Riley’s Reserve
Hello lovers,
It has been a hot minute, but trust that the past two months have been some of the best yet. From boardroom gifting to rope around my wrists, it has been a time of exploring safety, security, and something entirely new.
Somewhere in that stillness, I also offered my first Something Surrendered session. Watching a man bound in leather, silent and kneeling against my couch, gave me a sense of calm I had not expected. There is something quietly electric about seeing someone held, stuck, still, and fully present. It felt like a beginning. Quietly powerful, strangely tender, and exactly what I needed.
While my new Twitter is alive and well here, I have also been a little more active on Instagram here. Both spaces are slowly taking shape again after losing what I had built, so thank you for your patience as I rebuild with care.
If we have not met yet, maybe now is the time. Start a conversation here.
Availability & Tours
For now, I remain in Melbourne. Grounded, but far from idle. Unless of course you decide to change that. My Fly Me To You offering is always open for those who prefer to set the pace and the place. Whether a weekend away or something more decadent, I am all ears.
I also have an open invitation for one of you to join me in my Melbourne CBD suite from 17 to 19 July. I will be shooting a new campaign during the day and would love nothing more than to warm the room with your company when the cameras stop. Consider it a rare opportunity for intimacy between creative takes.
Looking ahead, here are my confirmed tour dates for the rest of the year:
Canberra – 7 to 10 September
A rare visit to the capital. Thoughtful, discreet, and not one I make often.
Sydney – 28 December to 2 January
The city at its most alive. I will be there for the final days of the year, offering company that brings ease, warmth, and the right kind of tension.
Hobart – 2 to 7 January
A quiet beginning to the year. Slow days of art, conversation and connection by the water.
If time together has been on your mind, this may be the perfect moment to reach out. Start a conversation here.
Service Spotlight
There is a quiet pleasure in being known. Not just once, and not in passing, but over time. With care. With intention.
Two evenings a week. A dinner reservation here, a glass of champagne there. A name lighting up my phone before bed. Sometimes we speak for hours. Sometimes we do not speak at all. But it is the rhythm that matters. The decision to show up, again and again.
Something Arranged was created for this.
For those who do not want to guess.
Who value consistency, softness, and the kind of connection that is built slowly, with purpose.
It is not sugar in the traditional sense. It is not casual either. It sits somewhere in between. A private space where companionship feels calm and certain, yet deeply rewarding.
If you have ever wanted someone to remember your favourite wine. To keep your secrets. To hold your face in their hands like it matters, then perhaps you are ready.
Start a conversation here.
Mr V. does not just gift. He curates. He orchestrates. He shows up with black boxes and long lunches.
Since my last photoshoot, particularly featuring the Anoeses leather lingerie and custom catsuit, we have not stopped talking about how hot their pieces are. He knows I am planning another shoot, coming in a few weeks, and has been sending me pieces to preview, back and forth, slipping them into our usual conversations.
Then he tells me to keep my calendar free. I had been craving a proper bowl of pasta and he tells me we have a booking at Il Bacaro. How hot. I have not been before, but I know it is an institution. A place beloved by the gals who lunch and find religion in crisp chardonnay and an even crisper manicure, and the Collins Street businessmen whose deals are somehow more significant than the businessmen they accompany. I book in a blow dry the morning of.
Saturday rolls around. I am tired but buzzing. He says to meet him at his office. I do not question it.
The salon is running late. Fifteen minutes turns into thirty. I text him updates and he tells me not to rush. He does not know that rushing is my favourite thing and that I hate being late.
In the Uber, my hair looks perfect, heels on, but traffic has frozen. Footy. I bail, text him, and jump on a tram. Brutally overdressed among Collingwood scarves, I arrive to find him waiting at the stop. I skip over, smiling and breathless.
He does not mind at all. I ask what we are doing here. “I have something for you upstairs.” His boardroom.
We walk through the entrance. He reminds me it is Saturday and no one is in. The building is vast, architectural. I feel small in the best way. The lift takes us to level eleven. We step into a boardroom where two oversized IKEA bags sit full of black boxes.
I already know. Anoeses.
“Go for it,” he says.
I dive in. The first box reveals pink leather and I gasp. He hands me an envelope, printed product shots so I know what is what. Of course.
One by one, I open them. A slow unwrapping. Harnesses. Straps. Latex with silver hardware. All custom sized. The smell of leather, the weight of the buckles, I can feel my body responding before I have even tried anything on.
It was more than generous. It was intimate. These were not just gifts. They were proof he sees me.
