Beijing Expat Encounters: The Pilot Who Stripped For Me—Begged For My Phlegm

I met a hot pilot in Beijing for a BDSM session, and from the moment I commanded him to strip, he had my full attention. There was no hesitation, no nervous fumbling—only a smooth, deliberate unraveling of himself before me. He stripped with an effortless grace, as if seduction were second nature, as if he knew exactly how intoxicating he was. His movements exuded confidence, each article of clothing sliding off his body with an almost ceremonial precision. I could see it in the way he carried himself—bold yet refined, powerful yet pliant, an intoxicating paradox of dominance and submission. The sight sent a rush of excitement through me.

His firm chest, sculpted shoulders, and taut abdomen were on full display, each flex and movement revealing the discipline of a man accustomed to control. And yet, here he stood, utterly exposed, surrendering that control to me. The irony was delicious—a man who commanded an aircraft at 30,000 feet now grounded, standing bare before me, awaiting my orders.

And this wasn't our first time. This was our second meeting. The first had already stripped away his inhibitions; the second would strip away even more.

Then came his wish. Not for touch. Not for approval. Not even for my amusement. No—what he wanted was far filthier. His reward of choice was my phlegm, my spit. He longed for me to degrade him in the most visceral, demeaning way, to baptize him in my disdain. The confession made my lips curl into a wicked smile. This proud, well-groomed, self-assured man—this embodiment of masculine elegance—was nothing more than a desperate, eager wretch before me, craving the very essence of my contempt.

I let the moment stretch, savoring the anticipation flickering in his eyes. The thrill of power coursed through me as I took in his vulnerability, the quiet desperation behind his restrained composure. He wanted to be humiliated. He wanted me to use him. And I intended to give him exactly what he deserved.

A second meeting meant an even deeper fall into submission. I intended to make sure he never forgot what it meant to kneel before me.

From Switzerland to Beijing: An Expat's Journey into Spitting & Bondage

 I am Dominatrix Alessandra, the queen of fetish and kink. I dominate men in Beijing, where the East meets the West, and a world thrives on the unconventional and the taboo. I am a vision of power and beauty, with long flowing hair and piercing eyes that can see into the depths of one's soul. My mere presence commands respect and submission from all who dare to enter my world.

One day, a slave from Switzerland approached me and confessed his deepest desires for a bondage and spitting session, and begged for my acceptance of his particular kinks. Without hesitation, I agreed to indulge his fantasies and meet him at his hotel in central Beijing

As I entered his hotel room, I could sense his anticipation and nervousness. I towered over him, a striking figure in my sky-high stilettos. With a flick of my wrist, I ordered him to kneel before me, his hands shaking as I tied the first knot.

The rope was soft, yet strong, as it cinched around his wrists. Each movement I made, each knot I tied, was deliberate and precise—leaving him vulnerable, completely at my mercy. His eyes never left mine, a mixture of fear and arousal reflecting in them as I controlled his every movement.

The more I bound him, the more he seemed to melt into a state of complete submission. His body trembled with the anticipation of what was to come. With each rope I tightened, I could see him surrender further, inching closer to the point where he would no longer be able to distinguish his desires from my will.

As I stepped back to admire my work, I took a moment to relish his vulnerability, the stillness of his bound form an embodiment of his submission. My gaze never left him as I slowly approached. Without a word, I spat directly into his face, watching his eyes widen in both shock and pleasure. The warmth of my saliva dripped down his skin as I smiled, savoring his complete surrender.

He moaned, his body trembling with a mix of humiliation and exhilaration, but I wasn't done yet. I reached for a second stream, watching him strain against his ropes as I deliberately spat again, this time allowing it to linger on his lips. He closed his eyes, tasting the very essence of his submission, each droplet a reminder of his place beneath me.

Finally, I stood before him, admiring my work. His body was completely restrained, unable to move without my command. I ran my fingers lightly along the ropes, feeling the tension between us build. In this moment, he was mine, and his submission was complete.

As the session came to an end, I slowly untied the ropes, releasing the slave from his restraints. His body was trembling, his mind lost in the haze of his satisfaction. He thanked me profusely for fulfilling his darkest desires, knowing he had tasted true submission under the watchful gaze of Dominatrix Alessandra.

Custom Fetish Scene: Hairy Armpits for Swiss in Beijing

What draws the Swiss to hairy armpits is simple—he sees in them a resemblance to the very thing he craves most. To him, a tuft of soft, dark hair nestled in the hollow of an arm stirs the same primal hunger, igniting a reverence that blurs the line between fetish and worship.

Tonight, I structured a scene tailored for my devoted Swiss sub, a ceremony that binds him to me—Chinese Mistress Alessandra—beyond language, beyond borders.

I lift my arm, exposing the soft, dark tuft beneath. My lips curl into a knowing smile as I catch the flicker of longing in his gaze.

“Start with my hair,” I command, my voice silk and steel. “Feel it. Inhale it. Let it remind you of who owns you.”

His trembling fingers slide through the cascading strands, lifting them to his face. He breathes in deeply, the scent of sandalwood and spice flooding his senses. With every reverent touch, his surrender deepens. I watch, amused, satisfied.

“Good.” My voice drops lower. “Now, my armpit. Show me your devotion.”

A flicker of hesitation—brief but unacceptable. My fingers seize his chin, forcing his eyes to meet mine.

“Don’t think. Obey.”

He leans in, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath my arm. The warmth of my scent engulfs him—a primal mix of musk and power. His kisses begin tentatively, then grow more fervent, his tongue tracing delicate hairs as I let out a slow, approving sigh. My grip tightens in his hair, guiding him, asserting my dominance with every controlled movement.

“More,” I demand, my tone a velvet whip. “Worship me.”

And he does. He abandons himself to the act, drowning in the salt of my skin, the intimacy of submission. My breathing quickens—not from vulnerability, but from the sheer exhilaration of his surrender. I raise my other arm, and he moves between them, enthralled, consumed.

Time stretches, dissolves. When I finally pull away, he is left panting, his face flushed with exertion and adoration. I trail a single finger along his jaw—a rare indulgence, a silent acknowledgment.

“You’ve pleased me,” I murmur. My voice is softer now, yet no less commanding. “This is where you belong—beneath me, lost in me. Never forget it.”

I rise, leaving him kneeling, my scent still clinging to his lips. As I stride toward the window, the neon glow of Beijing sprawling beneath me, he remains motionless, basking in the afterglow of his devotion—a Swiss slave, wholly owned by his Chinese mistress.