Stories and pictures themed around female domination and male subjugation and servitude. Unsuitable for children, for alpha males, for hard-core practitioners with an interest in the politics of bdsm and the mechanics of complicated rope work. Of interest to perverts like me, basically.
My wedding night was memorable… I still occasionally wake up in a cold sweat of terror.
They’re always looking for volunteers for their practice sessions, if you want a free show.
She’s a bit fierce on the hockey field… finds it to be a place where she can work off her anger.
You might think that jerking yourself off in front of a mocking naked girl is humiliating, but is it really worse than jerking off in front of a computer, all alone in your room with your trousers around your ankles? Hmm?
PS, I understand there’s some kind of election taking place today, in one or other of Britain’s former colonies. As a non-American, obviously I cannot advise anyone who does have that status on how to vote (although I’m happy to provide tips on how to spell words like ‘neighbour”, to point out that the phrase ‘I could care less’ actually makes no sense at all and to explain the difference between jelly and jam). The important thing is to vote, regardless of which candidate you… you… what am I saying? He’s a deranged idiot, everyone who has ever worked with him says so, how could anybody even be thinking of… oh, just do what you’re going to do. I suppose anyone whose vote might be swayed by what they read on a pornographic blog like this probably shouldn’t be voting at all, on general principles, right? But… I mean to say. Really. Again? Fucking hell.
That’s not strictly true – she actually does care. That’s why she does it.
Let’s hope Mistress is feeling forgiving. It’s not been known to happen often but there’s always hope.
Sounds ideal.
Right now, he’s thinking having to cope with her passive-aggresive behaviour is actually worse than being whipped. He’s wrong, but we’ll let him discover that for himself, shall we?
She didn’t really suspect him of having an affair. She has more confidence in his fidelity to her than that – an unshakeable confidence, actually.
Just look in to those eyes and say the first thing that comes into your head. What’s the worst that could happen?
Sorry the blog’s been a bit Joyless lately, but that’s fixable.
There’s just never enough time in the day, is there? If only men could multi-task, but alas, that’s not an option.
She’s lucky to have a friend who’ll take the time to listen – you know, they’ve been walking for two hours already? You can’t rush these kinds of conversations.
It’s OK to discuss men’s lib when it’s just women idly chatting round a dinner table; it’s not like males breaking the law by saying the same things.
Maybe when ‘Supreme Mistress Suzannah’ realises what she has done, she could rush back? I’m not saying she would – she wouldn’t want to disappoint her mum.Hmm? Oh, sorry, was I supposed to add a caption down here?
If nuclear war is about to break out, it looks like Strict Mistress Susan’s House of Correction will be the place that gets the call. Which, y’know, might even work out better?
As the little disclaimer to the left there states, this blog makes no claim whatsoever to realism. Over the years, this has served me quite well as a catch-all excuse, when certain commenters – anonymous or otherwise – point out small inconsistencies, minor plot holes or blatant and wildly implausible attempts to ignore the physical laws of the Universe in one caption or another.
Don’t worry, we’ll be rejoining the unreality-based community in the next post, on Tuesday.
One of my regular dommes agreed instantly, when I asked her for a gentle, slow-paced four-hour boot-worship session, but things got a little difficult when I turned up and she realised I’d hoped she’d be wearing the boots during the whole time.
As long as there’s something soft nearby to break her fall if she topples over, maybe?
Anyway, the bowl doesn’t have to go through the bars, does it, he can just stick his head out and… hmmm… Oh well. Ella can be Kross with me whenever she likes and it’s all good.
Cruella especially has perfected the photographic genre of ‘domme standing in stiletto heels on a hard surface surrounded by muddy countryside – with no clue how she got there or how she’s going to get away.’ It’s a minority interest, obviously.
More a comment on this blog’s approach to images of lesbian joy than the general reality.
Too right. I was watching Penance and Repentance for the Naughty Nympho Nuns yesterday evening and they got the words of the catechism completely wrong -spoiled the whole thing for me.
Don’t worry: you won’t have to say much. Counting and thanking for the most part, maybe a few hundred words of apology and gratitude at the end.
Don’t you always feel uncomfortable, on the outskirts of a conversation like this? I do.
Of course it’s fair. Every ten weeks (subject to good behaviour, obvs)? That sounds like a non-stop sex party, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m told that the trick to buying a car in America (yes, it’s American – see, they put the steering wheel on the wrong side? Oh – and that blue jacket too…), is to negotiate on price and hold out for a good bargain. Just be aware, though, that that same tactic is absolutely catastrophic when approaching a findomme.
