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.
Just as I thought, She said, he’s got a boner.
God help us, the other one said, and She made it sound as if he was a highly contagious disease.
Sir, we are the Penis Police and the The Law on Boners, Act 2019, Section 311-a clearly states that erections are forbidden in public transport, parks, on the streets, at sports venues, etcetera.
He growled. How the hell should I know tha-
She silenced him by squeezing his balls. His testicles were now boiling and his dick was ready for a lift-off.
Feel it, Angela, this is a bad one.
The other one dived in.
Jesus! That’s at least a $500 fine, but it’s more likely to be $1000.
He protested and was arrested for having a) boner b) an attitude c) a dick in the first place. He was fined and sentenced to six months in the Penis Correctional Penitentiary at Fort Dick.
Headmaster Collins dismissed all claims as silly pranks. These accusations are absolutely false, ungrounded and fabricated, he said. He was missing his front teeth, had a black eye, a bloody nose, and a collar around his neck. Which was a bit odd, but a hype perhaps. Behind him stood a Schoolgirl in an absolutely lovely school-uniform. She had Her hand on the headmaster’s shoulder, which seemed to make him somewhat nervous, as if he was afraid to be rebuked. That must have been the light playing tricks on the mind, no doubt. Then we heard a terrible scream, but the headmaster was quick to explain that it was an owl gone crazy. There was sweat on his forehead and his eyelids were twitching, but that was probably a hobby of some sorts.
Time’s up, the Girl said firmly, and I admired Her for looking after the headmaster so well.
You must be very, very proud of Her, I said.
Proud is a word, the headmaster answered mysteriously. He sounded hoarse. Probably an oncoming flu, or something like that. So rest assure, dear readers, everything’s fine at London University College, nothing to worry about. Tim Sharp – London Chronicle.
Steady! I did’t ask you to gallop, didn’t I.
He slowed down. He couldn’t see a hand in front of his face, but all it took was a light pressure from the reins to know which way to go. Well, and the relentless lashing of the crop, of course. She was a petite type of Lady, but crawling with Her on his back was pretty exhausting. His knees were almost killing him.
Let’s trot, She said, applying pressure with Her legs. Put some backbone into it, Jolly Jumper.
He did his utmost, but the crop told him he wasn’t going fast enough. He breathed heavily and drooled like a mad dog. Eventually he became so exhausted and simply collapsed on the ground.
Who the fuck told you it’s time to take a nap?
He hoped it was a rhetoric question, because he couldn’t talk. Or neigh.
She got up, pulled his blindfold off and showed him a pair of spurs with huge five-spiked rowels. He nearly fainted.
This will wake you up! Come on, horsie, time to train the passage, the piaffe and the pirouette.
Mr. Jones had been a shoe salesman at Lawson’s Ladies Shoes & Boots for more than fifteen years. It suited him well, because he didn’t have the brains or the bravado to open his own shop. There are leaders and there are followers, he used to say, and he followed the leader. His place was on the fitting stool or, more preferable, on his knees in front of the customers. Nowadays customers were more outspoken, impatient and demanding than ever. Even physical sometimes. He remembered a long blonde Lady who grabbed him by the ear and slapped him in the face for being clumsy. Or the brunette who tried on a pair of boots, ordered him to lick them, as She watched Herself in the mirror to see how it looked. She tried six pair of boots before She found the most lick-able ones. Not to mention the Asian Lady who kicked him in the balls to see which boots were the most kickable. After forty-seven kicks She decided on a pair of knee-high lack boots with silver heels. The silver metal gave the heels a unique glow, and the combination with the deep black gave it a magical effect. Mr. Jones was smitten by Her. So much so, that he knelt before Her and begged Her to be his Mistress. She gave him the boot.
