Pegging the One-Legged European: A Wild BDSM Encounter in Shanghai

 Some months ago, a man from Europe reached out to me, eager for a pegging session in Shanghai. His message was direct, his desires clear, and I agreed to meet him at his hotel.

The moment I saw him, I noticed something peculiar about the way he walked. At first, I assumed he was crippled, but I kept my thoughts to myself. It wasn’t until he undressed that I realized the truth — he had an artificial leg. He told me it was the result of a car accident. There was no self-pity in his voice, only a quiet acceptance of what life had taken from him.

He was polite, but beneath his calm demeanor, I sensed desperation. He needed this.

When he bent over before me, he begged — pleaded for me to take him from behind. His vulnerability, his raw hunger for submission, ignited something deep within me. I fastened my harness, savoring the anticipation in his trembling breaths. He braced himself, and I gave him exactly what he came for.

With every thrust, I felt his body surrender completely. He groaned, moaned, gasped — letting go of everything except the moment. His missing limb didn’t limit him; if anything, it heightened his need. His desire to be dominated, to be taken, was uninhibited and absolute.

By the time we finished, he lay exhausted but satisfied, his chest rising and falling in quiet relief. He looked at me with gratitude, a silent thank you for giving him what he craved. And in that moment, I realized something profound — his body may have been incomplete, but his submission was whole.

Fart Fetish Fantasy: A Canadian’s Eproctophilia Experience in Shanghai

 I am Alessandra, Shanghai’s unyielding Femdomme, a mistress of dark desires. I’ve sculpted a depraved eproctophilia fantasy for a Canadian fart fetishist, a man whose deepest arousal sparked by the mere whisper of flatulence.

I sat enthroned in my sleek studio, locking his gaze with mine. Slowly, I reclined, arms draped casually over the chair’s rests, my head tilting with a faint, icy smirk. My body softened, a deliberate signal of what was to come. The latex stretched tight across my curves gleamed under the low light, amplifying my dominance.

Then it began—a soft, simmering hiss of hot air slipped from my perfectly sculpted ass, muted by the clinging latex. His eyes flared wide, pupils dilating as the first wave of scent struck. His nostrils twitched, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips, betraying his hunger.

“You crave it, don’t you?” I taunted, my voice a blade of disdain slicing through the silence, watching him draw it in with frantic devotion.

I shifted, hiking my skirt higher, exposing the altar of his obsession. Rising with feline grace, I prowled to the bed and mounted it on all fours, my ass an offering and a weapon. “Come closer. Smell me,” I commanded, my tone brooking no defiance.

He scrambled forward on his knees, face hovering near my curves. I arched my spine, teasing him with every sway, then unleashed a wet, deliberate pfft—a warm gust that bathed his skin. His moan shattered the air, raw and reverent, a sound of utter collapse.

But I wasn’t done. He didn’t yet know the secret I’d harbored: my constipation had brewed something far fouler than he’d dreamed—farts so dense, so acrid, they lingered like a curse. A wicked grin curled my lips as I reached for my tool: a thin, flexible plastic pipe, my instrument of torment.

I bent low, gloved fingers seizing his chin, forcing his eager, glassy eyes to meet mine. “You want to worship me fully? I’ll make it unforgettable.”

With surgical precision, I wedged one end of the pipe into his left nostril, securing it tight. The other I slid deep between my cheeks, pressing it flush against my pulsing hole—an airtight conduit for his descent. “Breathe,” I hissed, venom and amusement lacing the word.

Bracing my hands on the bedframe, I leaned forward and pushed. A thick, molten brrrrp surged through the tube, a concentrated blast of my festering stench slamming into him. His body jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as the rancid tide overwhelmed him—heavy, unyielding, a gift from my backed-up depths.

I laughed, a cruel, lilting sound, as tears welled in his eyes. “Too much for my little pet?” I cooed, dripping with false pity.

