Saturday, February 26, 2011
I may have to suspend updates to this blog, for a few days or even as much as a week. This is not, regrettably, because I have had a conversation like the one above, but I am travelling and I might not have secure Internet access or even Internet access at all.
Back by March 6th, so if I haven't updated before then, I promise a particularly large posting, with foolish captions on divine images galore.
Unless someone forbids me, of course...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
|...and Jenny likes men even less, in case you were wondering.|
|Or you can go private, and get the cane instead.|
|Again, surely an image to give pause to those who still believe in the equality of the sexes.|
|But of course he doesn't know it's a public holiday. In fact, he has no idea whether it is night or day.|
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Note for all except British readers of a certain age. 'Tomorrow's World' was a popular BBC TV programme about science. It was famous for presenting scientific breakthroughs in a relentlessly cheerful manner, painting a future of a bright shiny technological tomorrow. I'm still waiting for my personal jetpack. Also famous for unconvincing banter between the presenters and wobbly sets, like most British TV of the 70s and 80s.
Here's a 70s domme to put you in the mood, then on with the story...
Here's a 70s domme to put you in the mood, then on with the story...
[Sarah] Welcome to this special edition of Tomorrow’s World, where we’ll be reporting on what might be the most significant scientific breakthrough since the theory of gravity. Researchers at the Marie Curie centre for female science have announced a new discovery that could revolutionise the way we live, work and spend our leisure time. Karen’s been looking into it.
[Sarah] So, Karen, what’s all the fuss about?
[Karen] Thanks Sarah. Well, details are still a bit sketchy at the moment, but we’re beginning to hear some fascinating hints about a new technique that’s been discovered called “slavery”.
[Sarah] “Slavery”, eh? So what does it involve?
[Karen] The technical details haven’t yet been published, but if I understand the basic principle correctly, the idea is to force male humans to work without pay, complaining or stopping for breaks.
[Sarah] Sounds wonderful if it’s true – the sort of ‘free energy’ source scientists have been seeking for years. But how can you make men work for free? I can’t get my husband to wash the dishes even now. I’d love to make him a slave, but how can I?
[Karen] Well, Sarah that’s where the science comes in. (Turns to look at the camera) There are two basic elements to the breakthrough – lust and pain. Lust comes in because it’s been discovered that men have an area of the brain that provides a strong sexual urge to be dominated and to serve women. In a very few men, it’s already developed but in most it is merely nascent. The researchers at the Marie Curie Centre have found a way to stimulate it in all men, so that we can use its effects.
[Sarah] Sounds great. But you mentioned two elements – what’s the other?
[Karen] The other is punishment. You see, if there’s only the lust developed men want to spend the whole day looking at porn or just gently licking women’s leather boots. Pleasant enough, but not particularly productive. But then the researchers tried whipping these men – and things turned out very different. Let’s hear from one of the scientists involved. (looks off to the side)
Cut away to a confident-looking blonde woman in her early forties, wearing a lab coat.
[Scientist] Well, we had a new form of male life – slaves – and that was very exciting, but we couldn’t find a way of getting any useful work out of them. We tried various combinations of diet and chemical stimulants, with a small degree of success but not the large-scale useful activity we were really looking for. Then it was one of our young interns, actually, who tried thrashing one of them on the buttocks with a stick. We were all just amazed: he was cleaning around the lab, washing up some of the test equipment and making tea without a word of complaint.
Camera pulls back to reveal a range of implements on the lab bench beside her.
[Scientist] Following that breakthrough, we conducted a rigorous and comprehensive sequence of tests on different materials – mostly leather or wood, but some plastic and metal too – lengths of material, part of the body beaten, duration of the beating and so on. We’re still making progress, actually, getting some very exciting results with new and exotic materials. But it’s quite clear that very acceptable results can be achieved by using a willow cane or a leather strap or whip, as long as the beating is repeated on a fairly regular basis.
A clip is briefly shown of a man being flogged briskly with a leather riding whip, dancing frantically as he dangles from his shackles and howling in pain as each stroke falls.
