Tag Archives: petticoating

Lock Down activity from Carla

The following lock down activity from the wonderful Carla is self explanatory. It was prompted by my recent post on the archive of Petticoated.com letters. It is a wonderful activity that can, and I am sure will, be continued when lock down is over. Below is a photo of Carla and pussie but it is from my archive and is not directly related to the post below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi Scarlet,

Hope all is well with you. I must thank you for the posting the treasure trove of petticoat/sissy discipline material. I had never heard of the Petticoat Discipline Journal or any of the earlier publications referred to in the posting. While some of the letters become repetitive, many are filled with wonderfully creative ways to totally humiliate and punish a sissy. I also note that many of the letters describe intensely embarrassing public sissy humiliation. As you know this is something I often subject pussie to with great amusement on my part and others who participate in the poor thing’s public outings. If my recollection is correct of the other women who have submitted comments to you, only Ms Anne has subjected her sissy to humiliation in front of others-and that only to her Mom.

Your posting has resulted in our instituting a new form of cocktail hour entertainment. Each evening, around 6 pm or so, Todd (my boy friend I cuckold pussie with), his daughter Megan and I have cocktails served by pussie.

(Todd’s daughter’s college closed down due to the corona virus and she asked if she could stay with us for a while. I won’t take your time to discuss how we got there, but soon after Megan arrived we let her know all about pussie and that we treat the sissy as the menial housemaid it is.  pussie begged me and then both Todd and me a number of times to not allow Megan to order it about. For whatever reason, the sissy pleaded and begged even more to not allow Megan to join us for the cocktail hour readings. Megan was most offended by pussie’s request and now spanks the sissy even harder than I do! )

Anyway, you may recall that in the past I had pussie read to Todd and me from your published books. We all decided that it would be great fun to have pussie entertain us during cocktail hour by reading the Petticoat Discipline Journal letters you posted. So starting from Vol. 1 letter 1, pussie has been slowly reading to us each evening anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour.  To add to our amusement I put a paper clip on the sissy’s tongue before it begins reading so that the sissy lisps and must speak ever so slowly so as to clearly pronounce each word. If any of us cannot understand a word, pussie must start again from the beginning of that letter.

I have been using a regular sized paper clip. I am now thinking that once it is safe to do so, I may have pussie’s tongue pierced and a small gold ball inserted, I think this may give pussie a permanent lisp while at the same time increasing the sissy’s ability to provide oral pleasure.

Megan has been given the task of picking out pussie’s cocktail hour outfit. (You will recall that pussie has a wool fetish so, given he is in 24/7 chastity and does not get to cum very often, wool items make him even more desperate.)  Most times Megan has the sissy dress as a cute schoolgirl in a fuzzy angora or mohair sweater stretched tightly over the its 42DD well filled bra, very short kilt type skirt, wool leg warmers, knee socks or frilly ankle socks, mary jane T-strapped 3″ heel shoes, matching bows in the sissy hair, full makeup and woolly  mittens.

After serving drinks pussie stands at perfect attention in front of us. No bending of legs, no slouching. As you may have noted, pussie has no panties on. Rather the sissy is put into his spiked chastity cage to which I have attached a large bell. When it is time to begin, pussie must shake up and down ringing the bell, which of course results in the spikes digging into its little thing. pussie must also “ring” the bell after the sissy has finished reading each letter and then, again when it begins reading the next letter.

pussie hates to have to ring the wee-wee bell as the sissy knows just how ridiculous it looks shaking up and down with its caged wee-wee on display. As the reading progresses, and the spikes continue to dig in as pussie shakes up and down,  the sissy will both beg to be allowed to stop and will become less energetic. My response has been a few well placed kicks to “encourage” pussie to shake its wee-wee more. I am thinking of shoving a capsaicin coated bug plug up pussie’s a-hole the next time we see it slowing down.

I also decided that as the Petticoat Discipline Journal letters are filled with wonderful ideas, pussie should act out those ideas where possible. And when I say letters, I include any of the articles, Ask Nanny advice, and other materials included in each volume in the library. So if a letter says that a sissy is made to dance, pussie must stop reading and do the same dance for us. If a letter says the a  sissy must read, or act out, a nursery rhyme, than pussie must immediately do the same.

There are special rules for spanking and corner time references. ( If only I were as computer capable as Christine LOL). If a letter discusses a spanking, paddling or caning , pussie  suffers the number of spankings etc mentioned in the letter. If the letter does not specify a number, then the first time a spanking is mentioned in a letter in a Volume, pussie receives 10 spanks. The second time an unspecified number is referenced, pussie receives 20 spanks. Each time thereafter the number of spanks is doubled!

