I caught him red handed. He was down on his knees, licking one of my shiny panties. My husband! My over-confindent, he-man of a husband. I was furious. Not because he turned out to be a panty lover, but because he hadn’t told me about it. What the hell is going in here, I snapped. It literally knocked the air out of him. His eyes nearly popped out of his head and he looked absolutely terrified. I grabbed his hair, yanked his head back and slapped him. Pain flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t struggle, didn’t even protest, and I could clearly see the enormous swelling in his trousers. He looked so helpless, so weak. Much to my own surprise I loved seeing him like that. So I took a few panties and ordered him to follow me on hands and knees. He obeyed! He crawled behind me like a puppy into the living room, where I told him to strip and put on a panty instead. Again, he did exactly as he was told. I could see his trembling hands, his hard cock, the complete submission in his eyes. He dropped down on his knees in front of me. I stuffed a panty in his mouth and pulled another one over his head. He looked so ridiculous, but his eyes worshipped me like they’d never done before. Can a simple panty change your life? You bet your ass it can!
Welcome on the opening day of the Femdom Olympics, Ladies and germs. It’s a lovely sunny day down here and the stadium is packed to capacity. Look at that crowd! The excitement, the cheers; it’s just wonderful. We’ll start the day with 200m Ball & Chain, followed by Buttplug Rowing and the Heavy Weight Nipple Clamps Race. The male athletes will close their day with the hilarious 400m Blindfold. The Ladies competition starts at two in the afternoon with the Human Pony Race, followed by Testicle Tennis, Slave Throwing and the Knock-Out Punch competition. In the evening there’s 200m Ass-Kicking and the 5000m Chariot Race. The highlight of the evening is the 400m Strap-On. The Lady plugs in to the slave and the one and only rule is simple: the rubber penis has to stay in. So Mistress & slave need to synchronise their steps, which isn’t easy if you’re running like the wind. Yes Ladies and numbnuts, it promises to be an excellent day full of male agony. So let the Games begin!
FemCom (Femdom Company) is a company like any other, except for the fact that it’s owned and run by dominant Women. The male employees are all slaves who live in an old building just around the corner. It’s all rather primitive inside and our beds can easily be mistaken for medieval inquisition racks. But it’s our home sweet home. We work 12 hours a day, 6 days a week and the slaps and kicks fly all over the place. But make no mistake: it’s not a Femdom playground. No sir, it’s a serious business. That’s why the real punishments take place after working hours. Not everything is Glory, Glory, Hallelujah though. We’re all chastity slaves for example and only those who surpass all expectations shall be released. It’s a heavy burden, I tell you, and my dick weighs a ton by now. It’s a hard life, but a glorious life as well. No endless meetings, no boring workshops; just Female Superiority. What more can a slave ask for?
I can clearly remember my first dog-training session. I was a pitiful dog, to be honest, without a tail, mask or anything. A crawling disaster, really. The Lady taught me to fetch, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. I had to wait for Her commands, crawl with lightning speed, lay down exactly on the right spot beside Her feet and wait for the next throw. She also taught me how to bark, which was not easy either. Wagging my tail however turned out to be impossible, because I had none to wag with. I tried to use my dick instead, suggesting I was a Cock-er Spaniel, but Mistress wouldn’t hear of it and kicked me into submission. One’s bark is worse than one’s bite, as they saying goes, but in this case Her bite was far worse than Her bark. I loved it and I was ready to sign-up for a kennel. A few years later I changed my tune a bit when a Lady ordered me to eat dog food. Humps of meat covered in gravy. Unimaginable gross! It smelled like a cesspit and tasted like my grandfathers socks, covered in snot. I begged and barked for mercy, but She insisted. Like a pitbull, you know.
