Hand in Glove

Before I caught her eye as she smiled and welcomed me aboard the flight to Paris I saw the gloves. I waved my boarding card at her and mumbled something back at her as I went to find my seat. I stuffed my bag under the seat in front (I always travel light and only had a a small bag) and fastened the safety belt.

I laid my newspaper on my knee and watched the attendant in her hat, smart jacket. knee length skirt and courts.  And I looked at the gloves, tight on the knuckle, loose at the cuffs. As I watched in awe, her friendly, face melted away and she was the gloves, she was the power of the leather that enveloped her hands, the gloves that made me want to worship, the gloves, loose at the cuff, tight at the knuckle, that commanded my obedience. Her face, reconfigured through the prism of the gloves, tight at the knuckle, loose at the cuff, was stern and unsmiling. I was hers, hers until Paris.

By now everyone had boarded and she began to walk down the aisle checking that the passengers had their seat belts fastened.  I lowered my gaze, not wanting to make eye contact. I looked at her shiny court shoes, her skirt, the gloves, the leather gloves, loose at the cuff, tight round the knuckle, as she pointed, gestured to passengers to move bags, newspapers so that she could check the belts. I focused on the gloves as she came nearer and nearer. I checked my belt. She had to see that I had obeyed her.

She stopped by me, the gloves just inches from my face, the leather gloves stretched tight over the knuckle.

“Would you move your newspaper for me sir?”

“Yes Mistress” I said complying with her request.

I blushed and looked at her. She smiled a knowing smile and walked on. And it was a knowing smile.

She wasn’t on the flight back three days later and I haven’t seen her since. But I know, just know, that she will come to the local Munch one day. I know, too, what I need to ask her.

A post for Kink of The Week for which the prompt is leather . Check out other posts by clicking on the lips.


“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.” – Marquis de Sade

His Mistress set him weekly lines, 250 each time.  This task was tedious and irksome. It did not hurt but the repetition of the line burned the message into his soul. And his Mistress chose the lines appropriately.

He opened the e mail and read

“The lines that I require this week are ‘I will strive to achieve ecstasy through agony’ 250 times in green ink.”

He groaned.  He thought of the hours he would spend writing, working at this tedious and demeaning task, but as he wrote he reflected. And, reflecting, he learned. That was the point. His Mistress understood well the lessons to teach and how to bend her submissives to her will.   

For achieving ecstasy through agony, and pleasure through pain was not something that would happen automatically, it was something to be willed, yes, striven for. He realised this the next time he saw his Mistress, and repeated the resolve to himself as she pulled the straps tight and secured him to the spanking bench. As she selected a cane, showed it to him made him kiss it, fled it, sent a practice stroke rushing through the air. He was afraid, he always was, but, as the first stroke landed, and he gaped at the pain, he knew he had the inner resources to handle it, to turn it to pleasure, This was an act of loving obedience.

And when she had finished, after the final few strokes that he had hardly felt, euphoria enveloped him. And when she undid the straps and hugged him after he had got unsteadily to his feet he cried.

He had got the reward of loving obedience. She had shown him love even as she made him suffer.      

A post for Quote Quest and Kink of the Week. Click on the badges to see what others have been posting.


The Man Who Served Women

It was after a session with Mistress Dometria, as we debriefed over a cup of coffee, that I told her how I saw my role.

“You’ll probably think I am a bit weird Mistress but I really believe that I was put on this earth to serve women. Not just, you know, in kink, or here, but, well, in all aspects of my life. “

“Not at all” she said. “The thought has occurred to me. There are so many wannabe submissives out there who want control, who don’t get it, others who I can see are holding something back but you I have always thought are totally genuine, totally comfortable in your  submission. And tell me, what aboit sex?”

“Mistress, I don’t and I don’t want to. I feel that sexually penetrating a woman is a kind of topping and well……I couldn’t do that.”  

“I have long wanted to own your cock and now I claim it as mine. Yu will but a chastity device and bring it with you next time. Is that clear?”

“Yes Mistress” I replied and felt  deep happiness welling up inside me.  

She clicked the cage shut and turned the key. My cock was now caged, for how long? Hopefully for ever. I was happy about this. Penetrating women just felt wrong, so at odds with the imperative to service that I felt. And so I remained in chastity, felt pain every morning as I woke and felt my cock pushing against the cage as it tried to become hard, and I texted Mistress to tell her of the pain I was suffering, as ordered so that she could enjoy my suffering.

“Meet my friend Joy”.

Joy stood up and walked across. I instinctively got up from my chair and knelt before her. She held out her hand.I took it and kissed it gently.

“Pleased to meet you Ma’am. How may I be of service?”

Before Joy could answer Mistress Dometria said

“Joy, or Miss Joy as you must call her has a very special request. It goes without saying that I expect you to comply. I hope you remember our conversation last time you were here?”

“Yes Mistress”

“Slave Nigel” said Joy softly, “I want you to sleep with me and give me a child.”

I started.


“No buts “  interjected Mistress. “You are doubtless about to say that you are in chastity aren’t you?”    

“Yes Mistress.”

“You will be released from chastity for as long as it takes.”

“Nigel, perhaps I should explain” said Joy. “I am 40 next year and have been single for five years now. I want a baby while I can still do this. And when Julie, sorry Dometria, said that she knew someone as devoted as you are to the service of women I thought I would ask. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I really think this is the most beautiful service you can give a woman.”

“Thank you Miss Joy. I am honoured and privileged. “

I leant forward and kissed her shoes tenderly. I felt my cock swell and rise only to be crushed again by the cruel cage.  I cried out in anguish.

“Come here slave” ordered Dometria.

I walked over to where she sat.


I did as I was ordered and placed my clothes in a neat pile on the free chair around the table. Mistress took a key out of a cupboard drawer and unlocked the chastity device. My cock was shrivelled and small, seemingly unable to adapt to its new freedom, like a newly released prisoner who waits beneath the high walls of the prison, unsure where to go.

“Show your cock to Miss Joy.”

