I have made frequent references to how, on the rare occasions bitch-boy gets to orgasm, it is only ever under the sole of my shoe while he is under the stomping stage. Several times a week, his defect is squashed and kicked and whipped with my flogger while he is under the stomping stage. And on the rare occasions he gets to orgasm, his defect is squashed and kicked and whipped with my flogger, as his ‘foreplay’. I have often wondered if blog followers are clear what is entailed. So;
On Twitter there is a Domme called Jewel who uses her stomping stage in a lot of her videos and I provide a link here to a time she gives her slave an orgasm in the manner I do. Jewel does sometimes have her slaves balls atop the flogger but I have heard of hospitailsations resulting from stamping on balls so I do not do that. I get all the pleasure I need from what I do do!
There is a further example of a slave being brought to orgasm this way from the BDSMLR site on this link. I do always wear my wedges though. One does not have to pay much attention to aiming, when wearing wedges while squashing a defect, one can even look out of the window or talk on the cell phone. If one wears shoes with soles and heels the defect is able to escape into the gap between sole and heel.
I hope if anyone was confused as to what I was referring, by writing, ‘brought him to orgasm under the sole of shoe on my stomping stage’, that is now clear.
A wonderful account from Christine M including her sister spending time alone with DAVID and making him very miserable.
Easter
My sister is truly vicious and heartless in her treatment of David. When they first met, they never ‘clicked’ and my sister is 20-years older than him which didn’t help.
David had been told to take time-off for Easter since I had booked in to learn gliding at the local Aerodrome, which is about ½ an hour from here. I had not shared that my sister was coming over!
On the Thursday before Good Friday, he came home from work and was curtly told to change into his sissy frock, rather than his maid’s attire. (The sissy frock was from PDQ’s online store.) He looked at me aghast as he abhors wearing this ridiculous attire. I still didn’t let on that she was coming over so, dressed in his humiliating attire, he looked at me in absolute despair, completely mortified, when he saw her car coming up the driveway. It was a look to behold, and he immediately started trembling uncontrollably. My sister loves the added humiliation his frock delivers, so he knew he was in for a rough evening! My sister was staying until the Tuesday, so he was in for a great deal more misery than he realised.
As has been requested, I should describe his frock.
When choosing this I wanted something that would be dreadfully humiliating for him and make him feel acutely ridiculous when wearing it. It also needed to be practical, in the sense he would still need to be able to do his chores when dressed as a prissy sissy.
We love to tease him about how adorably sweet he looks and fuss over the details of his dress. It is beautifully made of soft shiny satin of the palest blue, with a high ruffle collar that is trimmed with lace and has an enormous pink satin bow at the centre. The figure-hugging bodice has a white satin lace sash which is also tied in a large bow at the rear.
Huge puff-sleeves are elasticated at the hem of the sleeves with wide pleated lace trim. The skirt is full and falls over a bouffant petticoat, flaring it out. It is adorned with large matching pink satin bows all around the skirt, and hemmed in beautiful shiny frilly glass-silk.
An over-sized, pink hair bow is clasped in his hair, and the outfit is completed by white, frilly lace ankle socks, each with a pink bow on the outer side; pink ballet slippers; and matching panties made of soft, shiny satin, with an elasticated waist and leg openings, also trimmed with dainty glass-silk lace and cute dainty pink rose buds. The panties are on full display as the skirt only falls down to just below his buttock line, leaving his long, shaved, thighs exposed too.
A large pink dummy is also pinned to the bodice with a pink ribbon. The dummy is of course dabbed with a foul product designed to prevent people biting their nails. This he has to suck on when not required to speak.
Following Mistress Scarlet’s lead, he also has three ‘dollies’. A pink teddy, Lickel Pwetty Pinky Winky Teddy Weddy Pinkitikins, came first. My sister and I thought of nice long names to be much harder for him to cope with! Then came a rather old and worn rag doll, who he calls My Vewy Vewy Best, Most Favowite Dolly Wolly. And finally, a large plastic dolly that had seen better days with her painted eyes and lips chipped, Bubby Wubby sookie wookie babykins.
After my sister arrived and the usual ridiculing of David was done, including him introducing his dollies to much merriment, with my sister shaking her head contemptuously, making him feel even more stupid; she sternly turned to him, popped his dummy in his mouth, and with David looking more anxious than ever, told him that she had a surprise for him and I would be leaving him in her care for a little while. The dummy was quavering in his mouth, and he pleaded with wide eyes for me not to leave. I simply laughed contemptuously at him, as I nonchalantly left the room, advising my sister, I would be in the lounge if she needed me. His face continued to beseech me not to leave him alone with my sister, and my last view of him, saw him trembling like a frightened rabbit caught in a spotlight, his eyes opened wide in fear.
I could tell it was all too much for him to believe. He doesn’t find my sister attractive in any way, and he knew he was in for an evening of wretchedness, as he stood quaking before a very imposing, ‘authority figure’, who he knew held him in heartless contempt.
