fairy stories

“Everything’s a story – You are a story -I am a story.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

 

Among my grandfather’s gifts, he was a creative, generous story teller.  He could spin the simplest things into colorful narratives, holding me in rapt attention.  That’s a neat trick, when you have to entertain a small child.  His gift of story telling instilled in me a lifelong love of a good tale.  Any story well told is a gift to the listener.

 

Of all the legends he told me when I was little, I loved the fairy stories the best.

 

According to my grandfather, a family of fairies lived in our house, in the walls or under the sink or floorboards.  And just like little mice, they were active after everyone was asleep.  Over many nights of bedtime narratives, he familiarized me with their habits and preferences.  There was a Grandma fairy, who wore dresses and aprons and stood about five inches tall.  Often he re purposed my dollhouse furniture to stage evidence of her nocturnal activity: he’d put the little rocking chair on the bay window ledge, with a tiny ball of yarn and two toothpick knitting needles.  Grandma fairy, he explained, was knitting mittens and watching the snow fall.

 

There was of course a Grandpa fairy, too.  It seemed Grandpa fairy liked to sit in the kitchen with my grandfather, while I slept.  My grandfather put a few drops of beer in my grandmother’s thimble and left it next to some rye bread and cheese crumbs and told me he was teaching the Grandpa fairy to play cribbage.  Grandpa Fairy went to work, just like my own grandfather.  He taught at the Fairy School, and had all sorts of fairy pupils.  Fae children, just like me except very tiny.  The things they learned at the Fairy School were the same things I might learn when I started school: reading, math, spelling.  Sometimes I found their homework lessons on tiny slips of paper.

 

On warm nights, the fairies played outside.  Grandpa set up my dollhouse croquet set under the lilac bushes, placing the chairs and tea service nearby.  He even added a few crumbs to make the scene more convincing.   The fairies had a tea party because the moon was full.   This is where they danced, on these tiny scattered lilac petals.   Now and then, the fairies could get up to mischief: Grandpa swore they were helping themselves to his tomatoes.   “Go see if you can find any more evidence,” he told me.  “I don’t want them swiping my cucumbers.”  I asked why not?  Didn’t we have enough cucumbers?  “Well,” he reasoned, “if they swipe too many cucumbers, Grandma won’t be able to make pickles.  And you know how you love pickles.”  Enough said.  I scouted the remainder of the garden, determined to protect the cucumber harvest.  Uh huh, just as Grandpa had suggested, there were tiny footprints in the mud near the cucumbers.  I busied myself by making a tiny “keep out” sign, which I glued to a popsicle stick and planted in the dirt where the fairies couldn’t miss it.

 

Grandpa encouraged me to leave offerings for our tiny visitors.  I suggested leaving them the parts of my dinner that I didn’t want, but he vetoed that and said they’d rather have some of the cake we were having for dessert.  I reluctantly parted with some, which I’m pretty sure he ate.  That’s ok, I’m not mad about it.  Bread for the story teller.  I’d part with a lot of cake to hear him tell another story.

 

I never really believed in fairies, but the chronicles enchanted me and I understood the unspoken covenant: skepticism is anathema to the spirit of the story.  I knew my part.

 

His fables stayed with me and continue to enrich my life and inspire me.  Once in a while I pay tribute to him by using rocks, acorns, leaves, twigs, and other such findings to make fairy circles at the park.  My hope is that a child will find it and a story will be told.

behavior correction

“The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly, is to fill the world with fools.”
Ritter von Leopold Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs

 

A Dominant is many things, among these a teacher.  Whether by design or default, it is often a big part of the role.  Our submissives are the default students.  Sometimes, they’re slow learners, like *Brent.   This gentleman has been coming to play with me for a few months.  He makes a lot of lofty claims about how he wants to be trained as a slave.  He talks a big game about wanting to be useful to me and to the other Mistresses of our house, but he is careless and inattentive to instructions.  These are not desirable qualities in a slave, or anyone else, really.  When he showed up late for today’s training session I decided he was gonna learn, one way or another.

“I explicitly told you that you were to arrive precisely on time, Brent.  Would you like to explain to me why you are ten minutes late?”

Brent was on his knees in front of my throne.  He gave a casual, half hearted shrug.  “I don’t know.  Traffic I guess?  It was only ten minutes.”

