After last night, I feel compelled to write this down before it fades, before the heat on my skin and the pounding in my chest become distant memories. I’m Emily, and this week has been like plunging into an abyss where every sensation is sharper, rawer, more mine. My Master has led me down a path of submission that’s turned my world upside down, and I don’t want to forget a single moment. Each day this week has been a test, a fire that’s burned me and rebuilt me. My body still carries the invisible marks of his hands, the ropes, the wax, the gazes that stripped me bare beyond my skin. I want to capture it all, to record every lesson, every rule I’ve learned, because writing it feels like living it again—like these words on paper can reignite the heat, the surrender, the ecstasy.
I’m not sure how it began exactly, only that seven days ago, I said yes. Yes to him, yes to his rules, yes to letting go. Since then, I’ve been his in a way I never thought possible. He’s shared me, bound me, shown me pleasures I didn’t know existed. He’s brought others into my world—men, a woman—and each encounter has been a deeper step into my surrender. He’s used wax that burns and toys that awaken, and I’ve learned to love it all, to find myself in obedience, in letting go. This notebook will be my code, my guide, my way of ensuring every lesson is etched not just into my body but into my soul.
I’m writing this with trembling hands, my heart racing, my mind flooded with images that make me close my eyes and take a deep breath. This isn’t just a diary; it’s a ritual, a way to honor what I’ve lived, what I’ve felt. My Master has given me purpose, a freedom I’ve only found in giving myself completely. These pages will hold the rules I’ve learned, the ones born from every moment my body and will bent to him. I don’t know if anyone else will read this, and it doesn’t matter. I’m writing for me, to never forget who I am now: the submissive, the one who’s found her strength in surrender. This is where my story begins, and I swear every word will burn with the same intensity I’ve lived this week.
Rule 1: My Master’s will is my truth.
The first night, he blindfolded me. The world vanished behind a soft strip of black fabric, leaving only his voice—steady, commanding. He told me to trust, to let go, and then I felt hands that weren’t his. My heart pounded—who did they belong to? But he had chosen for me, and that was enough. “Call him Master,” he said, and I did, my voice trembling with fear and a deep, burning desire. I didn’t ask who the man was; I didn’t need to. My Master’s choice was my anchor. Those unfamiliar hands roamed my body, and I gave myself to them, knowing my Master watched, that he’d orchestrated every touch. Next time, I won’t hesitate. His will is my truth, and I’ll follow it without a second thought.
Rule 2: My body is his to shape.
One afternoon, he bound me with ropes, their firm texture pressing against my wrists and ankles. I was exposed, vulnerable, and he held a candle above me. The first drop of hot wax hit my stomach, and I gasped, the sharp sting blooming into warmth. “Your body is mine to mark,” he said, and I felt it—each drop was a brushstroke, a claim. The wax traced paths across my thighs, my chest, every spot a reminder that I’m his canvas. I arched into the sensation, craving more, learning to love how pain and pleasure melted together. At first, I clenched my fists, resisting the intensity. Next time, I’ll stay soft, open, ready for him to mold me as he pleases.
Rule 3: My silence is my devotion.
One night, there was another woman. She was there by my Master’s command, her fingers light but precise as they explored me. My Master was close, his presence a steady weight that grounded me. I wanted to moan, to release the fire building inside, but he’d ordered silence. “Your pleasure is mine—keep it,” he said. It was a challenge, but I obeyed. Every caress, every brush of her touch, I held inside, letting my body speak without sound. My silence was my offering, my way of showing him that everything in me is his. I’ll never forget that night, the strength I found in obedience, the way my stillness pleased him.
Rule 4: My pleasure is his domain.
One evening, he showed me a box filled with toys. I didn’t know what to expect, but I trusted him. He tied me to the bed, my wrists and ankles secured, my body at his mercy. He chose a toy, something that buzzed with an intensity that made my back arch. “Your pleasure belongs to me,” he said, controlling every movement, every pause. He brought me to the edge again and again, but wouldn’t let me release until he allowed it. I remember the sweet agony, the waiting, and then the explosion when he finally let me go. I learned that my joy isn’t mine; it’s a gift he grants, and that makes it infinitely more powerful.
Rule 5: My surrender is my power.
The first time he shared me with another man, my stomach twisted with nerves, but a fiery curiosity burned beneath. I was on my knees, my Master at my side, his hands on my shoulders. “He’s your Master now,” he said, and I repeated the words, my voice thick with emotion. I couldn’t ask who he was or where he came from—it didn’t matter. My Master had chosen him, and I surrendered. The man’s hands were different, his rhythm unique, but it was all wrapped in my Master’s presence, his gaze that never left me. I remember how my body responded, how I lost myself in the act of obeying. Next time, I won’t fear; my surrender is my strength, my way of showing him I’m his.
