the snake pit

I liked to dig holes when I was a kid.  I dug these holes in the back yard, mostly with spoons I lifted from the kitchen drawer.  My grandmother knew this and she often scolded me for it and took them away, but I managed to smuggle them out of the kitchen anyhow.  Because I liked to dig.  Grandma said I might dig all the way to China.  I thought this would be pretty cool and I wanted to make Grandma proud, so I kept digging.

I thought maybe if my friends Andre and Maurice helped me, we could get to China faster.  So I swiped three spoons and we all started digging.  Our excavation site was beneath an ancient, gnarled cherry tree, on the right side of the swing set.  The tree helped shield us from my grandmother’s view from the kitchen window.  That was important, because she definitely would have halted our ambitious project.

Digging is hard and China is far.  We got tired of digging after a while, though we had a pretty impressive hole by that time.  Nearly two feet deep, mostly dug with our hands (it turns out spoons aren’t the most effective digging tools).  So we decided to take a break to investigate and perhaps raid a nest of garter snakes.  A snake break.

Right by the fence, under the lilac bushes, we found them.  Wriggling and disappearing.  Andre and I managed to grab a few of them.  I felt brave and thrilled and sort of amazed at myself for handling snakes.  Even Maurice didn’t want to touch them.

Then the three of us debated what we should do with the snakes.  I said we ought to put them in the hole we had dug, because in the movies that’s how you trap bears and bad guys.  In a snake pit.  I said maybe we could catch a bear (I was six).  So we put our snakes in the hole.  I didn’t think we had enough so I went off and wrangled a few more.  We put sticks and branches across the hole to cover it up, then we went to the picnic table and had some Kool Aid and waited for a bear to wander into our snake pit.  That is, until Grandma came out to tell me it was time for my bath, and it was time for Andre and Maurice to go home.

I thought maybe in the morning, I’d wake up to find a bear in my snake pit.

I woke up excited enough because it was Saturday.  I forgot to check my bear trap, because I was engrossed in Bugs Bunny cartoons and I had to eat two whole bowls of cereal in order for my grandmother to consider letting me have the prize in the cereal box.  It was a green magic marker.  I needed it.  Grandma flatly refused to buy me a set of magic markers, because of her suspicion that I would “only make a mess with them”.  I certainly would not.  I had no plans to make a mess.  I only wanted to draw a little picture, behind my bedroom door.  I wanted to try to draw a picture of Lucky, the cartoon leprechaun from the Lucky Charms commercial.  How fortuitous that the marker was green!  Stealthily, so as to escape my grandmother’s watchful eye, I skulked back to my room with my hard won green magic marker.  Once there, I began a bold interpretive drawing of Lucky.  I drew him about my own size, with a green hat and green shamrocks all around him.  I wore the tip of my magic marker down to a nub and pretty much used up all the pigment but overall I was pretty satisfied with my work.  Make a mess, indeed.

I was standing there admiring my work when I heard my grandmother yell my name from what sounded like the back yard.

I ran outside.  I still wasn’t thinking of my snake pit (I had forgotten about that…I was six).  I was thinking maybe Grandma was going to let me play in the sprinkler.

My grandfather was on the ground by my snake pit, holding his ankle and swearing.  I knew these words.  I wrote one of them on the wall behind my bed once.  I saw the crushed sticks and the gaping hole of the snake pit next to my grandfather.  Excitedly I demanded: “Did my snake pit catch a bear?  Or a rabbit?”

Alas, no.  It caught my grandfather.  He broke his ankle.  I caught hell for that and for my grandmother’s missing spoons.  I think they may have been in the pit with the snakes.  We never found out because the snakes were apparently dead, and my grandfather decided to fill in the hole and bury them there.  I mean…work smarter, not harder, right?

Anyway, I can advise you that snake pits aren’t the best way to catch bears, unsupervised children shouldn’t be given magic markers, and China is far.

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some of my paintings

When I’m not doing kinky stuff or writing or taking pictures, sometimes I paint.

