You don’t book a session with me. You step into an encounter.

One night, it may be dinner in Manhattan, your hand trembling under the table as you sneak a kiss to my foot between courses. Another, it may be rope against your skin, each knot a quiet command that unravels your control. Sometimes, the only proof of your devotion is the collar I place around your neck—mine to fasten, yours to wear.

I don’t offer “sessions.” I offer experiences that blur the line between worship and surrender. Foot worship. Bondage. Public poise. Private unraveling. Financial obedience. Each woven together as I choose, each an extension of my presence.

This isn’t performance. It’s transformation. The longer you linger in my world, the more you realize: your cravings don’t guide me. I reshape them. What you think you want becomes only the beginning.

All I require is your reverence, your willingness, your devotion. The rest is mine to design. Know this, every tease I give, every surrender you offer, every shiver you can’t suppress, I relish as deeply as you crave it. Your undoing is my pleasure.