Tag Archives: FLR

Idle wondering and innocent images

I love to see the pro Dommes who have what appears to be their own, long term sub. Despite the income earning nature of their output, you know they are REAL in a REAL relationship. Bojana the Balkan Brat, Mistress Elaine and sissy maid Vicky, Melanie the Barefoot Princess, Cruel Sarah and her cuck, Kelli and her cuck, Louis Margot and her cuck, Princess Perfect and her sub, etc.

What I sometimes wonder about is whether some of the deliciously cruel pro Domme women who regularly appear in videos and photo shoots with many DIFFERENT subs, have a long term male sub at home? A male sub at home who suffers a regime in keeping with the cruelty these delightful women show with the subs in their videos? (And do any of them read this blog I wonder ???)

For instance, any of the women from; Miami Mean girls,  from the Brat Princesses, from Men Are Slaves, etc. And women such as Empress Jennifer,  Mistress Cindy, Mistress Elise, Brat princess Christina, Miss Barnes, Goddess Amadahy, Cybil Troy, Sarah Eve, Karin Von Kroft, etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Might some of these women have a full time sub at home who they do not want on video? Or do they have a vanilla male because they get all their sadism and dominance out when making femdom videos?

Just something I sometimes ponder on.

 

Below I provide details of my new guide for beginner Dommes. Linked to my alternative blog and, possibly unique, as it is specifically written to avoid frightening a vanilla wife or girlfriend away from trying an FLR relationship.

 

Lady Jessica’s very amusing Lock down activity

We are blessed with another contribution from Lady Jessica. This fantastic contribution on a lock down activity. One which I think, on this blog counts as No. 5 chronologically, but perhaps, No.1 for magnitude of subjugation value and for flexibility of scope.

I will say no more by way of introduction.

 

Lady Jessica’s lock down activity

My dear Mistress Scarlet

What a lucky boy bb is, to be sure. I particularly like the thought that to eat or drink anything at all, he has to wait for you to spit. It would be lovely to think of one’s submissive standing there – perhaps hungry after an early bedtime with no supper the night before, holding a dry biscuit out to be spat upon, his mistress absorbed in a book or magazine. She might remain there for half an hour, or even wander off before eventually absent-mindedly remarking ‘Oh yes!’ and bestow the gift.

I do hope you are well and happy and bb is also healthy, as well as harried and miserable of course. I have been enjoying your blog, as ever, but felt I had nothing to contribute to the latest topics. Apropos lockdown, however, I thought I’d share my latest way of finding amusement even under the current, trying circumstances.

Skivvy has, obviously, been teleworking for the last nine weeks or so and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Here in France, the lockdown has eased a little but the government advice is that those who can telework should continue to do so and skivvy’s employer is only allowing those who really need to be in the office to go back. Skivvy’s work is entirely with numbers (and thoroughly pointless, as far as I can tell although I’ll confess I have never bothered to try to understand how he earns the money for me), so he needs no human contact. Even back when things were normal (although his life has been anything but normal for more than ten years now) skivvy only visited the office on about half the working days of the week, the remainder spent in his ‘study’. As I have written, his teleworking environment is a study in contrasts: half the room, in camera shot, a normal home office, the other half more appropriately resembling the detention room of a thoroughly sadistic governess; himself too dressed half and half: office worker from the waist up, subjugated sissy beneath.

Naturally, he has been unable to visit the hairdresser during this time. Unlike many middle-aged men, Skivvy has a full head of hair. Although I have occasionally given him a punishment buzz-cut and once even shaved him bald for fun (he told his co-workers it was a silly bet), I like his hair to be reasonably long, as I enjoy pulling it. Sometimes, without words and without warning, I will firmly grab a full handful, twist and turn while bringing my arm down to hip level and march off in the direction of whatever fate I have in store for him, skivvy stumbling and yelping behind, as we go. The hair also provides by far the best grip when his head needs repeated dunking in cold water, as it so very often does.

