“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.”
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.
Getting smashed in the balls by Maria Sharapova, well, that’s certainly on my all-time favourite list after watching this short clip. Hearing Her speak English is already soooo sexy, let alone if She would demolish my balls in the process. It inspired me to fantasise about the Fembledon Championships. Driving these poor (or lucky) men nuts by ramming tennis balls in their scrotum, how cool would that be! A sort of long-distance ballbusting, also known as tennisball-busting. Service, backhand, forehand and of course our ultimate favourite: the smash. But there’s more to Fembledon than testicle terror. There are all kinds of stands where you can get food & drinks and there are several excellent workshops: Squeezing & Squashing or Domestic Femdom for Beginners for example. And there’s music as well. Smashing Pumpkins, who else.
Is She a real Goddess? Of course not, you silly boy, do you honestly think She descended from Heaven? Plunged into mother earth like a comet? Of course not, She’s a human being, like you and me. Her friends and family are probably completely unaware of the fact that She whips & canes for a living. They all think She’s a dog trainer, which – when you think about it – is not that far from the truth. She’s only human and so She has Her worries, Her doubts and Her sad moments, like any of us. And every now and then She’s not in the mood to boss you around. Days when She wants you to be a friend more than a slave. But all this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat and worship Her like a Goddess, does it? To us She truly is divine and we should always devote ourselves to Her will. Each and every minute of the day and with every breath we take.
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.
Fanny Murray (1729-1778) was allegedly the most beautiful and undoubtedly the most famous courtesan of Her generation. Novels were dedicated to Her, songs and poems paid tribute to Her beauty, ships were named after Her, as were racehorses and even gin cocktails. The men in those days certainly knew how to put a Lady on a pedestal! Now, we pride ourselves today for cleaning the soles of a Lady’s shoes with our tongue. We honestly think that’s the superlative of submissiveness and a true token of devotion. Well, many of Fanny’s followers would disagree with that. Not only did they use Her shoes as champagne glasses, according to a famous anecdote a couple of Her most devoted worshippers ate Her shoes in 1747. Sliced and fried in butter, “to testify their affection for the Lady.” Compared to that we’re all oafs, wouldn’t you say? So, one worn shoe please, sprinkled with parsley and vinegar on the side. Yummy!
“Just look on the Internet, if you want proof,” Dick said. “These Women can be pretty mean, but at the end of the day they’re all addicted to cocks. No matter how dominant, they’re powerless by the sight of our magic wand. Now, I don’t want to boast or anything, but I’ve got a fucking fabulous dick.”
“It comes with the name,” Harry smiled.
“You always had a tremendous cock,” Tom admitted. “Now, I’m a real deal 24/7, a nonstop no-nonsense sub. Well, except on Sundays of course, because then I watch football. And Tuesdays, that’s my bowling night. Fridays are also off limits, because that’s our night, right? And no Woman will ever come between us.”
“That goes without saying,” Dick admitted.
Harry said: “My future Mistress is free to pick some of my favourite punishments, but I want my reward. I’m all for Female Domination, but I don’t need a Woman to tell me when I want a blowjob.”
“Hear, hear,” his friends said. They smiled over their beer and seemed absorbed in thoughts for a while.
“Unbelievable really,” Dick sighed, “that we’re still free and unowned.”
The Internet shows us the punishments and humiliations, the raw edges of Femdom Domination. But they don’t show us the amazing grace of Female Guidance, simply because you can’t capture its beauty in pics & clips. Besides, it’s probably one of those things that’s boring to watch and unforgettable to witness. Female Guidance is really one of the most precious stones in the already dazzling crown of Female Superiority. Because let’s face it: punishing a man who yearns to be punished isn’t really that powerful, is it? But taking control over some, or preferably all, aspects of your life is truly awe-inspiring. Being guided by Her rules and decisions, and having to ask permission for things, makes you realise how wise and superior Women really are. They’ll guide you with ease through your own personal minefield of mistakes and blunders. Without a Female to guide us we’re just wreckage, bobbing up and down the waves.