So for example if an unspecified number is referenced in Volume 1, letter 1, pussie must bend over, raise its skirt and received ten with the referenced implement. Then if the next time an unspecified number is mentioned; lets say Volume 1, letter 3, pussie again must present its bare rear for 20 with the referenced implement. If in Volume 1 letter 4, the letter discusses the sissy receiving a caning, pussie received 40 wacks of the cane. We do not distinguish among spanks, paddles canes, etc .

It may be that pussie only reads 5 or 6 letters a night. So if, on the next night, pussie begins reading from the same Volume, the spanking numbers start from where we left off the night before. So using my example above, on the first night pussie had only read up to Volume 1, letter 4, with the last letter earning the sissy 40 wacks of the cane. On the next evening pussie would begin with Volume 1 letter 5. If in that letter there is mentioned an unspecified number of spanks, then pussie would receive 80 spanks ( double from the last letter read of that volume, the evening before). We do begin anew with each Volume.

The sissy whimpers and cries like a little girl as the spanks, paddling and or caning applications add up.

As mentioned above, pussie suffers the same miserable fate when corner time punishments are mentioned. And corner time is in addition to , not a replacement for spankings.

I am sure you can just imagine the humiliation,  trepidation and fear pussie experiences as it reads each letter. I must say pussie’s daily readings have made for a most enjoyable, amusing and, yes, exciting cocktail hour. I mentioned this to my sister, Tyler, and she suggested that using Zoom, we invite her and some others to join us for a virtual cocktail hour and pussie show. We are going to begin doing that tonight.

As always I would love to hear from the other women who contribute here to get their reactions and suggestions.

Carla

 

 

 

My 16th journal

A link to all my journals.

Lady Jessica’s very amusing Lock down activity

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

I will say no more by way of introduction.

 

Lady Jessica’s lock down activity

My dear Mistress Scarlet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours in sincere sisterhood

Lady Jessica

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Archive of real life letters

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Letter 3 PERFECTLY PROPER SISSY BEHAVIOR

Dear Editor,
 

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

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

Ms. Q.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly,

Linda

 

 

My 16th journal –  LINK

Yet more from Christine M

Below is yet another wonderful contribution from my dear friend, Christine M.  Actually an email to me. After that is a part of my email response back to her. I thought some of you may be interested in the sort of email exchanges women like Christine and I enter into.

Scarlet

With all the lockdowns I have so much more time to write. I hope I am not sending too much or writing in too much detail. This is my latest update. Please feel free to share this on your blog.

My husband is, I am pleased to advise, more suitably attired for his cleaning duties now. It is amusing as he squirms and tries to avoid my gaze, he looks so uncomfortable whether I tease him about how sweet he looks or mock him for looking so silly! This is very new for him and he hates it! He trembles and blushes profusely, which gives me the giggles, which makes him feel even more silly! Which makes it even more fun!

I also ‘tap him up’, like girls had to put up with in the past. This leaves him frustrated given he is locked securely away. I like to fondle his cage too, grinning as I ask, “Are we still nicely locked-down for the duration? They’re saying on the news that social distancing is going to be here for at least another 12-months, perhaps even 18-months! Can you imagine that? 18-months before we even consider using your Release spreadsheet again. And, even when we do start it up again, it might be months before you score a Release Approval.” Understandably he is already crawling up the wall in frustration. He hasn’t come since the 16th of February and I tease him daily.

For his household chores, I went for very conservative attire. I wanted to accomplish three things.

  1. He was to look like a male suffering petticoat discipline, and feel suitably silly;
  2. Dressing should be a tiresome event; and
  3. His attire should be practical for completing his chores.

I ordered from a company that specialises in supplying hotels. He has a knee-length, nicely shaped tunic, designed for hotel maids. He has one in a soft pink colour, one in a light peach colour and another in a pale lemon colour. They have a double-breasted front, secured with ¾ inch diameter white buttons, two rows of two. The bottom pair are concealed by a white apron with lace trim. The tunic has a notched collar with white lapels, also trimmed with lace; and puffed, short sleeves with white cuffs with lace trim. They have no pockets. They are conservative, smart, decorous and practical.

He wears them with a pair of plain white nylon panties, a white full-length elasticated girdle with white stockings, with seams to be kept razor straight. He then wears a pair of white cotton knickers, with a small pink bow at their front, followed by a pair of bloomers with frilly lace trim and pink ribbons, and a white nylon slip. The bloomers can’t be seen under the tunic. His uniform is completed with low-heel white pumps and respectively a pink, peach, or pale-yellow silk head scarf. The scarf is wrapped up from the back and tied turban-style in a bow at the front. It must be neatly secured with no hair showing. In the evening he is often muzzle-gagged too.

