heartfelt apology – Contemplating the divine

Nasty and inaccurate prophecies

After a while, though, most wives get a little bored with vanilla apologies and want to spice things up with ever more elaborate contrition scenarios. Still, it’s usually best to humour them, in my worthless opinion.

Remember: serious findommes will always work within a carefully-negotiated framework of consent, so it’s probably more fun to play with the frivolous ones who’ll just drain your finances without a second thought and gleefully leave you penniless and lovesick in the gutter with your life in ruins.

It’s certainly true that it’s less painful for your back than other things she can do – and probably will, when she returns home.

She’s started a collection. It’s good to have a hobby.

You might worry that they’d get into trouble with animal protection groups, but they checked with PETA and all the rest, and apparently they were fine with it, once the whole concept had been properly explained.

He’s often mistaken about things. Just the other day, he told her he really needed an orgasm, but it turned out he didn’t, not really, just as she’d predicted.

Speaking with authority

Once when I was in hospital I tried out the ‘just a little prick with a needle’ joke* on one of the nurses. But she just looked confused and said “But I’m the one with the needle.” I did feel a fool.

BDSM’s odd like that. Subs are actually much more interested in exactly how the implement feels than the dommes. My SO seems to grab any old thing at random sometimes when she wants to hit me – I actually feel that shows a lack of respect, which is lovely, obviously.

Starting with this.

Makes it all worthwhile.

It’s rather an exciting art form, not least because it needs weekly refreshing.

* “I know you are, but what are you going to do with it?”.

Just a little prick…

… oh, I’m not even going to go there. It’s a very old joke and not very funny.

Let’s have some brand new and not very funny captions instead.

Dommes don’t care about these things, but we subs do. The taste is quite different, for one thing.

It’s good to experiment a bit.

I’m one of her regular clients. First Tuesday of every month, 9.35 to 9.38. It gives meaning to my otherwise pointless existence.

Men do seem to be making some pretty strange democratic choices just now, you’ve got to admit.

um…

More unpleasant things

…of the usual sort.

Don’t worry, she always reaches orgasm eventually. She won’t give up.

(The lovely, Divine, Mistress Heather.)

If you pay extra, she’ll do tease and denial too. That’s where she asks you if you’d like to come, before telling you to fuck off.

Actually, she does get occasional complaints. But they’re always retracted, with a heartfelt apology, before the end of the session.

Technology… oh dear. As if I wasn’t already obsolete enough.

In space, no one else can hear you scream.

Serene ladies of pain

It’s a learning experience. On both sides.

It’s good of her to make these arrangements for you, when she’s so busy preparing for her business trip and everything. You should think of something you can do to show your gratitude. As well as the additional respect, of course.

I rather like the ridiculous pervert clothes. But then I’m a ridiculous pervert.

He wouldn’t have to be brave all the time. Just at the start, when she ties him up.

I hope Anna says no. Do you think she’ll say no?

NB – some of you who follow this blog closely might have noticed that there was briefly another post published today titled “Happy returns”. But an anonymous poster kindly pointed out I had identified the wrong lady in the photo. As it is not that lady’s birthday, the post didn’t really work any more, so it has been replaced with this one.

Humbled in her presence

I wonder what other duties the servants carry out for her?

It’s always his fault. That’s quite important.

Make him what? Eat pond scum from the bottom and thank you for it, with a smile on his face? Yes, of course you can.

Actually, Jenny isn’t that into lesbianism. But she likes having her flat cleaned and all the laundry done so she puts up with it once a week.

And she’s got the whole morning, so she can take whatever time it needs.

Temper temper

Oh hi darling! Locked myself out again! So annoying – I mean, I knew you’d be coming home late today.

Actually, I’m having a bad day all round. I lost my temper earlier on, and I’m still on edge. You see, I went to buy some new boots, and –

– well no, not these boots actually, darling. That’s the point of the story. I do wish you wouldn’t interrupt. You know how cross it makes me. Just listen, will you –

Anyway, I saw this lovely pair of boots – like these ones! – at lunchtime, so I bought them and I thought I’d wear them straight away, but when I got back to the office, what do you think I found?

No, of course you have no idea, darling. It’s a rhetorical question.

Anyway, I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but I suddenly noticed they were all scuffed, at the side around the top of the keel. I mean really scuffed – not just marks, but the leather had come up ragged in a few places. And they’d obviously been like that when I bought them, because all I’d done was walk along the road to the office – it’s only ten minutes, you know, from that little row of shops near St Pauls.

So I went back after work, and I found the shop assistant who’d sold them to me – rather a creepy little guy, actually! And he was smiling and nodding in that obsequious way they have, you know, and calling me ‘madam’ but then he said he couldn’t change them! And I said why not, and he said because he couldn’t be sure that the damage hadn’t happened after I’d bought them!

I mean – really! He was practically accusing me of lying!

Anyway, I just saw red. You know how I get. And I was just shouting at him, at the top of my voice… and I grabbed his head and I forced him down, shouting ‘Look! look there at these boots you sold me!’ and I might have called him all sorts of awful names. Poor guy – he was really upset. Started stuttering and breathing hard – honestly, I think he might have been about to cry!

So I took off the boots and I was holding them right in his face, shouting at him. When he took them his hands were just trembling.

And the store manager came over. Quite a young lady – younger than him anyway. Very smart and proper, you know? And I was telling her all about it and – I feel awful now – but I was saying what a useless sales assistant she had, and she ought to give him the sack and all that sort of thing. And he was just getting redder and redder in the face, and breathing harder and harder.

