Femdom Times

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Femdom Times
He was Her husband. But he was also Her slave. They were very discreet about it though, nobody knew or suspected a thing. Until … two of Her closest friends dropped by for a visit. Everything went well at first; harmless chatter, tea & biscuits. But then, out of the blue, his Wife (aka his Mistress) looked at him and said: Come here, slave. The stirring stopped and you could hear a tea leaf drop. He didn’t know where to look and his face turned bright red. He’s My slave, She explained, almost apologetically. He obeys Me in everything, literally everything. It’s wonderful and I can heartily recommend it. She looked at Her husband again. Don’t be shy, pet. Come here. On your knees. There we go, that’s a good boy. The Ladies looked at Her (and him) with new eyes … and started laughing. And jeering. It was utterly humiliating and he looked helpless and lost. But his Mistress was right (as always), there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Her. Furthermore, She was the boss and She could do with him as She pleased. It was, in other words, a perfect marriage.
A few weeks ago I found a recipe in a vintage Women’s Weekly magazine. It’s called Soup a la Lingerie . Easy to make and packed with flavour. The ingredients are:
People are very, Very, VEry, VERy, VERY sensitive nowadays and even submissive creatures demand to be treated with respect. Now, I never had a high opinion of men in the first place, but this is a new and unprecedented level of stupidity. A demanding slave is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms. You’re either demanding or a slave, but you can’t be both. If you think I’m being rude or disrespectful, then I suggest you take a long hard look in the mirror, because you are not a slave. Not even the beginning of a slave. To Me, a slave is like toilet paper – useful at certain times of the day, but ‘respect’ is not the word that comes to mind while wiping My bottom. And please, for the love of God, don’t tell Me you’re one of those tiresome creatures who demands to be heard! If so, may I suggest you join a choir? Go into politics? Train a parrot? Find a job as a railway station announcer? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please, the train from God-knows-where is now arriving at platform nummer two’. 
It’s six o’clock in the morning and we servants gather in the hall. Lady Emma rarely gets out of bed before 09:30, but here we are, at this godforsaken hour, just in case an early-morning-miracle happens. We are all naked, because, as Lady Emma so elegantly puts it- pigs don’t wear pants. Well, you can’t argue with that, can you.
This cottage , Hänsel said, is made of chocolate and biscuits . He broke off a bit of the roof and took an enormous bite. A horrifying cracking sound followed. Well, that’s one way of losing your baby teeth , Gretel said. The cottage door opened and a Witch came out. Man, She was a knockout! Hänsel’s dick rose to the occasion and was ready to launch itself in orbit around the moon. We’re a bit lost , he quikly said, spitting molars in the process. The Witch licked Her lips like a predator looking at her prey. Come in, She said, with a serpentine smile, all will be hell …. oops, I am so sorry, I mean: well. All will be well, that’s the spirit! Hänsel took Gretel by the hand and they went in. There was a large cage in the room.
She left him for his best friend. Ouch! Then, without batting an eyelid, She came to the house to divide the things they owned. Really, was there no limit to Her wickedness! He opened his mouth to give Her piece of his mind, but his words never saw the light of the day. Because She took Her jacket off and he saw Her mouthwatering, dick-ticking, mind-boggling shiny blouse. Years ago he had told Her about his fetish for shiny clothes. She had not taken it very well, to say the least, and had given him the telephone number of a psychiatrist. And now this!!! I want to split things up fairly between us, She said with Her non-negotiable voice, so 98% for Me, 2% for you. I get the assets, you get the debts. It’s that simple. I’m not the one with a tiny penis, Fred, so don’t give Me that look or I’ll run you over in the parking lot. Her voice sounded far away and he couldn’t hear half of what She said. Please let my eyes feast a little longer, he thought, before She walks away for good. He couldn’t stop staring at Her dazzling blouse and he didn’t notice the growing stain in his pants. She did, of course. He was so easy to manipulate, She thought, and She almost felt sorry for him.
The sky was completely dark and in front of me were six fiery pits, filled with hundreds of thousands of naked men, many of whom were weeping and gnashing their teeth.
