The Life Of Mistress Florence

[mistressflorence32]

My name is Mistress Florence. Welcome to my realm!

I’m a 32 year old retired dominatrix, but I still live the femdom fantasy in my day to day life with my 21 year old sub boy. I’m a proud misandrist and female supremacist. I know femininity is divine, and that we are meant to lead.

For the last year I have been making a name for myself on Twitter / X as @SuperiorWomen83. There I shared my gospel of femdom, and the adventures that take place with me and my slave. But recently I observed the word limits on X do not fit for that purpose, I can never go into detail. So there I now make video captions, and am happy doing it. But I don’t want my community to forget there is a woman behind the profile, with an interesting life she is eager to share.

That’s why I started this blog, to share my philosophy and also the life I lead with an ever growing number of subs. I hope you’ll join me on this journey, and I’m sure you’ll love it!

[mistressflorence32]

would you accept another person to be part of your harem or will you wait until you’ve completely shaped your current

Shaping is an eternal mission, there’s always improvements to be made that will make the sub the best he can be. So I’m not opposed to taking on another guy to be part of the harem even as my current one is being shaped

[mistressflorence32]

My wife (who is also my Mistress) directed me to you after she saw you playing with the idea of publishing your own novels, and toying with the idea of marketing them.

She wanted me to reach out and offer my marketing services (free), if you ever do decide to publish.

Ive been a Director of Marketing for 11+ years and can effectively promote your works, ma'am, if you are interested.

I await your judgement.

Well it sounds like you definitely have the experience to effectively promote my works but I’m wondering what your ideas would be in that regard? How do you generally market something like this?

[mistressflorence32]

New Short Story: Humbling the Businessman

The city skyline glittered like a jagged crown of diamonds against the velvet night, its lights winking through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Seth Carver’s penthouse apartment. Perched on the forty-second floor of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive towers, the space was a testament to his success: sleek marble floors, custom leather furniture, and abstract art that cost more than most people’s homes. The air carried the faint scent of cedarwood and leather polish, a subtle nod to the meticulous control Seth exerted over every facet of his life. At thirty-eight, he was the archetype of triumph—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline that could cut glass and dark hair streaked with just enough silver to suggest wisdom without age. His tailored tuxedo, still crisp from the evening’s award ceremony, hugged his athletic frame as he stepped out of the private elevator, the faint hum of the city fading behind him.

In one hand, he clutched the Businessman of the Year award, a heavy crystal obelisk that caught the ambient light and fractured it into prisms across the walls. The ceremony had been a blur of champagne flutes, camera flashes, and sycophantic applause. They’d called him a visionary, a titan of industry, the man who’d turned a fledgling tech startup into a billion-dollar empire in under a decade. His acceptance speech had been polished, confident, every word calculated to reinforce the image of Seth Carver: untouchable, unflappable, the master of his domain. But now, as the elevator doors sealed shut behind him, a different kind of anticipation coiled in his chest—a secret that no boardroom or gala could ever know.

The living room was dimly lit, the usual stark elegance softened by the glow of a single lamp in the corner. And there, reclining on the black leather chaise like a panther in repose, was Mistress Lola. She was already here, as she always was on Thursday nights, her presence as inevitable as the tide. The sight of her sent a familiar jolt through Seth, a mix of dread and exhilaration that no corporate victory could replicate. She wore her signature latex catsuit, a second skin that gleamed like liquid obsidian, hugging every curve of her statuesque frame. The outfit left little to the imagination, yet its severity—high neck, long sleeves, and stiletto boots that clicked ominously against the floor—demanded reverence rather than lust. Her crimson lips curved into a knowing smirk as she regarded him, her eyes, sharp and green as cut emeralds, locking onto his with an intensity that made his pulse quicken.

“You’re late,” she purred, her voice low and deliberate, each syllable dripping with authority.

She uncrossed her legs slowly, the latex creaking faintly, and stood, her boots adding inches to her already imposing height. A coiled whip hung from her belt, its leather tail swaying like a serpent.

“I hope the adulation didn’t go to your head, Mr. Carver.”

Seth set the award on the glass console table, its weight making a soft thunk against the surface. He loosened his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers like a surrender.

“It was just a ceremony,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than it had been on the stage. “You know how these things are.”

“Do I?” Lola arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her heels clicking as she closed the distance between them. She stopped just short of touching him, her presence a tangible force, like the air before a storm.

“You looked awfully comfortable up there, basking in the spotlight. All those people clapping for you, calling you the best. Tell me, Seth—” She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her perfume a heady mix of jasmine and something darker, like smoked amber. “Do you really think you’re all that?”

His throat tightened, not from fear but from the electric thrill of her words. This was why he hired her, why he paid an obscene amount for these weekly sessions in the sanctity of his own home. Mistress Lola didn’t just dominate; she dismantled. She saw through the polished veneer of Seth Carver, CEO, and found the man beneath, the one who craved release from the weight of his own perfection. He met her gaze, his blue eyes steady but betraying a flicker of vulnerability.

“I don’t,” he said softly. “Not here.”

Her smile widened, sharp and predatory. “Good boy. But I’m not convinced. All this—” She gestured at the award, the penthouse, the city beyond the windows. “It’s gone to your head. You’re standing there in your fancy tux, holding your little trophy, thinking you’re untouchable. It’s time to remind you, Seth, that you’re nothing without my permission.”

She stepped back, her movements deliberate, and pointed to a high-backed chair in the corner of the room. It wasn’t part of the regular decor—a sturdy, padded piece she’d had delivered months ago for their sessions, its dark wood and leather straps a stark contrast to the penthouse’s modern aesthetic.

“Strip,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “And sit.”

Seth’s fingers moved to the buttons of his tuxedo jacket, his movements practiced but not without a tremor of anticipation. The jacket came off first, revealing a crisp white shirt that clung to his toned chest. He draped it carefully over the back of a nearby sofa, a habit born of his meticulous nature, though he knew Lola would likely mock him for it later. His shirt followed, exposing the lean muscles of his torso, the faint scars from a long-ago accident barely visible in the low light. His trousers and briefs were next, folded with the same precision, until he stood bare before her, the cool air of the penthouse raising goosebumps on his skin. Lola watched, her expression unreadable but her eyes glinting with approval. “You’re so good at following orders,” she mused, circling him like a sculptor assessing a block of marble.

“It’s almost a shame to break you. Almost.” She stopped in front of him, her gloved hand grazing his chest, the latex cool against his skin. “Sit.”

He obeyed, lowering himself into the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. The chair was positioned to face the windows, the city’s lights a mocking reminder of the world where he was king. Here, he was something else entirely. Lola produced a coil of silk rope from a black leather bag at her feet, her movements fluid and practiced. She bound his wrists to the chair’s arms, the knots tight but not cruel, her fingers brushing his skin with deliberate care. His ankles followed, secured to the chair’s legs, leaving him spread and exposed, his body a canvas for whatever she had planned.

“You’ve been strutting around all night, haven’t you?” she said, stepping back to admire her work. “Accepting awards, shaking hands, pretending you’re in control. But look at you now.” She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Tied up, naked, at my mercy. How does it feel, Seth, to be humbled?”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The flush creeping up his neck, the quickening of his pulse, told her everything. Lola straightened, her smirk returning as she reached into her bag again. This time, she pulled out a pair of black lace panties, the fabric delicate but carrying the weight of her intent.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered.

Seth hesitated, just for a moment, and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

He complied, and she stuffed the panties into his mouth, the fabric tasting faintly of her perfume. She secured them with a strip of silk, tying it behind his head, ensuring he couldn’t speak, only feel.

“That’s better,” she said, stepping back to survey him. “No more of your clever words. Just you, helpless, exactly where you belong.”

She turned back to her bag, and Seth’s eyes followed her, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The award on the console table caught the light again, its crystal surface gleaming like a promise—or a threat. Lola’s gaze flicked to it, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

“Oh, we’re going to have fun with that later,” she said, almost to herself. “But first, let’s make sure you’re properly… decorated.”

From her bag, she produced a handful of wooden clothespins, their metal springs glinting in the lamplight. She held one up, turning it between her fingers, letting the anticipation build.

“You think you’re a big deal, don’t you, Seth? Let’s see how you feel when I’m done with you.” She stepped closer, her boots clicking ominously, and pinched the skin above his eyebrow.

The first clothespin snapped into place, a sharp sting that made him flinch. She didn’t pause, moving to his ear, then his nose, each clip a precise assault on his senses. His nipples were next, the pain sharper there, drawing a muffled groan through the gag. She worked methodically, attaching clips to his inner thighs, his scrotum, anywhere the skin was sensitive enough to make him squirm.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Seth’s body was a constellation of pain, each clothespin a star in her cruel galaxy. “You’re not so proud now, are you?” She reached for another tool, her fingers closing around a small, sleek vibrator. “Let’s see how much more you can take.”

Seth’s world had narrowed to the chair, the ropes, and the woman before him. The silk gag in his mouth pressed the lace of Mistress Lola’s panties against his tongue, the faint musk of her scent mingling with the sterile tang of latex that clung to her presence. His naked body, bound to the leather-padded chair, felt exposed in a way that went beyond mere nudity—every inch of his skin was a map for her to mark, every nerve a string for her to pluck. The city lights beyond the penthouse windows shimmered indifferently, a distant reminder of the man he’d been just hours ago, accepting accolades with a practiced smile. Now, that man was gone, replaced by a creature of surrender, his breath hitching with every click of Lola’s stiletto boots on the marble floor.

She stood before him, a silhouette of power in her gleaming latex catsuit, the clothespin in her hand glinting like a tiny guillotine. The first one, already clamped above his left eyebrow, sent a dull throb through his skull, a constant reminder of her control. Lola’s green eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and cruelty as she selected another clothespin from the pile in her gloved hand. “Let’s make you a proper work of art,” she said, her voice a velvet blade. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his cheek, and pinched the tender skin of his right earlobe. The clip snapped shut, the sharp bite making Seth’s shoulders twitch involuntarily. A low hum of approval escaped her lips as she attached another to his left ear, then a third to the delicate skin just below his nostril, the pressure there making his eyes water.

“You’re holding up well,” she teased, stepping back to survey her progress. “But we’re just getting started.” Her fingers danced across his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone before settling on his left nipple. The skin was already sensitive, and when the clothespin clamped onto it, Seth let out a muffled groan, his body jerking against the restraints. Lola’s lips curled into a wicked smile.

“Sensitive, are we?” she purred, repeating the process on his right nipple. The pain was sharp, electric, radiating through his chest, but it was the humiliation of being so utterly at her mercy that burned deeper.

She moved with deliberate precision, attaching clothespins to the tender skin of his inner thighs, each one a calculated assault on his senses. The clips on his scrotum were the worst, the pain so intense it bordered on unbearable, yet it stirred something primal within him, a heat that coiled low in his belly. Lola’s eyes never left his face, reading every flinch, every stifled moan. “Look at you,” she murmured, attaching a clip to the thin skin at the base of his thumb. “The great Seth Carver, reduced to a pincushion. How does it feel to be so… insignificant?”

Seth’s chest heaved, his muffled response lost behind the gag. The clothespins were everywhere now—eyebrows, ears, nose, nipples, thighs, balls, even the webbing between his fingers. Each one added a new layer of sensation, a mosaic of pain that blurred into something else, something that made his cock twitch despite the agony. Lola noticed, of course, her gaze dropping to his growing erection with a mocking laugh. “Oh, you pathetic thing,” she said, picking up another clothespin. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She continued her work, methodical and relentless, until Seth’s body was a constellation of wooden clips, each one a point of fire. The pain was constant, a low hum that kept his nerves on edge, but it was her presence that amplified it—her absolute control, her unyielding focus. She stepped back, tilting her head as if admiring a painting. “Perfect,” she declared, setting the remaining clothespins aside. “But we’re not done yet.”

From her bag, she retrieved a small bottle of lubricant and a sleek, black vibrator, its surface gleaming under the lamplight. Seth’s eyes widened, his pulse spiking as she approached, her movements slow and deliberate. She squirted a dollop of lube into her gloved hand, the scent of it sharp and clinical, and smeared it over his cock with a single, languid stroke. The sudden pleasure was a shock after the pain, and his hips bucked involuntarily, straining against the ropes. “Easy,” she chided, her grip tightening just enough to make him wince. “You don’t get to decide when this happens.”

Lola switched on the vibrator, its low buzz filling the air like a warning. She pressed it against the base of his cock, the sensation immediate and overwhelming. Seth’s head fell back, a muffled groan escaping through the gag as she worked the device with expert precision, teasing the sensitive underside, circling the tip, never lingering long enough to let him build toward release. Her movements were slow, almost lazy, but her eyes were sharp, watching every twitch of his body, every shudder that betrayed his desperation.

