Category: very silly indeed

Sorry about this

Sometimes I do things like this.  It’s a compulsion.  It’s best just to ignore me.


When I was a lad I fantasised
Of
being by a lady with a cane chastised.
I
visited a domme and
I paid my dues,
And I polished up the leather
on her high heeled shoes.
(He polished up the
leather on her high heeled shoes.)
I polished up that leather
so
carefully
That now I am a
sissy maid to Mistress B.

(He polished up that
leather so carefully that now he is a sissy maid to Mistress B!)


Ti tum ti tum ti tum ti tum

In
our next encounter, I played the role

Of a schoolboy, under very strict control,

With my tie askew and my homework late

I wrote five hundred times that I
deserved my fate.

(He wrote five hundred times that he
deserved his fate.)
I copied all those lines so obediently,
That now I am a sissy maid to Mistress B.

(He copied all those lines so obediently
that now he is a sissy maid to Mistress B!)


I
turned up each month with my tribute in hand

In a plain paper envelope like contraband

And soon found myself, though not first – by far

Appointed to her stable as a regu-lar

(Appointed to her stable as a regu-lar.)
I was
spanked and pegged so
reg-u-larlee

That now I am a sissy maid to Mistress B.

(He was spanked and pegged so reg-u-larlee that now he is a sissy maid to Mistress
B!)


In visiting my Mistress for my monthly
task
For a sign of her favour I began to ask
And my joy knew no bounds when, before her throne

I received a leather collar naming me her
own
(He received a leather collar naming him her own.)
That collar was my passage to slavery,
So now I am a sissy maid to Mistress B

(That collar was his passage to slavery so
now he is a sissy maid to Mistress B!)


Quite soon in my journey as a collared
slave

I was fitted with a tube so I don’t misbehave

And I soon experienced a sharp decrease

In the frequency with which I could achieve release.

(The frequency with which he could
achieve release.)

I spent so much time in chastity

That now I am a sissy maid to Mistress B.

(He spent so much time in chastity,
that now he is a sissy maid to Mistress B).


I retired from my job, free at last from
stress

And I bought myself an apron and a frilly
dress

For my plans for retirement had been long
laid

To attempt domestic service as a sissy maid!

(To attempt domestic service as a sissy maid)

I teetered on my heels so precariously

That now I am a sissy maid to Mistress B.

(He teetered on his heels so
precariously, that now he is a sissy maid to Mistress B).


So….

If you dream of a lifetime spent in unpaid work,
With
the cane awaiting when you dare to shirk

If your heart leaps high at the thought of a mop

And a life down scrubbing on your knees,
non-stop.

(And a life down scrubbing on your knees,
non-stop.)
Spend
all of your money on your session fee
And you all may be sissy
maids to Mistress B.

(Spend all of your money on a session
fee and you all may be sissy maids to Mistress B!)





Pictures are from the rather lovely cleversissy.tumblr.com, who surely is.


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.

When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.

… and then the pain is back again, and so it goes on.


Astute readers (both of you) will have recognised a Jane Austen quotation, of course, and realised that you are in for a treat. Oh yes – regency femdom!  More hot chicks in empire-line dresses!  And long sentences, in elegant serifed fonts instead of that dreadful modern Gill Sans. 

Swoon on.

 

 

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!

The fairy and the fisherman

Once, a young fisherman found a magic shell from which a
lovely fairy appeared to offer him a wish.
“Not three?” he asked in disappointment.
The fairy’s pretty brow furrowed crossly.  “If you don’t want the wish” she began
but of course he did, so he shushed her and fell to wondering what to wish
for.  He could have had wealth, he could
have found love, but deep down he knew he wanted none of those things and after
a few minutes of indecision he blurted out.
“I’d like to be a pair of boots.”
“Boots?” the fairy asked in puzzlement. “You could have
wealth unlimited, then you could buy thousands of pairs of boots.”
“No”, he replied.  “I
don’t want to have a pair of boots. 
I want to be a pair of boots. I want to still be alive and
conscious and I want to be a pair of leather boots.”
 “Ladies’ boots that
is”, he added suddenly.  “That’s very
important.”
“Perhaps you’d better be more specific, then.” the fairy sighed, taking out a notepad.  “Wouldn’t
want this to turn out badly for you in an ironic manner, like in the stories,
would we?”
So the fisherman described the boots of his fantasy.  They were tall: thigh length rendered taller
by heels four inches long. They had leather laces, tightly wound through bright
shiny eyelets all the way up the back, culminating in little leather tassels.
They gleamed with a mirror shine. They were, in short, the boots of almost
every male submissive’s fantasy.  And he
wanted to be them.
“Got it” said the fairy when he’d finished his long and
rather creepy description. She looked anywhere except the bulge in his trousers
as she took out her magic wand, waved it a little and then the world exploded
in a shower of stars.
 

