Wednesday, March 18, 2009

On service.

Long-time readers of my blog may be familiar with my love for food play, golden showers, gender play, and discipline. What you may not be aware, however, my dear submissives, is my affinity for service submission.

I have an eye for detail and a penchant for exacting tasks. You must gently and carefully select the best petals from a rose, place them in a bowl of water heated to my ideal temperature, and soak my feet in it. You would then give my toes a manicure. I reward obedience and punish errors.

What I currently desire most of a submissive is a longer scene involving more demanding service. The table set perfectly, with fresh flowers, and the tableware placed properly. A meal, either prepared by you or brought carry-out. Served perfectly, the perfect bite always taken onto the fork and fed to me. Tea brewed to my desired concentration and served to me. And you, of course, outfitted in your best apron and panties.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Punished!

I should be doing other things, but my mind wanders. My hand on your bare ass, for example. The sound of my palm cracking against your skin. Your tremble, bent over my knee. Between each strike or succession of strikes, I lightly rub your slowly reddening ass. The momentary erasure of my previous strikes deepens the red color, livens all the nerve endings in your body. Back and forth, the sound of my palm on flesh mingled with my occasional murmur or laughter. Be a good body, won't you? Don't be so naughty.

I stand you up, tie you by the wrists and secure your ankles with the spreader. Enough so that you can't escape, but some so that I can watch you squirm. Perhaps I gag you. Perhaps I'd rather here your cries. If I am playful, I blindfold you. I start in with the paddle, a more muffled, less sharp sound. The sensation is less direct, more of a spread-out burning. This round, I do not rub your ass between blows. I start lightly, then move to quicker and quicker blows. Building my tempo. Working your ass. You quiver and squirm, but you must accept this. The endorphins flood your brain.

I grow bored, though, and I try your ass with the crop. Lightly at first, just well-spaced flicks. The sting catches you off guard. Perhaps I laugh at your reactions, or coax you with a soothing word to take more, or mock your predicament. Whatever my words, I begin to hit you harder. I want to hear the crop sing as it slices through the air. I hit you harder and harder, in quicker succession. It has not been unknown that I have bruised my palm this way, taking out my fury on your ass with my crop.

If I feel you deserve extra, perhaps I will use the shaft of my crop. That deep, double pain. The pain of the initial contact, the pain of your flesh rebounding from the blow. Perhaps I leave the crop indenting, delaying that inevitable sting.

When I let you down, you crawl to my feet and kiss my shoes in gratitude. Good boy, good boy, I murmur as I give you something to drink.

Friday, March 6, 2009

I am bored with posturing.

One thing that has struck me in the time that I have been practicing my craft is the number of would-be or trial submissives I've encountered or given the privilege of taking on for training who simply cannot accept what they ask for. It is one matter to write me an email expressing your deep, twisted desires. It is quite another to be bound and gagged with me standing over you, crop in hand. Do not be so surprised when I begin to toy with the perverse, delightful intentions you have expressed to me. If you cannot accept your subordination and the route my dominance will take, do not be so explicit in your communications.

I am not impressed by a submissive who can describe and imagine outlandish scenes of degradation and pain. I am impressed by a submissive who, inch by inch, week by week, crawls closer, stumbling over my heels and biting on the gag, toward the lofty heights of utter submission. I will tease out and craft your fantasy. I will not tolerate your fantasies of selfhood.

I have a submissive who, when I first began to meet with him, laughed in doubt at the equipment of torturous rapture in my space. As time has progressed, I find myself applying the whip to him, digging the sharp point of my heel into him to degrees he'd only imagined, dribbling chocolate and white wine off of my tongue and onto my stocking-clad feet to force into his mouth. He has grown as a kinkster and deviant in such delightful ways. And that, my dear sluts, pleases your mistress.