Monday, February 26, 2018

Anonymous Confession

In response to the #metoo inspired discussions hosted by Miss Eva in Nov/Dec 2017.


Miss Eva asked if all men are complicit in the societal abuse of women.

Yes, I am. I'm complicit. I have been and continue to be. I'm part of society, not apart from it. I can try to ignore rape culture, toxic masculinity, the sex-obsessed media that's forced down our throats day in, day out. The sort of messages that are designed to make women feel inadequate and men feel entitled.

But I'm not an island and ignoring it, dismissing it, laughing it off as locker room talk isn't going to make it go away.  Complicity comes in many forms.  I've never catcalled a woman, or made inappropriate advances. Frankly, I'm too uptight and introverted to even ask for the time of day most of the time, but that doesn't make me a sex equality hero.

I've not recognised such behaviour in the past, or worse, I've gone along with it. I'll give you an example. A woman whom I respect greatly (and I was line managing at the time) pointed out to me after a meeting that we'd both said the exact same thing. Only I, as a man, had been agreed with and that she, as a woman, had been quickly shut down. I hadn't noticed. I really hadn't noticed. Replaying the meeting in my head made me realise just how right she was (about the sexism. We already agreed she was right on the technical point she had been making). It stunned me. I tried to change things from that point forward, sometimes with more success than others.

It needs to be confronted, challenged, changed. I hope that with #metoo, women talking about their experiences provides the catalyst for men who care to take action. Because let's be clear, it's not women who need to change (yes there are some, but I'm allowed to generalise here). It's overwhelmingly men.  I don't deserve to be put on a pedestal for believing that men and women are of equal worth (not *exactly equal*, because that's a silly assertion) and that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect. Frankly, it's purely selfish - *I* want to be treated with dignity and respect. But who the f--- am I to insist on that treatment without the courtesy - nay the duty - to extend it to others?

This, and the events of the recent past, have shown me (not shocked me, it's too depressingly obvious that this has been and continues to be almost endemic) that I need to step up and challenge inappropriate behaviour. I won't always get it right, but I'll make the effort. And I don't expect praise or applause 'because I'm a man'.

So what do I expect?  I expect that you, regardless of your gender, just nod quietly, support people against the inevitable backlash, and commit to being more like them than you are now.

The Bell by Cam

Cam and Rob's companion stories are inspired by this image:
https://78.media.tumblr.com/052365ff1b7745657db57e00fd02ede0/tumblr_nx0y5ix9jQ1rispuco1_1280.jpg



She takes her phone from her ear and looks at it, smiling. Tapping the screen to end the call, she looks at us both.

"I know it's a bit short notice but I'm having a little soirée tonight, boys."

"Yes Mistress," we both chime in unison, looking up at her from our kneeling position.

"I'll need service," she says. "Which of you is going to do that for me?"

"I will, Mistress," replies my fellow boy, eagerly. Perhaps he's thinking he'll get played with. I bow my head, being a little too slow off the mark.

"Good. That's settled," she says. "Go get into your maid's outfit.". He crawls on all floors out to get dressed. I watch him go, grateful for not having to wear the maid's outfit, but regretting that I'm not going to be serving.

"What would you like me to do, Mistress?" I ask, nose scraping the floor. I'm hoping it will just be a caging for the night. Boring, but not too harsh a punishment for my lack of speed.

"Oh. Well," she chuckles. "I've been meaning to get my bell fixed. How can I summon the maid without a bell? But it's still not working." She taps a finger on her chin. "I shall need...a bell boy!"

I'm puzzled by this, so I kneel upright and look at her quizzically.

"A bell boy, Mistress?"

"Yes! Stay here. No, wait...go get yourself clean and meet me back here in five minutes."

I crawl out to the bathroom, prepare myself and head back to the lounge. Mistress comes in a moment later, carrying a large metal contraption; a heavy metal plate with a pole sticking up from it, some rope and a large metal ring, about 20cm across.  She noisily thumps the plate and pole down between the two sofas and throws the ring and rope down onto one of the chairs.

She pulls a large dildo out of one pocket, and a bottle of lube out of the other. "Lube up," she commands, throwing the bottle down to the floor in front of me. While I busy myself, she screws the dildo into the top of the pole and undoes a screw, dropping it down with a loud clang.

The dildo pole is now at a height I can squat onto. It's clear what Mistress has in mind, so I position myself over the pole and slowly squat down onto the dildo, easing it into my ass.

