Identity

This post arises from the happy coincidence of two books I have been reading recently, books which, at first sight, don’t seem to have much in common. The first is Maya Angelou’s “See How The Caged Bird Sings.” We discussed it this morning at the monthly Birmingham Feminist Book Club. Part of a wide-ranging discussion revolved around literature as a means of self understanding, this arising from Angelou’s won discussion in her book of what reading the classics of English literature, and especially, Shakespeare, meant to her, and how she was able, by engaging with the texts, to make sense of her own experience.

This was a concept that was made real for me a couple of years ago when I was a volunteer buddy for a Community Interest Company that worked with adults experiencing mental health difficulties, in particular by encouraging them to read literature and sharing their experiences. To get a flavour of what they did I was invited to attend one of the meetings. We were reading Rose Tremain’s novel The Road Home. The group consisted of people of varying ages, many of whom lived in considerable isolation, an isolation made worse by anxiety and phobias. Some of them only left the house for the weekly meeting in a local library. Most of them had little experience of serious reading. From the discussion, however, it became clear that the book was opening doors for them and all of them were able to use the text to make sense of their own lives, at the same times bringing their won experiences to bear in interpreting the text. As they talked they gave me new insights into the book. This experience was both illuminating and humbling.

These experiences and thoughts are particularly relevant to the other book I have been reading. This is an anthology called Identity, whose contributors all attended the recent Eroticon conference. I have to declare an interest. I was one of the contributors. But that is now why I am writing about it. The content is pretty eclectic, some of it personal reminiscence, and painful reminiscence at that, some of it fantasy, some of it opinion, some of it seriously hot, you know, the stuff you read one handed.  And then there was Meg-John Barker’s piece on erotic fiction as means of self understanding which got me reflecting again on my own identity, or in this case my sexual identity and what it means to me. This short essay was in my head as I read the other pieces and enriched my reading experience.  This really is as a wonderful anthology and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Erotic fiction has changed my life. I really don’t know why, one day in 2012, I felt the urge tio write a story about a carer in a elderly person’s home who has a relationship with a gay man whose carer he is. Other stories followed. I went online, I set up a Twitter account, I read voraciously, I discovered Eroticon and became part of a community. And a new Eve emerged, an Eve who is kinky, bisexual, who is proud to know sex workers she can call friends, an Eve committed to the freeest possible expression of human sexuality (subject to consent). In short an Eve I could not have imagined even existed only 6 years ago. It is through erotic literature that I have discovered what was previously latent, and been able to articulate it.

The main protagonist of my first story was Eric, an Oxford graduate who had been jailed for “gross indecency” in the dark days before 1967 and who experienced late sexual joy with a younger man. I killed him off at the end as the younger man had to move on and make his own way as a gay man in a different age, but acutely aware of the debt gay men, indeed all of us who are in some way not heteronormative, owe to those who suffered for daring to be different. I made sure, however, that Eric died happy, at peace with himself. I knew then that I owed him that. I know now that I owe him much more.

Running for the Finish

I discovered running at about the same time I discovered sex which is not long ago. By discovering sex I mean the time when, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I felt an urge to start writing smut and began to explore my sexuality and what it meant to me. This was, too, the moment when I began to connect online with the many clever, sex people (mostly women) who have inspired me on my journey. At the same time I took up running and joined a local club. I now train twice a week and have a few 10ks under my belt. I feel fitter and healthier and this impacts too on my self-image. I feel desirable. This, in turn, brings me back to sex, well, sort of.

Running is, if not directly, erotic, a deeply sensual experience. This starts with dressing for a run, the way the leggings mould themselves to the leg and the groin, and then there is the running itself, the being in touch with the body in an incredibly intense way. As I run I am aware of my body, and, as I slip into a rhythm and head for that mental state where I pass from allowing thoughts to flow randomly through my mind to the state where active thought stops altogether I am filled with that sense that I am my body. My body is me.

When I think about an altered state of consciousness I am reminded of something else, of what kinky people call sub space. The parallels are striking. The initial struggle, the pain and the drive to overcome it, the passing of the pain as the endorphin rush pushes us on into another realm of consciousness that is actually an incredible oneness of mind and body, the high on which it finishes and in which we remain for a while afterwards, the low that comes later as the high dissipates (what in kink circles is called sub drop).

My interest in kink was, until recently, that of an interested bystander and I spent my time at clubs on the sidelines. Recently I took the plunge and submitted to a spanking during an evening at a fetish club. I finished on a high that reduced my to tears as my play partner took me in her arms to look after me after she had covered my buttocks in angry red marks with a variety of floggers, crops and canes. At times I had to fight hard against the temptation to scream ‘yellow’ or even ‘red’ to halt the stinging blow that were raining down on me. But, as with my running, I gritted my teeth and stuck it out to the finish line. I am so glad I did.

