Archive for the ‘FemDom dreams and stories’ Category

The Usual View

July 31, 2012

Mistress knew what she liked.

The Usual View
by eosuchus

Mistress had finished watching TV. She snapped her fingers.
“Bedroom,” she said absently, as she checked her phone.
He got off his knees in the corner and moved quickly down the corridor to her bedroom, a fantasy place of
white and pink. A room that he cleaned with fanatical intensity every day. He knelt on the far side of her vanity, as usual. She was talking, to Carmela, he was sure, the topic ensured that.
“Well, I don’t care, I don’t fuck anyone like that. You know, honey, if I fuck someone, it’s because I get that thing for a really nice fat cock. You don’t think that guy fits that category, do you?”
He waited. Mistress, still talking to Carmela, had turned towards the bed. She tucked her phone in on her shoulder, bent over a little, reached behind and pulled her panties down slowly, taking her time, presenting him with the view he’d become accustomed to, her glorious, round, full, pale buttocks.
Now he reached up and pulled her panties down her legs. She lifted her right foot, and then the left and he removed them.
Mistress laughed. “That’ll be the day. A guy like that? He thinks he owns you if he buys you dinner. Drives up in his little Beemer and thinks he’s the big shot.”
She laughed again.
“That’s too funny. They’re all really little boys, you know that. You just have to know how to push the right buttons.”
Her right hand came around and her index finger, tipped with a bright red nail, tapped her buttock.
The signal given, he was quick to respond. He leaned forward and began kissing her buttocks. He made his kisses smooth,full, senuous pressings othe lips to the soft skin of each full globe of her ass. First he covered the right one with kisses. Pressing his face into the flesh, as he had been trained to. Then he moved to the left buttock. When Mistress wanted her ass kissed, she wanted it to be royally kissed.
She was still chatting to Carmela, of course. He heard her voice from above. It was a discussion that he’d heard before, both with Carmela and Linda Grey and
Nanci, and several other of Mistress’s friends.
“No, you just need to spank them. If they won’t accept a spanking, then that’s it. I never see them again.
Spanking, then you make them worship you.”
Her hand pressed lightly on top of his head, he pulled back while she turned around. Her nightgown had parted and her large bosom bounced for a moment in his view. Mistress had such wonderfully beautiful, large breasts. Few men could avoid staring at them if she flashed some cleavage. She sat on the edge of the bed, then scooted back a bit and lay down with her legs apart and tapped on her pussy with her index finger. Mistress had shaved most of her pubic hair off, but left a little ’tache above the pussy. Of course, his pubic hair had been removed. He’d been waxed repeatedly, until the hair on his ass and pubic region had just about stopped growing back. Mistress was firm, her slaves never had body hair.
He moved forward and began kissing her labia, softly, then more firmly, then pressing his tongue within. Her clitoris hardened and her labia parted and he began the nightly task of bringing Mistress to her first oral orgasm.
He provided soft tongue swirls across her clitoris, and as he felt her excitement build, even though she was still talking to Carmela, he began to bring his lips around the clitoris and to suck it very gently. He knew she loved this.
“Oh, Carm, just spank the stupid asshole. Get his ass good and purple and then sit on him. You know how it’s done.”
She grunted. “Ohhh. Listen, hon, I got to get off. Yeah, it’s that time. What? Of course, every night. Why have one if you don’t use him? Yeah. Bye.”
Her hand came down to play with his hair and she
flexed her abdomen to push her clitoris firmly up against his lips.
That was the signal for him to begin longer, firmer licking, bringing his tongue and lower lip up along the clitoris and over, and then back, again and again.
A couple of minutes of this and her fingers were holding his ears very firmly, tugging a little each time he brought his lower lip across her clitoris. From far away, as it were, he heard her moan. Now it was more sucking of the clitoris, but harder and longer, and as he sucked on it, she moved, to press it against his front teeth, and then rub it hard up his face as far as his nose. And he could hear her now, getting louder, and she was climbing the stairs of her excitement, gripping his head with both hands, grinding her pussy against his mouth and nose, making any use of his tongue irrelevant, and then she came, with a grunt, and a long moan of pleasure. He felt her soften, felt her open, and her juices flowed over his lips and tongue and down his chin.
“Ahh,” she said. “So good.” And she pulled her legs up and turned onto her side, pushing him away at the same time.
He listened to her panting, trying to ignore the discomfort of his penis, trapped in the chastity tube, where it was locked away. It had been weeks since he’d had release. But, Mistress had the key, and he would only get release, if and when she decided to grant it. He tried not to think about it. Such thoughts only increased his frustration and discomfort.
Her phone buzzed with a text message. He felt her move on the bed to read it. Then she laughed.
A few seconds later she moved again.
“Okay, slave,” she said, as she turned onto her
stomach, then raised her ass up to present him with the usual view.
For a long moment he stared, his mouth had gone dry, the way it always did. Her large buttocks filled the view before him. In fact, in the usual way, they had become the whole world. In the center was her anus, a pink bud of tissue, recently bleached. Mistress was a Domme in demand, who had her ass worshipped by a number of wealthy men, who paid handsomely for the privilege.
Beneath that expensive anus, her pussy was still split wide, the clitoris showing through, shiny with secretions.
She wiggled her ass. “Come on, do me good.”
Wealthy men might worship this spot, but her trained slave was expected to provide exactly what she liked.
He leaned forward, her buttocks seemed to draw him into her. His face pressed against the inside skin of her buttocks in the familiar way. His lips found her anus for the first kiss.
“Mmmmm, that’s what I like,” she said in a throaty purr, and wiggled backwards a little to get him to start licking and french kissing her most intimate spot.
Now the usual view was gone, he could see nothing with his face pressed tightly into her ass. His brain though, was on fire, ignoring the pain in his penis. His desire to submit, to serve, to worship his Mistress had

and once again he was lost in the usual view of Mistress

become everything. His tongue worked in and out, moving at a rhythmn that he knew she liked, and in his mind’s eye, the usual view was there, reminding him as always, that this was where he belonged.

copyright 2012  Permian Systems.

Would You Like to Buy Him?