 

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette3

 

watercolor, self portraitdesiree1

 

acrylic, the Tenth Doctor995486_583871205003913_973508974_n

 

watercolor, Tarlatarla

 

acrylic portrait of Onyxonyx2

 

acrylic painting of Onyxonyx

 

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette4

 

Acrylic painting: Cuntcunt

 

watercolor painting: slave girlslavegirl

 

watercolor painting: Malcolm X15109342_1269175719806788_6994362499761114760_n

 

watercolor painting: Obamawatercolor7

 

watercolor painting: menstrual periodperiod

 

watercolor painting: Black Power, back pocketblackpower

 

Acrylic painting, Freddie Mercuryfreddie

 

acrylic painting, self portraitdesiree

 

watercolor painting, self portraitwatercolor3

 

watercolor painting, the Golden Girlsgoldengirls

 

watercolor painting, Colin Kaepernickcolin

 

acrylic painting, Blood Of My Cuntry (protest art)bloodofmycuntry

 

 

 

“harder” isn’t always better

My colleagues and I produce and host a weekly *BDSM event in a nightclub.  Basically, people sign up and tip us to bind them to a chain link fence and use the whips, paddles, and floggers on them.  Anyway, at least once a night there’s someone who decides to use the opportunity for a destruction test.  Their goal?  To prove they’re a bigger badass than Chuck Norris, at the cost of their flesh.

…I’m not invested in how hard you can take it.  Bragging to me about something like that is sort of like bragging about how big your penis is, for several reasons:

  1. I don’t care.
  2. you’re lying.
  3. I don’t care.
  4. **it’s not the point.
  5. still don’t care
  6. ***pain is subjective and highly personal to the individual.
  7. surprise, surprise: the ones who brag at length about how hard they can take it are, almost universally and without exception, the ones who tap out during the warm up phase.

It’s sort of like how some people like really spicy food and others prefer sweet or savory or salty or just nuances of spice.  Pain is something each individual is going to receive, interpret, and process differently.  Therefore, I really don’t care how hard you can take it.  I’m not going to be impressed.  Also, you’re probably being stupid if you’re trying to impress me.  I’ve done this for a long time and you can rest easy in the knowledge that I can dish out far more than you can take.  I don’t feel the need to brag about it, because being able to dish it out isn’t a contest, and neither is being able to take it.

It can actually be pretty damned irresponsible. Say for instance:

-you’re at the bar, and:
-you’ve had a few, which means:
-you aren’t feeling pain as acutely as you would if you were sober, so:
-you are actually prone to HARM and INJURY, because:
-you don’t have the best read on the situation due to drinks consumed.

So?  There’s a big, huge difference between hurting someone and harming someone.  I’ll hurt you all you want, at my discretion and with your consent of course.  But I will not deliberately harm you.  That is why: if you are tipsy and you ask me to play with you, I’m going to use my judgment and exercise my own discretion, and completely ignore your chest thumping attempts to impress me with how hard you can take it.

Featured image by PJ Weingart

* Bondage A Go Go at Exit nightclub in Chicago.  If you have never been, or if it’s been a while, here is a handy primer on the event:  https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/bondage-a-go-go/

**the point isn’t how much pain you can take.  The point is being able to let go, exhale, and trust another person with your physical well being.  The point is to submit and receive.  The point is to experience something you’ve never done before.  The point is to feel a little more alive for a few minutes.

***If you NEED to be hurt, like if you need a serious dose of a good beat down because that IS your endorphin rush, or because you find it otherwise enjoyable or therapeutic, that’s fine.  You need to express that like an adult, instead of bragging about how hard you can take it between swigs of beer.

***ALSO*** … if you insist “harder, harder” just for the sake of being The Guy Who Can Take It Hardest, that means your energy is being spent to brace yourself for the next blow…rather than settling into a good mental head space and getting any benefit from the situation.  I don’t need “proof” of anything.  It’s pretty silly.  Relax and let go of the idea that you have to prove anything, and try to have fun. 

 

 

prospective servant: #6

12:30 PM: There is a submissive shirtless man on my floor right now. As he is concerned about his privacy, we can not take photos, but he really likes the idea of me writing about it in my blog.  He claims he has read everything I have ever written.  Oh goody.  I love meeting my fans.

update 12:36 PM: I stuffed his own underwear in his mouth for a gag. At least, they are the underwear he was wearing when he got here.  I recognize them.  They’re from Target.  I have a pair just like them in a different color.  All the same I chastised him for being cheap and tacky.  Mistress Sheila slapped a piece of hot pink duct tape across his mouth so he can’t spit out his gag.  He is our foot stool today.  We may also make him wash up the dishes and go get us Chinese food.

