My FMTY to Paris

At the start of my career, I met what might be the sluttiest submissive I’ve ever encountered. That’s no exaggeration—I've never seen anyone take a cock the way this one did. They were French, and English wasn’t their strong suit (French definitely isn’t mine either, though I’m seriously considering getting a tutor). But during our anal training session, words felt entirely unnecessary. The sounds she made said it all.

Fast forward three years, and I’m on a plane heading to reunite. I’m staying in Montmartre—the only part of Paris I know well, thanks to a handful of spontaneous visits in 2017 when I flew over just to wander the streets and sip good wine. This time, we planned an eight-hour session—her longest yet.

I spent my first night just as I had back then: aimlessly strolling, drinking beautiful wine, and eventually calling it a night at a reasonable hour, knowing what lay ahead. I’d booked us an overnight stay at the dungeon. No clocks. No interruptions. Just hour upon filthy hour.

By the end, my submissive was completely spent, and I was tipsy on champagne. She ate caviar from my feet and solemnly swore never to eat it any other way again. Every surface of the dungeon seemed slick with lube, toys scattered in a chaotic aftermath. It was time to sleep.

But our indulgence didn’t end there. The next morning, she treated me to brunch and a shopping spree. I dragged her around Galeries Lafayette until we agreed on a very fitting souvenir: my first ever pair of Louboutins. After an hour of what she called “abusing her credit card,” we said our goodbyes. Au revoir, Sub A.

Later this year, she’ll be in Edinburgh for something even more intense: 24 hours of sleep deprivation and several different forms of torture. I can’t wait to have her beneath me again.

So, tell me—have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly me out?