ConsentOptional

One of my pet peeves is faux bondage. Little spring-loaded clasps that I can easily reach to free myself from, loose rope making knots readily available, etc. My thinking is that of all the things I'm willing to pretend for the sake of a session, pretending to be tied up shouldn't be one of them. I should add that my experiences at FF have involved real bondage. High quality rope, serious metal restraints. Strict and sustainable, 2 of my favorite S's. But check this out. Looks like garage door cables, ferrules and a professional crimping tool. That had to be Valentine's Day. What else could prompt such a loving romantic gesture.... Hey, you have your definition of loving romantic gestures and I have mine.

I like Thanksgiving. It's simple and to the point. Everyone has something to be thankful for + Everyone likes food = National Holiday. Done. It has a certain pagan appeal too. A celebration of the harvest, the change of seasons, a defiant feast in the face of the encroaching winter. I was raised catholic, and we can argue about this some other time, but the whole tribe are pagans under the skin. Thanksgiving is quite fabulously and obstinately celebrated on a Thursday. Not moved to the nearest Monday like less self-confident holidays. That wouldn't placate the gods very well. Because Thanksgiving needs to interrupt the work week, not append itself to the weekend like the embarrassed, approval-seeking +1 of some fall Sunday. Thanksgiving arrives alone, removes its belt and tells a dirty joke. The smells might be the best part. We are animals, but animals with souls, and nothing reminds you of that more than the way certain food aromas connect your olfactory sense directly to your childhood memories, your ancestry, your most essential self. We're all at each other's throats so easily these days. Not here maybe, but just take a quick look at social media or comments section following any article on politics. Never seen anything like it. Reduced to the basics, remembering to be grateful for at least one thing and eating something that makes you happy to the core is a pretty damn good way to spend an afternoon. Especially now.

These places are getting popular. If you invite any subs they'll definitely freak out.

Kind of, yes. Everything for me starts with a story. I make up stories almost involuntarily. A shrink would say I am frightened by the randomness of the world and impose order on it by making up stories. Maybe. But these particular tales can function as backstories for sessions. They impose few restrictions on the dominatrix other than, say, tone and creating a pretext. But they have few dungeon activities in them. Yes! Run with it. I see it as the dominatrix variation on Gay-dar. Why not? Not my work image. I don't teach fiduciary policy classes at hotels. I've gone to them though... But I stay "close to home" for 2 reasons. 1, I don't use the term Goddess lightly. You don't want to be in the presence of one and "remembering your lines." You won't. Let yourself be a nerd or whatever you're most comfortable with. 2, I treat every session as if it could be my last. Not that I would never session again. But that it could become my Mistress. I don't want to start that in another man's skin so to speak. Good luck, Franknot. Let you imagination run wild. How many chances do you get to do that in life.

The paradox of C/NC sessions is that they are extensively negotiated. It’s not munching on a foot for a half hour after all.* And no matter how nicely you ask, no one will actually become a heartless sociopath for you. They’ll remain concerned for you and your well-being. They’re just mean that way.... But you can still have your shell cracked, and that’s what C/NC is about. Not necessarily screaming, begging, sobbing and 50 more strokes than you can possibly handle. It’s breaking through to your essential submissive self and not letting you stop before you get there. in terms of pain, I guarantee you everyone here knows how to find your wall and then go slightly or more than slightly past it. If that’s what you want. But think a little about the psychological state you want to explore. Because the rest is details. You strike me as someone who is entitled to more confidence than he allows himself. Maybe even revel in it. So you might look there. Either way start with listing your hard limits. What is absolutely off the table. Both physically and psychologically. In order for the session to flow without interruption - ie, without breaking the spell - she needs to know that stuff. Then list your soft limits. Sustainable physically and psychologically, but you would rather not. Maybe it’s drinking piss out of a dog dish with your hands cuffed to your balls. Maybe being significantly marked. Maybe forced femme, Carolynbaby? Even foot worship* (mentioned above) could be a c/Nc activity if you really don’t like it but have not intense revulsion toward it. Spend some time on this list because it’s probably your c/nc sweet spot. You already admitted you can handle ithis stuff, you just don’t wanna. Familiarize yourself with the expression, “Just fucking do it, ya little bitch.” You’ll be hearing it quite often. Then after the session go home and check your list and see which you were right about (disliking), which you weren’t, and which you were BOTH right about (disliking) but found it hot to be forced into. Rinse and repeat.

