Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Good news bad news

 
 
 

Now, my dear prisoner, I have good news and bad news.  Which would you like to hear first?

The bad news?  Yes, I suppose that's a good idea.  Hear that first, to get it over with.

Well, the bad news is that the rest of your life is going to be spent down here, and it is going to be utterly miserable.  Your hands will stay cuffed behind your back like that forever, and the hobble chain between your ankles isn't going away either.  You won't be able to stand up, or even crawl, but you should be able slowly to wriggle around, like a maggot, to get across this cold stone floor.  You can scream and shout if you like.  No one will hear you.  Not even me, and there's no one else for miles around.

There's more bad news too.  In a moment I'll be leaving, and I'm going to switch off the light and close the door.  So it'll be pitch dark down here - you're now in the last few moments of light that you'll ever experience.

That's right - look at me.  This is the last time you'll ever see anything.  Remember me. 

 
More bad news, I'm afraid.  You're going to die down here.  But not immediately.  There's plenty of water and I've left some piles of food around.  Some of the food's fresh, so if you can find it, as you inch around in the dark, I'd eat that first, as otherwise it's going to start rotting.  But there's quite a lot of dry food that should be edible for a few months.

But then that's it.  One day, you'll be painfully wriggling across the floor in the dark; sniffing and licking wherever you go to try to find more food, and there just won't be any left.  But of course, you'll never be sure that you've found it all, so you'll probably keep trying, as you get weaker, hopelessly dragging yourself back and forth trying everywhere in this pitch black cellar, until you starve to death - alone, in the dark, with no one to care.

So that's the bad news.

The good news?  Oh - erm, yes, now there was some good news.  What was it?  Goodness, it's completely slipped my mind.  Oh I don't suppose it matters. Whatever it was, I'm sure it didn't really concern you anyway.


 

Goodbye. 

The lady in the pictures is Stella van Gent.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

In the morning when the madness has faded

 
  



Oh hey, good morning!  Listen, thanks for last night, OK?  You were great.  One of the best I’ve had.

I loved the way you shrieked when I was pinning your cock to the board!  Don’t you dare tell me you were faking!  If you were, you’re just the most amazing actor ever, and I don’t want to know, OK?

Oh – and I’m sorry about the mix-up with the enema bags.  You probably realised the soapy one was supposed to go up your ass, not into your mouth.  Still, I don’t suppose it did you any harm.  I'm sure you've had worse.

Anyway – the money’s over there on the sideboard, in an envelope.  I put a little extra in!

Hmm?  Well, it’s your money, sweetheart. For the sub session.

What?  You mean you’re not…?  You weren’t expecting to be paid?

So, you just…. Oh wow.  I mean, wow.  I’m sorry, I just assumed…

Well, you must let me pay for something.  Otherwise I’d feel awful, about doing all those things  to you.  It is quite a lot of money… and I don’t mind, I have plenty.  That’s right.  You just take it.  Buy yourself some nice things.

And you must let me put a little make-up over the bruises  on your face.  So you’re pretty, just in case you want to try another trick tonight, now you’ve done it once.

And… listen, I was thinking.  I don’t have to be anywhere until after lunchtime.  Erm... would you like to earn a little more?

Don’t worry about having breakfast – it’ll be easier to do this on an empty stomach.
 

Bit of politics, bit of politics

I'm trying a few themed posts just at the moment.  This is a theme some of you seem to like, presumably because it deals with such a subversive, transgressive topic: men's lib.

Dangerous to bring politics into what is intended to be a fun and sexy blog and I certainly don't want to offend anyone.  Nothing in this post should be taken in any way as an endorsement of a political programme of equality for men.

 
 
 
 



 
 








...and a little bonus story.

Speaking truth to power

“The so-called men’s liberation movement” Simon wrote “is an absurd caricature of a true political cause: its slogans meaningless, its demands more like an infantile tantrum than a realistic political programme.  I regret wasting so much of my life on it.  Men simply are not the equals of women, and the sooner we accept that, the happier we will be.”
He stared at the sentence he had just written.  Strong stuff.  A complete repudiation of everything that he had fought for and believed in for all of these years.  But it had to had to be said.

