Contemplating the divine – Page 42 – 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.

Bottom marks for effort

Something I should get for that headline, I suspect. Oh well.

Early on in our marriage, I once tentatively suggested to my SO that she could maybe lend a hand with the housework occasionally. She didn’t react well, although to be fair I was given lighter househod tasks for a few days afterwards, as I recovered. We still commemorate the day every year, actually, like a kind of second anniversary. It’s in a few weeks’ time and I’m already starting to feel that pit of dread in my stomach.

For a one in ten chance it comes up surprisingly infrequently. Oh well, can’t argue with maths – or women.

One of the slaves does understand Czech, but at this point he was trembling too hard to explain to his colleagues what was in store for them.

As AI and other technological marvels come in, I suspect that oral skills are going to be more and more important for young men starting their careers in the business world.

It’s all very well to say I go to bed at 8.30, but frankly Steve can be quite noisy too – as can she – and there are some nights I don’t get a wink of sleep for hours.

Happy ever after?

No, not a fairy tale post. Just a post themed around that eternal topic of uncertainty when visiting a new domme: the happy ending, if any.

Actually, my very first domme – and I saw no other for about my first three years – never allowed them at all. Then the very next lady I visited pulled on a latex glove about fifteen minutes before the end of the session and surprised me mightily. My current regular domme seems to decide it’s going to happen about… oh, one time in four or so? So it’s a nice surprise if it happens but I have learnt not to count on it. Up to her, entirely and that’s how it should be.

Anyway, happy endings. We subs usually don’t deserve them but then the same is true of the very existence of the dommes we are privileged to visit, isn’t it?

…and of course the all-time classic

Docile and domesticated

The annoying thing is, the vanilla punters pay a lot less and do actually get to have sex. Oh well, if life was supposed to be fair, I suppose we wouldn’t have femdom.

Easier and a lot less humiliating too, which is probably why she doesn’t do it that way.

Exactly: the little cartoon animals won’t cause Malcolm to think any less of you, not one iota.

Her insurance will cover any compensation to the owner if it’s not feral, of course.

Embarassing observations

The untruths hurt, sometimes.

Wise submissive husbands will keep a notebook, recording name, orgasm frequency, cock size and any remarks their wives made the next morning. Cuckoldry doesn’t have to be something merely done to you, you see – you can help her with it.

She can wait – as can he, actually, although he might feel right now as if he can’t.

If you get really good at the ‘guess the voltage’ game, a career as a circuit tester awaits.

If it goes into the mouth and down the throat, then it’s edible, right? And she always makes sure that it does.

You’ve already taken the most important vows, anyway.

Suitable for a princess

Just another one of those captions that became so long it wasn’t really a caption any more so I’m calling it a story.

Your princess? Really, am I? Aww… that’s nice.

Maybe you’d like to hear your princess tell you a story, hmm? Don’t worry: you can keep doing that. Right between the toes: there’s a good boy.

Once upon the time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in far-off Milton Keynes. She was so beautiful and so talented that men from far and wide fell in love with her. Princes, knights, rich merchant bankers… even footslaves so ugly she had to make them wear latex masks, who loved to lick her sweaty toes. They all fell in love with her, but she really didn’t give a flying fuck, as long as they paid her and gave her presents on special occasions.

Like her birthday: that was the specialest occasion of all. The princess hated it if any of her ungrateful and moronic worshippers forgot her birthday. No – don’t stop doing the foot thing, slave. I’ve got something else planned in a moment, but you can keep doing that for now.

So, at the end of one birthday the princess made a little list of all the slaves who hadn’t fucking bothered to give her a present – who couldn’t even extend her the basic courtesy of an email or something. You know: to take, like, one minute out of their day to wish a happy birthday to the lady they claim is the light of their sad little fucked-up lives. And she decided that the next time each of those nasty little ingrates sessioned with her, she’d give them a really hard pain session, that went way beyond their ‘limits’. Like, for example, her pathetic little footslave who was ‘really not into pain, Mistress’: she decided she was going to clamp his nipples and bollocks with tight, tight clamps and attach heavy weights to them, then whip him raw. Maybe finish off with some electric shocks or ball-busting. Or both.

Of course, the princess realized, it would have to be consensual. But the self-centred bastards who’d forgotten her birthday would be given a choice: consent to the pain session the selfish little sods so richly deserved, or never see Mistress and her beautiful feet ever, ever, ever again. Either way, she thought, next birthday she’d have presents from all her slaves: any who didn’t consent would be living sad lonely lives without her and the remaining ones would be too fucking terrified to forget a second time, after the sheer hell she planned to deal out to them.

Now… I want you to help me write the end of the story, slave. Not the very end, that’s “And the princess lived happily ever after.” It’s the bit just before that. What do you think is going to happen?

No, you can stop licking my foot now – maybe that was for the last time, isn’t it exciting? – and I’ll go and get the bondage cross ready, while you have a think.

