Category: bad poetry

Fettered access

The control collar was going on sooner or later, anyway. Married life will all be done ‘the hard way’ so why not the wedding ceremony too?
Don’t worry, you’re not taking advantage of the situation. You have permission to pay her double, too.
Everyone’s a critic.
Ooh – you’ll be the last one! I guess that makes you special. And they’ll probably try to make you last, too.
She’ll be OK. Everyone’s agreed there aren’t enough women in high-profile STEM jobs, nor enough men in menial and degrading positions.

Secure relationships

Of course, as Governess Harding herself likes to emphasise (and she really can be remarkably emphatic), the support she provides for married couples can’t replace the work the couples themselves need to do, to put her principles into practice in their day to day lives.  But she can provide a solid foundation of terror, on which a lasting relationship can be built.

 

 

 

 

Many teenage boys just think they can masturbate as often as they like and it doesn’t matter – but really, they’re just storing up problems for themselves, if they ever get into a properly-managed romantic relationship.

 

 

If he finds it any consolation, the things they will be doing to him will indeed bring sexual pleasure to both of them at the same time.

 

 

The number’s
important, because obviously the ‘U’ will change to a ‘C’ at some point
and any staff member can access the records and alter the ‘R’ to an ‘E’
should she feel it appropriate to do so.

 

I use names, though, including the awesome and glorious name Eleise de Lacy.*  It’s an honour to do so.

 

 

Original here.  I’ve heard that Doktor Soos is considered politically incorrect these days.  I hope this goes some way to redressing the balance.  This too.

* Even though I am not quite sure how to pronounce it. Eleeza or El-eye-ssa?

 

 

And the Government shall be upon her shoulders

Sir Reginald Horner

Knelt in the corner

Worried about his career.

He feared he’d be late

For the Budget debate

But his Nanny was keeping him here.

In the House, with disdain

He’d rise up, to explain

That an increase in Health Service pay

While undoubtedly right,

Was not on, in the light

Of the fiscal position today.

Nanny Strict, with her feet up

Read, over her tea cup

Her paper: the politics page.

She was thinking of days

Lost in memory’s haze

 As a staff-nurse, on minimum wage.

 

So she picked up her tawse

To prepare for a course

In arithmetic: “Stretch out your arm!”

“Take a nurse’s base pay (thwack!)

Then take taxes away (thwack!)

And you’re left with a hot stinging palm!”

“Here’s another quick sum

Take one fat fleshy bum

Add twelve strokes from a long rattan cane

Then if feeling contrition

You can check your addition

And add up the budget again.”

 

All the MPs were stunned

By Sir Reggie’s new fund

To pay nurses twice what they now earn.

Then he winced as he sat

And they wondered at that

What had led to this sudden U-turn?

“I just felt nurses’ pain”

He explained, in the rain

Interviewed, by the TV and press.

“This award, you might call

It… a ‘tribute’, that’s all

I could not sit at ease giving less!”

The rest is just history:

Whatever the mystery

That changed his decision back then.

All the experts agree

 That this speech was the key

To his new house in Downing St: ten.

 

As PM he has access

To experts on taxes,

Defence, Home and Foreign Affairs.

But he likes to defer

For the last word, to… ‘her’:

To his ‘Special Adviser’ upstairs.

Now every decision’s

Thrashed out with precision:

The smack of firm government’s here.

Yet bad luck for the Right

(Who should cherish the sight):

It’s the Nanny State that they so fear.

 


 

Furious feminine


It’s not that ironic.  He strongly disapproved of it while it was being done to him, too – more so than ever, if anything.










“We” did, although only only one of us did most of the actual talking, as I recall it.








You might want to refer her to your own ‘FAM’ – that’s ‘Frantic Appeals for Mercy’


The simply divine Mistress Heather.  I for one would love to kiss the air above that foot tattoo, and even closer if allowed.




Thank goodness she realised you needed to be locked in chastity too.  How awful it would be to be locked in a prison cell for months without any ability to suffer the erotic frisson of enforced chastity at the same time.








She also has a carving knife.


Begging her pardon

I’m ready for a fuck, too.  Have been for several years, now.  Oh well.

If they win this one, they’ll be up against the winners of the boys school competition, in the final.  I think they’ll probably give the boys quite a hard time, don’t you?

Aww… sweet.
 This is from the excellent Men are Slaves site, which in addition to the pay site identified on the photo, has a remarkably generous tumblr with free samples.

You only live once, I say.

She could try asking him after the session.


