“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.

For some submissives, a light degree of bondage during spanking is a door to a greater repertoire of bondage activities. Being tied up, or down, and kept that way for a time period that is entirely up to Her who binds you is one of the great psychological pathways of Female Domination. Equally, spankings over the knee with a hairbrush can be part of a process that leads to much fiercer corporal punishments involving canes, whips and paddles. The spankee becomes accustomed to the pain and discomfort and as time goes by can take more severe beatings. Ultimately some men may find themselves dangling from a hook on the ceiling while She flogs them bloody with a cat-o-nine-tails. That, however, is not the subject for this post.
To be spanked every night and then used for Her sexual pleasure is also one of the great highways into the sex submissive’s dream of a life under Her control. With every spanking he slips deeper into submission and farther from the machismo ridden independence he once had. Regular spankings, coupled with other intimate forms of domination reinforce one another and put the spanked male firmly under his Woman’s control.

When the Lady Spanker comes home from work and finds her man busy fixing dinner and pats him on the ass and whispers in his ear that such devotion might earn him a reward later, the fact that he is regularly put over her knee for a spanking is the inescapable grounding for their relationship. A regularly spanked bottom is also a sensitive one, a little tender, a little sore, and the man it’s attached to is constantly aware of that little tingle. With the tingle come the memories of being over Her knee and staring at the floor, or her shoes, while her hand, hairbrush or paddle is being used to spank him. And with those memories comes the certainty that he will be back over that knee soon enough for his next spanking. So that little pat, or perhaps a bit more than that, a little rubbing on that tender behind, combined with her voice in his ear can ignite a cascade of erotic and masochistic feelings and desires.
When the spankee is also subject to chastity control, in whatever way She desires, and is not allowed any release except with her permission, the combination of being desperate for relief from the normal urges and the spankee’s sensations of
erotic humiliation and masochistic pleasure also reinforce one another and promote ever deeper levels of submission to the Dominant Female.
And let’s face it, for the submissive male, this is what we want. The FemDom dream is that submissive men surrender themselves completely to their Women, whether they’re Wives, Girl Friends, Goddesses or Mistresses. The sub male kneels before them, kisses their feet, and accepts whatever they demand from him. More often than not, such relationships will have a certain amount of spanking, of him by Her, and those spankings will loom large in his mind.
(Note: the world of M/f spanking is not our concern. But I will point out that
the visible world of spanking has changed mightily over the past 25 years. It was once a real rarity to find F/m spanking material. What was published in magazines was usually M/f and F/f. And it was well understood in those days that the F/f spanking material was often filling in for the F/m material that men were too ashamed to buy. Even purchasing F/m magazines exposed submissive men to casual and routine humiliations from pornography outlets and stores.
The internet has changed all that. A few google numbers show the pattern today.
594,000 spanking M/f
408,000 Men spanking women
528,000 spanking F/m
440,000 Women spanking men
557,000 spanking F/f
536,000 FemDom spanking
621,000 Erotic spanking
31,500,000 spanking in general…covering many topics.
So, while M/f spanking remains the dominant aspect of Spanking scene, the F/m side of things has grown explosively over the last six or seven years.)

Back in the dark ages of FemDom, it was the FemDom artists that really
carried the light for male submissives. And of those artists, Stanton was easily the most prominent. Here we have a pair of classic Stanton illustrations that demonstrate his particular style, when it came to a FemDom spanking.
First off, Stanton rarely left it to a hand spanking, though he had illustrated those in his early days. No, for Stanton, the Lady needed a paddle, usually large and squared off. For some reason, Stanton rarely drew rounded paddles.
Secondly, Stanton endlessly eroticises the buttocks and the breasts. Not only that but he juxtaposes them, the cleft between the Domme’s proud breasts signalling power and control, the curves of the spankee’s ass signalling helplessness and submission.
Thirdly, Stanton is attentive to the humiliating details of the act. His gorgeous Dominant is pulling down the spankee’s shorts with one hand, baring his almost absurdly plump buttocks, while accepting the paddle from a third party, who is witness to the spanking.
And then it begins! And from the first shot we know this is no little spanky-panky affair. The paddle is biting into that soft male ass tissue, and his upper body flexes up as he howls from the sting of it.
In this example of Stanton’s wonderful art, he gets in so many perfect details, such as Her arm gripping the spankee across his hip and back that you have to think that Stanton himself had experienced many a fierce spanking. Her knees are together, her upper body is partly rotated back to her right, and her right arm wields the paddle with considerable energy. That’s one male rump that will be scarlet and sore for days afterwards!
With Stanton’s art career, we also have a kind of time machine back through the slow, halting emergence of FemDom from the deep shadows that hid it from view in the pre-internet age. His early work is full of almost generic hard -leather F/f scenes, rendered in the style of the late 1940s and early 50s. Later, as he began the great Stantoons project he developed his own wild caste of FemDom characters and storylines that became famous among the submissive male legions around the world. Lily and Dolly of the Family Affair, the terrifying Princkazons, Stanton’s erotic imagination took off into the farthest reaches of the male fetish psyche.
Of course, nearly all the great FemDom artists have produced spanking art, with a few odd exceptions, such as Namio Harukawa, who never shows OTK scenes, only whippings. Then again, Harukawa’s central obsession is, umm, wedged several degrees farther down the line of FemDom practise than simple spankings over the knee.
Here’s a great Puyal classic featuring a stern Dominant Wife or Mistress giving a hairbrushing to her pantied, partially feminized househubby or servant. Puyal’s love of activity in the scene is strong here. Mr spankee is not enjoying this moment in time, but then he isn’t bound in any way and he even has his medium-high heels on the floor. He could walk away at any time. But, of course, he won’t, because he’s already in panties, already Her servant and already subservient to Her will. Her mouth drawn in a stern line, her hairbrush raised, the Domme here is intent on the work at hand. It’s likely that her slave will have a tender bottom for several days after this scene is over.
In contrast, here in Sardax world, the young lady spanking her guy is obviously enjoying herself. His ass is nice and rosy pink, his sock feet are up in the air and the full erotic power of a nice intimate spanking over Her powerful lap is on display. Sardax usually loads the sexual energy into his scenes and this is no exception.
Sardax also gives us powerful Women who are enjoying the activities of Female Domination. His Women who spank often have a smile on their lips and presumably a song in their hearts as they wield palms and paddles on male rumps.