Back in the studio
[Sarah] Amazing. And these materials – willow, leather and so on - they’re quite cheap and easy to obtain?
[Karen] That’s right. In fact, most of our viewers could probably fashion something workable just from old materials they might have lying around the house. An old leather belt, the rubber drive belt from an old washing machine, or even some nice whippy twigs from some varieties of tree will all make perfectly adequate instruments of correction, and get your house spic and span in no time.
[Karen] Sounds almost too good to be true. But will it really change the way that we live? What will life in the future be like, when slavery is cheap and plentiful?
Karen gets up and walks over to where a “living room of the future” has been mocked up, mostly using shaky cardboard. She stands in front of it, talking directly to the camera.
[Karen] Well, a lot of things in the future will still look much the same, but the underlying technology will be very different.
She sits down in an armchair
[Karen] Take TV, for example. At the moment, I have to – and she reaches to the side for a remote control with obvious effort – reach out for a remote control, then choose one of all these many, many buttons just to switch the TV on. But in the future, I can simply say
[Karen] “Slave! TV!”
A naked man scurries out from behind her chair, over to the TV, switches it on and then returns to his hiding place
[Karen] And the TV automatically switches on. And similarly, if I want to change channels or adjust the volume…
She demonstrates, calling out different options and sending the slave hurrying back and forth to adjust the TV for her convenience
[Karen] Again, it’s all done automatically - and all without leaving my seat.
[Karen] But that is not what’s really impressive about this new technology. After all, even today TVs could come with voice recognition, which might achieve the same effect.
Close up of her face as she frowns thoughtfully at the camera
[Karen] But could a TV with voice recognition get you a drink? You see a slave is versatile and flexible, and this very same slave that just made the TV work just how I want it, can also fix me a drink. I just need to give a different command – like this.
[Karen] “Slave! Gin and tonic.”
The naked man hurries over to the sideboard, and swiftly mixes the drink, then kneels before the presenter with the finished product, ice clinking gently against the sides of the glass. She reaches for it and takes a sip.
[Karen] Hmmm (smiles at the camera). Not bad. But it’s not exactly how I like it. I prefer my G&T to have just a little less tonic, and to have a slice of lime in it rather than lemon. You see, this slave has never made me a G&T before, so he doesn’t know my preferences. But unlike a mechanical device, he can learn, so that in future he’ll get it just how I like it.
[Karen] And this is where the really clever science comes in. Slave! Fetch the cane!
The man rushes off and returns to kneel before her with a long, whippy yellow cane. Karen reaches forward with a smile and picks it up.
[Karen] Now this (flexing it through the air while smiling at the camera) is one of the canes supplied by the researchers. But it could just as easily be an ordinary household cane, or even an unravelled coat hanger, if that’s all you can find. Now watch how I adjust the slave, so that next time he remembers how I like my drink.
[Karen] Slave! Bend over the chair!
The man bends over, and Karen stands up, takes two steps forward and swings the cane hard to lash across his buttocks. He howls and shudders, but remains bent over.
Karen smiles at the camera again. Now I‘m no expert in the use of this thing (she flexes the cane gently) . I’ve never even used one before today, when I had about ten minutes practice during rehearsals. But you can see there, I’ve already produced quite a nice mark, right across his buttocks. Now what that is doing is activating the pain receptors right across all that skin and flesh underneath that red line – do you see how it’s swelling slightly, if we can get the camera in on that? – and those receptors are sending signals all the way to his brain, where his ideas about how I like my drinks are being adjusted. And those pain receptors are still firing away even now, getting on for a minute after the stroke. He’ll continue to be in pain from this beating for anything from a few hours to even a few days afterwards.
[Karen] But of course, I don’t need to understand all that just to use the cane. That’s the simplicity of this new technology. I don’t need to know the science, all I need to know is that if something isn’t quite to my liking, I can just beat this slave until it’s sorted out. Like this.
She proceeds to add three more angry red lines to the first, then commands the slave to return the cane to its holder and to make her another drink.
[Karen] And it’s not just drinks – the same slave will clean your house, do the laundry and iron your clothes, in fact, he will do anything in his power to make your life as comfortable and convenient as possible.
