Before I tell you how my day is going, let me tell you about myself. My name is Nicole. I am 5'4" tall. I have very long blonde hair that is usually in a ponytail that falls down to the small of my back. My eyes are green and some say they have a sparkle to them. I don't have very large breasts, I wear a size 32B but they are perky and firm to the touch. What I lack in breasts I make up greatly in ass and toned body. I ru...

Late-afternoon light pours gold over the Maltese archipelago, turning the sea outside the jet’s window into hammered bronze. Lucrezia closes her sketchbook—charcoal thumbnails of rope lattices—while Zoe reviews a slim dossier of guests: eight Dommes from Paris, Berlin, Reykjavík, Marrakech, and one enigmatic New Yorker known only as Opal. Across the aisle, Eva and Noor lean together, earbuds shared, the bass of a downtemp...

Eva had pictured her homecoming smelling of rosemary oil and warm pastry. Instead, when the clock struck eight, the loft door slid open onto darkness pierced only by twenty glass votives arranged like a runway. Each flame fluttered inside a ruby cup, tinting the hallway blood-rose. Noor entered first, her suitcase wheels whispering across the runner; Eva followed, catching the faint scent of leather polish and bergamot. N...

Late afternoon paints Florence in slanted amber. In the penthouse bath—carved from veined Carrara—Zoe opens the twin taps; warm water rushes, echoing like distant surf inside the marble walls. I uncork a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. Its nose blooms with dark cherry, cedar, and the faint musk of cellar dust—perfume meant for tongues and, tonight, for flesh. Candles populate the ledges: honey-colored pillars that gutte...

Florence stirs before we do. Somewhere below, a milk cart rattles, and swifts sew pale threads across the paling sky. I wake to a pressure: Zoe’s thigh wedged between mine, her palm cupping my breast, thumb already drawing slow circles as though she had traced them all night in her dreams. She kisses the nape she claimed hours ago and whispers—voice still husked by sleep, soft as a storm subdued: “Stay quiet, my cloud. Br...

Dawn drapes the Toulouse-Matabiau station in amber. Eva and Noor hug Zoe and me so tightly that you can almost sense their perfume staining our coats. They’re off to visit their families—two weeks of homemade pastries and “perfectly innocent gossip,” as Noor teases. “Be good,” Zoe murmurs. “And you be wicked,” Eva fires back, blushing to her ears. A whistle, a chorus of hydraulic sighs, and their train folds them away. Wh...

6th Game - "Violet Hothouse" The workshop lights fade, and new fixtures glow neon-violet on tripod stands, tinting the cement walls with an orchid haze. Eight bamboo poles, two metres tall, line the centre like rows in a greenhouse. Conductive hemp rope coils at each base, the ends dipping into stainless bowls of aloe-saline so they stay moist. On a trestle rests the violet-wand kit: a red Bakelite handle, a mushroom elec...

4th Game - "Mirror Maze Exhibition" By dusk the basement resembles a fun-house chapel: eight full-length mirrors form a staggered corridor, their angles trapping infinite reflections. Tea-lights glow in hurricane chimneys, multiplying warm sparks into constellations. Outside the maze, a high bistro table offers chilled Crémant de Bourgogne and canapés. Three invited voyeurs—Marc, Li, and Rina—mingle in cocktail black, hol...

1st Game - "Velvet Solitude" Eva and Noor have learned that pleasure can be loud. Tonight we will teach them how loud silence can feel. The game: one sister hooded, deafened, lashed; the other, un-hooded, must describe each strike—voice, words, even scent—so her twin drowns in a darkness painted only by the sister’s tongue. At the midpoint they switch roles. We watch power flicker between empathy and cruelty. The basement...

After a week’s polite messages, Noor—a willow-slim Moroccan graduate student with curious eyes—joins us for “sister rope.” I outline the blueprint to both subs: a chest harness, a crotch rope, twin hip-slings, hoisted so their bellies graze, their faces close enough to share breath. Zoe and I will wear harnesses—mine obsidian, hers wine-red—and take them from behind while we choreograph their mouths. Two safeword voices a...

The basement smells of honey and winter pines before a single wick is lit. Four pillar candles sit on a steel tray: ivory soy (the lowest melt), beeswax gold, scarlet paraffin, and midnight-blue paraffin laced with micro-glitter. A stainless ladle, a thermometer, and a bowl of half-melted wax wait on a mug warmer humming at a constant 50 °C. Eva kneels nude on a rubber mat dusted in talc so the wax will lift clean. Her wr...

My oldest friend in the scene, Maîtresse Zoe, arrives precisely at dusk: violet suede coat, boots buffed to piano-black. She carries her own harness rolled like a banner of intent and a sealed tube of medical-grade silicone lube. We exchange a cheek-kiss that crackles with static—two storms about to converge over one trembling shore. Eva kneels between us, leather collar already fastened; hook-kissed muscles still tender,...

I never touch an untouched place without ritual... The day itself feels like ceremony: roasted aromas coil up from the moka pot, sunlight sifts through the kitchen shutters in honey ribbons, and the marble counter is cool enough to raise goose-flesh from a single fingertip. Outside, city traffic mumbles, unaware that the apartment’s heartbeat has slowed to a hush. Steam clouds the narrow window, etching hazy runes that di...

Sybian tremors still haunt the basement mats when Eva returns three nights later, pupils widening at the metallic scent I let linger on purpose. We talk first—always. Thirty full minutes: tea, laughter, an honest roll-call of bruises and bruised memories. She names a new curiosity: “The point where pain flips and becomes flavour… I want to taste that.” I show her the tools laid out on suede:  • two copper nipple clamps—ad...

Sleep surrendered us to daylight in slow filaments: amber loft-light dissolving into watery Toulouse sun, kettle hiss morphing into pigeons on the eaves. Eva still dozed when I planned the afternoon—thumb idly scrolling a mental inventory of toys in the locked side closet. She had whispered—half-dream, half-confession—that she sometimes imagined being ridden by sensation, muscles too weak to flee, pleasure too vast to cor...