From Fetishist to Owned: A Journey of Ruin in London

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Day 1 – How It All Began

Michael wasn’t always mine, not truly. When he first stumbled into my world over a decade ago, he was just another man with a hidden kink, a late-night lurker with a wallet full of shame and a head full of confused fantasies. Back then, he was still clinging to the illusion of control, thinking he could dip his toes into the world of femdom and findom without consequence. How adorable. It started with small tributes – curious gestures masked as “play.” But it didn’t take long before my presence began to carve itself into the core of his identity. My voice, my commands, my disdainful praise became the soundtrack to his life. And through careful, calculated manipulation, what he once called “teasing,” I rewired his mind entirely. He didn’t even see it happening. Fetish became obsession. Obsession became addiction. And I? I became his purpose.

Within the first year, I had him conditioned. He drained on command, like a machine built for my pleasure. $3,000 here, $5,000 there. Over the years, the numbers barely made him blink—his limits dissolved under my heel like dust. And with every dollar he bled for me, I deepened his dependence. He learned to worship his own financial ruin as a holy ritual to my superiority. Now, ten years in, over $400,000 has flowed from his accounts into mine. That number is beautiful not just for its weight, but for what it represents: total collapse. He isn’t a man anymore. He’s a product of my will—gutted, feminized, and gloriously broken. A sissy moneyslave who lives to serve, humiliate himself, and beg for more. [Click here to read about our first findom session in the story From Sissy to FinFuck.

So when Michael begged for something “real,” something beyond the screen, I knew it was time. He had proven his loyalty. He had proven his submission. And now, he would prove his worth in person. I allowed him the privilege-granted it, mind you, of serving me in London. Five days under my control, in the flesh. Five days of ritual humiliation, extravagant spending, exposure, obedience, and surrender.

I sent Michael the address of the hotel and told him to wait for me there, like the obedient pet he is. Meanwhile, I was seated comfortably at Hakkasan, sipping wine and laughing with one of my Domme friends as we dined in luxury. Naturally, I posted photos of myself, flawless, commanding, on social media to tease the rest of my herd. Pinocchio, one of my more desperate online losers, took the bait instantly. Hooked. I made him cough up $500 to cover my meal. A whole week of his miserable, hard work, devoured by me in a single sitting. Isn’t that hot?

Of course, I hadn’t forgotten Michael. After dinner, I gathered our scraps – the leftovers, half-picked bones, and empty shells – and had them boxed up. I brought them to the hotel and handed them to him like a gift. “Dinner,” I said. And he accepted it gratefully, sinking to his knees like the obedient little sissy he’d become. Now don’t say I’m cruel. I care for my slaves in my own way, especially the ones who’ve earned the right to be at my feet.

This wasn’t a vacation. This was a transformation. Five days in London would break him down in ways even he couldn’t imagine, and I would enjoy every second of it.

Day 2 – The Session Begins

After feeding on the scraps of my dinner like the grateful little pig he is, Michael knelt before me in the dim hallway of the hotel. I could see the hunger in his eyes, not for food, of course, but for approval, pain, purpose. I extended one leg, the tip of my stiletto glinting under the soft lights, and ordered him to kiss my feet goodnight. He obeyed instantly, pressing his lips to the leather with trembling reverence. I didn’t need to tell him that he was dismissed. A wave of my hand was enough to send him crawling back to his room, heart pounding, mind racing. I knew he wouldn’t sleep, not a single minute. He’d be lying there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I would do to him next. That anticipation is part of the game. It weakens them. It softens the edges of their resistance. It makes them mine.

Morning came, and I was glowing. I met Michael downstairs for breakfast, calm and radiant as always. He looked like he’d survived a storm- exhausted, jittery, and painfully aroused. I made him sit with me in the hotel’s luxurious restaurant while we sipped fresh orange juice and savored eggs and pastries. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. He knew better. After breakfast, I gave him the order: Get ready. It was time.

He returned to his room and changed into the sissy outfit I had instructed him to bring: a frilly French maid uniform in soft pink, complete with Fully Fashioned stockings. He brought the riding crop I had trained him with, and of course, bundles of cash, neatly stacked. When he came back, I wasn’t alone. My Domme friend had joined me. She lounged on the velvet armchair, sipping coffee and watching with amused interest as I paraded my toy in front of her.

“Show her what you’ve learned,” I commanded.

