Category: humiliation

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.




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.
Image result for liqueur"
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.

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.










Her whip, her rules




She could well be right.  Early on in our relationship, my SO visited a therapist who told her to try dealing with her feelings frustration by beating the living daylights out of me.   Worked.

You get health benefits too – mostly regular exercise and a healthy diet.

I guess we’re both disappointed about the whole situation.
That’s a museum ship, by the way: HMS Belfast.  Worth a visit, if you’re in London, but the guns obviously can’t fire any more and all the seamen left a long time ago. 
 The lovely Mistress Sidonia, of course. Oddly enough, I understand she began her career as a submissive, but she has amply paid back the male sex in the years since.

My own car just stays locked in the garage all the time, these days. I don’t know why I bother to keep it, really.


Thankful for small cruelties


More and more companies are discovering the benefits of setting up dedicated disciplinary departments.  Of course, any good manager knows that she should try to deal with performance issues in person whenever possible, but there’s only so many hours in the day.
There’s an honesty about femdom that’s sometimes lacking in other areas of professional sex work, I believe.

So we did.

I went to a financial advisor and explained to her how exciting I found financial domination and she said I should seek professional help.  Which is exactly what I was doing… very confusing.  So I explained that I wanted her to take all my money with no explanation and never give me anything in return – and it was her turn to look confused, because apparently that’s exactly what she does, as an independent financial advisor.


I get a bit fed up with being asked that.  Why do professional ladies assume I’m into SPH?  It’s the first question every doctor I’ve ever had has asked me, for instance.


The lovely Miss Zoe, of course.  Another lady who has suffered the misfortune of having to put the actual real-life Servitor across her knee… but she has preserved her sanity intact.  Apparently you can confess to her here.  Be truthful, now.

Kindness costs nothing

… but structured, skillfully-applied cruelty can be quite expensive.  Worth every penny, though.


Unlike many modern feminists, Clara actually quite enjoys explaining things to sexists.

…and if you’re not OK with it, she can work that into the scene too.
Reminds me of the time I had to unpack all of my luggage in front of two lady customs officers, once.  Goodness, their contemptuous laughter still rings in my ears. It’s not that I had anything embarassing in the luggage, you understand.  I just have this effect on women.

Thank goodness it’s nothing personal.


Oh, not again… you know, I think her watch might be a bit fast, actually.






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?”.


As specks of dust we’re universal

I love this song. It’s got nothing at all to do with femdom, except in the sense that obviously no male could ever write something so great (unless inspired by a muse, I suppose).  So: SFW warning if you click the link, yeah?


Right. On with the poppycock.





Or don’t be brave. To be honest, Trudy doesn’t really mind either way.
Always a bit dull listening to someone describing their dream, isn’t it?  Still: better humour her.  Don’t want to be whipped.

I wish she didn’t have to as well.  So why does she?
After a session with a domme I’d been seeing for a while, I asked what she really thought of me, but she just laughed and told me to fuck off and book a humiliation session.  I guess she must have mis-heard.
She’s not really looking to discuss this, by the way. She’s just sharing how she feels – it’s a Mars/Venus thing, yeah guys?  Just go with it.


As she pleases




I’m sure she won’t mind.  Cindy’s very easy-going.






You say bukkake, I say bukkaka.




Self-locking nipple clamps.  What’s not to like?
Don’t worry. There’ll be things for you to eat too.  Just a bit later.


 

Do you suppose you can catch an STD from licking a domme’s boots, if some other guy came on them in an earlier session?  Perhaps medical professionals should carry out some experiments on that.


The angel at my side…

…. she gives me good advice.

Actually, the idea that men can’t multi-task is a complete myth.  Men who think they can’t just need to meet a woman with the right attitude.  It’s just laziness.
Don’t worry… they don’t tug hard.  She does, but that’ll be the scrotal clip, not the nipple… so not so bad.

Life as a conversation piece.

Oh well. It’s better than coming back down to ‘discuss’ it while they’re still here.  I hate that.
Decisions, decisions.   Thank goodness I never have to make any.