Thank goodness the only face we can see is the lovely one of Princess Kali.
…a word that doesn’t mean what you probably think it means, as it is a form of ‘systematic argumentative discourse’. So probably not recommended in the sorts of relationships this blog favours, where apologies should be simple, heartfelt (and felt in other parts of the body too) and frequent.
I’ll confess I’ve never understood men who want to cheat on their partners or imagine they can get away with it. It’s not as if any lady’s going to fail to notice a second padlock hanging there on my chastity belt.
My SO is constantly ‘encouraging’ me to learn new dance routines to entertain her bulls, but none of them seem like the sort of guys who really enjoy watching dance, so I hope they don’t get too bored by it all.Fortunately, Kate’s unlikely to reach the prize first as she’s too soft-hearted to use the whip on her horse, the sweet thing. She doesn’t believe in cruelty to animals.
Not The Hunt, for those of you paying attention to such matters, this is more of an informal social thing, with friends and less death.
He’s not even doing any work, just hanging around the office.The silly thing’s forgotten to put a blouse on – perhaps you should remind her?Reminds me of the time I decided to try some vanilla so I booked a sex worker who offered ‘a real girlfriend experience’. Bloody hell… I’m into humiliation and abuse, but not that much!
This particular set of vows contains penalty clauses.
It’s nice to be special, isn’t it?
I think she’s coping very well.
The wonderful Lady Sophia Black. I don’t know what she’s doing now she’s retired from professional domination, but I’ll bet she’s amazingly good at that, too.
Men who aren’t meek and obedient have something wrong with their brains. Fortunately, it’s fixable.
A silly little tale set when Victoria was on the throne, beautifully illustrated by (previously used) images of The Hunteress as precisely the right sort of governess…
“And as you can see, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady continued nervously “I have a full dossier of references, all of them quite satisfactory, I believe.”
The portly gentleman seated opposite her sighed and took off his glasses to polish them.
“I don’t doubt it for a moment, Miss Marlowe, indeed I imagine many of them will be excellent. However, I have made extensive enquiries and I simply have not been able to locate any vacant situations for a governess of your experience. My understanding is that many of the more well-to-do families formerly based in London have relocated to the country, given the increasingly caliginous conditions in our great capital.”
He paused, fingering the unopened leather dossier on the table before him.
“And of course, there are the recent increases in tax occasioned by the war in Crimea to consider”, he continued. “Even our landed gentry find themselves compelled to tighten their belts. As an old family friend of your dear, departed father, of course I would do anything in my power to help you find a situation, anything at all, but as you see…”
The young lady nodded slightly forlornly, at his gesture of hopelessness.
“Of course I understand, Mr Bartholomew. You have been most generous with your time and I am already in your debt, even if your efforts have not borne fruit. I will – “
“Tell me Miss Marlowe” the gentleman interjected, as if struck by a thought and not hearing her words of thanks.
“Did you ever employ… techniques of physical discipline on your young charges? Corporal punishment, I mean to say?”
The young lady nodded in response.
“Of course, Mr Bartholomew. Of course, one prefers to use more positive methods of encouragement but when called-for, I believe that a sharp dose of the cane is an essential tool of a governess’s art. Particularly for older boys, as I find that girls and younger children respond better to verbal warnings. Boys of 16 or over in particular seem to need to challenge authority and authority, by its nature, must be maintained – by force, if need be.”
“Oh, I quite agree, Miss Marlowe. Authority without discipline is but an empty threat. But as a young lady of such refined sentiments, do you not find yourself overcome by compassion for your charges and thus unable to wield the rod with the required, umm… severity?”
“Certainly not, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady replied, slightly sharply. “When a lad deserves a severe thrashing, I can assure you I do not spare the rod – no matter what tears or excuses the miscreant deploys. If a flogging is not painful – ideally, unbearably so – it will have little effect. Was that not your experience, as a youth, Mr Bartholomew? I cannot imagine that a successful businessman such as yourself did not learn his self control under the rod of a sufficiently severe governess?”