Sardax also covers a great variety of scenarios in his art. Here’s another spanking, this time we have a male maid, feminized and gagged, pulled over his Mistress’s lap, his skirts lifted up so that his pantied behind can be soundly spanked by the light of a conveniently placed lamp. As usual, Sardax’s Lady is enjoying herself, and her male maid is not in bondage, emphasising his total submission to Her.

END OF PART ONE.

copyright Permian Systems 2008.

PART TWO is now available on Women Spanking Men– Eosuchus Femdom Dreams.

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

The First. day…. Tuesday    Sept 13..
Out of prison after 3 years for marijuana possession, the only job Claudine could get was at the checkout of Baums, the local supermarket, back in the same small town where she’d lived ten years ago. Before she’d met Bobby Renecker and become involved in all his treachery and games and dope and bullshit. Which had left her holding the bag–literally, and taking the fall for a half kilo of BC Bud, left in her car, but not by her.

Back in the small town by the river Kitabek in the snowbelt. No good jobs here, and hardly any of the people she’d known when she’d lived here before. Some had died, like her mom, of lung cancer at 63. But all the kids she’d gone to school with had left. Some to Chicago, a few to New York. Danny Zingerman had gone to LA, of course. Nancy Ruedel had gone to Florida and married some rich guy. Tony Perino had gone to Pittsburgh and was running a gay bar. So that solved that mystery, Tony had been a faggot. Well, well, you lived and you learned.

So, Claudine was out of the pen, but she was living in a miserable old trailer, up a dirt road outside a dinky little town, and she was now thirty fucking years old and she had very few prospects.

And Bobby? Christ, that bastard motherfucker! She hadn’t heard from him since way before the trial. He’d gotten her busted, made sure she took the fall for the weed, and he’d vanished. What she’d heard from friends up in Buffalo was that he’d gone to Canada and then to France. He did speak French, she remembered. He had a whole new identity, a new life and he wouldn’t be coming back to the US of A.

It sucked.
In fact it was getting to the point where she was thinking about throwing herself off the bridge into the foaming River Kitabek. It was a hundred foot drop, there were rocks down there, it was a famous place for suicides.

A big part of her hated the thought, however. She had a strong urge to live and to prosper and enjoy life. She knew she deserved better than this miserable existence. At night, lying on the beat up bed in the ratty old trailer, listening to the raccoons fighting and fucking outside in the woods she tried to think of a way out of this trap.

She needed more money. She needed a man.

She’d bought an old computer at the pawnshop. Got it cheap when she let
old Silas Hoenick put his horrible old nose up into her panty crotch. He’d offered her
a hundred bucks to come back and sit on his face for half an hour.

She was tempted. It took twelve hours of working at Baums to make that much.
Half an hour of sitting on old Silas in his smelly office? How bad could that be?
Yuck.

Claudine had dreams.  Interesting dreams.
In prison she’d started out a femme and really taken some abuse. Women could be so cruel. So she’d switched. She’d learned how to fight. She’d learned to be hard and tough. She’d learned to be a top, a Domme. She’d gotten so good at it that she’d almost enjoyed her last year inside at Alterton, what with having little Mashonne as her slave, keeping her nice and relaxed every night with lots of lovely oral.

But Mashonne was doing 11 years more for her crimes, such as they were. And when Mashonne came out she was going right back to Chicago. Forget her.

Claudine needed a man. But the right kind of man. She understood a lot more about the world now. She surfed the internet. Thankfully, the trailer had cable and she had broadband. She explored the world of Professional Female Domination that she saw on the internet. She thought she could do that, beat men for money. Treat them like little boys, spank them, tie them up, piss on them.
But she couldn’t do it here. Nobody had that kind of money here. Or almost nobody.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t have much, but she did have her looks. And she was fit. She’d gotten that much out of prison. She could run off
thirty full body pushups. She could run five miles. Her face was leaner than it used to be, harder, with some lines around the jaw that didn’t used to be there, but her hair was still silky, long and black. Her tits were still big and round. Her ass was firm and good looking.

Men, or a man, that was the problem.
The men in the 2 bars in town were horrible. Smelly, tattooed creatures of the low and the lowest. She wanted nothing to do with them.

Where did an aspring Fem Domme stuck in this hick town hunt her prey?

Online? Yeah, that was an option, and she communicated with slavefred4u in Florida for a while until she figured out he was married and just a wanker. And she almost got into online training for littlestephen out in Arizona, but then he suddenly upped and disappeared, just like that.  Turned out his mommy had caught him in the act and he was getting some real life spanking now. Lots of it.  What she’d never worked out though was whether littlestephen was like, ten years old and thus doing time over his mother’s lap, or was an adult and was going over his wife’s lap for some ass slapping warmups. Mommy hadn’t made it all that clear in the final email from the account. Well, that was the internet for you. Tricky.

Another day at the checkout. Run the stuff through, print the ticket, run the credit card, take the cash, bag the groceries. Smile and be nice. Put up with Ricky, the son of Mr. and Mrs Baum, who thought he was hot stuff, with his ten year old Beemer and his
‘tude and his stupid clothes and his invitation to her to come suck his cock and he’d
“take care of her.”
All this for minimum wage?

But then, starting in August there was this guy. Better dressed than almost any other customer in Baums. Wore a suit, a tie, white shirts. Bought frozen dinners, fruit juice, humane eggs from cage free hens. Organic stuff. Never even bothered to look at the ticket.
He was cute too, in a smaller man kind of way, with a small nose and a shy smile.
She was nice to him. He looked at her tits. She could tell he was interested in her.

And he came back. He always came to her, even when another counter was empty, he’d wait in line for her.

