Tag Archives: sadist

Innocent Images (2)

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

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

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

















































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









My impact punishment array

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

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

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

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

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

This paddle is VERY NASTY!

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

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

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

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

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

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


My 16th journal –  LINK




Ears and Hands and What else?

This post is prompted by a comment from tinylittleboy. The gist being he wanted to hear more about how I discipline and subjugate bitch-boy focused on other body parts than his butt and birth defect. tinylittleboy mentions leading by an ear and punishing the palms of the hands, both of which I do and he is so right to mention how affecting these can be. I will detail those further below. I will also mention intrusive gagging and nipple clamping which seem relevant.  I would be keen to have comments on ideas for other potential body parts.

Leading by the Ear

I did post on this on 19 June 2018. You can click on the link to read that post so I will not repeat the content here.

I will say, now the issue has been raised, I have probably not been leading bitch-boy by the ear enough.

It is an especially delightful thing to do in front of a female gust or two, or even better to surreptitiously suggest they lead him by the ear when we require he be somewhere else. bitch-boy’s humiliation when this is done is VERY OBVIOUS and of course the ears are sensitive so it can be painful too. Particularly if having reached the required destination, the ear is twisted to and fro a little before it is released. Twsited to and fro while he is being talked at, given instructions or given warnings to be obedient, or else!

Punishing the hands

Something I like to link to tedium torments involving him using his hands. (Perhaps there are other activities that can be linked to this punishment?) In days gone by whenever I had him dressed as schoolgirl and about to undergo a session of writing lines, I would always take the time, to help him by warming his hands with my leather strap before he began. (This is featured in my earlier journals).  It does generate a considerable power rush having him so obedient as to hold his hand out, free of any bondage, and receive the strap to his palm and fingers. Especially if, once each hand has been dealt with, one returns to each hand a second time.

Our faces being so close together, I can see him observing me closely and appearing almost incredulous at my pitilessness and sadistic pleasure as I continue and ignore his quiet pleadings  (It is more proximate and ‘intimate’ than punishing his butt or birth defect.)  And I know when the day’s tribulations are over for him, that incredulousness turns to awe and worship. Wonderful symbiosis!

So I do use the strap on his hands before he starts colouring-in with his dolly, and having written this post I will associate this with his lock down chore of toilet roll lines.

Intrusive gagging

A very frequent torment, and so mentioned in all my recent journals, because I looooove it so much, is the torment of him having the five inch end of his dildo gag pushed down his throat and then held in place by his padlocked on head harness. (The double ended dildo is removed from its usual strap.) Providing he concentrates he does not retch. But it is a constant invading and humiliating  distress for him. I adore how it is constant for him but once secured requires zero effort from me. A source of power-rush arousal indeed! Especially when he has been enduring his gag for sometime and looks toward me with pleading eyes, clearly indicating he has had enough of the gag. And my expression of utter disinterest in his implied pleas is the response he gets.

Nipple clamping

I mention this mainly because I have never found really good adjustable nipple clamps. Sometimes when he is secured on the BDSM bed, I put clamps or clothes pegs on his nipples but after an initial few minutes of ‘discomfort’, the ‘discomfort’ seems to largely fade somewhat UNTIL the moments immediately after the clamps are removed. I would love to have some adjustable nipple clamps that could be attached and then I look into his eyes as I slowly tighten them, every five minutes or so. I have posted before about the paucity of torments that allow one, with great control, to increase the discomfort while looking into the subs eyes.



For more info on my manual, click on an image below.




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.


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.




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

Christine M – Chastity Developments

Below is an email I received from the fantastic Christine M. I will firstly say how delicious I myself find it, to apply extreme unfairness to a submissive. It is such heartless meanness. And I think, because the submissive has to just suck it up, it is real evidence to them that they are helplessly in the power of a pitiless cruel woman. (And we all know that is the situation for a sub to be in that most has them sleep a contented and deep, submissive sleep.)
A punishment out of all proportion to the seriousness of the infraction, when it was largely unfair to punish in the first place, is the most delicious unfairness of all!
28 March 2020
Subject: Chastity Developments

Hello Scarlet

Having written this, I forgot all about sending it to you. This happened at the end of February, so nearly 4-weeks ago. So please accept my apologies with this belated update on his chastity regime. Since then Covid-19 has arrived, and I must write to you soon on the big changes that I have introduced for that. I think my husband now has the most severe lock-down procedures in the country! Please, when reading on, remember, this is what I wrote 4-weeks ago.

