Asking for it – Page 2 – Contemplating the divine

Femdom fantasies

(Occasionally I need a title like that to keep the search engines interested, I feel).

Lucky Andy’s getting a freebie!

The sexy Mina Thorne in a menareslaves video.

She is good at dealing with feelings of guilt.

It’s quite a common condition. Thank goodness they’ve found a cure.

Let’s hope Steve’s nice. And not too fat.

Interestingly, I find the stress often starts before I’m put into the position.

Hymn to her

And she will always carry on

It’s been a while since I did this, but I believe that you begin with the examination of conscience. Oh, and penance is involved somewhere down the line. Quite definitely.

Hmm. What makes me think the answer by the end of the evening will turn out to have been ‘both’?

As far as I know, there aren’t any countries that provide constitutional rights to have a tantrum. So you’d better just bend over.

Tantrums featuring a lot today. New husbands are prone to them. Experienced husbands, less so. You’re about to become a lot more experienced, by the look of this! Many happy returns of the day.

And although she seems to be looking away, it’s probably best not to pout when she’s given you this information, if you still have hopes of next month too.

Disciplined loving

She’s right, you know. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. And in any case, a man should fear his wife, I think, don’t you?

Actually, that’s a bit surprising. Because I seem to remember her saying with a giggle once that she’d heard one of her new freinds had a soundproofed rape room in his basement. Oh well… maybe that was someone else.

Think fast. The tip of the whip can move at over 100 mph.

This is Lady Victoria from Cruella (and from a long time ago

– thank you for the adolescent memories, Mr Rogue-Hagen and Ladies).

We all say things we regret, from time to time. It’s part of married life.

That’s a relief. Let’s hope she ticked the ‘anaesthetic’ option. She can be so forgetful.

A service of worship

More femdom captions…captioned images of female domination. Dominatrix… or Herrin, Maitresse, Dominadora or Padrona. That sort of photos: of cruel dominas, dommes, mistresses and their male slaves, submissives, subs.

(Yes, I know you know all of that already. But search engines don’t, poor lambs).

Or indeed speak.

You see, it’s not actually a mail-order bride service. It’s for mail-order husbands.

She’s obviously know. Most of the girls in the office know all about your, ermm… little problem.

He doesn’t take up much room.

Just a little light spanking. Then the heavy paddle. So much more fun, on the front.

Story: Pride comes before

In retrospect, Mark wondered how he could have been so
stupid. He’d got carried away. By that book – that stupid book.

He’d been given it by a stranger, shoved into his hand
without a word or a look, just a rapidly disappearing figure in the crowd. And he had the book.

“I am proud to be a
Man!” it was called. It was about
male equality. Equality with women!
It had taken him a while to really understand that. But the book said that men could be the
equals of women – were their equals
if only they knew it. Men didn’t have to
be spanked. Men could choose when to
have orgasms. Men shouldn’t have to wear
sexy revealing clothes for the pleasure of women. On and on – over five hundred badly-printed
pages, bound together with big metal staples, presumably from some kind of
underground press. At first, he thought
it weird and repulsive in its strangeness.
But he found it compelling and read on and on and on – this book, hidden
in the ironing basket where he knew she’d never have reason to look. You are
her equal it said. You are strong. You have dignity. Stand up and say “I am proud to be a man!”

Then one day he came to the fateful section. “Men will never be liberated from oppression,
until women are liberated from oppressing” it declared. It wanted women to come to accept men as
equals. Talk to your wife about male liberation. It said. Read
this book together.

He hadn’t, for a long time.
But he knew that if any husband had a chance at converting his wife to
the cause, he did. Alice was a sweet,
kind person, only seven years older than him, and she treated him well. She whipped him, of course, when he deserved
it, but as a duty not a pleasure. He had
his own allowance to buy clothes. She
usually let him come, once she’d had her own orgasms. Under the influence of that book – that mad
terrible book – he’d half convinced himself that she was a secret male
liberationist already.

So he spoke to her.
And she listened quietly. And she
asked to see the book. She listened
carefully as he turned the pages, and showed her how it demonstrated the cruel
tyranny of women over men, and spoke of a better world. After a while she stopped him and asked just
one question – whether he’d spoken to any of her friends’ husbands about
this. She seemed relieved that he had
not, but asked him to close the book and stop reading at that point. She had taken the book, and gone to phone her
mother.

