Female Supremacy Might Be A Nice Place To Visit

French filmmaker Eléonore Pourriat has been getting a lot of attention for her short movie Oppressed Majority, about the travails of a man in a matriarchal society.

 But something is different in Pierre’s world. Women are in charge. They run around barechested – hey, it’s hot! – piss in an alley, and offer sexual favours to Pierre when he is stuck at a red light. (He’s riding a bike, so his lack of physical barriers provides an opportunity if not a provocation.) Events culminate when Pierre is sexually assaulted at knifepoint. Inevitably, the police officer who takes Pierre’s statement is female. She raises an eyebrow, but only to check for accuracy: “She pinched my testicles … then she took my penis in her mouth and bit it”?

The movie is undoubtedly intended as feminist satire, and I suppose it works at that level even if it’s a bit heavy-handed and obvious. However, watching Pierre’s misadventures also appealed to my submissive side and left me thinking that his “world” might be an interesting one to explore, if only to solve the mystery of how the ladies maintained their power over the hapless menfolk. When my thoughts drift to daydreams of being an oppressed male in a country ruled by women, there’s generally at least a vague explanation for the power imbalance woven into the fantasy – a goddessy religion that even the men take seriously, a particularly capable female politician who worked her way into a position of near-absolute power and then began deliberately appointing other women to all the high-level posts, even a reversal of normal human sexual dimorphism.

In such a country there would still be women who were impoverished or otherwise down on their luck, just as some men are stuck in that position in even the most patriarchal cultures, but all or almost all of the most prestigious and influential jobs would be occupied by members of the female half of the species. Outside office hours, men would be expected to defer to their mothers, sisters and girlfriends until they were given away as blushing grooms, after which time they would begin deferring to their wives. A responsible wife, for her part, would provide her husband with direction and loving but firm discipline. Men who worked outside the home would expect to have a female boss, or perhaps a male boss who in turn answered to a female boss. Male athletes and entertainers might attract a following, but would still end up beholden to the female executives who owned the sports teams, record companies and movie studios. Nearly all police and customs officers would be female, and men who failed to show them sufficient respect would be given a hard time as a matter of course.

On a practical level, this might not be the best way to organise society, given that a lot of male talent would go to waste. If the sexes are more or less equal in their cognitive abilities and leadership potential, which seems more likely than not, then excluding either of them from positions of power and responsibility is counterproductive as well as simply unfair. In contrast to what card-carrying female supremacists like Saharah Eve and (to some extent) Elise Sutton might say, I don’t think that men in general should be subordinate to women in general, or that institutionalising this kind of arrangement would make the world a better or happier place.

However, I’m pretty sure that I would enjoy living under matriarchal rule, at least for a while. I submit to My Lady partly because I’m strongly drawn to female authority, so a society in which authority and femaleness were joined at the hip would suit me just fine. There’s also something intensely compelling about the idea of being automatically reduced to second-class citizenship, inescapably assigned to an inferior caste, because I happen to have a penis. I have no plans to help usher in the day when the world bows down before a cabal of Supreme Overladies, but I can’t help thinking that female supremacy would be a nice place to visit. Closer to home, I tend to be just a little more naturally supportive of businesses, political parties and other organisations that are run by women. Believing that men and women are about equally likely to make good leaders doesn’t mean, after all, that I can’t choose to lavish a bit of extra appreciation on good leaders who happen to be female.

S & M (Semantics & Meanings) – Limits

The issue of limits is one of those things that tends to separate BDSM fantasies from the practical realities of submitting to another human being. However hot the idea of sinking to one’s knees and murmuring “do anything to me” might be in principle, we submissives generally have at least some minimal sense of self-preservation. Taken literally, anything could extend to cosmetic amputations, literal starvation diets, or worse (24 hours of high-volume Justin Bieber?). Hence, the need to set some boundaries. One widely recommended way to do this is to come up with a list of hard and soft limits.

“There are two types of limits – hard limits and soft limits. A hard limit is something you will not do under any circumstance. For me that would include scat play, age play, or being turned upside down or spun when tied. Many limits are established by the submissive due to a value objection – either something that you feel is against your moral code or that you are squicked by (“ewwwwww”). Other limits are due to health objectives – spin me around and I will barf. I promise to aim for my Dom’s shoes if He makes me.