Yet he didn’t recoil. His hands clawed at my thighs, anchoring himself, his muffled moans vibrating through the pipe. He was nothing now but a vessel for my scent, lost in the primal act of consuming me—my filth, my power, my will.

From Drowning to Domination: The Dominatrix Who Couldn’t Swim & the Man Who Saved Her In Shanghai

I am Dominatrix Alessandra. Power, control, and seduction define my world. Yet, there is one skill I never mastered — swimming. I lived near a big canal till I was a teenager, but I never learned swimming. My dominance is unquestioned in all other areas of life, but water is my nemesis.

One fateful day, I lounged on a swimming ring, enjoying the serenity of the pool. Then, fate decided to intervene. The ring flipped, and I tumbled into the water, struggling helplessly. Just as panic began to set in, strong hands grasped me, pulling me back to safety. My rescuer was a Belgian man whose demeanour and facial feature is a bit similar to actor Jeremy Irons. His presence was commanding yet oddly familiar, as if he belonged in my world of power play and desire.

Days later, he contacted me — not to reminisce about our peculiar first meeting, but for something more intriguing. He wished to explore a fetish he had never dared to indulge in before: a hairy armpit fetish. He admitted that he was accustomed to women with smooth, shaved underarms and had never encountered the raw allure of natural hair. My confidence, my scent, and my unapologetic embrace of my body’s authenticity stirred something deep within him.

Our first session was intoxicating. The moment he inhaled my natural scent, something awakened in him. The intensity of his desire was undeniable. He melted into submission, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar yet exhilarating experience. He had never known such arousal, never realized how much he craved the primal essence of a dominant woman unshackled by societal norms.

That day marked the beginning of a long-term dynamic. He became my devoted sub, eagerly returning to me, craving the scent and presence that first unraveled him. His fascination evolved into deep submission, and I reveled in the control I held over his desires.

From an accidental fall in the water to a dominatrix’s embrace, our story proves that the most unexpected moments can lead to the most extraordinary connections.

Shanghai Dominatrix’s Confession: I Saved the Man I Once Destroyed In Shanghai

 If you fail to carve out the existence you desire, you’ll find yourself wrestling with a reality you’d rather escape.

That thought lingered as I wandered the cramped, winding alleys of Shanghai—a place where wealth and want often tangle. Clad in polished sophistication, I radiated command and composure, navigating a world that yielded to my presence. But today wasn’t just a casual stroll; I was crafting an elaborate scene. For one unique individual—a submissive whose yearning twisted together shame and deliverance—I’d devised an experience to plunge him into the abyss of disgrace, only to lift him into the glow of renewal.

My attire was chosen with exacting care. A tailored white suit hugged my frame, its crisp lines and fitted waist projecting an aura of unassailable control. The skirt, short and daring, flashed just enough of my sculpted thighs to leave an echo of allure behind me. My bare legs gleamed with a perfect tan, paired with white strappy sandals, their slender heels glinting with a subtle menace. Behind oversized designer sunglasses, my gaze remained veiled, lending an air of distant enigma, while a brown leather purse dangled from my hand—a quiet emblem of understated grace.

The squalid alley, with its rough, uneven stones, sharpened the contrast between my pristine figure and the raw surroundings, turning every step into a performance. Sunlight sliced through broken rooftops, throwing jagged shadows across the chipped ground. My heels struck the pavement with a crisp, commanding rhythm, each click a testament to my dominion—a signal that I was the one who reigned, not the one who pleaded.

Then I saw him—a crumpled, grimy heap slumped across my path. His clothes hung in tatters, his face streaked with filth, his stench a blend of despair and neglect. He was the picture of ruin, a wretched snag in my stride.

I stopped, peering down at him through my shades, a faint, scornful curve tugging at my lips. Without a sound, I advanced. My stiletto sank into his bare hand, pressing his knuckles into the dirt with slow, ruthless force. A choked gasp escaped him, but I didn’t waver. Twisting slightly, I scraped the heel across his soiled skin before stepping onto his chest.

