busted trade

*Carl, a self described sissy slut, has been coming to see me for a few years.  His visits have always been sporadic.  I suspect this is due to the nature of his work schedule.  I don’t know what sort of work he does; he never talks about it and rarely drops any hints.  He could shovel guts at the slaughter house, for all I care.  In fact it wouldn’t surprise me if this were the case.  He seems like the kind of guy who could enjoy doing dirty, physical labor.

 

Aside from being a sissy slut, Carl is also into being humiliated and degraded.  Nothing thrills him more than being put to ill use.  I certainly wouldn’t want to let him down on this point.

 

We have a game, Carl and I.  It seldom varies: He arrives 15 minutes before his play time is scheduled to begin.  This is the amount of time he requires to transform himself into Carla.  The transformation process is fairly simple: he dons a short polka dot dress which he brings with him, and puts on gaudy pink lipstick and a garish blonde wig. While he attends to these personal details, I finish preparing the play room.

 

Today I had a surprise for him.

 

A few weeks ago I was at a second hand store, where I bought a big poster of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky.  It cost me a whole dollar (totally worth it).  He’s standing against a blue background, larger than life, in boxing gloves and trunks.  It’s absurd.  I used push pins to mount it to the wall.  Then I found a silicone cock with a suction cup base, and mounted this to the wall right beneath the poster.   It was just as tacky as Carl-turned-Carla.  It was perfect.   Now, music.  Surely, sleazy music was in order: Whitesnake.  That would be perfect.  Finally I poured myself a glass of wine.  Shit was about to get ridiculous and I didn’t want to be entirely sober for it.

 

Finally Carl, rather Carla, entered the play room.  I allowed her a moment to survey the addition of the thoughtful details I had supplied.   She noticed the poster immediately.  I didn’t give her any time to ask questions, though.  This was my party, and the games would commence on my schedule.

 

“Well, hello Carla.  How kind of you to join me at last.”  I took a good swallow of my wine, looked her over.   “You look even trashier than usual today.  What did you do, take advice on slut appeal?”

 

Carla blushed and lowered her eyes.  “no, Mistress.  I just got a new dress is all.”

 

Indeed, she did have a new dress.  It was even shorter, tighter, and sluttier than the little polka dot dress she usually wears for our sessions.

 

“It suits you, though strictly speaking, whores like you don’t really need clothes.  It seems like a wasted effort, since they always end up on the floor anyway.”

 

“Is that bad, Mistress?  Is it bad that I’m such a slut?”

 

I snorted.  “No, Carla.  It’s not a bad thing.  It’s good that you know your station in life.  Now get down on your knees.”

 

Carla obediently assumed a kneeling position.  Such a well trained little slut.

 

“That’s where you belong, Carla.  On your knees.  Now, arrange yourself so you are face to face with this cock right here.”  I used my riding crop to point and indicate the cock I had mounted just under the Rocky movie poster.  Carla hastened to comply with this directive, swiveling on her knees so she was basically face to face with the wall mounted phallus.  Her eyes gazed up at the poster, then back at the cock, an expression of worshipful adoration on her face.

 

“Do you see what I’ve done for you here, Carla?”

 

“Yes Mistress.  This is great.  I really appreciate it.”

 

“I certainly hope you do, Carla.  But I think it’s time that you let your actions speak for you.  Show me how a proper slut displays her appreciation.”  With this command, I handed Carla a wrapped condom.  She applied the condom to the cock, then applied herself to fellating it.  I stood nearby, sipping my wine while Carla sampled that cock like a connoisseur, delicately moving her head in measured strokes, with uncharacteristic catlike grace.

 

This wouldn’t do.

 

“Uh, no, bitch.  This isn’t how a slut shows her appreciation for cock.  What the fuck do you think you’re doing?  I trained you better than that.  Haven’t I taught you anything?”

 

Abruptly, Carla stopped and cast a startled glance my way.  I set my wine glass on a nearby table, then positioned myself directly behind Carla. Bracing her head between my hands, I placed her mouth back on the cock and began deliberately moving her head until I heard gagging, gurgling sounds emanating from the depths of her throat.  This garnered no sympathy from me, but rather prompted me to increase the energy I put toward the effort.  Carla placed her palms on the wall under the poster, in an apparent effort to brace herself.  That’s fine.  She wasn’t resisting or struggling, just trying to keep steady.

