Not Lost For Words

“Give me words that make my mind curl before my toes.”— Rachel Wolchin

Without words there is nothing. St.John The Evangelist understood this well. Even if you are not a Christian, or even a believer at all, the opening of his gospel is stunning in both its simplicity and its profound truth.

“In the beginning was the Word”

 Words, and the discourses we create with them, are our reality. Nothing that exists outside us can be accessed without language. Words are precious.  The Anglo-Saxon word for vocabulary was wordhoard, meaning that words are literally treasure. Modern German has the same concept – Wortschatz

It follows from this that words are both essential to our sexual self-expression and too precious to be used lightly. Words have too often been used to construct sexualities as deviant, as other, to construct sexualities as dangerous, as things to be controlled. This is especially true  of female sexuality. Words can set us free. They can also chain us tin the prison of  cisheteronormaivity that many of you reading this and so language becomes a battleground, a terrain where we fight for our right to be ourselves.    

This is true too of the world of BDSM with its protocols and rituals, where language is imbued with powerful depths of meaning.

When my slave calls me “Mistress” and I call him “Slave” we are doing much, much more than sticking labels on each other. We are defining ourselves relative to the other, giving voice to the essence of our relationship. We open doors to our souls.

With our language we set in train a dialectic that brings us to enlightenment, to self knowledge, ultimately to freedom. Can a submissive ever be more free than kneeling humbly before their dominant? Can that freedom be realised other than in language, in the dialectical discourse of Mistress and slave? Freedom is rooted in the treasure of words.

A post for Quote Quest. Click here to read more words on words.

QuoteQuest

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.

“But….but…”

“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.

“Strip!”

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

A Lockdown Visit

For three weeks I have been stuck at home on my own. This means no sex. Well OK there is solo sex but I really lost my mojo for that when lockdown was announced. My go to prison wife fantasy wasn’t working for me. All I could think of was the reality of prison life now, during the crisis, the way in which the virus is cutting a swathe through the helpless population trapped in our stinking overcrowded jails. Fantasies were everywhere crowded out by awful reality and my libido died.

Well I did for a couple of weeks then, our local police began a high profile enforcement of lockdown she began a regular patrol of my street. She was blonde, not pretty exactly with her aquiline nose and sharp chin that gave her a hard appearance although she did break into a smile when talking to the children playing in their front gardens. When she smiled she was almost beautiful.

That was enough for me. Too much beauty in a woman is a turn off. I began to fantasise about her, I moved my desk in the home office to be by the window so that I could watch her on patrol and frig myself as I did so. In my fantasy she leads me from the house in handcuffs, I am humiliated in front of the neighbours as she leads me to the car, roughly pushes my head down as I get in. At the police station I am processed, stripped of my possessions and locked in a stinking windowless cell where I wait for her. By the third time I was ready to take the fantasy further.

At about three o’clock on Good Friday as I sat at my kitchen table working on my blog, enjoying a cup pf tea and a Hot Cross Bun there was a knock on he door.

It was her. I started.

“Miss Eve Ray?”

I nodded.

“I need to come in and speak to you. There has been a report about you breaching lockdown regulations.”

“Who….”

“I can’t disclose that. But the matter is serious.”

I beckoned her in and showed her through to the kitchen. I glimpsed at her name badge. She was PC Deborah Morris.

“Look Deborah I am happy to answer any questions but there has surely been a misunderstanding.”

I felt her gloved hand slap my cheek.

“You will address me as Ma’am. Is that clear?”

I rubbed my cheek.

“Yes Ma’am” I said, more in shock than anything else. I looked at her. She continued,

“Reports are that you shopped at Tesco and at Boots this morning.”

“Yes but I am allowed out to buy essential items aren’t I?”

“I will decide what is essential. Show me  the receipts”

I rummaged for them in my handbag, handed them to her. She studied them carefully.

“Prosecco”

She allowed herself a smile.

“Is Prosecco essential?”

“Well I think so.”

“Shut up!”

I felt a stinging slap across the other cheek. She then studied the Boots receipt.

“Sanitary products? Are you having your period?”

“I don’t see why you need to know that.”

“If you’re not on Miss Ray” she said with ironic emphasis on my name “these purchases are considered non-essential in line with Section 4 Paragraph 3 of the Corona virus Regulations 2020. As such buying them today would constitute a criminal offence. So I am going to ask you again. Are you having your period.”