The fairy

The fisherman woke up in some discomfort.  He was standing tied against a wooden frame
with arms splayed out above him and his wrists fastened so he could not break
free.  His ankles too were restrained, his
legs apart.
 
The fairy was sitting nearby, watching.  When she saw that he was awake, she nodded
and got up clutching a cloth bag.
“But – I wanted to be a pair of boots!” he protested.
The fairy nodded.  “And
you will be” she said, pulling a long, curved steel blade.
“Alive!” he shrieked, desperately.
“Yes, that too” she smiled. 
“All taken care of.” And she nicked his flesh deeply with the hooked end
of her blade and she began to cut.
Making a pair of leather boots takes time and skill.  First, the animal must be skinned, of
course.  The resulting hide will have
flesh on it, so this must be removed, first by cutting off the thicker layers,
then by scraping.  The resulting skin is
salted, folded and left for 24 hours or longer. 
Then, after soaking, the outer side of the hide must be scraped to remove
any hair and the epidermis.  The material
is then tanned, soaking in a vat with chemicals, before being tightly stretched
across a frame and left to dry as taut as can be.  True to the fairy’s word, the fisherman
remained alive and fully conscious throughout this process.  Although most of his nervous system was gradually
cut and scraped away, the diligent fairy ensured that he continued to have all
the sensations that an unskinned human would experience.  She even fancied she could hear his silent
screams, throughout, and she smiled a secret fairy smile as she worked.
Finally, the leather was ready. The fairy settled down with
her tools and she cut with strong shears and she sewed with a thick needle and she trimmed and
edged to make the boots of the fisherman’s dreams. The laces she made by
nicking the end of a thinned sheet and steadily pulling back, to make a thin
but strong strip of cured leather.  She drove
the metal eyelets through with a punching tool, she vigorously polished the
boots to the required mirror shine, then when she had pulled the laces through, she was
finally able to lean back and contemplate the boots she had made.
They were somewhat tacky, she had to admit, but she was quite pleased with how they had turned out.  Not her sort of thing, but
someone might want them. She left them on the doorstep of the town shoemaker at
midnight and disappeared into the night.
The boots were sold eventually, to a young, spoiled daughter
of a local nobleman. She wore them once, but found they pinched, and the
business with lacing up at the back was far too much trouble, so threw them
into her shoe cupboard and never thought of them again.  And there they remain to this day.

Moral: don’t ask a powerful supernatural being to skin you
alive. It bloody hurts.
…and the fisherman.

Several times now, upon a time

Tales about bold princesses rescuing helpless princes from evil, erm, princesses and all that kind of thing.  Again.


Why do three wishes always turn out this way?  You’d think people would have the sense to learn.  But the protagonist in this one is presumed to be male, so I guess ‘sense’ is not really an option.




Goldilocks and the three dominatrices

Once upon a time there were three dominatrices who lived
together in a large BDSM facility in the woods. 
There was a Daddy Dominatrix: a butch lesbian with cropped hair and
copious tattoos who loved wearing biker gear. 
There was a Mummy Dominatrix: a large lady with a deceptively sweet
smile, a firm attitude and a strong right arm. 
And there was Baby Dominatrix: a blonde blue-eyed innocent with an angelic smile and
very expensive tastes – along with a wide repertoire to ensure that men paid
for them.

Flickriver: Most interesting photos from Cottage in the ...
Not everyone’s idea of what a BDSM facility should look like, I suppose, but stereotypes are there to be challenged.

