Tag Archives: petticoating

Christine’s sister goes solo

A wonderful account from Christine M including her sister spending time alone with DAVID and making him very miserable.


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.

Christine’s David draws a ……

I have nothing to add to this fantastic account from Christine M other than to provide a link to the related previous post from Christine. Enjoy; I certainly did!

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!

Christine XXXX

Unhappy Anniversary

I engaged in a delightful set of email exchanges with Christine M recently, firstly advising me it was an anniversary for her slave-husband David. It was imminently one year since his last orgasm. I will set out the exchange below.

If you have not been following the accounts of Christine regarding adopting a maid’s outfit for David and the development of her chastity release spreadsheet, I suggest you type ‘Christine’ into the search box at top right and a list of relevant posts will be presented.

Hi Scarlet

Well David has gone just over 12-months since his last release! The good news, for him, is that on Sunday 7 March, he will get to draw for a release using our new Chastity Release Spreadsheet. I detailed this in an email a few months ago. Sadly, from his perspective, this allows for an absolute maximum of two releases in the year, and even if the spreadsheet selects a release, it can still be ‘lost’ if he should misbehave!

I have never seen him so desperate to come. He is permanently on edge and I am so enjoying teasing him relentlessly. Given there are only two releases possible each year, he is being positively over-optimistic. He seriously talks as though he will get a release in March! I think he believes I am going to show compassion for the fact that he has been so long without a release, and ‘fix-it’ so he gets one in March. His hopes are totally misplaced, I am as dispassionate as the computer is about his ‘plight’! The soulless, machine-driven, random computer spreadsheet algorithm will be the sole determinant as to when he will get a release.

Poor dear, given I am working him harder than ever and he rarely even gets an erection, (unless he has a meeting with Nurse Linnex scheduled, Nurse L,); I guess it is understandable he should be getting so excited.

I am so looking forward to seeing his look of despondency when he draws a blank!

All the best

Christine XXXX
Hi Christine
So hot! And so much for me to empathise with.
It is over 8 weeks since bitch-boy last came and it will be many more weeks yet! Although that is trivial compared to David’s plight, given up until last spring, bitch-boy used to cum every 10 days to 2 weeks, (subject to special periods), and with my new regimen, he has only cum twice since last spring, he is beside himself with frustration! I tease him almost every day and I have two or three orgasms on approx 5 days out of 7 days a week, mostly using my wand. This includes on days when there is no DS activity. Just because I am being so cruel and it is such a bitchy power-rush, I seem to be always turned -on!
He has been so close to tears during his recent teasings as I flaunt my body and caress my beasts and special places. I think I may actually get tears to flow without touching him! What a power rush you will get when David is so disappointed.
I also empathise with your absence of compassion as I feel exactly the same. It’s powerful to feel like that! What a decadent feeling it is, when they are at their wits end like it is the end of their world, and you are totally unmoved and unsympathetic. I adore that feeling.
Can’t wait to read about the big day!
Stay safe
PS. Oh, wish David a happy anniversary from me. I wish I could send him a card.

From: Christine
Sent: 01 March 2021 02:14

I will indeed, Scarlet!
You are so right about what makes it even worse.
The total disdain and disinterest I genuinely feel, leaves him feeling even more helpless, frustrated and ‘worried’.
Please feel free to share on your site if you wish.

Hi Christine

I am so looking forward to your account of his anniversary day!




Sunday, March 7 has come and passed. Since David was so excitedly looking forward to the day’s events, I made it a very special day for him! (Which also means I have written far more than I planned!)

He awoke early and was ever so anxious to both please, and later, with doleful eyes, trembling in anticipation, timorously ask about drawing for his release, using the spreadsheet. “Is it the seventh already?” I nonchalantly responded before disdainfully advising that his draw could wait until later; making it obvious it was an unimportant,  nothing matter to me. I was glowing from his ministrations, having had several orgasms, and taking pleasure in thoughts of our contrasting lives. I delighted in rubbing it in that I had just had more orgasms in the past hour, than he would get in the next year.