It feels good; well lubed, and I moan softly. My brief pleasure doesn't last long though, as she grabs the pole between my legs and starts to lift, forcing me to stand. As I reach my full height, she thrusts the pole up into me until there's no chance I can get myself off. Mistress locks off the pole with a screw, leaving me impaled on the pole in the middle of the room.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she chuckles. "It's a girl's night in. So you won't be allowed to see or hear." She turns tail and heads out of the room, leaving me there. Returning a few minutes later, she cuffs my legs, chaining them together, my hands, secured behind my back, before rolling foam plugs and pushing them into my ears.  They make a crackling sound as they expand, filling my ear canal, and muffling the outside world almost completely. The hood is next, blinding me and sealing me inside, I feel a little dizzy as the laces tighten round the back of my head.

Resigned to my evening, being put out as an ornament, I'm then shocked and aroused by the feeling of her hands around my balls, as the rope is tied around them, stretching them. I can feel some weight pulling the rope taut, pulling my balls down, making them swing gently between my legs. I'm puzzled as to what this is, but cannot ask.

I drift off, alone, into subspace, and time passes. After a while, I feel the heat and presence of people in the room, some 'accidentally' brushing past me, making my cock throb and stiffen. I wonder what's going to happen, and why I've been placed on display in the middle of the room.

Things get imperceptibly louder inside the hood, within the earplugs. Several people in the room. Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in my crotch. Someone pulled hard on the rope. I howl in pain. Moments later, I dimly hear the clink of glasses.

More time passes, terminated by another sharp pull, another yell. And again the muffled tinkle of glasses.

The evening is punctuated by yanks on my balls, my yells filling my hood. It slowly dawns on me.

I am the bell.

The Bell by Rob

“I will, Mistress!”



I throw my answer out before I have even registered what I am volunteering for. Service for a soiree? That sounds like an invitation for failure and punishment, while my fellow boy will almost certainly be the centre of attention. But it’s too late to change my mind now.



“Good, that’s settled,” Mistress says briskly. “Go and get into your maid’s outfit.”



I try to hide my wince as I bow my head and crawl across the floor to the bedroom door. Mistress has been perfecting my “maid’s outfit” for weeks, and it makes me blush every time I even think about it. Knowing that I will now have to wear it in front of her friends and my fellow boy makes me start to sweat before I’ve even left the room.



Sure enough, laid out on the bed is my uniform: a black garter belt with matching black stockings, two fine silver chains, my pink jewelled butt plug and – of course – my cock cage.



Reluctantly I start taking off my clothes, stripping down to my collar which Miss insists we wear at all times. Naked, I stare at the uniform – am I really going to wear this in front of a crowd of people!? With a jolt I realize that I am running out of time; the guests will be here in just a few minutes.



I start with the stockings; with the garter belt in place round my waist, I roll the first stocking and point my toes into it just as Miss has taught me. Then I glide it slowly up over my calf and past my knee, allowing the nylon to stretch easily over my skin. Even in spite of my fear about my imminent humiliation I revel in the smooth sensation; there is nothing quite so sensuous.



Once again reminding myself to focus, I clip the stockings to the garters and turn my attention to the chains. One end of each attaches to the ring at the front of my collar, leaving them hanging down across my chest, weighted by the clip attached to the other end. Then I take one of the clips – making sure not to tangle the chains – and attach it to the ring in my right nipple. The sudden weight of the chain on my pierced nipple makes me moan slightly, and my cock twitches. No! I have to put on my chastity cage in a moment, and I need it soft and manageable!



I try to distract myself as I clip the second chain to my left nipple ring and turn my attention to my plug. Bending over, I prepare myself and slowly push the well-lubed metal plug into my tight hole. My cock is instantly hard as my muscles stretch around it, filling me up, but I try not to think about how good it feels and concentrate on my breathing. Slowly my ass relaxes and the plug’s heavy shaft slides inside me with a rush of relief. The familiar feeling of fullness and tightness is almost overpowering as the jewel nestles between my ass cheeks.



I am just picking up my cage when the door opens and Miss walks in. I instantly drop to my knees and bow my head.



“Look at you,” she purrs. “You’ll look so pretty for my guests. I’m sure they’ll all want to have a good look at you. Are you ready to go out and greet them?”



Silently, head still bowed, I hold up the cage, knowing I am in trouble.



 Mistress’ tone is icy. “I see. What on earth have you been doing with your time? I gave you one task, and you haven’t even managed that. Well, hurry up and put it on!”



I scrabble to slide the cage into place; my cock definitely isn’t hard any more, and it slips easily into the metal sheath.



