I’m going to hibernate for a couple of weeks. So it’s Holy Shit, Silent Shit down here. Hope to be back again next year.
I’m going to hibernate for a couple of weeks. So it’s Holy Shit, Silent Shit down here. Hope to be back again next year.
Sure, She asked me about my submissive dreams & fetishes and She listened attentively. And yet, She brushed them aside and followed Her own voice (or my screams, depending on which side of the whip you’re standing). She didn’t compromise or anything. Not because She wanted to punish me, or deny me my hopes and dreams. It just wasn’t Her cup of tea. She had Her own style, Her own ideas of male slavery. I’m still immensely grateful for that, because a Mistress is not a jukebox or a beardless Santa Claus. A slave should take it as it comes, that’s why he’s called a slave. If slavery means getting rewarded for being obedient, then who are we kidding. So She trained, punished & used me as She saw fit. And I worshipped Her for that. Because there’s only one way that leads to the amazing grace of real slavery. Her way.
“What’s the weather going to be today, slave?” I gave Her my most intelligent look and said: “I saw a three-legged dog this morning and a sparrow flying upside down, so it’s going to be a bright, bright sunny day.” We didn’t have a drop of rain in weeks, so what could possibly go wrong. And so we went for a relaxed and romantic picnic in the forest. It started to rain round midday. Well, it didn’t just rain, it came down in buckets. I knew She was about to call me a liar to my face, so I mumbled: “I could have sworn it was a three-legged dog.” She laughed and slapped me across the back of my head: “You won’t get away with this, rain man.” Back home She took me straight into the garden, cuffed me to a pole and walked back to the house. It poured down like a pissing cow. “Mistress,” I pleaded, “I’m soaking wet.” She looked over Her shoulder and grinned: “I knew you’d love it, you horny devil.”
Six men, on their knees, with their hands on their back, staring down at the floor. A submissive sixpack. Six strong and proud men, who will sit down on a hot radiator if I order them to. “One of you will be a lucky slave, because I’m in a sadistic mood today. I’m ready to give a whole new meaning to pain and suffering.” I pause and say: “When I give the signal, you will masturbate for Me. The first to cum is the winner and will be tortured beyond tears.” I pause again, longer this time. “On your marks…..GO!” They’re jerking their cocks like there’s no tomorrow. It’s a penis pandemonium, a masturbation madness. They’re so eager to suffer for Me, so eager to enter My world of hurt. You see, a well-trained slave is like a lemming; always willing to throw himself of the cliffs of agony for his Mistress.
I was beyond tired. My arms and legs were heavy, everything looked out of focus and and I couldn’t talk coherently. “Must go,” I mumbled. I tried to get up, but it was impossible. My ex-Girlfriend didn’t seem particularly worried. On the contrary: She smiled and looked amused. I broke up with Her six months ago and promised Her that we would stay friends. It didn’t work out that way. It rarely ever does. This was my first visit since the break-up. “Take some more wine,” She said and laughed out loud. The dark truth seeped in through the mist: there was something in the wine that dulled my senses and made me drowsy! “No one turns Me down,” She growled. “You’re going to spend the weekend in My dungeon, you little piece of shit. And I promise you your life and dick will never be the same after that.” She grabbed my powerless hands and cuffed me. Words stumbled over my lips: “You c.can’t do tha.at.” She slapped me across the face and said: “In case you didn’t notice, I’m already doing it.”
This is my 250th post and I want to mark the occasion with some exclusive pics. Several years ago I wanted to work with some Femdom models myself. A slave in the drivers seat, how about that. A Mistress was kind enough to set me up with a photographer, a willing slave and some (novice) models. It was a real challenge, because they hardly spoke any English and they had no idea what I was blathering about. Still, it was quite lovely to work with them and I learned some hard, but valuable, lessons, I can tell you that much. So here are just a few examples of that memorable weekend. Thanks for visiting this blog, the comments and the personal mails, it’s the fuel that keeps me going. Happy anniversary 😉
Ed had his feet on the table, Ted was sitting in the windowsill and Fred was lying on the couch. “I’m not afraid of them, because I know how to outsmart them,” Ed said. “Afraid?” Fred snorted, “Hell no! Beg, plead and grovel long before it becomes too painful, that’s my motto. If they fall for it – and they always do – I win.” They laughed out loud and Ted said: “They are in charge, because we allow them to be in charge. Their empty Empire would crumble without us. I coul-” He jumped up as if he’d seen a ghost and yelled: “Mistress is coming!” Panic spread like wildfire. They were down on their hands and knees scrubbing the floor when Mistress walked in. She smelled the fear hanging in the air. “What’s going on here!” They squeaked and grovelled in front of Her feet. She looked down on them with superiority. “You will tell Me everything,” She said, “every single little thing.”