July 12, 2012

WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY HIM?
by eosuchus

“Would you like to buy him?” said the blonde lady, as
Catherine was walking by. The words were not addressed to her, but they turned her head.
An older woman, with grey hair pulled back into a  long ponytail and massive breasts was standing by the wall. Kneeling before her, on a leash held by the blonde, was a young man. His face was pressed against the lower part of the older lady’s belly. Her right hand rested on his head and her fingers had a grip on his dark hair.
“He seems eager enough,” said the older lady in a husky voice.
“Oh, he’s well trained for oral service,” said the blonde.
“What sort of price are you looking for?”
Catherine didn’t want to stare, but this conversation was so new to her experience and thus still shocking, that she just stood there, taking it all in.
The young man was well proportioned, and from his profile, good looking. He was wearing a form fitting t-shirt and what looked like a little skirt, with flip-flops on his feet. He had a thick, black dog collar around his neck, with a chain leash that the blonde woman held quite casually in her hand.
“Well, I have him in Section 11 marriage. It’s the full contract, but he owns a house in Orange Park and I left that with him. He also has some stocks and bonds in a retirement account, and that all comes with him.”
“So there’s a property price on him, too?”
“You know, I really don’t want his stuff. I enjoyed him, and he’s well trained now, so I just want the sweat equity, if you know what I mean.”
Both women laughed at that. And the older woman tightened her grip on the young man’s hair and pressed his face down and into her crotch.
While this amazing little scene was going on, the party continued all around them, and nobody seemed to be especially interested or troubled by what sounded like slave trading going on here.
Catherine had only been in LA for a month now, drawn to the west coast by a new job running an aggressive new art gallery for the FemArts Coalition.
She’d heard about this kind of thing when she was in New York, everybody talked about the changes in California, how the women were taking over, but she hadn’t imagined seeing something like this, at a party like this.
“Can I have a preview with him,” said the older woman, still keeping her grip on the young man’s hair and his face pressed against her belly.
“Sure, I don’t know if Irina would let you….”
“There are about twenty bedrooms here, there must be one that’s empty.”
Both women laughed again.
“Is he chipped?” said the older woman as she took the leash from the blonde.
“Yes, and registered. Disease free and he’s been to training school. Nothing to worry about.”
“Wonderful, I’ll call you shortly with my decision.”
The older woman moved away, pulling the young man behind her on the leash. Catherine saw that what she’d thought was a skirt was really the bottom part of a long, body hugging t-shirt that was belted at the waist. It came down to a point just below his shapely ass. His legs were hairless, that was also clear.
Then they were gone, passing through the crowd, heading towards the stairs. Irina Morrison, the hostess for this party, and owner of this vast mansion in the Hollywood hills, was over there somewhere, too, surrounded by cronies. Irina was an important figure in the Coalition, which was why Catherine had been invited to the party, her first serious social occasion since she’d arrived in the city.
The blonde had just checked her phone, now she looked up and her eyes met Catherine’s.
“You’re new to LA,” she said with a smile.
“Yes, how can you tell?”
“Oh, the way you stared at me and my slave just now. There’s this look that women get the first time they see something from Section 11. People here are used to it. Perhaps some men might get upset, but it’s not that
strange anymore. Almost like gay marriage, nobody even thinks twice about that.”
“Well, yes, now that you say that. I had heard about it, of course.”
The blonde laughed. “Of course, the whole world thinks that California is crazy. But you know, our economy is going stronger than ever.”
“And women are running more and more of it, too,” said Catherine. “I know, it just drives the conservatives crazy. The things they say on tv.”
“Well, we have our own tv. We don’t have to pay any attention to them.”
The blonde paused as a male servant in formal dress offered them a tray with glasses of champagne.
Catherine took one, too.
“So,” said the blonde, “why are you here?”
“New job. Managing an art gallery. I’ve been in
New York too long. It was either come here or go to London.”
“London! I Love London, but it’s so expensive.”
“Yes, I heard that. But this job came up and so I’m here.”
Catherine noticed that the older lady was climbing the stairs now, pulling the young man behind her.
The blonde picked up on what Catherine was looking at. “Lorraine is going to try him out upstairs. I think she’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“You mean have sex with him?”
“Only oral.” The blonde held up a wrist bracelet. There were some little gold keys attached. “He’s locked down. If she buys him, she can go all the way if she likes. But until then, he’s mine.”
“Oh, my.” Catherine had heard of this, too. Of women keeping men in chastity systems, locked up, so that they could only have sexual relief with the woman’s permission.
“Getting very common here, I have to say. If a guy wants to get married now, he pretty much has to agree to a chastity. It may not go all the way to Section 11, but
most girls today want a chaste man, who they can control.”
“But you have several keys there.”
The blonde laughed. “Oh, yes, I have quite a stable right now. I have five men who want to marry me under Section 11 rules. They’re all in chastity, of course.”
“There are that many, uh, masochist men here in LA?”
“Well, they come from all over. All over the world, I should add. I have two Germans right now. Uli and Hans, both magnificent specimens.”
“You do a lot of this, then?”
“Oh, yes, it’s become quite a good sideline for me.”
The blonde extended a hand, “My name is Cheryl, by the way. Cheryl Slate. I work in Real Estate primarily, but the last few years I’ve done very well with the slaves.”
Catherine felt her eyes pop as she heard this. The world had changed dramatically out here in California.
“That’s amazing. I never imagined that it would go so far.”
“Once the Section law was passed, everything began to evolve very quickly. There are tens of thousands of happy Section 11 households now. And there are tens of thousands more men, who are hoping to find a Section 11 arrangement.”
“But you have a husband, and you’re going to sell him?”
“Oh yeah,” Cheryl laughed again. “See, it’s part of the thrill for a lot of them, they really want to be nothing more than property belonging to women. If women want to sell them to other women that’s exciting for them.”
“Wow. And great for you.”
“I have to say I didn’t expect to have so much business this way.”
“And it’s legal?”
“Yes, it’s a free market, there’s nothing that says a woman can’t arrange to give her husband to another woman in return for money. Kind of amazing, yeah?”
“We wouldn’t tolerate it if it was the other way around.”
Cheryl laughed again. “Of course not. God, that’s a horrible thought. But, you know there is still trafficking in women for prostitution. There are gangs and killings, it’s awful. But those women are not volunteers. No man has to stay in a Section 11 situation. He can have his freedom whenever he wants and his wife has to take him to the County Center where he can have counselling, some therapy, and stay for a while until he can get a job and get back on his feet.”
“Wow, does that happen a lot?”
“It happens. Some of these guys have all these fantasies about being a woman’s slave. Then they find that she really means it about working them hard every day. That she really does want them to scrub the floors and cook the meals and they get sick of it. Because they’re just into the sexual side.”
“I would have thought that was the majority of them.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s the majority of men with these kind of, uhh, feelings. But only a small group go so far as to put themselves in line for Section 11. It’s self selection you see.”
“Right,” Catherine did see. Men who went that far were pretty likely to really be into this.
“So, it’s pretty easy to meet a guy like this?”
“Sure. There are clubs all over the place. But many women prefer to buy from someone like me, because then you know what you’re getting.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, because I take them in and I train them. It’s, umm, it’s a rigorous process, shall we say?”  Cheryl laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. “I break them down basically, like in the military. They have to reach the point where they barely think of themselves at all. They have to be completely directed towards their Mistress.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.”
“Once you get them there, yeah, it is. They become so, well, so devoted. Of course they’re in chastity, and you don’t give them relief very often, so there’s a constant pressure from their little balls on their brains. But with the training, they are just fantastic servants, or maids, or whatever you like.”
“Maids?”
“Sure, there’s a big minority that are eager to be feminized and turned into lady’s maids. I do that to a lot of them. Give them fake boobs, even. Put them in panties and stockings, make them wear high heels all the time, and makeup and wigs. Or, grow their hair out and get it all nice. It only works well with the smaller men, though, because if a guy is more than about five eight, then once he’s in heels, he’s huge, and most women don’t like the effect. But the petites, and the
little skinny guys, they can be made into very nice little she-males.”
Catherine’s head was spinning by this point.
“But, what about?” She floundered, not wanting to use those words, for some reason.
“Their equipment,” Cheryl finished for her. “Not a problem, all these slave men are shaved, plucked and waxed. No body hair allowed, that’s the first rule.”
“Waxed?”
“I take them to my friend Inez, her salon in Oakwood. The girls are so used to it now, they just
wax these guys as if they were like anyone else.”
“Anyway, once they’re free of hair and in total chastity, you can work on reducing their male drive. If you do it enough you can get them so they can’t even have erections. Of course that means some work with the strap on. I do that a lot, because it means so much to them.”
“Strap on, you mean dildo?”
“Yep, you gotta fuck them in the ass, like a lot. I’m an expert on that now.”
Catherine blinked. This was a real education she was getting.
“They like that?”  Catherine recalled an experiment with a boy named Tony. It hadn’t gone well. In fact it’d hurt like hell. She’d never tried it since.
“Well, you start them out with a trainer dildo. Just a little one. And you lube them up a lot. And you do it every day. Then you move them to a bigger one, and then to a much bigger one. Just like you spank them all the time, too. You know when you start that, they can’t handle much pain. They’re crying and begging for mercy within a few minutes. But after a few weeks they toughen up and learn to take it without making noise. See, spanking them and using the strap on is important to reinforce their submissive urges. And, of course, you have to train them to provide oral.”
Oral, for the woman only, that was what Catherine had heard about back in New York. Not blowjobs, nothing like that, it was just for the woman to receive and the male to provide.
“So, you have them do that for you?”
“Of course, but I have too many guys. I can only handle so much, you know?”
Cheryl laughed, and so did Catherine. In fact it was a hilarious kind of idea. All these men lining up to lick one woman’s clitoris.
“But I have friends, and so I loan them out. And my friends are very particular and these guys have to learn how to adjust from one woman to the next. Their technique gets pretty good in no time!”
“What else do they do for your friends?”
“Clean their houses mostly. It’s a nice free service. They come in and clean the house and then they eat you out until you can’t have any more orgasms. Then you send them back to me.”
“And no, uh, fucking.” There, she’d said it. Catherine was kind of amazed that she was talking like this, about this topic.
“Absolutely not. Now some women in a Section 11 may require that from their husbands, but usually they forbid them to come. But my guys are all locked up. They couldn’t do that if they wanted to.”
“So, uh, do they ever, you know…?”
“Get to come?” Cheryl grinned. “There are certain ways of rewarding them. I train them to jerk off onto a plate and then lick it up. But I also like to get them used to face sitting. So I sit on them in panties and jerk them off into a condom. I like to combine that with spanking and the strap-on. I’ve found that the combination takes them into exactly the right sort of mental place. They become very easy to control and train.”
“Face sitting, eh? That’s popular, too?”
“For some ladies, yes. It’s tough on the knees though, so if you’re into that I suggest you buy a dedicated piece of furniture, they call them Queening chairs.”
“Oh, my…”
“I have a couple, and I’ve really gotten used to using them. Great for TV or when I’m talking to friends on the phone.”
“You just?”
“Your slave is licking your ass, that’s right. For as long as you want. It’s a very nice sensation, once you get into it. A lot of Dominant Women really enjoy it.”
“I can see I have a lot to learn.”
Cheryl was handing her a card, “Cheryl Slate Section 11 Advisor,” it said in red on a white background.
“I’m officially registered with the County. Everyone I handle is disease free and pyschologically tested. It’s best for safety, that way.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right about that.”
“Give me a call if you want to talk about anything.”
Catherine put the card into her pocket, with her thoughts in a whirl. Was this something she really wanted to explore?
The memory of her abusive ex-husband came up at once. Paul had cheated on her, had stolen money from her, had wrecked her car and then when she filed for divorce he’d threatened to kill her.
And behind Paul there was her old boyfriend, Alex, who’d also stolen her money, and screwed her best friend Michelle, who’d broken the news to her in the cruellest way possible.
Catherine wondered, maybe this was a different, but viable way to go. An incredible thought, but then again, this was LA. Things were different here. Best of all, her sister was in New York and wouldn’t know. Nor would her mother.
Cheryl’s phone warbled. She picked up.
“Yeah. Okay. Good. Yeah. Well, of course, I trained him myself. I’ll text you the details. We can do the divorce and you can marry him right afterwards. Yes, same judge. I prefer Judge Judy, she’s very experienced with these. Okay, meet me out front, and we’ll set a date. You can come over to my place, that’s best. And
then, yeah, right, he’ll be all yours.”
Cheryl put her phone back in her purse.
“That was, Thesea, the lady who was here. She liked my boi there, wants to take him off my hands.”
“Okay, how does that work?”
“Well, I’ll take him home, get him prepped, pack his things. Of course, he doesn’t have much, you know, as a slave. Then she can come over to my house and we’ll call the judge on duty. We can do everything over the phone.”
“Sounds, very, uh, convenient.”
“Oh it is. And then I divorce him and she cuts me a check and she marries him. All he has to do is answer the judge’s questions and affirm that he wants to be married to Thesea now that he’s divorced from me. Then the judge pronounces them wife and man and Thesea can take him home with her.”
“And he’s okay with that?”
“Well, she told me she’s never had better oral. She said he’s very enthusiastic.”
“What will you do?”
“Well, I have to make a decision. I have three guys I’m considering for my next marriage. I might take Carlos, because he’s such a sweety. Or Hans, one of my germans, he has the body of a god, and he is so submissive, it’s unbelievable almost. Then I have a guy with lots of money, Sheldon. He won’t give up all his money, and I wouldn’t want it. But it is a consideration, I won’t deny that. Only thing is he might not be quite ready for completely slavery. The thing about having money like that means you’re insulated from the kind of work that slaves have to do. So, I’m still thinking it will be Carlos.”
“Wow, and how long will he last?”
“Oh, we’ll see. I might keep him for years, or I might sell him in six months. Up to me, you see. That’s what is so great for women in the Section 11 setup. We have almost all the power. The male chooses to place himself in our power and obey us no matter what.”
“Amazing. I have a lot to think about.”
“Well, give me a call if you want to talk about anything,” Cheryl chuckled. “I’ve become something of an expert.”
“Yeah, this is all kind of amazing.”
“One thing we could do, I could let you come take a look at a few of my bois. You could preview one or two, even, so you get a little experience, you know, with a slave male.”
“Oh, wow, I don’t know,” Catherine said, reflexively, and then she stopped herself. “Well, maybe, I mean, yeah, I….”  She wound down confused.
“I know, it’s a big jump from everything we learned as kids. But this is the way it is now, and if you want to take advantage of it, you can.”
And then Cheryl was gone, in her tight cream skirt and black top,heading for the front door.
Catherine sipped champagne and tried to collect her thoughts. Talk about mind blowing!
“Excuse me, dear, I happened to overhear some of that,” purred a voice behind her.
She turned to find an older lady, in a leather skirt, holding a champagne flute in one hand. Beside her and behind her stood a younger man, in a suit, white shirt and pale grey tie.
“Sorry?” said Catherine, suddenly mortified that anyone would have heard her discussion with Cheryl Slate.
“Don’t worry,” said the older lady, with her hair in a careful pageboy tinted auburn. “I just wanted to say you should take her up on her offer. Section 11 can be the best thing that ever happened to a woman. It was for me.”
And with complete casualness, and open control,
the lady reached into the young man’s crotch, and took hold of his genitalia and tugged him forward.
“I took Bobbee here from a dealer. He’s been just wonderful for me.”
The young man was slim, handsome in a boyish way, and kept his eyes downcast. His owner wife, put her arm around his waist and leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
“Bobbee makes my life so comfortable, and orgasmic, dear. You wouldn’t believe how much I enjoy having him eat my ass at bedtime.”
“Really? Wow, and, uhh, he likes it?”
“Honey, tell the lady how much you like to worship my ass.”
The young man had gone bright red with embarrassment, but he licked his lips and said,
“I live to give my Mistress Wife pleasure.”
“Bobbee, you’ll get a spanking,” said the lady with a warning tone.
The young man gulped and swallowed, he looked Catherine in the eyes for a moment and his shame was clearly visible. But at the same time, she felt that he was
hugely aroused by this moment.
“Uh, okay, I beg forgiveness, Mistress.” He cleared his throat. “When I am worshipping my Mistress’s anus, and giving her pleasure there, my face is pressed tightly against her holy buttocks. That is where I believe my face belongs, and when I am there, pressed beneath her holy buttocks and pleasuring her anus, I am fulfilled as her slave.”
Catherine goggled. The nice young man was so normal looking, and obviously so not normal.
The woman was smiling.
“You see, dear, they’re there just waiting for you to take one home. Bobbee, by the way, is an excellent cook and great at massage, too.”
Driving back to the apartment she’d rented on a temporary basis, Catherine kept going over in her head what she’d seen and heard at the party.
Having a man as her slave, legally her property in a kind of way. It was exciting to her, she had to admit. Her marriage had been an awful experience. As a working woman, with a good career, she never wanted to be
treated like that again. It was one reason she’d been very slow to date men after her divorce. This offered an entirely different way of life. She would be the absolute boss, she would have all her needs met and, incredible thought, the guy wouldn’t have needs. Or, if he did, they’d be met by his giving her his complete service and obeying her in everything.
Wow. How could you ask for more?
…when I am there, pressed beneath her holy buttocks and pleasuring her anus, I am fulfilled as her slave.
Bobbee’s humble words came back to her. Wouldn’t that be incredible? How many orgasms could one woman have?
She giggled, then turned into the parking lot outside the building.
Later, as she undressed to take a shower she took Cheryl’s card and put it on the side dresser right next to her phone. She looked in the mirror for a moment, then laughed. She was going to try it, she was going to make that call.