And then he ran off! I mean, I must have just pushed too many of his buttons! He just started gasping, and he bent half over and just scurried off through some door at the back of the shop. With the boots! I don’t think the manageress knew what to say! She went to go and make some sort of phone call, from the till.

And then a couple of minutes later, he came back. He seemed to have calmed down a bit, although he was still very red in the face. And he was panting away, as if he’d just run a mile or something. Goodness knows what he’d been doing back there! Maybe he’d been crying. But anyway, he had a new pair of boots with him! Just like the others, but not damaged. And when I said ‘But I thought you said you couldn’t change them’ he muttered something about how he could always pay for them himself, out of his own wages.

Well, I didn’t really think. I just sat down and I held my hand out for him to give me the boots, but he just kneeled down in front of me and put them on me himself! And he said ‘Thank you, Madam’ and he held the door open for me, when I left the shop. I think I must have sacred the living daylights out of him!

Poor guy. I mean, it’s not really his fault, is it? I felt awful afterwards, I really did. I shouldn’t think he’s paid very much, do you? And it can’t be much fun, selling boots and shoes to stroppy ladies all day, even if they don’t all get angry, and shove their boots in his face and call him names!

Oh dear. Do you think I should go back and apologise?

Do you think she should?

And – which is more – you’ll be a man, my son

Ah– it’s Jenkins, isn’t it?

Oh don’t look so alarmed, boy. For once, you’re not here to be beaten. You are
here for careers advice, as you will shortly be leaving our school.

Now, as you know, Jenkins, we at Thrashington Hall believe strongly in the
old-fashioned school values.The eight years of misery and brutality you have so
reluctantly endured here did have a purpose.Our system of rote learning,
accompanied by twice-daily cold showers, strict masturbation control and
frequent brutal floggings, was expressly designed by our founder, Constance Thrashington, to build character – so you can venture
out into the adult world with a sound moral foundation and a solid and traditional educational background.

I hope you realise that this makes you very unusual among boys of your age? In the modern world, this sort of education is increasingly rare. When you leave these gates, you will be one of the very few young men more familiar with counting strokes of the cane than with differential calculus, capable of writing the same line for hours without a break, but not of writing anything of your own creation, more familiar with the tawse than you are with a computer mouse. There’s not many young men today that have the self-control needed to remain perfectly in position, while enduring a brutal flogging across their bare buttocks, and then the presence of mind politely to offer thanks for the agonies they have suffered. You have learned to respect your betters, to do as you are told and to fear retribution at all times.

Unfortunately, we’re beginning to realise this doesn’t really work, especially
in the modern world.

The eighteen year-old boys we turn out are quite incapable
of the sort of creative thought needed in modern business, lack any
self-confidence or independent drive and find it impossible to build relationships
with women.Your employment prospects are appalling – with luck, you’ll find
some minimum wage menial job that can provide you with enough money to eke out a miserable
existence in some squalid bed-sit. Many of our graduates become road-sweepers. Street begging is another popular career choice. Some of the more talented manage to secure jobs as burger-flippers, but unless you’re lucky enough to have an authoritarian female boss, you probably won’t be able to concentrate long enough to do a job as complicated as that.

I expect you’ll spend your evenings in sad,
lonely masturbation – your sexual urges are probably perverted and anyway, you
don’t know how to relate to women because you have only experienced them as
disciplinarians. Not much of a life – rather a shame really after enduring such brutal, sexless and miserable teenage years.

Sorry about that.

Anyway– dismissed! I’ll see you at the graduation ceremony tomorrow. Send in
Knightly, please.

The lady in the picture is the delightful, scary and astonishingly beautiful Lady Sophia Black. I have had the immense privilege of being beaten, derided and ignored by her in the past, and I hope very soon to experience that unpleasant delight again.

But when you are tied to your mother’s apron…

As I’d love to be…still, this blog talks about castration anyway. Quite a lot, actually.

Sometimes, they are even the same aspect of the same place.

That’s a relief. It would be a bit embarassing to have had to reply “a small cupboard” to any questions about where you spent your honeymoon. And you know her rule about always telling the truth.

Oh, OK. Maybe we’re not talking about castration today, after all. Maybe we’re not talking about anything.

I suspect ‘we’ will.

I hope so too.

I hold these truths to be self-evident

…all Men are created equally servile, that they are endowed by their nature with certain inalienable duties, that among these are service, slavery and the pursuit of degradation. That to ensure these duties, Women’s rule is instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the inadequacies of the governed.

From the 93rd amendment to the US constitution, 2064.

Long time to wait. Here’s something for now.

Richard thought of “Mistress Initiating Loving Flagellation”. Sadly, that was almost twelve hours later, when he was lying face-down in his bed, desperately waiting for exhustion to overwhelm the burning pain.

Arachnophobic masochists Google bomb here!

It’s called Juliephobia. Fear of Julie. It’s actually quite rational.

Apologising can make you feel good. But not in this case, obviously. Not until a long time after.

It’s true, ladies, so don’t hold back. Not only are our brains smaller, but 95% of their volume is given over to thinking about you, so there’s really little capacity left for anything else. Might as well fill it with pain.

Actually, almost everything in that book is made up. That party she threw at the sushi bar for all three ex-girlfriends where they exchanged stories about your sexual performance, and paid a prostitute to pretend to pick you up, then scream with laughter and steal your clothes? No way. It was in a regular steakhouse. See – there’s loads of stuff like that.