The slave has returned and kneels before her proffering the new G&T, trembling slightly. She reaches for it, and takes a sip.
[Karen] Hmmm. Perfect. Just the way I like it. And later on, I might try out his culinary skills. I’ll see if I can - she half-smiles at the camera and raises an eyebrow – whip up something tasty!
Cut back to Sarah
[Sarah] Oooh! Now that hurts as much as the cane! Do you think a slave could be made to write you some better jokes, Karen?
[Sarah] No, but seriously, we’ve been watching you do all these marvellous things with just a flick of that cane, and haven’t seen any use of mechanical power – no electricity, no fuel. Is it all CO2 neutral?
Karen walks back off the domestic set to the main studio
[Karen] That’s right, Sarah. No scarce fossil fuels used up, no harmful chemical by-products and it won’t contribute to global warming. Slavery isn’t just a matter of convenience – it can help save the planet, too.
[Sarah] So how much can we expect slaves to do for us in the future?
[Karen] Well, Sarah, the researchers say that right now we are only just beginning to learn the possibilities of this exciting new technology. We simply don’t yet know all of the things that slaves will be doing for us. Slavery will be all around us, it will be part of our everyday lives. We probably won’t even think about all the slaves there working tirelessly behind the scenes. We’ll be flicking with a whip to get things done, with no more thought than when flicking a light switch today.
[Karen] Of course, there’s some way to go yet until we really see the full potential for this technology. For example, slave powered transport is an obvious area of research, but for now it’s probably limited to trips around town and slow-moving bulk transport. (she looks away to the side)
A short clip plays showing first, a neat little slave drawn buggy, then a larger team of slaves being whipped along a canal tow-path, pulling a barge.
[Karen] But research is continuing, and there’s a lot of commercial interest in development too. I am sure there will be lots of exciting new things we can do with slaves that we’ll only discover as we start to use them. I’ve been trying out some of the slaves from the science centre all day, and I can tell you I just don’t know how I ever managed without them.
[Sarah] So there we are. Simple, yet high tech, effective and remarkably easy to use. A future of convenience and leisure, and saving the planet too! I can’t see anyone objecting to that.
Karen smiles at her
[Karen] Well – except the slaves, I suppose!
[Sarah] Except the slaves, of course!
[Both (laughing)] Goodnight!
Lights dim and credits roll up the screen.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
...were a brilliant 1980s band (well, they were a four-hit wonder actually, but I liked them and anyway they had Clare Grogan). But this post isn't about them, it's just more daft captioned images of female domination.
|I'm a traditionalist, I'm afraid, and I don't really believe in mens' lib. Planning a series of stories on this, actually.|
|The notion of changing your name is just delightfully subtly submissive, and public too. Several posts about this on other (more serious) blogs lately.|
|This is of course the divine Mistress Valkyrie. Combining the best traditions of English (ow!) and Czech (thwack!) femdom.|
|A little off the usual trajectory for me, but something had to be done with that picture. That artwork 'obscure title' by the way, is nothing like as weird as some I've seen.|
|Quite why anyone would even consider looking at marmalade in this situation bemuses me, but then I'm not a male maid with a housework obsession|
Sunday, February 20, 2011
“So what did you do?” asked Alice with interest, staring at the uncomfortable man in front of her.
“Oh” she said modestly, “just a little intra-body transplant. Any incredibly highly-skilled surgeon could do it, if only they had the imaginative genius.”
She gently lifted his skirt. Between his legs lay something small, and thin…and dark pink and quite moist. As Alice watched in fascination, it curled its tip up and out towards her.
It was a tongue.
“May I?” breathed Alice, gesturing towards the displaced organ.
“Be my guest”, smiled her friend.
Alice slowly reached forward and touched the tongue. It was wet, muscular and soft like any tongue.
“He’ll lick your hand if you tell him to” Serena advised.
Alice laughed delightedly as her hand was gently licked, like a loving puppy dog, by the little member wagging so obediently between Serena’s slave’s legs.
“So you took his penis off and replaced it with a tongue?” she said in wonderment.
