About Us – Kilted Dragon

Aye, welcome to the lair. Mind the singe marks.

Nestled somewhere between the rugged hills of Hamilton and the murky depths of your darkest fantasies, Kilted Dragon is not your typical Scottish dominatrix. She's part myth, part muscle, and all mischief—wrapped in leather, laced in lace, and never without her trusty whip (which she affectionately calls "Nessie").

The Kilted Dragon doesn’t tiptoe through tartan dreams. She stomps through them—thighs like oak trunks that have weathered centuries of storms and naughty souls. You don’t cuddle the Dragon. You survive her. And if you’re lucky… you’ll thank her with trembling knees and a newfound respect for authority figures in knee-high boots.

What do we offer?
Oh darling, this isn’t some sleepy tartan tea room. This is full-contact fantasy. We serve spankings with side orders of sarcasm, domination with a dram of single malt, and just enough consent-based chaos to make your ancestors spin in their graves—and your loins sing “Flower of Scotland” in falsetto.

Why the name?
Because when she’s finished with you, you’ll be gasping “JESUS CHRIST THERE WAS A DRAGON IN A KILT” to a therapist who will promptly take early retirement.

Services include

• Disciplinary beatings with a hickory paddle carved from an ancient clan tree

• Boot worship sessions (polish optional, grovelling mandatory)

• Bagpipe humiliation (don’t ask)

• Scottish roleplay: Highlander? Governess? Clan Chief’s Wife With A Vengeance? You bet your hairy sporran.

• Safe words in both English and Gaelic (though if you can still pronounce them, she’s not done yet)

“A Tequila-Fueled Night with the Kilted Dragon”

Let me start by saying: I don’t remember everything. But what I do remember smells faintly of leather, smoke… and lime wedges.

It started innocently enough—shots of tequila lined up like tiny glass soldiers, the Kilted Dragon perched on a barstool like a Highland goddess of mischief, sipping hers with a smirk that could crack granite. One shot became five. She claimed tequila brings out her “playful side.” I would later discover this is Dragon-code for “prepare thyself, mortal.”

By 10pm, I was in a kilt (not mine), being dragged across a karaoke stage to perform “Like a Virgin” with a flogger as my mic. She heckled me from the crowd—lovingly, with venom. People cheered. One man wept. Someone ordered nachos. I was told I danced like a confused baby deer. She said that was “endearing.”

By midnight, we were on the rooftop, toasting the moon, arguing whether dragons would prefer Patron or mezcal. She insisted real dragons don't sip—they shoot.

At 2am, I awoke to find a temporary tattoo of a bagpipe on my thigh and the Kilted Dragon spooning me—fully clothed but snoring like a warrior queen. I’d never felt so safe. Or mildly terrified.

So what did I learn? Tequila is a truth serum. Dragons in kilts are real. And if you ever get the chance to spend an evening with the Kilted Dragon, take it. Just bring your sense of humour, a bottle of something strong, and a safe word in Gaelic.

You’ll thank me later. Probably from a hot bath.