 

I decided it was time to remind Carla of the terms.

 

“Now, Carla, this is the effort and energy I expect you to invest in your work.  Which brings me to the point: being a slut is your job, not mine.  My job is to see that you are an adept, willing, obedient slut.  Your job is to carry out whatever slut business I assign to you, with due diligence.  If I have to stand behind you and move your damned slutty head on this cock, it’s almost like I’m doing your job for you.  Not cool, Carla.  Not cool at all.  When I agreed to train you as a sissy slut, I didn’t think I needed to specify that you would be the one doing the slutty work.  You do the work, I issue commentary.  You suck the cocks, I critique you.  You are the man on the ground.  I am the voice from the grandstand.  You’re the ho and I’m the brains.  You do what I say.  I ain’t gonna bust no sweat on account of your lazy ass.  I will not abide an incompetent slut.  Do you understand me?”

 

Carla nodded her head, the cock still lodged in her throat.  The bulky protuberance created a big, round bulge against her cheek.  I smacked the back of her head and snickered.  “Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page.  Now, I’m going to sit here and enjoy my wine and watch you be a slut.”  And I proceeded to do just that.

 

Gentle reader, have you ever watched an artist at work?  I wish you could have been there to see it.  Carla applied herself with industry and determination.  She kept pace with the music, choreographing her head motions to the sordid strains of overproduced hair metal (God help me, I like the band anyway).  All the same, I wasn’t about to reward her for doing what she was supposed to be doing in the first place.  There’s no good reason to let a pupil rest on their laurels.

 

“Hey Carla.  I’m glad to see your head is back in the game.”  I giggled at my own joke.  “This is the sort  of effort you need to be putting into your work, every god damned time.  You are representing me.  Your efforts are a reflection of your training.  Your sluttiness needs to reflect a degree of enthusiasm and proficiency.  I won’t have no half ass slut in my brigade.”

 

Carla said “aghurulumph”.  A thin, silver streak of drool stretched from her mouth to her lap.  Her lipstick was speared along the length of the priapic projection.  Her blonde wig rested askew, giving her a bizarre, asymmetrical appearance.  Blue eye shadow and thick black eyeliner rimmed her eyes, and two circles of pink rouge (probably smudges of the same lipstick she wore) graced her cheeks.  She looked like a sad, slutty clown.

 

“The only problem I see with this, is that I couldn’t turn you loose on the boardwalk and expect you to pick up any business.  You don’t have a lot of curbside appeal.  I mean, mostly guys will fuck anything but considering that you look like Phyllis Diller, expecting them to pay you might be a bridge too far.  This represents a problem for me as your business manager.”  Carla listened to this speech without missing a beat.  “It’s not your clothes.  That dress is skimpy enough.  And it’s short enough to show off your legs, which are at least nice enough.  Guys will like the blonde hair too.  And clearly, you are capable of doing good work; your effort and skill aren’t lacking.  So, all of those things are in your favor.  As far as I can see, the only thing really holding you back is your face.”  I paused to finish my wine.  “All right, Carla.  Stop sucking that cock and turn around and look at me.”

 

Still kneeling, Carla pivoted 90 degrees to face me.  I poured myself another half glass of wine, took a few sips, and studied her.  “Do you understand what I mean, Carla?  I’m telling you that no matter how good you are at sucking cock, you are never gonna be taken seriously because your face is a boner killer.”

 

“I understand Mistress.  I don’t know what to do about that.  I suppose I could wear a mask.”

 

I pretended to consider this.  “Well, yes, you could wear a mask.  That might work, if we could find a mask that didn’t impede your ability to do your work.  But, there are other things to consider too.”

 

“Like what, Mistress?”

“Well, sucking cock is kinda for amateurs.  I mean, sure, it’s ok but it’s not where the big money is.  As your business manager it’s my job to maximize your street value so you can earn your full potential.  So maybe we need to think bigger.  You see what I’m saying?”

 

Carla cocked her head to the side.  “not really, Mistress.  I’m not sure I understand.”