We (who walk through these particular doors) don't lose our "innocence". It might be fun to play with that idea, but that's not really what's at stake. We lose an avenue of denial. We must face facts about ourselves that others can bury in work, compartmentalization, other jedi mind tricks. We can't. I ask someone to whip me and, when I'm maxed out, I ask them to stop. Ostensibly anyway; not quite so literally as that. I admit that I need it and am eternally grateful that someone understands and doesn't judge me for it. I'm as connected to that person, more so in fact, than women I've had sex with. I think that's why I'm enthralled with the idea of kissing the punishing hand. Because it preserves the intimacy of something no one else would take to be intimate. Except us folks. The experience is also the end of any hope of binary sexuality. We have to acknowledge that we are someplace on a continuum that includes everyone from the straightest to the gayest. We don't have the luxury of judging consensual sexuality. I refer to things that don't interest me as "unerotic." That's the best I can do. I only know they don't appeal to me. Or don't appeal to me yet. I also don't the luxury of believing they never will. But in exchange for all that, you get humility, self-awareness, maybe some kindness and empathy. As far as romance goes, submissives are more attentive lovers. Our little advantage. We're used to listening with multiple senses and seeking the satisfaction of another first. It might not be the first thing that occurs to you when you're rubbing your ass and saying "man, that girl hits hard." But it happens to be true. Use it.

There are certain moments in a scene when I can almost feel the key plunging into the lock on my submission. Could be an expression, could be a gesture. But the world just stops. These are a some of mine. What are yours? Mistresses, what do we do (or should we do) to create a moment for you? Could be words you say; could be words you want to hear from us. Could be the way we say them. They way we conduct ourselves or made ourselves ready to receive what you want us to take. Or the moment we break. But what tells you that moment has arrived? "Get on your knees, put your hands behind your back." Or whatever position you like to begin with. It's not a "request." It's that first clear signal that we have exited the world in which I had rights or was anyone's equal. I also love the idea of a pre-existing protocol. That I am to be positioned in a certain way, dressed a certain way, plugged, collared, gagged, etc... before you even walk through the door. "Eyes on the floor." You are a Goddess. A stone cold, traffic stopping, "I already wish I scheduled a longer session" Goddess. And wearing that dress... It's a miracle of civilization that I am even in this room with you and breathing the same air. When you guide my eyes to the floor, you are asking me to pause and recognize those facts and my extreme good fortune. One does not stare at a Goddess. One seeks permission to look. You will tell me when I can. "Did I say you could....?" Any frightening rhetorical question. Instant recognition that, no matter what it is, if you didn't say I could, then I can't. It could be reasonable or arbitrary. "...look at me?" "...get aroused?" "...have genital hair?" And a favorite in an extended session. "...leave?" Letting one think they can go home only to mind-fuck them, then dragging them back to their new reality. "No one knows where you are and no one will find you." Providing non-consensual scene clarity. In other words, do as you're told. Don't hope we will stop. Accept your fate and blindly follow. "Your safeword is 'whatever pleases you, Goddess'." Also known as "this will continue until I am satisfied." An intimate pause. During flogging or some other act of endurance. It doesn't mean it's over. It probably isn't. It will continue until you are satisfied. But you let me rest my head against your boot or a moment. You smooth your hand over the places you have marked me. You can see that I have crashed through the first level. Not broken yet, but will get there. And it pleases you. "Slave." A slave is not the lowest of all beings. Because the slave is worth owning. And to be the slave of a Goddess is an aspiration, not place to which one falls. Understood this way, it's both a statement of the highest point you will ever reach on Her hierarchy. And a compliment.. "Bitch." Owned in a different way. Incapable of resisting you physically or psychologically. I like "slut". But it's different. Yes, I'm a slut. But I was a slut before we ever met. Bitch is something you make of me. Or take from me. Cool thighs against my ass. I'll bet that's self explanatory. You might say, "I own you now, bitch." Or let your thighs say it. Or the 3 of you can say it in harmony... A hard slap followed by a caress. Gear stripping. I don't like anger based sessions. A slap is such a wonderful imperious gesture. Almost lost to the modern world when you think of it. It says, "there is nothing that will ever make up the distance between your place in this world and Mine." Following it with a caress of the reddened cheek is a juicy mind-fuck. It also says that you are in control of your emotions. But that you require and will have my total submission. Because no one knows where I am, and no one will find me... "I'm not interested in male slaves. Oh did you think that meant you? How cute!" Arbitrary, "because I said so" feminization. In this case, if you were laboring under the misconception that your drivers license gender was relevant, think again. Or, better yet, stop thinking. You're not good at it. Not in this room anyway. "If you release I will make you eat every drop." Click. A buzzing noise starts. But Goddess, how can I possibly not.... Oh. That was the point. I am so completely your bitch that this warning of a very deep pending humiliation does me no good. If I was anything but a total slut, that warning would save me and help me hold back. But no. Dinner is served.... Exit protocols. Kissing your ass, foot, hand, riding crop, the floor you walk on. Whatever it is. But some sort of ritual at the end that pairs off with the ritual at the beginning. This was hard, Goddess. I don't need to pretend nothing happened. I don't want to either. Leaving trashed. Any or all of these. Still gagged, still plugged, locked in chastity, covered in piss and not allowed to shower, choice words written all over me with a sharpee, still dressed as s (soaked) tart under my street clothes. The message: "Your session is over, your submission to me is not. It goes on beyond these walls. It will be with you on the train, when you get home, when you turn your phone back on and check your messages. You now have something that all the people you pass in the street do not have. But you have also lost something. Forever. Things have changed. Slave."

