Category Archives: PERSONAL STORIES


I was on my knees in front of Her, my eyes down to the floor. I had been around a time or two, but this mature, amateur Lady made me shiver in fear and admiration. Everything about Her was powerful; Her piercing eyes, Her personality and the tone of Her voice left no doubt that She expected to be obeyed. And She didn’t need a whip for that.
Her black, shiny boots came into view in front of me. My heart was racing and my mouth was dry. Then She put Her finger under my chin and forced me to look at Her.
It was nothing really, just a slight movement of Her hand, a mere trickle in the scheme of things, a painless touch in the world of Dominance and submission. But to me it was just breathtaking and I was in awe of the beauty of the moment. Huge waves of submission swept over me, dragging me under. All it took was an index finger and the tiniest bit of pressure to reach the Glory of Female Power and the Heavens of slavery.
What are you, She asked with a commanding tone of voice.
I’m Your slave, Mistress, I whispered, spiralling down in the vortex of Her eyes.
That’s right, She said.


It was Sunday, so I handed over my pocket-money to Karin.
You don’t have a weekend job, do you?
That was a strange question, because She knew that perfectly well.
No … I said, with a tone of hesitation in my voice.
Well, that’s going to change, because this
(she waved the money in front of my face) is just a pittance. So here’s what we’ll do: find yourself a job for Saturdays and the holidays. I want to know where you’re going to work, for how many hours and how much I get paid. Now, if you behave exceptionally well and do exactly as I say, I’ll give you a few coins from time to time. 
And that was that, end of story. I ended up working in a grocery store from eight in the morning to six in the evening. My boss was a bad-tempered old man who complained a lot and worked a little. I didn’t really care; the tougher the day, the more rewarding it was. Amazing to see how a submissive brain is wired! Handing over my hard-earned money became the highlight of the week for me. I had to bow, give Her the money and thank Her for allowing me to work for Her. Man, I loved it so much.
I was Her working mule for two years and handed Her all the money. She never gave me a cent. I didn’t earn it, She said.


I always think of happy things before I go to sleep. And to me, happiness means being bossed around, simple as that. And yes, I admit, I fantasize about celebrities as well. Can’t remember a time that I didn’t, to be honest. So close your eyes and let me show you around in dreamland.
There, on your left, is Emma Watson’s house. She’s all smiles and laughter, as long as you do exactly as She says. Don’t hesitate, don’t frown and for God’s sake, don’t argue, for She will raise Her wand at you. And trust me, being turned into a frog really sucks.
Over there, in the distance, is Gal Gadot’s Grotto. Last week She decided to teach me a lesson. I asked Her why, because I hadn’t done anything. Exactly, She said, and scissored me with Her beautiful legs until I passed out (aka fell asleep).
Over there? That’s Kristen Stewart’s land. She can break even the toughest of the toughest with Her killer smile, no kidding. Enter At Your Own Risk, the sign near the entrance says. ‘Nuff said.
And there … look at my finger … there … that’s Kate Beckinsale’s underworld. This Lady really sinks Her teeth into you and I’ve lost many a pint of blood over there. But then again, I’d give my life for Her, so who cares about a bit (aka bite) of blood. Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) used to live here as well, but She and Kate were constantly at each other’s throats. The whole neighborhood went down the drain. So Buffy moved to the other side of the valley. I often go there and tell Her I’m a vampire. Famous last words (aka: from apatite to epitaph).
There’s much more that I want to show you, man. So meet me again tonight in my imaginary world and wait for me at the junction, alright?


I’m not satisfied, She said (which made sense, because She wasn’t easily satisfied to begin with), you will write 500 lines saying:

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times,
(depending which side of the whip you’re on)
it is the age of Female wisdom,
it is the age of male foolishness.