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WOMEN RULE – ANYTIME, ANYPLACE, ANYWHERE
On National Slave Shearing Day the entire male population gets a haircut. This happens twice a year; once in autumn and once in spring. Those who refuse will be fined £3,000 for their first refusal and £10,000 for the second. If it happens again they will be charged and have to appear in court. No exceptions, no mercy. The shearing takes place in town halls, indoor sports arena’s, barns, on the village square and so on. I’m not a Shearing Day enthusiast, to be honest. On the contrary, I find it utterly degrading. It starts as soon as we arrive, when our hair is checked for lice and nits. Those with lice will be lashed to smithereens. It does not really help with the lice, but everyone feels better afterwards. Well, everyone except one, of course. And then the shearing itself! Sweet Jesus, what an ordeal! This is shearing on an industrial scale and the Female Shearers work long hours. They are sick and tired of all that hair and they want it over and done with as quickly as possible. So no, not all of them are cruelty free and compassionate! Far from it. Sometimes it’s more a slaughterhouse than anything else and you are lucky to leave with your ears still attached. Forget fringe haircuts, mohawks, undercuts or medium length haircuts. They’re not into that at all, man! So at the end of the day, when all is clipped & cropped, we all end up- bald as snooker balls- on the snooker table of Female Superiority. September 2097, slave harold
There will always be protesters and rioters, Special Instructor Evelyn said, there will always be creatures who brake the rules and cause mayhem. I can’t wait to get My hands on the bastards, recruit Sylvia hissed. Now, now, S.I. Evelyn hushed, please have some respect for the opposite sex. The class burst out in laughter and S.I. Evelyn had to wipe the tears from Her face. God, I should have been a comedian, She giggled. The Femdom Police recruits will be required to attend a 30-week training academy. They will learn martial arts, like hand-to-hand combat, fist-to-chin, knee-to-groin, foot-to-face, teeth-out-mouth, kick-da-shin and snap-da-finger for example. They will learn how to interrogate and how to torture, how to whip and how to humiliate. The average man thinks only of himself, S.I. Evelyn continued. We gave them a Communal Masturbation Center , gave them a Testicle-Tennis-Table , took headshots of their penis, enlarged them to poster size (the photo that is, not the penis) so that they could hang it in their room … But no, it was not enough to please the wildebeests. They wanted more, because that’s what being a brainless dick is all about. The recruits cheered and clapped. Each and everyone of them has a choice: submit to our will and be a good boy, or be a stubborn asshole and pay the prize. So being a Femdom Police Officer is all about being ruthless, unforgiving and brutal. It’s not our job to mediate, it’s our job to crush anyone who challenges us. The entire class rose to their feet in a standing ovation. Valencia, Spain, July 2119
Come on let’s fist again like we did last summer Ye-e-eah, let’s fist again like we did last year Do-you-remember-when that fist kept coming Yeah, let’s fist again fistin’ time is here Heeee, and round and round and in and out it go-o-o-oes again Oh baby, make Me know you love it soooooo And then: Come on let’s fist again like we did last summer et cetera
I hated the annual Team Building Activities at the office. Bonding is important, they said. Well, I preferred bondage, thank you very much. But n-o-o-o-o-o-o, we had to play beach volleyball in the dead of winter, dress up as pirates and sing sea shanties all fucking day or stand in a circle in a forest and tell each other what we didn’t like about each other. Great fun. One day, we went canoeing. The wind was howling, there was foam on the water and the rain came bucketing down. Canoe versus cloudburst, Noah’s Flood Part II. No one had thought to bring a raincoat, so it was long and miserable day. In the late afternoon, after hours and hours of ‘outdoor fun’, and soaked to the bone, we ended up in some sort of cabin. There we had a nice meal and lots of wine. One of my Female colleagues became somewhat tipsy and put Her bandana over Her mouth. She pointed Her thumb and finger at me like a gun and said: Put your hands in the air. Right now! And I did, without blinking an eye. Such a good boy, She grinned, taking orders from a Woman. What choice do I have, I said cheeky, You’re the boss. Amazing what a fair quantity of red wine can do to the human tongue! Very good, She laughed. You keep them hands up, mister. Before this moment, She was a colleague, but now She was THE colleague, the dazzling Bandita with the Bandana! So there I was, hands in the air and with steam bursting through my zipper like a geyser. I was willing to sit like this all night, willing to paddle down Niagara Falls for Her. I wonder if She still remembers it, too. Wonder if She, occasionally, tells the story of the canoe, the bandana and the colleague who had his arms up in the air for almost three hours.