Rule 6: My obedience is immediate.
One night, he told me to kneel in front of a mirror. The room was dimly lit, my reflection trembling under his gaze. Suddenly, he ordered me to crawl to him—no hesitation, no looking back. My knees grazed the cold floor, my heart raced, but I didn’t falter. When I reached his feet, another man appeared, and my Master told me to please him. I didn’t know his face, didn’t need to. I moved instantly, my hands and lips acting without thought, guided only by his command. At first, a spark of surprise slowed me, but I learned fast: my obedience must be instant, because every second of delay is a moment that doesn’t belong to him.
Rule 7: My vulnerability is his right.
One afternoon, he stripped me bare and placed me in the center of the room, my hands bound behind my back. No ropes, just soft fabric holding me. Then he brought in a woman. Her eyes traced my body before her hands did, and I felt exposed, like every inch of me was laid bare. She touched me, slow and deliberate, while my Master watched. I wanted to cover myself, to hide the parts of me that felt too raw, but I didn’t. My body surrendered to her caresses, to the certainty that my Master wanted me seen this way—open, defenseless. Next time, I won’t resist; my vulnerability is his to claim.
Rule 8: My waiting is my discipline.
One night, he left me tied to a chair, blindfolded, my body still. The air was heavy, thick with anticipation. I heard footsteps, soft laughter, the clink of glasses, but no one touched me. Minutes passed, maybe hours, and desire grew with every second of waiting. My skin burned for a touch that didn’t come, my mind racing with every possibility. When his fingers finally brushed me, it was like the whole world ignited. That wait taught me control, strength in patience. At first, I wanted to beg. Never again; waiting is my way of showing I trust his timing.
Rule 9: My body responds only to his signal.
Once, he took me to a room with two men. I stood, hands free, but my Master had told me not to move until he signaled. The men approached, their hands eager, but I stayed still, though every fiber of me trembled with want. Only when my Master nodded did I let myself respond, letting my body yield to their touches, their demands. It was a dance of restraint and release, my skin awakening only because he allowed it. At first, I struggled to hold back. Next time, it’ll be effortless; my body will wait for his signal before giving in.
Rule 10: My devotion is shown in total surrender.
In the early hours one morning, he woke me and led me to a new place. Candles flickered everywhere, and he asked me to lie on a low table. Then he brought in a man and a woman. Together, they touched me, guided me, while my Master directed every move like it was a ritual. I gave myself completely, letting their hands, their bodies, become extensions of him. I didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; I was simply his, an instrument of his desire. There was a moment when I wanted to cling to a last thread of control. It won’t happen again; my devotion is in letting go, being his in every part of my being.
Rule 11: My posture is my reverence.
One night, he ordered me to kneel on the floor, back straight, hands resting on my thighs. The room was silent, save for the sound of my breathing. He told me to hold the position until he decided otherwise. My legs trembled, my muscles burned, but I didn’t move. His gaze held me steady, and every second was a way to show my commitment. At first, I wanted to shift my weight, to ease the strain. Now I know better; my perfect posture is how I honor him, offering my effort without complaint.
Rule 12: My gaze seeks his permission.
One afternoon, he asked me to look into his eyes as he bound my wrists with thin rope. His movements were slow, deliberate, and I felt the urge to look away, to hide in my own shyness. But he wouldn’t allow it. Each time my eyes drifted, he paused the ropes until I met his gaze again. I learned that my eyes are his, that I can’t turn them away without his approval. I remember how my heart raced under his scrutiny. Next time, I won’t waver; my eyes will stay locked on him, waiting for his signal.
Rule 13: My breath follows his rhythm.
Once, he laid me on my back and placed his hand on my chest, right where my heart pounded. He told me to breathe with him, each inhale and exhale matching his. At first, it was hard—my anxiety made my breath quicken. But he didn’t move, his hand steady, guiding me. Slowly, my breathing synced with his, and I felt a deep calm, like I was melting into his will. Now I understand that even my breath belongs to him. I won’t let it spiral again; I’ll breathe as he desires.
Rule 14: My pain is his offering.
One night, he brought a small riding crop. He asked me to bend over a table, my hands pressed against the cold wood. The first strike was light, a tingling that made me catch my breath. Then came others, firmer, each one leaving a line of heat on my skin. I wanted to pull back, to soften the impact, but I held steady. Each strike was a gift I gave back by not complaining, by accepting it. At first, I tensed, bracing for the pain. Next time, I’ll give myself more fully; my pain is proof of my loyalty.