I was exited and set off to work with a boner in my pants. Good old gullible me. Reality set in after the first page: this was going to be a monumentally boring task. My hand hurt like the Dickens, because I held the pen too tightly. The handwriting slanted from from upper- to lowercase and from to left to right, like a drunk on a bike. It was a monstrous task and it took forever. In the end I handed Her a stack of papers (written in blood, sweat and tears). She hardly even looked at them, but gave them to one of Her slaves instead.
Go through it with a fine-tooth comb, She ordered, and find everything that is incorrect. You will be rewarded for each mistake you find.
Nice touch!
She looked at me with a sadistic smile. The next time I will not be so nice, slave.
Thank You Mistress, I whispered, for teaching me a lesson.
I meant every word of it, because this simple and tedious task turned out to be a most effective punishment. She could double, triple, quadruple the amount of lines in a heartbeat. And that knowledge humbled me in a way I never imagined.


My parents never went away on holidays or anything. Everyone went abroad, we stayed put. So I explored the neighborhood all on my own and one day I came across, what looked like, an enormous wilderness smack dab in the middle of my hometown. It was in fact an old city park called Westerhout (created in 1726). It was only 16 hectares, which is roughly 22 soccer fields or 29 American football fields. Bigger than my garden, but smaller than the Amazon jungle. Funny you mentioned the Amazon, man, because I was pretty convinced that the Amazons, the Warrior Women of the ancient world, lived in this man-made jungle somewhere. So I went off the paths and into the trees in the hope that they would capture me and keep me as their slave. Each day I went home disappointed, but the next day I was back. And the next … and the day after that. I wanted it so badly and I was willing to give my life (or toys, maybe that’s more realistic) trying to achieve it. Poor, poor, silly me. I didn’t know the difference between a park, a forest and a jungle, but I did know that Women were superior and that I was born to submit myself to their will. The park still exists, but the Amazons left a long time ago.
I think.


Calling the Adult Chat Lines was great fun. Until the phone bill arrived, of course, that was never a laughing matter. Anyways, one day I told an anonymous Lady that I was looking for someone to sit on my face. Make Me a financial offer, She said. Two hours later the doorbell rang and there She was: a gorgeous ebony Lady, tall, slim, with long black hair and legs that went all the way up to the ceiling. We had a drink and a chat and then the doors of Heaven opened wide. She told me She’d never done this before, but She sat on my face like a Queen on a throne, man. It was fabulous, unforgettable and, needless to say, breathtaking.
Then, just before She left, She asked: Do you know where I live?
I was flabbergasted: Whe- no, I have no idea, I’ve neve-
I live just round the corner, less than a hundred meters away from you.
As it turned out, She had been living there already for two years. And yet, I’d never seen Her before in my life. What are the odds, right? True story! So yes, your future Mistress may live in a different city, another country or even on a different continent. But, at the same time; She might just as well be living in your neighborhood, just a stone’s throw away from where you’re sitting right now.


Loved it the first time I ate it, She smiled, it was delicious.
We’d been talking about holidays, movies, shopping, cooking and everything else under the sun. Just a perfectly relaxed afternoon with a lovely Madame. Not a cloud in the sky, not a worry in the world. Butterflies were dancing in the air, birds were singing.
If I fuck you with a strap-on, do you fantasise about a man?
Holy Moses, where did that come from? I had to pull myself together and said: Well Madame, i-
A simple yes or no will do! I didn’t ask for a fucking saga, did I?
Dark clouds rolled in with tremendous force. From a lazy Sunday afternoon to an all-hands-on-deck emergency in three seconds flat. How about that!
No Madame, I said meekly.
Are you trying to piss Me off, slave? No, to what?? The first or the second question? Her voice raged and thundered and there was lightning in Her eyes. The storm was about to devour me.
First or second question?? I was lost and had no idea what She was talking about.
They’d warned me about Her mood swings, but I’d laughed it away. But me, myself and my ass were about to find out that the rumours were true. Painfully true.


There were a lot of people at the party, but it was not insanely crowded. The Mistresses were in a rebellious mood and one of them ordered me to kneel down in front of Her. She took some lipstick from Her purse and started painting my face. Not gently, but as if She was smearing butter on a slice of bread.
Much, much better, one of the other Ladies giggled.
I had to take off my shirt and several Mistresses dug in to help and used my skin for canvas. Not only with lipstick, but with thick, black markers as well. A Woman’s purse is a thing of miracles and wonders, no question about it.
A Lady in red walked by and looked at my forehead.
By all means, She said and slapped me brutally hard in the face.
I didn’t know it yet, but someone had written SLAP ME on my forehead. There was also a red arrow on my cheek, pointing up, together with the words VACANT ROOM. And there was an arrow on my belly, pointing down, with the words: KICK-A-DICK.
Later that night Mistress pulled out a compact mirror and opened it for me to see. Man, my face looked like a lipstick massacre.
You look very cute, She teased.
I forced my Lancôme Absolute Rouge lips in something of a smile.


