Stories and pictures themed around female domination and male subjugation and servitude. Unsuitable for children, for alpha males, for hard-core practitioners with an interest in the politics of bdsm and the mechanics of complicated rope work. Of interest to perverts like me, basically.
Once again, it’s time to look back on the more elegant femdom of times past. One of this blog’s earliest and least-popular series, continued here out of sheer stubbornness and an almost total lack of self-awareness: Jane Austen femdom. With a few anachronistic wobbles of a hundred years or so in either direction from the divine Jane’s own period.
* Yes, I know Jane Austen was pre-Victorian. Do pay attention: as the paragraph at the start noted, the actual time period featured here varies. All posts set before 1910 or so** are labelled as ‘Jane Austen‘ (indeed, many are introduced as featuring ‘Hot chicks in empire-line dresses’ even when the hot chicks featured are in fact attired in the fashion of an entirely different era).
** Posts after 1910 (and before about 1960) being labelled ‘Downton Domination‘. But you knew that, right?
Fortunately their arguments are usually quite short. She’s very sensitive, poor thing – hates it when there’s disagreement in her marriage.
Her husband’s very sensitive too, which is just the way she likes it.
“This slave is so privileged to have the honour of directing your divine footsteps, Mistress, and ventures most humbly to suggest that Mistress’s perfect feet should first take a left (by which is meant her left, needless to say, not the left from the perspective of this worthless insect), then…” etc etc.
Apparently one of his favourite maledom fantasies concerns ‘caning to real tears’. So he’s in for a real treat today because that’s definitely on the agenda.
Just to be clear: she’s fairly unlikely to hold with that sort on nonsense after the wedding day, either. And there are other words for which you’d be wise not to dispute her definition: ‘husband’, for instance.
To celebrate Bastille Day, let’s have some more Regency femdom. The tumbrels and republican principles of the Revolution itself do not lend themselves well to the theme (although I always felt a vague kinship with the sans-culottes) but on the other side of the Channel, the natural order was maintained.
Of course, these are merely modern ‘takes’ on the period. Fashions in femdom at the time were rather different and would seem strange to us today. Humiliation play, for example, might involve acting out being introduced at a ball to a duchess and incorrectly addressing her as if she were a mere viscountess, or using the wrong fork for the fish and being gently and gigglingly admonished (or – worse – subjected to a sustained pretence by one’s dinner companions not to have noticed! Oh, the shame). A ‘forced bi’ scenario would typically end with some roleplaying the inevitable appearance before local magistrates, followed by branding or even transportation to Australia* for committing unnatural acts. And of course the gimp suits of the time were made of wool or coarse cloth -unthinkable today but they knew no better.
* Generally regarded as a hard limit by most scene players today – and indeed very few dommes are even prepared to try it, although I understand Mistress Servalan of Sydney has ocasionally put on demonstrations at BDSM conventions.
Look at that… she gets to have a mug of rich, steaming coffee… and Raoul’s coming round later, too.
Things just haven’t been the same between us since Humpy Hippo moved in.
If you like Humpy Hippo, then you might also like Mr Floppyears because it’s basically the same caption.
I remember as a child running excitedly to the door to let the District Disciplinary Officer in, while Dad grovelled for mercy at my Mum’s feet. These days you can order a beating on-line, but it’s not the same.
It’s silly to criminalise sexism. Men are better than women at lots of things and it shouldn’t be a crime to say so. Hard labour, for a start: we’re really good at that.
Right. It’s about time all this nonsense stopped – I’m going to put my foot down. In fact, I’m going to stamp my foot – hard. Several times. And I’m going to to have a proper tantrum. That should show her she can’t treat me like this.
Their faces usually fall again when she goes on to inform them that she will therefore proceed to the next thrashing, for the next item on her list.
I once asked my SO if she could feminise me, but she just laughed and said she’d love to, but I don’t have the IQ to make a convincing woman.
She cares a lot.
By the way, not ‘found femdom’ in any meaningful way, but over the break I’ve been watching episodes of 90s British sitcom Game On and perving ever so slightly to the lovely Samantha Janus and especially her relationship with the character Martin. I watched it occasionally at the time it was broadcast and it’s as weird and spectacularly depressing as ever, as the basic set-up is that Matt – a neurotic, agoraphobic narcissist – rents out rooms in his flat to Martin (a wimp) and Mandy (a goddess!). Martin is a virgin desperate for sex, while Mandy is frustrated with her life and hates herself for sleeping with so many men. But (da-dum), the only men she absolutely will not have sex with are the other two characters. With Matt, she refuses and pushes him away but with Martin it obviously never even occurs to her to have sex with him. There’s a lovely scene in this episode (intended to be the first ever, although they varied the order of broadcast), in which her latest boxer boyfriend takes up her whole bed, so she snuggles up with Martin, who lies there with an erection the whole desperate night. Here, starting 16.22. Ahhh…
So, yeah, not in any way femdom. Except that Samantha Janus is quite literally a goddess and I for one intend to found a religion in her honour.
She is notionally Samantha Womack these days, but I’ll be hunting down Mr so-called Womack and forcing the blasphemer to change his name to Janus, as is only right and proper, so don’t worry about that.
Never quite sure what The Who were complaining about in that song. Looks to me like an idyllic childhood.
You can earn free hair grips and stuff when you spend money too – pretty cool, huh?
She tries so hard… but usually fails.
That’s a bit unfair. I once told my SO that I could do any job a woman can do, so she arranged an internshp at a brothel, giving blow-jobs to oil rig workers on shore leave. To be honest, I wasn’t quite as good at it as the girls but I had plenty of clients once they priced me at a 95% discount.
Yeah, how about it Dave? Equal pay for equal work. Stand up for yourself and be a man, for once. Or ‘you go, girl!’. Whatever.
Our pillory’s my special place. I can spend hours at a time in there, not really doing anything in particular, you know?