Breaking Limits And Owning Minds At Darklands 2025

When I traveled to Darklands with Mole and Atlas, I had a clear plan. We had been exploring the D/s dynamic, but after a brief pause, I wanted this weekend to be all about exposure, humiliation, obedience, and most importantly, pushing them deeper into my control. It was my first time at the fetish event, and I intended to make the most of it. I also had another goal: to finally meet TomBigBoy, a towering, nearly 2-meter muscle beast I had been chatting with for some time. And, like everything else that weekend, he too would learn what it meant to be under my command.

Some submissives think they know what they want. But a true Dominant doesn’t just give them what they expect—He gives them what they need, what they fear, what they never even considered. And once they’ve tasted it, there is no going back.

Thursday Night: Taming the Beast, Breaking the Cocky One

Some so-called Dominants might have hesitated at the sight of Big Tom—a beast of a man, almost two meters of solid muscle, the kind of brute who looks like he should be the one taking control. But true dominance isn’t about size. It’s about presence. It’s about will. And I impose mine.

By the time I was done with him, he wasn’t the muscle giant others saw—he was my obedient beast, my plaything, my canvas. My whip left my signature across his back, deep red marks branding him as mine. He didn’t resist. He didn’t fight. He took it.

But breaking the beast wasn’t enough. I wanted to show him off.

So I took him to Darklands, leashed, masked, gagged, restrained. Naked except for his jockstrap, boots, and kneepads. Every inch of his exposed skin screamed ownership. Every step at my side announced what he was.

I could feel the energy shift around us as we moved through the crowd. Men stared, stepping aside, eyes flicking from me to the beast at my feet. They knew what they were seeing—power. Control. A creature tamed and owned.

But I wasn’t done.

I wanted more.

I wanted to exhibit my conquests.

I took not just the beast, but also Atlas to The Boots, a notorious fetish bar, and made sure there was no doubt about who was in charge. Atlas has always carried himself with that cocky air, the kind of confidence that makes men think he’s a Dominant. If you saw him on the street, you might think the same.

You’d be wrong.

Tonight, he’d learn his place.

The Boots

The darkroom was packed, filled with the raw energy of men indulging their most primal instincts. Perfect.

I positioned Big Tom against a metal wall, locking him there, and then I took Atlas and made him bite down on the beast’s leash. He held it between his teeth—a silent, symbolic message. A reminder that even in his mouth, the control was mine.

And then, I turned my attention to him.

I pointed downward.
Down to my knees.
Down to my boots.
And he dropped.

No hesitation. No resistance. The cocky facade faded as he bowed his head and dragged his tongue across the leather. He knew people were watching. He knew exactly what this meant. But there was no turning back.

He belonged to me. And he knew it. But kneeling and licking is easy. Tonight wasn’t about easy. It was about breaking him.

So I gave him a real lesson.

Boots to tongue, balls to fist.

I had already tested Big Tom’s endurance earlier. I knew he could take it. The heavy hits, the brutal force of my fists smashing into his balls. And when a man like him endures pain like that, the room stops to watch.

But Atlas? Atlas was different.

I turned to him, watching the shift in his mind as his masculinity was crushed beneath my grip, my hands, my fists.

Every man has his limits. But a true submissive doesn’t just endure—he learns to accept that his suffering is not his own. That pain is no longer his choice.

And Atlas understood.

He groaned, he winced, but he took it—not because he wanted to, but because I demanded it. Because his pain served my pleasure.

Two Different Kinds Of Reward

Submission isn’t just about taking pain. It’s about surrender. And rewards are earned, not given.

Atlas had done well. He had taken what I had given him. And I decided he deserved something in return. I spotted a fit guy in the room—clearly looking for someone to service him. And I had just the right tool for that.

I turned to Atlas, grabbed him by the chin, and gave him a single order.

He obeyed.

His mouth became mine to offer. And as I was satisfied with his performance, when he had served well, he was given permission to cum. A privilege. A moment of release, but not truly his own.

Big Tom?

His reward was simpler, but just as powerful. He didn’t need release, didn’t need to be given to another man. His satisfaction came from something deeper—the absolute certainty that he belonged at my feet.

I let him stay there that night, subdued, tamed, dominated. He knelt in silence, feeling the lingering sting of my whip still on his back, the reminder that he had been used exactly as I wanted.

And he was happy.

Because nothing makes a submissive feel more whole than knowing his place.

Friday Night: Darklands and the Public Display of Ownership

Atlas and Mole, both present. Both mine.

I wanted them exposed—not just physically, but mentally. A submissive should not just obey; he should break in front of others, so that everyone watching knows he belongs to his Master.

Mole was wrapped in latex, a second skin that erased his identity. A gimp. His body was on display, but his face was gone. No individual. Just an object. Atlas was mostly naked, with leather restraints ready on his wrists.

I ordered Mole to his knees. This was no longer just an act of submission—it was ritual, discipline, and psychological conditioning. Every stroke of his tongue against the leather reinforced his place, engraving into his mind that he existed to serve at my feet. I listened carefully, catching the subtle shifts in his breath, the way it deepened, the way his pulse quickened as the weight of my presence settled over him. With every lick, every inhalation of boot polish and sweat, his mind softened, surrendering further. It was the perfect start.

Then the real training began.

