be a “post-nut confusion.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe I had allowed myself to follow my pleasures so recklessly. I had gone too far.

What went through my mind was something along the lines of: I’m a man, and I need to prove to her that I’m in charge. All that was just a game, but now I need to take back control.

Surely, the fact that I was somewhat scared of this cold and distant stranger in my house played a role. The money thing was way outside my boundaries. It felt like a lot of money at the time, and I definitely wanted it back. I was also embarrassed — not only by the things we had done, but also by the fact that I had failed to even satisfy her sexually.

But, bizarrely, even more than all of that, I idiotically thought that by regaining control, I would regain her respect.

When I came back into the room, I was a different person. I don’t even want to imagine how horrible that must have felt for that poor girl.

I wanted my money back, and I wanted to check her phone for the photos. We started arguing, screaming at each other. The fight escalated, and at some point I even slapped her. She tore up the money and left.

I’ll admit a lot of things in my writing. But to be honest, this was the hardest one so far. It would be much easier to say that I was too drunk to remember how it ended, and maybe I would eventually truly forget. But I’ve put it out there as it happened because I think it might be educational.

To show what can happen when you let frenzy take things too far before trust has been built. To explain how irrational PNC can feel, so perhaps someone else can manage it better. And also to tell the full story, because it wouldn’t be fair to steal only the juicy part.

As for me, I surely have a lot of regret about that night. I kept reliving the good parts throughout all these years, but I always skipped the ending. I have a feeling that the girl was actually more rational than she seemed that late in the night. She gave off good vibes before we drank that much, and I think that if we had simply gone to sleep, the morning would have sorted out most of our concerns.

Perhaps we would have wake up with, “OMG, we went a bit too far, but that was hot.”

Perhaps I would have gotten to experience my submission in a safe space instead of jumping in and out of it while burning bridges. Many guys do that, and I would say it’s mostly out of shame and fear. I wasn’t able to do differently at the time.

I was drawn to things I didn’t yet accept. I was constrained by values that weren’t mine. And it made me react far more primitively than my deeper self actually wanted to. Perhaps, in a way, I even wanted that bridge to burn. I wanted to prevent myself from ever crossing it again.

I was left with a bitter taste of shame, regret and betrayal. Until now, I have tried to forget it by focusing only the pleasant memories.

I can’t imagine what she was left with, as the ending probably robbed her of those.

I wanked repeatedly to the fact that I was used, while actually I was the one who used her.

So let that be a lesson for others to do better.

Throughout my journey, I discovered different levels of submission, and as I went deeper, I began to experience the sweetness and bitterness of each. Let’s get into it.

Level 1: Role play

These were my beginnings, already as a teenager. Kneeling, crawling, worshipping her feet, maybe being gently slapped — all felt exciting. I used to look into her eyes and think: is it real? I surely wished it would be. Does she really feel superior? Does she really see me diminished, as our postures appear to be? Probably not. We were literally playing out my fantasy, and deep down I knew that she was doing it mostly because it pleased me. After the play, we were equals again. In most ways, actually, I was in charge, as it is commonly expected from a man to be.

As I was trying out my kinks, I often found more depth in fantasy. The idea that a woman would look down on someone fascinated me. I was trying to imagine it being real. I could feel it in fantasy, but I didn’t know how to bring it into real life.

Paid sessions didn’t feel real at all. If I pay to get served exactly what I ordered, then I’m again at the same old role play. Actually, out of sex workers, the “generic” ones felt best, because there I paid to have sex, but then confessed that she could just abuse me instead. In that misalignment, I felt a glimpse of something real. I also liked the thought that there were multiple guys fucking her while I remained beneath her feet.

Level 2: Sadism

Along the way, I also encountered a few rare gems. Beautiful women with genuine, unashamed sadistic tendencies.

She barely knew me, and she decided to beat the shit out of me.

Why? Well, mostly because she could.

It felt real.

It hurt, but I endured that pain, as it was expected from me.

I’m actually not masochistic. I hate pain. But what I like is the idea that someone is twisted enough to enjoy causing it. That she feels good when I suffer, and that I endure it for the sake of her pleasure. Such an imbalance. Such a harsh sacrifice for her satisfaction. The less she cared, the more I could endure.

But those encounters, no matter how hot, how long anticipated, or how many times remembered, were, after all, just encounters. It wasn’t a real dynamic, as I barely knew her and she barely knew me. In many ways, that felt pleasantly lighthearted. Being beneath someone who doesn’t truly know you is not that heavy. I could genuinely feel below her, as she would only use me for that. She wouldn’t allow me to climb any higher; our roles were real. And yet I didn’t feel bad about it, because I knew I was doing something brave. I followed my desire as authentically as it called me; I lived my life to the fullest. I really enjoyed that playground.

But that was all there was: an exchange of interests. We did something both of us craved. It’s quite rare to find a match like this. I was truly below her — the little part of me she knew. But she didn’t know me fully, so no matter how harshly she treated me, my soul stayed intact.

That’s when I started to sense there must be something even deeper than that.

Level 3: Inequality

In one of my relationships, I felt our balance was slightly off. Not just sexually, where she wanted me to dominate her and quite harshly rejected my submissive desires, but also in other aspects of life. She looked at me somewhat condescendingly, and she didn’t allow herself to be as vulnerable with me as I was with her. There was a real imbalance between us, one that ran deeper than anything I had experienced before. Not to mention she also earned shitloads of money and could easily live both of us and another ten random people.

Our inequality felt real. My opinions were underneath hers, my emotions too. I’m not saying that is healthy, but my submissive side surely felt some thrill. Can I be strong enough to endure? I enjoyed the idea of spending my life with someone who would truly be above me. I think this originates from my masculine core; being strong for someone else feels much more meaningful than being strong for your own gains.

However, I didn’t feel safe with her. The sense that she didn’t really want to be overly vulnerable was telling me that I should preserve some parts of myself as well. Needless to say, it ended up quite explosively. Our differences were, from the beginning, like a ticking time bomb. But our inequality actually wasn’t what felt off. It felt more like a spice most wouldn’t understand, but life without it would feel incomplete.

I like to imagine a relationship where the balance is off, but we both stepped into it willingly. Where her opinions overrule mine, where I make plans and she makes decisions. I’d like to feel truly owned by someone of my choice. It’s what this whole journey was about.

But then again, there is a fear attached to it. In the glimpses that I had of real inequality, I also felt a deeply rooted fear of being discarded. When you let someone truly be above you, when they own you like property, there is a sense that they might get bored of you, just as it happens with property. When you don’t stand your ground, but just fold as they please, it kind of makes you think they will fall for someone more exciting. If I don’t remind her of my worth, will she remember it by herself?

Level 3 takes a lot of emotional courage. It’s a danger zone; your internal alarms will go off. It’s so much easier to get beaten by a hot stranger than to truly place your essence beneath someone. But it also feels like the real deal, and there is something within some of us that deeply wants to experience that. However, this is a high-stakes game. You need to truly trust your partner, and even before that, you need to willingly acknowledge that these are stakes you actually want to play for.

I’d like to emphasize there is nothing wrong with any of the levels. They are not meant as a mandatory progression. I’m not even sure which one I’d like to linger in. Level 2 is fun; perhaps I’ll just stay there for a while. There were some aspects of Level 3 that my calmer self didn’t fully align with. And who knows, there might even be a Level 4 — like total oblivion — but if you enjoy my writings, you probably don’t want me to go there just yet.

You look down at me, and my place becomes undeniable.

You know I would do anything. You know I would take anything. You look me in the eyes as the heel of your stiletto digs into my chest.

You place that red sole onto my tongue. It becomes the physical point where our existences collide.

You’re above me — existentially and physically — as high as one can be. And yet you wish to push me lower.

Perhaps you wish to annihilate me. That idea intoxicates my mind in a way neither pleasure nor pain ever could.

You prove it through your actions.

I can also see it in your eyes.

And yet I sometimes still wish I could see more.

I wish I could see your thoughts.

had scheduled her next visit. I was preparing for the next chapter of our journey: the denial.

As instructed, I denied myself any pleasure I would habitually take. Subtle ones, like taking the elevator when there are stairs, sitting on my sofa when I could sit on the floor, or having a tasty drink when I could have water. Then there were harsher ones, like taking cold showers, waking up earlier, working out harder. And lastly, being locked up and not pleasuring myself at all — not even through chastity, which was sometimes my way of cheating the system when I was locked up for too long and my need to hump shifted toward random pieces of furniture.

I called the elevator. A thought popped into my mind: “Oh, I guess I should use the stairs, no?”

It felt kind of silly — nobody watching me, nobody knowing. But I knew. A few floors higher, my breath quickened, and reaching the top I needed a pause. In some form, she was there. I did it for her, and it felt purposeful.

Then came the first cold shower. I hate cold showers. I was standing in front of it — hesitant — I could feel the pain even before entering. I knew there was no other way, I knew that I would do it. So I did it. I poured it over my face, I started screaming as if that would reduce the pain. Not sure if it did, but it helped me endure.

It hurt… However, I stayed there. I soaped, my muscles were tense. The pain didn’t really subside, but something else came to silence it. A realization that i am doing it for Her. That i am suffering for Her. That i am sacrificing my comfort for Her. Then the pain started to feel just right.

The first one was the hardest.

The subtle things started to make sense. I was sitting on the floor. Nobody on the sofa, my apartment empty. But I knew. I knew who I am doing this for, and it felt right.

I was waking up with painful erections. My cage was squeezing me in my sleep. I was surprised to notice how many erections I had throughout the night. But I stayed with them. I looked into the dark ceiling and knew that it was her hold on me, causing me pain. I didn’t touch it, I didn’t search for crumbs of pleasure. I sat on my hands when I had to. I focused on it — on her presence in my everyday life.

One morning my penis looked ridiculously squashed. I sent her a photo. She laughed at it.

And then something bizarre happened. The chastity cracked. The plastic lock just twisted outwards, and my penis grew to a full-size erection like a gladiator coming out of a cage.

I sent her a video. She was amused.

I asked if I could touch myself, just for a minute.

I expected a yes.

She said no.

Another cold shower…

When she was finally in front of me, my tasks felt easier.

I could be hard and squished (in my new, stronger chastity), but at least I had Her to focus on. I could kiss her sandals, serve, pour wine, follow orders, clean, cook, pleasure her sexually… I was busy.

She had as many pleasures as she wanted, while I was there to observe them and be useful.

When she was satisfied, falling asleep, and I was still locked, I realized how real our dynamic had become. I was there to be deprived. And she would stretch it even further, just because she found it amusing.

Sexually, we had done this before. However, this time she decided to expand my deprivation to other aspects of our life as well.

