Making chastity permanent - XTube Porn Video - mosthandysub

Making chastity permanent - XTube Porn Video - mosthandysub

Quite a fantasy. Not sure how I feel about the reality....

Lena?

About the right age, I think. Grown up, self possessed and elegant.

Whips and Stockingtops: The Flapper and the Fishing Village (cont)

(First part here)
With a whoop, Charli yanks the hand break and hauls at the wheel until her hands cross. As Lena screams, the sports car whirls onto a side road and we pick up speed again.

If my testicles weren't already clamped into their cavities, they'd be trying to crawl there now.

"Crazy bitch!" yells Lena, clutching her hat.

"You ain't seen nothing yet!" Charli puts her foot through the floor. The G-force throws me back into the upholstery. Trees blur past. We're heading inland, faster and faster. The sun's setting behind us, so the trees look like cardboard cutouts--I bet they won't feel so cardboard when we hit them.

And Charli doesn't let up.

We accelerate towards the brow of the hill, the engine making a zooming roar, picking up more and more speed...

And then we take off.

There's a moment of weightlessness, and I get a sickening flashback to being abducted.

Lena screams, long and loud, and we land with a bump. The suspensions takes it, and we chug along slower now while Charli laughs.

Lena twists in her seat and starts flailing her gloved hands at Charli. "Stop. The. Goddamned. Car."

Charli just pulls into a lane.

"We'd better be near my cottage," shouts Lena, checking her cloche hat's still there.

"Better!" yells Charli. She pulls off the lane and onto a rutted track that crosses an open field that's strewn with rocks and rises to a summit, which is where the Vamp finally stops.

She springs out of the car, pulls off her helmet and shakes out black bobbed hair. Her driving jacket and riding britches aren't exactly feminine, but they don't do anything to conceal her broad hips and ample bosom.

I start to pick myself up and get out to open the door for Lena, but Charli gets there first.

Lena steps down onto the grass.

Charli sweeps a jacketed arm at the sun setting over the western ocean. "What do you think?"

Len takes in the view, and for a moment int he pink light they both look like pen and ink drawings from the real Jazz Era; fashionable ladies out for an evening spin.

Then Len turns and slaps Charli hard across the cheek. "Crazy! Bad! Stupid!"

"You have such a way with words, doll," says Charli. She grabs my mistress and kisses her hard on the mouth.

Lena thumps her on the brow-leather covered back. I take a step forward, not that it would do any good; my conditioning stops me raising a hand to anybody.

Then Lena... Mewls; an animal sound that sends a shiver down my spine into my steel-shod crotch.

My mistress's hands shift to the back of the vamp's head and she grinds her face into her own. Just like in the old movies, she bends one stockinged until the calf and thigh muscles press together.

My cock inflates in its prison until it prickles. I've seen this thing thousands of times since I was enslaved--Women together, no men who are free, let alone regarded as human? Of course they're all Lesbians!--I should be used to it. However I've had precisely zero orgasms since they caged me. So now I stand there feeling a wet pressure building up inside my lost penis, a pressure which I can do nothing about.

Stooping so as not to break the kiss, Charli backs off enough to get at my mistress's coat buttons.

Lena twists her mouth half free and says wetly, "Let the slave do it."

Charli gasps, "Sure."

That's my cue. I move up smartly and as unobtrusively as I can and fall to one knee. Lena's coat buttons are tiny. I fumble with them while the damp of the ground soaks into my knee, and the two women make squelching noises with their mouths just above me.

Finally, the coat opens. I scurry around behind Lena to take the coat from her shoulders, revealing a matching burgundy dress.

Right away, Charli's big hands shoot out to grab my mistress's breasts through the dark red fabric.

The vamp's leather driving coat has big chunky buttons. It doesn't take me a moment to unbutton them. As she shucks off the heavy garment, she breaks the kiss. "Lay it on the grass like a blanket then go fetch what you find in the glove compartment."

I drape it over a flat patch of cropped grass and scamper back to the auto. Inside the glove compartment is a leather bag. I know what's in it just from the shape and there's a wet spurt from my chastity belt.

When I return to the women, Lena is already sprawled on the jacket, knees bent so that the skirts of her petticoat and dress have furled around the top of her thighs. Her brown stockings leave off just past her knee, with tight looking garters as anchors.

Her briefs--flimsy cream silk things--lie on the grass where Charli must have thrown them. However, I cannot see my mistress's pussy because the Vamp is kneeling between her feet, head buried between the Lena's thighs, hands still clamped on her breasts.

I kneel down just close enough, the bag on my lap.

Charli doesn't seem to notice me. Mixed with the sound of the wind is the distinctive scratch-squelch of tongue on clit.

Lena shimmies against the coat. Her fingers slide into the back of Charli's hair.

Charlie bob's up from the other woman's crotch. Without looking at me she says, "Do you know how to insert a joystick?"

I nod. "Yes ma'am."