So… eight weeks without a trim and his hair has become rather long. Girlishly long, in fact. Lots of possibilities there…

We began with bunches. At first, they were hardly more than tufts, but as soon as they were long enough to take a hair band, into bunches they went. I ordered a hair-dressing kit online that seems to be aimed at eight-year old girls: it has hair bands and scrunchies with stars and baubles; all in pink, some with unicorns and fairies. The classic two bunch look was fun, of course, especially when I added jingly bells to the hair bands, but I experimented too. My favourite was a three-bunch look, the third being a sweet little tuft sticking straight out from his forehead! Oh, he looked such a fool, and was reminded by the jingling and flopping, every time he moved his head (his head started moving around rather violently, as I’ll confess, my dear, I simply couldn’t resist giving him a good hard face-slapping before confining his crimson, tear-stained face between my thighs!).

Soon the hair grew long enough to take a proper scrunchie and we started experimenting with pony tails, pineapple top-knots and longer, girlish bunches. I have taught him to toss his head coquettishly in response to prompts from me complimenting him on how pretty he looks. Baubles and sparkles, bows and ribbons adorn those sweet locks, to complete the picture of a conceited eight year-old girl, in the body of a grown but thoroughly infantilised and embarassed man!

However, all this was mere preparation for my grand design, which I was determined not to spoil by attempting before it was properly possible: pig-tails.

One day, I decided the bunches were finally long enough. I sat him down and started vigorously brushing his hair back, pulling it tight (painfully tight, need I say?) in a routine he thought himself used to. But then, instead of looping a band around as tightly as possible to leave a floppy bunch, I began plaiting.

There was just enough! I am quite skilful with my fingers and I was proud to produce a neat and firm little plait about three and half inches long. The hair-band went on tight, and then to the other side. Enfin: two sweet little dangly plaits, each finished off with a plastic bauble on pink elastic with golden sparkles! I told him to shake his head and as he miserably did so, they tossed about delightfully. I am sure you and your readers will forgive me for once again giving in to the temptation to slap his face gaily from left to right and back again: it was such a ridiculous sight!

That was two weeks ago and his plaits are now well over four inches long. Proper pig-tails! The ends are dyed bright pink (the pig-tails are neatly tied behind his head during teleworking hours, so no co-workers or clients can see his girlish coiffure unless he turns his head sufficiently to allow it – which, needless to say, he is very careful not to do!).

I cannot resist it: they will grow to whatever length I can coax them and there they will stay: permanently. If and when this bizarre situation ever ends and he returns to the office (and he may not: as I have mentioned, he is not far off having earned enough money for me to decide that he will go for early retirement and enter a lifetime of drudgery and bullying), he will have a ponytail. Not pink, alas, that should be dyed out again. But plenty of middle-aged men have pony tails, ridiculous though they look (if not as ridiculous as the reality his will conceal). Perhaps his co-workers will assume that he is having a mid-life crisis and speculate as to whether they will see him with a young blonde companion and a red sports car (no: they will not!).

Oh, I hope the plaits grow long! I have such plans. I will not set them out here, because your blog is one of the few internet sites approved for skivvy to browse without permission. But let’s just say that there are many things that can be done with a pig-tail, of which bows and ribbons and bells are just the beginning. What if they were made to stick out sideways like Pippi Longstocking – preferably curled up in big curves? I am not quite sure how to achieve that, possibly wire, but I look forward to trying. And, my dear, a long pig-tail is so very practical! It can be tugged – tugged hard and repeatedly in delightfully unexpected directions – it can be attached to things, whether fixed things (such as a ring on the wall or floor), or mobile things. Heavy things, even.

Yes. Pig-tails for you, skivvy. Don’t you dare go bald, understand? I will be very, very disappointed… and you know how much we both dislike it when that happens!

Yours in sincere sisterhood

Lady Jessica

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Beginners Guide; more positive feedback

You may recall that in response to requests, I wrote   a guide    and published an alternative  website specifically designed to persuade vanilla wives and girlfriends to have a try at becoming dominant.

I am not sure there is anything else available like this guide;  specifically written to entice wholly vanilla women to try part-time or full time domination of a submissive male. EVERYTHING is excluded that might, to a novice woman,  seem scary or unpleasant or perverted or excessively demanding.

I have received more positive feedback from Cardim about the effectiveness of the Guide.