 

I sighed.  “Of course you don’t understand.  You’re not very smart.  It’s a good thing you have me to do your thinking for you.”  Again using my crop as a pointer, I indicated a collar and leash hanging from the wall.  “Go get that leash and collar, and bring it over here.  Hurry up about it, we don’t have all day.”

 

Carla scrambled to her feet, retrieved the specified articles, then knelt at my feet to present them.  I secured the collar around her throat, then took up the slack on the leash, pulling her slightly forward.  I got in her overly made up face.  Her lipstick was smeared.  Her wig was still clinging to one side of her head.  Her unevenly applied eyeliner had smudged.  “You look like the sort of girl who gets banged behind the dumpster in the alley.  Or by the pier, under a bridge.  Or maybe in a gas station bathroom.  It doesn’t matter.”

 

I swear, she was glowing.  Clearly she considered it a compliment.  I was on a roll and kept going.  “It’s ok.  This isn’t just your problem.  If it was, you’d be fucked.  You’re lucky I am here to figure these things out, because I think I have it sorted for you.”

 

Carla gulped.  “What do you mean, Mistress?”

 

“I think I know a way to get around potential clients seeing your face.”

 

“Ok Mistress.  Anything you want.  Whatever you tell me, I’ll do.”

 

“See I’ve been down to the promenade, Carla, and I’ve seen the competition you’re up against.  It’s fierce.  Those girls have it all over you, at least in the looks department.  So we’re gonna have to get creative.  The way to keep the johns from getting scared off by your face, is to make sure they never get a look at your face.  Stand up, please.”  I stood, still grasping the leash and bringing Carla to her feet with me.  One half baby step at a time, I inched her backward, until her ass crack was lined up with the wall mounted cock.  Once I had her where I wanted her, I tightened my grip on the leash, taking up another fistful of slack.  Lowering my voice to a low but powerful rumble, I enunciated a dire proclamation: “We’re about to level up your game, slut.  Remember when I told you we were gonna have to think bigger?  This is where it’s at.”

 

Carla stuttered.  “Th-the back door, Mistress?  You want me to take it up the rear end?”

 

“You catch on fast, girlie.”  I dropped my end of the leash and busied myself hiking up Carla’s dress, then gave her a weighty smack on the ass.  “Trust me, it’s brilliant.  For starters you’ll be leveling up your slut game.  Every slut sucks cock, but not every slut takes it up the butt.  Still, it’s becoming more and more common, pretty soon it will be status quo.  You’ve gotta do it just to stay competitive.  Also as we discussed, your face is a non starter.  No john is gonna pay $10 to look down and see that.  But… if we can  arrange your dates so the johns only see your butt, you can make me some money.  Just think: if you catch a bunch of sailors on shore leave, all you gotta do to set up shop is just bend over.  Get you a sign that says “tap this: $10″.  Hang your shingle outside a truckstop bathroom.  I guarantee, they’ll queue up, it’ll be wham bam thank you ma’am and they can throw their money on the floor on their way out.  Simple, easy.  No need to break a sweat.  Your butt can do the work for you.”

 

Carla planted her feet, rested her palms on her thighs, and backed her ass up onto that cock until it disappeared.  She established a cadence of backing up, easing forward, backing up, easing forward.  Back arched, gaze fixed.  Slow and steady at first, then faster.  God damn, that slut could take it.  I watched and sipped my wine as Carla continued to defile herself with 6″ of silicone.  The wig finally fell off.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing was going to improve her appearance at this point anyway.  I was doing okay until I glanced up at the Rocky poster.  That was too much.  The smirking face of the oiled up champion, looming over Carla the slut.  I laughed.  Once I started, I couldn’t stop.  Abandoning all pretense of decorum, I laughed and laughed until I snorted.

 

I guess you had to be there.

 

Unfazed by my mirth, Carla spent herself on her exertions.  She worked it like a pro, like she was born to it.  Grunting and sweating and flexing, a grimace of concentration etched on her face.   Her pace, frenzied and escalating, didn’t wane.  She kept it up for many long minutes.  Then, a sudden drop.  She just stopped, falling silent except for her breathing, and panted out a raspy “no more…I can’t take any more.”  Still bent over at a 90 degree angle, her shoulders heaved.  Sweat dripped from her face.

