He is the first Iranian submissive I’ve ever encountered in Shanghai, and our connection sparked with an undeniable, electric intensity from the very beginning.
He approached me with a hunger for something profound — something raw and consuming. He craved to be broken open, to explore the depths of submission he’d only dared to fantasize about. Our session began deceptively gently. I ordered him to kneel before me and offer his hands in service — his first task: to massage my shoulders and back.
For five brief minutes, he obeyed, his touch hesitant but eager. And then, rather boldly, he declared, “The massage is over.”
A declaration I never gave permission for.
His refusal to continue was met with a sharp shift in atmosphere. My voice, calm but laced with warning, commanded him to resume. When he defied me again, consequences became inevitable.
I stood, eyes locked on his with calculated silence, then delivered a swift kick to force him to bend over in submission. With practiced precision, I reached for my leather paddle and belt — my trusted instruments of discipline. The spanking began, rhythmic and deliberate. Each crack of leather against his flesh made his body jolt and twist in resistance.
But resistance only fuels me.
I pressed his head down firmly, or forced his back into vulnerable, exposed positions, denying him any chance of escape. His gasps turned to moans, his rebellion fading into surrender.
Cock slapping became necessary each time he dared act defiant. The sting reminded him who was in control. And when he tried to dodge my strikes — when he thought he could shift away from punishment — his nipples became my next target. Twisted, pinched, tormented until he understood: there is no hiding in my presence. No corner of your body is safe from the consequences of disobedience.
By the end, he was trembling — not from fear, but from the overwhelming mix of pain, pleasure, and submission he had never known he needed.