Shanghai’s Kinkiest Secret: Hairy Armpit Worship with Mistress Alessandra
Over my years in Shanghai, I’ve encountered many Italian submissives, each drawn to the city’s intoxicating blend of mystery and mastery. Among their quirks, one fetish stands out: a deep, unspoken obsession with hairy armpits. What follows is a bespoke hairy armpit worship scene crafted for my long-term Italian sub — a ritual that binds him to me, Shanghai Mistress Alessandra, in a way that transcends borders and words.
I lift my arm higher, revealing the soft, dark tuft of hair beneath. I watch his reaction with a faint, knowing smile, my eyes glinting with sadistic delight.
“Start with my hair,” I instruct. “Feel its weight. Smell it. Let it remind you of who owns you.”
His trembling hands reach for the strands spilling over my shoulder. He presses them to his face, inhaling deeply — the scent of my shampoo, a mix of sandalwood and spice, floods his senses. He runs his fingers through the length, marveling at its silkiness, each touch a silent prayer of reverence. My gaze never wavers, my control absolute as I observe his surrender.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now, my armpit. Show me how low you’ll sink for me.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, earning a sharp tsk from me. I grab his chin, forcing his eyes to meet mine. “Don’t think. Obey.”
He leans in, his lips brushing the tender skin of my armpit. The faint musk, warm and earthy, overwhelms him, a heady mix of my natural scent and the power I exude. He kisses softly at first, then deeper, his tongue tracing the delicate hairs as I sigh in approval. I shift slightly, pressing myself closer, my dominance palpable in the way I guide his head with a firm grip on his hair.
“More,” I demand, my voice a velvet whip. “Worship it like it’s your salvation.”
He loses himself in the act, his world narrowing to the texture of my skin, the subtle saltiness, the intimacy of being allowed so close. My breathing quickens — not from vulnerability, but from the thrill of his debasement. I lift my other arm, doubling his task, and he moves between them, a slave enthralled by my command.
After what feels like an eternity, I pull back, leaving him panting, his face flushed with exertion and adoration. I run a finger along his jaw, a rare gesture of approval.
“You’ve pleased me, my sub,” I say, my tone softening just enough to hint at satisfaction. “This is your place — beneath me, lost in me. Remember it.”
I rise, leaving him kneeling there, my scent still lingering on his lips. As I stride to the window, gazing out at Shanghai’s endless lights, he remains motionless, basking in the afterglow of his submission — a European slave wholly owned by his Shanghai mistress.
