calls me a dominatrix

February 25, 2020

I hate being tied up. But I looove tying my boyfriend up. He calls me a dominatrix to tease me. We have a paddle and everything. It’s fun! — Hannah, 26

Holly Riordan
Women Reveal How They Really Feel About Bondage

most base and most pure

November 16, 2019

She imagined herself both queen and slave, dominatrix and victim. In her imagination she was making love with men of all skin colours – white, black, yellow – with homosexuals and beggars. She was anyone’s, and anyone could do anything to her. She had one, two, three orgasms, one after another. She imagined everything she had never imagined before, and she gave herself to all that was most base and most pure.

Paulo Coelho
Veronika Decides to Die

Bonsai

October 12, 2019

Her rooms were filled with Bonsai trees. It was her hobby, creating those miniature oaks, elms and maples. She trimmed their roots and crowns keeping the trees small to meet her exacting aesthetic standards.

‘It is an artform,’ she said. ‘They need care and attention – sunlight, water and occasional fertilizing. My next project is to refashion a man. Create a living Bonsai man.’

‘Surely that’s not possible,’ I said, smiling.

‘Yes, it is. Bonsai symbolizes harmony, peace and balance. I will create such a man. He will need much careful trimming to begin, regular pruning. But I can do it. I will do it -’

‘No man would allow himself to be used in such a way,’ I said. ‘Surely you’re joking?’

‘No joke. Consent is not required. Training will take around two to three years, I imagine. And you are already here, bound to my bed. You are a man who pays to visit a professional dominatrix. A man full of unwholesome desires and needs. A man drowning in imperfections. A perfect subject for my experiment…’

Her laughter sounds not quite sane.

‘You must untie me,’ I said.

‘Must I?’ She held up a coil of copper wire in a leather gloved hand. ‘This will assist in bending your limbs into the desired shape. This will all take time of course. But you will experience a great sense of pride, I’m certain, as the first of a new type of man. Bonsai man…’

“As a dominatrix you must dominate yourself,” says Catherine. “Otherwise you take the chance of killing someone or doing serious damage, so you have to know your limits.” How far will she go? “Blood is only drawn with initiates,” says Beverly. “It is considered a special mark.”

“I stop at what is irreversible,” Madame says. Except when she doesn’t.

Christian first contacted Catherine in 1986 when he was a beautiful young man of 23. He wanted to meet her, to serve her. One day, some years later, he delivered to her a handsome brown box, lined in olive-green velvet, in which lay an exquisite and unique object. It was a branding iron with a carved ivory handle and the initials of Catherine’s nom de plume, “JDB,” on its end. He wanted her to brand him. She did.

“I fell into my dream,” he says of his relationship with Catherine, “and I have never left it.” Over the course of almost 20 years, the marks faded, and a year ago there was another ceremony, to renew them.

Toni Bentley
The Thin End of the Whip

Sarah Bernhardt in pensive mood

I exist here in the wrong time and place. This is more than a feeling with me: it is an absolute certainty, I belong elsewhere – “fin de siècle”  Paris, for example!

Yes, a time of ‘semiotic arousal’, and in a place considered the heart of civilisation.

Why not?

The year 1900. The newly gilded Eiffel Tower thrusting into the soft grey underbelly of the evening sky. Lights glowing along the Boulevard de Strasbourg, circles of yellow eating into the gloom. The Théâtre-Français is my destination. Here, the long-awaited premiere of Edmond Rostand’s play L’ Aiglon, staring that most popular of actresses, Sarah Bernhardt, is about to take place.

Ah, Bernhardt, her ripe fifty-five-year-old figure laced into a black satin corset before dressing in the tight uniform of the Duc de Reichstadt. How I would love to charm and seduce her. Together we could sip the best champagne from frosted crystal flutes following her stunning performance. I could unlace that confining corset, and free tiny pale breasts.

During rehearsals of the play, dear Sarah insisted in one scene on having a horse on stage. What Sarah wanted, Sarah got. A horse was duly sent for – but proved too ‘frisky’ for the great actress. A second horse was supplied, but this one, unfortunately, suffered from terrible flatulence, and the many farts erupting from its rear-end were unacceptable to all. A third horse was to be summoned, but Bernhardt had changed her mind. There would be no horse in the scene.

Where was I? Oh, yes, fondling those small but beautiful breasts, lightly kissing the rosette nipples.

Sarah was born Henriette Rosine Bernard and her legendary affairs were the talk of the town. Napoleon III and Edward, Prince of Wales had both taken their delight in Sarah’s naked flesh (not, of course, at the same time!); they were just two of a coterie of lovers attracted to the bright flame that was Sarah Bernhardt. Her body was pale and skinny like a boy’s – which may be why she played so many male parts on stage?

“It’s not that I prefer male roles, it’s that I prefer male minds,” she once commented.

Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900

The Great Exposition Universelle – Paris 1900

Leaving Sarah semi-naked in her dressing room, I exit the theatre and make my way to the Place de la Concord – here I find the brilliantly lighted, multicoloured dome that houses fifty-six ticket offices for the exposition universelle: this is the entrance, Porte Binet, to the exhibition site.

There is, on my righthand, a fifteen foot high plaster statue symbolizing Paris, with great tits and flowing robes designed by Paquin. La Parisienne, sculpted by Paul Moreau–Vauthier, modeled on non-other than Sarah Bernhardt and described by many as ‘The triumph of Prostitution’; it is typical of the use of sculpted allegory throughout the exhibition grounds. No matter where you turn, you are confronted by plump plaster breasts, curvaceous bellies or muscular male athletes, semi-nude, with huge rippling biceps.