One day the dominatrices were preparing for the sessions
each had booked for the day.  Daddy Dominatrix was going to burn the BDSM symbol into one of her client’s buttocks
– she had just started the furnace to get the brand to the necessary red heat,
but it would take an half hour to warm up. 
Mummy Dominatrix had a mouth-soaping session planned but she needed the
bar of astringent ivory soap to melt in a bowl of warm water into a gooey mass,
and that would take half an hour too. Baby Dominatrix had nothing to prepare,
but she never started a session on time, believing her pay-pigs deserved to
wait before being allowed into her presence, so she had half an hour – if not
longer – as well.  

 So Daddy Dominatrix
attached some heavy clamps to the testicles of her client and left him chained
to her branding table, Mummy Dominatrix secured her client tightly away with
strict instructions not to release his enema into his big squashy nappy before
she returned, Baby Dominatrix strode past her kneeling client without a look or
a word and the three dominatrices went out for a walk.

While they were out walking, who should happen upon their
house but Goldilocks.  Now Goldilocks was
a sissy: all golden curls, frills and lacy underwear and he came mincing along
the path, where he had been out picking flowers.  Seeing the door ajar, he pushed at it and
entered.

The first thing he saw was a row of boots and shoes.  Goldilocks looked at the first set of
boots.  They were Daddy Dominatrix’s
heavy ‘Dr. Martens’ boots, hobnailed and made for stomping and kicking – of which over time, they had done so much they were rather scuffed.  Goldilocks took a quick lick but the leather
felt rough on his tongue so he moved along. 
The next pair of shoes were Mummy Dominatrix’s sensible court shoes that she wore for governess scenes.  A
one inch heel gave just enough of a clickity-clack when Mummy Dominatrix walked
in them for her clients to thrill to the approaching no-nonsense
discipline.  These were much more to
Goldilocks’s taste, so he started licking avidly, before he noticed the
footwear next to them.  It was a pair
of little pink leather boots, high-heeled with glistening eyelets, red leather
laces and little hearts picked out in sparking crystal on the uppers.  Goldilocks took one of them in his hands and
sniffed rapturously.  The delicate smell
of female sweat wafted from the interior and Goldilocks hurriedly bent down to
plant a flurry of kisses and licks across the second boot, while lifting his
skirt so that his insistently erect penis could come into contact with the soft
pink leather of the first.  In less than a minute one
of the boots was covered with spittle, while on the other a thick splattering
of semen showed where Goldilocks had reached his temporary heaven.

You want a picture of the boots?  Sure.  Enjoy.  Oh, sorry – were you hoping for one of the other pairs?



Feeling exhausted after coming so hard, Goldilocks went
upstairs looking for a bed in which to lie down.  The first bedroom he visited was Daddy
Dominatrix’s (although Baby Dominatrix often joined her there): decked out in
black, with occult symbols and heavy metal album covers tacked to the wall, it
terrified Goldilocks even before he saw the shackles attached to each heavily
carved post of the bed, so he slammed the door and moved on.  The second bedroom he visited belonged to Mummy
Dominatrix, although she herself did not actually sleep there.  In this bedroom, pink was the dominant theme,
with fluffy rabbits decorating the walls and a large teddy bear in the
corner.  Only a rack on the wall on which
tawses, paddle and canes hung, beneath a sign reading “Mummy knows best”,
detracted from the soft cuddly atmosphere. 
The ‘bed’ was a giant cot, with rubber sheets and bars that not only
formed the sides bout could also fold over to make a fully enclosed space.
Goldilocks loved it and was just about to climb into the cot and snuggle down
when he heard a groan.  Looking around,
he saw the teddy bear shaking slightly and making incoherent pleading sounds.  Not stopping to investigate (which was just
as well because inside the bear the enema was about to be released after all, despite Mummy Dominatrix’s strict instructions,) he fled this strange room as well.   

Giant Teddy Bear | Large Teddy Bear | Huge Teddy Bear
This is Trevor. He’s a forty-eight year-old procurement manager for a large engineering firm, from Swansea.  He’s not actually named in the story but he’s an interesting guy: enjoys snowboarding, collects original turn of the century newspaper prints and volunteers as a local fireman. But today he’s just this.  And a bit stinky.

