Archive for the ‘hog tied’ Category

Online bondage story

Sunday, June 8th, 2008

I had never been an actual slave in “real life”, although I had had
strong fantasies about being a slave for just about as long as I could
remember. I have a very submissive nature, especially around someone who
is able to bring out that side of me. This story is about a Mistress I
served.
Mistress R. was my online Mistress. We had never actually met; we
only corresponded through the email on a local BBS. All I knew about her
was what I could read in her “bio”. She was 33 years old, 5′9″ tall and
weighed 140 pounds. She was married and had red hair. Most of the other
answers in her bio were normal enough, but under a question about
personality types, she had selected “dominant”. Of course, with my
submissive side, I had to write to her and explore just what she meant by
that answer, and I was happy to learn that she liked to fantasize about
being a Mistress. Based on this, we soon formed an online relationship
with her as the Mistress and me as the slave. (more…)

Sample Dom Fem Post

Saturday, August 5th, 2006

Is there any bots to spider my cool dom fem site?
Please tell us where did you find our blog : Feedster, technorati or where?

Our hands brushed together

Thursday, June 8th, 2006

Our hands brushed together. Just the briefest of touches;
But she looked at me, into my eyes, and in that fraction of a second I felt an electricit
y pass through me. Oh no, Althea. I told myself sternly, th
is is poison-the worst and nastiest kind.
As abruptly as it came on, the shock receded, and Sue Castle, whom I began to address as
Ms. Castle from that day on, flopped into the vacant desk. I regained my composure, and finished
calling the roll.
Over the first weeks of that year,
Susan earned a number of detentions from m
e for violating the “4-B” dress code.
Finally she settled into what became her uniform: Stirrup pants and an oversized sweater
a la Marilyn Monroe-a look I thought was outdated, but which somehow made her even more of
a sex-pot than her friends who were trying unsuccessfully to emulate teenage pop stars (while still
covering the school minimum of flesh).
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Our hands brushed together

