Power play

Ah… the abusive dommie-psycho-mommie scene.  Part of every domme’s standard repertoire.  And all you need to get started are some wire coathangers.

The previous guy found the smell a bit pungent too.  In fact, he said it made him vomit, it was so bad. But I’m sure he was exaggerating.

Everyone knows women all love sitting around having their boots cleaned and then smeared with semen.  It’s amazing dommes get away with charging their clients so much to let them do it, really.

Hee hee.  I’ve actually let it drain to 90% but I’m going to tell her it’s fully charged, because 90% is still a green light!  Pretty sneaky, huh? That’s at least 25 minutes less screaming in agony.  Guess I’ll show her!

It won’t matter to anyone who matters, anyway.

2020 vision

A few of you seemed rather to like the captioned pictures of attractive TV journalists talking about female supremacist politics a few weeks back.  So, ever eager to please I’ve done a few more.  But I’m not going to post them yet, you’ll just have to wait.  Just think of its as tease and denial, OK? You enjoy that, I expect. Pervert.

However, I thought perhaps while we’re waiting for that we could hear a few words from The Lady Herself.  So here, without further blather, is an excerpt from a speech that the FemSuprem candidate will be making during the 2020 US presidential campaign.

Why should men who aren’t submissive support female
OK, let me tell you a little
story.  A true story. Around about 1905, this French passenger ship got wrecked on a remote
Pacific island. There were 32 women and 20 men who survived, so they set
up a camp and waited for rescue.  But
this island was way off the usual routes so no help came.
And they got a little society going, organised on
traditional male grounds, obviously. This was 1905. Women didn’t even have the
vote!  So the guys just decided guys should be in charge.  They probably didn’t even think about it.  But stuff went wrong. The men
started fighting over power, and one was killed and seven others ran off.  Then two of the men who were left fought over
a woman and the winner raped her.  So
far, so normal for thousands of years of history, right? 
But the women rose up and they threw the men out.  And they built a big fence of stakes and they
got on with doing what women do: growing food, looking after one another, making their lives better. You
know?  And the men did what men do: they
fought, they destroyed stuff and eventually they were scavenging around
half-naked for raw berries and nuts and worms out there in the forest.
So, every so often, a man would come to the gate of the
women’s village and beg to be allowed back in. 
And the first few times the women just said no.  But then they held a council and they
discussed it – as women, do, respectfully of one another’s opinions, while the
men were settling their differences on the rest of the island with clubs – and
they agreed to let the men back in on one condition.
Here’s the condition: any man who came back in, could do so
only as a slave.
Yeah: a slave.  And I
guess you all think that’s terrible and a horrible thing to happen.  Slavery’s not a nice word and I suppose it’s
not a very nice thing when you’re a slave either.  But it was better than grubbing up roots and
berries and being constantly afraid of being beaten up or raped by the other
men, you see.  So, over time, one by one,
all the men came back into the village. As slaves. 
And they lived and they got enough to eat – and, yeah, they
weren’t free any more. So they didn’t have the freedom to rape people because
they couldn’t control their sexuality or dig up the crops before they were ripe
because they couldn’t control their gluttony – or the freedom to fight each
other for power.  And maybe they had to
take a whipping occasionally, when they deserved it and I guess that can’t have
been fun. But it was better than starving. 
It worked, see?