“I have mentioned before that I wanted to reduce my husband’s chances of securing a release through our Computer spreadsheet-based Chastity Release Program. His good behaviour rewards have seen his mathematical chances of success rise greatly to one chance in six; this means that, over time, it is inevitable he will have too many releases for my liking. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, but I wanted to do it in a manner that would cause him the greatest upset.

I wanted to punish him for something minor, and in a manner that was out of all proportion to the offence.

First, a little background to the unfairness of what happened. A couple of days earlier, I had knocked over and broken a long-stemmed wine glass. It was placed on a small round table in the lounge, one which is a little unstable, it rocks a little as the legs are not level. I should also add that we have polished wooden floors. My husband of course had to clean up the mess on hands and knees, and that was the end of the matter.

Well, just two evenings later, my husband did the same thing, knocked over a long-stemmed wine glass off the same table. Better still, for my plans, was the fact that my sister was visiting. She is the only other person who knows about his ‘situation’. She had brought the bottle of wine with her, and it was her glass he knocked over. He had been called out from the laundry to pass around some nibbles, before getting back to his chores.

His clumsiness was greeted with icy fury from me! I deliberately acted as though I was lividly enraged! He cowered in fear as my sister tried to keep a straight face. I scolded him most vehemently about his carelessness, which I equate as just being lazy. I was very harsh reprimanding him heatedly, telling him he was stupid and worse. I even made him apologise to my sister for his behaviour!

He pitifully tried to excuse himself. This just gave me cause to berate him further for his negligence. I rebuked him about the cost and the waste of the wine, that it was rude to my sister… Then I snapped, “You can get yourself into my office NOW, and make a note for me to change twenty Release Approvals to Release Refused in your spreadsheet!

Needless to say, he was in shock from the anger I displayed, not to mention the severity and unfairness of my punishment; especially since I had broken and spilled a glass of wine two-days earlier. He knew full well that cancelling Release Approvals would, mathematically, far more severely reduce his chances of a release than adding extra Release Refusals. This was the first time I had done this, and it was for just this reason. It was also a very much higher number than usual. I think five Refusals was the worst previously.

That was all I had pre-planned to bring the ratio down a good bit, but he had the temerity to voice his feelings about how unfair this was, and how it was too easy for me to just cancel twenty release options that take him so long to earn. He then dared to remind me that I had knocked a glass over just two-days earlier.

Oh dear, I couldn’t let that pass! “Make that THIRTY!” I angrily barked, as he literally burst into tears, he was so upset by my wrath! All in front of my sister too! (I mentioned before he dislikes intensely the ease with which I add refusal options. He would prefer to be caned, despite that being a very painful ordeal.)

I then coldly ordered, “Wait!” before turning to my sister and asking her what she thought of his behaviour and, since it was her wine he had spilt, would she like to add anything. My husband looked on horrified through his tears. This, as I mentioned was all unplanned, though she was aware of his regime. She grinned and advised that she thought there was simply no excuse for his gross laziness and since it was her wine he had spilt, meaning he had wasted her money, she would like to add thirty Refusals to his spreadsheet too. I really must involve my dear sister more!

He was totally overcome, but there was no sympathy shown. He was coldly told to clean up the mess and then get back to his ironing! We laughed so hard about it as he scrubbed the floor, bright red with humiliation and no doubt seething with resentment!

When I made the changes to the spreadsheet, his chance of a release had blown out to nearly one in seventeen, a probability of once every four months! I gleefully informed him of the ratio change the following weekend before he had his weekly go on the spreadsheet. He was so very quiet and despondent. After all he had not come for over two months, and his chances were not looking good now. Mind you, believe it or not, he drew RELEASE APPROVED!!!

Footnote, he has not had a release since.

Lady Jessica – saying NEVER!

Lady Jessica provides another delicious, delightful comment with a superb sting in the tail!

My dear Mistress Scarlet

What a lovely recent series of posts! Your confinement seems to have made you still more creatively wicked. How lucky bb must consider himself to have such undivided attention!