Hi Scarlet,
Two weeks ago, my gorgeous wife read section two of  your book, A Beginners Guide, I never saw her as mean, as yesterday. I can see that she likes it more and more to be mean and dominant. Also in vanilla time. I never felt so dominated before, even though nothing extreme happens.

This follows earlier feedback from Cardim

Hi Scarlet,
A month ago, i bought your ‘Beginners Guide’ on amazon.
It is unbelievably good. I have been trying for almost a decade to convince my wife to be my mistress, with little succes.(i now understand, it was because of my expectations) Since i have read your ‘Beginners Guide’, i learned that i did everything wrong, while is was trying to teach my wife how to be a mistress.

Now that my wife has read just the first section of your ‘Beginners Guide’ and is experimenting with it, she is really really enjoying the dominance. The big change is that she can get into this new dynamic in our relationship at her on pace.

We are only a few weeks far with some DS time and mostly Vanilla time, but i am already scared of what she is going to do to me in the future, because her eyes tell me that she really likes this new dynamic now.

I would like to say a lot more, but my English is not good enough to explain everything i want to say.

So thank you very much for writing this book.

The above right menu tab, Tempt her to try dominance,  is an important read for submissive males think of buying this guide for their wife or girlfriend.

Lock down activities (No. 4)

This new activity was loosely inspired by my post of 1 May featuring who I now know to be, Miss Panic. I did since find she has a couple of videos on PornHub as well as the, often very wicked, short clips on the Twitter site I references in my earlier post. The video for which I have provided a link, also has her on her signal, having her arm pit covertly licked,  in public.

Lock down activity No. 4 is that bitch-boy now has a garnish added to every single drink and every single meal he consumes.  Normally it will be a mouthful of spit deposited into his mug or glass before he begins to drink, or I drop a mouthful of spit onto each plate or bowl of food he is about to consume. (This is during all the vanilla times. Obviously during DS times, it is my nectar from a jug that is added instead of, or as well as, my spit.)

He must always say, ‘Thank you Mistress’,  when I have added my spit garnish, and I always then respond, ‘I should think so!‘ The lock down does mean this applies to every single thing he consumes every single day, day after day after day.

I love his expression of humiliation and hurt both when I drop the spit, and when I say, ‘I should think so!’ in answer to his thanking me. And I feel a lovely little power rush and a reaffirmation that I own this submissive human being and I can use and abuse him howsoever I please.

Sometimes we will be in a 100% vanilla activity, when I have chosen to use him for his wonderful vanilla company, say watching a great movie or box set. The atmosphere of near equality is pierced as I drop my spit and we have our verbal exchange. Then gradually the atmosphere of near equality slowly returns, rather more quickly for me than for him though.

Innocent Images (2)

It seems fun to post some more following my last such post on 28 March 2020. Not everyone got the final image on my last post. But many did. (A  hot wife getting ready to go out on her date, from the POV of her sexually desperate and denied, cuckolded husband-slave; kept in 24/7/365 chastity.)

Images like these I hope invoke BDSM femdom thoughts in us, while a vanilla person would see nothing to do with serious eroticism. Obviously bitch-boy’s sexual desperation is made worse as he produces these images to my specification, as does his curation of my BDSMLR site, also to my specification. Poor puppet!

The first six of these images are a slave’s POV on a very favourite pastime of mine. I dedicated a post to Partial Ignoring in 2017. You may wish to read this 2017 post if you have not before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Archive of real life letters

I have often written about how 15 to 20 years ago there were two sources of real life femdom material that shaped my dominance and lifestyle. The letters from lifestyle wives and girlfriends in the wonderful Madame magazines and also in the early years of the Petticoated.com website.

I have included on this website some material from the Madame magazines . (See the drop-down menu from the above Dommes’ letters  above menu tab.) And some photos in another post.

Well I have now come across a website giving access to the letters from lifestyle wives and girlfriends from the early years of the Petticoated.com website. It is a slightly confusing home page. If interested in FORCED male maids, sissy maids, diapering, parody of a baby role, parody of a little girl role, or parody of schoolgirl role, then I  suggest you click on an edition in the left hand column and then click on each individual letter in turn.