But… that’s not the end of the story. All good things have
to come to an end and after about 15 years, finally a ship visited the
island.  And things could have been fine,
but the captain of the ship saw a guy tied to the whipping post and decided it
was too weird for him and he took everyone off at gunpoint. And after that, we
don’t really know what happened to the castaways.  I’d like to think some of them carried on in
female-led households back in France. 
Because women were a lot freer after the first world war, see, so maybe
that could have been possible. But it’s hard to stand against the culture.
But here’s the thing. 20 men landed on that island. Two were
killed by other men early on, and one died of natural causes about 1915.  The other 17 came home. What do you think
would have happened to them if they hadn’t been shipwrecked?  They’d have joined the army, of course, like
all French men in 1914.  And if they were
lucky they’d have spent four years in the trenches, wading through mud
constantly, permanently infested with lice and always terrified of a shell or a
sniper taking off the top of their head, or ripping out half their guts in a
split second.  They’d have been compelled
by other men to stand up above the trench and run towards the enemy’s lines,
scrabbling over barbed wire as machine guns cut through their bodies and those
of their comrades.  If they were unlucky
they’d have been gassed, shot, bombed, shelled and bayonetted while trying to
do the same thing back, killing men on the orders of other men.  And if they somehow survived the enemy but
refused to try to kill him, they’d have been shot.  By men on their own side.
And my question to you is this: were the guys on the island
worse off?  They wore collars and chains
and they didn’t get to decide much for themselves, it’s true. They got an
occasional beating when they deserved it, and I’ve heard from time to time some
of the women got a bit frisky too and liked to humiliate them a bit.  But if it’s that or the trenches of World War I – which would you choose?
I sometimes wonder whether those men were honest with
themselves after they came home. 
Whether when anyone ever asked them what they did in the Great War, how
they survived, they’d say ‘Oh – I was enslaved in a matriarchal society.  I had a pretty sore bottom from time to time,
but we didn’t have any wars.” Because that would have been the truth. But I
expect they didn’t.  Back then, most men
would have thought of subordination to women as the worst thing in the world.  They’d just had four years of unimaginable
horror in the trenches but somehow going over a woman’s knee was an intolerable
thought.  Go figure.
And that’s my story. 
And that’s why I say to men: look at the world you have.  This is your world: the world you men
made.  You’ve had thousands of years in
charge and… well, look at it.  You want
to make it better?  You’ve tried
political campaigns to put different men in charge and you’ve tried revolutions
to put a whole bunch of different men in charge and you’ve had wars – boy, have
you had wars! – to see if killing people might help and hey: nothing
works!  You’re still scrabbling around
for nuts and berries, fighting each other, living like animals.   

Well, I’m offering you the same deal as those
women on the island did. We’ll open the gate, if that’s the choice you decide
to make.

What have you got to lose? Your freedom? Give me a
break.  Your freedom is the problem.  And if you’re honest with yourselves, you’ll
admit that. And you’ll support us in this election.  And if we win, you don’t have to worry about
what happens next, because we’ll be in charge. Do you have to be submissive to
want that? Or do you just have to be intelligent enough to recognise that you
need to give yourself a break and put someone else in charge?
I’m Anne Hathaway. 
I’m a female supremacist and I want your vote on November 3rd.  

How do I love thee, let me count the strokes and thank you for each one

I wonder if it would be OK to ask for a drink of something to help wash it down.

Position 53… 53… erm, like Position 14 but arms crossed, right?
Still, I have to say I got my money’s worth for the session.
She’s too soft-hearted.  Fortunately, Mr Travis isn’t.
I think he’s not a morning person.  Nor’s she, truth be told, but there’s so much to do and only so many hours in the day.

Cause you’re my lady, I’m your fool

… so beat me up before you go go

I occasionally have difficulty getting through passport control, admittedly.  But I always have a permit to travel signed by a responsible female, so it’s OK.
 The lovely Goddess Lexi on the right there.  And… another lovely goddess on the left  I’m sure one of you will tell me who that is, won’t you?

She’s so professional, it hurts. It hurts a lot.

Because reasons?  No? OK – I’ll get back to work.

And this goddess is Mistress Arella.  I knew that without even looking at the label, there.  Czech, you know. I wonder if it’s something in that country’s history…. invaded by Germans, Russians… and I’ve heard the frost is cru-el.

She must have another cummyshoe for goodness sake.  They sell them in pairs.  Why does it always have to be this one?

I personally think that a boy can do almost any job a woman can do. Just not as well and only under strict female supervision.

A song for Paltego

Paltego’s great ‘Femdom Resource’ blog has reached 2000 posts.  Actually, it has reached 2002 but it has really taken against me or my browser and it’s not letting me post comments or at least not comments with links in them.

So let me use this blog, which fortunately does still let me post, to wish Paltego a very happy two-thousandth, on behalf of all of us!  Let’s celebrate with Mistress Chrissie.

Two thousand more, please.

Thank you Paltego. 
You are the centre of the femdom internet.  Without you, we’d fall apart.

