Male Domination Stories

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Male Domination Stories
65
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
Charles
George
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Judicial Punishment
Kevin's Poem
Kim
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
Loving Domination
My Visit
Penitence
Plimsolls
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Cleaning Maid
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters
Z

She walked around the desk. I stood up.
She led me to a small room. It was like my doctor’s room.
“Please remove your clothes, Peter. Here is a gown for you. Our doctor will need to give you a short medical check, and measure your present weight without clothing. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes”.
She left the room. I undressed, and put on the gown. I sat on the bench, and waited.
The doctor came in. She was a powerful-looking woman with short blond hair. Another woman came in with her. She also looked strong.
“Good afternoon, Peter. Please step onto the scales. And you will need to slip off your gown too. We need your exact weight, without clothes”.
I was embarrassed by this, but did as she asked.
“Very good. You may put your gown back on. Please sit on the bench”.
She gave me a short medical examination. 
“That’s all good” she said at last. “Have you had a tetanus injection within the last five years?”
“Then I recommend that you have one, since you will be on a farm for your training. I can give you one now, if you wish”.
“Ok, thanks, let’s do that” I said.
She prepared a hypodermic needle. 
She looked at me, as if she was trying to say something.
“This also contains a sedative, Peter. Is that ok? You can still refuse if you wish. You still have 24 hours to change your mind, so you may want to wait before getting this shot. So if you don’t want the shot, just say, and I’ll tell them you declined.”
“I don’t understand. Why would I refuse? I want to do this” I said.
She gave me the injection. I immediately felt the effect. I felt sleepy.
“There. No turning back now! Not for you! Lie down on the bench and rest. You’ll be asleep in a few seconds now. We’ll take care of you from now on, Peter” she said.
I lay down. I suddenly felt enormously tired. “Good luck with your new life, Peter” I heard her say. She seemed to be a long way away.
I was not aware of falling asleep, or of sleeping at all, but I must have, because I suddenly woke up.
I was in a different room, which I did not recognize. Time must have passed. I was lying on a stretcher. A Lady I hadn’t seen before stood before me. I had some kind of jacket on. When I tried to sit up, I found I was held down. And my arms were held across my chest by the jacket. I realized it was a strait jacket, strapped tight. I realized I was naked under the canvas jacket.
“Relax, Peter.You have been asleep for 24 hours. We have put you in a lunatic restraint, a strait jacket, as a precaution.” said the Lady “You are perfectly safe, but you won’t be able to get out of that restraint, so don’t bother fighting against it. It’s just a standard precaution. We put you in it while we were transporting you here, while you were asleep, just in case you woke up early. I’ll take if off in a few minutes. Just relax”.
I stopped struggling against the straps, and lay still. She looked down at me, and smiled.
“I welcome you to your new life, Peter. 24 hours have elapsed, so your contract is now fully in effect. You can’t cancel it now. I am your Supervisor. You are now at our Farm. This is where you will serve out the terms of your contract. As you recall, you agreed to the training course that we have devised. Our course is designed to harden males physically, reduce their weight to a value proper for a healthy male, and to modify their male impulses as required for the service of women. For new entrants, this means we need to use methods which require some degree of compulsion. And that includes you, Peter! You probably didn’t realize it, but the contract you signed contained your agreement to be committed here for the term of the contract. We therefore have the legal right to use enforcement. And we intend to!”
She continued “I see you are a well-fed male. And have not been exercising much. All our inmates are overweight and unfit when they arrive. We remedy that gradually, and with care, so that our men become as lean and strong, as males are naturally intended to be. But our Society provides more improvement than purely physical. We modify male attitudes, and make males into good slaves of women. I emphasize the word “good”. Any male can be a bad slave. We train males to be good slaves!”
I still felt sleepy. I must surely be hallucinating from the drug. I could not believe what I was hearing. What on earth was she talking about? Male slaves? She obviously hasn’t heard about gender equality! Time for me to straighten this out…..
“Excuse me? Miss? Miss Supervisor? You are making a mistake, I’m not here for....” I started to explain….
“Be quiet!” she shouted. I was immediately silent. She was quite frightening when she spoke like that! She was very angry!
She took a breath. I did not dare move. I could not, anyway, in the strait jacket. She was clearly angry.
“Alright Peter. Please excuse my anger. I’m calm now! Please understand that I am not used to a male telling me that I’m making a mistake! And it’s been a long time since a male even spoke to me without permission! But of course you are new here, and do not know our rules. So I won’t punish you! But, please, just be quiet. I will give you a chance to speak later”
She went on. “This farm is owned by a private group of Ladies, who wish to hold men as slaves. We mean real slaves, not pretend slaves. We therefore seek out suitable men, men who are able to make the needed financial and time commitment, and we then train them to be slaves. REAL slaves. You have been selected, Peter. You are now an inmate, and you will now, in your turn, be trained to be a slave. Your weight loss will be attained, although it is just a small part of your training here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but then shut it again when I saw her expression. She obviously had some big hang up with me speaking. I did not wish to chance my luck about that. I would wait until I was out of this strait jacket, and this mistake was sorted out. Something very strange was going on here, or maybe I was still dreaming.