 

I handed her a few paper towels.  “Here, slut.  Clean yourself up.”  She straightened herself and mopped her forehead.  Then, just like flipping a switch, she wasn’t Carla any more, but became Carl again.  He stripped off the dress, used a few baby wipes to scrub off the remaining makeup.  Finally, he donned his usual uniform of jeans and a t shirt.  Not a trace of his former costume remained.  The shabby, vulgar whore was gone until next time.  There’s always a next time.

 

Thursday 02/28/2019: The Main Event

Thursday nights, the evening we host Bondage A Go Go, are my favorite.  It’s the time when we are able to show up for our beloved BDSM community.  Though there are always at least a few curious new attendees, many are regulars from one week to the next.  This is fun for us, especially when they are in the habit of playing.  As we get to know a person, we can better tailor their experience to suit their preferences, and of course that’s always a good thing.

One such person is a young woman we’ll call Daeva.  We see her frequently, and most of the people who join us for the event are familiar with her.  She’s friendly, sociable, and on almost always in the mood to play.  Our event photographer managed to get quite a few pictures of a recent play scene, so I thought you’d enjoy seeing some of them.

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As with any scene, we devote the first few minutes to lighter play, also known as a warm up.  Daeva is partial to sensory play for this initial phase.  I might use toys with different textures, such as furry or scratchy.  Occasionally I’ll deliver a lighter impact spanking.  Daeva pretty much gives me license to express my creativity and I take advantage of this.

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One of my favorites is the **vibrating glove (pictured).  It’s a loose fitting nylon glove with little vibrating pads in the finger tips.  It has two speeds and requires three AA batteries. Everyone loves it.  It’s great for warming up, or for cooling down …. and incidentally it is great for a scalp massage.

Once I had a little fun with Daeva, I turned her over to Master Hawke for a bit of rough treatment.

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Master Hawke is an expert in manual domination.  He uses a combination of percussive impact and pressure points.  He also isn’t afraid to subject a person to a bit of rough handling.  This is a good way to let a submissive know they are truly taken in hand and at his mercy.

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An experience with Master Hawke is bound to get your endorphins working.  Endorphins are “feel good” chemicals, such as you might feel after a workout or a night of dancing or a few thrill rides at an amusement park. Getting a spanking (for instance) is just another way to chase that dragon.  It’s a natural high.  People usually feel pretty good after a corporal session.  Energized, mood elevated. Some people report a heightened sense of well being, lasting for days after some rough use.

With an intense corporal session, the goal of course is to hurt, but not to harm.   Hawke is really good at taking someone just to the edge, then maybe a bit farther.  There’s art, science, and skill involved.

After Hawke finished up with Daeva, we took a short break.  I had a shot of tequila and said hi to a few people.  Then I met Daeva back in the play area for an encore.  She was stripped down and dancing in her skivvies by this time, waiting for me to return.

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That is not an opportunity you want to waste.

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Since she was pretty well  spent from her time with the Master, we kept it fairly light.  Just more sensory play.  Dripping wax and ice, then scraping the cooled wax off her skin with the edge of a blade.  Though this is on the less intense end of the spectrum, it likely felt fairly intense as her body was still riding the wave of the endorphin rush.

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Though Daeve was used, she was far from spent.  I ordered her across my lap for an OTK spanking.  Just a light one.  I wanted to give her a prolonged cooling down period.  Besides, we had quite an audience of onlookers so why not give them a show.

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We host Bondage A Go Go every Thursday except for the 3rd Thursday each month.  All play is consensual.  The event begins at 10pm.  There’s no cover for midnight.  Join us for a drink, some dancing, and a good beating.  Or, just watch.  It’s a pretty good show!

 

If you have never been and are curious about what to expect, here are a couple articles I wrote as primers on the event:

https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/bondage-a-go-go/

https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2017/04/09/bondage-a-go-go-at-exit/

*photos by PJ Weingart

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**The Fukuoku Five Finger Massage Glove.  It’s pretty easy to find a retailer.  The price seems to range from $60-100, give or take.  There’s a right hand and a left hand version, and it comes in black or hot pink.

at my mercy, at my feet

I’ve been playing with *David for about a year.  He comes to see me every few weeks to be subjected to various indignities.