I’d been a nuisance and a pain in the arse for much too long and Karin simply reached a breaking point. She’d kicked me against the shin and dragged me by my hair across the schoolyard. I like to think She began to realise that a firm hand would keep me in line, because the following weeks were a mixture of happiness, frustration, beauty and suffering. She was very harsh with me and She had me eating out of Her hand. I was now on my knees in front of Her, looking up at Her like a puppy. She ordered me to open my mouth and spat in it.
Do you like it?
Yes, Karin, I whispered.
I love Your spit, Karin!
That’s right! Don’t you ever forget it.
One minute later saliva dripped from Her lips. I opened my mouth even wider, but She sucked the spit back in again before it touched my tongue. I moaned and begged Her with my eyes. She laughed out loud.
We were still so young and I can only speak for myself when I say that I didn’t really have a clue what was happening. I only know I loved being in this vulnerable and submissive position. It was the best feeling in the world and I wanted it to last forever.


Being at the fetish party in Paris was a thrilling experience and a feast for the eyes. So many people and so many gorgeous outfits! And then, in the sixth hour, I saw this divine apparition, dressed in a long, shiny black, habit. Of all the uniforms in the land, this is by far the most powerful one. My heart was racing, my lungs were burning. Flee for your life, I thought, don’t look, don’t look, for you will be swept away! But it was already too late, my eyes were glued on Her. I stood there for the rest of the night, like a salt pillar with a granite dick.
Quite strange, because I did not see the inside of  church until I was sixteen years old. So God knows why I’m so obsessed with nuns uniforms; but I really am. And I know: buying a box of condoms doesn’t make me the world’s greatest lover, and putting on a habit doesn’t make Her a nun. And yet … that uniform gives Her a level of authority and power that’s not from this world.
Truth is, I was way too salty and intimidated to say something to Her Holiness in Paris and I’ve not seen a fetish nun since. But I’m hoping and I’m praying, literally praying, for it every day.
So much for for being an atheist, right?


When I was younger, I used to play fight a lot. I loved it, became obsessed and addicted and craved for more and more. Alas, puberty put an end to this and it made me feel utterly miserable. It felt like being fucked up the ass by a Cold Turkey, one might say. I tried everything to get a shot of happiness and it took me more than a year to convince, persuade and bribe Eve to put me in a headlock.
I’m so sure, I teased, that you can’t hold me down.
And so, after giving Her my money, She told me to lay down on the grass. I almost teared up between my legs when She wrapped one arm around my head and squeezed me in a tight headlock. Her face was so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of Her breath on my face. Then She placed my left arm in an armlock and squeezed. Holy Moses, I didn’t see that one coming! I erupted in pain and tapped out quickly.
Don’t move, or I will hurt you a lot more, She said.
I tested that theory two or three times, and learned She was right. So I gave up struggling and lay there helpless and unable to move. It didn’t seem to take Her any effort at all to keep me down, which made it even more special. I was in Heaven, and looking back on my teenage years, I can honestly say this was my finest hour.


Let Me get this straight. There is a red button on My website, saying Don’t Click Here. Correct?
Yes, Mistress Valkyrie.
So, what did you do?
I clicked on it, Mistress, I said wit a guilty voice.
Yes, you did. Then what happened?
A dialog box popped up, Mistress, prompting me to apologise for my bad behaviour.
Go on …
I closed the dialog box, I squeaked, because I panicked you see. I put my computer to sleep and went to bed with a book.
And a boner, no doubt.
I nervously giggled: Yes, Mistress Valkyrie.
Because of Your demanding words in the dialog box, Mistress. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next morning I clicked the button again and wrote a sincere apology.
That’s right. And now we’re on the phone, talking about you behaviour. You told Me you are still a novice slave, but you disobeyed Me and you have to be punished. And I’m not talking about paying a fine, I’m talking about a punishment in the flesh. So you have to book a session with Me. That’s a direct order from Me to you, slave. I don’t care how you do it, but you will do it.
And that’s how it all started for me. If it hadn’t been for Mistress Valkyrie, I would still be a novice slave, endlessly waiting for the right moment.