He imagined the horror that an activist in the movement would experience, on reading those damning words.  Or indeed, how he himself would have reacted just a few months before.  He had been ‘Commander Riotboy’, shadowy author of numerous savage polemics against the oppressive matriarchal system and the attitudes – of both men and women – that allowed its injustices to be perpetuated down the generations.  Oddly, the strongest memory for him was a smell – the smell of the hot ink as the illegal press whirred furiously through the night, stamping out copy after copy of their newsletter, to be stapled, transported around the country and furtively distributed on any of those rare occasions when men gathered together without close female supervision.
He remembered running too, the sounds of pursuing police whistles seemingly right behind him, his comrades seized to be taken no doubt for ‘re-education’.  He had always somehow escaped to fight on another day, in the process becoming something of a legend in the movement.  Riotboy – the man who would never give up.

But that, he reflected, had all been before he met Karen.  And here he was.   A meek little househusband, dressed in skimpy little shorts that she had chosen for him, beneath which his cock nestled securely in a locked tube to which only she had the key. Where before he had devoted his life to producing articles furiously calling for male liberation, today he spent his days at his desk writing words that said exactly the opposite.  And he felt strangely content to do so.
He sighed.  Best to get on, as Karen would be back soon, and she would come up to check on his progress.  He’d already had a hard spanking this morning, he certainly didn’t want another.

He picked up his pen and carefully wrote the number “312.”  Then next to it, with equal care (because more than three crossings out on any one page would mean writing that page all over again), he wrote:
“The so-called men’s liberation movement is an absurd caricature of a true political cause: its slogans meaningless, its demands more like an infantile tantrum than a realistic political programme.  I regret wasting so much of my life on it.  Men are not the equals of women, and the sooner we simply accept that, the happier we will be.

313.  The so-called men’s liberation movement is an absurd caricature of a true political cause: its slogans meaningless, its demands more like an infantile tantrum than a realistic political programme.  I regret wasting so much of my life on it.  Men are not the equals of women, and the sooner we simply accept that, the happier we will be.
314 …”

 
What a long way off number 500 seemed.  He hoped tomorrow’s line would be shorter.
 
 
 
 
 
...aaaaaand a bonus bonus little mini-story.  This is from earlier in the same timeline, just after Simon met Karen:
“And what do you think about the men’s-lib movement?” she asked sweetly.
“Men’s lib is a ridiculous idea.”  Simon replied.  “Men must accept their place in society and be obedient to women, for their own good.”
He tensed. 
There was a pause and then an agonising CRACK! of the paddle across his buttocks. He cried out loud at the shocking pain.  That had been the hardest yet.
What do you think of the men’s lib movement?” Karen asked again.
“Men’s lib is a ridiculous idea” he gasped “Men must accept their place in society and be… and be obed – “
CRACK!
“No hesitation, remember, Simon.  What do you think of the men’s lib movement?”

Friday, July 18, 2014

Arbitrary power

It's the best sort.

Cassie Hunter is wonderful
It's the personal touch that counts.
The awesome Hunteress, also known as Mistress Cassie.  But you knew that! 
 

Slave quarters for Mistress
Summer on the roof, winter in the cellar...and you get to see how she lives in the rest of the house twice a year, when you go up or down.
 

Beaten by Mistress repeatedly
It's worth taking the time to get these things right.
 

Slave cave
Don't worry - you won't have the apartment to yourself for long.  It's not like you're her only slave.
 

Castration femdom caption yet again
One form of castration is much the same as another, I reckon.  Just get on with it - that's what I say.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Turning yet again

Yes - it's everybody's favourite series on this femdom blog!  Turning points!  Captions about scenes that are not actually femdom.



See here if you don't know what I mean - or everywhere else you can get to by clicking 'turning points' in the word cloud there.  Oh look, I've even done it for you.  The earlier ones were better, so you might want to start there.

Here you go then:

 
 


 


 
 
 
 
 
 



 

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Office services




Hi – you looking for me?  Mel Collins?