I walked over to her and said

“I hope my cock will be to your satisfaction Miss Joy”     

“I hope so too” she said with a smile. She took it in her left hand and stroked it gently. It hardened, gently at first, then swelled quickly as the blood coursed into it.      

“So you should hope slave” said Dometria. “If Miss Joy is not completely satisfied you will be harshly punished.”

“Yes Mistress understood.”  

“Now stand facing us and masturbate to completion”.

“Completion Mistress?”

“It means until you come.”

I was sure I heard her mutter “idiot” under her breath.

And so I did. I was ordered to wank daily for the next fur days and then have  days of chastity before the big day, a Saturday afternoon in a budget hotel in the town centre. I arrived at 3 o’clock as ordered. Dometria and Joy wee already there. I was a little startled to see my Mistress in jeans ad sweat shirt, but noticed a crop and a flogger on the table by the kettle. Even in this informal setting I had to expect discipline. Joy was already on the bed, naked, playing with herself.Her body was both tanned and toned. I knew she worked out regularly and it showed.

“Take your clothes off and stand at the foot of the bed!”

“Yes Mistress”  

“Play with yourself and make yourself hard.”

I looked at Joy as I wanked, at her shaven cunt, at her fingering herself. It was as if she was putting on a performance for me. I soon felt precome dribbling out of my cock. It was time. I went down on her, sighed as I slid in to her wet cunt, groaned with pleasure as the foreskin slid back. Three thrusts and I came, I came twice actually, two ejaculation, one following the other and the second orgasm was overwhelming. I cried out with the intensity of the sensation, just wanting it to stop. I sank down on her but Dometria hauled me up. My work was done. I was not here to make love to Joy but to serve her.

“Bend over the chair!” ordered Dometria. I obeyed.

“So that you don’t start thinking you have any purpose other than to serve I am goinig to cane you. 25 strokes and no warm up”

“Yes Mistress” I said, stiffening my legs as I separated them to assume my position for the caning . I breathed in deeply and steeled myself for the caning. The strokes were hard and accurate but I could handle the pain. And being under Dometria’s control again was hot. As the cane landed I came again and ejaculated over the carpet,

“Lick it up” ordered Dometria. I did and thought I had never been so happy.

I was placed in chastity again and told to await further calls. They never came. Once had been enough and Joy was pregnant. So I served her in a different way. I did her shopping and cleaning and, as she grew too big to paint her toenails, I knelt before her and painted them, not always elegantly but, well  I did the best I could.    

I sometimes see Joy out with her new man and my son, now two, in a buggy. She looks happy. I never make eye contact. I bow my head respectfully and wait till she has passed. For that is my purpose in life, to serve with respect, to give selflessly to the women I am to serve. I expect nothing in return but the joy of service. I have been in chastity for two ears now and Dometria will decide if I am ever to orgasm again. For my cock is Hers. My soul too.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness

Wicked Wednesday


It is sometimes said that there is nothing sexier than a beautiful woman on horseback, all tight crisp, jodhpurs, gleaming boots and so on.  The reality of horse riding is a bit different. The ladies I know do not go for a hack in crisp white jodhpurs, their boots do not gleam, rather they are dull and flecked with mud. Neither are the horsewomen I know particularly beautiful.

Actually, I really only know two horsewomen. There is my wife, Mathilde. Then there is her mother Estelle. Estelle has been an equestrian all her life and still lives on the farm in Normandy where she grew up.   Mathilde too grew up here and learnt from her mother. It was to the farm that Mathilde brought me at the beginning of our relationship to meet her parents.

Unlike her daughter, I never found Estelle beautiful. Her features were rather angular, her nose aquiline, her hair, once Norman blonde, strawberry was starting to turn grey. At 53 she still had the figure, her active country lifestyle had kept her body taut and slim but there were days when I simply found her ugly. Maybe that was because I didn’t really like her.

Relations between us have been strained since we first met, on my first visit to the family farm five years earlier. I had found Estelle rather cold and aloof, haughty even, as if she didn’t think me good enough for her daughter. I wondered whether she had acquired some of the prejudices that French women allegedly have about Englishmen and their inadequacy as lovers. She had had a rich and varied love life, I knew that from Mathilde, and even though she has been single for a couple of years, I just know that she will hook up again. Estelle likes sex, she needs sex. And I have no doubt that she is an amazing lover.

Estelle fascinated me. I admired her equestrian skills, the way she controlled the chestnut stallion that had thrown Mathilde a couple of times. I can’t ride so I never rode out with her. Maybe if I had, things might have been different between us? Over time I became increasingly aware of her sexuality, the way in which it was revealed in a very gradual unveiling, something subtle, something almost evanescent, but something definitely there, something that once inside in your head would never leave. The fact that she wasn’t conventionally beautiful served to make her more alluring.

Estelle became an obsession. I masturbated to her after making love to her daughter, I found myself muttering her name as I went about my daily life, wondering how to go about suggesting to Mathilde that we go to visit her mother again. And each time, knowing that I would never have the courage to make a pass at her, I looked for other ways of being close top her.

So one bright, cold October Sunday morning I offered to help her muck out the stables. Estelle wore a jumper an olds pair of jeans tucked into rubber boots.   She had no makeup and her hair was pinned  up, but coming loose in strands that fell across her freckled face.  God, did I want her!

She handed me a shovel and a pair of rubber gloves told me brusquely what to do and we set to work, picking up droppings, shovelling wet straw. Estelle said nothing, cold and aloof as ever, but I watched in admiration her fluid, graceful movements. I was just warming to my task when she walked over to me, gently took the shovel from my hand and said,

“On your knees. You know you want to.”

And there I was, on my knees in the straw and the muck, licking at Estelle’s filthy rubber boots, the shoes, the shafts, and finally the soles as she pushed each boot in turn into my face.

When I had finished, she sat astride me, facing towards my bottom. I had no idea what she was going to do when she tugged at my jeans and forced them down to my knees. She then leaned forward, and I felt lube, cold, around my anus. I felt a finger go in, move briskly up and down my passage. Then she withdrew and the next sensation was that of cold metal. The shock of the cold made me clench my buttocks with a sharp intake of breath.