“A soft limit is something that at this time you do not think you want to do, but perhaps your Dom/me can convince you. Or it may be something you will only do with a specific Dom/me, or in a specific play situation. For me that might be interrogation. Interrogation squicked me from the beginning, but I have since done a private scene with my Master. It is extreme edge play for me, and not only takes a lot out of me but it has lasting effects, and so it remains a soft limit.”

One of the nice things about being under the thumb of a woman I know and trust is that I don’t feel the need to spell things out quite so explicitly. The only limit in my relationship with her is a mutual understanding that she won’t use her authority to wreck my life. She’s not going to kill me, mutilate me, infect me with horrible diseases, destroy my career, or shatter my relationships with my loved ones. Cosmetic amputations and starvation diets should be off the table, although to my chagrin I’m not so sure about prolonged Justin Bieber sessions. Within those broad margins, she’s more than welcome to make me suffer, even in ways that “squick” me or make me genuinely miserable. That’s part of what I signed up for, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

If I were single and in the habit of submitting to near-strangers, I probably would have a list of hard limits, but I’m not sure I’d go in for soft limits – or at least, I’m not I’d use that phrase. Soft limits are just things that a submissive finds difficult to endure, and I’d probably describe them in exactly those terms. A dominant could steer clear of them if she wanted to go easy on me, or make use of them if she was feeling especially cruel. I suppose there might be activities that I would be willing to accept from some pairs of hands but not from others, but I’d think of those less as soft limits than as hard ones that happened to be selectively applied.

I’m even more dubious about what seems to be a widespread opinion that dominants, as well as submissives, should have limits.

“What some submissives do not realize is that Dominants have limits too. They aren’t as formally laid out like a submissives limits should be, but they still have them. I have things I will not do. I find that these things are universal to me. As a Dominant there are places I do not wish to go and when I am a submissive, those limits hold true, as well.”

In my opinion, using the word “limits” for boundaries set by dominants as opposed to submissives has the disadvantage of blurring an important distinction based on power. I’m sure all dominants have places they “do not wish to go”, but that’s not exactly the same thing as submissives having places they are unwilling to be taken. My Lady probably has at least a vague list of things she would never consider doing to a submissive, but I don’t worry too much about what activities might be on that list or whether My Lady finds them repugnant, impractical or merely uninteresting. She’s the one who sets the agenda in our relationship, so it goes without saying that anything she prefers to avoid won’t be happening on her watch. For my part, I can and do talk to her about the contours of my erotic landscape, the peaks of longing and valleys of revulsion and wide dusty plains of indifference, but I’m under no illusions that she’ll necessarily head for the peaks or stay out of the plains and valleys. Conversely, she can steer clear of even the most treacherous valleys in her own landscape without declaring them to be limits, because she’s the one who decides where we’re going in the first place.

Every relationship and casual BDSM fling is different, and I can certainly see how some dominants might feel emotional pressure from their submissives to engage in activities they’d prefer to avoid. In the case of professionals who need to satisfy their clients, of course, the pressure is financial. But to the extent that a dominant’s power over a submissive is genuine, the distinction between her limits and her preferences is surely academic at best.

Wheldrake Goes To Prison

Do you have a favourite sexual or kinky fantasy, one that you find surpassingly, perhaps inexplicably erotic and revisit compulsively in the privacy of your own thoughts? Mine, though it’s a microgenre with myriad possibilities rather than a single unvarying scenario, is the fantasy of submitting to voluntary incarceration in a harsh, forbidding prison or prison-like facility. What could possibly be hotter than intimidating guards, cold steel around one’s wrists and ankles, and the crushing sense of being under the absolute control of a whole institution devoted to keeping people in a state of abject captivity?

For more than a year before My Lady became My Lady, she was a valued correspondent. We exchanged news and ideas, read each other’s fiction and offered suggestions, discussed BDSM and BDSM fantasies, and eventually figured out that we both wanted her to have considerable power over me. While we were still e-mailing back and forth as equals, I told her about my thing for prisons, a fascination that she didn’t share. However, she found my incarceration fantasies interesting enough that we kept occasionally bringing them up in our correspondence, and eventually I started writing a story for her that was set in what I whimsically called the D. Keith Prison for Men. In the story she’s a kind of consultant to the prison, a role that she chose herself, and I’m a prisoner serving a voluntary but strictly enforced 30-day sentence. Once I’ve signed the contract, which I do about 2000 words in, I’m stuck for the full 30 days no matter how loudly I might scream “Safeword! Safeword!”