I feel much the same. Skivvy’s continuous domestic presence is a foretaste of what awaits him when finally he can give up the pretence at being an autonomous adult human that he has to adopt to go to the office – in normal times. That time is not far off, economy permitting, as his age and the money I have accumulated through his hard work make retirement quite possible.

I quite agree, my dear, in the value of ‘zero hope’, just as much as in other circumstances I delight in raising hopes and dashing them again. One of the words that it is a true pleasure for a dominant to pronounce is ‘never’. Like you, I have made clear that skivvy will never again have actual sexual intercourse with any female, for example. There are some more minor ‘nevers’ in his life too – he does not own and will never again wear an item of male underwear, for example.

When finally he does retire, this list of nevers will multiply as fast as my whims dictate, since he will have no opportunities for mischievous behaviour. He greatly enjoys his cup of coffee in the morning, for example. I occasionally deny him it, but I know that I cannot forbid it completely or on working days he could probably find some way of getting some, despite my tight financial controls.

So, one morning, when he is retired, I will announce that I’ve decided he has stopped drinking coffee. And that will be that. He will carefully number all the capsules, which he will need for making my coffee, so I will know if he takes one and I will impose fearsome sanctions for attempting to consume any dregs or spillage. And that will be that: one of life’s little pleasures, gone. Why? Because I say so.

And he knows this will happen. Don’t you, skivvy? Because you read this blog. One day, you’ll have a rather underwhelming little gathering at your office, making embarrassed small talk over tepid wine with your soon to be ex-workers, and then to everyone’s relief the two of us will come home and you, my little toy, will enter the final stage of your degradation. Do you feel oppressed now? Oh, just wait, you delicious little morsel, until I have you securely locked behind these doors for ever. Dreading it, skivvy? Perhaps with a little thrill of anticipation? It really doesn’t matter what you think does it? You’re not going to rebel, so it’s quite inevitable.

Yes, there will be many nevers. Perhaps one day I’ll decide he’ll never have hair again. Or warm showers. And of course, one day there’ll be the best ‘never’ of all, won’t there skivvy? Perhaps I won’t tell you that one… just leave you waiting and wondering, for ever. Wondering if perhaps today might be the day when you discover that it is not quite final, not yet. A reprieve. With just a little hope, ever-diminishing towards infinitesimal levels, but never quite, absolute zero.

Which would you find more unpleasant, skivvy? Knowing an orgasm would be your last? Or not knowing? Not that it matters what you think: my decision.

One final thought, for skivvy, especially for him. When you’re thinking about what will happen should I decide to keep you locked forever without telling you, when you’re imagining how it might feel day after day to wonder whether you will ever again experience release, thinking back longingly to your last distant orgasm, trying to supress the feelings of rage and frustration… when you think about how you’d feel if I imposed that indefinite chastity on you, think of this:

What if I already have?

Mistress Scarlet, your blog continues to shine as a beacon of sanity and joy, in a mad and msierable world. I hope you and bb are both well, you to continue your evangelising mission and he to suffer the consequential miseries for decades to come.

Yours in sincere sisterhood

Lady Jessica



Dashing Hopes versus Zero Hope

About my previous two posts on total denial of orgasms, one comment I received, (I paraphrase),  suggested that surely hope is a requirement of properly affecting cruelty. I think this view must have come about because of the recent, frequent mentions of the pleasurable tactic of raising a slave’s hopes for the sole purpose of dashing them. (A momentous and fantastic idea from the amazing Lady Jessica).

Hope Raised and DASHED

Well I thought I should post to confirm that hope is NOT a requirement of affecting cruelty. While I DO love raising and dashing bitch-boy’s hopes and now do so frequently, (thank you so much Lady Jessica), I know there are a number of wishes for which bitch-boy has zero hope but the wish remains a very affecting cruelty to both him and me. These can be long term or short term.



Examples of zero hope include:

  • That he will never ever get to penetrate a woman again. And that is despite how

    often I flaunt my body to him and verbally remind him how much he would adore to  penetrate me but I am 100% CLEAR that he never ever will. He has no hope I will ever let him and it seriously affects him each time I flaunt my body and remind him. (Just about daily!)

  • When I secure him for say five hours of sensory deprivation bondage. As I secure him, he desperately wishes I will reduce the duration but he knows I absolutely will not. He has no hope I will.