Thursday, May 18th, 2006

Our hands brushed together. Just the briefest of touches;
But she looked at me, into my eyes, and in that fraction of a second I felt an electricit
y pass through me. Oh no, Althea. I told myself sternly, th
is is poison-the worst and nastiest kind.
As abruptly as it came on, the shock receded, and Sue Castle, whom I began to address as
Ms. Castle from that day on, flopped into the vacant desk. I regained my composure, and finished
calling the roll.
Over the first weeks of that year,
Susan earned a number of detentions from m
e for violating the “4-B” dress code.
Finally she settled into what became her uniform: Stirrup pants and an oversized sweater
a la Marilyn Monroe-a look I thought was outdated, but which somehow made her even more of
a sex-pot than her friends who were trying unsuccessfully to emulate teenage pop stars (while still
covering the school minimum of flesh).
Susan had definitely begun discovering the benefits of being
female in a crowd of hormone-crazed teen boys.
She got respect from the jocks because she stood up to them, but hung out with the nerds,
possibly making her the most popular girl in school. But her marks were atrocious, her conduct
disrespectful, and she had serious discipline problems.
II wasn’t sure she was entirely unaware of the
effect she had on me, either. When I told her to wait a
fter class was dismissed she would deliberately stand too close to m
e, making me feel flustered and hot.
And horny. I was continually surprised and somehow angry at that.
But damn it!-she was seventeen. Three years over the age of consent but nine years younger than
me. And, I thought, she couldn’t possibly have any idea of the sort of things that crept into my
head when she looked at me so insolently in class:
Susan Castle is standing outside my office door. She is
wearing a thin, long cotto
n T-shirt and nothing else, as she has been instructed.
Inside the office, I am waiting and wet. I slip the dildo into its harness,
and then slide the free end into my pussy with a grunt. I tighten the buckles on
the straps which cup my ass and hips. I always love the look of the dildo thrusting up from my crotch.
Do men feel like this, I wonder? Apart from the dildo and its harness I am wearing a pair of stockings, a
bustier, and opera-length gloves. The room has been prepared. Several candles flicker on the shelves, making
my rubber cock cast shadows that would give old Sister Chang from high school nightmares. Hanging from assorted
hooks along the wall behind my desk are some toys: A thick strap called a strapple, a piece of bamboo cane, a
shiny pair of clamps (nipple or labia-oh no, the clothespins for naughty pussy lips are over there). Satisfied with
the arrangements, I call out: “Enter”. I cross my arms and stand facing the door with my feet apart. The door swings
open of its own accord. Susan enters with an old-fashioned candlestick. Her eyes are big, dark and a little fearful,
riveted to the jutting phallus between my thighs. I melt inside, wanting to hold her to me and tell her its all going
to be alright, that I’d never really hurt her. But I can’t-she needs to know that I am the one in control. Ordered to
place the candlestick on the desk, Susan attempts to straighten up. But I have a gloved hand firmly in her hair.
I push firmly downward. “You will enter this room only on your knees from now on, slave.” Obediently she kneels.
I slap her face. “You will answer me with your little mouth,” such a tight little rosebud of a mouth-I want to kiss it. I want to pinch her lips with clothespins, I want to bite them “and what I will hear from that dirty little mouth will be ‘Yes Mistress’. Have you quite got that?” She almost nods for a minute. But eventually says: “Y-yes Mistress.” There’s no foreplay. “I’m going to fuck all your holes, right now, just to prove I can; to prove that you’re my property. Won’t that be nice?” “Yes M-Mmmmph!” as I drive the dildo between her lips. She resists for a moment, and I take a short sash cord from the desk and whip her vigorously. After about ten stripes have blossomed on her back and ass, to the accompaniment of shocked squeals, I feel the dildo fully inserted in her mouth. She’s looking up at me from my crotch, inquiringly. I fuck her mouth for a few strokes, then pull out. At my command she turns and presents her behind to me. I order her to put her head to the floor, tossing a textbook down so that she won’t risk wood burn. She almost wiggles in pleasure as I drive the first inch of the dildo into her cunt. But I stop almost as soon as I’ve begun, and she whimpers as I withdraw. “You cum without permission, slut, and I’ll whip you sixty times with the cane.” I hiss at her. An empty threat. She’s never been caned before, and her tender ass would bleed before I gave the tenth stroke. But she doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t know that I don’t know her anywhere near well enough to stop her from cumming if she started. But I rely on her honesty. I grab her ass firmly and spread her cheeks. Her puckered little asshole is porn-star clean, as I specified. Fingering a large dollop of lubricant into her hole, I begin intruding with the dildo. Her whimpering becomes moaning, then crying out. “If you want this to stop, all you need to do is use your safe word, slave.” She knows-but I have to be sure. As I seat the dildo inside her to the hilt, I feel the tension relax inside her as she opens up and admits her Mistress. I glory in the trust and triumph, and as the dildo slips in and out of both of us, I smack her ass triumphantly and start to cum. . . . See what I mean? What seventeen-year-old could possibly share that dream?
Susan settled into her seat, and for the entire term she never once rais
ed her hand. If I called on her she’d either ignore me, looking out the window,
or else she’d stare at me blankly. There wasn’t much I could do beyond give her another detention.
After her first report card, neither of her parents came to parent-tea
cher night. Since she was in great danger of failing,
I took it upon myself to call her listed phone number. Receiving no reply,
I attempted to contact her parents at work. At her father’s workplace number
I was told that Mr. Castle was away at the moment and probably wouldn’t be back for several weeks.
Her mother’s listed employer-the construction firm of Stonewall and Mason-told me that Mrs. Castle no
longer worked for them. Intrigued, I pulled her file card at the office-technically a no-no but easily done
if one knew the file clerk.
Hog Tied
Perfect Slave
Rather Extreme
Fetish Nation

