The difference between the on-all-fours ride and the shoulder-ride is of course speed. The former is like riding a snail, but the latter is about the trot, the canter, about double- and triple obstacles. Going like the wind, with flowing manes, that kind thing. Carrying the weight of beauty on your shoulders, with your head trapped between Her breathtaking legs, how awesome is that! Sure, it’s quite humiliating to run around open planes and fields like that, but at the same time it’s absolutely unforgettable. But marvellous as it may be, it can be an ordeal as well. It all depends on your Mistress. She can use the reigns to pull your head off, squeeze you to death with Her legs because you’re slowing down, or let the riding crop do all the talking. Giddy-up boy!
We beg for this and beg for that, beg for more and beg for less. We beg Her to punish us, and when She’s finally happy to oblige, we will beg Her to stop. That’s a lot of begging, wouldn’t you say? It becomes some sort of beg-ground music….uh…I mean background music (sorry about that). To me begging should be a trump card, only to be used when the tide is high: the I-can’t-take-it-no-more kinda begging. I love that moment, to be honest. When a plea for mercy is not some sort of submissive mantra, but when it comes straight from my heart. Now, I’m not saying I’d love to stare into the abyss of agony all the time; that would be killing for my epidermis. But it’s quite a magical and memorable moment when panic, fear, pain and suffering come together. Nothing makes a Mistress more powerful than during that agonising moment. Will She be merciful? Or will She whip that trump card in two?
“Item no. 43 says he will serve a Lady when he’s in the mood for it. Now, we can’t have that, Ladies. So who’s in the mood to flog him silly. Do I hear 100 lashes? 100 lashes bid, 125 – 150 – now 175, now 175, will you give Me 175? You Madame? No? Going once, going twice, sold for 150 lashes.” There’s a baldheaded slave sitting in front of Her and She knocks the gavel on his head. “Item no. 44 is a disturbing lot. A male pig, because he’s telling porkies all the time. Moreover he’s lazy, sloppy and has a tendency of being late. This item needs a firm hand and a merciless attitude. Do I hear 200 strokes with the cane? 200 strokes bid, 250, 300, now 350, 400, 450, now 500, now 500, will you give Me 500? Thank you, 500 bid, 550 on My left, now 600, 600 on the front row here, now 650, now 650, will you give Me 650? Anyone? 650? Going, going, gone for 600 strokes.” The gavel hammers down on the slave’s head and echo’s of emptiness resonate through the room. You see, that’s how simple Femdom should be.
Strange really, that one of favourite fighters is not into mixed-wrestling, but into catfights. I’d never really cared much for catfights to be honest, and I certainly never searched for it on the Internet. That all changed when I saw Monika at Foxy Combat for the first time. It’s quite amazing to realise that one Lady – no, let me rephrase that: it’s quite amazing to realise that a couple of pictures of one Lady can change your thinking forever. Somehow Monika opened a door that I’d locked and bolted so carefully and I began to see the dazzling beauty of F/F fights. So I returned to Foxy Combat over and over again, hoping for new updates. I know how childish it sounds, but I can’t watch Her lose any fights. It really upsets me and I’ve decided to skip those clips & pics altogether. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true. Time to get some sex reassignment surgery, I guess, because getting your ass kicked by this lovely Lady must be a dream come true.
I was over the moon, because She wanted me to play the victim in one of Her films. I’d met Her only twice (for a session and at a party), so it was a big thing for me. The plane touched down on a Saturday morning and She took me to a small dungeon, where a visagist, a cameraman and a photographer were already waiting for us. It all went well at first, with some whipping, CBT and stuff. Quite similar to the one and only session I had in my life. The afternoon was a different cup of tea though, as She started caning the crap out of me. It was the grand finally of the movie, the Big Bang of misery. Man, did I suffer! As if my novice ass got stuck in a shredder or something. I literally danced in agony. My butt was still on fire when I boarded the plane the next day. There was a human elephant sitting next to me, so I had to squeeze myself in, with no room at all to lift my sore bottom. A high altitude nightmare. Didn’t get an Oscar, didn’t get a Razzie; but my word, what an unforgettable experience.
“The difficulty with dominant Women is, Your Honor, that they contradict themselves. According to them a man is a brainless dick at best. Pardon my French, Your Honor. And yet they want these men to be excellent gardeners, cleaners, cooks, chauffeurs as well. Now, one can’t be both, Your Honor, one can’t be a microbe and a nerd at the same time. These Ladies are searching for gold in a pile of shit. Pardon my Stench…I mean French, Your Honor. Yes, the accused agreed to do the job. However, not because he had the necessary skills, but because he feared another punishment. There’s only so much an ass can take, Your Honor, and this asshole could take no more. His Lady ordered him to renew the bathroom, not to demolish the house in the process. Which he did. The accused feels very bad about that and is willing to pay for the damage. But a public flogging, as the aggrieved demands, is a Medieval outrage.” Judge Lady Noose agreed, the accused had to pay for the damage, but was not to be flogged in public. The lawyer however was fined $5000 for being a smart-ass. He objected furiously and told the judge it was ridiculous. Again She agreed and fined him for $10.000.
