Some poor fool missed my instructions to “come over immediately.” The punishment was his idea. And his loss! I was naked when I emailed him!

male bondage

This came to me today from a slave I sessioned with recently in Philadelphia. I thought the writing was colorful and amusing so decided to include it here.

 Doubled over in pain i bend low beneath Mistress Darcy. A moment ago i was towering above Her small frame in slutty thigh-highs but now i am crumpled and She rises above me as i writhe below Her, my head perpendicular to my ass. She is lovely but She is a viper but Her poison is sweet and Her hisses melodious. my slutwig shakes from side to side like a dancer’s, who shakes her ass before scurrying up the pole. But i am not performing and my bangs flew when She sent me reeling forward with a kick. “Are you afraid?” She had asked. i was far too enthralled to have considered it, but now i am broken. She continues to toy with my slutcockandballs, but i am too craven to go on and i fail Her and myself and wriggle this way and that, (using the little leeway I have, hands lightly bound behind), and i dodge Her foot to escape Her sting.

       Now the pain is gone. Before, when I had first risen to the new height afforded me by the heels, though i saw no door with my eyes i knew well that I was standing before a threshold that was all-tooeal. As i took my first steps I passed through, high up on the heels and high up in mind, soaring amid new spaces, looking down from where i had not looked down before, (though at first I had to hold the table for balance). My suddenly pretty image is aside me in the mirror: wigged, stockinged, well-heeled, linguerie-clad, all by the small Woman Who bids me to cross the threshold. (Or was it Her image in the mirror? She made it after all. Perhaps it is Hers as a towel or a brush is Hers, as a pair of boots or a whip).

       Now, there is no pain. i have recovered from the blow that crumpled me and i rise again before Her.  She is disappointed because i did not let Her kick me square on. The initial blow to my slutnuts had been too much for me. Or seemed too much for me. i had dodged Her because i didn’t trust Her. This is a serious offense, an error in judgment, almost an insult, and i am sad to have failed Her. i had behaved far better before when She flogged my ass: the wig flew, the ass shook, and i moaned like a bitch and liked it like a slut. If i could do it again i would beg Her to bind my hands and feet tight and show my slutballs no quarter. And if She bid me again, i’d gladly bend in two and shake that ass. The slutwig would fly: furiously, riotously, sordidly. Each crippling blow She deals would bring forth a sensual moan, a squeak, a shriek, as a wolf bays at the moon, or as a slut howls when she is fucked. What had i failed to discern when i avoided Her sweet white foot? Now i understand. my balls are not my balls. Her poison is sweet and Her hisses…