Needless to say, my sister was very cold in dealing with him. I watched using the camera in the kitchen, on the big screen through my Apple TV. Leaving him alone was so that it would leave him feeling more fearful and ever so rejected. My sister coldly laid down her rules. “You DO NOT speak unless I ask you a direct question. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you otherwise. You do as your told, without comment or complaint. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” He nervily nodded his head.
“If you don’t understand something, raise your hand and await my permission. If it is anything other than a question seeking clarification of what I have just told you to do, YOU WILL DEEPLY REGRET IT! I have no interest in anything you might want to say and if I want your opinion… I WILL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS! ARE WE VERY CLEAR?” He struggled to nod his agreement, he was so overwhelmed!
I enjoy hearing him beg and plead so, even though his pleas always fall on deaf ears, this was going to be a new and frightening experience for him!
She then told him that when she does ask him questions, he had better respond in his most simpering little girl voice, making sure to lisp and giggle as he has been taught and to express his most sissy desires… OR ELSE! Please read Mistress Scarlet’s books for how he has been trained in all his little sissy mannerisms and how he has to play with his dollies. He rightly feels like a total ‘prick’ when he is treated like this, and don’t we remind him of this! My sister is particularly nasty and cutting in her remarks.
He was then seated in a chair with arm rests, and securely strapped in place, with his legs spread wide apart and his frock pulled out of the way. He was whimpering by now but knew better than to ask what was going on. I don’t think I have ever seen him look more scared, he was so exposed, so trapped, so alone. I wasn’t there and my sister, who he finds so malicious towards him, was in total control.
Once he was securely strapped in place, a pink hairdressers cape was placed over his dress as my sister grimly advised him, “Now that you’ve grown your lock-down hair longer, and since you love to dress up as a little sissy, I promised Chrissie, I would give you a nice girlie perm with lots of tight curls.” He looked horrified and I could see him flexing against his bonds, in panic, hoping to escape.
He was really getting panicky when she then picked up and flexed a really nasty looking rattan cane of mine, showing him how bendy and whippy it was, despite being as thick as her little finger. She flexed it so the two ends almost met, before swishing it loudly through the air. She then lightly tapped it along the length of his exposed inner thighs as she ominously warned him that, if he so much as whispered a word of complaint, even under his breath; showed the slightest signs of disobedience; or failed to lisp and show his enthusiasm for being a little sissy; she would be bringing the cane down on his tender inner thighs.
Smiling wickedly, she noted he would get three strokes on each leg, but if there was a next time, it would be four strokes… then five…” He was petrified and wincing as she kept tapping his inner thighs. There was no doubt he knew she was not making an idle threat, and the pain would be horrendous. I must share the dialogue as it was quite hilarious.
She took his dummy out of his mouth and coldly asked “Daisy, are you looking forward to getting your hair permed?”. He was too alarmed to reply and was given a stern warning and reminder, with the cane tapped harder on his inner thigh, prompting him to ever so fretfully lisp, “Yeth, pwease, I weally weally want a perm. Thank you (XXXXX).” He even tried to smile as he knew he was required to be enthusiastic in his role, he didn’t want to taste her cane, that was for sure.
Whilst he looked totally distraught and crushed, I know that deep down he felt she would not give him a real perm. She then started on his hair, mocking his lack of manliness, laughing at his plight, and really scaring him. She started by reassuring him that the perm wouldn’t last for ever, that it would soon wash out… then, seeing his cautious look of relief, she smiled, “… after three to four months!” This left him teary eyed and ever so upset.
His hair was washed and conditioned and then, ever so slowly, wrapped very tightly around small spiky plastic rollers, as he squirmed uncomfortably, while she dispassionately mocked him. She told him how sissies couldn’t go gliding, but they would be finding lots of fun things for him to do, while she went with me each day to watch.
“Your whole situation is quite laughable really… Isn’t it?” ….
Then in a mocking tone, “I remember you used to be ever so brash, going on and on about your ‘daring adventures’.” She used her fingers to mockingly indicate ‘daring adventures’ in inverted commas… Then, as if speaking to a simpleton, “You don’t do anything that might be ‘unsafe’ now do you?” she smirked.
“You prefer to stay at home and do chores, write lines and play silly games, don’t you?”
“You really are a silly twit, aren’t you?”
I might note here, her questions are NOT rhetorical. He has to answer her in full sentences, or else. This piled on the humiliation, while she kept wrapping his hair in rollers. Imagine being asked if you feel like a silly twit and having to advise, ‘Yeth, (XXXXX), I weally feel like a thilly thwit.”
Sneeringly she noted, “You’re so pathetic! I remember when Christine first told me about going out with you. She said she was shocked that you wanted to be with her, because you were so much younger,… dashing and wealthy… and were used to dating sexy young ladies and lots of sex no doubt.”
“Well, you can’t wank-off anymore though, can you?”
