As a Shanghai dominatrix who has tons of domination experience, I’ve long captivated those who crave surrender. A submissive from the former Yugoslavia, enthralled by my online presence for years, finally summoned the courage to request an outcall to Nanjing. His message was a plea wrapped in reverence, and I agreed to transform his fantasy into reality.
He had booked a high-floor suite in a Nanjing hotel, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the shimmering Yangtze River. The room was elegant yet sterile—marble floors, muted beige tones, a space begging to be claimed. By the time I arrived, it would become a sanctuary of exquisite suffering.
I stepped into the suite dressed in unrelenting black: a tailored coat that grazed my ankles, leather gloves that whispered of control, and a polished case cradling tools of correction—each chosen for precision, each a promise of pain. He greeted me at the door, already shirtless, kneeling on the cool marble. His eyes, wide with awe and fear, met mine for a fleeting moment before dropping. The discipline had begun long before I crossed the threshold.
Words were unnecessary; his detailed pre-session letter had laid bare his desires: pain, discipline, humiliation, and the cane above all. Its sting. Its ritual. Its unforgiving clarity. I gestured to the window, the city’s lights flickering like silent witnesses. “Undress fully,” I commanded. “Kneel facing Nanjing.”
He obeyed, his movements deliberate, exposing himself to the night and to me. I unlatched my case, arranging the canes on a lacquered table with deliberate slowness—a thin rattan, a heavier bamboo, each gleaming with intent. His breath hitched at the sight, a sound that curled my lips into a smile.
“Count for me,” I said, my voice low and unyielding. “Miss a number, and we begin again.”
The first stroke sliced through the air, landing with a crack that echoed off the suite’s walls. He gasped, his body tensing as the pain bloomed across his skin. I allowed him a moment to savor it before delivering the second, then the third, each strike a note in a symphony of control. By the tenth, his back bore a lattice of welts, each line a testament to my skill and his submission. Yet I was far from sated.
At twelve, he faltered, his voice cracking as he miscounted. I paused, letting the silence stretch, and strolled to the table where he’d left a porcelain teapot, steam curling from its spout. I poured myself a cup, the jasmine scent mingling with the charged air, and sipped slowly. His eyes followed me, pleading, but I offered no reprieve. “From one,” I said, and the cane sang again.
Each mistake reset the count; each cry marked his devotion. I wielded the cane with rhythmic precision, not cruelty—pain, after all, is a gift, and he received it with the fervor of the devout. The city beyond the window seemed to hold its breath, Nanjing’s pulse syncing with the ritual unfolding within.
After fifty strokes, properly counted, I extended the cane to him. “Kiss it,” I instructed. His lips, trembling with exhaustion and gratitude, pressed against the wood, sealing his surrender. I leaned close, my breath grazing his ear. “You begged for the cane, and I delivered,” I whispered. “But you invited me, and until I leave this city, you are mine.”
I reclined on the suite’s plush chaise, the Yangtze’s reflection dancing across the ceiling. He remained by the door, wrists bound with silk cord, his body a canvas of red lines—my signature, my promise fulfilled. The welts would fade, but the memory of this night would sear itself into his soul.
Nanjing will whisper of me.
He will never forget.