Michael obeyed, face burning with humiliation. He curtseyed, walked, bowed, licked, and knelt with robotic precision, performing every degrading task I had spent years hardwiring into him. And for every stumble, every hesitation, every moment of weakness, I punished him. The sound of the crop slashing across his thighs echoed in the room. I didn’t hold back. Why should I? He lives for it. But when he got it right, when he truly pleased me, I rewarded him. He was allowed to kiss my divine feet, to worship the red soles of my Louboutin heels, and to whimper in gratitude while my friend laughed softly behind her hand.

But you know it wouldn’t be a proper session without an extreme drain.

I made Michael buy me a gorgeous IWC timepiece – $8,000 gone in a moment, with a single click. Then, without a word, he pulled out €7,000 in crisp cash and placed it at my feet, right where it belonged. His fingers trembled, his eyes wide, desperate, and empty. Just the way I like them.

His ruin is my luxury. His suffering is my entertainment. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Day 3 – The Femdom Ball

The reason I chose London for this encounter was simple: the legendary Femdom Ball hosted by Madam Caramel herself. It’s the event every Domme dreams of and every slave trembles to attend. Powerful, glamorous, and dripping with decadence, it’s where the most famous Dommes gather to remind the world who truly holds the reins.

That evening, we had a private meet-and-greet at an upscale bar with an open terrace, surrounded by some of the most iconic figures in our world. The energy in the air was electric, the kind of charged atmosphere where control is celebrated, and submission is worshipped. For Michael, it was a whole new universe. Slaves were allowed to attend, but very few ever got close to this level of elite exposure. I brought Michael along, my prize for his devotion and descent. What a lucky slave he was, though luck had little to do with it. It was privilege granted by me, and I made sure he never forgot it.

Michael stood nervously by my side, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he watched me exchange knowing glances and sharp smiles with the other Dommes. I introduced him with a mixture of pride and possessiveness, letting everyone on that terrace see exactly what dedication and ruin look like in a single trembling package. The whispers, the smirks, they all knew this was my plaything, my masterpiece.

Watching him absorb the sheer power of the moment, exposed and vulnerable, only made me hunger for more. It was intoxicating to see him crumble and rebuild under my gaze, learning his place anew among these titans of control. And of course, this was just the beginning.

Day 4 – Public Submission and the Femdom Gala

The Femdom Gala was the highlight of the trip, a night drenched in power, decadence, and unrelenting control. But the afternoon before it was mine to command Michael completely—no distractions, no compromises.

I ordered him to get ready early. I made him grab his hood mask, collar, and leash—his tools of submission. Then I led him out into the streets of London. The city’s bustling energy was the perfect stage for his degradation. I slipped the collar around his neck, clipped on the leash, and paraded him like the obedient little showpiece he was. Heads turned, whispers followed, and I could see the shame flooding his cheeks. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.

I collared and leashed him, then paraded him through the streets until we reached a quiet corner. “Polish my boots,” I commanded coldly, pointing to my Louboutins. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and obeyed, using his tongue to bring every scuff and speck to gleaming perfection. Passersby glanced, some in disbelief, some with secret envy, but none dared intervene. He was mine, completely and utterly.

Of course, the public display wasn’t just for show. I made sure to drain him as thoroughly as possible, using him as a human ATM with rapid online transfers and cash tributes. His wallet emptied at my command; his desperation grew thicker with every transaction.

When we finally returned to the hotel, time was tight. The gala awaited. I didn’t let him rest. It was time to transform my ruined slave into a perfect ornament for the night ahead.

Day 4 (Evening) – The Femdom Gala

While I sat back in luxury, having my makeup and hair done by a professional stylist, I gave Michael a task that made him feel useful, and even more importantly, owned. I handed him my gown for the gala and ordered him to steam it carefully. It was such a small thing, but to him, it felt monumental. Once again, I let him live his fantasy: to serve me, to contribute to my perfection, to play a role, however lowly, in my glamour. He took the task seriously, his little hands trembling as he fussed over every inch of fabric, desperate not to fail me. I watched him from the mirror, amused, pleased, fully in control.

There was a strict dress code for the event. Dommes were to be elegant, commanding, and radiant- no problem for me. As for slaves, they were to dress formally, with dignity… if only on the surface. I instructed Michael to wear his tuxedo for the evening, though next time I’ll absolutely make him wear one of his humiliating sissy outfits. He should be seen as what he truly is.

