The Temple of the Goddess is Japan’s oldest Femdom temple, located in the Kyoto mountains, and is dedicated to all lifestyle Mistresses around the world. A few months ago the authorities finally granted me permission to stay, work and worship at the sanctuary for a few weeks. It’s more beautiful than I’d ever imagined and I wished I could stop the clock and be here forever. I rise at 4am every morning and wash and clean the boots of the 6-metre high statue of a Goddess in the inner sanctum. The statue is made of pure gold and is decorated with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. A couple of devotees wash Her legs, others Her hands etc. The Holy Guards are an elite and highly trained forse, licensed to kick, slap, smother, whip, cane and – no doubt – kill flies like me. They keep a sharp eye on everything. Thousands of male slaves visit the temple each day and offer food, flowers, money and gold to the Goddess. They all get a free meal, so most of the time I’m dishwashing, scrubbing and cleaning in the enormous kitchen. The highest authority of the temple, Princess Juri, arrives in the early afternoon and we all lie prostrate for Her for at least six hours. Sometimes She points at one of the slaves lying on the ground, and he will be punished right in front of Her. Without rhyme or reason as far as I know, but then again: She’s a living Goddess, I’m nothing. Slave T. April 2016.
Public humiliations were initially intended to embarrass the naughty ones, not to arouse them. Wrongdoers were tied to a cart and dragged through the streets, had to sit on the repentance stool for a number of Sundays (sometimes with a paper mitre on their head) or ended up in the pillory. Compared to that, going down on your knees in public before your Mistress, is just kid-stuff, wouldn’t you say? I was collared, leashed and paraded through the streets of Paris, wore a slave collar and a T-shirt saying i am a 24/7 slave, in a restaurant in Rome, had to kiss a Lady’s boot on the world famous zebra crossing on Abbey Road, London, was on all fours in Amsterdam with a Mistress sitting on my back, was slapped in the face repeatedly on the Old Town Square in Prague and kneed in the nuts at the airport. One day a Madame took me to a very busy shop and told me to wait at the entrance. Then, after twenty minutes or so, She grabbed me by the ear, dragged me to the shop counter and ordered me (loud and clear) to get my wallet out and pay for Her stuff. All this was meant to humiliate me, but to me these were moments of intense beauty. Because there’s no shame in being a slave. On the contrary: it fills me with enormous pride.
I’m a huge fan of the sleazy, adventurous, slightly erotic, pulp magazines of the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s. Especially the ones with strong, powerful and deadly Women on the cover. Some of these covers are genuine pieces of art, as far as I’m concerned. The stories inside range from Female Islands and Tribes, to Harem’s, Bordello’s, Femme Fatale’s and Madame’s, to Pirates, Man-Killers, Sex-Slaves and Nazi. Lots and lots of Nazi’s. The titles of these stories can be mouthwatering:
- He Was Hostage Of The Orient’s Fabulous Female Brigade
- Tortured Slave Of The Whip Goddesses
- Trapped By The Slave Trading Nymphos Of The Nile
- I Ran the Torture Gauntlet Of Those Blood-Crazed Amazons
- The Berlin Nudes And Their Studio Of Torture
- The Wild Raid Of The Lace Panty Commandos
- Captive Of The All-Girl Ching Dao Jewel Ring
- The Nazi She-Devil Who Killed For Kicks
- Attacked By The Girl Pirates Of The Yangtze
- The Teenage Nazi She-Wolves Of Berlin
She promised a paradise of love and freedom in the sun, but now we were Her slaves with our lives at stake …. That’s enough for the Nobel Prize in Literature if you ask me. Amazing covers, catchy titles and tag-lines allow us to escape the doubts, difficulties, hazards and impossibilities of finding a real & right Mistress in the 21st century. They inspire us to dream and fantasise of undiscovered islands, jungles and worlds where real Women rule.