I continued, by noting he was already late in starting his housework. He was then told to get dressed and made-up, and start on his chores; and to ‘be quick about it’… unless he wanted a hurry-up from my cane! He managed to move with alacrity, though he was clearly inwardly seething at the injustice he perceived in his treatment.

While he applied his make-up, I remonstrated at his self-seeking attitude, mocking his pathetic need to cum; and reminding him that it was just a useless piece of gristle he had between his legs, that I had absolutely no need for it, that it would never ever penetrate me again, nor feel the caress of my hand. It would never even feel the touch of human flesh again!

I also poked fun at him, observing that, since it had been constantly locked up, I had noticed it was shrinking. I then taunted him by advising that we should start referring to it as his ‘teeny weeny winky tinky’. He was crimson with shame and ignominy as I derided him, genuinely fearing he was shrinking. After all, he never gets to see it erect. He has always basked in a little male pride, knowing that he was slightly larger than average. So, this is a much-feared fall from grace for him!

Once he was dressed in his maid’s outfit, I laughed at his feminised state as I curtly told him that I would see if I could squeeze in a couple of minutes for his draw in the afternoon; but he would have to ask me very politely, ‘…. if he might have a chance to play with his ‘teeny weeny winky tinky’, or the draw would be cancelled until next month!

Around two o’clock, he was doing the ironing, when I stridently called him into my office. I had his computer spreadsheet program open, and my iPhone on speaker. Showing complete disinterest in him, I ordered him closer and snappily advised “I’m on the phone to my sister, but she’s fine to hold for ½ a minute while we get your draw out the way,… so, quickly,…. What do you say?” Blushing crimson and cringing in disbelief at my callous indifference for both his dignity and the importance he placed on the event, he quietly stammered, “Can I please draw to see if I can play with my teeny weeny winky tinky?

Ignoring him, I asked my sister if she had heard him. He was devastated by being so publicly shown up. “You need to speak up David;” I continued, “A nice loud voice this time or I’ll assume you’re not bothered about a release!” He swallowed hard, tears welling up, the day was not going as he had dreamed or prayed for. “Christine, can I please draw to see if I can play with my teeny weeny winky tinky? Please?” He was shaking like a leaf, burning up at being so demeaned, yet still so desperate to cum.

With the sound of my sister’s laughter ringing in his ears, I curtly advised, “Take the mouse… click Apply…. Let’s get it over and done with!” He scurried to do as he was bid, lest I change my mind. As might be expected, the message, ‘Try again next week” appeared in the results box. With complete indifference and brevity, I calmly advised, “Fun over. Back to your ironing….” and returned to my conversation with my sister.

As he dithered, frozen in shock, I stormed “NOW!” He had so expected me to fix it so he had an orgasm, that he was stunned, rooted to the spot in disbelief at being both ridiculed and denied. The colour was by now draining from his face as the realisation sank in that he was not getting a release, even though 12 months had passed since his last. My sister passed a cutting remark about his lack of manliness and shrinkage, and we both laughed uproariously. He was crushed, overwhelmed, devastated and further, humiliated by our laughter.

Crankily shaking his head, stifling his tetchiness, he slowly trudged back to the laundry. About 15 minutes later, I quietly left the office, the phone still up to my face, and glanced into the laundry. He was back at his ironing, though he was moving far too slowly and sullenly for my liking. Amusingly, his face was red and slightly blotchy from having shed a few tears, and he was clearly distraught and angry, with a morose, long-suffering set to his jaw, his frustration and disgruntlement no doubt heightened by my coldness and his feelings of isolation.

I ‘woke’ him from his self-centred, misery-filled trance by loudly instructing, “David, unless you want me to give you something to very seriously cry about, I suggest you stop wallowing in self-pity right now, set a smile on your face and put some serious effort and zest into your ironing! You’ve still got plenty to do!” Instantly, I resumed my light demeanour, chatting happily to my sister as I strolled down the hall, laughing as he was again forgotten, a brief interruption, not deserving of my further attention.

I had very deliberately planned his draw to take place during a call to my sister, not for the humiliation, but the deeper message it sent. The chance to cum had become such an extreme focus for David, it was the most important thing on his mind, in his world. I was therefore showing him just how unimportant his release was to me. It was something to be squeezed into my day and quickly gotten out the way. What he saw as an extremely special and important event, was a nothing event for me, less important than a phone call to my sister, who I speak to every day.

I left him for about an hour, by which time I knew he should be just about finished on the laundry. The ironing was his final chore for the day, (though he would need to clean up the kitchen later); so he would have been expecting to be allowed to change back to his male attire and join me for the evening. Given his poor attitude and laziness with the ironing, this was no longer going to be the case.

He was indeed down to the last few items when I entered, hauling in an industrial size laundry bag. His face dropped and he turned ashen at the stern set of my face and the sight of his bag of punishment ironing. This is full of second-hand clothes from the local charity shop. These are items that I selected for their difficulty to iron and the way they easily crease. There are lots of pleated skirts and frilly blouses. It takes him about three hours to iron everything in the bag, hence his utter dismay! Once everything is ironed and neatly folded, he has to put them on a quick wash cycle, and then through the dryer, to ensure everything is full of creases again, before being crushed back into the bag for a future punishment session.

We have three of these bags and, depending upon the time he has available, the degree of my ire with respect to his ‘misbehaviour, or simply ‘my whim of the moment’; is how many bags he gets to iron. Since today was such a special day for him, and to remind him to avoid silly displays of self-interest… I returned a few minutes later with the other two bags. His spirits visibly sank further, he looked so forlorn.

Because it is punishment ironing, and following the advice of others on your site, he has to change into a pair of high-heeled shoes in which small marbles have been firmly glued onto a sole insert. The shoes are also a size too small, making them most uncomfortable to wear. And he would be standing in them for over 9-hours! No wonder he looked abjectly heartbroken; he was certainly ‘enjoying’ a memorable day!

It was around midnight, having missed out on dinner, that he finally joined me. I then lost count of how many orgasms he gave me. I had him moisturise my body with fragrant oils, while I used my wand, showing him, I didn’t even need his tongue! Needless to say, I also constantly teased him about how I couldn’t see what he was so upset about, he’d gone over a year without coming, what was the big deal if he had to go a few weeks more, or even months?

He snuggled close that night though, after I teased his nipples in bed for a good ½ hour, driving him insane with desire and frustration. His tears of disgruntlement replaced with tears of divine frustration. He was in awe and rapture, and I feel certain that he was in a state of blissful contentment when he fell asleep spooning me.

Christine XXXX

Making chore time worse – à trois Part 5

This is the 5th account from Corrine and her wife. This one answering questions I have asked about how they make chore time for the slave worse. 


Dear Scarlet

Coming back to you on the topics you indicated as being of interest to you regarding our regime of domination of slave. This account is on carrying out housework without the aid of appliances or tools or from performing them in more severe bondage AND the use of stinging or painful materials or substances.

I deal with these first issues together because, as you will see, they are very closely linked.

As already pointed out, the normal slave maid uniform is a long Victorian maid uniform with corset and flat shoes, all with chains joining his collar, bracelets and anklets in order to make his job more uncomfortable but still easily performed (about 40 cm between the wrists and between the ankles and wrists connected to the collar so that the hands cannot go below the waist). In addition, the slave can normally use ordinary household appliances such as washing machine, dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, dryer and so on.

Making her housework more complicated, uncomfortable, tiring and humiliating – for punishment or just for our amusement – can be done by intervening both on the slave’s dress and bondage or on the possibility of using aids in working.

Carrying out housework chores without the aid of appliances or tools.

It is very common that slave is prohibited from using any kind of household appliance and that the use of normal cleaning accessories is also severely limited. In these cases, therefore, the slave must constantly wash dishes strictly by hand, just as he must wash all the laundry by hand. 