I observed with detached calm as he shifted under me, his breath catching as my sandal’s pointed tips bit into his ribs. With a smooth, poised flick of my foot, I pushed him aside, his frail body tumbling across the concrete like forgotten refuse. His weak moan faded beneath the assertive tap of my heels as I pressed onward.

But just as he seemed reduced to nothing beneath my stride, I paused. Turning back with deliberate grace, I slid off my sunglasses, my sharp gaze pinning him in place with an inscrutable look. Wordlessly, I crouched beside him, my knees tucking neatly under my spotless skirt. With a firm yet fluid motion, I reached out, stripping away his tattered layers—his shredded shirt, his soiled pants—until he lay stripped bare, raw and defenseless.

Then, without pause, I drew him into my arms, enfolding his shaking, naked form in a fierce, unwavering hold. My fingers dug into his spine, my heat bleeding into his cold, shattered frame. I gripped him there—steady, unrelenting—offering no gentle words, only the strength of my resolute embrace.

He pressed his face against me, his ragged breaths breaking into quiet sobs. The same woman who’d crushed him with cold disdain now cradled him toward redemption. And he grasped at me—fervently, needily—finding in my hold both his pain and his peace.

I had breathed life into him through his debasement—and renewal through my clasp. I was his punisher and his refuge, his breaker and his healer. As I held him, I knew he’d always chase the bite of my heels and the shelter of my arms—for only in my harshness could he uncover his salvation.

The Middle Finger Job: Humiliating My Canadian Sub In Shanghai with Nothing but a Single Finger

 Humiliation has always been a potent aphrodisiac for my Canadian submissive. His deepest craving lies in being degraded, stripped of dignity, and reduced to nothing more than a plaything for my amusement. Over the years, I’ve perfected countless scenarios tailored to his humiliation fetish — from verbal degradation to public shaming and foot worship. But in our most recent session, I devised something new: a middle finger humiliation scene designed to strip away his pride and drive him into submissive euphoria.

The Power of the Middle Finger: Pure Disrespect as Foreplay

The scene began with deliberate disdain. The moment he knelt before me in his hotel room in Shanghai, I locked eyes with him and slowly raised both middle fingers, holding them high with an icy smirk.

“Worthless,” I spat, the venom in my voice making him squirm. I circled him with the predatory grace of a lioness, occasionally flicking him with my middle finger — light taps that signaled just how little regard I held for his existence.

Each time he looked up at me with those desperate, obedient eyes, I responded with nothing but the crude, dismissive gesture of my raised middle finger. The simplicity of the insult, paired with my icy glare, made his cock twitch in its cage — proof that my contempt fueled his arousal.

High Heels and Ball Trampling: Humiliation Through Pain

To escalate his degradation, I commanded him to strip and lie on the floor. I straddled his chest, looking down at him with contemptuous amusement. Without a word, I stood up and pressed the sharp, slender heel of my black patent leather stilettos against his balls. The initial press was light — a teasing threat — but I quickly increased the pressure, grinding down mercilessly.

He gasped, his face contorting with a mixture of pain and pleasure, but I showed no sympathy. Instead, I raised both middle fingers right in front of his face, mocking him.

“Is this what you wanted, you pathetic slut?” I sneered. “Getting your balls crushed by my heels while I flip you off like the piece of trash you are?”

The sight of my defiant fingers towering over him — paired with the sharp, unforgiving pain radiating from his swollen testicles — made him writhe. The combination of physical and emotional torment was intoxicating for him.

The Middle Finger Job: Utter Degradation

Once his balls were suitably trampled and tender, I sat beside him and ran my hand along his trembling shaft. With deliberate slowness, I curled my fingers around it — but instead of giving him the release he craved, I extended my middle finger against his cock, mockingly stroking it with the offensive gesture.

“Even your cock isn’t worth my whole hand,” I taunted, dragging only my middle finger up and down his length, barely applying any pressure. The gesture was pure mockery — lazy, condescending, and dismissive.

