Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Leading ladies

Oh, it would be just awful lying across that skirt having your backside whacked repeatedly with a heavy wooden hairbrush, don't you think?  Awful.  No, no, please don't do that.

Well at least she's giving you a choice.

Oddly enough, it's quite common to experience a powerful orgasm at the actual moment of castration.  Usually the surgeon just needs to take a moment to get her breath back and then finish the operation, though.

I see a happy ever after on the horizon.

You know, I write a lot here about being told I was 'the worst fuck ever' on dates, but actually it's only happened to me once.

Friday, April 24, 2020

The latest turns

Latest, that is, in the ever-popular turning points series.  Femdom captions, about situations that aren't quite femdom (but the captions really are captions).  Remarkably, clicking on the link hidden in that first sentence will take you to no fewer than 26 previous posts featuring turning points... goodness, I have been running this blog for a long time.

Tuesday, April 21, 2020


Obviously, this blog prides itself on being fresh, original and creative unlike those awful, repetitive 'adult' blogs that just consist of the same thing all the time. Good captions, for instance - imagine how tedious it would be if I published those all the time.

Nonetheless, taking advantage of fact that males have short memories and attention spans, the blog does feature a few regular stars. Famous dommes, obviously, such as Mistress Eleise, The Hunteress or the OWK Ladies (especially Katarina).  But also some lovelies whose sadism and dominance is masked beneath a vanilla persona.  Each such lady has her own 'tag' used to label a post featuring her, but as no one but me has any idea which tag refers to which goddess, it's all a bit pointless.

Hence this post.  Five regulars are featured below, in new never before seen captioned images.  Can you name them all?  Can you match them to their 'tags', listed in the labels section of this post? Try clicking that label and seeing if you were right.*

The accent's quite important.  Clue: its not a mid-Western American drawl and if you are reading it to yourself like that, you're doing it wrong.

It is a truth rarely acknowledged that any Tumblr featuring high-heeled leggy ladies will one day discover this goddess and post about twenty pictures in a row, all of her.  I have at least that many captioned images of her, but as so often in your sex life, I'm afraid you are just going to have to wait.**

Goddess playing a demi-goddess.  Slumming it a bit, therefore, but I am not complaining.

A new addition to the pantheon, this Goddess.  But we'll be seeing more of her.***

Anyone who gets this one wrong, let me know so I can block you from seeing the blog ever again.  In fact, I think I should install a gadget that pokes you vigorously and repeatedly in the eye, if ever you try to visit.  Then there'll only be two readers.

*  Hmm? No, I know you don't see the same captioned image if you click the label, moron.  I mean you see different captioned images of the same goddess. Yeah?  These are new: I did say that.  Got it now?  

** Yes, you do have to spell her surname correctly, to win the prize.   Anyway, there isn't a prize.

*** What?  No of course I don't mean you'll be seeing her nipples, you wretched little man.  Not on this blog.  I just mean you'll be seeing her more frequently.  Why are you asking all these questions? 

Friday, April 17, 2020

Kind hearts and martinets

I shot an arrow in the air; she fell to earth in Berkely Square.  Warning: safe for work and unrelated.

I'll confess to anything because I'm guilty guilty guilty!

As long as there's wi-fi.

Don't be so suspicious.

"Isn't that silly" is a phrase I used to hear a lot on dates, oddly enough. 

It's good to feel useful, now there's nothing to do but hang around the house all day. I'm worried we might run out of toilet paper, though.  Goodness knows what we'd do, then.

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Callous talk

Oh no.  Don't tell me I married an escape artist.  Again.

Scurry scurry scurry.

Thank goodness it's nothing personal.

That looks very motivating, doesn't it?  I think just one of those rods would motivate me, so a whole bunch wrapped together like that... I feel motivated just looking at them.

I wouldn't mind, but he's the priest who married us and that just seems wrong.  Still... very nice shoes.

Saturday, April 11, 2020

The Dominatrix and the Magic Cane

In a small town on the edge of the mountains, there lived a dominatrix called Mistress Amanda. She was the town’s only dominatrix, because it was a small place and most of the men there were perfectly normal: enjoying vanilla sex and never dreaming of trying a BDSM fantasy.  But there were enough naughty boys needing strict lessons, sissies needing to dress up and scrub floors and also foot or boot fetishists wanting nothing other than to sit before her kissing and licking for hour upon hour, for Mistress Amanda to make a good living.