The story has grown to considerable proportions, but is nowhere near finished. I still send My Lady installments as I complete them, and she sometimes makes decisions about how something in the prison should work or how a character should behave. These days, of course, the parameters she establishes for the story have the status of orders from My Lady, not just preferences expressed by a friend for whom I happen to be writing something. Because of those parameters, and the fact that I’m writing to please her, the prison in the story differs in some ways (though only one fundamental way that comes to mind at the moment) from the ones in my own private fantasies.

The story will never be published, at least not without massive editing. There’s too much personal stuff about me and My Lady in there (although much more about me than about her, partly because in many ways I actually don’t know her very well) and the story is too sprawling and self-indulgent. However, I thought it might be fun to post a lightly (and transparently) edited excerpt here. As it begins, a nude and restrained Prisoner Wheldrake is in the middle of his first night in custody, and is being marched across the prison yard by two young male guards, Officers Bledso and Kimura. I write in the first person present and address My Lady in the second person (that is, when I say “you” in the story, I’m referring to her).

I may post additional excerpts in the future, or go into more detail about my incarceration fantasies in general, if people seem interested and My Lady gives permission.


As I march obediently between my captors, turning occasionally but always walking on a concrete surface, I begin to feel symptoms of rising panic.  My breathing  is growing quick and shallow within the stifling hood, and a painful knot of fear is swelling in my belly.  I stubbornly fight it down, trying not to think about what might be in store for me over the next thirty days at the hands of you and the men.  I try to focus instead on the more limited peril of my coming encounter with the “boss man”, which I suppose probably means the warden of the prison.  I can at least hope that he’s just going to take a brief look at me and send me to a cell, like he did with the Andrews brothers.

It’s hard for me to even imagine what the warden might be like.  In American movies and TV shows wardens usually seem to be tough-minded administrators in civilian clothes, but I have no idea whether that generalisation applies in here or not.  I don’t know whether to picture someone old or young, black or white, firm and fatherly or gleefully sadistic.  Given that he presides over this prison, it’s a fair bet that he won’t exactly be warm and cuddly.  There’s the possibility, too, that he might have plans for me that go well beyond sending me off to a cell for the night.  Worrying about his power over me, however, is almost a welcome distraction from worrying about yours.

“Three steps up,” Kimura says abruptly.  The guards allow me to climb them more or less at my own pace, and then bring me to a halt on what feels like a stone porch or patio.  I hear a click and an electronic beep, and then a crackling, distorted male voice asks “Prisoner [Wheldrake] to see Master, sirs?”  I blink in surprise inside the hood.  I thought we were prisoners here, not slaves.

Kimura, however, doesn’t miss a beat.  “Correct,” he replies crisply.

“Bring him right in,” invites the voice from the intercom.  “Please don’t forget to have him wipe his feet, sirs.”

I wonder if the “sirs” indicates that the man on the other end of the intercom is a trustee, or maybe a trainee guard of some kind… [T]here’s a conspicuous click that might be the sound of a door being automatically unlocked, and then I’m being ushered into an air-conditioned space that would probably be perfectly comfortable if I had clothes on.  As it is, the temperature is slightly on the chilly side, although nowhere near as bad as it was in the strip-search room or in my cell downstairs.  There’s a rough carpet underfoot.

“You heard him, prisoner,” Bledso tells me.  “Wipe.”  I obey, rattling the chain between my ankles in the process.  It’s otherwise very quiet in here, amplifying the sound into a dreadful clatter by comparison.

“Right through here, sirs,” someone says.  Even accounting for the distortion, I don’t think the voice is the same one that came through the intercom.  How many trustees, or whatever they are, does the warden have working for him in this building?  I have the impression that the one who spoke just now is a young man, and there was a controlled pitch to his assured but deferential voice that made me think of actors and PR people.  Weird.  I’m not thrilled about being naked in front of the guy, whoever he is, but at least he isn’t slapping my ass and saying he wants a piece of me.  Thank the gods for small favours, right?