I remember our first session.  David illustrated the nature of his fantasies in elaborate detail.  He wanted to feel out of control.  He wanted to throw himself at the mercy of a Dominant woman.  He longed to be degraded as I saw fit.  He admitted to loving feet, particularly if they were sweaty.  Mine were because I had been wearing my leather boots all afternoon.  Upon hearing this revelation, he begged for a chance to prove himself worthy to worship my feet.

He described his limits: no insertions, no marks, no blood.  I told him the safe word and ordered him to strip.  I gathered rope, a blindfold, a ball gag, and a pair of panties made of lavender satin and trimmed with lace.  I handed him the latter, instructing him to put them on.

I lit a few candles and put on a CD while David busied himself with the task I had given him.  When he was finished he said “ok, Mistress.  They’re on.”

“What’s on, David?  I don’t appreciate vagueness.  You will need to learn to be more specific.”

“I put the panties on, Mistress.”

“Oh, good,” I answered.  “That’s excellent.  Now you may kneel.”

David obeyed.  I fitted the blindfold over his eyes and fastened a collar around his neck.  I ordered him onto all fours, then added that he should lower his chest to the floor and place his wrists behind him.  I used a piece of rope to bind his wrists behind his back.

“I’m going to gag you in a minute, so if there’s anything you’d like to say this would be the time.”  I showed him the ball gag, which I had wrapped in plastic during my preparations.

Of course he had something to say.  “I have a question.  Why did you make me put these panties on?”

I answered him slowly and succinctly: “I’m in charge of you, right?”

He answered: “yes, Mistress.”

“And you  mentioned that you hope to be allowed to worship my feet, did you not?”

“I did, Mistress.”

“There you go.  I told you to put the panties on because it entertains me to see you wear them.  I suspect that you buy your underwear in a twelve pack, and probably always have.  Now, you’re wearing a pair of bargain bin panties.  Think of it as a short walk on the wild side.  If you hope to worship my feet, you should thank me because those panties are a step in that direction.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

I told him he was welcome, then I popped the ball of the gag into his mouth.  I put a few keys in his hand and told him to jingle if he needed to get my attention.

Once David was gagged I sat on the floor in front of him and removed my boots.  I rested my foot on the back of his head and slowly lowered my right stocking, taking pains to not snag it.  I left the stocking draped over his head, the toe right by his nose, damp with the sweat of my sole.

His nostrils flared as he recognized the scent.  He imbibed the bouquet in deep gulping inhalations.  Spit seeped from his stretched mouth and dribbled down his chin.  He gurgled and drooled as he drew in my essence in desperate snorts.  I removed my left stocking, noting that it had a run.  Damn.  Oh well.  I guess it was David’s lucky day.  I wadded the stocking into a tight ball and without announcing my plan, I removed the gag from my subject’s mouth and replaced it with the stocking.  I used pallet wrap to hold the gag in place, winding it around his stuffed, half open mouth several times.

David slurped on the stocking, sucking the flavor of my sweat from the sheer nylon material.

“You’re drinking my sweat, David.  No more drooling, now.  Make sure you get it all.” I grasped his hair and tugged, lifting his head.  I edged my toe under the blindfold and lifted it, sliding it up his forehead.  He nudged his face toward the sole of my foot.  I gripped his nose between my first and second toes, cutting off his breath for a few seconds.  I moulded my arch to his forehead.  I rested my heel against his chin and sprawled my long toes across his brow.   I flexed, arched, and pointed my foot just out of his reach.  He flailed toward it in an earnest attempt to feel my sole against his face again.  I’ll say this much: he was motivated.  He heroically struggled forward, crawling on his shoulders.  Now and then I let him reach his target, only to inch backward and withdraw his hard won prize.  I admired his dedication.  He would have crawled around the block for a chance to bury his face in my feet.  In fact he seemed content to merely exert himself with no guaranteed outcome.

I often will allow a scene to reach a plateau so I can observe my subjects in these moments..  It is no small thing to overcome your self consciousness and acquiesce to your desires.  My view is from a different angle.  From where I sit, submission looks like liberation from convention and constraint.  I know the degree of trust and confidence and sheer guts involved.  For me, this comes into sharp focus through a degree of detached identification with my subjects.  That’s what I take away from my sessions: the gift of an entirely different perspective.  This is the vision that guides my hand as a Dominant.