Dear Sarah, walking here amongst all this exposed allegorical flesh, would undoubtedly feel a certain dampness in her baggy silken drawers – as, in all probability, do many visiting females. Speaking for the male of the species, I find Loie Fuller’s spectacular dancing in her own art nouveau theater, quite arousing: those whiplash curves match the flowing movements of her body and flying, illuminated veils. It all leads one, inevitably, to remain in the perpendicular throughout her performance.

The most obviously picturesque sections of the exhibition lay along the banks of the Seine. Old Paris on the Right Bank with its gables and spires and its costumed actors; on the Left Bank, overshadowing it, rests the Rue des Nations – great pavilions erected by the many foreign powers (but not the US whose modest building is wedged between Australia and Turkey, elsewhere). Richness metamorphosed into vulgarity. The plaster picturesqueness of the colonial section below the Trocadero, where Javanese nymphets vie with devil dancers from Ceylon, Chinese violins, Spanish castanets, African drums and high pitched wails of Algerian singers, mingle –

And the pretty Moroccan boys with their dark, restless eyes who offer to take your penis in their mouth for a couple of francs. Buggery is slightly more expensive, of course.

Paris moving pavements designed for the Exposition

Moving Pavements designed for the Exposition

Art and sex go hand-in-hand. For the gentleman impossibly aroused by the sights and sounds of the exposition universelle and with no desire for young boys, then beyond the exhibition grounds are the maisons closes, or “shuttered houses”; for example number 12, rue Chabanais, a prestigious bordello where you can bathe with prostitutes in a huge copper bathtub of champagne – for a price! There are other brothels offering more specialised services: dominatrix role play, for example. You can be birched by the dominatrix for five francs a stroke, ‘manual relief’ may be offered afterwards for a further five francs.

Typical Parisian brothel on a quiet day

Paris 1900 is an island of fantasy and pleasure. It is a time of sadomasochistic impulses, Oedipal desires, homosexuality, incest, violence and the irrationality that hides beneath the fragile veneer of civilisation.

Ah, but I cannot remain in this wonderful Paris – I must return to my damp, cold moor at the edge of the world; to this place, home, and my reckless liaisons. To this world where one powerful, egotistical child informs another powerful, egotistical child: ‘My button is bigger than your button!’

Who says satire is dead?

Depressing démarche!

Dominatrix!

December 23, 2017

She worked in customer service, her hair let down over her shoulders.
She’s wearing kinky boots.
She walked around shaking her keys, as she made them all beg for mercy.
One on one,
She whipped him hard, so very hard and made him beg for mercy.
She locked him in a tiny room around about 10 by 10,
She shoved him up against the wall and made him scream in pain.
Tomorrow would be another day, she’ll do the same again!

Olivia Kent May

I’ve been married to the same man for ten years. Our sex life has been okay-ish, but nothing to write home about. He confessed to me three years ago that he had fantasies about being dominated by a powerful woman.

After much soul searching and a little research, I reluctantly took on the role as his ‘dominatrix’.

Our first sessions together were awkward. But then on our third session, with him strapped down and helpless and me with a nasty little riding crop, I experienced a wave of sexual arousal greater than anything I’d ever felt before in my life. I made him cry. Real tears as I worked on him. God, it was wonderful. I felt so powerful. Don’t get me wrong, I love this man. But having him there, powerless and totally at my mercy was an incredible thing.

Since those hesitant beginnings I have thrown myself whole-heartedly into our role playing. Over the past year I have feminized my husband, insisting he wear make-up, a blonde wig, lingerie and dresses around the home while he does the housework. Just last month, for the first time, I arranged for a third ‘player’ to join us, a younger man, well-endowed and bisexual, who services me in front of hubby. At other times, in my role of dominatrix and voyeur, I watch them greedily sucking each other’s cocks. It truly is a wonderful thing to behold!

Source HERE

Orgasms, one after another

November 27, 2016

dom-in-black

She imagined herself both queen and slave, dominatrix and victim. In her imagination she was making love with men of all skin colours – white, black, yellow – with homosexuals and beggars. She was anyone’s, and anyone could do anything to her. She had one, two, three orgasms, one after another. She imagined everything she had never imagined before, and she gave herself to all that was most base and most pure.

Paulo Coelho
Veronika Decides to Die

chains

Diary 30th April

Fetishistic women in tightly laced corsets, stockings and spiky high-heels, congregating on a raised platform with their naked victim – he’s rolled in a ball at their feet having receiving a vicious blow to his intimate parts.

Ten or twelve people in the audience show their appreciation by clapping. When one of the women – the tallest, most powerfully built one – reaches down and grips her victim’s genitals, the audience applauds even more loudly…She lifts the squealing man half-off the floor by his privates, smiling all the while at her companions.

‘See how it stretches,’ she calls, and the audience cheers enthusiastically. ‘Rip it off,’ cries one rosy faced woman. She is obviously very excited by the spectacle. ‘D’you want to come up here?’ the dominatrix asks her. ‘Punish his balls for us?’

There is a momentary hesitation and then the woman moves forward and scrambles up on the platform. The audience goes wild when the woman crushes her victims testicles in her fist…

Outside the small community hall it is sleeting, but almost at once the sleet turns to a miserable soaking drizzle. Spilling out of the hall everyone says their goodnights. Umbrellas open despite the strong wind. The evening’s victim with his tall wife is smiling and waving as he climbs into their car…

‘Goodnight guys, see you next month…’

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Today is a day for housework. We have visitors coming tomorrow for an afternoon of carefree imbibing. So I will spring clean both lounge and kitchen…

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And in the news Red Ken’s done it again. Yes, that rave from the grave, Ken Livingstone has opened his mouth and managed to cram both feet in it. Nothing new in that, I guess. But Ken is now suspended from the Labour party…