update 12:44 PM: I just found his stash.  It fell out of his pocket when I moved his messy pile of unfolded clothing.  Tsk, tsk. Contraband on my premises?  Looks like I’ll have to confiscate this.

update 12:57 PM: now I have tied a cord around his private parts, and attached the other end of said cord to the door knob.  Experiment to follow.  This should be interesting.  I’ll let you know.

update 1:01 PM: he cried about it
(I consider this a positive result)

update 1:11 PM: since he is a worthless manbaby who cries too much, Mistress Sheila decided he could clean the shower.  She made him put on a little kid’s t-shirt with duckies printed on it.  And a pair of plastic training pants.  And his own crocs (yes, he actually wore crocs).  If he doesn’t clean the shower to her satisfaction she is threatening to make him deal with me, so it looks like I might have to work again in a minute here.

update 1:17 PM: well, it didn’t take long for him to prove his incompetence.  Now I have to decide what to use to beat his ass.  I am leaning toward a hair brush.  Or a grill brush.

update 1:21 PM: I decided to make him eat some of the turtle food instead.  It’s dried bugs and worms.  He has to eat as much as I give him.  Mistress Sheila just yanked off his duct tape gag.  Now she is explaining to him that “owie owie owie owie OW OW OW” is not a safe word.

update 1:31 PM: all finished with the bugs and worms.  He kept giving me reproachful looks that were calculated to elicit my pity.  Little does he know I have none.  I am indeed a heartless wench.  Suffer, fool! Ha ha! Ha!

update 1:43 PM: We just sent him to get us Chinese food.  I called in the order myself.  If he fucks this up he’s gonna get it.  The Chinese restaurant is a block away.  I gave him a time limit of ten minutes, promising that if he didn’t return in the allotted time he would feel the effects of the grill brush after all.

update 1:50 PM: WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT EXTRA SWEET AND SOUR SAUCE

update 1:57 PM: Mistress Sheila says I have obviously not beaten him hard enough and this is why he’s pretty much useless.

update 2:09 PM: I wouldn’t piss Mistress Sheila off if I were you

update 2:24 PM: he is gone.  I made him stuff his cheap tacky Target panties up his b-hole before he left.  That will give him something to think about on the train ride home.

the shower chronicles

The Spider

August 1, 2014

While in the shower about 15 minutes ago, I began feeling uneasy and anxious and couldn’t quite pin down why.  Until I glanced to my left and saw a spider in the shower stall with me. His body was about the size of an M&M candy, and his legs about .5-.75″ long, and he was grayish brown and hairy and horrifying, and he was staring me down. Like he was telling me this shower stall ain’t big enough for the two of us. Ordinarily I would have screamed my fool head off, and the blood-curdling utterance would have brought aid from the next room (or possibly the next county). I don’t know why I didn’t this time. Probably because I had shampoo in my hair, and it was already beginning to drip into my eyes a little. That’s just what my opponent was hoping for: blind me with shampoo, then attack. Not today, my friends. I met his stare with a snarl, and bonked him with my shampoo bottle, and that was that. Though wet and dripping, I streaked to the bathroom and grabbed a tissue, which I used to dispose of the bulk of the forensic evidence. The trace evidence was rinsed down the drain. Moral of the story: I prefer to shower in privacy, thank you very much. Also, I may consider taking up cage fighting.

The Bug

June 10 2017

Say you’re on your way to the shower.  You’re wearing a pair of boxer shorts and tank top, getting your shit sorted, trying to find your body wash, just minding your own business… when suddenly you feel a BUG on you. Like, it’s skittling across your lower back. Above the waistband of your boxers, below the hem of your (admittedly too short) tank top. A bug! You might react by jumping up and down and waving your hands and shrieking “ack a bug is on me a bug is on me A BUG IS ON ME HALP”… and your partner might come running to the bathroom to try to helpfully locate the vermin because they know there will be no peace until the villainous pest is captured…then you realize there is no bug, it’s just your stupid hair tickling the exposed flesh between the hem of your tank top and the waistband of your boxer shorts.

It could happen. Ok, so it happened.

The Mouse

August 20, 2017

Ok, story time.

I keep a small hairbrush in the shower, which I use to gently work conditioner through to the ends of my thick, long hair. It works quite well, except that I tend to be a lazy fuck about cleaning it, so it often has a sizable wad of hair tangled among the bristles.