“That is my business not yours. I am not answering that question.”

“Very well. In that case I am empowered by the regulations to give you a gynaecological examination to find out.”

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

“I can do what I like Miss Ray. The Coronavirus Act 2020 allows me to do what ever is necessary to prevent, investigate, and punish beaches of the lockdown regulations. I do what I want. You do as you are told. Is that clear?” .

She took a packet of latex gloves out of one of her many pockets., opened it and and put the gloves on with a chilling smack of latex against her skin. I felt arousal.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated.

“Strip.” she screamed. I complied, pulling off my  t shirt and leggings, my knickers, and leaving them in a heap at my feet.

She walked round me, inspecting me.

“Four tattoos! I wouldn’t have had you down as the kind of person who has tattoos. And that lower back tattoo. Slag. That’s what you are aren’t you? A fcking sag!”

“Yes Ma’am.”

I was very wet by now. I wanted this. I climbed onto the table and lay legs apart.

I felt her slide in a finger, two fingers, then the whole hand as my cunt dilated. She moved her hand in in and out, gently at first, then more firmly, placing her thumb in my clit as he did so. She was no novice at pleasuring women. Then, having brought me to the edge of orgasm, she kept me there.

“It’s not looking good for you is it Miss Ray? Is it? You cold go down for six months fr non essential purchases. Do you know that?”

I said nothing, desperate to be brought to orgasm.

“I am going to need to go in deeper” she said, unclipping the baton from her belt.

She fucked me with it, brutally, rhythmically. As she picked up the pace I arched mt back to give her the angle to push it in deeper. I came with a scream. She pulled the baton out.

“Look how wet that is you dirty slag. Lick it clean.”

She held it for me to lick my juices off it which  did greedily.

I got down from the table shaking. I needed aftercare. to be wrapped in a blanket and cuddled, just as my lovely dom does, but there would be no aftercare today. I collapsed at her feet, grabbing her uniform trousers, lowering my lips to kiss her boots. She held the baton threateningly.

“If I have to come here again, you are getting this up the arse.”

“Please Ma’am ” I said, struggling to articulate the words, “I have further offences to be taken into consideration. I would like to make a statement………. please.”

 

 

To see more naughtiness for Masturbation Monday click on the image below.

Masturbation Monday

 

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter One

ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS – JULY 1959

She walked into my study without bothering to knock, or rather swept in.  It was five years since I had seen her but there was no mistaking Delphine de Lotbiniere. She had blossomed into a woman of elegance and beauty as I always knew she would.  She radiated the confidence of a woman who thought the world should fall at her feet.  As it probably would. She had on a stylish wide brimmed hat and it was this that caught the eye.  Only on second glance did I notice the black slash neck top, the black and white circle skirt and the expensive looking leather pumps. The Lotbinieres had money, of course they did, old money too, and the fees at our school were not cheap but this….even before she spoke I thought “Dior”

“I am living in Paris” she began sitting down opposite me. “I am a model for the House of Dior and, let me tell you, it is very well paid. I travel a lot for fashion shows and things and my boyfriend is a racing driver. We have a very nice life together, oh and I forgot, I have a lovely flat in the Sixteenth Arondissement.  I am someone, even though I am still waiting to inherit Bourg La Chatte.”

“Well I am very pleased for you, it’s always nice to have of old girls of the school making their way in the world.”

Even as I said this, I was aware of how weak my voice was, of how the feelings of inadequacy she had always aroused, were coming back.

“And you, I see, are still what you always were, an embittered spinster, a nobody.”

She smiled. I looked at her, unable to reply.

Delphine took out a cigarette packet and lighter. Suddenly I found my headmistress’s assertive voice.

“I do not smoke and neither do I permit others to smoke in my study.”

“If I wish to smoke, I will smoke. I do not need your permission”

“No Delphine” I mumbled.

“Non, Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere.”

“Non, Mademoiselle”

She lit the cigarette, drew deeply on it and sat back languidly as she exhaled the fragrant smoke of her Gauloise. I began to fumble among the papers on my desk to find an ashtray.

“I won’t need an ashtray” she said flicking ash over the desk.