She studied him. Got his credit card once, when the reader wasn’t working. Robert Korner, it said. She checked him out. He’d bought a nice little house on Brick Road. He drove a Mercedes SUV and he owned an internet company that specialized in providing online accountancy advice to small businesses. He was making money.
Folks were surprised that someone like him would move here.

Everyone said he was very shy. Phyllis, big fat cunt Phyllis, who managed Baum’s said he was a fag. Nobody else agreed with that. Cute Barby, the teenage slut who worked weekends, said he was, like, too nice. There was something soft about him, at least when it came to women. “There’s no spine there.”

Then, one day, she heard Elmara Tompkins, who was working as the receptionist and general office person at his company, talking with Phyllis over behind the tobacco display.
Elmara said that Mr. Korner was not a fag, but that he was kind of vulnerable, and that was his problem.
“He has a hard time telling women no.” She said.
“Just women?” said Phyllis.
“He’s nervous around women, not around men. I see it all the time. He prefers to hire men because with them he’s in charge. But with me, and Louise, God, he
almost asks our permission before he tells us to do something. Louise says she wishes she were twenty years younger. She’d drag him home and keep him.”

Hearing that started wheels turning in Claudine’s head.

The Second Day.    Friday.

He came in about six, straight from work. She could tell. HIs tie was loose and he’d left his jacket in the car. He was obviously tired, but he made sure to get in her line. Her shift was over at  six fifteen. She wondered if she should mention it. to him, see what response she got.
“Hi,” she said, all friendly, with a button undone at the top of her blouse. She was wearing a firm-up bra and she knew she was offering plenty of cleavage.
“Unnnh, hi,” he mumbled. He was flustered. He blushed.
“Your name Robert?” she said.
He looked at her with something like terror in his eyes. “Unnh, y-y-yess,” he said with an obvious effort.
“Nice name.” She smiled. Bagging his groceries, taking her time, letting him
see her nice, big, full tits. Imagine having these tits in your face, sweety, she wanted to say.
“Th-th-thankyou,” he stuttered. He dropped his credit card. He had to bend down to pick it up. He made a mess of signing the slip. He grabbed his bags and
fled.
Claudine went back to the internet for further study.
She came up with a crazy plan.
The guy was almost certainly the right kind. He was totally shy, but drawn to her. Probably because of the combination of her looks, her figure and her ‘tude. That he hadn’t taken any of the opportunities to say anything to her, spoke volumes about what was going on in his head.
There was a strong probability that he was a submissive male, maybe a masochist too. He was terrified of women, because in his mind, his ideal woman, his dream, was a Dominatrix. And he was frightened of having that truth revealed to anybody.
Because he was a dominating business guy, with a company to run. So his daily life and his dream life were completely at odds.
A little more research, a chat with Louise Schach, confirmed Claudine’s suspicions.
He had no women friends, no girlfriend, for sure. Louise had interesting opinions about her employer. Louise took care of the schedule, fitting each new job into the work flow. The company was spread all over the country.
“Why does he live here?”
“He liked the country around here. He liked the house he bought. He wanted somewhere that was completely unlike the city.”
“But the snow belt? Why not Florida?”
“I think he has family up here somewhere. Maybe in a home. He goes off somewhere now and then for a couple of days. It’s not on the schedule. Then he comes back and he seems, oh, like, satisfied or something. So maybe he visits his mother.”
“You sure he’s not gay?”
“You bet. He’s into women, but he can’t deal with women.”
Louise had Robert down. But only so far, and no farther, because women of Louise’s generation just didn’t understand Fem Dom and the whole world of BDSM.
They thought it just applied to them. That guys wanted to tie them up and beat them, and sure, there were plenty of guys with that dream, but then there was the other side, the Fem Dom side.
Claudine was sure of her target now.
The next discovery was also very interesting. Robert treated himself to one really nice meal a week. He drove down to Milltown, thirty miles away, to have dinner at the Auberge, a French restaurant. Apparently he ordered a nice bottle of wine, had
a big meal and ate alone.

The Third Day– Saturday night.

Claudine checked into it. She drove down to Milltown herself, checked out the Auberge. There was a nice little bar. She invested twenty bucks the next Saturday night, driving down there, wearing her best outfit, a little black dress and some black pumps, with her hair up and makeup on. She had an appetiser and a glass of
chardonnay at the bar. Three guys hit on her inside forty minutes. Two of them were married, one of them even had his wife there at a table on the far side of the room. God, men! Such fucking pigs! She played nice, even took a phone number, but kept her eyes on the door.
Robert came in at eight fifteen. They had a table for him in the corner. The waitress, a curvy little thing of about twenty, was all flirty and friendly with him, and he seemed comfortable with her. He ordered a bottle of wine, she poured him a glass, he drank some and looked around the room.
Claudine had positioned herself so her back was to him, but she could see him in the mirror behind the bar. He didn’t seem to take any particular notice of her.
His food arrived, he had more wine.
She paid and left, slipping out the door and went across the carpark to her beat up old ride and sat inside and watched.
An hour and a half later, at ten fifteen, he came out. He had a paper bag in one hand, obviously the remains of his bottle of wine. He walked over to his Beemer, which beeped as he hit the unlock key on his keychain.
She watched as he drove away.

And now the wheels were turning very methodically in Claudine’s brain.

The Fourth Day– The next Saturday night.