I think he hates wearing the silk scarf more than anything, it really makes him feel so silly. He also has to shave all his body hair twice weekly, so he has lovely smooth skin, very feminine. I caress his stocking clad legs which makes him ache for release, but they do feel so beautifully soft.

He now sets his alarm each morning for 4-20 am, earlier if he has to shave his legs and body. He must rise instantly without waking me. Then he showers, shaves, and goes to the laundry to dress in his maid’s uniform. His tunic has to be ironed before the start of each shift. He then cleans all the bathrooms and front porch as required. The cleaning takes about thirty-five minutes. He then has to iron his school blouse and tunic, and dress for his written assignment. His maid’s uniform is hung neatly in the laundry as he will be wearing it again in the evening.

Since I don’t want him rushing around before doing his written work, he is now required to be seated at his desk by twenty-minutes to six, to provide time to relax. He recently learnt, the hard way, since I woke early and checked the security monitor; that if he is ready and dressed in his uniform, he should not laze around waiting until this time. He should seat himself down early, hands on head. For that little lapse he received a dozen cuts of the cane and his detention the next morning was brought forward by an hour, allowing for 3-hours of writing.

He used to so look forward to the weekend when we were using his chastity spreadsheet, even though he rarely earned a release, and sometimes scored a Linnex. Now he dreads Sundays and feels they arrive too quickly and too often!

His hygiene program starts right after he has finished his written assignment. He is cleansed in our detention/ punishment room, I call it ‘my study’, since my desk is also in this room. There is also a metal bed with a thin mattress for him. It has two grey blankets, with white sheets turned over at the top, so it looks very institutional. I move the pillow down to the centre and a place a large beach towel over it. On my desk is a tray, covered by a white towel. This houses the razor, disinfectant soap, scrubbing brush, a large bowl, a jug of cold water, a kettle, a thermometer, a nylon stocking, a plastic ruler, dental brushes, a fresh lemon, white flannels, a pair of yellow kitchen gloves, the Linnex stick and a lighter. Lying on top of the towel is a pair of industrial rubber gloves.

On completion of his assignment, he is sent straight to the laundry to undress. He then returns to the study and stands upright, nose and toes to the wall, hands on head, and waits for me. He must wait without moving, knowing I can check the security camera. Usually I arrive within ½ an hour, but my sister called one morning, and it was well over 2-hours before I came in.

I dress casually, often in a track suit or jeans and a flannel shirt. He is left in place as I start my preparations and don the yellow kitchen gloves. I then secure his muzzle while he is still face to the wall. I love the drama of this as he is then curtly told to turn around. Nothing sexy to turn him on. I play lightly with his nipples and he his soon stirring and groaning, longing for relief, blissful but scared. He is then secured to the bed, his hips raised up and his cage removed.

I play with him for up to ½ an hour, using the silk scarf and my rubber gloved hands. I never touch him with my bare skin. His gristle his fit to burst, it gets so hard, and I tease and edge him relentlessly, … until it is time for his scrub down! The kettle is boiled, the heavy-duty gloves put on and the water added to the bowl with the temperature checked and adjusted to 48 degrees Celsius. He is then shaved and washed. He remains erect through this and actually hardens up when, with worried eyes, he sees me freshen the water bowl and rub the soap into the scrubbing brush.

This is a proper bristle brush, small in size, though bigger than a nail brush. The bristles are very stiff and prickly. It is so funny to watch as he starts to panic and whimper through his muzzle before I even start, while his erection, in stark contrast, stands up ever so proudly. I scrub harshly and pitilessly, and he is soon moaning into his muzzle. The sound is muffled, the pain obvious as he screws his eyes shut and writhes and bucks against his bonds.

I take my time, pausing only to top up the brush with more soap. I do not stop until the skin is well-reddened and lightly chafed. This will ensure the Linnex will burn more fiercely at these points. I remain focused on the task, my mouth set firm, his predicament and pain ignored. I scrub rigorously. Tears are expected, shed and ridiculed. “My, my,” I crossly intone, “what a lot of fuss you make!” Despite the distress, his erection remains surprisingly firm.

The water is then refreshed, and the temperature carefully adjusted again. The soap is removed with hot flannels which are pressed firmly around his organ and held there for up to a minute. The lemon juice is then squeezed into his urethra and the dental brush put to work, again he twists against his bonds.

He is then cleaned up again with hot flannels, roughly dried with a towel, and it is time for the Linnex. He is clearly distraught and struggling to cope, tears have already flowed, but many more will flow before we finish, no compassion will be shown. He knows this, even as he pleads with his eyes for mercy. I simply smile as I slowly remove the cap to the Linnex, push the orangey-coloured wax out a little and gently warm it with the lighter. I am amused, damp between my legs, as I watch his erection strengthen. I gently stroke it with my rubber gloved hands, it hardens further, though he winces. It is sore, but worse pain is to come.