copyright: permian systems 2012.

Phone Chat by eosuchus

June 3, 2012

Oral Servitude in a FemDom Marriage

LISTENING TO THE PHONE CHAT

by eosuchus

Phone Chat
by eosuchus

“Softer, especially the heel!” she said to him, in an aside from her phone conversation.
Jeremy, kneeling before Mistress during the usual session of foot massage at the end of the day, relaxed his grip on the heel of her right foot. The right was often sore, he knew. Mistress wore high heels to work and they took a toll on her poor feet. He took a dab more of the oil mixture– olive with some avocado oil added–  and rubbed it gently into the ball of her foot and then worked it up under the toes and between them.
He felt her relax, shift her weight a little in the chair, and immediately felt his penis harden in the chastity device.
“Oh, no,” she said now, still talking to her sister, Marilyn, who lived in Florida. “That was for my slave.”
She chuckled. “You don’t understand. I got back from the office twenty minutes ago, and he’s rubbing my feet.
Unh-huh, every day, dear, every day. Well, I wear heels, and my feet hurt when I get home.”
She laughed again, the free, easy laugh of an utterly dominant wife.
“That happens too, but not every day!”
Jeremy could sometimes just about hear Marilyn’s responses, and this time he heard something like,
“Thought that was the point.”
“No, silly, you just don’t understand. Out here we have the Section 11 Marriage. It’s for couples like us. I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of lies about it, because it really upsets the conservatives in the south. Yeah, the radio?”
She giggled.
“Oh, god, do they still listen to that crap?”
Jeremy worked each one of Mistress’s pretty toes between his fingers. He had found that she really responded to a gentle squeeze along the toe, then some firm pressure underneath, and a pull off the end.
He would repeat this as often as necessary.
“No, baby, it’s not like that. I don’t ever do anything like that. Rubber? You’re kidding. Of course not. You really ought to try another TV channel, Marilyn, all that conservative stuff will rot your brain.”
Jeremy pulled up another dab of oil. He had gone back to the left foot now. Gentle pressure on the heel, a firm sweep up the underside of the foot with the knuckle of his thumb, then massage pressure on the underside with all the fingers of both hands, and then a shift to the ball of the foot, squeezing gently, then more firmly while making circling motions with the fingers to relax the tender tissues and provide comfort.
In reward, Mistress’s hand came down on the top of his head and played with his hair. Then she shifted her weight again, and crossed her legs. Jeremy’s hard on intensified, even though it was so uncomfortable in the custom made stainless steel chastity.
“Marilyn, I wear whatever I want to wear when I dominate him. Sometimes I put on a tight skirt and heels, and we play for a while. I find that can be very arousing sometimes. But, you know what, usually, I just wear bra and panties. No, never. I wouldn’t. Of course not. Most women in this kind of marriage are just like me. Marilyn, we’re not devil worshippers just because we spank men!”
Jeremy worked the toes on the left foot again. Gentle squeezing along the sides, then top and bottom, and pulling off at the end of each. He paid special attention to the big toe, because those big toes took a pounding in the high heels. One thing he knew she loved was very careful, delicate massage of the underside of the big toe. He concentrated on that. Mistress was very sensitive to her big toes. Jeremy often spent a certain amount of time in the evening with one, or both of Mistress’s lovely big toes in his mouth, while he sucked them. She enjoyed that as foreplay before he got down to providing orgasm services.
Mistress and her sister were now talking about her sister’s husband, Jed, and her sister’s troubles, which were mostly tied up with Jed and his irresponsible ways.
“Baby, you let him get away with it. But you do. He spends money he doesn’t have and puts you and your whole family in the hole.”
Jeremy had heard all this before, of course. Mistress spoke with her sister almost every day. Jeremy knew that Marilyn’s family life was frequently put into crisis, because Jed did something really stupid. There had been a Mercedes. Then a boat. Then an investment in gold coins. It went on and on.
“Baby, you got two sweet little girls. And you got a man that’s dumber than most rocks. If I were you I’d get a divorce, move out here and look for a nice submissive man for a Section 11 marriage.”
Jeremy had gone back to the right foot. A dab more oil, and gentle work on the heel and then the instep, before returning to the sole of the foot and the toes.
“Section 11 means the man accepts the complete authority of the woman. He surrenders his property to her and puts himself under her control.”
Mistress laughed again, but with a hint of annoyance too.
“No, baby, he does what you tell him to do. Or you
punish him.”
“It’s not weird at all. There are thousands of families here now living under Section 11. All kinds. Kids? Lots of kids are growing up in Section 11 families, and you know what?”
Jeremy worked carefully on the big toe of the right foot, being as sensitive as possible to every nuance, executing the pull off at the end with just the right amount of pressure.
Mistress was playing with his hair again. That was a good sign.
“No, baby, there was a survey. Section 11 families have almost no crime at all. The boys grow up respecting women. They may not identify with the way the fathers are, but they grow up with respect for women. And just as important, there are no domestic abuse crimes in Section 11.”
Mistress giggled, a thrilling sound for Jeremy.
“Well, if she wants to abuse her hubby, she can, within limits. She can spank him as much as she wants to. Or use the whip. Section 11 men expect that. Of course they do. They’re submissive men, and they willingly put themselves under their wives’ authority.”
Jeremy kept repeating the soft pull offs on the big toe on the right foot.
“No, he doesn’t have to take it if it goes too far for him. Of course not. This is still America. It’s a voluntary agreement, Section 11. But it does have the power of law behind it. Yeah, on property. He surrenders everything to the woman. Up to her, baby. Some women give it back, some don’t.”
She laughed. “Look, Marilyn, why you want to put up with all that, I don’t know. But, the point is a man in a Female Lead Marriage has the right to leave it. He can go back and reenter normal society. Get a job, whatever. Yes, there’s a whole procedure. You take them to the County. There’s a drop off place, and they are given a place to stay and some reeducation so they can get work and reintegrate.”
Jeremy heard Marilyn say something about “jobs” and he knew that was another sore point, because Jed was always getting laid off or fired. Marilyn had been through some rough times with her worthless man.
“Well, baby,” said Mistress at length.  “Sure, some women do that, and Section 11 men work in lots of normal jobs. But a lot of women prefer to keep their slave in the house. I do. I keep him at home, in chastity, and I keep him busy all day with chores. He doesn’t have time to go out and get into trouble.”
“No, baby, my point is we don’t have women getting beat up and killed and all the rest of that crap. No more. Never again. Not under Section 11. Has never happened.”
Mistress had taken a firmer grip on his hair, she was holding it like it was a set of reins. Jeremy’s hard-on was very uncomfortable in the chastity device, but it wouldn’t go down now.
“Yes, baby, we’re going to have a couple of kids. I want girls, of course. Yeah.”
“The father? My slave? Maybe. I mean I could go to a sperm bank. My slave would raise my babies, no matter what. But, I might have him father them, anyway.
I’ll make that decision, just like I make all the decisions around here.”
Mistress said that with a definite edge of pride. One of the things that appealed to a lot of women in her generation who had taken to the Section 11 lifestyle was the surrender of all decision making to the female head of the household. These women never had to argue about stuff with a man, they made the decision, announced it and enforced it with the paddle if they needed to.
“No, baby, I have an executive position. I won’t be here. Of course he’ll raise the babies. Just like he does everything else. That’s kind of the point, girl. When you have a slave husband, he takes care of the house, so you don’t have to.”
Mistress giggled again. “Baby, I haven’t washed  a dish or mopped a floor since I got my first slave. You know that.”
“Of course he cooks. And he does all the laundry and, well, baby, I have a list of things for him to do every day. Believe me, it’s a long list, too!”
She was still holding onto his hair, and she moved in the chair again, and he could sense that she was ready to move on.
“Anyway, girl, you need to think about what you’re doing over there. I think that fool you’ve got is dragging you down. He’ll be cheating on you, too. Dump him, that’s my advice. Move out here. You could get work. You’ve managed that restaurant for how many years?”
She released his hair and pushed him away with her foot, so she could sit up.
“Yeah, baby, gotta go now. Love you. Think about it, will you?”
The phone call was over.
“Bedroom,” she said. Then she tugged on his hair, pulling his head back, so their eyes met. She smiled. “I am so ready.”
She stared into his eyes and blew him a little kiss. then she released his hair, and pushed down lightly so he knew to go down and kiss her feet.
“Mmmmm,” he heard her murmur, clearly very satisfied with things.
She clipped the leash to his collar, stood up and lead him across the living room floor, down the hallway to the bedroom. As she went, she sashayed outrageously, swinging her big ass from side to side, while he crawled behind her with his eyes fixed on the squirming satin panty and the incredible way her magnificent behind moved.
In the bedroom, she stood in front of him for a moment, then hooked her thumbs into her panty elastic and slowly pulled the white satin panties down, revealing the big, smooth globes of an ass that she kept firm by four visits to the gym every week.
She released the panties, and Jeremy carefully pulled them down her legs and off her feet, while she rested a hand on top of his head to balance.
“Mmmm, honey, if you do me really, really good?”
She let the thought hang in the air of the bedroom for a moment. “Then I think I might give you a nice release. You’d like that, I bet.”
He bent down to kiss her feet again as loudly and enthusiastically as possible.
“Good, boy.” She sat on the bed, then lay back and snapped her fingers and raised her right foot, and then her left.
Jeremy crouched at the bottom of the bed and took Mistress’s big toes into his mouth and began to suck them. Smooth, strong suction was what she liked. It always got her into the mood for receiving oral devotion. He concentrated on that, but even as he did so, the thought of Mistress sitting on his face and giving him release was burning in his imagination and forcing his
cramped penis hard against the steel restraints.