She slapped me hard on the right bum cheek. I started, then relaxed as the plug was inserted up to the flange. It sat there, tight, and when she rocked me from side to side I felt a swish of horsehair against my skin.

I had figured this must be a tail and when she strapped on the saddle whose straps were still warm from the ride Estelle had had on the grey mare, who was now back in her stall her head protruding over the gate as she observed with interest the scene unfolding.

She saddled me up, climbed astride me dug her spurs into my thighs until I yelled with pain.

“Straight ahead. Into the yard!”

“And Mathilde? What if she sees this?”.

“Mathilde already knows what I had planned for you. You haven’t really hidden your obsession with me have you? She showed me the notepad with my name written all over it and drawings of shiny boots. So want were we to do? I really don’t want a sexual relationship with my daughter’s partner.  But a slave I can always use.”

She slapped me on the thigh and I moved slowly forward through the stable door into the dirt yard. We did a round and she brought me to a halt by the back door of the house.

Estelle laughed.

“And I am going to write in your bottom.”

Estelle took a marker pen out of her bag and scribbled on my arse cheeks.  She took a photograph and showed me. I was astonished. She had even written it in Latin.


“Now go and show it to Mathilde.”

I walked into the room with my butt plug still in.

“Quis es” she asked, unsmiling.

“Equus sum Estellae servusque”

“You’re mine too. Now get on your knees.|”

I knelt and kissed her feet. I felt myself getting hard.  I needed her. We had fucked so often before but I was filled with the thought that in fucking Mathilde I was vicariously fucking Estelle. I was going to love my servitude.



Kosher Kink and Honey Cake

This is my final post from Smutathon 2019, a story set in Poland.

I live in a land of ghosts. I live in the nondescript town of D. in south western Poland that was once the German town of R. The area is actually scenic. Just twenty miles away, the Sudeten mountains rise up on the Czech border. There are historic towns and castles nearby.  There are palaces. Most of them crumbling ruins, witnesses to a German past most people would happily forget. That last part of that past is dark. The area was littered with forced labour camps, satellite camps of the larger camps whose names still bring a shudder. My town has a synagogue, boarded up and derelict since   it was trashed and defiled on Kristallnacht. There are no Jews in D.

Actually, there is one. I am that Jew. My name is Alicja Bromberger. I am not from here. I grew up in Warsaw. I came here to live among the ghosts.  I felt drawn to the darkness that hangs over the quiet countryside like a pall. I am single. I am often lonely, But I feel that this is my fate. How can I be happy in the face if what befell my people, my family? And don’t think it ended in 1945. I have an uncle and aunt in Israel, forced into emigration in 1968. I live among ghosts and tell no one here who I really am.

I have another secret I keep from my neighbours. In my professional life I am a dominatrix. I work as Mistress Alice, Queen of Kosher Kink. Have a look on those pro domme websites. You will find me easily. There are only a handful of pro dommes in Poland. In real life I am a bit out of the way in my Silesian hideaway, but I have my regular clients, some of them from Germany. I make enough to pay my bills.

I first met Marcin the day I came home from the sops to find graffiti on the wall of my house.

“Precz z Zydami!” ”Jews out!” it read.  There was a crude Star of David overlaid with a swastika sprayed on in strokes of sinister violence. I froze. I looked around, searched for my key in my handbag and disappeared quickly into the house. I shut the door behind me and burst into tears. Who had found about me? And how? And what else did they know? If they also knew that my second bedroom was a BDSM studio, and that I did this professionally, I would have to leave. And I needed the dark solitude of the town of D.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to a Polish man of about 30 who had a bucket of soapy water in his hand and a sponge.

“I’m Marcin. I think it is really awful what they have done. I’ve come to wash it off”.

“Thank you” I mumbled, “that’s very kind. “

He went to work and when he had finished, I invited him in for a cup of tea.

I set down a tray of tea and little cakes and sat down, watching him closely as he stirred sugar into his tea,

“Please have some cake” I said and, after a moment’s hesitation he took one.

“Actually, I knew you were Jewish, myself, I kind of found out, and I know what you do.”


“I look at sites. I found you on InternationalDommes.com I am single, I don’t have a girlfriend, I just think about this stuff. And I hate myself for it. And I hate this country. Look, my grandparents came here from central Poland after the war. Some of my family were involved in the pogrom at Kielce. The Poles have been as awful as the Nazis, some of the anyway, And my family too. Mistress Alice, will you punish me for wat they have done? Please! I have always fantasised about being on my ness before a Mistress, but if I could kneel before you as a Jewish mistress, please”

“I can’t promise. I need to think about it.”

“But I need this. I can’t cope with the shame. Please punish me. And our town, you know it was designated as a town for Jews after the war, before the Germans were resettled? The Germans had to wear a special badge, and had to bow whenever they met a Jew, and step off the pavement”

“I had read that” I said.

“That was so justified, But I think we should made to do that too. I crave humiliation at your hands.”

He broke down and wept and I agreed to see him, despite my doubts.


“Kiss the Star of David!” I ordered him after he entered my chamber and held out my pendant towards him.  When he had kissed it I pushed him to his knees and ordered him to lick my boots. He started nervously, I could see him trembling in fear and anticipation. I grabbed his hair and yanked his head upward so that his face was looking into mine.

“You confessed to being from a family of anti-Semites. You confessed to telling Jewish jokes. What  else have you got to confess?”

He looked blank.

“Nothing Mistress.”

“What about the graffiti on my door the other day, the graffiti you mysteriously turned up to wash off for me.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I am not stupid Marcin.”

He bowed his head. I pulled it up again and spat in his face.

“You had better be sincere in your desire to submit to me.”

“I am.”

“Prove it.”

He resumed licking and I saw him go into a trancelike state as he finished the soles and worked his eager tongue up the shaft.

“How does that feel Marcin?”


“How does it feel to be on your knees, licking the boots of a dirty Jew?”

“MIstress,  I don’t care what people say abou Jews. I have read books I have…… “

He wept again. I knew that the catharsis he sought would not be easy to find.  I sent him on his way.


