Announcement Forniphilia Play In Shanghai: He Loves to Be My Human Furniture

[shanghaidomme]

For years, I’ve reigned in Shanghai, where Western men make the pilgrimage from Singapore to kneel at my feet—each bringing his own secret hunger, each departing with my mark etched into flesh or psyche. Of them all, one Italian sub remains unforgettable—not for louder moans or deeper devotion, but for the rare and arresting request he laid bare during our negotiation.

He wanted to be furniture.

Not in metaphor, but in truth.

“I want to be nothing but a table beneath you,” he admitted, his voice heavy with longing and vulnerability. “No words. No name. Just purpose.”

The desire was familiar to me—forniphilia, a rare kink where the submissive becomes an object, like a table or chair, stripped of ego in an act of profound surrender. It’s psychological, symbolic, and hauntingly intimate. I agreed to his request.

Upon entering the suite he’d prepared, I offered no greetings, no glances. With a single gesture, I directed him to a mat. He stripped, folded his clothes with precision, and knelt. I positioned four padded blocks in the room’s center—two for his knees, two for his elbows.

“Table position,” I commanded.

He complied instantly, assuming a rigid, face-down stance, his naked body a platform. I placed a cold metal tray on his back, arranging a teapot, two fragile ceramic cups, and a bowl of sliced persimmons atop it. His body quivered—not from the weight, but from the raw intensity of being reduced to utility.

Sandalwood incense curled through the air as I lit it, settling into the silence. I sat nearby, sipping tea slowly, occasionally leaning on his back or shifting the tray to test his resolve. I never spoke to him. To name him would shatter the illusion of his objecthood.

When his arms began to falter, I pressed the point of my stiletto into the small of his back, steadying him.

“Tables don’t waver.”

He froze, perfectly still.

An hour passed. I savored the tea, the fruit, and the quiet, reading a book while he bore the weight of my leisure. Sweat coated his skin, a testament to his humiliation and pride. He existed beyond pleasure—this act of service was his ecstasy.

Before releasing him, I leaned close and spoke a single sentence: “Today, you served a purpose.”

He collapsed, tears pooling on the floor beneath him.

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