Right – yes, I thought you must be.  You’re new, right?  Have you been told what you’re supposed to do?

You’ve got a general idea, but you’d rather hear a detailed description directly from me?  OK.

Right, well, with me it’s all about domination and humiliation.  I’ve got a big strap-on, and I start by fucking you up the arse with it.  I hope you’re nice and tight, because I like that to be quite uncomfortable.  I’ll be tugging hard on your balls too.  Anyway, then I order you to kneel in front of me and suck it, and you refuse because it’s just come out of your arse and it smells of your shit.  So then I get angry with you, I best you around the face a bit, then I tie you over the table and whip you with my belt.  It’s good if you cry.  Then you kneel in front of me, with your hands still handcuffed, and suck it off.  After that, I scatter your money around the room, and you have to crawl about picking it up with your mouth.  I’ll throw the handcuff key down as well, and just leave you.  You can let yourself out – I don’t want to see you at that point.

Got it?  You can start by stripping naked for me right now.  I said NOW you shit-licking whore!

What’s that?

Oh.

Oh, I see.  So you’re here about the network connection?  Not… the other thing?

Well no,  if you’re from IT I suppose you would be.  Sorry – I thought you were someone else.
 
 
 

So… why are you still getting undressed?

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Bridal, reins and whip

There's a theme today.  See if you can guess what it is!

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 



Sunday, July 13, 2014

Generic Contemplating the Divine post

... with comment immediately after the headline, often referring to unrelated music videos.

Occasional attempt to attract attention from search engines, by spamming words like mistress, femdom, dominatrix and so on.  Text in Georgia Medium.

Then some reference to the captioned photos that follow:

Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 

Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme. Quite often, this will contaibn a typo.
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
Short side-comment identifying a known pro-domme and encouraging readers to visit her web site.
 
 
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
  
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 


Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Additional caption providing comment on or extension of caption theme.
 
 
Alt label embedded in photo to attract search engines
Normally, the additional caption to a picture of Anne will just consist of some inarticulate cry of adoration. 
Occasional additional message to 'readers', from Servitor.  (NB The word 'readers' will often be placed in inverted commas, to imply they are not really reading but just looking at the pictures and masturbating.  Unlike many blogs, this one often contemptuously insults its visitors, because it is assumed they share Servitor's desire for humiliation.)

Saturday, July 12, 2014

And - which is more - you'll be a man, my son




Ah– it’s Jenkins, isn’t it?

Oh don’t look so alarmed, boy. For once, you’re not here to be beaten. You are here for careers advice, as you will shortly be leaving our school.

Now, as you know, Jenkins, we at Thrashington Hall believe strongly in the old-fashioned school values.The eight years of misery and brutality you have so reluctantly endured here did have a purpose.Our system of rote learning, accompanied by twice-daily cold showers, strict masturbation control and frequent brutal floggings, was expressly designed by our founder, Constance Thrashington, to build character - so you can venture out into the adult world with a sound moral foundation and a solid and traditional educational background.

I hope you realise that this makes you very unusual among boys of your age?  In the modern world, this sort of education is increasingly rare.  When you leave these gates, you will be one of the very few young men more familiar with counting strokes of the cane than with differential calculus, capable of writing the same line for hours without a break, but not of writing anything of your own creation, more familiar with the tawse than you are with a computer mouse. There's not many young men today that have the self-control needed to remain perfectly in position, while enduring a brutal flogging across their bare buttocks, and then the presence of mind politely to offer thanks for the agonies they have suffered.  You have learned to respect your betters, to do as you are told and to fear retribution at all times.

Unfortunately, we’re beginning to realise this doesn’t really work, especially in the modern world.

The eighteen year-old boys we turn out are quite incapable of the sort of creative thought needed in modern business, lack any self-confidence or independent drive and find it impossible to build relationships with women.Your employment prospects are appalling – with luck, you’ll find some minimum wage menial job that can provide you with enough money to eke out a miserable existence in some squalid bed-sit. Many of our graduates become road-sweepers.  Street begging is another popular career choice.  Some of the more talented manage to secure jobs as burger-flippers, but unless you're lucky enough to have an authoritarian female boss, you probably won't be able to concentrate long enough to do a job as complicated as that.