Robert Korner checked into his favorite FD chat site one last time. There were some terrific facesitting pix that had been put up by BBWlover. Looking at them, fondling his dick made him horny and submissive at the same time. It was a warm, pleasant sensation. He didn’t masturbate though. He wanted to save it for later. He had a new FD video download that he’d been saving, starring Mistress Nicole and her new slave. It had all the things he liked, particularly, Mistress Nicole, who had big tits, hair the color of brass, and a great attitude. She was suitably fierce and Dominant, but she also cracked jokes the whole time. And when it came to riding on a sub’s face, she was one of the best in the business. He would watch it when he got back from the restaurant, and then he’d jerk off. It would be great.
He showered, shaved, dressed, deciding on the new tan slacks, and the new
Doyle and Kerns brown shoes. He looked good, he thought, when he checked himself out in the mirror.
He drove down to Milltown, got there in good time and strolled into the restaurant at ten past eight. Ivette was there to greet him, all smiles and happy to see him. Which is what he expected, after all, since he was the biggest tipper the Auberge had. He drank the best, most expensive wines on their list and he always tipped
twenty percent or more. Ivette spent lots of time on him as a result, and he liked that. He liked her fragrance, and the hints of her own scent underneath it, even her sweat on hot nights in july. Sometimes he even imagined being under Ivette’s cute, young female ass, being dominated and smothered. But, of course, he knew it would never happen. Ivette was totally normal, totally femme, totally into some big, stupid, hunk guy who would knock her up, maybe marry her and live with her in some horrible modular house. Maybe he’d drink, maybe he’d punch her around sometimes, maybe he wouldn’t. They’d get fat together and so would their progeny. It was all such a waste, at least as far as Bob Korner was concerned.

He ordered the braised tenderloin and a nice bottle of California Pinot Noir. He drank his wine and surveyed the restaurant. There was a nice feel to the place. Wood panelling,  checker table cloths, the soft clatter of cutlery on plates, the buzz of conversation. A loud pop came from the bar as Jim opened a bottle of wine.
HIs food came and he ate, sipping the wine, which was excellent and worth the hundred bucks they charged. It’d been a good week for him. The Manitoba Grain Association had signed up. It was his biggest deal to date. He’d already booked the services of twelve accountants over in India to deal with the formal paperwork. It was a sweet piece of business. He would charge the Canadian farmers a bit less than their previous accountants in Winnipeg, but his own costs would be really low because he would combine his computer system, his software, with cheap accountancy labor from India. In the first year he thought he’d clear at least three hundred grand on the operation.
Maybe he’d see if Mistress Irene could see him more than once a month.
His visits to her were his biggest expense, because he booked her for two whole days and nights. It was what she called “Immersion FemDom.”  She did everything, from
giving him Dommy Mommy scenarios that she thought up, to cageplay, the CBT that she was so good at, and the face sitting and Queening sessions that he adored.
He always came back from his visits to Her completely calm, relaxed, and
fulfilled. The proximity to her special farm over in Wexboro was why he’d located here in the Kitabek valley. He wanted to be close, but not too close. So it was an hour’s drive to Wexboro, but he was sure that he’d never run into anyone he knew while he was there. And that was very important, because the biggest fear in his life was that someone would expose him. It was important that he be a real man, a dominant
business guy. He was slightly smaller than average, and not blessed with a big voice or any other obvious way of dominating a roomful of guys. He had to stay on top. He had six young salesmen, and three women, working for him and he had to know they were afraid of him. That they knew he was the boss.
Well, the women weren’t afraid of him. He knew they could sense his weakness with womankind. He was just about helpless with women. It took a big effort of will just to ask Louise to change something in the schedule. And secretly he fantasized about Louise too, even though she was in her late fifties. She still had a good looking ass. She’d make a great Dommy Mommy, and in his bedtime dreams, sometimes she did.
But he kept the women to the support staff positions, and hired guys for the rough stuff. Making the calls, pitching the business, setting up meetings with customers all over the region and even beyond. And with the guys he was tough. He was in charge. Nobody gave him any shit. Anyone copped an attitude with him and they were gone, just like that.
But if the guys knew about Mistress Irene, then those guys would lose all respect for him in a dead second. He’d have to shut the business here and relocate and start all over with a new name. But even then, he’d be ruined, because it would be all over the internet.
That was his worst nightmare.

He’d always been like this with women too. He’d only had one girlfriend in school, Peggy Sturmer. Peggy had her way with him for three years. She went out with other guys whenever she felt like it. She treated him like dirt. Bobby was her slave, and everyone knew it. Just thinking about certain summer nights at Peggy’s house was enough to bring on a raging erection and a huge, sense of shame. Peggy had taught him to love eating female ass. She had spanked him too. He’d spent many hours over her knee and under her ass. But she’d never been serious about him. For her he’d been a service, a useful tool for getting rid of sexual tensions and enjoying orgasms from oral servitude. After he’d begged her enough, she would sit on him in panties and jerk him off into a condom. That was all she would ever do for him.
But after Peggy went away to college, he’d been lost. He’d tried a few dates, but he was too shy, too submissive, too odd for all the women he’d met.
Ivette came back to take his plate and pour some more of the Pinot Noir. He watched Ivette’s cute ass as she walked away from him. It would be so great if a
cute girl like Ivette was into Domination, but he knew better. Most girls would run a mile at the mere whisper of the word Dominatrix. They wanted to be thought of as
nice, and cute, and sweet, not as cruel, dominating and bitchy.
It was pointless to try and explain. “Bitchy” was not what domination and submission was about. It was about sexual power, about the Female ruling the
submissive male and making him her happy slave. Girls didn’t want to hear that. They didn’t want men who wanted to be dominated. All of that went against all their social
conditioning.
Bob turned his thoughts away from Ivette. He thought about the checkout lady at Baums. Now that female could be the real thing. She had a great bod, and she
had some kind of ‘tude, you could really feel it around her.
But, of course, she was just some redneck bitch. Probably lived with one of the
stinking, fat, working class men that you saw driving around in huge pickup trucks, smoking, drinking beer all day. Robert loathed those guys, even as he knew they hated him for his Beemer, his expensive clothes, his money and his lifestyle.
Still, he fantasized about that checkout lady often, and he always took his cart to her line. Just so he could get a glimpse of her cleavage. She had great tits. Once, she’d asked him his name. Taken by surprise he’d embarrassed himself there. And in the car later, he’d cursed himself for being such a fool. But then, that nght, he masturbated, imagining being with her, being at her mercy and under her control.
It wouldn’t be like it was with Mistress Irene, but, it would be very exciting anyway.
At least in his imagination.

