ConsentOptional

Thou art to me a delicious torment. Thou art to me a delicious torment. So bitter upon my tongue. Whose gift that hath no meaning But whose life sings like songs. Thou art to me a delicious torment. With so much to deceive. I dream of you like treats that I'll receive. Thou art to me a delicious torment. So profound upon thy flavor. You are unlike those that I have met A torment I'd rather savor. Thou art to me a delicious torment, So freely placed to me. A devil's snare that been imbursed Surely you are who I seek. Thou art to me a delicious torment, That rest beside me tonight. Whether friend or foe, I'll rest peacefully with you in sight. Related questions. Does She know? Will She multiply my torments because I obstinately tried to resist; for attempting decisions as a submissive that only a Mistress is entitled to make? For delaying the inevitable?

I was not into them either for the 1st half of my, um, career(?) Cross-dressing first occurred mid-session, not at my request or even expressed interest. But unlike other activities one isn't so sure about, it doesn't leave marks, scars, risk infection, etc. So I went with it. Have been interested ever since. And have come to accept that, while I am the submissive, I must allow the submission itself to be defined by Someone Who Knows What Is Needed. That's never me. And since I'm usually gagged anyway, any recommendation I would make would come out somewhat unintelligibly....

Reminded me of this wicked (if correct...) femme fatale.

We aren't dating these women. But we are having a very intimate and sometimes even profound, revelatory experience with them. It's not a "transaction" for me, and I won't talk about it like one. To go from needing permission to rise from my knees to supposing I can talk about Her in front of the full internet just doesn't sound right. Perhaps if it were more of a transactional session, that'd be ok. But I specifically don't seek those (as per the "session" described above). Still it's not so hard to ask if She would mind and even send it to Her first. It can be cathartic. In which case it honors rather than cheapens the experience.

It was mostly a matter of observing my own tastes and proclivities over time since there wasn't an "industry" as such at the time. But any movie where someone got tied up was intriguing. James Bond being the tightly restrained by an Interrogatrix was automatically delicious. Then it was girls in school with quiet confidence. The ones who owned their sexuality and by extension owned people like me who could only be attracted to their subtle authority. Moving to the east coast from my sheltered midwest finished me off. Women I didn't even know existed were walking among us mortals. All compelling erotic power and mystery. When I finally ventured out to try sessions, I loved dark mystery of it. A building I had walked past 100 times and never thought twice about held a secret dungeon where I would be made to confess my true self.

Did she say that? Smoldering Goddess....

I will usually split screen when I write with an image - typically fetish artwork - as inspiration. i don't at all care for the aesthetics of 3D, but I love Submissen's predicaments. So I used one of those. Yes, this one begins in that mystic corridor at FF; the initial bondage and first stripes with the crop occur outside the privy thereof... I'm aiming to request this one early next year. I know who I hope would be the Master. I have only met her once in a double with Mistress Rey. But her power over me just seems to increase. She would be the one to select the disgusted slave (not I). The key to (consensual) nonconsensual scenes is to try to leave as much latitude as possible to the domme. CO only writes reviews with permission. But if given permission (or instructed to..), I would.

*Blush* Thank you, Mistress. It means a lot coming from someone who absolutely wrecks me (in a good way...).

Given the kind of sessions I like to explore (roleplays with a nonconsensual undertone - or overtone), it's probably counter-intuitive that I always ask to include foot massage. But it's a great way to take a pause in what can be a psychologically overwhelming session without completely breaking role; speak softly for a few minutes, discuss where things are, ask/answer any questions, etc. It also centers me. Very right-brained activity to try to move pleasure from your hands to someone's feet to their temporal lobes. It's more like playing an instrument; very intuitive. I nevertheless like the idea of this peaceful interlude ending abruptly. Even violently. Without warning, the cuffs are slapped back on. I wonder if I did something wrong. Did I reach above the ankle without asking? Did I say something? But she is only reminding me that using me for a brief respite doesn't change the essential dynamic. The underlying raison d'être of the session is unchanged. I may even have worsened my circumstances by proving useful. The game continues.

This is one. Of two...

It's definitely not a linear thing, PS. Fits, starts, wrong turns, bad advice. But it moves in the direction of self-discovery, and soft limits are the gates. I like that old quote from Samuel Beckett. Ever tried? Ever failed? No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Here's to failing better.

