Men In Bondage Stories

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Men In Bondage Stories
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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”.


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I am not your normal, everyday dominatrix. I don’t stalk into the dungeon at midnight, don thigh-high leather boots, and beat a white, middle-aged CEO to a bloody pulp while screaming, “Worthless Pig!” Nope, I am the shy neighbor next door. I could be sitting next to you on the subway smirking at the New Yorker cartoons or cycling past you in the park on my racing bike. I love dogs, swimming in the ocean, long walks on moonlit nights, and well, I happen to like to hurt people.
On a typical day, I ride my bike down to my private studio in the financial district of Manhattan by 9 in the morning. Once there, I move through a few yoga salutations and burn sage. After checking emails and voice messages, I change into a three-piece Armani suit to greet the first client, who could be a musician, a policeman, or a Yale professor. In my regular client pool, I have many female clients, some gay, some straight. I also see a lot of couples. Sometimes I teach one partner how to dominate the other. Sometimes I dominate both partners. I even have a handful of gay, male masters who come to submit to me. But the truth still remains that the majority of my clients (and all sex industry clientele) are straight men (straight men who secretly want to suck cock, that is).
I sit down with each client for 10 to 15 minutes. I offer them a glass of water and listen to them talk about their expectations and absolute limits. I ask them about health issues that I should be concerned about (such as diabetes, asthma, bad knees) and about their past experience in BDSM. I want to know what led them into the realm of Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism and also, why they are specifically seeing me. This tells me a lot about the person I am about to deal with. Many of these questions have already been discussed by email before I have agreed to see them. But I like to watch the person tell me about him or herself. They are inevitably nervous. As they should be.
I screen clients rigorously. Most email requests are deleted by the time I read the first line (“goddess, can i lik ur boots”–bad grammar and spelling! DELETE!) and I am extremely discriminating regarding tone of voice and language. A client once called and passed all my tests until he closed with, “I’ll see you soon, baby.” I canceled the meeting. I may be a snob, but this is an intimate interaction I engage in—I must genuinely like the person I am binding and hurting. I have a rule: If I feel that I cannot have a respectable conversation with the client, then I shouldn’t take them on. This shuts my doors to Asian fetishists, guilty married men and inner misogynists who disguise resentment with worship. I also don’t take on foot worship or verbal humiliation scenes. I get too bored and too ticklish with hour-long foot worship; I don’t have it in me to curse someone out unless they’ve really pissed me off.
Once I’ve extracted enough information from a client and earned his trust, I bring him to “The Pit,” a small room that is painted entirely black with only one floor light illuminating the hooks and bondage rack that line the walls. I tell clients to ready themselves by placing their clothes neatly in the closet and to wait on their knees until I come to fetch them. The next two hours (minimum) of session, they are mine.
My sessions range from strict disciplinarian training and heavy bondage to shamanistic ritual work. I have a solid rep in the industry of being a severe sadist and skilled Shibari (rope bondage) expert. I want to write that I am laid-back and easy-going, but I’m not casual about my career. I love the protocol, the pain, the taboo.
The main room of my studio is called “The Dojo” and it looks like one. Clean white walls, enormous mirrors, and a steel suspension beams run along the fourteen-foot ceilings. My hemp ropes are meticulously wound, color-coordinated, and hung in a row. Red rope is 50 feet. Black rope is 25 feet. The whips hang separately from the paddles. The latex is always set apart from leather. (Leather eventually eats away at rubber—you can just imagine the symbolism here regarding primal and man-made powers). At my studio, I am a perfectionist, a control-freak. Of course.
I like to think that I push people beyond the obvious. I encourage clients to focus on the strength and honor within them to reach a mental state of openness and vulnerability. I remind the sub (submissive) to breathe deeply and steadily, teaching tantric techniques to use the endorphins from the pain to push into a state of natural high. In another kind of session, I might shove my rubber-gloved fist in the sub’s anus and call a client a slut (one of the highest terms of endearment in this industry because it implies ownership), but I would never call him or her stupid or worthless. They’d better be worthy, damn it, if I’m going to spend my time training them.
I am Mistress Y. I am hiding my identity here for obvious reasons of discretion, not so much for myself but for my clients. Most dominatrices feel the need to hide their scene-identities from their vanilla world. That is one of the reasons they take on names like “Venus” and “Pandora.” Perhaps it is to emulate a goddess mentality, to step up from being just another downtown deviant with cool tattoos to being a diva for a few hours. But another valid reason is to allot mental separation from their full personality to the role that they take on in sessions. Going into sessions for many is like playacting a part that they’ve always yearned to star in—for both clients and dominatrix. I don’t change my name for my profession (just shorten it for this diary). I am not playing a role. I have always enjoyed pain.
I’ve been a professional dominatrix for seven years. I’ve wanted to be a dominatrix since I was a 16-year-old Goth chick. I remember buying my first crop and cat-mask at The Leather Man. My high school girlfriend and I had spent a sweltering summer day reveling in the gl
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