For dessert he tried the new super chocolate warm pudding cake, with whipped cream and raspberry sauce. It was delicious. He enjoyed it with a last glass of wine, then had a decaf coffee and sat there feeling full and happy, while the alcohol
wore off a bit. He was safe to drive, but in the current climate, you had to be careful. The local cops were all over drivers on that stuff and it could cost you a small fortune if they pulled you over and charged you.

As he sipped the coffee he thought about Mistress Nicole and her new slave, the hot video download he had waiting for him at home on his laptop. Man, she was
so good at the game. Her new slave was a big guy, with a heckuva build. One of her
greatest tricks was having him do pushups with her riding on his shoulders, or sitting on his back talking on the phone. The guy was really strong and he could run off
hundreds of pushups, even with her going up and down like that. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to be that strong and powerfully built. You’d get more respect from the fat, lazy pickup guys, that’s for sure. Would a Domme value you more?
No, he decided. Dommes were in business for the money, like anyone else. That was their key factor. If you were a piece of good looking beefcake, then that was just more icing.
Ivette brought the check, he paid and Ivette put his unfinished wine bottle in a paper bag and sealed it for him. Feeling right with the world he stepped out and walked over to the car. It was dark out in the parking lot. He noticed that the usual
light, fixed to the side of the restaurant, had gone out. No matter, he pressed the stud on the key chain and heard the Beemer unlock.