“Oh, indeed Miss Marlowe, indeed.” Mr Bartholomew replied, shifting slightly in his chair, with a far-away look in his eye. “I am sure that most – if not all – gentlemen who have found success in all professional walks of life in London would say the same. And it is this that brings me to the proposition I thought to put to you, Miss Marlowe, which I beg you to take in good part even if it is not to your liking: have you ever disciplined an adult – a man, that is?”
“Disciplined a grown man, Mr Bartholomew?” Miss Marlowe replied in astonishment. “You mean with a cane?”
“Mmmm… with a cane. Or tawse, strap, birch… as well as milder forms of correction such as corner time or writing lines.”
The young governess appeared dumbfounded by this unexpected suggestion.
“Well… I’ll confess that no one has ever asked me for such treatment and of course I could hardly inflict it on anyone without such consent, Mr Bartholomew, so I have indeed not had that experience.”
“Oh quite, quite” the gentleman hurriedly agreed. “Consent is most important. However, if you had such consent, do you think you might be able to…?”
The young lady drew herself up in her chair.
“Certainly, Mr Bartholomew. But I do not believe I could do so merely playfully, to help act out some nostalgia for happy childhood days. If a man consents to be beaten then beaten he should be, I believe. Vigorously and without undeserved mercy. The cane should be respected for its power, as should I as its wielder.”
“A most commendable attitude, Ms Marlowe, and one that would strike fear into the heart of any man approaching you with such an offer. Yet many such men also seek out such fearful tests of their courage, especially if they believe themselves to harbour feelings of guilt. I myself… that is to say, well… I myself…” he trailed off.
“Feelings of guilt, Mr Bartholomew? Do you mean you have been naughty and need to be punished?”
“Yes… yes very naughty” he admitted, hanging his head.
The young governess’s pretty forehead wrinkled, as she struggled to understand the bizarre turn the conversation had taken.
“So… you are telling me you need to be beaten? Caned? How very extraordinary. And do many men experience this same… compulsion?”
“Quite a few, I believe, Miss Marlowe. There are… special houses, known to the cognoscenti, where such treatment is administered. The remuneration for the ladies involved is, I believe, somewhat greater than that available to one in a… a traditional governess position, so to speak. And the hours considerably shorter.”
“I had no idea” Miss Marlowe admitted. “However, as I have no experience of such activities outside a more conventional setting, I hardly think they would consider me a suitable candidate for such a…” and she tailed off, puzzled to see Mr Bartholomew rise from his chair and draw out a long thin item from an umbrella stand in the corner. He handed it to her.
“The cane, you see Miss Marlowe. For a naughty boy.”
The governess examined the cane carefully, testing its weight by tapping one end lightly against her hand.
“Rather a light item, I am afraid to say, Mr Bartholomew. Suitable for a lenient and mild punishment only. However…” and she stood up to swish the cane through the air, making a whirring sound at which Mr Bartholomew vigorously trembled
“… however, if applied sufficiently firmly and vigorously, I believe it could have a salutary effect. As long as no trousers impede its impact on the target item, of course.”
Now it was Mr Bartholomew’s turn to look dumbfounded.
“My… my… you want me to remove my trousers?” he stammered.
“I do, Sir, and I believe that you understood my instruction quite clearly and are not simply hoping to defer the inevitable. And I believe I heard you use the words ‘very naughty’ earlier, so there should be little doubt in your mind as to what is about to occur. So… you will remove your trousers and assume the position, Sir. I will not tell you again.”
“Of course, Miss Marlowe” he replied, hurrying to loosen his clothing. “Erm… MISS AULDNEY? I am in a most important meeting. No callers for the next half hour, if you please!”
“Perhaps an hour would be more appropriate” Miss Marlowe added, calmly and professionally appraising the flabby white hindquarters that had obediently been displayed in front of her, and placing herself in precisely the right position behind them. She raised the cane.
***
Later that afternoon
Mr Bartholomew winced as he shifted slightly in his chair. The additional cushion that Miss Auldney had brought (along with a much needed cup of tea into which he had poured a stiff dose of brandy) was doing little to alleviate the furious burning he was experiencing. He wondered whether his domestic staff could perhaps obtain a bucket of ice, in which he could spend the evening. And perhaps much of the next day…
He ruefully admitted to himself that Miss Marlowe had spoken nothing but the truth when she denied being impeded by feelings of compassion or tenderness when wielding the rod. Indeed, he wondered whether her vigour and harshness might not be altogether too much for most of the gentlemen who sought out such diversions. She would hardly do, even as a correction specialist, at a house offering a wide range of services but perhaps at a more specialised establishment, for the true devotees of the ‘art’…
He picked up a quill and began to write, taking care to shift in his chair as little as possible as he did so.
“For the Attention of the Honourable Mrs Arbuthnot, Mayfair House of Correction and c. Dear and most respected lady. You might recall me as ‘Wicked William”, as I have had the pleasure and privilege of visiting your establishment on three thoroughly enjoyable but excrutiatingly painful occasions. I am writing to introduce a young protegée…”
***
Still later that day, in the early evening
“A governess to adults, Harriet?” Louise asked in puzzlement, as her friend hung up her umbrella and began to remove her mantle. Outside, the carriage that had brought her from the station clattered away into the still night in the quiet country town in which they lived.
“And men pay for such treatment? I never heard of such a thing.”
“It seems that a lot of things we country mice might find find shocking are in uncommon demand in London, my dear” Harriet replied, as she paused for her boots to be unlaced and removed. “And in the absence of regular, that is to say more… educational employment, I believe I must take up Mr Bartholomew’s kind offer.”
“Most peculiar” her friend shuddered. “I hope that you do not become corrupted by the decadent ways of the big city, Harriet, or I would not know what to do with myself.”
Harriet smiled warmly, embracing her friend and planting a warm, loving kiss on her lips. “There is little fear of that, my sweet love. It would take more than a few London gentlemen with an unhealthy appetite for the lash to move my heart from its resting place, here among simple country folk and our traditional ways.”
She looked down on the gleaming rubber surface of the tightly-clad male who had just removed her boots. “All the mud removed and the uppers thoroughly polished by morning, gimp! For each speck of dirt, I’ll add an extra week before your next release.”
Their gimp nodded wordlessly and frantically applied his tongue to the mud-splattered items, as Harriet hooked his chain to the ring on the side of the boot-rack.
“Sissy Maid Tina has prepared shepherd’s pie for supper, if you are hungry?” her friend enquired.
Harriet shook her head. “I had a bite at Fenchurch Street station, while awaiting my train. I simply desire to take myself off to bed, perhaps equipped with a strap-on to ream that new lad’s arse, if you wouldn’t mind tying him down and greasing his anus?”
“Already done”, Louise giggled. “And I thought perhaps we could take him from both ends before fucking each other into oblivion?” And she raised her skirt and petticoat to show a huge polished wooden phallus, waving slightly in Harriet’s direction.
“And we can worry about those Londoners and their strange big-city ways in the morning” she added, taking her friend’s hand in one of hers and leading her into the bedroom, where the dancing candle-light fitfully illuminated the quivering flesh of the youth spread-eagled on the four-poster bed, surrounded by the racks of whips, dildoes and spiked steel restraints that festooned the walls.
THE END
Harriet’s boots. Not as modelled by the Hunteress, I believe, although if she’d like to try them on for me, I’d be happy to sell my house and tribute her the proceeds.
That’s the nice thing about really painful experiences in session – you just have to react naturally.
The Collective believes that all property, including males, should belong to the group as a whole. All citizens are equal – and all slaves are equal too, I suppose.
Don’t you just hate waiting until she’s finished on the phone? There are all those moments when she seems to be saying goodbye, then it’s ‘oh – one more thing!’. I find it very frustrating.
You can play Jabba the Hut… some sort of sluglike vermin, anyway.
Don’t worry, the prep isn’t at all uncomfortable. Just a shave, which might tickle a bit, then securing your hands and ankles firmly to the trolley, which many men find to be quite cosy and reassuring.
Try to keep the explanation brief when you do get the chance; she’s going to want to get on.
Thank goodness someone with common sense has stepped in to take charge.
This wonderful lady is Miss Tamara Kenworthy, also known as Samantha Alexandra (but not in any pictures you and I are allowed to look at).
It’s a good thing Kitty’s there for her, because she’s going to need comforting as she tries to adjust to a life without a male partner. Kitty’s good at that.
Ah, that’ll be why she’s not letting you masturbate, then. Feel free to ask if you want a half-way quickie wank: I’m sure she’ll give it careful consideration.
They do say there are no ponts for coming second, but then girls often dislike it when you come first too, so you can’t win. Not that it’s a competition – as my first date pointed out when I challenged her to race me to orgasm (I would have won, if she hadn’t cheated by kicking me so hard in the balls).
