God

I chatted online yesterday evening with a woman who styled Herself as "God." Not as Goddess but as God.

Even though that is generally taken as the masculine form of the term, I found it dramatically more compelling.

For whatever reason, "God" suggests a singularity and an omnipotence that "goddess" simply does not. I suppose that is a cultural thing. Not to get all heavy in what is basically a fantasy blog, but Western culture is basically monotheist and patriarchal. Because of that "God" is real and powerful while "Goddess" is part of someone else's primative religion. And, of course, God (for us) is singular while a Goddess is (again, for us) one of many.

One hopes that a Female Supremacist society would reverse all that.

Testing

If this had been an actual message it would have been much more interesting.

Boots!

Oh to kneel and keep these soft leather boots shiny with my tongue

Ten Years

Do you even remember? Probably not.

We came close to doing something that would have changed our lives. At least, it seems like we did. Maybe we weren't really that close. There were still so many places where we could have stopped ourselves and probably would have.

Do I regret that it went that far? A little. Do I regret that it didn't go farther? A little. It was probably the only chance I will ever have, but it would have come at a price.

I still think about you and about that day. I still wonder.

Everybody Is Into Something

And us? We're into chaise lounge porn. Among other things. I don't know.

A New Post By Our Guest Author

Another post from our guest contributor, *** ***********. In this case, I have made a few edits to better suit this blog.


The Beast (as edited)
by
*** ***********

When I first laid eyes on her I think my heart must have stopped. All around me the noise of the party became muted and irrelevant as I stood, completely transfixed by how perfect and beautiful she was. A petite woman dressed in elegant, simple clothes that were worth more than my yearly salary, surrounded by men who were under the same spell as I. Every so often some witticism would amuse her and I would hear her laughter, sparkling as the champagne in her hand, cold as the sapphire of her eyes.

I lingered near her during the soiree, still networking, murmuring pleasantries to those all-important clients that would be the key to my partnership at the firm. But my heart had sunken into those twin pools and my mind was not far behind. Finally, I was able to break away from brownnosing and I made my approach. Heart beating, palms sweaty, throat dry, I was already losing the battle and when she turned that dazzling, cool gaze upon me, my kingdom fell well and truly.

“My name is…” My voice faded away. It really didn’t matter to her. I already knew that. Instead I simply smiled, helpless and ardent.

“Get me another glass of champagne,” she said, handing me her empty flute. The words didn’t hold a single note of request and she turned her back the moment I accepted the glass. I dutifully went off to procure the champagne like a pleased puppy, somehow imagining this meant she had already accepted me into her inner circle.

I was not sure how she did it, but she did obtain my name and credentials--without asking me of course. She never asked me for anything, she simply took it with the same sense of entitlement that children show towards the world. If I even attempted to deny her wishes, I would be rewarded with petulant arrogance that was both charming and frightening. In a strange way I found it even more enjoyable than when she was seducing me further into her web. Whenever I was subjected to one of her tantrums, everything in my life became unimportant and meaningless next to comforting her and winning her favor once more. As we spent more time together, these episodes became more frequent and I had less time for my career, my social life, my family. At some point I stopped visiting my family or friends entirely and simply focused on her. I only continued working in order to finance the expensive lifestyle which she deserved and demanded.

I was certain that she had other lovers whom she used for similar purposes. But I never encountered any of them, nor did I particularly care. So long as she let me remain near her in any fashion, it was enough. I continued to serve her in any capacity that I was allowed. Of course, I wasn’t truly her lover either. I was an admirer. A lover would have been admitted into her life in a personal, passionate way that I did not deserve. I was an admirer, circling her bright star like a cold, abandoned planet, never touching her in anyway, and only reflecting back her brilliance in humility and gratitude.

After one year things began to unravel.

It started with my job. I worked as a very high profile tax lawyer, managing many large accounts for my firm. Naturally a great deal of money passed through my hands and I was skimming off the top to help with my duties towards my greedy queen. But skimming soon turned into delving and eventually discovery. In order to avoid embarrassment and the loss of its clients, the firm did not go public with my fraud, but I was fired and blacklisted. My social circle had already shrunk to nothing and my family quickly abandoned me after this last straw. I was penniless, alone, and desperate.

For weeks she ignored me and it drove me mad because I knew that it was completely my own fault. Without money I could not give her what she most desired, and for that she had given me the ultimate punishment. In my desperation I went out, bought a gun, held up a bank, and was promptly caught. The policemen beat me to the ground and flung me senseless into the back of their squad car.

When I came to, I was lying naked on the cold concrete floor of what appeared to be a jail cell. Chains bound my wrists and ankles. Confused and disoriented, I began to yell loudly for help. No one came. For hours I screamed, until my voice was dead and I passed out from exhaustion.

The next time my eyes opened I was staring into a brilliant, white light that seared my vision. I felt a sharp jab into my ribs, followed by the denser, more painful punch of a fist. Over and over I was struck by hands, clubs, and other objects. But the brilliance of the light blinded me against the faces and forms of my attackers. All I knew was pain, agony, and delirium.

Later, I was given water. When I tasted it, it was brackish and chemical, like seawater mixed with acid. I drank it anyway, greedy and parched. An hour later, I vomited it up again with what might have been blood.

Over and over things of this nature happened. There was no sense of actual time in this place. Only times when I was tormented and times when I was not. Wrapped in delusion and fever-dream, I imagined that she came to see me, comforting me, praising me for my devotion, and promising that she would once more reward me with the privilege of serving her. I never questioned that I could serve her, broken and impoverished as I was. I imagined that I could offer my devotion by simply acting as a lapdog, that she could use me as a footstool, a rug, or whatever she chose me to become. She could remake me into something useful no matter what the cost to my personal dignity or happiness.

How foolish. To think that she would even care for that! I dreamed falsely. She did not come, and I wondered if she even knew what had happened. I began to imagine that she was searching for her devoted servant who had been kidnapped by a jealous rival.

How foolish.

After a long, long time, I received a sign of the truth. The door of the cell opened and I saw a woman standing before me. The lights were so bright that I could not see distinct features, but I knew the profile so well that it set my heart hammering immediately.


She had come.

I heard her cold voice, sweet and cruel, filling my ears, my skull, and my brain. Her tinkling laughter fell through my mind like shattered icicles.

“You aren’t very much good are you? Holding up a bank? What did you think would happen? “

I blubbered miserably, begging her forgiveness, promising that I would remain a devoted servant and only follow her commands from this point forward. I pleaded to be allowed to enter her service again.

“I can’t use someone like you. You have no money, no skills, no connections and you’ve been blacklisted by anyone worth having.“

She paused, and I could almost feel her eyes scraping over my skin in their scorn. I curled into a ball, ashamed of my broken body. Chained, starved, bruised.

“And your body is completely worthless now that discipline has been forced upon it. If you were less weak I might have permitted you to become some sort of trunk-bearer, or perhaps I would have allowed you to follow me around as a porter but I can’t be seen with something so ugly and crude. “

I felt shame creep along my spine. I couldn’t believe that I’d even dreamed that I deserved mercy, let alone a return to her service. But at the same time I felt anger as well a creeping sense of betrayal.

“How… how have I ever done anything but serve you?” I whispered softly, my voice harsh from screams of agony.

“Are you accusing me of something, worm?” Her cold voice seeped through my blood.

“N-no! “

“Obviously, you have still not cured yourself of that stupid, swelled head yet. And clearly beating has not cured you either. “


I shivered as I heard her laugh yet again, this time without even a hint of mirth.

“Perhaps you can be useful after all.“

The door closed with a violent clang, and I fell into darkness again.

The beatings stopped, and I was given some food and water that I could actually digest. I did not regain any strength or health, but I did not decline either. It was as if I was being permitted life in order to fulfill an unknown purpose.

The door to my cell swung open. I was expecting more of the usual, but instead the lights were normal and I could see all those who came in. A table was carried by two men, while a metal case was held by another. The last man, dressed in a white coat, looked at me as if I were some type of interesting specimen. He took my pulse and glanced over me.

“He’s stable enough. “

The table was set down and the two men bearing it seized me. I was so weak that they didn’t need to use much force to hold down my limbs and lash me spread-eagled onto the wooden surface. The man in the coat set down the metal case and opened it. I could hardly strain my neck to see, but I could see it contained several instruments of a surgical nature.

“No anesthetic, right?”

One of the men nodded. My heart immediately began pounding, and I nearly tore the skin of my wrists off, trying to break free. I didn’t know what would happen but it was something bad.

“I’ll give you a choice,” the doctor smiled a bit as he began to carefully select tools, “Do you want to see it or not?”

“See what?” I gurgled.

“What’s going to happen to your balls.”

I whimpered. “I don’t.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said with a smile, “It’s always fun to gouge them out, and I hate delaying a good time.”

I began to scream when comprehension dawned. After that I screamed for a very long time.

Time passed in a nightmare of pain. It was always nighttime now. At least for me. It always would be. Smell was what awoke me. Pungent, strong smell that cut through the haze of pain. Next was my hearing. That cold, familiar voice.

“Do you recognize it, worm?”

I shook my head, feeling the strange and horrible sensation of air moving over the empty sockets which had finally begun to heal over with scar tissue.

“Tobacco. It’s the special blend that I like to smoke.”

Memory filtered in. She often smoked cigars at parties and I enjoyed the juxtaposition of her sensual, feminine lips with a symbol of power and dominance.

“It only grows in certain places, and it has to be treated with great care. It is cultivated and harvested entirely by hand.”

“No...” I moaned, shaking my head.

“I told you I would find a use for you, worm.”

“Please. Please don’t do this to me. I don’t want to live like this.”

Her cold laughter filled the room. “What a shame. Well, if it’s any consolation, you probably won’t last that long. For as long as you do survive, you will serve me.”

I heard the tapping of her heels as she left me for the last time and I heard her final instruction. “That one likes to talk too much. Cut his tongue out.”

I am telling my tale from the stable where I have been chained for the night. At dawn I will be woken roughly, fed a meal of mash, and then led to the fields along with the other mules. I only know that they are there by the sound of their guttural moans. I moan with them. There is no speech here. The overseers bark their commands. We grunt. We moan. We scream. We are chained to plows and bits are inserted into our mouths, attached to reins. If we do not pull fast enough or hard enough we are whipped by those who drive these plows.

I will never be free. I will never be at peace. I will never see her again. In my life as a man I was a failure to her. So I will die as an animal.

The days have a terrible sameness. I have lost count of them. There is labor. There is heat. The bit bites into my mouth, the whip slices my back, the chains dig into my flesh. It goes on and on in endless repetition. But every so often I hear her icy laughter, ringing out over the fields, and I can smell the burning, pungent tang of the tobacco.

A Guest Author

The Man In The Iron Box

By *** ***********

If I may be accused of anything, it is the sin of having loved too well.

The temperature in the room has risen, I think. I cannot actually tell outside of the prickling sensation along my skin that comes with an increase of heat. I can feel the hairs on my body standing up as the heat increases the slight electric charge of the metal box that is now my home. I shift very slightly in the precious three inches of room that I have to manipulate my cramped limbs in this tiny space. When I shift, I can feel the catheter shift as well, which prompts my bladder to release itself into the tiny tube, and off into whatever void that lies beyond this tiny, metal world.

When she first imprisoned me the box would be opened once a month for about an hour, allowing me a sweet taste of freedom and mobility. The cather and IV tubes would be changed, I would be bathed, and the box would be cleaned. I looked forward to these single hours with the anticipation that any other prisoner does when released from hell for a brief moment. But I began to realize that each hour of freedom was only a taunt. These short respites were subtle reminders that I would be imprisoned here forever and that I would never reach the end of my sentence. The hours turned from anticipated treat to yet another intricate torture at the hands of my lover. It was almost a relief when she got too busy with her own luxuriant life to supervise the sessions on a regular basis. Without her supervision I could not be taken out so the change-outs became sporadic.

The stink of my cage as well as the itching of the slight infections where the cather and IV are joined to my skin create a daily torment. In addition to that there is the fact that even if I was released, I would never walk as a human again because my spine and legs have practically fused themselves into the shape that the box forces upon them. Whenever the boxes is randomly opened, I am usually rolled out by some rough-faced attendants, de-cathetered, hosed down with disinfectant spray, and as a final humiliation, my muscles are pounded and teased just enough to prevent atrophy before I am stuffed back within the hellish box.

During these sessions, my lover is always there, seated at some distance, usually with a cold glass of her favorite cocktail. Depending upon the season she wears more or less clothing, but it always seems to be an afterthought, something added so as not to disturb the sensitive notions of others. I believe that if she had her way, she would simply walk around naked in her perfect skin, those gorgeous muscles rippling beneath; a sleek, refined panther gone a-hunting. Usually she is wearing some subtle perfume that permeates the room and enhances the smell of her own clean skin. Even now, with my crippled life and mind, the smell of that perfume can send a bolt of longing and need through me that is worse than any torment that she could devise. But I am sure that my diabolical sweetheart is perfectly aware of that and simply delights in the notion that I am still in love with her after all this time.

When we met, I was instantly captivated by her beauty. I was a client of the law firm where she was a junior associate. Her beauty held a deadly edge and had led many of her legal opponents down the path of ruin. Every man she encountered inevitably fell for her and thus to his doom.

I was a fool, thinking that all she truly wanted was someone who would love and support her, and truly care for her as a woman instead of a sex object. After the firm completed the project, I ventured to ask her for a date. For six months I wined, dined, and gifted her with everything that my salary and expense account could buy. I also became her confidante, listening to her issues with work, offering my own humble advice, and simply trying to show her all the love and adoration that I felt she deserved. But yet she never gave any comfort herself, often mocking me or belittling me for my compassion, and sometimes exhibiting downright cruelty. Fool that I was, I thought this was a sign of her affections for me since she was showing the darker side of her personality to me.

In those six months she never allowed me to touch her beyond a chaste kiss, or a scent of her skin and hair. This actually worked out in my favor to an extent because the overwhelming, sexual presence of her body was far more alluring as a taboo than a prize won. My nightly fantasies had never been as vivid or appetizing as those months when I dreamed of finally being permitted to become one with her.

At the end of this period, she asked me to go on a short vacation with her. I acquiesced at once and made preparations. Because she wanted to go without being disturbed by either of our busy lives, I cut all meetings and contacts out of my schedule. She instructed me to leave the impression of finality at my work place, as if I was considering the possibility of a permanent vacation. I eagerly followed her instructions, wondering if perhaps she had the notion to elope or escape our humdrum existence for an exciting new life together without attachments. I cut ties with zeal, carelessly assuming that they could be easily restored if my assumptions about her desires were unfounded. After all, what could go wrong on a little holiday by the sea?

We went to an obscure island in the East Indies, the kind with six star hotels that billionaires visit for a bit of quiet time. I wondered how she could afford to pay for such a vacation, but she cryptically informed me that I should enjoy the time I had left. I obeyed and spent several wonderful days relaxing on the sunny beaches, surfing, and gorging myself on the local cuisine.

On the second-to-last day of our vacation, she invited me to go on a hike with her into the interior of the island. I was surprised since shed never shown an inclination to the outdoors before, but I eagerly joined her. During the hike, she told me that she was looking for a particular plant to bring back for her botanist friend. The plant was a pink flower that had a particularly deep well that filled with nectar each morning. The nectar was called wine of the gods and it made a particularly potent aphrodisiac because it increased the senses tenfold and created fantastic illusions. If her friend could cultivate the plant in the US, the two would stand to make a killing by marketing the botanical.

We hiked for hours, getting sweatier and more frustrated by the minute. I was feeling quite muzzy and exhausted when I heard her voice call out in triumph up ahead. She held a large, pink flower aloft triumphantly and then held it out to me as I approached.

Try it, she offered, tipping the flower towards me.

I took a long, deep sip of the golden nectar. It burned sweetly on my tongue before sliding in a glittering path down my throat. I could feel it sinking into my stomach, spreading a warmth outwards from my center, straight towards my fingers. Everything in my vision swam gently, waving back and forth in the soft, exotic breeze. I felt myself sinking backwards, pliant and limp. Stars burst across my vision and turned the landscape into a negative of itself: a surreal tropic night that was the sacred, secret domain of myself and my beloved.

It will certainly be popular with a certain breed of woman, I heard her muffled voice filling my brain, I think Ill use you as a show piece for my new flesh puppetry.

*Puppetry?*

That was the last thought that filtered through my mind before I fell completely into darkness. Of course when I finally came to my senses it was too late. I remember that first day so well, how shocked and horrified I felt when I realized the nature of my prison. I remember with vivid agony when my throat went raw from screaming for help and how my skin grew slippery with blood from the self-induced scratches of madness. Most poignantly I remember your rich, triumphant laughter, echoing around each corner of the box and knelling my final doom. Even when I am positive that you are not here, somehow I can still hear that laughter ringing in my ears.

On the rare times when I am removed from my box, my weakened vision surveys the wasted limbs which compose my body. I know that my spirit has already died and the body which persists behind will not endure much longer. At times I wonder if I am clinging to this wretched life in order to spare the next soul who must enter that box. But in my darkest heart I know it to be a lie. This body and spirit which is broken for her exists to be near her. The sound of her laughter, the faintest scent of her perfume, all these sustain this weak man inside this metal hell.

And so long as it is her will, I remain her living toy.

Another Odd Fetish

I have a thing for a beautiful woman reclining on a chaise lounge. It has a very Goddess waiting to be served vibe for me. Who knows? If you've read much around here then you know this is far from my strangest fetish.

Anyway, here is the lovely Goddess Sharon Stone waiting for one of her slaves to attend to her merest whim. Why are my feet unkissed, worm? Make it snappy.

Confused

Russian woman on trial for raping 10 men / MosNews.com

Does this story excite or terrify me?
Yes.

Something Nice To Look At

Writer's Block

I have more ideas than I have time to write. Anyone want to help? Here's something to get you started.

The Green Goddess

Our heroine is a committed environmentalist. Unlike some, however, she sees no need to reduce her lifestyle in order to save the planet. So much better to reduce the lifestyle of others, no? By impoverishing her prey, she can still lead the life of luxury and privilege she so richly deserves. In fact, the more men she reduces to penury, the better since one incredibly wealthy woman is going to use fewer resources than several dozen... Or hundred... Somewhat wealthy men.

Better yet, she can take these new paupers and make use of them to even further reduce her environmental footprint. A few hundred slaves working the fields to tend her gardens and provide locally-grown produce. Perhaps a few hundred more toiling to generate electricity by turning a wheel. Their suffering will be immense, of course, but isn't that a small price to pay to save the planet?

Just A Thought

"It is usually a bad idea to geld a new slave. His balls are your hostages and he will do ANYTHING to keep them."

We Will Not Be Needed

Amazonian ants become world's first all-female species

If ants can do without males...

If I Visited A Dominatrix

For a lot of reasons, I will probably never visit a dominatrix. If I did, however, most of my fantasies wouldn't be possible. Either they would be too dangerous or I would be too afraid to actually experience them with anyone I did not have absolute confidence in. The last couple of days, I've tried to think of a fantasy roleplay that I could actually bring myself to experience with a dominatrix. I think this one might fit the bill.

I am standing in an office setting. A desk is in front of me. I am handcuffed. That's the only restraint. I am clothed but when she cuffed me, the Domme sort of roughed my clothing up a bit. Loosened my tie, ripped a few buttons from my shirt. Kind of worked me over a little. I stand there for a few minutes before the Domme enters from behind me. She is wearing a dark business suit, high heels, a short skirt. She sits down behind the desk and opens a file folder. I am here, she explains, to be evaluated. If she decides I have some value, I will be enslaved. If not, I will be executed. The decision is her's alone. There will be no appeal. She briefly skims the folder then comes around the desk to examine me. She looks me up and down, walks around me. She doesn't undress me, but she does pinch and squeeze. She explains that unfortunately for me I am quite ordinary. I might have some use as a laborer but she has plenty of those. Do I have any special skills? I struggle to think of anything, but I can't come up with a response. She considers for a moment. My life hangs in the balance. She seems to have an inspiration. From a drawer in her desk, she takes out a ring gag and straps it behind my head. Kneel, she orders. As I kneel down, the dominatrix lights a cigar. She comes back and sits in one of the chairs beside me, crossing her legs. Head back, she commands. I tip my head back to look at the ceiling. She places a cup in the ring gag. The cup is cone-shaped. Maybe it is something specially-made for the purpose or maybe it is just a paper drinking cup from a water cooler. Either way, it will serve the purpose. She smokes her cigar, using the cup for her ashes. She talks to me some, explaining that she recently disposed of an ashtray so she might... Might... Have use for a new one. When she is done with the cigar she extinguishes it and drops the butt into the cup. She stands over me, hands on her hips. What will be my fate? I suppose you would make an adequate ashtray, she tells me, but... I think I want something more ornate. We'll just execute you. And then she leaves me. She'll come back in a few minutes to end the session in take off the handcuffs.

Now, why might I be able to actually do this? Because compared to most of my fantasies it's both possible and fairly safe. I'm only handcuffed so in theory at least, I could get out or resist if things got out of control. I'm not nude so I wouldn't feel quite as vulnerable. There is a cup in my mouth so I'm not going to be burned. Actually, if you'll notice, there really isn't any pain in this fantasy at all. Some discomfort from the position I'm in probably, but that's it.