It’s not Her clothes that make Her dominant; it’s Her personality, the tone of Her voice and Her demanding eyes. In other words: a Mistress in rags is still a Mistress. She’s a Woman and She must be obeyed at all times. On the other hand, as Princess Beverly so rightly put it in one of Her clips: sometimes guys will buy a Financial Domination clip, just based on something you’re wearing. She’s 100% right, as far as I’m concerned, because I’m always on the lookout for something shiny. Just a glimpse of a satin blouse, a PVC skirt, nylon shorts, leather gloves or a wet-look jacket are enough to brighten up the day. Once upon a time one of my colleagues came to work wearing a short, leather skirt. Man, I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day. And night. She had tried it on in a shop somewhere, had looked at Herself in the mirror and bought it. Sadly enough She wore it only once, and yet it changed everything. Because I would never be able to look at Her again with the same eyes. She would always be The Girl With The Leather Skirt. I was willing to walk through a brick wall for Her, I really was. So to quote Princess Beverly one more time: I can make you do anything, based on My outfit. So very, very, very true.
♬ All you need is Gloves (rata-dadada)
All you need is Gloves (rata-dadada)
All you need is Gloves, Gloves
Gloves is all you need ♬
Hats (for men) and gloves (for Women) are out of fashion nowadays. Yeah, yeah, I know, what about mittens, right? Well, fuck mittens, because that’s like saying thermal underwear is the same as lingerie. Sadly enough the real deal gloves are not part of a Lady’s everyday wardrobe anymore. And that’s a real shame, because a Woman with gloves is a masterpiece in itself, I would say. Gloves are elegant, sexy, mesmerising, sensual and intimidating at the same time. I recall my aunt Rebecca wearing gloves. The soft, leather gloves adapted perfectly to the shape of Her hand and it was impossible to take my eyes off them. I was not the easiest kid in the world (to put it mildly), but aunt Rebecca made me eat out of Her (gloved) hand. It did not go unnoticed in the family and I was teased and made fun of. I didn’t care a bit, because everyone now looked up to Her. She had control over me and was praised for it, how awesome was that!
I don’t know how you do it, Rebecca, my mother sighed, he’s as gentle as a lamb with you. You must have magical powers.
I smiled inside, because my aunt didn’t have magical powers, of course. She had gloves.
I crawled towards Her, apologised for my selfish behaviour and started massaging Her feet. The top, the ankle and sole, each and every toe and the space between the toes. What a treat!
That’s better, She said, now worship My divine feet with your lips and tongue.
I didn’t need any further encouragement and began kissing and licking Her feet. The warmth of Her skin and the smell of Her feet overpowered me and I licked as if my life depended on it. Words failed to describe the beauty of it all. People were watching and, no doubt, taking pictures, but we were at a Fetish party for goodness sake, so I couldn’t care less.
Open your mouth!
I obeyed and She pushed Her foot deep into my mouth. My head was spinning as I sucked on Her foot. She pushed Her foot even deeper in my throat, making me gag uncontrollably. My jaw started to hurt, but She mercilessly face fucked me with Her foot. She finally pulled it out and Her foot was covered in saliva. She put Her foot on my face and rubbed it dry. She got up from Her chair and ordered me to kiss Her hand and thank Her. And then She disappeared into the party crowd.
Who on earth was that, one of my friends asked.
I have no idea, I said, never seen Her before in my entire life.
You, She said, pointing at me, come here and smell.
She really knocked my socks off with that, but I was firm and resolute: No, thank You, Mistress Deborah, I’m a reporter, not a participant.
Get down on your fucking knees, or I’ll put your balls in a blender.
So much for a peptalk! I fell down like a tree, buried my nose in Her socks and inhaled with all my might. Holy Moses, the Great Stink had returned! Her socks smelled like sweat & sewer and the stench was quite overwhelming.
Come on, She growled, put your socks up!
I was too attached to my balls, so I sniffed like a wild hound.
Twenty or so minutes later I stood outside (beyond the reach of any blender) and told Her She had not heard the last of this!
She laughed, gave me the finger and told put to put a sock in it.