Miss stands over me and watches me fumble with the padlock. I click it close, blushing under her gaze. “Good. I don’t have time to punish your complacency now, but believe me I will deal with you later. Come with me.”



She leads me out of the bedroom and through the sitting room to the kitchen, ensuring she blocks my view of my fellow boy, who appears to be naked and is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.



Trays of glasses and snacks have been laid out on the kitchen counter, along with a wide variety of drinks. Miss explains that I am to remain in the kitchen at all times unless summoned by the bell; but when I hear it “ring” I am to come through, take the guests’ orders and bring them drinks and snacks as they desire.



Just as she finishes, the doorbell buzzes. Miss gives my uniform one last look over and appears satisfied. Nevertheless, her expression is still frosty. “You’re on thin ice, slut. Do not speak unless spoken to, do not make eye contact with anyone and do not drop anything! I expect you on your very best behaviour or there will be severe consequences.” With that, she leaves, and I am left alone on the kitchen floor.



Just a few seconds later, however, I hear my fellow boy’s voice scream in pain from the sitting room. For a second I do nothing, frozen by my relief that I am not the one currently in pain. Then something clicks; my fellow boy standing naked in the middle of the room… He’s the bell!



Quickly I grab a tray of drinks and carry them carefully out into the sitting room. Sure enough, one of Miss’s friends is standing with the foot on the bell-rope which dangles from my fellow boy’s balls. He is grimacing with pain, as much from the dildo which appears to be lodged deep inside his ass as from the tension on his balls. Suddenly my own plight doesn’t seem quite so bad!



I kneel before the new arrivals and hold up the tray, blushing furiously as they discuss my outfit while taking their drinks. Everyone comments on my stockings, and they argue amongst themselves whether my legs would look better shaved or not. Once everyone has a drink, Miss motions me away and I return to the kitchen, my face still bright red.



A couple of minutes later there is another yell, and I rush out again. Several more guests have arrived. This time, Miss invites them to examine me closer, and orders me to stand up for inspection. Firm hands bend me over so they can see my jewelled plug twinkle under the lights, and they take it in turn to flick the chains hanging from my nipples. Miss laughs, but I can see she is watching her guests closely to make sure they don’t take things too far. Even though I feel thoroughly exposed, I am very grateful for her concern.



Once again their attention drifts, however, and Miss orders me back to the kitchen.



And so the night goes on. I am repeatedly called back in by the screams of my fellow boy to serve food and drink – so often, in fact that I begin to feel really sorry for his over-stretched balls! Sometimes I think they are calling on me just for the fun of tugging on the bell rope. I am required to kneel as a foot-stool, to offer foot massages and just as an object of their jokes and laughter.



At last, soon after the clock chimes midnight, Miss summons me one last time, and points to the floor in front of my fellow boy. Her friends gather round as she thanks them for coming.



“And now,” she says with a wicked grin on her face, “I think we need to reward my faithful bell for all his hard work tonight.”



She lifts my chin and looks me straight in the eye.



“You know what I want, so untie him and show my friends how well you can suck a cock.”

The Real Story of Valentine's Day by Rorke

What you are about to hear is the untold story of the real origin of valentine's day; the actual events which led to the card and flower frenzy which lovers celebrate all over the known world on the 14th of February each year.

Now, this humble historian is aware that most will be familiar with the tale of Saint Valentine, the priest who performed banned wedding ceremonies of roman soldiers against the laws of Rome and was killed for this.

However, this is not the case. Just like evolution (which is quite literally another story) time and retelling as corroded the facts. You see, dear readers, his name wasn't Saint Valentine but sub Valentine.

Sub Valentine, or Valentine to his friends, lived around 350 years ago in a shared flat somewhere in the North West of England. He was not to know but he was infact a direct descendant of the first submissive male and thus harbored feelings of subservience towards Women which was unbecoming of the times.

Indeed it was difficult for males born with the submissive allele during these dark ages...named not for lack of ample lighting but for the incorrect assumptions of male superiority...and even speaking of a Woman in charge could land one in rather hot water with the feds.

This is were our hero enters.

One morning, while going about his business he came across the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Out on her own, he wondered if she was lost as apparently a women couldn't circumnavigate the slightly curving high street unchaperoned. But as he approached his natural subbie-sense engaged and her confident manner indicated she was certainly not in need of assistance.

Of course being in her presence it was a matter of seconds before he was kneeling before her and cleaning the grime of the industrial revolution off her shoes with his handkerchief...