I don't know. It's not likely to ever happen, but at least it's possible.

Taken For A Ride

I am seated in the back of a limousine. My wrists are cuffed to the seat behind me, my ankles are shackled. A blindfold covers my eyes. A leather collar is around my throat. It has been tightened to cut off nearly all of my air. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Any tighter and I will choke to death in a few minutes.

The doors open on either side and my traveling companions enter. If I could see the, I would recognize each immediately. You probably would as well. The are the faces of a certain right-wing cable news network. One is blonde and dressed in a red gown. The other has jet black hair and a matching gown.

Who am I? Maybe I am a sexist network executive who got in their way. Or perhaps I am a fellow anchor who tried to steal a story. Or maybe this is a time and place where the wealthy and famous can do as they please. If so, then I am merely a toy. A party favor. A piece of meat.

We are traveling to a premier across town. At least, that is where they are going. I am just along for the ride. They have arranged for my presence for one reason only: I am the entertainment. He limousine is equipped for their comfort… And for my discomfort. Electrodes attached to my balls run to the auto’s electrical system. They are controlled by a remote which the blonde takes from the console as the raven-haired woman in black pours Champaign for each of them. One fingertip on a button and the electricity surges through my body. I scream into the ballgag that fills my mouth. My captors laugh and touch glasses in a toast to their success and my suffering.

In the traffic it is a long drive across town. My two tormentors take turns. Sometimes turning the electricity all the way up, sometimes pressing the button over and over again to send surges. My screams, muffled by the gag, are drowned out by their taunts and laughter.

Eventually, we are approaching their destination. I am going to die tonight, that isn’t even in dispute. The only question is how. The blonde, either out of pity or boredom, wants to tighten the collar and allow me a relatively quick, painless death by strangulation. The other, with a wicked smile wants to turn the electricity all the way up and let me cook. They banter over my fate and, eventually, the blonde wins out. As the limousine pulls to a stop, she tightens the collar, cutting off my air completely.

As I choke, I hear the door open. There is the sound of the cheering crowd along the red carpet. The paparazzi call out to the famous. Suddenly my blindfold is pulled away. I see the beautiful blonde in red exiting the car. She does not notice that the woman in black has slipped off my blindfold. She loosens the collar ever so slightly, permitting me to breathe again. Any thought that this might be mercy disappears when she turns the electricity all the way up. My darkly beautiful executioner winks at me, blows me a mocking kiss and, when her door opens, steps from the limousine and waves to her many, many fans.

Taking Your Inspiration Where You Find It

I'm currently reading a book about the history of salt. How it was manufactured, how it was used and so forth.  Yes, I know.  Dull.  It works for me.  What can I say?

Anyway, I happened on a section that talks about how salt was made on small, arid islands in the Carribean.  Sea water wwould be pumped into evaporation ponds and the salt scraped from the bottom after the water evaporated.

Being the way I am, my first thought was what exquisite misery!

Slaves toiling in the harsh sun.  Overseers barking orders.  The lash slicing opening our backs and the wind-blown salt and sea spray tormenting our wounds.  All to make Her wealthy on white gold.  We do not live long toiling in this way but our Owner is unconcerned.  Slaves are cheap and the same ship which comes to collect a load of salt will have fresh slaves to continue the work.

I Hope The Last Thing I See

 

Is this heel coming toward my throat.

And Maybe A Little Humiliation?

Holy Hypnosis, Batman!

Yes, it's campy and silly. Still, there are worse fates than to fall prey to the siren song of the regal Ms. Joan Collins.

A Question... Perhaps An Obvious One

pollcode.com free polls

Which do you find sexier?

A Powerful Woman A Beautiful Woman

Sometimes A Picture Is Just A Picture

 

There is no great significance to this image. It is here because I find it erotic. Again, it all comes down to attitude. The Goddess reclines. She is relaxed. Meanwhile, you better get moving. You wouldn't want to displease her. Trust me.

Attitude

I've said before that it's all about attitude. I love the arrogance of this photo. Her expression is one of authority. Power. She leaves no doubt that She is in control. You can bend your knee willingly or She can break you. Either way, you WILL serve Her.

Only The Beginning Of What She Will Do To Him

 

I just LOVE the expression on Her face.  To me, it says that she has big plans for making this worm pay.

It Just Seems Appropriate

Rather than craft something new, we offer you a blast from the past.

Ring out the old and ring in the new with our tale New Year's Eve

Hanging Around

A's bedroom is equipped for my captivity.  My wrists are chained above my head.  The chain leads upward through a ring set into the peak of her high, vaulted ceiling and then up into the attic where a winch is installed.  A puts a belt around my waist.  She puts an ankle cuff around each of my legs and then, one at a time, lifts my leg and attaches them to the belt with a short chain.  I am left hanging from my wrists.  A takes the remote control from the dresser and presses the button to raise me up another foot or two.  She leaves me for a couple of minutes and then returns with a cart I have come to know and dread.  It contains her electrical devices.  She plugs it in and attaches the electrodes to my balls.  Once she is satisfied, she again leaves me.

When she returns, A is dressed for bed.  She slips between the covers and props her self up.  With a smile, she points the remote control at me and presses the button.  Electricity begins to surge through by balls.  It comes in waves.  The intensity varies as does the duration, but it never stops.  As I suffer, she watches and touches herself.  We both moan.

Eventually, A is satisfied.  She turns off the electricity.  I hang by my wrists, gasping for breath.  A points the remote control at me again.  The winch hauls me upward toward the ceiling.  As I rise, the wires for the electrodes stretch.  I gasp as they are ripped away.  A turns out the lights.  I hang in the dark as, below, A sleeps in her luxurious bed.

I remain awake through the night.  The pain in my shoulders and arms, along with the lingering ache in my balls, denies me rest.  I suppress any groans I might make.  I know from experience that I will regret it if I make a sound and disturb A.  The light comes in through the windows early, but A sleeps late.  Eventually, she stirs.  She slips out of bed and ties her warm, plush robe around her waist.  A takes the remote and presses the button.  I am lowered down so that I hang before her, my head lower than hers.  Knowing my place, I look down.  A tips my head back, permitting me to look at her.

"Good morning, slave," she says, with a smile.

"Good morning, Mistress," I groan, weakly.

"Are you ready to come down now?  Perhaps lay on the floor for a bit and rest?"

I nod, "Yes, please, Mistress."

A nods.  "Um hmm...  Yes, I'm sure you are."

I can see the remote contol in her hand.  She idly fingers the button that will lower my battered body to the carpet.  One perfectly manicured nail taps the button lightly as she considers.

"Soon enough, pet.  For now, I think I'll take a nice hot shower...  Or perhaps a relaxing bath.  Yes, that sounds even better," she presses the other buttong and I begin to rise toward the ceiling again.  "Now, you just hang around, darling...  I'll get to you eventually."  And then A tosses the remote control onto the bed, enters her bath suite and closes the door behind her.

A Passing Thought

The idea of being hunted by a certain sharp-shooting Alaska governor holds great appeal to me.

The Image Going Through My Mind Today

Serving my wife breakfast in bed as her lover sleeps beside her.

To Feel Her Heel In My Palm

One of the managers in my office wore black leather boots today. I surreptitiously checked her out a few times. How nice it would have been to feel those heels digging into my palms.

Posted Without Comment

'Battered' testicles on the menu in nutty e-cookbook - Yahoo! News

Tropical Vacation

E___ was excited. It had been year since he and J_______ had found the time to take a real vacation together. The pressures of their careers had pushed them apart. If they managed to sneak a three-day weekend once a year he considered it a miracle. Now they were on their way to Hawaii. A second honeymoon only this time they could afford to go in style. At least the 80 hour workweeks had some consolations. Better yet, it had been a surprise. J_______ had planned the entire trip. She had booked the flight, booked their accommodations at a luxury resort. All he had to do was relax and let her take him away for a week in paradise.

The first tiny blemish on perfection came as they settled down in their comfortable seats in first class. Driving to the airport, J_______ had been smiling and engaged. As soon as the cabin door closed, however, she slipped the earbuds of her Ipod into her ears pulled a magazine from her attaché case and buried herself in it. E___ tried to talk to her, but she ignored him. And yet, when the steward came through with Champaign, she was smiling and friendly. After a couple of attempts at conversation, E___ gave up and pulled out a book of his own. It was a long flight, he told himself, perhaps she was just tired. Everything would be fine when they arrived.

A driver from the resort was waiting for them when they got off the plane. He held a card with her name on it. She and the driver walked toward the exit marked ground transportation while E___ struggled to keep up, threading his way through the airport’s dense crowds. The driver led them to a dark sedan parked at the curb. Their luggage was already being loaded into the trunk when we arrived. The driver held the rear door open for J_______ and then closed it. E___ noticed that he didn’t come around to open the other door.

“Great service,” E___ grumbled under my breath as he opened the door and got in the back next to J_______. The trunk lid slammed shut and they sped away. They drove out of the city and across the center of the island. It was much as E___ remembered from their last trip so many years before. Towering volcanic mountainsides covered in lush green vegetation, pineapple plantations in the valleys below. Again, E___ tried to talk to J_______ but she continued to ignore him, taking her PDA from her purse and jotting down a note.

The drive to the resort took less than forty minutes and it is even more beautiful than E___ could have imagined. The towering resort sits atop a cliff overlooking the Pacific. Tall palms sway in the breezes. A path leads down to a perfect white sand beach sheltered from the sea by a long finger of volcanic rock extending out into the ocean. Spray showers the rocks as the waves pound against them. When they arrive at the front door, the driver exits and opens J_______’s door. The smell of tropical flowers permeates the air.

The driver escorted J_______ to the front desk to check in as bellhops remove the luggage from the trunk. E___ walked into the lobby behind her, but was drawn away from the desk to the huge floor to ceiling windows which look out on the sea. The sky is a pale blue, the sea a dark sapphire. Billowy white clouds drift between the two. It is paradise. J_______ is just finishing up as he approaches the desk.

“Very well, Ms. W______. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. Are you ready to go upstairs to your suite?”

J______ smiles brilliantly, “Absolutely.”

The clerk nods and rings the bell. A pair of young, handsome men dressed only in festively patterned loincloths come around the desk. They separate out her luggage, leaving E___’s in a pile. Before he can complain, strong arms pull his hands behind his back. Steel handcuffs click into place around E___’s wrists. A pair of hotel security guards begin to take him away. What is this? What are you doing? He tries to demand answers but the guards’ only reply is to pull his arms up painfully behind his back and shove him forward. J_______ seems completely unconcerned. The two scantily-dressed bellhops lead her toward the bank of elevators as E___ is taken in the opposite direction. She steps into the waiting elevator and turns. As the doors close, E___ can see that she is looking directly at him. And she is smiling.

The guards take E___ through a door marked Employees Only. He is shoved into a freight elevator and taken two floors down. The doors open on a dimly lit corridor. It is a tunnel carved into the volcanic rock itself. The corridor disappears into the distance. He is made to walk down the long corridor. Low doors, barely two feet high, are set into either side of the corridor every few feet. Each bears a number. They are made of steel and bolted. The group reaches the very end of the corridor. There is one last door: 200. One of the guards kicks E___ in the balls and he collapses to his knees coughing. The other guard removes his handcuffs and orders him to strip. E___ refuses and a booted foot kicks him in the side. E___ complies, trembling hands undoing the buttons of his shirt. He removes all of his clothing and throws it into a pile. One of the guards takes a leather collar which hangs on the wall and puts it around E___’s throat, locking it in place. It has a small steel tag which also bears the number 200. The guard swings the small door open and barks, “Inside.” E___ crawl slowly in. A kick in the ass shoves him forward. E___ lurches forward, banging his head against the stone wall, scraping his knees against the stone floor. The door slams shut behind me and is bolted.

E___ is in total darkness. It is not a cell, just a small niche carved into the rock. He cannot stretch out, cannot sit up… All he can do is kneel or curl up tightly on the rough, uneven stone. There is no sound at all, only his breathing. He tries to kick at the door, but stops after a few moments. It will not move. Still now, he can hear the surf pounding on the rocks. When a wave strikes at just the right point, salty water drips in. E___ screams for help. No one answers. He curled up in a ball against the wet, cold stone and wonder what is happening to him.


Meanwhile, far above, twenty floors above ground level, there is another room 200. It is the penthouse suite, occupying the entire top floor. J_______ stands on the terrace, reveling in the view of the sea, the trade winds blowing through her hair. Behind her, the boys in loincloths are unpacking. With a contented sign, she walks into the luxurious suite to watch her two servants scurry around. One of them is standing at the foot of the bed, taking items from one of her suitcases and placing them in a dresser. My wife runs her hand down his muscled, tanned back. She slips her hand inside the loincloth and squeezes his firm bottom.

"Draw me a bath," she orders, whispering in his ear.

"Yes, Ms. W______," he answers and hurries to fulfill her commands.

As he was doing so, J_______ has the other help her off with her clothing. He unzips her sundress and slips it off her shoulders. He kneels down and slips the sandals from each of her feet. He unfastens her bra, slips off her panties. Taking her hand, he leads her into the bathroom and helps her step down into the sunken tub which is now filled with warm water and bubbles. She lays back and closes her eyes, relishing the warm water on her sore muscles after the long plane flight.

"Back to work, boys," she orders. "I'll call you when I want you."

"Yes, Ma'am," they reply in unison and hurry back to finish unpacking.


Time passes at a crawl for E___. Hours? Days? There no way of telling daytime from night. Sometimes he hear a metal door clang shut somewhere down the corridor. The door to his niche remains as it is. No one comes to feed him. At first he lap up a bit of the salty water that drips in, but it does not quench my thirst. Just the opposite. E___ lays there in my own filth, shivering.

Eventually, the door swings open. A guard reaches in and drags him out into the corridor. There are three of them this time. One turns a hose into the niche, washing out the filth. The other two begin to beat E___. They are professionals. They kick him where it will hurt the most without doing permanent damage. Booted feet step on his fingers, kick him in the stomach, his back, his balls. Eventually, they are done and he am made to crawl back inside. The door slams shut behind him. E___ groans but has enough presence of mind to lap up the fresh water that has pooled in the depressions and crevasses in the rock.

How long does this last? E___ has no sense of time. He is taken out and beaten a half dozen times. Perhaps it is a week. He is never fed. The water that puddles in his cell each time the piss and shit are washed out is enough to keep him alive, barely. The beatings are intensely painful but they will not kill him. The guards are much too experienced to permit that, it seems. He may starve eventually, but that will take a very long time. As he drifts between consciousness and sleep he wonders where J______ is. Why has she has done this? It doesn’t make any sense. When he has lapped up the water, sometimes there is enough for him to weep..


Far above, J_______ lies nude on a massage table. A hotel masseuse rubbed oil on her back. His strong hands work each muscle, starting at her shoulders and working their way down her back. One of her servants is asleep in the luxurious bed. She had the masseuse pull the sheet back so she could see his toned body. She smiles at the memory of last night… And this morning. She knew it was an indulgence to permit him to sleep like this. In her bed of all places. Still… He had earned it. Soon enough she would call down to the concierge to have a group sent up from the hotel stable so she could select a new buck to take his place. Oh, he was a talented lover, but she was discovering how much she enjoyed variety.

“Ma’am?”

J_______ looked back over her shoulder and saw a pair of hotel guards waiting in the doorway to her bedroom. Between them, on his knees, was E___. His body was covered in bruises, handcuffs and shackles restrained him and a ballgag filled his mouth and kept him silent. J_______ laid her head back down on her folded arms and returned her gaze to her sleeping lover.

“I’m not ready for him yet. Put him in the other room,” she ordered.

Half an hour later, J_______ dismissed the masseuse. He helped her into a soft, white robe and then left. She woke her lover and led him by the hand out into the sitting room. A hotel steward had set out her breakfast on a table where beside the floor to ceiling windows. E___ was chained beside the table, his restraints attached to a bolt set into the floor for that purpose. One of the guards had left, he clearly was not going to be going anywhere, while the other stood a few steps back, standing at ease. J_______ did not acknowledge E___ but she noticed how longingly he stared at the breakfast assortment which had been laid out for her selection. It was so amusing. J_______ sat down and crossed her legs. Her lover knelt, took her foot in his hands and gave it gentle kisses as his hands massaged her foot and calf. J_______ reached down to pat him on the head and then turned to her breakfast.

E___ wanted to speak to her. Wanted to scream at her, but the gag left him unable to do so. When he made noise, the guard nudged him with his boot and the message was clear: shut up. Resigned, he did so and waited quietly on his knees as his wife ate her breakfast and had her foot kissed and massaged by her servant.. Eventually, she finished. J_______ leaned forward and put her hand to her lover’s chin, she tipped his head back and whispered in his ear. He nodded and then hurried into the bedroom. He returned a moment later with a folder which he gave to J_______ before returning to his place at her feet.

J_______ finally looked at E___. She found this hilarious. Here he was, on his knees, bruised. It was delicious. Finally, to see him like this after so long. Still, she had brought him up here for a purpose.

“Let’s get right to it. We’re getting a divorce,” she told him. “I am tired of wasting my time with you. I am tired of everything about you. I deserve much, much more and that’s exactly what I’m going to have.”

J_______ tossed the folder onto the floor in front of him,. “That’s the paperwork. It gives me everything. And when I say ‘everything’ I mean everything. The house, both cars, our accounts, your retirement account. Every fucking dime. You’re going to sign it. I’m going to get on with my life and you can start over somewhere else.”

He was stunned. He had thought they were happy. He had been happy. Hadn’t he? She wanted to leave? Fine. Fuck her. But there was no way in hell she was taking what he had worked a lifetime for. And after this stunt? Bitch could rot in jail. He planned to make sure she did. He told her all that. Or tried to tell her all that. The gag muffled it into grunts and nothing more. Still, the attitude was clear even if the words were not. And the attitude was enough for J_______. She glared at the guard who immediately kicked E___ in the stomach. He fell over on his side, coughing. A second kick to his back brought a scream. The guard grabbed his hair and pulled him back up onto his knees.

“I’m going to make this simple enough even for you, asshole, “ J_______ explained. “You can sign the paperwork or I can send you back downstairs and have the guards beat the shit out of you until you come to your senses. Is that clear enough for you? You cooperate and I have them put you someplace more comfortable until I’m ready to leave. Your choice.”

E___ was gasping for breath around the gag. He was exhausted. Starved. He could fix all of this later, right? Surely nothing he signed under these circumstances would be legal. He nodded his ascent. J_______ snapped her fingers and the guard came forward to remove his handcuffs. The guard stayed close in case E___ tried anything, but it wasn’t necessary. He had nothing left with which to resist. J_______ tossed a pen onto the floor. E___ opened the folder and signed the papers. As soon as he was done, the guard wrenched his arms behind his back and chained them again. J_______’s servant collected the folder and handed it to her. She checked it quickly to make sure he had actually signed and then, satisfied, laid the paperwork aside.

“I’m glad you decided to be cooperative,” J_______ said. “Very well, I’m done with him,” she told the guard.

J_______ had already turned away from him. She had slipped open belt of her robe and parted it slightly. E___ could see the inner curve of her breast, her lightly tanned skin. She was not doing this for him, of course. Instead, she reached down to her servant, drawing his face upward toward her thighs.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the guard said as he pulled E___ to his feet. “Would you like him placed in a holding cell?”

J_______ laughed, “No, of course not. Don’t be stupid. Put him back where he was. Same routine. Actually… Double up on the beatings for the next week. I didn’t enjoy having to ask him twice.”

“Yes, Ma’am, very good,” the guard said. E___’s eyes grew wide. He tried to scream at her again, but it didn’t matter. All her attention was on the servant who was gently kissing his way up her thigh. She laid her head back and closed her eyes, ready to enjoy the next few moments.

“Good bye, dear,” she called after E___, mockingly. “I’ll be sure to send for you when I’m ready to leave.”


It continued on, day after day. The only change for E___ was that, just as J_______ had promised, he was now beaten twice each day. Despite the pain, the beatings allowed E___ the small consolation of being able to keep track of time. Two beatings, one day… Two more, a second day. It went on and on, beating after beating. He could no longer even curl up to protect himself from their kicks. He just lay there as they did as they wished with him.

Finally, after a week had passed, E___ was pulled from his small cell. The guards drove him down the long corridor, sometimes stumbling forward on his cramped legs, other times crawling on the cold concrete floor. They shove him into the freight elevator and take him upward.

The two guards half-carry, half-drag him out into the sunlight for the first time in two weeks. He is dazzled by the brightness after so long in the dim confines of the hotel’s dungeon. He hears a very familiar laugh and looks up to see J______. She is seated on the backseat of a dark sedan, chatting with a young woman who, judging by her uniform, is part of the hotel’s management. J_______ is dressed in a short sundress. Dark sunglasses shield her eyes.

“There he is,” she calls with a wide smile. “You see, darling, I told you I would send for you when I was ready to leave.”

J_______ stepped from the car just in time for the guards to dump E___’s body at her feet. She opened her handbag amd slipped a folded bill to one of the guards.

“Have him put my bags in the trunk,” she ordered.

With kicks and shoves to encourage him, E___ slowly, achingly placed each of J_______’s bags in the trunk while she continued to chat with the earnest young woman from the hotel.