Eroticon 2014 – a fantasy

I was feeling the drop even before I boarded my train.  I watched the crowds thronging around Temple Meads station and reflected that I was no longer in the bubble of lovely sex-positive and open minded people where I had spent the last two days. Here were people who would not understand, not share my passions, my longings. I was sad even on this sunny spring afternoon.

On the Cross Country train I opened one of the books I had bought and began to read a hot BDSM novel. As the train pulled out and I became engrossed in the story I felt myself becoming wet. I fingered the wooden stick embossed with the logo of Renee Rose writer of erotic romances and realise that I had missed out on being spanked with it. I was new to kink but the conversations I had had at the conference, above all at the party, had made me yearn for more. At times it seemed that everyone there was kinky and this made me think. Is there anything truly erotic that doesn’t involve some kink, some drawing on the erotic treasure house of BDSM? I ran the wood through my fingers, and fell into a reverie of spanking…..

At this point I was aware of the woman sitting next to me. She was about my age, a short haired brunette with a pleasant friendly face. She smiled and engaged me in conversation.

“Where have you been this weekend?”

“At a writers’ conference” I proffered,  not sure how open I could be,

“With books like that?” she asked smiling again.

“Well yes” I said.

“And that?” She pointed to the wooden paddle.

“That’s from a well known writer of the genre. A little memento.”

“I’m Vicky” she said before lowering her voice and leaning over to whisper in my ear “I’m a domme”

“I’m Eve and well, I’m not sure what I am.”

“It’s not what you are…..it’s what you can be, what you want to be. Maybe you too want to be the Perfect Submissive.” She ran a finger over the cover of my book.

I felt myself blushing. It was true that I felt submissive urges. I thought of my first visit to a play party with my kinky partner, how I had been persuaded to mount the whipping bench and submit to a spanking by the house mistress Lady Blue. A hand spanking had warmed me up before I received the paddle, a couple of floggers and finally six strokes of the cane. I bit into the leather, writhing and moaned. It hurt, it stung but I was left wanting more as Lady Blue decided that this newbie had probably had enough and gently undid the straps and lifted me up. She held me close for a moment and I felt arousal at the closeness to this PVC clad and thigh booted woman.

“You’ve been very brave” she said and planted a tender kiss on my cheek. “I hope we can play again.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the dominatrix, imperious in her domain , felt the residual tenderness of my buttocks. I had written stories about femdom about how ecstasy could be achieved through agony, about the pleasure of pain without ever being convinced about it. I held Lady Blue before me as I lay there, I thought of her face, pleasant if not especially pretty but her clothes, the gleaming black dress, the boots I had seem others kneel to kiss. I reached down and began to finger my clit before sliding down to feel the juices of arousal that were beginning to flow. Perhaps it was wrong to masturbate to a Mistress I thought but still……I could always confess next time…..

“I love that paddle” said Vicky, suddenly bringing me back to the balmy March Sunday evening on the train. “I enjoy hitting people, I love administering canings. I bet you would love a spanking. I see the sub in you Eve.”

I said nothing but was now very aroused. My buttocks were itching. I wanted the sting I wanted it more than anything. Not even a good fuck could satisfy me at this moment.

“You can read me like a book” I said “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, let’s just say, when you’re as experienced in domination as I am, you get to learn to read people.”

I fingered the paddle again. Suddenly she grabbed it from me.

“I’m going to the loo…come in a minute . If the coast’s clear knock twice and I’ll open up,’

I stood outside the door of the toilet and waited until another passenger had gone past. I knocked    twice and with a whirr the electric door slid open. Vicky pulled me on and after an interminable few seconds as the door whirred shut again and locked she said briskly.

“Eve take down your skirt and knickers down. “

I hesitated.

“I have ordered you to take your skirt down. I expect you to do it.”

“Yes Mistress” I said and complied.

I bent over and she said

“Kiss it”

The words “Renee Rose author of erotic romance” melted into a blur as she moved it to my mouth and I began to kiss longingly and lovingly.

Then she moved away and said.

“We have limited time so I will give you twelve strokes.”

I heard the swish through the air before it landed for the first time and sent waves of pain pulsing through me. I cried out and felt my body jolt. I breathed heavily before the second blow landed, this time on the right buttock.    I clenched my buttocks steeling myself for the next blow which didn’t come. I relaxed and felt a shock coursing through me like electric current as she tricked me and caught me off guard.