Thanks, Franknot. I have one other story here. Some similarities, different tale though. Next chapter would have to be an actual session or sessions. My stories are not very prescriptive about session time. This one covers at most 10 minutes in the dungeon. It's more about the dynamic of the session; how they got there; the terms of the relationship between Mistress and sub. And the fact that the sub is in deep doo if he does not present himself at the dungeon but may never be heard from again if he does. A sequel might be interesting though. But it would likewise not take place in a dungeon; rather it would lead them back to the dungeon for another round. I am always intrigued by consensual nonconsent. But the standard approaches do nothing for me. They're either too silly since most of us boys are not secretly spies, prison inmates or alien abductees. Or they're too angry (revenge-driven - bad boss, landlord, guy who owes you money, steals your laundry, creepy male of some sort). I like roleplays that let me (us) be more like my real self with a Goddess. (Hey, why should you have to be a jerk to get kidnapped? That's discrimination!) Instead, I can be shy, tongue-tied, genetically submissive, but perhaps not altogether clear on what that means - or can be made to mean. All the stories depend on the idea of "slave radar". The instinct of the dominatrix to know who is or (can be made into) a slave. I like to think such a psychic capacity exists. And they all have ruthless "because I said so" feminization. Fun... But again, the next chapter, if there is one, would take place in the dungeon. I've told Emma. It may remain a story though. I look at one or 2 images when writing. But the person one imagines isn't necessarily of interest to that person. So at least I get a story out of it.

It looks glorious. In a kidnapping scene you can abandon someone in some kind of bound sense dep predicament, not knowing when you'll come back - or if you never left. Then suddenly - ZAP! But the reviews are not great. Worst part is that after 3 minutes it shuts off. And you can't just turn it back on. You have to remove the batteries. So the element of surprise would be gone after 3 minutes for anyone familiar with the workings. I love the idea though. I wish some NASA engineers would throw their big brains at toys. Remote controlled but plugs which a Mistress can turn on from her phone while you're at work are in their 3rd release and starting to get pretty good. The first ones could be intercepted by random callers (which seemed kind of hilarious).