Don’t know if this would be considered out-of-bounds. I don't have a "switch" side though. It’s more about an imagined society with a strict Female Supremacy hierarchy in which even a female slave is Lord to any male. FS to me is never about man-hating. It is an instinct I’ve always had that women are just closer to the tuning fork of the universe, inherently wiser, and stronger in the ways that matter. But in this scenario, enforcement can be a bit… rigid. A note for casual passers by. There are some violations of "consent" here. It's a fantasy. Your consent is sacrosanct in this establishment, so don't take anything too seriously. ***** Part 1. Things were off to a very ominous start. Communications were what you'd call "clipped." I hadn’t visited for a while and didn’t grok that this absence might have become an “issue.” "You'll arrive Saturday at 7 sharp." Um, how long are we talking about? "7pm sharp. Don’t make plans.” Do I bring anything or wear anything? "You’re a whore. Dress like one.” Click. Whore? Under the circumstances, I thought it would be wise to keep one chastity key at home in case the tone I was picking up was more than a passing thing and involved key confiscation. I arrived on the dot and was led to the bathroom and unceremoniously pushed toward the door. “Get dressed. 2 minutes.” “Dressed” in Her view meant full slut regalia, slave collar, leashes on chastity device and collar, remote controlled plug inserted, and a street-walking layer of red lipstick. It was not conceivable to do all that in 2 minutes, but I knew better than to say so given the overall tension in the air. I emerged about 7 minutes later and dutifully handed Her the 2 leashes, the remote control for the plug, and 2 (of 3…) keys to my chastity device. “Do you not know how long 2 minutes is?” She tapped her leg with a riding crop menacingly. I looked down as submissively as I knew how and said nothing. This was definitely not the time to offer anything cute or defensive on my behalf. “Face the wall.” There was a sharp tug on the leash to my chastity device. “Spread ‘em.” It was the perp position, and soon was augmented with police cuffs. A chain was run down from the back of the slave collar to hoist my hands so they could not reach lower than the small of the back. “Can you protect your ass this way?” I don’t think so… “Try.” She brought the crop down hard. This was … highly motivating. I strained to lower my hands to stop the next blow. And failed. The crop landed twice more and echoed in the hallway. “Excellent!” The defenselessness pleased Her. I tried a different tack. Mistress, I have an event coming up this week. So, I wanted to ask not to be marked… too much. I added the ‘too much’ because the first 3 stripes with the crop would definitely last for days. She grabbed a handful of my hair and snapped my head back to speak directly into my ear. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before?” She marched me down the hall by the 2 leashes to a locked room. “Kneel, bitch.” She felt my balls for ‘fullness.’ I shudder to think what would have happened if they weren’t full to Her satisfaction, indicating unacceptable sluttiness. Thinking we might be turning a corner in the tension department thanks to my not “cheating” in chastity, I tried a little further self-promotion. I shaved too, Mistress. I was in fact, completely bare under and all around the chastity device. But this did not impress. “Why did you need to shave? You aren’t allowed to have hair on your clit - ever.” I went back to plan A – looking down silently. She removed my lock and threw it in the trash along with my keys. She replaced it with a new lock with a shiny red key. So much for my clever idea of leaving a key at home. “Open.” A pink rubber ball was stuffed in my mouth. A blindfold followed. Suddenly the elevator felt incredibly far away in another world. Finally, She relented. Slightly. “You have forgotten your place in the world. Today, you will remember. Make me proud, little slut.” Speaking being precluded by the ball in my mouth, I nodded vigorously. That there was a path, however thorny, back to making Her proud was a distant spot of light in the enveloping darkness. She fastened my slave collar to the bottom of the rack against the wall. The leash on my chastity device was pulled between my legs, over my butt-plug and up to an upper rung on the rack. These 2 maneuvers left me with my face on the floor and my ass in the air. I sensed a flash through the blindfold and heard the click of a digital camera. “I’m sending your picture to Someone. She is your only chance at redemption. Understand?” I nodded as well as I could in my predicament, though the thought of the Someone only seeing/knowing me as a bound, gagged, plugged, chastised harlot with my welted ass in the air was unnerving. “Good girl.” She left. Part 2. After 15 minutes or 4 hours – whatever it was – I felt the jolt of the remote-controlled plug being switched on