A month later he came back. Again he kissed the Star of David. Again he licked my boots. This time I judged him ready. I had done a lot of thinking. I strapped him to the bench. And showed him the canes I was going to hit him with.  I went into the emotional void that was the main feature f my life here in the town of D.  formerly R. No anger, no feeling, just a cold concentration on the task in hand, the placement, the technique.

One hundred and one strokes, and I made him count every one, each stroke a shedding of a burden, an act of contrition for things done long before he was born, that had trapped him in shame and guilt. He breathed in deeply ahead of each stroke, fought against the agony that radiated through his body. And then surrendered to it.

When I released him from the restraints, his buttocks were an angry red, bloody and marked with the tramlines that are the marks of my craft, of a caning delivered with accuracy, with utter ruthlessness, yet with profound care for the man who had trusted me enough to give himself to me in this way. I took hi into my arms to hug him, give him reassurance, aftercare, and love. Few of my sessions had been as emotionally charged as this one. He wept again, but I sensed that these were tears of release. I kissed him gently on the forehead. He wept uncontrollably

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress.”

“And next time,” I said, “I am going to cut off your foreskin and then I will know that you have embraced the redemption you asked for.”

He slipped free of my grasp and prostrated himself on the floor before me. I raised a foot and pressed a stiletto heel into his burning, bloodied backside. He screamed. I laughed, as I hadn’t laughed in years. I was free too.



Marcin is devoted to me. He comes most days to cook and clean. He will be here tomorrow with honey cake he had baked for me. We will celebrate New Year together, eat sweet things and maybe I will give him a caning to finish up.

It is Rosh Hashanah and I wish you the very best dear reader. I had to get Eve to tell you my story because my English isn’t great but If my story has spoken to you, please consider a donation for abortion rights in the USA. And please, also think about the isolation of so many people like me in a country not so far from many of you. I don’t mean Jews, but as kinky people, LGBT people, anyone who is sexually alternative. This is not such a bad country in many ways. There are good, tolerant people here. But we need your love too, and the strength it gives us.


Mad John

John, I guess, was somewhere on the Asperger’s/autism spectrum. The other girls at the parlour called him “Mad John” but I thought that was really unfair. I called him Balloon Man and in the short time I worked at the parlour, he became my favourite amongst my regular clients. Not that I realised this when I first met him. He had turned up at the parlour for a booking and his regular girl was unavailable so the manager offered me. I sashayed out of our smoking room in my cheap glittery stilettoes, walked up to him, gave him a peck on the cheek, saying
“Are you here for a nice time darling?”
He said nothing, didn’t even manage a smile and seemed uncomfortable in my presence. That made two of us. When I tried to take his hand to lead him to the room he yanked it free and put it in his pocket. He followed me head bowed.
I led him into the room and shut the door.
“It’s twenty for the room. Thirty for oral with, fifty for full service, and any extras I am prepared to do we negotiate. I don’t do oral without….”
John looked at me blankly and said simply
“Balloons. I’ve got my balloons.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door and my friend Rosie motioned to me to pop out.
“I should have said. John is not like most of the punters. He is a bit like weird? You know? Basically what you do is burst the balloons he blows up and he gets off on that. He just wanks and comes and he’s well happy. But he is odd though. That’s why we call him Mad John.”
“And the rest?”
“There is no rest. He hates being touched. No contact with you at all. You just burst the balloons, three with your nails, three with your heels, but make it a bit of a show. He likes that. You got your money and don’t get a feeble little cock anywhere you. If you can handle the weirdness you won’t get a better gig in this job”
I went back in to the room. John had blown up six pink party balloons and laid them on the floor at the foot of the bed. He lay naked on the bed playing with himself. He was already hard. .
I picked up the first balloon and walk to stand over him.
“And if I burst this it will turn you on won’t it darling?”
He nodded and said
I rubbed the balloon over his chest, over his genitals, over the hand that was working his cock vigorously. Then I took in in my hands and pressed my long polished finger ails into the rubber, showing g it to him as I did so.
He let out a cry as I dug the nails in further and burst the balloon with a loud bang. He was on the edge but I could see that he was holding back, waiting to be able to come with the bursting of the sixth balloon.
The second balloon was to be burst with my heel. I placed it by the bed so that he could have a good view then walked slowly up and down in my heels, stroking my bottom, letting him see my perfectly perpendicular seams. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were focussed not on me but on the balloon. I took a casual step forward, teased him that I was about to stamp on it and saw pre come glistening on his bell end. I feinted again and he groaned.
“Please don’t do that. Just burst them….please.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” I smiled as I teased him.
“Because I don’t like it.” He looked away and began to twitch. I could feel anger rising within him.
“I’m sorry”.
I burst the balloon quickly and he resumed his wank, slowly at first, to get hard again .
“It’s slippery now. Can I have a tissue please?”
He wiped his cock carefully, drying it to get a better purchase then began again slowly the quickening to a frantic motion as I punctured the next balloon with my nails.
“Four today, only four I am going to come. I can’t hold it any more.”
I placed the final balloon on the floor, walked to the window, pulled the net curtain back slightly to look out over the yard, to the back door where clients came in via a discreet public car park then quickly over to the balloon, two determined strides and a sharp stab with my heel.
He arched his back and let out a cry as he came, creamy dollops dropping onto the paper sheet. HE lay panting from the effort of his vigorous masturbation.
“I’ve come” he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. He then grinned to himself. He got up, dressed, and counted out fifty pounds which he left on the bedside cabinet. John left the room without a word.
I lay down on the sheet, feeling the cold, rapidly congealing come against my back. I was horny really horny. There were two balloons left over from the appointment. I rubbed them against my breasts, then against my clit and lay down again in John’s come. on the wet come. I moved my panties to the side and began to play with myself . I took off a shoe and burst the first balloon with the heel, then pleasured myself some more before bursting the last balloon with my finger nails.
“Wrong order I know, sorry John” I murmured as I held him before me, this strangest of clients who had done what no other client had yet managed to do. He had me horny. Totally fucking horny.

