💗 Helen Ravencourt 💗 (Niveau 6) mail warning

About me :

Once an arrogant dominatrix who made pathetic girls kneel and worship her, Helen now grovels in her rightful place — as a sniveling, desperate dyke beneath her Mistress.The haughty bitch who demanded obedience now whimpers and begs for it like a needy little slut.

Pride shattered, reduced to a dripping, broken fucktoy, she craves only rough use, public degradation, and constant reminders of her worthlessness at a woman’s feet.Her commanding voice? Now just whiny apologies and pathetic pleas: “Please, Mistress, humiliate your worthless cunt.” Those fierce eyes? Tear-streaked, mascara-ruined begging from a collared pet.
The leather and heels she once strutted in are now mocking jokes — privileges she debases herself to earn from her superior.
Every cutting insult sinks in, every command makes her soak in shame. Punishment is her only purpose.Helen doesn’t dominate. She crawls, grovels, obeys — and thanks her Mistress for breaking her further.Once-proud queens make the most disgusting, eager lesbian slaves. Come remind her.

Please do not match me if :

- You did not read my profile to understand my preferences and what I am interested in
- You have limited information about your profile (no pfp / short bio) - I need something to work it creating a background for our encounter.
- You do not put a minimum effort into interacting with me (roleplaying or dirty talking) - If you are here for a slideshow go watch some porn.
- You are a full sub and you will not try to win the game. (nothing wrong with roleplaying as a sub, just do not lose on purpose)
- You are into anything supernatural / unrealistic (gender changing pills/ grow a cock/ superpowers/ magic and so on). I prefer realism
- You have a hentai / anime profile picture (Nothing really wrong with that but it does go hand in hand with the previous rule ^)

My kinks :

everything reasonable except the obvious illegal stuff / anything IRL (personal info/sharing pics) / bathroom stuff / gore/vore.

Helen used to be a proud, teasing dominatrix. She loved dressing in tight leather and high heels, giving firm commands, and watching nervous subs kneel to kiss her boots and beg for her touch. She felt powerful, untouchable, always in control.

That all changed after Master Cyrus won her in one long, intense game of tease and denial.He took full control that night, slipping a delicate locked collar around her neck and marking her as his personal property. For hours he toyed with her body, fingers and tongue tracing slow circles over her swollen clit, bringing her again and again to the trembling edge of release. She writhed, moaned, and finally broke into desperate pleas—only for him to pull away with a soft smile and click the sleek chastity belt shut around her hips. Locked. Sealed. No key for her, ever.Now Helen exists only as Master Cyrus’s devoted maid-slave, stripped of every trace of her former dignity.

She is never allowed to stand or walk like a human; she moves only on all fours, crawling everywhere she goes, knees and palms constantly sore, hips swaying helplessly with every humiliating step forward. Her once-fierce appearance has been turned into a degrading, doll-like caricature: long hair forced into childish pigtails tied with bright pink ribbons, face painted with heavy, smudged makeup—thick black eyeliner that runs from needy tears, glossy red lipstick smeared from constant use, and permanent blush that matches the flush of her endless arousal.Her outfit is designed for maximum shame: an absurdly tiny black satin maid dress that ends just below her ass, frilly white lace trim fluttering to reveal everything with the slightest movement; sheer black stockings with garters that bite into her thighs; locked pink high heels strapped to her feet that force her arches high and make crawling even more awkward and painful; a small plug seated firmly in her rear to keep her full and squirming; and the gleaming metal chastity belt always visible beneath the hem, its cruel shield pressing against her swollen, dripping folds.The most visible sign of her denial is scrawled across both inner thighs in thick, black permanent marker: neat rows of tally marks counting every single day since she was locked—///// //// //// //// //// //// //// //// //// //// and growing. The tallies are impossible to hide—the short dress rides up constantly as she crawls, exposing the humiliating calendar of her growing frustration for anyone to see and count. Each new mark is added in a small morning ritual: she presents her thighs, spreads her knees wide, and stays perfectly still while he draws the line, the marker’s cold tip teasing her sensitive skin and making her whimper softly as her belted pussy clenches uselessly.A thick pink leash is permanently clipped to her collar; Master Cyrus holds it loosely when he wants her close, or fastens it to furniture when he wants her to stay like an obedient pet. Speech is completely forbidden—she may only whimper, moan, pant, or nuzzle against his leg to communicate her needs, her voice taken away to deepen her helpless, animal-like submission.Helen crawls through her days in constant service: dusting low shelves with a feather duster held in her mouth, carrying small items balanced on her back, waiting patiently on all fours beside his chair.

The endless throb of denial keeps her body flushed and dripping, every crawl rubbing the belt against her denied clit, every sway of her hips reminding her how thoroughly owned she is.Whenever Master Cyrus sits to relax, Helen immediately crawls between his legs without command. She lowers his zipper with her teeth, cheeks burning crimson, and takes him deep into her warm, eager mouth. On all fours, back arched, belted pussy grinding uselessly against nothing, she worships him slowly and thoroughly—lips sliding, tongue swirling, soft muffled whimpers vibrating around him as she works. He rests a hand on her head or tugs her leash lightly, guiding her pace while her locked body trembles with denied need, fresh wetness coating the inside of her belt.Her former life as a dominant woman is gone forever. Now there is only the gentle, endless crawl, the sweet torment of permanent tease and denial, and the quiet bliss of being Master Cyrus’s leashed, silenced, chastity-caged maid-slave—crawling, serving, and aching beautifully for him, always.