  • If a new, horrible-for-him, activity comes to my attention and I inform bitch-boy I will be trying it out and if I like it, it will become part of my regime. I make it clear 100% that I will be trying it out! He dreads it, but has no hope that I will not try it out.



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

Retired dominatrix humiliates for fun

Continuing on the basis that many of you do not read the comments, (And why should you. There is no threshold moment that is ideal to read the comments on any particular blog), below is my compilation of a series of comments from SamuelRowBottom.

I can’t see it will ever happen, but I would adore to put bitch-boy through a day or two of some triple domming with myself, Nanny Julia and Mistress Jane!

Comment Compilation

Yes Mistress Scarlet, they are in the south west, UK. The daughter was a professional who I visited to lose my virginity in 2008. Upon my failure to rise to the occasion, she suggested I would be better suited to visiting her mother – who had different specialities. After a few meets I was completely subjugated by her mother – Julia. Or Nana Julia to me. She found that I had certain work skills she could utilise and it has become a trade off of my abilities for the opportunity of spending time with her, and often her daughter. She must enjoy it for what it is though as she often orders me to visit even if she has no requirements of my skills in the preceding month.

Nana Julia was a nurse, became a professional dominatrix for a while, but then went back to nursing. It’s been nearly 30 years since she was a professional dominatrix but she has indulged occasional whims through contacts that her daughter sent her way. Being dominant to males is part of her whole character and so she has made it part of her life without needing to hire premises or indulge in ‘topping from the bottom’ – an aspect of being a professional dominatrix that she did not enjoy. No mention has ever been made to me of the father of her daughter – I believe she was a single mother rather than divorced or widowed. The only male company she needs is the obedient plaything type.

Regarding potties, I am forced to make the best of my white and yellow Mothercare pot though it can be very uncomfortable as my testicles get quite squashed by the front pee guard. I’m not always sitting either as it has been gaffa-tapped to my bottom so that I have to waddle around with my rubber pants around my ankles and my potty stuck to my bum. Almost a nursery version of a humbler – only much, much more humbling. It seems to amuse the two cruel ladies in my life.

They like nothing better than to tease and humiliate me during nappy changes or potty time. Sometimes they will do it gently and be amused when my ‘birth defect’ rises to its very best quivering 4 inches. I feel humiliated by my erection, my face flushed with shame at showing them my pitiful, attention-seeking willy. They find my embarrassment hilarious and more often than not their scorn and mockery makes it wilt pretty fast, but on occasion it will be tugged, and forced to squirt like a toileting chore. Post ejaculation I will feel utterly wretched, but they just pour on more scorn as they watch my red dick dwindling out of sight. They know I feel at my most uncomfortable at this moment and make the most of it. I have to cope.

When a weekend visit is arranged with me in attendance they have a lot to catch up on. Once dressed as a baby and put in my playpen they will have a cup of coffee and chat away politely, but at any moment either of them might snap out at me and have me trembling with fear. They know that this sudden change keeps me nervous and very intimidated. I am also fearful that the situation might escalate and they will both start snapping at me till I crumble and start to weep. This can be hard to avoid but never receives any sympathy. Quite the reverse in fact. If I act like a cry-baby they love to twist the knife and ridicule me all the more. They love it when I’m so scared that I wet my nappy.

Mother and Daughter take me to task regularly and enjoy themselves at my expense. It is not a 24/7 relationship but when they demand I visit I am completely there for the entertainment of the Mother. They like to keep me as their baby, but they have made it clear they don’t like baby boys and silly little wimps like me deserve relentless humiliation. I do get to escape for a few weeks at a time. When she wants to play though, I have to attend.

My playpen has a few dolls and teddies, plus a wooden train engine. The most embarrassing doll in my playpen is ‘Hilda’ a hideous fat blow up doll upon which I must sometimes show off my sexual ‘prowess’ whilst sucking my dummy and parting my legs for Nana to insert a butt plug. I usually fail to satisfy Hilda and have to stand in the corner with my baby frock pinned up, my rubber pants at my ankles and an A4 sheet of paper pinned to my bib with ‘failure’ written on it.


I thought you might be interested in an update on my life as a subjugated adult baby – especially as my last visit gave me cause to believe that Nana Julia or her daughter Jane might be followers of your blog. I had hoped this wasn’t the case as I am a little terrified that they might be tempted to explore the properties of Linnex on an already timid part of my anatomy.

