sissy – Page 9 – Contemplating the divine

Clean sweep

A few weeks ago, I published ‘Advice to a novice domme‘ in which, among many other wise and practical ideas, I humbly suggested that dommes should not “assign actual housework tasks to ‘sissy maids’ because they’ll fuck them up and might actually damage your stuff. All they want to do is mince around with a feather duster and then get spanked, anyway”.

It occurs to me that several sissy maids might be offended, hurt and humiliated by this suggestion. That’s absolutely fine, of course, no one cares about a few sulky sissies. I’m sure your mistress can wipe that frown off your face, with a few well-aimed slaps from her palm. And for those who have a humiliation kink, perhaps you should even send me some session fees as compensation, hmm sissy?

But if there are still any sissies out there stamping their little feet, balling their fists together and having squeaky tantrums, here is some actual proof (all images certified collected at random from the Internet, so I think we can agree their accuracy is unquestionable) that you’re all completely useless.

Proud to present: cleaning sissies, on the job

A little dishwashing mop, sissy? For that task? Only… I don’t see any dishes there, do you? Oh – and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mop quite so pristine…. I’d have thought that if you’ve been working hard using it, it would have been a little discoloured by now? That lady behind you looks quite cross, doesn’t she? But then maybe that’s what you’re hoping for.

Good idea sissy. Nothing worse than a dusty TV-cabinet. Let’s fluff that dust up so it settles somewhere else.

Dusting the floor, sissy? OK, well, whatever.

Not a shoe brush. And you’re out of uniform, sissy, you bad girl.

Also not a shoe brush. So not a shoe brush. What is that thing? Also, sissy, the technique seems to involve your domme standing on one (high-heeled) foot, holding her other foot off the ground, while you flick at the shoe with… with that. She’s going to be almost as uncomfortable as you are. Well: until she decides to make you more uncomfortable still, I suppose.

Uh-huh. Might take quite a while to get the whole house done. Still… I expect you’re paying by the hour, so that’s not her problem.

I don’t even want to think about what’s going on here, but I suspect it’s not conducive to really effective cleaning.

That’s right, sissy. Mistress is going to be very pleased with you when she looks out through the sparkly clean, erm… lower half of each of her ground floor windows. Dommes never use the top halves of windows; it’s a well-known fact.

What is it with sissy maids and feather dusters?

So… let me make sure I understand. You’ve got the brush from a dustpan and brush set and you’re placing a few bristles from it against the floor? Right. And this is intended to accomplish what, exactly? I mean in cleaning terms, rather than sexual gratification, obviously.

Oh good: another feather duster. And… what are you planning to clean with that, sissy? The floor? That mat? I don’t think so. Not ‘cleaning’ cleaning.

…and just for avoidance of doubt: if actually instructed to use an inappropriate cleaning implement, then you’d better bend your head down and get on it it, hadn’t you, hmm? That pert little mouth is for scouring and sponging the kitchen floor, not for answering back, girl! And don’t you forget it.

Now: for any sissy maid still offended… Just stop crying, girl, you’re just smudging your make-up and making yourself look even more ridiculous than usual, OK? Don’t worry: no one’s going to take your feather duster away. Or your frillies. Goodness: what a fuss!

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.

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.

Snivelling

I do a lot of snivelling. I feel it is an under-rated and much-maligned activity; you rarely see the word used in a positive context.

It is truly better to give than to receive, my SO always says, a particularly relevant thought to bear in mind in this festive season.

Go on then… let’s get it over with…

Which nice things to buy, maybe?

He always wanted to be considered ‘statuesque’. Now he will be.

To experience an after-life you have to have had a life, so I don’t think this is what my future looks like.

Domestic tyranny…

… domestic bliss.

They say old age can be like a second childhood.

My SO and I tried something like that but it turned out my boss was gay! Quite an embarassing situation, as you can imagine, but he saw the funny side and actually since then, our working relationship has been closer than ever.

We are.

OK. But always with dignity, yeah?

I think’darling’ must have misread the signals. I don’t have that problem any more, because we only ever go out with my genitals wired up to the electrics. Of course, I don’t get heavy shocks in public but a few little reminders – or an instruction to go off to find a bathroom cubicle for a good zapping – keep me nicely in line. In fact, she’s considering learning morse code.

Annhilatrices

You know the ‘trix’ ending is almost the only example I can think of where femdom culture ‘dominates’ the mainstream. In principle, one can speak of an editrix, adminstratrix or investigatrix, but it’s only going to conjure up an image of a lady in leather with a whip. As most things do for me, to be honest, but I’m talking about normal people.

Incidentally, is a female alligator an alligatrix?

Incineratrix

This particular incineratrix is the wonderful Goddess Sophia, who has occasionally been unlucky enough to have raw untreated Servitor spilling out across her dungeon floor, but she always managed to get it under control before too long. A powerful and creative lady.

She’s trying to transform the harsh, uncaring image of the findomme business. Although not too much, obviously, or what would be the point of it?

The ball gag is an essential element in this style of play, to make sure the little horrors don’t go crawling in where they’re not wanted. And to prevent him screaming out his safeword, which ironically enough in this case is ‘arachnophobia’. What’s that you’re asking? ‘What about his nostrils’? Well, don’t be silly – that would block his breathing passages, wouldn’t it? Honestly, how many times must I remind everyone: safety first! That’s rules 1, 2 and 3 in BDSM, yeah? That’s why she’s using the non-poisonous kind, too, see?