“It’s his own tongue.” she said. “All the muscles are attached as before. Just…down there instead of in his throat. It’s fully functional”
“You mean he can talk?” Alice asked, puzzled.
“Well, no” her friend admitted. “We would need to combine the tongue with all the other bits for that, and those are still in his throat. I mean it’s fully functional for oral sex – better, if anything, as it can curl right from the base now it’s not confined in his throat.”
“And you can have oral sex in the missionary position” mused Alice. “I’m not sure I’d like that. I enjoy having them kneel before me for sex.”
Her friend laughed out loud.
“Oh, you can still do that too! Just in a different way. In fact, I’m surprised he’s managed to keep his mouth closed all this time, with two attractive women standing before him like this.”
Alice looked closely and saw she was right. The slave’s lips were bulging outwards as if something inside were swelling to push past.
“Down on your knees, and show Miss Alice what you can do.” Serena instructed quietly.
On the way home, in the taxi, Alice thought about what she had seen, and the offer that Serena had made. She loved her husband, David, but it was true that he could be…improved. In the Mistress/slave contract that they had signed, Alice had committed not to remove any part of his body without his free consent, a condition that David – who had a visceral fear of castration – had insisted on. Alice, who loved the feeling of his cock inside her, had happily agreed, without a moment’s hesitation, telling him that she could never bear to have it removed.
“But the agreement doesn’t say things can’t be moved about a bit” she thought to herself happily, stroking the little vial of liquid her friend had given her to put into her husband’s drink.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
|I expect they'll be up all night, chatting away like girls do.|
|Nice to see some pics of dommes looking happy.|
|Isn't that a sweet smile?|
|Good thing she caught it in time.|
|Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, daruber muss man schweigen|
Friday, February 18, 2011
You know all these men by sight and by name. But you never really speak to them. You nodded silently at them as you walked in, and you too joined the chorus of curt nods as later arrivals walked in and found a place. But you don’t speak. Later on, it’s not allowed but no one has ever said you can’t speak to them at this stage. But why would you? There’s nothing to say. You know nothing of what they do.
Except that like you, they do this.
You know all their names because you hear the receptionist call them out when she’s checking attendance. And later you hear them called one by one by a different voice, from behind the heavy wooden door. The door is thick and muffles the sound. But you listen with exceptional care, because the name might be yours. Eventually, it will be yours, there can be no doubting or escaping that. You long to get it over with. But you dread it too, and breathe again as another man rises heavily to his feet, and reluctantly passes into the other room.
There is a large clock, which ticks and tocks heavily into the silence, from the corner. You wonder whether it was placed there deliberately to add to the tension. ‘Tension’ is barely the word, because to be truthful, what you feel is fear, plain and simple. Fear building since the start of this week, as the day approached. Fear that struck like an icicle in the pit of your stomach this morning, when you woke up knowing this was the day. Fear that now seems ready to bubble over into panic, sending you hysterically fleeing from this place. But somehow you never do.
Now there are some sounds to be heard from behind the door, at the limit of hearing. You can’t make out words but you can hear her voice, level and measured as always. She never raises her voice and she never shouts. She talks about her expectations for the men under her tutelage, and she identifies specific areas in which they have fallen short. She asks precise, pointed questions and she listens carefully to the answers.
You can hear the man’s voice, answering her questions. His voice is quiet too, but there is an urgency and a rush to it, as if he is trying to suppress the panic that might cause him to shout. It is worth putting your point of view. Perhaps it would be easier if she were more implacable, if nothing you said could make a difference. But she listens, and will change her mind if the explanations are reasonable. And so you explain, and you excuse and you apologise…and as in panic you see her unmoved by those carefully prepared explanations, you can find yourself gabbling.
This is what you hear now. The man’s voice has become more shrill in tone, and urgent. He is no longer discussing his behaviour, he is simply pleading. And this does no good. She will not tolerate it for long, and the whining tones cease abruptly, no doubt at a curt word from her.
After a pause, her own voice can be heard again. Now, she is giving her decision, and the reasons for it. Now there is no pleading to be heard, because at this stage there is no point. The voice – as measured and calm as ever – ceases and there is silence.