I untied David’s wrists.  Next I used safety shears to cut through the plastic wrap that secured the stocking gag.  I held out a baggie for him to put the spit soaked stocking into, then I said: “Ok, David.  It’s your choice.  You can have my feet in your face and go home with blue balls, or you can jack off.  One or the other.”

He didn’t even need a minute to think about it.  He automatically answered, “I want your feet, Mistress.”

I told him to lay on the floor facing upward, with his head right at the foot of my throne.  Once he was in the prescribed place I rested both of my bare feet on his flushed face.

He still wore the knickers.  His hair was damp with perspiration.  His breath was humid and hot against my soles. I knew this was all he wanted or cared about at that moment.  Nothing else mattered, just as it should be.  I made him lie still under my feet until it was time for him to leave.

He asked if he could keep the stocking.  I certainly didn’t want it back.  I told him he could have it on condition that he wore the panties home.  He agreed to this stipulation and left with blue balls, as was the contract.

 

*name changed

 

 

 

 

Adam, the loser

*Adam likes being ordered to do humiliating, degrading things.  The weirder, the more bizarre, the more he likes it.   He also likes to be humiliated verbally.  No topic is off limits.  No issue is too taboo for him.  In fact, he pretty much lampoons himself and hands me most of the material I use on him.  He comes to see me about once a month, because everyone else in his life has too much to lose by handing him his ass.  Not me.  I don’t give one fuck about his social or professional importance, his self esteem, his feelings, or anything else.  I command, he obeys.  It’s simple, honest, and clean.  If I want him to wear panties, he wears them.  If I order him to submit to a whipping, he absorbs every blow without flinching.  He relishes every colorfully uttered word of verbal humiliation.  He delights in performing acts of depravity.  It’s his duty and pleasure to submit to every petty demand, every trial I choose to bestow.

 

“Crawl to the cross on your hands and knees.  Now.”  I uttered these words in a soft, stern voice, a voice that Adam wouldn’t think of disobeying.  Not because he fears disappointing me, or making me angry.  He couldn’t possibly disappoint me.  I am too well accustomed to the nature and failings of men.

 

Now he knelt at the base of the heavy wooden St. Andrew’s Cross, awaiting further instruction.

 

“You’re such a loser, Adam.”  I spoke the words as fact, with cool disdain.

 

“I know, Mistress.”

 

“Tell me why you’re a loser.”

 

“Because I am a useless fuck without an original thought in my head.  And because I just slipped into my place in life without working for it.”

 

“That’s pretty insightful,”  I said.  “I didn’t expect that much self awareness from you, considering you’re basically a well dressed mushroom.” I scruffed his hair, tugging his head to the side.  Then I was near his ear, right up close, and my voice was a whisper: “I bet you couldn’t fuck to save your life.

 

Instantly, Adam was aroused.  “You’re right, Mistress.  I can’t.  My wife hasn’t let me touch her for two years.”

 

“That’s not surprising at all, you useless tool.  Why should she?  I bet she’s way out of your league.  She’s probably getting it off with your gardener while you play eighteen holes with other losers.”

 

It’s ridiculously easy to push his buttons.  Hardly a challenge at all.

 

And I wasn’t finished: “Do you know how I know these things about you, Adam?  -Because you are a cliché.  Your life is defined by banality.  You walk in here with your expensive watch and your tailored suits and your Italian shoes, but for all the airs you put on, you’re mundane, Adam.  You are base, classless, and common.”  With that pronunciation, I tugged his head upright once more.  I stood, straightened myself, and tapped him on the shoulder with the riding crop.  “In layman’s terms, Adam, you’re boring.”

 

Adam’s reaction to this speech showed that I read him word for word.  By his expression, I could tell that every detail of my assessment was spot on.  He knew I was right.

 

“Turn around, look at me.”

 

Adam obeyed, pivoting on his knees to face me.  I was seated on the throne, a tall, imposing, wrought iron chair.  I remained mute, surveying him with an attitude of indifference.  I was impeccable, a picture of elegance.  I was a goddess, and he was a worm.  I saw him for what he was: a loser, a poser.  And he had my undivided attention.  Even if I didn’t look upon him with favor, still I looked.