“Can you even get an erection, can you?”…
“I didn’t think so. What a poor excuse for a man you are! Isn’t that right?”
“No point you having a penis is there?”
“Couldn’t please a woman with it if you tried, could you?”
He squirmed in utter humiliation as he responded to each question. He is ever so upset that I have shared all these once ‘ever-so-private’ and intimate details with my sister. Humiliation had never been on my agenda until Mistress Scarlet coaxed me down the path, and now I just love it. This further upsets him, knowing that we have so much fun at his expense!
“Do you remember what your mates used to say when you first went out with Christine?”
“You all used to call her ‘old thunder thighs’?
“And didn’t Christine overhear your best mate comment how he couldn’t understand what you saw in her, reckoned she must really put out in bed! Didn’t they? Why else would you go out with her?”
“But you don’t get anything at all do you? Not even a quick hand-job!” He squirmed going redder and redder as he kept answering her questions.
“Did you ever tell them you got nothing?”
“I didn’t think so! Too arrogant to tell them she put you in chastity! And what happened after all that?” He then had to tell her how he was grounded and forbidden to see his old friends. He had to resign from the sports clubs he was in and sell his share in the boat that four of them owned together.
“They all had a good laugh at that I bet!” she mocked, “considered you were ‘totally under the thumb’. You would have been a right laughing stock at the rugby club wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe we should track down a few of the sexy young ladies you used to date? Invite them over for a Saturday night dressed like this! They’d totally piss themselves laughing at you, wouldn’t they?”
“Would you enjoy that?”
“You could sing nursery rhymes and dance for them. Wouldn’t that be a lot of fun?”
He was ever so mortified as she kept mercilessly on at him like this. He had to not only take her mockery, he had to respond that he would really like to do this!
“Which nursery rhyme would you like to sing and dance to?” she continued relentlessly as he fidgeted teary-eyed.
He was of course now on the verge of tears again, which brought more ridicule and caustic remarks as he advised which nursery rhyme he would like to sing for them! And she wasn’t letting him off the hook any time soon… she went on to make him answer why he picked that one, what he liked most about it, which was his favourite line and why! What other nursery rhymes did he like?
“I suppose you want to sing one to me now?”
“Beg me nicely and might let you …” she taunted.
After he begged and pleaded, she dismissively derided him, “My goodness! You’re supposed to be a grown man, and here you are getting a perm, playing with dollies and begging to sing nursery rhymes!” then more irritably, “go on then, if you really must!” she snapped, “you can sing it if you really want to!” He blushed profusely as he sang his little nursery rhyme for her. As he finished she caustically remarked, “What a total prat you are! What are you?”
She then switched tack, “Do you remember how you used to argue with me too?”
“and how you once told Christine you thought I was ‘bossy bitch’?” He squirmed in extra fear as she reminded him of this, and he had to lisp that he did. I could also see he was particularly hurt that I had shared this too with my sister, it seemed it made him feel completely friendless.
“Well, you are a lot more polite now, aren’t you?”
“Now don’t worry Daisy, we have lots of fun things for you to do while we are out… you have all your chores… and you can wash my car… and I brought all my ironing over for you. You love ironing don’t you?”
“And tomorrow… you’ll get to spend the day colouring in with your dollies. Then on Saturday you’ll be spending the day singing and dancing to your favourite nursery rhymes. Sunday is a full day of disciplinary ironing; (Scarlet,I must update you on how I have made this worse than ever for him)… and on Monday, you can play with your dollies again… Doesn’t that all sound like a lot of fun?”
Finally, his worst fears eventuated when she took out the harsh smelling perming solution and started to liberally apply it to the rollers. This caused him to make the dreadful mistake of whimperingly begging and pleading for her to stop.
There was an eerie silence broken only by his whining apologies as he saw the stern set of her face and the irritation in her eyes. She put the solution down and picked up the malevolent cane and lined it up along his left thigh, steadying her aim, her arm rose up high and behind her head. The cane swooshed down as promised, and struck down onto his inner thigh. This was instantly followed by an emotional squeal.
He continued to squeal uncontrollably as the pain continued, his body taut against his bonds as he struggled to deal with the agony, his head shaking wildly in desperation. She waited about a minute between strokes, to drag out his misery. No pity was shown, and the cane bit home 5 more times as promised, leaving him a squealing, squirming wreck.
She then continued as though nothing had happened, waiting until he calmed a little, though still clearly in great discomfort, before noting, “Let’s hope you don’t require a repeat dose Daisy!”
With everything in place, she connected a hood to her hairdryer, which was then placed over his head. She then left the room to join me, leaving him squirming in fear.
He was alone for about an hour before she returned to him. A hair net and a silk scarf were then put in place and he was released. He was ever so shaky, his inner thighs were clearly very sore still, and with bruising beginning. He then got to turn down our beds and get ready for bed himself. He didn’t sleep comfortably with a head full of curlers. My sister had wound them very tightly, so as his hair dried, they would have pulled on his scalp. Also the spikes would have made for further discomfort as he tried to sleep on his side to avoid the worst discomfort.