Nipple clamps – even with weights – aren’t too bad at first. It’s like a nibble really. But after a while that nibble becomes a razor-sharp bite. These bloody things chew, cut and saw through the flesh and before long you’re up to your elbows in agony. But the moment I dread the most, the moment I become a sobbing shadow of a man, is when a Lady decides to remove the clamps. Even if She takes them off ever so gentle, the eruption of pain that immediately follows is just dreadful. Everyone has a weak spot, they say. Well, I’ve got two: my nipples. So you can imagine what happens when a Lady rips them off in one fast swoop, grabs my crippled nipples and squeezes them with brutal force. It happend to me once in a small dungeon in Amsterdam. My screams of agony scared the bejesus out of tourists and citizens alike, I’m afraid. Damned nipples!
I’m crawling the red carpet, with a Palace Princes walking right beside me. The Ceremonial Hall is huge and lit by torches. It’s all rather creepy, as if I’m about to face a Female Pharaoh in God knows BC. It’s a mighty long crawl, but at long last we’re there. “Look at Me”, a voice says. I look up and there She is: Empress Isabella, the Leading Lady of the Femdom Community. She’s sitting on a beautifully decorated throne, overlooking Her empire. “Name?” My voice trembles: “My name is slav -” The Princess whacks me around the head. “Be quiet!” She answers the question for me and tells Empress Isabella that it’s my first visit in three years time. It’s very humiliating to hear them speak like that. As if I’m not there at all! Empress Isabella shakes Her beautiful head and says: “that’s not good enough: 100 lashes with the bullwhip”. Blimey, how about that! All slaves must pay their respects at least once every five years. I’m on time! It’s an outrage, Yahoo would say. But I keep stumm and I thank your Highness for the punishment and I kiss the floor in front of Her feet.
Let’s have a Pee-On-The-Rocks first, shall we. Now, this here is the bar, in here the customers drink and socialise. As you can see, there are three separate rooms at the far end of the bar. The room on the left is called The Flood, because the Ladies in there sprinkle all over the place. Yesterday a guy went in there wearing flippers, I swear to God it’s true. The leading Lady of that room is Mistress Bessy. Hence the saying: if you want it messy, ask for Bessy. The room in the middle is called Super Bowl, because the Ladies in there will pee in buckets, bottles, bowls and what not. It’s all done on the spot, fresh as fresh can be. The room on the right is called Perrier Parlour, because in there they’ll stuff a funnel down your throat and force you to drink it till the last drop. You see my friend, you and I take a leak. Ladies don’t. They Grand Cru. Some links: Piss Domination, Pissing-Austria, NeedaPee.
I watched a facesitting movie the other day where nothing moved but the wind and where not a word was spoken. Every now and then the Lady gave Her victim some breathing space, but you had to look very closely to actually see it. It was like watching a still life in a museum. Such a contrast with the fabulous movies of Facesitting Bitches and Lethal Bitches (both closed). It was there that I saw Miss Belle for the very first time. She blew me off my socks and I watched Her movies over and over again. And I still do to this day, as a matter of fact. So breathtakingly beautiful, so talkative, funny and natural. The dream of Her being in charge, of all that beauty sitting down on my face still takes my breath away. It’s never going to happen though. She retired a couple of years ago, just when I was about to contact Her to see if She was available for sessions. Life can be a cruel Bitch, what can I say. Only two of Her wonderful movies survive at Lethal Bitches (Clips4Sale). So here’s an ode to the beautiful, sexy, dazzling Miss Belle.
The bare, naked skin puffs out, blows up and shivers under the incoming blow. Catching the precise moment of impact in pictures isn’t easy. It’s a stroke of luck really. I know it sounds crazy, but pictures like that always make me think of the dinosaurs. Think about it: there’s Bill, the meanest T-rex on the block, coming home after a hard days eat. He says to his wife: “we’re dinosaurs, cutie pie, we’re unstoppable and we’ll roam the earth till Kingdom comes.” His wife isn’t listening (typical) and says: “look, there’s a bright light in the sky and it’s moving fast.” Bill smirks and says: “that’s just a peddle, pumpkin, it will have no impact whatsoever.” Famous last words; ten seconds later he’s food for palaeontologists. Anyway, back to the prehistoric asses of our modern-day victims. What we see in Femdom movies is the result of the blow, rarely the impact itself. Pictures however tell the real tale of brutality.