Ahead he was imagining a short ride up the road and then some fun watching Mistress Nicole. He opened the door, leaned way in and  put the wine bottle in the back seat.
And then his evening took a wild, unpredictable turn. Something, or someone slammed into him violently from behind. It was like a football block and he was already off balance, leaning into the car, so he just went face down into the passenger seat of the car.
He cried out, but whoever had attacked him, didn’t let up for a moment. His legs were seized and shoved, hard, ramming his face down into the space in front of the seat.
He lashed out, kicking backwards, striking something.
For his pains he got a crushing punch in the balls. He heard himself shriek, then pulled up his legs as pain and nausea competed for his attention. His attacker had climbed into the driver’s seat and thrust a boot down, really hard, into his chest. He felt the breath whoosh out of him, and he struggled to breathe. It was hard, it was so claustrophobic, and he couldn’t move.
The car door had shut. He was scrunched up, on his back, with his legs folded over, a boot on his chest, unable to see whoever had attacked him. It was a really
horrible feeling.
And then it got worse. Something cold, hard and metallic snaked down past the boot and jammed into his cheek.
A voice grated, low and angry.
“Shut the fuck up. You feel this? You want to get a bullet in your stupid head you make more noise, unnerstan’?”
He whimpered, there was no other way to describe the little sound he made.
“Gimme the car keys, now!”
To his amazement he found that he still had the keys in his left hand. He raised that hand up. The keys were snatched from him, the car started. Backed up, turned and drove out of the carpark, still with him upside down, head on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
The gun was out of his face at least, and the boot was off his chest but the car was moving fast. The driver braked, then turned sharply to the left and sped down a road with a lot of curves. The violent movement of the car kept him off balance, but he finally got a look at his assailant and received a real shock, because instead of the
redneck male he’d expected, he saw breasts, big breasts, pushing out the front of a
dark colored hoody. He tried to see her face, but caught only a momentary glimpse of eyes lit up by oncoming headlights, and then the car swayed through another turn and his legs swung back and blocked the view.
She braked, spun the wheel and the Beemer went over a bump and rattled through some vegetation and came to a halt. She shifted into park.
The gun was shoved back in his face.
“Keep your mouth shut. Put your hands up between your legs, wrists together.”
“Who are you?”
The gun rammed back harder into his cheek.
“You really wanna get shot, you stupid piece of shit?”
No, he really didn’t. Whoever this woman was she sounded very angry and very likely to do something he was going to regret.
He put his hands up between his knees.
Something was wrapped around his wrists and pulled tight. His hands were
locked together.
His position was horribly claustrophobic, but he wasn’t getting out of it anytime too soon. Especially as she slipped something around his legs, just below the knees and a moment later it was wound tight, like the band around his wrists. Now his legs were squeezed together, with his wrists shoved up between them, and both wrists and legs were bound.
A dark cloth was tossed down to cover his face. Now he couldn’t see her no matter what he did. Nor could he move. The car started again, reversed, turned and
went back over the bump. Christ, he hoped she didn’t fuck up the car, driviing like this.
Then he thought how stupid could he be, worrying about the damned car, when he was car-jacked, completely helpless in the hands of a madwoman with a gun.
Unable to see a thing, lying on his back in a grotesquely uncomfortable position, he could only imagine where they were going. The car was driving now at what seemed a reasonable sort of speed, without any violent swaying around. She was on a highway, and she was in traffic, he assumed, and she wasn’t about to attract any attention. They continued like this for about twenty minutes, he guessed, though it might have been less. Every second in his excruciting position seemed awfully long.
They slowed, came to a stop. A traffic light, but where? And where was she going? Where was she taking him, and why?
They were rolling once more, but not fast, and there were curves on the road because he was swaying back and forth as she negotiated them. And then the car slowed again, turned sharply, and drove up a gravel drive. He heard vegetation scrape along the side and then she braked and cut the engine.
“Listen up,” she growled. “I’m going to put a blindfold on you. You give me any trouble and you’ll really wish you hadn’t. Got that?”
“Y-y-yess.” he managed to squeak.
He felt her reach down, lift his head and pass a band around it. She arranged it so it was tight over his eyes.
“Okay, we’re getting out now. I’m gonna open your side and help you out. Just remember, do as I tell you and don’t do anything else. Or I will seriously fuck your shit up.”
The driver side door slammed. Seconds passed. He wondered, with a degree of desperation, if there was anything he could do about this. Then he recognized with his wrists bound, and stuck in this humiliating position, there really wasn’t.
Once he was out of the car? Well, his wrists would still be bound and he’d be blindfolded. But he could pull the blindfold off, couldn’t he?
Well, as it turned out, he couldn’t. Because before she dragged him out of the car she looped a line around the band holding his wrists and then made a noose out of the same line, put that over his head, snugged it around his throat and pulled it tight so that his wrists were pulled up hard against his throat and held there. It was difficult to even breathe.
Only then did she pull him out of the car, a process that left him kneeling in his good slacks in the soft dirt until she yanked him up onto  his feet.
“Get moving, don’t make a sound, and don’t give me any trouble, or I swear you’ll be sorry.”
He couldn’t see a thing, his hands were jammed up against his throat. There was nothing he could do except allow himself to be pushed along, stepping blindly forward and praying he didn’t fall on his face.
He heard a hinge squeak, then she said in his ear.
“Step up, about a foot. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”
He raised his foot, put it down and stepped up. She was right behind him. The door slammed.
“Okay, just come over here. Now sit down.” Her voice had softened several degrees. Some of the stress had lifted.
The floor felt spongey, almost soft. There was a faint smell of decay and mold.  Something hard was pressing against the back of his knees.
“That’s a chair, sit down.”
He obeyed.
Quickly, frighteningly so, it seemed to him, she tied his ankles to the chair. Then she freed his wrists, it didn’t take long, so he assumed she knew something about knots. More than he did, anyway.
“Get your jacket and shirt off, now. And remember, just do what I tell you, or
you’ll pay, big time.”
It wasn’t easy. His arms ached from being tied up so tightly, but he obeyed. He got his jacket off, then his shirt.
“Put your arms down in front of you. Try anything and I will fuck you up so bad, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Something was looped around his right arm, just above the elbow and pulled tight. It felt like the collar on the blood pressure machine at the doctor’s office. His left arm was treated similarly. Something was clipped to the band on that side, then passed behind him and clipped to the right side. His arms were effectively bound to his sides, though his forearms and hands were free. Next he felt her hands at work on the bonds at his ankles. A few moments later he could move his feet.
“Get up,” she said, her voice much lighter, much more relaxed. He sensed that she felt a new confidence about everything. Her hands pushed him, turning him to his right. Then he felt his belt being undone and his pants pulled down. “Lift your right foot.”  He did and she pulled his pantleg free. She followed up with the left leg.
“Good,” she said, now talking in a husky, sexy voice.
“Now I’m taking down your panties. Do you understand? You’re gonna be naked.”
And then, with a suddenness that was shocking and yet, somehow, weirdly liberating, he had a glimmer of understanding. And almost immediately felt his cock harden.
Her fingers slid into the waistband of his boxers and slowly, very slowly, she lowered them. As they came down, he felt his cock rising and emerging from cover.
He heard her chuckle.
“I thought so.”
She continued to slowly lower his underpants down his legs. He felt his erection continue to harden, lofting his cock until  he knew his goddamn penis was bobbing up and down now at full throbbing hardness.
“Raise your right foot.”
A few moments later he was naked. Fear engulfed him again and he knew his erection had fallen somewhat.
Her hand took hold of his penis and he shivered, but he hardened to the maximum in a second or two.
“Good,” she whispered. “Now listen carefully. I have taken you, okay? To be my slave.”
Slave.  The word hung there in the air between them. He gulped. Astonishment had replaced fear.
“What? What d-d-d-did you say?”
It sounded stupid even as he said it.
Her grip had shifted to his balls. She was standing close to him.
“You heard me,” she growled into his ear. “You are going to be my slave and I am going to be your Domme.”
Holy shit. This was incredible.
“Now, kneel.”
He hesitated. His cock was saying one thing, his brain was saying something else. Or part of it was. He was mortally confused.
The slap was a hard one, connecting to his left cheek and knocking his head sideways. It made his head ring like a bell, while his cheek flared and burned.
“Get down on your knees!”  she snarled.
He obeyed. He didn’t want to be slapped again. As he got down on his knees so he had a glimpse of what this might lead to. He might end up spending a lot of his time on his knees from now on. A part of him  was terribly excited. Another part was terrified and another was angry.
“Look,” he said. “If it’s money you want, I can pay you.”
“Shut up. It’s not just your money. I want you. As a slave.”
Slave…. that word again. It aroused him and it terrified him.
“You’re nuts,” he protested.
Her response went much farther than he’d imagined it could. She grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head down and got busy with rope. He tried to resist, but with his arms effectively  pinned to his sides, he didn’t have a chance. In the end he wound up tied over a chair with his ass up in the air and a thick gag, smelling strongly of
female sweat, funk and pussy shoved into his mouth and held in place by a strap made out of a pair of old swimming goggles.  He couldn’t talk, or do much more than grunt. At that point she pulled off the blindfold. He saw a ratty old carpeted floor and a metal wall. He understood. He was in a trailer somewhere, and recalling the drive to get there he knew it was well off the road. Then he saw her feet and legs, nice legs,
nice feet. She’d removed her workboots and he could see that she took the trouble to paint her toenails.
Then she started spanking him. She showed him each implement. First there was the ping pong paddle. That hurt. And she kept it up for about ten minutes with that one.
He was screaming for a lot of that time, but his screams were reduced to very muffled gurgles by the heavy panty gag. He was drooling heavily too, because of the gag.
Then she left him, tied over the chair, ass burning like crazy, while she went into another room and closed the door. Before she left, she arranged a picture on the floor where he couldn’t help but look at it. It was a print from the internet of a Namio Harukawa drawing. It showed a woman with a big ass dominating, crushing, a smaller man under that powerful set of buttocks.
His anger, his fear and his sexual arousal were all balanced, like a tripod, but at the same time, he was utterly confused. The questions that kept coming up were like opponents on either end of a tennis court.
How was he going to  escape?
Was she nuts?
What would slavery to Her be like?
Was this his dream come true?

And when he looked at the Namio picture he couldn’t stop his erection rising again.
Then she was back. This time with a thin, whippy rod of some semi-flexible plastic.
“Time for your caning, slave. In the future, once you’ve come to accept your new position in life, I will keep this for serious punishment. But tonight I want you to have a little taste of it. Just so you know.”