He was allowed an early night, but told he had to be in my office with his colouring-in book, his egg-timer and his dollies, and to have started colouring-in BEFORE 5:00 am! Readers need to look at Mistress Scarlet’s books to see this procedure, but it is very humiliating for him, and it is all recorded on camera.
I think this makes it even harder for him, and I love the way modern technology maximises my freedom and his humiliation. He is in the room all by himself, and he never knows if I am watching, if I will play the recording back, or if I will just totally ignore it and never open the file or even open the app!
Yet he must assume he is always being watched, as the consequences of being caught out are so dire! He must therefore maximise his ‘enthusiasm’ and effort for hours on end; no matter how humiliating it feels, how abandoned and lonely he feels, how stupid he feels, or how tedious and monotonous and exhausting it is. There he is, colouring-in and talking to his dollies, or singing and dancing to nursery rhymes, dressed like a sissy prat, ALL BY HIMSELF!
I might say he does also suffer the humiliation and cat calls of dancing and singing in front of us too, but once we get bored with him, he is dismissively sent off by himself. Imagine being snappily told, as he was, “You really are a stupid, boring prick prancing around like an idiot singing nursery rhymes! You are so annoying! Piss off out of here. Go sing and dance by yourself in the study where we can’t hear you! GET OUT NOW! We don’t want to be bothered by you! PISS OFF!” But the camera monitors him nonetheless.
It was gone eleven on the Friday morning before he was summoned to have his hair combed out. We had a hilarious time at his expense. His head was a mass of tight curls in which we secured his big hair bow as we mocked him. He was crimson and clearly very miserable indeed. Sadly, for him, he let a few ill-chosen, adult words slip out while expressing his concern with what we had done to him.
He had to be secured again, in order to receive eight more strokes of the cane, which were again brought down hard, on his now even more tender inner thighs. He was again squealing in agony. Once he had recovered a little of his composure, we simply continued our harangue, quite unconcerned by his very evident distress. He got to spend the afternoon on chores, before being sent to do a few more hours of colouring in, before bed.
A lovely point of embarrassment occurred when he asked me, in a private moment, about his weekly chastity release draw. I coldly advised him to ask again when my sister was with me the next morning.
It was so amusing to watch him turn crimson, dressed as he was, and ask, ever so politely, “Pwease Chwistine, may I make my weekly dwaw for a welease?” I smilingly advised, ‘Of course, you may… But since it is most inappropriate for little sissies to cum, we will not be revealing your result, though it will of course be removed from the spreadsheet. So you had better hope it isn’t your last release option of the year.” He was so nervous now, knowing that he only has one release left for the year, and it might be lost without him knowing! Since he had already lost two ‘reveals’, for earning Linnex punishments, this could be his third lost release option, though he doesn’t know if they were. And nor do I!
David was kept occupied as described above for the whole time my sister was with us. He also got to ‘enjoy’ some disgusting meals that my sister prepared for him. I must share these too but I think I have written more than enough!
I might share that my sister and I didn’t actually go gliding; I was with David on the Wednesday through to the Saturday, when we spent the entire time in vanilla mode, though he still wore female lingerie and his curls. The Sunday was a catch-up day of chores though, before going back to work on the Monday. I also used heat tongs to straighten his hair before he went back to work.
Let us start with a fact. Apart from transvestites and transsexuals, most men are embarrassed to be forced to wear female clothing. Some feminist Dommes run an argument that the men should not feel embarrassed as, if they are, it shows these men consider women are inferior and that is why the men do not want to be dressed as women. This position is said to be supported by the fact that women are not embarrassed to be forced to be dressed as men. Therefore the Dommes in question do not forcibly dress their submissive males in feminine attire. Well………………….. I am a feminist, obviously. But I am also a realist. My view is these feminists are seriously missing the important facts that a deep analysis of the situation exposes.
If a male has the prejudicial sexist view that he finds being forced to wear female clothing humiliating, it is perfect justice that his prejudicial sexist view is used against him. What could be a more perfect punishment for a sexist view than to use that sexist view against him. He finds female related shame clothing humiliating because of a sexist view, so he only has himself to blame that that is used to humiliate him – (A) as a punishment for his view, and (B), FOR THE PLEASURE OF THE DOMME. The Domme takes pleasure in humiliating her submissive, so if she is a feminist she should not be fettered from so doing by the submissives prejudice! That is allowing the sexist submissive to fetter HER choices, to CONTROL HER!
Sometimes the feminist Dommes in question say that to use feminine clothing as shame clothing on a male perpetuates misogyny in society. I find this a strange view. A man in your home forced to dress as a female and deeply humiliated as a result strengthens misogyny????? My experiences of this activity certainly observe any males involved are very much NOT feeling superior to the females involved, or holding those females in less regard. Quite the opposite!