There’s only one bridge from the mainland to Area 51½ and the far end of the bridge is fenced off. But that doesn’t stop my guide and me from crossing the river in a small boat. Some say the place is haunted, others say it’s a UFO hotspot. But my guide assures me it’s a Femdom Area. He’s probably as mad as a hatter, because there’s nothing there. No roads, no villages, nothing but wilderness. But then, after several backbreaking hours, we reach the top of a steep hill. Down below us in the valley are several buildings. The place is buzzing with workers and chopping, hammering and sawing sounds fill the air. The area is guarded by booted Women, many of them with male dogs on a leash. This is going to be the first Femdom City in the world, my guide tells me. I am more than willing to believe him now, so I will say goodbye to my friends tonight and return to the building site tomorrow. I will surrender myself to these Ladies and work my ass off for them. Because I’m no longer interested in today, I want to be part of tomorrow.
The doorbell rang at two in the afternoon. It was a hot summer’s day and there was not a worry in sight. I opened the door and came face to face with an incoming fist that sent me back to where I came from. I landend on my back and three seconds later a blonde nymph sat down on my chest and jammed the barrel of a gun in my mouth. I almost choked, but She forced the gun deeper into my throat. There’s no way She could have heard my dick slither and slide through my pants. And yet, She looked over Her shoulder and put Her hand on my groin. “Well, well, someone’s enjoying himself down here.” She stared down into my eyes. “You love powerful Women?” I moaned some sort of yes. She smiled and pulled the gun from my mouth: “Any last wishes?” My voice wavered: “A long and happy life?” She shoved the barrel back in my mouth. Her eyes were cold, Her smile was deadly: “Nah, won’t do.”
I came to work at Uptown Alley in 1843, when I was fourteen years old. There were cooks and under cooks, butlers and under butlers, valets and boot boys, a ground- house and gatekeeper, 1st and 2nd footmen and many others. The estate was owned by the Severus sisters: Athena, Bellona, Andraste and Victoria. They ran the place with an iron fist. But was it not Mrs. Beeton who said: “The functions of the Mistress resemble those of the general of an army or the manager of a great business concern.” I will never forget my place, but in my hearts of hearts I worship them. I would fight a violent mob or walk through fire for them. They are so strict and elegant, so understanding and unforgiving. They’re Angels from the heavens above and they give meaning to my life. No doubt I will serve them till I die. I just wished I could be here forever. But long after I’m gone I will be born again, in a different time and a different life. Then I will write about the wonderful life they’ve given me. Not on paper, no. But on something new that connects people from all over the world. John – October 1892.
I was standing and leaning over the table, the book right in front of me. “Read it aloud for Me,” Mistress said. “Don’t read too fast and let your voice reflect the tone of the story. Now, what’s the title of the book?” I gasped for air and said: “Moby Dick, Mistress.” She smacked me in the face and pushed my head down to the table: “Are you blind? Its says Moby’s Dick.” I apologised and started reading: “Call me Ishmae-e-e-e-l. Some years ago-oh-oh – never mind ho-o-o-w long precisely – having little or no-o-o-o money in m-” She slapped me again, harder this time. “Read it properly, slave!” I wished I could, but Her sister was standing right behind and She was harpooning my ass with a whale-like strapon. I wriggled and moaned, but there was no mercy coming from the rear end. “I warn you, slave,” Mistress growled, “don’t fuck this up or we will fuck you over.”
“I honestly think you’re too weak to handle it,” She said with a wry smile. She really shouldn’t have said that, because now I became determent. We talked and I pleaded for hours and She finally agreed to give me private lessons. I had to pay a rather hefty sum of money as a security deposit. “I won’t charge you anything for the lessons,” She explained, “but I hate quitters. In that case the deposit is mine. School’s over when I say it’s over, do I make Myself clear?” I’d known Ingrid since diapers, but I’d never seen Her like this. But worse was to follow. Because as it turned out She was not your everyday teacher, She was a strict disciplinarian. I got much more than I’d bargained for, but my tortured ass and I hang in there. Too stubborn, or too scared perhaps, to walk away. The lessons continued throughout the summer and ended in October. So She’s no longer my teacher. But She’ll always be my Disciplinarian.