OK, this isn't actually Mistress Amanda.  This is Lady Sophia Black. But she looks remarkably like Mistress Amanda, don't you think?

When the town prospered, so did Mistress Amanda. Some years she was so busy she could hardly keep track of which sub was which and once began what was intended to be a realistic schoolboy scene, wearing leather corset, fishnet stockings and a spiked collar.  The ‘boy’ explained that this wasn’t what he wanted so Mistress Amanda, with two other sessions already booked in for that same day, airily told him to fuck off and he departed with a flick of her bullwhip.  She even had a small financial domination side-line, which in those days before telephones and the Internet mostly involved being sent money accompanied by long gushing letters and responding curtly and dismissively with demands for more cash.  And in the leaner years, Mistress Amanda would make some economies but she would get by.

But one year the town went into an economic depression that it couldn’t seem to shake.   People laid off from the nearby farms started drifting into town looking for work but there was no work to be had.  Inns competed desperately for the dwindling custom, with offers of cheap beer, and the local stonemasons offered half-price carvings to anyone who could provide the stone themselves and every week, it seemed, more and more shops were shuttered. Times were hard.

They were hardest of all for the poor dominatrix.   When money was scarce even the most devoted sub usually had higher priorities than getting his bottom spanked – and Mistress Amanda quickly discovered that few of her subs were indeed as devoted as they had always claimed.  The pay-piggies stopped responding to demands for cash, the boots went unlicked, the toilet unscrubbed and the cage unoccupied and Mistress Amanda began to wonder whether she should seek other work.  She would sit in her dungeon during the dull long evenings trying to think of other professions that might value her specialised skills.

She still had a few clients who paid her the occasional visit.  One of the most frequent was Pansy Pink-knickers, an elderly sissy with a small retirement fund which enabled him to visit once a month, put on a maid’s uniform and perform a few random acts of spectacularly ineffective housework before being placed across her knee and given a moderate spanking.  The spanking was part of the roleplay, but it never lacked justice for Pansy Pink-knickers was perhaps the most incompetent sissy maid who ever pranced around in stockings.  He could be relied upon without fail to use drain-cleaner on the delicate laundry, attack the muddy tiles with a clothes brush or simply accidentally kick over, then hoover up, Mistress Amanda’s earring collection. Remarkably, Mistress Amanda found she herself had to do more household chores in the weeks when Pansy Pink-knickers had ‘cleaned’ than in those when he was absent, as it took her at least an hour to restore the place to its pre-‘cleaning’ condition. But he was a regular client and always paid his tribute without quibbling, so she tolerated him (and he, for his part, worshipped the ground she walked on, even if his attempts to clean that ground were usually disastrous).

Ah yes - that's Pansy. In a position where he can do relatively little damage, thank goodness.

She also had the occasional passing trade – businessmen and bureaucrats from more prosperous (or rather less impoverished) parts of the realm, who took the opportunity to liven up their evening in the otherwise dull town by being tied up, buggered or peed upon before graciously being permitted to masturbate and leave the poor dominatrix to her gloomy thoughts.

One day, Mistress Amanda was preparing for just such a one-off client, who had booked a schoolboy detention.  The days of not caring whether her clients were getting what they wanted were a distant memory, so Mistress Amanda had carefully prepared.  She was wearing a blouse, long governess skirt and a black corset and looked the very image of a stern scholastic disciplinarian.  The room was set up for the detention session: a blackboard in the corner, a school desk with little chair awaiting the unfortunate miscreant and exercise books and pencils for the written punishments that had been requested by the client, before the inevitable caning.  The cane! Mistress Amanda suddenly realised with a shock that she had not brought one out, so she went off to her toy cupboard in the next room. She opened the cupboard and mechanically reached out for one of the canes she knew would be lying on the third shelf – and found none.  She looked up and down the shelves in confusion.  The cupboard was filled with tawses, paddles, whips and all manner of other leather implements but everything was in the wrong place and she searched ever more frantically for the canes, without success.  A faint memory returned to her of ordering Pansy Pink-knickers to tidy the cupboard on his last visit.  Of course, he was supposed to do a bad job – that was why he went across her knee – but he’d truly scaled the heights of incompetence this time.  Where the hell had the little bastard hidden her canes?  A tawse would not do – this client had been quite specific.