Some of the letters are gems of strict, pitiless wives and girlfriends using all their ingenuity and imagination to maximise the profound humiliation ans submission of wayward males.

I provide examples below, but there are far better than some of these that I came across during a cursory glance through. I confess though that the letter headed, Perfectly Proper Sissy Behaviour, was a hugely influential foundation for one of the themes of my treatment of my little puppet.

(I have mentioned specifically, the early years of the Petticoated.com website, because a few years ago it shifted from mainly letters from dominant women forcing males against their will into humiliating outfits, to  letters from and about transvestites and other males who thoroughly enjoy dressing up in women’s, little girl and or sissy attire. I have nothing against them at all but I am not interested in them or their lifestyles.)

 

Letter 3 PERFECTLY PROPER SISSY BEHAVIOR

Dear Editor,
 

As a firm believer in dress discipline for males, I do not simply dress my husband in sissy clothes.  I also insist that he behave in a manner befitting his very juvenile status in our household.   When properly petticoated (or in one of his equally charming sissy pants outfits), he is required to speak in a soft, childish tone, and to use a vocabulary appropriate for a five-year-old.  He must walk like a
proper sissy, mincing on tiptoes and keeping elbows pinned to his sides and wrists turned out.  He must sit and stand daintily, with knees together and skirt kept modestly lowered.  He must curtsey before entering or leaving an occupied room. He must ask permission to do most things, such as leaving the dinner table or “going potty.”  He must keep his pretty clothes clean and mended, his appearance modest and neat.  And he now answers to his sissy name, ‘Peterkins Winceyette’.
 
These and many other rules of ‘prissy perfect’ behavior enforce his petticoat discipline as effectively as his pretty clothes.  He has become used to wearing girlish outfits, but he still blushes with shame at having to act like a proper sissy, particularly in front of others.  Of course, I make sure he has plenty of opportunity to do just that.
 
The other day Peterkins was washing up in the kitchen after lunch.  He wore one of his typical sissy outfits.  A pink ruffled pinafore went over a crisply starched, back-buttoning white blouse with a broad Peter Pan collar.  A precious little pink bow marked the front center of the collar.  High-waisted, flyless velveteen burgundy shorts buttoned onto the blouse and showed a hint of the heavily frilled pink bloomers he wore underneath.  A binkie hung on a prettily embroidered leash that buttoned on to his pinafore above the left breast.  A lace-edged pink bonnet framed his lightly made-up face and tied in a big bow under the chin.  Frilly white anklets and black Mary Jane shoes completed the pretty picture.
 
As he finished his cleanup chores, Peterkins was no doubt looking forward to his afternoon nap.  That is the time when I am at my most gently maternal with him.  I undress him down to his frilly undies, put him into his soft flannel nightie with the drawstring hem to enclose his feet, and tuck him into his adult-sized crib. But on this afternoon there was to be no nap and cuddle time, for just as the last of the dishes were being put away, the doorbell rang.
 
Peterkins has been taught to suck his thumb whenever he feels anxious, and the ringing doorbell made him very anxious indeed.  His thumb leaped into his mouth, and he began sucking vigorously. (He is permitted to use his binkie only when directed to do so.)  He looked at me fearfully, hoping against hope that I would not make him answer the door.  One sharp glance from me dashed any chance of that. He knows from bitter experience that in his sissy clothes he simply cannot resist my wishes.  If I want to display him to a stranger at the door, then I will do so. He knows, too, that any attempt at resistance will only make matters worse for him.  Seeing my determined gaze, he realized there was no escape from his predicament. His eyes lowered, and his face registered sad resignation.
 
Terrified at having to answer the door, yet even more terrified not to, he was actually whimpering as he minced to the front hall.  He reached the door just as the doorbell rang a second time.  He opened it timidly, and in strode my sister Jean (whom I was expecting but he was not).  Jean has often seen Peterkins in his sissy clothes but never fails to find new ways to embarrass him.  He is dreadfully afraid of her – dreadfully for him, quite delightfully for Jean and me.
 