"Get my pants down and do it." She dives back onto Lena's crotch. Still licking, she shuffles her knees back until she’s on all fours.

There are a row of buttons on the nearest. Gingerly, I undo them and slide the pants and briefs over her ample hips and down to her knees. Then I take the bag and move to kneel behind her.

Charli spreads her thighs until the pants are taut between them and tilts her hips. Now I can see her rosy anus and her thick-lipped vulva, glistening shamelessly from a clearing in its forest of dark curls.

I unlace the bag and take out the "joystick". It's a J-shaped double-ended dildo, with knobs and ridges in all the right places.

With shaking hands I position it between her thighs, the tip of the short end against her vulva. She shoves against me and I push it in. My fingers touch the rubbery outer lips and there's another squirt from my chastity cage.

Abruptly, Charli crawls forward and pushes her hips between Lena's spread thighs.

I duck low just in time to see Lena's red inner lips pouting from behind her mousy blond bush. The dildo slides in and now the Vamp's buttocks are in the way.

I kneel back forgotten.

Charli takes the weight on her elbows and kisses my mistress's throat while slowly twitching the dildo in and out.

Each movement earns a cry and a squirm from Lena. Her bare hands--Where did the gloves go? Christ, I'd better remember to find them--untuck Charli's blouse. The red painted fingernails vanish inside. The vamp gives a little cry, then a grunt; those knobs and ridges are doing the job for her too.

Now the two women undulate together like practised performers. Each grunt from Charli triggers a gasp from Lena, and a grunt in return. The grunts and cries tumble on, one hard on the heels of the other.

The pressure builds in my chastity cage until it's unbearable, like a wasp scuttling over the tip of my cock—not that I can really remember what the tip of my cock looks like. I did once get a vanity mirror and inspect it, but all I could make out was a shadowy pink behind the surgical steel mesh, and the staring at the places where the spidery bars pierced my flesh to anchor in the bone made me queasy…

And the two women subside.

Charli rolls off and stares up at the sky her hips and thighs white in the dying light. "Stars." It's true, the stars are coming out, but I have eyes only for the pale strip of flesh between Lena's stockingtops and the skirts furled at her waist. Her pubic hair is slicked back and wet, her lips bruised as dark as her dress. If only I could--

Lena stands up and brushes down her skirt. "It's called the outdoors, Charli. You know, Mother Nature." She holds out an arm and I spring into action with her coat. "Now take me to my cottage, please."

"Sure!" Charli plucks out the joystick and tosses it to me. I catch it on reflex. It's hot and sticky to the touch and I fancy I can smell their juices. I shudder. I could almost have an orgasm if only--

But no. The two women are relaxed and sated. I'm still hard in my cage. That's just the way this hellish alternate world works.

I put the thing away. By the time I've located and returned my mistress's gloves and undies, the vamp is dressed and back behind the wheel, engine growling, headlights casting beams over the fields.

"With care," says Lena, getting in. "You may have a death wish, but I do not."

Charli laughs. "I guess you have a novel to complete. Journalists always end up trying to write novels. What's it about."

Lena says nothing.

Despite Charli's mirth, we we trundle through the darkening roads more sedately. Each bump causes my cock to throb against its cage and I start drifting into an erotic trance...

...and suddenly we've stopped.

"Can I help you... unpack?" asks Charli.

"Certainly not," replies Lena as I open the door for her. "I have a slave for that and other things."

She strides off towards the gloomy bulk of the cottage. There's a crack of light coming under the front door.

I heft the luggage out of the trunk and slog along after her like a henpecked husband on a second honeymoon. If only there were a warm vagina waiting for my cock.

Charli calls something, but her words are lost in the crunch of gravel under the wheels of the heavy case.

Lena locks the door behind us and leans her back against it. She looks drawn and sad. "Right," she says. "Forget the luggage for now. Go do whatever it takes to run me a bath."

As I scamper off, I realise that I am shortly going to see her properly naked, with no predatory vamps around to spoil things. By the time I have the furnace stoked up, my chastity belt is throbbing like a second heart.

It's Love Our Lurkers Day!

According to the Domme Chronicles, it's Love Our Lurkers day.



Lurkers are the Internet's voyeurs - you just like to watch, well, read, without commenting.

That's OK, actually. But comments can be anonymous, and I'd love to hear from you all.

Love Giles

Whips and Stockingtops: The Flapper and the Fishing Village

(No promises about follow up. Just tinkering really.  Enjoy.)

The conductor opens the slave van door. She barks, "All out for Saint Eves." I dodge past her and jump down to the platform.

This is the first time I've been out of the city since I was enslaved, but I can't see much. The vapour from the engine hangs in the air like the steam in my last mistress's bathroom.

Clutching my busboy cap, I hurry down the length of the train. I check each carriage as I go. My new mistress is behind one of the grubby windows, but will I recognise her?