The next day, I could only eat bread. We spent some time on the beach, and the sun made us really crave steak. She found the best steakhouse in the area and told me to drive us there. In the car, she shared her fantasy. She would have a steak, and I would have a salad. Her sentence hit me right in the chest. I looked at her, and she was serious. I tried to let it sink in, but the discomfort just kept intensifying throughout the drive.

A road sign — “Steakhouse” — pointing to the farm once again pinched my heart. It looked like a really good restaurant, and I was starving. She knew it, and that was exactly how she wanted me to be. I parked the car, opened the door for her, and met her beautifully sadistic gaze.

She was excited. She went through the menu and ordered: Steak with red wine for her. And salad with water for me. Even the waiter seemed puzzled.

“Just a salad?”

“Mhm” I nodded.

My salad arrived first. It wasn’t even a full portion — just a side, basic and bland, exactly what you’d expect from a locally owned steakhouse. A few green leaves and an awkwardly cut, underripe tomato. And that beautiful, sadistic smile from across the table.

“Eat your salad,” she said, amused.

I did. She laughed.

I can’t really explain the intensity of that situation. I’ve done many kinky things throughout my life, but that surprisingly felt more intense. The inequality felt real. I was deprived of basic life comforts, which until then I had taken for granted. She had the power to take it away. A power which I gave to her, and she used so freely. I could truly feel her ownership over me.

You see, I really wanted a steak. I wanted it, and I’m used to getting things that I want. I’m very independent; I always find my way to the things I desire. But this time, I didn’t feel so independent after all. I couldn’t have something because it was her will for me not to. Not because there wasn’t enough, but because she wanted to watch me be deprived.

The idea — once fully embodied — felt mind-blowing.

She received her steak. It looked so tasty. I could smell it from across the table, I could even smell her red wine.

She ate slowly, dipping it into the sauce, her eyes on me. I was melting under the sadistic pleasure in her gaze. For that, I could have deprived myself even more.

I was patient. I actually started to enjoy watching her indulge in another pleasure; I genuinely felt happy for her. We weren’t equal. And moments like this proved it even more than our kinky play.

The portion was big; she couldn’t finish it all. She passed the leftovers to my side of the table. I took what I was given.

The next day, she had an invitation to a high-end party held in a luxurious private mansion, with professional catering, multiple DJs, and a few hundred guests — mostly celebrities or the filthy rich.

She’d been invited by Mistress May, and even though she was spending those days with me, she wouldn’t miss an event like that. I understood. Still, I felt a hint of jealousy —just  at how much richer a social life can be for an attractive woman than for an average guy like me.

I booked a hotel nearby. Throughout the day, we were gentle, mostly vanilla. She felt tired, so she spent a lot of time in my arms. But as she started getting ready, her mischievous smile began to reappear.

I zipped up her dress, polished her shoes, she sat on my bare back as she did her hair… Lastly, she locked my chastity cage and put the key on her necklace. She likes to have it there, and she likes when people ask what it is for.

You might sense where this is heading. Will she return with someone else?

I genuinely couldn’t know at that moment.

Cuckolding was our fantasy, but neither of us had ever done it. She is very selective with her body — she needs intimacy, and only a rare few are worthy. Knowing that might make my heart ache even more than my locked-up desire.

She could do it; we were both aware of this. I felt a slight anxiety, as it seemed like a possible escalation of the past few days. But that was for her to decide, and there was nothing I could do about it, so the anxiety felt redundant. I was there to wait, think of her, and please her when she returned.

And so I did. I opened a bottle of wine, sat by the window, observed the towering skyline of the city. The sky turned orange, then red, and then I was left mostly with a reflection of myself and a messy hotel room.

I started to feel a bit lonely. I’m not used to drinking by myself. It was Saturday, and everyone seemed to be going somewhere. I could see groups of young people gathering in front of the hotel and heading out. The street was crowded with cabs.

I sent her a text asking how the party was. Half an hour later, I received a photo of a spacious living room that looked like some kind of gallery. She was clearly having a great time.

I was eager to know more — like what she was doing, whether she was with someone, or about to be… I wished she shared more, but I didn’t want to disturb her.

I’m not going to lie — at some point, my emotions started to turn bitter. It was my ego whispering — not quite words, but more of a feeling — that I deserved more, that I was being treated unfairly.

But I caught those thoughts early on, and I realized how silly they were. This was all consensual. Our inequality was real, yes, but it was something we had entered into consciously. And she was enjoying it as much as she deserved.

The ego comes to the rescue when we’re hurt. But it doesn’t do much good, it just fights back, for self-preservation, I suppose. What I said to myself to silence it was: yes, I am hurt, but I allow her to hurt me. And then it shifted into something different, something just as strong but without its destructive pull.

Mistakenly, I could call it arousal, but it was more subtle and less sharp than that. I didn’t feel my usual thirst for pleasure. Perhaps the closest way to describe it was a fully embodied state of submission. My body was surging with a force to bend and be taken by her, but not only in a physical way. No one else could extinguish that fire — she not only held the key to my chastity, but to my entire burning existence.

I tried to fall asleep, but I felt restless. There was one thought that was stronger than my drowsiness. Will she come home with someone?

I felt it through my whole body — it was intense. I didn’t want her to, yet if she chose to, that was how it would be. It was a mix of anxiety and thrill. There was no way I could fall asleep with that rush running through me.

I lay on the floor by the door. My heart was pounding. Soon, she would walk in. Her sandals stepping right here on this carpet where I last saw her.

Each time I heard the noise of elevator, my heart rate increased. I found it intoxicating that wherever she is, I am at best at the back of her mind, and wherever she is, she’s all that my existence encompasses.

Then I heard her footsteps. I could recognize them. They stopped in front of the door. The thrill I was feeling was incomparable to anything I had felt before.

The door opened, and the hallway light spilled in.

She stepped in, but the door behind her stayed open.

My heart clenched. Is there someone else?

The door closed. She was alone. She was back. I was grateful.

She didn’t say a word. She placed her sandal to my lips.

I’ve been chasing pleasure my whole life.

The money, the comfort, the taste, the sensation, the idea, the power, and most of all: the thrill.

I’ve been consuming and craving more. The thrill was no longer about pleasure, but the chase. And that became a thirst that never quenches.

A single word I was once told has stayed with me. It was a hot summer day in a place they call Sacred Valley.

“Can I have more?” I asked my Peruvian shaman once a plant medicine started to hit in a pleasurable way.

“Why?” he asked.

He didn’t need to say more. Sometimes a single word holds more meaning than a whole book.

“But what else is there, if not more?” my greedy part kept whispering throughout my life.

What else do I live for, if not for more? And if I manage to get everything, what could be more than that?

Could that possibly be less?

There is a fundamental problem with more. It’s always in the future. There is a constant gap between what is and what I’d like it to be.

So I’ll never really get there. I stay in that gap as it moves with me.

So what if I move the other way? What if I move towards less?

I understood the concept. I had glimpses of pure happiness when I moved in that direction, but it was hard to move there intentionally. It just felt uncomfortable; my will was fighting against it. Why would I step into a cold room if this comfy bed feels so warm and cozy?

I was never really good at that.

Needless to say, my sex life completely reflected this habit.

I wanted more girls, more thrill, more pleasure, more kinks. I’ve self-directed an epic life of endless new experiences, because repetition felt like a meaningless cycle, leaving me empty time after time and making me scared of this realization.

I found a new shade of that same old gap; a gap between reality and fantasy.

Fantasy usually held more thrill than reality. Even if I directed every detail of this fantasy, even if I was super lucky and things just clicked, I would still experience just a washed-out taste of it.

Anticipation held thrill. Memories held longing. However, the acts themselves often felt bland.

Less could be more, surely, but I was just too greedy for that.

However, there is also a contradicting force, a desire that actually wants me to go that way, but for another reason.

A force that wants me to enter the cold room, even though my body wants otherwise. A force that counteracts my greed, wants me to restrain and deprive myself, and go against my own cravings. Almost like a small part of me that hates the addictive, never-quenching thirst — and myself for weakly following it. A part of me that wants me to hurt, because that somehow also feels good.

This force is my craving to sacrifice myself for my Mistress. To surrender my pleasure into her hands and diminish myself to elevate her.

I want to be taken fully. I adore her greed and my selflessness. The idea of Her fully owning my strongest life drive, taking it for herself and depriving me, feels mind-blowing and intoxicating. She holds it, she owns it, she takes away my pleasure, just to double down on her own.

And unlike my other kinks, this might be the only one that actually feels stronger than the fantasy itself.

I don’t fully understand it. My body is confused. I’m wearing a chastity cage which squeezes my erecting penis and painfully restricts it from growing. I roll around my bed restlessly. Physically it hurts, but there is also something inside me that feels extremely good observing this pain.

My hand wants to touch it. It’s a deeply embedded habit that feels automatic by now. It reaches down, but there is nothing pleasurable to touch — just a cold, solid cage, which makes me feel like I’m robbed of something.

And to that realization — the observing part of me — almost gets an orgasm.

Imagine deprivation as being extremely thirsty and looking at a glass of water which you cannot touch.

It’s a strong sensation. Stronger than sipping it down, feeling momentary pleasure, followed by a whole lot of nothing. What are you left with when that thirst is gone?

People build their lives around getting thirsty, chugging it down, and then sinking into a depressive wait for thirst to return.

Surely you can also edge yourself. Imagine having a hole in your stomach so you could sip that water endlessly and never get quenched. Sounds awesome, right? You could waste your whole life in that pleasurable sensation.

Or you could observe that glass, stay in that sensation which feels stronger than anything else a life of abundance can offer.

Almost sounds like a spiritual practice, right? Moreover, having a Mistress who would sip that glass with pleasure and tell you — “Nah, not for you.” — doubles the fun.

It’s conceptual and yet so powerful.

In a way, as the gap became physical, the conceptual one that had trapped me before dissolved. I became directly in touch with my thrill.

Take chastity, for example. When I’m locked, rolling around my bed restlessly, it’s the concept that stimulates me. It’s not an easy step to take for someone who is addicted to physical pleasure. But it also doesn’t take long to realize that a dark pillow you bury your face in gives you more thrill than any self-directed pleasure you’d indulge in.

My Mistress likes to push things even further. She often instructs me to wear it specifically when she’s about to indulge herself — for example, going out on a date or to a party. She gives in to her pleasures while depriving me, heightening her enjoyment. And I feel it too.

If I could give more, I would. It sounds dark, but a part of me kind of craves to annihilate myself for Her. Reduce my existence to expand Hers. Something in me finds great thrill in that concept. When I offer everything and still ache to offer more. When I lie there restless, deprived, thinking of Her, i begin to disappear, if only a little.