“You think you’re in control out there,” she said, her voice soft but cutting as she dragged the vibrator along his shaft. “In your boardrooms, your penthouse, your little empire. But here?” She pressed the vibrator harder against him, eliciting a choked moan. “Here, you’re mine. And you don’t get to cum until I say so.”

The edging was merciless. She brought him to the brink again and again, her gloved hand and the vibrator working in tandem, manipulating his body with a skill that left him trembling. Each time he felt the pressure building, the sweet promise of release, she pulled back, letting the sensation ebb away. His muffled pleas grew more desperate, his body slick with sweat, the clothespins amplifying every movement into a cascade of pain. Lola’s laughter was low and cruel. “Poor Seth,” she mocked, brushing the vibrator lightly over the tip of his cock, making him jerk. “So close, yet so far. You’re not the big shot now, are you?”

Minutes stretched into an eternity, the cycle of pleasure and denial blurring his sense of time. His muscles ached from straining against the ropes, his skin burned where the clothespins bit, and his cock throbbed under her relentless teasing. Lola’s face remained impassive, but her eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “You’re nothing but a toy, Seth. My toy. And toys don’t get to choose.”

Finally, she set the vibrator aside, leaving him panting and trembling, his body a taut wire of need. But she wasn’t done. From her bag, she produced a long, thin string, its black sheen catching the light. With deliberate care, she began threading it through the loops of each clothespin, connecting them one by one. Seth’s eyes followed her movements, his breath hitching as he realized her intent. The string wove a path across his body—eyebrows to ears, nose to nipples, thighs to balls—creating a web of impending pain. Lola worked in silence, her focus absolute, her gloved fingers deft as they tied off the final knot.

She stepped back, holding the end of the string like a puppeteer. “This is going to hurt,” she said, her voice almost tender, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her excitement. “And you’re going to love it.”

She gave the string a gentle tug, testing it, and Seth’s body tensed as the clothespins shifted slightly, sending fresh waves of pain through him. Lola’s smile widened, her grip tightening on the string. “Ready?” she asked, though it wasn’t a question. Before he could brace himself, she yanked the string with a swift, brutal motion.

The clothespins tore free in a single, violent cascade, the sound of them clattering to the floor drowned out by Seth’s muffled scream. Shockwaves of pleasure-pain exploded through his body, every nerve igniting as the clips released their grip. His skin burned where they’d been, the sudden rush of blood to those tender spots amplifying the sensation to a dizzying peak. His vision blurred, his body arching against the ropes, caught in a storm of agony and ecstasy that left him gasping through the gag.

Lola stood over him, the string dangling from her hand, her expression one of triumphant satisfaction. “There,” she said softly, brushing a gloved finger across his sweat-dampened cheek. “Now you’re starting to understand.”

Seth’s world was a haze of sensation, his body still trembling from the shockwaves of the clothespins’ removal. The silk gag muffled his ragged breaths, the taste of Mistress Lola’s panties a constant reminder of his submission. His wrists and ankles, now freed from the chair’s ropes, ached with the ghost of their restraints, but there was no time to linger on the pain. Lola’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding. “Up,” she ordered, her tone brooking no hesitation. “On the bed. Now.”

He moved as if in a trance, his limbs heavy but obedient, crawling onto the king-sized bed that dominated the penthouse’s master suite. The black silk sheets were cool against his fevered skin, a stark contrast to the heat pulsing through him. Lola’s boots clicked on the marble floor as she followed, her presence a looming shadow at the edge of his vision. “All fours,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “Ass up. Show me how much you want this.”

Seth complied, positioning himself on hands and knees, his back arched, his ass raised in offering. The position was humiliating, exposing him completely, his cock still throbbing from the relentless edging, his skin marked with red welts where the clothespins had bitten. The city skyline glowed beyond the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, a silent witness to his unraveling. He felt her eyes on him, her gaze a tangible weight, stripping away the last vestiges of the man who’d stood on a stage just hours ago, accepting an award with a smile. Here, he was nothing but hers.

Lola stood at the foot of the bed, her latex catsuit gleaming under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She reached into her black leather bag, retrieving a coiled leather whip, its braided tail glinting with a promise of pain. She ran the whip through her gloved fingers, letting the anticipation build, the faint creak of leather against latex filling the silence. “You’ve been such a proud little businessman tonight,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “Strutting around, basking in your glory. Let’s see how proud you feel when I’m done with you.”

Without warning, she cracked the whip against his ass, the sound a sharp snap that echoed through the room. Seth’s body jolted, a muffled cry escaping through the gag as a line of fire bloomed across his skin. The pain was immediate, searing, but it carried a strange warmth that sank deep into his muscles. Lola didn’t pause, delivering another lash, then another, each strike precise, painting his ass with a crisscross of red welts. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as he fought to hold his position, his body trembling under the onslaught.

“Look at you,” she taunted, her voice a low purr as she landed another blow, this one catching the sensitive curve where his thigh met his ass. “Reduced to a whimpering slut, bent over for me. This is where you belong, Seth.” The whip cracked again, harder this time, and his head dropped, his breath coming in sharp gasps through the gag. The pain was intense, but it was her words that cut deeper, slicing through the armor of his public persona. Each lash stripped away another layer of his pride, leaving him raw and exposed.

After a dozen strikes, she paused, stepping closer to run her gloved hand over the heated skin of his ass. The touch was both soothing and cruel, her fingers tracing the welts with a tenderness that made his cock twitch. “So red,” she murmured, almost to herself. “So perfect.” She stepped back, setting the whip aside, and Seth’s heart pounded as he heard the rustle of her bag again. When she returned, she held a large strapon, its black silicone surface gleaming in the lamplight, thick and intimidating, designed to dominate.

Lola buckled the harness around her hips with practiced ease, the straps hugging her latex-clad curves. She reached for the bottle of lubricant, squirting a generous amount into her hand and coating the strapon with slow, deliberate strokes, her eyes locked on Seth’s. “You’re going to take this like the slut you are,” she said, her voice a dangerous whisper. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”

She positioned herself behind him, the bed dipping under her weight. The cool tip of the strapon pressed against his entrance, and Seth tensed, his body caught between anticipation and apprehension. Lola’s hand gripped his hip, steadying him as she applied more lube, her gloved fingers circling his hole with a teasing slowness that made him squirm. “Relax,” she commanded, her voice firm but not unkind. “You know how this works.”

She pushed forward, the strapon breaching him with a slow, relentless pressure. Seth’s muffled moan filled the air, his body stretching to accommodate the intrusion. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of fullness and vulnerability that made his head spin. Lola didn’t rush, letting him adjust, but there was no mistaking her control—she set the pace, her hips rocking forward in a steady rhythm that grew more forceful with each thrust. “That’s it,” she said, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Take it like a good little slut.”

Her movements became merciless, the strapon plunging deep, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure-pain through his core. Seth’s hands clawed at the sheets, his body rocking with the force of her rhythm. The gag muffled his cries, but his body spoke for him, his cock leaking onto the sheets, his ass clenching around the silicone as she fucked him with unrelenting precision. Lola’s gloved hands gripped his hips, pulling him back to meet her thrusts, her latex-clad thighs slapping against his welted skin. “You love this, don’t you?” she taunted, her voice cutting through the haze. “All that success, all that power, and you’re nothing but my bitch.”

The degradation was a knife, sharp and intimate, slicing through the last of his defenses. Seth’s body trembled, his mind a blur of submission and need, every thrust pushing him deeper into a space where nothing existed but her. Lola’s pace quickened, her breaths coming faster, not from exertion but from the thrill of his surrender. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “You’re mine, Seth. Completely.”

After what felt like an eternity, she slowed, pulling out with a deliberate gentleness that left him gasping. But there was no reprieve. Lola reached for the lube again, her movements purposeful as she coated her right hand, the latex glove glistening under the light. “You’ve taken the strap so well,” she said, her voice almost tender. “Let’s see how you handle something more… personal.”

Seth’s eyes widened, his body tensing as he realized her intent. She started slowly, pressing one lubed finger against his hole, circling gently before slipping inside. The sensation was different from the strapon—warmer, more pliable, but no less invasive. She worked him open with care, adding a second finger, then a third, her movements patient but relentless. Seth’s breath hitched, his body adjusting to the stretch, the intimacy of her touch both humiliating and intoxicating.

“Relax,” she murmured, her free hand stroking his lower back, soothing the welts from the whip. “You’re going to take all of me.” A fourth finger joined the others, the pressure building as she twisted her hand, stretching him further. Seth’s moans were constant now, muffled but desperate, his body trembling with the effort of submission. Lola’s eyes gleamed with focus, her movements precise as she tucked her thumb against her palm and pushed forward, her hand sliding past the tight ring of muscle until her entire fist was inside him.

The sensation was overwhelming, a fullness that bordered on unbearable yet sent waves of pleasure through his core. Seth’s head dropped to the sheets, his body shaking as she moved her fist slowly, letting him feel every inch of her control. “Look at you,” she said, her voice a mix of awe and cruelty. “Taking my fist like a good little slut. You’re not so high and mighty now, are you?”

She worked him with a rhythm that was both gentle and commanding, her fist rocking inside him, stretching him to his limits. The pleasure was intense, mingling with the lingering pain of the whip and the edging, pushing him to a precipice where pain and pleasure were indistinguishable. Lola’s free hand gripped his hip, anchoring him as she continued, her voice a constant stream of degradation and praise. “You’re mine,” she said, her fist moving deeper. “Every part of you belongs to me.”

Seth’s body was a trembling map of sensation, every nerve alight with the aftershocks of Mistress Lola’s relentless domination. Bent over the bed, his hands clutching the black silk sheets, he was a portrait of surrender—his ass red and welted from the whip, his hole stretched and aching from her fist, his cock throbbing with unfulfilled need beneath the weight of her control. The gag still muffled his moans, the taste of her lace panties a constant anchor to his submission. The penthouse, with its gleaming marble and cityscape views, felt like a distant world, its opulence irrelevant in the face of the woman who owned him in this moment. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, lube, and her smoked-amber perfume, a heady mix that clung to his senses.

Lola stood behind him, her latex-clad form a vision of unyielding authority. Her right hand, still slick with lube, rested on his lower back, her touch both possessive and grounding as she withdrew her fist with a slow, deliberate motion. Seth gasped through the gag, his body shuddering at the sudden emptiness, the sensation as overwhelming as the intrusion had been. “You did so well,” she murmured, her voice a low purr that carried a hint of mockery. “Taking my fist like a proper slut. But we’re not finished yet, Seth. Not by a long shot.”

She stepped away, her boots clicking against the marble floor, and Seth’s heart pounded as he heard the rustle of her leather bag. But instead of reaching for another tool, she turned toward the glass console table in the living room, where his Businessman of the Year award stood like a forgotten relic of his public life. The crystal obelisk caught the lamplight, its thick, elongated form casting fractured prisms across the walls. Lola picked it up, her gloved fingers wrapping around its weighty base, and turned back to him, a wicked smile curling her crimson lips.

“Look at this,” she said, holding the award aloft as she approached the bed. “Your little trophy. The symbol of all your success, your power, your greatness.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, each word a dagger aimed at the ego he’d left behind hours ago. She stood beside him, the award glinting in her hand, its size and shape suddenly menacing in a way Seth hadn’t anticipated. “You think you’re some big, successful boss, don’t you?” she taunted, leaning down so her face was level with his, her green eyes boring into his. “Let’s see if you’re still feeling that confident when I shove this award up your ass, you pathetic little bitch boy.”

Seth’s eyes widened, a muffled sound of protest—or anticipation—escaping through the gag. His body tensed, but the ropes were gone, replaced by the invisible binds of her command. He remained on all fours, his ass still raised, his skin tingling with the memory of the whip and the stretch of her fist. Lola set the award on the bed beside him, its weight dimpling the silk sheets, and reached for the bottle of lubricant. She squirted a generous amount into her gloved hand, the sharp, clinical scent filling the air as she coated the crystal obelisk with slow, deliberate strokes. The sight was both absurd and terrifying—the gleaming trophy, a symbol of his triumph, transformed into an instrument of his humiliation.

Lola positioned herself behind him again, her free hand gripping his hip to steady him. “Relax,” she ordered, her voice firm but laced with a dark amusement. “You’ve taken my fist. This will be… different.” She pressed the lubed tip of the award against his hole, the cold, unyielding surface a stark contrast to the warmth of her hand. Seth’s breath hitched, his body instinctively clenching, but her touch was relentless, coaxing him open with a patience that belied the cruelty of her intent. “Breathe,” she said, her tone almost soothing as she pushed forward, the award’s smooth, thick form stretching him anew.