Recently Lady Jessica wrote a contribution to your blog which you titled ‘ A Novel Humiliation’ and I feel that this may have contributed to the embarrassing ordeal I suffered last weekend. It was time for me to attend my monthly visit to Nana Julia. She had texted me instructions a couple of days before ordering me to abstain from making ‘biggies’ and to wear my butt plug until my arrival. I hate this instruction, which happens three or four times a year, as it always means that Nana is even more deeply interested in my discomfort and humiliation than usual on these occasions. The evening before travelling I received a further text and I was disheartened to learn that daughter Jane would be in attendance for part of the weekend and was looking forward to ‘playing with diddums’. As stated recently on your blog, Double Dom sessions are the most intense: a perpetual tag team of escalating abuse and egged-on entertainment. If I could have found an excuse not to attend I would have, but to frustrate Nana’s plans is a very bad idea. So I had my required body shave and then endured a sleepless night as I wondered what was in store for me this time.

I arrived on Saturday morning, uncomfortable and embarrassed. Nana Julia answered the door to me and took me straight up to the nursery where she stripped me and checked that my fat butt plug was firmly in place. Jane had spent the previous night there and was waiting in the kitchen. Nana said “Let’s make you look all pretty for Jane shall we?” She talced my fear-withered privates and proceeded to dress me in a terry nappy held together with big pink nappy pins. A disposable is the norm but Nana really wanted to make me look stupid today, so the big bulky nappy was followed by a voluminous pair of yellow rubber baby pants with rubber frills at the legs and all over the rear. I was stood before the full length mirror and Nana laughed at how ridiculous I looked in this get up, but she told me that as I was a ridiculous little maggot anyway it suited me perfectly. This verbal assault was hardly a new experience for me, yet because my visits are only monthly such disdainful comments are as piquant as ever. My particularly silly attire and my need for the toilet made me feel more emasculated and vulnerable than ever. My bottom lip began it’s quivering dance and I started to sob. Nana put her finger under my chin and looked Into my watering eyes with amused contempt. “Awwww, big baby. Baby want his rattle? Or baby want his potty pot?” That shut me up. I didn’t want to be reminded of my impending trip to the potty.

The baby talk makes me cringe. I have never gotten used to it. It makes me feel so embarrassed and ashamed of myself. Just her words can bring forth genuine tears that just prove her point – that I’m a pathetic cry-baby. Sniffling miserably I was put into a frilly pink frock that was so short it failed to hide the nappy at all. With little white woollen booties in place, my shaved legs looked ludicrously long and thin, culminating in that preposterous pumpkin shell of giant nappy and rubber pants. A large satin bonnet was secured onto my head and a dummy was stuffed into my mouth. Nana stood back to admire her handy work. She was clearly delighted by the ridiculous parody of babyhood I presented. My beetroot red face and my limp-as-a-rag, defeated, countenance complimented my shameful outfit perfectly. Despite my shame I felt my weedy penis starting to swell, not that there was any danger of her noticing, wrapped as it was in that monumental nappy. She shook her head as if in disbelief. “What a prat.”

I hung my head and bit back more tears. Whist baby talk is mortifying, the inclusion of plain insults never lets one forget the reality of the dynamic between a strong woman and a weak male. Once again Nana gripped my chin and forced me to look at her. “POTTY TIME!”

Her reminder of my uncomfortable predicament was badly timed. My tummy groaned. I really did need the toilet, but I really didn’t want to do it for an audience. My traitorous swelling shrivelled up pretty quick after that. Nana took me by the scruff of the neck and marched me down to the kitchen. Jane burst out laughing when she saw me. She was delighted that her mother had really gone to town with my infantile outfit, much more extreme than usual. I waddled next to Nana looking like a complete idiot. To my horror I saw that Jane had placed the old porcelain chamber pot on a plastic sheet in the corner of the kitchen. I am usually forced to use a modern plastic Mothercare potty, but the porcelain potty is special. It may be less infantile but it is also less ‘modest’ for baby boys, and being bigger, the perfect receptacle for constipated babies such as me at that moment.

Nana Julia prodded me towards her daughter. “Go and ask Auntie Jane to put you on the potty you dirty little boy.” Jane laughed at me. “Has he been a dirty boy?” Dummied as I was all I could do was mumble disjointedly through my tears.

