Bondage Novelty Living Installation

Below is a screenshot from  this video on Twitter!

Yes, difficult to work out on first viewing isn’t it. Best to watch the video from the link above to see what is going on.

I can just imagine having bitch-boy so bound, and tormented with the electrics. I adore the utter helplessness and the exposed, vulnerable genitalia. He would be in my peripheral vision while I got on with something else. He would be gagged and wearing ear buds playing white noise, and allowed only to make the quietest of whimpering and pleading noises.

He would not have cum for a very long time, see below, and he would not get to cum the day I did this. I would probably subject him to it for 2 to 3 hours. Then he would be locked back up in his chastity cage. I would have several orgasms during that time of course.

My new chastity regime for him continues. I know it is not as mean as other Dommes who feature on my blog, but he is seriously struggling with it and he also knows he is moving slowly but inexorably toward having his final ever orgasm. He has not cum for 7 weeks or been out of his cage in that time except for a few  rather ‘intense’ dicki-disciplne sessions which perhaps make him wish he had not been let out of the cage at all.

Before that orgasm under my shoe, his orgasm denial period was 17 weeks when he had an orgasm but the new regime began.

Will I ever replicate the video. I doubt it. All the time taken for him to shave from the neck down to his toes, and then me applying all the duct tape, and then removing it! All too much effort for me I think.

When Dommes swap notes! – Christine

Another wonderful account from Christine M. In it, Christine refers to my ‘advice in recent posts’. I think this must be about raising and dashing hopes and also not holding back with merciless verbal taunting and ridiculing. I know Christine, like me, when applying these techniques firstly get seriously, arousing, cruel pleasure and secondly, despite the forlorn expressions of our puppets, we see momentary glimpses of deep awe of and submissiveness to their Mistresses.

All those years ago now, bitch-boy told me he could not live contentedly without being helplessly in the power of a cruel, pitiless woman. And, David told Christine, ‘he had an unappeasable ‘need’ to be strictly raised in a manner that might have befitted someone in an ULTRA-STRICT Victorian household.‘ Both puppets now sleep the contented sleep of submissives who have had their wishes come true!

 

Christine’s account

I thought you might enjoy hearing about last Wednesday evening when I followed your advice from your recent posts. (Speech quotes of course convey the message as I recall, but are not exactly as spoken.) David surprised me, since I thought he knew better than to ask the question he did. He had needed to go into work very early, that morning, and had had an unusually demanding day. During dinner, he asked if he might be excused that evening’s weekly chores, until the next night, while stressing that he would of course still clean up in the kitchen.  

I may choose to excuse him his duties for a night(s), if I want his company, if we are going out or if I feel he needs a rest… he well knows that he NEVER gets the choice! It was therefore just so natural to make him regret making such a request; and I had not the slightest pang of conscience about being so pitiless towards him. His dedication and time spent pampering me was irrelevant, not even deserving of a thank you; and I revelled in my being so indifferent to his plight. 

“No, David,” I firmly advised, “you know how I feel about this! You need to get your priorities straight! Nothing takes precedence over your duties as my maid!” He looked so forlorn, as he gave his best pleading look and begged that he would do everything the next day. it was clear he couldn’t mentally or physically face up to getting changed and doing chores. 

“No, David,” I firmly advised, “You know how I feel about this! You need to get your priorities straight! Nothing takes precedence over your duties as my maid!” He looked so forlorn, as he gave his best pleading look and begged that he would do everything the next day. It was clear he felt he couldn’t mentally or physically face up to getting changed and doing chores.

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANOTHER WORD!,” I stridently chided, “Now, get changed immediately, then put a load of washing on and come see me in the lounge. I’d like a pedicure… AND, if you don’t improve your attitude, I’ll give you something to truly be sorry about!” Morosely, with a slightly dramatic sigh, he thanked me and went off to change. It was about six-thirty when, dressed as Daisy my maid, he started my pedicure, which included a warm foot bath, hot towels, aromatic oils, a foot scrub and a massage, before sculpting and painting my toe nails. He is very good at this and knows he must take his time and not rush anything. I must admit I had him slip into the bedroom and come back with my special massager wand. I was so very relaxed.

It was around seven forty-five when he tenderly kissed my feet to signify he was finished. I let him continue kissing for several minutes before I draped one foot over his shoulder and rubbed the other into his groin, feeling his steel prison, “Mmmmmmm…..,” I smiled dreamily, “Enough kissing… I have had two wonderful orgasms, I am so sleepy and relaxed. I’m going to lie here a little longer listening to the music before an early night…. I suppose you have forgotten how pleasurable orgasms are. Mine are so powerful, they drain all the energy and tension out of me, leaving me feeling ever so blissfully relaxed… tingly and drowsy and energised all at once.” His chest heaved deeply in and out, sighing with intense frustration as I moved my foot up to his nipples and rubbed gently before gliding back down.

I then goaded him, “Do you remember before you met me, you told me how you dated young, slim, gorgeous girls? Girls that your mates used to ogle with envy! You were quite the playboy then… weren’t you? A regular Don Juan! Plenty of orgasms back then? Very different now isn’t it!” I mocked callously, “Endless chores, harsh punishments and, not only are you a virgin for the rest of your life…. Now that we’ve permanently caged it, it doesn’t even get stroked… In fact, you can’t even get a hard-on! That must be so HARD for you!” I laughed sarcastically at my pun.

“Unimaginable for me, I have so many orgasms. Whenever I want them!…. Just what would your old mates think if they could see you now, my pretty little maid… a chaste virgin! What did you tell me your best mate, <Name>, said when you first started seeing me regularly?” He blushed crimson and squirmed uncomfortably, recalling how I had forced confessions from him in those early days. “Oh, I remember,” I laughed, “He wanted to know if you’d ‘lost your marbles’… called me ‘old thunder thighs’ didn’t he?…. Said I must be ‘Older than your mother’! Figured I must really ‘put-out’ didn’t he? Why else would you go out with me? Very chauvinistic!

What would he think of you if he could see you now! The lads would have a right good laugh at you wouldn’t they? Think you a right pathetic wimp they would! A real pansy! Maybe we should invite them round for a laugh? What do you think?” He blushed deeply and trembled like a snared rabbit. “They’d probably call you a right little wanker wouldn’t they? But you can’t do that can you?” I smirked

I have always adored teasing him over his chastity and his sacrifices, but now, following your lead; I am more often cruel and cutting with my remarks. Previously I would tease him in a tender, erotic manner. This excited him, leaving him aching for release. Now that I display icy dispassion and serious contempt as I mock and ridicule him, using the most scathing and derisory language, it cuts so deeply into his core, that it is actually more hurtful than anything else I do! He feels humiliated, abandoned, pathetic and, if truth be told, plain silly. Consequently, he is often reduced to tears. Deep down, he doubtless hopes that his tears will bring compassion and affection, rather than the total contempt they illicit, which leaves him feeling even more despondent and hurt! It’s a wicked cycle and he so preferred the more kindly, erotic teasing.

I smiled at the look of desolation and pathetic wretchedness on his face, observing his deep sighs of beyond extreme frustration and fear, in case I did invite them over.

Then grinning mischievously, I sardonically continued, “You must be so looking forward to next year…. You just MIGHT get two releases…. The same as I have had this evening… Yours aren’t guaranteed though, are they? And I’ll have a third before bed tonight! Whereas you will never ever have more than two in a year… NEVER, EVER!”

I laughed contemptuously at the thought of this, shaking my head in mock disbelief, “They won’t be like mine either, will they?” I grinned as a tear formed in his left eye. “There won’t be a long, slow build-up, followed by multiple orgasms that build to an enormous crescendo before they ever so slowly ebb away into a range of heavenly sensations, leaving me relaxed as I bask in the afterglow for as long as I wish.

You just get a one-minute ‘quickie’ don’t you! That’s it!… then straight into its cage and back to your chores! Hardly worth the bother really! A waste of 5-minutes if you ask me!” Laughing at his grief-stricken look, his lower lip still quivering, I harshly snapped, “I HOPE YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BURST INTO TEARS!!! YOU ARE SO PATHETIC THE WAY YOU CRY OVER NOTHING! I’m warning you now… if you smudge your make-up… not only will you need to reapply it before you start your chores,… I’ll give you something to really cry about tomorrow evening! NOW STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF AND GET TO WORK! YOU’RE NOT ON VACATION!”

He sighed most disconsolately, and rose stiffly having been on his knees for so long. He was clearly tired. I remained, ever so relaxed, and closed my eyes to enjoy the peaceful music playing in the background… “Oh David,… before you go… After a sleepy pause, I dreamily continued, “I’ve been thinking about your earlier request to put off your weekly chores… I think what you really need is a little lesson in gratitude and duty…..”