So I’m in the shower after having just dyed my roots (red). The tile beneath my feet looked like a murder scene. I was making a hell of a mess. Beauty is pain (and a pain in the ass). After the shampoo, the conditioner. I tore the after color treatment open with my teeth (yes, I know I’m not supposed to do that) and began applying it to my hair, beginning at the ends.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone in the shower.

There was a fucking mouse in the shower with me.

No, listen: there was a fucking mouse in the shower with me, soaking up my red hair dye, sitting halfway on my foot like he had a right to be there.

There was a FUCKING MOUSE in the shower with me and I nearly had a heart attack and I freaked out and started kicking my foot to rid myself of the foul vermin. I was too stunned to scream, but I think I was squeaking “oh shit oh shit oh fuck fuck fuck fuck” or something equally profound. A FUCKING MOUSE.

My frantic kicking did the trick. The mouse let go of my foot and went “splat” against the shower wall, where it slid down the tile wall into a little pile on the floor, bleeding red. Either blood or dye, I didn’t give a fuck. The nerve of that little fucker, scaring me like that. I half cowered as I knelt to inspect the carcass.

It took me that long to realize what you, gentle reader, probably already know. It wasn’t a fucking mouse. It was a big wad of my hair, finally disentangled from the sparse bristles of my hair brush. An indictment of my lazy habit of letting it accumulate.

I flushed it down the toilet and told myself “lesson learned” but we all know I didn’t learn shit.

I will probably die in a really stupid, embarrassing way.

The Underwear

January 16, 2018

And now, another installment of “I’m a grown up”:

I take long showers. Here’s how it goes. First of all, this time I took my underwear in there because I’m on my period and I wanted to wash them out because I am vain enough to want to keep my $5 underwear from Target nice. After I washed and rinsed them, I hung them on the shower knob. Actually it’s more handle shaped than knob shaped, but it controls the water temperature and it’s handy for hanging your undies or your washcloth.

Then I sang a couple of songs. I sang “Girl from Ipanema” and “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant” while I washed my hair. After shampooing, I worked the conditioner in and let it sit while shaving my legs.

I used a new razor because I’m worth it.

Then I scrubbed with scented body wash.

I’d date me.

After shampooing, shaving, and scrubbing, I rinsed the conditioner out and turned the water off. Then, I flipped my hair forward to gather it and wring it out. Are you with me so far? Ok, then you know that handle shaped shower control I described? Yeah, that’s where my hair got caught as it was being flipped forward.

Uh. Oops.

So I tried to untangle it, but accidentally turned the water on and it was icy cold so I shrieked and quickly turned it again and it nearly scalded me so I said “FUCK” and turned it again, and after a few more accidental extreme temperatures, I managed to get it turned off and finally disentangled my hair from the fixture. It was still dripping wet, but I was done fucking around in the shower so I got out and wrung my sopping mane out over the sink.

That’s when I noticed that my underwear was tangled in my hair. Remember my underwear? My period stained underwear that I took into the shower to rinse out, then hung on the handle? I guess when my hair got caught on the handle, my underwear got gnarled up in the mess.

I finally liberated my underwear from my hair. I wrung the water out of those too. Then I hung them over the bondage rack to dry. They dripped dry before my hair did.

I need to figure out a new “end of shower” program.

Like the Corvair, I am unsafe at any speed.

The Thing From The Matrix

July 15 2018

Ok. So I just got out of the shower, and my skin is still crawling.

I had just applied conditioner to my hair when I noticed what looked like a little tangled pile on the tile floor. Figuring it was just a few snarled strands of my own hair, I dismissed it and began shaving my legs. I was singing Limelight, enjoying myself and minding my own business.

THAT’S WHEN IT CRAWLED ACROSS MY FOOT.

THE LITTLE TANGLED PILE CRAWLED RIGHT ACROSS MY FOOT. IT HAD ABOUT TEN MILLION LEGS (seriously, I felt the patter of each individual scampering foot).

I howled in terror, sprang from the shower, still dripping, and began screaming for J. They came quickly, asked me what was wrong. I told them about the many legged nightmare monster. I told them it looked like some shit straight out of the Matrix or something. I described the approximate location where I had last seen it. They went in and found the villain, pronounced it “centipede”, and vanquished it in true heroic style…then told me it was just a bug. I was like “nuh uh, that mother fucker came from hell”. They inspected the shower to make sure it was safe for me to go back in there, then reiterated that it was “just a bug” on their way out of the bathroom. I didn’t care. Thankfully J was good enough to wait outside the bathroom until I finished …just in case.

