The clip begins: the shoot’s set in a stark white room with an examination table and a modern-looking recliner covered in plastic. The submissive is a wide-eyed blonde wearing a latex girdle, slave collar, and little else. She’s splayed out on an examination table, squirming and moaning under the hands of a female dominant clad in black latex. The Domme uses her fingers and what looks to be the pony of a Pyrex dildo to pry her victim’s mouth open wide. The Domme inspects her eager bottom’s mouth before allowing her to suck on the toy. Grasping the slut’s chin, she says, “I’m going to stick this in your ass.” (more…)
We had twenty minutes to make our reservation, and V hates being late. So having just finished a shower, I toweled off, then stepped into the room to get dressed. Having pulled up my boxers and reaching for the slacks, her next words took me off guard.
“I want you naked,” she said, “for a few more minutes…”
I turned with a question on my face to find V seated on the divan, dressed, made-up, and wearing a mischievous grin. She looked beautiful, of course, yet the smile I returned was anxious. Because when V grins, it means she’s thought up something wicked to make me squirm, suffer, or both.
“You just need a quick reminder,” she said. “Something to keep you in the right head space while were out.”
“Come here, sweet boy,” V said, patting her leg to indicate I’d soon be across her lap. “This won’t take long.” (more…)
Make (someone) feel ashamed and foolish by injuring their dignity and self-respect, especially publicly.
When I first became involved in BDSM, the concept of erotic humiliation was repugnant. The idea of someone addressing me in such a way that I felt shame had no appeal. It still doesn’t. For example, the idea of anyone, be they my Dominant or a stranger, saying or doing things to make me feel unnecessarily shamed or foolish doesn’t turn me on, it makes me angry.
So then how to explain the fact I get turned on and feel pride when V calls me ‘boy?’ (more…)
I’d spent over an hour on the living room floor being beaten, humiliated, fucked – then beaten again. Twelve strokes into the second thrashing, her phone rang. After delivering lucky thirteen, she checked the caller ID. Grumbling, she dropped the sweat-slick tawse on the couch, then snatched the phone from the end table. Moments later, she was engaged in conversation and walked away. (more…)