Our hands brushed together

Thursday, May 18th, 2006

Our hands brushed together. Just the briefest of touches;
But she looked at me, into my eyes, and in that fraction of a second I felt an electricit
y pass through me. Oh no, Althea. I told myself sternly, th
is is poison-the worst and nastiest kind.
As abruptly as it came on, the shock receded, and Sue Castle, whom I began to address as
Ms. Castle from that day on, flopped into the vacant desk. I regained my composure, and finished
calling the roll.
Over the first weeks of that year,
Susan earned a number of detentions from m
e for violating the “4-B” dress code.
Finally she settled into what became her uniform: Stirrup pants and an oversized sweater
a la Marilyn Monroe-a look I thought was outdated, but which somehow made her even more of
a sex-pot than her friends who were trying unsuccessfully to emulate teenage pop stars (while still
covering the school minimum of flesh).
Susan had definitely begun discovering the benefits of being
female in a crowd of hormone-crazed teen boys.
She got respect from the jocks because she stood up to them, but hung out with the nerds,
possibly making her the most popular girl in school. But her marks were atrocious, her conduct
disrespectful, and she had serious discipline problems.
II wasn’t sure she was entirely unaware of the
effect she had on me, either. When I told her to wait a
fter class was dismissed she would deliberately stand too close to m
e, making me feel flustered and hot.
And horny. I was continually surprised and somehow angry at that.
But damn it!-she was seventeen. Three years over the age of consent but nine years younger than
me. And, I thought, she couldn’t possibly have any idea of the sort of things that crept into my
head when she looked at me so insolently in class:
Susan Castle is standing outside my office door. She is
wearing a thin, long cotto
n T-shirt and nothing else, as she has been instructed.
Inside the office, I am waiting and wet. I slip the dildo into its harness,
and then slide the free end into my pussy with a grunt. I tighten the buckles on
the straps which cup my ass and hips. I always love the look of the dildo thrusting up from my crotch.
Do men feel like this, I wonder? Apart from the dildo and its harness I am wearing a pair of stockings, a
bustier, and opera-length gloves. The room has been prepared. Several candles flicker on the shelves, making
my rubber cock cast shadows that would give old Sister Chang from high school nightmares. Hanging from assorted
hooks along the wall behind my desk are some toys: A thick strap called a strapple, a piece of bamboo cane, a
shiny pair of clamps (nipple or labia-oh no, the clothespins for naughty pussy lips are over there). Satisfied with
the arrangements, I call out: “Enter”. I cross my arms and stand facing the door with my feet apart. The door swings
open of its own accord. Susan enters with an old-fashioned candlestick. Her eyes are big, dark and a little fearful,
riveted to the jutting phallus between my thighs. I melt inside, wanting to hold her to me and tell her its all going
to be alright, that I’d never really hurt her. But I can’t-she needs to know that I am the one in control. Ordered to
place the candlestick on the desk, Susan attempts to straighten up. But I have a gloved hand firmly in her hair.
I push firmly downward. “You will enter this room only on your knees from now on, slave.” Obediently she kneels.
I slap her face. “You will answer me with your little mouth,” such a tight little rosebud of a mouth-I want to kiss it. I want to pinch her lips with clothespins, I want to bite them “and what I will hear from that dirty little mouth will be ‘Yes Mistress’. Have you quite got that?” She almost nods for a minute. But eventually says: “Y-yes Mistress.” There’s no foreplay. “I’m going to fuck all your holes, right now, just to prove I can; to prove that you’re my property. Won’t that be nice?” “Yes M-Mmmmph!” as I drive the dildo between her lips. She resists for a moment, and I take a short sash cord from the desk and whip her vigorously. After about ten stripes have blossomed on her back and ass, to the accompaniment of shocked squeals, I feel the dildo fully inserted in her mouth. She’s looking up at me from my crotch, inquiringly. I fuck her mouth for a few strokes, then pull out. At my command she turns and presents her behind to me. I order her to put her head to the floor, tossing a textbook down so that she won’t risk wood burn. She almost wiggles in pleasure as I drive the first inch of the dildo into her cunt. But I stop almost as soon as I’ve begun, and she whimpers as I withdraw. “You cum without permission, slut, and I’ll whip you sixty times with the cane.” I hiss at her. An empty threat. She’s never been caned before, and her tender ass would bleed before I gave the tenth stroke. But she doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t know that I don’t know her anywhere near well enough to stop her from cumming if she started. But I rely on her honesty. I grab her ass firmly and spread her cheeks. Her puckered little asshole is porn-star clean, as I specified. Fingering a large dollop of lubricant into her hole, I begin intruding with the dildo. Her whimpering becomes moaning, then crying out. “If you want this to stop, all you need to do is use your safe word, slave.” She knows-but I have to be sure. As I seat the dildo inside her to the hilt, I feel the tension relax inside her as she opens up and admits her Mistress. I glory in the trust and triumph, and as the dildo slips in and out of both of us, I smack her ass triumphantly and start to cum. . . . See what I mean? What seventeen-year-old could possibly share that dream?
Susan settled into her seat, and for the entire term she never once rais
ed her hand. If I called on her she’d either ignore me, looking out the window,
or else she’d stare at me blankly. There wasn’t much I could do beyond give her another detention.
After her first report card, neither of her parents came to parent-tea
cher night. Since she was in great danger of failing,
I took it upon myself to call her listed phone number. Receiving no reply,
I attempted to contact her parents at work. At her father’s workplace number
I was told that Mr. Castle was away at the moment and probably wouldn’t be back for several weeks.
Her mother’s listed employer-the construction firm of Stonewall and Mason-told me that Mrs. Castle no
longer worked for them. Intrigued, I pulled her file card at the office-technically a no-no but easily done
if one knew the file clerk.
Hog Tied
Perfect Slave
Rather Extreme
Fetish Nation