In reality, as far as the laundry is concerned, some items, such as my and my wife’s underwear and many delicate items, must always be washed by hand, however on some occasions we require slave to wash by hand also, for example, sheets, drying cloths and even filthy kitchen cloths. This greatly increases the fatigue that slave endues in his miserable work, for his suffering and our satisfaction. Furthermore, slave can be forced to iron the laundry with an old and heavy (almost 5 kg) iron without steam, with which it is very difficult to maintain the required standards of perfection and, therefore, with increased effort and greater possibility of a well deserved punishment.

Another thing we love, and that we often impose on slave even just for our amusement, is to forbid the use of brooms, forcing him to collect dirt and wash the floors with cloths and rags held in his hands, while crawling on all fours.

It is very funny, in these cases, to walk with dirty shoes right where slave has just cleaned, and to then have our shoes cleaned with his tongue and have the floor cleaned again, enjoying his sobs of despair and fatigue, but also of desperate frustration excitement while licking our shoes. Sometimes it can happen that we tie his hands behind his back and force him to wipe the floor with a rag in his mouth.

 Furthermore, slave can be forced to polish the sanitary fixtures in our bathroom (especially the ‘safe’ areas of the toilet) with his tongue or to clean the tile joints with a toothbrush. 

Obviously, the fact that more strenuous and difficult working conditions have been imposed on him is not a good excuse for providing lower standards of work and, therefore, the punishments he suffers for every slightest imperfection are by no means diminished.

Performing housework chores in more severe bondage AND the use of stinging or painful materials or substances

Alternatively, or (more often) in addition to these impositions there are those that intervene on the slave’s clothing and bondage to make his working condition more painful and humiliating and difficult.

The simplest thing is to gag him and put a big dildo or but plug in his butt. Depending on the desired level of subjugation, we can go from simple ball gags – even if wearing a big ball gag for many hours is certainly not a joke – to dildo gags that fill his mouth almost in the throat torturing his gag reflex. Sometimes, on the face, we can even secure our dirty panties held in place by our old stockings. Even the but plug can vary in size from medium to very large and painful sizes. A very frequent alternative is the use of the rear shield of his chastity belt, which includes the possibility of inflicting electric shocks, or the use of vibrating dildoes. 

I must confess that the combined use of dildo gags and large anal dildoes is one of my favorite combinations to make feel slave, as well as subjugated and servile, even in his role as a whore (which he hates)

Nipple clamps are another easy and frequent imposition, perhaps connected with a cord to the collar or wrists, in order to make the clamps painfully stretch with every movement.

Another simple thing is to intervene on the shoes. Just imposing on slave, instead of the flat shoes he usually wears, cruel 15 cm heel shoes, chained to the feet so that they cannot be taken off, and to be kept for the whole day without ever being able to sit, is a real and remarkable torture. 

We also have a pair of ballet heels for Slaves, but unfortunately, he is unable to walk in them. We therefore often use them as punishment by requiring him to simply stand on them or to wear them when we force him to clean on all fours. 

All slave shoes, then, are about half a size too small, so as to be extremely tight and uncomfortable, although still possible to wear. To make everything more fun and crueller, we often impose on slaves some insoles on which small pebbles have been attached with an adhesive tape. Walking in these shoes, or even standing on them, is such a real torture.

Imposing a postural collar on a slave is, then, another fun way to make his job more difficult and painful, as is reducing the length of his chains (for example, bringing the length of the chains at the ankles and wrists to no longer 25 cm) to see him desperately trotting around to do his chores is incredibly exciting.

Another variant, very cruel and funny, but which we can only use in the periods when slave is not wearing his full chastity belt, is to tightly tie the base of his balls and then connect them with the center of the chain that unites the ankles. The connecting rope is adjusted to such a length that slave, in order to avoid painfully pulling down his balls, must alternatively either keep his feet practically together, with evident enormous difficulty in movement, or he must keep his knees slightly bent. In addition, whatever his decision, his balls are still painfully pulled down with every step and movement. Again, the long-term effects are truly cruel.

Another way to make the slave’s job crueller is to intervene on his clothes. For example, we can force a slave to wear tight uncomfortable hobble skirts under his uniform, or we can impose, under his corset and uniform, a painful and itchy hessian underwear or, at the appropriate time of year, we can impose him under the corset, in his underwear and shoes, leaves  of stinging nettles.

