Even a highly professional operation like Contemplating the Divine gets it wrong
sometimes. As this blog is more than ten years old, I thought it
might be fun to open the vaults and find a few of the captions and images that
ended up on the cutting room floor – when things didn’t go according to plan!
Creating a captioned image involves bringing together lots of different things:
the photo, the characters, the situation, the witty plot twist and, of course,
the grammar to keep Tom Allen at bay. It’s a difficult balancing act,
requiring great skill to produce a polished finished product, so it’s no surprise
an incompetent little twerp like me never succeeds in that. Even churning out the tired,
derivative and shoddy captioned images that usually adorn these posts, though, there’s
much that can go wrong… as we shall see.
But the director didn’t say cut…
Now, our first example today shows how even the most professional performers can get it
wrong. A castration shoot, obviously. I can’t recall the planned caption,
maybe it was something to do with him asking for all those weights to be removed
as quickly as possible. Anyway, a professional submissive model down
there, coping manfully (i.e. squealing his little head off) with the weights on his genitals, self-same genitals
feeling the razor-sharp edge of a pair of professional bolt-cutters, wielded by
a beautiful lady from Cruella. Proper bolt-cutters, mind – beautifully
made so that a smooth and easy pressure on the handles translates through the
power of physics and leverage ito an unstoppable pressure as the blades
remorselessly close… just the thing to give our readers a little thrill, in
the safety of their darkened bedrooms.
A perfect set-up, you’ll surely agree. So what went wrong? Well,
just at the moment this picture was taken, just when the caption was about to be
added to the finished product, a low-flying RAF training flight created a sonic
boom up and down the remote valley where the shoot was taking place, the poor
lady jumped out of her skin and… the rest was history. Or biology perhaps…
rather messy biology too.
It was no one’s fault. Everyone was as sympathetic as they could be.
The fighter jet pilot was horrified when she found out, the cameraman did his
best to help, the Cruellan lady was… OK, she wasn’t enormously sympathetic if
I’m being entirely honest, but she did mutter ‘Soz’ as he was taken off in the
ambulance. The shoot wasn’t a complete write off: I actually managed to
get some rather gruesome captioned images done,
but so far my innate decency and a profound desire not to be arrested have
prevented me posting them. And don’t worry: the guy is still a guy, you
know? Still very much a man. Since the Gender Recognition Act was passed,
all he had to do was self-declare as a male and so he is treated as a fully
functional man for all legal purposes. Almost all, anyway. So…
just one of those things, I guess.
Thrills and spills
Ah, now this one was my fault, I am afraid. Very much my fault. I
apologised to the lady concerned and still do, on a regular basis. The skirt was
a write-off, the shoot was abandoned… what can I say? Fortunately, my SO
has since come up with a solution to prevent this happening ever again.
Way around wrong
So… the shoot has gone off perfectly, the images of the lovely ladies and
slug-like men are all saved on the encrypted hidden drive and a caption has been
created. Nothing left to go wrong, right? Well… you’ve still got to get
the caption onto the right image. In the two pictures below, someone (with
a name beginning with S) didn’t manage to accomplish even that simple
task. Two pictures, two captions, Servitor – and you had one job!
Well, this mix-up resulted in not one but two captioned images that fell
well below this blog’s normal standards of coherence and had to be
abandoned. For which the management can only offer Servitor’s heartfelt
The Snitch, her Teacher, the Maitresse and her Lover
Now, the pair of photos below tell the sorry tale of a failed photoshoot that – for once – was most definitely the fault of the ladies and not the author of this blog. Everything had been arranged very carefully for a photoshoot with the above title that would have cemented this blog’s place as the number one destination for anyone interested in strict schoolmistress femdom. The script was elaborate, true, but you might expect that professionals would be able to cope with that. I won’t go through it in detail, but it involved a schoolgirl whose complaint had led to my being brought in to see the Headmistress, a nymphomaniac lesbian French teacher, a class teacher and of course the Head herself, all involved in a complex sequence of humiliation and discipline that ended with my being forced – forced humiliatingly – to masturbate before them all, kneeling on the floor. Yum.
What went wrong, you ask? I might ask ‘what didn’t?’. The schoolgirl turned out to be more of a lesbian nympho than the lesbian nympho character, they all got ‘interested’ in each other, someone found a very large bottle of gin and they all got quite interested in that and pretty soon everyone (everyone female, that is) was too drunk to be safely in charge of a cane, kit off and fucking like rabbits.
So: nothing very femdom came of it unless you count my cleaning up the vomit afterwards, it and I seriously considered not paying them the full fee but sadly there are downsides to being a submissive when it comes to financial bargaining with four beautiful women, even when they are badly hung-over. I present, for the historical record, the two photos that just about manage to reflect the theme of this blog, before the whole thing went sideways.
Hot cross bunny
Now this one was… oh, do you know, even after all these years I can’t really bring myself to talk about this one? The memories are too painful. I thought I was ready but… just move on, move on. She was amazing, though: so professional.
Ah, now as you can tell from the picture, the lovely lady below turned up to the photoshoot having definitely not read the memo about what side of BDSM this blog celebrates! The photo below is taken just when she, in her Gorean slave position, notices that I too am in a Gorean slave position and as we both think we’re supposed to be following Gorean speech rules, neither can do much about it!
After an hour or two the impasse was broken and we had a lovely talk. I don’t know many female submissives (I find the whole concept a bit weird to be honest) but she was really nice. She was very gentle and I could tell she didn’t really like the idea of hurting me, but we got to talking and she had an idea for a kind of ‘worm turns’ scene where I’m a male dom (let’s just skip over that bit: it was less than two minutes in the final photoshoot and I can only say I was no more convincing than you might imagine) and she’s playing the sub and she’s on her knees and just about to take me in her mouth when she suddenly decides to turn the tables, and then we get into nice healthy femdom play. Just before we were about to start, she suddenly remembered something and asked if instead of being some generic dom being sucked off, could I be ‘Master Paul’ from Luton who wanted to come in her hair. It seemed oddly specific but she insisted so I gave it a go and – boy! For a subbie she certainly knew how to inflict pain! I got one of the most brutal beatings I’ve ever experienced. So it worked out OK in the end.
There’s a funny post-script actually. Just two weeks after this photo-shoot, I read about this guy called Paul Evans who was found beaten to death in a lay-by on the Luton by-pass. He had semen in his hair (his own, goodness only knows how he’d managed it).
Amazing coincidence, huh? But it’s probably just another one of those things. Most things are.