copyright Permian Systems 2012.

Face Sitting Part One–FemDom Power!

June 22, 2009

Charcoal drawing by Gordon--lovely work. A beautiful piece of art by Gordon that captures the essence of the act.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to accept this,” she said as she hooked her thumbs into her pink panties and pulled them slowly down over her big, round buttocks, positioned just a foot or so from where he lay on the bed staring up at her.
She paused, with her panties pulled halfway down her ass and looked back over her shoulder at him, where he lay, eyes riveted on her behind, helpless before her sexual power. Slowly, she stretched one leg after the other, moving her buttocks up and down before his eyes. She heard him groan, and then he looked up and their eyes met and she smiled, and they both knew that he was hers to use however she wished.
Now she bent over to pull the scrap of pink silk down her legs, showing him where his face was going to be. He closed his eyes. It was far too late for him to say ‘no.’
Straightening up she pulled her long, light brown hair back and tied it in a pony tail. His eyes travelled up the smooth curves of her hip, back and shoulder. Then she leaned over him. Her firm, beautiful breasts swinging before his eyes. She put a finger to the end of his nose while she grinned.
“You remember what a fuss you made, when we started out?”
He did. He’d been afraid of his submissive tendencies. Terrified of what would happen if she found out.
“So silly, I knew you were this kind of male, the kind I like.”
She swung her leg over him, giving him a glimpse of her trimmed pubic hair, then she was kneeling over him, with the smooth masses of her buttocks poised just inches from his face. He heard her chuckle, and then she tapped the chastity device that kept his cock firmly under her control.
“It’s been a week, I think. Would you like me to let you out?”
“Please, Mistress, I….”
“Yes? You’d do anything for relief?”
“Yes, Mistress.” He said it without thinking, because it was true. She’d reduced him to a state of complete
slavish devotion with her campaign of face sitting, spanking, whipping and enforced chastity.
“Good. I’ll think about that, while I’m enjoying you tonight.”
She pulled the little gold chain on which she kept the key over her head. A few moments later he felt the chastity device pulled away and his penis leaped out to full erection in an instant. She chuckled again. She loved keeping him chaste and constantly horny, desperate for relief.
She took him in her hand and then she moved back and settled her ass on his face, pressing down, burying him in the dark space between her buttocks, while he
kissed her most intimate places.

Classic Late Period Namio Harukawa FS image

Classic Late Period Namio Harukawa FS image

In the realm of Fem Dom practises, nothing is quite as powerful as regular Face Sitting for bringing the male under the sway of the Dominant Female. Conversely, no other act quite so expands the Dominant Woman’s sense of Her superiority over the male.
While spanking, chastity enforcement, even feminization can drive a male into submission to the Female, regular face sitting almost guarantees his descent into complete slavery. For the male that is spanked every night and then sat on, the Woman that dominates him quickly becomes his Goddess. She cannot be disobeyed. His thoughts become suffused with the peculiar intensity of his submission to Her sitting on his face, even as his tender, itchy bottom reminds him of his spankings over her knee. Or, perhaps, the whipping she decided he must endure to show his utter devotion to Her. As the cheeks of her bottom weigh down on the bones of his cheeks and his tongue continues his humiliating service of her ass, his mind takes another step downward into a warm pit of absolute and utter submission.

Another Classic Example of Harukawa's amazing art

Another Classic Example of Harukawa's amazing art

When it comes to Fem Dom Art, face sitting has
always had its devotees. And the contrasts and similarities in their approach to this highly charged, extreme act of submission to the Female make for fascinating study.

When you think of Fem Dom Art and face sitting, the first name to come up is bound to be that of Namio Harukawa. This amazing Japanese artist has produced an extraordinary body of work in the Fem Dom field. Beginning in the 1960s with pencil line drawings on a variety of FemDom themes, Harukawa gradually evolved a style that is unmistakeable and powerfully erotic.

Early Harukawa- hinting at the focus of his future ouevre

Early Harukawa- hinting at the focus of his future ouevre

Harukawa’s FemDom work began with straightforward pencil sketches of the more general themes of FemDom art, e.g. a group of enslaved males carrying a Dominant Female on a throne, or a Japanese Domme flourishing a whip as she thrashes a male slave.

The next period in Harukawa’s work, might be called the “Middle Period”– and saw a number of FemDom themes explored, all edging closer to a full exploration of what we now can see is his real obsession.

Namio0094

Here is an interesting mid-period Harukawa image. The male is already smaller than the Dominant Female. As she applies the ropes that are the usual bondage method in Harukawa’s art, she has her skirt pulled up around her waist, a definite hint of what is to come. Other points to note– Harukawa here employs the sailor suit clothing  that fascinates male Japanese sex-manga readers. Japanese girls wear this kind of thing to school, or they used to. Secondly, this young lady has a behind that is far beyond the Japanese norm. The Japanese are a small boned people, and Japanese women are rarely equipped with such abundant buttock tissue as in this picture. Thirdly, this is a Japanese scene, note the futons in the closet behind the action.

Harukawa’s work in this period has a grey or grey green tint. His females are more or less normal in proportion while his slave males gradually dwindle from a normal size to a diminutive form, perhaps only 70% as large as the females. This presages the even greater gender disparity to come in his later work. And, he moved closer and closer to the great obsession, the use of the slave male for face sitting pleasure by the Dominant Female.

Namio0106

Here, we see the slave male bound and blindfolded, with his head placed back on a chair, while the Dominant Female prepares to sit on him and enjoy his services. Her lips are parted in expectation of the pleasure to come. Note that her behind is quite normal in size and nature, and rendered without the extraordinary muscular detail that is the hallmark of Harukawa’s later works.

At some point in the 1980s, Harukawa freed himself from the restraints of the form and the market. He moved steadily into a relentless exploration of his fetish, the all powerful, massive, ruling Female buttocks.

NH_LadyInHeat4By this point, Harukawa was completely free to satisfy himself with his choice of subjects. I believe that the sales of his work were now enough to give him that degree of freedom. In this example, a number of his later period tropes are combined. Much of his work in this era is set in bars and nightclubs and much of it emphasises Dominating Females sitting on bar stools, often with a slave male pressed into service in this manner. The female buttocks are now lovingly rendered with a powerful, erotic attention to detail. The female is considerably less Japanese looking, indeed here, she seems Eurasian to my mind and the male has dwindled in size even futther, so that he is perhaps half the size of the Female. Finally, there are two women here, attending a birthday party, western style with cake and wine. They sit next to each other, and are enjoying the party, while one of them has this male tied to her bar stool with his face rammed between her magnificent buttocks. This is, apparently, a perfectly normal situation. The other woman is completely unconcerned. Perhaps she’ll take her turn sitting on the male in a little while. 3bargrilsAnd here we have Harukawa’s imagination plowing this particular furrow with extraordinary power. Three girls are out for a drink. The bar features peculiarly small, submissive males as barstools for women. The girls have straight, black, asian hair, and fantastic, spectacularly attractive bottoms. The girls are at least twice the size of the slave males, and they sit on them as easily as if they were just cushions.  This level of fantasy imagination is quite remarkable. For a start, there aren’t very many women in Japan with asses as big as this!

barwomsitHere’s another example of Namio’s exploration of this odd little niche in the world of FemDom Art.  Two gorgeous female friends are at the bar. One has her drink in her hand and her ass on the barstool-male beneath her. The other has raised her skirt and is just checking out the slave male she is about to sit on.  A third barstool-male awaits the next Harukawa lady’s bottom to be lowered onto his face.