The sensation was unlike anything he’d felt before—hard, unyielding, foreign in its rigidity. The crystal was colder than the silicone strapon, its weight grounding him in a way that was both painful and strangely intimate. Lola worked it slowly, twisting it gently to ease its passage, her gloved fingers guiding it with expert precision. Seth’s muffled moans grew louder, his body trembling as the award slid deeper, the stretch pushing him to the edge of his limits. “That’s it,” she cooed, her voice a velvet lash. “Take your precious award. Let it remind you who you really are.”

Inch by inch, she coaxed it into him, the lube making the crystal glide with surprising ease despite its size. Seth’s head dropped to the sheets, his hands fisting the silk as waves of pleasure-pain crashed through him. The award was fully inside now, its weight a constant pressure, filling him in a way that made his cock throb and his mind reel. Lola’s hand rested on the base of the award, holding it in place as she leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “How does it feel, Seth?” she whispered, her voice dripping with mockery. “Your big, shiny trophy, buried in your ass. Still feeling like the king of the world?”

He couldn’t answer, not with the gag, but his body spoke for him—his trembling limbs, his shallow breaths, the way his hips twitched involuntarily. Lola laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Pathetic,” she said, stepping back to admire her work. The award protruded slightly, its crystal surface catching the light, a grotesque parody of the honor it represented. She reached for the whip again, its leather tail swaying as she ran it through her fingers. “One last reminder,” she said, her voice hardening. “Just to make sure you don’t forget.”

The whip cracked against his ass, the pain exploding across his already welted skin. Seth’s body jerked, the movement driving the award deeper, amplifying the sensation to a dizzying peak. Another lash followed, then another, each one precise, reigniting the fire of the earlier whipping. The combination of the award’s unyielding presence and the whip’s stinging bite was overwhelming, a symphony of pleasure and pain that left him writhing on the bed, his muffled cries filling the air. Lola’s strokes were measured, deliberate, each one a punctuation mark in her lesson. “Remember, scum,” she said, delivering a final, brutal lash that made his vision blur. “You’re nothing.”

She tossed the whip aside, the leather coiling on the floor like a sleeping snake. Stepping back, she surveyed him one last time—bent over, trembling, the award still lodged inside him, his body marked with her handiwork. “Look at you,” she said, her voice soft now, almost tender. “My perfect little toy, broken and beautiful.” She adjusted her catsuit, smoothing the latex with a practiced motion, and picked up her leather bag. “I’m done with you for tonight,” she said, her tone final. “Stay there. Let that trophy remind you of your place.”

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the bedroom, her boots clicking a steady rhythm that faded into the distance. The elevator hummed faintly as it carried her away, leaving Seth alone in the penthouse. He remained on the bed, his body wracked with shudders, the award a heavy, unyielding presence inside him. Pleasure and pain swirled together, indistinguishable, as he writhed against the sheets, his mind a haze of submission and release. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, indifferent to the man who’d been humbled within his own empire, left to grapple with the truth of his desires.

The award, once a symbol of his triumph, was now a testament to his surrender, a glittering monument to the power of Mistress Lola. And as Seth lay there, alone with his thoughts and the weight of his humiliation, he knew he’d be waiting for her return next week, craving the freedom only she could give.

[mistressflorence32]

The Art of Discipline: Punishing Unauthorised Orgasms

Seven months ago, I locked my 22-year-old slave boy into a year-long chastity sentence, an unbroken stretch of denial that’s testing the limits of his submission and my control. If you read The Art of Denial, you know this journey started small—weekend lockups, then a year with breaks, building to this relentless, uninterrupted year. It’s been a masterclass in sculpting desire, redirecting his energy from fleeting pleasures to my will. He’s come a long way from the skinny 19-year-old I met, now a muscular, obedient sub who lives to please me. But even the most devoted slaves falter, not always by choice. Today, I’m pulling back the curtain on what happens when he crosses a line he can’t control: unauthorised orgasms. Wet dreams, those sneaky rebellions of the body and subconscious, have crept into our dynamic, and I meet them with a punishment as deliberate as it is severe. Here’s how I ensure that even his dreams bow to my rule.

We’re seven months into this year-long lock, and the transformation is palpable. My slave’s body, once lanky, is now a canvas of lean muscle, carved by gym sessions fueled by the frustration of his cage. His mind, once prone to wandering, is sharp, attuned to my every gesture—a raised eyebrow, a snap of my fingers. Chastity has rewired him, channeling his energy into service: cooking my meals, cleaning my home, kneeling silently while I work. I’ve been meticulous in this sentence—no teasing to the point of no return, no moments where I’ve let him edge close enough to spill. His cock is locked, his pleasure forbidden, and every day he wakes up knowing his body belongs to me, not him.

But he’s 22, a young man with a head full of hormones and fantasies, and even the most disciplined sub can’t control his dreams. In the quiet of sleep, his subconscious betrays him, conjuring images that push him past the edge I’ve forbidden. Wet dreams—those involuntary releases—are rare but real. In seven months, he’s had three. Each one is a rebellion, not of his conscious will but of his body, his deepest instincts. And in my world, rebellion, intentional or not, demands correction.

You might think it’s harsh to punish a sub for something he can’t control. A wet dream, after all, isn’t a choice—he’s asleep, lost in a haze of hormones and imagination. But here’s my truth: submission isn’t just about what he chooses; it’s about what he is. His body, his mind, his dreams—they’re all mine to command. A wet dream is his subconscious daring to take what I’ve denied, a flicker of defiance in a body I own. It’s not about blame; it’s about consequence. Every infraction, voluntary or not, must be met with discipline, because that’s how submission is forged—through unwavering accountability.

My slave understands this. From the start, I made it clear: any orgasm, even in sleep, is unauthorised. He’s accepted it with a dignity that makes me proud, even as he trembles with regret. When he wakes from a wet dream, he doesn’t hide it—he reports it immediately, head bowed, voice soft with shame. “Mistress, I failed you,” he’ll say, and I can see the weight of it in his eyes. He knows the act wasn’t intentional, but he also knows my rules are absolute. His submission isn’t just in his actions; it’s in his willingness to face the consequences, to offer himself up for correction. That’s when I reach for my bedside leather paddle, my go-to for swift, intimate punishments, and we begin.

Punishment in my house is never haphazard—it’s a ritual, precise and deliberate, designed to etch my authority into his soul. When my slave confesses a wet dream, I don’t yell or scold; I act. I keep a sleek leather paddle by my bed, its weight familiar in my hand, reserved for quick corrections that don’t require the pomp of a dungeon. I order him to the bed, doggy-style, knees spread, ass presented—a position of vulnerability that strips away any lingering pride. The number of spanks is calculated with care: one for each day he’s been in chastity. It’s a number that grows with each incident, a reminder that his sentence is cumulative, his submission a marathon, not a sprint.

The first wet dream came at 67 days. Sixty-seven spanks, delivered with steady rhythm, each one a sharp sting that echoed my displeasure. He whimpered from the start, his voice breaking as he asked, “Another, please, Mistress,” after every strike, followed by a choked apology: “I’m sorry for failing you.” By the end, his ass was red, his face wet with tears—not from pain, but from the weight of disappointing me. The second dream hit at 98 days, and the paddle fell 98 times. His apologies grew more desperate, his voice trembling as he begged for each strike, knowing it was his path back to my grace. The third, at 150 days, was harder. One hundred fifty spanks, a marathon of correction that left him sobbing, his regret as raw as his skin. And the fourth, just last week at 210 days, was a spectacle—210 deliberate strikes, each one met with his shaky plea for more, his tears pooling on the sheets as he whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mistress.”

Those tears aren’t just about the sting of the paddle. They’re about his heart, his need to be perfect for me. Deep down, I know he can’t control his dreams—his body is young, his mind flooded with images of me, of submission, of the life we’ve built. But that’s no excuse. Every infraction, conscious or not, is a crack in the foundation of our dynamic, and I seal it with discipline. The paddle’s sting fades, but the lesson lingers: his body, awake or asleep, answers to me.

Why spanking? It’s not just about pain; it’s about connection. The paddle’s leather kisses his skin, a direct line from my hand to his body, reinforcing that I’m the one who shapes him. The doggy-style position—vulnerable, exposed—mirrors his submission, stripping him of defenses. And the counting, the sheer number of spanks tied to his days in chastity, makes it personal. It’s not arbitrary; it’s a reflection of his journey, a reminder that every day he’s locked is a day he’s mine.

His whimpering requests for “another” aren’t just ritual—they’re surrender. Each plea is him acknowledging his failure, recommitting to my control. The apologies, raw and tear-soaked, are his way of purging the guilt, of proving he’s still mine. And those tears? They’re not weakness; they’re devotion. He cries not because the paddle hurts (though it does), but because he hates letting me down. I see it in his eyes when it’s over, when he kneels at my feet, red-faced and repentant, promising to be better. I know he can’t stop the dreams, but I also know punishment makes him try harder, even in sleep, to be the sub I demand.

The spankings are the centerpiece, but they’re not the whole story. Each wet dream triggers a broader correction, a tightening of the reins to ensure he doesn’t slip further. After the first dream, I added a new rule: he sleeps on a thin mat at the foot of my bed, not in it, to remind him comfort is earned. After the second, I made him write 100 lines daily for a week: “My body belongs to Mistress.” The third brought a day in a gimp suit, erasing his identity until he was just a vessel for my will. And after the fourth, I’m planning something new: a “submission journal” where he’ll document every dream, every thought, every flicker of desire, so I can see inside his head and root out any rebellion before it grows.

These punishments aren’t just about the moment—they’re about the future. They teach him that even his subconscious isn’t free. They remind him that chastity isn’t just a cage on his cock; it’s a cage on his entire being. And they work. Each time, he emerges more focused, more devoted, more desperate to please. He reports his dreams with a sincerity that breaks my heart and fuels my pride. He’s not perfect—no sub is—but he’s mine, and every punishment brings him closer to the ideal I’m sculpting.

We’ve got five months left in this chastity sentence, and I’m curious to see how he holds up. Three wet dreams in seven months is three too many, but it’s also proof of his youth, his vitality, his struggle to surrender every part of himself. I don’t expect perfection, but I demand progress. If another dream comes, the paddle will be waiting—240 spanks, maybe 300, depending on the day. He’ll cry, he’ll beg, he’ll thank me, and he’ll come out stronger. And when this year ends, when we move toward permanent chastity as I’ve planned, these lessons will carry him forward. His body will learn what his mind already knows: there’s no release without my permission, not even in dreams.

For the subs reading this, take note: submission isn’t just about what you do awake. It’s about giving everything—your body, your mind, your dreams—to your Mistress. And for the Mistresses, don’t shy away from punishing what they can’t control. It’s not about fairness; it’s about ownership. My slave’s tears, his whimpers, his red ass—they’re all brushstrokes in the art of discipline, painting a sub who’s mine in every way. Seven months in, with five to go, I’m crafting a masterpiece, one punishment at a time.

[mistressflorence32]

Under Her Command - Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION: After the positive feedback I received when I last posted on this blog asking if I should release the many pieces of Femdom fiction I’ve been working on for around 14 years now, I decided to release the first chapter of one of my favourite books. I would love it if you read it and told me if you think it would be worth releasing. My inner circle are all very positive. I love writing and if it could ever become my job that would leave me feeling very fulfilled. It’s a very vulnerable thing to do, releasing fiction you wrote years ago purely for yourself never thinking it would see the life of day. Well now here it is. Please tell me what you think. If feedback is positive, I will start looking into ways of releasing my fiction. Enjoy!

Under Her Command - Chapter 1

“Oh yes Julia, please fuck my slutty pussy with your giant cock! I need it so bad!”

I was desperately moaning out sentences I never really thought I’d say, whilst my girlfriend of six months (a beautiful woman named Julia) fucked my asshole with a nine inch strap on. Her freshly manicured hand pushed against my sweaty back as she forced a few more inches into my ass, which she always called my pussy. I had to call it that as well. I tried to relax my hole as I lay there like a toy, trying to take it as she used me like a slut.

When Julia first brought up the idea of pegging I was scared to even get a finger in my hole, but now she’d forcefully opened up my ass to new and strange sensations. Now the most beautiful woman I had ever met was fucking my asshole daily. Julia was a curvy and beautiful brunette woman in her mid twenties. It was a pity she didn’t like to fuck me in missionary to be honest, because then I could look at her beauty whilst being used like a whore.

Instead I was on my hands and knees doggy style looking at myself in the mirror. My name is Wyatt Barker. Julia’s nickname for me outside of sex was Wy, but during sex the nicknames got a lot sluttier and somehow even more degrading. Six months ago I was the usual British young man, only 21 having just finished university, that was when I began to date Julia.