As you can see, dear Scarlet, the ways to make the daily work of slave a real hell are many and varied and, although it is true that very rarely all the preceding restrictions are imposed on the poor slave at the same time, it is equally true that it is very unusual for a day to pass without the slave having to undergo at least one or two of them.

In particular, the obligation to wear shoes with 15 cm heels, the reduction of the length of the chains and the imposition, at least for a certain number of hours a day, of a ball gag, are elements that could easily, in a future, become default in slave clothing.


Eminent Dominance by Christine M

Below is a wonderful account of a short exchange that no doubt was hugely affecting for both parties. I adore the final words of, ‘You’re dismissed.’  I find it such a power rush to calmly dismiss one’s despondent and frustrated submissive to their fate; while utterly relaxed, I continue to move towards yet another orgasm myself. . .

And the cloud of anxiety for David that will now float over him during all future vanilla entertaining! Making sure, despite the vanilla ambience, he does not forget he is helplessly in the power of a pitiless, cruel dominant woman. And we all know that submissives are at their most content when fully aware that they are helplessly in the power of a pitiless, cruel dominant woman.

Christine’s Account

David had a marvellous surprise the other Tuesday night! We had a vanilla night, with some close friends round for canapes and drinks. It was a wonderful evening and we all had a great time with lots of laughter. They left a little after nine, and I warmly cuddled David as we bid them goodnight, advising that he could clean-up tomorrow since I wanted a little fun in bed.

David spent an hour or so pleasing me, before I teased him to the brink of agony for a good ½ hour. It is so challenging for him to be driven to such levels of yearning while he can’t even erect properly! I was having a glorious time, laughing loudly at his antics and teasing him about not being able to get an erection. He was literally being driven mad with craving……………    until I suddenly stopped and coldly advised,

“That’s quite enough fun for one night David.” He looked at me in utter frustration, his balls no doubt swollen, as I continued, “What are your chores on a Wednesday?” He was ever so tremulous as he advised that Wednesday was a big night as he had to do washing and ironing, as well as clean the dining room, the hall, stairs and landing. “Right then, you’d better get to it!” I curtly ordered. He looked at me in utter disbelief, his doleful eyes pleading for him to be allowed to remain in bed. He was clearly yearning to just cuddle up to me.

Seeing the resolute look on my face, he entreated that the laundry alone was a couple of hours work. His dismay was so very evident as the tears welled over, when I dismissively ignored his entreaty and advised, “Well you had better start right away. It is indeed a very big night you have ahead of you! …as the lounge and kitchen are very much in need of your attention too…”.

He was lost for words as his face turned ashen, before he finally managed to mumble about how I had said that the latter could wait for tomorrow. “David,” I sharply reprimanded, “By the time you are dressed and made-up it will be almost midnight! With everything else you have to do, I would suggest it will indeed be tomorrow before you get round to cleaning the kitchen and lounge! Now I will not tell you again… You chose to join us earlier knowing full well you had chores to do. You also well know that your maid’s job takes precedence over all else.’

He then asked whether he might be excused from applying his make-up since he would be the only one up. I very crossly retorted, “Most certainly not! And don’t let me hear another word of complaint!”

I laid back in bed and contentedly watched him in his utter misery, as he painstakingly took the time to carefully dress and then apply his make-up. He hates this so much, he feels especially silly making himself up, and considers it so unnecessary. This makes it all the more amusing for me!

He would have been able to observe me in his mirror, looking on, so relaxed and at ease, smiling… as he morosely considered the hard night he had ahead. Such a contrast to my gratified state. His make-up finished, he rose, turned to face me and gracefully curtsied, as I cruelly subjected him to one last task to further emphasise his deprived status.

Though it was in easy reach in my bedside drawer, I ordered him to pass me my wand. I grinned as he curtsied and handed it to me, I switched it on and slid it under the covers as I noted, “One more orgasm before I fall asleep….” I then closed my eyes as I advised “You’re dismissed!”