“Now, I think we have things to talk about, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

“All those horrible things you did to me when I was a pupil here.  Today, I think the tables are turned. Stand up and walk round here.”

I complied. I had to.

“Kneel and kiss my shoes”.

I moved in and planted a kiss on each leather pump in turn. I felt arousal, felt my clit swelling and rubbing against my rough cotton knickers.

I knelt up and looked at her. She smiled again, enjoying every second of my humiliation.

“Open your mouth.”

She leaned forward and after dribbling her spit onto my tongue, flicked ash over it.

“Swallow”

“Oui Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere”  and swallowed with excited distaste. I bowed my head and waited for thew next command.

“Ouvre ta bouche!”

The use of “tu” shook me to the core. It was a measure of the casual contempt with which Delphine felt able to treat me.  She finished the cigarette with a final sprinkling of ash in my mouth, and threw it onto the carpet, extinguishing it with one deft, elegant, sweep of her foot.

“Get your face down and lick that butt. And think of me as you do. You thought you had broken me. But nobody, nobody, ever gets the better of Delphine de Lotbiniere.”

She stood up and made for the door.

“You will remain kneeling. You will kiss the cigarette. Adieu Madame.”

She swept out just as she had swept in ten minutes earlier. I remained kneeling, my hair on the carpet, my lips worshipping the cigarette butt which was bright red with Delphine’s lipstick. I lifted up my dress and fumbled inside my huge knickers to find my clit. I began to masturbate to her. I was wet with wanting her or, rather, the exquisite humiliation that only Delphine could give.

I was about to come when there was a quick knock on the door and my secretary walked in.

“Oh I’m sorry Miss Ransom, is it not convenient?”

Note: This is the first part of a collaboration with Posy Churchgate. We will be writing alternate chapters and posting them on our blogs. I will link to Posy’s chapters here and all are going to be published as part of the Wicked Wednesday meme which can be visited by clicking here

WickedWednesday

 

 

Scratching the Itch to Switch

So what did I get up to on that Monday after Eroticon? I did something I hadn’t done for several years and booked a session with a pro domme. I did this for a number of reasons.  I wanted to explore the dynamic of submitting to a woman as a woman. I had previously played with submissive woman as a top but somehow it never quite worked for me. I had a number of mental blockages that stopped me getting into the headspace. I have always felt more comfortable dominating men. And yet I had watched women play in clubs and seen that the submission of a woman to a woman could be a thing of great beauty. I needed to see if that could work for me.

The other thig was that, reflecting on past experiences, I understood that I had never really experienced a deep subspace. Domspace yes, absolutely and my domming career has given me so massive highs but looking at the deep subspace that our play has sent my slave when a scene has gone really well, I understood that I had never experienced this. I began to question my own approach to submitting in a scene and think about what I was doing wrong that was preventing me from getting into a properly submissive headspace.

So this session was about scratching an itch and something in the way of an experiment. I did my research, sent a detailed e mail to the lady setting out what I was looking for and setting out limits and so on. This all sounds obvious, but I had never before done this I in such a structured and factual manner. That I was able to do this is itself a product of 5 years on the scene as (mainly) a dominant and a lot of play with a range of people. I know myself and I know what a prospective play partner needs by way of information.  We had a telephone conversation and I had a good feeling about the lady. We were, I felt, on the same kinky wavelength.

And so on to the session in the traditional discreet location, in this case in South London. The session worked for me. No subspace and I never felt even slightly out of my comfort zone (and I think being taken a little of your comfort zone is a part of a good submissive experience – it reminds you who is in charge) but this was a first meeting with someone who really knew nothing about me. We learnt a lot about each other, and I will see her again as I think there are good things to build on coming out of the session. Her domming style has also given me a few ideas.

Most importantly we liked each other, and this is massively important.   I did say I didn’t experience subspace. True but I did cry cathartic tears at the end, and she gave me good aftercare.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said as I made to leave.

“Thank YOU, Mistress,” she replied and we both laughed.

We hugged and I left. I heard the door swing shut. I didn’t look back. But I know I will be knocking on that door again in a few months’ time.