I pause and smile, gazing dispassionately into his eyes, holding the stick between us. The Linnex is then pressed firmly down and layer after layer applied. He whimpers. I spend 2-3 minutes thoroughly coating his appendage. Our eyes lock together again, mine are calm, unwavering; his display hopefulness tinged with anxious trepidation, the burning is yet to begin. We wait. I know the pain will come, he prays that this time it won’t. It will take a few minutes, then it will flood through his gristle. It always arrives, yet each time he lives in the hope it will not. I am excited now, my eyes sparkle, a smile creases my lips, I can see that first tendrils of warmth have arrived, the heat is gently seeping through into his consciousness. The look in his eyes turns to deep concern, then fretfulness, then panic creeps in, and finally real terror as the fiery burn surges forth. He wriggles uncomfortably, then he starts to gyrate his loins as the pain arrives in waves. The full searing, blistering heat has now burst violently through, spiked even more fiercely where the skin is chafed.

I can hear his screams through the muzzle, he tugs and twists and jerks more violently against his bonds. His muscles go taut as he strains against his bonds. I use Segufix ties now. He is very secure, there is barely any ‘wriggle room’ and the bed is soon shaking from his attempted wild thrashing. By ten minutes the pain is at its crescendo. The fiery tendrils envelop and sear deep into his gristle. The pain is intolerable. He jerks and wrenches frenetically at his bonds. His muffled screams have become muffled shrieks. The bed shudders and creaks. He can’t bear the vicious pain, but there is no relief, no release. He is inescapably secured, he has no option but to endure the intense agony for as long as it burns. It will blaze ferociously for at least 50-minutes before slowly subsiding. The prior scrubbing making it more sensitive to the scalding heat and his gristle is roasted on high.

I take a special item, just for me, from out of my desk drawer and dreamily watch for a while in deep pleasure.

He is not released until it is safely back in its cage. It is clear he remains ever so tender and he winces as he stands and moves. The pain is still evident in his teary eyes, his hair is dishevelled, he is exhausted and barely coherent as he cuddles me tenderly, yet ever so carefully. He wants only to pleasure me, to collapse and sleep. He is as fatigued and drained as if he had run a marathon. He is relived it is over.

But he won’t be allowed to pleasure me yet. Nor will he will be able to lie down and recover. It is time to iron and don his uniform and get on with his household chores. Not until the evening will he be granted the reward of pleasing me.

I smile as he winces and struggles to complete his chores. He is quiet, subdued, wearied; but he must work as hard and diligently as normal. There is no consideration shown for his plight. If his work is not up to standard or if he should dare slowdown from the demanding pace required when doing chores, he will find his backside is well-striped by my cane. Not a pleasant thought at the best of times, but far worse given his fatigued state plus, only the day before, he had his panties dusted for ½ an hour with my heavy wooden hairbrush, for presenting me with some untidy ironing.

He is still teary as he scurries about. He is feeling very sorry for himself. I know he is craving some sympathy, a tender hug, a little kind-heartedness, a touch of compassion; but there will be none forthcoming. He is ignored, he has work to do; at best he will get a sharp rebuke if I think he might be slacking.

I may be going crazy like everyone else with the Covid-19 restrictions, but my husband is definitely doing it harder. More than anyone he is looking forward to the ending of these restrictions and going back to full time work!

He has never been so repressed, and I can tell he is really struggling. I have made it very clear that I will not be relenting. It is leaving him very conflicted. When he asks for some mercy and relaxation of his regime in our vanilla talks, I am resolute. I show no benevolence. It is so amusing since, despite the clear angst and misery he feels, he can’t hide his passionate craving for more of me. He clings tightly to me, sometimes on the edge of joyous tears, and professes his love. It is visceral.

I enjoy it so much, and he pleases me so zealously, so it is never going to change for him. He was born to suffer. I would like to say for a beautiful woman, but I am not one to turn men’s eyes.