Haven't written any D/s fiction for a while. Re-reading the last one, finding some inevitable similarities. Well, I've only been blessed with one kinky mind. Which is better than none at all I guess. My D/s fiction tends to be a pretext for a session or multi-sessions. Good for setting tone, but not overly prescriptive about the session(s) itself. I'm drawn to non-consensual or limited consent scenes that don't place too many burdens on the dominatrix to orchestrate; or "acting" duties for myself, which would be the source of endless cringing for the dominatrix. I "roleplay" as a shy, over-committed professional in need of very dominant guidance. In real life, I am a shy, over-committed professional in need of very dominant guidance. It's mostly a session-triggering backstory then, but hopefully entertaining to a certain mindset. Use the keywords to see if it's up your alley or would bore you to tears. A disclaimer: The Goddess in the story takes advantage of how easily she can turn her prey into a helpless puddle of submission - for which she can easily get him fired. It's not in any way a negative reference to #MeToo which I full-heartedly endorse. It's a fantasy only. The Goddess is quite ethical. But she knows her prey would benefit from knowing he has no choice but to do things her way.. *** Master. One of my company’s VIP clients is FF Consulting. Exactly what they do is only known to a few senior executives, but it is a thriving business and they are treated with the highest degree of deference and care whenever they visit our office. One day a representative from FF is in the office for meetings. Professional attire fails to conceal the fact that she is an utter Goddess. And there is just a hint of fetish in her choice of accessories. She has a particular gift for shape-shifting seamlessly between cult-worthy ethereal seductress and (relatively) innocent young professional. I first see her as I am getting in an elevator and hold the door for her. I immediately start looking down at the floor once the doors close. I am used to being invisible to women like her. She reminds me that I didn’t ask her floor. “Oh, sorry - which floor?” I press it and resume looking at the floor. I feel her looking at me appraisingly as I keep my gaze lowered. “Do you like my shoes, little one?” Little one? I am older, taller, larger. Yet it sounds so right coming from her. “Yes--” It is out of my mouth before I know it. I am praying someone else gets on the elevator, but it keeps moving.. “You’re a shy girl, aren’t you? I like shy girls.” Right then, it was over. She had already made up her mind about me. My shyness was like waving red meat in front of a lioness. From that point on she never referred to me or related to me as anything but her little girl, her bitch, her filthy whore. Slave girl. Not even slave boy. She grabbed my name tag and read it. “Mark, is it? Mark dear, we need to talk later.” I jumped back behind my professional facade. “I have meetings all day. I’m sure we have excellent people who can help you. I’ll just—“ “I don’t need help. And you will be excused from your meetings. Now be a good girl and go get me a water. I’ll be in conference room A.” Be a good girl? But I went back downstairs and bought 3 kinds of water not knowing which kind she liked. I recovered myself and knew what to do. I’d bring her water, show her my calendar with meetings all day and then offer to find literally anyone in the company to see to her needs. I found her alone in her reserved conference room. A sign outside said she was not to be disturbed… She smiled at my 3 kinds of water. “What an earnest little princess. You would make a Mistress very proud.” I was blushing uncontrollably. Then I remembered my calendar. I opened my phone to show her. “You see as I was saying before I’m very—“ But when I looked I saw that I was excused from all of that day’s meetings. And as her stern visage indicated, she already knew. “Never contradict me, pet. That will cost you 25 but only because it is your first offense.” “25?” “Strokes with my crop. On your pretty ass. I like to leave marks. Not today but soon enough. Still, I will remember your total. So no more rudeness, understood?” “Yes….” I was looking down again. Bewildered. "Yes, what?” “Yes…Mistress?” I guessed that was the title expected. “No, silly. Slave boys have Mistresses. Slave girls have Masters.” Then her tone changed from gentle correction to pure dominance. “Say it!” “Yes…Master...” “Good girl! See how easily that fell from your slutty lips? Run along now. Master is having your email and phone hacked and reviewing your credit card statements. I have some suspicions that I believe will be confirmed shortly.” My eyes popped. Could she really do this? But she already had my day’s meetings cancelled. Was she about to find all the BDSM pictures and videos I had downloaded? Every single one depicted total male submission. And all of the forced feminization materials. Even submission to transsexual Mistresses. She would also find my attempts to locate a therapist to “make my fantasies go away.” And the therapists’ analysis that my desires were perfectly healthy; and my insurance company's refusal to let me seek a 3rd and 4th opinion on a closed matter for an imaginary "problem"...... She would also find all the purchases of plugs, gags, restraints, chastity devices. The very picture of the reluctant, confused