caption – Page 64 – Contemplating the divine

Out-takes

Even a highly professional operation like Contemplating the Divine gets it wrong
sometimes. As this blog is more than ten years old, I thought it
might be fun to open the vaults and find a few of the captions and images that
ended up on the cutting room floor – when things didn’t go according to plan!

Creating a captioned image involves bringing together lots of different things:
the photo, the characters, the situation, the witty plot twist and, of course,
the grammar to keep Tom Allen at bay. It’s a difficult balancing act,
requiring great skill to produce a polished finished product, so it’s no surprise
an incompetent little twerp like me never succeeds in that. Even churning out the tired,
derivative and shoddy captioned images that usually adorn these posts, though, there’s
much that can go wrong… as we shall see.

But the director didn’t say cut…

Now, our first example today shows how even the most professional performers can get it
wrong. A castration shoot, obviously. I can’t recall the planned caption,
maybe it was something to do with him asking for all those weights to be removed
as quickly as possible. Anyway, a professional submissive model down
there, coping manfully (i.e. squealing his little head off) with the weights on his genitals, self-same genitals
feeling the razor-sharp edge of a pair of professional bolt-cutters, wielded by
a beautiful lady from Cruella. Proper bolt-cutters, mind – beautifully
made so that a smooth and easy pressure on the handles translates through the
power of physics and leverage ito an unstoppable pressure as the blades
remorselessly close… just the thing to give our readers a little thrill, in
the safety of their darkened bedrooms.

A perfect set-up, you’ll surely agree. So what went wrong? Well,
just at the moment this picture was taken, just when the caption was about to be
added to the finished product, a low-flying RAF training flight created a sonic
boom up and down the remote valley where the shoot was taking place, the poor
lady jumped out of her skin and… the rest was history. Or biology perhaps…
rather messy biology too.

It was no one’s fault. Everyone was as sympathetic as they could be.
The fighter jet pilot was horrified when she found out, the cameraman did his
best to help, the Cruellan lady was… OK, she wasn’t enormously sympathetic if
I’m being entirely honest, but she did mutter ‘Soz’ as he was taken off in the
ambulance. The shoot wasn’t a complete write off: I actually managed to
get some rather gruesome captioned images done,
but so far my innate decency and a profound desire not to be arrested have
prevented me posting them. And don’t worry: the guy is still a guy, you
know? Still very much a man. Since the Gender Recognition Act was passed,
all he had to do was self-declare as a male and so he is treated as a fully
functional man for all legal purposes. Almost all, anyway. So…
just one of those things, I guess.

Thrills and spills

Ah, now this one was my fault, I am afraid. Very much my fault. I
apologised to the lady concerned and still do, on a regular basis. The skirt was
a write-off, the shoot was abandoned… what can I say? Fortunately, my SO
has since come up with a solution to prevent this happening ever again.

Way around wrong

So… the shoot has gone off perfectly, the images of the lovely ladies and
slug-like men are all saved on the encrypted hidden drive and a caption has been
created. Nothing left to go wrong, right? Well… you’ve still got to get
the caption onto the right image. In the two pictures below, someone (with
a name beginning with S) didn’t manage to accomplish even that simple
task. Two pictures, two captions, Servitor – and you had one job!

Well, this mix-up resulted in not one but two captioned images that fell
well below this blog’s normal standards of coherence and had to be
abandoned. For which the management can only offer Servitor’s heartfelt
apologies.

The Snitch, her Teacher, the Maitresse and her Lover

Now, the pair of photos below tell the sorry tale of a failed photoshoot that – for once – was most definitely the fault of the ladies and not the author of this blog. Everything had been arranged very carefully for a photoshoot with the above title that would have cemented this blog’s place as the number one destination for anyone interested in strict schoolmistress femdom. The script was elaborate, true, but you might expect that professionals would be able to cope with that. I won’t go through it in detail, but it involved a schoolgirl whose complaint had led to my being brought in to see the Headmistress, a nymphomaniac lesbian French teacher, a class teacher and of course the Head herself, all involved in a complex sequence of humiliation and discipline that ended with my being forced – forced humiliatingly – to masturbate before them all, kneeling on the floor. Yum.