Christine

XXXX

 

Hi Christine
…………………………………………
…………. An aspect of his maid’s outfit I love is the massive amount of room you have left for escalation. Despite his current deep humiliation, there is so much escalation potential. Even if you never move to a full-on frilly french maids outfit, or even worse, a sissy maids outfit with dress hem coming down only to his hips, you can mind-fuck him on the next possible escalation. To be acted on in 6 weeks, 6 months, or 6 years!. Wonderful. Has your sister seen him in his maids outfit yet? (Or his little girl outfit???)
Two things really struck me. The first; I think, like me, you find that when administering dickie-discipline, the fact that the object stays rock hard, while we scrub, or smack, or wrap in hot flannels, etc. is both an aphrodisiac and a delight.  It is like it is not part of them. It is this hard thing we can abuse howsoever we want and it simply stays rock hard and convenient. (I don’t think I have expained myself very well.)
The second thing is the pleasure and importance of no mercy. Perfect symbiosis. When they are really tired, to show zero mercy, is very arousing for us, a serious, decadent power rush, and, although their sensible self would adore some mercy, their submissive souls react with worship and awe when mercy is denied!
‘……………… I can tell he is really struggling. I have made it very clear that I will not be relenting. ………….. he asks for some mercy and relaxation of his regime ……….., I am resolute. I show no benevolence. ……………..despite [his]clear angst and misery ……. he can’t hide his passionate craving for more of me…………………. and professes his love. It is visceral…….
With your permission I will make your email into a blog post shortly. Thank you.
Stay safe
Scarlet

While doing something else

What was one of my favourite site themes on Tumblr has now appeared on BDSMLR, I am so pleased to say.  while-doing-something-else.  bitch-boy informed me he found it while he was doing his BDSMLR tease chore as he knew the theme is in my top 3.

It so sums up, I think other Dommes will agree, the atmosphere of REAL LIFE, long term, live-together,  Domme/sub relationships. So much time is spent with the Domme enjoying whatever she wants, excluding the sub, while the sub toils  in the background on chores somewhere or toils between her thighs, or while she sunbathes, or he is a foot-rest, or his face is a seat. Particularly while the Domme is; applying make-up, drying/fixing hair, talking on the telephone, watching TV, reading a book or magazine, eating a meal, doing one’s nails, on social media, engaged in a pleasant craft activity, chatting to a visiting female guest, ‘who is in the know’.

I have of course had bitch-boy re-blog many of the images to my BDSMLR site.

So different to the majority of Femdom images on the net where the Domme (usally a professional dominatrix), is having to focus all her attention on the male sub. Not that I have a problem with the dominatrix profession. Wonderful women!

Obviously I have to ignore the images of fucking and cock-sucking and male climaxes on this site. A girl can’t have everything!

On the topic of my BDSMLR site I now have 4,800 followers. Nowhere near the 20,000 on my old Tumblr site, but it grows steadily which I adore. I adore because so many people share the REAL LIFE tastes I have.

Almost no PVC or latex, or warehouses or dungeons or abandoned buildings. Domestic scenarios in the main, and only the women getting the pleasure and the thrills. Of course the males getting their submissive contentment when their head hits the pillow every night, even if there is little or no sexual satisfaction in their lives.

Christine M’s Covid-19 lock down regime

I have the pleasure and privilege to be in regular email exchanges with Christine M. Below is an awesome email from her I recently received. I need add nothing more!

Hello Scarlet,

With the outbreak of Covid-19 the government announced a lockdown on many personal freedoms. A further consequence is that my husband is now working from home, and has both reduced hours, due to the business effects and his inability to travel overseas.

The first Sunday after the restrictions were announced, we sat down for his weekly Chastity Release Application. He was most forlorn when I announced that, with the country in lockdown, it was important that we brought in our own strict measures. Starting immediately, I advised:

1.     He was being placed into a hard chastity lockdown. This morning’s application for release was cancelled and there would be no further Release Applications for at least 6-months, after which the situation would be reviewed.

If at that time, all Covid-19 restrictions were removed, his Release Applications would be reinstated. Otherwise he should expect his lockdown to be extended for further 6-month periods before being reviewed. (Tears formed as I explained this, it was delightful.)

He will still earn Release Refused and Release Approved additions to his Chastity spreadsheet during his hard chastity lockdown period. However, the value of Release Approved additions will be halved.

2.     Given the increased requirements for personal hygiene I would, starting that morning, take over the weekend cleaning of his appendage in order to ensure the highest hygiene standards were maintained. This would mean it would be shaved very closely before receiving a lengthy and extremely harsh scrubbing with a stiff bristled brush and disinfectant soap, followed by a cleansing treatment with hot towels. His urethra would be cleansed with pure lemon juice and a dental brush. I would be wearing industrial rubber gloves for the process!

Since the thoroughness of the scrub down would leave him feeling very sore and tender, and very much in need of a soothing balm to provide some relief, I would finish by applying a generous coating of and Linnex rubbing it well in.

3.     Similarly, with improved hygiene needed around the home, we would need to increase the cleaning frequency of high-risk areas.

The kitchen would now be scrubbed down twice daily, after lunch and after dinner.

Every toilet, shower and wash basin would be scrubbed down each morning before he commences his day, then after lunch and again after 9-00 pm. (This takes 30 minutes each time and is required whether they have been used or not used.)

