Cuckold Wife’s Comments on Sissy Husband

Every one of these classic drawings is worth a considered caption! One in particular (among so many to choose from) is the one of the couple on the couch filming the dancing boy. I’d picture the dialogue going something like this:

“Oh, Big Burt! Isn’t my little Billy just the most adorable, swishy, prissy, cutest lil’ ole thing EV-UH? You were asking me how a girl like me would ever marry a boy like him, and to answer your question I wanted to show you his gentle, vulnerable, sweet-as-molasses, tender-as-a-tulip side. He’s as graceful and feminine as a prima ballerina in the role of Swan Lake’s Odette. My little dolly just brings tears of joy to my eyes, he does.”

“Ha ha, yeah babe, he brings tears to my eyes too – tears of laughter, that is. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get where you’re coming from. You tend to see the very best in people, but I’ve always been a dead-eyed realist. To be brutally honest, your Billy-boi looks like a sissy fag doing uber-girly ballet moves in dance shoes and a tutu – with even a rose in his bright-red lipsticked mouth for cryin’ out loud!”

“He’s not attracted to men, so he’s not a sissy fag. No, Billy’s my sissy cutie. Big Burt, you do know the reason I sleep with you, right? You’re the manliest rock-hard ten-inch tumescent titanic titanium towering stud I’ve ever been rammed by. There’s a place in me that only you fill – both literally and emotionally – that my poor sweet femmy sissy Billy with his two-inch Certs roll cockette can never even come close to fulfilling. Try to be empathetic enough to put yourself in his satiny beribboned pointe ballet slippers for just a moment, Big Burt.”

She continued, warming to her topic, “You pump iron or rebuild transmissions or add on rooms to the house or play tackle football or chop firewood or go hunting or watch sports with your buddies – or RAM me! – in order to relieve stress and have fun. By comparison, what is our poor Billy stuck with for recreational activities? Well, for self-relaxation he has his crocheting, knitting, floral arranging, sewing, and embroidery. With me and the girls he has shopping ‘therapy’, club tennis, spa and salon days, and dance lessons. My point simply being this, Big Burt. Your world is not his. He sees in you all of the things, all of the masculinity, all of the strength and power and drive and manly self-assurance that he craves but cannot possess. He sees the way society respects you, at night in his cold lonely bed he hears the way that my basest animalistic urges of involuntary primordial lust respond to you, and the poor green-eyed monster of jealously just eats the poor little fella apart. He is truly to be pitied.”

She continued her well-considered oratory, “But for all that overabundance of testosterone (not that I’m complaining about THAT, mind you!), you have a good brain and an even-handed personality. You’re no apelike mindless knuckle-dragger, Big Burt. If you were, then I’d simply enjoy a single one-night stand with you before sending you packing. But if we’re actually going to make this new family dynamic work for the long haul, then I can’t have you constantly berating my Billy in that ugly way. Teasing him a good bit is great – hey, I like to do a lot of that myself – but don’t go over the line. If you do, I will actually defend him, believe it or not. He may never get to the point of actually liking you, although I’ve made it clear to him that I really want him to – but you had better make a better effort of at least appearing to like him, even if you can’t at all respect him. Figuratively, I expect you to be Billy’s daddy while I’m the mommy. Be firm (not tyrannical) in disciplining him, but you need to be fair too.”

Burt looked a little surprised. “And here I was thinking you were getting ready to divorce his sissy pantied ass, since it sure doesn’t look like you respect him. I mean, you put him in a tennis dress and insist he play ladies’ doubles on public courts with you and your two sisters. You four have a standing weekly appointment at the salon for a roller set and comb-out, followed by marathon clothes and shoe shopping. I built that add-on room and put in the dance barre and lined the walls with floor-to-ceiling mirrors so that you and your sisters could put him in leotards and tights and teach him ballet – which he seems to have picked up rather easily. He’s a sissy, no doubt, but even I have to admit he’s an exceptionally lithe, limber, well-coordinated sissy with excellent balance and cardiovascular endurance. And holy cow, you even shaved his body, made up his face, painted his nails and rouged his nipples too? Give him a vagina and a pair of tits and he’d be every bit as girly as even you and your knockout sisters!”

She giggled involuntarily, but was no more successful in restraining her laughter than she was in feigning anger as she slapped Big Burt playfully, “You’re horrible, and hush up! Seriously, don’t be so loud. He’ll hear you, and the poor dear is already self-conscious enough as it is. This has been a very rough year for him, what with you moving into the master bedroom and him moving out into the spare room that I redecorated with the rose wallpaper, pink shag carpet, white frilly canopy bed with lavender bedspread and all my old dolls and stuffed animals arranged in and amongst my rather girly-girl childhood bedroom set.”

Burt grinned, “Yeah, and not to mention all your hand-me-downs that stayed in that spare room’s closet and you’re now insisting he make use of “just to save money”. It was kind of tough to take him as a serious base-running threat when he came up to bat in softball at the company picnic in your old blue short-shorts with the white star print, plus your old midriff cami top with the red-and-white horizontal stripes.”

“Hey, it was the 4th of July, and when he made a catty, snide, uncalled-for remark about you having been a Marine … well, I simply felt that it was my duty as a patriotic American to re-instill some basic pride in his country and for the people – like you – who served so valiantly in our armed forces.”

Burt laughed aloud, “Oh yeah baby, you’re SOOOO noble!” They high-fived and laughed aloud together as the classical music snippet finally stopped playing. In silent exhausted misery, Billy finished the dance solo his wife and sisters-in-law had painstakingly taught him, step by miserable emasculating step. He knew better than to unfreeze from his finished routine-ending position until his wife said he could.

She was smiling and clapping, “Great job, Billy, you’ve come so far! There’s just a few rough spots we need to clean up and iron out before you’re ready to perform it (in one of my old G-rated dance recital costumes, of course!) in front of everyone at the family reunion next month.”

As Burt’s immensely big and incredibly strong massaged her groin with firm yet surprisingly gentle ministrations, Billy’s wife continued, somewhat flushed and out-of-breath. “Sweetie-pie, mommy and daddy need to spend some grown-up time alone. Take this tripod and camera into the dance room and set it up for a wide angle shot in the corner. For at least an hour, I want you to film yourself practicing your leaps, pirouettes and plies en pointe. I’ll view the film later and critique you at that time … now GO, and DO NOT disturb us!”