I glimpse a bell-shaped cloche hat through sooty glass and hurry to heave open the door. The low platform puts her bosom at my eye level. I recognise her burgundy dress and matching jacket and relax enough to note that she is fashionably small breasted - whether by nature or foundation garment, I'll soon find out.

Like a good slave, I hold out my arm and lower my eyes. The waistless dress hides her figure, but it stops at her knees so I can feast my eyes on her stockinged calves tapering down to her tightly laced ankle boots. She takes my hand--

--Did I say stockings?

Yes. Don't ask how this could be, but this is the Jazz Era with a twist. There are Flappers and Vamps, racketeers and jazz singers, but they're all female. There are men, but they are like me; abducted and cloned from our own worlds to serve as slaves in this alternate 1920s. The Gynarchs tolerate our existence because of some ancient religious edict. The pretty young things take us for granted. To them we're part domestic servant, part sex toy.

--and the touch of her warm leather gloves sends a thrill down to my chastity cage. The mesh clamps around my lost penis. My collar feels too tight. I have the urge to put my finger under it to loosen it, but it's made of seamless stainless steel. It's not going anywhere, and not getting any looser. I am a slave.

Lena steps onto the platform. Intelligent blue eyes briefly fix on me, then she glances left and right making her wavy hair flick. She smiles with rouged lips, then seems to remember something. Her gloved hand lashes out and my cheek explodes. The sudden pain sends a jolt into my captive groin, but I can't help think how like a Femme Fatal she is from an old movie.

"Get the luggage," she says without malice. In her dippy looking cloche hat that looks like an upturned flower pot, she just seems sweet and lost.

I jog back towards the far end of the train. Despite my uniform, I feel naked. It's the lack of skyscrapers. This little seaside station is in the open air with only seagulls above second storey level.

A middle aged slave in railway company is already dragging crates out of the guards van.

I blush. Whether it's conditioning or embarrassment, I don't like talking to other slaves. "Hi, do you have a bag for Lena White?"

"Right here," he says. He drags a case out and pauses to glance down the platform. "Is she that foxy dyke?"

At this distance, Lena is just a sleek form, like a manikin in a shop window. I frown. "There's only one passenger on the platform."

"So, what's her story?"

He shows no sign of moving, so I lean past him and haul the case out myself. As it bumps onto the platform, I say "No idea, mate," I don't want to be rude. Slaves have ways of making trouble for each other. I add, "She bought me on the way to the station."

He chuckles suggestively. "Probably wants to enjoy a dirty week of tongue service, eh?"

My penis pulses in its cage, but I flush. "She's come a hell of a long way from New Womb if that was all she wanted."

"Well then, brother, I hope you can make it worth her while."

I shrug and start dragging the wheel trunk towards my mistress.

"Be like that," he calls after me. "See you around."

The case is heavy. I arrive before her puffing and panting.

Lena slaps me again. "Don't dawdle." Then she turns on her elegant heel and heads for the station exit.

I follow her clip-clopping boots, my cheeks throbbing in time to her step, eyes on the seams of her stockings. The cage prickles around my captive cock and I wonder; was the other slave right? I've been a slave for more than ten years--ten years while my other self was no doubt living my life in the 21st century, going to college, losing his virginity--I shouldn't be this excited by a new mistress.

Lena stops to speak to the station mistress - from the signs she doubles as a post mistress - and I check out the street.

The sheer normality hits me like a bucket of ice water. To a guy from England's Midlands, New Womb with its Art Deco skyscrapers is exotic. In a city like that, it's easy to forget you were ever anything but a slave, and that there are places... worlds... where women actually want to have sex with men. Here though... I shudder.

I guess seaside town look the same anywhere in the multiverse. The street is lined with quirky shops and cafes, most already closed up for the season. I shrink in embarrassment, suddenly ashamed to be a collared slave. This could be back home... except for the odd oldfashioned automobile rattling down the gritty street.

Not just that, I remind myself. None of the passersby are younger than eighteen. They're all in skirts or dresses. Gloves and hats are de riguer. No denims, a lady does not walk around in work wear. Instead, every single woman is wearing stockings... Seamed stockings that come to an end somewhere beyond all those swishing hemlines. Then bare thigh webbed by garter belts. How could I have taken all this for granted?

The blood drains from my brain into my groin. My penis inflates against its bars and I sway on the spot.

"So, there is no taxi?" says Lena, sharply.

"Sorry miss," says the station mistress. "End of season, you see. Marcia always visits the Mother Lands."

"So how," asks Lena. I detect a brittle edge in her voice. "Am I supposed to get to my accommodation?"

"Ask at the inn, they have a van." The station mistress slams down her shutter.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" says Lena. She sniffs. "Right, this way." She sets off at a stride.

I drag the case after her, struggling not to fall behind. The pressure in my groin subsides and I just feel sweaty and abused.

A open topped car skids up to a halt making both of us jump.

A vamp in a leather pilot's helmet leans out of the driver's seat. "Say Lena, want a lift?"

Lena stiffens. "Charli! What the hell are you doing her?"