Next thing he knows...he is laying in a cell. It turns out a policeman had spotted him and thrown him in jail charged with 'crimes of submission'. During his stay, he was subjected to all kinds of exorcisms and was read the riot act on men are not submissive countless times. But it was too late. The very next morning he started a revolution from his bed.

He went and found the Lady in question again, visiting her house in secret and together, along with her maid, Sir Francis the Sissy (who you may know as the founder of pet play) they set about creating a network of Femdom resistance to overthrow the ideology of male dominance.

Back in those brutal times; Ladies and subs; one couldn't just post on facebook...there were no computers for a start....so Valentine and co had to be clever. He hid messages in cards and offering flowers or chocolates to a Lady became a way of kneeling in public without arousing suspicion. Buying gifts was the start of the splinter group 'Findom' and making up cheesy rhymes or poems was a subtle means of humiliation.

Throughout the next few years, the movement grew exponentially as the ranks swelled with Dominants and submissives alike. With the movement becoming more overt, dungeons were invented as secret places to practice kinks while undercover collaring ceremonies were performed all over the land.

But with increased awareness came increased heat from the authorities and Valentine was arrested on numerous occasions. Each time refusing to denounce his true feelings and leading to longer stays in prison.

Unfortunately, Valentine and Mistress Sydney were deported to Australia for 'sustained shenanigans' ten years later. After a long voyage, and also the first ever period of chastity, they arrived on the 14th of February 1700. But it is not an unhappy ending, as Femdom flourished..it turns out the unwitting authorities had already provided a vast array of bondage equipment!

So on Valentine's day, when you write that card or get those flowers for your loved one, spare a thought for the brave D/s couple who fought against ignorance to allow us, Domme or sub, the freedom to worship or be worshiped and live as the cave-people; Domeena and Rorkus; intended.

Confession by Anonymous

Fantasies and desires..

I would have to stick to the fantasies and desires since i cannot possibly write a good erotica or poem. I have this fantasy to be with a woman whom i could just adore, pamper and worship in a D/S setting. I have my guards up all the time and it is really hard for me to let those guards down, be vulnerable to feelings such as passion and intimacy. BDSM comes to the rescue here. BDSM helps me to let go. I imagine myself to worship a lady, not caring about anything, letting down all my guards, exposing my core to her, taking a leap of faith, fall on my knees before her, rest at her feet, treat her like a goddess/a queen/ a savior who would allow me to come outside of this shell that has been building up and hardening over such a long time as a result of rational reasoning, as a defense mechanism to not allow anyone get into my head. But now i feel i have lost so much in the process too, i feel like i have devoid myself from the pleasures of intimacy and passion, the pleasure to love. I want to act as a human now, not a machine. i deserve to feel the intimacy, the desire, the passion, the trust. And i want her to help me break those shells, help me to be vulnerable enough for those emotions to penetrate.
I would want her to grab me by hair and slap my face and spit on it, grab a whip and tear apart. i need to soften up, i need o let go. And a broken body is a good start. She also need to break into my mind then, humiliate me, make me worship her shoes, make me her whore, chew into my flesh, get a strapon and fuck me .. break my ego, make me realize i don't have to torture myself from trying to be at top of things all the time, break me to reach my core, help me to express. then i could tell her how much i love her, she could hold me, i could rest my head in her hand and weep, and i need to weep, i don't remember when was the last time i wept. i could kiss her feet in devotion, i would hold her so tight, i would kiss her so deep.. i would feel such a rush of emotions. The devotion, the intimacy, the passion, the pain, the trust. She could hold me, comfort me, kiss me, listen to my confessions i would never share with anyone. she could tell me i can trust her and put my emotional investment in her, she could put a collar around my neck and tell me " see i got you, you would not be lost". i would be so aroused so messed up with experiencing so many emotions. I could be playing with myself while i cry in her lap. Some times to build an old wall, its better to shatter the old one.

Imagine by Lady Karrie


Imagine this….
(Gently close your eyes now)

Imagine
My red silk robe draped artfully, a hint of skin
just a glimpse of nipple aggressively piercing through fabric
You can just about smell my glistening cunt

Imagine this…..
(feel my soft breath on your throat now)

Imagine.
My fingers enticing my cunt lips to swell and
My clit to pulsate in need
My cunt to quiver and moisten
For the ache, the hunger. The need

Imagine this….
(stroke your cock slowly for me, that’s right use a hard grip now.)

Imagine.
My fingers thrusting hard and deep
Your tongue pulled firmly onto my clit
Pressing your face deeper harder into my cunt
Smothering you in juices. Can you breathe? I wonder

keep lapping, keep licking , keep flicking..