I have a dream, brothers and Sisters! That one day I will cross the Seven Seas in a red boat pulled by a great white. Oh, sweet Supremacy, I have a dream! That one day I will crawl the hilltops of the Midlands and the mighty Rockies, the heightening Mount Kilimanjaro and the snowcapped peaks of the Himalaya to find my way to Her feet. Drown me in spit and blow my nose: I have a dream that my screams of agony and mercy will echo through the valleys, upwards and onwards around the globe. Slap me silly and drive me nuts: I have a dream that one day I will surrender myself to Her will and Her will alone, I have a dream today! Oh, holy smothers, I have a glorious dream that one day She will be the rightful owner of my body, soul and all my earthly processions, so that I can finally say: a slave, a slave, great God a-mighty, I’m Her slave at last.
This is the last post of 2015; I’m going to hibernate for a couple of weeks. For everyone who enjoys this blog: don’t worry, there’s a lot more to come in 2016. To quote good old Winston: Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning. Many thanks also for all the inspiring comments and messages; without them this blog would have perished a long time ago. So Merry Christmas & Happy New year to you all and let us sing along 🎼:
She kicks you a Merry Christmas
She slaps you a Merry Christmas
She whips you a Merry Christmas
And a painful New Year
Lady Scrooge owned a village called Slavery and with it She owned its tenants as well. She squeezed the last cent from them and brutally punished those who dared to resist. Not many did, because it wasn’t a village called Bravery, you see. One of the tenants was Bod Headshit, who had a Tiny Tim between his legs. Ri-dick-ulously tiny, rumour had it. But Bob was blessed with some massive balls, because he told Lady Scrooge he and the other tenants wanted Christmas Day off. She snapped and kicked him brutally hard in his jingle balls. Which meant NO. On Christmas morning all tenants gathered before Her house and sang Christmas songs. Then they went back to work. Bob and five other suckers were used as human reindeers to pull Her sleigh. Lady Scrooge paraded through the village and all tenants kneeled down in the snow as She went by. Alas, dear children, a Lady that powerful can only exist in a Femdom carol.
It’s Christmas Eve and it’s snowing. The logs in the fireplace crackle, the candles are burning and the Christmas tree is beautifully decorated. It’s such a nostalgic, Dickensian scene. So peaceful and all. And there’s your loving Wife, hammering down on your ass with a slipper. She’s aiming for redder than Christmas red. Don’t worry though, She’ll cool you down with the dildo that’s been in the freezer for days. On Christmas Day She’ll take you out for a butt naked walk in the forest. She might even turn you into a frost flower by peeing all over you. Afterwards She’ll stimulate your blood circulation with an unbearable whipping. And in the evening you’ll sing Jingle Bells while She crushes your scrotum with Her heels. Oh, She’s such a brutal, romantic sweetheart, isn’t She?
It had been snowing for days and we’d built snow fortresses and quite a long stretch of Hadrian’s snowy wall as well. The Girls were Valkyrie’s warriors, the boys Barbarians (no surprise there). We’d prepared hundreds of snowballs and the rules were simple: three hits meant you were dead. Man, it was a battle! Everyone was screaming and yelling, the dead claimed to be undead and the sky was filled with snowballs flying in both directions. We fought like frosty lions, but after a while we had to withdraw. While running for my life, I slipped and fell. I tried to get up, but one of the Girls landed on top of me, rubbing my face in the snow. My fellow Barbarians fled the scene. The bastards. The Girls were now all over me, shoving snow up my jacket, my shirt and even my pants. A chilly experience, to say the least. They dragged my to their fortress and I was their stone cold prisoner for hours. So please: let is now, let is snow, let it snow.
“Once upon a time three slaves got sacked in the morning. Slave no. 1 couldn’t handle it and became vindictive. He bombarded the Lady with mails and wrote extremely nasty things on forums and blogs to ruin Her reputation. Slave no. 2 did quite the opposite: he wrote hundreds of sweet begging mails and text-messages, had gifts and flowers sent to Her home, followed Her around and even went to the same parties as She did. Slave no. 3 did none of these things, he kissed Her hand, thanked Her for everything and left for good.” The teacher smiled and said: “Now, there’s a huge mistake in this story, can anyone tell Me what that is?” She was searching for a bit of brain of course, but the pupils of class 2-A of the Novice Slave Academy had none to give. After three empty-headed minutes She explained: “this was not a story of three slaves: it was a story of a jerk, a stalker and a slave.”