Charli shrugs. "I felt like a break."

"I'm the one taking a break. From women like you."

"Then you don't want a lift?" The engine roars.

"Hey! I didn't say that," yells Lena, laughing

Charli pulls a lever and the boot opens. "Hop in. Plenty of room for luggage in the back."

I drag the luggage to the rear and heft it into the boot. By the time I'm in back seat, Lena is already sitting next to Charli. She wraps a burgundy scarf around her hat. "I suppose you already know where I'm staying", she shouts over the din.

"Sure, doll, Clifftop Cottage," says Charli. The car lurches forward. "But let's take the scenic route!"

So we hurtle up the street. I glimpse a main street with an inn and fish brokers and chandlers, and strong armed sailer women. Then we're out of Saint Eves and whizzing along a cliff top with a view far out to sea.

With the wind in my face and the back of the car to myself, it's easy to pretend I'm a free man, and the woman in the passenger seat is my girlfriend. I stare at the nape of her neck and wonder what it will be like to kiss it.

(Continued)

Useful posts on other people's blogs....

Robert Anthony talks about asking for Femdom the first time. Here are a selection of his wise words:

The truth is, there's no trick or magic bullet which is going to get you what you want. You have to ask for it, and be prepared to take the consequences, whatever they may be....

The other thing that you have to think about is that, if you are at the stage of being ready to ask for this, then you have probably overcome all your initial reactions long ago, you know the whole 'I shouldn't find this exciting but I do' thing... but SHE hasn't. As time goes on you become more relaxed with everything.....

I think aiming for a little at a time is perhaps a good strategy, baby steps gives her time to get comfortable with what you are asking for before you drop the next fantasy on her. Remember that old saying 'it's only kinky the first time', it's bang on the money that is. Trust me, there's always going to be more you want and you're never going to get it all in one go, and your more likely to get some of what you want and keep a happy wife if you let things move at a pace that suits her ....

Meanwhile,  Fursissy has a well-informed series about the "economics" of Femdom:

I decided to theorize about a few things that really explain a lot of the inequities of the D/s lifestyle (beyond the lifestyle itself).

Femdom relationships, most noticeably the courting process and raw numbers can almost all be explained through economic theory.  I'm not sure if this is really useful to anyone, but it should hopefully shed some light on things especially for subs seeking Dommes and for Dommes seeking subs and weeding through the applicants.

Read the whole thing - for those of us who don't exist in the BDSM community, it's a reminder that really the grass is not greener, nor the latex shinier, on the other side of the bars. Robert Anthony's world of Femdom within a marriage suddenly looks all the more attractive.

He demonstrates that it is at least sometimes doable, but only if you approach it sensibly and honestly, more or less what I describe in the my Femdom manual.

Whips and Stockingtops: Disappointed

 

My mistress is disappointed.

She started preparing for her date hours ago. I bathed her, dried her, massaged her, rolled on her stockings, the heat from her pussy like the sun shining on my face. As I watched her slip into the negligee, the chastity cage clenched around my captive cock. She was almost breathless with anticipation, and I was dripping.

And then the phone rang. Tallulah can't make it tonight.

So now what happens?

Do I get to serve instead? Lash her pussy with my tongue?

Will she take it out on me? Lash my back with her whip?

Or will she slip into her pyjamas and call for a book?

Which is it to be....

Perfect flapper with whip...

This one is from a site that regularly posts femdom drawings and paintings:

Apart from the boots, the she's not dressed as a dominatrix. She could have come straight from my whips and stockingtops fantasies....

The appeal of Permanent Chastity: becoming invulnerable but also vulnerable

The fantasy of permanent chastity, the experience of dipping into it via timed chastity... it's odd.

On the one hand, being locked into a chastity belt with no chance of release gives you a tremendous sense of invulnerability.

You can go on all night, but can she?

It resolves all those awful mixed messages we get about women and sex.

It also turns you into a sex god - armed with a prosthetic, you have all the staying power of silicon rubber. The only limit is your endurance and her capacity for pleasure.

Nice.

On the other hand, having no access to your genitals makes you utterly vulnerable.

Being turned on doesn't quite hurt, but there's a risign sense of panic as you build up this head of steam with no safety valve. You're drowning in your desire, easily controlled, used and discarded.

In fantasy land you become the ultimate disposable one-night stand. Infinitely willing, unselfish by definition (since your only real pleasure is an echo of hers), the ultimate in safe sex, and yet so obviously missing what's needed for a long term relationship that nobody will think ill of her if she doesn't give you her phone number in the morning.

Apparently, not.

In the real bedroom, in play, you're still discarded and rejected.

There is always a deliciously bleak moment where she's sated and ready for sleep, and you lie there still turned on, like a vibrator left on a low setting.

All evening, you know it's coming... like the moment when you must get up from the fireside and tramp off into the winter night.

And when it does come, it's always a shock what you've gotten yourself into. But there's a certain glory in taking your place in the darkness.