A Vampire party in Hoia Baciu Forest, the most haunted forest in the world, how cool is that! There’s a magnificent underground palace over there, with long corridors and candlelit rooms. It was an exclusive party, with 50 neatly dressed guys and 12 beautiful Ladies, armed with impressive fangs. We had a lovely time and we all counted down to midnight. Then, exactly on the stroke of midnight, the Ladies attacked the guy standing next to them. Bodies twisted and jolted and there was blood everywhere. The special effects were awesome, how on earth did they do that! It was a performance worthy of an Oscar. But then I heard terrifying screams of pain and everyone fled the room. Then it dawned on me. These Women were not going for the Oscar, they were going for the kill! I ran into the adjoining room, but one of the Women appeared out of nowhere and threw me on the floor. She landed on top of me and held me down with Her body. “Please, make me Your slave forever,” I begged, “I’m willing to die for You.” She made a hissing sound and showed me Her terrifying fangs: “How can a Girl say no to that.”
“Femdeum is like visiting a department steure,” Sir Allan said, swirling the cognac in his glass. “First, you cheuse a Lady: hairy, scary, breasted, legged, Latin, Asian; whatever you fancy. Put your faveurite Lady in the basket and go to the second fleur for the haute couture: shirts, skirts, dresses, shoes, beuts. Pick your fetish attire and go to the third fleur, where you’ll find Pains, Perils and Humilio’s. Ceurporal punishments, face-sitting, trampling, ceuck and ball teurture; you name it, you pain it. The Naughty Section is there as well, with cunelingus, blowjeubs, handjeubs and all kinds of other jeubs. Then go to the counter, pay for your items and Beub’s your uncle. You’ve picked your faveurite Lady in your faveurite couture and She will do exactly what you want. And seumehow, seumewhere, you got this crazy idea that She’s in charge. Extreurdinary.”
Laura lived in San Francisco and came over to write a piece on the Gay Pride. I won’t bore you with all the details, but Ellen, a lesbian friend of mine, introduced me to Her and asked me if Laura could stay at my place for a couple of days. That was no problem whatsoever, because Laura was a lovely person. We talked for hours, as if we’d known each other for years. One morning we had a funny argument about something and I teased Her a bit. She grabbed – and almost dislocated – my fingers and I screamed down on my knees. She pushed me backwards and I ended up on my belly. She grabbed my arms, forced them on my back and planted Her knees on my wrists. The pain was excruciating! I wanted to tap out, but I had no arms left to tap with. “Now we’ll wait for Ellen,” She said. I wailed: “But that will take hours!” She grinned: “I know.” I couldn’t move a finger and I begged Her to let me go. To no avail. Man, I love San Francisco.
There were seven Rembrandt’s with tits waiting for me at the atelier. They told me to take off my clothes and then they tied my hands behind my back. That was a bit awkward and I looked at Eve, but She gave me the oopsy-daisy-forgot-to-mention kinda look. Once my hands were tied, things went downhill rapidly. They clamped my nipples and gagged me. My ankles went in a spreader and my testicles in a humbler. Picasso’s Fiasco, so to speak. I stood there for hours and was not allowed to move an inch. “Move one more time and I will cut off your ear,” one of the Van Gogh’s said. They painted as if Sotheby’s was waiting for them. They took a lot of pictures as well. “You will model for us for as long as we want, or you will go viral on the Internet,” they said. I wasn’t in the best position to argue, so I kept my gag shut. I’m not an idiot, you know. “You’re such an idiot,” Eve said and took another picture.
I pestered and provoked the Girls, hoping they would beat the crap out of me. I must have been a real jerk, but I couldn’t control my submissive longings. Karin would always rise to the occasion. She would grab my fingers and reduce them to carrots or pluck me like a chicken. One day She twisted my fingers and forced me all the way down to the ground. She put Her foot on my head and pushed down with force. “You better not move,” She threatened. The other Girls joined the fun and were now standing in a circle around me. One foot was enough to immobilise me, and all the strength drained from my body. In the following weeks something extraordinary happened, because Karin became some sort of heroine. Not just for the boys, but for the Girls as well. The Girls flocked around Her on the playground and they would do anything to be Her friend. That’s why I love the Victory Pose so much, because it brings back such good memories.
The place was packed to the rafters and the atmosphere was intens. It was a boneyard really, because we all walked about with an enormous boner in our trousers. We screamed and cheered like schoolgirls when Brutallica finally entered the stage. Man, they looked so hot in their leather outfits and boots. The first song was Anus Volcanos, followed by awesome hits like: Whipped Scream, Rubberella and Groin Down The River. We jumped up and down like frogs on a hot plate, it was magnificent. Halfway the concert four lucky bastards were pulled out of the audience to join Brutallica on stage. The Girls didn’t beat around the bush and immediately started beating the crap out of them. Stretchers came and went and one of the knuckleheads was hoisted into the air by his ankles. He hung upside down like a hunting trophy. The band played on: Fresh Meat, Bullwhip Blues and Foot In Snout. After three encores they positioned themselves right in front of the crowd and started pissing all over them. I managed to touch one of their boots and I haven’t washed my hand ever since.