If the shower were not newly equipped with a non-slip mat, this would have been the end and you would be hearing about it at my eulogy. I will likely meet my end in a humiliating and improbable way.

 

serving women (guest writer)

Mistress Desiree has been encouraging me to write in a journal or even start a blog of my own. I’m not sure I’m ready for my own blog, but Mistress gave me permission to write an entry in Her blog.  So allow me to introduce myself: I am slave r, in service of the Ladies of House Continuum.

 

I found the Continuum as a client, a little more than two years ago.  I was brand new to BDSM and had no thoughts of service, I basically just wanted to indulge in my fetish.  Mistress Desiree was kind enough to allow me to worship Her feet.  That’s what my first few sessions were like.  She was there for my benefit.

 

Sometimes we talked during these sessions.  We talked about a lot of stuff.  Art, politics, music.  She also listened to my problems a lot.  As I got to know Mistress Desiree she introduced me to several of the other Ladies over the course of about a year.  I had only a marginal awareness of “other things” that happened at the dungeon, and admittedly a lot of these “other things” seemed sort of scary to me.  Leather hoods and ball gags and bondage and whips?  I wasn’t sure it was for me.  But, eventually my curiosity prevailed.  I asked Mistress about the “other stuff” and she told me that if I wanted to expand and experiment, we could go slowly, at a pace that was comfortable for me.  This approach broke the stereotype I was stuck on: I figured that once given the go-ahead to break out the whips and chains, it would be a balls to the wall, all or nothing proposition.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

What surprised me the most is that I didn’t know how selfish and wrong headed I was until I put down my need to be in control.  I thought of myself as one of the good guys.  I thought I had my shit together.  In reality I didn’t think much at all.  I didn’t have to.  I was the “in charge” guy at work, but mostly that meant that I had a bunch of people doing most of the work for me to rubber stamp.  Life demanded little of me other than to show up.  It’s funny how when you’re empty, you don’t really notice it until you’re filled with something.  What I was filled with was a desire to know more, a desire to experience more.  A need to be challenged.  A yearning to serve.

 

Acknowledging the need to serve marked a turning point for me.  After another month or two of soul searching, I had a conversation with Mistress Desiree.  I asked Her to give me service opportunities.  It took a while to gain Her trust, and the trust of the other Ladies.  That’s because they hear from several people like me every week: men who claim their undying devotion, begging to be allowed to be their “house slave” with no idea what that would entail, and a lot of false ideas about what the Mistresses lives are like.  It’s probably nothing like you think.  It’s not a constant kink fest.  When I first asked Mistress Desiree to let me serve in a more meaningful, hands on way, the first thing she told me to do was make a $100 donation to Planned Parenthood.  Now, I do this monthly.  It’s not much but think what it would mean if everyone who was able to do so did the same.  As far as my hands on duties, I do some house work.  Not in a maid’s uniform, nor in a leather harness.  I wear my jeans and a t shirt for most of my work.  Some days I’m asked to help prepare the playroom for a session, or to help clean up afterward.  I’m no gourmet, but I make a mean grilled cheese so sometimes I whip up lunch for the Mistresses on duty.  I might be dispatched to pick up a six pack or return a library book.  I pay a modest tribute for the privilege of serving them, and I sleep better knowing their light bill is paid and they have a few little luxuries and a bit more free time.

 

I’m not a renaissance man.  I’m just an ordinary guy.  Being around these women has been eye opening for me.  They work hard.  They put their lives and their energy into what they do, and they put up with a lot of guys who are a lot like me, or at least a lot like I used to be.  It used to be easy for me to take women and the work they do for granted.  The default notion is that women are supposed to be there for men’s benefit.  Even and especially with those of us who think we’re the “good guys”.  The idea that you’re one of the good ones is a huge blind spot.  If you think you’re a good guy, I want to talk to the women in your life and see what they have to say on the matter.