“Only ten minutes?  Ok, since that’s how you feel about it, our time together will be cut ten minutes short today.”

“Heeeey,” Brent drawled.  “That’s not fair.  Ten minutes isn’t a big deal.  Why does it have to come out of my time?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t my fault you were late, Brent.  I was here and ready to go, right on time.  But since you claim ten minutes isn’t a big deal to you, then you shouldn’t mind absorbing the penalty.  Unless you were rescuing a lady who was tied to some railroad tracks, you’re eating the ten minutes.  Next time, don’t be late.”  I paused, gave him a moment to express further objection or acceptance.  He did neither, which was just as well.  I was about done listening to him anyway.  I tore off a piece of duct tape and applied it firmly to his mouth.  He gave me a questioning look as I did this.  “What, you think I want to listen to your mouth today?  First you claim ten minutes isn’t a big deal, but it sure seems like it’s a big deal when it’s about your time instead of mine.  Do you think your time is worth more than mine?  Is that it?  You think I have no life plans aside from waiting for you to show up at your leisure?”  I buckled a training collar around Brent’s neck, then grasped it and tugged it until he lifted his head to look at me.  He shook his head “no”.

“I’m glad we agree on that point, Brent.  Because when you show up late, especially after being reminded to be on time, that is inconsiderate of my time.  I am not willing to tolerate it.  Do you understand this?”  I was still grasping the back of Brent’s collar.  I gave it another brief, sharp tug just to punctuate my point.  He nodded.

“Good.” I let go of Brent’s collar.  “Hands and knees, now.”  Brent obediently assumed the position.  I knelt next to him.  He turned his head to look at me.  “No.  Look at the floor.  I will tell you when I want you to look at me.”  Brent did as he was told.  “All right Brent.  Now I want you to understand that things are going to change.  More to the point, you are going to change.  Your carelessness, your lack of attention to instruction, your habitual tardiness, your overall slacking …all of this ends today.  Nod if you understand me.”

Still facing the floor, Brent nodded.

“Very good.  Now, I want you to crawl to that wall over there by the door.  Kneel on the floor with your back against the wall, knees apart, hands on top of your thighs.  Do that, and wait for me.  I have to get a few things so I will be a minute.”  I left the room as Brent crawled toward his destination.  There were a few things in the other play room I wanted to assemble: a tube of IcyHot, and some wooden clothes pins.  Also, I wanted to give Brent a chance to fuck up the instructions I had just issued.

He didn’t let me down.  Upon my return to the playroom, I opened the door and it would barely budge.  I put my weight into the effort, gave the door a good hard shove, and heard a grunting sound from the other side.  Then the door gave way and opened, and what do you suppose I saw?  Brent, sprawled on the floor, with a surprised look on his face.

I strode over to where lay askew, and yanked the duct tape off his mouth.  He gave a little yelp when I did this.  Good.  “Well, what’s the goddamned problem, Brent?  Is there some reason I couldn’t open the door, and now I find you on the floor instead of against the wall where you were supposed to be?”

“I thought you told me to kneel with my back against the door.”

Good lord.  Really?

“Against the door, Brent?  Against the door?”  I loomed over Brent, who cowered on the floor beneath me.  “Why in the hell would I tell you to kneel with your back against the door?  Did I not tell you I was coming back in just a minute?  Was I supposed to come in through the window?”

“I, uh, don’t know, Mistress…I thought you said…”

“You thought I said, what?  You know god damned good and well there is no earthly reason why I would tell you to kneel with your back against the door.”  I grasped the lead ring on his collar and forced him into a semi upright kneeling position.  “Crawl.  Right now.  Get over here to this wall and kneel, like I told you to do in the first place.”

Brent scrambled to obey me.  In a few seconds, he was in the position I had ordered before leaving the room: kneeling, back against the wall, knees apart, hands on top of his thighs.  He kept his eyes forward, apparently fixed on some undetermined spot on the rug.  I stood in front of him, straight and tall as the Colossus, crop in hand.

“Brent, I’m pretty tired of your carelessness.  When I give instructions, I expect them to be followed to the letter.”

“yes, Mistress.  I understand.”

“No, Brent, I don’t think you do understand.  I hear you telling me that you understand, but your actions show that you are pretty clueless.  So, I think it’s time for a bit of remedial education.”  I knelt in front of Brent, uncapped the IcyHot, and applied a bit to each of his nipples.  Then, before the tingle set in fully, I attached two clothes pins.  Brent winced and grimaced.  “Now.  What  did I tell you to do before I left the room?”