Why I took the job? Three reasons: I was broke, homeless and hungry. And then She came along, with Her soft voice and deep blue eyes. She was so understanding, so patient. She offered me this job and told me She would take care of me. And I? I fell for it hook, line and sinker. The first months were a nightmare, a hellish nightmare of pain and suffering. Because She believes in strict discipline and She can make me beg and cry for mercy. She’s the Countess of countless punishments and She expects to be obeyed at all times. Serving Her is a fulltime job and She doesn’t do weekends or holidays. But you know what? There’s an incredible beauty in this brutality, a beauty I’ve never experienced before. It took me a long time to see it, but now that I do I can’t live without it. I am perhaps a victim of Her beauty, a prisoner of pain, but She gives meaning to my life. This is what I was born to do.
You don’t have to search or fight for power; it’s there already, at Your fingertips. In order to embrace it, You have to understand where these men came from. Some have travelled a thousand miles to find a Lady, others have spent a fortune on the Internet. They’ve been waiting for and dreaming of Female Domination for decades. They’re not just hungry, they’re starving. And don’t forget, there are far, Far, FAr, FAR more slaves than Mistresses. Ten thousand submissive soldiers and one Female General to lead them. Submissive men know that better than anyone, and that’s what makes them so eager and compliant. This is their one – and probably only – shot at Femdom and they’re dying to submit to Your will. Power is not about whips & paddles and it’s not about pain & suffering. It’s about understanding the sacrifices they have made to get where they are today. Because what makes these men obey to anything, is the fear of becoming unowned and unwanted again.
“You made a mistake.” Madame M. said. Mr. White turned red. He was in his fifties and lived with Figaro, his Balinese cat. He liked to read (Mr. White, not the cat) and play the tuba. He was a decent man and a fine accountant doing the books for a number of local businesses. Madame M. was one of his loyal customers. He nodded and whispered: “I can’t believe it myself Madame, this is my first mistake in sixteen yea-” She raised a finger: “I don’t do mistakes, Mr. White.” He bowed his head in shame: “You’re right, of course you a-” There was the finger again: “Mistakes will be punished. Mr. White. Drop your pants and lean against the wall.” He got up from his chair, white as his surname: “Madame, that’s enough, I-” Her voice slapped his face: “NOW!” Women scared him, they were unpredictable and intimidating. He dropped his pants and coward against the wall. Madame M. rolled up Her sleeves and picked up a cane from behind Her desk. “Make no mistake Mr. White, this is going to hurt.”
In the year of our Lord one thousand and twenty-four, a large fleet of Femdommes arrived, speedy vessels to the number of seventy-three. These strong and powerful Women invaded our land like stinging hornets and many a man was captured and taken away in chains. Fear struck in the hearts of the population, and gloom and sadness fell over the land. Female Legions landed on our shores later that year. Like savage wolves, they overran our country in all directions, forcing the men to flee their homes and villages to seek shelter in the mountains. Once they were kings, emperors and commanders, mighty men who ruled the world. Now the last of the free hid in caves and lived in great fear. A darkness fell upon the land and the men lamented bitterly over the terrible fate that would befall them. Their days of freedom were numbered, their life in slavery about to begin.
There was a button on Her website saying: don’t click here. I didn’t, but it became Pandora’s Button, so I returned to that page over and over again. It was a trap and I fell for it, because in the end I clicked the damned thing. A message popped up saying She demanded an apology. I wrote one immediately and thought that would be the end of it. Two hours later an email came in, saying She didn’t accept my apology and that She wanted to meet me face to face. I had to obey, because this was a real mail and a direct order. Three days later I kneeled down in front of Her. Not only was Mistress Valkyrie stunningly beautiful, She was also charming and elegant. She had a lovely sense of humor and was genuinely interested in the man behind the slave. And She certainly knew how to inflict pain on Her victims. Man, She was ruthless! She retired many years ago, but I’m still grateful to this day. Because if it hadn’t been for that button, I would probably still be a novice today.
My lower back was killing me and I couldn’t walk upright anymore. The guy at the hotel gave me the address of Lady Thai, a masseuse with healing powers. When I hunched into Her office She said: “Ah, it hurts back?” Three minutes later I was naked to the underwear and cuffed to a Andreas cross. Weird! But I was in so much pain, I was willing to try anything. She started whipping me, slowly at first but then faster and more vicious. I screamed my lungs out. She smiled the sweetest smile and said: “You like?” I told Her I didn’t, so She switched to one of the longest whips ever. That wasn’t what I meant, but She ducked away behind the language barrier and skinned me alive with that thing. “Now you cool, ok?” She threw three buckets of ice-cold water over me. And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, She grabbed me by the balls and squeezed them into oranje juice. So when in pain, go to Thailand; these gorgeous Ladies will teach you a thing or two about suffering.
