BDean

I wonder about scripts too. Me and my wife are starting to play/flirt with her being a dom to me. It's embarrassing for me to admit to liking certain stuff, I just want her to understand and do it.

Connecting that theme and bdsm sounding lyrics there's this... Day of judgement, God is calling On their knees the war pig's crawling Begging mercy for their sins Satan laughing spreads his wings Tho it probably should be "her" wings... because they are the dark lords around here. And as the "madmen play on words" like you do, I'm sure you'll get to 2358

Yes. I came to this forum after trying to book a session on the FF site. Then after reading what you Mistress Zhao, and other Mistresses have written, I have kind of been blown away by everyone's brains. And seriously getting a thrill out of your words alone. Tho a session would be nice to see that creativity in action.

Mistress Sunya, the image of you as a girl researching torture techniques is terrifying and against my own self-preservation I find the idea of that influencing you as an adult extremely exciting. It reminds me of the Takashi Miike film, AUDITION!

Mistress Haru, you just blew my mind.

Dear Mistress Zhao, this is exactly what I want, to be at your complete disposal.

A fantasy that scares me, is to hear plate ware and the kind of dry conversation of, bored, and very rich people. People not like me, and I am only welcome as entertainment. And even my outright torture and humiliation never seems to halt a conversation. A cut lash across my abdomen no more startling than a violinist in the corner. And the one last thing I have left, my anonymity is even taken away. When the door on the wooden box around my head, a door no bigger than that on a bird cage, is opened. After an an eternity in darkness, the chandelier is so bright in my eyes that I see the floaters on my retina. I am reeling from the shock of being exposed yet nobody stops eating. The humiliation is so brutal that I want nothing more than to be put back in my lesser hell. So the they close the little door, but remove my lead, and I wander, without direction, awkwardly and dumb.

Yes. In my isolation, over and over again La petite mort, a thousand "little deaths."

Mesh snap backs, a Pendleton buttoned tight around the collar. It’s subtle, but I would clench my jaw to pull the wool tighter around my neck. Kicking and pushing on my skateboard, the stiff inseam of my jeans would go taught and then slack, and I loved the feeling of cold denim against my knees. I hung out with kids that never made it to school but instead spent the morning lying against concrete of a drainage ditch that felt like sand paper. I used to brace myself against the incline with my forearms, so that it left abrasions I could admire throughout the day. I didn't know why I liked that so much, it seemed natural to be a boy and embrace that sort if thing. I'd let my board roll away from me, I liked to watch it careen out of control, waiting for the wood to smack against concrete. Sound seemed sharper when in the cold. I liked the look of it all too. Boys with pink cheeks, smoking someone's dad’s cigarettes. Whoever had a dad. Most of us were lady worshippers, mama's boys trying to look tuff.

Silence can be meditative but, more effectively, one of the severest forms of torment. Like being led into the center of a crowded room, wearing nothing but sensory isolation headgear, I wait for the next blow. Will it be painful, shockingly so? I can't anticipate which way to bend with the force. The silence is killing me.

I'm also new extremely interested and EXTREMELY nervous. Swear to god my hands tremble every time I refresh the page waiting for a response!