The sleazy, thumbed pulp magazines of the ’50’s – 60’s and early ’70’s came in a variety of names: Man’s Book, Man’s Escape, Real Men, Man’s Combat, True Men, All Man, Man’s Peril, World of Men and more. The Women in these mags are either damsels in distress or extremely ruthless and merciless Bitches. These powerful Ladies torture, kill and plunder as if it’s just another day at the office. The men are merely victims and they’re often kept in captivity on distant, mysterious islands. Now that’s what I call Forced Femdom! I love the artwork and most of all the brilliant covers. Some links: Stagmags, Retrospace, Mens Pulp Mags, Pulp International.
Having a leg-fetish from here to Tokyo and back, means I love head-scissors as well. It’s amazing to see how powerful legs can be, even untrained legs. There’s an unwritten law that says there’s no way out once a Lady locks Her ankles together. The trap snaps shut and She can pretty much keep you there for as long She wants. It’s like being hugged by a Anaconda they say, and even a professional escape artist can’t get out. I always believed it was a myth of some sorts until I ended up in a leggy lockdown myself one day. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get out. It was overwhelming, embarrassing, humiliating and extremely exiting at the same time. My poor empty head looked like a jawbreaker, turning from orange to red to purple. So here’s to Scissor-Foxes, Scissor-Vixens, Dunefeet and all the other sites that celebrate the beauty of the head-scissors.
I was 12 years old when I asked Karin if She would be kind enough to spit in my mouth. She looked at me as if I were a walking fart and told me to buzz off. I did, but I was back the next day. And the day after that. Finally, after weeks of pleading and begging, She spat on my mouth. God, I nearly fainted. She was so beautiful and to taste Her spit was a dream come true. She probably did it to get it over and done with, not realising I was now addicted. It took another couple of weeks, but slowly but surely She got used to my craziness. Her sensational saliva didn’t come easy though. I really had to beg and grovel for it. She would order me to kneel, open my mouth and then kept me waiting. She talked with the other Girls while I was down on my knees catching flies. It was very humiliating and it made Her look so powerful. I was still a kid and I didn’t have a pot to piss in, but I would have surrendered everything to Her. All in the name of spit. The next year we went to different schools and I never saw Karin again. Such a spity.
Being locked up in a cage is humiliating and homely at the same time. Even if Mistress decides to ignore you completely; the fact that you can’t get out and that She owns the the key to your freedom, is enough to twitter like a bird. You may think that you’re safe inside a cage, but that depends – as always – entirely on your Mistress. Take a cloudy day for example. If Mistress is in a wicked mood, She can put the cage, with you inside, in the garden. As long as it stays dry, nothing happens. But God forbid if the rain comes and Her precious cage gets wet. Someone’s to blame, and surprise, surprise, that someone is you. Whipping showers! Being caged indoors is much more comfy. It’s warm, dry and you’re in the same room with Mistress. Who knows, maybe you’re even allowed to watch some TV with Her. A Nicolas Cage movie perhaps?
Exactly seven days (aka one week) after my submissive baptism of fire I played the numbnut in a serious Femdom movie. The shooting took place in a small dungeon, crammed with equipment and people. There was a cameraman, a photographer, huge photographer lights, SM-furniture, a visagiste and several onlookers. It was quite an experience, to say the least. I was still as green as a meadow and yet I was punished as if were an experienced, diehard slave. During one of the breaks the Mistress tried to tie me to a small table, because She wanted to include some bastinado (foot sole torture). But the table was way too small, so it was soon off the table, so to speak. Years later the soles of my feet were targeted and I’m glad there was no camera around that day. It was excruciatingly painful, unbearable almost, and I was willing to do, promise and say everything to make it stop. Bastinado-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.