Enthralled

What a lovely word.  I am her thrall.


Happiest day of your life!  And don’t you forget it, you ungrateful little bastard, or she’ll give you something to be unhappy about!

 

It’s not just convicted sexists, either.  Carry the donor card, help someone to look fabulous after your death.










I’ve never liked spiders. Bitter acrid flavour and the legs get stuck between your teeth.










Looks fun.  And they give you a little souvenir bag of sugar at the end of the month.  Give it to your domme, the next time you book a normal session and thank your lucky stars it’s just fantasy play.










He found her through a card she’d put up in the local telegraphy office.


Shattered ever after


“My other daughter, Cinderella”, the merchant
gabbled, bowing low to the Prince and his party. A
haughty young blonde strode into the room, sat down in the armchair and
crossed her booted legs.  She stared with contempt at her father and step-sisters, huddled together against the back wall.  

“Well?” she demanded.  “Get on with your chores” and she watched them scurry from the room, stammering their apologies.


The Prince sank to his knees before her.  “May I?” he murmured, reaching out with a
trembling hand.  She
nodded curtly and the Prince slowly
unzipped her boot with his right hand, cradling the heel in his left. A moist,
warm miasma emerged as the loosened boot was gently lifted free.

“Sorry about the smell.  Been on my feet all day”, Cinderella
explained.

“It’s, erm… it’s no problem at all.” gasped the
Prince.   “You know, Lord Chamberlain, I think we don’t even
need to try the slipper. 
This is obviously the right pair of… pair of feet.” and he moved closer,
his face hovering just above the damp, stockinged foot. 

“Oh yes.  Yes: these are the feet.”

“Are you sure, your Majesty?” the Chamberlain
replied.  “They look a little on the
large side to -”

“Well then the slipper must have shrunk!”
snapped the prince, not taking his eyes from the foot he held so gently.

“Shrunk, Sire?” the Chamberlain replied, one eyebrow
raised.  “The
glass
slipper?”

The Prince turned on him in fury. 
“How dare you question your Prince! 
Arrest this man!  I shall decide
what to do with him later.”

“Perhaps a few years in the salt mines?” Cinderella suggested. “With hard labour? I’ve heard that can be quite
effective.”

The Prince looked up into her blue eyes in shock.  “That’s quite a harsh, erm… well, for a man in
his age
and condition…
I think…” he tailed off, noting a distinct pout coming over the lovely features
above him.

“Quite right, my dear, of course.” he continued.  “As you wish.”

Her restored smile seemed
to light up the room.  “And
we won’t be needing
that silly thing” she added, indicating the glass slipper with an elegant
finger.  The finger pointed towards a spot on the
floor, where the Prince placed it. 

Stand back”, she instructed.  And down
came Cinderella’s other, still-booted, foot shattering the slipper into ten
thousand iridescent shards.

“Oh dear” she smiled.  “So now I suppose whoever’s foot fits into that gets to be Queen?”, and the Prince raised the boot he was holding in shaking hands towards her gracefully-pointed toes.

And it was a perfect fit.

I am not a doormat

OK: that’s not strictly accurate: obviously I am a doormat. But I’m not just a doormat, you know?  I am also a foot-rest, a cup-holder, a draft excluder, a bookshelf end and a rather amusing vase for flowers.  Although no more than three of those things simultaneously.

It’s odd how sometimes the most sadistic individuals so often realise later that they weren’t cruel enough.  My SO has this problem all the time: you’d think she’d learn and stop being so lenient.

So… does that mean next week it’s my turn again?  No?  Oh.

There seems to be quite a lot of shared understanding in that room. Obviously some great teaching techniques being applied.

Lion?  Lover-boy?  Lady-killer?  Liposome?  Leprechuan?

Perhaps they could somehow transplant the ones from the real rapist?  After a fair trial and conviction, obviously.  Oh – he already lost them in the police station?  That’s unlucky.  Funny how often that happens… you’d think the police would take more care.




First footing

This is a British – mainly Scottish – custom, which might not be understood by readers from the rest of the world.  It refers to the first foot-worship session of the new year (or, in the rougher parts of Glasgow, the first ball-busting session of the new year).  

It is considered a great sign of good luck to first-foot a domme, having previously negotiated her complicated booking form and waited for several days wondering whether or not it would be appropriate to send a respectful reminder.  If granted an audience, and having sent the deposit at least a week before and a text confirming, on the day, the first-footer arrives precisely two minutes before the time of the appointment bringing gifts – sometimes Champagne, gifts of expensive lingerie or other stuff that she has identified on her wishlist (but not anything else) – and also, most crucially, an unsealed envelope stuffed with cash. 

Traditionally, the first-footer is greeted warmly by the domme, while stuttering in embarassment, and proceeds to a session in which she makes sure he gets at least some, but not all, of the rather random stuff he wrote about in his email or on her booking form. Foot massaging will take place in the last half hour or so, and she pretends he’s actually surprisingly good at it.  Then the session is brought to a close, in perfect time to finish on the dot, even though she did not look once at a clock. He gets dressed again, offers to help clean up and is politely declined, and makes stilted conversation for a bit, wondering why on earth he was so nervous when he arrived.  He then heads off into the night, thinking it a bit weird to be walking among vanilla people with his sore bottom, feeling edgy and decadent, and wondering what they would say if they knew.


So… yeah, OK, it’s not all that different from a regular foot-worship session, to be honest.  Unless I forgot to mention the haggis?


Anyway, new year same old… oh, I’ve even done that joke before.  Ninth year of the blog!  Bloody hell.  Don’t any of us have anything better to do?