I heard him gently exhale in trepidation… “After you finish all your chores… you’re going to write me a short essay…” with my eyes still closed I heard his deeper sigh of crushed resignation. Picturing the look of misery on his face, tears forming for sure. I paused for perhaps a minute. A smile creased my lips as I delivered a wonderfully perplexing topic for his essay, “…. ‘Idleness, Indolence and Leisure’.”

He mumbled a desolate thank you as another lengthy pause followed, during which I almost dozed off. I was feeling so relaxed, quietly enjoying playing with his emotions… it wasn’t I who had chores and an essay to write! It wasn’t I who was wanting to rush off and start my work. I could laze in my arm chair, unwinding to the soothing music for as long as I wished. “Just 2-pages,” I smiled nonchalantly, leaving him gasping, lost for words.

[For his essays, I recently introduced A4 writing pads with a 6 mm line spacing. These have 45 lines on each sheet. Previously we used standard A4 writing pads with a line spacing of 8 mm. They had 32 lines on a page. With the narrower line spacing, his writing needs to be smaller too, so not only are there more lines on each page, he fits more words on each line. With the 8 mm paper, he wrote around 10-words on a line; with the 6 mm paper he fits around 15-words on each line. This means a 2-page essay used to be around 650 words; but with his new pads, it is about 1,400 words! Hence why he was so morose!]

Showing no concern, I dreamily advised, “You’ll need to change into your school uniform…. And of course, no internet study! I want to know YOUR thoughts on the topic.” There was another, even deeper sigh to this news. “You can go now!” I curtly advised. Throughout this exchange, I had not even opened my eyes. He would have been feeling tremendously depressed to be so dismissively dealt with.

“Please Christine,” he summoned up the courage to nervously stutter, whimpering, “I really am very exhausted…. And I have a few hours of chores to do…. And I’m starting late after giving you a long pedicure. Cou… could I… maybe… please….. may I write it over two-nights? Please? Please?” he pleaded fretfully. I could just imagine him trembling, his eyes teary and lower lip quivering again, a woeful expression on his face. I was nearly asleep I was so stress-free. “No, I want you to write it tonight” I quietly advised before briefly pausing and remarking, “On second thoughts… let me think about that….” I then paused for well over a minute, with him perhaps dreading that I might have fallen asleep. “Yes, I think that is actually a good idea…” I languidly agreed, much to his relief as he replied, “Thank you Christine, thank you so much.”

“We can make it 4-pages then… Now… you have your wish, so the sooner you finish your chores, the sooner you can make a start on the first half of your essay.”

He audibly gasped in horror at this unexpected turn of events. I, in contrast, was lazily reaching for my wand again, my eyes still closed, quietly basking in my power and pitilessness, enjoying the contrast of knowing we were both aching for an orgasm, but whilst I was about to enjoy a massive one, my third in an hour or so, he would not be! Nor would he for several months yet!

I could still hear he was present, and had not yet left the room. As I gently pressed the wand to me, I distantly asked, “Are you still there…”

“I was just on my way out, Christine, I had to gather everything up…” he replied a little nervously.

 “That’s lucky,…. That you’re still here…” I murmured, “because I was thinking… I’d like my car cleaned tonight instead of at the weekend…. I am going out with, <Friend’s Name>, tomorrow… It will be so much nicer if I have a freshly cleaned car to show off…. That means vacuumed and cleaned inside, then washed and polished…. The showroom works…”.

[Normally he washes my car weekly, and cleans it inside monthly. This is a physically demanding job that takes at least 2-hours to complete. And he has to work fast and use a lot of muscle. He also had washing and ironing to do, as well cleaning the hallway, stairs, landing and dining room. These were also physically demanding jobs.]

I then slipped into my world of relaxed pleasure as he no doubt looked on awe-struck, before having the good grace to quietly leave.

I knew too that he was most unlikely to request to be excused from his chores again, for a long while! He now had an extra 2-hours of chores and half a 4-page essay to write, a daunting task in itself.

The next day he advised me it was half-past-one before he was able to start writing, and he worked on his essay for 2-hours that first night; and over 6½-hours the next night; though he was able to start at nine on the Thursday night. I had placed a little extra pressure on him on the Thursday, when I brightly mentioned that, since he had two-nights for his essay, anything less than a score of ‘B’ would mean he would need to rewrite it.

[When he presents punishment lines, I just quickly glance to see they are completed, and look presentable, before tearing them up.  With essays, I grade his work using a simple rubric. This ensures he has to put plenty of serious scholarly effort into his writing. The rubric covers content, structure, grammar, organisation and development, and style. I scan the essay, rather than reading intently. This means It takes no more than 5-minutes to grade an essay, as opposed to the many hours that he spends preparing and writing them! Scholarly essays were something he had suggested when we first met as they evoked memories of schooldays. I think he regrets that too!]

Of course, as expected, he performed at work the next day with no trouble at all, although he felt rather weary.  I actually only put him though such demanding trials once or twice each month. He has always been capable of such feats of effort and has never needed much sleep.

Canapes and Wretchedness

Lock down has brought me a new cruel pleasure through combining two of my favourite things.

The first thing, which I adore, is the niche activity best known as, ‘WHILE DOING SOMETHING ESLE’.  Having my little bitch engaged in some humiliation/tedium activity while he is mostly ignored by me; while I do something else. He may be in sensory deprivation bondage, or standing facing the wall – nose pressed into the corner, or cleaning floors with a toothbrush, (for the second time that day), or dressed as a parody of a schoolgirl writing punishment lines, or dressed as a parody of a little girl – having to play with his dollies in some way. While I, am on the telephone, or watching a movie or box set, or enjoying some Yoga or Pilates or on social media, or having a nap, or engaging in one of the many craft activities I enjoy, etc, (usually also involving some sporadic masturbation).

I have come up with a way of combining this with another thing I adore; GOOD FOOD and FINE DINING. So this is what I am doing.

At the most simple end of the spectrum, while I do something else, bitch-boy will have to kneel on the floor carefully peeling half a punnet of grapes for me, (and retaining the skins). Then he not only peels an orange for me, but with a sharp knife (refer to YouTube), removes the skin from each orange segment, (retaining the skins and pitch).  Then he peels an apple and/or pear and cuts the peeled items into bite sized chunks, (and retains the skins and cores), Bitch-boy wears a gag or pacifier padlocked into place while he labours.

The peeled fruit can then be presented to me on a plate with a little fork for me to consume at my leisure, while I do something else. And while I do, the destiny of the bowl of skins and pitch and cores is to be tipped onto the floor, spat on, trodden on and then eaten from the floor by my little puppet while I consume my delicacies.

At a more complicated level, is the preparation of fine dining canapes. Canapes that  are labour intensive. There are many recipes on the internet. I insist on neatness and uniformity as  well as the accurate proportion of each ingredient. Failure on any one of these facets results in harsh punishment.

One favourite is; blue cheese and peeled pear wrapped in Parma ham. Any left over Parma ham white fat, pear skin and core and the hard edge of the blue cheese is retained in bitch-boy’s bowl.

Another favourite is; a Blini topped with smoked salmon,  lemon juice, creme fraiche and a coriander leaf.

You get the picture. Very time consuming and tedious for bitch-boy while I do something else and then I get to consume the wondrous delicacies while he eats the spat on, trodden on crud. Such a wonderful way to illustrate status difference. A very small tin of caviar (blinis with caviar and creme fraiche)  is not out of the question cost wise, and is excellent for that illustration of status difference, while he is eating crud from the floor.

I am sometimes having a main evening meal entirely of a good selection and quantity of canapes with peeled fruit for dessert; while bitch-boy gets the crud. And it takes him as much as four hours to prepare my meal, (while I do other things). A little of my golden nectar gets added to his crud on these evening meal occasions.

Those four hours are a HUGE turn-on for me. I get on with enjoying myself while the ostensibly ignored bitch-boy labours in the corner of the room and we both know all that labour will be resulting in a delicious meal for me and a disgusting, degrading ‘meal’ for him.

 

For info on my BDSM manual, in several formats, click on an image below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Workplace initiated Domme/sub predicaments

Introduction

To add to the treats in my last post.  First, below are two real life accounts from Workplace Dommes. As I wrote in my last post, as regular readers know, I adore accounts of real life Domme/sub relationships, especially long-term relationships.

BUT, I truly adore real life accounts of other types of real life Domme/sub relationships. Accounts of real life female domination, where there is no ‘romantic’ relationship; such as a workplace initiated domination and submission arrangement.

So having trawled though my collection of real life accounts from my collection of Madame magazines of the 1970s and 1980s, below are two accounts of workplace initiated Domme/sub predicaments. Long term predicaments for the sub.   I am spoiling you, because under the menu tab option above left,  DOMMES LETTERS, as well as the two accounts below, there is one other work based account. When you hover on that DOMMES LETTERS tab, there is a drop-down option of Workplace Initiated Predicaments.

And in due course, There will be another drop down option, Workplace Dommes.