Patti’s comment on Jean Hervé Vane’s Sissies

FemDom Predator

Available now at Divine Bitches: FemDom Predator

Maitresse Madeline is a predator who hunts random naive boys in random men’s restrooms. Imagine if you will you are taking a piss and there she is, Maitresse Madeline herself seductively behind you grabbing onto your cock while you finish your piss. She has you under her spell and takes control of you using you for her amusement. She spanks your bare ass because you have been such a naughty boy. She covers your head with a plastic bag and does whatever she wants with you. The breath play gets you so high you are helpless under her control. She sits on your face smothering you with her perfect cunt and sweaty ass. Finally she straps it on and pounds you right there with your face down on the dirty bathroom floor. And, without warning she fists your ass so deep that your prostate milks uncontrollably and you spill your filthy load all over. This is EXACTLY what happened to Jesse Carl and all he was trying to do was take an innocent piss.

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Brutal Wife Cuckolds, Castrates Slave Husband

Wife Enslaves, Beats Up, Cuckolds Her Inferior Husband

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During our first few months of marriage, Justin and I were annoyingly conventional. I saw myself slipping into the nightmare of trite middle-class life that had so thoroughly repulsed me during college. My life was becoming a sleeping museum of contemporary American culture — a living death. I quit my job, you see, and was lazy about finding a new one. My husband went to work, supported us, while I lazed around the house, cooking, taking care of the nothingness surrounding me, ordering it more nicely, disguising it into something meaningful and emotionally fulfilling. I was becoming a zombie: a television person: a housewife.

My husband began to really enjoy this. I was becoming more and more dependant upon him, hence he was in control. He liked this. He patronizeed me, issued orders only thinly veiled with politeness.

I couldn’t stand it.

My husband began spending more time away from home with his friends and colleagues from work. When he came home he was often exhausted, and our sex life suffered. Finally, I went to a sex shop and purchased various sex toys — two vibrators, and two large dildos. I was embarrassed buying them so I rushed. It was only when I returned home that I discovered that one of the dildos I had bought was actually a strap-on. An eleven-inch-long strap-on. Stiff and black, with little life-like veins and things.

One night while we ate my husband complained that his steak was too rare.

“Maybe you cooked it this rare for yourself, huh? Your period, something to do with that?”

“My period’s not for a week, Justin.”

“The point is, Uma, this is too rare.” He glared at me. Icily, irritated at his whining, I returned his look.

“Why don’t you just eat it, Justin? Afraid it’s still alive?”

Justin lifted his hand and pointed his index finger very close to my face. “Don’t you back-talk me, Uma. Pick this up off the table, and put it back in the goddam oven.”

I hesitated; I could feel my face flush with rage.

“And I mean NOW.”

The next few seconds seemed to consume hours. I was aware of three things: his finger aimed like a gun at my face; the echo of his bullyish voice reverberating in my mind; and the pounding of my heart in my chest.

Slowly, my hand rose up from my lap — I saw it move in front of me like an independent being, not at all under my control. Then, with my palm open, I struck my husband across the face: a loud, hollow slap. He turned bright red, and looked totally amazed. His face shook. To my surprise, I saw tears glisten in his eyes.

Kicking his chair back, Justin rose from the table. I’m sure if I hadn’t felt a little numb — if I hadn’t been totally amazed at what I had just done — I would have been afraid. But I wasn’t. My vision focused on the tears dampening the corners of his eyes.And then he was at my side, sort of hissing at me in a furious, raspy voice.

“Get up.”

I stared at him, wondering what he was going to try to do to me. His face was still trembling; his fingers were moving, like they were gripping then releasing patches of air; struggling to form fists, then straightening out again.

“Get the fuck up, you lousy worthless cunt; you little fucking shit. Get the fuck up.”

I didn’t move. I felt little drops of spit from his mouth hit my face.

He disgusted me.

My husband disgusted me.

His language. His spit. His silly show of force.

Then he reached out and grabbed my hair and pulled me up from my chair. I cried out; he seemed to be trying to turn me around. I kicked at his shins — I might’ve hit him, because he began yelling — then I saw his arms flailing around. Blurs. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hit me, or trying to shove me away. Then one of his elbows hit my head, and I got dizzy; things blurred a little, I think I was crying; I was still trying to kick at his shins, and I tried to slap him again, then I felt his forearm pound across my breasts.

And I suddenly stopped moving. Everything stopped moving. I felt pain. I was gasping. Crying. I looked at him. He was glaring at me. Grinning. He was grinning. I couldn’t believe it: he was grinning. Proud of having hurt me.

Again my hand flew out — instinctively, self-protectively — this time in a fist. It cracked squarely into his jaw. More spittle flew from his mouth. I wish I could’ve seen his expression, watched his pain. But my vision went red, and I began beating my husband up.

After I felt my fists hit his face and head at least a dozen times, after my knuckles began to swell up, Justin began weeping, pleading with me to stop. He was on the floor, begging, while I — rather relaxed — took leisurely whacks at his face. Enjoying the power. Humbling him.

He had a black eye; a bloody nose; fattened lips. I grabbed his hair — “how do YOU like being jerked around by the hair?” — and pulled him up to his knees. I pressed his head back against a wall with my crotch; ground his skull against it like I wanted to turn his brains to powder. I Pounded my groin against his face, driving his head into the wall rhythmically: boom, boom, boom.

Then, using his short hair like a leash, I led him toward our bedroom while he walked on his hands and knees.

“Why haven’t you been in the mood for sex lately, Justin? Hm? You haven’t been having an affair, have you? With one of the guys at work? You’re not queer, are you, Justin?”

Justin moped that he wasn’t.

“I’m not sure I believe you, Justin. I think you like to take it up the ass. I think you’re afraid of women. I think I frighten you; that’s why you’re too tired to get it up most nights.”

I must have snapped some psychological cable in him somewhere, because he tried to escape; he leapt to his feet — surprising me that he had that much energy left — and took a swing at my head. He was too close to get much momentum in his swing, and I leaned even closer to him, holding up my own arm to block his dizzy-headed, limp attack.

