Female Led Relationships

Slave shall address and answer to the Goddess during all private times, as “Goddess”.

Goddess inserted the above clause into my perfection requirements when we drew them up some months ago. I was surprised when She did, as it actually presents a pretty severe level of submission and domination. We are alone in the house for many hours each evening, and through them I must and do refer to Her as ‘Goddess’.

Every time I refer to Her as such I am reminded of my submission to Her, and more significantly, She having inserted this clause into the agreement, of Her domination of me.

Occasionally I do use a little licence and refer to Her as ‘Sweetie’, ‘Darling’ or some other such term of endearment, but I always make sure, particularly when summoned by Her, to refer to Her as ‘Goddess’.

Goddess has not yet punished me for ever using any other term of endearment, but I always think twice before and after I do so, because punishment hurts, and I do not want to draw further punishment simply for not addressing Her as She instructed.

‘Goddess’ is a fairly powerful word, and quite accurately represents the authority I am glad She has over me. Whilst I do like seducing Her dominant nature by using the term, I must confess that I also find it a little painful every time I do. I fear I need to learn further humility towards Goddess before it rolls naturally off my tongue. Hopefully I am rightly headed in that direction.

Late last year my Goddess took me on a slave hunt with the Femdom society. At that event was a male slave called Nella, dressed as a traditional serving woman. Dear Nella was so polite to all the Goddess Ladies present, that s/he has set a rather high standard that my Goddess Wife now rightly believes I should attain towards her.

On Monday I was a little unpleasant towards my Goddess on a couple of occasions – I went off in a sulk when She wanted me to join the family, and later that day spoke to Her in a less than respectful tone. There was no particular reason for my unpleasantness, other than a hangover of the old days when I did not always go out of my way to honour Her as She deserves.

My Goddess deliberated on my behaviour for a while, and on Wednesday informed me that I would be ‘rolling the dice’ twice for my infractions.

Come Wednesday evening and I presented myself in the usual way. My Goddess Wife handed me the large wooden dice we use and I rolled it once, to get a five, and then I rolled it again. I was so shocked at the five that came up, that I genuinely do not remember what the second number that came up was.

My Goddess explained to me that I must not speak to Her disrespectfully, or be unpleasant towards Her, or I would earn more of the same.

She laid my usual six disciplinary strokes on me with modest strength. Then she gave me the number from the dice, multiplied by five – so that was 25 strokes for the one dice, plus whatever came up on the second dice. Including my 6 dailly discipline strokes I was looking at 31 strokes plus five times whatever came up on the second dice. I was in agony, so I was in no position to count. The last five or ten strokes were given at what felt like pretty much full strength, and I still have bruises on my behind to prove it.

We started using the dice a few weeks ago, following a post I read on the web. The guy making the post explained that his Goddess did a daily inspection of his cleaning work and chores, using a white glove to look for dirt. Any found resulted in a roll of the dice, and he got 10 strokes for each number that came up on the dice. He said in his post (I cannot remember where it was now) that he cried while she inspected if She found more than one infraction, because he knew his butt was in for it. I know what he means. My butt is still throbbing from yesterday’s punishment.

As if that was not enough, later than evening I was serving my Goddess Wife some more food, and She asked me to give Her another spoon full. The serving spoon was large, and I knew that She did not really want that much – She always watches what She eats really carefully. I answered Her in a less than respectful tone and She immediately pulled me up on this, asking whether I had not learned my lesson, and told me that I will roll the dice again this evening.

My Goddess instructed me that if I ever differ with Her over anything then I should beg to differ, and explain as politely as possible how I differed, and then await Her judgement. As always, she is right of course, and I have made a mental note to be more respectful in all my communication with Her.

I have read posts on the web where people advocate against discipline and punishment in Femdom relationships. I find myself unable to agree. My will to serve my Goddess is strong, but I am a week man, and feel further incentive to serve Her better when the penalty for failure is clear and painful. I also feel that failure to honor ones Goddess deserves severe punishment simply for punishment’s sake.

