Category: pet play

Traditional crop-wielding ladies

 

Not a problem: premium cat food doesn’t actually taste as nice as the adverts imply.  In fact, in tests I understand eight out of ten slaves said they preferred to go hungry than be forced to eat it… but why should anyone care about that?

 

 

Which is odd, because women are supposed to be good at empathy.


 

Having said which, these two – while not exactly exhibiting empathy I’ll admit – are certainly very concerned to ensure fair treatment of all of the prisoners.  Which is nice.

 

 

 

She does use him for sex, but only in a facilitative capacity.

 

 

 

And I’m very persuadable.  I’ll even pay for it.


Times you really wanna cry

You could try hopping from one foot to another.  It does no good, but it’s traditional somehow.




And then they could sit on them sitting on the cones.




If all else fails, ‘being male’ would do.




I was once told by a sex worker that 45 seconds with me was worth as much to her as an hour or longer with a “normal client”. I thought that was such a nice thing to say that I got distracted and nearly missed my deadline.




Let’s hope someone brought the lube!

One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.

To celebrate Bastille Day, let’s have some more Regency femdom. The tumbrels and republican principles of the Revolution itself do not lend themselves well to the theme (although I always felt a vague kinship with the sans-culottes) but on the other side of the Channel, the natural order was maintained.
 
Of course, these are merely modern ‘takes’ on the period. Fashions in femdom at the time were rather different and would seem strange to us today.  Humiliation play, for example, might involve acting out being introduced at a ball to a duchess and incorrectly addressing her as if she were a mere viscountess, or using the wrong fork for the fish and being gently and gigglingly admonished (or – worse – subjected to a sustained pretence by one’s dinner companions not to have noticed!  Oh, the shame).  A ‘forced bi’ scenario would typically end with some roleplaying the inevitable appearance before local magistrates, followed by branding or even transportation to Australia* for committing unnatural acts.  And of course the gimp suits of the time were made of wool or coarse cloth -unthinkable today but they knew no better.
 
What’s that?  You want me to shut the fuck up and just show you the pictures of hot chicks in empire-line dresses? Oh, OK then.  Sorry.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
* Generally regarded as a hard limit by most scene players today – and indeed very few dommes are even prepared to try it, although I understand Mistress Servalan of Sydney has ocasionally put on demonstrations at BDSM conventions.

Crawl space

Actually that’s not true – she takes the keenest interest in making your knees hurt and derives great pleasure from it.


I’m actually really good at fetching sticks.  On dates, I usually try to work the conversation around, so I can casually mention it.
I tried ‘coming out’ by telling some female co-workers about my true sexual nature and I have to say I didn’t get anything like this understanding reaction.  Actually, the entire experience was utterly humiliating and very painful.  So that was nice.

It’s odd – when the lady who’s now my SO and I first got together, she always (well… both times, anyway) complained that I came too soon. Nowadays, apparently I take too long and she never has time, even though I’m pretty sure I’m quicker than ever.  Women, eh?

“throne”?
The Divine Mistress Heather, of course. Divinity lessons have never been so intense.

Subjectivity

Noun: the state of being a subject.  That used to be me but now I’m more objective.


No great loss, right?
Somehow it still feels like I’m on the leash, even when I’m not.  Strange, that.
I rolled a six this month!  But apparently “rules are made to be broken”!  Not her usual attitude to rules, I have to say… but that’s women for you.  Bless ’em.
She’s already being the best wife she can. That’s why you’re wearing the shock collar.








My brain hurts.  Sorry: I think I’m just too male today to understand this one. Something about a hash?  Is she talking about breakfast?

There is no fire

Music only a little related. But don’t you just love the way Mistress Lennox’s voice sort of… swoops in at the start? I do. And I tried to find a version with a video, and I found this and she looks lovely, but someone’s ringing a bell, playing an electric organ and generally messing up that opening.


Sigh.  First world problems…

More things follow:

I had this wonderful puppy play session in the park, the other day.  She did that thing of making me balance a twig on my nose in sitting position?  And then she backed slowly away saying ‘stay… stayyyy’.  It’s actually quite hard to stay still for long like that, so after only seven hours, I sneezed and the twig fell off. If I ever see her again, I’ll have to tell her and be punished. Exciting thought!

 

Oh, just a plain vanilla ball-crusher, then? OK, sorry.  Just go ahead.



I still remember the first time she called me a ‘lazy little bastard’…
It’s actually not quite true to say she doesn’t care. She enjoys making you cry. But she’s trying to spare your feelings, the dear thing.





Yup. All about the rules.






Back to reality

… well, the loose approximation of it represented by this blog, anyway.


The holiday, since you ask, was fantastic.  It was in one of those picture-perfect resorts, you know, with the palm trees coming down to the powdery sand sloping down to a turquoise lagoon.  But not at all crowded – it’s a private beach belonging to the hotel and at the prices I was paying, I can tell you, there’d just better be some serious privacy!  And the hotel was as spectacular as the price implied: the rooms, the food, the pool… made a lot of new friends too, apparently.


What do you mean, ‘how do I know’?  She sent me a postcard, of course.  I mean, I didn’t actually see it until after my release because the kennels don’t allow postal deliveries, but I expect she didn’t know that and it was a very kind thought.  She was having so much fun, she hadn’t even put enough postage on it, the silly thing!  Had to come out of my pocket money.  I’d been saving for.. well, I mustn’t complain.

Another year, another… maybe 550 or so captioned images? It hardly bears thinking about, does it?  Better get on…


Stick-fetching is one of those things that sensible husbands quickly learn is not really up for discussion.
You know, I think she might be about to confess her life-long fantasy of making love to a short, slightly overweight guy wearing a frilly french maid outfit.  Give her time.
It’s a shame they can’t both win.
Damn.  That was going well.

It’s awful wearing a chastity belt on a beach – sands gets in, apparently. Not that I’d know.  Sensible concrete floors, that’s what we had in the kennels.  Fresh straw on Thursdays.


She’s my lady…

…I’m her boy.

No, just need a lamp-post to raise my leg against some time soon, that’s all. No rush.






A range of sizes  – but all boyfriend-sized, not you-sized, yeah?  Mike’s friends will be real guys.








Actually, it’s extremely good practice because they don’t usually bother to fill the pool with water.
How very kind of her.
She should make sure she gets his consent first, though. Or during – whatever’s easiest.


Once upon a time…

She decided on “Whiney” in the end. It seemed appropriate.







My SO can do that.  Just a few swishes of her magic wand and the housework begins – all without her lifting a finger.











Ribbit












Actually, that’s not true.  There was a woodman – still is, actually, somewhere.  I expect she’s got her reasons for keeping him hidden.











Some day her Prince will come.  You’ll be in the cucky cupboard when he does, obviously.

…and they all… well, almost all of them, the ones that mattered anyway… lived happily ever after.

Verified by MonsterInsights