Total, empty silence, which the tick-tocking of the clock seems to swell to fill.
Inside the room, positions are being assumed. Clothing is perhaps being adjusted. Implements are being selected, laid out ready. Restraints are almost certainly being applied: most men need them. All is done in silence, and the men outside find themselves holding their breath.
It is always longer than expected. Surely it must start now, you think? But perhaps something is not yet quite right. She will not begin until everything is ready, and she never hurries.
And then the silence is violently broken, by the sharp CRACK of an implement. Wooden or leather? A paddle or a cane? On the bare flesh or (less commonly, except for the very harshest implements) across the clothing? The sound of just one impact answers all of these questions. You know precisely what is being done. You have experienced it. This is a heavy leather strap, applied across a bare bottom. And although there is a feeling of relief that this time it is him and not you, you know too that it will be you. Maybe not this implement, not this way, this time around. But eventually, you will experience everything, and all of the combinations. But just for now, just at this precise time, you are out here and it is someone else in there who is having that done to him. And that is something for which you can only give thanks.
You don’t know how many. And so you count. You would prefer not to, you would prefer to think of something else. But you count, of course you count. All around the room, no matter where their gaze lies or what they seem to be thinking, all are counting. There is no point in counting someone else’s strokes, as it will never affect your own later. But you have to count, how can you not?
With each impact, you wonder whether that was the last. As they build up, at regular intervals, milestones are reached. At five, or at seven there is little doubt that another will follow after a pause. But at six or at ten, exactly the same pause seems to stretch out until you wonder whether that is that… until CRACK tells you that there is more still to come. She likes sixes, and the pauses at 12, 18 and 24 hang particularly heavily in the room. During a particularly hard beating, it is essential not to meet anyone else’s eye, as what expression could you possibly share when the 25th, or the 37th or even the 61st impact rings out across the room? So eyes stay firmly fixed on the floor.
Mingled in with the sounds of this steady beating, the sounds of its results begin to be heard. Grunts and heavy breathing barely make it through the thick wooden door, but after a while little cries and gasps start to emerge. One or two men can remain silent almost throughout, and one new arrival is still helplessly noisy almost from the start when it is his turn. But most find themselves involuntarily commenting on the discipline as it builds up, beginning to cry out as if in surprise at the fresh pain from each stroke.
You never ‘get used’ to it, either from one session to the next or from one stroke to the next. Each impact outrages the nerve endings, which have evolved to report pain so it can be avoided. Yet here it cannot be avoided, and so the nerves shout ever more angrily, ever more urgently. Someone is hitting you, is calmly adding bruise onto bruise, is raising welts on ever more damaged tissue! Pain receptors urgently report the assault, commanding an immediate response. Run away! Hide! Fight back!
But you cannot do any of those things. So what do you do? You cry out. You yell and shriek instinctively, to alert people around that you are in pain and need relief. But there is only her, and she will not be providing any relief from this. So you yell, and you cry and you shriek and…you beg.
Yes. You beg. You offer frantic apologies and promises and bargains. You plead for mercy, knowing all the time that nothing will do the slightest good, that nothing you say can possibly dissuade her from her set course of action. Your hopeless begging will not result in one fewer stroke or the most marginal diminution in the force with which any are applied. Every time you tell yourself you will not beg, that you are a rational being and you will not be reduced to a piteous, mewling coward for no reason. But you will beg for mercy, you know you will. You always do.
The pause after 24 is long. After a while, you stop waiting for the sound of 25. For some reason, tension around the room relaxes slightly. Shoulders shift almost imperceptibly forwards. Why the sound of someone else being beaten is so nerve-racking is hard to explain. After all, when someone esle is being beaten, you are not. It is now, after their beating, that the door might fly open and a disshevvilled figure stagger into the room, to pass into the corridor where he will stand quietly facing the wall (fidgeting but not daring to explore his damaged flesh under the watchful eye of the receptionist), until all of the sessions are complete. And if that happens, then it will be someone else’s turn. And that someone might be you.