The third room, though, took his breath
away.  In a room fit for a princess, decked
out in the finest silks, the large circular bed in the centre could have
accommodated seven people (and occasionally did, but not to sleep – only one
person ever slept there, as she preferred her sexual partners to
distribute themselves on the floor around the bed when they had served their
purpose).  A rack of shoes contained what
must have been a hundred pairs: Manolos, Jimmy Choos, Blahniks, Louboutins… many of
them seemingly never worn.  Then Goldilocks
pulled at a handle on the wall and swooned as a clothes rack glided silently
out, offering to Goldilocks’s delighted eyes more dresses than he could count,
all from the world’s top designers.  A
second rack contained nothing but fur coats of the richest sable and mink – and
there were three more handles betokening couturial delights to come.

Can a girl have too many shoes?  Baby Dominatrix might graciously permit you to help her find out, if you ask very respectfully and demonstrate your worth to her.


Goldilocks was tempted to play dress-up but decided he’d
enjoy it more after a nap, so he stroked a hand across the flawless satin of
the bed and prepared to rest.  However,
he felt the first stirrings of another erection and decided he’d sleep even
better after another good hard wank. He remembered seeing a laundry basked at
the head of the stairs and – being a nasty, perverted little creature – went to
see what he could find.

The first pair of underwear he drew out belonged to Daddy
Dominatrix.  Undecorated – except for the
stains from a particularly heavy period – they had little to attract Goldilocks
so he threw them straight to the ground. 
The second was a pair of Mummy Dominatrix’s bloomers, which were rather
more to Goldilocks’s taste, but alarmingly large and anyway by now he was
getting the idea, so he dropped those too and rummaged around in the hope that
the lucky dip would once again come up trumps on the third attempt.  And it did. 
The delicate silk panties that Goldilocks found himself holding in a
shaking hand were finer than he had ever seen. 
His own tastes tending towards the lacy, he generally bought tacky
over-the-top sissy stuff from a catalogue aimed at perverts like himself.  But these were the real deal. As lacy as
anything Goldilocks owned yet also impossibly tasteful, the panties represented
a new peak in Goldilocks’s sexual experience. They belonged, of course, to Baby
Dominatrix, who had tossed them into the basket after an auction among an increasing
frantic group of bidders had failed to produce enough revenue for her to feel
that the winning bidder deserved actually to receive the panties, although of
course he was still permitted the honour of paying for the privilege of being
denied them.

Large Victorian Antique Wicker Laundry Basket. | 260568 ...
I’ve heard from quite a few readers that you would really, really like to see a picture of the laundry basket full of the ladies’ used underwear.  So here it is. Enjoy… perverts.

Goldilocks took barely an instant to crack one out into Baby
Dominatrix’s used panties, then sighed happily and let them too drop to the floor. Then he headed,
exhausted but content, back to the bedroom.  He drew the curtains so it would be dark (thus raising and instantly dashing
the hopes of the line of kneeling men below, each clutching his envelope
stuffed with cash and gazing hopefully up at the window), lay down and
stretched out luxuriously on the satin sheets, then almost immediately fell into a blissful slumber.

Soon enough the three dominatrices returned from their walk,
eager to begin their delayed sessions (except for Baby Dominatrix, who had
decided she did not feel like working today, so was going to send her clients
away with an imperious gesture).  The
first thing that caught their eyes was the messed-up row of footwear by the
kitchen wall.  “Someone’s been licking my
boots” growled Daddy Dominatrix suspiciously. 
“Goodness – someone’s been licking my governess shoes!” tsked Mummy
Dominatrix and reached instinctively for her hairbrush.  “And somebody’s been licking my eleventh-best pair of pink boots – and they’ve jizzed all over them!” wailed
Baby Dominatrix.

