femdom – Page 76 – Contemplating the divine

He might as well have buttons and bows

Mistress Kate, of course. I was reminded of her the other day, when a delightful domme made me dance and mime to Wuthering Heights. I fear I wasn’t very good at it and she mocked me mercilessly… some people can be so cruel.

If he’s lucky, he’s going to be a shower head. But he’s not been enormously lucky so far in his life, alas.

That reminds me of a date I went on once, actually. It was a pub quiz and our team came last but oddly it was only right at the end that my date told everyone she was the first and second prize. So I had to hang around for an hour or so, while the winning and runner-up teams collected their prizes. Then she said she was tired and just wanted to go home, so I walked with her. I thought I might be in with a chance but she said she never kisses on a first date, so that was that. Still: I didn’t get kneed in the balls, shat on or made to suck off any gay friends, so all in all I count the evening as a success. The second date didn’t go so well, unfortunately.

Lots of men make this mistake: she’s asked you about your day so she wanted to be asked about hers, right? Right? And now you have chores and you don’t have permission to speak, so it’s too late. You unfeeling brute.

If they’re quick they can catch happy hour. And then there’s a cabaret, but obviously they won’t have time to stay for that.

I’ve always had a weird phobia about Scrabble, ever since this girl I knew at school followed through on her threat to make me “eat my words”. The little tiles weren’t so bad on the way in, but even with rounded corners you can certainly feel the sharp edges when they come out again. I was bullied quite severely when I was at school – did I ever mention that? And afterwards, too, of course – but at school it was free of charge.

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.

Several times now, upon a time

Tales about bold princesses rescuing helpless princes from evil, erm, princesses and all that kind of thing. Again.

Why do three wishes always turn out this way? You’d think people would have the sense to learn. But the protagonist in this one is presumed to be male, so I guess ‘sense’ is not really an option.

Freely given

Some years ago, I decided that as a fairly experienced sub, I had something of a duty to use this platform to share my experiences and advice about visiting professional dommes. After all, it can be nerve-racking for a first-timer, and it’s hardly something you can ask your friends at work about! Unless your work is as a male maid for a dominatrix, I suppose. But that’s quite rare.

Anyway, the reaction was very positive and it – well, I certainly didn’t get any complaints – and I’m older and even wiser now, so here are a few more tips from Servitor: advice to a novice sub.

No, don’t bother to thank me. Just the thought of some nervous first-timer walking into a ‘femdomme sex dungeon’ and trying one or more of these ideas out is reward enough!

If you liked these, you’ll find more of this sort of thing by clicking this here link, so I suggest you do so. If you didn’t like these, you won’t want to click that because you’ll find more things you don’t like. Perfectly simple, even for boys, yeah?

Oh: and watch out for Servitor’s exciting new series: Advice to a novice domme! Coming soon. Ish.

Now and then we wonder who the real men are

Oh yes, a proper little sissy, that one. Has been for years. Hard to imagine him not in his frillies or
little maid’s dress, to be honest.

You want to know if he’s ever been out in public dressed that way? Funny how many visitors want to
know that…

Well… he has, from time to time. But that’s not the most humiliating public
display he’s experienced – is it sissy? Oh, sure, it would be embarassing to appear in public in a little girl’s dress, but the very worst public humiliation he has
experienced was a time when he went out pretending to be a normal man. Because it’s so ridiculous an idea! Simply ridiculous, isn’t it, sissy? That’s right, it is. And so are you, aren’t you?

I said: aren’t you ridiculous, sissy?

That’s better.

I’ll tell you the story.
It was when our ‘relationship’ had just started and it was still a
rather playful, sexual thing, not the 24/7 servitude it is now. Maybe he could
see the direction things were taking, I don’t know, but I found that more and
more often he was asking whether we could just have an evening out ‘as normal
people’. A guy and his girlfriend, not a
sissy-maid and mistress. After all,
despite all the games, he was a man, he would say.