There are four other men in the room. So there is a one in five chance that it will be you next time. Eventually, of course, it must be you. The probability rises until it reaches one, when the second-last is receiving his treatment and there is no one left in the room to wait with you. You hate being last, like that.
But there is another possibility. All the room’s occupants start visibly as the sound of another impact is heard. This is quieter, more of a SNICK! than a slapping, cracking sound. But it is nothing gentle. You know it is the cane.
And even if you had not instantly recognised that soft, deadly, evil sound, the shriek that follows provides a further clue. The previous session is not yet done, but has merely reached another stage. You didn’t know that, as the sounds of the first beating built up. But the recipient in there almost certainly did, having had his punishment explained to him before it began. He knew, all the way to 24 strokes, that this was merely the overture, that no amount endured from the strap in any way lessened the number of strokes of the cane yet to come. Perhaps it would have been easier for him not to know. But she did not give him that choice, because that is not the way she does it.
Somehow you find it hard to breathe when someone is being caned. But you have to breathe, because the pace is slower, with long pauses between the strokes. The pauses are not silent, because the recipient is now crying uncontrollably, having long lost the ability to form coherent words. Yet the strokes punctuate and regulate the rhythm of the sobs, implacably. The screams tell of agony and fear. You already know that, because you have had the cane too. And you screamed in just the same way.
Other men don’t do this. It is the middle of a Friday evening, and other men are drinking with their friends, or dining with their dates. Some might be having a quiet evening at home. You have prepared lies in case any work colleagues ask what you were doing on Friday. Because you are hardly going to tell them that you were bent over, being beaten on your bottom by a lady whose real name you don’t even know. And thanked her afterward for the privilege. And left swearing never to return, to recapture your life. And knowing full well that next month you would be back here, waiting your turn, wishing things were otherwise.
Even if you could bear the embarrassment of telling someone…what could you possibly say, when they ask “Why?”?
The caning has finished, and the sobs die away. There is a brief conversation. She likes to end with a few brief comments and reminders of the key areas on which she expects improvement. But no time is allowed for recovery: shorts are jerked back up, the door is flung open and the recipient must emerge still flushed in the face, sometimes still crying but in any event still tear-stained and dishevelled.
He staggers through the room and out into the corridor, where he will quietly await the others.
Again, there is no sound in the room but the tick-tocking of the clock. It shows she is running a little behind schedule. Probably, that means you will finish quite late, as she does not hurry and catch up the time. She takes whatever time is needed.
Tick tock, tick tock.
There is silence from behind the heavy wooden door. But soon it will be broken, when she calls the next name.
Will it be yours? You’d like to get it over with. The sooner it is your name the better. You know that. Get it over with.
But oh please oh please, let it be someone else, just this time. Not you. Not yet. You’re not ready just yet. Please.
But that is not for you to decide. She is reading through a report in there right now, and there is a name on top of it. That is the name that will be called next, whatever you might want. If it is your name, she is thinking about you right now. If not, your name is waiting in the pile of reports before her.
You’ll find out soon.
You just have to wait.
The photo of course is from the formidable Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress. A lady whose style and approach so closely matches my deepest fantasies of inexorable school-style beatings, and whose beauty so perfectly complements that role, that I can hardly bear even to observe her from afar. And because my fantasies are so much 'heavier' than my real willingness to take punishment, I am too scared ever to visit her. But she visits me, in my dreams.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
My grovelling apologies to the extraordinary women in each of these pictures, for adding my dirty little thoughts to their beautiful images.
But I'm incorrigible. Here we go:
Here are some pictures of тараканы.
But I'm incorrigible. Here we go:
|The blonde on the right doesn't look happy. Do you think Sophie's just out-done her, with this initiative and she's annoyed? Alpha females - fear them!|
|I hope he's enjoying his session. Doesn't look it.|
|This is a great photo-sequence, I recommend it. Sometimes OWK breaks through the cliches and does something really original (and cruel!). Human fish. Brilliant, just brilliant.|
|Well you're just going to have to look it up, aren't you? Try the link below.|
Here are some pictures of тараканы.