It feels good. The sacrifice gives me a thrill like nothing else. And yes, you could still call me selfish for describing it in terms of what it “gives me.” But in a way, it’s also a reversal of my habitual greed, because for the first time, I crave less, not more.

And also for the first time, my thrill is not about the chase, but about observing the state I’m in.

Coming next week: real-life examples of how takes pleasure in taking it from me.

It all started with her Wednesday plans. She was intending to go on a date. Unusual for her, a vanilla date, which sparked my curiosity, mixed with perhaps a trace of jealousy. She described him as a handsome and well-spoken Frenchman. He wasn’t submissive, however, he was respectful and curious about her lifestyle.

When you develop a taste for spicy food, even a good steak can taste bland. So I guess she wanted some spice when she decided to involve me in her plans. I was told that on Wednesday I should wear chastity, cover the costs of Her appearance (hairstyle and nails), think of Her for the whole day, and even spend some time on my knees during the highlights of Her evening.

However, Goddess (her expression for destiny) had other plans. As strange as it may sound, that man decided to cancel on her. So she made another plan.

She invited her friend Mistress May to dinner. They went to a high-end restaurant as I waited at home to receive the bill.

At some point, I received a text to strip down and get on my knees.

Some time later, I received a four-second voice message:

“He is literally waiting on his knees…”

And they both laughed.

Then I received their bill, which I instantly paid. I enjoyed the contrast between my reality and theirs. I imagined them — fancy and mischievous — laughing at the idea of a kneeling man serving them, paying for them, being used. Who would have thought, looking at them at the restaurant? There is a lot of magic hiding beneath the surface.

Apparently, they had a great time. They shared many edgy stories and ideas. It made me wonder how eager I’d be to eavesdrop if I were a stranger at a neighboring table, and how marked I’d be for life after hearing them.

One of their ideas was to share me on Saturday.

“You’re a very lucky puppy,” she told me. “The Goddess must have blessed you.”

I’ve adored women my whole life, so that might actually be the case.

Saturday came around. It felt like one of those big days — long anticipated, yet somehow still just another day.

I met my Mistress in the luxurious apartment that I had booked. It had a spacious living room, a big sofa, a large table; everything needed for proper servitude. She seemed pleased, yet perhaps slightly anticipatory.

She was extremely serious about her instructions. When Mistress May arrives, I am not allowed to talk, move, or even look at her. I would be precisely instructed what to do. Nothing more, nothing less. I better not embarrass her.

The word stuck with me, as it sounded quite heavy. I couldn’t even imagine how horrible that would feel.

As I was preparing the table, she decided to watch some porn. I’ve never met a woman who would so casually indulge in her sexual pleasure, and I can’t even describe how hot that is.

I lay at her feet. She placed them on me as she continued pleasuring herself. I wasn’t important; I barely caught her attention. She, on the contrary, was the focus of mine, as I lay motionless in her presence.

The doorbell rang. Mistress May had arrived.

I was placed in the middle of the room, kneeling and facing the floor. As instructed, I wore only my underwear, with a chastity cage beneath it.

They spoke as if I weren’t there. I stayed motionless; I didn’t even dare move a finger, not to disappoint her.

“Alex, greet Mistress May,” I heard as her boot was placed in front of my face.

I kissed it. The first kiss was cautious, and then, as it stayed there, I continued. She kicked me away.

“That’s enough,” she said.

Her voice sounded shy, but her actions surely weren’t.

They sat on the sofa as I lay underneath. They continued their conversation. I was completely forgotten, ignored. At some point, they placed their shoes on me. I felt grateful for that.

There was a profound intensity in the sensation of Mistress May’s boot resting on my arm. I hadn’t even seen this woman before. I hadn’t spoken a word to her, I hadn’t introduced myself; I was deprived of any display of human existence. Yet she had seen me — my almost naked body — lying on the floor and crawling around as instructed. She took me for what I was: nothing more than a servant, as she rested her boot on my arm.

I focused on that sensation. On the texture of it, on the weight placed on me, on Her superior presence above. I was told she was beautiful, but I wondered how much. I had no perception of her appearance, and there are so many spectrums of beauty. All I could feel was the weight of her boot.

They were sipping wine, talking about some man she fancied and about a party she would attend later. I liked the fact that I wasn’t in their way at all. They felt completely unrestricted in what they meant to talk about. I liked the moments when they repositioned their feet, so I could feel their shoes being placed on me once again.

At some point, their conversation turned to me. And for some reason, I began to feel somehow uncomfortable.

I assume that was due to the fact that I hadn’t been this dehumanized before. I enjoyed being their footstool and all that, but in a way, I also felt vulnerable and exposed. In all my submissive encounters before, I was in some way accepted for my qualities. I made an impression; I kept my head held high before lowering it willingly. I might have been demeaned, but I was also admired at some point. But this time, I was truly stripped of humanity from the beginning.

This was always my deepest fantasy — what I imagined when I watched femdom porn or fantasized about fictional real-world encounters. And yet, experiencing it for real felt somehow colder than imagined.

I think the most emotionally intense moment was when I was instructed to raise my head — when I was finally allowed my first look at Mistress May.

I was still kneeling. I took a few deep breaths before opening my eyes. Her eyes were looking straight into me. Yup, she surely was beautiful. But what I felt was so much sharper than simply locking eyes with a beautiful woman. I felt exposed — not only as a person, that part was mostly gone by now — but also as an essence. I was stripped of the shield of my personality. I was there, in the open. Inferior, surrendered. And the night had just begun.

As their bottle grew emptier, they became playful. My Mistress was displaying our toys and their use. Her friend was amused. I was again instructed to face the floor, so I couldn’t be sure who was whipping me, but it didn’t really matter, as they were both fully involved.

I simply endured — one sting after another — as their laughter echoed above me.

“What else shall we do to him?” Ms Devine asked, once the whips were no longer amusing.

“Why don’t you kick him?” Ms May said without hesitation.

“Yeah? Like this?” Ms Devine said as her stiletto hit my ribs.

“Kick him harder,” Ms May shouted in amusement.

So I was kicked from side to side, and although it hurt, there was a twisted pleasure in being handled so harshly by such beautiful shoes, worn by such beautiful Mistresses.

Next, they walked on me. Ms Devine’s stilettos were much crueler than Ms May’s boots. Their sharp heels were leaving marks on my body; her beautiful figure above me was a painful sight to watch.

Ms May was not gentle either. Her boots walked up and down my bare body, and as if sensing I wasn’t far enough beneath, she even jumped — full force — as if to hammer me into the ground.

I like the idea that her pre-drinking involved jumping on a man she hadn’t even met.

They sank back onto the sofa, catching their breath and pouring another glass of wine. I stayed on the floor beneath them.

“Oh, by the way, have you ever seen a chastity?” Mistress Dévine asked Mistress May.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t. So I was instructed to remove my underwear and display it. She was intrigued. She held it in her hand and turned it left and right.

I felt exposed. I was locked, reduced, and examined like an object by a gorgeous woman who was still a stranger to me. Part of me felt overwhelmed. My body was there, on display as instructed, but my soul seemed to retreat. But another part of me fucking loved it. I was truly taken, objectified, by two beautiful but cruel women who were having a great deal of fun treating me this way.

I’m not sure if I was ever as split between enjoying something and being terrified at the same time.

They removed it. I was soft and slightly embarrassed, but they didn’t seem to care. They started slapping it around and laughing.

“Would you like to masturbate?” my Mistress asked me.

“Mhm,” I nodded.

“You can masturbate on her command. At a snap of her fingers, you start, and at a snap of her fingers, you stop.”

I curled up around her boots.

She waited a bit, and then she snapped.

I was stroking, completely humiliated, but loving every aspect of it. Curled up on the floor, naked, beaten, masturbating like a horny puppy. I fixated on their shoes — which, of course, I wasn’t allowed to touch on my own. I wished they would once again place them on me, but they didn’t. They were just observing; Ms May slightly bemused, while Ms Devine totally accustomed. I observed them. So beautiful and so far above. I could really play my beat to that… Until her fingers snapped again.

Not long after, their sadistic side awoke again. They were slapping me and pushing me around. Not even lying on the floor could save me, as they still found angles to land a slap on my face. My ears were ringing. I enjoyed their beauty and excitement, but my body was screaming for a pause.

As my Mistress once told me, I should be responsible enough to express it.

I wasn’t.

I’m not sure why though. They wanted me to break, so begging them to stop would not have been a disappointment for Them. So it must have been for my own pride. I’m a big boy, I can surely take some slaps, no? I was embarrassed enough; I guess I wanted to prove myself in at least something, perhaps that was how much I could endure.

But even through her buzz and frenzy, my Mistress’s care shone through. She lowered herself to me and asked if I was okay. She caressed my face tenderly. I looked at her and kissed her palms.

“I guess I could have bit of a pause,” I said with trembling voice.

They broke me, but screaming for mercy was not my way of expressing it. I needed some softness to fully unravel. Through the slaps, I endured by contracting. But now I opened up again, gazing up at my Mistress, grateful for her care.

I closed my eyes. I was at peace, and I could have stayed there on the floor for hours. However, hearing their conversation wrapping up made me feel kind of sad that the night was ending.

As if she sensed me once again, she asked:

“Is there anything you wish for, Alex?”

I nodded, but I was hesitant to say it. I didn’t want to sound greedy.

“What is it? You can say it.”

I was looking at her feet. She probably knew where I was going.

“Can I hump your feet, Mistress?”

Mistress May left as I was still holding onto my Mistress’s knees. She was energized, ready for her party, while we were winding down, like a song coming to an end.

I could feel that She was tired. I hugged her from behind and tenderly kissed her bare shoulders. I caressed her hair as she leaned back into my arms.

She feels very safe with me, she once told me. That sentence really warmed my heart. I could feel it now, as she drifted into sleep.

Making her feel safe awakens something meaningful in me, someplace very deep. I could almost say it feels like the purpose of my existence. It comes from my masculine core; it makes me caring, protective, and gentle. Gently caressing her head, lovingly admiring something so beautifully fragile. Is there any other purpose a man could possibly have?

Being beaten and mistreated doesn’t really change much. If anything, it cracks the surface. It feels good, for some reason — maybe that surface had become too heavy after all those years of accumulation — a layer of ego settling on the roof.

It also feels good to surrender yourself to something so alluring. Hot and cruel is surely a cocktail of my choice. With age, you apparently develop a taste for a kick. I surely got my dose of that. But what I experienced was more than just a flavor.

When I broke, I received her care. Without even asking for it, she felt me, just as I feel her. Everyone should break sometimes. It feels so good, especially when you have someone there with you. Accepting care is not an easy gift to receive for someone as individualistic as me. But it opens me up to feel the world which before I only observed through a veil. And it feels good.

