Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Too much mercy... often resulted in further crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice had been put first and mercy second

A quote there from Agatha Christie.  Sounds like my kind of lady!

On we go...

Whipped by domme in the snow
Amusingly, sometimes out there they lose all feeling because of the cold.  No matter how many welts and bruises are inflicted - they don't feel a thing!  And it's so funny then, when they're brought back inside and warmed up.

Rather thoughtless of Karen, I must say.  No wonder she's on her fourth marriage already.

Plenty of time overnight to think about what you're going to say about this in the morning.  Sleep well.

I think a little extra tribute next time might be in order, mmm?

I once went on this date, with a girl who just kept on telling me how inadequate I was compared to 'Karl'.  It was awful -  all, 'Karl has a bigger cock' and 'Karl doesn't have any problems getting hard'.  Honestly, I don't know who was the more embarassed; me or him.

Friday, April 26, 2013


Another one that was just too long (ironically, enough, given the theme) for a caption.


…and I was thinking it would make things easier for both of us, you see?  Because I know how frustrated you get, locked up in that thing,  So if you only have half as many balls, you ‘ll probably only want to come half as often.  And it’s better for me too, because I won’t have to keep unlocking you every few months.
The penectomy?  Well that’s just cosmetic.  I just thought we could get you tidied up down there.   Make it a lot shorter.
Well, sure, I know I've always said it's too short already.  But I mean it is too short for penetration and stuff like that.  But you’re never going to need it for that again, so we might as well cut it back a bit. 
How much?  How much of what?
Oh, I see.  Well, as long as there’s enough there for you to grab on to when I unlock it, I suppose.  An inch…maybe a bit more?
No, not an inch off, silly.  An inch left.
Well, that’s why I’m talking to you about it.  Our contract’s very clear that I can’t have you castrated without consent.  I meant it then and I meant it now.  I’d like you to do this willingly, I really would.  I know it’s better for both of us.
OK.  Well, I’m sorry you feel that way about it.  I really am.  Maybe if you think about it a bit longer, we can…?
Uh huh.  Well, if you’re going to be like that I guess there’s nothing more to talk about.
Only, I have been thinking about it, you see.  And I’ve been reading that contract we signed.  And I think you’ll find it defines ‘castration’ as removal of the slave husband’s balls.  Plural.  Not ball – balls.  And it says nothing about your cock, just that I can’t subject you to anything that removes your ability to function sexually, without consent.
And with your one ball, and your one-inch cock (and after that little tantrum, you can forget about getting anything more than an inch, buster!), your little messing can still happen.  Whenever I decide it’s OK.
So, I’m afraid this is going to have to be one of those things that the mistress decides and the slave husband just has to accept.  And I’ve already made the booking and paid a deposit anyway.
Hmmm?  Oh, Wednesday I think.  Or was it Thursday?  Bring me my diary – it’s in the hall.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

He is contented thy poor drudge to be...

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

Gullible sub
...and about to become rather an exciting one!
On the left, Domina Heelena and on the right, Mistress Arella.  Sisters, I believe. And in the middle, down below, you. 

Don't worry.  If you don't have time to finish them all by your next visit, I'm sure she won't mind at all.
This is Domina Liza, in case you are feeling adventurous or very, very guilty.

Femdom snuff - blimey
Mmmm...breathplay. Shame it has to end, really.

Castration lit
Oh go on.  Wives always love it when their husbands take an interest in their hobbies.

These magnificent creatures are from Planet Femdom.  And so are the ladies.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Story: Pride comes before

