I offer same day sessions appointments , the best form of contact is by phone call or text message .
The earlier you call the better my availability will be

There are whispers.
Murmurs in the dark.
A date circled not on calendars… but carved into the flesh of the willing.

The Gathering is coming.

For twenty-four hours, The Edge, my custom built dungeon – becomes something… more. It transforms. A living, breathing altar of decadence and discipline. Of pain, pleasure, purpose. Fitted with every modern device and depraved delight a Mistress could desire, The Edge boasts multiple rooms: playrooms, studios, stables, bedrooms… and other facilities I shall not name here. Not because I can’t but because if you knew, you’d lose sleep.

Let’s just say… many things are planned.

Some you might guess.
Most you won’t.
And one… you’ll never forget.

The Slave Auction will return.

Three of my most perfectly broken-in, utterly obedient, exquisitely submissive slaves will be offered.

Willing.
Compliant.
Ready to be used and abused as the highest bidder sees fit.

The bidding will be hosted by one of my beloved Dominatrix sisters, a true connoisseur of cruel theatrics. And the best part? Every filthy, wonderful pound spent goes towards Mistress Eve’s Holiday Fund… a much-deserved escape involving designer shoes, silk-clad sin, and faraway shores where I’ll be adored by new subjects.

And don’t get the wrong idea. This event isn’t for just anyone.

Three guest invitations remain.

To be considered, you must make yourself known to me.
You must show your worth.
Prove your value.
Offer more than your pathetic longing.

Because if you miss this?
If you read this and do nothing?
Then you already know what you are: just another loser.

Be bold. Or be forgotten.

Mistress Eve
The Edge

here must be a factory somewhere , some holy little chapel that mass-produces these Catholic boys who grow up with rosaries in hand and guilt in their veins… and yet somehow crawl into my dungeon with the eagerness of a bloodhound who’s just sniffed out sin.

Today’s specimen was textbook: soft-spoken, neatly pressed, eyes like he’d just been baptised, and yet the minute I slithered into PVC and thigh boots (yes, the ones that make that faint squeak with every commanding step), I saw the altar boy melt into the altar. Naturally, I decided to test his limits.

He’d brought me gifts. Two exquisite, untouched bullwhips. That’s always a good sign… not just the tribute, but the readiness. So I guided him, or rather ushered him, into the stables section of the dungeon. You know what comes next. I selected the softest satin ribbon, always the prettiest implements for the dirtiest deeds and tied his balls with the kind of knot that would make a sailor blush. (I’m getting quite good, by the way. I should start a knot-tying Patreon.)

We did some collar walking. At the heel. Very strict. I made the rules and changed them constantly. Each time he got it wrong which was often, naturally the ribbon around his now-blue, ballooning balls got a delicious tug. His winces became music. The kind of suffering that isn’t really suffering at all. Just devotion in a different dialect.

He cried. Oh yes. Joyful little tears. Let’s say… 90% pleasure, 10% spiritual crisis.

The heat, the tension, the sheer absurd joy of domination, it got to me. My sacred tits made a sudden cameo, flipping themselves out from behind the PVC like they’d had enough of playing demure. Right in his line of sight. That’s when he gave me a rather ruined tribute, shall we say… earlier than scheduled. Silly, silly boy. But not all was lost, his punishment was more CEI training. (I adored every second. He, on the other hand, staggered away at the end looking like I’d hollowed him out and filled him with divine shame.)

He left with a limp. And a glow. The kind of look that says: “I’ve been spiritually cleansed via my balls.” It was beautiful.

Meanwhile, I’m sleep-deprived because you text sluts don’t know boundaries. 2AM, 3AM, 5AM… still worshipping at the altar of Eve, grovelling via iPhone, addicted and desperate, begging for permission to send tributes or for just one more line of filthy instruction. And where am I during this? In my pyjamas. Watching Judge Judy on mute. Eating a Cornetto and sipping wine while I control your little digital dicks like a goddess in curlers.

You’re lucky I’m generous.
You’re lucky I’m real.
You’re unlucky if I ever run out of Cornettos.

Until tomorrow, worms.
~ Mistress Eve 🔥