He didn’t finish until gone four o’clock in the morning! He had a late start the next day, which I had taken full advantage of!

These exceptionally cruel events only work if they are done rarely. This was a first time, but it means that on future vanilla nights, it will always be in the back of his mind that he might still have to do all his chores before bed. I love this feeling of power I hold over him, knowing he is always fearful, especially nowadays, as I gradually tighten up his domestic regime.

Extreme Public Humiliation – à Trois Part 4

Unless you live in one of only a few large cities in certain countries, most of the described public humiliations below would not be accepted by the vast majority of passers-by.
In my experience it would need to be the right part of a large city centre in; Germany, Denmark, Netherlands, or perhaps Soho or Camden Town in London, or I imagine, possibly, small areas in Los Angeles, Las Vegas or New York City. I asked Corrine for her location and I was not surprised that she came back with a location in the list above.
This is the 4th account from Corrine regarding her femdom manage à trois.      Account 3.    Account 2.        Account 1.


Account 4

Dear Scarlett,

….. I will gladly return to the subject of punishment for the slave and, following the order of your interests, I will deal with the public humiliations. Obviously, the slave suffers a certain degree of public humiliation every time he leaves the house. It’s collar, although not sensationally explicit, does not go unnoticed, just as the plaque that hangs from the collar does not go unnoticed, especially in summer, and it’s bracelets do not go unnoticed. However, living in a large city, Slave can hope, in his weekly shopping outings, to blend in somehow with the cosmopolitan crowd.

True public humiliations, on the other hand, are something else. A first, milder form is to take him out with us, (especially for shopping in some mall or in the evening to some club), in explicitly slave mode.

When we take him shopping, he wears his usual uniform for when he goes out, but his wrists are connected with a short chain and he is led on a leash by me or my wife. We usually do this in shopping malls in a city not too close to ours, to limit the risk of meeting acquaintances. Slave walks on a leash behind us, with his head down, naturally carrying all the bags containing our purchases.

When we stop to sit and rest or for a snack, he has to get on his knees next to us and, under some circumstances, we even force him to massage or kiss our feet. Obviously, we call him slave and he must respond by calling each of us, Mistress. It is very fun and extremely exciting to see the effect this has on the people we meet.

Imagine the scene Scarlet: two elegant ladies, dressed in designer clothes and shoes, dripping with jewelry, perfect makeup, flawless hair, and on a leash, like a little dog, a mature man, in perfect shape, also good looking, but evidently totally submissive. All in a situation, at least from the outside, non-erotic. There are no whips; there are no insults or dramas of any kind. Two beautiful ladies and their slave. Slave totally ignored and used like a car roof rack. The reactions of the people who meet us are the most varied.

Ours is now a rather ‘liberal’ society and, therefore, most people tend to ignore us, (or pretend to ignore us), even though everyone, invariably, turns to look at the slave. Some, on the other hand, mutter some unpleasant comment or, in extreme cases, a whispered insult, especially to the slave. Others look at us amused and surprised.

In the eyes of many, however, there is a clear and evident light of excitement, envy and fear;  this, both in men and in women. The interesting thing is that the segment of people who show the most amused interest are youngsters. Especially the girls! Often groups of girls turn to look at us and approach us. In some cases, they also ask us for information, which of course we are happy to give them. Three or four times it has happened that young couples approached and the girl told her boyfriend that this seemed to her an excellent accommodation for couples and, to my great joy, a couple of the boys even agreed!

For my wife and I this kind of trip out is a lot of fun as we find the possibility of showing the world a very small part of the kind of domain that we can use on slaves enchanting. Slave, for his part, finds these exits incredibly humiliating.

We experience  looks of admiration and envy, ignoring the (fortunately) few negative comments. For Slave it is the opposite. For him every glance and every comment are the confirmation of his abject inferiority and are experienced by him as looks and comments of contempt.