Whilst there were only five years between us she had much greater emotional intelligence than I did, so there had always been a slight power dynamic where she held more power. It’s not like I’m her slave or anything as kinky as that, but she has definitely made me feel subservient towards her, especially in her constant emasculation of me. And my cock hadn’t entered her in at least the last month, as she ramped up her pegging regime by a lot.

“It’s alright I guess but it’s kinda small, I thought it would be bigger…” Julia complained with an innocent tone to her voice, when she first saw my cock.

Truth be told she had never been too impressed by it anyway. It wasn’t tiny, I had measured it a thousand times and it was 5 inches. Evidently, not enough for her. Julia knew just how to make me feel guilty about that during sex. Earlier in our relationship when I would get to fuck her I’d be having the time of my life, but she just looked bored, sometimes even got her phone out she was that bored. That was how little my cock did for her pleasure. That always made me feel like I was using her in the wrong way, like she was a toy.

“I don’t want to use you baby, I love you. We need to both enjoy sex.” I once told her after a particularly awkward session. Julia told me the only way she could enjoy sex is if she was the top, and I was the bottom. Then she showed me her strap-on.

And the rest is history.

All I know is I have grown to love the feeling of being brutally fucked. Originally I couldn’t take large toys at all, but Julia was obsessed with size. Both with real cocks and fake ones she’d fuck me with. She acted as if she could feel herself fucking me, and that being five inches into my ass just wasn’t enough. Through merciless fucking sessions every night my hole was able to accommodate more and more.

Now she was easily fucking me with a nine inch strap on, and I was loving it. There was definitely however, a small feeling of emasculation. What definitely didn’t help that was the “gift” that Julia got me for my birthday two weeks ago. I’d requested a nice cologne or a suit. Some masculine, and also something quite easy for her to pick up for me.

When the time came for my birthday, Julia was the perfect girlfriend the whole time. She woke me up with her mighty strap on just as I secretly would have desired. After a long time of fucking me, she finally slid out of my hole, kissed me on the cheek, wished me a happy birthday and told me to hop in the shower. After my shower I hobbled down the stairs, to find she had made me my favourite breakfast.

I munched on delicious waffles, sweet maple syrup and crunchy bacon all whilst gave me possibly the best blowjob of my life under the table. Whilst she didn’t like my average sized cock going anywhere near her pussy, she said it always felt a lot bigger in her mouth. So every so often, especially on special occasions like this, I’d get to feel her succulent lips around my cock. And it was absolute heaven.

Afterwards, Julia finally gave me my present. It was neatly wrapped and felt quite soft, large enough to maybe be a suit. I said a preemptive and grateful thank you to her, my beautiful girlfriend I couldn’t believe I had, and tore open the wrapping. First thing I saw was black and white, so I instantly assumed it was a suit.

But the material felt a little bit too soft to be a suit, so slowly and cautiously I started to unfold it. There was a lot of black and white, but I started to feel some frills. Soon enough I realised what I had in my hands wasn’t a suit. It was something much worse. Julia had bought me a maid dress, black and white striped stockings, long white gloves and a headdress.

“Umm, baby what’s this? Are you sure you didn’t get the presents mixed up?” I asked cautiously, hoping that this was a mistake.

“No of course not, silly! Don’t worry, I like your masculinity. I have no interest in permanently feminising you. However… I feel like you’ve been using me recently.” Julia cooed with her usual affectionate, yet simultaneously dominant voice.

“What? Babe, you’ve been fucking me every night. I can barely walk anymore! How could I have been using you?!” I found it difficult to keep my cool, how could she think she was being used when I was the slut here!

“Remember Wyatt, my cock isn’t real. When I fuck you I can’t actually feel it, there’s no stimulation for me, it’s all about you. You get to feel it all whilst I have to thrust away, like I’m your dildo or something.”

I knew this was all made up to manipulate me, Julia was the one who made me bend over every single night. She loved it, but made it seem like something I had been making her do. But technically what she said was true. It was all her doing it to me, and I felt the effects. I knew she was lying but I couldn’t prove it, so I didn’t try to. Once again, Julia had won and I just had to do whatever she wanted.

“You’re right baby, I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better for you?” Julia wasn’t right, and I was not sorry, but she held the cards in this relationship. I had to apologise no matter what.

“I’m not sure yet, but we need to start experimenting together. That’s why I’ve bought you this. The idea of fucking you whilst you’re dressed like a maid is really erotic, just the idea makes me wet. We have to try it. You’ll do anything for me, right?”

I could tell she was genuine, and to be honest there was a tiny part of me that wanted to try it. I kinda liked when during our pegging sessions she made me feel dominated. So against my better judgement I agreed. Clearly seeing me dressed up as a femboy maid unlocked a great stamina hidden in Julia, because she spent the rest of the day fucking my poor ass with a few breaks in between.

Ever since my birthday Julia would only fuck me if I wore the maid dress, and that’s what she’s doing right now. To be honest the dress had grown on me a bit, even if I still felt somewhat embarrassed by it. I enjoyed being masculine in my day to day life, as I knew Julia enjoyed that. But I liked transforming into someone completely different under her strap, a complete and total slut.

I gasped sharply on every thrust, as Julia’s cock breached my entrance over and over again, sliding in and out, my muscles clenching tightly around the intrusion. Acting just like the dominant she was on the inside, my beautiful girlfriend grabbed my hair roughly, pulling out a few as she did, and pushed my face into the pillow, muffling my whimpers. She loved to act like the man when she fucked me, making sure I always came away with a few mild injuries.

Drool escaped from my slack mouth as the dildo pounded into my most intimate place. My eyes shoot open wide, a strangled cry escaping my lips as Julia fucked into me with renewed vigor. Tears of overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of his eyes. The strange thing about pegging is that, since there really is no orgasm to be had, it can go on for a long time. Usually Julia did fuck me for ages, without losing steam. It had been at least half an hour now, and my violated hole was starting to loosen. That was usually her time to slow it down, which she did.

Aftercare was always my favourite part honestly, she knew just how to make me feel loved and cared for. I was in a comfy towel robe, watching a nice movie with a beer in hand. Her mouth was around my cock, completely of her own choice by the way. But I can’t lie, her manipulation to make it seem that I was using her for my own pleasure with the pegging put some doubt into my mind. What if she was giving me all these blowjobs now to manipulate me further?

Even if she did I wouldn’t mind too much. It was a strange journey I was on, but there was something comforting about not being in control. It was all down to her, I was along for the ride. I never thought I’d be begging my girlfriend to fuck my slutty pussy with her giant cock whilst wearing a maid dress. But as long as it wouldn’t go beyond that I’d be fine. Pegging and a tiny bit of crossdressing to make her happy, I could do that.

Being in that cosy robe drinking a cold beer with Julia’s warm mouth around my cock was the best feeling, so much so it made all she did to my ass more than worth it. I’d say she was amazing at deepthroating me, but I imagine 5 inches isn’t that much to suck anyway. Either way she was incredible at it, her soft lips like a milking machine, going up and down my length, her tongue dancing all along the way.

She had one rule during her aftercare handjobs, I couldn’t touch her hair. I tried to grab her hair once when she was blowing me and quickly got my hand smacked away and was sent to sleep on the couch for the next few nights. Now I obeyed her rule pleasure was heightened, keeping my hands obediently at my sides. She started to incorporate saliva making it wet, juicy, and sloppy. Her head bobbed up and down, chuckling softly around my cock, the vibrations sending shivers through both of us.

Julia’s mouth was a furnace of wet heat, her lips sealed tight around my cock as she worked me with a precision that felt almost cruel in its perfection. The soft, slick pressure of her tongue swirled around the head, teasing the sensitive ridge before she plunged down, taking me to the base in one smooth motion. My five inches disappeared into her mouth, and though she’d made it clear she found my size lacking, the way she sucked me made it feel like I was filling her entire world.

Her tongue danced along the underside, flicking and curling, coaxing out little gasps I couldn’t hold back. The vibrations from her soft chuckle hummed through my shaft, sending a shudder up my spine that made my toes curl against the couch. I gripped the edges of my towel robe, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move my hands. Her rule was ironclad—no touching her hair—and the memory of that sharp smack and the cold nights on the couch kept me obedient.

The restraint only heightened the sensation, every nerve ending screaming as she controlled every second of my pleasure. Her head bobbed steadily, the wet sounds of her mouth filling the room, mixing with the low drone of the movie we’d long since stopped watching. Saliva glistened on her lips when she pulled back for a moment, a thin strand connecting her mouth to my cock, and her eyes flicked up to meet mine. That look—sharp, knowing, and just a little mocking—made my stomach twist with a mix of shame and need.

“You’re so easy to please, Wy,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing, her breath hot against my slick skin. “Just a little attention and you’re already falling apart.”

She punctuated her words with a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip, her tongue flat and firm, dragging out a groan I couldn’t stifle. Before I could respond, she dove back down, her lips stretching around me as she sucked harder, her cheeks hollowing with the effort. The sloppy, wet sounds grew louder, her saliva dripping down to coat my balls, and I felt the familiar heat building in my core, too fast, too intense. My hips twitched involuntarily, a desperate attempt to chase the sensation, but Julia’s hand shot up, pressing firmly against my stomach to pin me in place.

“Stay still,” she commanded, her voice muffled around my cock but no less authoritative.

The vibration of her words sent another jolt through me, and I bit my lip, nodding weakly. She rewarded my obedience by slowing her pace, drawing out the torture. Her tongue traced lazy circles around the head, dipping into the slit to lap at the precum beading there, and I whimpered, the sound embarrassingly high-pitched. She chuckled again, the sound cruel and affectionate all at once.

I felt my face flush with the familiar sting of emasculation. Her free hand slid lower, cupping my balls gently at first, rolling them in her palm with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the relentless suction of her mouth. Then, without warning, she squeezed—just enough to make me gasp, the edge of pain sharpening the pleasure into something overwhelming.

“You like that, don’t you, my little slut?” she purred, pulling off just long enough to speak, her lips brushing against the head as she did.

I nodded frantically, too lost in the haze of sensation to form words, and she smirked before diving back in, her mouth engulfing me with renewed vigor. The rhythm she set was merciless now, her head bobbing faster, her lips sliding up and down my length with a wet, filthy sound that made my head spin. Her tongue never stopped moving, swirling and flicking, teasing every inch of me until I was trembling, my thighs shaking against the couch. The pressure in my core was unbearable, a tight coil ready to snap, and I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.

“Julia, please,” I gasped, my voice cracking, “I’m so close—”

She pulled off abruptly, leaving me throbbing and desperate, the cool air a shock against my slick cock.

“Not yet,” she said sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Her hand wrapped around my shaft, stroking slowly, keeping me on the edge without letting me tip over. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

Her eyes bored into mine, and I nodded, swallowing hard, my body screaming for release but bending to her will. She smiled, satisfied, and leaned down again, her tongue flicking out to lap at the head, slow and deliberate, drawing out a tortured moan.

When she finally took me back into her mouth, it was with a purpose. Her lips sealed tight, her tongue working in tandem with the suction, and her hand pumped the base of my cock in perfect rhythm. The wet, sloppy sounds were obscene, filling the room as she pushed me closer and closer to the edge. My vision blurred, my breaths coming in ragged pants, and I clung to the couch, fighting to stay still, to please her.

“Good boy,” she murmured around me, the praise sending a thrill through my body, and that was all it took.

“Julia, please, can I—” I begged, my voice barely coherent, and she hummed her approval, the vibration pushing me over the edge.

My orgasm hit like a tidal wave, my cock pulsing as my hot cum shot into her mouth, every muscle in my body tensing as she sucked me through it, swallowing every drop with a greed that made my head spin. She didn’t stop, her tongue milking me until I was oversensitive, whimpering and twitching beneath her, completely at her mercy.

Finally, she pulled off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “There’s my good little maid,” she cooed, patting my thigh as I collapsed back against the bed, spent and trembling. She leaned in, kissing me softly on the lips, and I tasted myself on her, a reminder of her control.

“Now, let’s finish that movie,” she said, as if she hadn’t just unraveled me completely, and I nodded weakly, still basking in the afterglow of her dominance. It was subtle, and I was sure at the time it wasn’t gonna get out of hand.

Boy was I wrong.

[mistressflorence32]

Something has been on my mind for a while…

One thing is that I started getting into and writing femdom fiction when I was 19. I suppose it was a way of getting out all of my fantasies, and soon enough it became a hobby. Something I did for pleasure or to relax. Despite having created so many books, all of which a full length by the way, it never occurred to me I could pursue this professionally or even just publish the books. I wrote entirely for myself, never for others, for profit or for publishing.