Most recently, Harukawa has intensified certain aspects of his work. He continues to draw with pencil, add a few touches of color, though sometimes his work is full colored. He remains unconcerned about the widespread use of his work on the internet. His sales in Japan are, it seems, enough for him. Considering the scale of his output he must work most of the time!  In this final example of his work, we can see
Late period Harukawa Covera further refinement of technique. The lady’s hair is not the classic Japanese straight and black. Her buttocks are rendered as enormous and lovingly detailed. The male underneath her is smaller than her, but is not quite as puny as most of the males depicted in Harukawa’s previous period. The power of the moment in this picture remains extremely potent, however. In Harukawa’s world males exist solely to provide pleasure and comfort to huge, dominating females.

Male Maid Service–doing the dishes.

August 31, 2008

An important aspect of Female Dominance, both in sexual terms and in
societal impact, concerns the matter of who does the housework.
Once upon a time, this would have meant a discussion of “role reversal” and almost nothing else, but in the past ten years FemDom in one shape or another has
edged out of the closet. The internet with its cloaking power, with its distancing capacity, has opened that closet door wide. Travelling around the net in a relative state of anonymity, millions upon millions of submissive males have found that they are not alone, that indeed they belong to a lively and
growing minority of men, and that there are women who have taken notice of their existence and even expressed an interest.
At the same time, and perhaps more important to this discussion, women in general have become more seasoned in the workplace. They have grown wiser to the way patriarchal society is set up and the way that it responds to challenges on the gender front.
Women still face discrimination in the work place, and sometimes openly sexist attitudes, especially from older men. At home the same women have found most men to be unwilling to take on housework.
Some women close their eyes to it. The dishes pile up in the sink, the floors turn into a nightmarish tangle of dust and junk, and they ignore it, like their men.
Other women hire cleaners, maid services, to do what they don’t have the time for, and their men won’t touch.

But here and there, some women are putting their foot down and demanding that he do his share. And, often unwillingly, a lot of straight men have learned how to use a vacuum cleaner, or even how to do the dishes. Or in other cases, have given up on marriages and relationships and gone home to live with their parents, and have their moms take care of them.
And then, more rarely, but perhaps more tellingly for the future of our society, there are those women who have taken the bull by the horns, or the male by the ear, and made him do the housework, starting with the dishes.

Here’s a great example of recent FD art celebrating the way of life in a “female lead” household. Hubby has his apron on and is doing the dishes. His Dominant Wife, eyebrows fixed in a stern frown, informs him that later his buns are going to be red hot and at that time, when the terms of their relationship will be revealed in stark clarity to both of them, he will be required to explain why he had left dirty dishes in the sink. Unfortunatly I have not been able to find this artist’s name. Anyone who knows it , please leave me a comment.

This, I suggest, is a very modern take on this particular aspect of the “role reversal” that is represented by men being required to wash the dishes. And from that thin end of the wedge, to go on to cleaning the house, and thence to…well we’ll get to where this may end up eventually in a little while.

Here’s a more traditional view of the same kind of thing, though more likely it evokes an earlier moment in the relationship between a husband and the dishes. Again, I don’t know this artist’s name and would very much appreciate any guidance on that topic. Here we have the Wife with riding crop in hand, wearing a straightforward skirt and blouse outfit, nothing to betray her Dominance at all, while her male has been given some stripes on his bottom, and put into an apron, with nothing else underneath it, and set to doing the dishes under her stern, but perhaps satisfied gaze. Hubby is clearly on the path to more of this, and more of other things too, one suspects.
I had thought for a while that this drawing was by Puyal, who has a thing about this entire aspect of the Fem Dom complex of issues. But close inspection leaves me wondering about that. Puyal favors a heavier line, the use of more shading, and nearly always, an “active” scene, no matter what is being portrayed. Here, in this quintessentially modern kitchen scene, we are past the active bit, at least for now.

We’ll come back to Puyal shortly. But first, here’s a typical Stanton take on the
drama of the dishes. This probably dates from the 1960s or 70s, and reflects Stanton’s own coming of age in the 1930s and 40s. Here we have one of his super-hot Dommes, albeit a Housemaid, who has taken charge of a bratty husband, whupped him with his own belt (role reversal being strong in Stanton’s work) put him in an apron and set him to doing the dishes. As is usual with Stanton goddesses she has a bustline somewhere between Dolly Parton and Pamela Anderson, and an attitude that brooks no refusals from a wretched male. The differences with the two
first examples are very clear and I think, reflect the shift that is underway both within society and within the FemDom world.
Of course, even in the 1930s, it was a very rare Housemaid that wore dark gloves up above her elbows or a super tight skirt, to match that fantastic bosom, but this is Stanton, an artist with near unsurpassable effect on the dream world of Female Domination in his era.

Moving up to the 21st century, there’s this wonderful example of Whizzer Black’s art. Whizzer is having his balls spanked, since as we can see his bottom is already
scarlet and sore from his Dominant Wife Constance’s attentions. He has failed, once again, to get the dishes washed before she gets home from her office job. And then in a modern twist, she tells him that some of “the girls” are coming over for dinner and he is to appear in his new Maid Uniform as he serves dinner to them. Role reversal here is complete. Whizzer exemplifies the enslaved househusband, constantly spanked and dominated by his lovely wife. Whizzer Black is a terrific comic artist. I wish there was more of his work to see. If there’s anyone that should have a website dedicated to his work, a la Sardax, it is Whizzer Black. FemDom eroticism combined with humor, it’s a terrific mixture.

And so to Puyal, and a male maid confronted with a domestic disaster, duster in hand. The vase has gone over, the water is on the carpet, and mr. maid is likely to be receiving a bit of a paddling when his Lady Wife comes home and discovers spots on the rug. Puyal, as I mentioned above, always takes great pains to render his scenes active. His work is well known on the internet and appeared for years in a variety of FemDom magazines, like the well known “Madame In a World of Fantasy” that came out of London. Here we have an interesting little detail. Mr. maid is hobbled, with rope around his ankles. Whether this is to make his day more interesting, or to keep him from running away is unknown. The rest of his attire is the
classic “Maid Uniform” of fetish fantasy– from the high heels and dark stockings, to the little apron and starched white hat. Check back to Stanton’s dark Dominant Maid from sixty years ago, and you have the switchover in roles caught perfectly.

And then there’s this example from an artist, new to me, named Pink. Pink’s work hews tightly to the Clothed Female–naked male, humiliation and subservience axis. The central figure, who may well represent Pink, himself, is this skinny youth with glasses, who is routinely humiliated in front of audiences of rather normal looking young women. Here he serves drinks while wearing a ridiculous “maid uniform” that leaves his pulsing erection fully visible to the ladies, who are laughing out loud at the
show.
Implicit in Pink’s nice little picture is the reversal of roles. The male is the servant here. This reversal is still new enough to the ladies that they are enjoying the symbolism of having this humiliated male, with his stiffy exposed, serving them while wearing his embarrasing little costume. In more extreme situations perhaps, such as a Whizzer Black-style household, such service would no longer produce much mirth, just routine demands for more olives, or wine or perhaps oral servitude in a quiet room upstairs.

Here’s Puyal again, in just such a scene. Three Dommes are at the table, one of them is receiving oral worship of her toes. Another holds a whip, for no discernible reason. The male maid is in full maid costume, a la fetish fantasy, with his genital bulge exposed, and his little white hat in place as he brings in the drinks. From such a scene it is easy to imagine what is likely to take place after a couple more glasses of wine. The lady who has already shed her shoes will probably take the slave on the floor upstairs for some private activities, while mr. maid may find himself hard at work pleasing the other two ladies from under the table.

My final illustration of “doing the dishes” comes from Elise Sutton’s Predominant Webzine, and the excellent artist Coeur. I know little about Coeur other than his (or is her’s?) excellent art work. Here we have the Dominant Wife of submissive men’s dreams, clad in a terrific FemDom outfit with tight leather skirt and some kind of stretchy material on top, that leaves her fabulous bosom prominently displayed.
Hubby, who probably lives with a nigh on permanent erection, is doing the dishes, but either not quickly enough or in lieu of some other task that his Wife regards as more important. The ear has been taken, her expression gives a strong hint that he is about to be disciplined. His expression conveys a considerable fear that such discipline may be long and arduous, and yet, of course, his erection remains. With a wife like that, nothing else would be expected.
The point here though, for my argument, is that within the modern FemDom world, which has evolved mightily since it first surfaced on the Internet in the 90s in such venues as Alt.Sex.Femdom, the role reversal is simply assumed. Males in female lead relationships do the dishes. They may also do all the housework, cook all the meals, do all the shopping, and polish their Wife’s shoes, too. Possibly with their tongues, while she wears them, an incidental detail of tangential enjoyment to both parties.
FemDom has moved on from the old “role reversal” thing. Today, that is simply assumed. And out in the real world, Female/male relations are also moving on. In the academic world, at least in the US, Britain and parts of Europe, the Female gender is in the ascendant. However, that ascendancy is in a situation where the rules are fairly clear and hard work and intelligence alone will produce success. Smart girls can do better than the guys in almost any subject once they put their minds to it. Such success does not automatically translate to success in the world of work. In businesses large and small, men and all-male networks, are tough nuts to crack.

Except in areas like sales, where brute numbers can tell all, promotion and power are closely held and are won usually only with the acquiescence of the guys in charge. This is usually where an assertive young woman runs into trouble. She may be marginalized within a firm, ordered to get the coffee and do “secretaryish” things and low-balled on pay until she quits. The older men know what they’re doing. They’re fighting a rear guard action to stave off the role reversal that many of us can sense is coming. In their generation, they rule and women obey– for the most part. But they can feel the change coming, feel the trembling in the walls of the patriarchal fortress. These men were already grown when the feminist uprising of the late sixties and early seventies took place. They didn’t care for it then and they don’t like “uppity” young women today, either. However, the tide is turning, even running against them now. The better candidates for so many jobs are female that turning all of them down in favor of not such effective young men is impossible. Like water flooding into a home from a river overflowing its banks, capable women are seeping higher and higher into the work space. Old men die, young women are promoted. There are losses along the way. Many women leave the work force to have children and thus derail their careers. Many women find the business world too harsh, too crazy, and seek something more bearable, such as teaching. But still, slowly, step by step, women make progress and somewhere, perhaps within ten years, they will reach a tipping point and become the majority of middle management and achieve equality in upper management. Only the CEOs and CFOs will remain majority male, and then even that fortress will be taken and women will be running, managing and directing the corporate world.