What went wrong, you ask? I might ask ‘what didn’t?’. The schoolgirl turned out to be more of a lesbian nympho than the lesbian nympho character, they all got ‘interested’ in each other, someone found a very large bottle of gin and they all got quite interested in that and pretty soon everyone (everyone female, that is) was too drunk to be safely in charge of a cane, kit off and fucking like rabbits.

So: nothing very femdom came of it unless you count my cleaning up the vomit afterwards, it and I seriously considered not paying them the full fee but sadly there are downsides to being a submissive when it comes to financial bargaining with four beautiful women, even when they are badly hung-over. I present, for the historical record, the two photos that just about manage to reflect the theme of this blog, before the whole thing went sideways.

Hot cross bunny

Now this one was… oh, do you know, even after all these years I can’t really bring myself to talk about this one? The memories are too painful. I thought I was ready but… just move on, move on. She was amazing, though: so professional.

Role reversal

Ah, now as you can tell from the picture, the lovely lady below turned up to the photoshoot having definitely not read the memo about what side of BDSM this blog celebrates! The photo below is taken just when she, in her Gorean slave position, notices that I too am in a Gorean slave position and as we both think we’re supposed to be following Gorean speech rules, neither can do much about it!

After an hour or two the impasse was broken and we had a lovely talk. I don’t know many female submissives (I find the whole concept a bit weird to be honest) but she was really nice. She was very gentle and I could tell she didn’t really like the idea of hurting me, but we got to talking and she had an idea for a kind of ‘worm turns’ scene where I’m a male dom (let’s just skip over that bit: it was less than two minutes in the final photoshoot and I can only say I was no more convincing than you might imagine) and she’s playing the sub and she’s on her knees and just about to take me in her mouth when she suddenly decides to turn the tables, and then we get into nice healthy femdom play. Just before we were about to start, she suddenly remembered something and asked if instead of being some generic dom being sucked off, could I be ‘Master Paul’ from Luton who wanted to come in her hair. It seemed oddly specific but she insisted so I gave it a go and – boy! For a subbie she certainly knew how to inflict pain! I got one of the most brutal beatings I’ve ever experienced. So it worked out OK in the end.

There’s a funny post-script actually. Just two weeks after this photo-shoot, I read about this guy called Paul Evans who was found beaten to death in a lay-by on the Luton by-pass. He had semen in his hair (his own, goodness only knows how he’d managed it).

Amazing coincidence, huh? But it’s probably just another one of those things. Most things are.

Who loves the sun?

I do! After a miserable rainy May, we now have bright sunshine chez elle (i.e. where I live) and I thought I’d do a sun-drenched special to celebrate summer’s balmy days. Admittedly, I myself haven’t yet seen the sun, as there are no windows in the part of the house where I live (not a problem, of course – after all, what would be the point, this far underground?). But she’s promised to break out the summer sweaters and the heavy rubber gimp suit, to take me out into the garden this weekend to where the treadmill awaits, bathed in sunshine. So that’ll be a nice change. I’ve also just booked a romantic stay for two at a beach resort for later in the summer, but I wont divulge the details as she hasn’t decided which boyfriend to take with her. They get so jealous – especially a certain old bull I won’t name! *

Anyway, here we are: summery captions.

I doubt that. I have actually become quite good at accurately judging women’s weight. But sometimes you have to tell them little white lies – bless them. The number of times I’ve had to control my breathing carefully to say ‘no, no – light as a feather!’ without gasping…

It’s great. Yeah. I’m getting quite good at never having any sexy thoughts at all, as long-term readers of this blog will know only too well.

Oh… don’t mind me.

She
likes long walks in the country, getting caught in the rain and keeping
up with the latest developments in applied metallurgy.

Actually, I brought a spare myself. I always do, just in case. I mean, imagine how awful it would be to run into Gal by chance and not have a leather belt or similar implement on you… a lifetime of regret would await.

* Regular readers shouldn’t worry. There’ll always be a place for Raoul in her heart – and in her vagina, mouth and anus, too of course.

Brought to heel

Hmm? Oh. Sure.

I don’t see why she would be so sure of that. Just on this occasion he’s the expert, after all.

It’s hardly their fault – boys break so easily, just when it’s starting to get fun.

The worst of it is, she realised when he got home that one of the dresses was the wrong size and he had to go straight back to the shop to exchange it. Someone must have put it on the wrong hanger – people can be so thoughtless and selfish, sometimes, can’t they?