submissive. Everything she thought I was from the first "shy girl" moment in the elevator. I sat at my desk fighting a panic which was made worse by the fact that I had literally nothing to do. Finally around noon an email popped up from HR. It was notice of a status update. My gender had officially been changed from "male" to "intersex" on all my personnel records. The change was approved several management levels above me but made to look like it was done at my request. As I stared at this bizarre document trying to make sense of it, my phone rang. “Get back up here NOW, bitch." She hung up immediately. My panic rose 3 orders of magnitude. When I got back to the room she closed and locked the door behind me. Her teasing tone was gone. “On your knees, hands behind your back, eyes on the floor.” It was clear that she had given that command countless times. I was finding it impossible to recall that I was older, taller, anything. I felt powerless and deeply naive in her presence. “You have very interesting browser history and credit card receipts. Did you think I wouldn’t find out, slut?” “No, I-“ She slapped me. “No, what?” “No, Master.” She soothed my slapped cheek and her tone became gentle again. “Always be honest with me. There is no way to hide anything from me. Don’t try. Ever. Understand?” “Yes, Master.” I was embarrassingly aroused and jutting out of my pants; I wanted to cover up with my hands but was required to keep them behind my back. She rubbed me with her spiked heel, making matters much worse. Suddenly she grabbed my hair to make me face her. “Why isn’t your clit locked up? You have a chastity device. Why aren’t you wearing it?” I was thrown off by the word 'clit' and took a moment too long to reply, resulting in another slap. I felt like my 25 strokes was about to go up. “I just got it to experiment, Master.” “Am I an experiment, slave?” Slave? It was one thing to be required to call Her Master. It was another for Her to call me slave. I felt like I was in a locked room with the water up to my chin and my ankles chained to the floor. “No, Master. No.” “Then shave it and lock it and keep it shaved and locked. I won’t tell you again." “Yes, Master.” She took a picture of me with her phone, one that would suffice to end my career at this firm or any other. The water was continuing to rise in my locked room. "You do know, don’t you, how easily you can be terminated now? Behaving so obscenely in front of your most important client?” “I know, Master…” Doubtless she would switch off her insanely seductive dominance when dragging me in front of HR and instead present herself as the offended, completely innocent representative of a client who, let's be honest, could have me thrown off the roof if they wanted to. But as I was trying to come to grips with my permanent unemployability, she lifted my chin again to speak. “But we don’t want that, do we?. So I will see you on Saturday night. Dress the part.” “What is the 'part,' Master?” “Master’s new slut. Master’s new whore. Master’s new bitch. Master’s new slave girl. White with red accents would work. White because you are a virgin. Red because you are a slut.” Virgin? It was true. That was why everything was upside down. Why she could call me "little one" and not seem to simply be playing a part herself. It was why it sounded absolutely correct. Because in her world, I was a virgin. On Saturday I was directed to wait in a room, facing the wall with my arms and legs spread like a perp. I was “dressed for the part” in mostly white but red panties. I was also plugged and had leashes attached to my slave collar and chastity device. And shaved bare. She kept me waiting. I doubted she was ever late for anything. She simply wanted me to learn to wait for her. I knew not to turn around when she entered. She walked up behind me, took a firm hold of the leash between my legs, and breathed in my ear. “Good girl.” And right then, counter-intuitively, I knew I would be ok. Broken, violated in ways I couldn't even imagine, psychologically reprogrammed as whatever she wanted me to be. But ok. Even cherished if I accepted the inevitable without conditions. And the inevitable was to become whatever she considered a “good girl." She handed me a large garbage bag. "For your first task, put everything on the table in this bag and deposit it by the door so it can go out with the evening trash." "Yes, Master." I was eager to show my capacity for unthinking compliance. But when I turned and saw Master in a breathtaking latex dress, I began to wobble. She had, after all, kept me locked up all week and now presented me with this excruciatingly hot sight.... But tidying up would at least occupy my mind for a few moments. Then I saw what she had piled on the table for me to discard with that night's trash: my male clothing and the keys to my chastity device. I froze, taking in the threshold I was about to cross. Or be forced to cross. My delay was cut short as her crop crashed down on my ass giving me my first welt. "Never hesitate, slave. Everything I tell you to do is good for you, whether you understand it or not. So simply obey without thinking. That will cost you another 25." "Yes, Master." The water was rising again, but somehow I didn't care. i would have to learn to be a fish. Master smiled ever so slightly as I began to stuff everything in the bag. That smile was all the oxygen I needed.