By that point the issue of doing the dishes, and the rest of the housework, will have gone through a revolution. Men will be doing housework, perhaps on a 50-50 basis with their wives, perhaps they will be doing all of it, like the sub-hubbies of female lead marriages now. Men who don’t do housework will most likely not be married by that point unless they’re rich enough to hire cleaners and cooks for their wives.

And the male maid? Like so many things that were once unimaginable, the man turned into a housemaid, wearing a little frilly apron (and a chastity device) will probably be a little odd, but perhaps no more than the lesbian couple who live down on the corner, or the gay guys who run the hot new restaurant in town are today. As mainstream society shifts towards female equality, and perhaps more than that, so the subterranean world of FemDom and submissive men will breach the surface more or less openly.

eosuchus

copyright: Permian Systems 2008

MEN ON THE LEASH

May 24, 2008

It’s one of the interesting minor aspects of Male FemDom fantasy, the dream of being trained to be Her Dog, or if not a Dog, a male slave pretending to be a dog.

The salient points are all pretty obvious. The male must be naked, except for
his collar, and possibly his chastity tube. Oh, well, he might have a little ribbon in his hair.  And he may be on the leash, or trained to walk “at heel.”

I have assembled some favorite examples of FemDom Art to illustrate how this
strand of FemDom fantasy plays out in male minds.
*

Here, for instance is Sardax’s wonderful evocation of the satisfaction for a
Dominant Female of walking her dog-men.  Sardax is so good at this kind of thing, he conveys so well the attitude of nonchalant, accepted Dominance. The young lady, wrapped in her fetishistically tight leather (or is that satin?) with her parasol on her shoulder, is a study in amusing arrogance. Watching her, perhaps feeling a little wistful, the girl in the retro-dress and hat, conveys more attitude. In this fantasy world of Sardax, gorgeous young women in skin tight clothing are expected to take their slave males out for a walk.  And, of course, the young lady watching the dog-men go by is wearing leather boots with high heels that are about to be licked clean by the male bootlicking service provided for passing ladies to use. The whole scheme here is packed with sexual triggers for the submissive male fantasist, even down to the back of another lady’s high heeled shoe disappearing into the doorway beyond the young
slave walker.
Sardax is definitely fond of this particular FemDom dream.
*
Here’s another example, taken from a poster for the wonderful Pedestal Club in London. Here we have one of his fuller figured Dominants, clad in a style reminscent of the 1930s, right down to the little hat. With her prominent breasts thrust forward, her
sashaying gait, her high heels and her easy handed management of the male that scurries along beside her on his hands and knees, this dream lady epitomises a
variety of Domme that many men desire to worship. Her cigarette, her whip, her full figure are all sensuous aspects of this dream. And again, Sardax has another female, a younger woman, wrapped in a tight, tight skirt, watching the lady parade her slave right up to the front door of the FemDom Club. What passes through the younger woman’s mind? Does she think about getting a slave male like that herself? Or does she already have one? Perhaps he’s late and she’s imagining his punishment, later inside the club?

But Sardax is not the only artist to have explored this window into the dream of
Female Sexual Dominance.
*
Here’s a famous example from Eric Stanton’s work. This piece is from the early sixties, I think, and his Dominant Female here is quite human, even if her breasts are on the extraordinary side of things.

With Stanton we’ve left the cool, super-stylish world of Sardax’s FemDommes behind.
Stanton’s Dommes are glamorous to the eye, but tend to be tough bitches when they open their mouths. The slave has been reduced to this incredibly foolish state, scampering along the floor behind this Dominating Bitch, with his swollen ass lit up with dozens of whip marks. He’s being trained to walk close at heel, perhaps for some kind of exhibition. Possibly there’s a hidden world of beautiful, fantasy women, who compete for weird ass honors by training male slaves to perform like dogs? With Stanton’s bizarre imagination, anything was possible.

And then we have Waldo’s take on this phenomenon.
*

Waldo’s text reads  “I’m offering you this Yorkshire”  presumably the bemused looking lad, crawling along behind the young lady’s legs here. “And if you groan again, I’m buying a muzzle.”

Who the muzzle is for is not quite clear, Any French readers of this blog are invited to enlighten us as to the exact meaning here.

However, as he does so often and so well, Waldo conveys all the prime erotic aspects of the fantasy, from the whip in Her hand, her slightly parted dress, unbuttoned enough to offer a glimpse of pink panty, her authoritative grip on her “Yorkshire’s” leash, and once again, the relaxed attitude of complete and absolutely accepted dominance. This is an everyday scene, in a fantasy France, where lovely young ladies with long legs, walk their recently enslaved males, who may still even have wristwatches, in public.

That wristwatch, by the way, is one of those things that have long since been stripped away from the slave males in Sardax’s dog-walking scenes. Those men have been
reduced to something less than human. Waldo’s Yorkshire is a recent convert to
dogginess. The little pink bow in his hair is perhaps a sign of where he’s going, and who can say how long he’ll retain the watch, as his life as a dog progresses?
end

The Power of the Female Ass

April 8, 2008

The Power of the Female Ass
by eosuchus

I am on my knees before Her.
“Good,” she says. “You are a good slave.”
She puts my gift to her away, folded and slipped between her lovely
breasts.
“You will be rewarded. Later.”
She turns and presents her derriere. Her behind is large, firm, a complex of
curves that are filled with enormous power.

In the rational part of my brain I know that those curves inform males that this Female is well fed, is in fine condition, and is quite capable of birthing and feeding
a child. Beyond that, there is more information, some of which is imparted in the way
she flaunts her buttocks, or hides them.

Truly, this is a line that divides Female Power from that of Male Patriarchy.
Flaunting the female ass is a provocative act. Within Patrarchal structures it is always regarded as low, vulgar behaviour. Women who do it are condemned, are seen as
prostitutes. As a consequence men are given almost free rein to treat such women badly, because “they brought it on themselves.” This all ties in to the Patriarchal need for men to “own” and possess women, in order to be certain that they only support their own offspring. Eosuchus will discuss issues relating to that topic in other posts.

And because flaunting the ass is so provocative, so dangerous to Patriarchal norms, even Women disdain it. Women are induced by social conditioning to regard their behinds as anything from “gross” to “too big.” That said, there is a counter-movement, the “booty” and just plain ass-loving community, but that is (still) a minority
viewpoint and most women, particularly women within the corporate environment,
strive to hide their behinds, to keep them out of view. Except that very often they don’t, because, truth to tell, Women are deeply conflicted on this issue.

Why?

Because the Female Buttocks are the ultimate symbols of Female Power.

If women were to flaunt their asses. That is, if they were to wear tight “provocative”
skirts and pants, or more provocative yet, if they were to show a little ass cleavage, then we all know that men’s imaginations would be on fire. Men would have a hard time thinking of anything else, other than those flaunted, beautiful Female Asses.

And since the patriarchal system operates on the understanding that a Woman’s worth depends on the man she weds and holds onto, so Women have been
willing participants in the suppression of the use of the the Female buttocks as a
tool of power. Thus so many women bemoan the fact that they have a large, powerful bottom. They see their buttocks, not as weapons with which to subdue and dominate men, but as liabilities, as a statement of dietary failure. They have been bewitched by
the arbiters of Fashion, acting as pillars of the Patriarchy, who have recognized that
if women do not feel that they must enchant, amuse and beguile men, that they will
not “catch” or wed a worthwhile one. To that end the world of Fashion elevates a slim, youthful ideal, a kind of Female that is extremely rare in the real world. At the same time, of course, the world of Fashion (and Fetish!) promotes the wearing of High Heels, which not only elevate the Woman, but force her buttocks into a rounder, firmer shape, one that increases the power of their signal to male eyes. Thus the complete
dichotomy of the Patriarchal mode is expressed in this way– women often dress to
hide their buttocks, and wear shoes to show them off at the same time!

The fashion ideal– the supermodel– is not only rarely seen in the real world, but the kind of woman it elevates has a curiously androgynous appearance. These females are slender, tall, small-breasted (usually) and equipped with small, boyish behinds.
They are also slim hipped, long legged and, to a degree, epicene.

Something strange is going on here. Feminine clothing is complex, the design element is a mysterious thing, hitting a sweet spot that both makes a “statement” and gives a look that is unusual, while at the same time rarely straying too far from the conventional and comfortable. Meanwhile, in general, truly “feminine” clothing is often quite uncomfortable to wear, viz corsets, stockings and garter belts, high heels, tight
constricting skirts and blouses. At the other end of the spectrum is the anti-sexual comfortable look– long skirts, baggy pants, comfortable shoes. Women often seem to be caught between these two impulses, to be comfortable or to be sexually attractive.
With a third impulse in the mix as well, to appear to other women as well organized,
well off, in good physical shape and equipped with good taste. Of course, taste is another nebulous concept that varies from woman to woman.

However, as Women move away from Patriarchal consciousness, so they often come to see their bodies as being natural, healthy, sexy and powerful. As opposed to seeing them as shameful, provocative, even evil. This can strongly affect how they choose to dress.

During the great outbreak of Feminism in the 1970s, many Women rejected the whole
closetful of feminine clothing. Out went stockings and garter belts, high heels, tight skirts, corsets, even bras in some cases. A lot of women found that jeans, work boots and t-shirts were just as comfortable for them as they were for men. Other women, in the corporate world, put on pant-suits, and chose sensible pumps with one or two inch heels. For a while these suits were “feminised” with silly add ons like big bows, or a lack of pockets, or a tight cut that exhibited hips, and even, yes, behinds. Today this kind of apparel is more often cut on a practical line, includes a pocket or two, and
women Lawyers, Executives and so on, wear equally sensible shirts, even though they may be called “blouses” and may not be white. Heels seem to go up and down on some hard to comprehend fashion-go-round. The early feminist rejection of
femininity is still echoing within the world of female apparel. Many women go months without putting on a dress or a skirt. Many, perhaps most, refuse to hurt their feet in high heels.

And yet, most women remain conflicted about their behinds. “It’s so big…” is a comment heard from women at every social level, or so it seems.

