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Submissive lesbian

Thursday, June 5th, 2008

We took the highway early in the morning to our weekend’s destination. My
slave girl and I in a nice rental car. Our costumes were in the trunk, the
fresh coffee was aromatic in the car, we shared a muffin while Mina drove. My
private property… She was wearing white lacy garters under her pants. I
passed my hands along her smooth neck and through hair every once in a while
and she would turn around to give me a pleasant smile of deep contentment

After passing through the U.S. border which was guiding us along our way
to New York — the city of opportunities, I ordered her to stop at a gas
station, I took her to the restroom, unbuttoned her pants, lowered them, and
then inserted a butt plug — gliding it against her clit — nice and smooth
while I cleaned up the excess of Jelly… Then kissed her bum and gave her a
slim sexy skirt which exposed her beautiful legs. As we left the restroom a
couple of men waiting for their own woman to come out commented on her legs.
They wished they could enjoy her for at least the evening. I felt proud. (more…)

Dominatrice in sexy lingery

Wednesday, April 9th, 2008

“Get up, slave!” She ordered. I stood up unsteadily and
she pushed me toward the closet. We have a walk-in closet in our
bedroom with a mirror on the door. I hobbled toward the closet
as quickly as the bonds on my ankles would permit. She opened
the door and inside was a chair which she motioned for me to sit
in. Once I was seated, she securely tied me to the chair with
rope. She reached down and seized my rock-hard cock in her hand
and said, “Don’t make a sound until I return. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head. She walked out of the closet and closed the
door behind her. I was left sitting in the darkness of the closet
with a raging hard-on, not knowing what was next.
I sat in darkness for at least a half-hour before I heard
anything outside the closet. I heard the bedroom light switch
click and when the lights in the bedroom came on I was startled
by the fact that I could see into the bedroom from within the
closet. My wife had installed a one-way mirror on the closet
door in place of the mirror that had been there. I could see the
entire bed from where I was sitting and nobody could see me. I
about died when my wife entered the bedroom followed by a young
man I had never seen before. She was still wearing the lingerie
she had on earlier, but he was completely naked. He looked to be
in his early twenties and was probably a local college student.
He had his hands all over her as he followed her onto the bed.

Being Slave Is Arousing

Friday, November 23rd, 2007

I don’t know what hurt the most, the stinging power of her
big hand as it descended again and again with sledgehammer force
against my bare flesh or the realization that I, a grown man,
was being publicly spanked by this beautiful Amazon in front of
all our friends. Regardless, within moments I was screaming and
sobbing with pain and humiliation as I thrashed helplessly in her
steel grip, unable to even slow the tempo of her blows. How long
she continued to spank me I don’t know; all I remember is that
toward the end my body was engulfed in a swirling cauldren of
pain and I was sobbing and begging incoherently for her to stop.
Finally she did, lifting me off her lap and setting me on my feet
only to grip my buttocks again with a single hand that sent fiery
fingers of pain shooting through my body and march me, with my
feet barely touching the floor, to a corner of the room and stand
me there, facing the wall with my nose pushed firmly into the
corner. “For the rest of this night, little toy,” she told me
grimly, “you will stand in this corner with that blistered rear
of yours in plain sight for all the girls to see and play with,
and you will not take your eyes off that wall. Do you under-
“Y-yes,” I sobbed. “Whatever you–you say.”
And so for the rest of that evening I stood there, facing
the wall, my nose firmly in the corner, with my pants and drawers
down around my ankles and my blistered rear exposed for all to
see and fondle. And they did, much to my physical and psycholog-
ical discomfort. Finally, after several hours, they left, and
Bonnie came over to the corner to get me. Sliding one arm around
my waist, she picked me up, tucked securely under her arm, and
carried me to the center of the room, where she stood me on my
feet in front of her, my eyes barely reaching to her shoulder in
the six inch heels she was wearing. Cupping my chin in her thumb
and forefinger, she tilted my head back, forcing me to look up at
her. “Now, little toy man,” she said grimly, “you’re going to
clean up this mess starting right now. And when you’ve finished,
I’d better be able to eat off the floor or you’ll get another
session across my knee that will make the last one feel like love
pats. I’ll be waiting for you upstairs when you’re finished, and
I don’t want to have to wait too long. So hop to it!” As she
turned to go, she hesitated. “And by the way, if you ever try to
hit me in public again, I’ll break you in two like the ten cent
toy you are. Any questions?”

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Tuesday, May 30th, 2006

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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.