I alternated between gentle teasing and sudden, forceful flicks of my middle finger against his sensitive tip. Each flick made him gasp and twitch, torn between humiliation and pleasure. His cock throbbed under my disdainful touch, betrayed by its arousal despite the blatant disrespect.

Degrading the Climax

When he finally reached the brink, I paused. I locked eyes with him, leaned down, and spat directly onto his shaft. With a cruel smile, I resumed the middle finger job — slow, condescending, and emotionless.

“Pathetic,” I hissed. “You’re going to cum from a single fucking finger.”

When he finally erupted, his entire body shuddered. But there was no tenderness — no comfort. Instead, I wiped the sticky mess off my middle finger onto his face, spreading it across his cheek with deliberate disdain.

As he lay there panting, dazed by the combination of pleasure and humiliation, I gave him one final parting gift. I stood over him, towering in my high heels, and slowly, defiantly, raised both middle fingers again. A cruel smile played on my lips.

“Don’t forget your place,” I sneered before walking away, leaving him humiliated, satisfied, and craving more.

When Humiliation Becomes Ecstasy

Humiliation is an art form — one that I’ve mastered through years of experience dominating men like my Canadian submissive. The middle finger scenario was a perfect blend of psychological and physical degradation, tapping into his deepest fetish. With nothing but a simple hand gesture and calculated cruelty, I stripped him of his dignity and left him begging for more.

For those seeking a taste of true humiliation, come to me. I will strip you of your pride, your power, and your self-respect — one middle finger at a time.

Keyholder’s Chastity Review: Ball Ring, Shield, or Fortilock – Which One Fits You Best?

Choosing the perfect chastity belt means weighing factors like comfort, material, hygiene, and suitability for long-term wear. In this article, we dive into three popular designs—Style B (Shield Chastity Belt), Style C (Ball Ring Chastity Belt), and the Fortilock Chastity Belt—to help you find the best match for your preferences and lifestyle.

Style B: Shield Chastity Belt (High-Strength Nylon)

Pros:

Feminization Favorite: The full-shield design is a hit among sissies and crossdressers, offering an aesthetic edge for feminization play.

Top-Notch Security: Its extensive coverage makes unauthorized removal nearly impossible.

Cons:

Hygiene Hurdles: Limited airflow and a solid shield make cleaning a chore.

Stiff Fit: The rigid structure can feel restrictive, especially for chastity newcomers during extended wear.

Style C: Ball Ring Chastity Belt (High-Strength Nylon)

Pros:

Ball-Trapping Appeal: Perfect for wearers who crave the intense restriction of a secure testicular enclosure.

High Security: The ball ring design locks in control, thwarting easy escapes.

Cons:

Tricky to Wear: Adjusting and fitting the trapped-ball setup takes patience and precision.

Long-Term Discomfort: Pressure on sensitive areas can make extended wear less comfortable.

Fortilock Chastity Belt (High-Strength Resin)

Pros:

Hygiene Made Easy: An open, breathable structure simplifies cleaning.

Smooth Comfort: Crafted from high-strength resin, it’s gentler on skin than nylon, reducing friction.

Adjustable Fit: Customizable waist sizing (via dual-hole fastening) adapts to body changes.

Flexible Design: TPU side and back straps offer greater comfort than rigid nylon.

Locking Versatility: Choose between internal or external locks for tailored control.

Ultimate Customization: Tailor waist length, back strap position, cock tube size, ventilation, and pee holes to your exact specs.

Long-Term Champion: Ergonomic and breathable, it’s built for extended wear.

Cons: 

Only 1 color option so far

Security and Sizing

All three belts are custom-made for a snug, secure fit, blending comfort with escape-proof design. A precise fit is key to maximizing both security and wearability.

Which Chastity Belt Wins?

For Feminization & Aesthetics: Style B (Shield Chastity Belt) shines, despite its cleaning challenges, making it ideal for visual appeal and play.