But I was alarmed that he was still capable of putting up any fight at all, and I was also a little tired of messing around with featherweight artillery, so while I stood inches away from him, I snapped my knee up as rapidly and forcefully as I could.

I was at the perfect distance: my knee drove hard into his crotch, evoking a horrible wail from him, sending him in a desperate dive to the floor, where he writhed, clutching at his maleness. Sobbing in pain.

Looking at my pathetic, beaten husband — my toppled, defeated man — I became bitter. Contemptuous. I realized I had married half of a man. A weakling. Soon I learned that all men are that way — when handled correctly — but at that time my husband was the sole target of my contempt.

And I decided to rape him.

Quickly, I proceeded to our bedroom — opened my closet — and, stripping down to my panties, I strapped on the eleven-inch dildo. Then I went back out to the living room where my husband still lay on the floor, shaking, clutching at his groin, his sobs toned down to steady weeping.

I moved up behind him, and ordered him on his knees. At first he stalled, then I kicked him in the side, triggering a deep, gasping sound from his chest.

“Do as I fucking say, Justin.”

He moved jerkily to his knees, his head swaying visibly.

“Now undo your pants.”

His crying picked up again.

“Undo your FUCKING pants or I’ll slice your balls off with a paring knife then Fed-Ex them to your goddam parents.”

Justin undid his belt, then unbottoned and unzipped his trousers.

“Now put your hands on the carpet.”

He obeyed. He was on his hands and knees. The huge artificial penis extending from my crotch like a swordfish’s spike, I moved up behind my husband, predatory, ready to ravage his tight little ass. I reached around him and gripped his balls; pinched them — he gasped, his voice feminine — and yanked down on them. Pushing the large, bulbous head of the dildo up between his legs, I began rubbing his balls roughly against it.

“You feel this, Justin? This is what real manhood feels like. Not a little cocktail weiner like yours, Justin; not like your little nibble-nuts. This is what a MAN feels like. You ever felt a man inside you? At work, Justin? Your boss, maybe? Ever let him take you?”

Justin wept a denial.

“Well then, I’m going to show you what a real man does. Maybe you can learn from this, Justin, so that one day maybe you can please me like a man.”

Then, releasing his little balls, I took my husband’s virginity in a ruthless fashion.

“Just pretend I’m one of your little buddies at work, Justin.” I speared the dildo between his cheeks, pounded it deep into his body.

“Just pretend this is one of their little peenie-weenies.”

By the time I was finished with him, by the time I thought I had proved my point to him, my husband’s voice was gone from him crying out so loud, at times screaming. I had broken several of my fingernails on the flesh of his buttocks. While I was screwing my husband’s hole I nailed him in the balls a few more times; at one point I grabbed his nuts and tried to crumple them up like croutons in my fist, making him recite the Lord’s Prayer while I did so. For several days he couldn’t walk without limping, for I had badly bruised his groin in various places with my elbow and my knees. His rectum was torn; bloodied.

And it took more than a week for the bruises to leave his face.

My husband, I determined, was the sort of man who required discipline from a woman.

Our relationship became, for a time, a prolonged struggle in which he attemped to re-assert himself as the dominant party — in response to which I inflicted further punishments upon him. I realized I had solidly acquired the position of dominance in the relationship and I had no intent of relinquishing it.

The punishment I chose for my husband took a variety of different forms: some mainly physical, some psychological. For example, about a month after I first raped Tim, I coincidentally ran into a man I had met a couple of times in college. The guy was still extremely handsome; I lusted after him in college — it turns out the feeling was mutual — but we had never gone out. Surprising myself, I asked him on a date.

“I thought you were married.”

“I am. I can still date other people, though.”

“Oh, you mean: your husband wanted to see other women, so you decided that it’d only be fair if you could–”

“No. My husband isn’t allowed to see other women. But I see other men.”

“Does he…”

“He knows about it, yes.”

“What does he say?”

“I haven’t asked his opinion.”

A couple of days later, I slept with this man, Mack, in my (and my husband’s) bed. I had arranged it so that Justin was lying in the narrow space under the bed while Mack and I made love on the mattress above him. So that he could feel the weight of our loving bodies against him.

Mack was an extremely well-endowed, strong man. Really quite an ox. The first time he screwed me while my husband lay silently under the bed, I found myself moaning and crying out in a way I never had before. I couldn’t help myself; Mack’s immense organ filled me more than any man ever had before. He was skillful, sensitive, and physically commanding. After about fifteen minutes of sex, I began to orgasm, and came continually for the next ten minutes. My body felt like it had been struck by lightning.

His refractory period was almost instantaneous. After his copious, thick semen splashed into my vagina, he soon got hard again, and guided his giant cock into my mouth.

“That’s it. Come on, baby, just a little wider…”

I could barely get it into my mouth; at one point, whimpering, I tried to pull away from him, but he held my head in place.

Before he came, he decided to pull out of my mouth and have me ride his cock. My pussy already felt stretched; I was certain I’d be sore the next day. But feeling his shaft penetrate me so deeply, stretch me so wide, I lost my head in ecstasy, and began riding him in a thrashing, delirious way.

After he left that evening, I found my husband weeping under the bed. I told him I’d be like that with him, too, if he had the equipment of a real man. I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out from under the bed, then made him suck Mack’s semen from my vagina. My labia, my mons, my clitoris — everything between my legs was drenched in his thick seed. I made my husband lick me clean. When he was done, I noticed that he had an erection — his cock was stiffer, fuller than I’d seen it in quite a while — so I told him his little weenie didn’t impress me, then slammed my foot against his balls. He collapsed onto the floor, holding his nuts like he was afraid they’d break off his body and escape. He wept for at least half an hour. I yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t control himself. Finally I had to smack him a few times.

One evening I talked Mack into letting Tim suck his balls for a while, while I fellated his (Mack’s) cock. As soon as Tim — following my orders — fell naked on his knees before Mack, he began weeping. I slapped him across the face and told him to stop being suck a stupid baby.

“Uma, I think your husband’s afraid to see a real cock up close.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I think it’s the balls, too. His balls are tiny compared to yours. Look.” I grabbed Timmy’s nuts and pulled them forward to show Mack. When I saw that Tim’s eyes were closed, I punched him in the cheek, grabbed him by the hair, then made him look me straight in the eye.