And then she’d come back and explained how she felt about
this. She did not shout, or threaten, or
punish. She simply spoke, calmly and
steadily, about the importance of household order, about the betrayal that his
secret reading represented to her, about her regrets at how laxly she had
treated him, and determination to correct this terrible error she had made.

And now they do read the book together.

Every Saturday, the book is set on a low lecturn that she
has bought specially for this purpose.
Mark, naked, is tied securely over a whipping bench, so that his face is
just above its open pages. He reads a
page, aloud. It is turned over, usually
with the tip of a cane, then he reads the other side, aloud. She never says anything in response. Once both sides have been read, she begins:
sometimes with strong, deliberate strokes, other times with a flurry of
flicking whippy actions. The whip is
mainly applied to his buttocks and thighs, but occasionally she tends also to
his shoulders, his calves, or whips around to reach the front of his thighs. All of these areas are a mass of weals and
welts, criss-crossed on top of one another.

While his wife is whipping him in this way, Mark must come
up with and carefully articulate five separate, cogent reasons why whatever has
been stated on that page of the book is wrong.
Sometimes this is easy, as the false ideas can simply be countered one
by one, but sometimes the book will be developing a single mad idea of male
equality over several pages, and to come up with five different refutations of
the words on the page can be difficult.
Particularly when Mark is howling in pain, and fighting to gasp out his
carefully constructed arguments in favour of female supremacy.

But it continues until he succeeds in producing five reasons
for treating the ideas on that particular page with the contempt that they
deserve. No matter how long it takes,
eventually he finds five reasons. And
then the whipping ends. She reaches
down, and neatly tears out the page – by now often unreadably stained with
tears and spittle, and he takes it in his mouth, chews one hundred times and swallows
it. That piece of madness has gone, and
only the simple good sense of wifely discipline remains.

Then she usually takes a break – sometimes as short as the
time to have a cup of tea, sometimes as long as a trip to the shops or even the
cinema. Once she visited a friend at
this point in the process, and returned the next day. He remains in place, of course. When she takes a long break, she is careful
to cover the next page with a cloth, so that he cannot rehearse the five
arguments he will deploy next time. For
shorter breaks she does not bother. He
generally finds that it is only under the direct influence of the whip that he
can really appreciate the incoherence and stupidity of the book’s ideas, in any
case. But eventually she returns, and they
do another page. Most Saturdays, they do
three, sometimes four.

Mark has had many opportunities to regret his actions, of
course. He particularly regrets that the
book is so long. They recently reached
the first anniversary of this new regime, and are still less than halfway
through the book. He would one day like
to meet the authors of the book. He
would like to see them bent over this same whipping bench, receiving the same
treatment that he is receiving. And when
they were striped and sore, their backsides ridged and bloody from floggings
applied on top of floggings, when their mouths were bone dry from screaming
hopeless pleadings for mercy, when they start with fear at the merest sound of
Alice’s movements, that could foreshadow an agonising stroke. Then, Mark thought, then he would ask them a
question.

“How proud do you feel right now, to be a man?”

Readers with an interest in the peculiar doctrines of male liberation (or “men’s lib”) might be interested in this, this and perhaps also this. Although, honestly, I can’t imagine how anyone could take this stuff seriously.

Beneath her gaze

…it’s where I like to be.

(I’ve made a small change to the blog, making it wider (less blank space on the left, more room for larger pictures. It works on my computer and on IE, but let me know if it doesn’t work for you. I’ve made the pictures larger in a few of the posts below, and of course for all future ones, but I’m not going to go back over older posts, so in some of them the pictures look a bit small and lonely. Still, you can’t have everything, as I am reminded on a daily basis.)

So, now you know. Don’t pout after a beating. Oh – and no smug little smiles either, you know how she hates that. Just try to keep those rules in mind.

As if it wasn’t already embarassing enough being the only man at a lesbian wedding.

Try to think calm thoughts. Getting all panicky and upset at the thought of imminent brain damage or death just doesn’t help anyone, OK?

Actually, she’s going to hang it from the same rack as the tawse, the paddle and the cane anyway, so there’s a bit of a clue right there.

Of course, the dogs are trained just to restrain the quarry, not to hurt him. They seize his trouser legs hard, and they hold on until the ladies arrive at the scene. Only then – and only when given the word – will they go for his throat.

No blog post today

Because I will be in North London, once more contemplating the Divine.

And probably atoning for a few things I’ve done since the last time I was in Her presence, too.