through the walls. She was returning. I heard a brief scuffle at the door and another woman’s voice. “No, Master, please. Not in front of her.” “Quiet, slave!” There was a slap of flesh. I guessed it was the crop again. The female slave fell silent. I was the “her” She’d referred to. About that…. When I first came to study Their secret society as an anthropological curiosity several months ago, I’d asked if there was any place for males in it. “Of course, pet. But you don’t seriously think you would be one of them, do you?” She laughed at the silliness of it, and continued the thought. “The weak-minded will be brainwashed and feminized. No exceptions. It will be better for your research.” I took offense to the “weak-minded” reference and the implied ease of brainwashing me. But here I am today on my knees in a pink corset and stockings with a foreign lock between my legs…. But, I digress. So, meanwhile, back in the present…. The female slave was led to the frame and shackled to it facing the wall. Her legs were spread so that a spiked heel was under my nose where my collar was fastened. The Mistress released my collar so I could kneel in an upright position. She removed my gag and blindfold as well. She introduced the bound Slave. I did not qualify to be introduced to anyone. “This is my Slave. Slave I. Say hello to Her, whore.” Hello, slave I. Her slap was immediate and resounding, leaving a red handprint on my cheek despite her latex glove. “You will never refer to any woman as ‘Slave’. Including Slaves. You will refer to all women as Mistress or Master.” It took a moment for my head to clear from the slap. Hello, Mistress I. I'm sorry if I was rude. She hissed. “Don’t look at me, bitch.” Clearly, submitting in front of me infuriated the Slave. I looked away immediately, but the Mistress lifted my chin so my eyes were on the spectacular thong-parted ass of the Slave. The Mistress asked her Slave if She 'needed' the crop again. “No, Master.” She was quiet again. The Mistress addressed me. “You will pay a high price for witnessing this spectacle, whore. The highest in fact” Yes, Mistress... I hadn’t chosen to see ‘this spectacle.’ But it was not my place to choose spectacles. Suggesting that it was would have been considered extreme defiance. “Kiss Her foot. Worship it. Kiss your way up Her stockings…” I’ll pause here to add something. The Slave was an absolute Goddess. And, to avoid severe consequences, I had been in chastity a week. My brain was melting…. “Now, kiss Her ass. Kiss my Slave’s ass.” She leaned down and whispered. “You’re worshiping a Slave’s ass. What does that make you, whore?” It was rhetorical. I was whatever She said I was. But I noticed there was no angry welt on the ass I was worshiping. Unlike mine… She freed the Slave from the frame momentarily, spun her around, and restrained her again, facing forward this time. I now saw that the Slave was wearing a strap-on. And, god, She was gorgeous. I couldn’t process it. Everything about Her exuded dominance. We were not peers. But we were both at the mercy of the Mistress. For now. “You know what to do, whore. Suck my Slave’s cock. My Slave wants to cum down your throat. It will be good practice for swallowing your own cum later.” I abandoned myself to the task. Trying to understand always got me in trouble. So I didn’t. “Good girl. Cover it with lipstick. Your lipstick might be all the lube you will be getting from Her.” From Her? But She increased the vibration on the remote-controlled plug and spoke in that hypnotic voice. “You’re sucking Slave cock. You love Slave cock. You need Slave cock. You are the lowest of all whores. A Slave fluffer. A slave to Slaves.” I tried to remember my haughty dismissal of Her casual assurance that I would be easily brainwashed. So long ago and so far away…. Meanwhile, She deepened her mind-control over me. “Stop!” She pulled on the leash between my legs. “What is this?” She pointed with her crop. The ‘this’ was me bulging out of the chastity device as her “Slave cock” mantra was filling my ears. “You got aroused at the sight of a Goddess in bondage? You, the lowest of all whores?” I apologized, but knew the consequences were already set. “That will be 25 with the crop.” “Fifty,” the Slave amended Her. This time the Mistress did not silence Her. The wheel was beginning to turn. “It is Her decision, whore. In fact from now on, everything is Her decision.” Everything? I looked up at Her face for the first time. And there, hanging in the triangle of her cleavage was the shiny red key. The one for the lock I was wearing. For the final time, the Mistress released Her from bondage. Together, they fastened me to the rack. The former Slave pulled the gag into my mouth and spoke softly in my ear. “Fifty. Make me proud, little slut.” Yeth, Mithtress, I slobbered through the gag. She grabbed my hair and jerked my head to Her lips. “It’s 'Master' to you, slave.” She waved the red key in my face for emphasis.