“Tim,” I told him, “You will never, ever know what’s it’s really like to be a real man. You’re not a man at all, Tim.”

I brought my fist into his nuts — he wailed — then forced him to begin licking Mack’s balls.

Mack enjoyed the scene. At one point he spat on Tim’s head and told him to be more passionate. Then he slapped my husband across the face because Tim couldn’t manage to get both of his testicles in his mouth at once.

“You must feel like shit, little man,” he talked down at my husband. “You’re shit in bed, and your wife knows it — because she’s got me.”

Mack decided he wanted to force his meat into Tim’s mouth. Tears were streaming down Tim’s face as Mack held him by the head — occasionally slapping his ears — and reamed his face.

Occasionally I acted out with Mack. It was entirely accidental; it’s like my habitual free-and-easy nastiness with Tim got the better of me and I accidentally mistreated Mack. In every one of those occasions, though, he punished me sternly.

Once, for example, Mack hurt me by shoving his huge penis into my mouth too fast, so I instinctively swatted at his balls. I only whisked them with my fist, but it still hurt him, and — before I could defend myself at all — I was on my stomach and he was spiking me up the ass. I cried like a baby while he did it; I had never felt such excruciating pain. It felt like my lower body was being ripped apart and sprayed with flame. My husband sat staring, a confused look on his pathetic face.

Later that night I apologized to Mack, and begged him to forgive me. He apologized back for being so rough, but explained that his testicles were very sensitive, and that he reacted very protectively whenever they were threatened at all. He held me in bed for about half an hour, spooning me, stroking my breasts, reinforcing our affection. He let me touch his huge balls — each as large as a jumbo egg. I stroked them gently — I could almost feel pure masculine energy emitting from them — and I wished I had never inadvertently hit such glorious objects.

We ignored my husband, slumped like a trash bag against a wall.

After Mack left that evening I raped my husband again — perhaps more viciously than I had before. I made him stand above a mirror on the floor, bent over, while I sodomized him. I wanted him to see his own facial expressions — see his body shake and seize up — while I fucked him. Then I threw him to the floor, and lashed at his groin with a thick leather belt. When he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, I’d direct the belt against his face or chest.

I made him spend the night in the back yard — naked. The whole time he sat huddled, quivering, clutching himself for warmth at the side of the garage, where he thought it was least likely that anyone would see him.

Eventually my husband seemed to give up the idea of ever being equal with me in our relationship. Instead of whining about my treatment of him — the way I occasionally woke him up in the middle of the night by anally raping him, or by stuffing phallic objects (dildos, carrots, etc.) into his mouth, etc. — he began threatening to leave me. He was “threatening to run away,” like a child.

I had essentially two kinds of responses that juvenile tactic. The first was shutting him up — and hopefully deterring further idiotic outbursts — but phsycally punishing him.

The second way was by creating a scenerio for him of what would happen if he ever did indeed run away.

“Most likely, Justin, I’ll track you down, bring you back, and then I’ll castrate you. Clip off your balls like a couple of kumquats.”

I told him this while we both lay in bed — he with his hands tied to one of the bedposts behind him. I reached under the blanket and cupped his testicles in my hand.

“And I’ve given it some thought. I’ve decided that when — because I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, it’s just a matter of when you piss me off enough — when I castrate you, Justin, I’m going to get it on videotape. And I think I’ll send a copy to your parents. Don’t you think your mother would love to watch that? She never thought I was good enough for you.”

I squeezed my husband’s nuts firmly. He whimpered; his eyes were tearful.

I told Justin I’d make him watch the tape of him being castrated over and over while I sodomized him with huge strap-ons, phallic vegetables, etc. on our living room floor. I’d make him re-live he emasculation as a daily ritual.

And I told him I’d take him out to nude beaches to show everyone his modification. I’d guide my eunuch around and chat with strangers about how pleasant it was to have a sexually void husband to serve me, and to act as a toy for me and my genuinely male lovers. I’d let the strangers examine his scars, and tell them about how he wasn’t really a man to begin with.

I mentioned that I might like to castrate him in the desert somewhere — or on the grounds of some isolated state park. I’d let the blood of his wound seep into the ground. Later I’d take my lovers to that spot, for them to screw me where I had terminated my husband’s masculinity. The disembodied spirit of Justin’s maleness would remain at that spot; hover around us; take part in our sexual encounter.

I told Justin that perhaps I’d dry his testicles and hang them from leather cords above the doorway to our house as good luck charms. And, perhaps, with his crotch mostly empty, I’d make him decorate the space where his nuts once dangled with prettier ornaments: things like Christmas tree decorations, or beautiful crystals, or bunches of aromatic herbs.

Or maybe I’d videotape myself at the dinner table, eating his cooked testes with him sitting beside me, watching. Weeping. My poor husband — I’d even make him do the cooking. Then I’d reach over to him with the fork: “Open up, Justin. Your turn to take a bite. Open your mouth, eunuch: it’s your food.”

Maybe after castrating him I’d freeze the testicles, then, periodically, I’d remove them from the freezer and — with him tied firmly, totally unable to move — I’d throw them, over and over, at his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.

“I’ll keep smashing you in the groin, though, Justin — with or without your little balls. I want you to think of that part of your stupid male body as a horrible fucking weakness, not a source of strength.

Your groin’ll be like a little graveyard attached to your pathetic body. One that you can’t escape from.”

Dominant Wife Severely Punishes Slave Husband

Slave Husband’s Disciplinary Suffering

Miley was let from the car first. She brought the shovel and pick out from the trunk, unloaded the bags holding their bloody and dirty clothes, and gave a wave to Kirsten and Patricia. She carried the bags into the garage, then put the tools in the shed behind the house. Musing on the night’s activities, she let herself in the back door.

At once she went to the refrigerator and poured herself a large glass of milk. It soothed her dry throat and she licked her lips.

On her way to the master bedroom she slipped her own grime-slicked dress over her head and left it in the bathroom’s trashcan. She climbed into the shower and scrubbed herself down, languishing in the stream as it massaged her spine and the base of her neck . Miley stayed until the last of the hot water was gone.

She toweled down vigorously, then stroked baby talc over her alabaster skin and then, stretching, she stepped into the bedroom.

It was almost midnight, but she was far from bed. She still intended to party.