“Ha!” she laughed triumphantly, “you weren’t expecting that.”

And she carried on hitting me, alternating buttocks , striking hard and with remorseless accuracy.

“Twelve” she said and again held the paddle for me to kiss.

“Thank you Mistress” I said and began again to breathe heavily. I suddenly became aware of how much I had been sweating.

I felt Vicky come up close behind me and hold me. From her hand bag she pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slapped them on. She moved a finger underneath me, began to probe the opening of my anus.

“play with yourself” she said and I began to finger my clit as she probed my anus with her index finger. I gasped as I felt it move deeper in, relaxed my muscles and surrendered to the sweet violation.

“You’re not to come till I say.”

She continued her exploration and I began to massage my clit again. I was very wet, I was desperate for her, wanted to kiss her, kneel before her and worship her…but she remained behind me teasing me with the index finger of her left hand that was moving up my back passage. I gasped I moaned and said

“Please let me come, please”

“No” she said and then said briskly

“Put your clothes back on” I think there are people outside.”

She handed me a card with her number on it and left the toilet with instructions that I was not to follow her for two minutes.

When I got back to my seat there was no sign of her. I was feeling agonies of frustration even as the burning on my bottom began to subside. I picked up the book and carried on reading. Maybe the perfect submissive had to live with denial I thought as I engrossed myself in the tale of Jess.  Maybe I would ring Vicky…….

But I had no time to think further, The train was already speeding through the Birmingham suburbs. I would soon be home, soon lying in my bed where I would come. As I dragged my wheeled suitcase to the taxi rank at New Street station I knew that the last two days had changed my life. I had stories to write, spankings to enjoy…….

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

“Kneel”

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.

YOU WILL ATTEND MY CHAMBERS AT TWO O’CLOCK TODAY WITHOUT FAIL. NO EXCUSES WILL BE ACCEPTED. MISTRESS

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.

Strange Objects of Desire

A male friend one confided in me that he hates the summer. He loves the autumn, the misty chilly mornings, the falling leaves. I asked him why.

Simple’ he replied. ‘The ladies get their boots out and there is nothing, but nothing sexier than a woman in boots.’

He particularly enjoys his moments of silent adoration on the bus to work.

And it’s not only the men. I’m not a drama queen but I do occasionally tread the boards in amateur theatre. A year or two back one of my friends joined us and after rehearsing in her usual attire of jeans and sweatshirt (after a career as an air hostess she sacrificed glamour for the demands of raising three children)  changed into her costume ahead of the first dress rehearsal, a little black dress and red heeled boots. She walked confidently onto the stage to audible gasps from the women as well as the men. She was no longer a harassed wife and mother – she had become after a simple costume change a woman, a woman with unfathomable erotic depths. That was the thinking I am sure. It was certainly mine.

If the boot is a fetish object it makes the woman wearing boots into an object of desire but one who exercises power. She is strong. She is confident in her sexuality. She is attainable or is she? You suspect she may not be after all. At this point the second aspect kicks in; the stirrings of submissiveness that are latent in many men. Boots open doors you know. I found this out the first time I wore boots to a new job. There were a couple of men who suddenly wanted to carry files for me, make my tea, and, yes, open doors. They may have been kinky but I bet that, even if they didn’t see themselves in that way, they felt a frisson. On one occasion as I sat in a coffee shop with my partner a tall blonde woman walked in, dressed in trousers and over the knee beige boots. She was beautiful, her style was immaculate and I could not take my eyes off her, particularly the boots. My partner leaned over to me and whispered,

‘I can imagine myself kneeling before her and asking to worship those boots.’

Fetish lite then; after all not every man has the courage to come face to face with a real life thigh booted domina. In domination however is much truth about the human condition. The domina writes large what is latent in many women and confronts the men who serve her with truths about themselves that for other men remain veiled but guessed at. The boot is a partial lifting of the veil.

Yet in real life the booted woman is a paradox. She is the one men desire to conquer but fear they cannot. For the woman wearing boots the signal is similarly ambivalent. We are Amazons, we want to conquer, and yet , in our strength, we want to submit, to open ourselves to penetration.

The boot is strength, it is power – it demands submission but is itself a sign of submission. This is its fascination. The boot is not a ‘Fuck Me Shoe’ it is a ‘Fuck Me on my Terms Shoe’ We should want it no other way.

And here is a pair of totally awesome vintage boots. The thought of wearing these or, for the men, worshipping them, should send a tingle through anyone’s loins. It does mine.

retroboots