“Mistress, how do You keep so cool in this heat?”

Oh, My darling plaything… such a sensible question in this hot weather! And not the first time some poor overheated sissy has whimpered it at My feet, thighs trembling in lace-topped stockings. While the rest of London sizzles, I remain perfectly composed thanks to the blissful hum of My private dungeon’s air conditioning.

Yes - real power comes with real perks. When you serve Me as your London Mistress, you won’t find yourself gasping through a heatwave. You find yourself gasping for entirely different reasons...

While the city sweats, I glide about cool as ever, stockings sharp, heels high, and discipline precise. The @TrannyFlat Dungeon is now always kept at the perfect temperature - whether I’m punishing a maid for another #maidfail, dressing up a trembling little crossdresser for their next ordeal or having My stubby slaves toil in outrageous acts of worship...

So next time you feel yourself flushed and sticky under your frills, remember this: a true sub or sissy serves somewhere cool. Somewhere strict. Somewhere where even the air obeys its Dominatrix.

Come HOME to the TrannyFlat - even during the heatwave!

www.MistressThorne.com

Today, my darlings, I did not tie a single wrist, spit on a single shoe, or cage a single soul. Tragic, really. But as ever, it was in service of you… my beloved, needy, obsessive, fragrant little submissives.

You see, while the rest of the West Midlands were busy not mattering, I was in an undisclosed location with three fellow Dominant forces of nature – plotting, designing, and mapping out the future of my soon-to-open, highly exclusive, invitation-only dungeon. Yes, the rumours are true. Mistress Eve’s fortress of filth is nearly ready… and no, you may not just turn up. This isn’t Greggs.

The West Midlands’ largest and most elite dungeon is coming. And it’s mine. Designed with decadence. Built for punishment. Outfitted with everything from latex-wrapped cages to overnight isolation chambers for those who need a little more than a slap on the wrist. (You know who you are.)

Today’s Agenda of Torment (and Love):

Puppy Training School – I sat down with two of my closest Dominatrix sisters—viciously intelligent women with heels like daggers—and we’ve drawn up plans for a dedicated puppy training curriculum. Structured sessions. Obedience drills. Sniff-and-bark games. Tail-wagging optional, crawling mandatory. Expect collars, cages, feeding bowls, and of course, lots of correction. Bad pups will not be ignored.
Foot Fetish Affairs.
Now, for the toe-obsessed among you (I see you, the lot of you hovering in the DMs begging for a crumb of toenail). I’ve crafted a new weekly schedule just for foot play:
Monday Moisture Mornings: fresh from heels after cardio.
Trample Thursdays: bruises optional, humiliation guaranteed.
Socks & Sole Saturdays: all-day wear, all-night worship
Don’t say I never do anything for you.

Because frankly, I do everything.

Scented Devotions
Apparently, some of you are connoisseurs of aroma. There is a particular breed of sub (usually with a glazed expression and heavy breathing) who could write wine-level tasting notes on my underwear. And I do adore you.
To that end, I’m introducing a new, tiered system for the acquisition of worn items.

Bronze: 4-hour wear, gentle musk.
Silver: all-day wear, mild sweat.
Gold: gym session, then errands, then 2-hour nap.
Platinum: “don’t ask, just inhale and whimper.”
Each item will come with a handwritten note. Possibly lipstick-marked. Possibly not. Depends on how well-behaved you’ve been.

This dungeon, my wicked sweethearts, isn’t just a play space. It’s a sanctuary for the twisted, a home for the obedient, a palace of pain and pleasure. And unlike those cheap rooms with rubber mats and an Ikea spanking bench, mine has overnight facilities. Cages for hours. Rooms for days. Chambers for weeks.

Want to be wrapped and ignored for 72 hours? I have space. Want to be caged and fed through a straw like the snivelling pet you are? Step right up…. well, crawl, actually.

In conclusion: I’m exhausted. I haven’t had a hot meal, my inbox has 72 messages from horny little worms, and my heels are killing me. But it’s all for you. Every plan, every purchase, every lash and lick I’m preparing is because I know you need it. You crave it. You live for it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to soak my feet, and yes, the water may be bottled and sold tomorrow.

Yours in dominion and decadence,

Mistress Eve

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