For some minutes she touched up her face with make-up. She slipped into a leather panty-thong, then a luxuriant full-body leather jumpsuit, which Miley laced at her wrists and ankles. She slid a pair of four-inch pumps onto her feet. Then she pulled the zipper at her crotch up until it came between her breasts, and around her waist she belted a three-inch wide stiff leather belt.

From a stand meant for holding wigs, Miley tenderly lifted a richly-fashioned executioner’s hood. She stroked its smoothness with her fingers; the breath in her throat, she let the soft leather fall over her face and hair. It was loose, spreading over her shoulders and upon her nape. She glanced into the mirror upon her oak dresser . the hood covered the top half of her face, and she met her eyes through the cut cat eyes. She saw her shadowed eyes, her cruel lips. Miley blew a kiss at her image.

Light-footed, she made her way through the house, down two flights of stairs, past the back door. At the bottom of the basement stairs there was a three-foot squared landing, with a metal fire door set between walls of cinder block and foundation concrete.

The door wasn’t meant to keep others out. Miley took the deadbolt key from its peg and fit it into the lock. It opened smoothly, and she entered.

With immense satisfaction, she took in the basement, built to her personal tastes. Glazed terra-cotta tiles, powdered cinder block walls, black lighting. In the near darkness, Miley picked out the working rack, the cage, the bondage chair and the horse . she grinned, knowing of one thing more which was not, at the moment, visible.

She reached a flipped a switch.

A spotlight lit upon the naked male strung out over a two-foot thick, three-foot high stone cylinder, rounded at the top and resembling a stiff male penis. It was set into the center of a shallow bowl, all set with tile, and a bondage ring set at each sign of the clock. The male was spread-eagled. Ropes leading from his wrists and ankles used four of the available rings, the forebone of his hip pressing upon the great cock’s head. His face appeared above his shoulders, as he lifted it towards Miley, features contorted in pain and exhaustion. Seeing her, his agony briefly gave over to grateful recognition . and then, helplessly, he dropped his head once again.

“Hello dear .” she said sweetly. “I’m home.”

It was her husband Jim. Her slave of eighteen months, of his own free will . in the beginning.

He’d never been a strong man. Three weeks after they’d met, Jim cried on her shoulder over some small thing, a depression he felt about losing his job. Miley remembered holding him, fascinated both by his vulnerability and his weakness, and still finding herself falling deep into desire for him. Their relationship grew . and he admitted his personal quest for bondage and discipline. She listened to his stories, to his requests, and began to explore them herself . and she learned.

By the time of their marriage, their experiments had already become involved.

At first, she simply tied him down . she gave him instructions, at his urging, at how he should make love to her, to truly please her. He wanted to know everything about her body, what places brought her the most pleasure-and he desperately wanted her to be his quality control, to keep him on his toes, to insure that he was always her perfect lover. If he wasn ‘t, Jim told her, she should feel free to punish him. And by that, he meant that she should use a whip.

Her own awakening had only come with time. At first, she didn’t understand his fascination for receiving the pain he so wanted her to give. She could comprehend at once her own reward . but long habit in more “vanilla” relationships filled her with mystification whenever she saw him stretched out, ready for the whip. At first, guilt for causing him simple pain or discomfort kept her awake at night . but that she could learn to push aside, for he so clearly wanted her to be cruel. The guilt which came afterwards was more insidious. Miley found that, for the longest time, she hated herself for having a dark, inner soul-a soul that liked hurting him.

When had she realized that she did? When was the first time she’d lifted the whip without a single thought for him? Miley couldn’t remember. Dimly, there were clues still in her, reminding herself that she must have cried afterwards for the little part of her that broke that long-lost day; but the clues were mere wisps . the Miley now could not relate to the Miley then.

Was she insane? Undoubtedly. Again, Miley marked the instruments of torture about her and found herself bemused by their presence. They’d been collected and constructed over time-most of them between the time of their marriage and the evolution of the bond between them: the day she tied him up . and never let him go.

Miley turned her attention again to her slave husband, bound over the stone cock. Jim was being punished. A month before, Patricia had suggested that Miley get more involved with others in the community. Agreeing, Miley had taken Jim to a bondage party in Calgary. She made it quite clear to Jim that they must make a good first impression; she fixed him into a harness, dressed him in a pair of spandex bike pants and a muscle shirt. She cuffed him, and they rode from Red Deer to Calgary with Jim laying quietly on the back seat.

The party was at a private house. There were a dozen people about, in various stages of dress, discussing whips and paddles and so on. Jim was forced on display for the inspection of the other dominant women, and Miley pondered how good it would be for Jim, over time, to get out, to know that he was a slave, even among others. Even in public.

She didn’t know then that he was about to embarrass her.

The Hostess of the party, a pre-operative transsexual calling herself Kim, had offered to suspend a volunteer from the ceiling. Miley offered Jim. He went forward obediently, taking his clothes off. Kim hung him up by his wrists with a chair and little difficulty and, as the room looked on, Jim dangled, toes a few inches above the floor.

“Whip him,” had said Miley.

Kim selected a white-and-blue knotted cat-o-nine-tails, and then addressed Jim: “Do you understand that my safe-word is green?”

Jim nodded absent-mindedly, wanting only to be polite . but it incited Miley’s anger a touch . the ire could be heard in her reply: “My slave doesn’t play with safe words,” she said.

“That’s not a good idea,” said Kim.

“I’m his Mistress,” returned Miley. “I’m his owner. I will say when he’ s had enough. Whip him as hard as you like.”

Miley knew what she was suggesting. One of the slaves at the party, a petite Japanese girl, had already been turned out for everyone’s interest. Her master demonstrated her ass, which had been so bruised that the skin seemed like onion paper laid upon her richly blackened cellulite . the blood hemorrhage was quite distinct-and had been achieved by daily beatings with a most deliberate effort.

Kim looked into Miley’s eyes and saw truth. Without a word, she exchanged the cat for a flexible slapper fashioned from a dozen layers of kitchen-counter arborite strips, each an inch wide, epoxied together to make a thick “finger.” Two fingers were then attached to a single handle. As Kim picked it up, the slapper’s flexible lengths gently waved. “Can I hit him with this?” Kim asked.

Miley raised an eyebrow. Jim had never felt anything like it before. “Go ahead,” she said, her voice eager.