The struggle with Patriarchy is far from over yet, and on this issue it will take perhaps another generation before women can free themselves from patriarchal concerns and fears about the female bottom.

Because, ultimately, Women who enjoy their bodies and accept the power of their sexuality soon come to see that they have at their disposal the means to dominate men. They can offer sex, or withold it. They have what men desperately desire and thus they have a form of control, if they choose to exercise it.

Take it a few steps farther out of the mainstream and women can take up Fem Dom sexual practises and discover that they really can have it all, or at least quite a big chunk of it all, anyway.

First off, the Dominant Woman can choose between a host of men who are willing to submit to Her, even to the point of becoming “slaves.” Such men will do just about anything for the Dominant Woman in their lives. And such women can pick and choose from the palette of options on the Fem Dom spectrum. They can have a relationship that is quite cryptic to neighbors and friends, even apparently “vanilla” to the public eye. A marriage, say, in which the husband is under Her thumb, and is sexually dominated in the bedroom, but with no overt signs of this reality, except a somewhat elevated, obvious level of respect for Her from him. Or, women can choose a more dramatic lifestyle, in which the male is pantied, punished, cuckolded and even loaned out to other women for sexual favors or housecleaning duties.

This may seem laughable, even impossible to the uninformed reader today. But such
lifestyle choices are more common than many people understand.

Moreover, eosuchuis would point out that a web search of the term FemDom brings up nine million results, Female Domination produces two and a half million, Face Sitting gets more than seven million, and so on and so on, through the gamut of
Female Domination terms and phrases. In other words there are an awful lot of
men (mostly) busy searching the internet for FemDom images, words and experiences.

Eosuchus also notes that women in high paying jobs are — slowly– turning away from the traditional pursuit of an equally high ranking male, and settling for “Beta Males.” Guys who are fun to live with, who do housework, and who don’t necessarily earn all that much money.

There’s a major societal role reversal in progress, and of course this is unsettling and annoying to many people.

But in the end, eosuchus feels that not-only will FemDom practises become a more or less accepted part of liberal society– in the way that Gay Couples are today in the
more advanced parts of America and Europe– but more than that, the powerful female buttocks will come out into the open, so to speak, and that development will
shake the foundations of the Patriarchy.

She is wearing a tight, black leather skirt. It is a tool of Domination, as we both know. Running up the center is the zipper, which is actually quite subtle, with brass teeth. This skirt could be worn in public anywhere, well, perhaps not anywhere, but
in public, in the city, at the club, to a restaurant, it would be seen as suggestive, as
provocative– She does, after all, have a very shapely derriere, men always look at it when she passes–but not indecent. The zip would be a subtle sign, to a certain kind of man, that if they were good, that if they got on their knees, that if they kissed her feet and gave her nice presents, then yes….

“Kiss!” she whispers.
He kisses the warm, supple leather of the skirt, and keeps kissing. That is what she has trained him to do.
“Did you think about my proposal?” she purrs.
“Yes, Mistress”
“And?”
“I will put my apartment on the market.”
“Good. You will live here, in my stable?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She chuckled, then, in a low voice, filled with knowledge of Her Power, she
says. “Raise the zipper, slave.”

And crucial to the power of Dominant Woman is Her use of Her derriere to
enslave a man. Or several of them. Men who submit to Dominant Women know this
truth, that when a Woman sits on a man’s face regularly, for her pleasure, controlling his breath, secure in her Dominance of him, he becomes increasingly submissive to Her. It becomes impossible to refuse Her anything or to disobey Her. Worshipping her
ass, feeling the heavy, muscular globes on either side of his face, tonguing her anus in the full knowledge of how servile and humiliating this practise is regarded by the
normal, “patriarchal” world, is an act that lets a submissive man surrender to his
own urges and along with that, to surrender himself to Her.
As the practise continues, the knowledge between him and Her of what he does at her bidding, builds her Dominance into a system of power and belief. Her ass, his face, it is their secret, or not-so-secret, and it is the mark of dominance and submission.
As a future filled with equality and more than equality for females falls into place around us, it seems very likely that male worship of Female Ass, will become much more common, much more significant, much more of an open aspect of sexual life.
Queening Stools and Boxes may even become fairly common household furniture.
That remains speculative. There are barriers, including disease, but oral-anal
sex between partners who are disease free can be perfectly safe.
Meanwhile, in a future where Women are the standard politician, are frequently
the CEO of the company you work for, where Women are the natural, dominant faces on television, even video games, and where men are increasingly seen as helpers of Women, workers for Women, servants of Women, so we can expect to see the Power Incarnateliberation of the Female Ass and a celebration of it and its power over men.

Checking the New Meat by eosuchus

March 25, 2008

Checking the New Meat
by eosuchus

Location: Somewhere in East Texas.