Removing his thumb from his mouth, Peterkins managed a timorous curtsey for Jean.
‘How very nice to see you again, Auntie Jean’. he said softly.
She smiled broadly, relishing the sight of this fully grown male dressed so babyishly and so obviously intimidated by her.   She approached the shrinking sissy, untied his bonnet, and retied it tightly under his chin.  His head moved under her firm touch.   She fussed with the little bow on his blouse.  She straightened the frilled, cross-over straps of his pinafore and fluffed out his collar.  Satisfied with her efforts, she stepped back to view him again.
‘Oh Peterkins Winceyette’, she teased, ‘you look so very masculine today, with your cute little shorts.  They are very sweet indeed, but I’m afraid they’re not really very adult, are they, dear?’
Moving behind him, she encircled his waist with her arms and toyed with the big buttons holding the shorts and blouse together.  ‘Only very little boys wear button-ons like these, Peterkins — little boys and big prissy sissies.  Which one are you, my dear?  Hmmm?’
Peterkins looked as if he might swoon, and never did manage to answer her questions.

No matter.  She got his full attention by clapping her hands sharply and announcing, ‘Teapot!’  Peterkins knew only too well what that meant.  I have trained him to perform several children’s songs, as I believe they are another excellent way to instil in him the proper attitude and demeanor.  At the top of the list is ‘I’m a Little Teapot’, complete with the appropriate hand gestures. Jean likes it so much that she insists on him performing it whenever she visits. He doesn’t like doing it, but of course, that makes his efforts only more entertaining.  He knows he must perform with a pretty smile and a proper little girl’s enthusiasm, and this particularly embarrasses him.  He is several years older than Jean, and there was a time when she considered him attractive.  Now she can look at him only with amusement tinged with disdain, particularly when he becomes our charmingly reluctant ‘teapot’.  It must be a cutting reminder to him of how far he has fallen in her eyes.  I love watching him perform, his shyly lowered eyes unable to meet Jean’s commanding gaze.
 
Jean was not quite satisfied with his ‘Teapot’ rendition this time, so she stood him face to the wall in a corner and instructed him to keep practicing.  She and I sat down to tea in the living room as his gentle childish patter serenaded us from the hall.  She occasionally called out from the couch to correct him, a reminder that she was still keeping an eye on him.  He made a fetching sight, chirping away in the corner and adding the obligatory curtsey after each rendition.  His plump bottom, perfectly moulded by the sweet little velvet shorts, bobbed enticingly up and down with each curtsey.
 
When Jean was almost satisfied that he had achieved the proper little girly tone and gestures, the doorbell rang again.  Of course Peterkins was now reduced to jelly again.  Not knowing what to do, he put his thumb back in his mouth, and  Jean and I couldn’t help laughing aloud at the silliness of it.  His can be so sweet when he’s helpless.
 
Jean left him in the corner and answered the door herself.  This time it was Grace, the 18-year-old young woman who used to babysit for Jean’s little girl.  Grace had not met Peterkins, but Jean and I had told her about him.  As she expressed continuing curiosity about him, we invited her around to see him when Jean would next be visiting – on this afternoon.
 
Grace took one look at Peterkins in the corner, paused in disbelief, and started to laugh.  She tried to restrain herself, covering her mouth with her hand, but that only made her laugh harder.  She could only point at him and continue laughing helplessly.
Poor Peterkins didn’t know what to do.  He remained in the corner, furiously sucking his thumb and casting furtive sideways glances at Grace.  He couldn’t bear to look at her yet couldn’t seem not to.  He might have stood there all day if Jean hadn’t taken him by the hand and introduced him.
 
‘Grace’, said Jean, ‘I’d like you to meet Peterkins Winceyette’.
The absurd name prompted another titter from Grace, as did a shy curtsey from Peterkins.  ‘How do you do, Peterkins Winceyette’, Grace smiled.  ‘What a perfectly lovely name!’
It was all dreadfully and delightfully unfair.  The poor sissy was trying so hard to be good but was finding only more embarrassment for his trouble.   As Grace looked at him delightedly, Peterkins hung his head in defeat and began to cry.
 