I was heading to my car, when a van pulled up alongside me. Doors flew open and two Women sprang out and attacked me. I tried to fight them off, but I didn’t stand a chance. A quite sobering conclusion, but it’s the truth. They zip-tied my hands behind my back, pulled a sack over my head and bundled me into the back of the van. After about an hour or so the car suddenly stopped. I was forced down a narrow corridor and into a room. I was pushed against the wall and then they cut my clothes off! ALL my clothes!!! This was far more realistic than I expected and I must admit I was quite a bit overwhelmed. I was slapped, kicked, choked, trampled, insulted, whipped and spat on. Towards the end they forced me to the floor, pissed all over me and left me lying there for at least an hour. They returned into the room, untied me and ordered me to put on the clothes they brought with them. Which was easier said than done, because I couldn’t see a thing with the sack still over my head. The clothes turned out to be way too small for me and it was near impossible to squeeze myself in! They took me to the van and drove me to the outskirts of town, kicked me out, removed the sack and drove off into the night. I never got a good look at my kidnappers and would not recognize them in broad daylight. I was exhausted, hungry, stank of sweat and urine, looked like an adult in children’s clothes and I had a long walk ahead of me. I didn’t care. I headed home whistling and smiling the entire way.
After about three quarters of an hour we came to a clearing in the forest. The Ladies told me to take off my clothes, but allowed me to keep my boxers on. They tied me to a tree, because that’s what trees are for. I had to suppress a giggle, because they put on gloves. Gloves? It was sweltering hot outside! But I kept my cool and looked at them like it was the most natural thing in the world. They told me to wait there (very funny) and disappeared among the trees. Ten minutes later they returned with a bunch of stinging nettles, which made my not-a-worry-in-the-world smile melt like a glacier. Ladies, please, I panicked, these things sting like crazy! (Which shows there’s nothing going on between my ears.) They laughed and whacked me across the face. And then the battle of the nettle began. They whipped the bloody things across my arms, my chest and legs. Within seconds my skin started itching and burning. I screamed, but they threatened to stuff nettles in my mouth, so I snapped shut. They pulled my boxers down, dropped one handful- two hands full- three hands full of nettles in the crotch and pulled it up again. Jesus Christ! Like sticking your scrotum in fresh lava! One of the Ladies firmly rubbed Her hand over my Vesuvius (well … ) and I wriggled in misery. They untied me and forced me to run through a huge field of nettles. Chop, chop, we haven’t got all day! That’s it! And again! Faster, faster! God, how I longed for the winter!
I never knew when, or even if, there would be a next time. Sometimes She wanted to see me daily, sometimes a couple of times a month and sometimes not at all for long periods of time. The dreadful uncertainty was a wicked touch and a torment in itself. She was an old-school disciplinarian and a passionate believer in Female Superiority. Her word was law and Her authority was beyond all doubt. She was twelve years older than me, and, needless to say, at least twelve-hundred times wiser. She was a beautiful, elegant and sophisticated Lady who never raised voice. Because, She explained: ‘if you can’t control yourself, then how can you possibly control a slave.’ She also never asked whether or not I enjoyed the harsh training sessions. She once said: ‘Don’t ask how the session was for you ; ask how it was for Me .’ What made it so special and memorable was the ease and casualness of it all: She led, I followed; She punished, I suffered; She ruled, I obeyed. God, life can be so simple sometimes. I served and suffered for Her for many years and yet I could hardly sleep the night before a meeting (aka beating). I also often stammered and blushed, because I felt so small and insignificant in Her presence. I couldn’t know it back then, but She belonged to the fast dying breed of genuine lifestyle Mistresses and I will always be grateful that I had the privilege of knowing Her. slave james