My experience that night was intense — emotionally more than I could have predicted. But it also felt safe, and it didn’t leave any harm, apart from a few bruises, for which my pride is to blame.

I feel safe with her too. I’m not really used to this, as I usually felt safest on my own. But offering my soul feels more real than just my body. And I am completely fine taking an occasional beating along the way.

I often fantasized about someone else being present. Someone neutral perhaps — observing from an intermediary perspective, whose mere equality to my Mistress would solidify my inferiority. Or someone dominant, who would take pleasure in pushing me even lower. Even the idea alone fascinated me. A girl I dated shared some of our stories with her friend, and the mere fact that a third person now knew about our dynamic excited me.

“What did she say?”

“She was intrigued.”

“Did she ever try this?”

“No. She never met a submissive guy.”

“You know, if she wants, she can join. You can have a girls’ night and I’d be your servant.”

“Hmm I’d like that.”

Unfortunately that never happened. But the seed was planted. The idea of exposing my submissive side in a real social dynamic, not just a private bubble.

Some time later, I was in Lisbon, scrolling through the FetLife event list. FetLife is basically a social network for the BDSM community. Honestly, as a social network, it’s pretty nasty — but it works great as an event board. The reason I find it nasty is that my kinks barely scratch the surface of what’s on there, and it’s mostly men anyway (no surprise). Still, credit where it’s due: it’s free, unlike most alternatives, which are often just wallet-draining traps for men.

One event caught my eye: Female Supremacy Night.

Reading the description sparked a sense of anticipation.

• Every male visitor is considered submissive. This must be fully reflected in both appearance and behavior.

• Only doms are allowed to use the furniture. Subs may only sit on the floor.

• Every sub must wear a remote-controlled anal plug. At the start of the event, all remotes will be collected and placed in a box. A lottery will be held later.

My heart was pounding. I wanted to attend desperately, yet I was extremely nervous. There was no logical reason for it, I thought to myself. I’ve done these things before. Well, apart from the anal plug, my ass was still a virgin at the time. But how hard could it be? I’ll just plug myself and attend the party. I’m not in danger, everything is consensual, I can leave at any time. I tried to convince myself to stop trembling, but to no avail.

Looking back, I was actually quite daring — going solo so far outside the ordinary ,  at such a young age.

I lay in bed waiting for the event. Shadows of dominant female figures moved through my imagination. They walked around me, looked down at me, stepped over me, pushed me lower. I was their prey. My heart raced harder, my body curled up and rolled restlessly. Time crawled. I couldn’t focus on anything. I barely managed to eat, excitement was stronger than appetite.

Eventually, the moment came. Taxi dropped me on an ordinary residential street. No bars, no clubs, just locals walking dogs, minding their business, having no clue what happens in their area. I checked the instructions, sent only half an hour earlier. The event was incognito. I found the garage doors matching the description and knocked. To my surprise, they opened.

Two people stood at reception, scanning me up and down.

“I’m here for the event,” I said, a bit awkwardly.

They checked my name, confirmed my outfit, and grew friendlier. I guess I was there surprisingly early. One of them, a cool red-haired guy about my age, showed me around. Downstairs was a spacious room with a bar, sofas, and stylish antique furniture. Another staircase led to private rooms fitted with beds, cages, martyr crosses, ropes, and plenty of BDSM equipment.

“These are my favorite places,” he said, lightening the mood.

Back in the main room, he added, “Let me know if you need anything. And most importantly: have fun.”

The place looked perfect. Dim red lights and eerie rock music gave it a shadowy, decadent atmosphere. I felt like nothing I did here would be out of place. There was just one problem: I was the only one there.

I ordered a drink and waited, standing, as I didn’t dare to sit on the sofas. Other visitors started to arrive and did the same. Our conversations were perhaps a bit shy but distinctly different from the outside talk. No one asked about personal lives, anonymity was understood. We talked mostly about events like this.

Leather outfits, collars everywhere... One guy stood out though — he was dressed as a puppy.

My nerves settled. This pre-women phase actually helped. But as soon as the first started arriving, the tension surged again. I felt it ripple through the room. Conversations died down and heads discreetly started to turn.

Their appearance was aggressive: leather boots, ripped pantyhose, black latex, gloves, dark makeup. They glanced at us, but without much interest. Just like a predator would survey a room full of prey.

That’s when the “puppy” said, bluntly:

“It’s time for me to leave this conversation.”

He dropped to all fours and crawled away.

He was right. I wanted to do the same, but he stole my move. I wandered the room, watching all these beautiful women relax in armchairs, sipping drinks. How do I approach them? I wondered. Well, lucky for me, there was only one way.

I knelt in front of a sharp-looking brunette.

“Hi. I’m Alex.”

She offered her gloved hand for a kiss.

“Can I join?”

She nodded.

The conversation flowed easily. I told her it was my first event. She asked me how I felt. She said she was a pro-domme and one of the facilitators, leading a show later. Her dominance felt effortless, her position above me was natural. I wondered how many men she’d hurt and the thought of it further boosted up my thrill. I was looking up at her, and she was looking down at me. It felt right. It actually felt more natural, given how nervous and weak I felt, facing her beauty. Her leather boot swung slowly in front of my face. It was distracting, I really wanted to touch it, but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed.

“Can I touch it?”

She nodded.

I caressed the soft leather upper, then the rough, worn sole. I imagined how many men they’d stepped on, how much pain they’d delivered. The soles were coarse, I could almost imagine their sharp clack on the cobblestone city streets. The top was smooth and shiny. I imagined how many men had the honor of making them shine. I could feel the shape of her foot inside the boot.

“Can I kiss them?”

She leaned forward: “You can.”

I kept looking up at her while my lips pressed a passionate kiss to the tip of her hanging boot. Even though this was surely nothing new for her, I felt as if her eyes had just lit up.

I spoke with several other Dommes, serving drinks and acting as a footstool. Once I settled into the dynamic, I became playful. Being passed around and never knowing what would come next felt intoxicating.

I was on my knees and elbows, acting as a table for two pairs of high heels, when a slim, tall woman sat beside them. I looked up.

She was the most beautiful woman I’d seen in years. Long brown hair, a face that would freeze me in place, even out on the street. A perfect balance between sexy and elegant, dressed for the occasion. She was looking right down at me. My heart stopped as she asked the other two about me.

“That’s Alex. He’s been a very good boy,” they said, giggling.

She lowered her hand for a kiss. Our eyes stayed locked. I felt goosebumps, something was building up in my chest. I wondered if she sensed it all.

“Are you here alone, Alex?”

I nodded and mumbled, “Mm-hm.”

“Good to know,” she said, swinging her legs onto my back.

I was enchanted. Out of about twenty submissive men, she chose me. I felt seen, accepted. Three women now rested their legs on my back, but I focused solely on hers. I wished they would stay there forever. This night was epic.

The show began. We sat in a circle and introduced ourselves. I could only focus on two things: what I’d say and what she’d say. I delivered my part fairly well — not sounding boring, yet not revealing too much. Hers was equally mysterious, but I began to understand that she was a fairly established Mistress, surprisingly so for her young age, and well acquainted with most of the women present. She sat on the opposite side of the room, yet still gave me the occasional glance. I was grateful for it; it meant she hadn’t fully forgotten me.

Next on the venue were show-and-tell activities. There was a couple that demonstrated ballbusting. She showed no mercy on him, as each kick sounded like a gunshot. I truly enjoyed watching the faces of all these beautiful observing women, sipping their drinks and sadistically watching this bizarre entertainment. The gloating smiles on their faces were so alluring to me that I could almost volunteer to be their next martyr.

I crawled over to my crush.

“Can I be here with you?” I whispered.

She nodded. The space was crowded, so I curled tightly, resting my cheek on her boot. Unlike others, hers were suede. Elegant and understated. Also a very comfy resting place. Glossy leather screams power. Her boots didn’t need to. Her presence radiated it.

Her beauty could make any guy fall to his knees at the snap of her fingers. I would do anything to be hers; I would take anything. I would probably even go into the ring and display my balls for the next kick, if that was the criterion. But I didn’t have to. She enjoyed her new puppy resting on her boot. I felt at peace. Even though I barely knew her, I felt subtly hers. I wished to stay there for days. It was probably the first time I glimpsed the idea that I could potentially live this kind of lifestyle.

Later on, the party got wilder. I saw a lot of flogging, trampling, foot massages, it all began to feel like adult playground. However, my girl was no longer mine. She wandered around, chatting with everyone except me. That kind of hurt.

I wasn’t sure where I went wrong — was I too clingy, or on the contrary, too pretentious? I wanted to be better than the others, but I didn’t know how. I wanted to show my affection, but how could I do that when she kept sliding away? I was sipping whiskey with a sour face, pondering how to get her back without seeming too desperate. Old patterns crept back into my mind, and I lost the doorway, which perhaps had been the only way to reach her. It was so simple; I had already found the key before.

This wasn’t a place where you achieved things by being better than others. It wasn’t the outside world, where you wrap your desires to match social norms. Or a competitive environment, where you have to prove your worth to be respected. Rules were quite reversed and even James Bond would look silly in there.

The reality of this place felt deeper and simpler than that. It even felt ancient in some ways, like something we’ve all experienced long ago. The hierarchy was clear: there was us, and there was Them. You can’t steal something divine. You can only worship and hope to be accepted. You can’t convince, you can only offer. And you better offer yourself fully.

I didn’t. I offered a performance instead, out of fear. A fear of rejection, I suppose. I might get over that someday. Still, a long road lies ahead.

Another thing I realized was that many things that had strongly aroused me as fantasies, seemed oddly boring in real life. I thought I liked feet, but suddenly they felt as neutral as any other body part. A kneeling guy being slapped by a pretty woman? Yesterday, that would have blown my mind; now it felt mundane. Was I cured of my kinks? Was it all just a forbidden fantasy that faded once I saw how common it can be? Or was I simply tired of roleplay, craving something deeper, slower, and more real? I was confused when I left that place. I had so much to learn about myself.

I was right about that. On that wild night, I only peeked under the surface.

Both physically and mentally, as she promised.

I wanted to take more, but I couldn’t. I wanted to endure longer, but I failed. I gave it everything, and it still wasn’t enough.

I spent about an hour kneeling, facing the wall and counting. I knew she was lying on the sofa behind me — beautiful and unreachable. Time sharpened my focus. I concentrated on my growing discomfort, which I endured for Her. The passing time also grew my craving. I longed to see her, even if only her shoes. I craved her touch - by then, even a painful one. Or at least the sound of her lovely voice. I was starved for anything at all.

Her soft words spread through the cold room: “Crawl over.”

The instruction felt like a blessing, although I sensed that something painful might soon follow.