Seems a bit soft-hearted to me. I mean, 6/7 of his bottom won’t be beaten at all, most days. I thought she’d take a harder line, to be honest.

Of course, if anyone really hates it, she doesn’t just let them suffer in silence. Quite the contrary, actually.

Oppressed desires


When I look at her, something about her gaze reminds me of my SO. And the woman in the picture looks like someone I know, too.

They do such a fine job: still delivering healthcare and anti-rape services to the nation despite all the financial cuts

Remember femdom rule number one: never engage in unsafe activities like really pissing your domme off.

I’ve heard there’s a game called Prison Architect but I’ll bet it doesn’t have as many options as this.

Actually, though, cigarette ash is low-calorie, fat free and even vegan. So it can be a very healthy part of a diet, mixed together with other foodstuffs, which is exactly how I take it.

Tears before, during and after bedtime

It’s actually quite high in calories, but don’t worry about that because you’re unlikely to be able to keep much of it down.

Thank goodness for that. I think you can just leave the case in her capable hands.

I dunno – I find shops vary in the degree to which they are kink-friendly. Once I was sent to find some gear for an adult baby session and for some reason the staff in the ‘early years’ shop got all weird about it when I started asking about how strong their leather reins sets were, and whether the cots could be fitted with padlocks. But then on another occasion, I had to buy a hairbrush and the shop assistant in the department store I went to was delighted to help me try every one of them out. Said it was something she wished she could do to more customers. So you never know.

Silly boys. Reinforced seat trousers do little good when they’re around your ankles, anyway.

Male brains don’t multi-task. Mine barely tasks at all, to be honest. Now then: I was writing a caption..?

And I will bare my soul in time

…when I’m kneeling at your feet.

I think we can agree, though, that it’s hardly femdom to expect men to do their share of the ironing. Including – obviously – making up for the backlog of several thousand years when they didn’t.

So we did. I wonder what we’ll decide today.

Good thing there’s a woman in charge to take those tough decisions.

Sissy didn’t actually understand the book anyway. Men should go out to work, take decsions, look after their own lives? Terrifiying.

It’s a bluff. I think it’s a bluff.

Kept men

(we don’t talk about the discarded ones).

Another 2% fantasise desperately about it not happening, or at least not so often and not quite so hard.

Featuring the lovely and no-nonsense Miss Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress.

Right. It’s about time all this nonsense stopped – I’m going to put my foot down. In fact, I’m going to stamp my foot – hard. Several times. And I’m going to to have a proper tantrum. That should show her she can’t treat me like this.

Their faces usually fall again when she goes on to inform them that she will therefore proceed to the next thrashing, for the next item on her list.

I once asked my SO if she could feminise me, but she just laughed and said she’d love to, but I don’t have the IQ to make a convincing woman.

She cares a lot.

By the way, not ‘found femdom’ in any meaningful way, but over the break I’ve been watching episodes of 90s British sitcom Game On and perving ever so slightly to the lovely Samantha Janus and especially her relationship with the character Martin. I watched it occasionally at the time it was broadcast and it’s as weird and spectacularly depressing as ever, as the basic set-up is that Matt – a neurotic, agoraphobic narcissist – rents out rooms in his flat to Martin (a wimp) and Mandy (a goddess!). Martin is a virgin desperate for sex, while Mandy is frustrated with her life and hates herself for sleeping with so many men. But (da-dum), the only men she absolutely will not have sex with are the other two characters. With Matt, she refuses and pushes him away but with Martin it obviously never even occurs to her to have sex with him. There’s a lovely scene in this episode (intended to be the first ever, although they varied the order of broadcast), in which her latest boxer boyfriend takes up her whole bed, so she snuggles up with Martin, who lies there with an erection the whole desperate night. Here, starting 16.22. Ahhh…

So, yeah, not in any way femdom. Except that Samantha Janus is quite literally a goddess and I for one intend to found a religion in her honour.

She is notionally Samantha Womack these days, but I’ll be hunting down Mr so-called Womack and forcing the blasphemer to change his name to Janus, as is only right and proper, so don’t worry about that.

Dommesticated

Bliss. Link is, just for once, actually to something femdom-themed rather than random British music. Really , honestly. No, it’s not Rick Astley. I promise. Really – try it. It’s a very sweet and sexy thing.*

I tried one of those virtual girlfriend programmes. Something went wrong, though – after the first time I’d tried it, every time I started it up, the computer would just crash and shut down. I thought it must be a bug so I called the helpline but the lady there just laughed and said she thought there was nothing wrong with the software and she put the phone down on me and blocked my number. Computer-generated personalities can be startlingly lifelike these days, don’t you think?

Well, let’s hope she doesn’t just fall asleep as soon as she’s had her orgasm, this time.

Actually, most of my clothes these days are washable latex anyway. The blood just rinses right off, so no harm done.

Fortunately, when you get near your own neighbourhood most people will already know that.

Even Hollywood megastars have to pay for some things themselves, huh? Still… I expect she can afford it.

* PS You thought it was going to be Rick Astley, didn’t you? Don’t you trust me? Just admit it – you don’t trust me, do you? Trust’s important in BDSM. I’m hurt now… and not in a good way.