How do you know when a caning, beating, thrashing has gotten through? Well I like to say that once a girl is weeping that's the point at which she starts to learn -- so consider her sobbing a beginning and not an end.

Unless you're in a hurry and just need a tear stained face to fuck... everything is situational.

I'm sitting in an Indian restaurant with a lady friend and another couple. It is loud. There are lots of waiters moving around. The tables are quite close together. After we order 2 couples sit down at the table next to us. They are south Indian, speaking loudly in some south Indian tongue. One of them has a young child.

The two women are sitting on one side of the table the two men opposite. They order drinks and settle down. They appear to be good friends, the two women are chatting away and the two men are talking. 

At my table we are happily discussing the food, travel and other miscellaneous stuff. We are distracted by the voices of the people to our right. Clearly one of the men is upset about something. He says something to his wife opposite who responds. I don't know the language she was speaking but I know the tone. CRACK!

The woman is crying, I can see the outline on her dark skin of where the back of her husbands hand smacked her cheek. She's sobbing looking down at her plate. The husband turns to the man next to him and again, I don't know the words but I know the tone, he apologizes for his wife's behaviour and having to have him witness her slapped. The friend shrugs -- these things happen.

They continue talking animatedly and quite happily. The other woman who had been talking and laughing with the now crying lady besides her keeps quiet, avoids eye contact and says nothing.

The woman who was hit is no longer sobbing loudly, she is now crying quietly. They order food, the men quite happily chatting away, one woman silent and the other crying. The lady who was crying didn't receive any food, whether by choice or command I do not know.

After about 40 minutes they pay the bill and get up to leave -- the men are quite drunk by now - the woman still crying quietly, a bruise forming on her cheek. As they get up the man pushes her in front of him in a rather haphazard, 'get moving if you no what's good for you manner'. He turns to me and shrugs, these things happen, women. I politely nod and give the slightest of smiles. They leave.

Everyone at my table discusses the incident. The verdict is unanimous -- she pissed him of and embarrassed him in front of his friend. He is just drunk enough. She's going to get a thrashing when they get home.

We finish dinner and drinks and pay the bill and leave after a very pleasant evening.

Mr. Bingham, a hard, cruel man, the village schoolmaster, was a member of my young master's church, and he was a frequent visitor to the parsonage. She whom I called mistress seemed to be desirous to wreak vengeance on me for something, and Bingham became her ready tool. 

During this time my master was unusually kind to me; he was naturally a good-hearted man, but was influenced by his wife. It was Saturday evening, and while I was bending over the bed, watching the baby that I had just hushed into slumber, Mr. Bingham came to the door and asked me to go with him to his study. Wondering what he meant by his strange request, I followed him, and when we had entered the study he closed the door, and in his blunt way remarked: "Lizzie, I am going to flog you." I was thunderstruck, and tried to think if I had been remiss in anything. I could not recollect of doing anything to deserve punishment, and with surprise exclaimed: "Whip me, Mr. Bingham! what for?" 

"No matter," he replied, "I am going to whip you, so take down your dress this instant."

Recollect, I was eighteen years of age, was a woman fully developed, and yet this man coolly bade me take down my dress. I drew myself up proudly, firmly, and said: "No, Mr. Bingham, I shall not take down my dress before you. Moreover, you shall not whip me unless you prove the stronger. Nobody has a right to whip me but my own master, and nobody shall do so if I can prevent it."

My words seemed to exasperate him. He seized a rope, caught me roughly, and tried to tie me. I resisted with all my strength, but he was the stronger of the two, and after a hard struggle succeeded in binding my hands and tearing my dress from my back. Then he picked up a rawhide, and began to ply it freely over my shoulders. With steady hand and practised eye he would raise the instrument of torture, nerve himself for a blow, and with fearful force the rawhide descended upon the quivering flesh. It cut the skin, raised great welts, and the warm blood trickled down my back. Oh God! I can feel the torture now--the terrible, excruciating agony of those moments. I did not scream; I was too proud to let my tormentor know what I was suffering. I closed my lips firmly, that not even a groan might escape from them, and I stood like a statue while the keen lash cut deep into my flesh. 

As soon as I was released, stunned with pain, bruised and bleeding, I went home and rushed into the presence of the pastor and his wife, wildly exclaiming: "Master Robert, why did you let Mr. Bingham flog me? What have I done that I should be so punished?"

"Go away," he gruffly answered, "do not bother me."

I would not be put off thus. "What have I done? I will know why I have been flogged."

I saw his cheeks flush with anger, but I did not move. He rose to his feet, and on my refusing to go without an explanation, seized a chair, struck me, and felled me to the floor. I rose, bewildered, almost dead with pain, crept to my room, dressed my bruised arms and back as best I could, and then lay down, but not to sleep. No, I could not sleep, for I was suffering mental as well as bodily torture. My spirit rebelled against the unjustness that had been inflicted upon me, and though I tried to smother my anger and to forgive those who had been so cruel to me, it was impossible. It seems that Mr. Bingham had pledged himself to Mrs. Burwell to subdue what he called my "stubborn pride."

Elizabeth Keckley, Thirty Years a Slave (1868)

Wise words :)

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.”

~William Shakespeare, in Sonnet 57 

Few things are as satisfying as enjoying a freshly thrashed bottom on display doing while she does her corner time.

Reading some of the slave's profiles I am reminded of the saying:

"Everyone wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die."

There is something particularly satisfying about marking up a bottom when you know the girl is going to visit a beach in two days with her friends...

I had a meeting with an ex from many years ago. She's getting married in a couple of months to a guy who isn't into BDSM and apparently doesn't beat her enough... her opinion and I share it!

She's a tiny asian girl, 27, very obedient and well trained (I'd like to take credit for much of that).

She was positioned on a bed with her arse up and I caned her until her arse and thighs were covered with welts. She was sobbing  into the mattress when I finished with cane and I rewarded my efforts by taking her anally. Then I went to sleep while she was cleaning me with her tongue.

This morning before she left she thanked me and said she was going to show her fiance my work and ask him to please try harder to keep her in line or to see if he is willing to work with me to keep her in her place.

I hope he isn't big, muscular and/or jealous!

Everything is about synergy....

The right people in the right mindsets, in the right place at the right time.

I hate days w/o a morning blow job. They just don't feel right. Tuesday's as well. I could never get the hang of Tuesdays.

I think if someone sends you a note expressing interest at the very least its polite to send a response saying no thank you, even if it's a form one.  I've noticed far too many people are happy to read a message and ignore it.

Not that bad manners are unique to this environment but it still frustrates me no end.

Seven triggers to fascination:

Lust

Mystique

Alarm

Prestige

Power

Vice

Trust

I've been studying the psychology of how people get into cults and it shares many of the same traits as the good training of a slave.

Repetition, isolation of dissent at the early stages, creating senses of empowerment and uniqueness, continually pushing the envelope until the psyche is conditioned to accept whatever is said or given and the construction of a 'false logic' that empowers the individual and allows the system to stand on its own.

Essentially an intense and all encompassing conditioning leading to a sustained belief that one's own best interests run exactly parallel to their owners.

If this is done successfully the incidence of a slave wishing to be released should be minimal regardless of any suffering, humiliation, deprivation or other circumstance.  In fact these could (and possibly should) be used to re-enforce for the slave the importance of his or her owners position in their life.

Thoughts?