The part of the princess in this tale was played by the very lovely and delightful Tiffany Naylor, who does indeed hold court in the magical land of Milton Keynes*, where I once encountered her and very lovely and very delightful she was. Naturally, none of the actions of the fictional dominatrix depicted here should be attributed to the real Tiffany Naylor, although I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets cross if her regulars forget her birthday**, as that’s perfectly normal (and normally perfect) dominatrix behaviour.

* For Americans or other foreigners unfamiliar with this place, Milton Keynes is one of the most historic towns in England. You can easily spend several days there, just strolling around the medieval streets, drinking in the scenic beauty of the old town and swapping stories with its charming inhabitants. Wisely, the local authorities have avoided the excess tourism that has damaged the charm of some other historic English locations, like Stratford on Avon, by ensuring there is little to be found on the Internet about the rich history and architecture of this unspoilt gem, but those in the know regard it as being on the must-see list for any visitor seeking to explore England’s historic treasures.

** 3rd of August!

And do you really fear that you might fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall

The European female she’s here. Warning: safe for work and contains scenes of a non-sexual nature. Warning 2: yet another expression of Servitor’s fixation on 1980s British soft punk. But then so’s this.

It can get quite hard on the knees, especially when playing outdoors. But apparently she’s OK with that, so it’s not a problem.

I expect she’ll soon get on to the ‘different’ ways in which he does please her. I was once told by a girl that she liked me ‘but not in that way’. When I pressed her on what she meant, she thought a bit and realised that actually, on reflection, she didn’t like me in any way. Thank goodness we cleared that up, it could have got quite embarassing.

Cheaper too, particularly given the economical approach she takes to feeding him. Which also cuts down dramatically on household food waste, which our Western societies are finding to be an increasing problem.

Women get turned on by intelligent men, you know. Unfortunately (for us), they also get turned on by intelligent women and unintelligent men and both of those are in the majority in their sex.

Funny little bendy cane! Thank goodness it’s not going to hurt.

Par des mains enchaînées

Oui, c’est le jour de la Bastille, la journée nationale en France! Hourra! Vive la domination féminine!

The day the we celebrate the core French values of liberty, equality and fraternity – all three of them contrary to much of the material published in this blog, it’s true, but stirring and inspiring nonethless. As a Brit, resident in France and stubbornly hanging on despite Brexit (stubbornness is in my nature, despite vigorous attempts by highly skilled ladies to break me of the habit permanently), I feel compelled to pay my respects to the glory that is France and the gifts that great nation has brought to the world in the only way I know how: publishing porn.

C e l e b r a t e d this day here before, once.

So, a selection of captioned images with at least some tenuous connection to La Belle France. Mostly published before, so there will be a proper post with five new ones tomorrow. Would I let you down?

And, look, chaps, if you want me publish a similar celebration of the jolly old national day of celebration in Blighty, you’re going to have to wait until they dashed well invent one, aren’t you? I’m not celebrating the bally King’s birthday, official or otherwise. Trafalgar Day… that would work. Celebrate rum, sodomy and the lash… I’m afraid I don’t personally drink rum but two out of three ain’t bad. Perhaps if they ever put Penny in charge, hmm?

Maybe she intended to say it only once, but this is a reprint so she has now said it only once twice.

More in this vein here.

Oh, and there’s this for sissy types, or anyone who loves frou-frou skirts.

Captive audience

Or one that would like to be so.

It just goes to show what I always say: that few marital problems can be resolved satisfactorily by cowering away in terror in a cupboard hoping she doesn’t find you.

Don’t worry: nobody’s expecting you to do anything much. They’ll do all the work, just leave it to them.

Probably just a breath mint. My SO receives monthly deliveries of a particularly effective brand of breath mints, with some long and complicated scientific name, from Myanmar. I’ve been taking one a day since soon after we got married and it’s never done me any harm, unlike many other things in our marriage.

Of course, there’s no need to discuss her expectations about you. Those are minimal, at best.

This is the fabulously beautiful and no doubt all-round fabulously fabulous Lady Perse, well worth visiting if you are in Warsaw or even if you are not. Needless to say (but I am conscious most of my readers are male, so even the blindingly obvious may need pointing out), the caption I have put on her divine image in no way represents her actual session practices, which I am sure are safe, sane, consensual and fabulous.

‘Something’? What kind of something? Why are the ladies in these captions so maddeningly unclear?

And what’s more, you’ll be a woman, my daughter

War. They say war changes nothing. But sometimes if nothing changes, war is the only way. These girls didn’t seek the war they fought in but it found them. Then they fought and some of them died. Then they won and some of them came back. Did they come back as heroines? They came back. Plenty didn’t. Those who made it said the war changed them – for good, for bad, who knows? It changed a lot of guys too, mostly for the better. Sure: war changes nothing. But war changes everything, too.

Etc. That stuff’s surprisingly easy to write.

World War M, anyway. When the war between the sexes went hot.