Rule 15: My gratitude is constant.
After an intense session, he told me to sit at his feet and share why I was grateful. I was exhausted, my body still humming from everything that had happened, but his words brought me back. I spoke, stumbling at first, thanking him for every moment, every challenge, every lesson. As I talked, I felt my devotion deepen, each word reinforcing my place. I remember hesitating, thinking I had nothing to say. Never again; my gratitude will be immediate, because everything he does for me is a gift.
Rule 16: My moans are his music.
One night, he bent me over a polished wooden table, my hands bound by ropes that bit into my skin. He drew out a whip, its soft leather grazing my back before the first strike. When the leather snapped, a cry tore from my lips—a blend of pain and pleasure I couldn’t hold back. He ordered me not to stifle anything, to let every moan, every gasp, fill the room. I wanted to bite my lip, to control the sound, but he wouldn’t allow it. Each lash was an invitation to let go, to offer him the echo of my ecstasy. At first, I tried to stay quiet by instinct. Never again; my cries are his symphony, and I’ll let them flow so he can hear how much I please him.
Rule 17: My endurance is for his delight.
One afternoon, he tied me in a position that stretched every muscle: wrists raised, ankles apart, my body taut like a bowstring. He used a flogger, its leather strands falling across my skin in a relentless rhythm. Each strike grew sharper, testing how much I could take. My legs shook, my breath hitched, but I didn’t ask to stop. I wanted to show him I could endure, that my resilience was a gift for his pleasure. I remember a moment when I wanted to give in, to lower my arms. Next time, I’ll push further; my strength is his to savor, and I’ll take it to the limit for him.
Rule 18: My exposure is his trophy.
One night, he placed me in the center of the room, naked, my hands chained above my head. No blindfold, just his eyes locked on me as he circled, inspecting every curve, every mark he’d left before. He told me to keep my legs spread, to hide nothing. I felt the urge to close them, to shield myself from his piercing gaze, but I held back. My body, exposed and vulnerable, was his pride, his masterpiece. At first, shame made me hesitate. Never again; I’ll display myself without reservation, because being his trophy is my greatest honor.
Rule 19: My submission is my challenge.
In the early hours one morning, he woke me and led me to a dark room. He ordered me to kneel and wait, then gave me a task: hold a difficult position—arms extended, body angled—while he used a thin wooden cane. Each strike was precise, a flash of pain that made me want to collapse. But I didn’t. Each time I held the pose, I felt his approval, like my struggle was a dance for him. At first, my muscles gave out once. Next time, I won’t fail; my submission is a challenge I’ll conquer to prove my devotion.
Rule 20: My total surrender is his victory.
One night, he pushed me to the edge with a session that combined everything: ropes that cut into my skin, wax that burned, a vibrator that made me tremble. I was at my limit, my mind clouded by the intensity, but he asked for one more thing: to give myself completely, to stop thinking, to exist only for him. I let go, letting my body and soul become his, with not a single part held back. It was like falling into an abyss, but he was there, catching me. I remember a moment when I wanted to cling to myself. It won’t happen again; my absolute surrender is his triumph, and I’ll live to give it to him.
Rule 21: My suspension is his altar.
One night, he lifted me off the ground with thick ropes that dug into my skin, my arms and legs bound in an unrelenting embrace. I hung in the air, swaying slightly, each movement amplifying the tension in my body. He ordered me to stay calm, to let the suspension turn me into a living offering. Then he drew me close, and I knew I was to receive him with reverence, tasting the gift of his release as a sacred act. At first, the swaying threw me off, and I struggled to stay composed. Never again; my suspended body is his altar, and I’ll honor it with absolute devotion.
Rule 22: My mouth is his chalice.
One afternoon, I knelt before him, my wrists tied behind my back, the cold floor pressing against my knees. He told me to part my lips and wait, motionless, until he chose to bless me with his release. Each second of waiting was a test, my desire swelling as I anticipated the moment. When it came, I received it with gratitude, letting my mouth become a vessel for his pleasure. I remember hesitating, fearing I might fall short. Next time, I won’t falter; my mouth is his to fill, and I’ll offer it without reservation.
Rule 23: My patience exalts his gift.
One night, he bound me to a chair, my body immobilized, my eyes covered by a blindfold. He told me to wait, that his essence would be mine only when he decided. Time stretched on, every sound—his breathing, his footsteps—making my skin burn with anticipation. When he finally allowed me to draw near, the act of receiving him was heightened by the wait, as if each minute of patience had magnified the privilege. At first, I wanted to rush, to break the delay. Never again; my patience is my way of amplifying the value of what he gives me.