 

“Adam, look on the table by the cage.  There’s a package of magic markers.  Retrieve it, please.”

 

Adam did as I bid, crawling to the specified table.  There was in fact a package of different colored markers.  Kneeling, he took the package in hand and waited for further instruction.

 

“Pick a color, Adam.  Any color, it’s not important.”

 

Adam opened the box and selected the blue marker, then placed the box back on the table.  He rested on his heels, waiting for further instruction.

 

“All right.  Blue it is.  Sit there on the floor and color your dick blue.”

 

“Color it blue?  You mean all over?”

 

“Yes, you simpleton.  I want you to color it blue.  All over.  Get busy and do it.  I don’t have all day.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”  Adam took the cap off the marker and began the assigned task.  Some of the color transferred to his hands while he worked, but there didn’t seem to be any way to avoid this.  He worked slowly, meticulously, trying not to miss any spots.  Though he obeyed willingly, the absurdity of the situation was not lost on him: he was a grown man of 54, senior partner of a law firm.  And here he was, naked in a BDSM dungeon, coloring his penis blue with a washable magic marker.  The assignment was surreal, bizarre.  But I told him to do it, and damned if he was going to argue.  All told, it took him about ten minutes to accomplish.  When he finished, he replaced the cap on the marker, laid it on the floor, and said “I’m finished, Mistress.”

 

“I see.  Very good.  It looks like you got good coverage.  Stand, and approach me.”

 

Adam walked to the throne and stood at attention.  I leaned forward slightly, to more closely examine his workmanship.

 

“It’s always been pretty unimpressive, but now it looks even more ridiculous than usual.  It may even be an improvement.  At least it’s honest.  I mean, it looks like a sad little thing.  Poor little sad, silly, blue thing.”  I giggled daintily.  Adam’s cheeks reddened as he stood in front of me, subject to my judgment.  Then I stood suddenly, brushing past him.  “I’ll be right back.  I have to get something.  You stay right there.”   I left the room, returning about a minute later with a disposable plastic tarp and a jar of strawberry jam.  The former, I thrust into Adam’s hands. “Spread this on the floor.”  Obediently, he unfolded and spread the tarp on the floor in front of my throne.

 

“Good.  Now, kneel.”  I sat down again, placing the jar of jam on the floor near my feet.  Adam’s eyes followed my movements.  If he bore any curiosity about my plans, his face betrayed nothing.  He knelt as I instructed, as I have trained him to do on command: knees apart, back straight, hands placed on top of the thighs, palms turned down.

 

“So your wife doesn’t let you fuck her anymore, huh.  Honestly Adam, that doesn’t surprise me.  You probably aren’t any better at fucking than you are at anything else.  I bet she found someone else to fuck her.   Some young, hot stud with washboard abs.”  I leaned forward in my chair.  I looked right into his eyes and slowly smiled.  Adam cowered a little.  I know he thought I looked beautiful.  Formidable.  Terrifying.  I could make him do anything.  He knew this, too.  I knew he was there to be my toy, to disgrace himself and debase himself and prove his unworthiness.  I knew he would do anything I demanded of him.  “I probably should have made you color your balls blue, too.  You know, since art imitates life.”  I giggled again.  “But, I have other plans for you.  Do you know what you’re gonna do now, Adam?”

 

“No, Mistress.”

 

“You’re gonna fuck this jar of strawberry jam.”

 

“Ma’am?”

 

“Did I stutter?  I said you’re gonna stick your pitiful blue dick in this jar, and fuck it.  I am going to watch.  Do you understand, or do I need to draw you a diagram?”

 

“I understand, Mistress.”

 

“Good.  You may proceed, if you please.”

 

Remaining on his knees, Adam reached forward to seize the jar of jam.  He returned to his former kneeling position and stared at the jar as if perplexed.  Truthfully, he was baffled.  Unsure how to proceed.  He remained as he was, thinking about the mechanics of the act he had been ordered to perform, about the mess involved, about the sheer humiliation of the act I demanded of him.  Here he knelt, naked, with his penis colored blue and a jar of strawberry preserves in his hand. As willing as he was in spirit his flesh would not comply.