But I suppose recently I’ve been more selfish, in a good way. I gave myself the treat of a younger slave boy after having divorced a man who didn’t fulfil me. For the last few years I’ve done things because they make me feel good, lived life for me, the way I should live it. But one area where this ideology has absolutely been neglected is my job. I could see myself doing it for a few more years, but seeds of discontent have been planted.

My small way of publishing my work is first off on this blog, and then on Twitter where I create all sorts of kinky femdom captions, some of which I’ve subconsciously turned into books. In this community there are so many women out there who write femdom fiction and publish it to Amazon, nowadays it’s so easy to do such a thing, and for me it’s very tempting. After all these years of writing just for pleasure, perhaps I should see how others respond to it, how this could impact my current job.

I recently counted and I’m currently sitting on 15 full length unpublished works of femdom fiction, all of which being well over 100 pages. I suppose I’ve created this post to gage interest, I’ve never thought much of my work but my slave and friends all say it’s exceptional. Who would be interested in reading some of these books? With enough marketing behind them online could you even be persuaded to purchase one?

If enough interest is shown here I’ll publish the first chapter of one of my books for free, I’ll appreciate feedback. You can tell me whether or not you think the rest would be worth publishing. I truly love writing, I’ve written at least one full length book per year for over ten years simply as a hobby, without really thinking about what could be done with it. Not to say my work is anything incredible, it’s not a masterpiece.

But it’s erotic, it says everything I think about femdom, and it’s mine. I can’t be like all the other female artists of history, bogged down into never revealing their art. Even if it won’t be in any halls of fame, these books are still my expression. Maybe after so many years of denying myself the job I know would fulfil me the most it’s time to start chasing that dream. It doesn’t even have to be a job, not yet. Simply a source of income, even a thousand per month, just so I can work part time at my current job.

I envision myself dedicating more time to my writing, more time to this blog, and also to my community on Twitter. Perhaps I’ll have a patreon where you can talk to me one on one and I’ll share upcoming chapters. I definitely want to eventually have an Etsy selling courses and merchandise all relating to my philosophies. What I’m describing here is a dream, but a dream I could make come true in the next year.

But I’d need the drive, the determination, the fuel. As I’ve already said, here I’m gaging interest. If I see even a little perhaps I’ll publish the first chapter of one of my books onto this page for you all to read, and we’ll take it from there, bit by bit. Please let me know how you feel about this. Much love and thanks.

[mistressflorence32]

My Future Harem

Ever since I first dipped my toes into the world of female domination, one fantasy has burned brighter than any other, a vision so vivid it’s practically a blueprint etched into my soul: owning a harem of handsome, muscular, utterly docile male slaves. Not just one man bowing at my feet, but a collection—each one chiseled, obedient, and molded to my exact specifications, their every thought and action devoted to my pleasure. I can see it now: four, maybe five, perfect specimens kneeling in a row, their eyes lowered, their bodies honed, their wills surrendered.

They’d be more than servants; they’d be extensions of my power, living proof that I don’t just dominate—I create. This fantasy isn’t just a whim; it’s the core of who I am as a Mistress, and at 32, I’m closer than ever to making it real. Let me take you through the journey—how I’ve carried this dream, how life tried to snuff it out, and how I’m building it, one slave at a time, with my eyes set on a harem by the time I’m 40.

Picture the harem of my dreams. It’s not some cartoonish scene out of a bad movie, with oiled-up men fanning me with palm leaves (though I wouldn’t say no to that on a hot day). It’s a refined, deliberate setup. Each slave would be unique—different strengths, different skills—but united by their perfection. One might be a master chef, cooking feasts that make my mouth water while he kneels to serve them.

Another could be a masseur, his strong hands easing every knot from my shoulders before he retreats to his place at my feet. A third might be an artist, painting portraits of me that capture my dominance in every stroke, while a fourth handles the mundane—cleaning, organizing, ensuring my home is as flawless as my control. They’d be muscular, not just for aesthetics (though I’m not blind; I want them gorgeous), but because a strong body shows discipline, the kind of effort I demand.

Above all, they’d be docile—fiercely loyal, locked in chastity, their desires rerouted to my will. They’d live for my approval, competing only to please me more, never to outshine each other. This isn’t just a fantasy; it’s a masterpiece I’m painting, and I’ve been dreaming of the colors since I first picked up a whip.

But dreams don’t always unfold smoothly, and mine hit a wall when I got married in my 20s. It was a Female Led Relationship, which suited me fine—at first. I was young, ambitious, ready to mold my husband into the perfect sub. But he had one hard limit that clashed with my core: he wanted it to be just us, no one else, no harem. I loved him, or thought I did, so I compromised. I told myself I could let go of the fantasy, that one devoted man would be enough.

I buried my vision of a harem deep, locked it away like a secret I was too proud to admit. But compromises have a way of festering, especially when they go against your soul. As the years crept by, our marriage grew stale. I couldn’t put my finger on why—not entirely. We had our dynamic, our rules, but something was missing. Looking back, I see it clearly: I, a dominant woman who thrives on absolute control, had bent to a man’s limit.

I’d traded my one true fantasy for his comfort, the opposite of everything I stand for. That resentment, even if I didn’t name it then, was a slow poison, eating away at what we’d built. By the time I turned 29, the marriage was over. It hadn’t lasted too long. Divorce papers signed, rings off, and me left staring at the pieces of a life that didn’t feel like mine anymore. I was free, but I was also adrift.

For the next year, I stepped back from the femdom scene entirely. No play parties, no sessions, no slaves. Just me, a glass of wine, and a lot of questions about what I wanted. I traveled a bit, wrote in journals, tried to rebuild the woman I’d lost in those years of compromise. It wasn’t easy—dominance isn’t just a role; it’s a fire, and mine had dimmed. But embers don’t die, and by 30, I was ready to fan them back to life. I started blogging, pouring my thoughts, my rules, my desires into words that resonated with a community I’d almost forgotten.

That’s when he came into my life—my first slave boy, a skinny 19-year-old with eager eyes and a heart ready to be shaped. From the moment we met, I was upfront: “You’re mine now, but you won’t always be the only one. One day, you’ll be Slave #1 in a harem.” He didn’t flinch. If anything, his eyes lit up, like the idea of being the first in my grand vision was a badge of honor. I laid out my expectations—chastity, obedience, transformation—and he nodded, ready to become whatever I wanted.

That was three years ago, and since then, I’ve poured everything into training him. He’s 22 now, no longer the scrawny kid I started with. He’s muscular, the result of countless gym sessions I’ve mandated, his body a testament to his commitment. He’s locked in chastity, currently enduring a full year without release, his focus sharpened by denial. He’s obedient, anticipating my needs before I voice them, whether it’s brewing my morning coffee or kneeling silently while I work.

He’s unwaveringly submissive, his ego long since melted under my gaze. He’s not perfect—yet—but he’s damn close, a living proof of concept for the harem I’ve always dreamed of. Training him has been a journey, one I’ve savored every step of. When he started, he was all potential, no polish. He’d fumble chores, hesitate at commands, let his own desires creep in. But I’m a patient sculptor, and I’ve chiseled away at his flaws.

Chastity was the first tool—short sentences at first, then longer, now a relentless year that’s reshaping his soul. The gym was next, turning his lanky frame into something I can’t help but admire, all lean muscle and quiet strength. I’ve taught him rituals—how to kneel, how to speak, how to wait. I’ve punished him when he’s faltered, from gimp suits to public humiliations, each lesson sinking deeper until submission became his default.

He’s my ideal man, or close to it, and as I watch him grow into that vision, I can’t help but feel the old fantasy stirring again. He’s Slave #1, the cornerstone, but a harem needs more. Now, at 32, with my vision for him coming together, I’m starting to wonder: when’s the right time to bring in the next one? I can feel the itch, the pull to make this official. To find Slave #2, then #3, then #4.

My goal is clear: I want at least four slaves in my harem by the time I’m 40, each one as devoted, as disciplined, as breathtaking as the first. I’m not rushing—haste ruins art—but I’m planning. They’ll all be muscular, of course, because I demand the discipline it takes to build a body like that. They’ll all be locked, because chastity is non-negotiable. And they’ll all be docile, their egos erased, their lives orbiting around me.

Building this harem won’t be easy, but I’m no stranger to hard work. I’ve already proven I can take a raw, unformed boy and turn him into a masterpiece. The process will be the same for each new slave: careful selection, rigorous training, and unrelenting standards. I’ll scout them through my blog, maybe, or at kink events, looking for that spark of potential I saw in my first. I’ll be upfront, as always: “You’re joining a harem, not a duo.”

If they can’t handle that, they’re not worthy. Once they’re in, I’ll mold them—chastity from day one, gym routines tailored to my taste, lessons in service until they move like extensions of my will. I’ll design my home to accommodate them, with a dedicated wing for their quarters—sparse, functional, a stark contrast to my opulent rooms. There’ll be a training room, too, with benches and rigs for punishments and lessons, and a communal space where they’ll learn to coexist, their loyalty to me binding them tighter than any rivalry.

I’m also thinking about the dynamics. A harem isn’t just a collection; it’s a system. I want harmony, not chaos. My first slave, as Slave #1, will have seniority—not power, but responsibility. He’ll guide the newcomers, show them my ways, maybe even mentor them when I’m busy. I’ll set clear rules: no jealousy, no competition unless I orchestrate it for my amusement. They’ll share tasks, from cooking to cleaning to pampering me, each one knowing his role.

I’ll keep them on edge with rewards and punishments, ensuring they stay hungry for my approval. A good day might earn a rare touch, a kind word; a bad one might mean a night in the cage under my bed. Chastity will be the glue, locking their desires to my command, their bodies and minds aligned with my vision. As I write this, I’m three years into training Slave #1, and the harem feels closer than ever. I’m not there yet—there’s still work to do, both with him and with finding the next—but I can taste it.

I’m 32, with eight years to hit my goal of four slaves by 40. That’s plenty of time to sculpt my masterpiece. I’ve already overcome the biggest hurdle: myself. The marriage that held me back, the compromise that dimmed my fire—it’s gone, and I’m never bending again. This harem isn’t just a fantasy; it’s my destiny, a testament to the woman I am and the power I wield.

To the subs reading this: dream big, but know your place. If you’re lucky, you might catch my eye, but you’ll have to earn your spot in my harem. To the Mistresses: don’t let anyone dull your vision. Your fantasies are your strength, and you deserve to build them, no matter how grand. My harem’s coming, one slave at a time, and when it’s complete, it’ll be a work of art—a living, breathing monument to my dominance. Slave #1’s just the start, and I can’t wait to see who’s next.

[mistressflorence32]

The Art of Denial: Chastity Lessons from a Mistress

Hello my wonderful community, I know it’s been quite a while since I last posted on here. I’ve been going through a few mental things recently, thinking about my past and my future. Some of my revelations may even make their way onto here, it hasn’t been a negative experience at all, but a draining one. Let’s just say my sub has been doing a lot more foot massaging and pussy licking than usual to keep me relaxed.

There’s also been my birthday, which was its own event. You’ll find out all about that soon. I recently went into a writing frenzy and created quite a few essays like this one, getting out all of my feelings and thoughts. It was freeing and you’ll see more of it soon. For now this essay is about my thoughts on denial for subs, and the journey I’m on with my slave, marching headfirst into permanent chastity.

There’s something intoxicating about denial. It’s not just the act itself—the click of a lock, the weight of a cage, the way a sub’s eyes widen when he realizes he’s truly at my mercy. It’s the art of it. Chastity, when wielded by a Mistress like me, becomes more than a tool; it’s a brushstroke on the canvas of control, a melody in the symphony of submission. It’s about crafting desire, bending it, shaping it until it serves my pleasure above all else. Over the years, I’ve honed this art, and today, I’m pulling back the curtain to share what I’ve learned—both from my own journey and from the writhing, devoted slave who kneels at my feet, currently locked in a year-long test of my design.

Let’s start with the basics: chastity isn’t about punishment. Sure, it can sting—figuratively and sometimes literally—but its true power lies in transformation. When I lock a sub, I’m not just taking away his ability to touch himself; I’m redirecting his energy, his focus, his very essence toward me. It’s a slow burn, a delicious unraveling of his ego until all that’s left is a man who lives to please.

And trust me, there’s nothing more satisfying than watching that shift happen—knowing I’m the architect of it. In the femdom world, we talk a lot about power exchange, but chastity is where it gets real. It’s tangible. A sub can kneel and call me “Mistress” all day long, but when I snap that lock shut, he’s not just saying it—he’s living it. His body becomes mine to command, his pleasure mine to grant or withhold.