Rule 24: My surrender in suspension is his canvas.
In the early hours one morning, he hung me in a harness, my legs spread, my body exposed in the air. The ropes held me, but also challenged me, each knot a reminder of my vulnerability. He drew me to him, and my task was to please him with my mouth, letting his climax mark my skin like a painting. The suspension made every movement an effort, but also an act of worship. At first, the strain of the ropes distracted me. Next time, I’ll immerse myself in the act; my suspended body is his canvas, and his release, the final stroke.
Rule 25: My worship is my final offering.
One night, after a session that left me trembling—ropes, whips, heat—he placed me on my knees, my body exhausted but eager. He told me my final task was to receive his climax with a devotion that showed everything I’d learned. I gave myself fully, each movement of my mouth a prayer, each moment a testament to my submission. It was as if all I am was distilled into that act, into pleasing him to completion. I remember a moment when my fatigue nearly overwhelmed me. It won’t happen again; my worship is my ultimate offering, and I’ll give it with every part of my being.
Rule 26: My trembling is his spectacle.
One night, he bound me to a wooden frame, my wrists and ankles secured with chains that clinked with every movement. He wielded a heavy leather flogger, each strike a bolt of lightning across my skin. My body shook uncontrollably—not from fear, but from a raw desire that flared with every hit. He ordered me to let my trembling show, to hide nothing, because my reaction was his delight. At first, I tried to steady myself, to control the spasms. Never again; my quivering body is his spectacle, and I’ll let it quake for his pleasure.
Rule 27: My submission is my armor.
One afternoon, he stood me upright, naked, with a leather collar tight around my neck, attached to a chain he held. He brought me to the edge with a cane, its precise strikes marking my skin with lines of fire. Each blow was a test, but also a strength. As the pain grew, I realized my submission shielded me, made me invincible by making me wholly his. I remember a moment when I wanted to pull back, to protect myself. Next time, I’ll stand firm; my submission is my armor, and I’ll wear it with pride.
Rule 28: My scream is his crown.
One night, he suspended me in the air with ropes that cut into my skin, my body exposed like an offering. He used a long whip, each crack a burst of heat that made me scream. He told me to hold nothing back, that my cries were his reward, the proof of my surrender. I wanted to swallow the sounds, fearing they were too much, but he demanded them. Every scream I let out was a jewel for his crown, a testament to my devotion. At first, I hesitated, muting their volume. Never again; my screams are his, and I’ll let them ring out in all their glory.
Rule 29: My limit is his conquest.
In the early hours one morning, he led me into a session that challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. He bound me in an impossible position—legs spread, arms twisted—while using a mix of scalding wax and a relentless vibrator. Pleasure and pain blurred until my mind begged for a break, but he pushed me further. Each time I thought I couldn’t go on, I found a reserve of strength to continue, because breaking my limits was his victory. I remember wanting to plead for rest. Next time, I’ll surrender instantly; my limit is his to conquer.
Rule 30: My orgasm is his release.
On the final night, he brought me to the edge with a session that encompassed everything: ropes that pinned me down, a flogger that set my skin ablaze, and a toy that made me arch against my bonds. He told me that when I reached climax, I should hold nothing back, letting everything pour out, even if my body unleashed in unexpected ways. When the orgasm tore through me, it was like a flood—my body trembling, releasing without control, without shame, because it was what he wanted. At first, I tried to restrain myself, fearing I’d lose composure. Never again; my orgasm is his release, and I’ll give it with my entire soul, letting my body speak without restraint.
And so, this week has become the fiercest heartbeat of my existence. These thirty rules are not just words in a notebook; they are the essence of who I am now, the proof of a surrender that has ignited every corner of my soul. As I close these pages, my body still hums with the echo of ropes, the warmth of wax, the weight of his gaze. Each rule, each moment, has been a step toward a version of myself I never imagined: powerful, free, his.
I crave more rules, more lessons, more nights that push me to the edge and let me fall into his arms. This week has captivated me, consumed me, made me fall in love more than ever—not just with him as a man, though that’s true too, but with this world we’ve built together, the dance of control and surrender that makes me feel alive. Few will understand, I know. Some will read these rules and grimace, but I don’t care. These are my personal rules, my code, my truth. They are the map of a love that burns in submission, and I wouldn’t trade a single moment of what I’ve lived. Let more nights come, more challenges, more of him. I’m ready to keep being his.
