Eight Inches of Obedience: My Harness. My Crown. My Rules.

Let’s get one thing straight, darling: when I decide to bend a man over and fill him with something that used to be in my nightstand drawer, I’m not asking. I’m claiming. Pegging isn’t just a kink. It’s a statement. A strut. A strap-on salute to power, control, and exactly who’s in charge here. (Hint: it’s not the one with his face buried in the pillow.)

Flip the Script, Babe

Penetration has always been branded as something men do. But when I buckle up and tell my houseboy to present his ass like a good pup, the script flips fast. I become the one doing, taking, driving. He becomes the one blushing, moaning, gasping, learning. It’s not just a physical act—it’s a philosophical overhaul.

He thought he was a man until I rearranged his priorities with eight inches of silicone and a slow, smug thrust.

The Throne is a Harness

Let’s talk gear. My harness is my crown. My dildo is my scepter. And when I step behind a boy with lube in one hand and intention in the other, the room goes still. Because he knows what’s coming, and it’s not mercy.

Pegging, when done right, is a whole ceremony. There’s the warm-up—fingers, teasing, a firm “relax, sweetheart.” There’s the entry, which often involves delightful little squeals. And then there’s the ride. And make no mistake—I’m the one riding.

Surrender Has a Backdoor

Do you know what’s so beautiful about pegging? It’s not just the humiliation, though I do adore that part. It’s the opening. I don’t just mean anatomically. I mean emotionally, spiritually, existentially.

Men like to talk a big game about power. About dominance. But once they’ve been spread open, made to beg, and fucked senseless by a woman wearing thigh-highs and a wicked grin, something shifts. They see the truth. And that truth is me.

It’s Not Just for Punishment (But It’s Great for That Too)

Now don’t get me wrong—sometimes I peg because he’s been a very bad boy. And sometimes I peg because I’m feeling generous. Sometimes I whisper sweet things in his ear while I press into him slowly. Other times I smack his ass and ask if he feels owned yet.

There’s no wrong way to peg a man. But let’s be clear—there’s my way. And it usually ends with him twitching, ruined, and thanking me like a ruined altar boy with no god but me.

The Afterglow

When it’s all done, and I’m taking off my harness with a lazy stretch, he usually curls up at my feet, brain foggy, hole gaping, pride recalibrated. That’s the glow I live for. Not his. Mine. The look of a woman who just conquered a man through his ass and didn’t even break a sweat.

So if you’re wondering whether pegging is worth adding to your Femdom repertoire, let me make it simple: yes. Strap up, strut in, and take him. Because nothing says “I own you” quite like using his backdoor as your front entrance.

And once you’ve done it, you’ll never want to take it off. Trust me—I keep mine hanging by the bed like a favorite whip. After all, power isn’t just something you wear. Sometimes, it’s something you insert.