We check the time. Lunch is soon. We run downstairs, stash everything in his car, and slip through a shortcut from Collins to Little Collins. Five minutes later, we are seated at Il Bacaro.
The adrenaline is still humming through me. We settle in and order something to mark the moment, then toast to the upcoming shoot and gossip over plates of perfect pasta. I feel entirely myself. Seen. Full. Soft. Sparkling.
Before we leave, he says it. “Would you like to go to Camilla and Marc?” Would I.
We drive straight there. Minutes later I am gliding between racks of pieces that feel like they were made for me. I land on a black mini skirt, because truly, you can never have too many. He pays. I nearly cry.
I suggest we stop by High Tide, my favourite adult store in Melbourne. He has not been. We wander in. I tell him about wanting to explore a dominant side, about the restraint collection I have started. I find a harness I love. We chat to the attendant, then head back to the car.
What happened next is not something I am comfortable sharing, but it is something I will never forget. Think early evening bookings, fast driving, peak hour traffic, and a curious disregard for pedestrian crossing signals. If you are reading this, know I am trying not to laugh as I type it.
This was not just lunch and a catch up. It was gifting. Intention. Playfulness. City chaos and slow luxury. It was a day stitched together with care and curiosity, laughter and detail, generosity and timing.
I have had some extraordinary Melbourne experiences in the three years since I moved here, but this one. This was something else.
I felt seen. Spoilt. Safe.
And like all good moments, it ended too soon. But trust me, I am still glowing.
A Moment on Collins
A Recent Affair: Tied to the Feeling
He first found me on Grindr. Hot, tattooed, confident. But more than that, he had a level of severity I was immediately drawn to. It is rare that a stranger’s nudes catch my attention, let alone hold it, but his did. The brutal sex toys. The leather straps. The unapologetic masculinity. It is not every day you find a hot, dominant man on Grindr of all places.
I had just finished a double shift at the restaurant, bone-tired but unmistakably horny, which is rare when I am alone. We swapped preferences in graphic detail. I nudged for a meet, already craving it.
He was polite. Busy. Early morning ahead. I got it. He sent his WhatsApp anyway, which I appreciated, only to message just before bed saying he would not be back in Melbourne for weeks. I sighed, said goodnight, and wished him safe travels the next morning.
Why is it that whenever I am actually craving sex outside of work, they are always on their way out of town?
A few weeks passed. He checked in here and there. Sent memes, the occasional ropework photo. But I was not great at replying. I struggle to give time to someone I have not met, and casual sex can be hard for me to click into without the right energy. I left him mostly on read.
Then, a message. "In town. Ready to be put on your knees?"
It made me smile. He tried to organise a time, but I was swamped. My schedule kept slipping out from under me and he missed me more than once. Another week passed.
Then came Saturday. A morning stacked with tension from every direction. I felt like my head might implode. Calls, texts, two jobs, personal stress, everything pressing in at once. In the back of the Uber home, I snapped. The only thing I wanted was to not have to think. I needed impact. Restraint. I needed to be used.
I messaged Ricki. Told him I was craving release, the kind that strips you bare and makes your body louder than your thoughts. I did not sugar-coat it.
"I am seeking emotional submission. Affection control. A sense of ownership. Collaring would resonate. Physically, I am drawn to restraint and impact play. Leather. Rope. There is a slight masochistic streak in me. I like pain when it is purposeful. I want to be pushed to tears. Mostly I want to lose control. Fully."
He said he would be there in an hour.
I rushed home. Lit candles. Put on Radiohead Radio. Slipped into the red Anoeses harness Mr V gave me. You will see it in an upcoming shoot. It fits like sin. Hooks in all the right places. My thighs, hips, and arse completely exposed. I sat, waiting.
He arrived. Somehow even sexier in person. My height. A thick British accent. We sat on the couch for a while, making small talk. Him with a glass of cheap red, me sipping water. I wanted to stay focused. We chatted about hospitality, laughed a little, flirted around the edges. The tension was there, humming quietly beneath every word.
Then he told me to unclip the harness. I said yes sir.
He pulled me over his knees. Grabbed a fistful of my hair. Spat on his finger and asked how badly I wanted him inside me. Before I could answer, I was moaning. Dripping. He fingered me slowly, stretching me open to the sound of my own breath.