In retrospect, Mark wondered how he could have been so stupid.  He’d got carried away.  By that book – that stupid book.
He’d been given it by a stranger, shoved into his hand without a word or a look, just a rapidly disappearing figure in the crowd.  And he had the book.
“I am proud to be a Man!” it was called.  It was about male equality.  Equality with women!  It had taken him a while to really understand that.  But the book said that men could be the equals of women – were their equals if only they knew it.  Men didn’t have to be spanked.  Men could choose when to have orgasms.  Men shouldn’t have to wear sexy revealing clothes for the pleasure of women.  On and on – over five hundred badly-printed pages, bound together with big metal staples, presumably from some kind of underground press.  At first, he thought it weird and repulsive in its strangeness.  But he found it compelling and read on and on and on – this book, hidden in the ironing basket where he knew she’d never have reason to look.  You are her equal it said.  You are strong.  You have dignity.  Stand up and say “I am proud to be a man!”
Then one day he came to the fateful section.  “Men will never be liberated from oppression, until women are liberated from oppressing” it declared.  It wanted women to come to accept men as equals.  Talk to your wife about male liberation. It said.  Read this book together.
He hadn’t, for a long time.  But he knew that if any husband had a chance at converting his wife to the cause, he did.  Alice was a sweet, kind person, only seven years older than him, and she treated him well.  She whipped him, of course, when he deserved it, but as a duty not a pleasure.  He had his own allowance to buy clothes.  She usually let him come, once she’d had her own orgasms.  Under the influence of that book – that mad terrible book – he’d half convinced himself that she was a secret male liberationist already.
So he spoke to her.  And she listened quietly.  And she asked to see the book.  She listened carefully as he turned the pages, and showed her how it demonstrated the cruel tyranny of women over men, and spoke of a better world.  After a while she stopped him and asked just one question – whether he’d spoken to any of her friends’ husbands about this.  She seemed relieved that he had not, but asked him to close the book and stop reading at that point.  She had taken the book, and gone to phone her mother.
And then she’d come back and explained how she felt about this.  She did not shout, or threaten, or punish.  She simply spoke, calmly and steadily, about the importance of household order, about the betrayal that his secret reading represented to her, about her regrets at how laxly she had treated him, and determination to correct this terrible error she had made.
And now they do read the book together.
Every Saturday, the book is set on a low lecturn that she has bought specially for this purpose.  Mark, naked, is tied securely over a whipping bench, so that his face is just above its open pages.  He reads a page, aloud.  It is turned over, usually with the tip of a cane, then he reads the other side, aloud.  She never says anything in response.  Once both sides have been read, she begins: sometimes with strong, deliberate strokes, other times with a flurry of flicking whippy actions.  The whip is mainly applied to his buttocks and thighs, but occasionally she tends also to his shoulders, his calves, or whips around to reach the front of his thighs.  All of these areas are a mass of weals and welts, criss-crossed on top of one another.
While his wife is whipping him in this way, Mark must come up with and carefully articulate five separate, cogent reasons why whatever has been stated on that page of the book is wrong.  Sometimes this is easy, as the false ideas can simply be countered one by one, but sometimes the book will be developing a single mad idea of male equality over several pages, and to come up with five different refutations of the words on the page can be difficult.  Particularly when Mark is howling in pain, and fighting to gasp out his carefully constructed arguments in favour of female supremacy.
But it continues until he succeeds in producing five reasons for treating the ideas on that particular page with the contempt that they deserve.  No matter how long it takes, eventually he finds five reasons.  And then the whipping ends.  She reaches down, and neatly tears out the page – by now often unreadably stained with tears and spittle, and he takes it in his mouth, chews one hundred times and swallows it.  That piece of madness has gone, and only the simple good sense of wifely discipline remains.
Then she usually takes a break - sometimes as short as the time to have a cup of tea, sometimes as long as a trip to the shops or even the cinema.  Once she visited a friend at this point in the process, and returned the next day.  He remains in place, of course.  When she takes a long break, she is careful to cover the next page with a cloth, so that he cannot rehearse the five arguments he will deploy next time.  For shorter breaks she does not bother.  He generally finds that it is only under the direct influence of the whip that he can really appreciate the incoherence and stupidity of the book’s ideas, in any case.  But eventually she returns, and they do another page.  Most Saturdays, they do three, sometimes four.
Mark has had many opportunities to regret his actions, of course.  He particularly regrets that the book is so long.  They recently reached the first anniversary of this new regime, and are still less than halfway through the book.  He would one day like to meet the authors of the book.  He would like to see them bent over this same whipping bench, receiving the same treatment that he is receiving.  And when they were striped and sore, their backsides ridged and bloody from floggings applied on top of floggings, when their mouths were bone dry from screaming hopeless pleadings for mercy, when they start with fear at the merest sound of Alice’s movements, that could foreshadow an agonising stroke.  Then, Mark thought, then he would ask them a question.
“How proud do you feel right now, to be a man?”
Readers with an interest in the peculiar doctrines of male liberation (or "men's lib") might be interested in this, this and perhaps also this.  Although, honestly, I can't imagine how anyone could take this stuff seriously.


Monday, April 15, 2013

Cruel and usual punishment

Don't you think it's odd?  That men who say they regard women as superior, also believe that being treated like women is humiliating?  Isn't that weird?  I mean I feel like that.  And I'm not weird.  Odd, like I said.

I don't really believe in horoscopes anyway.  "You will visit a pro-domme, and be made to dance to k-pop wearing a pink tutu while Mistress and her friend laugh at you, and then make you eat cold courgettes with curry powder."  I mean, it's just generic stuff that could apply to everyone, right?
It's a good thing we like being treated with contempt, nicht wahr?