Formatting these accounts has taken hours of time for poor bitch-boy. Not that I feel any pity for him. He is my slave after all. Drudgery work is one of the things he is for, as well as suffering in many other ways for my pleasure.

Please let me know if these new features are worth me spending bitch-boy’s time on. I obviously can fill his days in other ways that please me!

 

Account 1

Dear Ms. Candida,

I expect you will think I am a bit too young to know very much about male domination and that sort of thing. I am nineteen next birthday. My ambition is to become really expert so I read your magazine from cover to cover every month. I even learn some parts off by heart! I get lots of magazines on the subjects of spanking, punishment and domination bought for me by this bloke I’m going out with. Your magazine is my special favourite. I first met this bloke about six months ago when I was working as a “temp” in Portsmouth. He is miles older than me — 54 to be precise — but we get on really well. I got the feeling that he was a bit “kinky” after I had been working at his office for a week or so. He seemed to have a thing about stockings and suspenders. He kept asking me if I wore them rather than tights. When i said that I did he said he thought I was fibbing. He bet me five pounds that I couldn’t prove it. It was the easiest fiver I have ever made. All I had to do was hitch up my skirt and give him a quick flash. A couple of days later I won another bet over frilly knickers. After a week after that I arrived into work to find a little gift on my desk. I opened the package and to my surprise I found what I can only describe as a “G-string”. It was a little leather triangle to cover the cunny with three tie-things. There was a note with it:

“I bet you would not wear this!” Well, I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge so I was off to the toilet to change without hesitation. Later on when I went into his office to take dictation I detected a definite glint in the naughty boy’s eye.

“Well?” he said. “Is it a bet?” “Not for five quid!” I said, firmly. I had no intention of flashing my bare bum for a fiver! “I was thinking of ten,” he said hesitantly. “Make it twenty-five and you’re on!” I replied.

He agreed. I knew he would. He was almost dribbling at the mouth by this time. Besides, he’s stinking rich and twenty-five quid means nothing to him. Mind you. I think I would have done it for a tenner. I’m not proud where money is concerned. But he didn’t know that, did he? I made quite a show for him. I lifted the back of my skirt ever so slowly and gave my bum a nice little wiggle. I’m quite pleased with the shape of my bottom, by the way. Some people might think it’s a bit on the plump side but I’ve found blokes seem to like it that way. He certainly did. He was panting like a stallion and his words of praise were music to my young ears. Suddenly, I let my skirt drop back into place and I noted his sigh of disappointment with great satisfaction.

“Twenty-five  quid,   please!”  I snapped.

“I’ll double it if you’ll let me touch!” he blurted out. “Just once! Pleeese . . Pleeeeeeese . . . !!!”

FIFTY QUID! Wow! For one touch! What girl in her right mind would refuse? His hands were really gentle so I let him stroke and fondle me for about five minutes. Ten quid per minute — not bad, eh? I would have let him have longer but the buzzer on his desk sounded off. He had a visitor waiting to see him. Poor thing! His trousers were bulging fit to burst. “You’ll have to do something with that”, I said playfully. “What do you suggest?” he asked. “There’s a loo down the hall,” I replied, “you can do what all naughty boys do at times like this”. “But, if I do that I’ll have to be punished afterwards,” he said, pouting like a disobedient fourth-former.

“Only if you get caught in the act!” I quipped.

The buzzer went again. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have time anyway!” “You’ll have to wait until lunchtime,” I smirked. “But be careful! It will only be us two here and I might pop in to see what you’re up to!” At lunchtime I waited until the other girls had been gone for about ten minutes. Then I locked the office and sneaked along the hall to the loo. It was occupied. I knocked firmly on the door.

“Who’s in there?” “It’s me,” he replied as if in panic. “What are you doing?” “N-nothing . . .”, he stammered. “Liar!” I hissed. “Open this door at once!”

He slipped the catch and the door opened. Quite frankly, I cannot hope to describe what I saw. He looked too ridiculous for words. Try to imagine, if you can, this middle-aged, balding, tubby man with his trousers and underpants at half mast with his right hand clamped firmly around his tool and his left hand cupped beneath the swollen head to catch the come. I could hardly stand up for laughing. It really killed me to see him like that. Caught bare-bummed with his prick in his hand!

“Don’t tell! Please, don’t tell!” he begged. “I’ll give you anything you want! Pleeeese . . . .!!”

At this I calmed down. Obviously, there was profit to be made. “Sorry!” I said with great piety — all false of course. “I must tell! I shall telephone your wife.”

“No! No! Please! Don’t do that. . .!!”

Well, I thought he was going to have a heart attack on the spot so I reassured him that I had only been joking. However, I also let him know that I would be expecting a few favours and surprises as a reward for my discretion.

“You’re a very bad boy! We shall have to find a way to punish you,” I added.

At this his attitude changed from one of panic to obedient submission. “I’m very sorry. Miss,” he mumbled. “I promise to be good from now on.”I liked this new attitude.

“Promises!” I snapped. “Promises are like pie-crust. Easily broken! You need something to remind you. I’ve got just the thing for you, my lad. Go to your office . . . and don’t bother to pull your pants up. You will only have to take them down again for what I have in mind!” He shuffled off holding his trousers at half-mast. His bum wobbled beautifully. It was a pinkish white colour and smooth like a baby’s bottom. I would soon change that!

I have always preferred the old- fashioned, wooden hairbrushes to the modern plastic things. I had one in my bag on that day. It was a real beauty. Nice and heavy with a wide, flat back — perfect for the job at hand. I took it with me into his office where he waited, trembling like a leaf. His tool was still up like a rod.

“I see you are still in the same state,” I said. “We shall see what a little taste of the hairbrush can do. Bend over the desk!”

He obeyed and presented my brush with a pair of quivering targets which were impossible to miss. Folding back the tail of his shirt, I took a position close to his left and placed my free hand in the small of his back. His whole body shuddered as I laid the brush lightly upon his right bottom- cheek in order to take aim. It’s not so long ago that I was on the receiving end of a spanking myself — my mum used to warm my bum quite often when I lived at home — so I know just how the poor man felt as he waited for the first smack. A mixture of fear, excitement, panic and anticipation which races through the entire nervous system makes it impossible to relax.

Time seems to be suspended. You feel weak and very, very vulnerable. You are aware of how ridiculous you look — especially from the rear where you have everything on display. And you wait. . . and wait. . . and wait…. I kept the trembling wretch in suspense for almost five minutes during which time he was reduced to a slobbering wreck. The power I felt was beyond belief and by the time I laid the first smack my cunny was gushing with sizzling juices.

I am sure that by your standards the spanking that I gave him was a pretty feeble effort. However, I did get a nice rhythm going and the brush popped and bounced from cheek to cheek quite merrily. Crumbs! You ought to have heard him squeal. He’s such a cry-baby! You would have thought I was burning his bottom with hot irons instead of giving him a well-deserved but really quite mild dose of the hairbrush. Do you think ten smacks on each cheek is excessive? I don’t! I’ve had twice that for leaving my room untidy at home. The silly boy didn’t know how lucky he was. Mind you, he does now! Since that time I’ve had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate what a real bum-punishment can be like. Twenty little smacks with a hair brush is pure pitty pat compared to the sort of chastisement I dish out to him these days. Still, for a beginner I didn’t do a bad job. His bum was like two rosy apples and really quite hot to touch.

When I released him he scurried back to the loo to “tidy himself up”. The fibber! I knew he was in there wanking himself off. But then so was I! Right beside him in the “Ladies”.

After that first time it all went a bit quiet though I did get rather nice presents: chocs, make-up and stuff like that. Then one afternoon he said that he was going to Birmingham for a few days and would I like to go along with him? Of course, I agreed. On the way he told me about his home life. Poor old soul! His wife is a proper ice-maiden. No real sex at all. The best he gets at home is permission to rub himself off on her bum through her nightie! While he does it she lays on her side reading a book. How about that? And to get this from her he has to beg her on his hands and knees, lick her toes and all that stuff. He does all the washing and cleaning around the house as well. And here’s a weird bit. She’s got a thing about underwear.

Every time she goes to the loo she changes her knickers. The poor old twit has to wash and iron about fifty pairs of pants every week on top of everything else. She’s got a private toilet too. He has to clean that three times a day — mornings, evenings. last thing at night — more at weekends. I’ve never met her but the girls in the office say she’s a fantastic looker. She’s younger than him —about thirty-five and the girls think she might be a lesbian because one of them saw her walking arm-in-arm with a girl in Navy uniform a short while ago. I don’t know if tt. -;’s true but one thing is for sure — she treats her men pretty badly!

I felt quite sorry for the poor bloke by the time we got to Birmingham and when he gave me £250 spending money I felt even more sympathetic. I had a free afternoon so I thought I might buy him something to cheer him up a bit. As luck would have it I came across a super sex shop quite near to where we were to stay. I think the bloke who served me was surprised to see what I bought but it didn’t stop him from taking the money. When my bloke got back from his business meeting I had all my new things laid out on the bed. He went bonkers with joy.

There was a leather sheath-like thing with a little padlock and key for him to wear when he was out on his own, a little clamp that fitted over the balls with a brass screw that could be tightened, a pair of leather pants with a false penis inside which went up your bum when you wore the pants, a thing called a tawse for spanking and three brand new canes in different thicknesses.

“Well?” I said. “Have you been a good boy today? Let’s have a look”. He offered no objection and like a good little boy he unzipped his fly and lowered his trousers. Examination of his underpants disclosed no telltale signs but that meant nothing. I turned my attention to the root of the matter. There was no doubt. He had washed himself well but the redness around the knob end and under the drawn-back foreskin proved that he had indulged himself at least once that day and probably more. Faced with the evidence he confessed. With trembling hands he obeyed my command to undress down to his undervest. I laid the three canes out in a line and made him make a choice by the one-potato, two-potato method. He selected the medium implement. By this time his “root” had started to trouble him again. I was going to have none of that. Two sharp cuts with the cane across the shaft took the swelling down quite quickly.

“The devil makes work for idle hands.” I said. “I think we’ll put those naughty hands of yours to good use. I think six of the best on each is the usual number. Right hand up, please!”

The cane cut him square across his open palm. It must have stung like mad because he screwed his face up tight at the sudden burn.

“Left hand. please!”

He winced again and tucked both hands beneath the opposite arm pits. “Right hand!” I snapped coldly. He raised his hand and there was real fear in his eyes. He was not enjoying this one little bit! I was!!! The first stroke had left a deep scarlet stripe across his palm. The second cut in nicely beside it. This time he squealed for the remaining strokes. By the last cut he was crying quite bitterly. I set down the cane and lay back on the bed.

“Fetch me some tea!” I said wickedly.

It was one of those hotels where you can make your own tea and coffee. Well, you can just imagine the mess the silly boy got into. He could hardly hold a cup in those throbbing, freshly caned hands let alone make and serve tea. He was all fingers and thumbs. It wasn’t made any easier by my goading either:

“Come on, you stupid lout! Am I suppose to wait all night? Perhaps you need a stroke or two more to spur you along!”

Finally, he managed to serve me a cup of tea. Taking a huge mouthful I spat it back into his face.

“Muck!” I exclaimed. “Right hand!” He shook his head violently — not in disobedience but in desperation.

“Right hand!” I said quietly. Slowly the hand was raised into position. I took up the cane. His eyes pleaded more longingly than words. Slowly I measured the instrument against the raw, swollen surface of his outstretched palm. A shiwer of excitement ran through my body as he winced in anticipation of impending pain. He waited transfixed as I raised the cane. Then, suddenly … I placed  my cup and saucer upon his hand. “Try again!” I said. “And this time get it right … or else!”

As it happens I had no intention of caning his hands again so quickly after the previous six-of-the-best on both palms. Hands, unlike bottoms, are delicate and they have little in the way of natural padding. I have no qualms about inflicting pain. Quite the opposite. However, I have no desire to cause anyone lasting damage. His hands were already in a bad condition. More punishment administered at that time might have crippled the poor chap. I hope you approve of my action — or was I over-cautious?

The second cup of tea he managed to serve was a good deal better than the first though he still found the work very difficult. He served it very prettily too so I rewarded him by letting him hold his hands under cold running water for a while. You ought to have seen them — all shades of scarlet, blue and purple with sharp, straight ridges where the cane had striped the flesh. He moaned with relief as the water cascaded over his throbbing palms. What a kind mistress I could be. How generous. How sweet . . . But not for long! His night of punishment was only just beginning. Enjoy your moment of respite, my lad. It won’t last long.

Next I turned my attentions to an area which was a hundred times more sensitive than the palms of the hands. I made him lie on his back on the bed with his legs spread a little to give me access. The little clamp fitted remark- ably well and when I took up tension on the screw his ball-bag began to strain very nicely. At first it was just uncomfortable for him but after a couple more turns discomfort became pain. His balls became more defined within the bag and the skin grew taut and took on a shiny look. Another half-turn and he was sweating. I began to turn the screw in fractions. Each squeeze increased the pain level. His balls stood out like a pawn-broker’s sign — less one. His fingers clawed at the bedclothes and he thrashed his head from side to side. Actually, the pain wasn’t all that bad.

The man in the shop told me that the decive had a special release spring which prevented any serious injury. It was in my bloke’s mind more than his balls. Still it was nice to see him chucking himself about and quaking in terror. When the device was firmly fixed in place I made him get up and walk about the room. Having his balls caught like that made him bow legged and he could only get about slowly. However, I found that I could make him move a bit faster by flicking the bottom of his tightly- stretched ball-bag with the tip of the cane. Not too hard of course. Just enough to make him jump. He looked really funny from the back with his fat bum-cheeks wobbling like pink jellies and his balls hanging down like a pair of ripe tomatoes.

By this time it was getting on for eight thirty and I was feeling a bit peckish. No din-din’s for the naughty boy of course but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t treat myself to a slap-up meal. He would have to wait in the room. But if I left him he would be up to something. I knew that. Well, I also knew how to put the block on any ideas he might get!

The leather sheath was a tight fit over his partly erected tool but I finally managed to get it firmly in place. The thongs were a wee bit short — especially when I put them around his paunch — but after a lot of tugging with my spiked heel rammed into his back for extra leverage I got them to snap together. As luck would have it the third thong, which was designed to go under his crotch and up between his bottom-cheeks, was just the right thickness to go through a small hole in the ball-clamping device so I killed two birds with one stone. By the way. Here’s a tip worth knowing. Leather stretches when it is wet and contact as it dries. If you soak a leather restrainer before putting it on the longer you leave it the tighter it becomes. The little padlock snapped shut with a little click and my naughty boy was safe from harm. Now all I had to do was give him something to occupy him for the couple of hours that I would be away. I remembered my detentions from school. I must have written thousands of lines in my time. He had a note pad and pens in his briefcase. It was perfect.

It took me quite a time to dream up a good line for him to write. At last I came up with : “I must not play wankies with willikins.” I did not give him a set number of lines to write but told him that I expected to see four lines for every minute that I was gone. For example, if I was away for one hour forty-one and one half minutes I would demand to be presented with no less than 406 perfectly written lines. Not an impossible target but one that would be very difficult to attain. There would be no time for slacking.

As it happened I was away for a little over two hours. I met some girls in the bar, got chatting and time simply flew by. When I returned he was still slaving away. He didn’t make his target though. I can’t remember the exact number he should have written — about 560. I think. He actually did just over 400 — and with his hand all caned and throbbing too. Not bad really. Of course I didn’t tell him that. I acted very severe and told him that he was to get up early next morning and do three more hours of line writing before he left the room. He thanked me for being such a kind and considerate Mistress. Not in words, of course. He was still gagged. He just fell at my feet moaning and shaking his silly head. I read that to
mean:

“Oh, thank you. Mistress! You are so kind. I love writing lines for you to tear up before my eyes. All that work torn to shreds in seconds. Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

Now. I could well have been wrong. He might have been saying:

“Oh, no! Please, Mistress! No more lines. My hands hurt me so much! Please have mercy! Pleeeeeeese . .pleeeeeese …..!!!”

I plumped for the first interpretation. and since he was so pleased I told him that he could do three more hours when he came in the next night making six hours in all. I added that if he kept on thanking me in the way that he was I would probably double the dose to twelve hours. This piece of information had a strange effect. He stopped moaning and remained stock still at my feet. Perhaps he thought twelve hours might be too much of a good thing.

When I released him from his restraints both his tool and his ball-bag were red and burning hot. His tool in particular was very swollen but there was nothing unusual in this. I gave him a drink of water which he slurped doggie-fashion from a big ashtray — next, I gave him one minute to have a wee-wee and wash himself down in preparation for stage two of his punishment. Within a few moments after that he was returned to his restraints. I examined his hands. They were still sore and swollen. Quite obviously I would have to turn my attentions to an alternative portion of the naughty boy’s anatomy. You won’t need three guesses to name what I had in mind. I am sure . . . Where else but that feature of the human frame which seems to have been designed specifically for the purpose of punishment — THE BOTTIE!!! Oooooh! My bloke does have such a lovely bum, too! So plump and round and spankable. Who could resist such temptation? Certainly not me! He had quite a bit of trouble getting over my lap. As I have said he’s quite a roly-poly and having his root and his balls under restraint didn’t help much either.

Nevertheless, after much wriggling and whining I finally got him settled with his bare bum-cheeks nicely hoisted for my attentions. The “tawse” was made of a piece of heavy leather strap with a grip cut into one end and split into two tongues at the other. It was quite light and not designed for severe punishment. A “warmer” more than anything else and that is just what I used it for. I wanted his bottom to be tingling fresh and glowing all over so that when I switched to one of the canes he would feel the smart of each cut to the full. His bottom bounced beautifully under the tawse and I found the instrument remarkably easy to use. I also liked the flap-slap sound it made as it smacked down onto the softness of his bum. He, of course, made a great fuss. He always does. The big baby!

Well. little did he know it but I planned to give him something to fuss about when I had finished playing pit-pat. I can’t remember how many smacks I gave him. About ten or twelve on each cheek as before — but much lighter than the hairbrush spanks he got at the office. His bum was hardly smarting at all. He really is a cowardly-custard. Honestly, he is! Well, I’d just about had enough of his antics. He needed a lesson and by heaven he was going to get one! Without further ado I liberally shoved him off my lap and he landed with a bump on the floor. Then I gathered up every pillow and cushion in the room and piled them on the bed. Finally, I stripped for action down to my pants stockings and suspenders. I kept my high-heeled shoes on to give me the height I would need.

He literally crawled into position over the cushion. It was the first time in my life I had ever had a man before me beneath the cane. Quite honestly, I was trembling almost as much as he was and I’m ashamed to say that in the heat of the moment I lost control. Without any stimulation I came in my pants. After that I was even more determined. To think that this male worm could have  been  partly responsible for such humiliation. His bottom would have to pay and pay dearly! I measured each stroke slowly and savoured every groan he made and twist of his body. I caned from both sides of his bottom to ensure that both cheeks were evenly covered by the tip of the stick.

“You can get up!” I snapped coldly. “It’s over”.

With that I dispatched him to a corner where he was made to kneel with his hands clasped upon his head under pain of further punishment if he moved a muscle. I went back to the bar where the girls I had met earlier was still having a high old time. I finally returned to the room and released him from his restraints at about two-thirty. I was feeling quite randy so I made him suck me off a few times before I retired. I slept the sleep of the pure at heart. He slept on the floor!

The following morning he did his three hours line-writing without complaint. I then dressed him in his new knickers with the false prick, patted him on the B.T.M. and sent him off to work. For my part, I had a pleasant breakfast and took a casual stroll down to the sex shop. I got back to the room around three-thirty with a whole new bundle of “goodies”. I could hardly wait for five o’clock. But it was worth waiting for … I would love to tell you about it and get your views on my progress to date but this letter is already much longer than intended.  With your permission, maybe I might write to you again?

Account 2

I have thoroughly enjoyed reading all the letters you have published concerning petticoat punishments, and I have myself put it to use with devastating success. Our office manager at my work was in his forties, an unmarried, well-off ex-public school boy who still lived with his mother, and was an arrogant pain in the neck, always laying down the law to the girls in the office.

My chance to turn the tables on him came about when, at the office party, he made the fatal mistake of fondling me as we met in a corridor, and trying to unbutton my blouse. Realising this was a heaven-sent opportunity, I pretended to be extremely upset and in tears, and after a quick huddle with a couple of my office girl friends got them to play their part in his downfall by going back into the party and telling him they were having to take me home as I was very distressed.

I phoned in sick the following day, and could imagine how the bully felt, not knowing what was going on. Sure enough, just before lunch he phoned me to find out how I was, and I told him, managing to sound very upset again, that I was emotionally upset and felt I had no option but to report the incident to the directors, as I felt he could behave like that again. He was aghast at this and asked if he could come and see me right away to sort the matter out. This was even better than I had planned, and I readily agreed.

When he arrived I made it clear that I had every intention of reporting the matter, and the arrogant bully started to crumble before my eyes, offering all sorts of inducements to change my mind. I was adamant though, and I let him suffer for several minutes until I felt he was desperate enough to agree to what I had in mind. When I felt the moment was right I introduced my planned suggestion that I might be prepared to drop the matter if he would agree to reverse our roles away from the office and see what it was like to be powerless and to suffer indignities at my command, as I was required to do by him all day.

Not really knowing what he was agreeing to, but desperate enough for anything, he looked confused but quickly agreed. I told him to phone the office to say that he would be late back, informing him that first of all he would be “interviewed” for his new position. My intention was to find out more about him, to see how far I thought I could go with my plan. What I found out delighted me! It appeared he was, underneath, not really a bully at all, but really rather submissive. It appeared he had always been under his divorced mother’s thumb, and had been bullied at school himself.

Being Scottish, living in Scotland, and a firm believer in Scottish traditions, she had insisted on him wearing a kilt at certain times, which had lead to remorseless ragging by his English public school classmates. It seemed that his arrogance was really rather a defensive front, and one which I intended to cure! A submissive who had been forced by a dominant woman to wear a skirt – my mind boggled at the possibilities this opened up.

I handed him the pen and pad I had ready and told him to write an account of what he had done at the office party in full detail, and sign and date it. At first, he refused point blank, immediately realising the devastating use such an account could be put to. I simply grabbed my phone and began dialling. He looked very frightened and asked who I was calling and when I responded with one of the directors’ names, he looked close to tears, but agreed to write out his statement. The first attempt had insufficient detail, but the second attempt was adequate. I took the finished article and locked it in my car. When I came back I could see I had broken him.

I informed him that we had some shopping to do. When he queried this, I told him that the first thing we were going to do was to get him what I felt was appropriate clothing for his new role, just as he always insisted we office girls were “correctly dressed for the office”. I then told him that when subordinate to me he would be known as Nancy Pansy, and that he should address me as Miss Allison. This established, (with a reminder as to the consequences of non co-operation), and first ensuring that he had his cheque book and credit card with him, we headed for the shops.

First of all we purchased a lovely short kilt, not really a kilt of course, but a skirt that would remind him of his previous shame as a schoolboy. Then we went to the local shop that stocked uniforms for the nearby girls’ private school, where, to the great amusement of the rather stuffy shop staff, we purchased the largest sizes of gym-slip, blouses, blazer, hat, and, of course, regulation school knickers. It was a revelation to find that the largest sizes were a fine fit for a small man. Next we visited a charity shop, which provided a lovely pink satin party dress, which I could easily take up to make it nice and short on my nancy-pansy boy. Finally, and even more humiliatingly for him, we went to a specialist dance shop the proprietor of which was an old friend of mine, and where he was forced into a leotard, tights and some very nice bouffant petticoats – by this time he was clearly stunned into a dream like state of submission, and I knew he was mine to do with as I wished.

Nancy Pansy appeared at my house two evenings a week and when required at weekends, where I taught to be useful around the house, to learn various “girly” skills whilst wearing his school uniform, and, what he seemed to find most humiliating, learn a few short song and dance routines whilst wearing his dance outfit. If he failed to please in any way he was over my knee, skirts and petticoats up, for a very sound spanking with a hair brush which was adequate to reduce him to tears when need be. After spanking, he had to curtsey sweetly and thank me for taking such trouble with him. It was lovely to have all my housework and ironing done by my little skivvy. His behaviour to the ladies in the office improved considerably, and after about four months, when this improvement was being discussed in the “Ladies” one day, I took the plunge and invited three of them to come to my house that Saturday to see why.

Nancy Pansy arrived and I immediately took him upstairs and started dressing him in his school uniform. As I was doing this I dropped the bombshell that some friends were coming to tea and that he was to serve them. He was mortified, but was far too far in my power by now to do anything about it. He was so close to tears as I kept reminding him of his forthcoming encounter. He begged and begged and I just laughed in his face.

I thought he would die with shame when he opened the door to curtsey to the three girls from the office, who could scarcely believe their eyes! As he served tea from a trolley they kept asking him to get things from the bottom shelf so that his gym slip rode up exposing his stocking-tops and knickers. They were laughing so much they were almost in tears (so was he, but not tears of laughter). Having been primed by me whilst he was out of the room, the girls then asked when they were going to see him dance – I saw by the look on his face that he wasn’t going to enjoy this at all. He was undergoing a living nightmare that just kept getting worse.

I took Pansy upstairs and as he removed his gym slip I laid out his dancing outfit which almost brought him to tears when he saw the frilly satin knickers and petticoats. “You will wear these under your kilt so that the girls will see your frilly undies as you dance”, I laughingly told him. With a frilly blouse, and a very large ribbon in his hair, he looked a real sissy for the girls, and of course his petticoats made his little kilt stick out a treat. The girls roared with laughter again as he performed a little dance with his kilt and petticoat bobbing up and down to reveal his frilly satin panties.

This was all some time ago, and I am now leaving the area for a new job, and I believe Nancy Pansy thinks his torment will end. But one of the other girls has taken a real interest in taking over my role and making the most of the power over him. She is a real bitch and I think his humiliation and housework will be continuing for some time to come!

A.P. Edinburgh

 

 

A link to all my journals HERE, including:

 

 

 

Young, Dominant, Cruel

Introduction

I think you might find this a treat. A treat for the new UK  lock-down. To begin with, below are two real life accounts from Young Dommes. As regular readers know, I adore accounts of real life mature Domme/sub relationships, especially long-term relationships; where the Domme has naturally evolved over the years; moving up the spectrum that is labelled, ‘extreme’, at the top end.