My next client had arrived but I was in no hurry. I needed to come. I lay back took a vibrator out of a drawer and wanked to John until I too came with a loud moan. Balloon man was a regular I had been told. I just needed to make him my regular.
Sex work wasn’t always enjoyable but every now and again, it had its compensations. , and they weren’t always to be found where you might expect.

A post for Masturbation Monday. Check out the other awesome posts by clicking here



Playing Those Mind Games – A Post for Masturbation Monday

“Play with yourself for my entertainment” I commanded and sat back to watch the performance.

He had a gentle rhythmic masturbation style that was pleasing on the eye. I could see that his eyes were focussed on my stiletto heeled thigh boots, presumably to fuel his fantasies.  I rather liked the idea of a man masturbating to me in my presence. It had never happened to me before.

As he worked away I watched his cock bulge and stiffen. He was now close to coming. So I reminded that I make the rules of this particular game.


“Keep wanking but I forbid you to come.”


He stopped and looked at me.


“Did I say stop? Keep wanking but you are on no account to come.”


He resumed his task with obvious reluctance, his movements now slow and hesitant.


“Mistress I am about to come.”


“I forbid you to come.”


“Please Mistress!”


“Wank harder and do NOT come.”


He looked at me pleadingly and I could see fear in his eyes.  This spurred me on. I was inside his head and I was going to torment him. When I am in this headspace I am a merciless sadist and his evident weakening sharpened my appetite for the kill.


“Keep wanking “ I said firmly as he slowed again.


He resumed his task. Now on the edge, with the slightest touch likely to bring him to ejaculation, he was in a terrible predicament. He stiffened, he arched his back, spread his legs and writhed and contorted , desperately trying to avoid the forbidden orgasm, and the harsh punishment that he knew would follow any failure to comply with My orders.  I laughed. I felt arousal, not at the sight of his wanking but rather that at his desperation, the mental and physical agony  I was subjecting him to. I was a sadist in full flow and loving every minute.


And really my sadism doesn’t need to find an outlet in whippings, floggings or physical torture, much as I enjoy those things.  Mind games somehow take BDSM play onto a higher plane and the satisfaction of getting into a submissive’s head and messing with it is like no other. It is a challenge to me as a domme too, a test of my own creativity and empathy. If I had just half an hour left in my life for a play scene with a submissive man I would leave my toy bag at home. Forced masturbation and orgasm denial it would have to be. The world would come to an end in a loud bang with me enjoying the intoxicating beauty of domme space while my poor submissive would be denied his orgasm for eternity.


Actually I am not really that evil. At the end of the session I allowed him to masturbate to completion and come all over my boots before licking them clean. He looked up at me, his face covered in come. In his expression I saw humility, gratitude, but above all, deep, deep joy.


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You Naughty Girl!

Gillian had been disappointed with her first clients since she had started work as a professional sub. The men who had claimed to be turned on by the idea of dominating women had turned out to be, well, useless, dominant neither in demeanour nor in behaviour. As for the CP, the cruel canings she enjoyed so much, well, it was best not to mention that. Really a sub shouldn’t have to tell her dom how to punish her should she?

When the man who identified himself only as the Headmaster called she felt that things might be different. He was well spoken, informed her that he was fed up with the decline in moral standards in society and particularly the breakdown in discipline in schools and that things had particularly gone downhill since the abolition of the cane. Cheeky sluts in particular needed putting in their place.

When he turned up he did not disappoint. He had an immaculate and expensive looking three piece suit, his shoes gleamed and creaked as he walked. Gillian had put on her tartan school pinafore dress, her tie was a giant knot that barely reached the second button, she had garish red lipstick on. Let’s see how he deals with sluts she thought.

‘You have been sent to me for sluttish behaviour’ he began holding her chin and moving his face in closely enough for her to smell his sweet breath. ‘Stand facing the wall and place your hands on your head.’

Gillian did as she was told.

‘Now put your right leg in the air.’

Gillian stood like that. The Headmaster said nothing but walked up and down, his shoes creaking as he did so.

‘Please Sir’ said Gillian after a few minutes as he felt her standing leg tiring and thought she might fall over, ‘please may I change my leg?’

‘No you may not.’

Gillian continued to stand on her left leg, feeling herself getting both wet with excitement and apprehensive. This quiet man made her nervous. For the first time in her professional career she felt that she was not in control.

After a while he said ‘You may put your leg down and stand on both feet.’

He came up close and said

‘You have been fucked by every boy in 4B haven’t you?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And where was this, in the chip shop doorway? I bet they told you you couldn’t get pregnant if you did it standing up didn’t they?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you believed them didn’t you?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Why did you believe them?’

‘Don’t know sir.’

‘Because you are a stupid little slag.

‘Because I’m a stupid little slag Sir.’

‘Show me how you do it. Kiss the wall and grind your slutty little cunt against it.’

Gillian moved forward, spread her hands against the wall, pushed herself against it and began to grind, as she noticed that her kiss had left a red mark on the magnolia paint.

‘Now, slut, imagine a big fat cock coming out of the wall. Push against it, let it penetrate you.’

And Gillian moaned and pushed backwards and forwards against the wall faster and faster as the Dom send the cane whistling through the air. As she pushed back off the wall she felt the first sting on her buttocks.

‘Carry on grinding. Imagine that huge cock inside you, you dirty little slut.’

And she did and ground and realised that she was leaving a stain on the freshly painted wall.

‘You’ve marked the wall. Kneel down and lick it off.’

Gillian did. She licked her juices, savoured them, felt her clit harden and swell again as the cane crashed into her buttocks. She hadn’t been dominated like this for a long, long time.

‘Stand up and face me’ he ordered.

Gillian stood, her pinafore dress and panties arranged around her ankles. She was completely shaven and presumably even he could see that her proud clit, the ultimate symbol of her sluttiness.

He motioned her to the whipping bench and secured her, pulling the thick leather straps so tight that she winced as the edges dug into her skin.