Be careful with what you’re saying, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tell your Mistress She has a magnificent piece of ass, for example. Some Ladies don’t mind, others will nail your rude, filthy and disrespectful tongue to the old oak tree. Cows have asses, for goodness sake, so treat carefully and choose your words wisely. There are many synonyms for the word ass; from mild to wild and from innocent to crude. The French word derrière sounds rather elegant, but I should avoid words like hams, rotter, stinkpot or crapper if I were you. Anyways, once upon a time I came face to ass (pardon my French) with a rear exit of exceptional beauty. The owner wiggled Her mesmerising buttocks in front of my face and my dick almost exploded. She ordered me to crawl behind Her and led me through the room, with my eyes glued to Her back pack. I would have given Her anything for sixty seconds of worship. It was not to be, because She pulled up Her panty and shorts and went into the bathroom. Why, my dick and I cried, why, why? Because, She giggled from behind the closed bathroom door, you’re an asshole!
Victoria Saliva (aka Victoria Falls) is without doubt one of the most famous spitting Ladies around, so I didn’t hesitate when I saw Her mouthwatering advertisement the other day. I mean, come on: a Spit-In in Spit-alfields, that’s literally a wet dream come true! So I travelled to London to meet Her at last. There were seven saliva slaves waiting within spitting distance of each other, all willing to pay the hefty fee. But boy was it worth it! Her spit is stunningly proportioned, ripe, full body, intense and with an inner-core of creamy, highly extracted strawberry fruit. Some of us got spat in the face, others in the mouth. Sometimes She spat on the dirty floor and then we growled and pushed like wild animals in order to lick it up. We didn’t stand a chance though, because there was a guy from Northumberland (or: North-humble-land, as he used to say) with an ass as big as a tumble dryer, and he pushed everyone out of the way. After half an hour or so, Miss Saliva looked me in the eye and asked me where I was from. I didn’t expect that at all, so my mouth moved, but no words came out. Spit it out, boy! She demanded. So confusing!
Château L’Urine, located in the Gironde Department, France, is the holy sanctuary of Grand Cru Piss (pardon my French). Thousands upon thousands of bottles of excellent vintages of the finest Ladies in the world are stored there in underground cellars. Excellence comes with a price, though. A 2011 Mistress Leak sells for $75, a 2012 Domina Drench for $125 and a 2008 Madame Wee-Wee for $170. Pee-products of popular and influential Ladies are in high demand. A 2017 Mistress Tangent (pic 8) for example sells for $250. Bottles of Her vintage year 2014 are extremely rare and are sold for more than $500 at auction. A 2011 Lady Flood and a 2007 NeedaPee of Miss Rebekah Dee (pics 3 and 14) are also very rare and expensive. They’re collectors items and can go for as much as $650 per bottle. The most expensive bottle at the Château is the 2015 Mistress Eleise (the one to the left and pic 10). It’s the last bottle of that glorious vintage year in the world and both Christie’s and Sotheby’s want to auction it. It will sell for an estimated $4,500 or more. It’ll cost you the world, but it will taste like Heaven.
Legs are legs and feet are feet, thank you very much. In other words: I love feet, but I’m obsessed with legs. You see the difference? Gorgeous legs make me vulnerable, desperate, gullible, speechless and sky-high submissive. It’s pathetic, I know, and I often tell myself to stop being such a wimp, but I won’t listen. Because legs are so wonderful, so powerful and so mesmerising. I’ve studied them as long as I can remember (did a lotta legwork, so the speak), studied them as if they were fragments of the lost tomb of Cleopatra. Take the shape of the knee for example. A knee can fuck up or lift up the beauty of a leg entirely. And don’t get me started on ankles, mate! I could write a book on that alone! A beautiful leg is a delicate balance between the upper- en lower leg, the knee, ankle, the muscles and the smoothness of the skin. The loser’s truth is that I find it impossible not to stare and even more impossible to control my dick. That thing rises in my pants like a volcano that’s ready to rumble. In short; legs are my Glory-Glory-Hallelujah fetish, my Winner-Takes-It-All desire, my All-Time-Greatest-Hits longing.
This simple gesture of respect, obedience and devotion reinforces Her absolute power over him and his submission to Her. It puts him in his place, because in order to kiss Her fet, he has to kneel down, get down on his belly even, with his head almost to the floor. It’s such a beautiful and powerful symbol of Her supremacy.