The linen on our bed is to be washed, ironed and replaced every 3-days instead of weekly.

4.     He would also be required to wear a face mask when doing his chores each evening.

Recently I bought a psyche ward medical muzzle gag from Sinvention.

This is rather like what Hannibal Lector wore. It ensures he cannot talk, and his screams are greatly dampened. This had been for wearing when he received a Linnex application but would now also be worn each evening when doing his chores.

5.     He is strictly confined and must remain IN the house at all times. He is not permitted to step outside, not even into the garden. I will shop for all essentials. (He later raised about getting a hair-cut, and  blanched when I advised I would be styling his hair!)

6.     To ensure he remains mentally stimulated and doesn’t get bored with the government’s directions to remain home, he will have a written assignment to complete each morning between 6-00 am and 8-00 am.

(This requires him to dress in full schoolgirl uniform, as described previously, and means he must have actually commenced writing by 6-00 am. There is a security camera present, so he knows I can glance from my bed to check on him. I can also talk through the app to him from anywhere.

His exercise is very ‘mentally stimulating’. He has to copy out the same 140-word passage from Virgil (in Latin) every day, with full detention rules applying, plus the following specific instructions for the presentation of his work:

All uppercase letters written in Red ink A – Z
Vowels Blue ink a e i o u
Consonants with a stem above the x-height Green ink b d f h k l t
Consonants with a stem below the base line Purple ink g j p q y
Consonants within the base line and x-height Black   ink c m n r s v w x z
Every 26th word in light blue ink
Every 9th word in UPPER CASE
Every 15th word Underlined in red

The beauty of this is that I can easily change the details of the centre column for each day. This maintains the mental stimulation as he has to start afresh every time.

He is required to copy it out twice in the 2-hours of his detention. He is allowed two errors per page, which are to be ruled through neatly in red. If he makes a third error, the page is to be removed and discarded.

If he does not complete the 2-copies, he must attend a further one-hour detention that evening and his detention the following morning is extended by one-hour, meaning a 5-00 am start to writing. He also gets three Application Refused additions to his Chastity spreadsheet.

If on checking I find an error, he will also receive 24-strokes of the cane. He now also gets five Application Refused additions to his Chastity spreadsheet and a double Linnex at the weekend.

This I felt should provide him plenty of incentive to work diligently each morning and not try to hide any errors. Two copies are quite achievable if he works conscientiously and carefully. It does mean he can’t relax at all. He has to work continuously, quickly and stay very focused for every moment of the 2-hours. It certainly provides a very demanding, tiresome and strenuous start to his day.

Needless to say, he was totally distraught by the time I had finished detailing his new regime and begging and pleading for this not to be implemented. His pleadings actually got to the point where I finally snapped and told him he would be getting a double Linnex. That shut him up as I set about gagging and securing him for the scrub down of his appendage and the Linnex.

With him secured, and erect, I then had a little spark of an idea. I told him while, featherlike, I gently stroked, barely touching, the underside of his very rigid erection with my fingernails, “I am thinking David,” I smirked, “it might be a good idea if you give my sister a call later. You can tell her all about our new lockdown procedures and ask her if she can think of anything we might have missed. What do you think?” I could not keep a straight face watching the look of horror in his eyes. Of course, since he was gagged, he couldn’t pass comment, which I took as meaning he thought it was a good idea! I did make him make the call too!

I found it incredibly ‘arousing’ sitting across from him as he called. He was literally shaking like a leaf. This strong, athletic man who is so decisive in business, terrified of having to make a phone call. I was actually really ‘wet’. I have never really used humiliation like this before and never had I realised how much it would energise me. I was tingling. (There was a time when I dressed him in a romper suit and made him throw a temper tantrum asking to play with his dollies, but I haven’t done that for a while. And that only ever involved me as a witness.)

I decided then and there, humiliations, especially in front of others, were going to happen much more often! And Scarlet, you have provided so many wonderful ideas! And Joan also just posted some great ‘food-for-thought’ on this. He has no idea what is coming! (NB he is not allowed to read your Blog, nor any other adult content sites.)

He was lost for words when he spoke with my sister, and I could hear the amusement in her voice as she toyed with him, coaxing all the details out of him and laughing at his plight. He went redder and redder!

He then had to tell me what she had suggested, which left him further squirming as she had suggested that, with the need for improved hygiene, he should ask me if he could have a special uniform to wear when he does his housework!

He was so morose as I laughed loudly, telling him, “Oh, yes, you most certainly can! And we’ll make sure to invite my sister over to see you wearing it!” It is so good mail order is still going. I have been able to put together a couple of outfits for him. Perhaps you’d like me to share more on this too?