Now it was my turn to comfort him.  Following our usual routine for times like these, I put him next to me on the couch and cradled his head against my chest.  I popped the pacifier in his mouth and made him nurse quietly as I soothed him with sympathy and baby talk.
‘Oo, poor ickle Peterkins.  Mommy knows ‘ow tewwibly fwightening it is when big stwange ladies see just how ickle and pwecious oo are. . . .’
 
Peterkins does like to be babied but becomes ashamed when I do it in front of others and he is exposed as the complete baby he is.  Closing his eyes, he managed to escape his shame momentarily, and melted into my arms as I cuddled him.  Slowly his sobs subsided. Then he opened his eyes to discover Grace bending forward and looking directly at him only inches away from his face.
‘Boo!’ she said playfully and pressed her index finger against the tip of his nose. Grace could not have been more gentle, but her overture made the big baby dissolve into tears again. Jean and I roared with laughter.
 
‘Well, he may not be the ideal little girly-boy yet’, observed Jean, ‘but he does seem to be the perfect cry baby’.  Turning to Peterkins, she nudged him and teased,
‘Ickle Peterkins has lost all his cuwwidge, hasn’t he?  I wonder where it could be?’
 
This prompted a new game, in which Jean led the poor sissy around the room and made him look high and low for his lost ‘cuwwidge’.  It didn’t seem to be on the mantelpiece, or under the couch, or in the magazine rack.  Peterkins was required to inspect each area and to tell ‘Auntie Jean’ that no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there and he didn’t know where it might be.  Jean pretended to be stumped, but a mischievous sparkle in her eye told a different story.  Announcing that Peterkins must have thrown his ‘cuwwidge’ away, she brought a trash basket from the den, placed it on the living room floor, and told Peterkins he had better look in there.   Peterkins glanced nervously into the basket and said no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there either.  Jean wasn’t satisfied.  She made him get down on hands and knees to look.  When he still couldn’t see anything, she pushed his bonneted head deep down into the wide mouth of the basket.  This prompted a fresh outbreak of tears from Peterkins, particularly when Jean wouldn’t let him up.  What a prettily submissive sight he made!  Fully debased and obedient, he kept his head in the basket where it belonged.  When Jean finally allowed him to raise his head, she had a camera ready to record his woeful, tear-stained face as it emerged from the basket.  When we saw that defeated, helpless expression, Grace and I couldn’t help laughing.  I congratulated Jean on how thoroughly she had conquered my sissy.
 
A gentler soul, Grace took pity on Peterkins.  She knelt beside him, cradled his head in her arms, and kissed his tears away.  She obviously didn’t need any help from me in comforting him, so I left her in charge.  As we sat down to tea, she decided to make Peterkins her little ‘sissy puppy’.   She placed him on his knees beside her at the table and made him gaze at her with his ‘paws’ held at his chest and his mouth vigorously working his  binkie.  Every so often, she would reach down, pull the binkie from his mouth, and allow him to nibble a crumb or two from her fingers.  Responding to her gentleness, Peterkins made a charming, docile pet and even formed a shy liking for his new mistress.  All agreed that we found a new babysitter for Peterkins that afternoon.
 
The visit ended as Jean insisted on one more round of ‘Teapot’.  Peterkins managed to get through it this time without blubbering, smiling timidly in response to our grins.  He finally seemed to realize that a sissy can find satisfaction in pleasing the women in charge of him.   Before leaving, Jean placed a well-placed pinch on his inner thigh, making him squeal one more time.  For her part, Grace planted a very wet kiss on the lips of the startled sissy, then stuffed the binkie back into his mouth before he knew what had happened.  With a giggle and a wave, she, too, was gone.
 
When put to bed that night, Peterkins did have to be spanked.  That was because his little male symbol became entirely too excited when Peterkins was required to tell me how he felt about his babysitter-to-be.  Of course, this kind of punishment is all part of his petticoat training as well.  Perhaps I can devote a future letter to a description of my methods for keeping his little wee-wee under control.
 
Suffice to say, for the moment, that I do insist on perfectly proper sissy behavior.
Yours very truly,

Ms. Q.

