Slutathon latest: the countdown

The countdown has started. Less than one week to go for our Right Royal Rogering…

And so far, we have a nice little stables of boy shores for the Grand Slutathon: from a total newby with a desire to slut it around to within an inch of his life and pop his cherry, to several seasoned male sluts who are willing to do anything for the Mistresses.

We have a butler in attendance and an all-round slut who will give and get as requested: in his mouth, in his slutty buy cunt and will lap the soggy biscuit with gusto. The Mistressses will sip a cocktail while watching.

We also have a slut who is experienced in fisting, according to his correspondence.  Whores like to brag, so we’ll soon see about that “puts elbow long rubber gloves on”.

And as for strapon… We’ve been polishing our dildos for a thorough session of spit-roasting a-deux. Drank plenty of water for beauty and to make the fountains of delectable golden wine flow. Our confirmed sluts have been assaulting my inbox with detailed accounts of their recurring fantasies involving cock, both meat dildo and lady cock. There will be a slut for every fantasy, and all levels of experience will be catered for. So if all this delight your decadent senses, you can still apply for a place:

June 8th Slutathon: a Right Royal Rogering

Will you Adam and Eve it! The next Slutathon will take place on the weekend after the most British event of the year. The English Vice comes in many forms… It’s going to be the most sought after party of the Jubilee season…

it will take place on Friday June 8th, just after the Jubilee Week, how about some proper Queening?
How would you fancy a right Royal Rogering in the hands of four rampant phallic Mistresses?

Be privileged and feel knighted by the ladies… sceptres.

How about taking part, in the company of like-minded male sluts, of some pre-Olympic Great British Buggering?

Soggy biscuit? How about a sip of soggy cream tea?
Yes, it’s a right Royal Slutathon and we need to be entertained by our court Jizz Jesters.

We will receive you at a magnificent venue near the City of London: the strapon will be more valuable than money, the Slutathon more respected than the Bank of England.
Pumped and CirCUMstance will be, erm, yes! pumping incessantly! With the inexhaustible help of mouths, hands and arses. Not the ladies, we ahste to add: it’s the duty of our Jizz Jesters, to ensure that the fountains flow for the duration of the party.
If you are early or feel shy, go for a Cock-tail in the bar beforehand

We, Mistress jezabel, Mistress Rebekka Raynor, Ms Theda & Ms Tytania, will be expecting you in the Land of Poke and Glory Hole

And to finish this most gloriously British of slutathons, and to make sure you don’t faint after so much fun… take part in our Spit Roast Marathon.


You can still book your ticket by emailing ms Tytania on:


More information, here: What is The Grand Slutathon and how can I take part?

Ooooh, Mistress! That’s big!!

Today I went to Expectations, the fabulous emporium of gay excess, with my Manhooker – a man known for his penchant for large strapons and for the women attached to them. We hadn’t met for a while, so we thought it’d be nice to go shopping for some new cocks to try for size on him (in him?) on the weekend.

We entered the shop and were instantly greeted by the wonderful aroma of rubber & leather that usally impregnates these places. The basement was cavernous, the light dim, the dildos, uncannily arranged on rows of shelves in a small alcove on the left: it looked like a cloistered private chapel in a gothic cathedral, the superhuman rubber cocks standing proud like archangels of Sodom. But this time supportive of its denizens. How times change!

As Manhooker himself noted: “you got to love those gays and their love of ridicuous sized insertables…” Cough! As if only the gays love ridiculosuly big fake cocks!

No, gays aren’t the only people who love large, phallic sized insertables. Phallic women and women with penis envy, like me, find them irresistible. There must have been about a hundred to choose from, from the baby cock size (only a small handful of them hiding shyly behind their bigger siblings), to the man fist sized behemoths and above – several dozen, actually.

So I settled for two: a smooth, black 10″ to re-start Manhooker’s training (he sears he hasn’t been fucked in months, but I’ve heard that story before) where we left it last summer… I then set my eyes and wallet on a thick, cocky, fully balled, rampant 12″ with a 7 1/2″ girth round the base.

I bought them both. They were heavy in my bag and could hardly stuff them in it (no pun). Walked around Shoreditch and went for tea at afashionable new bar, hoping I didn’t leave my bag behind… it wouldn’t have been the first time!

UNDERGROUND: a waterboarding & hostage session

I received him dressd in my favourite leopard print wrap around dress, winter boots and gloves. The lobby were we were meeting, the antechamber to my fearsome UNDERGROUND Cell (which is actually on the top floor , ha), was stylish welcoming, with a comfy leather Chesterfield sofa and a bar. He thought I wasn’t serious, I could read it in his eyes.

We had a cup of tea to warm up in the cold early March morning, it’d taken him some time to arrive to hsi destination: my underground prison cell in deepest East London. Still, all he could see was the misleadingly homely lobby.

He let me handcuff and blindfold him and I gulped my last sip of tea. He said he might need to loo before going up. “Too late”, I replied, “we are going up”

He stumbled on the metal staircase, blind, hands behind his back in steeel polie cuffs. I’d told him to wer clothes I could rip with my hunting knife. I started a soon as he was halfway onto the top floor, prodding him with the tip of the sharp bowie knife, slitting fabric here and there. he yelped like a puppy wehn the metal tip pricked his skin. No blood though.

The room had a clean, white medical area on one side, and a large barred cell on the other. I ripped his clothes with my hunting knife and only when he was completely naked, I turned him round towards the cell and removed his blindfold. The cell was the size of a small room. I kicked him in. He was shaking a little by then, but not much. I tied him up to the cell’s hard cot, his head hanging out of the edge, barely held by a block of wood lower than the bed edge. When I walked in with a bucket full of water and a large, dirty rag, he understood. It was for real.

I’d added the leftovers of our tea to the already not very clean water. I noisily pissed on it, in front of my helpless hostage, to top the bucket up. All that morning tea! The rag on his face and chest wasn’t too clean too, I’d brought my soiled kitchen towels, for realism. He gasped. he gasped even more when i sat in his face to increase the feeling of drowning and lack of air. Attaching the electrics to his shrunk cock & scrotum was agood idea too, unfortunately the electricity didn’t travel to the wet patch. Damn.

Still reluctant to surrender to the demands of the Underground Cell, I untied him and had an idea I’;d toyed with in the past, but never actually carried out: japanese rope suspension and waterboarding? He s after all a strappy, ex’Army lad (or so he claimed). I suspended him face up, on four secure, separate points, his head again lower than his torso.

Waterboarding. It worked. He gasped for air, his chest contrained by his own weight and the rope’s pressure on it. he ave in. he yielded. he surrendered to Feral, militant Female Supremacy. We won! And he’d booked this Underground session for March 8th, International Women’s Day. Wonderful irony, eh?



To be continued…

Kinky dreams, literally

I have been discussing a possible cuckolding session with a client, a whole bunch of emails coming to and fro on both sides. My main problem is that although I do love cuckolding scenes dearly, i can’t just do with any bloke who offers to be my bull. Ms Tytania only indulges in the more traditional pleasures of the flesh with a small, select number of bulls who also happen to be her partners. It’s not a moral decision. I can’t fuck someone i don’t like respect and fancy. Even for money.

But back to the matter in the title. I woke up from a series of vivd dreams that featured my sessions, something extremely rare in my dreams. The last one wa sthe most vivid, and it was about this forthcoming cuckolding session. I want it to go ahead, but it;s probing problematic because my bulls work during the day, like most employable people, and wouldn’t be available for a daytime session. So please note: my cuckolding sessions normally take plce in the evenings or weekends.

In my dream, we had hired plush, luxurious big hotel suite for the session (in real life, my studio in East London) is the perfect venue). I unlocked the door to a fabulous, stylish set of room with large windows, balconies and even an indoor courtyard (ah,  the power of dreams!). I unpacked my big suitcase full of dildos, harnesses and strapons of all sizes, colours and descriptions. Including some I’ve recently seen on this weird, but oddly wonderful website: Elypse Art. apart form the fantasy setting, this is all very much how I’ve proceed in the past when playing away. Also, and as I’d do in a session in real life, my favourite toys, and also those in the reserve, would be placed on tops and tables, fo ease of access and reach. So myself and my bull, the one in the dream being actaully the one I hope to have the pelasure of using at this future session, helped me arrange the room for play.

Then it all wen t bit Marx Brothers. While I was snogging and chilling with my lovely bull, getting in the mood for the session and waiting for my cuckold to phone me at the arranged time, the suite door burst open and a group of people marched in. They were a film crew, with cameras, sound booms, busy runners, continuity girls… they marched in claiming there had been a mistake, and that suite was hired for filming. “But I have the right key!”, I protested showing them the key I’d used to get in. “Security in this hotel is appalling”, somebody explained to me. Very enlightening, thanks, but all I could see was a forest of dildos around us. So I ran to cover them with my jumper, with my handbag, with anything at hand. I even pinched one of the male crew’s jacket and while I was flirtingly talking to him to distract him. I put his jacket over a group of tastefully arranged dildos, like a dinner table centerpiece, scooped them in the jacket and sneaked into my bedroom. “You are running away with my jacket”, shouted the film guy I had tried to distract from my theft. I was holding it against my chest, concealing the sex toys. “I won’t be a moment!”, I replied, and then I woke up.

Luckily, my sessions all happen in very discreet venues and could never envision being interrupted or busted like that. But I woke up feeling stressed. Any dream interpreters and shrinks out there, your replies are welcome 🙂