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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

By 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. And 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!

Here’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
a 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.

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

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
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 liberation of the Female Ass and a celebration of it and its power over men.

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.