“Hurry it up, bitch. I have a flight to catch!” J_______ called, and the guards made certain that he obeyed.

Eventually, E___ placed the last piece of luggage in the trunk. One of his guards, slammed the lid shut and then pushed E___ down on his knees beside the car. J_______ looked him over, amused at what a difference two weeks had made. She was tanned and relaxed, he was bruised and broken.

“I understand the tides are quite high this time of year,” she asked the hotel manager.

The young woman nodded, “Yes, Ma’am. The highest of the year, in fact, should be tonight. We’re having to shift some of our… Guests… On the underground levels around because of the flooding we’re expecting tonight.”

“I see,” J_______ smiled at E___ as he knelt there. “And I would imagine that the rooms farthest out flood the most, don’t they.”

“They do. Everything over 180 or so should be completely under water tonight.”

“Mm hmm… And, remind me, which… Room… Have you been keeping him in?” J_______ asked innocently.

“200, Ms. W______. To match your penthouse suite.”

J_______ nodded. She slipped her hand into her bag and brought out several folded bills and slipped them to the manager.

“My ex-husband hasn’t had a vacation in several years. I’m not sure he is quite ready to leave yet. Do you think we might have his room… Room 200… For just one more night?”

Smiling knowingly, the manger slipped the cash into her pocket. “Of course, Ms. W______. Guards?”

Before E___ could protest, J_______ slipped into the backseat of her sedan and sped away. And the guards dragged him back into the hotel.

What Your Mistress Will Be Riding In

 

Yeah, I know.  It's a reach.  Still, it's a sexy-looking car.

Putting Him In His Place

We don't get into politics too often around here.  That's for other blogs.  Still, we saw something today that is appropriate to our subject.  It was an article about, of all things, Sarah Palin's history as a debater.  Specifically, it's about when she debated her two male opponents for Governor of Alaska:

Then, in one of the evening's final questions, she deftly turned the tables on the two men.

Asked what jobs she might have in her administration for either opposing candidate, she chuckled that former Gov. Knowles could be her official chef, while Mr. Halcro would be Alaska's top statistician.

Now, there is just about nothing sexier than an attractive woman putting a man (or two) in his place.  Of course, if we had our way Ms. Palin would have suggested another role for Halcro...  Shoe-shine boy, perhaps.  Still...

Everything She Deserves

A Good Cleaning

And Sometimes We Just Like Hot Pictures

I'm not positive why, but I just find this woman to be incredibly sexy. Arrogant... Bitchy even... But so stunning.

How to Make Money on Real Estate (Even in This Market)

Here is a fantasy I started but never quite finished.  I think it only had a few more paragraphs to go but I just can't get motiviated to get back to it.  Maybe someday.  In the meantime, feel free to finish it off if you'd like.  You could even put your ending in the comments.  If you enjoy those tv house flipping shows then you might have some idea who inspired this fantasy.


     “Will there be anything else, ladies?
     Dabbing at the corners of her lips with her napkin, Kirsten shook her head, “Just the check. Quickly, we’re in a hurry.”
     “Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said, and hurried away to comply.
     Amy looked at her friend admiringly. Kirsten was everything she aspired to be: beautiful, successful, commanding. Amy had always struggled to be taken seriously. No one failed to take Kirsten seriously. If they tried, they found themselves quickly put in their place by her razor sharp tongue and equally quick mind.
     “How do you do it,” Amy asked, not for the first time.
     Kirsten’s brows rose questioningly. “Do what?”
     Amy shook her head, “That… Everything… You are so successful. You’re the top-selling realtor in the city, you always have a new project going, you’re just doing amazingly well. On top of which I have never known you to have fewer than three men practically begging you to pay attention to them. Gorgeous men, I might add. And, to top it off, you’re stunning. If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you!”
     Kirsten laughed, “Oh, I have my bad days, believe me.”
     “I’ve never seen one.”
     The waiter approached with the check. Kirsten handed over her platinum card and dismissed him with a wave and a look that ensured he would be back in seconds with the slip for her signature.
     “Well, dear, that’s the trick, isn’t it? Never letting it show.”
     “I’m serious, Kirsten. How do you do it?”
     Kirsten considered for a moment. “It’s all about making the best use of your resources. And yourself.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Want to go for a drive?”

     They arrive at a small house. Clearly, it has seen better days. The exterior is worn, the landscaping dead or dying, there are cracks in the driveway… There are also the obvious signs of an ongoing renovation. The sounds of powertools from inside, a construction dumpster sits in the driveway.
     “Isn’t this the one that you picked up for a song?,” Amy asked.
     Kirsten nodded, “I got a good deal. After a little remodeling I expect to clear at least $200,000 on it.”
     They walked through the open door. A half dozen men were laboring inside. Three were on their hands and knees, pulling out the rotten flooring. Another was demolishing a mantle that would have been ideal… In 1974. Two others were gathering up the debris. As they walked through the door, Amy couldn’t help but notice that the six men were identically dressed: stripped to the waist and wearing tight jeans. She also couldn’t fail to notice that they were the most beautiful construction team she had ever seen. Not a bald head or pot belly in the bunch. She guessed the average age to be about 25. She was still processing that thought when all six of them stopped what they were doing and dropped on their knees in silence, their faces pressed against the floor.
     “And there you have one of my little secrets,” Kirsten said, with a smile.
     Amy looked around in stunned silence for a moment, “I don’t understand.”
     Kirsten shrugged, “Labor is the most expensive part of this sort of project. Some people hire it but, of course, that adds up quickly. I find it much better to simply own it.”
     “Own it? But that would mean… That would make these men…”
     Kirsten nodded, “Slaves.
     Amy was struck dumb. She looked around at the kneeling men, their faces pressed against the floor. It was unbelievable. It was impossible.
     “Is this a joke?” Amy asked.
     Kirsten gestured around her, “Does it look like a joke?”
     Amy looked around again in amazement. “How? How is it even possible?” She lowered her voice, “Is it legal?”
     Kirsten sighed, “Amy, you’ve always worried too much about the details. One of the keys to my success is that I don’t involve myself in minutia. All that matters is that I own them. They do the work and I reap the rewards.”
     “How many do you… Own?”
     “Just these six,” Kirsten explained. “If this project goes well I’m hoping to pick up a couple of spares. One boy to add to this team and a second as a servant at home… Sort of a combination assistant/houseboy/gardener..”
     Amy nodded, still looking at the men who were kneeling around them.

     Kirsten nudged one of the kneeling men with her toe.
     “You… On your feet, slave.” He rose to stand at attention, his eyes down. Kirsten walked around him, looking him over. Her arms folded across her chest, her heels tapping on the floor.
     “Are you on schedule?” she demanded.
     “Yes, Ma’am. We should be done be Friday at the latest.”
     “Friday???” Amy asked incredulously, looking around at how much there is to do. “How is that even possible?”
     Kirsten smiled. She reached up to lightly scratch one of his nipples with the tip of her fingernail.
     “What time did you get here this morning, boy?”
     “4am, Ma’am, as usual.
     “Mm hmm… And how late will you be staying?”
     “Until midnight, Ma’am.””
     “20 hours a day?” Amy said. “No wonder you get your projects done so fast.”
     Kirsten laughed, “My workers are very motivated. Isn’t that right, boy?”
     “Yes, Ma’am.”
     “Well, I do hope you’re right about being on schedule. For your sake.” Kirsten took pinched his nipple and twisted it. “You do remember what happened the last time you missed a deadline.”
     “Y..Yes, Ma’am,” he said, trembling.
     Kirsten slapped him on the ass. “All right. You’ve wasted enough of my time. Back to work. That goes for the rest of you. ”
     The men immediately returned to their tasks as Kirsten and Amy returned to the car…

A Question of Terminology

For those who are interested in such fantasies... And they are ONLY fantasies...

What do you want to hear when She gives the order:
	Have him castrated.
	Have him gelded.
	Have him neutered.
pollcode.com free polls

A Goddess in Repose

On Marriage

Nothing here is particularly original. I just wanted to put down in one place some elements that would (will?) make up a Female Supremacist marriage:


1. Different vows: The two parties to the marriage are neither equal nor identical. Why should they pledge the same things. In time, specialized vows would probably become common, but initially I would imagine an adaptation of more traditional vows. For example, She might merely pledge to take him as Her husband. If She wished, She might pledge to love and to cherish. The male, on the other hand, would pledge to become Her husband. Along with love and cherish, he might also pledge to honor and obey. Many in the ceremony might not even notice the difference between the two sets of vows, but it would serve to clearly distinguish between the Bride and groom and would reinforce their respective roles and status.

2. Last names: obviously, She will be keeping Her maiden name. That is common enough today in even traditional marriages. More important than that is that he will legally take Her name. This establishes that he is becoming a part of Her household. Naturally, any children will carry Her name also. After a single generation of this type of marriage, male-descended surnames will vanish into history.

3. Pre-nuptial agreement: A pre-nuptial agreement should be drafted and signed prior to the marriage. It should be heavily in the Woman’s favor on all financial and custody issues. This is not only philosophically and morally appropriate within a Female Supremacist worldview, it also serves as a strong disincentive against any attempt by the male to leave the relationship. Further, it preserves the Woman’s freedom of action should She wish to terminate the marriage. Financial or custody considerations should never be able to keep a Woman in a marriage She no longer desires.

4. Finances: All assets within the marriage should be solely in Her name. This includes the home, bank accounts, vehicles and so forth. Any assets the male brings into the marriage should be transferred exclusively into Her name also. Ideally, this would take place at the same time as the signing of the pre-nuptial agreement prior to the wedding. By establishing that She is the owner of all property and that he is entering into the marriage with nothing, their respective status is further reinforced. In addition, after the wedding the male should have very limited (if any) access to bank accounts, credit cards or cash. His income should go directly into Her accounts to which he has no access. At Her discretion, She may choose to allow him access to sufficient funds to make small purchases without Her prior approval. He should, however, be made to strictly account for any spending. This reinforces the fact that even if he worked for it, it is Her money.

5. Sexuality: For the male, marriage is to be a strictly monogamous relationship. His sexual release (if any) should take place as permitted by Her. She, on the other hand, retains the option of expressing her sexuality outside the marriage as She sees fit. She may not choose to exercise this option, but it is Her’s without regard to his preferences. Just as marriage should not place financial constraints on a Woman, neither should it be permitted to place sexual restrictions on Her.


In the longer term, it is our opinion that marriage will cease to be a relevant institution in a truly Female Supremacist society. Rather, males will be considered as a sort of sub-species: useful for labor, service and perhaps even sexual enjoyment, but far too inferior to ever consider as a mate. For that reason, we view marriages of this sort as an intermediate stage on the path toward full Female Supremacy.

They're Not Going To Need Us

Artificial sperm 'on the horizon' - Science - Specials - smh.com.au

Better start practicing your boot licking, guys. Pretty soon that's all we're going to be good for to Her.

Finding Your Thrills Where You can

Have you ever watched Big Brother on CBS? It's sort of a guilty pleasure for me. It isn't the tackiest of the reality tv shows but I would put it in the lower half. Still, want to know at least one reason why my readers might enjoy it?

Because at least once a week the show ends with a gorgeous, Asian dragon lady (Julie Chen) hanging a bunch of people in midair, dousing them with cold water and leaving them for the night.



What's not to like?

Viva La France!

The First Lady of France, Ms. Carla Bruni.

Why can't we Americans be so fortunate?

This Is How She Will Know Where You Are

The sat-nav dog collar that keeps track of Fido wherever he may stray - Times Online

What is locked around Fido's neck today will be around your throat someday. How else will She be able to keep track of Her property. To (slightly mis-) quote from the article:

The lockable collar is made of anticut material to deter thieves and sends texts to the Owner’s mobile telephone if the slave crosses a preset boundary. The Owner can log on to a website where, using the sat-nav technology of the collar, They can pinpoint the slave’s location.

Up For A Little Bootlicking?

A rich, famous, beautiful young woman wearing thigh-high leather boots and sitting in the backseat of a luxury car with, just maybe, a slightly displeased expression on her face.

What's not to like?

Who Needs A Recliner?

A Plea for Help

A bit of correspondence from the future:

Dear Ms. G_____,

I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty of writing to you after so long. To be perfectly honest, I have nowhere else to turn. With the new laws being what they are, I have to find a household willing to take me within the next thirty days. If I do not, I will go into a government labor camp. I'm sure you have heard the stories of what I can expect. My hope is that you might be willing to find a place for me if only for the sake of our old relationship. Again, I hope that you will forgive my presumption. I can promise that I will do my best to serve you very well.
Please respond quickly as my time is running out.

Yours most humbly,
E___


Boy,

I am Ms. Jordan now. I have returned to using my own name, rather than the name of the male who used to be my husband. You, however, will refer to me as Mistress. Make the necessary arrangements to arrive here by 9am this Thursday. I will take custody of you on a trial basis. If I find you useful, fine. If not, I will hand you over to a labor team myself.

Don't disappoint me.

Mistress

She Who Must Be Worshipped

Image of the Day

Oh to feel that heel digging into my palm as I cower at Ms. R's feet.

Gentle Persuasion

I've been privileged to offer the following as another small gift to the divine Marquesa. May She reign forever and ever.

------

"3164... On your feet!"

The prisoner does not resist. He did at first, but now he saves his strength. After at least a dozen interrogation sessions he knows that it will take all of his strength to resist the questioning, there is none to waste. He wearily stands. The guards enter. One pushes him against the wall while her comrade pulls his arms behind his back and cuffs his wrists. Shackles bind his ankles with a chain that allows him to walk but not run. He is shoved out of the cell and marched down the corridor as fast as his chains and his broken body will allow.

He doesn't know how much more of this he will be able to take. And yet, he has to hold on. He has made it this long. He can last just a little longer. At least, he hopes he can. He has more than enough knowledge to doom the rebellion and condemn the males he fought alongside in their quest to overthrow this female supremacist government. He has survived the interrogations, the tortures. He has to hold on.

They arrive at the door to one of the interrogation rooms. The guard knocks and a voice from inside responds. The guard opens the door and pushes him through. The interrogation rooms he has been in so far are cold and sterile: bare walls, concrete floors, perhaps a chair to restrain him, a table laid out with various instruments whose purpose
is all too clear. This room is very different.

It is painted a light beige. There is thick, soft carpet beneath his bare feet. Rather than the harsh, white light of a fluorescent panel, the lighting is gentle on his eyes. A fireplace on the far wall crackles. There is even music playing softly.

A large leather sofa is in the middle of the room facing the fireplace. Someone is seated on it, her back to him. She rises and he sees that more is different here than merely the room. His previous interrogators have been harsh figures in military uniform. Tall women with severe hairstyles pulled back in utilitarian fashion. The woman who rises from the sofa is entirely the opposite. She wears a black dress, the cut is short revealing long legs and the neckline is low revealing much more. Her hair falls loosely on her shoulders. As she walks toward him he is mesmerized by her sparkling green eyes. He is even more taken by her smile: welcoming rather than cruel.

"Hello," she says. "I am Marquesa."

She looks at one of the guards, "Get those rags off him."

As the guard is tearing away the remnants of his clothing, Marquesa smiles, "Perhaps we'll find something better for you to wear. Later. For now, I think you'll be quite warm in here, don't you?"

Marquesa walks away from him as the guards pull away the last of his clothing and leave him standing nude. "Put him on the sofa and then you may go," she orders as she pours a drink. The guards seat him on the sofa, attaching his cuffs to a bolt set into it for the purpose. His shackles are attached to a similar bolt. Marquesa walks past the back of the sofa, tousling his hair with her fingertips as she does so. She sits down next to him, very close, crosses her legs and takes a sip of her drink.

"This isn't going to work," he tells her flatly.

Marquesa's eyes are wide and innocent, her smile is anything but. "Work? I have no idea what you mean. We're just here to have a little chat."

"We don't have anything to talk about."

Marquesa slipped her arm around his shoulders and reached up to stroke the back of his head, "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something. Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

He remained silent, staring stoney-faced ahead. He had been interrogated enough to know the tricks. Get him talking about nothing and it was that much easier to keep him talking about something that matters.

"You know, My Darling, it really is important that we get to know each other a little better. I'd hate to have to give you back to the people who have done all this to you," she ran her hands over the bruises on his shoulders. "I'm not sure you would survive too much longer."

He remained silent. Marquesa sighed. She never understood why the military was so foolish. If they had given him to her immediately, she would have had him eating from the palm of her hand within an hour. Instead, they held him for weeks and tortured him. Now, he was closed up tight. Oh, he would still give her what she wanted, but it
was all so wasteful.

"Well, if you won't want to talk I suppose I'll have to have the guards come and take you back to your cell. They'll probably finish you off tonight. But… I suppose we could relax here for a few moments first," Marquesa leans forward and opens the carved ebony box on the table before them. It contains cigars.

"You don't mind if I smoke?" she asked. He did not answer but, of course, it would not have mattered. Marquesa lit the cigar and tipped her head back, blowing a stream of the thick smoke toward the ceiling.

"Ah… Excellent," she said, holding the cigar. "I have a little plantation down in the Caribbean. My boys harvest the tobacco and roll them just the way I like."

"You mean your slaves," he said bitterly.

Marquesa shrugged, "A rose by any other name, Darling. Whatever you call them, they make an excellent cigar. Here, tell me what you think of it."
Rather than offering him the cigar, she put it to her lips again and blew the smoke gently into his face. He had not expected that and he inhaled before he realized it. As he did so, his eyes lost focus, his stiff bearing became more relaxed. Marquesa watched as his entire aspect changed.

Yes, they were well-made cigars. Delivered to her from her island paradise, they were then infused with a bio-chemical compound. It was specially tailored to work only on the male physiology. For Marquesa, a cigar was just a cigar, for her guest it was quite a bit more. It was a key that would open the door he had slammed so tightly shut. Now, all that was left was to step through that open door.

"Yes, My Darling… So much better… So much more relaxed. Now, I want you to stare into the fire. Look at the flames as they dance… They are getting larger and larger. Filling your vision. Just the dancing lights and my voice. My voice. You can see nothing else, you can hear nothing else. Only my voice… Only my voice."

Marquesa put the cigar to her lips. This time, she did not bother blowing it into his face. The cigar had served its purpose. It had relaxed him enough that her natural talents could begin to work. And clearly, they were working very well. He was staring mindlessly into the fire, his eyes unfocused. Marquesa continued her work, emptying him of any conscious thought, emptying him of any will and then she filled that void with her own will, her own thoughts.

"Serving me is pleasure, my pet. You feel pleasure when you obey. Disobeying would be pain. Displeasing me would be pain. I am all that matters to you. My pleasure, my will. Your past does not matter to you. All that matters is pleasing me. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Such a good boy."

His face lit up at her praise and Marquesa stroked his cheek tenderly. Yes, if they had only handed him over to her sooner. She was as committed to female rule as anyone, but she hated to see males abused for no reason. She owned hundreds of boys and not one of them bore a mark of punishment on their bodies. Her overseers didn't even carry whips. Such things were so unnecessary when you truly owned a male. Besides, on those rare occasions when she had found it absolutely necessary to punish one of her pets, her abilities allowed her to inflict torments on his mind far beyond what his body could have ever borne.

Marquesa opened her handbag and took out a soft leather collar with a slender chain attached. She slipped the soft collar around his throat and wrapped the chain around her hand. If he resisted, the tiny chain would snap instantly. It served no real purpose of control like a true leash would. Still, it was more than enough for Marquesa. This
little one would follow her as meekly as a lamb. She freed his wrists and ankles, rose and then gave the leash a gentle tug.

"Come along, my pet. I'm going to take you for a little walk. I know someone who is going to be very pleased to see you."

An hour later, they were in the General's office. Marquesa was seated in front of her desk, the leash draped over her crossed legs. The prisoner knelt meekly beside her, his eyes never leaving the floor.

"What's that thing doing here without chains on!" the General demanded as she entered.

Marquesa laughed, "I wouldn't worry, General. I'm here to protect you. He certainly does seem dangerous, doesn't he?"

The General grumbled, "What do you have for me?"

"Why, everything, General. Of course. Darling, it would please me if you answered the General's questions."

The prisoner nodded but did not look up. "Yes, Marquesa."

And the questions began. Names, locations, plans. The prisoner answered each question the General put to him. It went on and on, with the General recording every word. An hour later, she had all the information she needed to end this rebellion, once and for all.

The General sighed. "Well, I don't approve of your methods, you know that. Still, I can't argue with the results."

"And I don't approve of yours, General, but you have what you want now. This nonsense can end."

The General was not sure whether the nonsense Marquesa referred to was the rebellion or how the General treated prisoners. In fact, it was both. The General just nodded.

"I'll have a guard take him back to the prison for execution," the General said, reaching for the telephone.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, General."

"Oh really? He's a rebel. Rebels hang."

Marquesa laughed, "He hardly looks rebellious now, General, don't you agree?"

The General had to admit that the nude male, kneeling quietly in front of her desk, did not appear likely to rise up again any time soon. She sighed, "What did you have in mind, Marquesa?"

Marquesa stroked his hair, "Well, now that this rebellion is over, I'm planning on taking a little vacation in the tropics. I thought I might drop him off at one of my plantations down there. After all, I can always use a boy who appreciates a good cigar."