You'll be back. (And, if you do your job properly, so will she.)

Roman Slave (caption)

(Double-click to enlarge)

Whips and Stockingtops: Bookworm

An hour ago, I finished my duties and came to kneel at her feet.

And kneel.

And kneel.

Every time she turns the page, or sighs, a pulse goes through my chastity cage.

At last she yawns and stares off to the side, not really seeing me - I'm just a slave, after all.

In a moment, she'll have me unroll her stockings, fold away her dress, and I'll glimpse her white flesh and take that afterimage to my basket on the kitchen floor to toss and turn all night, yearning, wanting.

But before then, there's just a chance she'll use my tongue.

Slowly, her legs uncross, and the pressure builds up in my chastity belt and--

Cold Disregard

(Click to enlarge)

 

(No, I haven't entirely given up on captions and erotica. I've just been busy blogging and promoting my femdom manual.)

Free review copies of "The Vanilla Dominatrix"!

I'm giving away 10 review copies (PDF) of my new Femdom relationship book. All you have to do is pop over to my new blog, subscribe to it, then leave a comment.

First come, first served*

*Though if you read the book, you are unlikely to be coming when you are serving :)

UPDATE: OFFER NOW CLOSED :(

"The Vanilla Dominatrix" published!

It's finally done! I'm exhausted! (Only the paperback is available at the moment. As I understand, the ebook will follow.)

It is my distilled wisdom on getting your wife or girlfriend to take you as a sex slave (part-time), without making an ass of yourself.

Of this more later. But here's the thing from the back of the book:

Wouldn’t it be nice to get the vanilla woman you love to enjoy sexually dominating you?

Sorry, you can’t change her.

All the persuasion and pleading in the world won’t turn her into an all-strutting, all-teasing latex super-bitch!

The good news is, you don’t have to turn her into anything. You just have to sell her a part-time slave – you!

This book takes you through offering her what she can’t and shouldn’t get in your real-life relationship, and how to manage the results – yes, you’re the one who has to do all the work.

You get to be authentically enslaved, and she gets to be a “Vanilla Dominatrix.”

Read on, and find out how.

Most useful post on male chastity ever

http://secretchastityhusband.blogspot.com/2010/08/male-chastity-pleasure-and-devotion.html?showComment=1311670339491#c8961910318934017262

Perfect approach...

Go read and learn!

Roman Mistress...

A hot Mediterranean day in a ruined Roman city and I've got the place to myself. I slip off my sandals and walk barefoot over the warm, worn flagstones of the main street. I mop the sweat from my eyes. It's easy to imagine myself two thousand years in the past. I'm a slave on an errand for my mistress... a luscious black-haired Roman girl with olive skin and a fiery temper.

White flashes off to my left.

I blink. It could have been the swirl of a flowing gown. It could have been her.

I turn off the main street down an ally between the foundations of ancient shops and houses. Ahead, there's a high wall of crumbling brick. A sign in Turkish and English says "SLAVE MARKET ->".

My groin gives a lurch. I turn to hurry in the direction of the arrow and the grit punishes the soles of my feet.

I stop to put on my sandals and notice a hole in the wall. I peer through.

It leads into small room that must be a slave cell. The Department of Antiquities has been at work - a gate of wooden bars is bolted shut across the doorway. Beyond the bars something moves.

I push my head through the hole, into the cool of the brick chamber and hear voices calling out like Turkish street vendors, but in Latin - "Serva pulchra! Ecce! Serva pulchra!" Through the gaps in the wood, I glimpse naked flesh - a breast or buttock, a furry pussy or flaccid penis and balls, in skin tones from white to ebony - and swathes of fabric catching the sun as Roman men and women peruse the human merchandise.

Somebody's making a movie!

The place must be closed. I start to withdraw, but then I see it; a bronze slave collar just lying on the straw on the floor of the cell.

What if I slipped in and took it? It's just a prop, they'll have hundreds of them.

I shuck off my rucksack and wriggle through the hole. I have to walk my hands through the straw before I can get my legs down.

The collar is icy cool to the touch. Erection growing, I lift it to my throat and close it. There's a "snick!" and it's clamped around my neck.

My heart leaps into my throat. Gasping for breath, I fumble around the metal band, feeling for the catch. But there is no catch. The panic subsides and I realise that it's not designed to open. Perhaps at the hostel, with a safety pin...

A naked girl passes the gate. The wood only lets me glimpse slices of blond hair and honey skin. Now I want to press up close and see the scene - be part of the scene.

Crap! I'm wearing camo-pattern cargo pants and a "I love Ali's Kebabs" T-shirt. They'll notice me in seconds. I strip off down to my briefs--damn! Red Y-fronts with black trimmings. Hell, half the actors are naked anyway...

I bundle my clothes into the corner. Naked now except for the bronze collar, I crawl up to the gate and press my face to the rough wooden bars.

Butterflies gather in the pit of my stomach. It looks real!