“This little cottage,” Hansel said triumphantly, “is made of chocolate and biscuits. You can eat it!” He bit down on the wall and a horrifying cracking sound filled the air. “Well, that’s one way of losing your milk teeth,” Gretel said. The cottage door opened and a Witch came out. Man, She was a knockout and Hansel’s cock swell up like a balloon. “We’re lost,” Hansel said, spitting molars in the process, “can you please help us?” The Witch invited them in and gave them pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. There was a large cage in the room and Gretel shivered: “I bet no one dares to enter that cage.” Hansel laughed and stepped into the cage. The door fell shut. “What did I tell you,” Gretel said, “easy does it.” The Witch chuckled and gave Gretel 20 silver coins. “What are you going to do with him,” Gretel asked. The Witch replied: “Train him, castrate him and sell him.” Tears ran down Hansel’s cheeks as he fell down on his knees. “Gretel please, I beg You.” Gretel looked at the coins and opened the cottage door: “See ya, bro.”
A slave is someone “who is legally owned by another person.” Scheiße, that means we’re not slaves after all. Servants at best, but certainly not slaves. Because what breaks the chains and sets us free, is the fact that keeping slaves is illegal. So there’s no such thing as legally owned by another person. We’re volunteers and we’re free to walk out whenever we want. We have the law on our side and surely there should be a law against that. We really should change it into something like this:
I once bought a large cardboard box with photo-albums and family documents at an auction. Thumbing through other people’s lives is a bit like trespassing, but I love history on grassroots level. And so birthdays, weddings, holidays and ageing people passed me by. Once they were full of life, now they were just nameless memories in a cardboard box. Then I opened album number six, called Rose. Who turned out to be an stunningly beautiful Mistress in Her time. I became intrigued and it took me months to find out a bit more about Her. According to a newspaper clipping, people came from far and near to visit Her dungeon. She was, the article said, a popular lifestyle Mistress who never gave up the belief that Women were born to rule over men. I wished I had known Her, even if just for a while, because She must have been an amazing person. So here’s to Lady Rose, who lived in the past, but believed in the future.
They took me to the valley, where the river meanders and snakes. Because, they said, I was going to be baptised. The Femdom way. I asked for a snorkel, but one of the Ladies grabbed me by the throat and I gargled instead. We stepped into the cold water and they grabbed my arms and with hands on top of my head, pushed me under water. They held me there till dusk (it seemed) and I finally emerged like the Loch Ness monster itself, gasping for air and crying out in a panic of fear. Up and down it went, with ridiculously short ‘ups’ and frighteningly long ‘downs.’ In the end I was nothing more than a breathing corps, no kidding. But then, after swallowing a pool or two, they had enough and I washed ashore like a piece of human wreckage. I was still struggling to get my breath and I asked if I could have some water. “He’s such a great sport,” they said. And dragged me back to the river.
“We all have our dirty little secrets, but most people don’t shout it from the rooftops. Submissive men are a different breed, these remarkable creatures will tell you their most inner dreams, fetishes and desires. At great length and in minute detail. They don’t say it in so many words, but they’re silently begging you to take advantage of that. So each piece of information is like a key on the piano of Dominance. Press that key and he will crumble and fall into obedience. However, playing his favourite tunes all day long is never a good idea. And it’s certainly not My definition of Female Supremacy. Economise, that’s My motto. Hope is such a powerful weapon and he will cling onto that like a drowning man onto a life belt. Even some casual act or comment on his favourite fetish fills his tank with blind obedience. Learning to play the piano, that’s all it takes.”
She didn’t want to know what I looked like, and yet we were about to meet on a blind date. “Don’t worry,” She said, “I can spot a submissive man a mile away.” So I went to this trendy bar and waited. Unlike so many other Women, She didn’t invade the place. On the contrary: She seeped in like a sinister fog. She spotted me immediately, elbowed Her way towards me, grabbed my shirt and dragged me outside and into the alley across the street. They came from nowhere and were everywhere: eight, nine, ten Women. I looked over my shoulders to see if there was any light in the tunnel, but there were at least five of them behind me as well. They all started kicking, kneeing, slapping and punching me at the same time and I disappeared into a whirlpool of violence and was sucked down by the quick currents of Female power. They kicked me repeatedly in the nuts and punched me in the guts, till I begged them to stop. They did, but they took my pants and left me there in my underwear. Damned kinky!
