financial management – Contemplating the divine

Beware the beast Man, for he is the Devil’s pawn

It’s another science fiction post! Yes, you’re right, there have been many lately. But the future’s big, y’know? As are these posts, as there are always Seven captions, in tribute.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal

As you know, this blog features immature material on mature themes so I suppose I do both these things.

NB: anyone playing the game of ‘guess the original song/poetry* won’t succeed with this one, as it’s just a handy safety mnemonic. Y’know like: “Stub it out on arse or thighs, he’ll lose his sight if in his eyes.”

* But did you get all the rest?

Fiendish angels

Or are they angelic fiends?

She likes to feel appreciated – who doesn’t?

There’s nothing like a man-hating lesbian girlfriend to inject a bit of firm discipline into a relationship.

Garbage needs to consider whether there are things in his life that are more important than money (other than her, of course, but that goes without saying).

This is of course the awesome Serena, Gynarchy Goddess, whose floors Servitor has often cleaned, almost never to her satisfaction, alas.

He’ll be fine, just as soon as he’s got beyond ‘Roses are red, violets are blue’.

Kitten isn’t an expert in economics, but she does understand the basic idea of conspicuous consumption and thoroughly approves of it.

Vive la difference!

Another post pointing out the various ways in which vanilla sex is just plain weird, as well as weirdly plain. Vanilla vs. Femdom – no contest, really, is it?

…until you’re spoken to

Sometimes she appreciates having a man around, to help out.

She may be better-informed than him now, but she’s working hard to bring him up to speed.

The lovely Zoe Page, of course. You knew that, right? She gave me a wonderful post-spanking cuddle once, but her femdom persona these days is a little harder-edged.

Castration fetishes are perfectly healthy as long as they’re not taken too far, of course. Keep it safe: just the genitals, yeah? Removing any other bits would be too extreme.

He gets better food too. The gourmet stuff that comes in sachets.

They have a very flexible monthly payment scheme: basically she just decides how much she and her friends want and texts you to transfer it.

Goodness, I don’t know *what* you’d do with your money for a month without Kitten, so let’s hope she manages to spend it all today. Fortunately, she’s a pro.

… and finally, because it’s not particularly femdom, we’ll call this one an extra:

Oh – a CtD post on a Thursday! Hmm, you say. Must be an extra, because Servitor is celebrating the blog’s fifteenth anniversary. And certainly not because silly Servitor messed up the dates in scheduling the posts and thought 29 January was a Friday and noticed too late to delete it, as Sam had already commented. No no no no no… So, yeah, an extra post, because Friday’s post ~~hurriedly recscheduled from later in February~~ will obviously come out as normal tomorrow.

They say the secret of a successful relationship is mutual respect. Which just goes to show how little ‘they’ know. She says the secret of a successful relationship is tyranny and fear and I really can’t disagree with her on that.

Findommes… the unsung heroines of the consumer economy.

It’s funny, back when I was dating, two of the girls I – OK, OK *both* of the girls I slept with – rated my perfomance as the ‘worst fuck in human history’. Which doesn’t strike me as being right, as one of those fucks must have been worse than the other. Of course, I’m using ‘sleep’ as a euphemism – I never actually ‘slept’ with them, if you know what I mean: they threw me out. But not before I’d had my eighteen seconds of passion!

He didn’t wonder why she was constructing a prison cell in the cellar? Ah, love makes one blind. So does masturbation, ‘they’ say, although my SO says red-hot needles are actually more effective.

I wonder… have any subs who’ve been in this situation ever been tempted to stop brushing for just a moment, turn the hairbrush round and administer a sharp, stinging… I mean, I’m not saying I have, of course! Just to be clear, ahem. But it’s like – or I *imagine* it *would* be like – that feeling you get standing on the edge of a cliff, you know? That you could just… jump. Only a lot more dangerous than that, obviously.

Ah, Gigi Allens. A lady with plenty of inches and strong hips to back them up.

Yes, what a touching story. I like to imagine that every time she sees them sparkle, she’s reminded of how she has lots of other lovely necklaces too. Long-time readers will of course be well aware that my visions of the future show that in her political career, President Annie will re-orient male vocational training towards traditional, manly, backbreaking labour or domestic tasks, so really the college fund was no loss.

Success is not an option

All poets need a muse – and if you can find one who’ll twist your testicles until the rhymes come, so much the better.

I was only asking for directions to the nearest metro station. Oh well, go with it.

It’s actually one of the few sports where women and men play together at the highest level, although men’s careers are generally much shorter.

Ah, the good old days. I don’t *like* having a king. ‘His majesty’s ship’ – it just sounds ridiculous, and sends entirely the wrong signals, as we all prepare for the inevitable World War M.

And never brought to mind?

Another year dawns, full of hope and denial. Wishing all my male readers a humiliating and unpleasant year, in which your desires, dreams and fingertips are all crushed beneath an elegant boot.

No doubt, many of you printed off and proudly hung up last year’s CtD calendar, featuring the moist and pungent girls of our sister publication, Armpit Fetishist Monthly. Slightly pointlessly, because it didn’t actually have any dates on it, but no one ever said males were smart, right?

This year’s calendar is equally pointless, to match your pointless lives. It’s a chastity calendar, or chastendar as no one likes to say, in which the absence of any dates allows you all to avoid the misery of noticing that she has not circled one single day in red. Maybe one day she will? Anyway: another year… 365 days… more than thirty-one million seconds, I understand. Enjoy watching them tick by…