BUT, I truly adore real life accounts of young women who found domination early. How I would have loved that for my own life. But I certainly cannot complain at the life I have had and especially the life I have lived over the past 20 odd years!

AND, I also adore accounts of real life female domination, where there is no ‘romantic’ relationship; such as a workplace initiated domination and submission arrangement.

So a couple of new tasty features. I have trawled though my collection of real life accounts from my collection of Madame magazines of the 1970s and 1980s. Below are two accounts from YOUNG DOMMES and,  I am spoiling you, because under the menu tab option above left,  DOMMES LETTERS, as well as the two accounts below, there are another three accounts from YOUNG DOMMES. When you hover on that DOMMES LETTERS tab, there is a drop-down option of YOUNG DOMMES. There you will find the additional three  accounts from young Dommes.

And in due course, There will be another drop down option, Workplace Dommes.

Formatting these accounts has taken hours of time for poor bitch-boy. Not that I feel any pity for him. He is my slave after all. Drudgery work is one of the things he is for, as well as suffering in many other ways for my pleasure.

Please let me know if these new features are worth me spending bitch-boy’s time on. I obviously can fill his days in other ways that please me!

 

Account 1- Shaming Masturbation

From him: Simple eye contact can be a serious weapon. My girlfriend captured the reason why when she looked at me with this smirk on her face and said, “I bet you’re wondering what I’m thinking aren’t you?”

I think that hit the nail on the head. Instead of closing my eyes or looking down, I’m forced to watch her eyes and her facial expressions. Sometimes she has this very superior look because she knows just how much power she has over me. Other times, there is laughter in her eyes because (I suppose) she finds it amusing that a grown man would jack off in front of a fully-dressed woman and then lick up his cum while she watches. But regardless of what I might suppose she is thinking, I don’t really know and that is what tears me apart.

My girlfriend continued, “No, you don’t have any idea what my thoughts are right now. I might think this is really disgusting, the idea that a guy would jack off in front of a woman and then eat his cum, rather than demand to fuck her or make her suck his cock. Or I might find it very funny watching you pulling on your cock and tickling your balls, especially when you get close to cumming and your face gets all contorted. Or I might be thinking how I am going to tell some of my friends what you like to do. That that gives me so much power over you that I can even make you lick up your own sticky mess.” With that, I know I shuddered at the thought of what her girlfriends would think if they knew. She saw my discomfort and she laughed. “Would that embarrass you,” she asked, “having some of my girlfriends you know to feed you your cum?” “Yes,” I replied. “Well guess what,” she said with a giggle, “I have told a girlfriend. And she thought it was hilarious.”

I begged her to tell me who she had shared our secret with but she refused. “Oh, I think it’s a lot more fun with you not knowing,” she told me, “It’s just another thing you can be thinking about while you’re gobbling up your cum for me.”

From her: Last night, I finally had my boyfriend put his legs over his head and jack off into his face. He was lying down on the floor and brought his legs over until they were resting on the side of my bed. Then as he masturbated, I alternately spanked and fingered his ass. I grabbed a hold of his balls and squeezed them tightly and told him that when he came I wanted him to get every bit into his mouth or he would be squeezed hard! and punished. He was mortified and I couldn’t stop laughing at his embarrassment.

When he finally came, the eruption surprised us both. The first spurt shot a big glob of cum right into his left eye. He corrected his aim but still managed to get maybe half the load into his mouth. I stood over him and spanked his ass hard five times and told him that I should further punish him by telling my friends how ridiculous he looked. He begged me not to so I told him that if he let me scoop the remainder of his mess up with a spoon and feed it to him, I wouldn’t tell anyone.

His first attempt to ask me to feed him his cum was too hard for me to hear so I gave his ass a hard swat and told him to speak louder. His second attempt wasn’t much better and I spanked his ass three times and told him he was trying my patience. I told him that unless he begged me in a loud and clear voice, that my friends would soon know what a cum eating slut he was. His response was much improved and I soon had his face clean and his mouth full.

I can’t believe how my boyfriend is responding to this domination. He’s become much more attentive to me and treats me better than he ever has before…..and I’m not talking about just in the bedroom. I think I’m really getting into this.

Currently I am forcing my slave to mastursize to a Pamela Lee picture up to 4 hours an evening. I caught him jacking off to her magazine images, so now he is paying the price. He wanted her so bad; now he has got her!! I destroyed his magazines and kept one pic of her. It is blue tacked to the wall at the side of my sofa.

I watch the TV while he faces the other way, next to me, staring at the picture and mastersizing. He knows if he comes, or if he loses his hard-on, he will be so severely punished. He knows how angry he has made me and he is very frightened. At the end of the 4 hours, he is locked back into his restraint.

The rest of the time I am teasing the poor bastard to insanity.

Account 2 –

Dear Ms. Candida,

One of the best ways to tease a man is coming back into fashion. Yes, the miniskirt. Taking advantage of the warm, sunny spell, I decided on a day in London, parading round showing all the pathetic men what they could not have. Though I say it myself, I have very good legs and my new pleated skirt, covering only about the top three inches of my thighs, shows them off to their best advantage. I made Michael, my long-suffering man-friend, come along with me for a day of fun.

Mini-skirts are not common yet, not as short as mine anyway, so I got lots of attention from all those frustrated men who would have liked to screw me. Michael, I should explain, often falls into the same catagory. At 37 he is 16 years older than me, quite successful at his job but not so successful with the ladies. So he gets a real boost now he can show me off as his attractive young dolly-bird to all those executive colleagues of his. But of course in life there is a price to pay for everything and I am no exception. He keeps me, of course, in our nice little house, but he also knows that if he wants me to stay his little dolly-bird he has to satisfy all my whims. I am sure that he would not like all his colleagues to know what our relationship is really like. So if I feel like letting him screw me, then he gets his oats just like everyone thinks. If I feel like other games, much less pleasant from his point of view, then that is just the price he has to pay.

So oh this occasion I felt like teasing lots of other men. My legs certainly had a lot of attention. Some men, real creeps, just stood and stared. Others glanced at me and turned back to take a second look, shocked expressions on their comical little faces. Some pretended not to have noticed, squinting   sideways   and   visibly flushing. I walked slowly so that they could all get a good look at me, gazing at my thighs and all wishing that they could have me.

Best of all were the men out with their wives. Often I met their gaze with a giggle and a smile, making sure that their wives noticed. On a few occasions insignificant little men, accompanied by redoubtable-looking wives, pretended not to be looking at me, but stole shiftly sideways glances. In a loud voice I demanded, “Haven’t you seen a young lady’s legs before?”
and strode on, leaving domestic arguments in my wake. Who knows, perhaps one of those couples were also Madame readers and the poor husband ended the day with a well-caned bottom or aching privates? By the time we were back home I was, frankly, feeling quite randy, and so was Michael. However I felt like oral adoration and knew it would be more fun to leave Michael frustrated. But, well, I thought I should be fair to him and I fetched the playing cards.

Michael’s face fell when he saw the cards, but he was desperate to get his end away and he accepted the challenge. To get what he wanted, all he had to do was draw a king. I did not even specify that it had to be the king of hearts, as I often do. If he drew another royal card then he would have to give me oral service instead, with his genital restrainer kept on to ensure he got no relief himself. Of the non-royal cards. A six or higher would mean that not only would he have to service me, but also that he would receive a few strokes of the cane to take his mind off his own frustrations. A card less than a six? Then he would be in real trouble. And indeed he was, a three of diamonds. Poor Michael groaned because he knew that I was still in the mood for a lot of fun, at his expense.

Soon he was naked and secured for the cane. I reminded him of all the men who had disrespectfully stared at my thighs, of those who had followed a short way, hoping no doubt that a breeze might whip up my hem and give them a flash of my panties, as did happen a couple of times, of the impertinent wolf-whistles that came my way. Yes, all this demanded retribution and his bottom was to be the target.

I do not know quite how many strokes I gave him. There was no need to count, after all I was not planning to stop after a mere half-dozen or even twice that. I was going to stop when I judged that he had a well caned bottom. Poor Michael thought he had a well caned bottom quite quickly and began his pathetic pleading but of course he was just being silly. I was trying to hit him hard  and I was taking my time so as not to tire myself, but I am a girl and he is a mature man so he is just a baby to plead that it hurts so much. With lots of nice lines across his bottom and the tops of his thighs I decided that he had enough of the cane, but then I reminded him how all those men had stared at my thighs so it was only fair that his thighs should get more attention too. I have a leather strap, with the end cut into two tongues, and this is very good for paying attention to male thighs. With his legs a little apart, the ends of the strap reach the inner thighs quite nicely and soon he was turning a nice shade of red. My strokes aimed at the top of his nearer thigh gave him a little bonus, the tongues caught him in the male penalty area and he made a quite unnecessary amount of noise. Indeed I was   impelled   to   register   my displeasure by twice repeating the stroke.