What’s the point, I said irritated, Mark is already Your slave.
Now, now, She said, tapping Her finger playfully on my nose, don’t be so jealous. Mark is a friend, not My boyfriend.
Yeah well …., I said grumpy.
She smiled and  looked at me with new eyes. She studied my face intensely, as if She’d just found a secret compartment in a chest of drawers.
Now then, She said, you want to be My slave, is that correct?
Yes, Karin, I whispered.
I’ve always dreamed of having a slave, did you know that? Well, multiple slaves, really.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, because this moment was as fragile as porcelain. One false move or one stupid word and this glorious bubble would burst.
I’m not sure, of course, but I think I’m a very demanding, pretty cruel and merciless Mistress, hehe. Be very careful what you wish for.
I’m ready to serve You, Karin, I said with a hoarse and trembling voice.
Sweet God, was this really happening, was my dream about to come true?
The daydream exploded into reality and my ears filled with the noise of the school canteen.
Stop staring at Me, you creep, Karin sneered. She was sitting at a table opposite mine, and if looks could kill, I would be living in an urn right now.
What’s wrong, hon? Her boyfriend Mark asked.
La freak is staring at Me again.
He looked at me and shook his head: Jesus dude, grow up.
I slipped away into oblivion.


I will never forget my very first session, with two professional Mistresses no less. It all went remarkably smooth, like stepping into a warm bath after a long, exhausting day. In the third, and final hour, one of the Mistresses introduced me to the bullwhip. She wasn’t the squeamish type, because ten minutes earlier She had pierced my nipples with needles. Just like that. Anyways, my arms and legs were spread wide and strapped in place. The whip cracked and seemed to burn itself through my skin. I bellowed in pain.
I see you appreciate the excellent workmanship that went into making this whip, She grinned.
The lashes came in quick succession, leaving me no time to recover. My body winched in pain.
Mistress, have pity on an innocent novice, I shivered.
She laughed out loud and made a serious attempt to whip me in half. That evening I examined my back in the mirror. It looked like a battlefield, with craters and trenches criss-crossing in every direction. The Nazca lines gone wrong, so to speak. I was very proud of them and couldn’t stop looking. They were silent witnesses of one of the most memorable days of my life. Over the weeks this beautiful landscape slowly began to fade, until finally it simply disappeared altogether. As if nothing happened. As if it was all a figment of my imagination.


She gave me a Grand Tour of submission. Some foot worship, some doggy training, a couple of well-earned slaps to the face, a bit of whipping to warm up the skin (for the horrors that would soon follow) and some CBT to tame the beast and his great balls of fire. Well … in a manner of speaking. The pain was mild and I honestly began to believe I had special powers of some sorts (such a rookie mistake). Then She pinched my nipples with Her long, razor-sharp nails. My body twitched violently.
Aha, She grinned, found your weak spot.
And that was the start of a painful romance between my nipples on the one hand, and clamps on the other. Now, nipple clamps are not that bad during the first twenty minutes or so. You could do a summersault, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t recommend it, but you could. But then, after a while, pain sets in. The clamps start chewing through your flesh like piranha’s on the loose. The clamps restrict the blood flow and pain ripples through your body like a shockwave. But that’s nothing compared to removing these man-eating things. I fear that moment more than anything. The blood rushes back into your nipples, like barbaric herds with a silence to kill. It’s an explosion of pain, there’s no better way to describe it. The more ruthless Ladies would then grab the dying nipples and squeeze them like grapes. Loved it, hated it, feared it, but most of all: felt it.