She looked at me while I kept my eyes on the floor. She wasn’t hurried; she was grounded in her stillness. I was there to wait, and I would. Frozen like a piece of furniture, awaiting my next instruction.

She stood up and picked up her whip. The tension built. Slowly, deliberately, she walked around me like a predator circling its prey. I could feel what I was about to receive even before it happened. Nevertheless, I was at peace with it. It would be, as it had to be.

Her stilettos stopped in front of me. She lowered herself and held the back of my head. She had something important to tell me. Something I should remember, now and forever.

“I intend to break you. I will not stop until you tell me to stop. I trust that you will. I trust that you are responsible enough.”

I acknowledged.

She rose back up. “Say it.”

“I am here to be broken. I am responsible enough to tell you when to stop.”

The first strike instantly cracked across my bare back. Full power, to seal the deal. The sting was painful, but necessary; unquestioned. An extension of her will, a sadistic touch, a cascading message from Her to me.

Far better than facing a wall.

She continued slowly; loud cracks followed by long pauses filled with anticipation. Each strike delivered another dose of severe, though short-lived, pain. I could take it. It lasted only three to five seconds. Yet it left me trembling in fear of the next one. Her beautiful stilettos reminded me who I was suffering for. They gave me strength to endure longer.

She quickened her pace. Soon, she was whipping me as if she wanted to slice me in half. I wanted to endure, she seemed to be having so much fun.

My fists were clenched, my mouth was gagged with her sock. As I said, we had neighbors…

I tried to last. There was nothing else to do, so how could I fail? I just needed to endure one more… and another… and another… I didn’t want to let her down, to break so easily, to interrupt her fun time and take away her joy of making me suffer.

But I did. I screamed and begged her to stop.

She stopped… And I instantly felt regret. Why couldn’t I have let her have just a few more?

Taking pain for her felt addictively pleasant.

Before removing my mask, I had to make one final prayer - this time to her feet. Telling Her why I adored them so much. I don’t remember my words, but they flowed effortlessly. I was broken and dehumanized. I was nobody. When she broke me, she broke my limits as well. Now I was worshipping someone so far above me that it all felt inevitable. She could feel how far above me she stood. Her mission was successful. I was so broken.

She removed my mask. My face was sweaty, my breath still fast. I remained naked, and she remained elegant; a beautiful reflection of our inequality. The only thing I wore was a chastity cage.

I kissed her feet with all my reverence. In a way, I was thanking her for everything she had done to me; in another, simply worshipping her existence. I may have kissed them a thousand times, yet every single kiss carried passion, a message, a meaning.

She covered herself with a blanket and asked if I was cold. I said yes. She didn’t react, so I assumed she wanted me that way. She placed her feet on my chest and began reading her book. I stayed there, motionless, not to disturb her. Soon, I began to shiver. The chill spreading through my body felt like a blooming flower sent from her. Again, I found pleasure in that discomfort. It felt right. It felt absolutely right. Painful but necessary. Sanctioned by Her. I focused on it, I took it fully, I was grateful.

She kept reading while I kept shivering. She didn’t seem to care. Her feet on my chest didn’t move in the slightest. They were so beautiful. Beneath them, I could endure lying in the snow. She didn’t even think of me; I was gone from her mind. She was fully focused on her book. I was so far beneath her.

Why do I suffer? Because she wants me to. Simple as that.

Little by little, she shaped me. Now everything was about Her, and about Her only. Even more than before.

That night, we fell asleep just like the night before. But something felt different. Maybe just for a nuance, but yet different.

I was still in chastity, and I wasn’t even thinking about my own pleasure. I didn’t need it. There were many intense memories from the day, but instead of indulging in them, I remained present with Her. She lay in my arms while her leg rested on my cage. A subtle reminder that I was Hers. And I didn’t matter beyond that. But the difference was that now I fully felt that too. I didn’t feel the need to hump her leg, or to beg for crumbs of pleasure. Possibly for the first time ever, I truly lived what I only fantasized about before. Disappearing as an individual and being fully owned by Her.

Breaking did its magic - more than I expected. But it wasn’t a one-time transformation. It was a ritual, repeated again and again.

The first thing the next morning, I eagerly and wholeheartedly worshipped her. I worshipped her feet as passionately as I could while she pleasured herself. I wondered what she fantasized about during her climax. Was it something she had done to me yesterday - or something she might do today? Or just the pure embrace of our unequal reality?

Then she rested again while I prayed to Her with my head on the floor. When she stood up, she had another idea.

“Spread your legs. You’ll take three for Me.”

I spread them, and she kicked me three times. Almost without pause, full power, mercilessly, until I collapsed on the third. How can something that cute be so cruel?

I was kicked even though I had done everything perfectly. I was kicked because she could. I was Hers. And she could do anything that crossed her mind.

How much lower can she push me? Well, She always finds her ways.

She told me to wait in the shower. I lay on the cold floor as instructed. She came later and stood over me. She didn’t seem to care about me, I’m not sure she even looked at me. I knew what was about to happen, even though we had never done it before. She began to pee - first over my body, then over my face. My mouth was open; and she aimed right for it, to fill it up. I swallowed. It tasted strangely familiar. I was covered in her completely - but at least I wasn’t cold…

Or so I thought…

But her plans were meaner than I could have imagined… She left me there. She delayed her shower just to make me suffer longer. Soon, I was shivering again, rolling in it - desperate and thirsty for her - sucking it up from the floor. I was freezing and covered in her scent. Sanctioned to lose myself, dissolve, and unravel. And she knew it. Wherever she was, she was fully aware of my state. And she let me wait, savoring every passing moment of my suffering.

She returned and turned on the hot shower. Not on me, but on herself. She didn’t even look at me. The warmth coming off her body felt soothing and sacred. There was shampoo, too, but I swallowed some anyway.

When she finished, she told me I could clean myself.

She waited in the living room. Her breakfast instructions were precise and demanding. I had never prepared such a luxurious breakfast. I made the coffee three times just to get it right. I ate only two pieces of dry bread while focusing entirely on my task. I served her something I was proud of - better than anything I had ever prepared for myself or anyone else. She seemed pleased. I lay beneath the table, resting by her feet.

I could hear her cutlery against the plates. I could hear her working through the dishes. I would have enjoyed those tastes - I felt deprived. Yet again, I found meaning in it. It was a sacrifice for Her, and it felt right every time.

She took her time. She wasn’t rushed. Several times I thought she had finished, yet she continued. Then I heard her texting, sending voice messages to her friends. I waited.

“You can clean the table now,” she said kind of absently.

There were leftovers, which I ate by the sink. I wiped the plate clean with bread and washed it down with a sip of the failed, and by now also cold coffee. For some reason, I even mixed it with oat milk, just to resemble what she had.

We dressed to go out. The day was sunny, full of plans. Just when I thought we were stepping into the public world, where we might at least appear equal, she gave me one final reminder: ten whip marks to carry on my back for the rest of the day.

I was starting to get quite attached, which is very unusual for me. Perhaps it was due to the fact that we both knew our time together was limited. We always described it as a temporary thing; we often told each other how good these memories will feel someday and how grateful we’ll be to each other. The freedom to leave made it easier to stay and go deeper. No long-term obligations, just a journey which we could leave at any time.

But there was another reason why my soul felt so peaceful around her. I was fully accepted. I had never been so unfiltered next to someone before. I showed all my kinks, and I even pushed some of them to the next level. And she absolutely loved them! I did the most bizarre things and she encouraged me to reveal even more. She was as excited as I was. I could hardly believe that someone had fantasies as surreal as mine; it even took me some time to stop doubting her authenticity. She gave me a healthy space to reveal a side of me I had never shown so fully. This felt healing. Even though I started my journey before her, I’d never been so far. We were exploring new horizons, together.

But saying we were friends would be quite naive on my side. We trusted each other and we were (sometimes) friendly, yes. But I genuinely stayed quite far beneath her. You would assume that you become a friend with someone you spend time with - someone you care about, treat nicely, someone who knows they can trust you. I took great care of her... But she nevertheless stayed very aware of her supremacy. And that’s where our dynamic started to develop some genuine depth.

There was a time when she visited me very upset about some things she didn’t want to share. First, I took some quite harsh beatings, which effectively relieved her stress. As she got calmer, I was allowed to worship her for hours. I showed all my devotion, lovingly and passionately, my attention fixed solely on her. Then I even pleased her sexually. I did a good job, I was told. She fell asleep in my arms, safe and fulfilled, calmed down from that storm that was passing through her life. However, I was never told about it, like she would tell her friends. I wasn’t her friend. Neither a lover. I stayed beneath her, and she made that obvious time after time.

She liked to make me useful. Sometimes financially, other times through work-like tasks, like organizing her trips. I did them with great enthusiasm. I literally dropped anything else I was doing and felt energized to sort out anything she’d thrown at me. I enjoyed the fact that I was being useful. Or perhaps that I was being used. I obviously covered every expense, which she took for granted. I also simply enjoyed the idea of working for Her. And that I would receive another “Good boy” when finished.

She was coming to visit me for nearly a week. She asked me if I was ready to go to the next level. Was I ready to be fully submitted? I obviously said yes, but I was confused. Wasn’t that always the case?

“Not really. You were submitted mostly, but not fully. Now I’d like you to be fully. That means that for the whole time we’re together, you’re either told what to do, or you have to ask permission. For eeeeverything.”

I said yes.

“Good. I’d like to break you.”

That word sent shivers down my spine. I asked her to elaborate.

“I’ll break you both mentally and physically. But it’s going to be good for you. I’ll push you to your edges and stretch your capacity. You can trust me that I know how far I shall push you.”

I said yes. Saying yes to life is the best thing you can do. Only that way do you discover all the gems it has to offer.

She arrived. We started slowly. I worshipped her shoes - her heeled ankle boots - which, surprisingly, I hadn’t worshipped before. Whenever I see a new pair on her, a pair I haven’t kissed before, I feel a strong urge to kiss them all over. Then she allowed me to hug her. She felt my affection; she felt that I had missed Her. I pleased her several times in the first two days. We went on a motorbike trip. I showed her some truly stunning places, and I worshipped her all along that scenic route. She liked me as I was, but then came the time to shape me further.

“Tomorrow I have something special planned for you,” she said just before drifting off to sleep.

I suspected that she probably meant the breaking.

“You can do anything, just please let me worship you in between.”

The next day she drifted away. She climbed her pedestal and left me underneath. The day felt different from the ones before; the gap between us had widened. There was a black puppy mask waiting on the chair. I put it on. She was waiting in the living room. I knocked.

The room was dark, the curtains were down. There were candles and her red stilettos walking in front of me as she led me by the leash to the sofa. She sat down and made me kneel in front of her. I was only allowed to look down, same as the first time we met.