And here’s the kicker: most subs crave it. They might not admit it at first—there’s usually some squirming, some whining—but deep down, they want the structure, the surrender. They want to be sculpted by someone who knows what she’s doing. That’s where I come in. Chastity isn’t something you dive into headfirst—at least, not if you’re smart about it. It’s an art that demands patience, both from the Mistress and the sub. You don’t hand a novice painter a massive canvas and expect a masterpiece; you start with sketches, studies, small exercises to build skill. Chastity’s the same. When I first began exploring it, I didn’t lock a sub up for a month and call it a day. I started small, testing the waters, learning how it felt to hold that key—and how it felt for him to lose it.

Take my own slave, for instance. When he came to me at 19, he was eager but untested—a skinny thing with a flicker of muscle and a lot of bravado. I could see the potential, but potential doesn’t mean much without discipline. So, I introduced chastity in bite-sized pieces. The first time, it was just a weekend—48 hours with a simple cage, enough to make him squirm but not enough to break him.

He’d fidget, glance at me with those pleading eyes, and I’d just smile. “You’ll survive,” I’d say, and he did. That little taste was enough to hook him—and me. I saw how his focus sharpened, how every command I gave carried more weight. It was like flipping a switch: suddenly, he wasn’t just my sub—he was mine. Those early sentences were experiments. A weekend here, a week there, each one a lesson in control.

I’d watch how he reacted—did he sulk, or did he rise to the challenge? Did he beg too soon, or did he learn to wait? For me, it was about gauging his limits while teaching him that his body wasn’t his anymore. And for him? It was about discovering what it meant to serve. Each short stint built trust—trust in me, trust in the process, trust that I’d always hold the reins.

After those initial dips, I decided to stretch the canvas. Small sentences were fun, but I wanted to see what chastity could really do—how it could reshape a sub over time. So, with my slave, we moved to a year-long experiment. Not continuous—not yet—but a year total, broken into chunks with breaks in between. Think of it like intervals in a workout: intense effort, then rest, then back at it. It was a rhythm that kept him on his toes and let me refine my technique.

We started with a month. Thirty days locked, no release unless I deemed it earned. He’d been a little cocky after the shorter stints, thinking he had it figured out, but a month? That’s when the real denial kicks in. By day 10, he was restless. By day 20, he was desperate. And by day 30, he was a different man—quieter, softer, more attuned to my every word. I’d let him out for a week or two, let him breathe, then lock him back up—two months this time. Then three.

Each stretch was a deeper dive, a chance to peel back another layer of his self-control and replace it with my control. What I loved about this phase was how it revealed chastity’s ripple effects. It wasn’t just about his cock being off-limits; it changed everything. He’d hit the gym harder—those breaks between locks gave him just enough taste of freedom to fuel his drive. He’d cook for me, clean for me, anticipate my needs before I even voiced them.

Denial didn’t just deny him pleasure; it amplified his purpose. And for me? It was a masterclass in patience and power. I learned how to tease without breaking, how to dangle the key just out of reach and watch him strain for it. That year, with its starts and stops, was when I truly began to see chastity as an art form—not just a game, but a craft I could master.

Now, we’re in the thick of it—my slave’s currently enduring a full, uninterrupted year of chastity. No breaks, no pauses, just 365 days of me holding the key and him living under my rule. No erections. No orgasms. The bare minimum in terms of being allowed out for cleaning. We’re several months in, and let me tell you, this is where the real magic’s happening. He’s not fighting the cage anymore—he’s starting to embrace it.

His body’s changing too. Those gym sessions I’ve pushed him toward are paying off—the skinny guy I started with is turning into a lean, sculpted sub, all that pent-up energy pouring into weights instead of wasted elsewhere. I catch myself admiring him sometimes, the way his shoulders are broadening, the way his dedication shows in every line of muscle.

He’s not there yet—not the masterpiece I know he’ll become—but he’s on the path. And me? I’m loving the control. I time his tasks, his workouts, his moments of weakness, all while dangling the promise of release like a carrot he won’t reach—not this year, anyway. He’s stopped asking as often now. He just looks at me, waiting, knowing I’ll decide. And I do—usually with a smirk and a “Not yet.”

This uninterrupted year is painting something beautiful. By the time we hit day 365, I expect him to be a different man—fully surrendered, fully mine. It’s a test of endurance for him and a test of precision for me. I’m learning how far I can push, how much I can shape him without breaking him. And when it’s done? That’s when the real fun begins.

Here’s where I’m headed: permanent chastity. Once this year’s up, he may be unlocked for a short while. But then it will be time to move forward into the next stages, slowly building up until we reach a point where that cage will go on one final time, and never be unlocked again. The cage won’t just be a tool; it’ll be part of him, part of us. I won’t even think about the key anymore, and I’ll train him not to either. It won’t be a sentence—it’ll be a state of being. People might call it extreme, but they don’t understand. This isn’t about cruelty; it’s about completion.

I see it so clearly: my slave, thriving under permanent lock. All that energy he’s channeling now into the gym, into serving me, will become his norm. He won’t be suffering—he’ll be soaring, a sub who’s found his purpose in my hands. That skinny kid I started with? He’ll be gone, replaced by a strong, devoted man I can’t take my eyes off. And me? I’ll feel more powerful than ever. Every glance at that cage will remind me I’ve shaped him into this—that I’ve denied him to give him something greater.

I’m not there yet, but I’m building toward it. This year’s the foundation, the final stretch before I frame my masterpiece. I’ll keep pushing him, refining him, until he’s ready to wear that cage forever. And when he does? The view from this side of the key will be exquisite.

So, what’s the art of denial teaching me? First, it’s personal. Every sub’s different—some need a week to crack, others a year. You’ve got to know your canvas. Second, it’s dynamic. Chastity evolves with you, deepens as you push it. Third, it’s mutual. Yes, it’s about my pleasure, but a good Mistress knows how to make it feed his soul too. He might not get off, but he gets me—and that’s better.

For the subs reading this: try it. Start small, let her lock you, see where it takes you. For the Mistresses: wield it. Play with it. Make it yours. Chastity’s not just a kink—it’s a craft, one that can turn a man into a masterpiece. My slave’s on his way there—months into a locked year, with permanence on the horizon. And trust me, when I get him there, it’ll be a work of art worth every second of denial.

Also I just want to make it known I have seen your messages and desperately want to respond and connect with this community we’re building, but I’m running into some issues technically, all of my replies get instantly deleted. I’ll keep trying to find a way, thank you! 💋

[mistressflorence32]

A Mistress’s Guide to Punishments That Stick

Submission isn’t a gift—it’s a skill, and like any skill, it needs sharpening. A sub might start out eager, all wide-eyed and “Yes, Mistress,” but let’s be honest: they slip. They get lazy, cocky, or just plain forget who’s in charge. That’s where punishment comes in—not as petty revenge, but as a tool to carve them back into the devoted, trembling creatures they’re meant to be. Over the past three years, I’ve turned my 22-year-old slave from a bratty 19-year-old into a sub who knows his place, and I’ve done it with punishments that don’t just sting—they stick. Here’s my guide, straight from the trenches, with a few tricks I’ve tested on my own boy and some fresh ideas to keep any sub in line.

The Gimp Suit: Erasing the Self

Let’s start with a classic from my own playbook: the gimp suit. When my sub was 19 and first getting used to chastity, he struggled. I’d tell him to scrub the floors or cook dinner, and he’d dawdle, distracted by the cage between his legs. He was still clinging to some shred of “me” instead of “her.” So, I zipped him into a full-body gimp suit—black, shiny, dehumanizing—and left him in it for a week straight. No breaks, no excuses. He slept in it, ate in it, served in it. By day three, he wasn’t a person anymore—he was a thing, my thing. The suit stripped away his identity, his comfort, his pride, and replaced it with a single truth: “I don’t matter; my Mistress does.” That week rewired him. He came out focused, obedient, and desperate to please. It’s a punishment that sticks because it’s total—body and mind, he’s mine.

High Heels: Melting the Masculinity

Cockiness is a sub’s worst enemy, and it usually comes from that little spark of masculinity they haven’t let go of yet. My solution? High heels. If my slave ever puffs up his chest or talks back, I pull out a pair of stilettos—red, towering, ridiculous—and make him wear them. Not just for an hour, but until I say stop. Watching him stumble around, wincing as his calves burn, is hilarious, but it’s more than that. It’s emasculating. That swagger melts away as he’s forced to feel feminine, vulnerable, out of his depth. One time, he got lippy about a chore, so I had him vacuum in heels for a full day. By the end, he was begging to take them off—and begging to behave. It’s a punishment that sticks because it hits the ego where it hurts, turning pride into humility with every awkward step.

Public Humiliation: The Spotlight of Shame

Sometimes, a sub needs more than a private lesson—they need the world to see their place. I’ve humbled my slave in public a few times, and it’s never failed to snap him back into line. One favorite was making him wear a diaper under low-slung jeans while we ran errands—every sag showed off his shame, and he couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Another time, I had him strut around in a Speedo with his chastity cage bulging underneath, the outline unmistakable. But the crown jewel? Throwing a massive party where everyone—friends, kinksters, strangers—watched his torment. I tied him up, teased him, made him serve drinks in nothing but the cage, and let the crowd laugh. He was red-faced, silent, and utterly submissive by the end. Public humiliation sticks because it’s inescapable—there’s no hiding from the eyes that see you as hers.

Forced Gay Acts: Breaking the Comfort Zone

Now, this one’s not for every sub, but when it fits, it’s devastatingly effective. If my slave steps out of line in a way that demands a hard reset, I’ll make him do something gay—suck cock or take it, depending on the mood. It’s not about his orientation; it’s about pushing him past his comfort zone into a space where he has no control, no say, just obedience. One time, after he’d been sulky for days, I brought in a friend—let’s call him Sir—and told my boy to get on his knees. He hesitated, but he did it, and the look in his eyes after? Pure surrender. It’s a punishment that sticks because it’s raw, visceral, and leaves no room for defiance—just the reality of my power over him.

Solitary Confinement: The Silence of Submission

When I need to really drive a lesson home, I turn to solitary confinement—up to 48 hours in a small, dark space with nothing but his thoughts. No phone, no light, no me. My slave’s tasted this a few times, like when he forgot a direct order one too many times. I locked him in a closet with just a blanket, set a timer, and left. The first time, he came out shaky, apologizing before I even asked. The second time, he was quieter, more reflective. It works because it strips everything away—no distractions, no excuses, just him and the weight of his failure. Forty-eight hours is the max I’ll do; any longer risks breaking more than I want. It sticks because it’s a void that forces him to crave my presence, my voice, my command.

The Ice Bath Challenge: Shocking Obedience

Fill a tub with cold water and ice, and make him sit in it—fully submerged up to his neck—for as long as I decide. Ten minutes feels like forever when your teeth are chattering. I’ve got this planned for my slave next time he slacks on his gym routine. The shock of the cold, the physical strain—it’s a wake-up call that says, “You don’t get to coast.” It sticks because it’s a visceral reminder of my control over his body, inside and out, and he’ll be begging to warm up by serving me better.

The Word Jar: Endless Apologies

This one’s a slow burn. Take a jar, fill it with slips of paper—each one with a word like “sorry,” “please,” or “Mistress”—and make him write every word out, by hand, 100 times. If he’s been disrespectful, I’ll hand my slave this punishment and watch him hunch over a notebook for hours. It’s tedious, humbling, and forces him to internalize his mistake with every stroke of the pen. It sticks because it’s mental as much as physical—by the end, those words are burned into his brain, and he’s too exhausted to disobey again.

The Mirror Game: Facing Himself

For a sub who’s lost his focus, I’ll sit him in front of a mirror, naked except for his cage, and make him stare at himself while repeating a mantra I choose—“I am hers,” “I obey,” whatever fits. He’s not allowed to look away or stop until I’m satisfied. It’s psychological warfare—forcing him to confront his submission, his vulnerability, his place. I’ve got this in mind for my boy if he ever forgets why he’s locked. It sticks because it’s intimate, inescapable, and turns his own reflection into a lesson in humility.

The Taste Test: Bitter Reminders

This one’s delightfully cruel: blindfold him and feed him something bitter or unpleasant—lemon extract, a spoonful of mustard, a shot of vinegar—every time he messes up for a day. Each taste is tied to a specific failure, and he has to guess what he did wrong before he gets water. It’s a sensory punishment that links disobedience to discomfort in a way he won’t forget. It sticks because it’s unpredictable and visceral—he’ll dread the next spoonful enough to stay in line.

Crafting Punishments That Last

The key to punishments that stick? They’ve got to hit deep—body, mind, or both. A good Mistress knows her sub’s weaknesses and turns them into lessons. My slave’s gone from a cocky 19-year-old to a 22-year-old who flinches at the thought of disappointing me, and it’s these punishments that got him there. Whether it’s the gimp suit’s erasure, the heels’ humiliation, or the ice bath’s shock, each one’s a brushstroke on my canvas of control.