Note: Curious about this event?
You can learn more and purchase tickets here → https://femdomball.com/

Finally, I was dressed up and ready for the evening, elegant, composed, and radiating power. I posed in the grand lobby of our 5-star hotel, the soft lighting catching every polished detail of my look as Michael nervously fumbled with the camera. His hands trembled slightly, arousal written all over his flushed face as he tried to focus through the overwhelming mix of devotion and desire. Capturing my image wasn’t just a task- it was a privilege, and he knew it.

The Femdom Gala was unlike anything else. As we entered, the rules were clear: slaves were not allowed to sit at the tables with their Dommes. Instead, they lined up silently against the wall, on display like art or livestock. They weren’t permitted to eat from the tables either, only from the hand of their Mistress. I made Michael wait patiently, eyes locked on me, until I finally beckoned him over and allowed him a small bite, just enough to tease, never to satisfy. He looked up at me like I was feeding him life itself.

The atmosphere was nothing short of electric. The room pulsed with power, femininity, elegance, and authority. It was an honor to meet the most powerful and successful Dommes in the industry face to face, to speak with them, laugh with them, and connect with them beyond the persona. What I love about this community is how genuinely supportive the women are – no competition, no ego, just solidarity and strength. That kind of energy is rare. And they give it freely, without expectation, simply because they know what we are. It was, without question, one of the most meaningful and affirming experiences I’ve had in my life.

Even more breathtaking was the sheer number of beautifully broken, perfectly trained slaves and sissies all gathered in one space. There was no pretending. Everyone was free to be exactly who they were, shameless, pure, and exposed. The honesty of it all was intoxicating. It reminded me why I do what I do.

Later, the night took a deliciously dark turn at the afterparty. I’ve always adored fetish parties. The way people express their kinks so openly, the way their desires spill out through fashion, behavior, and posture. Everyone is glowing in their truth. There’s nothing like it. Watching people push boundaries, flaunt fetishes, and proudly own their perversions – it’s a thrill I never get tired of.

By the end of the night, we were both exhausted – emotionally, physically, and sensually drained. I returned to my suite, my heels clicking confidently across the marble floors, while Michael was dismissed to his own room like the obedient pet he is. We didn’t collapse together, of course- our places are not equal, and never will be. I drifted off to sleep wrapped in silk and satisfaction. As for him, I imagine he lay in the dark, aching, humbled, and overwhelmed by everything he had just been allowed to witness.

The next day still had more in store.

Day 5 – High Tea and Goodbye

The final day began on a softer note, but no less powerful. That afternoon, there was a private High Tea arranged exclusively for the Dommes – a serene, elegant space where we could unwind, connect, and speak freely among equals. The atmosphere was calm and warm, a sharp contrast to the previous night’s intensity, but equally nourishing in its own way.

The table was adorned with delicate sweets and finger sandwiches. As we sipped tea and nibbled on desserts, the conversations became deeper, more intimate. We shared stories not just about sessions and slaves, but about ourselves – our growth, our strength, and our desires. There was something truly beautiful about that level of intimacy between powerful women. Bonds were formed in that room that I know will last. Many of the Dommes I met that week have become more than just contacts; they are sisters in spirit, supporters, and confidantes. It’s rare to find spaces where women like us can gather without judgment or ego, and this one was perfect. I’m so grateful events like this exist; they’re not just about display or dominance, but genuine connection.

Slaves, of course, were not permitted to attend. This was sacred space for us, and ours alone. Michael, as instructed, waited patiently back at the hotel, knowing his place. Later that evening, we had tickets for The Lion King musical. We had agreed to meet directly at the theater.

When I arrived, I spotted him immediately- nervous, standing straight, eyes searching for me. We took our seats, and as the lights dimmed, I could hear the sound of his breath, uneven and shallow. He was clearly feeling the weight of the moment, that our adventure was nearing its end. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence told me everything: awe, devotion, sadness, gratitude.

The show was spectacular, but part of me was already detaching, transitioning back into the world beyond this fantasy we had so carefully constructed. When the final curtain fell, I stood and gave him one last look, cool and controlled. There were no long goodbyes. We returned to the hotel, packed, and prepared for our separate flights. It was time to leave.

Michael had been serving me for over a decade, but coming to London marked his full commitment, his moment of surrender. He arrived prepared to give in completely. He left broken, obedient, and addicted – – exactly as I intended. Over those five days, he spent $20,000 for the privilege of serving me, being used, humiliated, and transformed. It was an unforgettable experience for both of us and a final, glittering tribute that once again proved he is, without question, worthy of being mine.