My friendship with Monique goes back a long time and She knew everything about my submissive feelings. It wasn’t Her thing, but She was always very supportive and attentive. Bless Her! One day I told Her about a Female colleague of mine and I said something horrible. It wasn’t naughty or cheeky, it was downright rude and hurtful.
And you call yourself a slave, Monique said.
I admit I was a bit taken back by Her words. I sat there looking stupid for a while, but then I realised She was right.
I apologise, I don’t know what got in to me.
You can be such a jerk sometimes, do you know that? Submissive, pfff. Whenever it suits you, I would say.  It pisses me off. So, go and stand in the corner over there where I can observe you.
I wasn’t sure if She was pulling my leg, but I did what I was told.
Nose against the wall, hands on your head. I don’t want to hear your voice and I don’t want to hear you breathe. 
Her voice was right behind me and I shivered uncontrollably. I stood there for hours and my arms started to ache pretty badly. It was late in the evening when She told to go home.
We will not speak about this again, She said. I’m not your Mistress, nor do I want to be. But from now on you will speak with respect about Women. 
You see? There’s so much more to Dominance & submission than slaps, whips and canes.


For the previous few days we’d been building snow forts for the battle that was soon to start. A giant snowball fight between boys and Girls, aka The Subzero Battle of the Sexes! I was just a kid, but I knew that this was the battle that mattered most. It commenced on a cold and snowy afternoon. The boys defended the fortresses and the flag (which wasn’t a flag at all, but a red T-shirt). The barbarian hordes, better known as the Girls from the neighbourhood, came charging down the hill. Snowballs rained down like missiles and the fighting was intense for almost an hour. Then things began to fall apart.
Hold the line, I screamed. But there was a serious thaw in the line because the boys were fleeing. So I did, what real men do: I ran. For five metres, then someone jumped on my back and I fell down in the snow. I tried to fight my way out, but Lisa (who lived opposite the greengrocer) was too strong. She sat on my chest with Her knees on my arms. She had me pinned down and I was going nowhere. She laughed triumphantly and started rubbing snow all over my face.
Ho, ho, ho, I shivered, let me go! 
She did … and Ingrid (number 77, end of the street) took Her place and pinned be down with force. She showed little mercy and stuffed snow in my ears, nose and mouth.
Stuff snow in his pants! She commanded.
No-o-o-, I snow mouthed, but the Christmas spirit was nowhere to be found that day.


Pauline was a great looking Girl: blond, smooth skin, perky breasts, a gorgeous smile and not an inch of fat on Her body. I met Her at a birthday party, where She beat everyone who challenged Her to an arm-wrestling match. Boys, Girls, men and Women; She crushed them all. Which was bizarre, because Her body didn’t do biceps, if you know what I mean. I honestly thought it was a prank, some sort of hidden camera shit, or something like that. But in the end I could not restrain myself and decided to challenge Her and teach Her a lesson. I started aggressively and went full throttle immediately, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. She didn’t flinch and Her face was as calm as a pond on a windless day. My arm began to hurt and the strength melted away. And then it was all over. My hand smashed on the table with a powerful bang and everyone cheered. I was flabbergasted and immediately agreed to do the other arm. Well, we all make mistakes and mine lasted less than a second. It was Go-Baff-Over, only much faster. I had the honour of meeting Her several times after that and had at least ten rematches against Her. I didn’t stand a change and the result was always the same.


♬ 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.


My hands were chained above my head, with my toes barely touching the ground. This was only my third week in slavery and I was still as green as grass. I didn’t even know the difference between a paddle and poodle, for God’s sake.
Anyways, my nipples were clamped and weighted and my balls were tied tightly. Both Mistresses yanked the chain on the nipple clamps from time to time and kicked, squeezed and kneed my poor balls. And to make matters worse: they whipped me endlessly & mercilessly with a vicious cat-‘o-nine-tails and an unforgiving bullwhip. I suffered beyond belief, I really did. I tried to endure the pain as long as possible, but everyone has a breaking point. Mine came with the high-C of misery.
What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?
The blonde Mistress sounded not amused. I may have been a rookie, but I instinctively knew I was on thin ice now. I could hear it cracking and shifting beneath my feet.
Yes, Mistress, I do, I do.
Thank You Mistress, thank You for the punishment.
Do you want more?
(Nooooooooo! Stop! Enough = enough!! Read my lips: no, No, NO!!!)
Yes Mistres, please, I squeaked.
They laughed.
Good boy, big liar, the dark-haired Mistress said.
Always be ready for more, even if you can’t take no more, that’s my painful advice.