‘As per school rules’ he began ‘you will receive six strokes for each offence. There are 18 boys in Form 4B and if you have been fucked by all of them as I am sure you have calculated yourself, you will receive 108 strokes.’

‘No sir’ said Gillian ‘104 surely sir. 18 x 6 is 104 isn’t it….’

She felt a sudden anxiety as he said nothing, made no movement, then she saw his face fold into a smile followed by mocking laughter.

‘If you’d spent more time in the maths class and less up the field or in the chip shop doorway on Saturday night you’d be able to do maths wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes sir sorry sir.’

‘You will write two hundred lines for next lesson. I must attend maths class and stop fucking around like a dirty slut.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you get an extra ten strokes for stupidity.’

‘Please sir may I have twenty more. I’m very naughty and deserve it.’

‘I’ll give you a round 150.’

He said nothing more. She felt his large hands began to squeeze her buttocks to knead the cheeks like dough before digging his nails in, rubbing gently then slapping each side twice. She still felt the thrill of anticipation as he heard the cane being raised and descending onto her buttocks with a fearful swish through the air.

‘One thank you sir’

‘Two thank you sir.’

He caned hard and accurately. He needed no tuition. The strokes were swift and brutal, each one building on the last, sting upon evil sting, until by eighty she had had enough. She wanted it to stop and by the time he finished she was in tears.

He laughed as he untied her and led her to the mirror to show the red lines, the blood. He laughed as the tears flowed, now tears of happiness. She would have paid money for a flogging that good.

Before he left, still without disclosing his name, he booked and paid for another session. As soon as the door closed behind the man Gillian carefully placed the envelope of cash in a drawer and went to her study. She took out a clean piece of paper and began to write. Her bottom was raw and painful, it hurt to move on the wooden chair at her desk but she had to do this now, precisely because it was so painful. She wrote

‘I must attend Maths and stop fucking around like a dirty slut.’

As the professional she was, she was taking this task very seriously. As she wrote she played with herself even though she had been forbidden to. She would confess this to the Headmaster next time he came and he would surely punish her. She needed a good hard caning, oh how she needed it!

Going for a Curry

Never let it be said that the BDSM scene is not tolerant and broad-minded. It attracts such interesting people.  Mistress Helga appreciated her life in a multi-cultural society and was pleased to have chambers on the edge of Manchester’s most famous Asian area. She was fascinated too by the variety of men, occasionally women, who came to serve her. She particularly enjoyed the transformation she effected, turning so many of them in 15 minutes from drab, stressed office workers to maids and sluts, or subs bound in leather and masked, not knowing where the next blow to their buttocks was coming from. She loved the shiny happy faces of those ensnared in her world with no hope of escape and, more importantly, no desire. To talk to them was an education. Helga’s university was the University of Life.

Today she was seeing a regular client, David. David was a well-spoken Cambridge graduate who had been seeing Helga for about a year. It was to be his seventh visit. He had been very nervous on his first visit but Helga had seen him grow in confidence over the course of subsequent visits. Of course a certain amount of confidence in a sub is no bad thing but all things have their limits. On David’s previous visit Helga felt him becoming cocky, indeed taking her for granted. If he had forgotten his place in the natural order of things it was time for him to be taught. She had devised a session of exquisite humiliation for him, one in line with the principles of diversity  and multi-culturalism she held so dear.

Shortly before two o’clock David rang the bell of the chambers as arranged and, as usual, the door opened as if by itself Mistress hiding behind it, not wanting the neighbours to see her black PVC dress, long gloves and cap, complemented by sparkling thigh boots. David entered expecting the usual peck on the check and a coffee and chat on the sofa before starting. He was shocked to hear Helga say firmly


He knelt but looked about him bewildered.

“You are a worthless ordure and I’m going to punish you. You need taking down a peg or two and by God am I going to do it. Now crawl into the front room, take your clothes off, fold them into a neat pile and wait for me, on your knees with your head bowed. You are worthless and I am going to make you feel worthless. “

“Yes mistress”.

David was already rock hard but relief was still two hours away and conditional on good behaviour.

Helga adjourned to the kitchen for a cigarette and a cup of coffee and made David wait nearly ten minutes just to muddle his head a little more.  She walked silently to the front room before flinging the door open to find David, as ordered, on his knees, shaking.

“Look at me” she commanded. David looked up and she saw the fear in his eyes. Now she had him where she wanted him, confused and not knowing what to expect.

“I have a little treat for you today” she said. “I’m going to introduce you to Asian culture. You’re going to be my Bollywood tart. Wait there.”

Helga went to the dungeon and took down from the rail the outfit she had chosen for David, It was an authentic salwar kameez bought on the Wilmslow Road, in pink with shades of gold and blue. To set it off she chose a pair of shiny sandals.

“Stand up” ordered Helga and David, stark naked, stood up to await dressing.

“You’re going to wear this today, it’s a salwar kameez, it’s gorgeous and very feminine and you’re going to be my Indian slut. You’re going to go for a walk round the block with me.”

“Please mistress no…”

“Silence. The word “no” does not exist in this dungeon except for those wanting a punishment they will not enjoy. One hundred strokes should leave a few welts to explain to your wife”

“Please mistress, please” David was looking terrified.

Helga laughed. “Yes slave; you will please mistress won’t you?”

“Yes mistress”

Again incipient disobedience had been nipped in the bud. David was crushed, Helga knew he would go meekly to his fate. So he put on his lacy knickers and the pink salwar kameez . Again he felt an erection coming but Helga saw it straight away and one fierce lash brought his errant manhood to heel.

“You come when given permission. You know the punishment for ejaculators”

“Yes mistress”

David was ordered to stand still and Helga skilfully applied tint and make-up to give him a more coffee coloured hue with black eyelashes and a black flowing wig. Surely Aishwarya Rai herself never looked so ravishing. There was dark lipstick, lovely jet black mascara. Helga’s shopping trip to the Wilmslow Road had been well worth it.

