At Relentless Hockey, our "wins" come from players taking their game to the next level, having a breakout season, making the AAA team, signing their first pro contract, or whatever success looks like to them.
It's what drives us to create the best possible programs, resources, and support.
This page serves as a scoreboard for our team - allowing to hear directly from players about not only their experience with Relentless, but more importantly how we've help take their game to the next level.
If you're new here, we encourage you to check out the reviews of the program you're most interested! If you're a Relentless player, we'd love to hear from you in the form below!
Evening had fallen in Paris, enveloping the bustling city in an intimate blanket of sheer darkness. As I sauntered down the cobblestone streets, bathed in the soft, seductive glow of the dimly-lit street lamps, the anticipation was a tangible entity, thick and heady in the cool night air. I had given him carte blanche: his directives, my obedience. He towered over me, his deep-set eyes a whirlwind of trepidation and excitement. With each stride, my tailored, tailored silk dress clung delicately to my body, inviting, yet guarded. The anonymity of the velvet mask my only shield. He eyed me curiously. “The exhibition begins as soon our feet cross that threshold,” he whispered in my ear. His voice, deep and sonorous, slipped down my spine like a caress, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Tonight, your body is my canvas and you, my precious work of art." The flamboyant grandeur of the Montmartre art gallery was a camouflaged playpen for the elite. Eyes followed us as we entered, bold and unabashed, my companion leading us under the gaze of the aristocracy. I relished the thrill, my heart pounding rhythmically against the cage of my ribs. The silky fabric of my dress felt like a second skin. He looped an arm around my waist, his touch scorching through the material, promising a night of carnal desires and exposed vulnerabilities. “Remember, cherie, you choose next,” my companion murmured, reminding me of my option to assert control, should I deem necessary. His assurance stoking the embers of my courage, while simultaneously reigniting the flame of my trepidation. As the night unfurled, so too did the layers of our shared intimacy. His gaze unwavering, as inscrutable masterpieces of art found an alluring paralleled narrative on the canvas of my skin. He was the artist, and I was his masterpiece. The wicked thrill of his growing possessiveness was matched only by the assertive hands that dared to explore the hidden contours of my body. Eyes locked onto ours, searing in their voyeuristic glory. The whispered scandal, the veiled envy, the palpable sexual tension; they were all mere spectators in our theatre of sensuality. As he adeptly guided me through the crowd, every stroke of his hand, every hushed word, echoed the tale of our shared dominion and surrender. By the end of the night, as we stepped out, hand in hand, into the soothing embrace of the cool Parisian night, a rich tapestry of unforgettable memories had been woven. Lust, fear, excitement, and the intoxicating dynamics of control had collided and fused into an experience unlike any other. In allowing my body to be his canvas, I had truly become art, on display and admired. And as I drifted asleep that night, swathed in the remnants of our shared adventure, I understood: The thrill of exhibitionism wasn't simply the act of being seen, but the intricate dance between surrender and control, a mysterious dance only a precious few are privileged enough to understand. <a href=https://anussy.com/><img src="https://san2.ru/smiles/smile.gif"></a>
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