Part two Power nylons and obsession

Behind Closed Doors – Part Two: Power, Nylon & Obsession

There’s a kind of power most people don’t understand. It doesn’t come from shouting, or standing tall, or swinging a fist. It comes from a whisper. A giggle. A slow, controlled breath on the end of a phone line. The moment a man confesses he wants to be humiliated… and you realise he’s handing you everything.

That’s what this is for me—power. Play. Psychology. And some of the most intense, strangely intimate connections I’ve ever experienced. Especially with the men who come crawling, begging to be shamed for what they’ve spent their lives hiding—how small they are, how weak they feel, how desperate they are to be used.

This is part two of my story. The filthier part. The more complicated part. The one where desire, domination, and destruction twist into something I never expected.

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Tiny Trouble: Small Penis Humiliation

Let’s start with the most common request I get these days: small penis humiliation—or SPH for short.

I used to wonder how a man could want to be mocked for something he’s clearly insecure about. But now? I get it. They don’t want love. They want annihilation. They want to hand their cock—tiny, trembling—and hear me laugh.

And I do laugh.

I tell them it’s cute. Useless. That I’ve seen bigger clits. That if they were mine, I’d lock it in a cage and forget about it. That the only thing it’s good for is giving me material to joke about with my girlfriends. And the best part? They love it. They moan, they gasp, they stroke that pathetic little nub while I humiliate them into oblivion.

Some want me to rate it—one even sent me a picture once, begging me to compare it to a lipstick tube. I told him the lipstick was girthier. He came in seconds.

But it’s not just the size—it’s the feeling of being powerless. Of being told they’re not men. That’s what they really crave.

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Wrapped in Nylon: The Pantyhose Obsession

The second most common kink I encounter? Nylons.

Tights. Pantyhose. Stockings. Hold-ups. Glossy, sheer, black, nude—it doesn’t matter. Some of these men don’t even need a voice, just the sound of my legs rubbing together in nylons. I could be reading a cereal box, and if I’m doing it in stockings, they’re gone in two minutes flat.

There’s something delicate and feminine about nylon. But there’s also power in it. I learned early on that slipping into tights and describing the process—the roll over my toes, the smooth pull up my calves—was enough to make men worship me.

Some ask me to degrade them while I wear them. Some beg to imagine themselves in them. The sissy boys—the ones who want to be feminised—can’t get enough. They want me to tell them they’re my nylon-wearing slut. That they belong in panties, painted toes, and cheap tights from the corner shop.

One client sends me money just to talk about the kind of tights I buy. He doesn’t even ask for anything sexual. He just wants to hear about the texture, how they feel against my skin, how I’d laugh at him if he tried to wear a pair and they laddered over his hairy legs.

And then, there are the ones who want both—SPH and nylons. They imagine themselves kneeling at my feet, hard (but barely), while I dangle a heel from my toe and tell them they’ll never satisfy a woman like me. That their place is under me, not inside me.

They nod along. They whimper. They cum. And then they say thank you.

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Pegging Fantasies and Male Surrender

And then… there’s pegging.

If SPH is about emasculation, pegging is the ultimate finish line. These men don’t just want to be shamed—they want to be taken. Controlled. Penetrated.

They start soft. “Do you do dom calls?” they ask. “Are you into roleplay?” And then it comes: “Can we pretend you’re strapping one on?”

Oh, honey. We don’t have to pretend.

I tell them exactly how I’d bend them over. How I’d make them lube up, beg, cry, and thank me with every inch. I describe the sound of my heels as I walk up behind them. The cold snap of latex gloves. The first push. The whimper.

They want to be ruined.

Some tell me I’m the first person they’ve ever admitted this to. Others have whole scripts, whole fantasies written out—everything from strict mistress to casual girlfriend who surprises them with a harness on their birthday.

One guy told me he’d built his own pegging bench. Another sent a photo of the dildo he bought after one of our chats. Bright pink, of course. He named it after me.

It’s not just physical. It’s mental. It’s about giving up all control. These men have spent their lives pretending to be in charge—at work, at home, even in bed. And now, on the phone with a stranger, they can finally let go. They don’t have to perform. They don’t have to lead. They just have to submit.

And I love it.

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Obsessive Submission: Worship, Control, and the Line Between Fantasy and Reality

There are callers who want a laugh and a wank. And then there are the obsessives.

These are the men who fall hard. Fast. They save my name in their phone. They call daily. They want to know everything—what I’m wearing, what I’m eating, if I’ve thought about them. They become addicted to my voice, my approval, my control.

Some want full-on femdom relationships—chastity cages, financial domination, 24/7 messaging. They beg to be my pay pig, my foot slave, my toy. They want rules. They want punishment. They want to feel like they belong to me.

And I’ll admit it—there’s something intoxicating about being worshipped. About having a man beg to please me, to suffer for me, to be owned.

But it can be intense.

I’ve had to set boundaries, remind them that I’m not their girlfriend, that this is a fantasy—even if it feels real. Some take it well. Others spiral. One man said he couldn’t sleep without my voice. Another once sent me money five days in a row, even when I told him not to. He said he needed to “feel my presence.”

It can be beautiful, in a twisted way. I’ve had submissives thank me for helping them explore parts of themselves they’d buried for years. I’ve helped men cry, laugh, heal, and grow. But I’ve also had to block more than a few who couldn’t tell fantasy from obsession.

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The Dance of Power and Play

All of these fetishes—SPH, nylons, pegging, obsession—they come down to one thing: the exchange of power.

I hold the keys. They beg for permission. And I decide how far it goes.

But I’m not cruel—not really. Not in the way they fear. I’m controlled. Intentional. I use their kinks to tease, not destroy. To build a fantasy that’s so intense, they forget the outside world even exists.

And in that space? There’s connection. There’s release. There’s a strange kind of healing.

One man told me, after a long SPH and pegging roleplay, that he hadn’t felt so “seen” in years. He said, “You let me be what I really am.” That stuck with me.

Because under all the moans, the groans, the dirty words and sissy names… there’s a human being. A man who wants to surrender. And a woman—me—who knows exactly how to take him apart.

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Reflections Behind the Curtain

When I first started phone chat, I had no idea I’d be leading men through fantasies involving nylon worship and humiliating dick ratings. But now? I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

There’s freedom in this space. Permission to play. To push. To dominate. And honestly? I’ve never felt more powerful, more grounded, or more in control of my own body and boundaries.

I make men melt. I make them cry. I make them laugh while I call them names they’d never let their wives say. And then they tip me for the privilege.

Do I think it’s weird sometimes? Of course. Do I laugh after a two-minute call where a man came to the sound of me describing laddered tights? Absolutely.

But I also feel pride.

Because behind closed doors, I get to be the version of myself that the world rarely sees: unapologetic, commanding, sensual, cruel, kind, clever—and absolutely unforgettable.