No, that's not a cane.  She hasn't got one at this point in the story.  Anyway, that's not Mistress Amanda, remember? It's Lady Sophia Black. I did tell you that.

She became aware of a knocking at the door.  She closed her eyes, collecting herself, then strode over and flung open the door.

“You’re late!” she snapped, and the eager-looking businessman scurried in.  He fumblingly handed her an envelope, which she took with haughty disdain, resisting her frantic temptation to feel and count the so-desperately needed cash within. 

“I hope you have your uniform with you, boy!” she said and the man lifted the bag he was carrying with a sheepish grin.

“Well, get changed then!” she commanded.  “Don’t you dare keep me waiting – you’re in quite enough trouble already, young man!”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry Miss” her client stuttered, excitedly, removing his clothes. “Please – please don’t cane me!”

“Well…” replied Mistress Amanda, feeling an unaccustomed sense of helplessness.  “That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?  We’ll just have to see.  But you are on very thin ice!”

And with that threat hanging in the air, and with Mistress Amanda wondering how on earth she could deliver upon it, the session started.

Any hopes she might have had that the cane was just an optional extra were swiftly dashed.  She rapped his knuckles with a ruler, strapped his palms with a tawse and bent him over more than once for a dose of her heavy paddle.  But at the end of each such assault, the ‘boy’ made a remark along the lines of “Oh, thank you Miss.  I hope you won’t cane me too.  Really – it’s too much, I couldn’t bear it!”  Clearly, there was no escape – he expected the cane.  But there was no cane to be found.

The boy. Do we know his name? Do we care?

During a slow moment in the session, while the boy scribbled lines in his exercise book (“Boys who are repeatedly insolent get the cane across their backsides – good and hard.”, Mistress Amanda left him alone, walked through her kitchen and opened the back door, hoping the cool evening air might inspire a revelation as to where that wretched sissy might have decided the canes should be kept.  No such inspiration came, but just as she was preparing to head back inside, her mind racing with a script explaining that she had decided a caning would be too lenient  and she had something much worse in store (with no great hope of getting away with it) – she glanced down.  There, on the mat outside her back door, lay a cane.

It was not one of her canes.  Nor just any cane. Truth be told, her dungeon equipment was becoming a little shabby and this cane was not one of the tired, chipped specimens that she had expected to find in the toy cupboard. This cane shone with the rich, deep brown that betokens quality wood, worksmanship and care. She bent to pick it up and noticed its weight, which somehow accompanied a remarkable flexibility when she bent it between her strong hands (she did not bend it far – to find such a cane at just the right moment then break it would be a tragedy; incompetence worthy of Pansy Pink-knickers himself).  It was quite a heavy cane but thoroughly swishy.  She wondered briefly where it had come from, but then heard a sneeze from the schoolroom.  Clutching the cane, she marched back through the kitchen, flung open the door to the schoolroom and strode imperiously to the front.

She tapped the end of the cane against a word she had previously written on the blackboard.

“Can you read, boy?” she demanded. “Or is even that simple task beyond you?”

“It, it says s- s- silence, Miss” stammered the boy.

“And what do you think that means?” she inquired, sardonically.

“Erm.. no noise, Miss.”

“No noise.” she repeated, thoughtfully.  She tapped the end of the cane gently against the blackboard again.  “No noise at all.  No talking, no singing, no coughing… no sneezing.”

She took two paces forward, towering over the desk and flexed her newfound cane between her hands.

“I had hoped, perhaps it would not be necessary to resort to this, boy” she remarked.  “I was beginning to think perhaps you would manage to behave well enough to leave here with your bottom no more than slightly warmed.  However, I see now that I was wrong – grievously wrong - it seems I gave you altogether too much credit.  I have been lenient, but leniency has obviously failed, so it is time for sterner measures.  Much sterner measures.  So stand up – with your hands on your head!”