She continued. “This is real, Peter, not a dream, not just another of your story-fantasies! We have read your stories, of course! They are amusing stories. But now, you are about to experience the reality! This time, it’s not a story! This time, you find out what it’s like, to be a slave, for real!”
“Now. Listen up.You need to learn the facts of life here. Women are in charge here. You, as a male, have no say. None at all. This is a private organization of dominant, sadistic women. Our primary purpose is to find suitable males (like you, Peter), make them into slaves, and keep them to suffer for our enjoyment. But, we are also practical…..this place needs a lot of work and upkeep, so we also use our male slaves for the labour we need. The arrangement works out very well! This is NOT one of your foolish fantasies, Peter! This is a real, working farm, with REAL slaves doing REAL work”
She laughed at my expression. “You no doubt thinking that you are not a slave. Is that right? All men think that! It’s no problem! We have developed methods which efficiently transform any man, even the most arrogant, self-willed ones (like you, Peter!) into good slaves. Our methods are very simple: we keep our slaves chained, and we enforce our strict rules with severe punishments. Our methods have worked on every man who has ever come here. Our methods have never yet failed to make a man into a slave!”
“Our standard punishment is a hard leather strap, applied to the slave’s buttocks until he is red and sore. Our approach might seem cruel, but we have tried other methods, and find ours is the most efficient. We have found that a heavy leather strap, used firmly and strictly, without regard to begging, produces total obedience in a very short time. The use of an individual chain for each prisoner prevents escape, eliminates the need for constant supervision, and allows our slaves to work at their individual work places without any possibility of escape. So we have a very practical system, as you will find out”.
“We have rules, some of which you should know right away: you may not speak without permission. You must obey orders from any free person without hesitation or comment. When you are in the presence of a free person, you must kneel and keep your eyes down. That is all you need to know for now. You can learn our other rules as you go along. Once you have heard a rule, be aware that you will be severely punished if you disobey!”
“You will also have weekly strappings, as a routine matter. All our slaves are strapped, every Sunday afternoon. Only 20 strokes, not too many. These weekly strappings provide a regular reminder of your status here, and a reminder of the penalty for not being a good slave. If you are a good slave, you will probably not get any more additional strokes. You will just get your usual 20 every week. But if you choose to be a bad slave, you will find that each of your errors will be noted by a black mark in the Punishment book, and you will receive fifty additional strokes for each black mark. After you have felt the strap, you will be completely obedient, I assure you! And if not, we will be happy to repeat the lesson!”
I was quite scared by this tirade. It sounded exactly like one of the mad fantasies I had written. Was this woman insane? Nothing like this could really exist. And I had come here to lose some weight, not to be a slave. What in hell was going on here? Why was I in a strait jacket?
“Now, you may speak, Peter. But be brief! I honestly do not have a lot of patience with male slaves” she said hotly.
“Thank you, Miss. I don’t know what to say! I think there’s been a mistake. This has nothing to do with my stories. I’m just here for a weight loss course. I don’t know anything about what you….”
I decided I should stop there. She was staring at me, and she did not look pleased.
She was indeed angry. “I don’t care what you ‘thought’, Peter! This is real! You signed the contract! A legal contract, and you SIGNED it! You probably didn’t read it, but that’s your problem. So forget what ‘you thought’! You are an inmate here now! You are a male slave! You had better learn the rules here, and fast! I don’t have any more patience with you! You must start to learn, or you must suffer the consequences!”
She was flushed, and angry. I was afraid.
“Let’s get on with this!” She said. She turned to the tray beside my stretcher.
She took what looked like a miniature steel bracelet up from the tray. I was naked below my waist except that the strait jacket had a strap passing under my crotch, and my ankles felt like they were strapped down. I felt her pick up my limp penis, and close the steel bracelet around it. It closed with a metallic click. It was a snug fit on my penis. It felt cold. I felt a slight pricking feeling as it snapped shut. The feeling quickly faded.
She dropped my penis, with the bracelet device locked on it. “This is your Kali Bracelet! All initial slaves have to wear these. It prevents masturbation. It has many small spikes on the interior surface, so that you will experience increasing pain if you begin to get an erection. You will find that this will immediately stop any erection. It will be unlocked for cleaning once each week.You will only be allowed to masturbate once each week, under close supervision. You’ll learn all about these rules later”.


To continue this story, click I Am Assigned Gate Duty




Style | The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
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The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid.
“Hi,” his message said. “I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women. I also like women who smoke.”
I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment.