 

Being a slave to a house of women isn’t for everyone.  I need to say that again.  Being a slave to a house of women isn’t for everyone.  For one thing, fuck you and your ego.  As a man I had no idea how many small acts women do to pave my way and make my life easier.  It’s staggering and humbling and it makes me shake my head and wonder why they do it.  They’re smarter than us.  They are biologically designed to withstand more pain than men, even to outlive men.  If enough women decided to rise up they could really throw a monkey wrench in the patriarchy.  A lot of men are afraid of that very thing.  I have to think that the men who are afraid of having the tables turned are probably the ones who don’t treat women very well.  I believe that if women were in charge, there would be more solutions than problems, more peace and less conflict.  Watch the women in your own life some time.  The women you know at work, or the women you socialize with.  Count how many times men talk over them.  Notice how many times men assume credit for their ideas.  Pay attention to how many times women clean up men’s messes.  And yet women continue to move the world, one small victory at a time.  Women do a lot of the unpaid dirty work in our society and they do this work without demanding accolades, often in high heels.  I’m sure you know the name of the first man who walked on the moon.  Do you know the name of the woman who sent him there?  I do.  Margaret Hamilton.  My Mistress taught me that.  Of course you could learn this by just doing a Google search.  The point is it never occurred to me to even wonder about it.

 

For those of you who think I must be a pussy whipped loser who has to pay women for their time and attention: HA.  That’s funny.  First, I don’t care what you think.  Second, you can’t be pussy whipped when it’s not about pussy.  This is about using what I have to serve a few women who happen to have given me a lot and taught me a lot.  Third, these women listen to my bullshit and deal with my obnoxious man habits and they didn’t yell at me that one time I forgot to put the seat down, so frankly I think I’m probably not paying them enough.  They’d be doing better without me than I’d be doing without them.

 

If you think you have the stones to be a slave, here’s your challenge.  Do something for the women you know.  Hell, do something for just one woman.  Pick up her lunch tab for the week.  Buy her a Starbucks gift card for a month’s worth of coffee.  You don’t even have to know her.  Walk into the office at Jiffy Lube and anonymously pay for some woman’s oil change.   Do these things without sliding into her DMs or trying to get laid.  Do it without strutting and crowing about what a great guy you are.  We all know you’re a great guy, but maybe women are sick of giving you the constant validation.  Just do something for a woman, any woman, and see how it makes you feel.  Do something for a woman who doesn’t fit your definition of attractive.  If you can handle serving without the need for attention and reward, maybe you have it in you to be a slave.  If you can serve a woman without feeling diminished or emasculated, that’s another good sign.  If you do a few modest acts of service, you’ll become invested.  You’ll begin to see things you can’t unsee, like the way men often have a tendency to just bulldoze over everything with their macho manliness, in spite of what women are trying to accomplish.  It might make you mad.  That’s good.  Do more to serve women.  It will change you.

 

-slave r

 

 

it was an accident

“There are no mistakes.  Only happy accidents.” -Bob Ross

 

Once a month, sometimes twice, *Junior comes to visit me.   I have trained him to follow a protocol upon arrival: first, he undresses quickly and silently.  Then he silences his phone and folds his clothing.  Finally he puts on a pair of women’s panties that he carries in his briefcase.  They’re pale pink, with a floral print.  The waistband and leg holes are trimmed with ivory lace.

Junior likes it when I treat him like crap.  I don’t mind obliging him.      Today I was feeling feisty and sadistic and Junior, being somewhat of a bonehead, never fails to inspire my most sadistic tendencies.  In fact before he even arrived, I had my mind made up that today was going to be especially hard for him.  Not that I had anything specific in mind, but I was certain that Junior would hand me a gift wrapped excuse to hand him his ass.

First things first, I made him stand for inspection.  Right away, I could see the reason for the punishment I would mete out: Junior’s balls were squishing out of the leg of his panties.  I smacked them with a crop.  He made a squeaking yelp sound.   “Stuff them in unless you want to lose them,” I told him.  He did as told.

“Do you think I want to see your sloppy balls hanging out of your knickers?” I demanded.  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No ma’am, but it was an accident.  I didn’t mean to.”

“An accident?” I smacked his groin with the riding crop.  He moved his hands to protect himself, but I wasn’t having any of that.  I seized his arm and abruptly dragged him to the St. Andrew’s cross.  I fastened the leather cuffs around his wrists.

“You’re gonna get it today, Junior.  You’ve been begging for it for a long time and today I’m going to give it to you.” It wasn’t an empty threat.  I was ready to dig in and ruin his day.