Jaw dropping.......... Visions of evil roleplay dance in my head.

There's a real good thread about fetish origins. I am also curious about fetish evolution. Are there things that were totally off the table when you started sessioning (or envisioning sessioning) that are now... on the table? if yes, was it... Simply something you were unsure of that you were dubious about it until you were given a proper introduction to it, eg, toys/equipment that were interesting but intimidating. Something you just never expected to enjoy because of your self-conception, ie, you self-identify in a way that makes it not quite right for you and you had to adjust 'theory' in light of 'practice'. Something a domme (gently but firmly...?) insisted on. You trusted her as your tour guide in this world, and sure enough she brought you to a place you needed to see and now hope to visit each time. Something that was a perhaps unanticipated, but in retrospect, a logical extension of something you did enjoy. Having done x naturally y needed to happen. Other. And then there are those things that newby you thought looked really fantastic when you were gazing through the window in the fetish restaurant. But when you actually sat down at table, it was not at all to your liking. In my early sessioning days, I would always consider forced femme a non-starter. I wanted to be tied up - remorselessly. With rope and cuff marks that made long sleeve shirts and long pants necessary in the days following, regardless of time of year. And I wanted a story, one that played with the idea of consent (consensually). Forced femme was not part of it. If asked, I would list it as a soft limit. Hard limits I'd reserve for extremes of physical or psychological torment. I could add golden to that list, both being soaked and ordered to consume. And chastity - which was fairly primitive when I started. And shaving - which you never see in any early bdsm videos (even Sardax doesn't use it, no matter how devastating the sub's predicament.) But soft limits are the playground of the nonconsensualist. A combination of reasons 2, 3, and 4 above have done in the listed soft limits. They are not suddenly "easy" and I sometimes still dread them. But they are psychologically important. And the dominatrix, who better understands the Bardo between what you want and what you need than you do, is aware.

Never thought of that before. Might explain my love/hate fascination with chastity. Keeps the sluttier side out of trouble.

Slave - to my surprise. I self-identify as an unconscionable slut.

I did a full Locktober last year. And because I was openly excited and pining for the month to finally over, the Mistress withheld the key for an extra 10 days. The 10 days was especially difficult because I didn't know when it would end. One can steel himself for a defined ordeal. But not for an undefined ordeal. Not locked up this year. But thinking about a wraparound session to celebrate a pretty good year.

Haven't been very chatty for a while. Work-work-work this summer. So here goes. The dungeon without walls is my fantasy. It's more about humbling than humiliating. But it's in the eye of the beholder. Anyway... No matter how shattering a session is, it ends at the door. "Normal life" resumes. Whoever I was a few minutes ago, I am one of these people on the train now. A male and, once again, wearing male clothing. No one here will say "On your knees, bitch!" and force me to cover her cock with lipstick while her associate plays with the controls on the electronic probe filling my other hole and say, "you like that, don't you, whore." Nothing about me on this train says that I was recently hog-tied and made to drink piss from a bowl on the floor. Or at least I can tell myself so. I look normal enough to the untrained eye to believe I am. It's the necessary "transactional" element of sessions. Sessions end and you can walk away. The itch is scratched. It was just an itch after all. Nothing deeper than that. So that's where the "dungeon without walls" comes in. The idea of the trashed exit. (Note - it exists in my head. Only pieces have been acted upon in sessions. It would require a roleplay in which I had to bring certain items to a session so I could be sent home relieved of the notion that my dungeon has walls...) The "session" is over. I am riding the train and taking an inventory of my damages. The marks on my ass will last all week. But those could have been anticipated. Other things could not. Under my overcoat, I am still wearing my drenched corset and stockings. I had to button the top button on my coat to conceal the pink slave collar I was not allowed to remove. Every piece of bare flesh reads "bitch" "whore" "slave gurl" "fuck toy" or some other choice words in permanent marker. My "holes" have also not been spared the wall-less dungeon. My vibrating plug is whirring away in my "bussy" on the highest setting while the panties in my mouth ooze a cocktail my own release and their golden down my throat. And my clit is once again locked up. They have the only keys. There is no point in telling myself that I am "like everyone else" on the train. I am a feminized, chastised, cum-eating, piss-covered slave. But I actually had a "choice" about most of that.... ....To conclude my evening, they had tied me down to 4 corners on my back. A gag held my mouth open. They touched up my lipstick after pissing in my mouth, hair, and all over my corset and stockings. They unlocked the chastity device I had been forced to wear for a week. I more or less "boinged" out of it. "Look at you with your clit getting all hard. Such a fucking slut." Speech was difficult with the ring gag. But more importantly, it was pointless. They had found the perfect setting of surges and pulses on the electro-cock in my bussy. They had given me a new identity - bitch slave girl. But they weren't done yet. "You think this will all be over soon, don't you, slave girl? You will go back to being a free male like the other free males you see everywhere. You will tell yourself you are one of them." Her eyes looked through me. She didn't expect an answer. "We'll make you a deal. If you don't release, we'll let you change out of that drenched whore outfit and take a nice long shower so you can wash the piss and ink off your body. We'll take that cock out of your boi pussy and let you put your boi clothes back on and go home. Won't that be nice, little one?" It was a chess game in which I was badly overmatched and always 3 moves behind. I didn't know what would be "nice" anymore. "But if you fail... you will eat every drop. You will remain dressed exactly as you are and we will take you downstairs and show the world what a dirty little slut you are. It's an easy choice, n'est-ce pas? Free man or publicly recognized slave girl for life?" It was an easy choice. Or it would have been if I really were the person I was planning to pretend to be once I got back on the train. But I wasn't, and all 3 of us knew it. I lasted as long as I could with the 2 of them whispering in my ear. "Give up, whore. This is your true destiny. We will be your Masters forever. You're not a male and you know it. Do as your Masters tell you. Cum like the little slut you are." They could seduce plywood. After a week in chastity I was helpless and splashed all over myself. As promised, it was soon in my mouth, soaked up along with the residual golden on the table in the worn panties that had been clamped over my nose to overwhelm my olfactory senses at the end. Several pieces of duct tape replaced the ring gag, holding the panties in place. The chastity device was locked back on as my clit "receded". The vibrating plug and slave collar remained in place. I was allowed to put on pants and my overcoat. But that was it. No shirt over my soaked corset. The spun me around and locked my wrists in police cuffs behind me. I was leashed at the slave collar frog-marched down the hall. No, this couldn't be happening.... They paused at the bathroom. "Wouldn't you like to take a nice shower, princess?" I nodded 'yes' vigorously. "Poor thing. Slaves aren't allowed to use the shower." They continued my walk toward oblivion. We stood by the elevator. Soon everyone in Chinatown would be sharing my picture on their phones. "Your old life is over now. You see that, don't you?" I nodded and looked down. Broken and resigned. "Good girl." Abruptly they forced me against the wall and removed the police cuffs. Lips were at my ear. "2 of our slaves will be following you home. If you attempt to remove the panties, plug or slave collar before you get home, the consequences will be unimaginable. We will see you in 2 weeks. Good night, slave." They removed the tape from my mouth and pushed me into the elevator. They waved the chastity keys at me as the door was closing. I knew better than to ask if they would let me keep one. I had just enough time to button up my coat to conceal my slave collar and corset before I was at the ground floor. I stepped out into the cool evening gagged, plugged, collared, chastised, cross-dressed and drenched. No, I wasn't the same as everyone else. I was property. Exceptionally lucky and thoroughly broken property. And so on...

Cycling. I do a 40-50 mile ride every Saturday or Sunday. I'll usually give it a focal point at about the 2/3s to 3/4s mark in the route. Maybe a museum, beach, point of historical interest (house someone was born in, scene of a crime...). Spring and fall are best, though I session more in the fall, which usually means chastity. Chastity and road bikes don't mix. Panties are ok tho...