Old Slave nodded, kissed Mistress Melanie’s extended right foot on the instep and the toe and back-crawled away. She was already back on the phone, setting up the next auction.
Old Slave, who had once answered to the name Ed, as in Edward Clay, attorney at law, hurried down the passage to the office. There was a lot to do that day, with three new pieces of meat delivered overnight. Old Slave slipped into the office, knelt and kissed Teresa’s left foot, which happened to be the closest and most convenient. She hardly paused in her typing.
“Yeah? What’s she want?”
“I’m to get them ready. She wants you to help wrangle the big one, with Mr. Bones as backup.”
“Okay. What time?”
“She wants to start at three.”
“Gives you a bit more than an hour. Twenty minutes for each. Think that’s enough?”
“It usually is. They’re all recovered. The big one, Epstein? He was sick. Probably due to alcohol mixing with the drugs.”
“Linda says they’re all healthy.”
“Right. I have their files.”
He handed the files up to Teresa, who took them and set them beside her computer keyboard.
“Okay, I’ll process them. Go get started.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Teresa pushed her left foot out towards him for his humble, routine kisses, and he back-crawled away from her.
He left the office, went out the backdoor and climbed onto his bike. A moment later he was pedalling down the long gravel drive that lead out to the trailers. As he passed the blue steel garage building he waved to Mr. Bones, who was working on the engine in the F-250. Mr. Bones had once played in the Offensive Line for Texas A&M. He weighed 300 pounds and could bench press more than 500. Mr. Bones had been one of Mistress Melanie’s first slaves. Old Slave had been enslaved about a year later. Both had become important parts of Mistress’s operation. Both were utterly enslaved to Mistress Melanie and could not even conceive of any other way of life.
Off to the right, past the pair of blue glass silos, was the agricultural part of the farm. Mistress Rhonda ran that part of the operation. Old Slave had worked there for a couple of years too, before Mistress Melanie had pulled him back to the core operation, where she could make proper use of his skills.
It always made Old Slave feel warm, appreciated, and well, owned, to think of how much Mistress Melanie depended on him. He was just a slave, but he was an important slave.
Half a mile down the drive, under the cover of some pin oaks were the trailers.
They were surrounded by a double fence. The outside fence was completely simple and innocuous, a straight line of eight foot high pineslats, treated against rot and allowed to naturalise with creepers growing up the outside and small trees here and there as well, breaking up the outline. From a distance there was nothing remarkable about it at all. The interior fence, however, was straight out of a concentration camp.
Ten strands of barbed wire, with a ditch on the inside, the whole thing topped by
razor wire. The gates to these fences matched the fences, and patrolling the no-mans-land between them were the dogs, four vicious mastiff mongrels, lead by Lucy, the alpha female. The dogs were serious, and they checked out all visitors. Old Slave stood stock still after entering while they sniffed him. Lucy growled softly and sat back on her haunches. The others lay down. He was passed through. Then he opened the inner gate and went in.
The fences had never been breached. In fact, Mistress had only had one fugitive ever escape the property, and he’d been picked up by Mr Bones a couple of miles down the road and brought back crying his eyes out. Old Slave recalled that that one had eventually brought a very good price at auction.
Trailers one to five were occupied by pairs of slaves that were very close to
marketable. In anything from a month to two months they would be leaving the farm with Mistress to go to auction. Each one would net Mistress at least $50,000. In any given year, the farm sold one point five million dollars worth of male slaves, each one trained to provide perfect service to a female owner. Mistress Melanie had been in this business for twelve years now and had become a wealthy woman as a result.
The other side of the business, the visible part of the farm, made a little less than sixty thousand a year from organic vegetables, organic corn and organic hogs. Worked by slaves, the farm provided excellent camouflage for the real money making operation that was tucked away, out of sight, way down here in this grove of trees on the back forty. The farm also grew most of its own food.
Everyone for miles around knew the place as Two Ladies Farm, a small, but successful organic operation run by a couple of gals who’d come back from the military to the county they’d grown up in. Melanie and Rhonda were well known in the community and were much sought after for committees, and even for marriage. Each of them had dated most of the eligible men in the county, although neither had ever done so with any intention beyond that of learning about those men and the power structure of the county. But, of course, neither had ever let anyone into their own secret world. They had entertained, usually with small, discreet dinner parties, where their guests came and went at night, were served by one or two silent servants, and saw nothing but a successful organic farm operation run by two former female sergeants from the Army Supply Corps. No one had ever even questioned who the quiet, obedient men were, who brought food to the table, poured the wine, and removed the dishes afterwards. Old Slave was one of those men, and if asked, merely replied that
he worked on the farm. His cover story, as he’d heard Mistress Melanie recount to at least two dinner guests, was that he was her cousin, who’d gotten into trouble in LA and been rescued by her and brought back to Texas to regain some stability in his life.
Texas folks were used to stories like that. They struck a chord. No one questioned them and, indeed, Melanie and Rhonda were praised for their charity.
So, now, Old Slave went on down to trailers 9, 10 and 11, where the new meat had been stashed overnight. He’d read the files and prepped his little talks for each of them. He used the key to open Number 9 and went inside.
The first subject was lying on the floor. He’d struggled off the little mattress, but hadn’t got very far. It wasn’t easy moving around with your elbows cuffed and connected by a short chain running behind your back, with another short chain running between cuffs on your ankles. The finishing touch was provided by the two feet of chain running from the scrotum cuff to the twenty pound steel weight. Picking up the weight with your hands was difficult when your arms were restrained by the
chain holding your elbows tightly against your ribs. And once you’d picked it up you
then faced the problem of what to do with it. If you dropped it, oh boy, you were in a world of hurt!
“Hey!” the subject was awake and aware of him now. “Please, what is this? Where am I?”
That was a good sign. Sometimes the subjects were so afraid and disoriented they could barely speak.
“Okay, now, I’m here to explain everything. Take some good deep breaths. You’re in a new world, my friend. A new life, and we think that ultimately you will be much, much happier in this life than you were in your old one.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Okay, you are James Frederick Brosman, age 31, formerly of 4765 Pensacola Boulevard, Tampa Bay. We have done our research, Jim, we know quite a lot about you.”
“Wait a minute, what the fuck is this? Who are you people?”
“All in good time, Jim. You’ve got a lot to learn and not much time. You need to concentrate and get it down fast. Believe me when I tell you how important this is.”
“But where is this?”
“You will never know. Believe this. You will never find out where this is. It is not even worth trying. It’s just one of a long list of things you have to stop thinking about.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, but you will. You see, you are also Spankybunnsy, on Mistress T’s Female
Dominance Lifestyle website and forums.”
The young man’s face turned a deep shade of red. For a few seconds he stared at Old Slave.
“Whoa, wait, hold on, how do you…?”
“I know, because I help run the site. You have been an active member for two years, you have been a paying member for eighteen months. Your fetish wishlist includes intimate OTK spankings, facesitting, ass worship, foot worship, whipping,
tease and denial and personal service to a Domme.”
There was just silence. Several seconds passed. Some inkling of the true situation was reaching young James’s brain.
“If it helps you at all, I can tell you that I share most of those interests, okay?”
“Unh, yeah, well….”
“So, I know that you were hoping to become Mistress Ava’s personal live in slave and houseboy.”
“Ohmigod…”
“So, it was arranged for you to meet Mistress Ava via the chat room. You exchanged 436 messages with Mistress Ava, including nude photos of yourself. You informed Misstress Ava that you were ready and willing to meet her and, if you passed inspection, to become her slave.”
James’s jaw had dropped. He gaped. He was stunned.
“So, you went to the Lido Hotel in Memphis to meet Mistress Ava in person. You then accompanied her to Bar Mystique on River Street. You remember?”
Old Slave could see the wheels turning in young James’s brain. Yes, he did remember. Mistress Ava was actually, Roberta Mansfield, a drop dead gorgeous, former prostitute, who had worked for Mistress Melanie for about seven years now. Roberta received $5,000 for each prospect that she successfully delivered to the farm.
Old Slave knew that Roberta averaged about three a month, earning around $180,000 a year, which kept her and her stable of slaves quite comfortably at a nice house in northern Florida. It was easy work, just emailing with the prospects, reeling them in while they were studied. Then, if they merited a closer look, she met them, and if they passed muster, she took them.
Roberta worked the southern circuit, collecting her males from Atlanta, Florida, Alabama and Mississippi. She often used the Bar Mystique in Memphis for pickups. The owner there, Glora Thirkel, was an old friend of hers, who took $500 to look the other way as slaves were taken on the premises. There had never been any problems. Roberta was very good at the game.
“I remember. Memphis,” said James. “We went to that weird little bar. Mistress Ava, wanted to go there. Oh, god, she’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, she is. So are Miss Carol and Miss Ruth, who also supply us with
men like yourself.”
“What?”
“Okay, listen up. Mistress Ava is a slavetaker. Understand? We cultivate males like yourself on the internet. We study likely prospects. Then we match them with one of our team of slavetakers. We arrange a meeting. At the meeting the slavetaker sizes up the prospect, because in person some things become more or less obvious. If she thinks that our profiling is accurate, then she calls us and we move forward with the capture. If she thinks there’s a problem, then we abort the capture and she just finishes out the meeting and says good night and we drop that prospect. “
James was staring at Old Slave.
“If we do decide on a capture, then we usually use a dose of bute in a drink. It’s cheap, easy and relatively safe. Once you’ve been dosed, the slavetaker gets the
prospect out of public view and into a private space and uses her, uh, charms, to
uh, beguile the male until the bute takes effect.”
Old Slave could see Jim thinking about that. Roberta had pulled him into a room behind the bar, and they’d been kissing, and he’d been down on his knees with his face between her legs, kissing and sucking on her pink panty crotch, when….
“Bute works fast, and it never fails.”
Jim had reached the part of the memory where everything went black.
“Ohmigod.”
“Right. Anyway, once you’re dosed, then the slavetaker calls in her own personal slave to help get the prospect out of the building and into the van. The prospect rides on a nice foam mattress, in soft bondage, gagged, blindfolded, with
high quality ear plugs. The van is driven directly here, no stops on the way, and the
prospect is unloaded here and left to wake up, as you did this morning.”
“Ohmigod, ohmigod. This is real. I can’t believe it.”
“Look, Jim, listen up. Accept that everything I’m telling you is absolutely true, okay? It will make understanding your situation a lot easier.”
“I….” James shut up. He was smart. That had been obvious since he first showed up on Mistress T’s website.
“We have studied your life, James. We know that you have had two significant
relationships with women and that both ended when you tried to get them to dominate you. You confessed all that to Mistress Ava. We then checked out the stories, discreetly, and found them to be largely true. We placed spyware on your computer and checked your files. We watched you spend your evening surfing FemDom websites and collecting FemDom porn. We know what you dream of. We intend to make your dreams come true.”
“Ohmigod….” James gulped air.
“That’s the kernel of the case. You are no longer James Frederick Bosman. You no longer live anywhere. Your assets, such as they are, will eventually be signed over to us. Oh, I know that sounds harsh, but we have a lot of work to do before we can sell you to your eventual lifetime owner.”
“What?” James eyes went wide. Now he understood. Now it all made terrible sense to him.
“That’s what our business here is, James. We find males like you, we kidnap them, we train them to be wonderful slaves for women and we sell them.”
“No, you’re kidding.” Belief and disbelief flickered back and forth in Jim’s eyes.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“Who are you then?”
Funny. They always asked that question at about this point in the proceedings.
“I am Old Slave. I have been Mistress’s property for nearly ten years now.”
“You’re a slave. Like FemDom slave?”
“Yes.”
“Then, uh, who is your Mistress?”
“You will be meeting Her in about forty minutes.”
“Ohmigod. Wow. Incredible. I mean, is she like Queen Patricia at the OWK?”
That was an interesting reference. Old Slave had heard it before, too. The OWK had become an important aspect of the internet world of FemDom. Many potential slave males had dreams involving life at the OWK.
“Actually, Jim, our operation here is much more serious than the OWK. We have a great deal of respect for Queen Patricia and the ladies of the OWK, but here we
take men and make them into slaves, and then we sell them for profit. Understand?”
“I think so. It’s just that. Well, you know.”
“I do. It seems fantastic, but it’s real. Now, Jim, you will be meeting Mistress
very soon. My job is to prepare you for that interview so that it runs smoothly. If it doesn’t then it will become painful for you, very painful. Mistress believes in the whip, the paddle, the strap and the strap-on. Let me assure you that Mistress has broken more men than she can count. Mistress will break you too, James, if you resist Her.”
“But, what about, like laws….?”
“They don’t apply here. Not the ones you’re talking about.”
“You can’t keep this hidden. Not forever.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. No one has ever found out about it yet.”
“What happens if someone gets sick, or dies.”
“We have a very friendly Doctor on call. She and her partner have two slaves from here who serve them 24/7. We have an excellent small medical facility, right here. It’s disguised as a veterinarian station, but we can do everything up to heart surgery, if necessary.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. Mistress has a very good friend in Chicago, a woman and a heart surgeon. She can be here in a few hours if necessary. “
“Haven’t you lost anyone?”
“You mean, has anyone died here? No. We pick healthy men for raw material. We research them carefully and though we can be brutal, we are careful too.”
James swallowed, licked his lips. “So what’s going to happen to me?”
“Good, you are accepting the situation. This is the only way to move forward.”
“Well, I don’t know…”
“No. You do. You wanted to be a Woman’s personal slave. You wanted to be
kept in chastity and used for facesitting and personal services. You made all that very clear. That has been your dream all your life. Now your dream will become real. In a few months you will be trained to provide perfect, total 24/7 service as a Woman’s
domestic slave, servant, maid, companion, whatever. You will be capable of serving such a woman in any way she sees fit. You will be a good cook, a house cleaner, a housemaid, a sex object, a bed-slave, and a toilet slave.”
James’s eyes bulged. “Ohmigod.”
“If your future Mistress Owner requires you to suck cock, you will suck cock very well. If she requires you to drink her urine, you will drink her urine. If she wants an hour every day of ass worship, then you will provide it. You get the picture, I’m sure.”
“I never dreamed…”
“Well, actually, you did. You remember that thread in Mistress T’s Forum about
kidnapping?”
He did. Old Slave could see it. Old Slave reminded him of what he’d written.
“Yes, you said it was an exciting idea. You wished it happened in reality.”
James shook his head. “Oh, god, this is incredible.”
“No, Jim-slave, this is reality.”
“I’m going to wake up soon, I know it. This is the most amazing dream.”
“No, Jim-slave. Mistress is gonna come through that door in less than forty minutes. You had better be prepared to submit to Her. Completely. You got me? Anything less than absolute, total submission to Her will and your ass is gonna end up being really sore. Take it from me, there’s no way out of this, except one, to accept
who you are, what you are and what you’re gonna be.”
James looked up at Old Slave, and Old Slave could see that James was beginning to accept the new reality. He still had a way to go to complete that understanding, but the fundamentals were in place. Soon Mistress Melanie would come here, wearing her leather, carrying a whip, and in just a few minutes, slave Jim here would learn all sorts of things about fear, about kissing a Dominant Woman’s boots, about pain and what it was like to receive real physical, Female Domination.
“So, goodbye for now, slave Jim. Prepare yourself. When you see Mistress come through this door, get on your knees before Her as fast as you can. Obey her every command. Listen and learn from Her. Accept your new life and remember that this is what you always wanted.”
Old Slave turned and left Trailer 9. He knew that slave Jim would not give Mistress any problems. The personality profile fit the parameters they sought almost perfectly. Two months or so of intensive training and slave Jim would be ready for market. Old Slave made a note on the list, and turned towards Trailer 10.

*end*

Copyright Permian Systems 2007.


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