The panties left the lower portions of his buttocks exposed.  Two pasty white hemispheres of butt meat, sparsely populated with a few hairs.  I smacked his left cheek just to watch it jiggle.   Then I pulled his panties down, dragging them down his legs until they rested around his ankles.

Junior has a bad habit of clenching his ass on impact.  This makes it hurt worse.  I have certainly told him this, and I have advised and admonished him to avoid clenching.  He never absorbed these lessons, and now his butt paid the price as it absorbed the impact of a medium sized, solid wooden paddle.

He groaned and braced his upper body against the cross.  Rather than wasting the moment, I swung the paddle again, landing a good one squarely across his butt.  He cried out and arched backward.

“Oh, does it hurt?  Sorry, Junior.  It was an accident.” I used a rope to bind his upper body to the cross, passing it around his waist and anchoring it to lead screws on either side. Then, I used leather straps to secure his thighs to the lower portion of the cross.   He struggled just enough to test his newly imposed restriction.   I was satisfied.  This would do.

Of all the toys I use for discipline, there is a leather strap that I love.  It’s a dense piece of hide, about 14 inches long and nearly two inches wide.  It’s smooth as glass from years of use.  It slices through the air with a low hiss.  It hits the skin with a thick, satisfying slap.  That sound is one of the things I love about it.  It’s a rich, skin on skin thud.

It also leaves beautiful marks.

I grasped Junior’s earlobe and inclined his head to his right side, where I stood with strap in hand.  “See this?” I asked, holding it up for him to see.  He winced, gulped, and nodded.  “I’m gonna use it on your ass in a minute.  You probably won’t like it.  I don’t really care.  Do you understand?”  Junior nodded.

I took a step backward, lined up my aim, and swung the strap forward.  It sailed and landed on Junior’s in a straight line across the middle of his buttocks.  I landed another lash directly below it.  Two perfectly horizontal lines began to redden.  I ran my fingertips over my handiwork.  Junior was biting his lip to keep from making noise.  Screw that.  I wanted to hear him.  That way I know he appreciates my efforts.

Clearly, it was time to cut to the chase.

I attached a collar to Junior’s neck, then untied the ropes, and liberated him from the straps and cuffs.  Clenching the back of his collar, I forced him to the floor in front of the cross.  He lay there sprawled on his stomach.  I kicked his thigh.  “Roll over.  On your back.  Now!”  I punctuated this command with another kick.  Junior scrambled to obey.

Luckily the toy drawers were in easy reach.  I found a box of spring loaded clothespins.  Perfect.

I pried Junior’s thighs apart and put on latex gloves before attaching the clothespins to the skin of his scrotum, one by one.  I took my time, drawing it out, tugging and twisting the clothespins to maximize the torment.  Just a tiny, nearly transparent nip of skin.  That’s all that was needed.  It hurts more that way.  Also it makes it easier to apply more clothespins.  More clothespins = a more painful experience for Junior.

He made so much noise, you’d think I was sawing his leg off.  What a baby.

“I’m so sorry, Junior!  It’s an accident!” I gleefully rubbed it in, enjoying his moans of pain.  They paired well with the contorted grimace.  I used the riding crop to target individual clothespins.  Just the slightest tap with the crop caused him to writhe in agony.  It was an entertaining spectacle, but I was ready to raise the stakes.

“You lie there and keep still.  I need to get something.” I peeled off the gloves and went back to the toy drawer where I found a drip candle, a book of matches, a roll of duck tape and a pair of nipple clamps.  I put these things on the floor between Junior’s splayed thighs.  Then I dragged the heavy wooden spanking bench to where I wanted it, which was about a foot away from Junior’s head.  I again fastened leather cuffs to his wrists.  Then I clipped the cuffs to an eye bolt  near the base of the spanking bench.  Good.  Now his hands were out of the way.

First, the nipple clamps.  I attached these and tightened the adjustment screws.  I didn’t want to draw blood, but I did want to make him suffer, so I tightened them with a few careful adjustments.

Next, I ripped off a few strips of duct tape.  I slapped one of them across his mouth.  Not because it would dampen his screams (well, not much), but because it would hurt when I yanked it off.   Then I taped his cock to his stomach just to get it out of the way.

I stationed myself between Junior’s legs once more.   His face was flushed.  His arms tensed against the restraints.   The steel jaw clamps bit into his nipples.  His stomach rose and fell with his inhalations and exhalations.