“Look at yourself in the mirror” she commanded and David stood amazed before the full length mirror Helga kept in the hallway. He had long curly black locks, his lips were prominent in dark red and his eyes highlighted in black. He wore a pink salwar kameez, with shades of blue and gold detailing; the trousers were tight and fitted snugly round the ankles. On his feet was a pair of gold sandals.

“What do you look like?” asked Mistress.

“Like a Paki” David replied and almost before he had uttered the word Helga’s hand slapped his face with a force that momentarily stunned him.

“How dare you use such words about ladies of any race you worthless piece of filth. Every woman is superior to you, you lowlife, you reptile. You’re my little princess what are you?”

“Your Indian princess Mistress “

“No you’re not. You’re a worthless piece of filth” Helga slapped the other cheek.

“I am a worthless piece of filth”

“Exactly. Before your next appointment I require 200 lines from you. I am a worthless piece of filth and beg for punishment”

“Yes mistress.”

David was ordered into the dungeon and strapped to the whipping bench. The pink trousers were slid expertly down, followed by the lacy panties, to expose David’s pink buttocks.

“You are going to receive twenty strokes for your impertinence. After each stroke you will count then say ‘I worthless piece of filth thank you mistress’.”

And so the flogging began. David gasped with delight as the paddle hit its target.

“One.  I, worthless piece of filth thank you mistress.”

He was left waiting for the second stroke. And the third. Helga liked to vary the frequency of the strokes to confuse her slaves. There was a house rule that if a slave miscounted the flogging started again. One slave had miscounted at stroke 99 of a hundred stroke punishment for disobedience to orders. She recalled with satisfaction his tearful pleading to be excused. But he could not, surely, expect mercy.   Mercy there came none although she spared him having to count the second time round.

David was grimly determined to concentrate and the twentieth stroke was administered and counted without mishap. It hurt as he pulled the panties and pink trousers over his glowing back side.

It was now time for the main event. David knelt before Helga’s throne as ordered. Helga sat down, resplendent in PVC and gleaming thigh boots. She lit a cigarette and said, imperiously:

“You’re going to dance for my entertainment.”

“Yes mistress”

“Get up and stand in the corner facing the wall.”

David did as he was told. Helga flicked the switch of the CD player and the sounds of Bollywood music filled the room.

“Dance slave”

David turned round and tried his best to sway from side to side.

“Not like that you stupid twat!”

“Swing your hips, I want to see your fat gut shaking like a jelly. I want to see sweat pouring off you. And use your hands!”

Helga clapped her hands as a signal for the dancing to begin. She drew deeply on her cigarette.

David hesitated, unsure of himself.

“Dance again,” commanded Helga and do it properly!”

She turned up the volume a notch and David began to wobble his middle aged stomach and swing his hips as he made his way across the room . He dared not look at his Mistress. He wobbled back across the room. Helga grabbed him as he passed in front of her throne.

“Genuflect you worm!”

David did as he was told, and as he bowed his head Helga grabbed it and pulled him towards her.  She took one last drag on her cigarette and blew smoke into David’s face.

“Now go and dance and do it properly.”

Confused and humiliated, David struggled to his feet and had a third go at pleasing Mistress. He writhed and squirmed, attempted what he thought to be Indian hand movements. And at that moment of deepest shame he felt his penis harden and make the pink trousers bulge. Helga, of course, missed nothing.

“You pathetic piece of filth! Does that turn you on? Or are you having forbidden thoughts about your Mistress?”

“No mistress”

It was too late to give Mistress that assurance and David was forced to his knees , dragged forward until he felt Helga’s booted thigh trap his head in a dark  tunnel.

“You miserable piece of filth. Lick my boots.”

And David licked the wall of his sweet prison right up to the tops of her boots where he could feel the stockinged flesh that was forbidden to him.  To worship Mistress’s body was a privilege granted to few.

Then he was sent to dance again. For twenty minutes, driven by fear as much as the need to please a superior being, he swayed and sashayed and wobbled, not daring to stop and finished up with a vigorous ten minute pole dance. When Helga commanded him to stop he was red and sweaty with the effort, ready to drop.  He stood waiting for further humiliation and scorn.

Helga said,

“What time is your session booked to end?”

David answered “At four o’clock Mistress.”

“It’s five to four now” said Helga “Bit I’m not letting you go yet. I have something planned for later .”

But Mistress I have to do the shopping.”

“Shopping?” asked Helga scornfully. “Phone your pitiful vanilla wife and tell her to do the shopping. Tell her you’re working late.”

“Yes Mistress”

David made the telephone call as ordered and was led, still dressed in salwar kameez, to the cage.

“I have one more session. Slave Michael’s a bit of an exhibitionist so he won’t mind you watching. But you’ll be caged so you can’t escape.”

David went meekl y to his fate. The cage was small and uncomfortable and he had to watch as Slave Michael was given a merciless flogging for breaches  of chastity before being taken into another room from where his moans and screams  rent the air. David marvelled that the neighbours couldn’t hear.

It was nearly seven o’clock when Mistress Helga came to release him from the cage.  He was stiff from three hours of close confinement and desperately needed to stretch his legs.

“Well done slave, Mistress is pleased with you. And Mistress wishes to reward you for your faithful service.”

“How Mistress if I may ask?”

“You may ask. We’re going for a curry and I will pay. We leave in five minutes.”

“Thank you mistress. Please may I go and change?”

“No you may not. You’re going as you are.”

David’s face showed the horror that was gripping him.

“No Mistress please no.”

“The phrase I expect to hear is ‘yes Mistress’. You are not permitted use of the word no.”

“Sorry mistress”.

Several hours of relentless mockery and humiliation had broken David and he climbed meekly into her car for the short drive down the Wilmslow Road to Helga’s favourite restaurant. Walking down the street was bearable, just, it was by now dark, but the bright lights of the restaurant were coming ever nearer and offered no such safety. When they reached the door David knew there could be no escape. He felt a firm push in his back as he walked through the door.

He was sure that time had stopped, that the whole city had fallen silent to feast on his humiliation. Every smile was a grin, behind every hand was a snigger. With every effort he could muster to take the bass tones out of his voice he spoke. He suddenly felt confident. He loved his Mistress and pleasing her was the only thing that mattered.