I am proud that my Goddess sees fit to discipline and punish me, and only hope that in time I will learn to server Her with the honor She deserves from a worthless being like me.

Some months ago my Goddess Wife, in Her wisdom, decided that I should submit to daily discipline sessions.

Immediately after we put the children to bed I ‘prepare myself’ - I go to our bedroom where I remove my clothes and fix cuffs to my wrists and ankles, with rope loops attached to each cuff. I remove our firm, plastic whip (if anyone wants to know more about this whip please let me know) from Her wardrobe where it lives, and I lay on our four poster bed and loop the ropes from my feet and one of the wrist cuffs over three corner posts, and await the arrival of my Goddess.

When She arrives my Goddess Wife loops the fourth rope from my free hand over the fourth post of the bed, and I am now bound, naked, butt presented, unable to free myself. At Her mercy for my daily discipline and any punishment She deems necessary.

My daily discipline (designed, for any of you who have not read Elise Sutton, to remind me of my subservience to Her) consists of six strokes to my butt. It is obviously up to Her how hard the strokes are – they are never ‘token’ strokes - they tend to vary from firm to pretty severe, depending on her mood on the day. They always hurt – especially if my butt is sore from recent punishment.

If I have not earned further punishment, my Goddess Wife releases the rope from one wrist, and I thank Her (‘Thank you, Goddess’) and free myself from the remaining ropes before proceeding downstairs to serve and be with Her through the remainder of evening.

When my Goddess Wife first decided that I should receive daily discipline, I thought this was a little harsh. Elise Sutton’s book had suggested periodic discipline – once a week or something like that. Daily seemed a bit much. But by then we had already debated the issues around ‘topping from the bottom’ – this decision, like all decisions that affect our lives, was Hers alone to make, and my role was and is to submit to Her will. I’ve had (at least) six disciplinary strokes to my butt every day since.

This is a great illustration of how wonderful my Goddess Wife is for me. To take the idea of ‘periodic’ discipline and choose to apply it daily was a stroke of pure genius on Her part. I am never far from the last or my next discipline session, and so am constantly reminded of my subservience to Her. Equally, She too is reminded of Her dominance over me. It works great for both of us.

“Here first,” Margery ordered.

Then Cressada bellowed, “You get to THIS one first, confound you!”

Malcolm poised ready to plunge the brush (and his face) into the bucket, looked up, bedeviled and bewildered, at the hectoring females. Suds spewed from the brush with the frantic switching of his head from side to side. Then the rawhide began cracking again… and he scrabbled, yammering against the brush handle to remedy his errors. When his oppressivenesses again took their ease he was weak and a-jitter. But under the compulsion of his beloved’s gaze he scrubbed till his mouth was raw, his jaw ached, the sun was setting and the terrace was washed down to her Ladyship’s satisfaction.

Later, en boudoir, Malcolm lay at her feet exhausted, his backside raw, swollen and throbbing remorselessly. Moans bubbled from his tortured lips as he mouthed her terrific boots. “Don’t carry on like that, my pet,” purred Sada casually amused, “I’m hardly through punishing you. Tell me, do you like these pretty bootsies?” His reply was a distracted gargle against a shining marlin-spike heel. “You’ll be oh so familiar with them before I’m done with you.” She rose. “Now, back into your corner until I’m ready for you again. You’ll go hungry this time, sweet… that will do its little bit to teach you to respect my little whims.”

It is at this point that The Whiphand ends, but further installments are promised. Installments that will surely be as ornately written as they are illustrated. All of it is, of course, the purest way-out fantasy, utterly impossible. Yet, nevertheless, quite satisfyingly enjoyable to those with masochistic leanings. Also enjoyable, one might add, to those with leanings of the opposite kind for it is simple for such people, be they male or female, to transfer themselves in their imagination, into the position of Cressada the all-powerful, all-dominating Mistress who has a half-willing, half-unwilling victim constantly crawling and groveling at her feet, for ever at her beck and call, one whom she can humiliate and degrade to the limit, one whom she can thrash and flog to her heart’s content.

“Don’t say that,” Sada reproached her, “he’s a perfect dear of a worm who worships me and its no discredit to him if I show my affections by whippings and humiliation as well as the lovey-dovey. He’s a very happy man under me.” Margery appeared skeptical, particularly when Sada stiffened, head upflung, eyes wide and glacial, nostrils arching in her fine-ridged nose, her full red lips brutally down-drawn. Then rising to her commanding height, the furred and booted woman strode to her man with all the overbearance of a slave-driving Juno.

“I told you to lean on that brush!” Furs billowed and rawhide snapped over his thrusting head. “Take longer strokes, you sluggard, bear down till your neck cracks!” The lash seared his rear and her tone made his flesh crawl. “SCRUB, damn you. You’ll clean this terrace, you loafing muckworm, if you have to slave until you drop.!” Malcolm scrubbed wildly with his mouth-clenched brush, acutely suffering the rawhide consequences of disobedience, dazzled by the patent leather brilliance of pink and lavender boots. Getting into the swing of things, Margery strolled to the happy pair. “Look,” she pointed, he’s left a mess right here.” Sada lowered her whip arm and looked around herself. :Yes… and here’s another mess he’s left behind, HUSBAND!” she bawled, “get to them, you whelp!”

Amused, Cressada flicked Malcolm’s rump, saying, “I’m pleased you’re so in tune with - ah… petticoat rule and wearing the boots, child, but why single out Langdon for your kind attentions?”

“Bah!” Margery snorted, “He’s always burned my little Frances… thinking he’s so all-fired smart,,, and he’s twice too big for his britches. The kicks I’m getting seeing him cut down to size… Bob now, is a nice inoffensive laddie… but this one…” she swaggered so close to Malcolm’s scrubbing head that he had to veer it aside, “this treatment is exactly what he deserves. Any boot licking mouse that lets a woman thrash him and make a damn fool of him gets no sympathy from me.”

“You’re sweet,” Sada swayed aside. “Let’s be comfortable, girl. I can oversee the husb. from over there. And he asks for no one’s sympathy. He crawled under my heel with his eyes open. And he begged for his punishment, my dear, simply crushed by his inability to defy me.” The blonde, lissome maiden and the dark strapping beauty reclined on a lawn chaise. Fingering the ugly rawhide, she accounted for every move of her toiling groom with chilled-steel grey eyes. A deep surge of despotism swelled her momentous bosom, thrusting the sumptuous furs apart. Margery watched Malcolm’s degration snootily. “One time I respect that man,” she said, “but now he’s just a disgusting worm.”

There…” The cowhide curled, cracking across his buttocks. “Douse that brush proper and get scrubbing.” Malcolm splashed it - and his face - into the strong, hot suds and lowered his head to the ground. The dirt on the long untended flagstones turned to mud under his nose as he scrubbed with lunging shoulders, biting the brush handle which made a lip-stretching bit in his mouth. Sada kept the thong end of her lash draped over his back, and, from time to time, laid it with a stinging crack across his upended rump. “You’ll scrub harder, you lout!” she bawled in her most intimidating growl. “Lets see you put some back and jawbone grease into that.” Malcolm, eyes streaming from the harsh suds and the brush wobbling in his teeth, felt her bootfoot on his neck jammed the brush on the flagging and the handle, chokingly, up into his mouth. The tiny, sharp-edged steel heeltip dug into his flesh and he shuddered as it pricked through his skin. Sada exerted rhythmic pressure with her long gorgeous leg, thrusting his head down and forward, giving helpful, albeit punitive, momentum to his scrubbing.

Cressada slid her bootfoot off Malcolm’s back when young Margery came sauntering on to the terrace. “Lawdy me!” caroled Malcolm’s pretty niece. “You’re surely making this clean-up day around the old homestead, Aunt. I’ve just come from the stable - your Governess has dear Langdon there now, and hard at it on all fours. Seeing him sweat - after that caning job you did on him this morning - was so delicious I could scarcely tear myself away. Y’know,” she chortled, “I had to resist an urge to get astride the big goof…so’s see what kind of horse he’d make me.”