Why not? So we went on a ‘date’.
On went a smart jacket and tie… frilly knickers below them, admittedly, and a
remote-controlled shock device below those, but he looked ‘normal’ enough on the
surface – a bit dweeby, maybe – and out we went, to a trendy bar.

He was nervous about the zapper, but I told him it was just
a mind-game (oh how naïve he was about my intentions towards him back then) and
I was true to my word and zapped not once, no matter how tempted. We had been in the bar for about half an hour
and he was beginning to relax, when I made my move.

“Look at those two at the bar” I remarked, smiling. “Don’t they look lovely?” And I nodded towards two young women laughing
and joking together. They were indeed
rather glamorous. I imagined they were
having a couple of drinks together before going on to meet their dates – they certainly
looked dolled up for someone and I was not getting a lesbian vibe from them.

Sissy looked rather alarmed and started wittering about how
they were not as lovely as me, but I shushed him and told him it was fine: I
just meant they looked good, that was all.
“It’s OK for you to find other women sexy, you know” I smiled. “After
all, I do have the key – and not just to your heart.” He laughed too – more out
of nervousness than the feeble pun, I expect, and admitted that the two ladies
were indeed attractive.

These are not actually the two ladies from the story. But the vibe is similar and so is the barman’s beard, which was just like that.

“Right” I said, quietly.
“Off you go, then.”

“Erm… off I go? Go where?”

I nodded towards the attractive pair. “Go chat them up. That’s what real men do. See if you can get off with one of them. Give them your best pick-up lines.”

“But I… I…”

I took the remote for his ball-shocker out of my bag and very
deliberately clicked it up to 16 out of 20, holding it so he could see. His previous record was 14 and he had nearly
screamed the house down.

“We’ll start at 16.” I said.
“And we’ll go up to 20. The
battery’s fully charged.” I picked the
remote up and rested my thumb on the button.

“Or…” I said, indicating the two at the bar with the remote
itself. He looked desperately around.

I yawned. “You can
show me your pulling skills, or you can scream.
Five, four, three…”

He shot to his feet and barrelled over to the two ladies,
knocking violently against a stool as he went. The disturbance made them both look up, and one smiled in a puzzled, friendly
way.

What sissy used for chat-up lines, I shall never know. I doubt the two young ladies do either, because
he was stuttering and shaking with embarrassment as he tried to engage them in
conversation, so I doubt he made much sense even close up. Almost immediately, it became clear that it
was not going well. The friendly puzzled
smile faded, and she spoke quietly but firmly to him, while her companion just
pursed her lips in disapproval and called the barman for another drink. Obviously, he had not “pulled” (I’ll confess now
that I had no Plan B for what to do if he had… but it had not seemed very
likely).

With a palpable sigh of relief, he turned away from them, towards
me and started coming back. I met his
eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head and then gestured back towards
the bar. He knew what I meant. Real men don’t give up that easily, sissy. Be
forceful. Keep at it.

He looked horrified so I gently slid my thumb across the
button again, and as if by magic he turned back, to play the real man once
more. His face was white – almost greenish.
His attempts to appear masculine were not helped by the fact that his sweating had
made translucent spots on his shirt, so the shadow of the bra underneath was
very visible, although I don’t know if either of the two ladies noticed. Again, he spoke to them and this time there
was the reaction I’d hoped for.

No – not a face-slap!
He’d have enjoyed a face-slap, but that was never going to happen, not
in the vanilla world, only in BDSM sessions and in movies. No: the one who hadn’t
spoken to him so far just lost it, basically.
She stood up, in his face (slightly taller, in her high heels) and told
him what she thought of creeps like him.
She spoke loudly and angrily – not quite shouting, but everyone in the
bar could hear her give my poor sissy a piece of her mind about how she was
sick of being unable to sit in a bar and have a quiet drink with her friend
without sad little bastards like him coming up and ogling them and trying on
his lame pick-up lines…. She went on for a while. It looked rather cathartic. I smiled myself and quietly left the place,
as a couple of other people went up to the bar to help.