She arrived with the sweetest smile and left with my Playstation in Her luggage. She just took it, because what’s yours = Mine and what’s Mine = Mine, She always used to say. So I had to buy myself a new Playstation. Which I did. But wished I didn’t. Because She was not amused when She heard about it, not amused at all.
What’s yours = Mine, She snapped. Which part you didn’t understand?
I … I don’t understand, Mistress, I said bewildered.
She slapped me brutally hard and my ears were ringing like church bells on a Sunday morning.
Do you think this is funny? She grumbled.
No, Mis-
She kneed my  balls against the ceiling and my scrotum exploded in pain.
You bought that goddamn thing with MY money!! What’s yours ……
Aaaah …… I said with an Eureka! look on my face, because only then did it dawn on me.
She grabbed my ear and tried to pull it off my head.
Ah, indeed!! You need My permission before you spend any money. Do you understand?
She ignored me for days after that, which was more painful than a beating. But I learned my lesson and never wasted my = Her money again.


I explained that Mark and I were playing a bondage escape challenge.
Tying someone up is not that easy, I said.
Nonsense! Give Me that rope.
That was Paula. Beautiful Paula with Her gorgeous, breathtaking, hypnotising legs. Not today though; She was wearing jeans. Damn you bloody jeans! Anyway, I quickly volunteered and She began to tie me up; ankles and wrists, upper arms- and legs and then She fastened my wrists and ankles together behind my back. It was sensational, like bathing in hot lava. I wriggled like a snotty eel, but the more I struggled, the tighter the rope seemed to get. Which caused some serious leakage between my legs, I must say. That was somewhat alarming, because I was twelve years old at the time, and certainly not ready yet to come out of the submissive closet. Not with a Biblical flood between my legs. So I stayed on my stomach and struggled for a long, long time. To no avail.
You win, Paula, I sighed.
Of course I win!
Shall I untie him? Marianne asked.
No, let’s get some ice-scream first. And you (pointing at Mark) don’t move a muscle. Understood?
Yes Paula, he squeaked cowardly.
And so She left me there to dry. Which was impossible, because my trousers were soaking wet. Again I struggled ferociously, but it was impossible to escape. Paula sure as hell knew the ropes.


We were sunbathing in the Amsterdam Forest and it didn’t take long (or much) before we started a playful fight. I ended up on my stomach, with Selma on top of me, pinning my shoulders with a reversed cross body pin. She pushed Her pelvis down on my right shoulder and it exploded in pain. Somehow She’d found my flexus-plexus-rexus or something like that, and I screamed and begged for mercy. It made Her laugh.
Let me see if I understand it correctly ….. so this (She pushed down on my shoulder) hurts?
I screamed the birds away.
Not this (She stroke my head), but this (push)?
The pain vibrated through my entire body and I howled in agony.
Mmm, this is so comfortable, don’t you think?
Yes Selma, I squeaked, it is.
You’re such a liar.
No, Selma, no, I swear. As long as you do-
…… don’t do this (push)?
I nearly fainted from pain. A few minutes later She stuffed a hectare of grass in my mouth and made me swallow it. She also forced me to apologise to the birds for making such a racket. Our relationship lasted only two years. A few months after She left, I decided to come out of the submissive closet. Telling my friends and family about my submissive feelings was a brave thing to do, but I should’ve opened my heart to Selma. Not after She’d left, but on that beautiful day in the Amsterdam Forest.