You'd better read the whole thing through, because I'm sure she'll have got 'minuscule' wrong, and she usually forgets there are two 'p's in 'disappointing'.


Actually, you don't really even have to ask.  If she hasn't already bought it for you, you probably don't really need it, do you? 

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Spring break

Finally, Spring is here and not before time!  About this time in the very first year of my marriage, my wife shyly confessed that she's always fancied the idea of going on spring break - a week of hedonism and sex by the sea.  I was a bit reluctant at first, but as usual, she got her way.

It's become quite an annual routine in our marriage - and it does give me a chance to give the house a really good spring cleaning while she's away.

Domme doesnt give a fuck
Argh!  Don't you just know that in a few hour's time, a really good answer to that question will just pop into your head!  But by then it'll be much too late.  Always the way, isn't it? This is the awesome Mistress Vixen, of course.
Die for her femdom
Well?  Come on!  As she's made such an effort to look nice, and someone's died horribly as a result, I think the least you can do is pay her a little compliment on her appearance?  Hmm?

Yes, femdom medical play can be a bit unimaginative.  The other day, my Significant Other broke my arm,and when I joked that this was a perfect time for medical play, I was up in the harness having a rectal examination before I knew it!  And when I said I didn't think it was working, she broke my other arm!  Dommes, eh?  Gotta love 'em. 
(Mistresses Sidonia von Bork and Nina Birch of the English Mansion.  They might not be able to cure you, but they'll certainly have a go.)

IN you go mistress
Brno's not that far.  A couple of hours, at most.  It can be a bit hard to find a locksmith at the weekend, though.
Image from OWK and quite possibly Mistress Karma, although I'm not sure I could swear to that, even under torture.

Ah, the joys of summer.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Off-topic, for the first time ever

To an Anonymous commenter

There was a comment left on here a couple of days ago that I deleted.  If that was yours, I want to explain that I did not delete it because of the point you made – which I actually think was a reasonable one deserving an answer – but because of the unpleasant and hostile way in which you phrased it.
You suggested that I am putting the name of this blog on every picture I find on the web.  I actually don’t think of that as what I’m doing when I put contemplatingthedivine.com on them.  I’m putting that mark on captioned pictures, captioned by me.  When I do occasionally put up a picture without any caption, I don’t put the mark on it.

You see, this is not a photo-sharing blog.  Originally, I started it to publish my stories.  I still write stories – there are a few coming up soon, actually.  I soon started adding captioned images, which I think of as very very short stories, in effect (and as a matter of fact, recently I’ve been trying out a sort of hybrid – which could equally be called very long captions, or very short stories themed around a single picture).  These are all things that I created.

There are a lot of them. I have just collected all the stories published here into pdf files, because I thought they might work well as books*, and they total over a hundred pages.  And there are about a thousand captioned images so far.
A few months after I started, I saw a few of these captioned images appearing elsewhere – which is absolutely fine with me.  Sometimes they were attributed (most recently Pipinkos, for example, started reposting some that he had brilliantly translated into Spanish, and I’d like to thank him again for that).  But some were not attributed and while I don’t at all blame the reposters, it did annoy me a bit, especially when they attracted favourable comments from people assuming the reposter wrote them.

I do try quite hard to match up pictures and words.  I do think about and occasionally agonise over the words.  I don’t just put up every sexy picture I find, with whatever threatening phrase comes to mind scrawled across it.  I’m not suggesting for a second that this is a particularly worthy, or artistic activity but it is creative in its way, I am rather proud when I come up with a good one (as I think I do from time to time), and I like to be recognised for that.  Hence the mark.  I am not marking the pictures; my intention is to mark the caption.
There is also a practical reason.  I can see from site stats that I get traffic when one of my captioned pictures is posted elsewhere without attribution, presumably because someone typed in the name.  I like to have more traffic here (for purely psychological reasons, obviously there’s no money involved) and if it helps someone find the blog and they enjoy it, that’s good too.

I do realise there are some people who don’t much care for the captions and treat this site as a photo-sharing blog.  Again, that’s absolutely fine with me, and I hope you enjoy it.  But I don’t see how someone just looking for photos can complain about the unobtrusive contemplatingthedivine mark (I never put it where it will obscure the image; if I can I put it on the frame).  If you just want the photo and the caption is worthless to you, then I’ve already defaced the photo by writing the caption, right?  And if the caption isn’t worthless to you – well, then it’s not unreasonable for me to add the mark, right?  Either way, I can’t see that you could object to the mark.
Of course, I would always take down any image to which someone asserted rights, without question.
So….that’s how I would answer your sneering question, Anonymous.  I really don’t understand why, in your first ever communication with me, you couldn’t have made your point a bit more politely, but it was a fair point nonetheless.  It’s an answer that makes sense to me. 
(The rest of the post is addressed to my regular readers, rather than the uncivilised Mr A.)

…and yet, and yet…thinking about this, it does all make me a bit uneasy.  In retrospect I think perhaps I have been too blasé about attribution.  If I got a bit grumpy when I saw my unattributed work on another site, how would a photographer feel about seeing their own work, captioned by me, and unattributed here?  Worse, if a pro-domme has gone to the trouble of dressing up and posing or acting out a photoshoot, she’s done it in part because she hopes for more traffic to her site or for new clients.  Not very fair of me to use her lovely image, without even trying to identify her.

I do therefore intend to make more of an effort to attribute the images.  It’s not very practical to do much very quickly.  For one thing, I have a huge stock of downloaded photos and I don’t know the attribution (obviously I can recognise some).  I also have a large backlog of captioned photos – more than 300, all waiting to be posted…and I’ve even got blog posts queued up to mid-May through the magic of 'schedule' (what, you thought it was spontaneous?).  So this will be a gradual change. 

Also, in most cases I cannot attribute them because the places are find them are not the original creators.  Most are from Tumblr, for example, and although Tumblr has a neat system for attributing back, even the ‘original’ poster will rarely be the originator of the image, they’ll only be the first person to upload it to Tumblr.  OWK doesn’t have a Tumblr, after all.

But…butbutbut.  I will do my best.  As I create new captions, and download new photos, and put up new blog posts, I will attribute images if I can, and in particular if I can identify individual dommes I will do so. Famous actresses can probably look after themselves.

* (I'd like to find a way of getting them out there for download - Blogger doesn't accept PDF, any suggestions? Needs to be free, of course - I won't charge anything as all the stories are here on the blog anyway, but I don't particularly want to pay to hand out free stories!)

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Cut short

One caption and five short stories all about... oh, you'll see what the theme is.  Not for everyone, but those of you who like this theme seem to like it a LOT.

George goes looking
Of course, George knew he shouldn’t pry into her secrets.  But he really had stumbled across the little cloth bag by accident.  And, truth be told, after the initial shock, he was secretly rather turned on by the thought of his young, innocent (or not-so-innocent, he thought, deliciously) wife playing with herself.  The vibrator was quite complex, bifurcating at the end into two quite separate attachments, one ribbed and one smooth.  There were also several tubes of different brands of lubricator, a book of what he presumed to be mommy porn and a couple of DVDs.

Giving in to curiosity, he carefully placed one of the DVDs into the player, unbuttoned his trousers and settled back on the bed to watch.  While it was loading, he turned at random to one of the stories in the porno book.  The first page or two seemed to be all about a description of Derek, and his massive penis and balls, so he flipped quickly through the pages, looking for the sex scene.  It was a doctors and nurses story, it seemed and Derek soon got tied down and then –

Then the story seemed to go in a direction his brain could hardly process.  Derek’s massive balls remained the focus of the story, with much loving description of how elasticised tape was round around them tighter, and tighter, and then a metal dish was placed underneath, as one of the nurses reached forward with a pair of cutters and...and...
He looked up in shock.  The DVD was frozen on the menu screen.  A poor quality image filled the screen – obviously from a home movie – of a tightly gagged man staring out with eyes widened in terror.  Behind him were the blurry shapes of two middle-aged women, fully clothed, their faces covered by masks.  “Painful penectomy #19” read the title, inviting the viewer to press play or select scenes.  The little images of the later scenes showed…something impossible.

“George?” he heard from the bedroom door.


Full settlement
“Do I really have to do this?” he asked wretchedly, looking out through the stationary car’s windscreen at the semi-detached house opposite.

Emily squeezed his knee sympathetically.  “I know it’s difficult, Alan.  But you just have to do this once and then you’re a free man.  Actually, you’re keeping more than most men do, these days. Take it from me – I’ve been a divorce lawyer for nine years, and it’s never been as difficult for men as it is now.  At least you kept 20% of your income.  Come on, let's go in.” 

“Into my very own house” Alan muttered, as he got out and they started to cross the road.

“Best not to think like that” Emily advised.  “It’s her house now, so there’s no sense in moping about it.”

“But does she have to make it all so public?” Alan murmured despairingly as they arrived.  And it was true – Karen had really made a party of it.  As the laughing, chatting crowd parted to let them through, he thought he recognised several of his ex-girlfriends.  And he got an evil stare from Karen’s friend Janice.  He’d always hated Janice and the feeling was mutual.  In fact, he strongly suspected that Janice had inspired his wife to divorce him, and to fight so hard through the courts.

“It’s quite the fashion” Emily admitted.  “Actually, I did it when I divorced my husband too.  Women love to come to settlement parties.  Especially when there’s a castration involved – oh look, there’s Karen.  Come on – it’ll all be over soon enough.”

“All here to watch me lose everything.” Alan sighed, as he walked slowly forward to where the desk with the freshly printed papers was waiting for his signature, next to a table with leather straps waiting – he assumed – for his wrists and ankles.  He kept his head down, not meeting Karen’s eyes  - but instead found his gaze drawn to the shining instrument she was clutching in her hand.  

“You know” she said, kindly, “actually I’m quite embarrassed.  I mean, it’s such a cliché, isn’t it?  Sexy woman picks up a guy in a bar, suggests some mild bondage, and then turns into some kind of psychopath when he’s all tied up.”

“So…you’ll let me go?” he gasped, desperately.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let you go, sweetie” she giggled.  “Most of you, anyway.  Now I’ll be back in a few minutes, when I’ve sterilised the instruments.  And like they always say in the bad movies - don’t go away!”


Last chance
“But – “ Christopher pleaded despairingly.

“No argument” the doctor said, sternly.  “They’re both infected, and if we don’t amputate immediately the infection’s going to spread.  I’m sorry, but there’s no other option.  Nurse!  Can you prep the patient for immediate surgery?” And he walked off.
“Sorry love” the buxom blonde nurse remarked sympathetically, as she started to draw the curtain’s around Christopher’s bed.  He sat back, devastated.  This was not how he imagined being nineteen would be.

“Nurse” he quavered, as she injected something in his arm.
“Yes, love?  Anything I can get you?  It’ll take a few minutes for the anaesthetic to take hold.  Then you’ll feel all relaxed.”

“It’s just…well, I’m still – still a virgin!”
And he started crying.

“Awww…there there” she shushed.  “Poor thing.  Never mind – there’s other things in life.”
He looked up at her hopefully, and she got his meaning.

“Why you cheeky little – I’m old enough to be your –“
But then her heart melted at his sad little face.  “Oh – I’d like to help, love, I really would.  As it’s your first time; well your only time actually.  Only it’s my time of the month!  I’m sorry.”

Then she had an idea, and smiled, first to herself and then down at him.  “You just hold still then” she murmured, gently lifting his surgical gown aside.  Then she licked her ruby-red lips, while smiling down, now gazing at the excited swelling rising up to meet her from below.
She bent down, and he could feel her hot breath, against the straining, shiny, taut glans of his engorged penis. She opened her lips, giggled slightly, and –

“Ooops…sorry love.  Not your lucky day is it?”, she called over her shoulder, dashing away.

Feebly, Christopher lifted his right hand towards his still straining member, for one…last…
…and then the anaesthetic took hold, and he found he couldn’t move.  The nurse had been wrong.  He didn’t feel relaxed at all.


Listen very carefully, I will say this only once
“STOP THE PROCEDURE!” Isabell Green shouted, crashing through the operating theatre door.  “The DNA test says it’s mistaken identity! I’ve got a stay from the court!”

From all fours on the operating table, Mark looked up at his triumphant, panting lawyer, hardly daring to believe it.
Then he felt a sharp pain between his legs.  And heard a dull, wet thud.  Like a small piece of meat from the butcher’s shop falling, against a metal surface.  And in the background, that tinny, irritating music.

The music got a little louder as the doctor behind him looked up, and took out one of her earpieces.
“Sorry, what was that?” she asked.  “I had my i-pod in.”

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Holy terror

Pray for mercy...but maybe not just yet.

tawse schoolmistress yum
...and heaven help you if they don't add up to 48.

Three dominatrices and a cage
Don't worry, though - she retains some rights.  If they want to cause any permanent physical damage, they have to seek her permission first - and you'll be allowed to beg her for mercy.

Cross femdom wife
Let's hope she doesn't stay cross for long.

I don't know about you, but I'm always forgetting my permit.  It makes my wife so cross - you know, she said then  next time I get put in the pound, I can just stay there for a week or two as far as she's concerned!  She is funny...

Don't forget to tell her how fabulous you think she looks, and give her a kiss for good luck, before you go back to your lonely little apartment and switch on the computer.