Elvira was a collegae of mine and She was blessed with a strong personality. She could be extremely stubborn, demanding and even ruthless at times. One day a male colleague played a prank on Her. She grabbed his hair, brutally yanked back his head and forced him to apologise. He whimpered and tears of pain glinted in his eyes. Her sister Sylvia came to work with us as well, but She was very shy and you hardly even noticed Her. Which is a dreadful thing to say, but true nonetheless. They both left the company a couple of years later, but I stayed in touch with Elvira. One day I decided to humor Her with my submissive tale. She said: “It’s not My cup of tea. If anything, I want a man to be strong and macho.” Damn, I certainly didn’t see that one coming! She smirked and said: “You should have gone for Sylvia. She met a submissive guy and She’s now his Mistress. Very strict and all.” True story. Still waters run deep, they say. And they’re right.
Male slaves on Femdom sites are a necessary evil. They hardly say anything and when they do open their mouths you wished they didn’t. A male slave doesn’t have to look handsome (the fatter the better one might say), his purpose in life is to be pathetic. He’s an extra in the greater scheme of things and a brainless object at best. That’s why men in bondage sites (except Men In Bondage) are far and few between. Sure, bondage is embedded in almost all Femdom sites, but it’s not a specific niche. The Lezdom world on the other hand is littered with ropes, cuffs and tapes. It’s a Garden of Eden for bondage lovers. It makes sense, doesn’t it. A Woman in bondage looks beautiful, a man in bondage looks like a rolled roast. So I’m very grateful that bondage in the Lezdom community is so popular. Time for a sex change, I guess 😋
According to the Elise Sutton “it is almost always the man who will introduce the Female Domination lifestyle to the Woman.” So, why travel to the far corners of the earth or secretly masturbate behind Her back, when your Mistress to be is already there? I know, the thought of raising the subject provokes anxiety and fear, doesn’t it? Don’t overdo it, that’s the key to unlock the door to Supremacy. Avoid the risk of burying Her in an avalanche of graphic details, longings and desires. Don’t tell Her She can nail your scrotum to the table or chase you around the house with a bullwhip all day long. That’s way too much, way too soon. And don’t smother all hope by showing Her your favourite websites. Believe me, there’s a time for everything and this is not the right time. Plant a seed and if it’s meant to grow it will. Be patient and give it time to ripen. She will get back to it when She’s ready. A light and casual talk about your submissive fantasies might well be enough to bring Her dormant dominant nature to the surface.
He found himself a room above the grocery store in a town called Freedom. He expected to be happy there, over the moon and on top of the world. But he wasn’t. He lived in constant fear, knowing a Femdom Squad would be in hot pursuit by now. These ruthless Women would chase him to the ends of the earth and return him to his Lady Owner. Like a runaway dog. He became afraid of his own shadow and he hardly went outside anymore. He just stared out of the window all day long and listened to the sounds in the street below. It was now three o’clock in the night. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the hours crept by. His thoughts drifted to the journey that had taken him down this path. Soothing thoughts. He failed to notice the moving shadows on the wall and the whispered conversation outside. It was going to be his last night in Freedom.
Dune Feet is all about amateur Girls squeezing, smothering, choking, kicking, trampling and slapping the crap out of their victims. Their approach is pretty straightforward and simple, but it works. The Girls are real knock-outs, in every meaning of the word, and I hang onto every word they say, although I don’t have a clue what they’re saying. Because they’re Russian and I’m not, you see. But Femdom has its own universal language and I do get the message. Dune Feet has over 5.600 clips online at Clips4Sale right now. And that’s not all, because of its two sister-sites: Dune Angels (feet and butt crush) and Dune Hands, which is all about hand smothering, chocking and more. But the pearl in the crown is Dune Feet itself of course. Damn, if only I were Russian 😉
The early suffragettes were booed off the stage, mocked, assaulted and imprisoned. In Colchester a mob smashed the windows of the hotel where Josephine Butler (1828-1906) was staying, and stones were hurled into Her room. They threatened to burn the place down unless Mrs. Butler was delivered to them. She fled through a back window and hid inside an unused warehouse, filled with empty bottles and broken glass: “I stood there in the darkness and alone, hearing some of the violent men tramping past.” These Women risked their lives and fought an impossible battle. And yet they won. Against all odds. They were truly courageous and I greatly admire them. Femdom today is caught in the gigantic fishing nets of the porn industry. It’s a million dollar business that attracts all kinds of people with all kinds of motives: some true, some false, some unscrupulous. Finding a way out of this slimy mess is a monumental challenge. I hope and pray that our Women today, like their ancestors, have the strength, courage and determination to rise to the challenge and lead us towards a better future. A Femdom future.