Kimura and Bledso march me a short distance over hardwood, holding my arms as firmly as ever but setting a slower pace now that we’re indoors, and then I hear the crisp rap of knuckles on a good solid door.

“Prisoner [Wheldrake], Master,” Mr Assured but Deferential announces.

“Bring him in,” a man on the other side of the door responds evenly, in a European-sounding accent that I can’t place immediately.  Some quality in his speech makes my ears prick up, to the extent that human ears can, and the hairs stiffen on the back of my neck.  His voice isn’t particularly deep or menacing or anything like that, but there’s an unmistakable note of confidence and authority that resonates deep in my belly.  As strange as it feels to admit this about another man, he sounds captivating.

I’m being manhandled through the door, into his presence.  I walk over more hardwood, then step onto what feels like a thin carpet and find myself brought to a halt by the strong hands on my arms.  Okay, here I am.  I stand patiently in the private darkness of the hood and wait for something to happen, resisting the urge to shuffle my feet or otherwise express the nervousness that is twisting my belly into knots of apprehension.  I hate not being able to see, and not knowing what kind of place this is or exactly who is here with me.  I hear the door fall gently shut, and feel more trapped than ever.

“Take off his cuffs and shackles,” the accented voice says after a moment.  “He can’t get away.”  Anonymous hands, presumably Bledso’s and Kimura’s, set to work at my wrists and ankles.  A moment later I’m unrestrained, though the hood is still in place.  I could easily reach up and remove it, but I’m nowhere near that brave or foolish.  I let my hands fall to my sides, and keep them there.

I hear a creak that could be someone getting up from a chair, and then soft footsteps on the carpeted floor.  It sounds like someone is walking towards me, and the room is so quiet that I can even pick up the tidal whisper of his breathing.  I’m almost positive it is a man, and I get the impression that he’s fairly tall and standing within easy reach.  I swallow hard, and bite my lip to keep from trembling.  I can only assume it’s the warden, the man who apparently likes people to call him “Master”, but I don’t actually know.

A hand closes around my left bicep, kneading and squeezing in a way that seems distinctly exploratory.  Whoever this guy is, he has strong fingers and isn’t shy about using them.  His grip isn’t exactly rough, but it’s powerful enough to be mildly painful.  He moves up to my shoulder, then grabs a handful of my left breast and twists the flesh hard enough to make me gasp.  He prods roughly at my belly, and I brace myself for him to grab my balls next, but instead he snatches away my hood.  Suddenly, we’re standing face-to-face instead of face-to-cloth.

The lighting in here is gentle enough that there’s no momentary dazzling.  I can see perfectly well once the hood is off, and I’m looking practically into the eyes of a man who would register as intimidating even if I passed him in the fucking supermarket.  Under the present circumstances, he’s not far short of terrifying.

Though he doesn’t have the monstrous build of Pitansky or Driscoll, he’s got to be well over six feet tall, and he has a lean, chiselled muscularity about him.  I don’t doubt that he could take me down and pin me to the floor with one hand tied behind him, even if I dared to fight back.  He looks spare and hard in a way that I associate with soldiers, rather than prison guards, and the angularity of his face matches the look of his body perfectly.  If his features were any less fleshy, he’d be flirting with gauntness.  He has a full head of sandy hair, cut very short and liberally sprinkled with a grey that almost matches the flinty colour of his eyes.  His beard and moustache are just as severely trimmed, and are greying even faster.  He’s dressed in khaki-coloured clothes that aren’t quite a uniform, but resemble something a rugged British gentleman might wear on safari.  Quite apart from his size and strength, he exudes confidence and authority as naturally as a shark exudes menace or a giant panda exudes lazy contentedness.  My first impulse on seeing him, as ridiculous as it sounds, is to literally throw myself at his feet.  No doubt the fact that I’m stark naked and completely in his power is a contributing factor, but still.

He takes my chin between his right thumb and forefinger, inevitably hurting me a little, and turns my head from side to side.  He makes a small sound in his throat as he finishes this inspection, a little exhalation that might express either satisfaction or disapproval, and then releases me and turns away.