“Uh, you told me to kneel…”

“Yes, I told you to kneel.  Continue, please.  Where did I tell you to kneel?”

“I, uh, thought you told me to kneel with my back against the door, but I don’t know….”

“What, Brent?  What don’t you know?”  I used my riding crop to give the right clothespin a nicely measured little smack.  Brent squeaked out a little yelping noise when I did this.  I dug the heel of my boot into his flesh and leaned in closer.  “What don’t you know, Brent?”

“I don’t know …it doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t make any sense?”  I brought the riding crop down on his left nipple, a little harder this time.  He shrieked.

“It doesn’t make any sense that you’d tell me to kneel with my back against the door when you were just about to come back in.”

“There we go!  That’s the first insightful thing you’ve said all day.”

“Thank you, Mistress.  I’m trying.”

“Stand up,” I ordered him.  “Now.  Quickly.”

Brent was on his feet in about two seconds.

“Stand straight.  Shoulders back.  Feet about shoulder width.  Hands at your side.  And lower your face; you don’t get to look at me like we’re equals.”

Brent carried out these instructions with sufficient accuracy.

“Now, Brent, it seems that you don’t listen very well unless I do something to compel your attention.  As soon as I put the IcyHot and the clothespins on your nipples, you got smart in a hurry.  Do you know what that means?”

“No Mistress?”

“It means that now I know how to get your attention, so I will be making both our lives simpler.  Hold out your hand, if you please.”

Brent produced his right hand.  I dispensed about an inch of IcyHot into his waiting palm.

“Now I want you to apply this to your dick.  Rub it on there, and try not to have too much fun because I have plans.”

Brent attended to the task as mandated.  “Hey, don’t forget the balls.  Make sure you get it all over.  Do you need more?”

“No, Mistress.  I think there’s enough.”

“Oh good.  Open your legs a bit farther.”  Brent complied.  I pulled up a stool, sat down, snapped on a pair of latex gloves.  Then I began attaching clothespins to the skin of his scrotum.  Brent made a little whiny gasping sound every time the tightly hinged wooden jaws bit into his flesh.  I figured a half dozen was enough.  I glanced up at Brent’s face as I applied the last clothes pin.  His jaw was clenched, perspiration forming on his forehead and upper lip.  Still watching his face, I flicked one of the clothes pins.  He made a sort of squeaky grunting sound when I did that.  I snickered and twisted the clothespin.  An abrupt little shriek followed.  Satisfied, I dispensed with the gloves.

I sat on my throne.  “kneel on the floor in front of me.  Be careful to not dislodge any of the clothes pins.  If you do, I’ll add an extra one for every one you knock off.”

Brent lowered himself to a kneeling position.  Whether through luck or effort, he managed to not displace any clothes pins.

“Knees far apart, now.  Hands on the floor behind you.  Lean back, and hold that position until I tell you differently.”

Tentatively, Brent placed his palms on the floor and leaned backward, his arms bearing the weight of his upper body.  Still sitting on the throne, I extended my leg and rested the sole of my boot against his chest, squarely between the clothes pins.  He absorbed this extra weight.   A tiny rivulet of sweat trickled down his left temple.  Deliberately, with carefully measured force, I dug the heel of my boot into his flesh.  His jaw clenched and his neck cords bulged under the strain of the added weight, but he remained more or less steady.

“Ok, Brent.  It seems that I have your undivided attention at long last.  Are you ready to listen to me?”

He nodded.  “Yes, Mistress.”

“Great.  Because from now on, repeated lessons will be exponentially more painful.  So it would be a lot better for you if we don’t have to revisit today’s drills.”  I nudged him once more with the heel of my boot, just to drive the point home.

“I understand, Mistress.”

“Good.”  I lowered my foot, demurely crossing my ankles.  “Now I want you to stand up.  Carefully, the same way you knelt.  Stand with your back against the St. Andrew’s cross, with your feet wide apart.”  Brent duly followed these orders.  I knelt and used rope to bind his ankles to the legs of the cross, then another piece of rope to secure  his midsection to the center of the cross.  Finally I fastened leather cuffs around his wrists, which I clipped behind his back.  Once he was secured, I gave him a final cursory inspection: all the clothes pins were still in place.  One on each nipple, six on his scrotum.  I observed his face.  His jaw was set. His nostrils flared in cadence with the rise and fall of his chest.  His breathing was a little fast, but regular.