Well, that was his punishment over, but the poor man had not had any relief, had he? Obviously the thing to do was to discourage him a bit. So he was duly repositioned for a little dicky treatment. Now I know that some correspondents like to give a man’s dicky a lovely hard caning and I bet that it is a lot of fun. However, I do quite prize Michael’s dicky at times and it would be a shame to spoil it, to damage one of the blood vessels or something. So while Michael’s dicky does get caned, I use a very light cane and whip it with lots of little stinging strokes that make it nice and sore. Working up and down the shaft, with the occasional, amusingly effective, low stroke, I soon had Michael’s dicky much too sore for him to think of playing with it, even if I were going to let him.

There was still the question of my pleasure of course. It had been a good day and a fun evening and it was time for my own satisfaction. Michael was moaning  a  lot,  risking further punishment, but he dutifully knelt between my legs as I lay back on the edge of the bed, naked before him. With great care he tongued me in all my nicest places and, I must say, he brought me to a beautiful climax. And so, a memorable day was drawing to a close. I do not think Michael was thinking about his own relief anymore, but one can never tell.
I refitted and locked his genital restrainer nice and tightly to make sure. His restrainer imprisons his dicky of course, but the strap running back separates his balls and leaves them satisfactorily exposed, which can be quite convenient. On this occasion I “patted” them each twice with a ruler to keep his mind off other things.

I have been experimenting with my skirt in front of a mirror. By turning in the waistband I can shorten it still further and if I wear brief panties, without tights, then at the back my panties disappear into my cleft. Then if a breeze catches the hem or if I bend over just a little, anyone behind might think I am wearing nothing at all underneath. This could be a real tease.

Men   will   dash   into   public conveniences in droves to wank themselves silly on what they think they have seen. It could be a memorable summer if the weather does not let us down. Meantime, I am planning our next excursion, with the skirt shortened a little, and Michael will get a stroke of the cane, and appropriate dicky and ball treatment too, for every man who stares at me. I am saddened to have to say that Michael is not as enthusiastic about this as one might have hoped.

Yours Truly,
Cindy R.

 

Teasing and degrading, and scents and masturbation

The thrust of this post is about a new toy I have purchased for the princely sum of £6. I think it is going to be quite frequently used in a good number of applications. Longer term readers of my blog may recall my post on the discovery of these Nebuliser masks. However a medical professional left a comment suggesting using nebuliser and atomiser pumps might risk infections for the sub.

My post also asked whether any blog follower knew of a BDSM version that could be purchased, (that I imagined could be locked into place). There were A few  interesting comments from subs who had experienced such equipment and a few kind suggestions for BDSM versions for sale for which I remain grateful, but none that I thought quite right, (I am so particular!);  so I shelved the whole thing.

But my new chastity regime for bitch-boy has had me thinking about how to make his gnawing frustration EVEN WORSE. Although I tease him at least once everyday now, when I get out of bed and slip on my 6 inch heeled platform mules, and stretch and pose while he whimpers in his distress and tells me. ‘I don’t understand.’ But I DO understand poor puppet, and I want to make it even worse.

[An update on bitch-boy’s new regime. Since 6 June he has been double padlocked into his chastity cage, 24/7/365, even for washing. He has had one orgasm, which was after 17 weeks without one. That orgasm was on 1st October, 5 weeks ago; and he has not had another one since and knows it will be sometime. (He is a long way past 30 years old after all.) I do remove the cage for some intense physical teasing by me, every couple of weeks or so,  like playing with his boy’s bits but whenever his birth defect is freed, the freedom ends with a severe session of dickie-discipline followed by stomping on the stomping stage, both of which  ensure he wishes his defect had never been freed!]

So back to my purchase. I have found that there is no need for a pump and all the associated health risks, and not even any need for a tube and cannister.

After I have masturbated for two or three successive orgasms, I use a lump of cotton-wool pleat about the size of a small plum and I wipe myself, ‘deeply’ until the cotton-wool is well ‘coated’. It can then be pressed into the pipe inlet of the mask and stays in place very firmly. I can then have bitch-boy wear the mask during all sorts of his activities, where he is either constantly or sporadically monitored be me. Vanilla activities or DS, such as playing with his boy’s bits, or in bondage. It is clear the natural pheromones invading his senses are cruelly ramping up his gnawing frustration.

I will also be trying the same thing with my golden nectar. Soaking one half of the lump of cotton-wool pleat and using the dry half to compress and hold the lump in place. I cannot see this is any different from many forced activities over the years when he has had to inhale this special and degrading scent for an hour or two and there have never been health problems. (No atomisation is involved. No use of a machine.) I will let you know how this goes.

On the issue of my FREQUENT masturbation, I will finish this post with a link to a BBC news item in which Lily Allen quite correctly says, ‘Women masturbating in a relationship isn’t wrong’.

If only she had added, ‘But men masturbating in a relationship is VERY wrong.’  Although interestingly, she does not mention men at all regarding masturbation in a relationship.

Obviously I am only being tongue-in-cheek and I doubt Lily is into FLR, although who knows, as she has always been a proper feminist. But I do think even this issue becoming mainstream is helpful to our little community in some small way. If for no more than, it is an important part of most chastity regimen for males in chastity, that his Domme gets some of her sexual gratification through masturbation.

I am not sure why the evolutionary process resulted in the post orgasm difference between the genders , but it does support the principle that men in relationships should not masturbate as they lose all interest in sex for a while whereas, women should; as quite often, when a woman has an orgasm, she becomes even more aroused and wants  even more sexual pleasure.

(I obviously accept that men, at least men under 30, for the sake of their prostate health, should masturbate if they are not having any other sex.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cruel Algorithm

Yes, I am going to post on raising and dashing hopes again. This time I thought I would provide a few vignette examples of the technique in action, (to bring the technique to life). I am finding so many uses for this technique; providing cruel pleasure for me and, extra subjugation for bitch-boy. It is quick, it is free, it is effortless.  It makes me feel like a total bitch, and seriously adds to his subjugation; in moments when  there would otherwise have been no pleasure for me, no subjugation for him. Do try it if you have not, dear Domme blog follower. The algorithm is simple.

  • Ask him if he would like to ask .
  • He asks.
  • (The majority of times) you say no.
  • You ask what he has to say.
  • As he knows he must, he says, ‘Thank you Mistress’.

For the technique to work, you do have to say yes sometimes. With some of the activities I may say yes about 1 in 5 times, with other activities, perhaps 1 in 50 times. With a few activities I will never say yes, but because I use this technique so often saying yes now and again, he still has a glimmer of hope with those activities that there will be a yes for the first time. Enough about the theory!

Example 1.

When naked in my heels, posing in front of him and having already allowed him to stroke my stomach and tiny waist; which he is doing with gratitude and reverence. I speak. ‘Would you like to ask to caress my breasts little puppet?’ There is hope and joy in his eyes; but also uneasy apprehension. He asks, ‘Please may I caress your breasts Mistress?’ And then the hurt and disappointment, (and submissiveness) when he hears the answer, ‘No, not today.  Its amuses me to deny you just because I feel like it maggot. What do you say?‘ He answers full of sadness and humiliation, ‘Thank you Mistress.

Example 2

I have bathed, I am perfumed, I am naked but for platform mules and a gold waist chain. I sit back on the sofa, thighs splayed wide apart. He looks at me, in awe and drowning in his gnawing sexual frustration, I speak. ‘Would you like to ask if you can lick me puppet?’ There is hope and joy in his eyes; but also uneasy apprehension.  (He so wants to put his lips to my inner thighs, my flat stomach, my protruding hip bones, my soft, shaved labia. When he is allowed to do so, he is in a heaven of pleasure, acting like a drug addict injecting his heroin after a long, long abstinence.) He asks. ‘Please may I lick you Mistress?’ Four times out of five,  I answer, ‘No you may not.’  I enjoy the hurt on his face as I speak again. What do you say?‘ He answers full of sadness and humiliation, ‘Thank you Mistress.

Example 3

I have him secured on the BDSM bed, thighs wide apart in the gynaecological stirrups, I have been smacking his birth defect with my 12 inch ruler for some time. Hard smacks, using the very end area of the ruler with a flick of the wrist on impact. His defect is quite pink. He is constantly squealing and whimpering into his gag. I pause to wank him to the fullest of hardness. ‘Do you think you have had enough of the ruler now puppet?‘ He makes noises into his gag and I can convert the sounds into the words he is trying to make. ‘Yes Mistress, I do think I have had enough of the ruler now Mistress.’ I stop wanking him and pick up the ruler. ‘Well I don’t think you have yet maggot, Not yet.’ I return to smacking his defect. twice more we go through that Q&A routine. Then on the third time of the Q&A, by which time he is sobbing and sobbing, I answer, ‘Yes maggot, I agree. You have had enough of the ruler now .’ …. ‘ What do you say?’ Despite the sobs and the gag, I can convert the sounds into the words he is trying to make. ‘Thank you Mistress.’ 