Out and about

Well, it’s a lovely spring holiday weekend here in Notrealland: the sun is out, the first flowers are blooming and so the muse just couldn’t summon up the energy to strike me today*.  So rather than toss off** some captions, I just got my trusty old Hasselblad out and wandered around the lovely Notrealshire town of Notrealingham, where I don’t really live, taking pictures of some of my favourite spots that don’t really exist.  

Sometimes even this blog doesn’t have to be about femdom porn, OK? Let’s just take a moment to savour the pleasures of humdrum day-to-day life.

The old village green, at what is now the town centre.***  A lovely spot.  I can sit there for hours at a time: sometimes looking around at the scenery, sometimes, you know, just staring at the inside of a leather hood.  It’s where I do my thinking.

From the historic to the ultra-modern. This place opened up about two years ago and it’s really transformed the way the ladies of the town oppress their men.  It’s got the latest equipment, underground storage – even a coffee bar to relax in while waiting for the shorter treatments to be completed (they collect and deliver for longer-stay procedures).  I think it’s a shame in some ways: we used to have three discipline parlours run by old-fashioned governesses on the High Street but so many ladies bring their men here to be beaten now that there’s only one parlour left and even they’re trying to go modern with perspex canes and whatnot.  Still, I suppose that’s progress for you.  And small businesses can adapt: they just have to find a niche. We have an artisanal shackles shop operating out of the old blacksmith’s, for example. They can even do on-body welding, which you won’t find at a swanky outfit like Elsa Summers!

the male health clinic.  That’s Lisa and Debbie there: lovely girls.
They always had a dream of setting up their own clinic, even when they
were at school. I remember hiding behind the bins with the other boys
whenever we heard they wanted to play doctors and nurses. That’s them in
the picture on the wall behind them too, actually, with their dad. 
Well, their late dad I suppose I should say.  He died of complications
after some surgery went wrong. But you can’t let one little mistake put
you off, can you, so I’m glad to see they’ve stuck with their medical
vocation.  Bye Lisa, Debbie!  What’s that?  No, I don’t think I’ve
got an appointment next week…?  Oh, I see – my wife made it?  OK, I
expect she was going to tell me all about it in due course.  See you
next week, then.  Bye
Trying for an arty wide-angle shot here.  Signs outside the local newsagent.  I can’t help thinking the newspapers aren’t quite as interesting, now that men aren’t in charge any more.  We used to have wars, crime, stuff like that.  Still, I suppose I mustn’t complain.

And finishing off at our lovely municipal park, named in commemoration of a very lovely American lady.  Just the place to spend an Easter Sunday afternoon, so if you don’t mind I’ll leave you now and head off for the pony stables.  They have a bridleway that goes right around the lake, and there’s nothing better than clip-clopping along on a spring ride with your beloved: the wind in your hair, the smell of freshly-mown grass rising up from your nosebag and the flick-flick-flick of her whip against your buttocks. It’s been winter too long.  Don’t you agree?****

* Yes, I know I’ve made the ‘muse striking me’ joke several times before.  I like it, OK? 

** Yes, I know.  I like that one too.

*** Well, OK, if you want to quibble, that particular place does actually exist. 

**** What? Well, OK, unless you live in the Southern hemisphere I suppose. Do you have to be so pedantic all the time?  Just read the bloody blog, why can’t you?  I spent ages in Photoshop with most of these pictures and I don’t know why I bothered, as I know that you’ll hate them because there’s no pictures of women.  What do you want – porn?  (Don’t answer that).

Now do you want to dance or do you want to bite?

nuffin on the telly

Pet play… of a sort.

Shame the marriage went downhill, after what sounds like such a good start.

There’s nothing she enjoys more than a good, long, hard safeword.
No, it didn’t.  But it keeps publishing its blog anyway, out of sheer wilfulness.

Chuck’s never struck me as the sensitive type; but yeah – probably best to ask.

At Her Majesty’s displeasure

And she’s actually having a lot more heterosexual sex than before the change, so it’s all going rather well.
 The wonderful Mistress Eleise, of course.  Do you need the link? I’m sure you’ve visited her site already, no?

Oh no, not Oliver.  I just don’t think we have anything in common, you know?
Hmmm… Maybe if she worked in metric?

Oh well.  On with the marital bliss, I suppose.

I’m usually in the corner at parties, myself.

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