A New World

I've previously been privileged to offer a few of my stories to the divine Goddess Marquesa. This is another offering for Her:

A New World

He was waiting for her when she arrived. Her staff had done the necessary prep work with their usual efficiency. He was strapped into the chair in the center of the small, bare room. A hood covered his head. She took the file folder from the back of the chair and sat down in front of him to read over the notes. It was nothing unexpected. The usual executive. Over-worked and over-stressed, looking for an hour’s escape. She put the file away and pulled the hood from his head.

“Mr. S______? I am Marquesa.”

He blinked at the sudden transition from light to darkness. He blinked against the light and then focused on her. She was seated very close to him. He was used to sitting across the table from the powerful and the famous but he found that her gaze disturbed him. Her green eyes penetrated him. He felt as though she knew his thoughts. Knew everything he had ever done. Every embarrassment, every private act. He felt himself blushing under her eyes.

Marquesa understood his reaction perfectly. She was accustomed to it. He was not wrong. She was in fact looking within him or, perhaps, listening would be a better word. She had been born with the ability to reach beyond her own mind, the gift of seeing within others, sensing their feelings, sometimes even their thoughts and memories. His reaction to it, however, was somewhat unusual in her experience.

“Are these restraints really necessary?” he asked, a note of anger in his voice.

Typically, men grew timid in her presence. Her beauty would have been enough to reduce most men to an awkward silence. The force of her spirit searching them took care of the rest. This one, however, was unaccustomed to being in the weaker position to anyone else. His response was to lash out, to try to assert himself. Marquesa smiled. He was wasting his time in a battle of wills with her, but it might prove entertaining at least.

“They’re for your safety, Mr. S______. Sometimes my clients find the experience… Overwhelming. We wouldn’t want you to injure yourself.”

He frowned, “And the hood?”

Marquesa shrugged, “A little sensory deprivation. It helps to make you more focused once your sight is restored. Trust me, Mr. S______… I have been doing this for quite a long time.”

“Well, it had better be good considering what I’m paying for it.”

Marquesa frowned. She found discussions of money to be crass. It never occurred to her to bring up her own wealth which, she was quite certain, far surpassed whatever this arrogant little creature might have been able to scrounge together. Still, Marquesa knew from experience that this arrogant bluster would not survive the next few minutes. It never did.

“I’m sure you will be more than satisfied. Shall we begin?”

Marquesa took the remote control and pressed a button. The lights in the room dimmed. Over her shoulder, a pattern of swirling, dancing lights began to play against the wall. Calmly, in a voice so quiet he had to focus on it in order to make out her words, Marquesa told him to look at the lights. To watch the pattern. As his eyes followed the lights, she spoke to him softly, slowly. She watched as his eyes gradually lost their focus, as his jaw sagged slightly leaving his lips parted. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowed. Her experience revealed dozens of small outward signs that showed he had entered into a deep trance. Her natural gifts allowed her to perceive even more. She felt his mind go quiet. She felt the emptiness that would permit her to fill it with anything she chose.

Over the next few minutes she did exactly that, crafting a new reality for him with her words. Again, her experience let her know when he was fully immersed in the new world that she had created within his mind and her gifts allowed her to perceive the waves of pleasure that were filling his body and mind.

Marquesa flipped off the projection which had now served its purpose. It would not be needed again. The triggers she had implanted in his mind would allow her to take him in and out of trance again instantly and at will. She walked out of the small examination room, flipping off the light as she closed the door. He sat alone in the small room. His body in darkness, but his mind alive in the light of the world Marquesa had placed him in.

She returned an hour later. He was just as she had left him, of course. Absolutely still, his unblinking eyes staring into forever. She sat down in front of him and, after a moment, spoke the trigger that would return him to the room. He gasped once and then shuddered. He looked around in confusion for a moment and then his eyes fixed on her again. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out.

He cleared his throat and managed, at least, to speak, “How… How long?”

Marquesa smiled, “A little over an hour.”

“An hour? It seemed like seconds.”

She shrugged, “Time is whatever I wish it to be. Tell me what you remember.”

He tried to focus on it, tried to recall all of the details. It was like trying to grab a handful of sand: it kept slipping away through his fingers. It was vivid, but so unlike anything he had ever known that it was difficult for him to describe.

“I… I don’t know where I was. All I remember is light. I felt like I was floating in light. Almost like being in a warm pool, but it was light. And I… You were there! I was… I was worshipping you. Praying to you. I could see you. I think you were all I could see. I just kept praying to you over and over again. Thanking you. And every time I did, I felt… I don’t even know how to put it into words. It was physical pleasure but it was more than that. Joy?”

Marquesa nodded, “I think that is a very good word for it. I’m glad you were pleased.”

“Can you create something else for me? If I describe something, can you…” She was shaking her head.

“I can create anything I wish, but I’m not interested in granting wishes. Tell me, have you ever felt better than you did when you were worshipping me?” He shook his head. “Then why would you choose anything else?”

He had no good answer for that.

“Can it last longer?”

“It lasts for as long as I wish it to last. Of course, nothing is free.”

“Can I go back?”

“For how long,” Marquesa asked.

He smiled wryly, “How about forever?”

Now it was Marquesa’s turn to laugh, “That would cost much more than you can afford, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, he replied. Money is the one thing I do have.”

She was intrigued. “Really? And why would you want it to last forever?”

He shrugged, “I suppose I wouldn’t. Maybe I would. I don’t know. All I know is that those few minutes were the happiest I have been in… Ever.”

Marquesa nodded. His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair. She took his wallet out and flipped through it. There was a large amount of cash and the usual gold and platinum cards. They did not impress her. With rare exceptions, most of her clients were wealthy to one degree or another. However, what he was discussing went far beyond that.

“You wouldn’t mind if we did a little checking? Just to see how serious you are?”

“Do whatever you need to do.”

Marquesa nodded, “I’ll do that. In the meantime…” She spoke his trigger and returned him to paradise.

“This one is on the house,” she said and, taking his wallet, she left him in darkness again.

It took twenty-four hours for her staff to compile a full dossier on E___ S______It was waiting on Marquesa’s desk when she arrived in the morning. As one of her servants brought in her breakfast tray and poured her coffee, she reviewed it. Yes, he could certainly afford what it was he was asking for. A huge fortune, no children, married and divorced three times. Lots of associates but no friends. She could easily see why he was ready to exchange this world for one of her’s. Marquesa dismissed the servant with a wave. It appeared Mr. S______ might be worth a little more of her time. She would go back down to the interview room and bring him out of trance so they could discuss it further… At least, she would eventually. He could wait until after her breakfast and morning meetings. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere.

When she was ready, Marquesa returned to find E___ S______ exactly as she had left him. Still strapped into the chair, still staring blankly forward. There was a day’s growth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. She spoke his trigger and watched as he returned to awareness. He tried to speak but his throat was dry and closed. Marquesa expected this and put the bottle of water she had brought to his lips, allowing him to drink.

After several gulps of the cool liquid had passed over his cracked lips, he managed to croak out, “How long?”

“A little over a day.”

He shook his head in wonder, “It seemed like minutes.”

Again, Marquesa nodded in agreement and then moved on. “It took a little while to run your background. As it turns out, you do have enough money for what we discussed.

He nodded, an annoying look of self-satisfaction crossing his face for the first time sense she originally put him into trance. “How much will it cost me?”

Marquesa smiled, “Why, everything, of course.”

S______ laughed until he saw the completely earnest expression on Marquesa’s face. He nodded. “And it would last forever?”

“If you like, yes.”

Everything. The word left him stunned. All that he had spent a lifetime amassing. All that he had worked for. He had traded family for it, friends, time. How could he just hand it all over? He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Could he?

Sensing his hesitation, the conflict in his mind, Marquesa asked, “Would you like to see for yourself? We could arrange a little tour of my facility.”

He could not do this. And yet… A tour. What would be the harm?

“All right. Let’s go.”

Marquesa shook her head, “There are a few safety precautions. It’s a secure facility. I have to consider the privacy and comfort of my… Guests. There would have to be certain precautions. You do understand, I’m sure.”

He nodded impatiently. “That’s fine.”

“Very well, then. I’ll have one of my staff come for you.”

Half an hour later, he was led out the front door by one of Marquesa’s assistants and placed in the backseat of a car. His writs were securely cuffed behind his back and the hood was in place over his head. He had no idea at all where he was being taken as the car turned, stopped, sped up and slowed down. After an hour, they came to a stop. The door beside him opened and someone pulled him out and, holding his arm, led him away. His head covered, completely disoriented, it never occurred to him that he was back where he had started: Marquesa’s estate. He was led down a flight of stairs. He could hear the sound of their footsteps echoing as he was walked down a long corridor. Cool air, the gentle whir of air conditioning and the hum of electrical devices… An antiseptic smell, almost like a hospital. That was all that he could tell.

The hood was pulled off and he saw Marquesa again.

“Ready for your tour? Well then, come along,” she took his arm and led him into an open room. A bank of monitors and consoles is at one end. A man is standing at a console, dressed in a white lab coat. He is monitoring the readouts. When they enter, he immediately drops to his knees, his eyes down. Marquesa walks past without acknowledging him. One wall of the room is occupied by a row of large drawers set into it, almost like the drawers of a filing cabinet. There are twenty of them.

“Here we are,” Marquesa said, her hands on her hips.

He looked around, confused again, “I don’t understand.”

“Inside each of these drawers is one of my guests. Perfectly safe and very well cared for. Each drifting forever in one of my worlds. Just as you were. A world I’ve created just for them.”

“Each one is different?” he asked. “They aren’t all like what I experienced?”

Marquesa laughed, “God may have been willing to settle for just one world… I’m a little more creative than that. Yes, each one is unique, just as the mind of each of my guests is unique. Of course, there are similarities. Each of them is worshipping me in his own way.”

He was stunned. It was beyond the limits of his imagination. A room filled with men living forever in a dream world.

“Would you like to see one?” she asked. He nodded. Marquesa pressed a button on the wall and one of the drawers slid open with the whir of an electric motor.

S______ shuddered at what he saw inside. As she had said, it was a man. Completely nude, shaved hairless from head to toe. There are restraints at his wrists, at his ankles and at his throat. Sensors are affixed to his chest and his scalp. He stares upward, his eyes wide but unfocused… And he has a gentle smile on his lips.

“How… How… How long has he been like this?” Ross asked.

“Hmm… A good question. Doctor? “ The man who knelt as they entered immediately rose, ran over and then fell back down on his knees, his head bowed.

Marquesa snapped her fingers and said just one word, “Up.” The man sprang to his feet, his eyes still downcast...

“How long has this one been with us, Doctor?” she asked.

“Um… I… Uh… I would have to check, Goddess.”

“Make it snappy, boy,” Marquesa warned with an irritated expression.

He ran to the console, pressed a few keys and then ran back.

“Nine years, Goddess.”

“Hmm… Yes. And he is in good health? No problems?” she asked.

“Oh no, Goddess. He is in the best of condition, just like all the others,” the Doctor replied anxiously.

“Very good, Doctor. Mr. S______, allow me to introduce Dr. Charles McElroy. He sees to the care of my guests. And how long have you been mine, Doctor?

“Twelve wonderful years, My Goddess.”

Marquesa nodded. “Very good, Doctor.” She snapped her fingers and gave the command, “Down.” Immediately, he was on his knees again.
“Is he…” S______ began.

Marquesa smiled as she reached down to strike the kneeling man’s hair. “He is in a different sort of trance than these. Unfortunately, I have need of his talents in this world. Now, as you can see, I have space for twenty right now. Only seventeen are filled so, if you are still interested, I can take you immediately.”

He was stunned, speechless. Excited and terrified at the same time. He could not take his eyes off the man lying in the drawer. And there were sixteen others in exactly the same state? It was like a horror movie. And yet there was that smile. There was the memory of his own trance. It was like a nightmare… And a dream.

“I… Uh… I would have to think about it.”

Marquesa frowned. “Yes, of course. Well, not everyone is brave enough to give himself to me. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. I have a busy afternoon. I’ll make sure you are returned to your car.”

Without another word, Marquesa walked away. As she was leaving, he heard her speak to the assistant who had delivered him. “Get him out of here,” Marquesa told her.

That night, E___ S______ lay in bed. Alone as usual, but unable to sleep. He tossed and turned, unable to get away from what he had seen today. When he closed his eyes, he saw the man in the drawer. Almost like a zombie, yet he looked so happy. How long since he had been that happy? Had he ever been? There was so much stress in his life. So much loneliness. The constant struggle to acquire more and more and the realization that none of it made him even the smallest bit happier. How much better to just relax. To let go of the reins. To surrender.

The next day, Marquesa’s assistant knocked on the door to her office.

“Ma’am? There is an E___ S______ on line one for you. He says he has decided. He would like to speak with you.”

Marquesa shook her head. “No. Give him the usual instructions. If he wires the deposit, schedule him to come in and complete the paperwork with my attorney. We’ll see how serious he is. I’m not going to waste any more time on him.”

A few days later, after transferring one million dollars to the offshore account Marquesa’s assistant had specified, E___ S______ was ushered into a conference room at her home. She was not there, instead it was an attorney with a small stack of paperwork. It is surprising how little of it there was, actually. A power of attorney, a new will, a few other things. A handful of signatures to strip him of everything he had valued for a lifetime. All the money and all the possessions that had cost him everything that really mattered. He was surprised at how freeing it felt to sign them over. It was liberating.

And then she arrived. The attorney immediately fell to his knees. As before, Marquesa did not acknowledge his existence. Rather than kneel, S______ rose from the chair.

“I always thought a gentleman rose in the presence of a lady,” he told her, smiling sheepishly.

Marquesa laughed, “Well, chivalry is very nice…”

“But?”

“I prefer worship.”

S______ nodded. He looked at the attorney, kneeling there in his suit on the carpet. “Am I going to end up like him? Like the doctor?”

“Would that be such a terrible thing? He’s very happy.”

“Is he?” S______ asked. “Are you sure?”

“Up,” Marquesa ordered with a snap of her fingers. The attorney sprang to attention.

“And how long have you been mine, little one?”

“Six years, My Goddess.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very, very happy, Goddess.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I get to serve you, Goddess.”

Marquesa nodded, “Very good, boy. Now, is all of the paperwork complete?”

“Yes, Goddess,” the attorney replied.

“Very well then. You may go. Begin transferring his cash and securities. I will review the real estate and personal property to see what I want to keep and what I’ll dispose of.”

The attorney acknowledged Marquesa’s instructions, gathered the paperwork and left.

“You see,” she said, turning back to S______. “He is quite happy in his new life. As you will be. Of course, he only gets to experience my presence occasionally. You will spend every moment with me. The joy that he feels for a moment, you will feel every second of your life.”

Marquesa sat down in the seat the S______ had risen from. She crossed her legs and looked him up and down.

“Well then, here we are,” she said. “Everything that was yours is mine now. I’m going to give you one last chance to change your mind. After that, there is no turning back. If you wish to leave, you may go.”

S______ sighed heavily. “I don’t have anything to go back to. Even before I signed the paperwork, I didn’t. I’m tired of this world. I want to live in one of yours.”

Marquesa nodded, “In that case, I will hear your prayer. Ask for what you wish.”

Ross understood what he had to do. With a clear mind, completely of his own free will, he knelt down on the carpet and bowed down, his face to the floor.

“Please… Goddess.”

Marquesa closed her eyes. She could feel his prayers rising to her, she could sense the sincerity of them. And she could feel his worship. She allowed him to go on, enjoying his adoration. Each of her possessions was different and the worship of each was unique, precious. She treasured this new addition. And then she leaned forward and whispered to him.

“Today you will worship me in paradise.”

Overcome, his voice caught in his throat as he tried to speak, “Thank you, Goddess.”

Marquesa touched the intercom. “He is ready.”

A guard entered, carrying a pair of handcuffs and a hood. Marquesa rose. She snapped her fingers and gave him the command, “Up.” He stood, his eyes lowered. Marquesa nodded to the guard and his hands were cuffed behind his back. The guard was putting the hood over his bowed head when Marquesa stopped her.

“That won’t be necessary. This will be a one-way journey for him. Take him downstairs. Dr. McElroy is waiting to process him.”

Startled, E___’s eyes rose to meet her’s.

“Downstairs?”

Marquesa reached out to caress his cheek. “I like to keep my possessions close to me.”

He nodded and again, this time smiling slightly, said, “Thank you, Goddess.”

Marquesa returned his smile and said gently, “Eyes down.” He complied immediately and she rewarded him, “Good boy.”

“Take him away.”

He looked very different when Marquesa next saw him. He was lying inside drawer number 18. His nude body held down by straps. He had been sheared from head to toe. The sensors were affixed to his body so the doctor could monitor him and the IVs that would sustain him were already in place. Marquesa ran her hand over his chest and stomach. She felt him trembling. Marquesa stroked his chest to comfort him.

“Relax, My Darling. Just another moment and we will be together forever.” He smiled nervously. She snapped her fingers to summon the doctor.

“Is he ready?”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“Then let us begin.”

She leaned down. Her lips brushing his ear, she whispered his trigger and the trembling stopped. His eyes lost their focus, his breathing became even and steady. And then she began to speak, creating a new world with her words. A world where he knelt at her feet, a world where he prayed to her and felt her presence. A world where her spirit enveloped him, filled him. And then, when she was ready, she said the final word and gave birth to a new creation. He gasped once and then his face took on a look of angelic peace.

Marquesa looked up at the Doctor inquiringly.

“All of his vitals are steady, My Goddess.”

Marquesa nodded. She caressed his cheek one last time and then pressed the button. His drawer slid back into the wall. Marquesa closed Her eyes and placed Her hands on the wall. She felt the prayers rising from each of Her worlds. And She felt the newest addition to Her choir of praise. One more voice raised in worship of the Goddess.

¡El presidente es una diosa!

Her Excellency President Christina Fernandez de Kirchner of Argentina reviews Her troops. THIS is female supremacy in action! There is no hope of standing before Her armies. Let all the nations of South America submit and acknowledge Her as Empress Christina!

Notes From Sunday Night TV

An incredibly beautiful woman in black pressing a button to give me drugs in order to control me is compelling. Very compelling.

My Turn On This Morning

A stunning blonde newswoman wearing a short, black dress and spikey heels.

The Word of the Day: Drone

I'm given to fixations.

Some concept, some idea, some fantasy gets stuck in my head and takes time to work its way out. Right now it is that one word: drone.

More detail later, but right now I am enamored of that word. It suggests a small cog in a very large machine. Interchangeable and not at all special or unique.

I am Her drone: mindless and replaceable, toiling forever in Her service.

A Couple of Images To Tide Us Over

Electrifying!

Surely I'm not the only one who is more than a little turned on by Heroes' Elle.

What Better Way...

...to live than to give your life to the worship and service of these magnificent legs. To spend each day humbly on your knees before them, your hands working the tension from Her calves. Your lips planting gentle kisses on Her feet.

Fire Me, Ma'am!

Just a Fetish

No fantasy, no story. Just a beautiful woman in a leather dress.
Sometimes that is enough.

Haughty

I always find an image of a beautiful woman with a haughty expression to be very compelling. And if she's wearing black it only gets better.

Mild Is Good Too

A lot of what you see around here is... Well... Intense might be an understatement. Let's try something lighter...


We have a very attractive receptionist at my office. She and I have a wager which, of course, I lose. As a result, she gets to have a little fun at my expense.

She's going to have a little party and I am going to be the hired help. I put on a dark suit and show up at her house. She looks me over and tells me with a laugh that I'm going to make her a great butler.

She goes upstairs to dress. I greet her guests at the door as they arrive. All of them are women from my office. They are surprised to see me as they thought that this was going to be a "girls" night. I explain that "Ms. ______" is upstairs changing and offer them refreshments.

I make her guests comfortable until she comes downstairs. She greets her friends and explains what I am doing there.

"_______ and I had a little wager," she says. "As you might have guessed... He lost."

As the guests laugh, I blush.

"_________ is going to be our servant for the evening," she explains. "Make sure you put him to good use."

Winning and Losing It All

I've said before, I think that it doesn't take much to generate a fantasy. So it was last night when I heard a report on the $314 million dollar Powerball jackpot from this past Saturday. Laurie introduced the piece by saying, "Call me. Seriously." And that's all it took...


After winning the huge jackpot and hearing Laurie, I decide to do just that: call her. I get in touch with her through her office and make her a proposition. Naturally, her first thought is that I am some sort of delusional fan. Still, my contact is serious enough, and she is intrigued enough, that she has me investigated. Given the line of work she is in it isn't difficult. I wait while she decides if I am genuine.

After several weeks, I hear back from her office. An assistant tells me that Laurie has decided to take me up on my offer. I am told to board a particular flight to a given city. I am not to bring any luggage or personal items, not even a wallet. Other than the ID I need to board the plane, I am only allowed to bring one item: the check. She will have private investigators monitoring me as I travel. If I deviate from her instructions even slightly, the arrangement is canceled.

When the day comes, I do exactly as I am told. I get off the flight and am standing in the crowded boarding area. A man, I never see a face, shoves an envelope at me and says, "Gate 34. You've got four minutes before the plane takes off. Better run." I open the envelope and see another plane ticket. I run down the terminal, barely making the flight before the doors close.

The same thing happens three more times as I fly back and forth across the country. I know why she is doing this. I am being watched as I travel. Her private eyes are making sure that I am not being followed. By the end of the fourth leg I have been in the air for almost a full day. I am exhausted and confused. Just as she wants.

When I get off the last flight, a woman is waiting for me. She is holding a sign with my name, just as if I were a business traveler arriving in town. I approach her and she tells me to come with her. I follow her out of the terminal. Rather than take me to the parking garage, she leads me to the taxi aisle. She hands me an envelope and tells me to find a cab and then she is gone. I open the envelope and find $30, for the cab I assume, and a slip of paper with an address that means nothing to me.

I flag down a cab and hand the driver the slip of paper. He scrutinizes it for a moment, looks me over and asks if I'm sure I want to go there at this hour. I nod, he shrugs and we drive away from the terminal.

I look out the window at an unfamiliar city. As we drive, I realize what the cabbie meant. Warehouses give way to bail bondsmen, liquor stores and abandoned buildings. Not the sort of neighborhood you want to go into in the middle of the night... Even if you don't have a check for $314 million in your pocket. I've been nervous since this very long day began, but now it's for a different reason.

The cab stops in front of an abandoned building. The fare is $29. A $1 tip fails to make me a friend and I'm left on the dark street corner without much sympathy. This is the first time that I've had no instructions so I just wait, standing nervously on the corner. There isn't much traffic at this time of night. A couple of cars go by. One fast and the second slowly. And then the second car comes back around the block, this time with its high beams on, dazzling me. The car stops in front of me and a man gets out. He shoves me against the car and frisks me, relieving me of the check. My hands are cuffed behind my back and I am pushed into the backseat. A hood goes over my head and I feel him locking shackles around my ankles. The door slams behind me and we drive away.

The ride goes on and on. Hours pass as we travel who knows where. Between the flights and the car ride, we could be almost anywhere. Clearly Laurie has no intention of letting me know where her home is. If that is where we are going.

Finally, the car stops. The doors open and close. I'm left inside to wait. And wait. And wait. Despite the hood, I think it must be daytime now. The car gets hotter and hotter. Eventually, the door beside me opens. The shackles are removed and I am pulled from the car and walked into a building. A door opens and I am pushed inside, the door closes behind me. Someone is waiting for me inside. I am pulled over by the arm.

And then I wait again. Eventually the door opens and closes again. I hear the tapping of heels against the floor. I begin to breathe rapidly under the hood. After a moment, the hood is pulled off. I squint for a moment at the light and there she is.

She is even more stunningly beautiful than on television. Her blonde hair, her full and soft lips. She is seated on the opposite side of a glass-topped table, dressed in a suit. I can see her long, crossed legs through the table's clear surface. I can also see the check laying on the table with a pen.

She apologizes for keeping me waiting, explaining that it took a little while to verify the check. I can't speak. I nod. She gestures to the guard, a tall and very fit woman, who is standing just behind me. The guard removes my handcuffs.

"Sign," Laurie orders.

She doesn't ask, she instructs. After all, it's what we agreed to. It's what I offered to do. It's what I came here to do. I have a feeling that even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to change my mind now. I've come too far. I take the pen, turn the check over and sign it, endorsing it over to Laurie unconditionally. A nod to the guard and I am handcuffed again.

With me restrained, Laurie comes around the desk. She is tall to begin with (6 foot 3 inches) and in her heels she towers over me. In the moment, I notice that I am the shortest of the three of us. A gesture from Laurie and the guard places a hand on my shoulder, pushing me down onto my knees. Laurie takes my chin in her hand and tips it back so I look up at her. It is the only time she will ever touch me. She looks down at me and shakes her head with a wry smile.

"So stupid," she says, almost in amazement. Her hands on her hips, I look up at her.

"Oh well," Laurie says with a shrug and a smile, "It's your life."

She laughs, "Or it was anyway."

Laurie nods to the guard and the hood comes down over my head. It is the last time I will ever see Laurie in person.

"Lock him up," she says, and then she is gone.

And with those words, my new life begins. The life I exchanged an almost unimaginable fortune for. The guard pulls me back to my feet and leads me away. Over the next couple of hours I am prepared. My clothing is removed and thrown away. I am shaved from head to toe and then washed with a hose.

The guard takes me to the room that will be my home. It is 8 feet square. The walls are bare concrete as is the floor. There is no cot, no sink, no shelves. There is a hole in the floor for a toilet. It smells. A bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling above my reach. Also above me, hanging ominously, is a set of handcuffs at the end of a chain attached to a winch. She puts me inside and closes the heavy steel door behind me.

I pace back and forth, it is only a little over two steps in any direction, examining the featureless walls. The steel door has a slot toward the bottom. The slot cannot be opened from my side. There are no windows, the bare bulb provides the only light. I notice a camera mounted high up in the corner. And then there are the handcuffs. I sit down on the floor. The concrete is cold against my bare bottom.

There is no way for me to keep track of time. No sound from outside makes it through the thick walls and door. Eventually I fall asleep. I wake up without any sense of whether it is morning or night, no idea of how long I slept. When the slot in the door slides open, I am startled. I hurry over just as a pile of gray mush is poured in onto the concrete floor. The slot immediately closes. This, I assume, is breakfast... Or dinner... There is no way to know. I sniff it cautiously. It has almost no scent. I gingerly taste it on the tip of my finger and am surprised to find that it isn't terrible. It isn't anything. It is room temperature and tasteless. It is also thin and very watery, spreading out on the floor into a pool. I eat a little, just enough to take the edge off my hunger, and hope for something more appealing for my next meal.

It does not take long, only a day or two it seems, for me to realize that the tasteless mush is the only thing I will be fed. The quantity changes, sometimes more and sometimes less. The timing is almost random... Sometimes two meals almost back to back, other times I sleep twice before another feeding. The only thing that doesn't change is the food. Whatever reluctance I might have initially had is driven away by hunger. Soon enough I am scraping up every last bit and then licking the wet residue from the concrete floor.

This goes on and on, day after numberless day. My only clue to how long I have been confined is the growth of my hair. I never see a face, I never hear a voice. I sit or pace or sleep and I find myself looking forward to my tasteless meals as the only break in my day. With nothing in the present to focus on, I find myself drifting in a world of memory and fantasy. I reflect on my encounter with Laurie. It lasted no more than two minutes, but I relive it over and over again. I can see every detail. Each image, each sound is crystal clear. In the unending silence, I yearn for the sound of her voice.

And then, after many, many days, I awaken to the sound of the winch above me. The handcuffs are coming down. My heart pounds at the thought of what this might mean. Before I can move, the door opens and a pair of guards enter. One is the woman who pushed me to my knees before Laurie and the other might almost be her twin. Both are more than capable of dealing with me. Neither speaks. I am pulled to my feet and cuffed. The winch is then reversed, pulling me up so I hang by my wrists with my toes barely grazing the floor. I am desperate for human contact, but the guards say nothing. I realize they are here to shave me again and that is what they do, removing all of my hair again. Given the length of my hair, I guess that it has been at least two months since I was first shaved that day. I am then roughly washed with the hose. They finish, lower me, raise the handcuffs and I am alone again.

Laurie is living up to the terms of our understanding completely. Of course, she is under no obligation to do so. If she changes her mind there is nothing I can do. Still, she is a woman of her word. My food is sufficient, barely, to keep me alive. My cell is not filthy. The open toilet smells of course but the floor and walls remain clean. The guards hosed it out at the same time they hosed me. The floor next to the door is slightly discolored from where my food is dumped, but there is no waste since I greedily lick up every drop. The place where I am kept, I think of it as a basement, but I have no real idea, is infested. While I am awake, I kill at least a dozen cockroaches that crawl in under the door or around the toilet hole. When I am asleep, they have a free run of my cell. Still, I will live a long, long time in these conditions.

I am shaved twice more. As with the meals, they come at uneven intervals. I try to estimate how long I have been here, but it is just a guess. Two months? Four? After a while, I don't even try. Time passes without interruption. The door slot slides open and I crawl over, waiting expectantly for my feeding. Instead, an object is flipped through and the slot slams shut. I crawl over and find a photograph. Laurie is exiting a limousine and stepping onto a red carpet. There is a crowd gathered. She is smiling radiantly and waving to the throng. Her gown is scarlet and she is wearing a necklace with diamonds as large as my thumb. After so long without any stimulation, I study the photo intently, taking in every detail. I flip it over and find a handwritten note on the back. The script is elegant:

"I attended a premier in Hollywood a few days ago and I thought you might like a photo..."

She goes on to tell me about the gown, a designer original naturally, which cost $40000. The necklace was $1.5 million.

"It was a lovely evening, but I have to admit that I'm feeling a little guilty for being so extravagant. So, I think we are going to economize a bit for a month or two. I know you won't mind."

It is signed, "Laurie" and there is the print of her lips in red. I study each curl of her handwriting until, suddenly, the light above me goes out. I sit quietly in the corner, assuming that the guards will change it when they feed me next. They do not. And not the time after that, or the next. I cannot see the photo anymore. I cannot read Laurie's note, but I think I understand what she meant about economizing. Whether it was four weeks or eight I do not know, but eventually the light comes back on. I am blinded by the single bulb after so long. The door opens and, a few moments later I am hanging by my wrists again. The guards have come to shear me. And then the days return to their endless sameness.

Again, with nothing else to fill the hours and the silence, I drift in a world of daydreams. I can almost see movement in the still photograph of Laurie at the premier. I can hear the crowd, see the flashbulbs of the paparazzi. I dream of being on her arm and then I mock myself for being, as Laurie said, so stupid. As time passes I come to regret my decision. And yet, I still dream of her.

After many more weeks or months pass, another photo is tossed inside. My hands tremble with excitement as I pick it up to study. Laurie is standing in front of a chalet with a group of people I take to be her friends. Snow covered mountains are in the distance. She is dressed for winter and the chill leaves a flush in her porcelain cheeks. I turn it over and find another note:

"Spending a few weeks in Switzerland. The skiing has been wonderful. Such a pity you can't join me."

As before, it closes with her name and the print of her lips. As I stare intently at her smiling face in the photograph, I notice that the temperature in my cell is dropping. I huddle up in the corner, tucking my knees against my chest. The temperature drops further and I begin to shiver. As I continue to study the photo, I pray that Laurie's holiday in Switzerland will not last so long that I freeze to death.

As it turns out, it does not. Perhaps a week, perhaps two, and the temperature slowly rises back to normal. As strange is it may seem, I find myself thanking her. Much of my time, in fact, is spent in silent, unanswered communion with Laurie. Though I do not yet think of it that way, I spend my hours praying to her. Begging for her pity when I suffer, yearning for her presence in my solitude, thanking her for her grace when I am washed or fed. Is it really so irrational that I would pray to her? After all, she created this small world in which I exist. She rules over it. While she remains unseen, her presence is completely real.

Months pass without interruption. I am shaved four times, five times. I spend all of my waking hours staring at the two photos Laurie has given me. I begin to wonder if she has abandoned me. What use am I to her? She is famous, she is wealthy and, of course, Laurie is beautiful. I am a just an animal, living according to her whims. Why would she waste any more time on me?

When the next photograph arrives, I weep. I keep repeating to myself, "Thank you, Laurie. Thank you, Laurie." I hold the photograph in trembling hands. Laurie is seated at the head of a long, formal dining table. Candlelight dances on the china. She is leaning in close to one of her dinner companions, smiling as he they talk. It is obviously a formal party. Her hair is swept up. Diamonds sparkle on her ears and at her throat. Her gown is cut low, bearing her shoulders and the inner curves of her breasts.

"I invited a few friends over last night for a lovely dinner party. It was a wonderful evening. I made sure the kitchen staff saved a bit for you."

Even though I know that she will betray me, I wait impatiently for my next meal. When it arrives, I know immediately that I was right. The guard pours my rations through the slot onto the floor. I crawl over and find that it is a collection of table scraps: bones with a bit of fat, odd scraps of vegetables, soggy bread. All of it floats in a puddle of mingled coffee and wine. It was obviously taken from the trash because mingled with the food is bits of plastic and the contents of an emptied ashtray. After who can say how long on tasteless gruel, I am pathetically excited. I hungrily pick through the trash and thank Laurie for the privilege.

Soon enough, even the memory of this treat fades and I am again licking the thin, tasteless mush from the concrete. After countless meals, a third photo drops through the slot. I rush over to it and find that it is an image of Laurie in a cowboy hat, tight jeans and cowboy boots. Behind her, a rider is struggling to stay on a bucking horse as a crowd cheers him on. Her smile is as radiant as ever. I flip it over and read my captor’s note.

“I did a fascinating piece on rodeos this week. I had never been to one and I have had such an exciting time! It also gave me a wonderful idea. I can’t wait to see the results.”

As always, it ends with her signature and the print of her lips to personalize it. I study the photo and wait, wondering.

Eventually, the handcuffs start to descend. I know the routine, so I walk over and wait for the guards to come shear and wash me. They enter, lock the cuffs on my wrists and haul me up. The guards are experienced in doing this now and it only takes a few minutes. The water from the hose is cold as it hits me. As they rinse out the room, I hang shivering and wait to be let down.

Both guards leave without closing the door. One returns a moment later with an odd-looking device. It is a ball gag. The guard forces it into my mouth and locks it behind my head. Nothing like this has happened before. Even when I was first brought here, I was never gagged. My breathing grows rapid, I look around frantically, wondering what is happening.

When the other guard returns, it takes me a moment to realize what she is bringing with her. At the end of a long handle is a series of metal curves. They are glowing orange with heat. I immediately recognize that it is a script letter L in the elegant, distinctive curves of Laurie’s handwriting. In the two steps it takes her to approach me, I understand completely: they are going to brand me!

I beg into the gag but it is useless. Even if they could understand me it would be useless. The guard presses the hot metal into the soft flesh of my bottom. Even gagged, my screams drown out the sound of sizzling as the hot iron burns into my skin. The sickening smell of roasting flesh rises. They pull the iron away and take a moment to examine the wound. I am then lowered to the ground and released. As the door closes, I lay face down on the floor weeping from the pain.

As the days pass, the wound slowly heals. I cannot see it, but I know that the right side of my bottom carries Laurie’s initial. Just like the animals she saw at the rodeo, I am cattle bearing the mark of my owner.

When the handcuffs come down again, I panic. It is much too soon for them to bother shaving me again. At least, they have never done so this quickly before. I huddle in the corner. Of course, there is no hope in resisting them and, very quickly, I am again hanging from the chain. As I expected, they do not bring in the razors. They do hose me off, however. The gag is then forced into my mouth and a hood, just like the one I wore on the day this began, is placed over my head. I hear the door close.

I hang there, the steel cuffs digging painfully into my wrists. I feel a trickle of blood running down my arm where the metal has sliced through my skin. After awhile, I hear the door open again. My heart pounds, I gasp for breath. And then I hear the tapping of heels. It is a sound that has echoed in my mind over and over again since the last time I heard it.

Laurie has come!

I follow the tapping as she walks around in front of me and then behind. She stops. I hold my breath, listening with complete intensity for even the smallest trace of her presence. I can sense her close behind me, even though she does not touch me. Do I feel her breath against my back?

Laurie laughs delightedly. “Beautiful!” she says. I understand. She has come to examine her mark. I hear her sigh contentedly and then there is the tapping as she heads toward the doorway. I try to call to her, but the gag leaves my impassioned pleas as nothing more than grunts.

“Let him swing for awhile,” she orders the guard. And then the door closes on the sound of Laurie laughing.

Eventually I am lowered to the floor. There is plenty of time for my cut and bloody wrists to heal. There is nothing but time here. After many more tasteless meals, many more shearings and cold washings, another photo falls in. I find an image of Laurie lying on a beautiful, white sand beach. She is wearing a gold bikini, dark sunglasses shield her eyes. Jungle-covered mountains are in the distance, white foam crests are dappled across a sapphire sea.

"I rented a villa in Fiji for the winter," Laurie explains on the back. "It is so wonderful to go someplace new and exotic, don't you think? My boyfriend and I came back so relaxed."

I lay the photo down and crawl away, curling up on the floor in the far corner. Her mention of spending the winter in luxury on a lush, tropical island does not bother me. The thought of her sharing it with her boyfriend, of her sharing that indulgence with a lover is agonizing. The branding... The deep cuts into my wrists are mild in comparison. I am tormented by visions of her in his arms. Of them together, the tropical breeze coming through the silk curtains of the bedroom they share in a villa hired with the millions I laid at her feet. Is she laughing at me, I wonder. Is he? While I am tormenting myself, I begin to notice that the temperature is rising. I break out into a sweat. It continues upward. I understand. There will not be any tropical breezes to moderate the heat for me.

Eventually, the temperature falls. Time goes on. My four photographs are laid out carefully in one corner. They are waterlogged and faded, the corners curled, since the guards make no effort to protect them when they hose out my cell. Still, they are my only connection with her and I care for them like religious relics. In a sense, that's what they have become for me. Talismans that let me escape the four walls of that define my entire world.

Finally, a fifth photograph arrives. Laurie is in Paris. She is kissing a man in front of the Eiffel Tower. Is it the same man she mentioned from Fiji? There is no way for me to know. Her left hand is on his face and I can see a sparkle on her ring finger. A wave of nausea passes through me.

"Our honeymoon was magnificent! We spent a month touring Europe..."

She goes on to give me the details: the opera in Vienna, the towering cathedrals... The magnificent food in Italy and France. I read all of it, but the words simply pass through me. All I can see is the diamond, sparkling in the sun of a summer day in the city of lights. She tells me about the beautiful music, how sacred the Cathedrals felt... None of it registers. Eventually the guards come. The photograph falls to the floor as they drag me over to the center of the room. I am forced down on my knees over the open toilet. Chains keep me on my knees. The gag is forced into my mouth again, the hood covers my head. They leave me.

The last time this happened, Laurie came to inspect me. I pray that she is coming again. "Please. Laurie... Please, Laurie... Please, Laurie..." Over and over again in my mind. For the first time since I was left here so long ago, sound fills the room. It is a discordant mixture of sounds: drums, symbols, harsh off-key notes from a numberless series of unidentified instruments. All of it is played at a deafening volume.

I soon realize that she is not coming. More slowly I understand what she is doing to me. Laurie attended the opera, I am deafened by a toneless cacophony. Laurie took in the sacred spaces of the Vatican, I am made to kneel in chains above a toilet as I worship the woman who torments me. Laurie dined across the Continent, my guards have stopped bringing even the thin mush that keeps me alive. Laurie shares a mansion paid for with the money I sacrificed to her, I am kept in complete solitude in a pit. I understand.

It goes on for day after day. The guards come occasionally, remove the gag briefly and spray water under the hood that covers my face. Again, I have no idea how long it is between their visits. All I know is that my mouth is dry, my lips cracked. I swallow it desperately. And then the tears return. One can live a very long time without food. I am made to test that idea. Eventually, the guards free me. My skin is tight against my ribs. I crawl over to the pool of slop they poured onto the floor as they left. It is larger than usual. I thank Laurie and lap up every drop.

And then, after many more more meals. After many shavings and washings. After many, many days spent worshiping the photos and the woman in them, another photo drops through the slot. No, not a photograph. A card. A photographic Christmas card. Laurie seated in front of a beautiful tree. She wears a red velvet dress. Her diamonds sparkle with the many-colored lights of the decorations. Her hands are folded on her lap. The sparkle is on her left hand now. A large diamond with red and green and white lights dancing off its facets. Her husband stands behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. I turn it over, but there is no note this time. Merry Christmas is printed below their photo, but that is all. No handwritten note, no signature, no print of her lips.

I place it with the others and wonder why it is different from them. I try to imagine what torment will accompany it. Hours pass. I am fed. I sleep. The cycle repeats. There is no sound to break the silence. No heat, no cold. Nothing at all. Slowly, as day follows day, I understand. She has lost interest in our agreement. She has lost interest in me. After years, she has moved on with her fortune, with her life. I will be fed, I will be washed, but there will be nothing more from her. No more messages, no more photos. God... Goddess will no longer walk in the garden with mortals. No more answered prayers.

And yet, even if She does not speak, perhaps She will still hear. I hold onto that slender thread. It is the only one I have. I crawl over to the six photos that are laid out neatly. The six talismans that I traded a fortune for. That I traded my life for. My only connection now with Goddess. I crawl over to them... And I pray.

Finding Your Thrills Where You Can

Two Thousand Words

If these two images don't make you want to bend the knee, nothing ever will. You can do it now, willingly, or later under Her lash. Choose.

Cigars & Cigarettes

You may have noticed that I have a bit of a smoking fetish. For most of my life it was a dark cigarette in a dark holder. A few years ago that disappeared almost entirely in favor of cigars. Lately, the holder has made a bit of a comeback, though the cigar still dominates.

I think the smoking fetish itself is fairly obvious. No, nothing Freudian. It's quite a bit simpler than that. Having smoke blown in my face is an extremely dismissive gesture. It says in no uncertain terms that I am an inferior. That I am not to be shown any respect or courtesy. Being used as an ashtray is an even more extreme form of disrespect. Not only am I an inferior, I am an object. I suppose it isn't at the level of being used as a toilet (a fetish that has never held any erotic appeal for me), but it's a close second.

The question then is: why sometimes a cigar, sometimes a cigarette holder? The latter, I would say, is the more feminine: slender, delicate, refined. It is a symbol of wealth and elegance. The cigar, on the other hand, is raw power. Some fantasies lean more in one direction and some in the other.

Kat's Prey

He is standing, his face in the corner when she enters. Kat can see only his back. A steel collar around his throat, a heavy chain leading down to steel cuffs pulling his wrists up behind him, steel shackles at his ankles... And bare skin. He does not turn as she approaches him from behind, her heels tapping against the floor. He can not. A short chain from his collar to the wall makes him stare into the corner like an errant boy.

Kat comes up behind him and runs her hand over his bare bottom. Leaning in close to him, she puts the slender ebony cigarette holder to her lips and blows a puff of smoke over his shoulder. The smoke swirls in the corner and he coughs. Kat laughs gently and then sighs contentedly. She loves to see him like this. She loves that he is helpless. Loves that her power over him is limitless. She reaches up to run her fingers through his hair. He is her's. She seduced him and took his family. With them gone, his longing for her became even greater. He could deny her nothing and she took everything he owned. Then she took his dignity, leaving him like this: nude, chained, staring helplessly into the corner.

The keys to his bonds hang on a lanyard around his neck. They might as well be a million miles away. The fact that they are so close yet beyond his reach is another of Kat's small torments for him. It is almost over though. Kat has kept him in case she might need something. A signature to transfer a property or close an account. He has signed anything she brought to him. Without question, without hesitation. He was hers. She would free one hand and place the pen in his fingers. He would sign just like a good little boy. And then she would cuff him again. Sometimes she rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes not. Either way, he did whatever would please her. He belonged to Kat.

She did not need what he gave her, what she took from him. When they met she was famous, she was wealthy. His sacrifice of everything he had meant little to her in a material sense. Still, Kat found such pleasure in it, as always. Such pleasure in his defeat and in her victory. She loved knowing that he had denied her nothing. That in spite of everything, he still longed for her. Yes, he was Kat's.

Still, that would end soon. This one was not the first to take his place in the corner and he would not be the last. She has new prey. A new victim in her web. Soon, Kat would put him in the corner. This one would have to be removed. Kat had long since learned not to make pets of her prey. She will dispose of him without a moment's hesitation.

---

He is standing, his face in the corner when she enters. He cannot see her, a chain attached to the steel collar at his throat makes him stare into the corner only a few inches from his face. A chain leads down from the collar to his cuffed wrists which are drawn up behind his back. Steel shackles bind his ankles together. He is clothed only in his chains. He stands in the corner patiently because this is where she placed him. He is Kat's.

He can sense her close behind him. He can smell her perfume and the smoke from her cigarette. He closes his eyes and trembles as he feels her hand lightly caress his bare bottom. He can hear Kat's breath passing between her lips as she blows smoke into the corner. It fills his lungs and makes him cough. He hears her gentle laughter and feels the breath of her sigh against his shoulder. He does not speak to her. She is above him, she is everything. He is Kat's. He can remember who he was before. He remembers his wife, his family. They are gone now. He remembers his career, his home. He remembers all of it in the way you remember a dream when you awaken in the morning. It is real and unreal. It does not matter anymore. He is Kat's.

She has nothing for him to sign today. No need for him. This disappoints him. Despite everything, he longs to be useful to her. But not today. He remains in his bonds. He knows that she never really needed him. He knows that he had so little to give. So little that she could take. He wishes there was more that she could take from him, more that she could strip away. There is nothing now. He has nothing left to sacrifice.

He knows that she will not keep him here much longer. Now that he has nothing, she will discard him. Kat is seductive, she is flirtatious. He longs for her, but he knows that he does not matter to her. He knows that she will shed no tears when he is gone. She has used him up, drained him, destroyed him. Now she is done and so is he.

Under Control

You may have noticed that we enjoy finding examples of Female Dominance in the media. Here's another:

Something Is Missing From the Menu

Wis. festival sells deep-fried testicles - Yahoo! News

Sorry, Ma'am. All we have are lamb, goat and bull.

How Can I NOT Post This?

"Women's town" to put men in their place - Yahoo! News

I'm sure it will be a hokey tourist attraction-type of thing, but still...

Uh Oh

The prospect of all-female conception - Independent Online Edition > Science & Technology

Slavery is our future, gentlemen. She isn't going to need us for anything else.

Driving Fantasy

I'm trying to come up with a fully formed fantasy story for this, but it isn't there yet. All I know is that last week I was driving home behind a car that had a crystal pendant hanging from the rear view mirror. The sun struck the crystal, throwing out patterns of color. The natural beginning of the fantasy is that a hypno-domme (Mistress Marquesa, perhaps?) uses the pendant to ensnare her prey. All I really have so far is one line:

"The hook was set. Now She began to reel him in."

Four Images For Worship and Contemplation

Thoughts From A Quiet Sunday Morning

It's strange how fantasies form. Sometimes they evolve from a seed over the course of weeks, months, even years. Other times they seem to spring almost fully formed from an instant. This morning, as I was waking up, I happened to think of A...


We haven't spoken in years, not since our careers took us in different directions. She has a blog, however, and I could contact her quite easily if I decided to do so. The fantasy is that I contact her. We resume our friendship and it quickly gets back to where it was eight years ago. This time I give her a much clearer idea of my interests and, to my surprise and joy, she indicates that she is intrigued by them and would like to explore them. She tells me to buy a plane ticket for Friday evening with a return for Sunday night. I am not to bring any luggage at all. If she wishes for me to have something, she will provide it.

Nervously (but also excitedly), I do as she says. When I get off the plane I expect to see A waiting for me. Instead, I see a woman I don't know holding one of those small cardboard signs with my last name on it. Nervously (I'm going to be using that word a lot), I approach her and identify myself. She sort of looks me up and down and then says, "This way, please."

Without a word, she leads me through the airport and out to the parking garage. When we reach her car she tells me to lean against the vehicle. I do so and she quickly frisks me, taking my wallet, keys and cell phone. She then takes a pair of stainless steel handcuffs from her pocket. "Hands behind your back, please." Trembling, I comply, hoping that I can trust her and that A hasn't changed dramatically over the years.

You may have noticed that the woman, we'll call her The Driver, who comes for me is being very polite. Firm, but polite. In a way, that's more frightening to me than if she were to be screaming curses at me. I don't entirely understand why that is so.

Back to the story... Having handcuffed me, The Driver ties a blindfold over my eyes and then puts me in the backseat of the car and we drive away. I am sitting in the backseat, driving through an unfamiliar city with a woman I have never met. I'm excited, but the entire time I am also thinking that I have made a terrible mistake. I am wondering if anyone driving alongside of us is noticing that I am sitting in the backseat with a blindfold on. Will the police pull us over? Would that be a good thing? It isn't going to happen of course. I was so flustered in the parking garage, so overwhelmed, that I didn't notice the windows on the car are tinted. No one can see me sitting there. If I had known that I would have been relieved... And frightened.

I'm not very good at judging time, so I really don't know how long we drive. Half an hour? An hour? Who knows. All I know is that the car stops. The Driver's door opens and closes and then, after a few seconds, my door opens. She helps me from the car and leads me by the arm. I am taken inside. Is it a home? A building? I have no idea. In a moment, we are at our destination. She frees one of my wrists, pulls my cuffs behind something and then cuffs the wrist again. I can tell that I am being immobilized. Is it a post? A pole? I can't tell. I'm not going to be going anywhere though.

"Open your mouth."

No "please" this time. I notice the change. Is it inadvertent or does it reflect the fact that I'm helpless now. Courtesy is no longer necessary. I comply and she stuffs a piece of cloth in my mouth. I then hear the sound of packing tape being pulled off a roll. The tape seals the cloth in my mouth.

For a minute or two, nothing happens. I'm not even positive The Driver is still in the room. She is though, and I realize that when I feel my belt being undone. She pulls it off, then stoops down to remove my shoes and socks. My nervousness starts rising again. I came here to experience my fantasies with A. My first thoughts were that The Driver had just been sent to pick me up, but now I wonder. I can't do anything though, it's much too late for that. She unbuttons my pants and pulls them off. My underwear follows. I then feel a metal cuff being placed around one ankle and snapped closed. The other ankle follows and I am now shackled to the post.

The Driver unbuttons my shirt, but it isn't going to come off as easily. She stops for a moment and then I hear the recognizable sound of scissors as she slices through my shirt. It falls away in pieces. The logical part of my mind wonders what I am going to be wearing on the plane home. The panicked portion (and it is growing larger each second) tells me that is the least of my problems. More important is whether I'm even going to be on that flight.

I am alone now, or I think so anyway. Nude, chained in an unknown part of an unfamiliar city. My money, my keys, my ID... They could be anywhere. I can't run, I can't cry for help. All I can do is wait. And wait. And wait.

I said before that I have no real concept of time. It's at least an hour, I'm pretty sure of that. It's probably more. I hear someone coming. My body tenses, my hands tremble. I feel a soft hand on my chest. Is it The Driver? Is it A? Someone else? I can smell perfume, but I don't recognize it. The hand slides down my chest. It passes over my stomach and around my hip. Fingernails dig into my flesh as she squeezes my ass. The hand slips down around my thigh and takes my balls. A gentle squeeze and then slides down my erection. There is a drop of mosture in her palm and she wipes it off on my chest. She leans in to whisper to me. I can feel her warm breath against my ear. She is about to speak.


And that's the end. Seriously. If this were one of those choose your own path-type books that kids read, this is where we would find out who the woman is. That would completely define what sort of fantasy this is. For me, it isn't necessarily important to know. It's erotic to me in one way if it's A. And it's erotic in another way if it's The Driver or someone else.

Who do you think it is?

A Natural-Born Domme

Is there any better example of sexual power than Ms. Sharon Stone?

Fill my glass, slave, and then we'll discuss what possible reason I might have for keeping you alive another day.

Still More Cheese

Awhile back I included a video from one of the favorite TV shows of my youth. At the time, several scenes from the show featuring a villainess and our hero sparked quite a few youthful fantasies. The show was cheesy, of course, and the acting makes William Shatner seem like Laurence Olivier. Still, we find our fetishes where we find them. Here's another scene:

Our Cast of Characters

A lot of the posts around here either involve celebrities or no specific person. In a number of cases, however, the posts do relate to a specific person. In most of those instances, I have referred to the person by an initial for privacy purposes. I thought it might be interesting (or maybe not) to expand upon who these people are:

"A" - far and away the most common. She was a co-worker of mine for about two years. We were good friends but nothing more than that. Well, for the most part. At the time, she was married and I was not. There was a period of about three months where she was having some trouble at home. Nothing all that serious but some trouble. She also had some other stress going on in her life at the time and I think that may have played a part. At any rate, our friendship grew flirtatious during that time. I think we were attracted to each other because we were opposites in a lot of ways. I am fairly repressed sexually and have a fairly reserved personality while she was more of a free spirit. Each of us saw something in the other that intrigued us. It didn't get any farther than a single kiss before I pulled back. I did so because I was seriously involved with someone at the time and also because I had known from the beginning that it was wrong to play a part in leading a married woman astray even if she was more than willing. Our relationship returned to its previous form and was fine. Eventually we each found other jobs and lost touch with one another.

She is the focus of so many of my fantasies because she was probably the best chance I will ever have to live some of them out. As I said, she was somewhat sexually adventurous. Sort of a try-anything-once sort of person. She knew a little bit about what interested me but nothing like the full degree of it.


"LP" - not a lot to say about this one. I think there is only one fantasy related to her. She is a local TV personality. Very attractive, particularly for our market.


"MM" - pretty much the same as above. Another local TV personality. This one, however, was from my childhood. I thought she was very attractive in my youth. I don't know where she is now, but I wonder if I would still think she is attractive?


"K" - another former co-worker of mine. She was much younger than I. Probably 10 years. Unlike "A" we weren't really friends. No animosity certainly, but just no real connection. We worked in a small office, just the two of us, but we didn't really see much of each other. Still, she was young and attractive. Smart too. Those three make a pretty sexy combination in my book.

"S" - this one is a little strange for me. You won't find any fantasies here that involve her. She turns up in one fairly mild dream that I had. She is the wife of a friend. I've known her forever and I'm not attracted to her. We've known each other too long for that sort of thing to even enter my mind. Well, my waking mind anyway.

"T" - this can actually refer to two different people:

1. Post 2002 - it refers to a woman I worked with. She was a few years younger than me. Very pretty. Great hair. I like good hair. Anyway, we were co-workers. Very cordial but I wouldn't describe us as friends. We didn't know each other well enough for that.
2. Pre 2002 - I think there is just one post referring to her. She was yet another co-worker. We didn't really know each other at all but I thought she was lovely and very poised. Clearly she didn't make a huge impression on me though because I'm only about 80% sure that I remember her name

I think that covers it. Like I said, maybe it's interesting and maybe not. In a lot of ways, this post is more for me than for anyone else. Maybe it will jog my memory 10 years down the road.

The Goddess of Love

Though you might not guess it from most of what you read around here, I'm a normal person. When I'm not fantasizing about being whipped, branded, shocked and so on and so on, I enjoy such pedestrian pursuits as watching TV.

So, for one night, I'm going to take a break from our usual fodder and simply make a post in worship of a beautiful Woman: Survivor (Cook Islands) contestant Parvati:


She has the sexiest, most lovely smile. She didn't win, unfortunately, but to me she is stunning.

Come to think of it, maybe this isn't completely off topic for this blog. After all, in Hinduism, Parvati is a Goddess. In some traditions, She is the divine God above all the other gods. The Saundarya Lahiri describes her as the source of all power in the universe.

So, for tonight, I bow in humble worship of Goddess Parvati!

The Sequence

Selection
Seduction
Betrayal
Enslavement
Exploitation
Humiliation
Degradation
Exhaustion
Execution
Replacement

All The Wrong Places

One of the things about this fetish is that you happen upon things almost at random that spark a fantasy. The world is filled with the makings of femdom scenarios. For example, you might be wandering through an online celebrity gossip site. An innocuous article about Brangelina. Suddenly you read the following quote from Ms. Jolie along with the website's commentary and all the submissive juices start flowing:

On Jennifer Aniston:

"I did [once meet Aniston], but it was not a proper meeting. We've, like, passed each other and said 'hi' briefly, shook hands. But not a real sit-down-and-talk kind of meeting. That would be her decision [for a long sit-down], and I would welcome it."

According to my calculations, it's impossible for Angelina to get any more perfect, so Rachel may not want to have this meeting. If this were a game, Angelina would be Ohio State and Jennifer would a kid with a Nerf football. Jennifer couldn't be more owned in this meeting if Brad Pitt was there feeding Angelina chocolate covered strawberries and fanning her with a giant palm leaf.

Now, maybe it's just me, but that image is enough to keep me in subspace for a week. Not so much the servant, fanning his Mistress and feeding her chocolate covered strawberries. That's obvious. The deeper level is that he is not the only supplicant in this image. The Temptress has beguiled him, made him Her possession... Perhaps through seduction, perhaps through hypnosis... However She accomplished it, his life is hers. It mattered not at all to Her that he was married. She destroyed his marriage without a thought. And now the abandoned wife comes to Her. Perhaps to beg for her man back? Or perhaps she has been left penniless and has come to beg for mercy? No matter, the Temptress will be happy to entertain her pleas. She will join her former husband in eternal, mindless submission at the feet of this divine devil.

My First Day With A

I think that if I surrendered to A and she agreed to have me, one of the first things I would do is confess to her about this blog. As the name might suggest, it isn't something I share with the world in general. I would tell her about it in case she would want to read it to find out more about this side of me. Knowing her, I think it would fascinate her in a still-waters-run-deep sort of way.

I can imagine being beside her desk chair, dressed in nothing but stainless steel handcuffs and shackles...

"Kneel quietly, boy. I'm going to read over this and I may have questions for you."

More Dreams

My supervisor's supervisor is a woman. 50s but doesn't look it. Not unattractive but not notably attractive either. No interest in her on my part, never a thought. Anyway, everyone who reports to her is male. That's just the nature of the field I work in. A couple of weeks ago, one of my co-workers mentioned that she has a "stable." I think that is probably what prompted this dream.

All I really remember is being at her feet and saying something about having my performance evaluation on my knees. There was a little more to it than that but I don't remember any of it. I do remember that while she was supposedly into it, I don't really remember her doing anything.

Not much there but I like to record even semi-submissive dreams, so...

Dreams

I've had very vivid sexual dreams the last couple of nights. I'm not at all sure why.

A couple of nights ago it was of being ridden like a horse.

Last night I was at work. I think maybe my female coworker was leaving because I hugged her at one point. At any rate, I remember telling her to "remember me when she comes into her kingdom." As in, when she's at the top of the career ladder don't forget about me. I told her that when she was a regional manager I would be her assistant. She laughed and said that I wouldn't want to bring her coffee. I replied that as long as she paid me what I'm making now I wouldn't mind a bit. Then we sort of flash-forwarded to a point in the future when she was a manager. She is sitting behind a desk and I'm bringing her a cup of coffee. She calls me boy. At one point she has her feet up on the desk. She takes out a cigar and is about to light it with a long match. Instead, with a smile, she calls out, "Boy!"

Shopping Spree

There's nothing at all unique about this fantasy and it's certainly far less extreme than much of what you see around here, but it's what was occupying my mind last night.

A takes me on a shopping trip. I walk two steps behind, my arms burdened with Her purchases. At each store, She snaps her fingers when it is time for me to bring out the credit card to pay. The clerks are very amused. A tells them that I'm not much to look at but I have my uses. They share a laugh at my expense. At the end of the day, A's purchases go in the trunk of her car. On a whim, She tells me to join them.

You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

I've noticed a slight spike in traffic lately thanks to a link from another blog called Femdom Weblogs & Forums.

First of all, thank you for the link. In the link, Richard points out that I am "one of those rare guys who has fantasies about female domination that are far more intense than (his) own."

Probably true. I recognize that a lot of the fantasies I have are extreme. I suppose that given the way the world is it doesn't go without saying that there are fantasies we would like to live out and fantasies we just like to... Well... Fantasize about. My more extreme fantasies, particularly the ones that end in my death, are decidedly in the latter category. Do I like to think about them? Absolutely. Would I like to roleplay them? Certainly. Do I want to actually experience them? Definitely not.

I've made that disclaimer before but I have a feeling I should make it more often. I'm planning on changing the template around here at some point in the not-to-distant future and I may include some language to that effect.

On Display

My thought lately is of a plexiglass box. Not one so small as my usual box. This one is more like a booth. Tall enough to stand normally in but neither wide nor deep enough to permit me to sit or lie down. It is completely sound-proof. She has devised some means of causing me intense pain, of course. The exact method of torture doesn't matter. All that matters is that she places me inside that box so she can enjoy watching my sufferings without having to be annoyed by my screams.

Making Fantasy Reality... Well, Sort Of

Anyone who has read much around here knows that I have some very extreme fantasies. A long time ago, back toward the beginning, I said that I wouldn't really want most of them to happen to me. One of my favorites is Choker. It ends in my death and I don't have a death wish. Even before we get to that point, I've been blinded and gelded. I have no wish to be mutilated. The reason the fantasy is powerful for me is because it describes a Woman of unlimited power. The blinding, the emasculation and, obviously, the death are indicative of that.

Now, while I wouldn't want any of those to ACTUALLY happen to me, I would dearly love to live them out to the extent possible. For that reason, I've rewritten Choker to make it possible in reality rather than fantasy. This is something that could actually be role played. I'll probably never get to experience it, but it's at least feasible and that fact makes it very intriguing for me.

----

I am seated on a black leather sofa. My wrists are cuffed behind me, my ankles shackled. A collar is around my throat. It's so tight that breathing is a strain, but if I sit very still and don't try to talk I can just barely get enough air to remain conscious. A blindfold covers my eyes. The collar makes a gag unnecessary. I am nude.

I hear the tapping of your heels as you approach, I smell your perfume and then feel the touch of your skin as you sit beside me and slip your arm around my shoulders. You reach up to idly stroke my hair. I would give anything to see you. You are wearing a shear white silk blouse and a short leather skirt. You cross your long, trim legs. I can smell the smoke from your cigar. You put it to your lips and blow a puff of smoke in my face. It was already difficult to get enough oxygen, now it is even worse as the smoke makes me cough.

"Having trouble?" you taunt me and laugh.

"I'm afraid it's over, darling," you tell me. "You've outlived your usefulness, but I wouldn't dispose of you without saying goodbye."

You sit with me for a few moments, puffing smoke in my face and stroking my bare skin. On a whim, you dig your perfectly manicured nails into the back of my neck. My groan makes you smile.

"I'm so sorry, pet... I just couldn't resist one last time. But now I really must be going."

You rise from the sofa and examine me for a final time. Taking my chin in your hand you tip my head back. You put your lips to mine in a final kiss. As you do so, you exhale the smoke from your cigar into my straining lungs. While our lips are still touching your hand slips from my chin. You twist the knob on the back of the collar and tighten it completely, sealing the smoke within my lungs.

"Sweet dreams, darling," you whisper in my ear.

You watch me for a moment, smirking as my face turns red. And then I hear the tapping of your heels again, receding this time as you leave me... And then there is the sound of the door closing... And then there is silence.

The seconds stretch out as I slowly choke. Thirty seconds... Forty-five... A minute. And then I hear the tapping of your heels approaching again. I feel you sit down beside me. With no sense of urgency, your hand is at the back of my neck, loosening the collar so I can breathe. The smoke escapes my lungs in a harsh cough and I began to gasp for breath.

"Thank you, Goddess... Thank you, Goddess... Thank you, Goddess..." I say it over and over until you silence me with a finger to my lips.

"Shh... Just breathe, darling... I'll let you worship me in a moment," you say as you stroke my hair.

Your mercy lasts for several minutes and then you tighten the collar again so that everything is as it was when we began. If I am still and silent, I have no real difficulty. You blow smoke in my face again and then lean in to whisper in my ear.

"Always remember: your life is mine. I did not require it of you today, but tomorrow I may. If I wish to have you for a sacrifice then I will. Do you understand?"

I nod. You ease me down from the sofa onto my knees. My wrists are freed from behind my back. You have me hold my hands out and you lock the stainless steel handcuffs around my wrists again.

As I kneel beside the sofa, still collared, chained and blindfolded, you recline luxuriously on the leather sofa. You put the cigar to your lips and blow a stream of smoke upward.

"Cup your hands," I obey and you tap your ashes into my palms.

"And now... Worship me."

You close your eyes and listen, smiling contentedly as I offer up my prayers of thanksgiving to the Woman who gave me life.

The Way Things Should Be

Vanished

pleaseletme's progress

This was one of my favorite male sub blogs. It seems to have vanished very suddenly a week or so ago. I'm hoping everything is okay with the princess and her knight.

She Reclines

For whatever reason, the site of this stunningly beautiful woman wearing a gown and reclining on a chaise puts me in a very submissive state of mind.




And for those who want some motion:

The Entrepreneur

She is the owner of a “storage” facility. Women who wish to put an inconvenient man (husband, boyfriend, business rival, etc) out of the way, contract with Her to have them stored. Each is kept in a small metal box, just barely big enough to kneel in with their face pressed against their knees. No movement, no light. Residents NEVER come out of the boxes. A spoonful of mush is dumped in for them to eat, an exhaust fan keeps the air semi-fresh and jets of water will occasionally spray in to wash away the filth and provide drinking water. Men are kept that way for years at a time. A living death. As long as the women pay the storage fee each month, the male stays in captivity. It’s a very lucrative business for Her.

My situation is a little different. I had fantasized about being a captive in just such a situation. When I heard about Her facility, I contacted Her and arranged to surrender myself for confinement. I thought it would be a chance to live out a fantasy. Quickly, however, my fantasy became a nightmare... When we met She was intrigued by my request. She agreed to allow me to fulfill my dream. She did, however, set certain conditions. I would not be permitted to rent my storage box, I would buy it. Half a million dollars seemed like a fair price for 4 cubic feet of real estate. I agreed and sold everything I had to pay for it. I could always start over again once I had lived my dream. Also, She said, there would be charges for my upkeep (food, etc). I agreed to this as well and put the rest of my money in an account with automatic payments going to Her.

With that, I arrived at Her facility. Her guards removed my clothing, shaved me, locked a collar around my throat with my storage number (it matches the number engraved on the metal box) and led me down the long corridor to my new home.

Days passed, then weeks, then months, then years. Very quickly, I wanted out of the fantasy but there was no escape. I tried yelling for a guard but no one ever came. I never saw anyone, never had the chance to ask for my release. I just knelt in the box, alone and in silence.

Everything went on unchangingly until finally, after several years, I was suddenly pulled from the box and dragged up to Her office. I am deathly pale after years in darkness, my muscles have withered, I am emaciated. She, on the other hand, is beautiful, fit, health, tanned, wealthy, arrogant, vein. She is a powerful executive and I am Her inferior. I am made to stand in front of Her large, mahogany desk. My wrists are cuffed behind my back and pulled upward by a chain so I bow. It’s a security precaution, but it’s also a reminder that I am a supplicant in this place. She is looking through my folder and smoking a dark cigarette in a slender ebony holder.

She has brought me here because the money for my maintenance has run out. She is not running a charity. I ask if that means she is going to release me. She laughs at me and then reaches out to caress my cheek. The gesture is condescending. She reminds me that I purchased my box. It’s mine to live in… For as long as I live.

I start to plead with you but she is not interested in that. She snaps her fingers and the guard forces a gag into my mouth. She sits on the desk in front of me, crossing Her beautiful legs. Smoke from Her cigarette is blown in my face.

She tells me that it’s nothing personal, just business. We have a contract and She intends to honor it… Fully. With that, our interview is concluded. She gives the guard Her instructions. I am to be returned to the box. Food and water is to be discontinued, the exhaust fan turned off.

As I am taken away She makes a note in my file that my box is to be sent to the crusher in ten days. That should be more than enough time, She thinks. With that She puts my folder to one side... And moves to the next one in the stack.

A Phrase That Is Arousing Me Tonight

The African queen and Her filthy little white slave.

Anyone Up For A Little Erotica?

I'm not sure if this will work or not, but... Would anyone care to join in with a bit of serial erotica? I've written the first couple of paragraphs, now you pick up where I left off... Just send me an email (privatethoughts001@gmail.com) with the link to your contribution. I'll link to it and, hopefully, someone will choose to pick up from where you leave off.

Here goes:

--------------------

Lady Ashlee walked down the row of chained slaves fingering the bucks and does. The exclusive boutique on Rodeo Drive catered to the wealthy and the famous and Lady Ashlee was both. She had come to select a new buck for her stable and a new doe for her harem. So far, the bucks had proved a disappointment... So typical, so common... She was looking for something more amusing than your typical pleasure stud. The does, however...

She stopped to look more closely at a charming young doe. Red hair and milky skin... Lady Ashlee tipped the doe's chin back to look at her bright blue eyes. The slavegirl's lower lip trembled in fear and Lady Ashlee was charmed. She kissed the girl gently and cupped her hand around one of her breasts. As their lips parted, Lady Ashlee was pleased at the flush of arousal that arose in the doe's cheeks. Lady Ashlee nodded to the store's owner who snapped her fingers. An attendant led the doe away to be tagged as Lady Ashlee's newest purchase.

Is the Glass Half Empty or Half Full?

There are two ways that one can view this photo. One is that Ms. Jennifer Love Hewitt has been put behind bars... The other is that you're the one under lock and key and She has come to check up on Her prisoner.

As you might guess, I prefer the latter.

The Gallows

Shall I tell you how it's going to end for you, Darling?

You don't want to be surprised?

-laughter-

Very well, if you insist. After all, it isn't as though you can do anything at all to save yourself, is it? No, my dear, I am completely in charge now.

Now, let me see... Where to begin? I won't tell you when the last day will come. It may be in a year or a month. It may be tomorrow. When it does come, this is how it will happen.

You will be standing on the gallows in my courtyard. I'll make you stand there for hours and hours, waiting for your fate. The sun will burn your skin mercilously. Of course, that's the least of your problems. You will hear the tapping of my heels as I climb the wooden stairs of the gallows. Though you can't see me, I've dressed for the occasion. A scarlet dress with a low neckline and a short skirt. If you could see you would know that the color matches the traces which my whip left on your back the previous day. The cut would arouse you... If you were capable of that anymore.

Oh... Did I leave something out?

-laughter-

Nothing important, I assure you. Sometime before I dispose of you I'll give orders that your eyes be put out. Sometime after that I'll have you gelded. I know it's petty, darling... I mean, I'm putting you to death, isn't that enough? -sigh- You see, pet, I SO enjoy taking things from you... I simply can't help myself.

I took your freedom.
I took your money.
I took your eyes.
I took your manhood.
And now I'm going to take your life.

-sigh- Now don't pout, darling. It isn't as though any of those matter terribly. Certainly not your manhood.

-laughter-

You're just a wretched, worthless little slave. You pretended to be a man your whole life. Why would I let you die as a man?

Now, where was I? Ah, of course. I'll step up onto the platform and inspect you one last time. I've already said that your back is covered with the marks from my whip. I've already told you that your skin is red from the harsh sun. You already know that I've gouged your eyes out, cut your balls off... -laughter- You make such a pathetic sight, pet. You're nude, of course. Bright, stainless steel handcuffs hold your wrists behind your back while identical shackles bind your ankles. And then there is the coarse rope of the noose around your throat. What else is there to say? You're just a slave. I own hundreds and, quite honestly, you're nothing special. Oh perhaps a little thinner than most... I haven't wasted food on you in quite awhile.

At any rate, I lean in close so I can whisper in your ear. I tell you that I'm done with you, that you've outlived your usefulness. I tell you that everyone has forgotten you. Your friends, your family. You're all alone now. I mock you, reminding you of how you used to be wealthy, how you used to be important. And now? Now you're just a frightened eunich waiting for it's owner to put it out of its misery. Not to worry, bitch... It won't be long now.

You can smell my perfume as I lean in close to you. You smell something else as well, the smoke from my cigar. You used to toil in the fields on one of my plantations, picking tobacco to make my cigars. Perhaps you picked the leaves that were rolled to make this very one. I put the cigar to my lips and then, as a gesture of pity, I give you a final kiss. A wisp of smoke escapes your mouth as our lips part.

I pull the cord and open the door beneath your feet. Your body drops but only a few inches, not nearly enough to snap your neck and grant you a merciful death.

"What a shame," I tell you, blowing a stream of cigar smoke down into your face. Not that it matters. Your carcass is going to feed my guard dogs and they can certainly wait a little while for their dinner. -laughter-

As you twitch at the end of the rope, slowly choking, you can hear the tapping of my heels as I descend from the gallows and leave you to die alone.

For Those Who Doubt Women are Goddesses

When you look at this photograph of the unimaginably desirable Ms. Elizabeth Hurley how can you have the hubris to believe that She is of the same species as a male? She is so clearly a superior (Supreme?) being.

I would gladly die for the privilege of worshipping at Her feet.

The Cheesy Roots of a Fetish

We find the origins of our fetishes in all sorts of places. Some of them may be profound, some banal and some simply cheesy. The following falls into the last category. I can clearly remember watching this as a young teenager and being aroused. Yes, the scenery is being chewed throughout, but even so...

Interrogation Tools

Shocking Lie Detector - Boys Stuff Big Boys Toys, Gifts For Birthday, New Gadget

I'm sure this item doesn't give you anything more than a twinge... Kind of like one of those joybuzzers kids play with.

If an enterprising Domme were to "enhance" it, however... Better tell Mistress the truth, boy.

Trophies

Remember my earlier post about men as diamonds? Ms. Sharon Stone would make a spendid conquerer. Oh to grace that regal neck!

The Empress At The End of a Long Day

After hours ruling over the lives of mere mortals, the Goddess is ready for her attendants to draw her a bath.

Ideal Domme Poll

You are out for the day with your wife/girlfriend when another woman catches your eye. She's in her early twenties, blonde with an incredible body. She is wearing dark sunglasses, jeans and a t-shirt that says "Wicked." She is driving the BMW convertible her Daddy bought her. A pair of handcuffs hang from the rear view mirror and a bumper sticker says, "Men are Great... Every Woman Should Own One." You think you are only glancing at her casually but, in actuality, you are staring. She catches you leering at her and begins walking toward you and your wife/girlfriend. Her smile as she approaches you leaves you with no doubt that your life will never be the same and that the word on her shirt is completely true.




You are summoned to the office of your company's executive vice president, a woman who is feared throughout the firm. Entering her plush office on the top floor, you see her sitting behind her desk smoking a cigar. She's in her late thirties, with jet black hair and an aristocratic bearing. Her business suit cost more than your car. She does not offer you a seat. Instead, she casually informs you that she has framed you for extorting several hundred thousand dollars from the company. Actually, she took the money, but everything will point to you. You are going to be spending the next fifteen years in a prison that is anything but a country club. Unless, she continues as she comes around the desk and looks you up and down... Unless, you are a very good little boy and do exactly as you are told. With that she blows a puff from her cigar in your face. You've ceased to be an employee. You've ceased to be a person. You are her slave until she decides to have you locked up. Play your cards right, she cautions, and she might keep you around for awhile.



You went too far this time, but it looks as though everything will be all right. You know that you are a bit of a compulsive gambler, but in the past you have managed to keep it in check. Winning once in awhile and seldom losing more than you could manage. This time, however, you almost lost it all. Playing with high rollers is never a good idea and this particular high roller is the worst of them all. Young and sexy with hypnotic eyes, a low-cut black dress and a string of diamonds around her neck, she played you just right, taking more and more with each hand until you had to keep upping the stakes in order to just have a hope of breaking even. Out of cash now, your car keys and the deed to your house are lying in the center of the table. It is going to be all right though. You have a full house, Kings over Tens… It is going to be all right. You lay them on the table confidently. Your heart begins to beat faster as a smile spreads slowly across her lips. She taunts you a bit, laying the cards down one at a time. First only a three, but then an Ace… And then another… And then another…. And then the last. You shudder as those four aces, the Ace of Spades coming last, stare up at you from the green felt of the table. The Ace of Spades is the death card and, in your case, that’s exactly what it will be when you get home and have to explain to your wife and your family that you lost everything you had worked a lifetime for. As it turns out, however, you will not have to handle that particular problem. With a gesture, your conqueror summons two of the casino’s toughs. Each has arms like a tree trunk. “Deliver him to my suite,” she orders. “His house isn’t nearly enough to pay his debts. Fortunately, I have uses for him.”

Which is your ideal Dominant? Wicked Coed Blackmailing Executive Sexy High Roller Free polls from Pollhost.com

eTorture

USB Shock Therapy Device

Hmm... I wonder which tech-savvy online dominatrix will be the first to take advantage of this interesting little item.

The Goddess of the Nile

I've never been a particular fan of Michael Jackson. That being said, I've always found aspects of this video for his song "Remember the Time" to be very compelling. In particular, the lovely Ms. Iman as the Queen of Egypt. The intro to the video features the Queen seeking to be entertained. Eventually, Michael Jackson comes in and meets with her approval. Prior to him, however, two other performers are brought into her presence. The Queen casually sentences each of them to death when they fail to amuse her.

The offhanded way in which she dooms a man to an agonizing death with the words, "Throw him to the lions" is enough to make the heart of any merely mortal male tremble.

Watch and enjoy.

A Work in Progress

A smiled at her old friend, but her smile went unreturned.

They had known each other, off and on, for eight years. Starting as co-workers, they had quickly become friends. Going for walks to break up the monotony of the workday, talking and laughing. The two of them were very different; she more open-minded and liberal, he more traditional and conservative. Despite the differences, they got along very well.

In fact, it may have been those differences that brought them together in the first place. The differences were certainly what brought the two of them, if only briefly, to the bring of something more than friendship.

The fact that he was so quiet, so reserved, made her all the more intrigued to learn just what lay beneath that calm exterior. There had been hints that he was not entirely as he appeared. Offhand comments here and there which suggested that his demeanor, while genuine, did not tell the entire story.

Likewise, he saw something in A which filled a gap in his life. She was wild and adventurous and unpredictable. So different from the woman then in his life. A was correct in her belief that something more lay beneath the calm surface. In A he saw a chance, perhaps his only chance, to explore whatever it was that lay below.

Of course, a relationship would have been inappropriate. She was married and he was in a committed relationship of long-standing. For these reasons, and perhaps also out of fear, nothing ever came of it. A few flirtatious months, a single kiss and then the fires cooled. Thought changed, their friendship endured.

A year or so later, life carried them in different directions. She to a new job and then a new state. He got married and moved on with his life. Strangely, they went for several years without communicating. Not out of animus, certainly. It was simply that each had moved on, though neither entirely.

As life carried them along different paths, a slender thread of fantasy joined them across time and distance. Each, without the other knowing, wondered what might have been. Eventually, when circumstances changed, each began pulling on that thread and it drew them together again, though not as either of them would have expected.

From acquaintanceship their relationship had progressed to friendship. After a long silence, it now took on a new form. One which was surprising and final: ownership. More simply put, A's old friend was now her slave.

That is why she felt no surprise that her smile went unreturned. First, because it was a one-sided smile, a cruel smile. Second, and more practically, the ball gag which filled his mouth made smiling an impossibility.

A spent a moment caressing her possession. Running her hand through the dark, curled hair the covered his bare chest. He was spread-eagled against the wall. His head lolled forward in exhaustion. A had kept him here, his back to the wall, his arms and legs drawn apart, for several days, enjoying the sense of power his sufferings gave her. At this moment, she enjoyed the feeling of his flesh beneath her hand. Her touch was not the gentle caress of a lover as it might have been had things ended differently only a few years before. Now, it was the firm touch of a Mistress examining an animal, stroking its sinews to judge its value and its use.

...

To be continued. Any comments/suggestions/questions?

A Surprising Verdict

Dominatrix Acquitted in Bondage Death - Yahoo! News

I have no idea where justice lies in this case. I am, however, somewhat surprised that a dominatrix could find herself acquitted in this sort of case. Whether she should have been or not is another matter entirely and one that I do not feel qualified to address since I did not follow the case. Still, given the general attitudes and prejudices toward this sort of thing, I'm surprised she was acquitted.

Collar Shopping

I dreamed last night, or perhaps the night before, that a woman was taking me shopping for a collar. I don't know who it was, unfortunately. Rather than some sort of fetish shop, we simply went to what I believe was a grocery store. I tried on a fairly thin collar made of brown leather. It fit snuggly. I remember thinking that we should shop for a leash as well but, for some reason, we didn't.

The Well-Crafted Phrase

Mistress Chloe and the Traffic Cop: A Lesson on Subjugation

So much of what passes for erotica on the Net was obviously written with only one hand on the keyboard. We try to do at least a little better around here. So does the author of this delightful little story.

And Sometimes We Just Like Hot Pictures

Storage Options

If I had surrendered to A on 9/9, I imagine that my first task would have been to build a place for her to keep me. She just had a townhouse without room for a dungeon or cell so it would be imporant to make the most of the available space. As anyone who reads this blog knows, that works fine for me. :)

I imagine she would have me construct three connected units. All of them together would fit comfortably in a walk-in closet. I'm not much of an artist, but I'll try to depict it as best I can:

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

There. Pretty poor artwork, I know. Hopefully it gets the point across. What you have is a vertical box, kind of like a full-length locker from back in high school. Attached to it's base is a horizontal box like... Well, like a coffin I suppose. Sitting on top of the "coffin" is a smaller "crate"-like box. A has me build each of these boxes to fit my exact measurements.

The vertical "locker" is just heigh enough so that the top of my head is against the top. It's just wide enough the my shoulders rub against the edge. It's just deep enough that my bottom presses against the back and, when A puts me away for the night, the door touches the tip of my nose. The horizontal "coffin" is essentially the same as the locker, only laid on its back.

The crate is my usual "small metal box." Just wide enough, long enough and tall enough for me to kneel with my head bowed low, my chest against my thighs.

A would have me build the boxes from wood. No cushions or padding of any kind. There would be grates to permit airflow, but they would be positioned so that I could not see through them. They would, unfortunately, allow light in, but I'm assuming the closet would be dark anyway so no problem there. There would be no need for locks on any of them. A simple bolt would suffice since I would have no access to it once inside.

The purpose of all this is to give A four different levels of cruelty when she puts me away for the night according to Her whims.

From least to most cruel:
Horizontal on my back
Horizontal on my stomach
Vertical
Kneeling

Trophies of Victory

If you've read through much of this blog you know that some of my fantasies are pretty extreme. I probably don't say it often enough, but you should know that a lot of what excites me would actually horrify me if it actually happened. I mean, the idea of being tortured without mercy by a woman who has left me penniless is much more intresting to contemplate than it would be to experience. At least, I'm assuming so.

That also goes for one of my fetishes which I'll expand upon here. I did a previous entry (link) with a fantasy story about a victorious female general who accepts the surrender of the leader of an army of rebellious male slaves. After the surrender she notes that his head will be mounted on her wall. In addition, she idly considers whether she would rather have a pair of boots or a set of gloves made from his hide.

The idea of being so utterly defeated that I'm not even treated like a person in death is erotic for me. I think it's a dehumanizing fetish of sorts... Kind of an extreme version of being used as furniture.

At any rate, a new twist on it struck me today. Awhile back I heard about a company that is offering to have artificial diamonds made from the ashes of your loved ones. That led me to the fantasy of a beautiful and powerful woman who enriches herself by taking everything from men and then disposing of them. What could be a more complete defeat than to be put to death, my head mounted as a trophy in her study, my hide tanned to make a pair of soft leather boots for her feet. My degradation isn't over, however. What is left of my carcass is burned and then the carbon pressed down to make a diamond. I can picture her at a party wearing a magnificent diamond necklace. Twenty, thirty, forty, a hundred stones... Though no one else knows (or perhaps they do), each stone is a trophy. Each is a tangible piece of a man she defeated and destroyed. Look at this picture and imagine the power of this woman... Each small stone a man.



1/30/06 - A postscript... Perhaps along with my head for a trophy, my hide for leather boots and the remnants of my carcass for a diamond, my bones might be used (along with many others, I'm sure) to make a set of bone china for Mistress? Just a thought.

3/27/06 - A second postscript... Perhaps there might be enough of my hide left to cover a volume in Mistress' library. Not entirely a fantasy, as you can see here.

Madness

Here's something a little different. More of a script than a story. Any Women interested in making a recording of it for posting? privatethoughts001@gmail.com

You know, Darling, your little fantasies are all very amusing, but I have to tell you that you really do overestimate yourself.

Do you really think I would have to resort to chains and whips and electricity to have you right where I want you?

Don't flatter yourself, pet. If, for some strange reason, I decided that I had uses for you, I could have you completely under my control without harming a hair on your precious little head.

How? It's really quite simple, my dear.

Once I decided that I'd like to acquire you, I would spend a number of weeks observing you... Studying your behavior, your responses... Once I felt ready, I would arrange for us to meet casually. You, of course, would have no idea any of this was happening. Perhaps I would arrange to walk past your table while you were having lunch with some of your colleagues. I'd dress provocatively, of course, to make sure that I drew your attention.

Like most of the other men in the restaurant, you would be staring at me. The difference is, I would stare back at you with a little smile. Like most men, when you realize you've been caught staring at a beautiful woman, you are embarrassed and look away. I won't let you off that easily though.

You men are such simple creatures. You think you're complicated and important, but you're really not. It's just a matter of knowing how to manipulate you. Men are so accustomed to having to pursue women that you're really quite helpless when a woman is direct with you. You blush, you get tongue-tied. It's SO amusing to watch you squirm.

I can see you squirming as I walk purposefully toward you. You think you are about to be confronted for your bad manners. Instead, I walk up, extend my hand and introduce myself. You are quite flustered, of course. You stand up, drop your napkin, spill the water glass... My condescending smile just makes you more awkward. Better get used to it, handsome... It won't be my last laugh at your expense.

We chat briefly while your colleagues watch with their mouths hanging open. It's a combination of shock and envy... Not to be rude, darling, but they're surprised that a woman like me would give someone like you the time of day. Shock turns to awe when I slip a pen from my handbag and write my telephone number on your palm. I walk away leaving you staring after me. The hook has been set and now I can start reeling you in.

Now, Darling, I'll admit that my reality takes a little longer than your fantasy. If it were up to you, I’d have you in chains and screaming in agony inside of the first five minutes. I suppose I could do that, but my way is a little more… Subtle. Not to worry though. Before we’re done, I’ll get EVERYTHING I deserve. And so will you.

Now where were we? Oh yes. My telephone number. You will call me, of course. In fact, it’s all you can do to make it through the afternoon. You’ll call me and stumble your way through asking me out. Now, I’m going to keep making you squirm. You see, darling, I enjoy toying with my prey. Not to worry though, I’ll agree to see you.

We’ll meet for drinks… For dinner. I will be very sexy, very flirtatious. Deep down though, I’m a very old fashioned girl… At least, that’s what I’ll make you believe. What does that mean for you? Well, first of all it means that you’ll be paying for everything. More importantly though, it means you can forget about sex. Oh, I’ll keep you worked up… I’ll make sure you’re constantly aroused, constantly on edge, but I’m afraid you won’t be going over the edge. After all, I’m saving myself!

I know what you’re thinking, Pet. Why? It’s really very simple. Simple enough for even you, beautiful. You boys think with your dicks. Now, when he’s constantly brought to the brink but never satisfied… Well, it leaves you very confused… Very vulnerable. And that’s EXACTLY where I want you.

Months go by. Soon enough you are practically begging for my body. Oh, I’m more than happy to show it to you. We vacation in the South Pacific… Your expense, of course… And I relax under the Pacific sun and come home without any tan lines at all. I’m sure the natives thought your constant erection was hysterical… I know I did.

All of this has the effect of breaking down that well known male fear of commitment. After just a couple of months you’re begging me to marry you. As always, I make you squirm. The look on your face when I tell you that I need a few days to think about it is just priceless. I’ll admit, though… I was impressed that you got down on BOTH knees to propose. Without even knowing it, you had a very clear understanding of the fact that I’m in charge. THAT is what keeping a man sexually frustrated does.

Again, though, you needn’t have worried. I agree to marry you. After all, getting you to this point is what I intended from the very beginning. Because your balls are turning blue, you’re not interested in a long engagement. I begin a flurry of planning for our wedding. I promise you that it will be the grand affair that I so richly deserve. Being male, you could care less about the details. You pay no attention at all to my descriptions of the flowers, the gown… You’re just thinking about finally having some release. I almost feel sorry for you, Darling… Almost.

Yes, you pay no attention to the plans at all. You’re paying for everything, of course, and there are so many things to be signed. A contract for the ballroom at the Four Seasons, a contract for the caterers, a contact for the transportation… So many things to be signed, dear. And, as I said, you’re paying so little attention. You won’t even notice the power of attorney. You just scrawl your signature as I stand looking over your shoulder. I take it and, as always, thank you with a kiss on the cheek. I walk away, a smile on my lips with the knowledge that this charade won’t have to go on much longer.

In fact, with your signature on the document, I can begin immediately. The white van shows up the very next morning, before you’ve even gotten out of bed. Of course, that might have something to do with the sleeping pills I slipped in your wine with dinner. No, Darling, it isn’t kidnappers come to abduct you and take you away to my dungeons. You keep forgetting, Pet, this is reality, not fantasy. Why would I abduct you? You signed your life over to me. All very proper and perfectly legal.

The gentlemen in the white van are from a very nice, very expensive mental hospital upstate. Now that you’ve signed yourself over to me, I can finally arrange for you to get the treatment you so desperately need. Now don’t struggle, darling, it won’t do you any good. The nice men pull you from your bed and get the straightjacket on you. I’m afraid the neighbors got quite a show as you were dragged out to the van… I suppose I should have made them put pants on you, but does it really matter, darling? Not where you’re going.

I play the role of the devoted fiancé to perfection. Visiting the hospital with its well-trained nurses and beautiful grounds. It’s one of the best mental health facilities in the country, sweetheart. While I’m in the process of liquidating your investments and property, I’m going to make certain that you have nothing but the finest. In fact, I even go so far as to slip a nice orderly a few hundred dollars each time I visit just to make sure that you’re kept well-medicated when I’m not around. After all, we wouldn’t want you annoying the other patients with any foolish stories, would we, sweetheart?

It only takes a couple of weeks to turn you into a pauper. There’s just one more detail remaining. We don’t want anyone asking any uncomfortable questions, do we? No, Pet, of course not. Now, you don’t really have any friends. The fact that no one actually likes you very much makes things so much simpler. As for family, there’s no one really… Except for one son from an early and unfortunate marriage. He’s 21 now and away at college. Hmm… How to handle that? I mean, I certainly won’t be paying for junior’s education. Thankfully, your devoted boy takes care of that for me. In fact, I tell you all about it the next time I come to visit.

A little more cash to the orderly ensures that we have the visitor’s room to ourselves. They bring you in wearing one of those hospital gowns and, of course, heavy leather restraints. Why, darling, they’ve even had to gag you! I suppose my suggestion to the orderly that you have a tendency to bite must have been misinterpreted. I’m sure the gag is uncomfortable, but it does have the advantage of keeping you quiet so I can have a little chat with you. I slide my chair next to the one you’re strapped into and lean in very close to whisper in your ear. I have to tell you all about junior.

You know, I don’t think he ever cared for the idea of having me for his step-mother. I suppose it would have been awkward for him since I’m only a couple of years older than he is. Still, it was touching to see how quickly he rushed home when he heard about your collapse. Yes, he rushed home… And I had everything ready for him.

Actually, I arranged to be out of the house when he got there, but my newly-hired bodyguard was waiting. He does such a good job of protecting me and my new home, darling. And, of course, when a strange young man entered the house, a man he didn’t know… Well…

Oh don’t worry, darling. My guard didn’t hurt him. Not in the slightest. He just… Restrained him for me. Yes, that’s a good way to describe it. When I came home in the evening he was waiting for me. Actually, he was restrained much as you are now, darling. Like father like son! He wasn’t wearing the hospital gown, of course. In fact, he wasn’t wearing anything at all. I think you told me once that he plays football and, looking at him sitting there, I could certainly tell. Those shoulders, that chest… Are you sure he’s actually YOUR’S, Darling? Well, at any rate, he looked beautiful sitting strapped into that chair.

I poured myself a drink, lit one of your cigars and sat down across from the beautiful boy to have a little chat. I told him the entire story, Angel. Every last detail. It was delicious watching him strain against the straps. He’d have given anything to get his hands on me when he found out what I’d done to his dear daddy. And, to be honest, I’d have given quite a lot to get my hands on him as well. After all, you’re not the only one who has had to do without over these last few months. Seeing his tanned, toned body… His muscles taut against his bonds… Well, darling, I just couldn’t help myself. I slipped my panties down and sat on his lap, wrapping my legs around him.

You know what I find fascinating? Despite what I had just told him. Despite the fact that he knew that you were here, drugged up and bound. He still was aroused by my body. He was hard for me immediately. You boys really can’t help yourselves, can you? I’m not complaining, mind you. The fact that you’re all sluts is useful, but it really is kind of pathetic, don’t you think? Still, I enjoyed him thoroughly.

Now, you know, Darling, after that I seriously considered keeping him as a pet… At least for a little while. Oh, it would have been a complication, but… No, stick with the plan, I reminded myself. After all, with all this money it’s not as if I won’t be able to buy myself a beautiful stable of men. Better to treat him as disposable. Again, like father, like son.

I lean in very close to add the finishing touches. Right about now, I tell you, your darling son is in a small crate being loaded onto an aircraft. He has a very long flight ahead of him, I tell you. With you here and with me moving on with my new life, someone has to take care of sonny boy. So, I explain, I’ve arranged a job for him in a fast growing business overseas. In Southeast Asia, to be exact. It’s something I think he’ll be especially well-suited for. You see, Darling, I’ve made an arrangement to sell him to a brothel in Thailand. 14 hours from now, you big, handsome, strong son will be on his knees learning to suck cock! I got a very good price for him, too.

It’s fascinating to watch a man when he knows he’s been completely defeated. I’ve seen it dozens of times, of course, but it’s still endlessly entertaining. So much of how a man normally carries himself comes from pride. That stupid pride men have in almost any circumstance. Even, for example, when they’re sitting in a mental hospital, held to a chair by leather straps. Even as the woman who put him there casually tells him how she destroyed his life, still that pride is there. When it finally snaps, it’s like watching the air come out of a balloon. I have to admit that I enjoy it immensely.

As the tears stream down your face, I give you a little kiss on the forehand and say my goodbye. On the way out, I stop at the administration office to sign the paperwork indicating that I will no longer be paying for your treatment. It’s sort of tragic, really, since you were perfectly sane when I sent you hear. Now, however, after your treatment and the drugs… And of course the knowledge of what I’ve done to you, you’re quite insane. Such a pity. If only you were able to pay for your own treatment.

Still, since you’re destitute, I’m sure the state will step in. Of course, they won’t keep you in a place quite this luxurious. In a few days they’ll come to take you to the state hospital to join the rest of society’s trash.

If I think of it, I might stop in and give a little cash to one of the orderlies. Perhaps they can arrange a few shock treatments for you.

A Delightful Interlude

As he toiled on his hands and knees, scrubbing the tiled floor, he heard the door open behind him. A draft of cold air from outside chilled his bare flesh. Her booted feet were beside him, the hem of her sable coat at his eye level.

"Up," she commanded with a snap of her fingers. He sprang to his feet immediately, standing at attention but with his eyes cast downward.

She slipped the black leather glove from her right hand and caressed the cool flesh of his bottom.

"Are you doing a good job on my floor, boy?"

"Yes, Mistress," he replied quietly.

"If it isn't perfect you'll be cleaning it with your tongue," she promised.

"Yes, Mistress."

She caressed his bottom for a moment longer and then slapped it with the glove.

"All right, slave. Playtime is over. Down on your knees. Back to work."

He immediately collapsed to his knees and resumed his scrubbing. She walked away, leaving a trail of dirty footprints across the tile.

Boy

I'm a strong proponent of encouraging Women to refer to men as "boy."

We all know the history of using the word to refer to adult men. In Jim Crow America it was an implicit suggestion that a Black man was not a man in the positive senses of that word. Male, certainly, but not a "man."

For Women, it can serve the same purpose for all males without regard to color. By addressing an adult male as "boy" She immediately sets up the expectation that she does not regard him as an equal. It's also better than calling him by his given name because it does not allow him the conceit of believing that he is unique or special. "John" or "Tom" or "Mike" are singular individuals, "Boy" is just a male.

Today's Fiction, Tomorrow's Reality

I can't honestly say that I enjoy Ms. Geena Davis' television show Commander in Chief. I watched one episode and found it dull.

That being said, it does represent the future. Women are assuming more and more positions of authority. With time, we can hope, they will move beyond a "fair" share of power to their rightful supremacy.

I also must admit that I'm making this post because I like the photo. Someday the interns who are on their knees will be male, not female.

Conflicted

Hollywood Madam to open Nevada 'stud farm' - Yahoo! News

I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this. On the surface, it excites me. Certainly the name does. In summary, Ms. Fleiss is planning to open a brothel in Nevada with a male stable (yes, that's how the article refers to it) to service female customers.

Now, I'm not so sure that Ms. Fleiss is the best exemplar of a female supremacist ideology. I'm also fairly convinced that her project will fail miserably since I believe that there are almost no women who have to resort to paying for sex.

That being said, it does seem appropriate to turn the tables.

A New Tribute for Marquesa

COUNTDOWN


"Please... Please Mistress Marquesa... ."

Reclining on her chaise lounge, the Magnificent Mistress Marquesa considered the broken boy who bowed down before her. He was another of her conquests. A vice president at a well known technology firm, he had fallen under her spell after he happened upon her website late one evening so many months ago. Her emerald eyes, her seductive voice... He had fallen prey to her as so many others had before him. Like so many addictions, his had begun slowly. A downloaded recording, a conversation over the telephone, their first meeting... Though he did not know it, his life as he had known it was over the first time he clicked his mouse.

Marquesa considered his fate. He had emptied his bank account months ago. His 401k had followed soon after. Now, the leather attache case beside her contained the cash from the sale of his home. She had instructed him to bring more this month, the tribute she damanded from him if he was to be permitted the honor of her attention. Sadly (for him), the often-mentioned real estate bubble had burst in recent months. This affected Marquesa not at all since her varied holdings were spread around the globe, but for this poor little one it had completed his downfall. He had nothing left to offer her and Marquesa's busy life left no time for those who could not pay their own way. She sighed, knowing that if she saw him again it would probably be on a street corner as he begged for spare change from passersby. Of course, her limousine would not even slow down as it passed.

Before Marquesa could speak the trigger which would deepen his hypnotic state and allow her to complete his programming, erasing his memory of his old life and turning him into a sad little beggar, he looked up at her pleadingly and offered what little he had left:

"Please, Marquesa... Let me sell my car for you. It's the only thing I have left"

Marquesa hesitated. She remembered how proud he had been of his silver BMW roadster convertible. She'd permitted him to take her shopping in it back before his credit cards had been maxed out. It was a beautiful car. His plea moved her. Marquesa knew that her hypnotic power had made him yearn to give her everything. Still, his plea seemed so earnest, so heartfelt that she decided to be merciful.

Marquesa took his chin in her hand, "That won't be necessary, Myyy Pet. You'll be leaving the keys here. I'll permit you to mail me the title."

He began to weep, "Thank you, Marquesa! Oh thank you so much!"

Marquesa shook her head, "Don't thank me yet, boy. You realize, of course, that your failure can't go unpunished."

He nodded, lowering his eyes with appropriate humility, "Please do as you will with me."

Marquesa laughed, "I always do."

She spoke his trigger and immediately his eyes, normally alive and bright, became vacant. He stared unblinkingly forward. She had implanted the trigger long ago in their first hypnotic session by phone and now, after many months, it's effect was stronger than ever. She had him rise and bade him stand with his back in the corner. He complied immediately, standing ramrod straight and staring mindlessly into the distance. Marquesa rose from her seat and looked her prey up and down, deciding what sort of torment she would condemn him to.

"Listen very carefully, My darling. You hear only my voice. Only my voice. You cannot see, you cannot move, you cannot make a sound... There is only my voice... Only my voice."

He was sealed within himself now. Blind, deaf and dumb.

"And now, My Beautiful Little Beggar, I shall count from 10 down to 1. From 10 down to 1. As I count downward you will feel more and more pain throughout your body. More and more pain. It will increase and increase. When I reach 1 the pain will end. It will end. But you will always remember how painful it is to fail me. Failure is pain. Displeasing me is pain. If you understand you may say so now."

"I understand, Mistress," he whispered.

"Excellent! In that case... Ten."

She watched for a reaction from his body and was pleased to see that there was not one. The non-existent pain would surge through his helpless form, but her control would keep him still and silent.

"Nine."

The Glamorous Goddess walked away from her victim, taking the attache case filled with cash. She placed it in the wall safe in her office and then returned to him. He remained as he had been, suffering silently.

"Eight. Seven."

Marquesa detected the slightest of trimmers in his lip. She could only imagine the agony his mind was creating for him. After this, she knew he would never dare to fail her again.

"Six."

Marquesa poured a glass of wine and returned to her chair, stretching her long and lovely legs out before her. She took a magazine from the table beside her and idly thumbed through it, relaxing as her plaything's torture continued.

"Five."

Finishing her wine, Marquesa rose. It was getting late and she had an eventful evening planned. Another of her pets, this one not yet destitute, would be coming by shortly to escort her for an evening on the town. They would take her new BMW she decided. Laughing, Marquesa walked down the hallway toward her bedroom suite to bathe and dress for the evening.

"Four," she called over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

Marquesa relaxed in her bath for a long while, then spent most of an hour selecting her attire for the evening. Eventually, when everything was to her liking, the Beguiling Beauty emerged. He was still there, of course. Perspiration covered his forehead. She lightly ran her hand down his arm and felt him trembling beneath her touch.

"Three... Almost there, Little Boy," she teased.

Marquesa opened her mahogany humidor and selected one of the excellent Cuban cigars inside... A gift from another of her possessions. She hadn't visited Havana in a number of months. Perhaps she would have El Presidente send the jet for her again. Marquesa blew a cloud of thick white smoke into his face. Tears fell from his dry, unblinking eyes. Marquesa leaned close to him and whispered in his ear.

"Two."

Even the Magnificent Mesmerist's powers of control were insufficient to keep him silent as the agony surged through him. A low groan emerged from his lips. Tears of a different sort coursed down his cheeks.

"Hold our your hand," Marquesa ordered. He did so, though his hand trembled. She tapped her cigar, dropping the ashes into his hand. Even as a pauper he still had a few uses.

The doorbell rang. Marquesa took a last puff from her cigar and then extinguished it in his hand. Consumed by the pain within his mind, the burn went unnoticed. Marquesa slipped on her mink and walked to the door. Her escort, a handsome young investment banker, greeted her by kissing her hand. As she was closing the door behind her, Marquesa realized that she had forgotten something.

"Wait here, Gorgeous," she told her date and stepped back inside.

He was still standing in the corner, his burned hand still holding the crushed remnant of her cigar. Marquesa smiled sweetly and kissed him gently on the cheek leaving the print of her lips. She slipped her hand into his pocket and retrieved the keys to her BMW. While her hand was there, she noticed that his trembling hand wasn't the only movement of his otherwise still body. Marquesa laughed delightedly. Even as she tortured him without mercy, a kiss to his cheek was enough to make his body long for her. The irony was so delicious. In fact, it was too delicious for her to permit it to end so quickly.

"Sweet dreams, Toy. Don't wait up."

Save Me A Place At The Altar

Yes, I'm a submissive man!: Worthy of Worship

Yet another link to this worthy blog. I have to admit that I've always had a bit of "a thing" for Ms. Nicole Kidman. This quote from Her only makes it stronger:

"Even when they're in the kitchen making pancakes for their kids. Boyfriends need to understand that if women are worshipped, the world will be a better place."

Ahem... I'd be happy to worship in the Church of Nicole anytime the doors are open.

Yes, I'm a submissive man!: Fashionably Dominant

Yes, I'm a submissive man!: Fashionably Dominant

A fellow submissive blogger addresses the issue of dress. He is of the opinion that his ideal Domme is of the "artsy-fartsy artists in flip flops" type. I have to say that his vision may be more realistic than mine, but I'm stuck on the (you'll pardon the expression) bitch in a business suit.

I snagged the image of Ms. Demi Moore in a suit that he used for his post. I have to agree with him that it's hard to see her as "anything other than a no nonsense dominant woman." Disclosure wasn't the greatest movie in the world, but it left me with a few weeks of being-sexually-harassed-by-Ms. Moore fantasies so it couldn't have been all bad.

My Preferred Position

Just FYI... When I'm describing the position I'm in when She places me in "the box," I'm thinking of exactly the position of the male who is getting to be Her seat in this picture.

This position, absolute darkness, total silence, for the rest of my life.

PS - 11/6/05 - A commenter notes that the creator of this image of wonderful humiliation is an artist known as Sardax. I was unaware of that. As the commenter points out, he does indeed deserve credit.

Remote Control Device 'Controls' Humans - Yahoo! News

Remote Control Device 'Controls' Humans - Yahoo! News

It isn't as sexy as the headline might make you think, but even so. What male sub hasn't had the fantasy of his Owner controlling him with one perfectly manicured fingertip?