They've restored the front of the buildings. It's just a big open courtyard, no columns, no shady little roofs like you expect from the books. Instead, naked slaves stand outside their cells in the sweltering heat while men and women in togas - though I'm sure that's not the right name - inspect their teeth, squeeze their biceps, breasts or buttocks.

There's a sob from nearby. The blond girl is off to the side, standing in front of the next door cell. Her skin is stretched over powerful muscles - she has the body of an athlete - but she slouches, shoulders hunched away from me. She sobs again.

She can't be doing it for effect, because I can't see any cameras. "Cheer up," I say.

She half turns her head, and a yellow braid swishes over her bare shoulder. "I'm just not used to this," she says in what sounds like a German accent. "I'm not a slave."

"Well, it's who you're being right now," I say as brightly as I can. "If you're going to be a naked slave, be a proud one. You don't want to look as if you're destined to dig turnips."

"Whats a turnip?" She shrugs her shoulders. "But you are right." She draws herself up and stands there like an amazon.

A man barks, "Right then! Right then! Out with you!" My gate swings open. A burly man with a stick towers over me. "On your feet boy!"

"S...sorry," I stammer.

He taps my flanks with the stick. "Just get up and stand next to the girl." He coughs then calls out, "Handsome male Celt, luscious female German. Buy both for a good deal!" He must think I'm one of the actors.

Relieved but nervous, I stumble into the sunlight and force myself not to turn and stare at the blond. I can feel the reflected heat from her skin, smell her animal scent. Instead, I play my part and try to keep my eyes front.

We're near corner of the courtyard. Just across from me, to my left, is another actor. He's not entirely naked - he's wearing a silver hip belt and some sort of cage over his groin.

He meets my gaze with hopeless eyes. I blush and slowly look away, pretending I'm just glancing around the slave market.

There's still no sign of the cameras and the rest of the city rises up behind the courtyard - towering temples, six-storey apartment blocks - must be some sort of collapsible set mounted on the roof-

-except that I can see people moving on the apartment balconies.

I twist around to look behind me. The clothes are still bundled in the back of the cell. The jagged hole frames the ruined foundations of the city. But when I look up, over the roof of the slave market, there's another apparent block, with an old man leaning over the balcony watching the market.

This is real!

I caught in a time slip and I'm a slave. Anything could happen to me. Anything...

There's a sharp thwack and my left buttock seems to explode in pain. "Eyes front, boy!"

I turn obediently. There's still time to make a break for that hole in the wall. To hell with my clothes. If I'm quick--

--it's Her. My fantasy Roman mistress, strolling under the shade of parasol. She has a train of slaves, but I barely see them.

She's as I imagined; petite with a mountain of jet black hair piled onto her head, wide dark eyes lined with kohl. Her white gown flows as she walks, the swishing hem giving me glimpses of elegant feet wrapped in the leather straps of sandals.

My penis rears up in greeting.

She doesn't seem to notice, but her taller friend - an older looking woman with hennaed red hair - giggles. "Cordelia, I believe this one has the required virility."

Cordelia's dark eyebrows lower. "I'm still not sure, Livia."

"Just you wait until he has a seadpod fitted!" With a giggle, Livia releases her arm and steps up to me. "Boy?"

"Yes..." Yes what? Mistress sounds corny. "...lady."

"Can you read and write?"

I nod.

"Are you a virgin?"

I blush and my erection shrivels. I want to make an excuse, explain about the years studying but...

"Can you give a massage?"

I nod again. I got quite good at that with Mary - not that it got her knickers off.

"See?" says Livia. She moves to the blond girl. "What about you?"

"I can read and write, do accounts, I know how a dinner should be served and hair dressed..."

The pulse in my ears drowns her words. The German is built like a cat, all sinew and muscle, with pert conical breasts almost as an afterthought. Livia is chattering away to her, unaware of the danger.

I glance around.

Cordelia is in conversation with the slaver. She nods and an older male slave hands over three silver coins - is that all I'm worth. "Come on Livia, I want to go to the baths."

Livia giggles. The pair of them link arms and sweep off across the courtyard. A couple of the slaves follow with parasols.

The older slave just grunts. "You two, come with me." He leers. "We're stopping by the jewellers on the way home."

Still naked, the German blond and I set off after him and into the streets of the living Roman city.

Though I don't look back, I'm aware of that hole into the 21st Century getting further and further away. The bronze collar warms in the sun, until it feels like it belongs.

Review: “How to Find Your Sex Slave – Delux Edition”

HH sent me a copy of his “How to Find Your Sex Slave – Delux Edition”.

(First let me say that HH seems to be a real male dom, and not, for example a Syrian lesbian. We’ve chatted online, and he comes across as normal, not bombastic or full of BS. His “war stories” are self consistent and the book itself has the ring of truth and good sense about it.)

Since I am a male “sex slave” (part-time), the book was rather odd reading. It was also interesting, because HH has covered the opposite corner from the one I’m working on.