Then rope. I felt him reach down beside the couch, his fingers slick and warm against my lips as he placed them in my mouth. I sucked greedily, my eyes fluttering closed. I did not see the rope, only felt the shift, the tension, the fibres tightening around my wrists behind my back. It was like falling deeper into something. He moved with quiet precision, and I melted into it. The binding was not rushed. It was considered. My arms folded back until I was helpless and heavy-limbed.
I could have screamed. This big British man tying me up while I sat bound and dripping in red leather.
Who even was I. I was loving it.
He told me to walk to the bedroom. Once there, he replaced my collar with his. Pulled off the harness. Tied my hands to the collar’s O ring so I was partially hogtied. Called me a good girl. Spat in my mouth. Asked again how badly I wanted to be stretched. Terribly.
He picked out a heavy green plug I had never tried before. Beautiful and intimidating. He warmed me up slowly. One finger. Two fingers. Three fingers. Four fingers. Careful breathwork. Then the toy. It slid in with pressure and purpose. I moaned. He laughed. God, it was hot.
He reached for the Njoy. This is the one I am talking about, view it here.
Asked which end I wanted first. I said the small one.
It was cold. Weighted. Precise. He moved slowly. Fucked me with it gently at first. When I started to melt into it, he pulled it out. Spat in my mouth.
Time for the big end.
It took effort. Focus. Deep breathing. But it slid in. And then he did not stop. He pushed deeper. Harder. Owned me with it. I told him I was close. He kept going until I orgasmed. Fully. Hands free.
He smeared it over my stomach and cock with his hand, and said nothing. I was wrecked. Gone. Full of euphoria and cum and disbelief. He slowed but did not stop until there was nothing left in me to give.
Then he untied me. Rolled me over. Tied each wrist to the bedposts. I was on my back, spread wide and trembling. He kissed me hard. Spat in my mouth again. Slipped his fingers inside. I moaned. And then I begged for the toy back. He obliged.
This time he really fucked me with it. Rough. Focussed. No mercy. And just when I thought I could not take more, it happened. Something new. Something massive. I felt it build, then release, and suddenly I was squirting. Loud. Messy. Completely undone.
He kept going until I physically could not take any more. The bed soaked. My mind blank. He asked if I needed anything. "A towel," I laughed.
He dried me off gently. Untied me. Looked at me like he had just taken something of mine and had no intention of giving it back.
And then, his turn.
He pulled me into him. Fucked me from behind. Deep and slow. One hand around my neck, the other on my chest. Holding me against him as if I was his.
When he was close, he pulled out. Sat on the edge of the bed. I knelt on the floor and begged for his cum. He gave it to me across my chest, moaning. I collapsed into him. We spooned. We laughed. We let the silence hold us for a moment before talking again.
I have learned that unplanned sex can be risky. Not because of the act itself, but because of where it comes from. Whether it is a genuine impulse or just a way to avoid feeling something else. The difference is subtle, but it matters.
This was not a whim. It was not me winging it for the sake of sensation. This was a decision made from something deeper. The need to feel, or not. The need to hand it all over and let someone else take the reins for a while.
There is something wildly freeing in choosing to be used with intention. When desire is not just performative, but a form of release. That night gave me exactly what I did not know I needed. Space to let go of control. To be wrecked. Adored. Undone.
And something happened. Something I had never experienced before.
As a transgender woman, I had never squirted. That level of release, of physical and emotional overflow, hit me like a wave I could not stop. It was euphoric. Unbelievable. And absolutely unforgettable.
It was not romance. But it was real. And I will not ever forget this moment.
Behind the Curtain
There is something intoxicating about knowing exactly what you want, and then assembling the right people to bring it to life.
This month, I have been deep in the world behind the camera. In a few weeks, I will step into the most ambitious photo shoot I have ever produced. A full-scale production with a photographer, makeup artist, hairstylist and creative director. Every detail has been chosen to show you something different. To reawaken your senses. To let you see me as I see myself. Evolving, embodied and unforgettable.
Alongside this, I have been quietly working with a graphic designer on a suite of projects that feel like a bold next step. I am not ready to share them just yet, but soon. And when I do, you will understand why I waited.
None of this happens by chance. It takes early mornings, late nights, sharp vision and softer intuition. It takes a deep love for the world I have built. Riley Rose is changing. I am becoming more.
Lately, I have found myself reflecting on my clients and how singular you each are. The way you arrive. The way you offer yourself. The way you let me hold you. I do not take that lightly. Vulnerability is an act of trust, and I am honoured to be the one you choose.
This work moves me. It stretches me. And it continues to shape the woman I am becoming.