 

I am not accustomed to having my orders met with reluctance.  In one decisive stride, I was towering over Adam.  A half second later, I was crouching on the floor next to him.  Down at his level, right up in his face.  My voice was calm and barely above a whisper, which made my words all the more menacing and meaningful: “What’s wrong, Adam?  Are you having trouble figuring out what you’re supposed to do next?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Well, that is disappointing, Adam.  I thought you understood what I asked you to do.  You said that you understood, at least.”

 

“I thought I did, Mistress.  I mean, I do understand what you asked me to do, I just can’t figure out where to start.”

 

I snorted and rolled my eyes.  “Well, that’s no surprise at all, Adam.  Naturally if I tell you to fuck something, you don’t know where to begin.  We’ve already established that you are utterly useless in that department.”  I sneered and continued: “still, it’s not like any real skill or finesse is required for the task at hand.  It’s not as if I asked you to fuck a woman.  Remind me, you said it’s been two years since she let you have a taste?”

 

Adam gulped and answered, “Yes, Mistress.  Two years.”

 

“Two years.  That’s a long damned time.  I bet you miss it, don’t you?  I mean, even though you probably couldn’t fuck worth a damn.  Surely you enjoyed it, even if your wife didn’t get much out if it.”

 

Adam’s face and neck turned red.  He kept his eyes fixed on my face.  “yes, Mistress, I enjoyed it.  Though you’re right, I’m sure my wife found my efforts insufficient.”

 

“Well, there’s a no brainer, stud.  Of course she found you lacking.  That’s because you are lacking.  You and your pathetic blue dick.”  I gave his member a little nudge with the blade of my riding crop, causing him to wince slightly.  “But none of that matters today.  Because like I said, this isn’t a woman.  This is a goddamned jar of strawberry jam.  It isn’t going to be disappointed in your shortcomings.  Even if you wanted to show it anything like a good time, it wouldn’t be impressed.  So right now, I just want to know what the goddamned hold up is.”

 

“I…don’t know, Mistress. I just, um, got to thinking too much about it I guess.”

 

“Thinking about it?  What, sitting here with your blue dick in one hand and a jar of jam in the other?  And this is when you decide to get introspective all of a sudden?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.  I guess that’s what happened.  It just, um, felt weird for a second.”

 

“Yeah, Adam, I imagine it does feel weird.  I guess it does seem pretty strange to you, to be ordered to fuck a jar of jam.  What seems strange to me, is that you would choose this time to have your existential crisis.  Because you are on my time and I am not one of your goddamned flunkies.  I’m not your law clerk.  I’m not your boot licking golf caddy.  I’m not your secretary, and I am certainly not your wife.  Maybe most of the other people in your life are fine with having their time wasted but you fucking listen to me and you listen good: I am not one of them.  You will not waste my time, you worthless fuck.  When I tell you to do something, you will fucking do it.  I don’t care if it makes you feel stupid.  I don’t give a fuck if you want to or not.  You are going to do it because I told you to, and you are going to do it now.”

 

This little motivational speech seemed to hit the mark.  Adam applied himself to the assignment.  His efforts were tentative at first, but he quickly picked up momentum.  He did what was required without a shred of his earlier self consciousness, embracing the grotesque, nonsensical lewdness of his actions: he was fucking a jar of strawberry jam.  He plunged into the congealed red mass.  The sticky mess oozed out of the jar.  Blobs of it dropped onto the tarp below.   He knew he looked foolish, but it didn’t matter.  He was insignificant, completely unimportant.  In committing this singularly weird act, he was liberated.

 

I took in the entire spectacle from my throne.  Though I had ordered this performance, I was indifferent about the details of execution.  I maintained an air of aloofness, designed to emphasize my disdain.  It also drove the point home to Adam: I will capriciously order him to mortify himself, not simply because it amuses me, but because his humiliation is nothing to me.  It might be a huge sacrifice to him, but it doesn’t move me.  That was perhaps the most degrading part of the whole thing.  It was perfect.

 

After he finished, he crumpled to the floor where he writhed on his side, his dick still embedded in the jar.  He lay there on the tarp, sticky from the mess.  I stood, tossing a package of baby wipes on the floor.  Then I left the room.  Adam cleaned himself up, and it was over.

 

*name changed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“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.

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.