The three of us turned a corner and bumped into a blonde Girl in jeans.
Well, well, She said, looking at Frank, there you are. Are you hiding from Me, you piece o-
Frank ran like a chicken, but She was much faster. She grabbed his fingers and twisted them like a wet towel. She pushed him down on the ground and put Her foot on his neck.
Don’t fucking move!
Harry ran at Her, like an amateur knight without a horse. Or sword. She grabbed his hair and brought him down to his knees in one fell swoop. I stood frozen to the ground, trying to take it all in. Frank lay motionless on his belly and Harry was on his knees, begging Her to spare his scalp. She looked at me.
Do you want some as well?
I shook my head.
Alright then. Go over there and stand with your nose against the wall. 
I could have made a run for it, but the gravitational pull of Her power was stronger than my fear. So I obeyed. Minutes later Frank and Harry’s noses joined me.
Look at you, She chuckled, so pathetic. Huey, Dewey and Louie! Stay there and don’t turn around. I warn you! 
I don’t know how long we stood there, but at least half an hour. When I finally had the nerve to look, She was long gone. So I couldn’t ask Her to marry me.


It was a small party, with only five Mistresses and five slaves invited. One by one we went up the stairs (a stairway to Heaven, so to speak), kneeled down in front of the Ladies and introduced ourselves. Nerve-racking, to say the least. The last to come up was Mac (aka Big Mac), a corpulent, florid man from Great Yarmouth. He had years of experience under his belt and he had even served as a 24/7 lifestyle slave.
I’m sure you did all kinds of things for your Mistress and fulfilled many tasks, one of the Ladies said. Can you name something you’re particularly proud of?
Big Mac looked bewildered, like a rabbit in the headlights. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. I always get very nervous in situations like this, so I began to sweat all over.
Come on, slave, the Lady said encouragingly, just name one thing you’re proud of.
The words came from deep inside him: ……my…..dick?
Silence fell like a ton of bricks. And then a nervous giggle escaped me; it flew from my lips like a tweeting bird. All eyes turned to me and my giggle died a sudden death. If looks could kill, I would be living in an urn right now. They said nothing, but boy, I dearly paid for it later that evening. So whatever happens, do not, I repeat do NOT giggle.


Once upon a time two sisters came to work with us: Sylvia (the elder) en Elvira (the younger). Sylvia was shy, friendly, supportive and understanding. Elvira was different and I was firmly and absolutely convinced that She was a real deal dominant. She never asked for anything, She demanded. And woe betide you if you didn’t obey straight away! If you teased Her, She would grab your hair and scalp you. My husband is My slave, She once said to us. After Her divorce we became close friends, and one day I told Her about my submissive nature. She told me I should see a therapist. Blimey, I didn’t see that one coming!
You told us your husband was your slave!
She laughed and rolled Her eyes.
In a manner of speaking, you idiot! Mistresses and slaves? Come on, grow up!
Well, talking about a straight knock-out! But the worst was yet to come, because one day She told me about Sylvia’s new boyfriend. He turned out to be submissive as well and he’d asked Sylvia to be his Mistress. She was willing to try and it was Sylvia, who turned out to be a natural born dominant!! That guy is now Her 24/7 slave.
True story. True bummer.


Selma jumped off the couch and I Usain Bolted to the toilet and locked myself in. Now, you have to know that one of my ancestors was in Napoleon’s army during the Russian campaign of 1812. He wrote his last letter from Butkiškė, Lithuania, never to be heard of again. Only the letter survived. His brother fought against Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815 and lived to tell the tale. And here I was, a descendant of these battle-hardened men, cowering in a fucking water loo. I opened the door ajar and waved some toilet paper up and down. Selma told me it was safe to come out. I wasn’t too convinced though, because She could be a mean, brutish, cruel, merciless and barbaric bitch sometimes. But then again, you can’t live in a toilet for the rest of your life, so I opene –
She grabbed me by the balls and twisted them viciously. Like sticking your nuts in a mixer.
Selma-ah-ah-aa. I danced up and down like a frog on a hot plate.
Next time you’ll do as you’re told, won’t you?
Yes, yes, I give you my wo-aaa-ord.
She squeezed even harder and my voice reached the high C. She was more deadly than a demolition squad, no question about it.
Don’t let it happen again, She hissed.
She let go of my balls. I fell down on my knees and sobbed in pain.
My ancestors turned in their graves.


