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.
So, after all these years of being told that football’s just a silly game in which a bunch of moronic boys chase a ball around in a field and surely I’m not asking to be allowed to put the ironing off just to watch that nonsense, apparently it’s a remarkable display of female skill, grace and power. Who knew? Well, my SO did, obviously, and now I do because she’s told me and that’s that.
Personally I’m not so much interested in the football itself as in the players’ muddy boots and sweaty socks in the fact that we are now officially all allowed to cheer ourselves silly(er) for a team called ‘The Lionesses’. That I do like, rather a lot.
It’s coming home. Unless the Lionesses lose on Sunday, obviously, in which case it’s going somewhere else. [UPDATE: They did. It is.]
Attentive ‘readers’ might have noticed that the ladies in my caption are often portrayed complaining about being made to do things to the implicit male sub: beat him, deny him sexual relief, castrate him, torture him to death… whatever little domestic chore is required. Some might find this a little odd,as you’d think in such a relationship, the decision-making would rest with them, as representatives of the superior sex. So possibly they’re being a little unfair – which is one of the many, many reasons to adore them.
Here’s a lady who is already on her second attempt to persuade you to pay some attention to her feelings, for a change, the poor thing. If you manage to avoid making her tell you three times – and you do a really good job – maybe she’ll forget all about it. Or maybe she won’t.
Yes, must be awful. If only someone would do something. Oh well.
These days it’s still basically summer in October, so plenty of time.
His counterpart who traveled to our universe is trying to deal with being a subbie with a Nobel prize. They don’t give them out for housework, so he’s finding it a bit difficult.
Sounds like they’ve got some lost time to make up for.
I remember early in our relationship, my SO ordering me to bring her a whip for my impertinence. I told her I didn’t think I had said anything impertinent that deserved a whipping and she laughed and said I just had. It seemed a little unfair to me, but I didn’t want to argue about it and ruin the mood.
I’m afraid it won’t make you taller, though: that’s just one of those myths. I mean, maybe your spine will be longer by an inch or so at most, but since you won’t be able to walk with all the joints in your limbs dislocated, it won’t bring you any real benefits.
Like many Hollywood stars, she keeps her private relationships carefully out of the media’s eye.
I’ve always fantasised about my Mistress lending me out to a vanilla friend, but it’s actually less exciting than you might think. One of her old school friends offered to try it, but almost as soon as I arrived and got changed into my perky little maid’s outfit, somehow I knew it wasn’t going to work. I did the housework for a bit but I think we both felt uncomfortable and so after a couple of hours he phoned for Mistress to come and pick me up again.
Scurry scurry scurry.
There are more dandelions. Many more.
He’s at peace, now.
If she does roquet you – that is, hits one of your balls with hers – then she gets to ‘croquet’ – and there are two ways of doing it. The American rule is that she puts her foot down, firmly holding the ball immobile, before tapping it with her mallet. But in Britain, she just places her ball next to yours and thwacks as hard as she can. It’s all in the angles, you see. Anyway, both methods are a lot of fun.