I put on another pair of gloves and lit my candle with a match.  The matchbook came from a diner that probably closed twenty years ago.  They probably had a hot meatloaf sandwich on the menu and a waitress named Flo or Vera or who knows.  I wondered if they wore support stockings and called patrons “hun”.  I wondered what they’d think if they knew what I was about to do to Junior.

The clothespins were still in place.  Twelve in all.  I held the candle about twelve inches above them, tilting it slightly so the wax could flow as it melted.

The first drop dripped down the side of a clothespin, so it was practically cool by the time it hit his scrotum.  The next drop was a different story.  I held the candle upright to let a little melted wax accumulate.  It hit his skin and poured over his balls in a tiny clear rivulet, hardening almost instantly.  Junior screamed.  He turned almost purple.  His body twisted in a rigid, jerking motion.  His arms tightened and veins bulged out from his neck.  His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched.  I enjoyed watching this.  Meanwhile, the wax was melting and accumulating, so I let it flow again.  It rolled over his stretched skin, matting his pubic hair as it solidified.  Junior thrashed and struggled but he was unable to avoid the wax.  “Oh my, Junior!  I hope you’re ok!  I’m having an accident!”  I giggled as I poured the melted wax.  His back and ass lifted off the floor.  Sweat rolled off his forehead.  He made a muffled, whiny grunting sound from behind the duct tape.  I yanked the clothespins off one at a time.  Junior rolled from side to side, bucking and twisting and screaming.  This made it a bit more difficult to apply the wax accurately, but I managed about a 90% success rate, which is pretty impressive, considering.  Finally I snuffed the candle out on his stomach.  He yelped a little bit.  “Do you whine about everything?   Do you have any pride or self respect at all?”  I removed the clamps from his nipples.  The pain set in about 5 seconds later.  Junior straightened like a plank and managed to stifle his cries somewhat.  It sounded like a growl.  In one swift motion, I tore the duct tape from his mouth, revealing his bared, clenched teeth and red raw skin.  Finally I liberated him from the wrist restraints.  I figured he might want to be the one to remove the duct tape from his cock and the wax from his balls.  I was correct on both counts.  It was Junior’s wish to perform these delicate procedures in the comfort and privacy of his own home.  I wonder how he managed.

I hope it hurt.

to a worthy slave

“The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, 

That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.”

~Walt Whitman, “I Sing The Body Electric

I want you to know I’m proud of you.  I’m impressed with the strides you have made to live happily and in the freedom of self acceptance.  Through other media I’ve seen you blossom in submission.  It seems like you’re coming out of your shell and enjoying yourself a bit.  This is good.

You have what people sometimes refer to as “inner strength”.  It sounds contrite and vague but I can spell it out more specifically for you: I have seen your will peak during the harshest punishments I’ve subjected you to.  I’ve seen you take that last deep breath to steel yourself in anticipation of blows that would knock most people to their knees.  I’ve watched you savor the pain delivered, marking it as evidence that you can withstand.

I know you’ve also cursed your body for the trouble it has given you.

I am not here to judge you.  My role to encourage your growth in submission.  Simply put, slander against your own body can’t be a healthy part of that.

When I look at your body, I marvel at the amount of physical and mental work you invest in order to be active, and I am humbled by the efforts you make.  When I look at your body, I see a wonderfully made person who is capable of experiencing and appreciating the full range of sensations.  I watch how intensely you labor to follow my physical instructions to the letter.  You are careful to maintain the prescribed positions and postures as far as you as you are able, requiring focus and toil beyond what I can imagine.   I admire and honor this effort as I view it as part of your offering to me.   There’s nothing wrong with your body as I see it.  I think it does it’s job wonderfully.  It houses your mind and spirit and gives you the capacity to enjoy life.  It endures and heals and thrives.  It bears testament to your physical occupation of the world.  Yes, I think it’s a good body.

I want you to revel in the sensations your body is capable of experiencing.  I want you to think kindly and speak well of your physical self.  I want you to seek new experiences and sensations.  I want you to know and trust and love your body.

This is the body you have been assigned in this life.  It’s the same body you offer me for use.  I find it acceptable and worth celebrating.  I will not hear you disparaging it or discounting it’s wonderful potential.

You’re good enough, and you will neither stand nor kneel ashamed before me.