She ordered me on all fours and walked through the room, with me crawling right behind Her. Commands came in quick succession: roll over, down, sit pretty, stay, play dead, come. Being a dog is a pretty exhausting business, I can tell you that much.
Wag your tail, puppy!
I wasn’t going to dangle my dick, so I showed Her my ass and shook my butt.
I see no tail, She said dryly.
It’s very, very tiny, Mistress, I said.
Big Mistake! She slapped me hard in the face. And again. And yet again. Like being kissed by a sledgehammer.
Dogs don’t talk, do they, Pluto?
I kept stumm, didn’t even growl. She picked up a dog toy, showed it to me and tossed it across the room. I wagged my non-existing tail and waited.
I crawled like crazy and picked up the toy with …… my hand. Jesus, Snoopy! Seconds later She rammed Her boot on the back of my head, holding my face down to the floor. She grabbed my hair and trimmed it. I got the point.
I fetched the toy over and over again, brought it back and placed it right before Her feet.
Next time we’ll bring out the dog food, She said.
I hid my head under the couch and whined.
Yes, it was a deeply humiliating experience, but I was as happy as a dog with two tails.


Femdom is …. an awful lot of cleaning, I would say. Because I had a heartfelt relationship with detergents, dusters and scrubbing brushes for a long time. At the OWK I cleaned a bathroom floor once with a toothbrush (because serving a Mistress is not about making your life easier, is it boy). Every now and then the Mistress and Her cigarette came in to check up on me. She would drop some ash on the floor and slap me silly for being such a lousy cleaner. Hehe, a bit of humour never hurt anyone. Well, that’s not true, because She almost slapped me unconscious, but you know what I mean.
I cleaned everything: floors, windows, doors, bathrooms, bedrooms, refrigerators, bookshelves, cars, bikes and what not. Once finished, She would inspect everything meticulously. Without saying a word. Which was as nerve-racking as walking a tightrope across Niagara Falls. My heart beat the big drum and my teeth rattled like castanets. And then, finally, Her voice cut through the silence like a slashing blade: Slave! Come here! Sometimes She was satisfied and other times She was (certainly) not. And then I had to do it all over again. Still, I loved cleaning, loved the hard work and loved making myself useful, because that’s what being a slave is all about, really.


I didn’t believe him at first and told him to leave me alone. But then he started begging me, and I mean really begging me. So in the end I removed the bubblegum from my mouth and gave it to him. He took it in his mouth and his eyes lit up with excitement. ‘This is so delicious, I can taste you now’, he shivered. And so he became addicted, which made him persistent, pathetic and vulnerable at the same time. He became like wax in my hands; I made him follow me around the schoolyard like a puppy, spat in his mouth and made him pay for the gum. The grand finale was when I told him to kneel down in front of me while the girls of my class were watching. They ridiculed and mocked him, pushed him and slapped him on the back of his head. He didn’t budge. I ignored him for the most part and he just sat there, with his forehead touching my hand. A couple of times I told him to open wide and I leaned over with the gum between my teeth. His eyes were begging Me, but then I started chewing again. The girls all laughed. So many years ago, but I remember it as if it happened only yesterday.


I’ve always been fortunate enough to meet the right Girls at the right time. And these Girls, unintentionally perhaps, influenced my submissive life greatly. Sue was the first. She was always a bit edgy and short-tempered. An active volcano, one might say: always ready to rumble and smother you with molten lava. We had no idea where Her anger came from, but when it came, it came with brutal force. She fought ferociously, and boys, including older boys, ran with the tail between their legs. And rightfully so, because Sue didn’t just twist your arm; She dislocated your shoulder. I was the tallest boy in the neighbourhood and therefore hard to beat. Still She won half the time, not because I lost deliberately or anything, absolutely not. There was really no need for that; one moment of slackness and She would kick your ass. The pinnacle of humiliation was (and still is) the Schoolgirl-Pin: sitting on top of Her victims, pinning them down to the ground. Sometimes She would force you to submit over and over again, smothering you with Her hands or stuffing grass into your mouth. Oh, beautiful, unforgettable days!
In the end we lost track of each other, because that’s how life works sometimes. So here’s to Sue and the unparalleled beauty of the Schoolgirl-Pin.