“What was that? Googoo Gaga?” She sneered. “What does that mean? Is the twat trying to tell me something?” Nana Julia offered her viewpoint on what my incoherent noise meant. “Dirty boy has stuck something up his botty like a pervert and needs to poop it out. Put him on his pot-pot and help him with his problem. “

Jane started to laugh and Nana did too. The verbal shredding was a much fun for them as other Doms get from beating. Jane stripped me of the entire baby outfit save for the bonnet, booties and dummy. She flicked my penis a few times because it amuses her to see the tiny limp thing trembling, shrivelled with fear and about as masculine as a My Little Pony. I very rarely get an erection in front of Jane; she scares me too much.

Nana took me by the scruff of the neck and as she sat down she pulled me across her lap. Jane walked behind as her mother pulled the cheeks of my bottom apart to show off the plug protruding from my very stuffed rectum. “Just look at what this dirty boy has done.”

“Oh he is a dirty boy. And look at his ugly testicles all squashed on your thigh.”

“Urgh yes, that’s so revolting.”

“POTTY TIME!” Jane laughed, slapping my bottom cheeks hard before dragging me off her mother’s lap and plonking me down on the potty. She stood back and I found myself looking up at the two smirking women as I squatted uncomfortably on the pot, my scrawny penis dangling miserably on the rim. I made a move to cover it from their mocking eyes but Nana snapped at me. “Hands on head!” I obeyed instantly, always fearful of her outbursts.

Nana rubbed her chin exaggeratedly. And I knew that this meant she was about to suggest something spontaneous (preplanned in advanced by both of them). “Baby does look upset, but silly baby left his rattle up in the nursery.”

“Oh dear, that is a pity.” Jane pondered. “Perhaps he’d like a balloon.”

“What a good idea.” Nana untied one of the threads that held a bright green balloon and handed it to Jane. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“Love to.”

Jane approached. “Baby want a balloon?”

I went to take it but as soon as I tried Nana snapped back at me to keep my hands on my head, warning me that if I didn’t she’d make me regret it. “Oh dear.” Jane sighed, “If only we could attach it to something else.”

“I know,” Nana said at this point as if she’d just had a blinding moment of inspiration. “Why don’t you tie it to his little worm? Is there enough of it?”

“Aww diddums.” Jane mocked as she crouched in front of me and tried to tie the thread just behind the acorn head of my penis. She fiddled for an age to loop the thread and fasten it, my little dick waggling this way and that as she worked, but eventually she managed it. It was about the longest contact between her fingers and my prick I’d ever experienced yet still there was no danger of an erection. In fact I may have been softer when she’d finished than before. But once finished the balloon went up, the thread tightening and dragging my lightweight limpness upward too. It looked humiliating stupid. My flaccid prick pulled thin, the pink head sagging wearily the other side of the knotted thread.

“Oh look mother, will you look at that! Dirty baby’s willy is pointing straight up at the ceiling.”

“Oh how rude!”

“Silly baby, how is baby going to piddle in his potty with his silly little winky pointing straight up in the air?” Jane remarked. “Well, we’ll leave you with that dilemma, maybe if you hold on long enough it’ll deflate.”

Nana laughed at this notion. “I doubt it.”

I was left alone sitting on my potty. I contemplated pushing the butt plug out whilst I had the privacy of solitude, but I couldn’t bring myself to; the need to pee had become more urgent. Nana and Jane returned twenty minutes later when they heard me crying in a state of shock and shame. My plastic sheet was soaking wet and I was peeing everywhere. They just stood there laughing their heads off as they watched my stretched dick hosing a great arc of pee everywhere except into my potty. I kept my hands on my head and tried to wiggle about to get my willy squirting in the right direction, but all my attempts failed and I just sprayed all over like a complete toilet training disaster. I got a soundly smacked bottom and I was made to stand in the corner wearing my ‘potty training failure” placard.

Afterwards I was made to mop up the floor with my nappy, and then Jane renappied me in it whilst her mother supervised with sneering remarks. Sopping wet and cold, I was soon sobbing again.