Mistress wanted me as Her pet at the Dèmonia Party in Paris, so I booked Her – and myself – a flight and a hotelroom for a couple of nights. Somehow She had a change of heart, because She’d brought a new slave along with Her and She told me to make myself scarce. Luckily we had arranged to meet several other Mistresses and slaves to do some sightseeing, so I enjoyed myself. In the early afternoon we went into a small restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. Mistress and Her new toy were sitting at one end of the table and I was sitting with the rest of the group at the other end, close to the door. The door opened and a beautiful Lady came in who had arranged to meet us there. She smiled at me and said: “Hello, what do we have here?” Mistress erupted from Her chair, crashing Her hand on the table: “He’s MINE!” You could hear a pin drop and even the waiters seemed frozen on the spot. You see, you don’t have to be in the spotlights all the time; You’re Her property till She says otherwise.
She shook Her head and shrugged Her shoulders: “I’m not sure if you’ve got the balls for this job.” My heart stopped beating for a second, but I was quick to reply: “I’ve got concrete balls, you can build a theme park on them. Believe me; I’m the right man for this job.” She sighed and got up from behind Her desk. So I got up as well, thinking it was all over. I reached out my hand to shake Hers, but She grabbed me by the balls and squeezed. I screamed like a Wiener Sängerknaben and danced up and down in pain. She let go of my balls and pushed me against the wall. “Spread ’em!” I was only halfway the spreading business when the first kick came in with a vengeance. I staggered through the room like a knocked-up boxer, but a second kick was already on its way. Smack dab in the middle! I howled like a wolf and a third devastating kick sent me flying across the room. I crashed down on the floor at Her feet. She looked down on me with contempt: “What did I tell you? No balls.”
“A slave is still a man and traces of stubbornness, pride and stupidity will linger underneath the surface for a long time. Forced Feminisation is a highly effective method to subdue the beast and to get rid of all that macho nonsense. Sissy lovers can’t wait, it’s their Girlie dream come true, but most men dread it. Moving from Dennis to Denise and from Harry to Harriet is highly degrading. Let alone switching from male to Female attire. He’s being thrown in at the deep end of Femininity and this time his manhood is not going to safe him. It’s a transformation on so many levels and far more effective than corporal punishment, I think. Look at him, he looks like a hippo in panties! Well, all men look like Mammoth’s dung to Me, so it’s not that make-up or a skirt makes them look ridiculous. They are ridiculous. The sooner they understand, the better.”
She sat there, hands on Her thighs, looking down on me. She pressed down hard on my arms with Her legs, Her crotch resting on my chin. I was completely beaten and helpless. She could hold me there for as long as She wanted and there was nothing I could do about it. The Female Domination palette is dazzlingly beautiful and yet I would trade it all for the Schoolgirl-Pin. It’s so powerful and so mesmerising. It’s a never-ending love-song really, and a treasure each picture like a priceless artefact. And the Schoolgirl-Pin opens the door to so much more, doesn’t it. She can smother you into a red herring, drown you in spit, slap you unconscious, remove your hair while She’s at it, tickle you to death or play pool with your balls. So to me the Schoolgirl-Pin is the most glorious, victorious and powerful humiliation ever. Priceless!
She looked at her wrist, although She stopped wearing a watch ages ago. “You’re late. Again.” He sighed and opened his mouth for a lengthy explanation, but Her words slashed through his vocal cords like a knife through butter. “Drop down your pants, Harold.” He looked baffled and had a got-run-over-by-a-freight-train look in his eyes. Sure, they’d played some kinky games before, but it was a bit too early in the day for that. He quickly snapped out of it though, shrugged his shoulders and dropped his pants. “Come and lay over My knees,” She said. He knew what was coming, but he decided to call Her bluff. Come on, She wasn’t really going through with this, was She? She was. She spanked him with all Her fury, using Her hand, a hairbrush and a paddle. He cried out for Her to stop, but She would not, it was time to teach him a lesson. Besides, there was something growing hard in his pants. So there you have it: it’s never too late to be in time for a harsh spanking.
Forty four-horse chariots entered the Hippodrome at the ancient Olympics and it took them almost fifteen minutes to cover the twelve double laps. Two stone pillars on the racecourse marked the turning point where the chariots had to make a 180-degree turn (23 turns during the race). These turns were extremely dangerous and deadly. Chariots smashed against the pillars or into each other, drivers got catapulted into the air and were trampled by the horses of the following chariot. During one of these brutal Olympic races, only one (out for forty) managed to cross the finishing line. Now, there are no Femdom Games, so we have to use our imagination. The gorgeous Mistresses in their chariots, four well-trained pony-boys, gleaming with oil. Of course, it would not be as violent as it once was, not with these beautiful Goddesses in the driver seat. But it would be competitive though! The cracking of the whip, the exhausted slaves, the dust flying up to heaven. No mercy would be asked, no quarter would be given. We would run like the wind for the honour of our Mistress.