That’s the thing about crush fetish play – it’s only fun for a short time.

It feels so wrong it must be right

You’d thing she’d at least bother to write a fresh one, instead of bringing out the same piece of paper every time. This is how marriages go stale, you know.

They’re probably thinking that with so many slaves to deal with simultaneously, it won’t be so bad for any one of them. They’d be wrong about that, but it’s a comforting thought while they wait.

If she has to say no, you have to wait. Or even if she doesn’t have to, but wants to anyway.

It’s good she’s stepping in to help with the scheduling. My SO sometimes says she despairs of finding enough time for all of the punishment that I deserve, but somehow she always manages, bless her.

She’s actually done quite a few things that – when he finds out about them – he will consider to be very easy to criticise. But he won’t be permitted to do so.

Brutal honesty

They do say honesty is the basis of every successful romantic relationship – but brutality has its place too.

Don’t worry – she has lots of equipment and techniques to help manage the pain.

They do say small ones have more pain receptors per square millimetre, which is actually quite a turn-on for a lot of ladies.

He’s the foundation of the building just behind her, by coincidence.

Time for the evil – sorry, what? I can’t say that word!

OK, well if the other two are totally straight I guess they won’t need licking clean, for a change, so that’s a bonus.

Brutal persuasion

“Do you still need the ring gag?” is one of those questions that’s often quite hard to answer coherently.

You’ll probably feel more comfortable doing what you’re told, too. Or experience discomfort if you don’t – which is basically the same thing.

He used to think size doesn’t matter. He’s learning that it does.

Mistress Eleise de Lacy, there. Speaking, as we were, of feeling weak in the knees…

There’ll be thin lines in lots of places quite soon. Cris-crossing, some of them, and that can be agony.

I’m not a very spiritual person, myself, but my guess is that she will.

Youngers and betters

Memo to self: stop using the phrase “there’s nothing worse than X” in front of SO. She takes it as a personal challenge.

You’ll soon discover that a day with no whipping at all is a special day. Very special.

Don’t worry, they’re not having you castrated and lobotomised until after the marriage. Just after: between the ceremony and the reception. You can think of it as your wedding gift to them.

Poor old Simon – doesn’t get to see the sexy lingerie! And to think she was worried you might be jealous of him.


Appendectomy: of course. After all, that nurse would hardly have shaved his groin area this morning if it was his throat that was being operated on, now would she?

Governing bodies

Everyone feels a bit uncomfortable, on their first day in the torture room.

Really? Oh… that would be just awful!

Don’t tell her she’s not doing it right – it works for her, OK?

Language barriers can be overcome, with good will on both sides – or failing that, one side holding a whip and not giving a shit about what the other side might actually be saying.

His musical tastes are more Bruce Springsteen than Ariana Grande. He did tell them that, but then he also told them his session tastes were more towards sensual domination than frequent, brutal electric shocks to the balls… so it looks like they didn’t pay a lot of attention.

Striking poses

As my SO points out: lots of women enjoy sex with their husbands, she prefers sex without her husband. The difference is only a few letters but it’s a big deal for her, so who am I to argue?

Mmmm … a severe scolding, Mistress?

It’s going to be a special day for her boyfriends too. And their mates.

Of course the OWK had safewords really. In a variety of quite widely-spoken Central European languages, so there was really no excuse for ‘guests’ not knowing how to pronounce them perfectly.

Her kink is not your kink – are you going to make a selfish fuss?

Harsh words

Freud once said a cigar is sometimes just a cigar. Similarly, bath brushes can be used for scrubbing backs, hairbrushes for brushing hair, anal hooks for, erm… well, anyway, the point is: not everything’s BDSM, all the time, you know? Sadly.

Don’t worry – the course of justice is not being perverted. His Lordship was probably going to cut the trial short anyway, as he has so much homework to do.

You might as well consent: it’s going to happen anyway, so why not make it all nice and legal? Well… it probably won’t be ‘nice’ as such, but you know what I mean.

Acting the part here, entirely out of character, is the wonderful Miss Amy Hunter, who once spent a couple of hours giving Servitor a very hard time with a tawse, then made it all all right again with a lovely hug.

Can’t be too careful. The nice thing about having spares, is that she doesn’t have to go easy.