Category: cane

Oral displeasure

I think it’s only fair to point out that this young lady has actually signed a Mistress-Slave agreement ruling out any humiliating D/S play in public.  But not with you.  Go on – don’t keep her waiting.

 

 

 

Or she could put yet another hood over that one.  My SO loves to wrap me in layer after layer of latex hood and we play ‘find the air-hole’, which is a bit like ‘pass the parcel’ but with a strict time limit.

 

 

 

Your feelings do matter, obviously.  Just not to her.  Or Daniel.


 

 

It’ll be fine.  Dr Franley’s patients rarely complain.

 

Don’t get into one of those Mars/Venus misunderstandings by interpreting her words literally, OK?  I mean, she wants a present tomorrow too, obviously.


 

 

 

 

 

 

Little man, you’re crying

 She knows why you’re blue.


Thank goodness (and her) for that.



I’ve always thought it odd that I am both her object and her subject.



When she talks of the ‘place’ that’ll do it, just think of a gleaming, modern medical facility, OK?  Not a dirty garage filled with rusty tools.  It’ll be easier that way.


Thank goodness for the invention of electricity – it’s a great way to save labour, or induce it depending on who’s holding the zapper.





One day your luck might run out.


Play-related stress

 

Don’t worry, sissy, you won’t have to stay there the whole day.  Just most of the day.

 

 

Oh dear, I can never think of what to wish for in these situations…  I suppose there’s always ‘world peace’.

 

 

 

Whoosh!



Her rod and staff… that’s the rod, you’re going to be be her staff.


I’m sure it’ll be a memorable honeymoon – but then, aren’t all honeymoons memorable, albeit in different ways?

 

More femdom stuff that’s out there and not much remarked upon: this talented chap (I’m assuming ‘chap’) draws things that are rather lovely if you’re into giantess fetish and possibly even if you are not.  He also reposts some vintage stuff which is reminiscent of the elegant and delightful Gibson Girls.

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.

 


 

Hers to keep

 

 

And of course there’s no rule that says you can’t use any twice.  Or even more often than that.


 

 

 

I expect Sasha will get the hang of it.  One excuse for a beating’s almost as good as another; it’s silly to get hung up on narrative consistency.  I never do – as readers of my stories will attest.

 

 

 

He’s probably thinking he’s not really up to moving like greased lightening, at his age.  But that’s the thing about femdom – you can always surprise yourself.

 

 

 

Subbie hear, subbie do.



Many submissive men get quite hung up on how wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, co-workers and so on will react to their fetish.  But the truth is, many of them just don’t care at all and haven’t the least interest in us.   I find it quite humiliating…. yum.

 

Simply frightful!

More tales of female domination from a more elegant era.


 

Oh dear, how very tiresome.




And when you’re competent at the basics, perhaps you could try your hand at felching?  I’ve heard it’s simply divine.




Mind you, they say being married is an education in itself.



Erm… yes, I actually think I do.  Very much.


One must simply find amusement where one can, when spending time in the colonies.  Of course, it’s important not to let standards slip – but I doubt Kitty has.



The love that dare not speak

 … without permission.


Perhaps you could write her a nice thank-you note while you’re wearing it.



No, they didn’t mention Rodney. I hope I don’t have to pay extra for him.



Just a soft little harmless thing.



When visting a French domme, once, I confused ‘quatorze’ (14) with ‘quarante’ (40).  The difference is actually very easy to remember, when the 26 ‘extras’ are laid on with full force.




She believes in having honest relationships with her clients.  Most dommes do. It must be awful for vanilla sex workers, having to pretend to like their clients and to enjoy their nasty desires.



The good old days

More images from those golden years before society went to the dogs.  When chaps went out to rule the empire with nothing more than a cleft stick, a good solid education thrashed into them at one of the better public schools and a memsahib with firm opinions about household management.

It’s more Downton domination.

Chaps back then weren’t supposed to cry in public, but you know I’m willing to bet that tears flowed from time to time in the privacy of the marital chamber, whenever men recalled their school years with the help of their loving wives.


She seems like rather a forward young lady, proposing a trip to the kinema (‘pictures’ indeed – and she a schoolmistress!) before she has even been properly introduced! Still, she seems to have some sound ideas in her head, so I suppose it’ll be all right.
I suppose a little fresh air while he was being thrashed never did a chap any harm.
Funny, really – after hating the floggings and humiliations inflicted at school, to find oneself married to a girl who likes nothing better than to apply the same methods.  It does make you wonder if there might be something in all that guff that Freud chappie writes, don’t you think?
I always thought there was something a bit rum about that stable boy with the long hair.  Tell you what – pay close atention to the noises he makes when he’s buggering you.  If he’s enjoying it too much, we might have a homosexual on our books – and I imagine the Police would like to be informed about that! 





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.


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