So, subs, take note: step out of line, and your Mistress might just get creative. And Mistresses? Don’t settle for a slap on the wrist—make it stick. My boy’s proof it works, and I’ve got plenty more ideas where these came from. After all, a sub’s only as good as the lessons he remembers.

[mistressflorence32]

The Importance of Fitness For Subs

Let’s be real—there are so many subs out there. Scroll through any kink-friendly corner of the internet, and you’ll see them: eager, hopeful, and all vying for attention. But here’s the truth I’ve learned over the years, both as a dominant woman and as someone who’s been in this lifestyle long enough to see patterns: nine times out of ten, it’s the fit ones who get noticed. And no, it’s not just about shallow aesthetics (though I’ll get to that).

It’s about what a fit body represents—commitment, discipline, and a genuine desire to please. Think about it. When I see a sub who’s clearly been putting in hours at the gym, sculpting himself into something strong and desirable, it tells me he’s not just here to talk a big game. He’s willing to work. A sub who builds his body isn’t lazy—he’s showing me he’s got the drive to follow through, whether it’s lifting weights or kneeling at my feet.

That kind of dedication? It’s sexy as hell. It’s proof he’s not just in this for his own fantasies—he’s in it to make me happy. And isn’t that the whole point of being a sub?

Now, let’s talk about the female gaze, because femdom is supposed to center us—our pleasure, our desires, our rules. I don’t care what anyone says about “inner beauty” or “it’s all about the mind”—sure, that matters, but women like me? We’re not blind.

A nice, sexy sub with a toned chest, defined arms, and an ass that looks good in tight shorts is going to catch my eye every damn time. It’s not about what he wants; it’s about what I want to look at, touch, and command. A fit sub is a walking testament to the fact that he gets it: my pleasure comes first. And trust me, when I’m admiring the results of his hard work, I’m a very happy Mistress.

Take my own slave, for example. When I first met him, he was 19, skinny, with just a little bit of muscle—cute, sure, but nothing that screamed “I’m here to serve.” Then I introduced chastity into the mix, and let me tell you, locking his cock up was the best decision I ever made. Suddenly, all that pent-up sexual energy had nowhere to go—except the gym.

I told him, “If you want to impress me, you’d better start lifting.” And he did. Day after day, he channeled that frustration into building himself up, and now? He’s a lean, muscular dream—broad shoulders, tight abs, the works. Chastity turned him into a sub who’s not just obedient but appealing, inside and out. It’s a motivator like no other—keeps him focused, keeps him hungry, and keeps him working for my approval.

So, subs, listen up: if you want to stand out in a sea of hopefuls, hit the gym. Build that discipline. Show your Mistress you’re not just another lazy wannabe—you’re a man who’ll sweat for her, who’ll shape himself into something she can’t take her eyes off. Because in this dynamic, it’s not about what you think you deserve—it’s about what she wants. And trust me, she wants a sub who looks as good as he behaves.

[mistressflorence32]

A Comment That Got Me Thinking…

I’ll come back to that later. I also like a younger sub due to him being new to the scene, unlike older subs he doesn’t have predetermined ideas of what the kink scene looks like, he needs a guiding hand from an older domme, someone who can mould his perception of a domme sub relationship to her ideas. Usually they are very submissive and determined to please, and if not their bratty behaviour is more charming the less experienced they are, and taming brats is fun.

Overall in my experience, younger men are more likely to have all the qualities of the perfect sub, compared to older men. Naturally, every time I post something under this rhetoric I get comments and DMs from offended old men convincing me they’d be a better choice. But on my last post one comment really stuck with me;

“They also tend to have less money than us older folks.”

That took me aback for a while. As someone who’s been involved in the scene for years I never thought money would be a measure of how good a sub is, unless you’re specifically looking for a pay pig why would money matter? More to the point why do you hear sub and immediately think I mean finsub, why is it all motivated by money? Honesty it’s a dystopian idea, I listed that in a younger sub you’ll find sex appeal, obedience and excitement, but the expectation amongst some circles is to throw all the excitement and appeal away, because a 56 year old happens to make more money.

Luckily I’m not a findom then, I’m involved in femdom because I genuinely believe in female superiority and I have a lot of fun with it. It’s less likely there will be any passion in a femdom relationship entirely motivated by money. Trust me the 19 year old findomme is only bothering with a 65 year old sub for the cash, whereas I would rather have a healthy relationship with a sub I’m attracted to. But once again, apparently femdom = findom and a rich sub is a better sub. What a clinical view of a kink born out of passion. Relationship and chemistry is more important than some transactional dynamic. Trust and servitude, wanting to see the domme you serve happy by any means.

This is just proof of what I mean when it comes to true obedience. A younger sub wouldn’t have claimed money was more important, acting as if he knows better than a domme. He would have listened. The older the sub the more they like to be the ones controlling the relationship as they’re so stuck in their mindset about what femdom looks like, whereas an 18 year old sub is eager to learn and actually looks to the superior woman for guidance as it should be.

Older subs are more likely to subconsciously top from the bottom, picking and choosing what they prefer in an FLR instead of going with the flow and pleasing. Thinking about not what they want but about pleasing their domme. Trust me I know this from experience, transactional femdom relationships quickly become mentally exhausting.

So no, I will not be trading a healthy relationship with a younger sub who I’m intensely attracted to, who is intensely attracted to me, worships and obeys me without his own desires and is truly selfless, I will not be trading that for a controlling sub who thinks he knows better because he’s 30 years older than me, but apparently our cold transactional relationship is okay because he has more money. No, for me femdom is about the passion. A true relationship and power exchange. And if the guy who made this comment is living in a world where money is more important than passion, I’d recommend he leave that headspace as soon as possible. It doesn’t sound like a nice place to be.

[mistressflorence32]

My Femdom Holiday In Malta

After a long break I’m finally back. Fembruary was a very busy time for me as I’ll be illustrating in some future posts, as you can probably tell keeping your slave boy in a cycle of feminisation and torment for 28 days is some tiring stuff. As such I haven’t had much time or passion for writing on this blog. Don’t get me wrong though, I have quickly come to like this blog. Compared to my Twitter which is mainly fantasy content, here I can talk about my real life and experiences.

And I feel like you as a community are interested to hear more. So I decided to stop waiting for a spark to come back, and to finally force it back. So regardless of how tough it is to be sitting at this computer trying to think about what to type, so tough I’m having my slave boy lick my feet to relax me, I’m going to be telling you today about one of my experiences. You see, up until last Christmas I hadn’t been abroad with my slave boy.

In fact the last time I went on holiday with a sub was 2017, that being with a sub who is long gone now, though that’s a story for another time. Regardless, this year I wanted to go somewhere with my slave boy. Somewhere that was warm even in the winter but not too hot. In the end we, or rather I, decided on going to Malta. I hadn’t gotten to go in years but it had always been on my list: a Mediterranean gem, rich in history, surrounded by dazzling blue waters. What better place to spend a week unwinding?

Of course this time would be somewhat different, I’d be going with someone who was both the love of my life and my devoted slave. That would definitely spice things up. Before anyone asks, no don’t worry, my slave wasn’t able to use the airport as an excuse to get out of chastity. He attempted to make that sort of suggestion, but his steel chastity was quickly replaced by one of a similar shape and size but completely made up of plastic, perfect for ensuring his dick stays just where it belongs.

So naturally on the way there we avoided any sort of issues around his cage. As well as catching some sun and relaxation, I wanted this to be a time to experiment with (albeit very subtle) public play. I think people who express femdom too much in public disregard the clear fact that there are people who did not consent to seeing that and even worse, children. They don’t want to be seeing things in too much detail.

But public play can still take place, in how it can be a dirty little secret between just the two of you. Subtle things it would take a lot of focusing for a person to clock it. I had ideas in my mind and packed some kinky stuff accordingly. I brought a butt plug, some panties I thought it would be fun to make him wear during the day, a vibrating butt plug and a few other bits like a paddle. Oh and a LOT of gags.

The resort we were going to looked like a peaceful one, with not a lot of people in it during December. No matter what I did to him, my boy would have to shut the fuck up somehow. But don’t forget my life isn’t just kink. Yes he is my slave, but I also love him. I wouldn’t call him a boyfriend as at 32 I feel I’m a bit past that. Our relationship is both an exchange of power and an exchange of love, so going somewhere so romantic would be magical.

The moment I stepped off the plane, the warm breeze kissed my skin. December in England had been dreary, but Malta welcomed me with open arms and 20-degree sunshine. A short taxi ride later, we arrived at our resort near Valletta, the island’s capital. Our room had a balcony overlooking the sea—exactly the view I needed. It was a long journey but these things don’t phase my sub all that much. He massaged my feet and drew a warm bath that we shared together. Being around my naked body must have been torture for his cock in its cage but I’d outlawed complaining about such things ages ago.

Afterwards I told him to make me cum with his tongue, he never used to be the best as it but now after a year of training he knows just how to make me feel good. By the end of that I was thoroughly relaxed. After that we headed straight out. Valletta was even more charming than I’d imagined—cobbled streets, honey-colored buildings, and colorful balconies. Together, hand in hand, we wandered aimlessly, letting the city reveal itself.

For the sake of not being too boring, I won’t go in depth into every single day, what I will do instead is tell you about some key events that took place.

St. John’s Co-Cathedral took my breath away—the gold, the marble, the sheer grandeur of it all. It was hard to believe such a small island had such a rich past, shaped by the Knights of St. John, the British, and so many others.

I had a lot of fun stuffing a gag into my slave’s mouth and spanking him hard, seeing how quiet he could remain. It was an extra spank for every noise I deemed too loud. Once I was done I slipped a butt plug inside of him and it was so cute seeing him squirm in his seat whilst we head breakfast, cock throbbing and trying not to whimper.

We hopped on a ferry to the Three Cities, where time seemed to slow down. Vittoriosa, with its quiet streets and ancient forts, felt like stepping into another era. We spent the afternoon at a harborside restaurant, sipping a glass of crisp Maltese wine as the boats bobbed in the water.

Of course when out in public our dynamic is slightly more visible, but to most it probably looks like my sub is just an extra chivalrous gentleman, a rare thing nowadays. Stuff like pulling out my chair, tying my shoelaces and carrying everything. Essentially I was his queen, that is how he treated me.

Speaking of chivalry, I had a funny exchange with a wonderful French woman (French being my mother tongue) she commented on my slave carrying all my bags, saying he was a good boy. Don’t get me wrong, she hadn’t clocked he was my slave, and she definitely didn’t mean it in a femdom way. I could tell at the time it was more of a “he’s such a gentleman” way. But my sub didn’t understand any of it and just stood there smiling politely.

Midway through the trip, we took a ferry to Gozo. If Malta was charming, Gozo was pure magic. More rural, more relaxed, and somehow even more beautiful. We rented bikes and cycled through rolling hills, past quaint villages and stunning coastal cliffs. The Azure Window was long gone, but its spirit remained in the dramatic landscape.

We found a quiet spot at Ramla Bay, the island’s famous red sand beach, and let the world fade away. With the sound of waves and the warmth of the sun, I felt lighter than I had in months.

We didn’t even have to be out of the hotel for it to be heavenly. By the balcony I sat writing (what it was I was writing you’ll get to find out eventually), with my sub either working out in the gym downstairs or making sure I had everything I needed. A crisp Coke was poured when I wanted it, or my feet massaged, or a piece of cake brought from the patisserie they had on site. To be completely honest, it was pure heaven.

On the final evening, we made our way to Mdina, the Silent City. As the sun set over the ancient walls, casting a golden glow over the island, I knew I’d found a new favorite place. We sat at a rooftop restaurant, eating fresh seafood and watching the twinkling lights below.

Malta had been everything we’d hoped for—history, adventure, romance, and a chance to breathe. As my slave boy packed my bags the next morning, I promised myself I’d return. Because some places don’t just steal your heart—they make it beat differently.

That was my Christmas holiday in Malta. Once again, I haven’t been able to post on here much but writing this may have just reinvigorated my passion. It’s only been a few months but when you have a life like mine it is very eventful, I have adventures to tell you of here, from my slave boy’s 365 day long chastity sentence, to the antic of Fembruary. Life moves fast and I can’t document every moment, but I enjoy to when I find the time.

Thanks for reading!

[mistressflorence32]

Been Gone A While

Good morning everyone, my last post was exactly 20 days ago, talking about what presents me and my slave boy got each other for Christmas. I wanted a semi consistent blog but sometimes things get in the way, and so far 2025 has been a very busy year. Not unenjoyable, just busy. Soon enough that busyness will end and I can go back to this blog I’m really starting to love.