“Table for two please.”

Getting Even

I knew I was in trouble even before I knocked on Mistress’s front door. It was shortly after eleven o’clock that I received a text message from her, written in capitals so that there could be no doubt about her feelings.


This was poor timing on Mistress’ part, if I may be so impertinent as to say such a thing, since at two o’clock I was due to chair a meeting of the Project Board for the large construction project my firm was working on.  However I knew that the command of my Mistress was a sacred law and must be obeyed. So I pretended I had a splitting headache and was feeling sick and left work at twelve to drive to the chambers.

I was dressed in my suit and feeling a little like a debt collector when, my heart thumping, I knocked on the door. It was the stroke of two o’clock when the door swung open. In the usual way Mistress was not to be seen. I walked nervously into the hallway. Before I could look round I had been pushed hard into the wall and as I turned to face Mistress I saw her dressed in a leather catsuit with stilettos , her hair scraped severely back and tied into a ponytail. She looked magnificent and furious.

She came up close and spat in my face saying

‘You worthless piece of shit! You piece of filth!’

I made to wipe away the spittle from my face but she grabbed my wrist and forced my arm back down by my side.

‘Don’t even think of wiping your face!’

With her face contorted by rage she spat at me again and  slapped me hard across the check. I had never seen her like this before and I was afraid.

‘Take your clothes off’ she ordered ‘and place them in a neat pile on that chair. Then kneel facing the wall with your hands on your head.’

Mistress walked into the lounge leaving me on my own. I hurried to comply with her order , anxious that she should not become even angrier. Naked, and feeling very vulnerable, I knelt and waited for Mistress to return.

She came back, shutting the lounge door firmly and decisively. She said nothing but walked backward and forward on the parquet floor, deliberately letting her heels click so as to increase the tension and my anxiety. I was very anxious, my bottom exposed, my penis hanging limply down, seeming to invite torture. I was going to suffer. Mistress surely had some implement or other in her hand to inflict pain. Just as the tension was becoming unbearable Mistress commanded me:

‘Turn round on your knees to face me. Do not look at me, keep your head bowed.’

I longed to raise my head and look Mistress in the face, she was a beautiful woman but I knew what punishment awaited me if I did. I focused instead on her Louboutin shoes and the space of floor between us where I was surely about to grovel.

‘Place both hands on the floor, palms down’ she commanded and I did as I was told.  Before I could react she came forward to stand on the hands before rocking forward onto the balls of her feet and rocking back so that the spiked heels dug into my hands with the full weight of Mistress’ body bearing down on them. I cried out in pain but Mistress laughed.

‘You’re a wimp. What are you?’

‘A wimp Mistress’ I whispered.

‘A  big girl’s blouse.’

‘I’m a big girl’s blouse Mistress’ I responded without waiting for the prompt.

Mistress Doom stepped off my hands and stood with the toes of the shoes just touching my outstretched fingers as I knelt before her.

‘Lean forward you worm and worship my shoes and as you do, look at them very carefully.’

I leant forward and even before I began to lick the right shoe, which Mistress had proffered,  I could see a scratch and a scuff mark on the leather.

‘What do you see?’ asked Mistress.

‘I see a scratch and scuff marks Mistress’ I said.

‘Yes you certainly do,’ continued Mistress, ‘and where do you think they came from?’

‘I don’t know Mistress’ I began to reply but Mistress placed the toe of one shoe under my chin and lifted my head up so that I looked her in the face.’

‘Yes you do. They come from your miserable attempts to clean them in your last session.’

She took my suit from the chair and threw it on the floor. She walked all over it digging in the heels and twisting them to make holes in the jacket.

‘Please Mistress, no!’

‘Shut up. You ruined my things. I’m ruining yours. That seems fair enough to me’

She walked across the hallway dragging my jacket underneath the heels. She dug the stilettos into the material and had soon separated the jacket into two halves. She did not let up and had soon torn my expensive jacket into four pieces.

She threw my shirt onto the floor and had soon shredded that too.

She picked up a piece of what had been my jacket and said

‘Wank all over that.’

I held it in my right hand and began to work the tip of my cock with my thumb.

‘Faster’ she shouted and pushed her shoe into my face. I could feel the small pieces of grit on the red soles and licked as she commanded me.

She thrust the heel into my mouth and commanded

‘Suck the heel like you would a cock.’

My fingers were sweaty, the precome that was dribbling out made my cock slippery and my thumb slid inside the foreskin making my wanking uncomfortable, I dried my thumb on my face and tried again.

‘I said wank. Do it properly. I’ve got another slave coming at three so you’d better hurry up. Wank I said!’

It was fear that made me knead the tip of my cock more and more vigorously. I wanted to take my punishment and go. This time I came quickly and held the cloth over my cock as the creamy come spurted out. I pulled the foreskin back and moved my hand back and forth, squeezing the come out as I did so. Then I let my hand drop. I was exhausted.

I held the cloth fragment up to Mistress and bowed my head.

‘Rub it round your face.’

I imagined washing myself with a flannel, and rubbed the come over my cheeks, my forehead around my chin and neck. I felt it become sticky, smelt its powerful aroma. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror where I was usually brought to see myself as a maid. Now I was a naked, broken man, sweaty, dirty and stinking of come.

‘Now get out of my sight.’

I made for the door, not daring to look back.

‘Your underpants.’

I looked at Mistress. She held them up, looked at them and commented with a smile

‘Skidmarks. A big boy like you can’t even wipe his bottom properly.’

I went red and pulled on the soiled underwear. She handed me my wallet and keys.

‘I won’t keep your car keys. What would I do with a cheap and nasty car like yours?’

It wasn’t a cold day, I was glad of that, even more glad that I had my  car close by. I made its safety without being seen and sat there in a daze trying to reconstruct this most unexpected afternoon. I put my hand down my underpants and masturbated to Mistress. As the come flowed out over my hand I smiled. I was so happy to be her slave and knew that the list of things I would not endure for her was getting shorter each time.