Imagine this….
(that your stupid fucking flaccid cock could satisfy me now)

Imagine
You watching him as he does precisely as instructed
Places his hard cock at the entrance to my cunt instead of yours
Strokes it back n forth across my cunt lips  - just as I like it
Teasing. Tantalizing.
Before feeding me his hunger.

I will look you in the eye as his thrusts make me cum

Imagine that
You stupid cunt

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

A Christmas Story In The Dungeon by Mark

A Christmas Story in the Dungeon

The light of the red candles flickered as he glanced nervously around the gloomy dungeon. Piled against every wall were festively decorated boxes – some large, some small and some medium-sized. He was tempted to investigate, but heard bolts being drawn back, and the creak of the dungeon door as it opened. He hurriedly fell to his knees and kept his eyes fixed to the floor in front of him, although he could hear the sound of her heels as she walked across the stone floor. He became aware of her standing over him.

‘You may look’, she said.

He raised his gaze to see her before him, clad in black heels and stockings and a long, close-fitting leather coat.

‘We are going to play a Christmas game’, she announced. ‘I will give you two chances. I will ask two questions, and if you get either one wrong, I will select a Christmas present to open. It is only fair to warn you: I do not think you will enjoy my Christmas present choices.’

He felt the familiar trickle of sweat in his hairline and the churning of his stomach

‘I understand, Mistress’, he said.

‘Good’, she said. ‘Then here is your first question. According to the Christmas carol, what did my true love send to me on the sixth day of Christmas?’

He frantically rehearsed the Christmas carol in his mind.

‘It was the partridge, Mistress!’ he cried. ‘The partridge in the pear tree’.

She sighed. ‘And yet you claim to love me. You are wrong. It was 6 geese a-laying.’

She walked across the room, and opened one of the medium-sized boxes. Inside, a coiled leather whip lay glistening in the candle-light. She strolled over until she stood above him, and began to whip him, each stroke landing in almost perfect parallel to the preceding stroke, His cries filled the air of the dungeon. After 10 strokes, she began again, this time criss-crossing her blows so that each one landed on already welted flesh. His cries grew louder as he sought to sink down into the stone floor to escape the pain. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the whipping was over.

‘Time for your second question’, she said. ‘How many ghosts visit Scrooge in Dickens’s story ‘A Christmas Carol’?

He almost laughed with relief and, somewhere inside, felt a smug satisfaction that he could outwit his Mistress and avoid more punishment.

‘Three!’, he said. ‘The Ghost of past, present and future!’

He kept his gaze fixed downwards in case she noticed the rebellious glint in his eyes.

‘Wrong’ she said.

He was about to cry out in protest, but some inner submissive sense held his tongue quiet.

‘There were 4’, she said. ‘The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come …. And the ghost of Jacob Marley.’

He moaned as the realisation set in, and watched forlornly as she strode across the dungeon to the piles of presents. He watched her select the smallest box in the room, and inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. But after she tore the wrapping paper away, and opened the box that was revealed, he felt the fear rise in his throat as he watched the dim candle-light flicker on the cold steel of the pin-wheel device the box contained. Every fibre of his being told him to scuttle across the floor away from his Mistress as she advanced, the harsh metal of the implement barely warmed by the candle light. But his training kept him fixed. Slowly, she rolled the pin wheel across his chest and back, along his inner thighs, against the soles of his feet. Soon enough, the dungeon once again echoed to his cries of pain. Eventually, she stopped.

‘You know, in all this excitement I almost forgot’, she said. ‘We have all week to play with the rest of these presents’ – he flinched as she gestured at the piles of packages stacked around the dungeon – ‘but we must not forget your stocking fillers’.

She slowly unbuttoned the leather coat and slid it from her shoulders. She stood before him in high heels, black stockings, and black leather basque, her weight on one leg, her other stretched languorously before her. She slowly trailed a red finger nail up the outside of her leg as she watched him.

‘Do you like your stocking fillers?’ she asked.

His eyes travelled up from the spike heels, across her nylon-clad ankles and calves, to the full swell of her thighs, and stopped at the sensual divide between the lacy pattern of her stocking tops and her smooth creamy skin. He swallowed nervously.

‘Yes Mistress. I love my stocking fillers. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.’

He gazed up into her eyes as she smiled her secret smile down at him. Holding out her hand, she slowly led him to the bedroom and whispered: ‘Then a Merry Christmas to us all, and God bless us everyone.’