Having said all that, ironically, after a few uses of standard female clothing on bitch-boy, it was clear he is not misogynist at all, (probably one reason I was attracted to him), so he did not really find being forced to dress as a ‘standard’ female particularly humiliating.
I therefore sought to worsen the humiliation with shame clothing; so now, firstly, I do not use ‘standard’ women’s clothing. I force him into parody of schoolgirl, French maid, sissy maid and parody of little girl attire, with dresses shortened with hems no lower than his hips, (and unlike in the image below, no underwear – so his shaved, caged, genitalia are on full display!)
While obviously a woman would not find it humiliating to be made to wear ‘standard’ men’s clothing, even a feminist woman, I think, would find it humiliating to be ‘made’ to wear schoolgirl, French maid, sissy maid or parody of little girl attire. Schoolgirl and little girl attire indicate regression to child status which is humiliating for an adult, and sissy maid and French maid are humiliating as they are uniforms indicating a purposefully lower, servile status than those not so dressed.
Some of the feminist Dommes I referred to earlier have been rather clever though and I do respect their ingenuity. I have known these Dommes use male clothing as shame clothing but that male clothing is; schoolboy, baby boy or little boy clothing to shame their submissive male, so not using female clothing. A Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit is very shaming I think.
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Making Comments on posts: Comments do not appear on my blog until I have moderated them. Comments that insult anyone will not be published, nor will aggressive comments. A wide range of views is truly welcome, we all have things to learn, however comments will not be published that take a contrary or critical view to any aspect of a post, but fail to explain why this contrary view is held, or fail to address the reasoning set out in the post to which the comment relates. (Such unexplained contrary comments are simply boring.)
One major hurdle for women flirting with the idea of being a Domme is often expressed with words to the effect of: ‘I want a real man, to look after me, not a weak submissive man.‘ And one major hurdle for Mistress-wives flirting with the idea of dressing their submissive as a French maid, or sissy maid, or parody of a schoolgirl, or parody of a little girl, is often expressed with words to the effect of: ‘I want to dominate a real masculine man not a weak feminine man.’
Well I implore such women to experiment and they will most often find they can have their cake and eat it too. ALL the women I have been in close exchanges with who have experimented after expressing such qualms, change their approach and never look back! By way of explanation I will give a brief insight into a day of mine a few days ago .
When bitch-boy woke me with tea in bed, I informed him that the day was to be a full-on DS day. He would repeatedly suffer considerable physical discomfort and he would suffer very considerable humiliation and tedium for a lengthy period. And he would NOT be getting to cum. The DS element of the day would probably last seven or eight hours.
Before he had got very far digesting this announcement and coming to terms with it, I asked him. ‘What do you say?’ I adore this simple verbal tweaking of his submissive soul with the injustice of him having to answer as he must. Which he did, although a little gloomily. ‘Thank you Mistress.‘ I answered in a tone of mock irritation. ‘I should think so!‘ What a lovely start to my day; and plenty for my poor puppet to think about.
However, sticking to the point of this post , I will skim over his very hash deterrent punishment, (Oh how he pleaded, and I repeatedly, verbally raised and dashed his hopes that I might end the punishment! Until finally I did). I will skim over how I played with his boy’s bits for over an hour while he was in sensory deprivation bondage and I sat next to him on the sofa and I watched a subtitled TV programme I love. (He has not cum for 9 weeks!) I will skim over his second punishment, given just because I could; and later how his stiff little defect suffered while I used my Vampire gloves. And I now get to the first relevant activity for this post.
I had him dressed in his full-on parody of a little girl outfit, (see previous post), and for half an hour he had to face me and whisper the words to the nursery rhyme, I’m a little tea-pot while performing the actions, while mainly ignored him and I enjoyed social media on my cell phone. Occasionally I would glance up at him and, using a harsh tone, briefly tell him how pathetic he was.
Then he had to colour-in with his dolly for THREE HOURS! His humiliation was very deep as was his tedium. He hated every second of that humiliation, made worse by my sporadic comments about how he was not a real man, just a pathetic sissy and a pathetic submissive put on this planet to be used and abused by women like me. I whipped and stomped on his defect on the stomping stage for half an hour and, having had 9 orgasms throughout the day, I finally decided DS time was over. (He got locked back up: He did not get to cum.)
And I now get to the second relevant activity for this post. I told him I would now be using him for his vanilla company until sleep time. He put things away and changed into his vanilla clothes. We then sat in the conservatory, discussed the news of the day, and drunk wine together. I nestled into his large barrel chest and his muscular heavy arm comfortingly draped over me. I felt utterly content, and comfortable and protected and safe. All was right and perfect in my world.
I praised and thanked him for how he had charmingly but assertively dealt with a brutish argumentative delivery driver the day before and a tradesman working on the boundary with the neighbours house on the same day. (It made me think about a holiday I am planning in a slightly dodgy third world country and how safe I will feel with the charmingly assertive, barrel chested, large shouldered bitch-boy by my side.) I slept briefly for a while with my head on his chest. (Believe me, a couple of lengthy sessions wielding punishment implements and NINE massive orgasms in a day, takes it out of girl!) I woke and, after we ate, we watched TV, with me again cuddled into him, resting my head on his chest. What a blissful day!