Only in movies, I’m afraid. And femdom sessions. And femdom movies, for that matter.

I hadn’t abandoned him.
I had just sidled into a nearby doorway to see what happened. Don’t
worry: he wasn’t beaten up or anything – they just marched him out of the bar
and shouted quite a bit more. Poor sissy. He does not deal well with conflict. Perhaps that is why he has allowed himself to
be sucked into his present lifestyle – there is no possibility of conflict in
his life now, just obedience.

He was still shaking when we got home. He took off his ridiculous male outer clothes
with revulsion and popped on a maid’s outfit to serve me a drink. I allowed him to calm down, kneeling at my
feet, for quite a while before making sure the lesson had sunk in.

“Any time you feel you want to behave like a real man again,
sissy…” I started, but he shook his head violently. A shame.
I was going to suggest going to a football match and getting into a
fight with the other side’s supporters.
Or paying some streetwalker several decades past her prime for an
encounter in a bleak concrete lay-by smelling of piss and diesel fumes (I don’t
think he’d even need his tube locked on: I have several times forced him to
tell me honest accounts of his fumbling attempts at sexual liaisons in early
adulthood and I can confidently predict that in that circumstance, little peter
would not be rising to the occasion). Real
man stuff.

If he ever asks again, I have
quite a few things he might try.

But somehow, he never has.

Isn’t that better, sissy? Much more your thing.

But females are strong as Hell

Unbreakable!

Servitor’s tip: if you are going to propose to your ‘mistress’ during a ‘fem dom’ session, think about which kinky activities are most appropriate to that moment. Face-slapping is a definite yes, forced bi rather less so.

Even if (as we suspect) the switching moment is not just about to occur, all true male doms understand that females are submissive really, deep down inside. Master Mark knows he just needs to wait… eventually the girls are bound to follow their natural instincts.

An old caption. Unless something surprising happens between my putting this into the queue and publication. Which seems unlikely. As surprising things so often are.

It’s always a shock, in mid-life, to discover you’ve actually been gay for some time without even realising it.

I’d rather go bowling with Simon, actually, but what do my opinions matter?

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.

Downton on your knees

Sorry about that. I find it hard to resist a pun, no matter how bad. If only there were someone who could mete out painful consequences for such lapses of judgement on my part… whom I could pay to judge me, find fault and punish me. But obviously no such profession exists, so I suppose I’ll just carry on.

Anyway, Downton day today! I won’t say where I got the photos. You might recognise the sytyle, I’ve used similar before. The photographer has a lot more on his web site and I’m sure you can find it but probably best not to jump there straight from this site as I doubt he would appreciate this particular use of his images. I wouldn’t want to have to take this post down … ton.

P.S. Nothing at all to do with Downton but Oh My Goddess look at this!

You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot

My favourite Christmas lyrics. Of course, I hear that phrase all through the year, but it means so much more to me in this very special season.

Let me take this opportunity to wish a very merry Christmas to this blog’s handful of female readers, and I hope the rest of you have the miserable, bleak and pitiful time you all so richly deserve – and secretly crave – you revolting little creeps.

Goodwill to all women

It’s that very special time of year. The holly and the ivy… both actually almost as unpleasant-tasting as all the pine needles I have to eat off the floor, but it’s a tradition and I can’t argue with that.

Nothing particularly Christmassy about today’s captions, though – just the usual rubbish.

I’m going to have a go at writing some snip-lit some day. They say write what you know.

When we engage in medical roleply, my SO likes to use actual medicines. She gets a friend who works in a hospital to give her stuff that they’re throwing out because it’s near its expiry date. Says it makes it more realistic. I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it.

My wife came multiple times on our wedding night, I’m told.

She read somewhere that husbands and wives should always agree on financial decisions, so she wanted to make sure he was OK with it first.


The video basically just consists of cut-scenes. (Sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself)