Coming out

You know, I read somewhere that many men spend their whole lives in the closet.  I think that’s horrible – a tragic waste.  I’m glad to say that I’ve never been put in there for more than five hours at a stretch.  Just lucky, I guess.


Shall we have some captioned images of female domination now?  You up for that?  Great.

The first twenty years are the worst, I’ve heard.
 
 
Cruella, from many many years ago.  But still one of the best photo sets ever.  The accompanying story was even about castration, you know.  Happy days, for the adolescent Servitor.
 

 

The problem is, these sorts of prejudice just seem to be inherent in the male sex.  In fact, that’s one of the reasons she’ll be removing it.

 
 

She’s right, you know.  Women are, you see.
 
 
 
Burble…gibber incoherently…sigh…
 

Bit of politics, bit of politics

I’m trying a few themed posts just at the moment.  This is a theme some of you seem to like, presumably because it deals with such a subversive, transgressive topic: men’s lib.

Dangerous to bring politics into what is intended to be a fun and sexy blog and I certainly don’t want to offend anyone.  Nothing in this post should be taken in any way as an endorsement of a political programme of equality for men.

 
 
 
 

 
 






…and a little bonus story.

Speaking truth to power

“The so-called men’s liberation movement” Simon wrote “is an
absurd caricature of a true political cause: its slogans meaningless, its
demands more like an infantile tantrum than a realistic political
programme.  I regret wasting so much of
my life on it.  Men simply are not the
equals of women, and the sooner we accept that, the happier we will be.”

He stared at the sentence he had just written.  Strong stuff. 
A complete repudiation of everything that he had fought for and believed
in for all of these years.  But it had to
had to be said.

He imagined the horror that an activist in the movement
would experience, on reading those damning words.  Or indeed, how he himself would have reacted
just a few months before.  He had been ‘Commander
Riotboy’, shadowy author of numerous savage polemics against the oppressive
matriarchal system and the attitudes – of both men and women – that allowed its
injustices to be perpetuated down the generations.  Oddly, the strongest memory for him was a
smell – the smell of the hot ink as the illegal press whirred furiously through
the night, stamping out copy after copy of their newsletter, to be stapled,
transported around the country and furtively distributed on any of those rare
occasions when men gathered together without close female supervision.

He remembered running too, the sounds of pursuing police
whistles seemingly right behind him, his comrades seized to be taken no doubt
for ‘re-education’.  He had always
somehow escaped to fight on another day, in the process becoming something of a
legend in the movement.  Riotboy – the man
who would never give up.

But that, he reflected, had all been before he met Karen.  And here he was.   A meek
little househusband, dressed in skimpy little shorts that she had chosen for
him, beneath which his cock nestled securely in a locked tube to which only she
had the key. Where before he had devoted his life to producing articles furiously
calling for male liberation, today he spent his days at his desk writing words
that said exactly the opposite.  And he
felt strangely content to do so.

He sighed.  Best to
get on, as Karen would be back soon, and she would come up to check on his
progress.  He’d already had a hard
spanking this morning, he certainly didn’t want another.

He picked up his pen and carefully wrote the number “312.”  Then next to it, with equal care (because
more than three crossings out on any one page would mean writing that page all
over again), he wrote:

“The so-called men’s liberation movement is an absurd
caricature of a true political cause: its slogans meaningless, its demands more
like an infantile tantrum than a realistic political programme.  I regret wasting so much of my life on
it.  Men are not the equals of
women, and the sooner we simply accept that, the happier we will be.

313.  The so-called
men’s liberation movement is an absurd caricature of a true political cause: its
slogans meaningless, its demands more like an infantile tantrum than a
realistic political programme.  I regret wasting
so much of my life on it.  Men are
not the equals of women, and the sooner we simply accept that, the happier we
will be.

314 …”

 
What a long way off number 500 seemed.  He hoped tomorrow’s line would be shorter.
 
 
 
 
 
…aaaaaand a bonus bonus little mini-story.  This is from earlier in the same timeline, just after Simon met Karen:

“And what do you think about the men’s-lib movement?” she
asked sweetly.

“Men’s lib is a ridiculous idea.”  Simon replied.  “Men must accept their place in society and
be obedient to women, for their own good.”

He tensed. 

There was
a pause and then an agonising CRACK! of the paddle across his buttocks. He
cried out loud at the shocking pain. 
That had been the hardest yet.

What do you think of the men’s lib movement?” Karen asked
again.

“Men’s lib is a ridiculous idea” he gasped “Men must accept
their place in society and be… and be obed – “

CRACK!

“No hesitation, remember, Simon.  What do you think of the men’s lib movement?”

Coming out

A lot of people live secret lives, hiding their true selves away, fearful of mocking and misunderstandings.  I’ve certainly done that for decades – decades too long, I would say.  Well, I’ve made a momentous decision for the new year.  I’m going to speak in public about what I truly feel in private. I’m going to  – not ‘admit’ because that implies wrongdoing – but celebrate my sexuality.  I’m going to share this first with you – the loyal readers of this blog.

Out loud and out proud.

Here we go…

(deep breath)

I, Servitor, have a sexual fetish.  I get sexually aroused by thoughts of sexually dominant women, controlling, punishing and humiliating me.  I am, in short, a sexual ‘submissive’.

There.  That feels so much better!  No doubt I’ll lose many readers of this blog, shocked at the nature of these revelations – but it’s their loss and not mine.  I’d like to thank those readers broadminded enough to keep on reading.  You know my secret now – and that’s a sacred trust.  I know I can rely on you, even though I have not the slightest idea who any of you are.

Masturbation glove lady - or not
Actually, I thought for a moment they were the punishment gloves.  Or the other punishment gloves.
 
 

It does seem rather odd that I (for example) am not allowed on the furniture but I do still get to choose the Government.
 
 

Puppy play
Puppy play!  In my youth I liked puppy play.  Sadly, now it’s ‘tired old dog being dragged around slowly on aching knees under threat of a whipping’ play.
 
 

English governesses
Oh.  I think I have a lot of bad habits that I might need some help with, you know.
 
 

You know, there’s really nothing like a chastity belt for putting ladies at their ease with you.  It takes away all that nonsense about being male, or a potential sexual partner, and allows you to just be yourself.

I grant I never saw a goddess go…

…My mistress, when she walks, treads on the
ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she
belied with false compare.


She walks upon the ground it’s true, but also into my dreams.  Ahhh.

Castration chat
Really, men get so obsessive about this sort of thing.
 

Femdom choices
It’s good to have choices.  Eat it, don’t eat it.  Up to you.
 

 

I’ve noticed she seems to stay cross for longer, these days.
 

Madame Sarka fattens them up
Actually, the  Ladies always cook too much food at Christmas, and they end up having to throw at least half of it away.  But it doesn’t get wasted – they just feed it to the pigs.
 


Mens lib again - how tiresome
The person is political.

 



 

And, just for Another Anonymous:



See?  It’s worth commenting in this blog.  You get stuff.




Smart business

Hi – come on in and sit down!
Oh, don’t worry.  Just
because you’ve been asked in to see me, it doesn’t mean you’re having a ‘chat
with the boss’!  I mean you are
obviously – but not like that.  I just
wanted to hear how things were going.

Great, great.  Well, I
hear good things.  Who knows – maybe
you’ll be joining us permanently when the internship is over!

Yes, well.  We’ll see in… three weeks time, now, is it?

Just one small thing – before you go.  You know of course that this company prides
itself on the way it treats all its staff with respect – male as well as
female, even young interns like you?  So,
I don’t want you in any way to feel offended or insulted by this, but –

But… your clothes.  I couldn’t help noticing.  I
mean, of course they’re in line with the company dress code, but – could be a
little sharper, hmm?

Like what?  Well, like those trousers you’re wearing, for example.  I mean, baggy trousers like that are fine for
students, but in a business place, perhaps they’re a bit too baggy?

Well I think they’re baggy.  I mean, they’re not tight are they?  It’s up to you what you wear – of course. 
But I like to see our staff looking smart.  And a nice tight pair of trousers looks very
smart on a boy – I mean a young man like you.

And maybe you don’t have to wear long trousers all the time,
you know?  We keep the office nice and
warm, so why not show your legs occasionally? 
I’m sure you’ve got lovely legs.  Shorts are quite fashionable just now, aren’t they? Especially in nice bright colours. Yellow’s very cheerful, I always think.

Anyway, it’s none of my business.  What do I know about boys’ fashion – I’m just your boss!
And this was just a friendly chat.  My decision on whether to give you a permanent job or let you go certainly won’t
depend on whether you dress in dumpy old trousers or smart shorts! I
t’s my decision alone, so you don’t need to worry about anyone else’s opinion, OK?  I know it’s a very important matter for you, so I want you to feel completely confident I’ll be quite impartial.
That’s all.  Off you go now.  Have a great weekend and I’ll see you here on Monday!

Story: Pride comes before


In retrospect, Mark wondered how he could have been so
stupid.  He’d got carried away.  By that book – that stupid book.
He’d been given it by a stranger, shoved into his hand
without a word or a look, just a rapidly disappearing figure in the crowd.  And he had the book.
“I am proud to be a
Man!”
it was called.  It was about
male equality.  Equality with women! 
It had taken him a while to really understand that.  But the book said that men could be the
equals of women – were their equals
if only they knew it.  Men didn’t have to
be spanked.  Men could choose when to
have orgasms.  Men shouldn’t have to wear
sexy revealing clothes for the pleasure of women.  On and on – over five hundred badly-printed
pages, bound together with big metal staples, presumably from some kind of
underground press.  At first, he thought
it weird and repulsive in its strangeness. 
But he found it compelling and read on and on and on – this book, hidden
in the ironing basket where he knew she’d never have reason to look.  You are
her equal it said.  You are strong.  You have dignity.  Stand up and say “I am proud to be a man!”
Then one day he came to the fateful section.  “Men will never be liberated from oppression,
until women are liberated from oppressing” it declared.  It wanted women to come to accept men as
equals.  Talk to your wife about male liberation. It said.  Read
this book together.
He hadn’t, for a long time. 
But he knew that if any husband had a chance at converting his wife to
the cause, he did.  Alice was a sweet,
kind person, only seven years older than him, and she treated him well.  She whipped him, of course, when he deserved
it, but as a duty not a pleasure.  He had
his own allowance to buy clothes.  She
usually let him come, once she’d had her own orgasms.  Under the influence of that book – that mad
terrible book – he’d half convinced himself that she was a secret male
liberationist already.
So he spoke to her. 
And she listened quietly.  And she
asked to see the book.  She listened
carefully as he turned the pages, and showed her how it demonstrated the cruel
tyranny of women over men, and spoke of a better world.  After a while she stopped him and asked just
one question – whether he’d spoken to any of her friends’ husbands about
this.  She seemed relieved that he had
not, but asked him to close the book and stop reading at that point.  She had taken the book, and gone to phone her
mother.
And then she’d come back and explained how she felt about
this.  She did not shout, or threaten, or
punish.  She simply spoke, calmly and
steadily, about the importance of household order, about the betrayal that his
secret reading represented to her, about her regrets at how laxly she had
treated him, and determination to correct this terrible error she had made.
And now they do read the book together.
Every Saturday, the book is set on a low lecturn that she
has bought specially for this purpose. 
Mark, naked, is tied securely over a whipping bench, so that his face is
just above its open pages.  He reads a
page, aloud.  It is turned over, usually
with the tip of a cane, then he reads the other side, aloud.  She never says anything in response.  Once both sides have been read, she begins:
sometimes with strong, deliberate strokes, other times with a flurry of
flicking whippy actions.  The whip is
mainly applied to his buttocks and thighs, but occasionally she tends also to
his shoulders, his calves, or whips around to reach the front of his thighs.  All of these areas are a mass of weals and
welts, criss-crossed on top of one another.
While his wife is whipping him in this way, Mark must come
up with and carefully articulate five separate, cogent reasons why whatever has
been stated on that page of the book is wrong. 
Sometimes this is easy, as the false ideas can simply be countered one
by one, but sometimes the book will be developing a single mad idea of male
equality over several pages, and to come up with five different refutations of
the words on the page can be difficult. 
Particularly when Mark is howling in pain, and fighting to gasp out his
carefully constructed arguments in favour of female supremacy.
But it continues until he succeeds in producing five reasons
for treating the ideas on that particular page with the contempt that they
deserve.  No matter how long it takes,
eventually he finds five reasons.  And
then the whipping ends.  She reaches
down, and neatly tears out the page – by now often unreadably stained with
tears and spittle, and he takes it in his mouth, chews one hundred times and swallows
it.  That piece of madness has gone, and
only the simple good sense of wifely discipline remains.
Then she usually takes a break – sometimes as short as the
time to have a cup of tea, sometimes as long as a trip to the shops or even the
cinema.  Once she visited a friend at
this point in the process, and returned the next day.  He remains in place, of course.  When she takes a long break, she is careful
to cover the next page with a cloth, so that he cannot rehearse the five
arguments he will deploy next time.  For
shorter breaks she does not bother.  He
generally finds that it is only under the direct influence of the whip that he
can really appreciate the incoherence and stupidity of the book’s ideas, in any
case.  But eventually she returns, and they
do another page.  Most Saturdays, they do
three, sometimes four.
Mark has had many opportunities to regret his actions, of
course.  He particularly regrets that the
book is so long.  They recently reached
the first anniversary of this new regime, and are still less than halfway
through the book.  He would one day like
to meet the authors of the book.  He
would like to see them bent over this same whipping bench, receiving the same
treatment that he is receiving.  And when
they were striped and sore, their backsides ridged and bloody from floggings
applied on top of floggings, when their mouths were bone dry from screaming
hopeless pleadings for mercy, when they start with fear at the merest sound of
Alice’s movements, that could foreshadow an agonising stroke.  Then, Mark thought, then he would ask them a
question.
“How proud do you feel right now, to be a man?”
Readers with an interest in the peculiar doctrines of male liberation (or “men’s lib”) might be interested in this, this and perhaps also this.  Although, honestly, I can’t imagine how anyone could take this stuff seriously.

 

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