So ladies, experiment! Your submissive needs to suffer deep humiliation to sleep the very soundest sleep of a submissive – who truly knows he is; helplessly in the power of a cruel, pitiless, dominant woman. AND YOU CAN HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO!
Making Comments on this post: Comments do not appear on my blog until I have moderated them. Comments that insult anyone will not be published, nor will aggressive comments. A wide range of views is truly welcome, we all have things to learn, however comments will not be published that take a contrary or critical view to any aspect of the post, but fail to explain why this contrary view is held, or fail to address the reasoning set out in the post to which the comment relates. (Such unexplained comments are simply boring.)
Well I cannot deny being quite shocked by this image on BDSMLR. Shocked because it must surely be more than just a coincidence that the male in the photo wears EXACTLY the same head harness, dress and mincing ribbons as I often have bitch-boy in. The head harness also sports a pink satin bow atop, although bitch-boy’s pink satin bow is about three times the size.
Just to be clear, I don’t mean these three items are very similar, I mean they are EXACTLY THE SAME. And in the background, there is a blow-up doll which of course bitch-boy once used to have as his ONLY sex partner.
So I do wonder, what is the story? A MASSIVE, MASSIVE coincidence, or a male submissive who follows my blog and reads my journals or, fingers crossed, a Domme who follows my blog and reads my journals and has forced her little puppet into this attire. The photo is on BDSMLR here.
(For complete accuracy I must point out, I had the dress shortened for bitch-boy by one row of frill, just to make sure is was maximum humiliating!)
Making Comments on posts: Comments do not appear on my blog until I have moderated them. Comments that insult anyone will not be published, nor will aggressive comments. A wide range of views is truly welcome, we all have things to learn, however comments will not be published that take a contrary or critical view to any aspect of a post, but fail to explain why this contrary view is held, or fail to address the reasoning set out in the post to which the comment relates. (Such unexplained contrary comments are simply boring.)
I have mentioned the dominant pleasure from curt instructions a number of times on my blog. Well, as a result of my research for my, soon to be published, Addendum No.1, (an addendum to my original BDSM manual), I have come across, ‘Curt Dismissals.’ Below are two paragraphs extracted from a short section in my Addendum No.1 on ‘Curt Dismissals.’ I have begun to use them a lot and ADORE USING THEM! So my question to Dommes and subs is; are they as affecting for you, as they are for bitch-boy and I, although for each of us, affecting in very different ways!
…….. I use another situation for curt dismissals on vanilla days whenever I am about to do something for which I will be alone in a room. I may be about to start a yoga session, or work on one of my craft activities, or about to video chat with one or more friends or relatives, or make a pre-arranged phone call for a chat with someone. Alternatively, he is about to go to another room or outdoors, for chore work while I, for instance, watch TV. A couple of minutes before I am ready to start, or he is about to depart, I will get bitch-boy to bring me a cup of tea or a glass of water. (This is usually by using a curt instruction, i.e. ‘Cup of tea, bitch.’) As soon as I hear he has placed the drink down, and always while I look elsewhere than at him, I use the curt dismissal, ‘Now fuck-off.’ I found it is quite easy to get into the habit of awareness that I am about to be in a different room to him for a while and, as soon as that awareness hits me, I wait until there is a couple of minutes to go, and then I curtly ask for my glass of water or cup of tea and, as soon as it is placed down, curtly tell him to, ‘Fuck-off’.………
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……… If you are a Domme who really cannot swear that does mean, ironically, by not using swear-word curt dismissals, you will be missing out the most, exactly because if you do not ever swear, a swear-word curt dismissal will have even more impact. However, instead of ‘fuck-off’, you could try, ‘You’re dismissed’ or ‘Are you still here?’, or, ‘Get out of my sight.’ ……..
My Addendum No.1 is almost completed and I have been amazed to find it tops 50,000 words of techniques and sophistications of dominance not included in my original BDSM manual. I have been so fortunate that the four years since publishing my original manual have been brimming full of exchanges with other Dommes and subs in mainly long-term DS relationships; and the additional ways to apply dominance have flooded in!
This is an amendment paragraph to the first version of this post as a commenter raised an issue I feel well worthy of discussion. He felt I was lowering my stature by using the phrase, ‘Fuck-off.’ This is my view on this matter: I understand that when people use this term because that is the limit of their vocabulary, it indicates a poor education. When it is a chosen option from a large number of available options to the user, and it is selected precisely because it is offensive to the recipient to be so addressed, it does not indicate poor education. So I am truly interested to understand how you reason it lowers the user in stature and indeed how you define stature? Further, I think if dogma is put aside the measure of appropriateness is a personal thing between two people. bitch-boy knows I have an excellent vocabulary, he knows I could dismiss him with a wide selection of words. He knows I choose, ‘fuck-off’, because I know it will offend him and cause him to feel more disrespected than any other option. How does this lower me in status?