I stepped away from the cross and inspected the toys: an assortment of whips, crops, floggers, and paddles were displayed on the wall, suspended from hooks.  Some were made of leather, some of rubber, and others of wood.  All of them well kept and cared for.  Briefly touching or even glancing at any toy calls to mind immediate memories of use.  Finally my eyes fell on the tool I sought: the dragon tail whip.  A beautiful, well made, elegant  creation.  One of my personal favorites.  I caressed the  length of the tail: twenty two inches of beautiful, supple, evenly thick leather.  I lifted it, allowing  myself  a moment to marvel at the craftsmanship of the steel handle.  I have used it well and in good faith, whether to reward or to discipline.  Today would be no different.

“It is the duty of a Mistress to see that her servant is well trained.  Obedient, punctual, mindful.”

“Yes, Mistress.  You’re right.”

“Lately, I have had difficulty in getting you to manifest self discipline.  You don’t listen.  You are sloppy about following directions.  Just today, you were late for your training.  These behaviors do not bode well for one who wishes to be trained as a slave.”

“I understand, Mistress.”

“Do you understand, Brent?”

“I do, Mistress.  I am really sorry I displeased you.  I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, I know.”  I smiled and nodded, still fingering the whip.  “I know you didn’t mean to.  I know it wasn’t your intention.”  Still holding the whip, I stepped closer to Brent, until I was nearly toe to toe with him.  I eased my fingers under his collar, pulling his face just a bit closer to mine.  “That’s the problem, Brent.”  I spoke very softly now, to compel his undivided attention.  That’s one thing I have learned during my years in the play room: if you really want them to listen, don’t raise your voice at all.  Lower it to a near whisper.  It worked: even the hairs on his arms stood at attention, like a few thousand tiny satellites tuning into every syllable.  “The problem is you have no intentions.  You don’t intend to mess up, but you also don’t intend to excel.  You’re just kinda here.  Like furniture.  And you know, that’s just not good enough for me.”  I punctuated the last syllable by tweaking the clothespin on his right nipple.

Brent blinked, shuddered, and finally nodded.  “I understand, Mistress.  You are right to punish me.”

Whip in hand, I took two steps backward.  My eyes never left  Brent’s face, which showed a mixture of fear, resignation, and even a bit of relief.  Finally, he would be held to a standard.  He would answer for his slacking, slothful ways.

I took aim, measured my distance, and let the whip fly.  It lurched forward with an audible snap.  Right on mark, the tip of the whip made contact with the left clothes pin, which gave up it’s grip and fell to the floor.  Brent sucked in air and grimaced.  Quickly, as  soon as the whip recoiled, I took aim again: this time at the clothes pin on the left.  Head thrown back, neck tendons straining, Brent roared in pain.

“I know this is hard, Brent, but it’s necessary.  Tell me why you are being punished, please.”

Brent gasped and gulped in air, and managed to stutter: “because- because I am careless and disobedient and I don’t listen!”

“That’s right.  Very good.  I am glad you are beginning to see the error of your ways.  Now Brent, it’s very important that you remain still now.  You don’t want to move.  Trust me.  This is going to hurt, but it will hurt much less if  I  make my target… and the only way I can do that is if you don’t move at all.”  I was already poised and taking aim at one of the clothespins on his scrotum.  Carefully, steadily.  As soon as I was certain of my mark, I snapped my wrist forward and the whip flew.  It knocked off one of the clothes pins.  Brent wailed and strained against his bounds.  After his reaction was over, I aimed again: another clothes pin fell to the floor.

“I don’t appreciate having my time wasted, Brent.  I expect you to arrive on time for your training sessions.  You will  be prompt and considerate of my schedule.”

“Yes, Mistress!”