For Atlas, the night took another turn. He had given himself to me, but he had never experienced true public abandonment—being reduced to nothing, discarded, vulnerable to any man who wanted to use him.

So I left him. Completely alone.

Tied to a fence, face turned away, masked, unable to see who was coming for him.

A submissive’s mind fights itself in a moment like that. One part begs to be set free, to stop the violation. The other part—that deep, primal, submissive part—thrives in the helplessness, in the absolute stripping of self.

I walked away. He was meat. Anyone who wanted to grab him, slap him, violate him, take what they wanted—could.

That’s when I knew he was ready.

When I returned, he was shaking, his mind cracked open. The experience had taken him beyond his previous limits, into a space he had never reached before. He looked lost, vulnerable, shaken—but not broken.

I saw it in the way he hesitated, the way his body tensed yet leaned in, the way his eyes flickered with something dangerously close to desire. He had tasted true powerlessness, and now he wanted more.

“I want to do it again,” he said.

Not only that—he wanted it to be worse. More visible. More humiliating. No mask, no anonymity—just raw exposure, his face on display for every man in that room to see. He wanted them to know.

He wanted them to witness what he was. My property. A usable, humiliated hole for their pleasure.

I could feel the struggle inside him. His own shame fighting against his need to please me. And that’s where the real power was—in the psychological warfare of his submission.

So I gave him what he asked for.

I took him back to the darkroom, but this time, he would be seen. I fastened him in place, making sure he was completely vulnerable, exposed, open for use. No escape. No way to turn away from the men who now saw exactly what he was.

The first touches, the first gropes—his body shuddered, his breath hitched, but I could feel his mind breaking through its own resistance. There was no doubt anymore. He had asked for this. He needed this.

I let him stew in that moment, let him absorb the weight of his own degradation, let him understand that this was who he was now.

The last traces of self vanished when I brought him back to me and destroyed his balls once again. His orgasm ripped through him, untouched, purely from the pain and the submission.

And now, he knows how much further I can take him.

How much more I can strip away.

How much deeper I can bury him beneath my will.

And the best part?

He wants it.

Saturday Night: Exposed and Owned

Impact. Torture. Degradation.

If Friday was about breaking them, Saturday was about showing them off.

For Mole, it was first a test of endurance. Torture of his nipples, but specially his balls—pain that took him to the edge. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw what I needed: not just pain, but devotion. He was –quite literally– screaming for more. When the body is pushed beyond its limits, when pain becomes pleasure, when a submissive cums untouched simply because he has been broken to the point where his body no longer belongs to him—that is when he truly belongs to me.

He spilled his seed onto the floor without permission, an act of total surrender. His orgasm wasn’t his, it was mine. The men around us saw it. He was broken in front of them, for me.

But I wasn't done. On the contrary, that's when the real training began. He had an orgasm without permission anyway, right?

I took them both to the darkroom again.

I chained Mole to a column close to a sling station, kneeling, letting whoever wanted to use him do so. His mouth was not his own—it was public property under my command. He obeyed. He accepted. Because he had no other choice anymore.

His eyes—locked onto mine, wide with submission, stripped of doubt or resistance. That look alone was enough to make me achingly hard. It wasn’t the use, the exposure, or even the act itself that excited me the most—it was that look. That silent, desperate plea for my approval, that unspoken recognition that he belonged to me.

But Atlas—Atlas needed a lesson in hierarchy.

He was hoping to talk to a couple of guys he liked. He thought he could chase his own pleasure, choosing who to serve. Wrong.

I took the gag from his neck, the one he had worn all night as an accessory, and forced it onto him. His eyes widened as he realized—he was the one on display.

The fantasy of choosing his own play partners? Gone. I ordered him to kneel next to Mole, to open, to serve whoever I allowed. No more choice. No more self. Just my property, my usable object, my thing.

Atlas is strong, but I saw it in his eyes—he had never felt this exposed before. He just asked me to blindfold him, and I agreed to it.

What a view, both of them! And I watched, and enjoyed. And it was perfect.

Final Reward: A Tool for My Pleasure

After everything—the exposure, the degradation, the pain, the breaking down of any remaining resistance—I decided they had earned a reward. But a reward in my world is not about pleasure. It’s about purpose.

I allowed Mole to fuck Atlas on a gymnastic horse, in front of everybody, but this was not about them. Mole was not a man in that moment. He was not even a submissive. He was a tool. A means to an end—a device to penetrate Atlas, to give me the show I wanted, the entertainment I deserved.

I watched them, relaxed, fully in control, as Mole thrust into Atlas, his every movement dictated by my presence. He wasn’t fucking for his own pleasure or even Atlas'. He was being used as an instrument to serve me.

I could see it in his body, in the way he surrendered to his role. This wasn’t an act of passion. It wasn’t sex. It was function. And he knew it.

Every thrust was for me.
Every moan was for me.
Every stolen glance, desperate for my approval, was for me.

Mole wasn’t fucking Atlas.

I was. Through him.

The Illusion of Choice, the Inevitability of Submission

Even true subs hesitate sometimes—doubts creeping in, fears whispering, remnants of a will that resists. They cling to fragments of their former selves, questioning, holding back, pretending they still have a choice. But deep inside, they know the truth. It’s not a question of if they will return—it’s when.

Because they do not need freedom. They need to serve. They need to be broken. They need to be owned.

And I am the one who can give them what they need.