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We made David’s Sunday draw in bed around 9-30 am, after he had spent quite some time pleasuring me to several orgasms. I am not sure who was most surprised, when his draw popped up, granting him a release! One of his two possible releases in a year. It seems there had been purpose to his prior expectations of early success. He was wide-eyed with elation after 13-months without a release.
We had been out together all-day Saturday and had had vanilla nights at home on both the Friday and Thursday evenings so; David had a full-on day of chores ahead. I advised him he could plan on getting his release ‘this evening’ and that, since he had gone for so long without a release, ‘I would make it very special for him!’
He worked tirelessly all day, but it was still close to eight o’clock before he got around to starting on the ironing. He still had a good two-hours’ worth to do, when I went in a ½ hour later. I pleasantly advised him that he could “leave that for now”, as I had everything ready for his release, if he would like to join me in my office. He of course followed excitedly behind me.
I was dressed in a long, billowy cotton kaftan, with a floral design. Nothing sexy, I like it as it is stylish and kind of conceals my large behind. On entering the room, he started to tremble, and his smile vanished, as he stared in dismay at the full screen image displayed on my large computer monitor. This showed by sister, who was connected by FaceTime! He looked at me aghast but knew better than to complain.
I smiled over at him and warmly advised, “Since this is such a rare and special occasion, I just knew you would want to share it… And (my sister) was pleased to accept your invitation. We’ve been chatting for a while and, as you can see, in honour of the occasion, we have both opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate… in fact, we’re each three glasses in, and probably a little tipsy! Now… don’t be rude, say ‘Hello’ to (my sister) and let her know how glad you are that she could join us.” Blushing profusely and stuttering, he reluctantly, but politely, did as he was told.
I then explained how everything had been set up. His flesh-lite was secured tightly to his punishment bed, so he could kneel in front of it and penetrate it without needing to hold it…. “and… I’ve turned the bed round, so you will be directly facing your audience.” He was looking terribly uncomfortable and tried to plead that he really was too embarrassed to come in front of someone else. I dispassionately dismissed his concern.
In front of my giggling sister and her ‘cat-calls’, I had him lower his three pairs of panties to his ankles, and then pull his skirt and slip up high and out of the way at the front, where I secured them in place with two large safety pins. That morning, I had had him wear a garter belt, rather than his usual girdle, to hold up his stockings; so, his chastised appendage was now fully exposed. I then cuffed his hands behind his back, before unlocking and removing his chastity device. Needless to say, a few tweaks of his nipples and his defect sprung proudly erect. “Well,” I grinned, “your little bit of gristle certainly wants to show off to (my sister)!”
My sister was by now joining the conversation with various disparaging remarks, mocking that. “.. it wasn’t anything to ‘show off”; but it did look all girly and cute being so clean shaven, “It certainly doesn’t look like it belongs to a real man! And it’s so small!” she snickered as he went a deeper shade of red.
We then mocked him about being a BAV and laughed at how he only got to jerk off twice a year at most. “What a little Nancy you are!” she laughed as she sipped her champagne, “It’s a good job you have a tongue!”
I then put two condoms on it before advising that, since it had been so long since his last release, I had better remind him of his rules. I sternly warned, “You have one-minute. You are not to let your organ so much as brush against the flesh lite until after I press my stopwatch and tell you, ‘Go’. If you start even a fraction of a second too early, your release will immediately end, and you will be punished. So, keep it at least 6-inches away. Once I say ‘Go’, you can start thrusting away to your hearts content. I will countdown the last five seconds, and you need to have pulled out BEFORE I advise, ‘Stop’, or you will be very, very severely punished.” He was looking ever so nervous now, trying to not look into my sister’s smiling face, positioned right in front of him.
“My, my” she laughed sarcastically, before breathlessly proclaimed in mock wonderment, “…what a stud you must be… can you really last a whole minute?” If it were possible to blush a deeper shade of red, he would have; especially as I added, “I very much doubt it!” giggling, “we don’t call you the fastest gun in town for nothing, do we, David?”
Snapping that it was not a rhetorical question, he was forced to shamefacedly agree with me, as my sister laughed even louder. Turning to my sister, I joked, “HE thinks he’s a real stud if he manages thirty seconds, … Don’t you dear?” He nodded shamefacedly with a whispered ‘Yes’, as he knew he dare not disagree with me.
My sister nearly spat her drink out, she thought that was so hilarious. “No wonder you keep it locked away. He must be a real embarrassment to you.” Addressing David, she then mocked, “You must have disappointed a lot of girls over the years? The ladies may turn and admire you**, when they see you out and about, but they’d roll their eyes at you in contempt if they knew about your little problem and how quickly you spurt! No wonder Christine dresses you like a sissy at home. Is that what used to happen when you used to date all those dolly birds? Did they look up at the ceiling in frustrated annoyance?” He was too crimson faced to speak, but gently nodded his head to avoid challenging her.