“So you visit a Lady’s wish-list and choose-click-buy. That’s not my definition of making an effort, slaves. That’s buying your way out. Surely there’s more to slavery than that! So you will go on a Femdom Pilgrimage, covering 280 kilometers in seven days. No, I’m not talking about bunch of guys dressed in shackles and chains, scaring the bejesus out of villagers and squirrels alike. Femdom already succumbs under the weight of being all about Porn, so please let’s not make it worse than it already is. Your pilgrimage is about dignity and pride, about penance and homage. We want it to go viral on social media, not in an embarrassing way, but in a dignified and positive way. Easy then? Not so much, slaves. Because you’ll be wearing a hair shirt underneath your clothes. A shirt made of sack cloth that’ll chafe your flesh to bits. So there’s something in it for all: you’re paying homage to superior Women, and at the same time, unseen to onlookers, you’re truly suffering the distance.”
During my very first session, Mistress Valkyrie ordered me in slave position in front of Her. I pressed my forehead against the floor, crossed my arms above my head, with the palm of my hands on the floor. She placed Her boots on my hands, while Madame Sarka (who was standing behind me) placed Her boots on the soles of my feet. The pressure was on, one might say. It wasn’t too bad at first, but then Mistress Valkyrie started rubbing Her boots from left to right over my hands. Which was awfully bad for my soft lotion skin. It made my hair stand on end. I promised myself not to make a sound, but my ass started to wobble a bit. So there I was, literally pinned to the floor by two gorgeous Mistresses. They stood on my hands and feet and I stood in awe, needless to say.
Yes, being milked like a dairy cow is a humiliating business, but it’s absolutely nothing compared to that hell-on-earth called tease & denial. And I know what I’m talking about, because my former Girlfriend graduated in that. Funny really, I never had the guts to tell Her about my submissive feelings, and yet She was more dominant than many a Lady I’ve met ever since. It’s one of those things that will haunt me to my grave, I guess. Anyway, Her tease & denial equalled plain torture, there’s no better word for it. Without happy ending, I might add! She was not that soft, you know, and my pleas, and even tears, made no difference whatsoever. Her goal was to make me pay for something I’d said or done, and this was Her way to level the score. Oh my word, how I suffered and begged! Ah, sweet memories.
Mistress likes Her walks and last summer She took me on a never-ending marathon through the highlands. It was bloody hot and I honestly thought I would melt along the way. After hours and hours She finally decided to sit down for a while. She drank Her water by the gallon, but She didn’t even allow me to have a sip. She saw my agony and said: “Poor slave, you look thirsty. Come here, indulge yourself.” She didn’t gave me the water bottle though, She showed me Her armpit. I didn’t hesitate and went for it like a dehydrated St. Bernard. Her hot burning sweat tasted salty, but at the same time it was enormously refreshing. I took a long drink and emerged from Her armpit as new. She’s born near Lourdes, what can I say.
A man and his dick, that’s close harmony, isn’t it. A lot of guys even nicknamed the joystick between their legs: Vlad the Impaler, Pile-Driver, Dicktator, Peter the Great, Womb Raider; the list is endless. One of my close friends is Chinese and he calls his dick Yellow Submarine. But guys, it’s all fine and dandy that we’re walking penises (aka dickheads), but our dick is not a magic wand or a skeleton key. So adding a dick-pic to an introduction mail is just gross and insulting. A Mistress I once knew used to trash those mails immediately. “I’m not interested in single-celled organisms,” She used to say. And She was right, of course. If you’re so in love with your own dick, then marry the fucking thing. So be proud of it, nickname it and have a fabulous time with it, but don’t parade it around as if it’s the Holy Grail. It’s not, it’s a piece of meat, a slimy bratwurst. Keep it in your pants till Mistress tells you otherwise.
“I could be the bartender, Milady,” I suggested. She smirked and said: “You’re a bit to clumsy for that, wouldn’t you say, slave? On the other hand…” And there I was, on the floor, cocooned in ropes, with a funnel in my mouth. Milady had made it very clear that under no circumstances I was allowed to drop the funnel or spill a drop. There were 20 Ladies that night and they all needed a pee from time to time. Some of them came back to flush the funnel over and over again, like high-heeled waterfalls. My jaws began to ace after a while, but I hang in there with the skin of my teeth. All these Golden Delicious Showers, it was a soaking wet humiliation made in heaven. There was only one downside as far as I was concerned: they kept taking a piss at me for hours on end and finally my bladder was about to burst. I needed a pee.
Whipping, caning, paddling, slapping and even a karate kick between your legs; it’s all child’s pay compared to urethral sounds (aka sounds or sounding), as far as I’m concerned. And if you don’t know what we mean by that: jamming a piece of metal in your dick. Scary isn’t it? Look at the gallery below, it’s a freaking horror cabinet. Well, they don’t use an iron bar or something like that, these terrifying instruments are made of polished steel. As if that makes it any better! Survivors will tell you it’s not too painful and they’ll even tell you it stimulates the prostate in an unforgettable way. Well, I’m sure is unforgettable, but not because it’s cuddling the prostate. I admit, I’m quite a coward when it comes down to pile-driving a poor man’s dick. When urethral sounds are on the table, all living creatures within a 25 miles radius hear will hear my sounds of agony.