Trust me, I like my Twitter page where I get to make all sorts of kinky captions. But when you try to post something longer about your life and the word limit won’t let you it can get very annoying. That’s why in a way I find this more fulfilling, a place I can really talk in detail about my life, history and lifestyle.

I wanted to make a post about Jerkless January, a month I’ve introduced to the femdom calendar. But since we’re over 20 days in I suppose just go to my Twitter for those details haha.

This is a month where cumming and erections are technically allowed, something men would be thrilled at. However the caveat is there can be no masturbation this month. They don’t get to selfishly jerk off and cum however they want to. This month the man’s wife, girlfriend or domme has control over how he cums. Or if he cums at all! She might decide he can cum five times a day, but it all has to be whilst he humps her. Or she’ll decide she doesn’t think her man deserves to cum, and as such he won’t.

Whilst I’m trying to introduce this month into the mainstream of kink and femdom, the truth is my slave boy hasn’t been able to participate. If you remember my second blog post, I talked in detail about how my slave boy is going to be locked up in chastity all year long. From the 1st of January 2025 to the 1st of January 2026. I’m sure a lot of you were eager to find out how that’s been going for my slave.

Truth be told, I haven’t asked him. He’s endured months of chastity in the past so I’m sure 20 days doesn’t really mean much to him. He’s acting as his normal self, just how I like him, just how all men should be. Silent and uncomplaining. On his last chastity sentence I had to endure a lot of his complaining and whining, but I believe I’ve managed to train it out of him. It’s amazing what a bit of whipping will do.

Of course, Jerkless January isn’t just a month of male humbling, it’s a precursor to a much more intense month I’m more committed to getting off the ground; Fembruary. In the past, I haven’t been interested in sissification or feminisation. But back in May I threw a humiliation party, where my slave was feminised and made to dress and act like a sissy doll. Not only was it a lot of fun, it put him in his place, something I love to do with my slave.

I occurred to me just now I’ve never spoken at length about that party, so if you want a blog post giving you all the details make sure to let me know!

And whilst that was nearly a year ago, I couldn’t shake this idea from my head. An idea of having a month of ultimate humiliation and feminisation. Even the most masculine subs getting their trainers swapped for high heels, their socks for fishnets, and getting big fat cocks stuffed up their asses. A brilliant way to keep slaves in their place, and to deal with their inner toxic masculinity.

This month is just what you’d expect from the name, and a good chance for a sub to get in touch with his softer side, and let dommes experiment with something they wouldn’t normally. Fembruary is a month dedicated to feminising and sissifying men. I created this month stemming from how turned on I get by the masculinity of my sub, and that I would never permanently feminise him. But when I occasionally do it’s also hot, because of how emasculated he now is. So I decided the best option was to create a month where I could feminise to my hearts content, and have it all back to normal by March.

So that has also occupied my time, buying different toys and clothes for sissifying my slave, as well as making sure his asshole is nicely trained for when he’ll be getting slutted out to many men, and he will be getting slutted out! So yes, whilst it’s taken me a while to post again on here again, the future is looking bright. And for my slave boy, the future is looking very pink!

I’ll post again on here soon, after all I still had a brilliant holiday in Malta with my slave boy that I haven’t recounted to you yet!

[mistressflorence32]

Christmas Presents in an FLR

As me and my slave spent Christmas in Malta we had to exchange presents later on. In this female led relationship, we both buy things for each other we think the other will like, and many kinky items as well. I think Christmas is a wonderful opportunity to use gifts to start introducing different kinks into your lives. I won’t make this a long winded introduction, you just want to know what I got for him and what he got for me. We’ll start off first with what I got him!

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS MY SLAVE RECEIVED

- Spiked ball stretcher (ballbusting training has been a very important aspect of my slave’s training so far, I see no reason why it can’t be brought to more of an extreme after so long)

- Sounding rod kit (as I have pointed out in previous essays, the final end goal for my slave is to be permanently locked in chastity with a sounding rod always down his dick. Others have been able to handle this, so I bought my slave a sounding kit so he can start breaking in his pisshole)

- New steel chastity cage (also for reasons previously stated, I feel in chastity his cock has somewhat shrunk and it’s time for his cage to be shrunk along with it. After all, he’s got a year of chastity awaiting him, it may as well fit)

- Secret VII Foreplay Game (of course the male options to this game were removed. I thought we’d be able to have some fun whilst reminding him that the pleasure is all for me)

- Sauvage (ever since he smelt it in a Selfridges my slave has been innocently trying to drop hints he wants this perfume, so I was happy to oblige)

- Dragons Dogma II (my slave is a massive fan of the original game so I got him this, something fun for him to be doing in his free time)

- Protein powder (naturally since I only expect the best from my slaves, he is in the gym every single day maintaining a beautiful body that most men who are into femdom don’t think is necessary. The reality is that you are here to please women, so if you can’t do that with how your body looks why do it at all? Anyway, as I was saying my slave is an absolute gym bunny and spends a fortune on protein powder, so this was one of his gifts)

- High heels (more than anything this was a symbolic present, as it instantly sparked the conversation about my plans for him during Fembruary, a month where the male of an FLR spends February getting emasculated and feminised. He was aware of its existence in my personal circle, but this was a full announcement and confirmation that he will be getting sissified for that month. And yes, getting high heels in his size was VERY tough)

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS I RECEIVED (FROM MY SLAVE)

These first three presents get a description, the others pretty much are self explanatory but still wonderful gifts.

- Sculpture of my body as a candle (using exact pictures of my nude body my slave commissioned a candle in the perfectly replicated shape to show how much he worships and adores my body. It was one of the most romantic gestures I have ever received from a slave and honestly made me feel slightly emotional. We may be an FLR but it is nice to have events like Christmas to remind us how we are soulmates)

- Adore Me Lingerie Subscription Box (I love a bit of lingerie, as you can imagine so does my slave! But to be fair I can have issues with sourcing the stuff I find beautiful so this was perfect for me, even better with my sub knowing he’d be in chastity this year, and that every month I’ll have something fun and new to tease him with)

- Demonias STACK-301 (such an important part of my slave’s training has been ballbusting training. For a total of three hours a week, whether it’s eighteen 10 minute sessions or all in one go. It depends on how I feel but these are the usual methods I use; Kicking, Punching, E-stim Shocking, Humbler, Ball Crusher, Ball Stretching, Ball Hammering. What you’ll notice is the usual technique of stomping is not here, and that’s because I haven’t had the appropriate boots for it. That’s why I was very happy when my slave bought me this pair of demonias. Just look them up and you’ll see how extreme they really are with a 7 inch platform powering them)

- Friars Chocolate Box

- Dior OUD ISPAHAN perfume

- Silk dressing gown

- iPad

- Afternoon tea experience

- Persian rug

Overall, this has been a brilliant Christmas and as far as gifts go I’m very happy. We’ve exchanged presents that are deeply emotional and romantic, but also some gifts which will keep us very entertained until next Christmas! Well I say Christmas, but in the mean time for me we have Valentine’s Day, Woman’s Day and my Birthday!

[mistressflorence32]

A Year of Chastity… 2025

Over the last 16 months before 2025 my slave boy had to complete a year of chastity, with many breaks in between. Didn’t matter if it wasn’t all in one go, he just had to complete the year. This was the first phase of his chastity training, to have completed a total year. He completed this phase on October 5th, but was extended to accommodate for Locktober, and whilst I occasionally let him out for edging and teasing he was locked through November to make No Nut November easier, and more fun for me.

So on December 1st 2024 he was finally freed from chastity. That month I spent a lot of time on his cock, using him like the dildo he is. He consented to being woken up with handjobs and blowjobs. For that time of our relationship whilst I still held complete and utter dominance he was finally getting fucked within an inch of his life, something that hadn’t happened for ages.

But sadly this couldn’t last long, as he was aware it’s been in my interests for ages to fast track phase two, as soon as he is ready. It was on Christmas Day he confirmed he was ready, and the thought of going back into chastity scared him but he admitted a long time ago to himself that would always be his fate. The plan was always that my slave boy would end 2024 unlocked, and enter the next phase of chastity training in 2025.

This phase is a more concrete productive version of his recent sentence. Phase two is to complete a full year in chastity. Only this time there will be no breaks. It will be removed by me for hygiene only, and he will spend all 365 days of 2025 locked. Based on past experience the chances of there being any medical issues is very slim.

Cumming will technically be possible and allowed, but I can’t imagine it will be very pleasant for him. The usual method for making my slave cum in chastity has never failed me though. It puts him firmly in his place, gets those pesky balls drained but leaves him ruined of a true orgasm.

First, to make sure he’s properly humbled and humiliated I get him dressed up in some feminine sissy clothes. It’s not something I’m usually into but I have a friend from my time as a prodomme who has a sissy slave. She has all sorts of wonderful frilly dresses, heels and stockings. I borrow a few and get my slave (who’s usually quite proud of his masculinity) nicely dressed up in them.

I then get him put on his hands and knees, skirt hiked up and a fuck machine pointed at his ass. Usually I stick a wine glass under his cock too, something for him to dribble into. I start up the machine and it fucks the poor sissy, until the anal orgasm is enough to make his cock squirt out all of its cum, but not enough to grant a satisfying orgasm. We top it off with his sissified self drinking his sperm, and that’s how he gets to cum in chastity.

Luckily extensive prior chastity training has meant he’s conquered certain issues like hardness in chastity being too painful for him. Now it’s something he can work past. For Christmas one of my slave’s presents is a new, slightly smaller steel cage. I’ve taken great pride over the last few years of slowly downsizing my slave’s size. When we first met he was a well endowed 8 inches hard, and 4 inches soft.

It seems his size when soft is more eager to shrink, with it mostly being the same size when hard. But I am still seeing progress and that is what’s key. The end goal for my slave is a cage that cannot be more than 2 inches long, connected through the help of a Prince Albert piercing, and a permanent urethral sounding fixture. But once again, that’s for the far future.

For now his new cage is 3.5 inches and has some soft bumps on the inside, just to give it some texture if he decides to get hard. Which will probably be quite often as that’s another change to this second chastity sentence; teasing. I was never that extreme about it before, but I will definitely be now! Life without a live dildo to play around with can get boring, I’ll need to stay entertained somehow. And I think wearing revealing clothing inside and outside of the house, as well as shamelessly flirting with other men as if he’s not right there, is a brilliant start to teasing him!

Chances are you’re reading this just ahead of New Years. It’s been a fun few days, me and my slave getting as much sex as the two of us can handle before his (admittedly talented) cock is locked back up into chastity for twelve months! His last erect orgasm for the next year will take place right before midnight. His cock will get iced and put back into its cage.

Overall I think this will be a positive time for my slave. He’s been trained to handle extensive chastity periods, and this will extend those periods but I am sure it will still be bearable. He will be kept firmly in his place, and both of us will get a better feel of permanent femdom. It’s something I’ve experienced before, but he hasn’t.

A year in chastity will be the final kick for him to realise this is all real. I’m looking forward to that realisation, but I know it won’t cause him to back out. He’s a good boy, with his kinks and limits. He knows how far is too far, and we both agree this is the correct next step on a journey to permanent slavery and chastity.

[mistressflorence32]

To New Beginnings…

New years come with new beginnings for most. For me I’ve never cared too much for the calendar, so I’m making a change early, and that’s the beginning of this blog. I have tried to make it work over on Twitter, but eventually having to cut down your words gets too much. My fictional captions do insanely well, but when I post about my life with my sub few people seem to care. And that’s okay, this is the way of one network.

However that’s why I joined another network, this one, to talk more in depth about my life. This includes my past, what goes on during the day to day, and also my plans for the future. So here are a few details about me.

My name is Florence, I grew up in Surrey and now live in Manchester, but I am planning to move away in the near future to the south of France, which is where my grandmother is from, and I’ve always held it with fond memories in mind. I spent seven years of my life working as a professional dominatrix, and it took me that long to realise the fantasy of femdom is so much more satisfying when it’s not a job.

The truth is, turn anything into a job and it becomes boring fast. But moving on from that job rekindled my passion, and over the last year I have trained and collared a personal slave boy. When we met he wasn’t perfect, but he was young, handsome and very eager to learn.

He moulded to my way of life perfectly, and has become possibly one of the only men in the world I feel a deep connection to. But that doesn’t mean his training is over. I have plans for him spanning years, which I will eventually talk about here.

I am sure it will take a while for me to grow an audience on here, but I’m not going to employ any cheap tactics to get more people interested. This is my blog, this is my life, and eventually more and more people will become invested. One person at a time, so even if there is one person reading this right now, thank you for beginning this journey with me.