**This referenced the fact that David remains strikingly handsome at 6 feet tall with an athletic, muscular stature. (In contrast, I am a classic bell shape and, though just two inches shorter, I weigh about 1/2 again what David does.)
With our laughter still ringing in his ears, and my sister mocking him contemptuously, it was time to let him have his release. I smiled, “Are you ready to go David?” as he knelt before the flesh lite… “Now one more rule, you are not to close your eyes. If you close your eyes, your release is cancelled… and you will be punished… and… you are to keep looking into our eyes.” He was squirming and trembling and terrified of making a bigger fool of himself.
“OK….” I then pressed start and advised, “Go!”. He lunged forward as my sister roared with laughter at his pathetic gyrations, mocking how it was just as well it was only a piece of plastic tubing as he wouldn’t be doing too much to please a woman with his bit of gristle. I counted the seconds, … “25-seconds, …” as he started to look anxious, he was struggling to come with all the humiliation.
“30-seconds, …. It looks like you’re trying to impress my sister,” I teased, …… “40-seconds….”
“My what a stud you are!” scoffed my sister.
“Fift…y” At this point he let out an almighty roar as he powerfully ejaculated. I know he would have loved to get the post orgasmic pleasure that flows from remaining with his organ enveloped by, in his current case, the flesh-light, but he gets a release, not relief, not a long orgasm. “fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight,fift…” I continued as, with tremendous fortitude, he pulled out, before I got to say ‘Stop’. He was sobbing in humiliation and frustration, his organ still twitching and screaming out for more. Instead, I stepped in with an ice pack, quickly removed the condoms and pushed him on his back to better apply the ice pack; before again securing his appendage in its stainless chastity cage, in which it can’t even erect.
He was then told he had five minutes to tidy himself up, fix up his make-up and get back to his ironing. We were still giggling as he departed the room.
That night in bed, I grinned as he entered the room and he squirmed embarrassedly before me, as I lightly noted how “At least we got that out the way for a while”. He couldn’t get close enough to me and begged me to let him pleasure me!
I have mentioned in the past that I like to cook and bake from time to time and I have also mentioned that bitch-boy has to get up early enough EVERY morning to return the kitchen to an immaculate state before I get up, whether I have cooked or, as is more normal, he has. It is very enjoyable to cook and bake with no regard to clean-up afterwards, knowing you have a little kitchen slave to do that.
The other evening I was cooking for fun. When I had finished, I required bitch-boy for his vanilla company to watch a movie and then to come up to bed with me. The next morning, the kitchen greeted him looking like a bomb damaged conflict zone! And in particular, this greeted him.
Before I started cooking, the immaculately clean grill tray had been lined with aluminium foil which I had removed at the commencement of my cooking exploits, just for the subjugating effect that would have on my kitchen-slave.
He found next to the grill tray a little note on which I had written. ‘Clean this disgusting item until it shines! I removed the aluminium foil because I am a bitch and last night in bed, thinking about that, made my orgasms more intense.’
Indeed the previous night when I had summoned him to bed with me to lick me to a couple of orgasms, thinking about what a bitch I had been and how he would feel the next morning greeted by the tray and note, as well as my usual thinking about his defect all locked away and his orgasms being so scarce while mine are so frequent, my orgasms had been seriously enhanced!
The other evening I was enjoying a very funny female comedian’s stand up routine. One routine was both funny and for me resonated around my sexuality and relationship with bitch-boy. So probably also applicable to a number of DS couples. The comedian had mentioned she was bi-sexual and then talked about how a straight forward aspect of sex with a man was that it has a natural end point; when he cums, often quickly arrived at!
But good sex with another woman just goes on and on unless there is a reason to stop. And it is a difficulty to stop without a reason. This brief routine sparked so many thoughts in my head when applied to my and others’ DS lives.
How wonderful it is to be a dominant woman so sex with a male does not have a natural end point, because the male either does not cum at all, or only cums when I the Domme is ready to end the sex session. How wonderful that that phenomenon, of itself, raises arousal and orgasm intensity for the Domme.
How wonderful that I now only like mutually rewarding sex sessions with other women and I can remind bitch-boy that when I used to have mutually rewarding sex sessions with him, a very long time ago, they were sometimes over rather quickly, while my mutually rewarding sex sessions with women go on and on and on.
And finally, loosely linked to all this, I thought about how, under my ‘new’ denial regimen for bitch-boy, during the frequent full-on DS days I enjoy, I have more orgasms during any one of those days, than bitch-boy will get in a year. Then as I pondered on that, and I realised that, more accurately, I have more orgasms during any one of those DS days, than bitch-boy will get in TWO YEARS! I don’t know why I had not recognised the actual extent of this disparity before! I could not wait to tell him!
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