“This mask takes away your identity. It takes away your ego. Feel that. Feel your nothingness and your sole purpose of serving Me. I will break you. And then I will shape you further. Are you ready for your next stage?”

“Yes Mistress!”

“Good.”

I’d like to start by saying: I understand. (the prejudice towards it)

I am a guy who spent quite some time online looking for a Dom. I’ve seen what’s out there and it pissed me off deeply. No matter how much effort you’d put into your message, you just couldn’t get close. Most of the time, I was either ignored or asked for money.

I found that deeply repelling. I didn’t have much respect for women who would do that. I found it quite fake and not aligned with the “sacredness” of the dynamic.

However, I was forming my opinion based on a misunderstanding of the full picture, further fueled by the sting of rejection.

I’ve seen findom as very similar to prostitution. I’ve done some paid sessions, just to realize I wasn’t really a fan of them. They felt fake. If I pay a woman to do mean things to me, how could I know if she even enjoys them? The main drive of my submission comes from the fact that someone is mean enough to do those things out of their own pleasure. I wanted the act to feel real and not like a performance. So how could I assume that from a dynamic which I paid for? That’s why I formed the opinion that the only real domination is the one someone would do for free.

Money can get you almost everything. You can pay someone to clean your apartment, or bizarrely you can pay someone to get the pleasure of cleaning theirs. You can pay someone to accompany you for dinner, but obviously that date would not feel as genuine as the one you get for free. You see, there is something that money can’t buy. And that’s how my logical thinking built up my opinion. And to banalize it even further, I surely wouldn’t pay my cleaning lady to dominate me, even though if I offered enough she probably would. But that would just be wrong on every level.

So I went around saying things many guys do:

“I’m not into findom.”
“I want something real.”
“You can get anything from me, but not my money.”

Subconsciously, however, I understood what findom was. But I was too attached to the stance my pride had built, and too afraid to admit that I might actually be very much into it. So instead, I turned the other way.

Once, I dated a girl who was, in retrospect, trouble in elegant packaging. She was cute and fun, very easygoing and really convincing in her ways. But I often caught her in a lie. And she would slip out of it effortlessly, with her lighthearted sweetness, as elegant as the featherweight steps of a ballerina. I knew her shadow, and something about it really turned me on. It fit very well with her stunning looks, so I enjoyed being treated dishonestly while I kept on spoiling her.

I genuinely felt dominated. I was buying her gifts while she lied to me about who she was going out with. A few times she literally took cash from my wallet, thinking that I wouldn’t notice. I noticed. And I felt a strange arousal mixed with my anger. So I kept it going for a little bit. I was really enjoying my toxic candy and I didn’t want to spit it out just yet.

My bedroom-submission to her got a new spice to it. I enjoyed her taking advantage of me, even though she had no idea of my perspective. Our play of abuse no longer seemed like a play. I felt like I was genuinely being used. I would be kissing her boots, which I bought so she could wear them to a date, for which she even stole a 50€ note from my wallet. My arousal was through the roof.

However, my ego was never really hurt. And the reason was that I was still in full control and getting worthwhile returns. I was doing what I decided to do. I was getting her body in every way and a lot of pleasure from it. I was paying, yes, but if you put things on a scale, I was actually the one using her. So no, my wicked ego actually loved it. Life gave me a lemon and I made myself some lemonade. I had nobody to share this bizarre story with, but I felt quite cool about myself.

But that wasn’t findom! Now when I think about it, it wasn’t even femdom. It was a bottom-led fantasy that carried just a hint of something real. If she would demand money without anything in return, my ego would say: fuck no! It wouldn’t allow me. It would be afraid of actually diminishing my value, which paradoxically is exactly what turns me on.

And here lies the first secret of findom:

You shouldn’t expect anything in return.

That’s why it’s domination. Paying for sexual pleasure is prostitution. Giving money to someone while claiming nothing in return, well that’s surrender. And it’s fucking hot.

However, likely heavy for the ego.

How can you expect to be dominated while keeping control? Expecting something in return for your tribute, negotiating the terms? If you want to be dominated, send that tribute and offer yourself without expectations. And that’s where Their filter comes from.

Pro-Doms get thousands of messages per day, left-handedly typed by right-handed guys. The same way we are pissed off by the amount of fake profiles out there, they are pissed off by the amount of fake subs. Their work is emotionally frustrating. How can you dominate someone if he’s the one using you? That’s dirty. That’s why there needs to be a filter. Otherwise only a chatbot could talk with everyone at the same time.

Of course you need to know which profile is real. It’s not very hard to find out nowadays. Just cross-check the platforms, check the subscribers, Google the photos to see if they’re public… Someone asking you for a tribute without any online presence is probably a scam. But if you contact a well-established Mistress who has put a lot of effort into her profile, what else did you expect? Who do you think you are, on that little profile picture, that she would just instantly recognize you and give you all the attention you deserve?

You should ask yourself what you want. If you just want to masturbate, then a tribute is probably not the most efficient form of pleasure. Buy yourself a porn video or a paid session, it’s fine. But don’t bother a Mistress with your begging. It’s not hot, even if it turns you on. However, if you get pleasure from being genuinely used, then findom might be exactly what you crave.

The problem is our habitual need for instant gratification. Masturbation addiction and all that… We crave something deeper, but our body is programmed for quick relief. So try something new. Put on chastity for a day, donate money to your favorite Mistress, embrace the fact that you’re not getting anything in return, and wear that chastity until the end of the day. That’s how deprivation of instant pleasure feels. Trust me, it’s much deeper than a porn video. So do you want to experience it, or keep repeating the endless wanking cycle while only staying in your fantasy?

If you’re not sure who to make your donation to, here is Mistress Dévine. She loves getting spoiled and I love spoiling her. If this article convinced any of you, please make a donation there. I’ll be honored.

Now back to the topic. This was the part about desire and the kink itself, but there are deeper reasons why women can, and quite frankly should, demand money without feeling shame about it.

Money is energy. It’s ignorant to avoid the topic and foolish to say you’re simply not into it. Everyone is into it. You wouldn’t have a screen to read this if you weren’t. But there is a bad tone to saying it out loud. And since we say so many unorthodox things out here, let’s also say this:

“I love money!”

Now think about it unfiltered. Does this sentence sound more appropriate for a man than for a woman? Could a man saying this sound ambitious, while a woman sounds greedy and exploitative? Read it again. Imagine hearing it on a first date. Does it trigger a red flag in you? Why is that?

Money is power. So how can you be looking for a power dynamic while avoiding this area?

And a message for women: if you’re afraid of saying that sentence out loud, there might be some patriarchal beliefs limiting you from living this life as you could.

I find the sentence fucking hot. Especially when said by a woman. It proves her worth, her courage and her blunt honesty.

There is a lot of emotional weight a dominant woman has to carry. All the harassment, the velvet-wrapped vulgarities, being sexualized and used for pleasure, seen as a fantasy and not a real human being, deceitfully worshipped and then discarded or even insulted when the shame kicks in, or even threatened by extreme misogynists who want to burn them like witches.

Think about that for a moment. Do you really want to worship, or do you want to take advantage? Is it truly about her, or is it about your pleasure and ego? Do you actually want to experience submission, or just play out your kinks? Be honest about it. Both are fine, just know what you’re doing and don’t deceive people about your intentions.

There is no such thing as being dominated for free. There couldn’t be a real power dynamic while ignoring the main source of power in this world. There would only be more women exploited by our desires - which ironically, in this case, are about us doing the complete opposite, and yet we still fail to do it properly.

So no, findom is not ruining femdom. Drop your shields and you’ll see.

Plenty of bad findom, sure. Plenty of scams; well, it’s money, so obviously.

What ruins it is the male ego pretending it can surrender while still keeping control. How can you kneel and still hold the leash? Power always asks for something in return. And if we are brave enough to play with power, then we should also be brave enough to acknowledge the price.

If we want to twist the norms, let’s twist them properly. They shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

I wanted to be accepted. I wanted her to like me, to accept this surrendered version of me lying on the floor, instructed not to flinch. Unlike before, there was very little I could mess up. I didn’t have to worry about what I said or did, I had been told precisely what to do, and what not to do. I wasn’t there to impress. I was there to be - exactly what she wanted me to be. I was objectified. And in that, I found peace and purpose.

Her presence radiated power. Not just the mesmerizing clacking of her stilettos, but her entire being. I wasn’t there to indulge my pleasures, I was there to be exploited for hers. And as that realization slowly began to grow, I found I could endure a lot.

Then another sound split the room in half. The crack of her whip across my bare back. Sharp, brief and painful. Yet somehow right. It felt like an extension of her will, engraving the reality of our unequal positions physically onto my body.

She circled me like a predator circles its prey. Except the prey was already on the floor, fully surrendered. She was simply claiming her ownership, her superiority, her freedom to do whatever she wished. Once she felt her victory was complete, I felt her warm body settle onto my back, her nails gently combing through my hair.

I was accepted.

I cherished every moment of our companionship. I was endlessly curious about her life; how other men behaved, how other women reacted, what she had done before, what she had learned along the way. In public, we went unnoticed. Yet the excitement never faded.

During our first dinner (and many times after) I wore two toys beneath my underwear. One physically restricted me from the outside, while the other delivered remotely controlled vibrations to my inside. Even without them, however, the mere awareness of our inequality was enough to keep the fire alive. We could sit at the same table, eat dinner like a couple, and yet we were nothing like one. My true place was underneath her, where I would fall at the snap of her fingers. I wish public norms would allow that.

I felt safe. I revealed my most perverse side and I was fully accepted and understood. That felt deeply healing. Much of my worship actually came from genuine gratitude. Often, when I kissed some part of her divine body, whether her soles or some place higher, I wasn’t only worshipping the dominant figure I surrendered to. I was worshipping a remarkable woman whose dominance was intertwined with care and affection. That didn’t weaken our inequality. It strengthened my loyalty and devotion.

She felt it. And sometimes she fell into my arms in ways I never imagined this dynamic to unfold. But resisting it would have been unnatural. We moved between tenderness and D/s effortlessly, like two well-acquainted dancers. One moment I was holding her, feeling her heart beating against mine; the next I was at the edge of the bed, being beaten by her beautiful feet.

She once told me she fantasizes about having a servant who wouldn’t even be allowed to touch her, someone who would drive her around, handle her chores, clean her apartment, permitted only to look down. Far beneath her, completely deprived of her essence. I find that idea extremely hot.

Her Mistress friend was surprised when she heard how lucky I was becoming.

“Why do you kiss him?” she asked.

I understand her. The idea of a constant dynamic is undeniably appealing.