He swore he wouldn’t come back. I didn’t try to stop him, because we’ve been through this a hundred times or more. I knew he’d be back, because he’s too weak and too addicted to go through with it and leave. And sure enough, within weeks he was back to his own self. Grovelling in front of Me, begging Me to forgive him. All because he’s a slave to My long and smooth legs. It takes a mini-skirt or a pair of shorts to turn this respectable, successful and confident man into stammering mess. My legs make him utterly powerless and the more he stares at them, the weaker he becomes. Crossing My legs makes his penis swell up and get extra thick. Oh, how I love the power I have over him. Sometimes he’s allowed to touch, kiss and worship My legs … sometimes not. That’s the way it is. So yeah, I knew he’d be back. And each time he does, the price will go up. Yes, he has to pay a hefty sum to see My legs. He’s now in the phase of selling things to get money, bless him. He has sold his bedroom TV, his laptop, his books and CD’s; all because he wants to worship My legs. He’s caught in My trap and I will cross My legs and dangle My feet in front of his face till he’s ready to sell his last shirt.
Years ago, My husband foolishly agreed to be My slave. He quickly regretted it, but I had him by the balls and I was not planning on letting him go. I’m not a coldhearted bitch (I’m much worse that that), so I introduced Handjob-Day. It’s held twice a year and all he has to do is hold back an orgasm for eight minutes. And be honest: what’s eight minutes in the scheme of things, right? If he succeeds, he’s a free man. If not, he will be My slave for another six months. Now, My dear husband is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, because he really thinks he has a fighting chance. How pathetic. He’s a walking vulnerability, an open book. I don’t even have to wear shiny boots, a mini-skirt or a leather jacket; mentioning it is enough to drive him crazy. Touching his penis makes him quiver and shake, and his body arches in immediate response. His dick is already leaking like a broken sewer pipe, and I haven’t even started yet! And he wants to fight ME? Come on! I can give an erection to an eunuch, for God’s sake, and I can make my husband cum just by looking at his dick. He cums whenever I please and he will be my fucking slave till the end of time.
There’s a new Subby-Market in town, so I went there to check it out. The two-storey store looks big and bright and I was impressed how friendly and professional the staff was. We have a large variety of slaves from all around the world, one of the young Ladies said, and there’s always something thrilling in our collection. The ground floor showcases the new products that are up for sale. All slaves are trained, tested, cleaned and certified. They’re on display in large display cases with an electronic information card and a price tag attached to it. Male slaves are ridiculously cheap of course, a luncheon in town costs more. And tastes better. On the 2nd floor (the Lease-A-Sub department) you’ll find the second-hand, often somewhat damaged, lease items. The store is open 24/7, just in case someone needs a late-night slave. Some Ladies are emotionally attached to animals, but absolutely no one has feelings for these lowlife creatures we call men. We made that mistake before, and we’re not doing it again. So a Lady can use Her purchase as a work-slave, a handyman, a doormat, a sex-toy, a whipping boy, human furniture, a servant, a pet, a medical experiment or anything else that comes to Her pretty mind. It’s a lovely store with helpful staff and a huge range of products, so I recommend them highly to everyone. Diary of Mistress Sunflower – March 2079.
Picture the scene: you’re facedown on the bed, with your bottom way up in the air. Man, there’s enough meat on your ass to start a bloody restaurant, isn’t there? Anyways, let’s not get into that. Your Mistress walks into the room and sits down on your back, facing your mighty ass. The full weight of Her beauty is pressing down on you, and that’s an incredible sexy feeling. She has brought some goodies: a paddle, a brush, a belt, a frying pan and two strong hands. She starts with Her hands, followed by the pan, the brush, the paddle and the unforgiving belt. The pain isn’t too bad at first, but gets worse quickly. You fear the belt, and for good reason, because it can literally bring you to tears. You’re begging Her to stop, but your plea falls on deaf ears, because She doesn’t do half measures. A true spanking starts when you really want it to end, She says, and desperate times call for desperate measures. You have no clue what She means by that, you only know that your ass is in desperate pain. And so the punishment is, as always, extremely long, hard and merciless. Then, after God knows how long, She looks down on your blistered and raw skin and decides to call it 1) a day, 2) a triumph and 3) a thing of beauty.
Get up, She snaps, you can’t lay in bed all day, now can you? You lazy pig!
Get up, She snaps, you can’t lay in bed all day, now can you? You lazy pig!