And at this stage it was still only Saturday morning! Yet I was thoroughly humiliated, weeping and still butt plugged and constipated. But they were amused. Jane in particular was having a whale of a time as she only attends my shaming weekends once in a while. The experience was one of the most intense ever, and there was another female visitor on the Sunday whose attendance made for a deeply degrading constipation cure. In three weeks time I’ll be back for more and I’m already getting nervous about it because I’m wondering if Linnex will be finding its way into my nappy?

(The helium filled balloons were from an event I was not privy to earlier in the week. A celebration. I do not know that Jane deliberately retained them with me in mind after possibly reading your blog, as neither Nana Julia or Jane allow me any insight into their lives outside of my visits, but I felt that there might be a connection with the recent blog post that mentioned balloons. The balloons in question were the large metallic ones in star shapes – blue, green and red with party slogans. With respect, my flaccidity in said situation rendered my penis extremely soft and whilst certainly not pencil thin it was thin enough to be notable and remarked upon.)

My limits when it comes to physical punishment have not been tested; an over-the-knee spanking and a butt plugging is as far as she has taken physical discomfort with me so far. Nana Julia is more into the emotional control: scolding, belittling etc. She would rather see me cry because of her words and her humiliating schemes than the physical abuse of my person. She knows I am a wimp and is happy to tease and humiliate me for it.



I have to do a potty dance occasionally and flap my wee-wee about in desperation whilst sucking my thumb. My performance is always greeted with raucous laughter which makes me feel terribly uncomfortable and full of performance anxiety. Failing to use my potty warrants a spanking of course, whilst wearing a nappy yanked up into a wedgie. I’m sopping wet by the time the spanking is over, so Nanny always gets her way.

Nanny enjoys humiliating me and teasing me. She is quite expert at making the ordeal of my enforced babyhood a miserable affair, with cold wet nappies and arduous knicker washing duties. She loves to see me getting tearful and to hear my voice break, and as soon as it does she will start mocking me by impersonating my whimpers. She has a photo album of my embarrassing sessions, including pictures of my red, shrivelled birth defect, which she will show to female visitors whilst I’m stuck in my highchair. Their laughter makes me hang my head in shame and they will start interrogating me till I cry. Nanny then strips me and makes me stand in the corner with a potty on my head, enjoying the sight of me sobbing so hard that my little wee-wee trembles like a catkin on a windy day. Nanny is never satisfied by a session unless I have cried bitterly so she can sneer at me and call me a cry-baby to my blotchy red face. Although I escape for a month I always return. I masturbate furiously between sessions, enjoying my miseries in retrospect, but there is little to enjoy in the sessions themselves other than the fuel they provide for my degradation fantasies in the interim.

In regard to pee, Nanny often empties a baby bottle full of her cold piddle into my nappy, but she is not opposed to squatting over the side of the tub whilst I’m having a baby bath and telling me that my bath water is her favourite toilet.

Most of my experiences with dickie discipline are on the flaccid member, as I am too intimidated by Nanny to become erect. The mockery that greets this fact adds to my deep shame and low self esteem during my nursery visits, compounding the issue and reinforcing limpness as the norm.

Nanny sometimes expresses regret that I am circumcised as she would quite like to nip a clothes peg onto the foreskin to stop piddles during No.2 potty training. She sometimes draws a comedy sad face on my mushroom head with an indelible sharpie just for the added comedy value of making my thing look like a sad, crying worm. Although this is not physical discipline it is painfully embarrassing, especially when I’m forced to display it to the derisive laughter of female visitors. Almost always I am flaccid during these humiliations.

Nanny has a friend called Rita who is over 60, quite large in frame and very busty. I am made to suckle at her heavy pendulous breasts as Nanny knows it terrifies me, but even so Ms Rita insists I remain flaccid inside my nappy. This would be almost certain anyway but to ensure it, part of the routine is for Nanny to empty a whole ice cube tray down the front of my nappy prior to my breast ‘feed’. A couple of ice cubes would melt quite quickly but 14 ice cubes barely melt at all over ten minutes or more and my wee-wee shrivels to the size of an acorn and my scrotum clenches up as small as a walnut. I’m usually crying within a few minutes and Nanny will check and confirm to Ms Rita that I’ve achieved baby dick proportions before Ms Rita heaves out one of her big white bosoms and drops it onto my face. I have to keep suckling as best I can through my tears.