I expect you'll spend your evenings in sad, lonely masturbation – your sexual urges are probably perverted and anyway, you don’t know how to relate to women because you have only experienced them as disciplinarians.  Not much of a life - rather a shame really after enduring such brutal, sexless and miserable teenage years.

Sorry about that.

Anyway– dismissed!  I’ll see you at the graduation ceremony tomorrow. Send in Knightly, please.

 

 
The lady in the picture is the delightful, scary and astonishingly beautiful Lady Sophia Black.  I have had the immense privilege of being beaten, derided and ignored by her in the past, and I hope very soon to experience that unpleasant delight again.

Friday, July 11, 2014

Get a dose of her in jackboots and kilt

She's the kind of a girl that makes the News of the World
Yes you could say she was attractively built.

(Pictures are unrelated. I just like the song and the idea of linking it to femdom.)



Bent over secretary
Yes, do try.  Fortunately, I had a bit of an off day when writing these captions, so there are no sexy thoughts here.  Carry on - it's perfectly safe.
 

Mistress and sissy
Of course, you can refuse if you like.  But then she'll stay cross.  That's really not good news.
Lexi Sindel... and some bloke dressed in pink. 
 

Girl with sniper rifle
Hmmm.  Well, I'll try anything once, you know?
 

Femdom scene 345
Errr... two and a half?  Two and three-quarters... thr... three?
 

Actually, this isn't one of mine.  It just arrived in my email inbox.  I thought I'd share it.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

It's not just Irene



“Well Holmes!” I expostulated as soon as we were ensconced in the first class compartment, waiting for the train to depart.  “You certainly surprised us all this time!  I was quite convinced the Governess was the culprit”
Holmes nodded wearily.  “A natural mistake to make” he replied, and opened a newspaper as if to close the conversation.

“I mean, damn it all Holmes” I went on, determined not to allow him to avoid explanations.  “Her glove was found at the scene of the crime, the rope used in the hanging came from her sash window, we found the bloodied knife in her room and on top of everything, Sir Horace had recently changed his will leaving everything to her.”

Holmes put his paper down with some visible irritation.  He seemed to be physically discomforted, in addition to his usual irascibility.

“Indeed Watson.  But as you know, I had a very long talk with the, erm, formidable Miss Huntingdon in her schoolroom, and she explained everything to me very clearly.  Very clearly indeed.  I cannot breach her confidence to explain why, but there is no question of her guilt.  She was most persuasive.”

And he fell silent as if recalling a vivid memory, then shook his head and shifted nervously in his seat – and instantly, it seems, regretted it, as he winced in some pain.

“This railway company is a disgrace.” he remarked.  “Singularly uncomfortable seats.”

“We could swap” I offered.  "Mine is well upholstered."  But he refused with a curter shake of his head.

“So…”  I mused.  “Suicide, after all.  But Holmes, how ever did Sir Horace hang himself and stab himself several times, after tying his own hands behind his back?  And did you ever solve the mystery of the strange marks across his buttocks?”

“The English aristocrat is a remarkably creative animal, Watson” Holmes remarked.  “Damn this seat” – and he got up, wincing all the way.

“If you’ll excuse me, Watson” he remarked, I think I might after all not accompany you all the way to London.  I cannot abandon Miss Huntingdon, at this difficult time.  To lose her employer and gain control of a household and vast fortune all in one week like that… the poor woman will need a man’s guidance.  I shall return to Castle Charingbourne.

And he left the compartment, leaving me to brood with my thoughts.  One day, I decided, I would make him tell the whole story, even if it had to be sealed for posterity to learn its secrets at some later date.  But a thought struck me, just as the train began to pull out of the station, and I lowered the window and called out to the retreating Holmes, who was standing pensively - but perhaps rather stiffly - on the platform.
“But dash it all, Holmes!  Sir Horace was an unmarried man!  Why employ a governess, if you have no children?”

But he did not - or would not - hear me or look in my direction, gazing instead almost longingly up the hill in the direction of the great house, with the faintest smile playing across his lips.