A slave contract has no legal binding whatsoever and a judge would piss his pants if you would ask him about it. So in that respect it’s just a worthless piece of paper. But at the same time it’s not. Because it’s a commitment, a solemn oath, a binding agreement between two individuals, and no self-respecting slave can walk away from that. Because you don’t need the blessing of an urinating judge to understand that Women are more powerful than all the laws in the land. I came this close to signing a slave contract once, but the Mistress changed Her mind only minutes before the ceremony. She never told me why and I never had the guts to ask Her about it. It happened years and years ago, but I’m still disappointed, because I truly love the idea of a slave contract. Sign here, slave: awesome!
Ladies and….uh…male things, Femdom Times Productions proudly presents it’s 100th post! Well, that’s yelling and screaming for a celebration, wouldn’t you say? So Ladies, give that lucky swine a special 100 treat today. Just for the fun of it. For example: 100 kicks to the groin, 100 lashes with the whip, 100 face slaps or 100 strokes with the cane. Or go for the 100 minutes treat: 100 min. nipple clamps, 100 min. butt plug, 100 min. trampling, 100 min. in a cage, a cellar, a closet, on the roof. Unowned slaves can do their bit as well of course. For example, spend 100 ¥, £, €, $, ₳, ฿ on your favourite Mistress. Or what about 100 days in chastity for the good cause. Or, if you’re more the horny-all-over kinda guy: 100 orgasms in 10 days. I wonder if you can pull that off. Anything goes really, just be creative and celebrate.
So 48 people 👎 Mozart’s Requiem. Now what? Dig the guy up, slap him silly and tell him his music sucks? Seriously, who cares what others have to say about the things we love. If I would ask my family, friends and colleagues to Like or Dislike Femdom, then the final result would probably be: 👍1 versus 👎99. And the only yea vote would come from uncle Fred, who’s the black sheep of the family for marrying one of his goats. Would the outcome change the way I feel about Female Domination? Of course not! So I for one am immensely grateful that slaves are not allowed to like or dislike. Well, we may (dis)like certain things, but we’re not allowed to bore a Mistress to death with it. All we have to do is follow Her voice and take it as it comes. When asked, we’ll 👍 everything Mistress throws at us. Life can be that simple!
For centuries it was believed that good old Herodotus was just tickling our balls when he wrote about the Amazon Warriors. That has changed since the early 1990’s, when the first graves of warrior Women were discovered in the Ural Steppes near the Black Sea. Exactly where the ancient Greeks said they would be. Some of these tall Female skeletons were bowlegged (from constant horse-riding), had worn finger bones (from bow pulling) and were buried with arrows and daggers alongside them. Some even showed signs of battle wounds. However, some of these grave mounds contained male skeletons as well. Herodotus wrote that the Amazons were frequently hunting on horseback with their husbands. Which could suggest that these Women didn’t live apart from men. Nor is there any evidence to suggest that they lived in a matriarchal society. But that’s what we know today, it doesn’t say anything about tomorrow’s discoveries.
She walks in, drenched in a perfume called Fatale, from finest leather to high heels. The elegant curves of Her body hold a promise of dazzling beauty. A promise She’s not about to keep though; She’s not giving anything away. You’re not Her lover, probably not even Her friend, merely a pet. It doesn’t matter – not to you – you live and breathe for one more dinner, one more walk, one more smile. She wants you to surrender everything to Her, because that’s the least you can do. Besides, She doesn’t believe in limits; power simply has none, She says. You’re trapped in Her labyrint of beauty and there’s no way out. Nor do you ever want to, for that matter. Everything changes as soon as the constant flow of expensive presents and financial gifts dries up, because She wants only the best for Herself. It’s a Saturday evening, as the last slithers of sunlight fade into black. There’s nothing left to give, you say. Her sweetest smile is almost compassionate. Oh yes, She says, pointing Her gun at you, there’s one last thing to give. And as the bullet comes screaming down the barrel, you know it’s always meant to be this way.