My “The Vanilla Dominatrix” is for submissive men already in a relationship. HH’s “How to Find Your Sex Slave” is for dominant men looking for a relationship (or a series of encounters).

Like mine, HH’s book doesn’t set out to tell you how to manipulate others, or try to sell you on secret mind control techniques. Nor does he encourage any sense of entitlement or espouse a cod-philosophy - this isn’t a Gorean dating manual.

So what does he offer?

Think about the sensible but ethical vanilla dating advice an experienced friend might offer you: where to look, and how; how to be yourself, but present that self effectively; how to handle online dating without blowing it; the truth about crazy chicks and gold diggers….

Now translate that into BDSM. HH is that experienced kinky friend you wish you had. He’ll guide you through the perils and pitfalls of online kinky dating, so you can attain the real offline pleasures of the bedroom.

I think the book could go a little further. I’d like see a little practical philosophy, something on distinguishing between vanilla and BDSM roles, and more on dating safety protocols (even though HH demonstrates that this is less of an issue than you’d think). Also, the book gets you to the point where you agree to meet. It strikes me that guidance would be useful to set you up for that first coffee. And beyond that, some resources for inexperienced doms would be good – at least a note on the need to research safety.

However, these are all ways that the book could be even more useful. It already supplies what – judging from the forums – a lot of male doms need; a good guide for making genuine connections with female subs, without beating about the bush.

If there’s a submissive lady out there for you, this book should help you cut through the crap and get to the point and get talking to here in real life. I suspect some men may find the process frighteningly easy....

Find the book at: www.find-kink.com/thebook.html

The Vanilla Dominatrix (what I'm working on)

OK, I admit it, I got side-tracked from writing erotica!

Instead, I'm putting together a how-to book I'm calling The Vanilla Dominatrix. It's about how to sell yourself as a part-time slave to your partner, without changing who she is, and without nagging or manipulating.

The concept is; what would she act like if you really were her slave, and she felt OK about that?

What got me started on this, was the fascinating discovery that some Ancient Roman ladies, really did use their male slaves for more intimate purposes.

Male slaves obviously offer some unique benefits to non-fetish, i.e. vanilla mistresses. The trick then has to be to make sure that the benefits outweigh the cost to her.

Romans had male chastity belts!

I've been doing some research for my book, "The Vanilla Dominatrix".

Look at the fresco from Pompeii - she's at her leisure, naked, but he's wearing clothes. I think it's a dead cert he's her slave.

And, guess what? I found some interesting quotes:

Is your slave's prick the only true one?

--Martial (Roman poet)

Martial also gives a hint that even in mixed baths there could be "women's recesses" (7.35.7: feminei recessus) of uncertain function

--Fagan “Bathing in Public in the Roman World

For men, there is both a large fibula (like a modern safety pin), that pierces the foreskin and covers the penis, and a theca, a metal pouch, or leather bag (aluta) that encloses the genitals

---Younger “Sex in the Ancient World”

A small percentage of Roman ladies could do pretty much as they liked. Some of what went on must have resembled my darkest femdom fantasies.

Look at this slave. Is he taking breakfast to his mistress? What else will she want? And, under that kilt, is he sporting a theca?

I don't envy him his life. But I'd love to swap places for a month or so...

New chastity belt manufacturer?

I can't decide if these guys are for real or not; it's not clear how the devices lock, or even adjust.

But, I like the idea of a fabric-based CB.

My own device uses polypropylene webbing, plus a DIY hard cup.

The innovation here is the mesh penis tube, which really would let you wear the thing 24/7 - assuming it didn't make mince out of your cock!

However, I'm not convinced that this would stop you getting off by simply massaging your cock through the mesh. This design is probably of more interest to TG/TV types than denialists.

The Challenge (now on Smashwords)

I've polished my short story "The Challenge" and turned the steam up to 11.

Since I write mostly for kicks, the whole editting process is a bit of a drag. For this reason, I've put the final version of the erotic story of male chastity up on Smashwords as an ebook.

If you want to read the souped up version, and find out what happens at the end, you're going to have to chip in to buy me a pint of beer...

#

The padded envelope thudded into the bottom of the empty mail box.

I stood there in the snow and thought, What if it splits and the keys fall out?

And suddenly the chastity belt felt too tight. A mailed fist seemed to clutch my imprisoned groin. My cock swelled to bursting point and I hunched forward, as if punched in the stomach.

It was then I saw her boots; well worn black leather laced tightly around her calves, beaded with drops of water.

“Excuse me,” she said in an out of town accent.

Above the boots, black fishnet stretched over shallow curves like a wire-frame computer graphic. She had one leg turned out slightly, so I could see the inside of her thigh. Was that a glimpse of stockingtop under the hem of her miniskirt?

The girl stood in the half light from the streetlamp, winter coat gaping, tight top leaving her slender midriff bare. She was… impossibly tall.

“Excuse me,” she repeated.