But then I wonder; how real can it be? You only see one aspect of a person. You don’t submit to someone real, only to a fantasy, so it feels more like a play in some way. I even question most full-time dynamics, how can they last beyond a night or two? Can someone truly be dominant all the time? Everyone has emotions. Everyone needs connection, care, a pause. If I were with a woman who never stepped out of the dynamic, it might feel somehow artificial. My understanding of human nature simply doesn’t allow me to fully believe that is possible.

For me, it feels more natural to see the whole person. I was fortunate enough to see her fully, and wise enough to admire the contrast she carried.

That didn’t diminish our polarity in the slightest. I was well aware of my place. Grateful for the kisses and loving glances, yet always ready to drop to my knees at the snap of her fingers. She often reminded me at the most unexpected moments. Once, while we were hiking, her white Converse sneakers got completely caked in mud. She told me to clean them with my tongue; right there in the forest, without hesitation. As soon as I spat the last bits of mud from my mouth, we resumed our conversation almost as if nothing had happened.

We developed rituals that soon felt natural, perhaps ordinary, yet never repetitive. My favorite was removing her shoes.

That one was a constant. No matter the mood, she would simply wait when we got home. There was no need for words, she would just wait if I was silly enough to forget, which rarely happened. First, I would bow and kiss the tops lovingly. She had walked in them; they felt sacred, regardless of how worn they were. Then I removed them slowly, gently, and pressed my face to her socks. That felt intimate. Socks have a unique texture in the first moments after removing shoes - the warmth, the dampness, the scent. It softened me completely, my face totally belonged there. I inhaled deeply. I inhaled Her, “from the ground up”, as She would phrase it.

Then I removed them. I especially liked to lie beneath her as I did, watching her sole reveal itself. Bare skin, the lowest part of her body. Once, after a hike, I remember sand falling onto my face as I did it, and I stored that memory in a special place. Then I would kiss it with reverence, again and again, circling her foot with my head while she observed. If they were sweaty, I’d lick them clean. I loved the taste of Her. There was no rush. It wasn’t a routine or a performance. It was a ritual.

Click clack, click clack…

The melody of her stilettos circling me. She stopped and placed her shoe on my cheek. I smiled, surrendered, with my face pressed to the floor. I admired every aspect of the extraordinary woman standing on the other side of that shoe.

I’m well aware of its toll on my energy, both mentally and physically. So I got into the habit of edging myself. Surfing on the edge felt irresistibly sweet, with no obvious consequences. However, soon the addiction became even stronger. I could do it all the time, and my craving for the candy became even sharper. I couldn’t be present; I couldn’t enjoy subtle things. I needed constant stimulation, in all aspects of my life.

However, one thing started to help. Let’s say I’m still in the early phase of those clinical studies, but I’m beginning to see some positive signs.

I let go of my toy. I gave it away. I’m not mature enough to play responsibly, so I gave it to my Mistress. She likes to have full control over me, and I like that too. Giving myself to Her feels like the strongest drive of my life. Focusing on Her feels so much better than the endless selfish indulgence in all the hedonistic joys of this world. My life needed something bigger than me. I was lacking purpose, structure, and discipline. I’ve submitted before, but for selfish reasons. But this time it feels different. This time I am truly taken.

I fully focus on Her. Both when she’s around and when she’s not.

When she’s around, I’m starting to learn how to focus on her pleasure instead of mine. It doesn’t feel sharp, but subtly much more powerful than the old ways. I used to have a hand in my pants all the time; now I don’t even dare do that without her permission. I don’t need it. I feel her joy and satisfaction, and it makes mine feel doubled, further intensified by the reminder that we’re not equal. I truly feel her pleasure, and it affects my state of being too. Women’s pleasure flows more steadily, and feeling it calms your stormy waters. I love to satisfy Her and then hold her in my arms, feeling her ecstatic energy flowing through me. I don’t need my candy - I’ve just had a far healthier meal.

And when she’s away, I still belong to Her. Sometimes I wear a chastity device, which physically restricts me from pleasure (I’ve already written an article about it here). More than that, it physically reminds me that I’m owned. It reduces me, holds me tight. It’s a constant weight and pressure that enforces her authority - her invisible hand holding me firmly.

However, the remedy was not that simple. My habit was still there. My hand would reach for it; I became accustomed to the pain and started to bypass it, still feeling some pleasure. In other words, I was grinding myself through the chastity. It was painful, but I could still taste my candy.

And that’s when I realized there is a third layer to it. Chastity is a physical symbol, but not much more than that, if I keep bypassing it like this. No matter how pathetic it looks, it’s not a real submission. If I want to be Hers fully, I have to surrender fully. I need to let go of my pleasure, especially when it calls during my solitude. So what shall I do with it?

I focus on it. It’s calling. My left hand wants to reach for the candy. Hold. How does it feel? It’s stirring up. The sensation expands; it moves up my torso. I even feel it in my heart. I’m not very good at guessing colors, but I would say it’s goldish. And that reminds me of someone. It reminds me of my Mistress.

And that’s when I realize: this sensation is Her calling. It’s my physical longing, my thirst for Her. I could selfishly take it for myself, but why would I want that? It feels wrong - and that’s why it felt wrong. I was standing at the doorway of a temple, pacing around in circles, eating McDonald’s. I hadn’t fully entered yet. I would put one foot in and then step back out, procrastinating, restrained by my old habits.

I’d like to enter. I think I’m strong enough. The temple gives me strength on its own. I’m far stronger than I used to be, slogging through the jungle on my own. It gives me meaning. Resisting the candy strengthens my focus.

And the calling… the calling is the light of her power to which I surrender.

I suppose I was lucky. She was quite new to this and still had the energy to engage in online conversations. As I was told later, I arrived at exactly the right time; she had almost given up hope in submissive men.

Her online profile was very specific. She is a Goddess, and she is looking for a man who is ready and capable of true submission. Not a play, not a quick release or horny texting. She would only focus her energy on those who were worthy. I proclaimed myself worthy.

“Why do you think you are?” she asked.

“I’ve played before,” I said. “And I’ve been through that endless cycle of sexual release many times, and it left me empty. I’m bored with play, it doesn’t even excite me that much anymore. I’m aroused mostly by psychology. By the idea that someone is genuinely superior to me, and that I offer myself fully. I want to make it real.”

She was intrigued. Her replies were long and thoughtful, a healthy contrast to the online dating experiences I’d had before. I had caught her attention out of hundreds of horny men who messaged her. I was extremely lucky to be noticed.

We talked about our experiences. Sadly, hers were not always pleasant. She often felt used - treated like a Goddess only while someone was aroused, then ghosted once the tension was released and shame set in. “A kink dispenser,” she called it. It made me sad to hear that. But it also revealed her human side, which I started to genuinely like.

Her stories helped me understand the real position of pro-dommes and how much strength it requires. When someone personifies your fantasy, it’s easy to forget they are a person too - a human being with emotions. Even if they stand above you, it doesn’t mean they can’t be hurt. It’s a relationship like any other.

They are bombarded with velvet-wrapped vulgarities, then discarded without guilt. That finally explained why they often appear cold and emotionally distant, nearly impossible to connect with. I was lucky to arrive early, otherwise, I might never have broken through that wall of ice.

We kept texting. There were so many things I wanted to discuss. Since we lived far apart, we decided to become texting buddies, not solely focused on the dynamic. I was deeply interested in her experiences, her way of thinking, and how she lived this unorthodox life. I wasn’t sure we would ever meet, but I wasn’t overly concerned. That changed when she sent me her first voice message.

“I am a Goddess…” she said, as if stating something obvious. “And I truly believe this world revolves around me.”

I froze. Her voice captivated me. I replayed it again and again, feeling a powerful urge to drop to my knees. I followed it. My head lowered all the way to the floor. I worshiped her remotely, listening to her voice on repeat, imagining her standing above me. I could hear her footsteps in the background, she was walking somewhere. I enjoyed that sound too. Where was she going? What was she wearing? I wished I were beneath those steps, a shoe-depth below her divinity.

I knew I had to meet her.

We began planning. I suggested meeting halfway. She rejected the idea instantly, almost rejecting me entirely. I apologized. It was a clear display of value, and my respect for her deepened immediately. So I drove the full three hours to pick her up at her doorstep.

She sat beside me in the car. Her power was radiating. Our conversation was friendly, but I felt our inequality subtly lingering beneath the surface of politeness.

We parked about a ten-minute walk from the hotel. Carrying her luggage felt obvious. I was fully laden, like a donkey under a dutiful, unquestioned burden. I held an umbrella too, careful not to let a single drop touch Her. I felt good. I felt a strong life force stirring within me, a force that would move mountains if they appeared in Her way.

We remained quiet as we walked to the room. I wondered if I had done something wrong. I felt an urge to say something, anything, just to check the atmosphere, but it would have felt forced. So I stayed silent. Still, I didn’t want her to find me boring or awkward. I wondered what would happen once we entered the room. I wouldn’t dare initiate anything myself, that could seem cringe or fake. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to do exactly what she wanted. I wanted to be shaped precisely to her needs.

Luckily, that was what I was there for.

She sat down on a chair and pointed to the floor. She didn’t need to say a word.

I knelt.

“From now on, you will do exactly as I say. Nothing more, nothing less. You are not allowed to talk or look at me. You will face the floor until I allow you to look again.”

My gaze stayed down. Her finger pointed to her boots.

“Kiss them.”

Her black Dr. Martens were dotted with tiny droplets from the drizzle, shining like decorative diamonds. I pressed a passionate kiss onto the top of each one.

“Now remove them.”

I tried to figure out the mechanism, they had laces and a zipper. I tried one, then the other, feeling foolish for struggling with something so simple. I hoped she wouldn’t need to waste more words on me. She didn’t. She watched my awkwardness patiently, and I was grateful. So grateful that once the boots came off, I pressed my lips to her sock in silent gratitude. I was so far beneath her.

They were warm, slightly damp. I could have stayed there all day, adoring her scent. She allowed me a few deep inhales, then instructed me to remove them as well. So I slid them off gently, and there, levitating right in front of my eyes, were some of the most beautiful feet I had ever seen. Somehow, it all made sense now - her voice in that message, her steps in the rain, her power and my meekness. Something had brought me here, something subtle yet irresistibly strong. I was where I belonged, and yet my journey had only just begun. She left me there, suspended in suspense. I breathed deeply, holding myself back, waiting.

“You can kiss them.”

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It does, but only to a certain extent.
(And this is where the fun begins.)

We’re talking about a world where one person willingly becomes inferior to another. So no, there is no equality; we try to dissolve it. And since I’ll focus primarily on submissive men and dominant women, the first concern that comes to mind is that this runs quite opposite to most social norms. So where do you draw the line? Should a man be submissive only during play? How should you behave before and after? Should you preserve your masculinity, and how do you even do that while crawling on the floor, being called her little bitch? How do you become good at it, and what does “good” even mean? Yes, yes ,  I’m getting there.