The cane sang in the air, with a shrill little shriek, and then struck his tender ass with the impact of an asteroid. Or so it felt. His whole body bucked, the chair moved a little. A line of white hot fire had formed across his behind, rising, turning and very slowly fading.
Before it was gone, though, the rod whistled through the air again and once more he shrieked into the gag and bucked.
So it went. For forty full, hard strokes.
By the time it was done, he was done too. He could scarcely gurgle, let alone scream. His ass had gone from being on fire to being molten, incandescent, so
painful that it absorbed his entire being.  He hung there limply in his bonds, sweat cooling on his body, just breathing, sobbing, with tears running down his cheeks.
Now she pulled the other chair up and sat down, right within his line of sight. She was just three feet away from him. She had removed her jeans and was wearing
a pair of pink panties, visibly moistened by the thrill of beating him.
While he stared,  amazed, even horrified, right into her panty crotch, she slipped
her fingers under the panty and into her pussy.
“Mmmm, that feels so good, slave. I enjoyed that. Your ass is now a really fine shade of red. Maybe some purple too. Gonna be sore for days I bet.”
Her fingers  worked under the panty.
“Wouldn’t you like to have your face in here, slave? Wouldn’t you like to give your Mistress a nice orgasm? Or two?”  Her voice had gone all soft and breathy.
And his cock had hardened. Even though his ass was burning. Even though he was in a state of terror. He was terribly aroused.
“If you were my slave, and if you were a good slave, and if you did everything  that I told you to do. Then every night you would get to eat my pussy. Wouldn’t that be great?”
She was flexing her abdomen now, raising and lowering her panty crotch before his eyes while her fingers continued to lazily stroke her clitoris.
“And, of course, I’d spank you too. Over my knee, with my hand, and maybe a little bit of hairbrush.”  She giggled huskily. “Nice spankings, lots of pussy, and more.”
And she stood up. For a moment her pussy passed just inches from his eyes, and then she’d turned around and sat, straddling the chair, with her ass pushed back into his face.
She had a great ass. That was all he could think. Big, firm buttocks, toned from
some kind of physical exercise, and nice and round. She pushed them back to within ten inches of his eyes.
“And then there’d be face sitting, eh? You’d be on your back on my bed waiting for my ass, yeah?”
She reached back and pulled on the pink panty elastic, snapping it lightly against her pale skin.
“Nice ass, huh? Imagine all that ass right on your face.”
He could imagine it and his cock was now rock hard, throbbing, completely
rigid. Sexual slavery, that was what she was offering him. He would be a FemDom slave. Just the thing, just the creature, that he’d dreamed of being all his life, ever since he’d first started masturbating.
She pulled away from him, then began to raise and lower her behind, moving it up and down a couple of feet in front of him. The shape and mass of those buttocks were imprinting themselves on his imagination.
To his shame, his disgust, his horror, he found he was drooling again. Spit had
slipped past the thick gag in his mouth and was running down his chin.
Oh, God, what was happening here?
Which, he knew was a silly question. He was being enslaved, that was what was happening.
“Yess,” she purred, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Every night, a nice spanking over my lap, and then lots of smothering and pussy worship. Hmmmmm?”
He whimpered. He sobbed. This was unbearable. He had to get out of this place. He had to escape.
But a part of him was already weakening. A part of him already wanted to stay.
She stopped flaunting her ass in his face. She stood up and showed him the next implement. A strip of thick leather about two feet in length.
“Now this is gonna rock. I got it from the dump. I think it was part of a drive belt on some kind of farm machine. It was a lot longer, so I cut it down to just the right size for whupping ass.”
She slapped the leather strap into the palm of her hand. It made a nasty little
smack.
She chuckled.
Once again he screamed into the thick panty gag. Once again he wept and his tears soaked his face and the worn out carpet underneath. Once again she beat him for a good twenty minutes or so, in a regular, fast rhythmn of medium hard shots that
echoed a little in the trailer.
Then it was done and he was left, shuddering, shivering, weeping, while she
walked slowly away across the narrow room, letting him see her panty clad buttocks sway from side to side.
The door closed.
She’d left another picture, by an artist that he was unfamiliar with. It showed
a Domme walking a slave like he was a dog. It was a familiar theme, but beautifully rendered.  It was out in public on a busy street. The Domme wore a tight leather skirt and had her long, blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail. She had on gloves, and carried a short whip. The slave went on all fours. His ass had whipmarks. He wore a thick dog collar and leash and a cock tube. Stuck into his ass was a brush like tail, to make him even more doglike.
The picture was a fantasy brilliantly brought to life. The person of the Domme was filled with satisfaction, even pleasure from Her power and Her possession of this male. The male was so enslaved that he was oblivious to the laughter from people in the street scene or the snotty kids pointing at him as he scrambled along on all fours, doing his utmost to keep up a good pace at the heels of his absolute owner.
Once again the agony in his ass was at war with the erotic power of Female Dominance in his mind. Once again he felt his cock harden and rise to a full, towering erection, even as the stinging, burning fury in his behind continued to pulse with his
heartbeat.
Minutes passed. He thought he heard water running. His tears dried on his face. The burning pain in his ass faded down to a more general stinging, itching, smarting sensation.
He found his attention more or less riveted to the picture she had left out on the chair for him to study.
It captured so much about FemDom. The pleasure in exercising Female Power over the male. The humiliation and abandon of the male’s submission. His loss of everything that usually matters in human society, all traded away for the favor of his Mistress’s open ownership of him.
In a way it encapsulated his dream, and at the same time it frightened him. To become so completely helpless, to be no more than a woman’s dog, meant losing almost everything that gave a man status. Could he really exist like that?
The door opened, she was back. Anxiously he scanned her hands. What was she going to beat him with this time?
But no new implement was visible. Instead he observed that she had on new, white panties, and a matching bra. As she approached he noticed that she was in good physical shape, an impression he’d already formed earlier. She had to work out in a gym on a regular basis to look like that, he thought.
She moved behind him and began to loosen the bonds that held him tied down over the chair. Then she helped him stand, and moved him across to the bed. She pushed him down on the bed, though contact with the sheets by his burning ass made him whimper. She removed the gag after cuffing his wrists together with a strip of velcro material. He tried pulling them apart and found the velcro easily strong enough to hold his wrists together.
Then she brought a big bowl of warm water and a sponge and wiped his face clean.
“There, there, my poor baby. That was a pretty hard spanking you had to take. Those are seriously sore buns I bet.”