Girls on Top

When I first had sex with Kelly it seemed natural to kneel before her, kiss her feet before working my way up to kiss the labia, massage her clit with my tongue, kneeling in adoration before she drew me gently to my feet. We kissed before she made me lean over the bed.  She spanked me hard and I was still stinging when I felt cold lube around my anus,  heard the slap of a surgical glove being pulled on before she moved her delicate fingers inside me, probing my back passage. At first, I tensed up, clenched the muscles, before her soothing words helped me relax.  I was surrendering to her, giving her my body to play with. She fingered me for several minutes, pushing in fingers, two then three, moving rhythmically in and out and building up to an intensity I found almost unbearable.

It was with relief that I felt her withdraw, before she lay beside me and I went down on her licking greedily at her pussy , then finger fucking her as she massaged her clit  I played with myself with my free hand, fucking her harder and faster until we came, together.

Then I knelt before her, head bowed, before gently, lingeringly, kissing her feet.  I lowered my head and touched the floor with my forehead. My worship of her was as arousing as the sex that has sparked my adoration. I was horny, so fucking horny. So we did it again before lying together, drinking gin and tonic until it was time for her to go, to get home before her husband.

In those moments I realised , what I had not been fully aware of before, which is that that I am still deeply sexually submissive with women. Dominant and sadistic in BDSM contexts, but in the bedroom with a woman, I need to worship, to adore the beauty of the female body, the most precious flower my lover keeps for me.

With men it is different and my sadism is a key part of becoming aroused for sex with men. I love the different smell of men, the hardness and angularity. But, at a deep level, I want to punish them for not being soft and rounded and beautiful as my female lovers are. The pleasure I get from hurting them as they strive to pleasure me is a doubling of the sensual delight. For them, the pleasure and pain are a dialectic that resolves itself into a synthesis of explosive orgasms; and more. As one male lover put it, rough sex with me had taken him into the kind of sub space he had only previously known in a BDSM context.

He bled, he was bruised, he smelt of the come I had smeared all over his torso. He knew what all men who go to bed with me must learn. Whether fucking me or coming in my mouth after a vigorous blow job, their pleasure will be bought with pain. For that is fundamental to who I am; a lifestyle dominant and sadist who exacts a toll of suffering from any man who would get close to her.

I have never believed that dominance and submission, or sadism and masochism were polar opposites.  I think there is something of both in all of us.  I remember, a couple of years ago, reading a brilliantly insightful BDSM based short story whose heroine was as professional dominatrix who, in her private life, was the 24/7 submissive of another woman.  I identified as a submissive before discovering my dominant vocation. But I retain submissive urges. My female lovers have enabled me to transfer them to the bedroom. And for that, I will worship them all the more.

A Few Wishes for 2014

2013 was a strange year for me. It was a year in which I met online a whole range of new people and was exposed to a number of debates of which I had only been dimly aware. The whole experience was educational, stimulating, absorbing, at times fun, at times deeply depressing. It might have been even more depressing but for the fact that  haven’t spent a lot of time on Twitter recently and missed out some spectacular fights. What I wish for 2014 is:

For me personally to continue to learn about my sexuality and enjoy my sexual self. I have recently begun to explore this in new ways and may blog about it in due course.

To meet some of the people who have inspired me. I know that at least four of them will be at Eroticon in March so that may be sooner rather than later 🙂

To learn how to make Polish poppy seed cake properly.

For everyone else:

I wish everyone the right to enjoy their sexuality as they please without condemnation from others, subject only to the fundamental condition of consent.

I wish it to be recognised by all women that being sexually submissive does not make a woman a doormat of the patriarchy

That anybody freely choosing to earn money by providing sexual services is allowed to do so, without condemnation, criticism and without others claiming to speak on their behalf.  I wish too that the Europe’s politicians see the propaganda for the ‘Swedish Model’ for the fraud it is.

That trans people are respected and accepted for who they want to be.

That issues can be debated and discussed without the rapid descent into personal abuse that has marked much feminist debate in 2013.

That our Bulgarian and Rumanian friends find a warm welcome and that anyone thinking of voting UKIP sees the benefits of having such hard working and enterprising people in the country and take their vote elsewhere.

That we have an end to moral panics about pornography.

I would have added England winning the World Cup but that’s a bit too much to ask for isn’t it? So I’ll settle for wishing that England’s cricketers avoid the Ashes whitewash that has looked inevitable. Which reminds me – late to bed again tonight!

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.