I’ll simplify “being good at it” to one simple criterion: are both people involved having a good time, followed by only positive consequences? If not, then someone is doing it badly. And this is where most men fail; at the consequences part of the equation.

Are you shouting at the top of your lungs that you’re willing to give everything, do anything, take any punishment, that she will be your Goddess forever? Why are you shouting this? Because it feels good. You want this. You want to go lower, and you’re excited by the idea that she would truly be above you, both physically and mentally. But the key question is this: are you ready to experience this for real, or is it just sexual tension you want to release?

If it’s only for sexual release, do everyone a favor and go for a paid session.

We’ve all been there. I was drawn into this world by a desire I initially felt deep shame about. I watched porn, fantasized, and released. It became a pleasurable habit that grew stronger and stronger. Of course I wanted to experience it in real life, but I didn’t want to truly embrace it, because to me it was just a form of sexual release, something shameful according to my core beliefs. I couldn’t accept the idea that I would truly be inferior to another person. I just wanted to taste my candy of forbidden joy.

A paid session is an exchange of energy. Money is a form of energy, and a sex worker (who has this on her menu!) will fulfill your desires without feeling used afterward. You can put your pants back on, ditch the place, and not have a worry in the world!

But if you use a person, your karma might send you a heavy bill. Using someone for sex is sadly common in our society. Even sadder is that some men feel no remorse about it. Even in casual sex, I find it kind of a betrayal to mislead someone with empty promises just to get laid. But in a D/s dynamic, the promises become even loftier. And the feeling of betrayal - of being used  -  the consequence you may leave with a woman who was your Goddess not long ago, can be deeply painful.

So here’s rule number one: don’t use a person.

In defense of men’s recklessness, though, some things do feel true when you say them , and then another truth appears once you ejaculate. I know, it’s primitive, but we’ve all been there too. Everyone knows it, yet we still fall into it sometimes. This is where emotional responsibility comes in. You must find your truth in a calm state and live by it. And if you’re not ready for actual submission, then you’re responsible for communicating that. That’s fine. Say you want to play, that you’re curious, that you want to explore. It’s allowed. It’s necessary.

I played for a while. And that’s when I realized I wanted something deeper.

I got bored with play. I wanted real submission. I wanted to truly feel a woman of my choice as superior to me. I wanted to offer myself fully, to feel genuinely owned, to surrender my ego and worship Her ,  without it spilling destructively into my personal life.

This brings us to another essential skill, a cliché of any partnership: communication. I still have my personal life. I have circles of people who would never understand this side of me, and I want to keep it that way. Some days I don’t want to be in this dynamic at all. I’m not ready for a 24/7 relationship. That’s all fine, my Mistress reassured me. You just need to communicate it.

Now to masculinity. Can you preserve it, and how? The first question is whether you even want to. I do. But there are many D/s dynamics where a woman steps more into masculine energy and a man into feminine, and that’s a powerful drive for many. You have to ask yourself what feels natural for you.

For me, submission flows from my masculine core. I want to be strong. I want to provide, protect, and care. I feel some ancient energy to it. I like to imagine a world ruled by women, where men eagerly serve, protect and worship in every way possible. A world where this is the primary social norm and the one and only religion. I could find a great deal of purpose in a world like that.

I feel masculine even when I crawl on the floor  -  because I do it for Her. In fact, I feel it’s one of the most masculine things a man can do. Only fearful ones would never surrender. I can be called her little bitch while she slaps me and spits in my face, and it only makes me feel more powerful. Powerful because I chose it. Powerful because I know I won’t break. Powerful because I worship something beautiful and allow myself to release control. When you encounter something divine, only a weak man tries to conquer it. Bowing feels more natural. I’m proud I had the courage to listen to that instinct.

So yes ,  you can keep your masculinity. What does that mean in practice? That you walk proudly until She tells you to crawl. That you admire her beauty until She tells you to face the floor. Maybe you’re even allowed to kiss her, if you’re lucky , but that comes back to communication. And trust me, talking about these things is fun!

Ok, so now you’re emotionally responsible, you know how to communicate, and you know how to worship a woman. You’re getting there, but let’s dive deeper.

There’s an aspect of submission many neglect. Many men promise everything: they’d lie in a cage seven days a week, lock up their pee-pees, donate their savings, tattoo their Mistress’s name on their forehead. They’d allow themselves to be beaten and hurt in any way possible  -  but it’s only their body they offer. They leave something aside: their soul. They don’t let themselves be emotionally vulnerable, or, more likely, they don’t even know how. That’s not submission. That’s annihilation. And it’s far less scary than true submission, because you’re not really giving yourself. Many men would give anything except that.

You can only give yourself when someone truly knows you -  when you share your emotions, your fears, when you allow emotional dependence. Yes, it’s hot when a stranger doesn’t care about you and tries to annihilate you. But the truth is, you’re not giving yourself fully. Do you dare to give yourself fully?

“How can I do it?” you might ask. I’ll be honest  - I don’t have a definitive answer. It’s something I struggle with in my self-directed, largely solitary life. But I believe it’s the deepest form of submission. One I hope to reach someday, if I find a connection stronger and safer than any I’ve known. I pray to the stars I’ll have the courage and stamina to get there, because I sense something immense waits in those depths.

So that’s it. It all comes down to one question: do you truly wish to submit, and to what degree? Be honest ,  both with yourself and your partner. This is far more than roleplay. And if your desire is similar to mine, it will keep pulling you deeper. Shallow waters no longer fulfill me. I want something real. There’s immense relief in dropping shame once you find meaning in it. It exists for a reason ,  I’m sure of that. It’s sacred in its own way. A map I’m only beginning to read. A wind that won’t let me stand still. A key to something I have yet to find.

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A few years later, us boys started to educate ourselves on our own. Not from adults, as those were strangely awkward about these topics, but among ourselves. It looked kind of like this:

“Do you watch porn?”

“No.”

“Are you gay?”

“No! … Where can I find it?”

And so we entered this nasty industry around the age of 10, eager to explore this forbidden world. I typed in the names of my schoolmates’ favorite porn stars. I was disappointed to realize that all this grinding and moaning didn’t stimulate me. Was there something wrong with me? I was seriously troubled by this thought. However, soon those legs came back into play, as the internet always finds your desires, even when you don’t know about them yet.

Fast forward a few more years, and I was already quite familiar with my kinks. But extremely ashamed! I remember thinking something like: “If this ever gets out, I’ll just kill myself.”

My first sexual experiences were quite vanilla. I enjoyed sex, but I always kept some fantasy plot running in the background to boost up that thrill.

I am her sex slave. She is using my body for her pleasure. Afterwards, she will chain me and put me into a cage, where I will wait until she decides to use me again.

Who knows, maybe her imagination was also playing out her own fantasy scenario, but at that time, these things felt too deviant to express.

I’ve sensed a glimpse of a sadistic tendency in one of my first girlfriends. We started slowly, by me pleasing her more often than she pleased me. I was laying down there and licking her for hours. Then she would clean my dripping face with her hand and sometimes even with her foot.

She called me her servant, and she was my Queen.

I really enjoyed pleasing her and prioritizing her pleasure over mine. I enjoyed the fact that she did the same. That she didn’t care about me that much, and often ordered me to spoil her regardless of my comfort. I ended up sleeping many nights with my face squeezed between her ass cheeks or under her feet, being forgotten there until the morning, when she would wake up and asked for more.

Then came the first punishments. Sometimes she slapped me, sometimes she kicked me, sometimes she squeezed my balls in her hand and enjoyed the fact that she possessed all this power and was in full control of my pain. I was at her mercy. At first, she punished me when I did something wrong. Like spilling the tea that I was pouring for her, or taking too long doing something that was supposed to be an easy task. But what really blew my mind was when she decided to punish me purely for her pleasure. When she was like: “come here” with a mischievous smile on her face. I kneeled there and she just slapped me with full force for no reason.

There was a time when she was a bit drunk. We had a romantic dinner followed by a few cocktails. In the car, she became playful and slipped her hand into my trousers. I couldn’t know if she would pleasure or punish me, and perhaps she enjoyed this idea. Actually, since we were romantic I kind of expected the first. But nope, she grabbed my balls and looked at me. I kept driving, I didn’t say a word. She squeezed them. I gritted my teeth, but I didn’t make a sound. She squeezed them even harder, I started to scream. She would normally stop, but this time she didn’t. She squeezed them even harder, possibly even twisted them around. I looked at her, and there I saw it.

That beautiful sadistic glow in her eyes, it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen and something I will never forget!

Her eyes were glowing and she had this gorgeous evil smile on her face. I would take anything for that smile!

Later on in my twenties, I already knew what I wanted. I slowly guided my partners in this direction; some picked it up faster than others. But not a single time was I rejected. Every girl I dated tenderly accepted this side of me and was even refreshingly intrigued by something new. I’ve heard, “You’ve opened up a new door in me,” so many times, and I am truly grateful for those moments of acceptance. It gave me the courage to become more open about it, and perhaps more people should be. There are so many people who follow the same, more socially accepted loops, like: a man should be the one who’s dominant, even if it isn’t natural to them.

Why? It doesn’t make you feminine if you submit. There is a kink called “sissyfication”; perhaps some confuse submission with that, but it is its own category. You can totally submit from your masculine core. You can be an alpha and still submit. I want to be a strong, protective, and successful man in every aspect of my life. I want to be caring, loving, stable, and masculine. And then with all that, I want to bow down and put a woman of my choice far above me.

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It was always there, ever since my first sexual thoughts. When I fantasized about women, I fantasized about being used, mistreated, offering myself for service, being humiliated, crossing lines most would find shameful. I found it shameful for quite some time too. But then I realized these desires are far more common than I thought.

From what I’ve seen, roughly half of men have similar desires, although some are more open about it than others. Some dare to explore, while others allow them to live only in fantasy. Some explore them with their partners, while others do so with everyone except their partners. Some do it just for temporary release, while others see something deeper in all of this.

It took courage to enter this world, which initially seemed very confusing. All the terminology of the “community” was mostly a distraction, when in reality it’s all quite simple. Offering yourself to someone feels much more natural without all the theoretical overthinking. However, there does need to be some theory behind it as well, to make it safe for everyone involved. I’ll dive into that, and I’ll also share many personal stories, as well as some fantasy.

After a few years on this journey, all of this became ordinary and I find it most surprising that so many people know nothing about it. It’s literally happening everywhere around you, you just need to know where to look. That’s why I created this blog: so you can peek into a world you might not know much about.