One day the mighty Byzantine general Flavius Belisarius (500-565 AD) prostrated himself at the feet of his Wife Antonina. He kissed and licked the soles of Her feet with his tongue, crying that She was his reason for living and that he would be Her faithful slave, instead of Her Lord and Master. Now, if a general knows how to honour a Lady, so can we. So show some respect.
Mmmm, a bit sensitive here and there. We need to keep an eye on that. Now, pants down.
I did so and my dick jumped out like a Jack-in-the-box.
Jesus!!! We’ve got a jumper!!
She pushed a red button on the wall and an alarm sounded. Nurses ran into the room immediately. They grabbed my arms and legs and strapped me to a bed with long, leather restraints. I screamed all over the place, because one of them punched me repeatedly in the groin. But it helped, my dick gave in and backed down.
One of the nurses took charge of the situation. She looked down on me and said: I’m so sorry, but we have to remove it.
W.what? Rem.move what?
Your balls, your penis, everything. The Law of Femdom Clinics, Act 2018, Section 212 states that all jumpers must be removed without exception.
I didn’t know, I pleaded. Please believe me, I didn’t know!!
Of course you didn’t. Now relax and let the anaesthetic do its work.
No! Please stop, not my penis-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s
This, Mistress? This is Goliath.
Goliath? My dear boy, that’s a deformed nipple of some sorts. I wonder what it looks like on a cold winter’s morning. You need a search-party then, I suppose. Tell me, do you use tweezers to masturbate?
No, no, no!
Just asking. I assume you’re still a virgin then?
Are you kidding Me? Sweet Jesus, that’s just freakish. Who on eart- Ah, wait a minute: they loved to be tickled. That’s it, isn’t it?
Yes, Mistress, he said with a sour face, because Mistress is always right, even if She’s wrong.
I knew i- WOW, look, look; its moving. That’s so gross. Please pull up your pants, slave, will you? I’ve had enough horror for one day. Man, it looks like a slimy carrot, absolutely disgusting. Anyway, time for you to set the table. What do we have for dinner, Colossus?
He jumped up from the cellar floor and swiftly turned around, as if stung by a bee. His eyes almost popped out of his head and he screamed higher than the Wiener Sängerknaben.
What are you doing, you pervert? Are you seriously sniffing your sister’s shoes?
She was filming the whole scene with Her cellphone camera.
No, absolutely not …. I was …..I….was clea-
Oh, shut up, wacko. Get down on your knees now!
Fuck you, he yelled. But there was panic in his voice.
She shrugged Her shoulders: Youtube it is then.
No, wait! Shit! OK, OK, look, I’m on my knees. Happy now?
She grabbed a roll of duct tape from a shelf and ordered him to hold the shoe to his face. She wrapped the duct tape four times around his head, securing the shoe to his face. She took Her phone and started filming again.
Look at him! Sniffing his sister’s shoe. How sick is that! Take a long inhale …. very good ….. and again …… hahaha. You’re such a pathetic loser.
She saw tears welling up in his eyes, which made this day even more special. She had him by the balls and She wasn’t planning on letting him go anytime soon. Hell no!
I’m a bit of a fetish collector, to be honest. You name it, I fetish. The impact of these Fetishes varies between 1 and 9 on the Fetish Magnitude Scale. A magnitude 1 to 3 fetish sends shivers down my spine and ripples down my dick. But that’s about it, so it’s all rather innocent and harmless. On the other end of that scale however, is a magnitude-9 fetish, and that’s a whole different kettle of fish all together. A mag-9 shakes the fillings from my teeth and turns my testicles into castanets.
They say a real fetish is an Achilles heel, and I totally agree with that. That’s why I always kept my fetish cards close to my chest, so that no one knew how vulnerable I really was. Because knowing all about these weaknesses is pure power in the lovely wrong hands. On the other hand: it’s nearly impossible for an outsider to grasp the magnitude (hehe, nice one) of a mag-9 fetish. So even if I’d shout it from the rooftops, they’ll still think I’m exaggerating or lying to my teeth. Still, I feel blessed and fortunate to have these breath-taking, heart-breaking, earth-shaking fetishes!