I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing. I’ll happily degrade him, I’d say. I’ll throw olive pits at him. Whatever turns him on.
“I’m a strong, confident woman,” I wrote. “I need my apartment cleaned. When can you come over?”
We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. Sometimes, at night, he’d ask me how I was doing.
“I’m O.K.,” I’d say. “Kind of lonely.”
I had been single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Although our exchanges didn’t always make me feel better, it was still nice to know someone was rooting for me.
Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy. After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. His fantasy didn’t work if I didn’t play along, and I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain.
We set up a date for him to come over and clean. But at the last minute, he backed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m broke. I don’t even have subway fare. I could ask my dad for it, but I don’t think he’ll give it to me.”
A friend said, laughing, “He needs to get a real job as a houseboy to support his houseboy fetish.”
I tried twice more, and both times fell through. I didn’t hear from him again until I started my YouTube series.
“Ladies of Leisure” was something silly I thought up when I was drunk. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes.
I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen.
And then, I got a text from the Houseboy.
“Your videos are really good,” he said. “I bet they would go over well in the smoking fetish community.”
Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel. They had names like “AshtraySlaveNY” and “SmokingFetishVids.” I had gone viral. Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the Houseboy texted me.
“Sometimes you smoke with your left hand. You’d look more comfortable if you smoked with your right. It would be hotter.”
“That’s not really the point of the videos,” I replied.
I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me.
“Do you need a chauffeur tonight?” he would ask.
Or, “When are you going to put out a new video?”
Or:, “I want you to use me as an ashtray. Let me be your pig-slave.”
And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy.
“It’s your lucky week,” I wrote. “I need a ride to Ikea.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but I don’t have money for gas. I know it’s not very slavelike to ask for gas money. But I’m broke.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Cheaper than a cab.”
We made a date for a Friday at 2 p.m. Two o’clock passed, and then 3. I called him, trying my best to be domineering.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “There’s really bad traffic.”
Twenty minutes later, I called again. “Where are you?”
“Close. Ocean Avenue and Parkside.”
Finally he showed up, around 3:45. I walked outside to meet him, and saw a man waving at me from a red Toyota.
Perhaps I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I was looking forward to seeing what this man, this Houseboy I had been talking to for months, would be like in person. I felt I already knew him. I walked over to his car and opened the door. The Houseboy was overweight and had long dark hair with streaks of gray. As I had already known, he was in his early 40s.
“Do you know how to get there?” I asked, trying to be cold.
“Yes,” he said. And then, “You’re really pretty. I couldn’t see your freckles in the videos.”
He started driving. Although I was trying to play the part of the cruel, confident woman, I couldn’t help but make friendly conversation.
“Yeah,” I said. “But not particularly religious.”
“What do you think about Israel and Gaza?”
I sighed. “I honestly don’t know if it can ever get better,” I said. “There are thousands of years of history there. Everyone hates each other too much. And no one is willing to compromise.”
He responded with an educated, nuanced take on the situation. I was surprised. I knew the Houseboy was kind, but I didn’t expect him to be so smart. After all, he lived with his father and couldn’t even afford subway fare.
When we got to Ikea, I told the Houseboy he could push my cart. He agreed, thanked me and went to get one. I led the way, walking two steps ahead of him through the assorted goods in the Ikea Marketplace. Occasionally I stopped, picking up bowls and wineglasses. I needed a new comforter. I needed a lamp for my room.
We checked out. I swiped my credit card, put my stuff back into the cart and walked out of the store, the Houseboy at my heels. He loaded my haul into the back seat of his car, taking care to put the fragile things on the floor where they wouldn’t break.
“You’re not going to take the B.Q.E.?” I asked, when we drove by an entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
“I’m afraid we might get stuck in traffic,” he said. “And then we’d never get off.”
When we got to my neighborhood, I gave him directions back to my building. He parked across the street, and I loaded things into reusable shopping bags to carry up to my apartment. The Houseboy offered to help me take them upstairs.
“O.K.,” I said, handing him a bag. “That’s me over there.”
I opened the door to the building. We walked up two flights, and I unlocked my apartment. I put my bag down on the floor, and the Houseboy put his down, too.
“I have gas money for you,” I said. “How much do you think? Twenty?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Eight, at the most. Honestly, I’ll probably just give my dad six, and keep the rest.”
I gave him $11. We stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other. It seemed strange to hug, but doing nothing felt uncomfortable, too.
“Thanks,” I said, and I opened the door to let him out.
“It was a pleasure serving you,” he said. “I hope you call me again.”
He started to walk out the door, but stopped and turned around.
“By the way,” he said. “You seem really nice.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, coming from a man who wanted to be abused. Maybe I should have been meaner. Maybe I should have made him take the B.Q.E. Maybe I should have lectured him on Gaza, interrupting him when he tried to give his perspective.
“I’m a little bit
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