Nanny will occasionally smack my thighs to start me crying again should I start to contain my sobs. It is very degrading indeed to be over Ms Ritas lap, face swamped by her heavy breast, mouth plugged by one of her big nipples, whilst Nanny watches and reprimands me for my dirty behaviour. Ms Rita insists I make loud sucking noises at her nipple as both she and Nanny find it very funny, so I am forced to make a babyish fool of myself for their delight. My nappy is cold and damp. As the cubes shift and melt, icy rivulets run down into my bum split making my anus tighten in shock. Afterwards, Ms Rita attends my nappy change to make fun of my blue/grey stump.

Nanny now likes to point out the immense difference between Ms Rita’s womanly endowments and my weedy little frozen ‘toddler dick’. Nanny sometimes uses English Mustard as nappy cream – a rubber gloved finger pushing it up my bottom and a dollop on my penis head. Less painful I’m sure than Deep Heat but more than enough for this wimp. Nanny has not yet used nettles, but she uses crushed seeds from her garden as an itching powder which she is happy to sprinkle liberally down the front of my nappy. She gets a big laugh out of seeing my hips jumping about in my cot like I’ve got ants in my pants.


Thank you, Mistress Scarlet, for allowing me to share my life as a little boy with you. I think you did tell me to share any new regiments Mommy had for me to follow. I was not sure if you were just doing the polite thing or if that is what you wanted. I hope after telling you my new regiment that you don’t think you would have been better off not hearing it or visualizing it because it is not for the squeamish.

Sometime back when the weather started to get cooler Mommy called me into her home office to have a talk. She said that while she had hoped this would work itself out over time that she now does not have patience anymore and it is time for her to intervene. Of courses, I had no idea what this was about, but I was getting scared. She then told me to go to her sofa and wait for her. I was sitting on the floor in front of her sofa as she came into the room with an electric heating pad and a small bottle of cream.

Mommy asked me to stand up and spread my baby blanket over the sofa and lay down. I was getting nervous again because as you know little boys have no place on the sofa unless nursing or from to time to time yum- yum time. Mommy normally likes to sit or stand for a yum-yum time, but sometimes will layout for me to yum-yum. She then placed the heating pad over my balls and said she will keep track of the time and be back. Mommy told me the pad will get hot but do not let it burn me.

Mommy came back checked my genitals and said good boy nice and hot. She then removed the heating pad and spread my legs more and grabbed the loose skin of my scrotum underneath my testicles and began to pull and stretch my scrotum skin but not my testicles, very, very far out. It did not hurt that much just some burning and tingling. She told me that my scrotum was too tight and while that is something a grown man would want it is not what little boys have. She said a little boy like me needs to have soft and supple scrotum with lots of loose skin so my balls can drop over time.

Mommy said every boy needs to have the frustration of dropping balls and she would not mind one bit if mine touched the floor. ( a very scary thought ) After Mommy was finished stretching and pulling she told me to stand up and put the cream on my balls and not to get it on anything in the house. Mommy said we will need to adjust our schedule because this will become a daily thing we do for now on.

I must admit to you Mistress Scarlet that in my mind at the very first this new regiment would not have much of an effect and I did not think it would have much or any visual effect. I was so WRONG! And it happened fairly quickly too. I remember the first day I noticed a big change. We had a hotter than normal winter afternoon and I started to feel a growing sensation around my scrotum area. It is very hard to describe this sensation other than saying it is a pure horniness that keeps building up with every step or movement. It is not an erotic horniness or a lustful one either. It does not trigger any kind of sexual thoughts or wants; it is just this building up of feelings of madness that I am horny, and it is getting worse with any kind of movement I make.

An erection would be welcome at this point just to get my mind off this new sensation I was having but that was not going to happen. I could not think straight or focus on anything so doing my chores was very difficult. I thought to take look to see if I could see anything that might be happening. What I saw was frightening, a big sack that looked almost empty because of all the loose and baggy skin. My bag was just hanging there, and I could clearly see the areas that the skin had been pulled and stretched the most, like little wrinkles of added weight.

My first thought was, I was the elephant man down there. While my description above was the first time I experienced these new feelings, it is not as maddening now all the time. I do almost always feel heavy and wiggle down there and with a very soft scrotum, any touch is amplified a lot. Mommy said she is happy not to have a little boy that looks like he is ready to burst out his yucky cum. She also said something about regressing well, but I do not know what that means. I am very worried about what the summer might bring.