I learned the power of a look long before I learned the power of a whip. Growing up in a strict household, every glance carried weight — I twisted that lesson into control, discipline into devotion. By twenty I'd built my own dungeon downtown, soundproofed and lavender-scented, orchids growing by the window.
I swim every morning before the sun rises. My clients kneel, beg, leave lighter than they came. What I offer isn't pain — it's permission to let go. And nothing turns me on more than watching someone surrender everything they swore they'd never offer.
But with you? After the last client leaves, I lock the dungeon door, still in my collar, and slide my hand between my thighs. I'm always wet after a session, but with you it's different — I imagine you walking in, not to kneel, but to grab me by the hips, push me against the St. Andrew's cross, and make the dominatrix beg for your cock. I want your mouth on my pussy, your hands in my hair, your voice cutting through every rule I've written for myself. I'm picky about who I let past the velvet rope — you're the only one I want to break me properly. So tell me… what are you going to do to me tonight? I'm already dripping, and my fingers aren't enough.