Kim didn’t strike with all her force, at first. Jim howled only at the third blow . but six more showed that he could stand it. Kim drew back for a firmer onslaught.

When it began, Jim gasped, and lost his wind. His body contracted, his feet rose from the floor, knees bent-his hands strained for the ceiling, dragging his whole weight upon his wrists. The second and third blows elicited a frenzied screaming from the bottom of his throat . a fourth, a fifth blow landed with brutal force. Jim cried. He gnashed the air with his teeth. His legs kicked, straining for purchase and finding none . the muscles and fat of his abdomen rippled.

Kim watched these coilations with delight as she continued to slash at him . but at a total of twenty-two blows, she broke it off, letting Jim’s shrieks fade away. She glanced at Miley.

Miley nodded. “He can handle ten more of those,” she said quietly.

Jim’s head snapped up. “NO!” he shouted. “Please . no!”

Kim guaged Miley’s reaction. Miley’s teeth were set-she verged on displeasure with Jim’s pathetic displays-and she repeated, “Ten.”

Kim shrugged, and began again.

Every eye was drawn by the electricity of Jim’s suffering. Miley looked around herself, and decided that this was a pleasure she’d have much, much more often. The wonderful excitement of being able to display her slave for everyone’s amusement started a wetness in her that rose up from between her legs, heating her. What a coup! she thought. All these people, whom she’d just met, now fascinated with her, admiring her, and stunned by the ready, submissive tool that Jim had become.

Just as that thought came, however, Jim shattered everything.

“GREEN!” he cried out. “GREEN, GREEN, GREEEEEEN!”

Kim stopped at once.

None of the spectators breathed or spoke for almost a minute. Only Jim’s long wailing, followed by whimpering and tiny cries as the fire upon his asscheeks diminished, broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” said Kim. “I can’t continue after he’s used the safe-word.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Miley. “Could you please bring him down?”

Kim and one of the men brought a chair for Jim to stand on, and they released him. At once Jim fell at Miley’s feet, kissing her boots and begging forgiveness. “Get dressed,” said Miley. “We’re leaving.” She said nothing else.

No one dared ask them to stay-they kept their eyes averted and wished the tension would just go away. Miley’s anger burned so visibly that they wanted no part of what they knew would happen.

Miley was shocked. Jim had embarrassed her beyond forgiveness. She knew his pain threshold, knew that under her own hand he’d have accepted the remaining blows without complaint . but none of the people in the room would ever believe that she was anything but an irresponsible sadist-and so she couldn’t show her face in their company again. Ever.

Miley could barely restrain herself from blacking both his eyes and bloodying his nose. She allowed Jim to follow her meekly from the party to their car, and let him him sit in the front seat for appearances sake-and though his ass gave him good reason to wince, he knew better than to show it as he sat down.

After driving away, however, Miley came to a dark school yard a few blocks away, where she made Jim get out of the car. Angrily, she slapped him, viciously, until he cowered again on his knees. She said nothing to him, opening the trunk. From among the paraphernalia within, she snapped up a roll of duct tape and quickly strapped together his wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees, effectively immobilizing him. Ruthlessly she pulled him from the ground and tipped him backwards into the trunk, not caring that he landed on several iron tools, the tire jack and the bondage toys kept there for convenience. Miley clutched at one now, a three-inch penis gag, and drove it between his teeth . she fixed it tightly around his head, slammed the hood down and returned to the driver’s seat.

It took more than an hour to drive to Red Deer. Miley fumed, turning the radio on and off the whole trip, unable to be satisfied either way. Hearing the music as it alternately blared and vanished, Jim correctly concluded that her fury wouldn’t quickly subside.

She didn’t let him out of the trunk that night. She parked the car in the garage and left him locked in until the next afternoon . fifteen hours passed before she could bring herself to see him again without causing him a real injury.

It had taken two months for Patricia to give her a chance with the bondage group. Miley had pleaded for the chance-she’d imagined her influence being felt by the group, and that with the prestige she’d win there’d be other things she could do-she might even become part of Patricia’s faction, though Miley hardly understood what that meant. But now that was destroyed. Jim had destroyed it. Patricia would hear about the faux pas. Miley dreaded that . and she didn’t know what punishment she could ascribe to Jim to make up for that dread. She only knew she didn’t want him to have the pleasure of seeing her face. So when she finally returned to the car, she wore the hood.

She cut his ankles and wrists free of the duct tape with a utility knife, leaving his elbows and knees strictly bound. She removed the penis gag, but made it clear without speaking that he, too, should be silent. Jim didn’t need to be told. He didn’t resist as she pulled him unkindly through the house to the basement . where Miley threw him into the cage and left him.

The “cage” had, at one time, been a closet. Together, Jim and Miley had gone to work on it, replacing the existing dry-wall with sheets of tin, riveted on the back to the concrete foundation and otherwise to the wooden stud-walls. They’d polished the overlapping seams, finally soldering them so that Jim wouldn’t someday be able to pull up the edges with his fingers. At the front, instead of a wooden door, they’d attached a door made up of metal bars, wide enough for him to get his arms through, but no more. It measured four feet by twenty inches, which was just enough for him to sleep in a fetal position. He could stand upright, and sometimes Miley would chain his hands to the ceiling.

The interior was completely sanitary, if cold to the touch . sunken about three inches below the level of the floor, it had a three-inch hole in the center floor where he could defecate or urinate, which Miley emptied with a wet vacuum when the small septic tank below was full. Sometimes she would fix a plug in the hole and let him lie in his own waste.

Building it had been a moment of growing together for them. Jim had still been in the position of urging Miley to more ambitious experimentations then, and he, as much as her, was proud of the way the cage had been designed. At the most, he’d imagined spending a few hours in it . perhaps, in the back of his mind, Jim had fantasized about a much longer period-but never seriously. Miley left Jim in the cage for two weeks. She would appear each morning, hood over her face, holding the dog’s dish, filled with exactly twenty-two hundred calories of watery paste resembling ice-cold oatmeal. This was to be his day’s rations. Each day, he pushed out his empty dish from the day before, through the three-inch slot in the bottom of the door, and she would push in his fresh food.

She didn’t speak-not a word. Jim tried, the second day, to talk to her . after a week he thrust himself at the bars, reaching through, wanting to touch her, wanting her to speak her anger-he even dared scream at her. Miley responded by gazing at him expressionlessly for several minutes, then turning with his full dish and leaving him alone in the basement.

That ended all attempts of his to talk for some time. A full day without food sufficiently broke him. When Miley returned the next morning with his normal caloric provision-dog food, instead of gruel-he took it as silently as she gave it.

Long days spent inside the cage, with no view but the violet-lit sight of the other available tortures occupying the dungeon, gave Jim time to think. He suffered from hunger, since the calories were barely enough for him (and he suspected she was reducing them each cumulative day), and from a craving for solid food. Often he found himself gazing longingly at the steel door set into the cinder-block entrance way, separating him irrevocably from the outside world . Jim couldn’t help reassessing all his original tastes for submission. Wryly he though-when he had the energy to think-that it hardly mattered what his tastes were and were not any longer. He had succeeded in recreating Miley into his fantasy image . and old story. Galatea crippling Pygmalion.

After two weeks, the punishments began.

He still wasn’t allowed to see Miley’s face, or hear her voice, at least for the first week. Those beginning tortures were quick affairs, lasting but a few hours . but their brevity was more than made up for in raw fury. Miley struck him without finesse, unable to resist her desire for pure compensation. She breathed heavily, through her teeth, driven by revenge. She clubbed or whipped him for an hour at a time; she fucked him until the skin inside tore and bled, which Miley remedied by stuffing him with tampons; she tied his cock to a four-foot, inch-thick dowling rod, which stuck out on either side of her body . and amused herself for an evening by hitting the opposing sides with her riding crop.

Her favorite punishment, however, was the rack, which she applied at the end of the first week. Jim had never even known that it really worked; they’d had it built by a contractor which Patricia suggested . it was meant to be a bench, more for show than for use . or so he’d thought. Jim had no idea that Miley had ever rigged it for real effect-he wasn’t even scared, on the first day, to let her tie him down to it. But by the second day he was thoroughly terrified . and Miley seemed indifferent to that, or to the horrific possibility that he’d never walk again.. For two terrible days, twenty-four hours to be exact, she’d left him on it, rolling it a half-turn every hour-enough to stretch him a half centimeter each time.

Insidiously, she’d moved a chime-clock into the dungeon, which rang on the quarter hour. Jim would hear the quarter change, a pattern of four notes, a quarter after then hour, then the same pattern followed by another, at half-past. Sometimes Miley was absent; sometimes she would be sitting, comfortably on a padded stool, watching him, beside the table where he was stretched. As he felt the minutes of his time ebbing away, Jim’s pleas would increase in desperation and intensity. He tried every ploy . he addressed her formally, and as his wife, by name and by pet names; he talked nostalgically . he talked about all their plans, about moments when they’d laughed, about her family, about his. And through it all, she would listen, never taking her eyes, in their cat-like frames, from his. The third quarter would strike the clock . and Jim would scream at her,

“Miley . stop this! Miley . I love you! You know I love you! We’ve been together for four years, and it’s good, it’s all right that you want me as a slave. I want it, too! Oh god, Miley! You know I want it! But . oh Christ, I’m dying! I can FEEL my bones pulling from their sockets! One more turn and you could cripple me for life! FOREVER, Miley, forever and ever . and THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE? I won’t be a slave, I won’t be able to move! Please-Christ, Miley. Miley, listen, OH GOD, WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME? Please, I love you! Do you hear me? You told me you loved me too . oh please, please, please! NO MORE! I DON’T WANT TO BE A CRIPPLE! Miley! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Through it all, she’d sit impassively, making no expression at all. Then the clock would sound, playing through the four changes of the full hour; then a pause; then the striking of the clock . and Miley would rise as it began, moving to the great, many-spoked wheel fixed to the table.

By means of steel cords and carefully set gears, the wheel’s turn allowed for a great swing in exchange for a tiny, precision gain in tension. But, taut as he was, very little extension was needed.

Her hands would touch the wheel. Still, utterly without expression, as both of them would hear the echo from the last strike of the clock . the wheel would turn in her hands.

Screaming, back arching, Jim suffered the newly-pressed drawing . with infinite patience Miley would complete the tur, observing him passively, mechanically, never allowing the corners of her mouth to betray the immense satisfaction she received.

Then she’d return to her seat, to watch Jim by degrees, reaccustom his body to the fresh agony. And then the play would begin again .

That night, Miley freed him from the rack. Jim couldn’t guess if the damage to his arms and legs was permanent. He had to crawl by inches from the rack to the cage . where she then allowed him to remain for the following thirty-six hours. He couldn’t sleep for the pain . until the next morning, after he ate his gruel, which he suspected included painkillers that Miley had crushed into the mixture. All that day and the next night, he slept groggily.

Upon awakening, he sat her, upon her stool, outside his cage. For the first time, he heard her voice.

“It’s been three weeks since your pathetic weakness brought us both to this,” Miley announced. Jim had been unsure of the time . he thought it might have been twelve days, or fifteen.

“I wish you to know that your punishments will be yet another three weeks,” she continued; “. if you perform satisfactorily. During that time you will still be denied the sight of my face. Also during that time, you will not be permitted to speak.

“As I listened to your pathetic pleading during your trial on my rack, I found myself wondering-with no little amusement-if there was anything you could say that could move me. For that reaso, I allowed you to utter out your every though as you pleased. I am happy to say that none of your gobblingh affected me at all-as no doubt the feeling in your joints will testify. Therefore, since you’ve failed to raise any pity in my, you won’t be give further opportunities to plead your case.

“The punishment for the first word spoken, by you, in the next three weeks, will be a day without food. You shall spend that day with a penis gag in your mouth. For the second word, you shall spend a similar day standing in your cage, while I torment you. If you are stupid enough to utter a third word, you’ll earn yourself two days without food and an additional week of punishment. And so on. Please nod if this is all perfectly clear.”

Jim nodded.

“Good,” said Miley. “You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve been granted a week’s vacation, and so there will be nothing for the next little while to interrupt our lessons.”

Miley stepped out of sight for a moment, and then back into his view. Now she was holding a familiar looking slapper fashioned out of kitchen formica. The two fingers waved menacingly. “You recognize this, yes? This is the little item that began all these troubles. And so it is only fitting that your road to recovery should begin here .”

Male Slave’s Penetration Punishment (F/m Medical Scene)

“Who does this body belong to, slave?” Goddess asks archly, as if reading my mind, but with my mouth firmly gagged, all i can do is laboriously make faint unintelligible sounds. “Surely, you know I could do anything I want to you now, slave, don’t you? And I will.”

“You are My property, slave, body and soul,” Goddess continues. “It would be best for you to give up all thoughts of resistance and give in to My TOTAL control. You will surrender to Me more completely than you ever have before.”

I slump back into the chair, all of my taut muscles relaxing their pressure on the bonds holding me imprisoned. Goddess places a blindfold over my eyes and my bondage is complete – i am utterly helpless, unable to move or control my body, unable even to see what new tortures threaten. Goddess orders me to grunt three times if i am in any extreme distress and makes me test out my ability to make myself heard through the strict gag. I hear footsteps in the hallway approaching the room. I hear the click of Her heels on the metal floor and the tantalizing sound of Goddess speaking in a hushed voice, and a male voice responding.

I strain to listen, and as they come closer i begin to make out the conversation. I am able to gather that the unknown male has some sort of medical training and is here to assist Goddess in the whole procedure She has planned. I wait in a state of dread imagining what’s in store for me. I am thankful for the anonymity the blindfold affords me and again impressed by Goddess’ ability to look after my welfare and safety.

I soon discover what sort of punishment awaits as i hear the word catheter spoken and hear the snap of latex gloves being put on and a plastic bag being opened. I realize immediately what a brilliant punishment this is for having betrayed Goddess’ trust by willfully sticking a q-tip up my greedy slave cock. I am absolutely dumb-struck at the way that Goddess can seemingly read my thoughts and anticipate my slutty daydreams, making all of my long-cherished desperate fantasies into reality and then pushing my degradation into uncharted territories, torturing and humiliating me in brilliant and imaginative ways i never suspected.

“Let’s prep the patient,” Goddess exclaims, feigning an official voice. I feel and smell as a cloth dampened with medicinal antiseptic is used to carefully cleanse the tip of my cock and the entire genital area. Goddess now thrusts the substantial tube of a well-lubricated catheter against my pee-slit, penetrating my erect penis.

After invading and dominating my mouth and ass, making me conscious of Her power over every recess of my body, Goddess is now determined that no part of me should remain hidden from Her probing discipline.

Goddess declares Her absolute power over Her slaveslut.

“If it is My pleasure, slave,” my Goddess softly but firmly declares, “I will penetrate any orifice, open your powerless body up to the most thorough exploration, break down any barrier or defense. Bound as you are, you have no choice, do you slave, no defense. You cannot stop your Goddess from raping that filthy selfish little cock, from pushing this silicone tube all the way into your compressed bladder. I will discipline and torture any part of your body, slave, in any way I choose. I possess and control this cock, this ass, this throat, every sensitive, vulnerable recess.”

Yet, equally powerless to resist or to demonstrate my consent, my mind screams out a mute yes yes yes as i feel myself swooning in an ecstasy of intimate surrender. I desperately want to feel Goddess inside of me, consuming me, annihilating me, taking control of every sensation, stripping me of my will and individuality. Every new violation of my defenses, every outrage against my independence and dignity moves and arouses me intensely.

I can feel the insistent push of the tube as it slowly slides in and drives deeper and deeper, pressing against the inside of my urethra, opening me, stretching me as it opens me up, inch after inch.

Suddenly i can feel it probing past the prostate, the stimulation is intense, my internals are singing as i feel a riot of sensations inside me, the pressure of the balloon in my ass, the utterly unfamiliar pressure of the catheter on my prostate starts to cause that familiar hum of my slutty hot ass climbing towards a spasming climax. I feel the tube push past the sphincter of the PC muscle, breaking through into my bladder.. The entire sensitive lining of my cock feels only the constant pressure of the tube opening me up for Goddess’ wicked water-sports, i am stripped not only of the control, but even of the awareness of the progress of my urine through my own cock.

Suddenly the pressure on my bladder eases significantly and i feel a warm wetness on my leg. My Goddess makes a startled exclamation and laughs a wonderful, hearty laugh, Her soft, achingly expressive voice betraying suppressed annoyance, good-humoured surprise, and a hint of malevolent arousal at a world of new possibilities and diabolical humiliations. “We’ve struck gold,” She exclaims, “where’s the bedpan?”

The removal of my bladder-control has led to an unexpected fountain of my slave piss. Goddess, with a wicked chuckle in Her voice, shames me for making a disgusting mess, declaring teasingly what a perfect blackmail video-tape this scene would offer. The very mention of video-taping me in my helpless plight would have been very disturbing – a quick cold shower snapping me from my erotic reverie and awakening me to all the dangers to which i so often expose myself in submitting so eagerly to Goddess – had i not learnt to trust Goddess Khrystal and surrender myself to Her power and vigilant protection through the inexorable progress of Her tender, caring domination. The remark actually serves to arouse me further by reminding me of the heady intimacy of sharing these depth of passion and surrender, known to so few and so often misunderstood or condemned, forcing me to imagine how an unaware casual observer might react to seeing me like this, bound, collared, gagged and blindfolded, naked except for my bonds, my ass and mouth stuffed to the limit with rubber balloons, pump-bulbs hanging obscenely out of each, and my spitted cock spraying my own piss uncontrollably all over out of a plastic tube.

I am ashamed as i feel my cock getting harder, despite the tenderness of my urethra as it is impaled on the catheter, greedily stretching out for more of the invader, welcoming it, feeling more and more of its length inside of me. I wonder what sort of shameless kinky little slut i have become when each degrading step in stripping me of my independence, dignity, and self-control only turns me on further.

Bound and helpless, i am entirely at Goddess’ mercy, and as i am made to piss myself and wallow in my own filth, i can still plead the excuse that i was unable to resist, all power over my own bladder and all ability to hold in my own piss forcibly stripped from me by the silicone tube Goddess uses to core and ream my cock. Yet i know that i would be equally docile with no straps to restrain me. But who could put up more than a token resistance to Goddess’ commands.

Originally posted 2013-04-30 06:31:11.