“Oh, please Miss, don’t” murmured the boy, rapturously, as he struggled to his feet.

Here we go.

Soon his rather ample bottom was stretching the grey flannel material of his shorts as he bent across the desk.  Having prepared him with a stern lecture, Mistress Amanda drew her arm back in a well-practised manoeuvre and let fly with a neat flick of the cane.  She had found it was best to start fairly mildly, with moderate taps across the shorts, when first using a cane on a new client, to gauge their tolerance. Few wanted or could truly ‘take’ a proper beating and she was aware that this lovely new cane, whatever its provenance, was a fearsome implement.

The rattan impacted the clothed buttocks with the usual slightly disappointing ‘click’ rather than the terrifying ‘thwack’ of CP fantasy.  But on this occasion, that sound – and the accompanying sharp intake of breath from her client – was quickly followed by a ringing sound, as of metal striking on stone and she saw a gleaming flash out of the corner of her eye.

She looked down, and there on the floor, just next to the boy’s grey-socked right foot, was a shiny copper coin. She bent down to pick it up, wondering why on earth this client would carry small change in his fantasy schoolboy costume.  She vaguely toyed with working it into the scene but could not see any obvious angle and anyway the session had reached the point at which actions were required, rather than words. According to the client’s script, after this caning she would imperiously command him to kneel down and masturbate, to humiliate him and bring home the severity of his crime (which had, in theory, itself been masturbation - but she had long ago ceased to find this contradiction amusing).  Once he came, of course, she would break character, offer him wet-wipes or a shower and make rather stilted conversation while he put his normal clothes back on.

So she placed the coin on a shelf, to give back to him after the session (although times were hard, they were not so hard as to tempt her to steal a copper coin and she was fundamentally an honest lady), then placed another stroke across her quivering target, precisely half an inch higher than before (she prided herself on her caning skills).

Again, not only was there the click of impact and a gasp of pain, but a jingle and this time she actually saw a coin fall and roll under the desk.

She struck again.  “Three, thank you Miss” gasped the boy, but she was paying no attention to him,  instead watching dumbfounded as another copper coin appeared. 

She tapped the cane gently, experimentally, across the buttocks a few times.  Nothing happened, and the boy’s breathing calmed slightly.

She drew back and swished hard – not by any means full force, but considerably harder than before.
“Ouch!  Oh Miss, ow, four thank you Miss!”

But his stern schoolteacher was not listening and had eyes for nothing but the small coin she had picked up and now held between her shapely index finger and thumb.  This one was silver.
Again, the cane descended in a sweeping CRACK across the buttocks.  Again, the boy shouted out in pain and fear.

And another silver coin.

“Oh… oh… it’s too hard Miss, please Miss.” He gasped.  “It really hurts!”

“And it’s going to hurt a lot more” she replied sternly.  “Last of the six - always the hardest. Brace yourself, boy – this is going to be a stinger!”

Excitedly she drew the cane back, then swept it forward with all her might. This time the cane connected with the THWACK! of fantasy and the boy leapt up, bellowing.

“Oh CHRIST – oh fuck, that really hurts. Red – red, Mistress, oh fucking hell…”

She ignored him once again, gazing down in satisfaction and wonder at the small coin by her high-heeled black shoe.  Her theory had been correct: the lustre was unmistakable. Gold.

“Please Miss” the boy pleaded, half in and half out of character. “I’m sorry, that was just too much, I – “

“No more than you deserve” she replied, severely.  “However, I believe that should now constitute a sufficiently… effective lesson.”

The boy calmed down, rubbing his backside ruefully.

“But I am still not satisfied that you are truly repentant” she continued.  “Masturbation – a filthy habit and a deliberate breach of school rules!  That’s why you were beaten, boy, and you deserved every stroke!  But I think I need to bring home to you how ridiculous, how humiliating and shameful such an act can appear.  You’re going to masturbate for me – right now, here, with me watching.  In your shorts, like the filthy little schoolboy you are.”

“Oh please, Miss, no” he murmured ecstatically, slipping his hand into his shorts and after a minute or two of grunting, accompanied by contemptuous, mocking comments from the schoolmistress, the session was at an end.

Later, her feet luxuriously soaking in the usual post-heels bowl of warm water, Mistress Amanda tossed the coins from one hand to the next for the umpteenth time and thought and thought.  The three copper coins and the two silver were together about equal to her regular session fee.  But the gold was something else.  With copper and silver, she could live her old lifestyle.  But with gold, she’d be rich.  And the only way to get gold, it seemed, was to flay some poor bastard’s bottom.  She had very occasionally encountered clients who sought out ‘judicial’ beatings but she had not seen one for years.  A pity, as they were now – almost literally – gold dust.  And so Mistress Amanda thought and she thought and she thought – and she came up with a plan.


The whole town turned out for the wedding of George Eichert and Amanda Collins.  Few could imagine what the statuesque beauty saw in the little old man.  They would have said ‘money’ – especially as there were wild and scurrilous rumours about what went on behind the closed doors of her house - but although George was known to have a small nest-egg, the town banker rather indiscreetly explained that it enabled at best a comfortable standard of living.

“I do” whispered George, at the appropriate moment, and mouthed the word ‘Mistress’.

“I do” smiled Amanda back.  And she said “Pansy Pink-knickers” just loud enough for the shocked priest to hear. 

It had been easy enough to explain to him that, as her longest-standing client, he was her first choice to take on as her 24/7 lifestyle slave in retirement.  He had nearly had a heart attack from shock and delight, and then had spent half an hour incoherently slobbering at her feet.  Signing the contract to give up any safeword rights had been a little harder, as although Pansy Pink-knickers loved being spanked, anything firmer made him squeal in pain.  But she’d explained that if they were going to do this properly it was important that she could occasionally - just occasionally - punish him in ways she knew he would not enjoy.  Real punishments to back up the more playful sessions across her knee. 

She promised she would do so only in the case of real failings on his part, where punishment was truly warranted.    And so he had signed.

Ah, the happy couple. Don't ask what happened to Pansy's outfit.  Let's just say that cheap fetish maid costumes don't do well on the 'boil wash' setting that he somehow mangaed to find.

‘Real failings’ she thought happily to herself, gazing fondly at her new husband as the hubbub of the wedding feast swirled around them. She thought back to images of streaks of cleaning fluid distributed across mirrors, of knickers slowly and incompetently handwashed, of floors scrubbed only slightly cleaner by a silly old pervert in a pink frilly dress eagerly pushing the brush around in wild circles.  And each one of those images seemed to disappear behind dazzling visions of showers of gold and silver coins, too many to count, so close she could almost touch them.  Perhaps he would get slowly better at housework.  But she doubted it, at his age.  Even with encouragement.


Two weeks later, they returned from their honeymoon in a fine coach, pulled by four white horses driven by two strapping young coachmen.  Amanda was resplendent, in new dress and a rich brocade coat. Her proud husband seemed more subdued, stepping gingerly down from the coach as if his years had finally caught up with him, and walking stiffly and slowly towards the front gate.  Amanda drew out a bag that bulged with coins and generously handed out coppers to each of the coachmen, who later swore that most of the gleaming metal in the bag had the heft and the glow of silver or even gold.

He must have been richer than we all knew, the old skinflint, said the townspeople. And they raised their glasses to the happy and rich couple, while the banker sat quietly in shame.

And right they were to do so.  Amanda seemed to have a never-ending supply of silver and gold.  She bought a large house and employed over 30 servants, she invested in land and brought prosperity back to the farms, there seemed no limit on her appetite for expensive clothes and jewellery and although even her abundant shower of gold and silver could not by itself solve all the region’s problems, it was perhaps just the boost the region needed and it has been prosperous and bustling to this day.

And so everyone lived happily – albeit in one case very painfully – ever after.

With profound thanks to Lady Sophia Black, both for playing the part of Mistress Amanda in this tale so beautifully and also for providing Servitor with some wonderful sessions. She really was as beautiful and poised as she looks in the photos and as delightfully evil as she seems in her videos - I was very lucky to know her while she was working.  But you're not: she's retired now, I believe.