I will finish for now by noting that, despite my extreme cruelty, that evening, he was positively anxious to ensure he ‘pleased me’. Indeed, an early night and his reverence and attentiveness for over 2-hours earned him ½ a Release Credit! When I was sated, he cuddled me closely and professed his adoration.

I was in a state of bliss as smiling warmly, I brought him back to reality by reminding him, “You need to get a good night’s sleep now, you have a very early start remember. I’ve set your alarm for 5 o’clock, but you might need to think about getting up a little earlier. You have to shave and shower; then clean all the bathrooms. The bathroom are going to take you at least ½ an hour; and then you still have to change into your schoolgirl’s uniform ready to start your written work.

And I want you seated at your desk, hands-on-head, no later than ten minutes to six, so you can start to clear your mind and focus on the task ahead. I’ve left everything you’ll need on your desk, with your assignment instructions placed face-down. You’ll need to set an alarm on your phone for one-minute before 6 o’clock. Once it rings, you will need to switch your phone off and place it on the floor before turning your instructions over ready to start work.”

I couldn’t help but feeling contented as he went deathly quiet as the harsh reality of the next morning was thrust upon him. He sighed loudly as he rolled over to advance his alarm by fifteen minutes; and I couldn’t resist then sending him under the covers again!

I actually set my alarm for 5-minutes before six o’clock as I wanted to see the look of shock on his face when he saw how arduous his task was. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for him to get up each morning and face his bleak start to the day. And this is going to be for several months it seems!

Lots of Love

Christine

 

 

Lock Down Activities (No. 1)

I thought I would share some ideas of activities to pass the time for those enduring stay-at-home lock down. I may post one or two ideas per week unless people have enough to do.

Toilet Roll Lines

First I have to chuckle as I write the word, toilet, when I think how this might be received by my US blog followers. A country that seems fine to use the word, shit, very frequently, (your shitting me, bull-shit, etc.), but shies away from the word, toilet! (Preferring, rest room – for a room with no bed, sofa or chair, or bathroom for a room with no bath). The room the rest of the world calls, the toilet, les toilettes, die Toilette, het toilet, el inodoro, etc. Anyway; enough teasing of my lovely US blog followers!

I mentioned toilet roll lines in my Journal No. 9 and in a blog post of July 2015. (I hope I am not boring people who recall the mentions and that there are followers for whom this will be new.)

Now the UK is in lock-down, as an extra activity to keep bitch-boy subjugated and occupied, and an extra recompense for me enduring lock down, I have brought back a regime of toilet roll lines.

The perfect writing implement must be used, (bitch-boy uses a very fine felt pen that has to be applied with just the right pressure). The regime is that he must make sure any toilet roll sheet I use has a line written on it. (I will give examples of the lines I require in a moment.) Each toilet roll must be unrolled a bit at a time by bitch-boy and a line written on each sheet. After enough sheets have been written on that might be used by me that day, then the sheets must be very carefully and neatly rolled back up.

If you have three toilets in the house then three rolls must each have at least say, 30 sheets with a line on. One roll for each toilet. And first thing in the morning, before I wake, EVERY DAY, bitch-boy must make sure each toilet roll has 30 sheets with a line written on. It is pretty hard to write the lines without ripping the paper. A tedious, degrading, never ending task and all that work simply gets flushed away. (He uses his own toilet rolls so he does not flush his work away himself.)

A typical lines would be one of these:

  • It is an honour to serve and to suffer.
  • I am a pathetic sissy little girl Mistress.
  • I worship and adore you cruel Mistress.
  • Please make me very miserable today.
  • Please thrash me to tears today Mistress.
  • Please deny me relief today Mistress.
  • belindakins loves playing with her dollies.

I pick one of the lines for one toilet and a different line for the other. From time to time, at my whim I change to a different line. Obviously during every visit to the toilet I get a little power rush and a feeling of pitiless decadence as I rip written-on sheets from the roll, use them and then flush away all that work without a care in the world. And if the line is, Please make me very miserable today, or, Please thrash me to tears today, well sometimes I do as I have been asked, just because I have been asked!

I don’t know what its like outside the UK, but here there have been endless images on TV news and social media of selfish, despicable people bulk buying toilet rolls for a stockpile, despite the fact that there is not and will not be a shortage. I however see such an image and simply think of poor bitch-boy’s task and how much more precious my toilet roll is than the stockpilers!

When I used this routine for a while in 2015 through 2016, there was a constant issue  of squirrelling away the written-on rolls should a vanilla visitor turn up. Quite a stress. So I ended the regime. But now, with zero visitors! Well it is the perfect time to have brought back the toilet roll lines regime!