Only now, when I’m no longer held by his gaze, do I take in my surroundings and realise that I’m not alone with this imposing figure in khaki.  I assume that Bledso and Kimura are somewhere behind me, interposed between me and the door, but what truly arrests my attention is the sight of you sitting calmly on a leather sofa in one corner of the room.  You meet my gaze without any discernible change in your expression, though your eyes flick up and down my naked body in that casual way I’ve already grown used to.  The warden-Master-guy has settled into a chair facing me, on the opposite side of a wooden desk whose surface is sufficiently well-polished to literally gleam in the soft light of the halogen lamps that illuminate this room.  Apart from the desk, which is bare apart from a laptop computer and a stack of manila folders, the place looks more like a living room in a nice condo than a warden’s office in a particularly harsh prison.  There’s a second sofa perpendicular to the one you’re sitting on, and the walls are of white plaster rather than bare institutional concrete.  There are even a couple of paintings, one of Roman centurions leading a bound, naked prisoner and the other of an equally nude man kneeling and pressing his head to the ground in front of a booted figure who is cut off around the knees by the upper edge of the painting.  My nervousness is beginning to congeal into panic.  If nothing else, being naked in a civilised setting like this feels more incongruous, and therefore more uncomfortable and humiliating, than being naked in the austere, institutional concrete rooms and corridors of the building I left a few minutes ago.

The warden, as I’ve decided to think of him, fixes me deliberately with that intense stare of his.  “Welcome to prison,” he tells me, which must be at least the third or fourth time I’ve heard that sentiment expressed today.  “I’m very glad to have you here.  [Your Lady] told me about you some time ago, and I’ve been waiting ever since.”

He’s been waiting?  To do what to me, exactly?  I’m certainly not going to ask, however, and a simple response seems safest.  “Thank you… Master?”

“No, prisoner.  You must continue to address me as ‘sir’, at least for the moment.”

I’m not sure how to take his final words, but everything else is perfectly clear.  “Yes, sir.”

“And while we’re on the subject,” you put in suddenly, “you should be aware that prisoners are expected to address me as ‘ma’am’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply quickly, wondering what made you choose that particular phrasing instead of simply saying “call me ‘ma’am’ from now on”.  Were you going out of your way to imply that you don’t see me as anything more than just another prisoner, a member of a class of people subject to certain rules?

The warden eyes me speculatively.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

I blink in surprise at the question.  “I’m feeling scared, sir,” I reply honestly.  “And powerless, and a bit confused.  I don’t know why I’m here, I mean standing naked in your office, and I don’t know what you’re going to do to me.  I’m also tired and hungry, I guess.  But it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I’m not excited, too.  I’ve been fantasising about prisons and dungeons of different kinds ever since I can remember.  It’s thrilling, in ways I can hardly describe, to be incarcerated in a place like this.”  I pause, and then add, “In a way, it seems almost too good to be true.”

e[lust] #56

The following is a copy of this month’s e[lust] (#56), an outstanding collection of posts from sex bloggers. This issue includes our first contribution to e[lust], my Wheldrake’s post on punishment.

elustheader Photo courtesy of Understanding Flutterby

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #57? Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Trick of the Light

What Does Porn Lead To

The Posh Life of a Sex Toy Reviewer?

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Eleven Quarters

Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Sadists

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

The Watchman
Short Story: Tucked Away
Property’s Progress
Glass Houses
Proud and Prejudged
You’ll Do…. Now Step Closer.
Pet Ballerina
Superotica Valentine – Day 7
Get In Me, Daddy
White Gloves


Posting a photo a day!
How to Handle Your Junk in Public
My first trick on a corner
Mid Morning Musings ~ The Catharsis of Pain
Francesca Woodman Inspired Self Portraits
Eve’s Quandary – Blogging Between Fig Leaves
What I Be

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Why 3 out of 4 young women don’t masturbate
An Open Letter To Sex Toy Manufacturers
Daily Photo – Day 1: Full Disclosure

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Fantasies, deep and dark
Fun with ropes
Where we started from
Kink from a humbler perspective
To Err Is Human, To Punish May be Advisable
Reader Q&A: How does a sub say ‘no’?
Finding Balance

Erotic Non-Fiction

Sister, Oh Sister
My First Trick
This one’s for you
Angela’s orgasm
His Rope Show
Finger Banging With Daddy
Feeding Submission
Valentine’s Day Diary
Balance at the Boat Launch
Rope, Rhino Cock, and a Balancing Act

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Monogamous, Kinky Couple-Friends
As Lust Fades
A discussion with Mom
When Did You Realize You Were Dominant?
How to Fake an Orgasm
How To Increase Your Libido Without Cialis

Writing About Writing

Talking Dirty
Fiction! Thank You!