I started out as a boot-boy at Ingrid’s Boot Boutique (aka Ingrid’s Bootique) in Booth Lane, London. I loved every second of it, because, you know, Ladies boots are just beautiful. Then Madame Sandra opened a new shop, called the Triple-S Shop (aka the Shoe Shine Shop), in Shoe Lane, London. Boots in Booth Lane and shoes in Shoe Lane, I mean, what are the odds, right? Shortly after the opening of the Triple-S Shop, Lady Ingrid gave me the boot and handed me over to Madame Sandra for free. For FREE! I mean …. really? So I became one of Madame Sandra’s shoeshiners and I have been slaving for Her ever since. The shop is lovely, with five boxes (aka shoeboxes) on each side. We, the Shoe-Shine-Slaves that is, wear a pink uniform with the Triple-S logo on the front. And back. Each slave has a shoe cleaning box with shoe polishes and different brushes. And let’s not forget our tongue, which is always in demand with the customers. We work eight hours a day, six days a week. And that’s a lot of tongue and an awful lot of saliva, believe me! Madame Sandra is strict, demanding and not easily satisfied. Patience and empathy are not, I repeat NOT, Her strong suit. But you can say the same thing about the customers, I guess. Strange but true, Women have a short fuse when it comes to shoe cleaning. And make no mistake: they will let you know (and feel) when they are not satisfied. Still, licking these gorgeous shoes while being spanked on the bottom is quite an addictive cocktail. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Shoeshine Bob
One day Eve came up to me and challenged me to a fight. She was the first, and as it turned out, the only Girl to ever do so. I was a bit lost for words at first, but then it dawned on me. I was the strongest boy in the class and She was a judoka (and a fine one from what I heard), so somehow it made sense. I accepted the challenge and we went to the nearby park, with several classmates following close behind. The first to win five games would be champion. I wasn’t worried or anxious, but I took the fight seriously. This was about prestige and I was not planning on handing out any gifts. And yet She took me by surprise in the first two rounds. Within minutes I was 2-0 down (a vicious arm-bar and a brutal rear choke). I won the third by twisting Her arm behind Her back. Yes! I was back in business! In the fourth She threw me to the ground, wrapped Her arm around my neck and pinned me down. It felt like I was stuck in concrete and was forced to tap out. I was 3-1 down and my classmates cheered and clapped. The bastards. Next I managed to throw Her to the ground and land on top of Her. This was going to be easy! But then She wrapped Her legs around my torso and clasped Her ankles together. Like getting strangled by a two-legged python. I tried to fight myself out of Her grip, but She was too strong. I was forced to tap out and everyone was cheering Her. She smiled triumphantly. In the sixth I landed on my back and She pinned me down- and decided the match- in a classic schoolgirl-pin. She beat me 5-1 and in front of my classmates. Ouch! I was no longer the strongest kid in the class, nor would I ever be again.
I’m confident in the belief that there is truly such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead Plato
The truth of the matter is, Her habit opens my floodgates of submission, simple as that. On a Biblical scale, one might say, and it gives Her a level of power that is not from this world. So I’ve been going to confession for ten years now. Twice a month, like clockwork. She wants it that way. It makes perfect sense, though, because I have a dirty mind (which is a joy forever, by the way) so it adds up pretty quickly over the course of time. I don’t know much about Her, to be honest. Don’t know if She’s married, don’t know is She has children or not, don’t even know Her name. She calls Herself Sister Mercy, but that’s not Her real name, is it? And yet, this mysterious Lady controls my bankaccount, my chastity dick, my career and what not. She puts me in a hypnotic trance and I am powerless to disobey Her. She never raises Her voice, only the rod. Oh yes! She strongly believes in penance & pain and She will stop at nothing to tame the beast inside me. She’s an Angel, be it a brutal one. I’m grateful for Her help, I really am, and my ass is grateful it has a fortnight to recover. One thing though …. She’s very open about the sins of lust and always wants to know if I fantasised about Her. It may sound strange, but I find it difficult to talk about such things in front of a nun. Although She is no more a nun, than I am a priest, of course. I’m not that naive. But to me She is, and always will be, a Divine creature from a Higher Dimension.
In spite of the successful Female Uprising and the crushing defeat of the male armies in the battle at Kohi Tra, there are still male creatures who are in denial of what happened. Villains who still believe this is a man’s world and who see themselves as heroes and demigods. They are clearly suffering from mental health illnesses and fantasy disorders. We, Superior Women, have a duty of care towards these delusional creatures. So we arrest them and take them to Bethlem Hall, the most notorious asylum in the land. Easy to get in, hard to get out, because it is not for the male patient to decide when to get discharged. No sir! Some of them will be detained indefinitely. I know, I know, some people say these men need a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, a willing ear and a few kind words. Yeah, screw all that, it’s not a nursing
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