I looked up and saw her lips were blood red and her bobbed hair a natural black with a dusting of snow flakes.

“Do you know any good night clubs?” chipped in her friend, appearing from behind her. The second girl was a walking hourglass. Her winter coat was open and she also favored black, but was short, with heavy breasts overflowing the top of a burgundy velvet corset, almost a corset. A long gypsy skirt hid her legs, but I glimpsed shiny leather Victorian ankle boots below the hem.

“We’re from out of town,” said the tall one.

“I’m not sure...,” I said. It was hard to think when I couldn’t stop my gaze flickering from bust to leg and back again. “There’s Wet and Rocky. It’s on Low Street.”

The two girls advanced until they were just a little too close for comfort. Now I could see down into the shorter girl’s cleavage. My cock heaved against its steel tube and I felt light headed.

“We don’t know where that is,” she said.

“You’ll have to show us,” said the leggy girl, over her shoulder.

I suppressed a groan. Picked up by two beautiful girls, and it had to be the night I’d trapped myself in a chastity belt!

“OK,” I said, dimly aware that this was a Bad Idea. It wasn’t as if I even knew when my key would bounce back, “Address Unknown”. A week perhaps?

“I’m Larch,” said the tall girl as we set off.

“And I’m Rose,” said the other, throwing me an appraising look.

“Fraser,” I said a little nervously. We walked in silence, my cock throbbing with each clack of feminine boot on damp pavement.

There was a queue outside Wet and Rocky – grungy rockers, flamboyant Goths plus some steam punk types – flying goggles for the boys, crinolines for the girls. I opened my mouth to say goodbye, but just then an entire stag night left the club. The queue surged forward and somehow I found myself hemmed in by bodies, the two girls dancing around me.

#

Larch towered over me, her arms above her head, and undulated, like a ribbon fluttering in slow motion. A ripple flowed up from her boots, over her endless, fishnet-wrapped legs, her flat bare stomach, and into her long arms to set her fingers fluttering.

My cock strained against its tube and I swayed dizzily.

Then I felt hands on my waist and hot breath on my ear. “I’m glad we bumped into you,” purred Rose. She wriggled, nudging her corseted breasts into my back.

I squirmed, too turned on to pull away, but too embarrassed to relax.

“This is fun!” cried Larch. The tall girl writhed closer until her small breasts brushed my chin. Then she slid against me and the world pulsed in time to the throb in my captive cock.

An electric current seemed to flow between the two women, prickling my skin as it passed over me...

...and I wanted to weep. Any moment and they’d discover my chastity belt. I tried to slip free, but Rose’s grip shifted up from my waist to nip my nipples. The pain made me shudder, but it also sent electric pulses into my chastity belt.

I whimpered and something squirted from my captive penis.

Larch didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go!” she said with a squeaking giggle.

And somehow, drunk on lust, I found myself staggering outside and into a taxi. It was only as we entered the hotel room that my head cleared.

Read more..

Four kinds of fetish...

My friend Furcissy makes a very interesting point:

For everyone that gets turned on by a scenario, a handful have a fetish for the activity and the majority have a fetish for the situation surrounding the activity. I think that many subs may feel like they have a larger kink-interest base than they really do because of this.

If you read the rest of his post, you'll find he means that the fetish can be for...

• ...the act or situation itself - let's call it a True Fetish.
  For example, I have a chastity fetish. I like being locked in my chastity belt (sort of). I also like being mildly whipped (sort of). Furcissy likes humiliated by being feminized (but hates it).
  
• ... the situation implied by the act - let's call this a Hazard Fetish.
  The fetish act that kicked off this line of thought was "being ignored". One several occasions, Furcissy spent several hours kneeling in a corner, and was most likely forgotten during this time. He came to the conclusion that it was nice if this was a possibility, but not if it were a main activity.
  I, like many others, crave roles in which a whipping is a constant hazard. I don't really enjoy the actual pain, but I do enjoy the sense of powerlessness, and the sense-enhancing fear implied by the possibility. Of course, I need to be whipped from time to time to make the thing real, but I wouldn't enjoy "games" in which all that happened was me getting flogged.

I'll add a third category; a fetish for...

• ...the sense of horror associated with an act or situation - call it the Horror Fetish (duh).
  This is all to do with using fear to heighten arousal, and very little to do with what you'd actually want to do in real life. The fantasy usually doesn't stretch much further than the act, or the moment of entering the situation. Into this bag go most castration and cuckolding fantasies.

It's very easy to get these mixed up.

True and Horror can look similar, because both can involve a lot of aversion. The only obvious difference is that the True focuses on the after, whereas Horror is all about lead up.

True and Hazard, meanwhile, are separated by degree. The problem is that fantasies tend to drift towards the intensities of Hazard at the expense of more livable True - e.g. it's easier to imagine being whipped until you bleed, rather than a quiet day as a slave.

Why does this matter? Because you need to be very careful what you wish for...