The Release Fee


In my opinion, which really is the only one that counts, a release fee is pretty self explanatory. However, I have learned that you wanking fucktards think only with your needy dicks and have to have everything spelled out for you. So why should I think a concept as simple as a release fee would be any different? Silly Mistress, always over estimating you loser bitches. Alright, as per usual I will play the part of the nice, understanding goddess and help you out (insert appropriate chuckle at the description of my “caring nature”.. alright, that’s enough; now shut it.)


1. You are a lonely, little loser with no purpose. You have a jerkoff addiction and can’t go a single day without touching it. You are a pathetic, tiny-dicked virgin who has chosen to embrace his inadequacies. You know your place as an inferior bitch and are seeking a superior, confident, amazing woman to worship. You have a fetish, be it feet, lips, breasts, ass, strap-on, financial, joi, sissy, anal, humiliation, cbt, forced bi, blackmail, etc.

Choose any of the above afflictions/ attributes or insert your own here: __________________________ (Ewwwww, really? No, I’m only joking, fucking pervert.)


2. You see my tweets, you read these columns, you happen upon my videos, you discover me on a phone site, you find me through a google search, you are one of the lucky few who has discovered the website I’m constructing (!). You are enamored, smitten, in love, in lust, infatuated. You believe I am what you have been searching for all your life (and you are right.) I am the oh-so enticing woman of your dreams. I am the cruel vixen who humiliates you for your inadequacies. I am the destructive nightmare threatening your existence. I am the sexy bitch with adorable size 5 feet, ample cleavage, an ass that never quits, eyes that haunt your soul, red hair that reveals my true, coy, sadistic nature and a smile that causes spontaneous erections left and right. “This is it!!!” you think to yourself while doing some gay, fist-pumping that hasn’t been readily accepted since the eighties and The Breakfast Club.




3. You make contact. You confess. You beg. You worship. You plead. You pay.


4. The magic happens. You pay more. We have a session.

Cue music….

Booom, chica, bow, bow.

No, not that music, you ass.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. A choir of blond, cherub angels devoid of sin or sexual organs sings your devotion and my glory.

Fuck yes. This is it. All of the convictions you had about me (see #2 above) are true!!! O to the M to the G. You are beyond thrilled as is that loser dick of yours. Your money has a purpose. Your life has meaning. You want to be mine forever and ever and ever and ever. You sing it from the roof tops, you want to serve me. You tweet about it all day and all night, you want to be owned by me. You remember my passion for nature and my penchant for sadism and instead of a tree, you carve our initials in your arm: MB + LB (loser bitch) 4 LIFE. Fuck yes; this is it.


5. You want to make it official. You are ready. And upon my instruction, you draw up a contract. After it has been revised several times because it was not done to my satisfaction, it is complete. It has been sanctioned by the superior, signed in semen (gross), authorized by my authority, and recognized by the power that rules over you.


6. You are blissful. You worship me. You are officially included in my stable of sluts. You tribute me on the scheduled day of the month/week as previously decided upon and included in your contract. You get access to me on a regular basis, we have regular sessions. I take a shine to you. (I always like them initially, when they’re all eager to please and freshly-initiated.)


7. Eventually, you are a shit. Maybe not at first, maybe a month goes by, maybe a year, maybe only a week, but it happens. I would say approximately 40% of you end up disappointing me. You miss a tribute. You start slacking on your responsibilities. Your duties, your worship, your servitude are not carried out with the same gusto as they were initially. You whine. You moan. You cry. You bitch. You are “not cut out for this.” You complain, “I didn’t realize what I was getting into.”┬áReally? Really?! ‘Cause I had you go over the contract several times. I told you exactly what you were getting into. I dare say it was your needy dick that signed the contract opposed to this pig-headed ass you have become; no?

Fucking hell; why? Why did I put all this time and energy into you? You seemed to have such potential.

THIS. This right here is why there is an astronomical release fee included in every bitch boy’s contract. You want out? Well, I wanted a loyal, devoted slave. Now pay me for the dissatisfaction you have caused.


A release fee; it’s a FEE that RELEASES you from my ownership. Get it? It’s a big fee because you want to back out on what you previously promised. It releases you from contract and all those obligations you were once so willing to perform. It doesn’t matter if it’s five years after the contract was established. It doesn’t matter if it’s five days after the arrangement was made. It is your obligation to me and the teeny, tiny, minuscule way that you can make it up to me for being such a big, fucking disappointment.


Think of it this way. By accepting you as a slave, I am also denying someone else this special place in life. I cannot have 50 full time slaves because I (unlike you) have an active social life and other interests. So by selecting you to become an owned slave (and giving you all the perks that come along with that status), I am making an investment in you. By denying another applying slave, I am essentially saying I believe you will be a better slave. But when you prove to be a time wasting fucktard, you have harmed my investment and messed with my bottom line.


Be careful of what you wish for, fucktards.

Be mindful of what you’re getting into, whores.

And for fuck’s sake, I can’t say this enough, do not claim you want ownership just because you think that’s what I want to hear. This isn’t a game. You sign it, you mean it, you pay it.

The end, bitches.