A poem what I wrote

As you all know, when the muse strikes me (and she frequently does, because she’s like that) I have been known to write poetry.

I suspect none of you like it much, but I don’t really care because the male majority of you are masochists and probably deserve to suffer by reading bad poetry, while I live in hope that the few female readers might be so angered that they resort to abuse in the comments…. mmmm.

So, anyway, here is a silly little poetic parody.  Of a kid’s poem.  I’m not going to use the name of the author, as I don’t want children or anyone looking for things for children to find the blog.  Oh all right, well it sounds like “Dokter Soos”, OK? 

I mean, you either know the poem or you don’t, and if you don’t you won’t like it anyway, so…  Original is here.

 Did I ever …?

 

When I was quite young
And small-cocked (to my shame)
I met a wise domme (quite like Gloria Brame)
And she told me the following startling fable,
While strapping my hands to the legs of the table.

“When you’re feeling the fear

When you’re beaten and cold

And your safeword is near

You should do as you’re told!

Just tell yourself, cuckie, you’re really quite lucky

Some people are much more

Oh ever so much more

So much, muchly much more unlucky than you!”



Be grateful you’re not in the cruel Czech Republic
With Madame Kat’rina, performing her sub trick
Up there on the stage, helping out with the magic
With consequences that for the sub are quite tragic.

She fastens the box, round your balls and your cock
And closes the lid, so it clicks in the lock.
Then she taps her wand thrice, while the viewers look on
And opens the lid – and your balls are both gone!
She smiles and bows gratefully to the applause
As you scream out in pain in your gag, for of course
You’ve seen the trick sides, and the knife that resides
In the hollow, to cut you when Madame decides
Leaving you – well… with a loss, with a lack
And none of her magic is bringing it back.


 

Think she works you too hard?
Think of poor Andy Lard
He has to dig holes, ‘neath the whip of a guard
And when her shift’s ended
His task’s not suspended
The night guard comes out, and she sees what her friend did
–
The holes with their earth piles, built up right beside ‘em
She thinks they’d look neater, with earth back inside them!
And laughingly flicking her taser to ‘ten’
She orders poor Andy to fill them again.
 
So think of that, cuckie,
Remember you’re lucky
Some people are much more unlucky than you.

 
 

Oh the jobs people work at! Out east near Southend
A young toilet slave, nicknamed Harry U-bend
Is strapped to the floor, his hands tight by his side,
With a rubber ring holding his mouth gaping wide
His job is to lie there for hour after hour
Alongside the bath and the basin and shower
Until she appears and she sits down above
 – this lady to whom he has pledged all his love –
And soon she starts reading, and sometimes starts humming
And Harry – poor Harry – knows just what is coming
I’ll spare you the details, they’re messy and smelly
He swallows it all like it’s ice cream with jelly!
And shortly thereafter, it’s time for the wipe
And the tissue is also thrown into the pipe
That’s plumbed into Harry – he’s forced then to swallow
And gulp it all down, with a tampon to follow
(but only once monthly, to Harry’s relief
As he finds that the little threads catch in his teeth).
And every so often some friends come to tea…

You’re not U-bend Harry, you’re lucky – you see?


 

And poor Manny Morti
At school at age forty!
His teacher, Miss Bircham, is stubborn and haughty
When he came to her, she said she’d teach him by rote
All the poems of Java, word perfect to quote
But he doesn’t speak Javan and so he’s still learning
Right there at his desk with his bottom all burning
And there he will stay, with no breaks, not a breather
For his teacher, Miss Bircham ,speaks no Javan either!

 

 

Think your clothes are too tight?
Try the town of Van Krite
Where the men are tight-laced every Saturday night.
Their wives like to dress them in clothes that compress them
To punish, humiliate, crush and oppress them
And this works just swell, though for men it’s sheer hell
So they’re meek and obey, and they never rebel
So each night on the Sunday, by then barely breathing
They plead for release from their cramped awkward sheathing
And by Monday morning, they’re free to go out
And work at their jobs, while their wives lounge about

From Monday for six days they labour away
Returning on at last on the punishment day
They hand over their earnings, every last cent
With all the receipts for the little they’ve spent
Then sometimes they’ll get just a few with the cane,
Before it’s the time for tight-lacing again!
 
So…


Be thankful, my cuckie, you’re really quite lucky!

 

 

Some people are much more…
 
 
 .
..oh ever so much more…
 

 

 
… so much muchly much more…

 

…unlucky than you!