And now, at last, he recognized her.
“I know,you,” he whispered, and then realized he’d uttered his own death sentence. If she felt she had to she could kill him and noone would ever find his body.
But she smiled and kept wiping him clean.
“Sure you do. And you’ve been coming to my line every time you come to the store. I know what you want, Bobby..”
Her hand had slipped between his legs. His cock had hardened instantly to a throbbing pillar.
“See? You want my domination. I want a better life. I’ll marry you, you’ll be my slave and you’ll be happy.”
“Marry?” he said, astonished.
“Yeah. We’ll move away from here. You’ll have to get your business going in some warmer location. But you can do that, and I’ll spank you every night until you do.”
She smiled, there was tenderness there. And she leaned over him and loosed her lovely breasts into his face. Nipples brushed his nose, then his lips.
“Kiss my tits, Bobby. Suck on them.”
He kissed. He sucked.
She played with his penis, taking him to the brink of coming again and again, but everytime he got close she grabbed his balls and crushed them hard. Then she
put her tits back in his face and started it all over again.
“Maybe Florida would be good, huh? Or Texas. Somewhere that never has snow.  And I’ll run the business for you too. I took accountancy classes, and general business too. I can handle that, and that way I’ll be in the office and able to keep an eye on you. Then after work, you can be the chauffeur and drive me home. At home, of course, you’ll be a panty slave, on your knees and on your back, under my nice big ass.”
As she said this her fingers stroked his penis, making him gasp and shudder.
“Won’t that be wonderful?”
And it would, and he knew it, and he knew now that he couldn’t resist.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes, what?” she whispered back, holding his cock hard in her hand.
“Yes, Mistress.”

The Fifth Day.  Saturday, one month later.  Wedding Bells.

They married at the registry office in Milltown. It was just them. And afterwards, back at his house, Claudine took him with the strap on, face to face, the way she liked it. Looking into Bobby’s eyes as she fucked him, driving the big dildo up into his ass, penetrating him, taking him, owning him completely.
In the month since she’d kidnapped him, Claudine had brought Bobby totally under her control. He wore a handmade chasitty tube on his shaved genitals and she kept the key on a little golden chain she wore around her neck. Bobby only came in one way now, on his back, under her ass, jerked off into a condom. Once a week, on different days, as the mood took her.
He was spanked every other night and she fucked him as often as she could.
Fucking him, and getting off on it, had become her favorite turn on, especially seeing
the look in his eyes as she came to her triumphant Dominant climax, while he was simply penetrated and dominated. She’d started out with a thin  white dildo, heavily lubed so as not to hurt him or cause any damage and then once she’d got him used to that she’d stepped it up in stages to this bigger pink one, with the double action so that she could orgasm from it. What amused her was that the bit that went into her was actually smaller than the bit that went into his ass!
Meanwhile, she’d gone over the books on the business and all his accounts. She knew what she needed to know to be sure of controlling him in every way possible. She had made him give her check signing authority on all the major accounts and she’d taken away his credit cards, leaving him with just a debit card on the household account. She made sure he knew that she had her fingers on everything. Rebellion was out of the question.
Domestically, she spanked him, sat on his face and made him serve her as her handmaid. She’d applied a few light touches of feminization, putting him in short skirts and tight pink panties with stockings, garter belt and three inch heels. He said it made him feel emasculated, but when she pulled him over her lap for a spanking in that costume his cock was always rigid.
The house was up for sale, the business was being shifted to Florida and they were negotiating for a nice new house, not too expensive, but much nicer than anything Claudine had ever lived in before. There was an office park just a few miles away and she was already talking to the management there about renting some space for the business.
She planned to surround Bobby with female authority figures. The business staff in Florida would be all female, selected by her and reporting to her.  Bobby would still run the male sales force, and that would be the only area in his life where he would have authority. Claudine understood that he needed to be in charge with the guys. But when he stepped into the administrative area, then he would be under Her and she would make sure that all the female staff knew that he was not the real boss.
Considering how difficult it was for him to deal with women already, Claudine was sure that this approach would deepen his feelings of submission to women in general and his sense of inferiority where the female gender was concerned.
And beyond the office, their lawyers, accountants,  their doctor, even their dentist, would all be women. Bobby would live in a world run by women, except for his sales force.
She fucked him until she had her own orgasm. It was perfect. She fucked him, she came, and he was humiliated and made to accept that he was just her slave.
“It’s your wedding day, Bobby. Special treat, right?”
“Whatever you say, Mistress.”
“Good.”
She pulled the dildo out, stood up and put her hands on her hips while he knelt and removed the harness.
“On your back, baby. You get to come too, today.”
He lay on the bed, she straddled him and lowered her ripe, round buttocks down onto his face, then wriggled a little until she felt him begin to kiss her anus the way she liked, the way a Dominant Wife demands oral servitude from her slave husband.
Then with a happy smile on her face, Claudine ripped open another condom packet and pulled out the condom. Quickly she slipped it over her slave’s throbbing penis.
While he performed the most intimate and servile act of the male slave to a Dominant Woman, she began to masturbate him, something she had become very good at. She could keep him on the edge of coming for half an hour or more, all the while enjoying his frantic efforts to please her with his tongue.
Settling in, grinding down on his face with her ass, holding his manhood firmly in her hand, Claudine reflected that a determined woman just needed to make her own luck sometimes.

copyright Permian Systems 2008

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

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.

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.