Kinksters might occasionally be surprised by how ready vanilla folks might be to indulge them in their fetish.  I think it’s fair to say, for example, that every girl I’ve ever had a date with has totally been into the idea of chastity play and orgasm denial.  In fact, I don’t recall any of them permitting me any sort of sexual activity whatsoever.  Guess there’s more kink out there than we assume, huh?
She doesn’t get a lot of repeat business.  That’s why she has to charge so much.

It’s important to understand that it’s not gay to give another man a foot massage. Or a blow job. 
Wag wag wag wag wag…
You can do anything but don’t come on her brown suede boots.










May the Lady make us truly thankful

‘Squeakity’ indeed!  I’d like to point out that I’m actually speaking perfectly normally, just in a very high pitch and with a lot of hysterical shrieking and pleading.

My SO found out once that I’d taken out a book on lock-picking.  She over-reacted completely – as usual! – and after a long and sometimes difficult evening ‘discussing’ it, I had to take it back the very next day.  The librarian was quite pleased: she said there was a long waiting list for it.  All men.

I’ve occasionally wondered what I’d do with all the money, if I won the lottery. I suppose if it ever actually happened, she’d tell me soon enough, though.

It’s perfectly normal. Don’t worry about a thing: you have a long life ahead of you.
She always finds it quite upsetting when this happens.  She’s actually a very nice person – I don’t know why she stays with him.




Don’t worry her pretty little head about it

Because she really doesn’t care.  Just suffer in silence, unless she prefers you to suffer noisily.



In case any readers are thinking of trying this, removal of male sexual organs should only ever be carried out under the supervision of a trained medical professional, OK?  The shooting club from where the photo was taken always has a qualified paramedic on standby. So they can enjoy their sport, without any serious health risks.

Mmm….  You wanted a cruel and sexy findomme, right?

Anna’s always too soft on them. Look at all that puppy fat he’s put on too!  Soon sort that out.

It’s funny how many men say they want their wives to take charge but as soon as they get thrown out naked and without a penny, start whining about how that wasn’t what they wanted.
The girls at my school used to play skipping games. In fact, my first proper beating was with a skipping rope doubled over and soaked in water. Happy days. 


Carry on screaming

Not necessarily a British cultural reference, merely a description of what I do while my SO takes a couple of minutes’ break to make herself a cup of tea.


Still, for those of you in the know, it was one of the better ones.  “We’re the police – or layabouts”.  And of course Fenella Fielding.  I certainly don’t mind if she smokes.

And speaking of being British… I mean, this isn’t a political blog, you come here to get away from all that stuff, but…. but…  but… what the fuck?  Really!  Huh? I mean, what the fucking fuck?  Look at this mess!  How can anybody seriously think men should have the vote?


Rant over.  Let’s have something decent, sensible and sadistic…



Actually, I find binocular vision quite useful for ironing pleated skirts, but that’s not a huge part of my life – three, four hours a week tops – so I suppose she might as well go ahead.

What a scare!  Thank goodness you were there to call the ambulance, as soon as she collapsed.  You did have to move out of the corner without permission, though, so obviously that’ll have to be dealt with, when she’s back on her feet.  Still: she’s getting the best possible care, and you’re scrubbing out toilets, so everything’s OK.

I used to have a problem with premature ejaculation, but it’s under control now.  Matter of fact, last month I was even a few days late – she was on a business trip.

Don’t worry – they have separate fire drills when they practise evacuating the slaves.  Particularly between November and February.


Actually, I once went out with someone whose Mum had worked as a cleaner all her life.  When I finally plucked up the courage to tell her that I get my rocks off mincing around in a little maid dress pretending to be forced into humiliating cleaning tasks, she was a little offended at first.  But we talked it through – and when I said she could tie me to a bench and beat me, she decided she was OK to give it a go after all.  And do you know, she had a really good time? And there I thought she was pure vanilla!  I’ve never had a session partner be so… enthusiastic.  Even made me sign a little piece of paper promising not to have her arrested for assault, before letting me up and walking out of my life forever.   




Superior judgement

She didn’t ask what Tony thought of it, of course. He’d have just the same opinion as Jane, anyway.

Don’t worry, if you haven’t brought one she’s probably got something you’ll be able to use to become really sorry.
They had to lift the ban on cruel and unusual punishments, of course.


They seem very nice, don’t they?
Behind the scenes, the Avengers movies are a lot more femdom than they seem. I’ll just mention that Iron Man is not the only one who wears a rigid metal shell, and leave it at that, I think.


I can still hear you saying

… you would never break the chain.


Oh, not again…

Do you know, I think I might be so full after all that, I don’t think I could face a dessert? But fortunately, no one cares what I think.

I’ve suffered from a few sexual complaints in my time.
Well, it’s hardly my fault.  I mean – I just glanced at her. For two seconds – three, tops!







It’s tough, being a responsible adult.  So I’ve heard.


Thigh five

… which is obviously a made-up phrase.  Oddly, though, there are many two-word phrases in the English language beginning with the word ‘thigh’ and every single one of them is erotic. Strange but true. 

Unlike, say, the words ‘rancid’ or ‘viscous’, unless you’re really weird and we don’t like weirdos on this blog, thank you very much.


You can do anything*, but don’t wank on my black suede boots. 

* No you can’t.





You might imagine that this young lady is headed for a stellar career as a professional dominatrix, but as things turned out she actually became the head of Ryanair’s Customer Complaints department.  So there you go.

Dave’s need is greater than yours. Well.. his cock certainly is, anyway.
It’s OK as long as I keep my mind off all thoughts sexual
Ocasionally, when I have an idea for a caption, I’ll worry that one of the many, many other femdom caption sites on the Internet will already have done it. This one, not so much.


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