Example 4

He is outdoors working in the wind and rain because I have told him to. I call him to the door. ‘Would you like to ask me of you can come in now maggot?‘ He looks like a drowned rat and is clearly feeling very sorry for himself. ‘Please may I come in now Mistress?’ (Three times out of five),  I will answer, ‘No maggot. What do you say?’ He gets out only the first syllable of his, ‘Thank you Mistress.’ And I have already closed the door.

 

 

For info on my own BDSM manual, in several formats, click on an image below.

 

 

 

 

 

My New Twitter Account and some humour

My New Twitter Account

From time to time I get pointed to some fantastic dominatrices on Twitter, such as @MJosephineDrake, whose client Sissy Ballerina alerted me to her wonderful cruelty. Not so wonderful for Sissy Ballerina at the time, but very good for his soul no doubt.  So I thought it was about time I began a Twitter account.

Mistress Scarlet    @MistressScarle8

 

However, are there any dominant women I can follow on Twitter who are not professional dominatrices? (Not that I have anything against professional dominatrices, I love their role in society.) It is real life dominant women, like me, who dominate males for the pleasure of it that I most wish to hook up with.

 

On a different note. Some humour.

Possibly with a message to the fanatical feminists that not all porn is an abuse of women.

100% chastity – à Trois Part 3

Well, the wonderful Mistress Corrine has responded to the first of my requests for more detail of her fantastic lifestyle. This one provides  more detail on her ex-husband-slave’s 100% chastity regime. Enjoy and please comment.

 

Dear Scarlet, I follow the order of your requests and try to explain this aspect better.

As mentioned, arousal and frustration are constant companions of slave, given his total abstinence and given his natural submission, which makes his condition as a slave arousing for him. For this reason, my wife and I love to make his frustration more extreme whenever possible. Prolonged abstinence has made slave’s body and mind extremely easy to arouse and, of course, my wife and I regularly take advantage of this to make his condition absolutely miserable and desperate.

It is truly splendid, for two sadistic and cruel creatures like us, to be able to enjoy not only the cruelties that we inflict on slave every day, without any kind of pity or sense of guilt or hesitation, but also being able to enjoy at the same time, the pathetic desperation of slave,  who lives immersed in his sexual fantasies without being able to have any kind of sexual satisfaction.

In this sense, having slave assist and participate when we have sex is incredibly exciting for us and extremely cruel for him. Obviously, slave can’t always play a role when my wife and I have sex. We often like to simply enjoy our mutual passion without slave being directly involved. More often, however, slave is present during our lovemaking and his role can vary.

It can be a mere spectator. Tied up and gagged, often in very uncomfortable or tiring positions, observing his two naked mistresses enjoying each other for hours while he is denied any pleasure. In these cases, after a very short time, we realize that Slave begins to tremble with desperate excitement generated to the show he is watching.

Imagine Scarlet, the paradox that the slave lives. He is in bondage in the presence of two cruel mistresses who are having sex in front of him. The pain of bondage and the humiliation of the scene excite him, as a slave and submissive, yet his desperate erection, often fueled by the wise use of viagra, is denied him, as denied, for over 10 years, has been every orgasm! There is enough to go crazy with frustration, and in fact, invariably, not a few minutes pass before the slave starts sobbing in despair, producing the effect of even more incredible arousal in my wife and me.

Or he can play a helper role.Instead of being held in bondage, he is relatively free, and is at our bidding to pass us towels or sex toys, to serve us drinks in breaks, to help us become more aroused by his submissive acts. For example by kissing my feet, (I love it ), while I am having sex with my wife.

One of the things I love carnally is when we use slave as a human fan. If the temperature is not so hot as to require the air conditioning to be turned on, one of the ways the slave can help us is to wave a huge fan while we are in bed. All while looking desperately at what he cannot have. Again for the poor pathetic slave it is pure agony! Submissive and at the service of two cruel mistresses, yet perpetually denied any slightest sexual pleasure!

One last chance to serve while we have sex is that of a human dildoAs I told you, sex with penetration has never been one of my favorites, however sometimes it’s nice to have a nice hard cock inside (and my wife likes it a lot) and therefore, in addition to using our vibrators and dildos on each other, it may happen that we force slave to wear a big dildo gag and we use it to give ourselves pleasure. The use can be twofold.

We can tie him on the bed and ride him, or, on his knees, we force him to give us pleasure while the person receiving the dildo is comfortably lying with her legs apart on the bed or on an armchair or sofa. In this mode, often, the mistressnot being penetrated enjoys torturing slave by whipping him or, in some cases, taking him with a strap on. This situation is for slave, by all means, truly inhumane. 

His face, in this case, is really close to the source of his desire and his submission. Very close, even in contact with the female sex! Part of our arousal yet denied even the slightest pathetic pleasure of an erection!

And things get worse when it is penetrated with the strap on, since in this case a direct stimulation of a certain erogenous zone such as the butt is also added, with the addition of the excitement that humiliating act generates in a true submissive!

At the end of these fun sex encounters, slave is always, invariably, reduced to a desperate and weeping mass of distress and hormones, and of frustration and despair. And of course we immensely enjoy his desperation by mocking and humiliating him, cruelly reminding him of his condition and its irreversibility.

Often, we enjoy sexually torturing slave with intense teasing and denial sessions. These can happen before or after my wife and I have sex, or can happen just for our enjoyment and regardless of sexual purposes for us.  (In fact, we often get aroused to the point that we still have to enjoy the slave’s suffering in some way. ).

As mentioned, in these tease and denial sessions there is never direct stimulation of the slave’s cock, which remains strictly imprisoned.

The milestones of the sessions are of four types:

  • The ordinary contact
  • The use of slave fetishes against him
  • The erogenous contact
  • The use of words.

Usually slave is in some form of bondage and, to start with, is gently brushed by the hands and / or feet of my wife and mine all over the body except for the most directly erogenous areas. Slave has a very strong fetish for women’s stockings, for shoes (especially with very high heels and platforms) and for women’s underwear.

It is therefore not uncommon that, in these circumstances, while we gently touch and graze him, we use these fetishes on him. A foot shod with seamed stockings or fishnets, rubbed on the slave’s legs or face can create a chastity belt suppressed excitement that leads the slave to tears, moans of despair, pleading and convulsion-like body spasms!

And while one of us touches him, maybe the other offers him a shoe to lick, or puts a pair of used panties or an old sock on his face, while whispering humiliating phrases in his ear. The submissive nature that makes him crave this kind of arousal and that it is the sadism it unleashed in me that has led him to his current eternal suffering and frustration.

Slave sinks deeper and deeper into his desperate excitement! He begs us to let him have an erection, he begs us to stop, and immediately afterwards he begs us to continue, to make him suffer even more for our love, all in a desperate crescendo that excites us in an absolutely impossible way to describe. And then the contact passes to the erogenous zones.

Brushing and stroking of the neck, behind the ears, on the nipples (especially the nipples) or caresses alternating with spanking on the bare ass. Several times slave, at the height of frustration, begged us to castrate him, to make him a eunuch so as not to have to suffer this frustration anymore. (I know well that he does not really want it and I, on the other hand, of course, would never do it!) But it is an index of the kind of frustration that slave reaches under these circumstances and how desperately she would like her frustration to end!

I am pretty sure, dear Scarlet, that the very pain associated with his frustration and these teasing and denial games are, (together with the public humiliations), by far the hardest thing for slave to endure! And as you know and you will read in my next installment of answering your questions, his punishments and humiliations are certainly not a joke!

Add of course, Slave is cursed by his desperate excitement, frustration and suffering only increasing his need to be enslaved and submissive, and treated sadistically. This excites, upsets and terrifies the slave, because he understands that there will never be pity or sympathy or concern. Only cruel domination!

What about my wife and me? Well, for us, Scarlet, using this kind of sadism on slave is pure pleasure and pure joy! His desperate agony is pure pleasure! It is the pleasure of having such total power over slave and the pleasure of exercising it with absolute cruelty! It is a pleasure to enjoy his desperate tears and his pleading for mercy! It is the immense pleasure that comes from the obvious and total disparity of condition, even sexual, that exists between him and us!

It is the sadism of knowing that the life of slave would be immensely more tolerable, even in its total slavery, if only it could have even sporadically a minimum of sexual relief and, for this very reason, sadistically decide to deny it just for the sake of increasing his suffering! 

Everything is for our pleasure.

After all, slave chose to live his life as our slave because, within him, that is his nature and now he must be grateful for the domination, cruelty and sadism he receives. And I assure you Scarlet (but you know it well) that Slave is much more satisfied than many so-called free men.

Mistress Corinne

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 A link to all my journals HERE, including: