I love it when men talk about their dreams—the Beautiful Princess or Queen they want to serve. For many, this remains just a fantasy, but for me, this dream has become reality. I am a Mistress, and one man gave me seven years of his life—seven years of devotion, pain, trust, and submission that have become part of my soul, part of my world. Our acquaintance began timidly: he came to test himself, his limits, to understand how much he could trust a woman who takes complete control. In his gaze, I noticed a mixture of timidity and quiet delight, a desire to surrender, trembling and tension, but most importantly—a willingness to be mine. The first punishment was a test. I made him kneel before me and selected a whip, a belt, and a cane. "Lower your head," I ordered, and his voice trembled: "Yes, Mistress." Strike after strike fell on his skin, leaving stripes and marks. His breathing quickened, his body tensed, he fought back a scream but did not beg for mercy. "Say you belong to me," I demanded. "I belong to you," he whispered, and I understood: this man was made for service. From then on, our meetings turned into rituals. He served me at home: he cooked, cleaned, carried groceries, kept everything in order, fulfilled my whims, but the slightest mistake resulted in punishment, canes, a whip, hours of waiting on his knees with his hands behind his head, breathing laboriously evenly, his body trembling, but his gaze fixed on me. Sometimes I'd tie his hands behind his back, secure them to a chair leg, and leave him in the room with a single candle. "Don't move," I'd say. "Yes, Mistress," and the minutes would stretch out, the silence almost unbearable. He'd hear only his own breathing, the rustle of the candle wick, every movement in the room—and he'd understand that every second was under my control. He knelt in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, trembling, his eyes full of anticipation. "Do you know what will happen if you make a mistake?" I asked, slowly walking around him, the whip behind him. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered. I cracked the whip across his back, and he flinched, suppressing a groan. "Tell me you deserve it," I demanded. "I do, Mistress," he replied quietly, his voice trembling. Every step I took, every stroke created the rhythm of our play, and his body responded instantly: his muscles tensed, his breathing quickened, his skin broke out in streaks, and his eyes followed me, silently acknowledging my power. I sped up the strokes, then suddenly slowed, forcing him to listen to every movement. "Tell me you are completely mine," I whispered. "I am completely yours, Mistress," he shuddered, his voice trembling, his body shaking with tension and anticipation. After a series of strokes, I approached him with wax. "Are you willing to endure?" I asked, and he nodded. "Yes, Mistress." I held the candle to his chest; the first drop burned his skin, and he clenched his teeth. "Do not move," I commanded, watching as each drop made him tremble, clench his fists, and hold back a groan. I ran the candle over his shoulders, stomach, thighs, touching the more sensitive areas, sometimes speeding up the drips, sometimes slowing them to a slow, almost agonizing rhythm. He repeated my words, trembling: "I deserve your power." His every movement, every breath, was a response to my will, to my attention, to my patience. After the wax, I ordered him to crawl toward me. "Crawl," I said, and he slowly, with effort, approached, kissing my legs, massaging my feet, touching my skin, covered in marks of punishment, with his lips. "Tell him it's an honor to be at my feet," I demanded. "It's an honor," his voice trembled, his eyes looking at me with complete devotion. Sometimes I allowed him to touch me, sometimes I rewarded him with just a glance, but every minute of service made him completely mine, dependent on my will. Another day, I tested his patience: he was kneeling, tied to the back of a chair, his hands behind his head. I walked slowly around him, watching his muscles tremble, his breathing become increasingly ragged. "Tell me you await my every move," I demanded. "I await your every move, Mistress," he whispered, trembling. I approached with the whip, but only lightly touched his skin, building anticipation of pain; his body reacted instantly. I played with the rhythm: strike, pause, touch, anticipation, gaze, control. His eyes were filled with both fear and delight, each strike or pause deepening his submission. Later, I introduced a new ritual: he was to kiss and massage my legs, covered in wax and whip marks, while repeating my words: "I am yours, completely yours, Mistress." He did this slowly, mindful of every movement, feeling every trace of punishment. I watched his breathing quicken, his hands and knees tremble, and I understood that these seven years had made him completely mine, and me a Mistress who could control not only my body but my mind as well. Another time, I staged a test of strength and control: he knelt, his eyes downcast, his hands bound behind his back. I placed a bowl of hot wax before him, commanding him to catch the drops with his hands, to maintain his patience. Every drop was a test, every rustle of the wax a signal of submission. "Don't move," I said, and he froze, trembling, holding back the pain and the desire to protect himself. "Tell him you're stronger than the pain because you're mine," I whispered. "I'm stronger than the pain because I'm yours, Mistress," he trembled, his eyes full of faith and devotion. These additional trials, the wax scenes, the blows, the restraints, the rituals of service, the dialogues, the breathing, the gaze, the trembling—all intertwined into one long seven-year story. He became softer, more patient, stronger in his submission; I became confident and powerful, able to see his reaction before he even realized it. Every movement, every word, every minute of anticipation created a unique rhythm in our connection, a rhythm in which power and devotion merged into one. Seven years passed. A moment of change had arrived: a move, exhibitions, art projects, a new life. "You are free," I said. "Thank you, Lady," he accepted quietly, respectfully. He didn't fall at my feet, didn't beg, but accepted the decision with dignity. We embraced, thanked each other for the years of devotion and service, and he passed away quietly, leaving behind the memory of the seven years he spent at my feet. Looking back, I understand: every lash, every drop of wax, every minute of anticipation made us both stronger. He trusted me with his weakness, and I discovered within myself the ability to be a Mistress not only in body but also in spirit. I cherish the memory of him, his trembling hands, his knees, his skin covered in the marks of punishment, how he froze at my every touch, how he reached out to me after the rituals, and I know: he still remembers my blows, my voice, and my gaze. Every scene—the anticipation, the restraint, the whip, the rods, the wax, the rituals of service, the dialogue, the little words I whispered: "Say you're mine," "You deserve it," "Don't move"—they all became part of our story. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change a single word, a single command, a single moment. Power and devotion are gifts a man can give voluntarily, and for a Mistress, this is the highest reward. Even years later, I feel his breath, his trembling, his gaze, and I understand that this seven-year relationship has changed me forever, taught me to manage power, to respect trust and to turn pain into art, into a ritual, into the magic of power and devotion, a memory that lives inside me and reminds me that true power is not manifested in cruelty, but in understanding, care and in giving a person the opportunity to serve, to be weak and at the same time feel strong.