 

My 16th journal –  LINK

 

 

 

 

 

toilet roll

Ms Josephine Drake

It is rare one finds a professional Domme who seems to enjoy ALL the same depravities as oneself. I think Governess X and I do, and now I have found Ms Josephine Drake. Or at least I was pointed to her Twitter account by sissy ballerina when sent the link in his comment, of a video of him performing a sissy rendition of The Good Ship Lollipop. Performing it to Ms Josephine Drake. (If only she was in the UK instead of the US.)

Our similarities. First she dresses in everyday clothing. Then she seems to like, for her clients, forced regression to infancy including  to be made to drink bottles of golden nectar, chastity inside diapers, sensory deprivation bondage, humiliation through having to dress and behave as a parody of a little girl,  using a TENS electricity box and using clothes pegs on the client’s genitalia and serious impact punishments of butts with canes and paddles etc. And even golden nectar in ice form.

If you look through her Twitter account you will find photographs of all of the above activities. If only she was in the South of the UK instead of in the US, bitch-boy has dodged a bullet there.

I did wonder whether sissy ballerina had enjoyed his good ship Lollipop rendition as he performs so well. I enquired, as that would have saddened me somewhat. I was relieved and amused by his response as follows:

No Mistress Scarlet, I did not enjoy it. The clothespins had been on for over two hours as Mommy likes to hear them rattle while I clean and do chores. Then I had to perform the song over and over while Mommy caned me and/or raked the clothespins because I made a mistake, or did not show adequate girlish enthusiasm. The humiliation did fade a little, overtaken by the pain and my focus on getting it right. But then when I watched the video it came flooding back ten fold causing me to burst out crying, wiggling and padding my feet in helpless sissy frustration. Every comment Mommy received about how ridiculous I am, brought a fresh stab of shame and embarrassment, and the video still makes me sob and whimper with humiliation every time I watch it.

 

Oh I so adore Ms Josephine Drake! And bitch-boy certainly dodged a bullet.

This is a link to my journals.

 

 

My Perversities set out

Below is a truly delightful poem by an author who must of read a great many of my journals! I write that because the poem absolutely nails my depravities. Those very cruel, pitiless things I adore to do. And so timely coming straight after my previous post on my use of shaming outfits.

By: pansiekins.

When a boy becomes a man, he’ll try any tricks he can
To behave as if he’s master of the house.
So dress him up in frocks; bright pink ribbons, bobbie socks
And you’ll find he’ll be submissive as a mouse.

Oh, at first he’ll make a fuss, but there’s no need to discuss
His objections; for his Mistress, as he’s bloused
Simply laughs at his hot tears; his cries fall on her deaf ears
And his begging merely makes her more aroused.

For Ms Scarlet it’s pure bliss, when her subject bows to kiss
And to lick her boots in hopes that she’ll relent.
For her mercy he implores, while before her on all fours
But she pays no heed to any such lament.

Made to stand up in his dress, he blushes hard in his distress,
As his bonnet is attached, and floppy bows.
Ankle bells for when he dances, ribboned wrists for when he prances
Round the room with arms held out in dainty pose.

But Ms Scarlet’s fiendish plan, for this girlish half a man
Is not based on solitary sissy play.
She’s invited all her friends, to observe him make amends
And to laugh at this ridiculous display.

Some are pleased without surprise, by the sight that greets their eyes
For at home they each have sissies of their own.
Lady Jessica, Christine; Miss Anne – elegant and mean
Rule their households from a strict and regal throne.

But there’s other guests invited: giggling madly, all excited,
Ladies in their twenties, eager all to see…
BB’s deep humiliation, and his total subjugation
And how shameful and degrading it must be.

“Does he like to dress that way”, they inquire and: “is he gay?”
But Ms Scarlet simply laughs and shakes her head.
Then she claps her hands for hush, BB stands with crimson blush
And explains, while sadly wishing he was dead.

“I’m a thilly thithy girl”, he sings out, and does a twirl
“In my frockth and lathe, I know I look a fool.
But if onth I dithobey, then I know that I will pay:
Bent right over for the cane, just like in thchool.”

“Tho I hope that I’ve amuthed, and you’re now quite dithabuthed
That I get the thlightetht thrill from thith dithgrathe.
Thith ith only for your pleathure, ladieth lounging at your leithure,
Tho feel free to kick my ballth or thlap my fathe.”

So the younger guests had fun, while the older ones looked on
Full of pride at these young ladies’ cruel delight.
And with glee anticipated, that cruel fate that surely waited
For their husbands and their boyfriends that same night.

For each such young guest on leaving, had a party bag all heaving:
With pink things for life in frillies and restrained.
Males: the fashion’s spreading, so the future that you’re dreading
Of a petticoated life is fore-ordained.