I’m Willing To Earn The Right
Bad habits


My Lady Has Never Seen My Penis

I should acknowledge, in the interest of accuracy, that the statement headlining this post may not be quite literally true. My Lady, of course, is Dilo Keith, the proprietress of this blog. Once I sent her a video clip that showed me nude on all fours, kissing a photo of her boots that was laid out on the floor. As I knelt up at the end, the tip of my dick intruded into the camera’s field of view for just a few frames. Somewhat similarly, the still photos of my naked self in various postures that I’ve e-mailed to her now and then have included a couple in which my scrotum could be seen peeking out demurely from behind one thigh. All those photos, however, were intended to document things that I was doing for her while unclothed, rather than to display my body, and the camera didn’t happen to capture a good view of my genitals.

As a result, My Lady has never had what I would call a proper look at what’s between my legs, despite the fact that I’ve been obeying her long-distance instructions for more than a year now. Even the one occasion so far when my travels brought me into her neck of the woods didn’t change that part of the status quo between us. She was having a busy few days, and there wasn’t time for anything but dinner with her and her partner followed by a quick session back in my hotel room. It was thrilling to kneel before her in the flesh, to take orders in person for a change and feel her hands buckle leather around my neck, but she kept me fully clothed from start to finish.

Of course, she could change the status quo with nothing more than a brief instruction to send her a photo of myself in a posture that happened to expose my cock and balls. It’s perpetually a bit mystifying to me that she’s never bothered. I don’t have any illusions about the raw aesthetic appeal of my chubby, pasty, hairy physique, and My Lady doesn’t seem too prone to getting excited about male bodies for their own sake anyway. However, it surprises me that she hasn’t demanded a look at the contents of my briefs out of simple curiosity, or to reinforce her sense of possession and control and my complementary sense of being her abject plaything.

Viewing the most intimate parts of someone’s body seems an easy and obvious way to assert power over that person, a near-irresistible bit of low-hanging fruit (a particularly appropriate turn of phrase, I guess, in the case of a male subject) for any dominant looking for methods to reduce a submissive to a delectable state of humility and vulnerability. I were ever to find myself in charge of a long-distance submissive, I’m pretty sure that I would order her to provide a full frontal nude for exactly those reasons, unless she had some kind of limit about sending compromising images. I wouldn’t issue that instruction on the first day of the relationship, but it would probably come within the first few weeks, or perhaps the few first months if the submissive was especially shy or skittish. And yet, I write this blog post as the humble servant of a woman who has exercised firm, sadistic and often very intimate control over me for a good year and half now, but who has never (really) seen my penis.

It’s a situation that I find slightly improbable, wryly amusing, and in a backhanded way actually very exciting. What makes submission to My Lady an adventure, and an authentic experience of surrender and servitude, is the fact that I’ve put myself under the authority of a human being with thoughts, feelings and priorities – not to mention kinks and desires – that are sometimes very different from my own. I have to accept that she’s the one in the driver’s seat (whereas I’m bound and gagged in the trunk), stick to her rules even when I don’t quite see the point of them, and do what she actually tells me as opposed to what I think submission ought to entail. Commands from her that I could never have anticipated, like the order to buy a pair of green underwear that I received fairly soon after I began submitting to her, are the ones that really make me feel the implacable tug of her control.

Not being ordered to do something can have a similar impact, admittedly in a more diffuse and subtle way. It was curious to Sherlock Holmes that the dog did nothing in the night-time, and it’s curious to me that My Lady has never demanded that full frontal photo. Just as buying green underwear reminded me that she sometimes wants things that I find surprising, having been allowed to keep my genitals to myself all this time reminds me that I can also be surprised by the things she happens not to want – or at least, happens not to be in any hurry to lay claim to. Either way, her ability to keep me guessing, the unpredictable and sometimes even idiosyncratic element in her dominance, is intriguing, unnerving and thoroughly erotic.