You might have to be mildly restrained and ever so gently gagged. And sign a release that just basically means you agree that everything is being done for your own good. It’s a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo. You can just sign it and read it later in the “mental health improvement cage.”

Did you see the one where he falls for a Domme? Hot....

To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee) and Stand By Me (from The Body by Stephen King). Both do a fabulous job of preserving a child's perspective and the idea that no matter how much children are among us underfoot, they still inhabit a parallel universe of their own making. I also think the shorter form tends to make King a more disciplined writer. Apt Pupil is another example

Did you do Locktober, Lockednwaiting? Was guessing so from your screen name.

Congrats. That 1st session after you get settled in is going to feel like exactly what it is. A gift.

Hah - all the debts are on my side of the ledger. You can never repay these little angels for what they freely offer.

Each day when I get home my dog, who is just over 15lbs and usually perched on the back of the couch watching the street, bounds down to the floor and tear-asses the length of my unit, finishing with a leap onto my bed where she waits from me to come and scratch her belly. No matter what kind of crappy-assed day I've had, I get this little show. Adopted her just over a year ago from a kill shelter down south. She had heartworm so she didn't have a lot of time left from their POV. Completely healthy these days. And now she puts on this magnificent little show just for me every day; like I am returning from Mars or something. She also steps on my balls at the drop of a hat and pisses on my clothes if I am inattentive or working late too often. I seem to have the same effect on the entire female population, canine and otherwise.

By all means go at the speed you are comfortable with. But these women are quite adept at reading their “victims.” You’ll be ok. If you want to be ok....

The "interrogation with no right answer" is kind of cool. Your problem is not withholding information, it's that you don't have the information they want. Then it becomes a question of how long it takes them to believe you. Say you were watching a building in Chinatown. Drawn to the coming and going of a certain class of women. Dominant, sexy, aloof. They'd never notice you, you suppose. But they did notice you. Drawn to that flame once too often. They have been turning boys like you into proper slaves to be sold at auction or given back to their wives or girlfriends as trained servants. They can't risk trusting you. Who sent you? they wonder. One day you are invited in "since you seem so interested in our facility...." You are thrilled. Too excited to ask yourself how they noticed you and why they are inviting you in. You are told to walk down a low-lit hallway to a locked door, then another locked door. You are let in and the doors immediately lock behind you. Suddenly you are alone and clearly outnumbered. And the question is asked. "Who sent you?" You don't have an answer; you can only explain that you simply followed a helpless craving, but no one sent you. Hands seize you, and you soon find yourself strenuously bound. "Who sent you?" You try to explain the weakness that brought you there. "Liar!" One slaps you. Another picks up a gag and a whip. "Last chance - who sent you?" You almost want to make up a name, but you know they won't believe you. The gag is wedged into your mouth. "Have it your way..." They almost seem glad that you're insisting on being difficult. Secretly they believe you. But they will first make absolutely certain that you know nothing of their operation. And perhaps you will be sold at the next auction. And you did it all without having any information to divulge except that these women drive you absolutely mad....

I did a Female Supremacy scene involving feminization, strict bondage, which was also (at my request) pretty coercive. The Mistress (not at FF) translated it into an expression of man-hating and had me in the role of some corporate type who truly deserved to be hated. Depressing scene and very negative energy. I am still enthralled by FS, but don't want to have that sort of experience again. It's just as bad as male supremacy and equally un-hot. I'm attracted to "benevolent nonconsent" with respect to FS. If you do a google search on that, you won't find anything. Which is why i write stories instead.

The lady parts one looks fun but for sessions only (that thong strap would have to be released for your day to day, and then you're out.) Your own device, the Nub, is just that. A nub. I know they say that smaller is better with chastity, but have you worn something like that for any duration? How are the nights? CO Junior is an intensely stupid being and believes he will eventually break through any device just by mashing his little face and one eye against it- usually starting around 3am. No one can talk CO Junior out of this theory. Lord knows I've tried... Does an ultra-short device help? Or is it as an act of discipline that you're going to that size?