Brent’s legs were trembling, but he endured without moving.  Still, steady, calmly I aimed again.  And again.  Brent let out a sobbing howl.  “I’m sorry Mistress… I will do better.”  .. “I know, Brent.  It’s okay.  We’re almost done here.  Only two more clothes pins.  I need you to hold still for just a few more seconds.”  Carefully, I drew back the whip, took aim, and let it go.  The whip sailed forward, slicing through the air with a hiss.  It landed perfectly.  Better than perfect: it hit and dislodged both of the remaining clothes pins.  Unfortunately, Brent wasn’t in any frame of mind to appreciate my skillful marksmanship, being somewhat distracted by his own agonies.  His face turned reddish purple and he let out a feral, visceral shriek.  Out of deference for his pain, I allowed him a moment to indulge in these expressions, and stood at a respectful distance until his howling quieted.  Once he was sufficiently calm, I offered him water, holding a cup while he sipped through a straw.  His hands were still bound, you see.  I wasn’t quite ready to let him go yet.

“Is there anything you would like to say, Brent?”

“yes Mistress.  I will say again that I am sorry and I will earnestly try to do better.”

I shook my head.  “I’m afraid that is not specific enough, Brent.  I will need you to be more explicit regarding your intentions.”

“I will be on time, I will pay attention to instructions, and I will be more careful to follow directions and do what you ask.”

“That’s great, Brent.  That is the decision I hoped you would make.”  At this point, I was ready to release him from his restraints.  First, I untied the ropes that bound his ankles, then I unfastened the leather cuffs.  Brent stepped away from the cross.  I motioned for him to kneel on the floor, and I unfastened his collar.

Often I allow a slave in training to relieve himself manually after a session, but as this was a punishment session, I felt it would be inappropriate.  Also I would ordinarily allow a subject to clean off the IcyHot.  Not today.  Today, the IcyHot would remain on his skin, providing a subtle, lingering reminder of our time together, thus allowing the day’s lessons to make a deeper impression.  Time will tell.

 

 

gym class

Patrons ask me for humiliation a lot, as part of certain types of BDSM sessions. I understand humiliation.  I get it.  I was first exposed to humiliation by my junior high gym teacher, when I was about 13.

My physical education instructor was Miss Rand.   She was energetic, mouthy, muscular, and athletic.  She sported one silver stud earring and had a spiky mullet (it was an officially sanctioned ’80s lesbian haircut) and I was half afraid of her…but I also idolized her.  By contrast, I was built like a shoestring, mousy and homely and awkward as hell.  I wanted to be her.  I’d never known anyone like her before.  She was in better shape than anyone I had ever met and I suspected I would never measure up but I was driven to try to please her…because she was so demanding of me, doing anything remotely praiseworthy became my goal.  I was Miss Rand’s so called “special project”.  She was determined to make an example of my lack of athleticism, her explicitly stated goal being to “whip you into shape”.  And I tried so hard.  Believe me, if the effort within my power could have improved my athletic prowess, I would have been a star athlete.   Sadly, despite my concerted efforts I never managed to merit her praise.  Instead I received only vehement criticism, delivered in the style of a Marine drill sergeant.  For instance, the way she called me out during our fitness assessment: “Wehrman, get your skinny ass up that rope now!  No excuses!” …and… “Wehrman, you’re reading at a 6 on the skin fold test!  You will never reach puberty!  They do not make gym suits in kindergarten sizes!” …and my favorite: “Wehrman, do you want to be the first person in history to flunk gym?  You better get down on the floor and give me ten push ups!” …as she continued to tower over me, making menacing red marks on her clipboard, her gym shoes mere inches from my face.

This person who was a paragon of fitness and athleticism was acknowledging me.  True, she was acknowledging me for being a clumsy, lazy, skinny fuck up…but STILL. Better that than to be ignored, or so I thought.  Sometimes I feared that if I did well, she might not say anything at all.  This fear never caused me to diminish my efforts in her class though, because I really hoped that if I applied myself I could be like her, or even gain what I coveted most: her approval.  Humiliation can be complicated like that.

I don’t think she’d be much more impressed with me today, but I doubt I’d be as impressed with her.  Nevertheless I do appreciate her contribution to my kink education, if not my motivation to achieve fitness.  That part sadly did not stick, possibly (at least in part) because my role model wasn’t very encouraging.  If she were here in front of me today I’d give her a piece of my mind and talk to her about consent and boundaries.  And that haircut.

some of my paintings

I just updated, added a few new pieces. 🙂

domme de plume

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

Bruce Springsteen, watercolor, 16″ x 12′

bpainting

Mr. Rogers, 12″ x 14″, watercolor

fpainting

Judith, 16″ x 20″, acrylic

jpainting

Prince, 24″ x 28″, acrylic

ppainting

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