The three dominatrices stormed upstairs, barely believing
that any of their clients would have dared to commit such a sacrilege but
determined nonetheless to find and deal with the culprit.  At the top of the stairs, though, they
stopped in their tracks at the sight of three pairs of underwear strewn on the
floor.  Daddy Dominatrix frowned.
“Someone’s been sniffing my panties” she grumbled, and slapped a fist
menacingly into the palm of her hand. 
“Oh how dreadful – some naughty little so-and-so has been sniffing my
bloomers” Mummy Dominatrix gasped “What a dreadful little boy!” Baby
Dominatrix extended an elegant finger to point at a scrunched up pink shape on the floor, in which the folds
were gently hardening. “Look!  Someone’s been sniffing mine and decided to jerk
off in them too – and he didn’t even pay!” she gasped in horror.

Daddy Dominatrix flung open her bedroom door.  “Well, at least no one’s been sleeping in my
bed” she said in relief, winking at Baby Dominatrix who just tossed her head
coquettishly.  Mummy Dominatrix opened
the nursery door, but quickly slammed it shut again, as a familiar smell wafted
out. “No one’s sleeping in the cot either” she reported, “but SOMEONE has made
a big mess in his nappy and Mummy is VERY CROSS INDEED!” A moan of fear came
from behind the nursery door but the three dominatrices paid no attention, because
heavy snoring was coming from Baby Dominatrix’s boudoir.  There, in the middle of the satin bed,
despoiling it with his very existence, lay a fat balding man, in a tacky sissy
dress.  A golden curly wig had slipped
from his head.  “Someone’s been sleeping
in my bed” whispered Baby Dominatrix with cold fury. “And when he wakes up,
he’ll wish he’d never been born!”

And she was right.

I expect you’re wondering how three dominatrices ended up in the rural idyll described here.  After all, professional domination does tend to be an urban pursuit.  In fact, the cottage doesn’t belong to them but instead to a rich local landowner, pictured above.  He arranged a session some years back with Mummy Dominatrix and she liked the place so much she decided to stay.  They let him keep his own room, of course – until Baby Dominatrix decided it would be better suited to being a walk-in shoe closet. But he still has use of the garden, as you can see.

The next night
“No – no please it’s much too large” Goldilocks shrieked,
tied to Daddy Dominatrix’s bed.  But
Daddy Dominatrix just laughed and slowly, remorselessly penetrated Goldilocks’s
desperately stretched anus with ever firmer pelvic thrusts of her giant black
dildo.

The night after that

“No – no please, it’s much too small” Goldilocks sobbed.  But Mummy Dominatrix just laughed, briskly
removed the ice water towel and firmly fastened the narrow steel tube around
Goldilocks’s frozen, shrivelled cock.

The night after that.



“Oh yes” laughed Baby Dominatrix.  “That’s just right” and she silently
handed Goldilocks the keyboard, so he could authorise her to drain every last
penny from his bank accounts.

And the rest of their lives
So the three dominatrices lived happily ever after.  And they never saw Goldilocks again.  In fact, no one ever did.  Clients visiting the BDSM facility
occasionally reported a bald, scared-looking house slave scurrying from one
menial task to another – but no curly golden-haired moppet.  Mummy Dominatrix even started allowing her
little boys to mess their nappies now she had a little helper, and Daddy
Dominatrix offered scat play for the same reason.  

And as for Baby Dominatrix? Ah, dear reader, to find out
about her life and doings you’ll have to subscribe to her premium service,
I am afraid.  And that is a whole other
story – and quite an expensive one!



I just thought that after reading so much about him, you’d like to see a picture of Goldilocks.  Here he is.

Thigh five

… which is obviously a made-up phrase.  Oddly, though, there are many two-word phrases in the English language beginning with the word ‘thigh’ and every single one of them is erotic. Strange but true. 

Unlike, say, the words ‘rancid’ or ‘viscous’, unless you’re really weird and we don’t like weirdos on this blog, thank you very much.


You can do anything*, but don’t wank on my black suede boots. 

* No you can’t.





You might imagine that this young lady is headed for a stellar career as a professional dominatrix, but as things turned out she actually became the head of Ryanair’s Customer Complaints department.  So there you go.

Dave’s need is greater than yours. Well.. his cock certainly is, anyway.
It’s OK as long as I keep my mind off all thoughts sexual
Ocasionally, when I have an idea for a caption, I’ll worry that one of the many, many other femdom caption sites on the Internet will already have done it. This one, not so much.


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