 

Letter 2SISSY DISCIPLINE FOR CONCEITED MALES(from ‘Rubber Life’ 1970s)Dear Ms.Behr & LindaLatex,

I could not believe my eyes! At last, here in Canada, a publication dealing with what is, without doubt, the most effective method possible to control insignificant males who think they are really God’s gift to society. Diapers, didies, napkins, or, using the most effeminately babyish possible term, nappies.

These, combined usually with rubber panties, are accessories which, when worn by a man of conceited demeanour, cannot help but render him a helpless, quiet, shy, cowering, blubbering reduced shadow of his former appraisal of himself.

My reason for writing is to set out a few things which I consider to be basic to baby discipline, and perhaps a criticism or two as I ramble on…

1) Any boy or man under petticoat or diaper discipline must feel very little boyish, sissyish, and helplessly so.

2) He should always be shaven from neck to toe. Especially cleanly about his pubes.
 
3) He should not been able to masquerade as a woman or girl. His hair should be short (boyish as of old). If in dresses he should have no wig. In truth, he is better dealt with in sissy clothes than in dresses.

4) He should never have access to his own privates.  Thus, all clothing covering his trunk must button down the back. Rather than buttons, unless very small, hooks and eyes or small domes are the most difficult for him to handle, and still very easy for his mummy, nurse, or governess.

5) Baby doll pajamas are worn by girls and women nowadays. They are not for big boys, or men, in diapers and rubber panties. Such males should wear baby style nightdresses without openings for their hands, or else one-piece sleepers buttoning down the back with a drop seat and, of course, feet and hands covered. The baby nightdress should be longer than the man or boy, and should have a tape in the hem so that it may be closed at the bottom so that he cannot walk, and creeping or crawling would be very difficult. The big baby’s nightie should be so fastened, and sleepers should have a blind front, thus denying the male access to that part of his anatomy he must never, ever, touch for any reason.

6) Many of his outer garments should be locked about his neck and/or waist using a light chain and padlock.

7) Little boy rompers, sailor suits, side-fastening satin shorts with wide leg openings buttoning to one of two rows of large buttons sewn to a blouse, are excellent sissy wear. Fastened to the upper row of buttons, these shorts leave room for only his rubber panties, and cradle and pull up between his bottom cheeks. Without rubber panties or a rubber concealing device, his privates would be in danger of showing at the leg openings. Fastened to the lower row of buttons, his little satin shorts would allow room for good bulky diapers, but those, along with his shiny rubber panties, would protrude well below the leg openings of his little shorts. If the punished one has a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, even the jacket should be permanently buttoned or tacked in front, and would in fact fasten by a row of hooks and eyes down his back.

8) He must not be permitted use of the toilet. He might be permitted use of a potty – once a day, but not more often. Lots of bottle fed milk and water, fed with a rubber-nippled nursing bottle, will assure wet nappies. On special public shame days, he may be deprived of his rubber panties so that his wet state will be clearly displayed.

9) His baby harness should be fitted so that his wrists may be fastened there too, so that his hands cannot get into mischief. A night harness is a good idea too.

These have been just a few thoughts which might be useful. All men and boys should be kept the babies they are.

Yours truly,

Linda

 

 

My 16th journal –  LINK

Degrading food and drink

On my Facebook account I came across a video with a VERY WICKED Domme surreptitiously having her slave eat and drink in a public cafe in rather degrading ways. A Facebook friend put me onto a Twitter account showing many videos of many of her tribulations for her slave also involving nectar, funnels, his toothbrush, etc. Weirdly, never does her name appear.

The original video that grabbed my attention is on the Twitter account on 3 October 2018. She then regularly appears in this account up to November 2019.

Facebook Video

Twitter video

I absolutely love this woman! Whoever she is?

 

 

 

Below I provide details of my new guide for beginner Dommes. Linked to my alternative blog and, possibly unique, as it is specifically written to avoid frightening a vanilla wife or girlfriend away from trying an FLR relationship.

 

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Lock down activities (No. 3)

Bells

Ideally the small spherical type as in this image but I guess any bell or bells will do.

Attach bells to your sub so they tinkle when the sub moves. Just a little humiliation that is quite sweet and it means the Domme, whenever in earshot, knows exactly where the sub is if they are moving about.