If My Lady ever does ask for a full frontal photo, or something equally revealing, surrendering that bit of privacy that I’ve hitherto been allowed to retain will be exciting too. She’s hinted that such an instruction might come soon, but hasn’t told me anything definite. If and when she requires me to bare myself for the camera, perhaps I’ll ask her for permission to tell you about it afterwards.

Introducing Wheldrake

Wheldrake, my talented submissive, is now an official author here rather than a guest. That means he gets to do the work of making his words appear here in addition to writing them. To provide a more proper introduction, one of us will have to write it and get back to you. For now, you can learn something about him through his posts.

To Err Is Human, To Punish May be Advisable

By Wheldrake, my submissive and today’s guest

The leather-clad goddess sits, immaculate, on her ornate wooden chair, riding crop already clasped in one gloved hand. “Come here, slave,” she commands with an imperious tilt of her head. “It’s time for your punishment.”


It’s easy to see why punishments are such a staple of BDSM fiction. The act of punishing a submissive is a particularly stark expression of the dominant’s power, and can introduce some variety into a story because it involves a motivation other than raw sadism. The interaction can have various emotional textures depending on whether the punishment is being inflicted in sorrow, anger or glee, and received in a spirit of contrition, defiance or resignation.

I generally enjoy reading a well-written punishment scene with interesting characters and richly described action, especially if the person swinging the crop happens to be a woman. I always identify to some degree with the submissive and perhaps even imagine myself in his or her place, suffering at the hands of a relentless disciplinarian for my sins and shortcomings. It’s wonderful fun, in the realm of my imagination. But if I find the idea of being punished so exciting, how on Earth is My Lady supposed to punish me in the real world when I fall short of her expectations and need to be corrected?

Of course, I try to fall short infrequently enough that the question rarely arises. Maybe there are some paragons of submission who never fall short at all, but like Rayne Millaray I’m distinctly sceptical. We submissives are only human. We want to please and obey those who command us, but now and then we inevitably stay up past our bedtimes, yield to the temptation to have just a little nibble of some treat we know we’re not allowed to sample without permission, forget about a deadline for completing an assignment, or whatever. Once in a hopefully long while, we really fuck up, though I’m pleased to say I’ve avoided this so far in my submission to My Lady.

I’m not at all sceptical, on the other hand, about the existence of dominants and submissives who don’t find punishment to be a particularly useful way of dealing with lapses. Maybe simply talking through the reasons for the submissive’s failure works better for them, as a way of preventing recurrences, or maybe the submissive simply finds the dominant’s disappointment so crushing that punishment is superfluous. For me, talking lapses through is useful and a dominant’s disappointment certainly stings, but receiving a punishment that I find genuinely unpleasant both underlines that disappointment and provides a very basic and concrete reason not to screw up again. “I must write to her at least every other day, no matter how busy I am, or she’ll probably make me regret it” is primitive but impeccable logic that strikes a chord with me and helps to keep me on the straight and narrow.

There’s still the question of technique, which can be a bit tricky. The idea that beating a masochist is a reward rather than a punishment provides abundant fodder for comedians, but there’s a certain amount of truth in it. If a submissive finds it thrilling to be hurt by a tough authority figure (and I suppose I’d better raise my hand at this point), then simply taking him or her out behind the woodshed probably isn’t the ideal way to encourage changes in behaviour. With a bit of experimentation, though,it should be possible to come up with some kind of calculated unpleasantness that is either so intense or so profoundly dull and soul-crushing that the submissive recoils from it and becomes eager not to have to experience it again. Some wayward boys and girls, I understand, can’t bear to be tickled. My Lady knows all too well that I hate writing lines, especially by hand. I end up feeling bored, frustrated and impatient, a cocktail of emotions that’s distasteful enough to make me want to avoid having to sample it more often than absolutely necessary.

The paradoxical thing about my attitude, though, is that I hate writing lines but love being under the control of a woman who doesn’t hesitate to inflict stiff disciplinary doses of line-writing when she thinks they’re warranted (although, mercifully, it’s been a good while since the last one). Her willingness to punish – to say in effect “no, that was not acceptable, and I’m going to impose unpleasant consequences on you” – is an important, and really quite beautiful, facet of her considerable power over my submissive ass.