For Security & Restriction: Style C (Ball Ring Chastity Belt) delivers a locked-in feel, perfect for those who prioritize control over comfort.

For Comfort, Hygiene, & Customization: The Fortilock Chastity Belt takes the crown with its smooth resin, easy maintenance, and unparalleled adaptability.

If long-term practicality and comfort top your list, the Fortilock stands out as the go-to choice. But if aesthetics or intense security drive you, Style B or Style C might better suit your desires. The right belt depends on what you value most—choose wisely!

What I Discovered About Submissive Men After 1,200 BDSM Sessions in China

 After 1,200 BDSM sessions, I’ve hit a milestone that reflects years of exploration, mastery, and profound connection. Having guided nearly 600 submissive men, I’ve seen humanity laid bare—vulnerability unmasked, fears confronted, and desires unleashed in their purest form. No two sessions are identical, yet over time, patterns emerge, truths crystallize, and revelations reshape how I view dominance, submission, and the complexities of human sexuality.

1. Submission Is Strength, Not Surrender

The stereotype of submissive men as weak couldn’t be further from reality. To kneel, to trust utterly, to reveal what’s been buried deep—it’s an act of raw courage. Many of my submissives wield power daily: CEOs, pilots, engineers, men who command respect. They seek me not from weakness but for liberation—a release they can’t find in boardrooms or cockpits. Submission isn’t defeat; it’s a bold reclaiming of freedom.

2. Breaking Points Are Rarely Physical

After years of pushing limits, I’ve learned that a submissive’s true breaking point isn’t about enduring pain or restraint—it’s mental. It’s the instant I unravel their ego, force them to face suppressed fears, or draw out desires they’ve denied for decades. Some crack after weeks of orgasm denial, others when made to voice their hunger for humiliation. A few shatter under nothing more than my stare, exposed by the realization that I see them entirely.

3. Fetishes Are Emotional, Not Just Erotic

Outsiders might see fetishes as mere turn-ons, but 1,200 sessions have shown me they’re far deeper—emotional cravings dressed as sexual quirks. Foot fetishists yearn to worship, humbling themselves at a woman’s feet. ABDL submissives chase the comfort of care, a return to innocence. Chastity devotees crave ownership, a control that transcends the bedroom. Recognizing this, I don’t just indulge fantasies—I touch the unspoken needs beneath them.

4. The Mind Outweighs Any Tool

Whips mark skin, cages withhold pleasure, ropes confine—but the mind reigns supreme. Psychological dominance leaves the deepest scars, ones that don’t fade. A whispered command, a withheld glance, a deliberate pause—these can torment more than any lash. Submissives have confessed they feel my presence lingering in their thoughts, even haunting their sleep. Real control doesn’t end with the session; it rewires how they see power itself.

5. Western Expats in China Bring Distinct Desires

Dominating hundreds of Western men in China, I’ve noticed their fantasies mirror their expatriate lives. Alienated by culture shock or burdened by high-stakes roles, they crave structure—discipline to anchor them, surrender to a commanding woman to quiet the noise. Some chase the taboo, experiences they’d never dare pursue back home. Living abroad reshapes them, and their kinks shift in tandem.

6. Submissives Depart, but the Echoes Remain

Not all stay. Some leave for new cities, marriages, or to “outgrow” this world. Yet after 1,200 sessions, I’ve seen the pattern: submission isn’t a phase you shed. Years later, many return, admitting they couldn’t escape the memories—my voice, my control, the way I unlocked them. BDSM isn’t fleeting; it etches itself into the psyche.

7. My Own Evolution Continues

Even with this breadth of experience, I’m not done growing. Every submissive reveals something new—a nuance of power, a twist of psychology, a glimpse into desire’s endless depths. After 1,200 sessions, I’m still a student of this craft, eager for what’s next.

To the uninitiated, BDSM might look like theater—leather, chains, a scripted scene. But after dominating so many, I know it’s far more: a journey, a reckoning, a mirror to the soul. For me, the path stretches on.