I have often considered once more having a human ashtray. Far away in my dark and mysterious youth there were moments… long ago now. I am not a smoking Mistress, but I must admit there is something alluring about having a male sub kneel before me, naked or very close, mouth open by willpower alone or else stretched and forced by a gag, to receive the hot ash.
The unadulterated power over him, to languish and revel in his unease. Kneeling uncomfortably on a stone or tiled floor, a chill teasing out the goosebumps, as well as the fear of what’s to come.
Mistress dressed in black leather. Gloved hands, slender fingers hold the long, elegant cigarette holder. The atmosphere calm but controlled. Not perverse as such, just My Sisters and I holding fort, the men staff crawling fast to avoid heels marking their backs, kicks on their rapidly less plump behinds.
Dressed comfortably, stylishly with traditional Feminine attire. Swathes of black and shimmering silk. Lustrous hair falling in waves with soft tendrils helping bely the harshness hidden behind those eyes of chocolate brown.
Would you like to kneel, by my feet? Would you like to open your mouth wide, ready to receive? Would you keep your eyes obediently turned downwards, never raising above the level of my knee? Would you let the hot ash burn into your tongue, knowing you suffer for my pleasure?
Suffer for me and know you please. Suffer and fulfil your true destiny. Suffer and cry silent sobbing tears, don’t let me notice any more than a slight shoulder movement of your hours of agony. Suffer for Mistress.