Even more incisive than these are the public humiliations we impose on slave when we take him out with us in the evening in some club. In these cases, in fact, we certainly do not take it to elegant and trendy places where my wife and I usually go, but instead we take it to more kinky places, even if not explicitly hard. Slave, for these outings, is always dressed in his ordinary going out outfit, only we often add some accessories to humiliate him more, such as, for example, high-heeled shoes, earrings, heavy make-up with false eyelashes and so on. Slave has his hands chained to the front and is led on a leash by one of us.

Whether we take a table, as often happens, or we are at the bar, the slave must kneel next to us in plain sight, normally ignored except for sporadic orders to go and order something for us, or again, to kiss or massage our feet. In these cases, the environment and the music, together with alcohol, (Slave obviously cannot drink alcohol), make everything more fun for us and more humiliating for slave. It can easily happen that someone approaches and makes explicit comments about the slave, and we laugh, having fun insulting and humiliating the slave together with the stranger who has approached.

It happens (and I’m happy about this) that sometimes a girl or lady approaches me and my wife. We are really happy to invite them to sit at our table to drink with us, having fun humiliating slave, telling our incredulous guests about our ménage and the cruel regimen for slave (I confess that most, despite our assurances, remain convinced that it is just a one-off erotic game). We have fun inviting our guests to humiliate Slave themselves, for example by insulting him, making him kiss their shoes or, for someone more adventurous, slapping him or spitting in his face or similar.

Even in these places, I have noticed that often our dynamic also attracts couples – both on the initiative of him or her – and I find this encouraging. Again for my wife and I it’s a blast! It is the realization of a certain level of exhibitionism that we have. It is the thrill of excitement that, sadistically, comes from showing our power and our contempt for slave.

For him, on the contrary, the humiliation is even greater, as are the humiliations that he must undergo even from perfect strangers. It is not uncommon for slave to be reduced to tears during one of these evenings, for our amusement and excitement.

However, there is an even more extreme level of public humiliation. That is, when we force a slave to show himself totally sissified and feminized in public and, in this condition, to perform more or less humiliating and awful, tasks depending on the circumstances.

This does not happen, as you can imagine, in broad daylight and / or in places that are too ‘normal’ or where it is easy to meet minors. Therefore, usually, public humiliations of this kind take place late in the evening or at night, in more or less isolated areas and in the most ‘red-light’ neighborhoods of the city.

It happens, for example, that we dress sissy like a street whore, with corset, fake boobs, miniskirt so short that it shows off her chastity belt, fishnet stockings, pole dancer shoes, extreme makeup and wig. In this humiliating outfit we get him out of the car, ordering him to come to us on foot in a specific location, and we drive off to wait for him in the location. All that time he has to walk in a city that is still crowded, with open clubs and, especially in summer, people on the street; exposed to the amused gaze of those he meets, who easily mistake him for a transsexual prostitute no longer young and express the most humiliating appreciation for him.

The worst humiliation, however, is when slave is forced to prostitute himself for us. We take him, obviously dressed as a prostitute, in a peripheral and isolated ‘red light’ street of the city and we make him stand there; walking back and forth like a real whore. My wife and I are in the car, close enough to have him in sight; ready to intervene in case of problems. The chosen street is far enough from the regular places of prostitutes to avoid any problem with pimps. The road is therefore not very busy. Also, even if kept in perfect shape and perfectly feminized, Sissy version of Slave is quite passable but certainly not attractive. 

If you add that we usually do this for a couple of hours maximum, you can imagine that the slave certainly doesn’t have many customers and, often, nothing happens. In these cases, of course, we go home, and severely punish the slave for his ineptitude. 

But it happens sometimes that someone stops and, in that case, if the customer agrees to pay the rate we have set, then slave, just like a real whore, has to satisfy his customer; usually with a blowjob but, sometimes, even more. We insist slave insists the customer wears a condom. You can imagine, Scarlett, the thrill of power and sadism that, in these cases, my wife and I feel when slave, devastated by humiliation (and because of that, excited and frustrated beyond belief) must give us the money he earns.