Medical Fetish Story

Thursday, May 18th, 2006

123 This story is about a loneley man who lived in Ontario. He move out when he was 40.
Ok, what we can teel you about him? He was sexy male and like gyno exams. He like to peep on his neighbor girl when she had visited her gyn.
He liked and enjoyed very much by her sexy spreaded legs…and so on…

Medical Fetish Story

Tuesday, May 9th, 2006

Fetish Hospital Approved and tested for completly perverts.
This story is about a loneley man who lived in Ontario. He move out when he was 40.
Ok, what we can teel you about him? He was sexy male and like gyno exams. He like to peep on his neighbor girl when she had visited her gyn.
He liked and enjoyed very much by her sexy spreaded legs…and so on…

Teachers Daughter

Saturday, May 6th, 2006

Ask any teacher what the worst day is, and surprisingly few will remember the first day of work. The rumble in their tummy as they stand before a blackboard for the very first time, alone and without a supervisor seems to fade for them. It has never faded away for me, and I recall it vividly.
In my case it was even worse than average. I had come back to my hometown after graduating college; disappointing my parents who had expected me to move out and be a big success “away” somewhere. I explained that I’d come home to “give something back to the community”, but it was complete balderdash. What I was really doing was burying myself in my work, trying to avoid admitting something that no-one else knew.
In college I had become Mistress to a lithe blond tart named Jacqueline “Tennisball” Turner. In some way, we’d been very much in love. I’d revelled in every whipping or spanking I gave her. She gloried in the loving abuse I heaped on her. But eventually I’d convinced myself that this wasn’t what I wanted.
I was a “normal” woman, with normal desires. I wanted a husband and kids and. . . .And I wanted Tennie, or piggy, as I’d sometimes called her, crawling to lick a pair of black leather boots with four-inch heels that clung so tightly to my legs that my slave often had to yank them off me while I broke the suction with a shoehorn. I wanted her head bobbing vigorously between my thighs as the little electric shocks of pleasure shot from my clitoris. I wanted to hang her from the ceiling beam of my little house and beat her ass raw for breaking dishes, to set her impossible tasks and punish her for failing at them.
But I wanted other things too: the touch of her breath on my neck when I let her sleep in my bed; the soft look in her eyes when she knelt at the foot of that bed with my morning coffee; the contented hum of her when all the happy violence was over, the sweat and sometimes tears dried, and she cuddled into my arms during decompression.
And I wanted all of this while leading a June-Cleaver-with-a-career existence? It was too much, and I knew it. But while I sorted all this out I still had rent to pay, first to my parents, then to a landlord, and finally to a mortgage company. I found a job at a high school in town (not the Catholic school I’d attended, but a newer secular school called Park West Secondary).
On the first day of classes, I was way too early. Only the school custodian was in the hall as I entered the Old Building (the one built in 1976 was the New Building) and made my way to room 108 West. The classroom was empty, and I unlocked the door but left the light off. Instead I went to the door at the back of the class. In other days it would have been a storage space. The teacher I had replaced, one Mr. Carruthers, had been in the habit of smoking a pipe quietly in there while grading papers, and the room had that lovely “gentleman’s club” smell of old leather armchair, shoe polish, and pipe tobacco. It’s a smell I’ve always associated with luxury.
There was a little narrow window facing the soccer field, and long shelves of dusty textbooks along the wall with the door in. I put my necessary things into the desk and cupboards, my clipboard, a pack of marking pens, chalk (any teacher will tell you, you bring your own and hoard your supply), and my coffee mug.
My coffee mug.