I have never particularly felt the desire to soil a masochist with my own bodily fluids. I’ve never meant it as a form of marking, either. They are things born within my body, things that were inside me just moments ago—nothing more than something unclean. They are meant to be discarded, so I have no need for them. And yet, there are still people in this world who call them “beautiful,” “wonderful,” even “sacred.” They crave it—breathing grows ragged, their voices tremble. Their words lose strength, their eyes begin to go vacant. Rather than me holding it, it feels far more fitting for you to present yourself—your tongue, your face, your entire body—as the vessel to receive it. So instead of wanting to “dirty” you, it feels more natural to think of it as using you until I’m satisfied. Watching these perverts fall into near-madness—howling as they taste it, smear it—that’s what makes me think so. Trash goes in the trash. Filth goes in the toilet. If you want it, you already know what ki...
“I’m afraid of the ‘space’ you talk about, Mistress Hibari. Because that words always assume that I’ll be cornered and stripped of everything.” To put it simply, this “space” refers to the submissive’s mental leeway—their sense of composure or remaining rationality during a session. I use this word because I always want to push that submissive mindset to the edge. If I were to fill that space completely, we'd just hit the ceiling—and that would be boring. If I filled that space completely, you’d just hit the limit—and that’s not interesting. Things are better when they stay slightly out of reach. At some point, even that frustration can just tip over into something else. You call it frightening—but you’re not trying to hold on to it, either. If anything, you’re already leaning toward letting me take it. As for the extent of that “space,” I want to define it myself, adjusting it in response to how things unfold. I think that authority belongs solely to the dominatrix. People tend to...