For us it is pure thrilling sadism and pure exhilarating joy to see to what level of degrading subjugation we have brought a man once free, beautiful and rich, and this, only thanks to the power of our domination. As for a slave, I don’t think there is anything more submissively affecting for an ex-man, now a slave, to experience a role reversal so total that he is even transformed into a whore pimped out and forced to give his earnings to his cruel Mistresses.

I believe that from my descriptions you can understand why public humiliations are the punishment and treatment that slave most fears.

And despite this, when the public humiliation is over, Slave invariably, and without receiving any order, prostrates himself at our feet to thank us for the cruel domination we subject him to.

Mistress Corinne

Humiliation, chores, subjugation, devotion.

Another wonderful account of a life of long-term female domination of a submissive male. Daniel is happy to answer questions on his account.


I met my wife through my mother’s church circle. She is ten years older than I am and she remembered me when I used to read Lessons. At that time, she was twenty and I was eleven and she recalled how smart she thought I looked in my school uniform, with short trousers and knee socks.

She asked me out on a date when I was 21 and we got on very well, particularly as she said she did not usually like males because she found them rude and insensitive; but sensed I was different. This could not have been more accurate. I had always been shy and aware that females are very special people. My mother always reminded me of this when growing up.

We fell in love and my wife told me she wished to marry me, but that I would have to meet her demands. She would always expect me to be respectful and do as she wished and said that she firmly believed men need to be punished sometimes, if they forget themselves. I agreed. Fifteen years on, I am still so pleased that I did.

She has developed a very strict regime over this time. My wife, whom I now call Ma’am, has a very high-powered job and I remain at home to address domestic issues, including all household chores. Ma’am is very much in charge. She has very strict rules which must be adhered to at all times.

I have to run Ma’am’s bath each morning and make her breakfast. Before she leaves for work I am allowed to relieve myself, then my diaper and rubber pants are locked again until she returns between 7 – 7.30pm. I must wear a nappy during the day, which Ma’am changes on her return. I am then allowed to go diaper-free – but in my locked rubber pants – until I have cooked dinner, washed and dried up and taken my bath, when I am allowed to relieve myself again.

In the house, I am expected to wear my ‘indoor’ school uniform of short, grey skirt and white knee socks. When carrying out my household chores, which are written down for me each day. I also have to wear my rubber apron. Chores are inspected every evening before I serve dinner and if they have not been done to Ma’am’s satisfaction, I have to do them again.

I receive a weekly maintenance punishment of six strokes of the leather strap on my bare bottom every Sunday evening. In addition, if chores are not to Ma’am’s satisfaction at any time, further summary punishments are delivered immediately, with either the strap, hairbrush or riding crop according to the seriousness of my lapses.

I am allowed to wear short trousers when out in public, including church, and Ma’am believes that it is more effective for me not to appear ‘sissy’ as this enhances my humiliation and junior, subservient status as a ‘ boy under constant correction and tuition’.

However, there have been occasions when she wishes me to learn a particular lesson and so invites friends for supper and I have to serve them in my ‘indoor schoolgirl uniform’.

I serve them with drinks and food, waiting on them as Ma’am’s maid. Sometimes, if I have an accident or do not serve quickly enough, Ma’am slaps my legs and has in the past invited her guests to slap me as I pass them – rather like running a gauntlet of punishment, which they find very funny. Because Ma’am is so busy, she has guests about four times a year. It is all particularly humiliating but Ma’am rewards me afterwards. I am allowed to masturbate after Ma’am’s guests have left and everything has been cleared away.

She insists that I remain under chastity 24/7/365. I am allowed to orgasm on those occasions that I am given permission to masturbate under Ma’am’s supervision; that is 4 or 5 times a year.

Ma’am gains her sexual satisfaction from my total obedience to her needs and instructions. This happens every Sunday after my maintenance punishment when she instructs me to lick her to orgasm. If I do not satisfy her, she gives me extra rounds of the strap until I do.

If and when she requires entering, this is something that she gets from one of her male friends.

I love Ma’am very much and will do anything to please her.






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 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.

Workplace initiated Domme/sub predicaments


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

“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: