Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

I pause at the entrance of the little bar I keep for my “sessions.” It’s a dimly lit back room behind a row of forgotten bottles. Inside, the air smells of cheap drinks and old carpet, and the low hum of a jukebox plays a blues riff that feels like a warning. Not for me, of course. For him.

He’s already there, perched on a cracked leather chair, with his eyes fixed on the floor. He’s a regular. We’ll call him Aaron, though we never use names that aren’t given. Tonight, his limits are a blank page and our job is to write the story together. “Stella,” he says, as his voice trembles with a mixture of anticipation and fear. I offer him a smile that’s half invitation, half challenge. I step closer, as the click of my stilettos punctuate the silence.

Continue reading “No Taboo Sessions”

sissy blog

Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

He is my sissy. My apprentice. The canvas on which I will paint obedience. But he doesn’t quite know it yet. He stands in the hallway, trembling, clutching the thin, pastel cardigan I chose for him. His hair is slicked back in an artificial bob with the ends dyed a pastel pink that catches the light like bruised roses. He looks at me with a mixture of awe and terror, before his eyes dart to the leather cuffs hanging on the coat rack and the polished wooden bench where I will have him sit.

“Welcome, Alex,” I say, edged with authority. I watch the subtle shiver that ripples through his shoulders. He nods and whispers, “Yes, Mistress.” I guide him inside my apartment. The bench is already prepared. An ornate iron frame draped with a black silk sheet and a small brass bowl bearing a single, polished ruby at its center. I instruct him to strip. His hands trembled as he removes each piece of clothing until he stands there completely naked. I hand him a pair of thin lace panties and he looks at me, puzzled. “Put them on,” I say, calmly. “You’re a girl now.”

Continue reading “The canvas on which I will paint obedience.”

cuckold

Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

His name was Daniel. He was devoted in the way that every part of him was constructed for my worship. He brought me coffee every morning. His hands trembled slightly, his eyes were already downcast in anticipation of my day. He kept my world in a perfect, silent order. It was too clean, though. That type of perfection is a vacuum and I am not a creature of neat spaces.

I chose Marcus for his crude vitality. Where Daniel was porcelain, Marcus was raw iron. I didn’t invite him over. Instead, I commanded Daniel to arrange it. The look on his face when I issued his instructions was priceless. “You will serve us drinks, you will address him as ‘Sir.’ Most importantly, you will watch.”

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