Top Tips

Places on the body that do not move very abruptly, may not produce a tinkle; such as on a collar D-ring or chastity device. If you wish to have a bell in such a location and want it to tinkle more, hang it on a length of string or fine ribbon about the length of a smart phone.

Bells to ankles will always tinkle when he walks and bells to wrists tinkle if the hands are being moved about.

 

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

 

My impact punishment array

I do not know why I have never posted a photograph of my little collection of my favourite impact punishment implements I use when bitch-boy is secured face down over the dining table. So here it is.

I have described this collection in a number of my journals but, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. In the event of vanilla visitors, the whole array can be lifted by the two chains and locked in a cupboard upstairs as it is, the cupboard has two hooks inside the door. So it takes only seconds to return the array to the dining room wall once the vanilla visitors have departed.

Hook by hook, from the left: 1. The cock gag, cat collar for wrists and another for ankles, and yellow strap for binding his thighs together. 2. Red rubber paddle. (The underside has a fine diamond pattern of  little raised triangular ridges. It is VERY NASTY!) 3. My favourite cane; I have had for so long. 4. My agitation whip. 5. My dressage whip. 6. My large leather paddle. 7. My plastic cane. 8. My quirt.

I have to admit that in most deterrent punishment sessions I use every implement, except the large paddle and plastic cane. Those I do use, I use without mercy. Then there are  punishments for actual infractions. For those, normally it is the dressage whip and cane.

In my journals, I have used words to describe the business side of the red rubber paddle. But,  again, a picture is worth at thousand words.

This paddle is VERY NASTY!

I have a routine where the more rigid implements are used first and directed at the central meaty area. (My favourite cane and the plastic cane if I use that. Then, using the rubber paddle,  I like to warm and redden the areas above, below and to either side of the  central meaty area. These areas are rather more sensitive and my puppet makes quite a fuss while I apply the paddle. I am not surprised. I did once test the paddle on the underside of my forearm. (The best place for testing.) It is as though it is red hot, such is the intense, painful heat it leaves behind! The third stage involves wraparound. (which I explain fully in my BDSM Manual. What follows, and seems revlevant, is an excerpt from my next journal, No.17, which is almost completed.

………………….. I began with light strokes while I talked.

                ‘For the avoidance of doubt little sissy; I know with my very flexible implements there can be wraparound. This dressage whip, the agitation whip and the quirt. And I know wraparound happens on the sides of your butt and hips and I know the further around the sides of your butt and hips I go, the more sensitive the flesh is.’ I landed a couple of hard strokes and the whip made its lovely whistling noise as it travelled through the air. I returned to talking.

                ‘So when there is wraparound, it will not be an accident, just to be clear.’ I landed a couple of hard strokes again. Again  the whip made its lovely whistling noise as it travelled through the air. I then again returned to talking.

                ‘I am an unashamed sadist. I get pleasure from hurting you. But also, it is very important to me that you are well marked from this punishment. I love to see those marks during the rest of the day. And wraparound makes the best marks, as you know. I also know that four inches of wraparound hurts twice as much as two inches of wraparound. But four inches of wraparound gives me twice the length of a clearly visible mark to enjoy. So what you need to understand is that if I am applying four inches of wraparound, or even six, I AM MEANING TO! And even if perhaps, with the occasional wayward stroke, I apply more wraparound than I mean to, when practicing my backhand, I will be pleased about that; NOT GUILTY! I won’t feel guilty because there was more wraparound than intended. I will be happy over my accidentally placed stroke. I just wanted to avoid any ambiguity maggot.’ On finishing my little speech I immediately began using the dressage whip full force and with about three inches of wraparound. He immediately began pleading and pleading. I was very aroused as I continued with the dressage whip.

Next came the agitation whip. I chose five inches of wraparound and he began to properly sob between bouts of pleading. I was so delighted to have avoided ambiguity! (A very painful episode, clearly due to a Domme’s negligence or ignorance, does not cause awe in the mind of the submissive, almost the opposite. And it is not that arousing for the Domme. Whereas a very painful episode,  as a result of the Domme’s expert knowledge and intended purpose………..

 

My 16th journal –  LINK