Nanshakh is one of my all-time favourite artists, because he manages to capture my most treasured fantasies in images. I truly love the idea of uncompromising Women and natural born slaves. He shows us a world where Women rule and where men work, serve and suffer. There’s no room for cheap romances and the Women don’t drool over their slaves all the time. In that respect his work comes close to what the former Other World Kingdom (OWK) tried to achieve. His settings are fanciful, because we don’t work in quarries, suffer on galleys or rot in dungeons. Bummer! But right underneath that fanciful layer is the glorious beauty of real Female Power. Because Female Supremacy should not be about satisfying the (sexual) needs and fantasies of submissive men, it should be about slavery. Nanshakh’s world may not actually exist, but the place looks awfully familiar and recognisable. And I for one really feel at home there.
She looked at me with a mix of pity, scepticism and horror: “Are you actually willing to pay for this?? What are you: a newly discovered disease or something?” Now, that wasn’t a nice thing to say, was it? But I was quick to reply: “If so, I’m not contagious.” She giggled and shrugged Her shoulders: “Alright nutcase, show Me the money.” I did and – as promised – kneeled down in front of Her. She wore an ultra mini miniskirt and Her gorgeous legs were just inches away. It was all a bit awkward and uncomfortable, I admit that. “Tell Me a bit more about this Leg-Fetish thing,” She asked. Bless Her! Because that really broke the ice and I answered the question in great detail. After my hymn She looked at the money and frowned. “If it means that much to you, then this is just a tip, isn’t it?” Blimey, She was a quick learner! She made me empty my wallet in the hope (not the certainty) of getting permission to worship Her legs. Hence the saying: show me a leg and I’ll show You the money.
I borrowed Her car and wrecked it, that’s the long and short of it. The insurance company first gave me the runaround and then the finger, so I owed Her a hefty sum of money. Money that I didn’t have. So we choose debt slavery (aka debt bondage) to solve the matter. I signed several blank documents, because She would fill in the terms later. I had enough on my plate as it was, She said. I placed myself into slavery for a period of 15 months. She took control of my finances and forced me to live on scraps. And I had to work for Her of course. She was very understanding at first, but those days are long gone. She now uses all kinds of punishments and humiliations to keep me focused (Her words, not mine): from brutal face-slaps to thrashings, from eating from a dog bowl to pissing all over me. Each punishment comes with a price tag, so my debt only grows and repayment is impossible. I owe Her so much…
Mistress ordered me to make the dungeon soundproof. I didn’t like the sound of that, but Mistress was already soundproof to everything I had to say, so I kept my mouth shut and went to work. It took me a couple of backbreaking weeks, but Mistress was mighty pleased with the result and She immediately invited some friends to come and see. Sadistic Friends, I’m-ready-to-shit-my-pants kinda Friends. Question was: was the dungeon really soundproof? Mistress, being the clever dick She is, decided to put it to the test. So one slave went to the kitchen and a second one into the garden where they had to listen if they could hear anything. Bizarre really, because Mistress is always complaining that slaves don’t listen. Anyway, now all eyes & hands turned to me and I was stripped, strapped and covered with electrodes. And then the horror began. My word, the pain was absolutely unbearable and I screamed on top of my lungs. That pleased the Ladies tremendously and they pumped up the voltage. The dungeon turned out to be soundproof and my dick lightproof. Because it glowed like a red-hot poker for weeks.
“No, I’m not cruel. Not before breakfast anyway. I’m just trying to help you make the right decision. If you decide to be My slave, I will take control of each aspect of your life. You will be a puppet dangling from a string. Let’s call that option A, shall we? Option B: you don’t want to serve and obey Me. Yes, you’re absolutely free to choose that option, but I want you to think of the consequences. Because in that case I’m forced to publish the compromising pictures, and let us not forget: the even more compromising movie-clips. Everything will go online and your employer and all your friends will be notified. That’s only fair, I think, because it took so much time, energy and money to shoot all that stuff. Blackmail? Nah, that’s such a nasty word, wouldn’t you say? I’m not blackmailing you, I’m protecting you. Please don’t beg, not yet anyway, it won’t do you any good. Just think it over and I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
There will always be a next time, we say. But it’s not true, is it. Today’s certainties may well be gone tomorrow. So if you really want to explore your submissive dreams, then strike while the iron is hot. It took me years to get there, because I became a master at postponing things. Money was a perfect excuse, for example. I’d set my mind on a foreign Mistress who lived a thousand miles away. Going there, staying there for a couple of days and paying for the sessions; I convinced myself it wasn’t worth all that money. When money was no longer the issue, I bought myself some time by questioning my submissive feelings again. And when I ran out of questions, I used my work as a scapegoat. I wasted so much valuable time and I will regret that the rest of my life. Trust me: at the end of the day it’s not about being ready, it’s about being submissive.