Crueltobekind

One of my favourite pictures is a before and after of a girl I used to love and who, if not for the universe, would still be my girl now. I'll call her Leigh.

I have a huge clothing fetish, and not just for lingerie. A well-dressed, well presented girl, will stiffen my resolve like few other things, and on this day she had spent the time showing me how well she could feed that side of me. Typical porn secretary in a lot of ways; white silk blouse, mid-thigh black skirt, hair back in a ponytail, but the devil was in the details.

I could see she wore a cincher underneath and, through the shapes under the tight fabric of the skirt, that suspenders and stockings were in my future. Around her neck was the collar I'd got her, a simple and supple strip of black leather with a single ring in the middle. Her nails and lips were the same seductive, decadent arterial blood red, and her eyes were framed by mascara and eye-liner I knew wouldn't be waterproof. The black-framed, business woman style glasses she wore to work every day were somehow the cherry on top.

All of this perched on 3 inch heels that clicked on the hardwood floor, while a nervous, playful and hopeful smile playing on her lips. That was the 'before' image.

Much of that day is etched in my memory, but the highlights are those devilish details.

She was pristine and smooth to my mouth when I stood her back to wall and knelt to devour her, first through her underwear and then, once they were around her ankles, skin to skin. She was achingly, exquisitely wet for me and I very much drank her in before leading her to the bedroom, sitting her on the edge, wrapping those nylon-clad legs around my head, and just devouring her. The taste of her, the scent, the sounds of her response, the way her thighs gripped and relaxed and gripped and relaxed as I teased her to the edge of release, but never over. Not yet.

I laid her back, straddled her and opened her blouse to the bra underneath, pushing that up and over her breasts and turned my attention to those pale, rose-tipped wonders. Shortly after that, we would induce lactation, making her delicious and nutritious. Leigh was so very, wonderfully versatile like that.

Once my base appetites were sated, I remember telling her was I would be hurting her that day, that I couldn't promise she would enjoy all of it, but that I would. I told her that, in the end, she would be fed well beyond her appetites and she frowned at that. I remember thinking that was kind of oblique even for my pretentious Domly waffling, but she smiled, licked her lips and said 'I'm yours, daddy, all yours', and she was.

The next couple of hours were spent edging her. I don't fuck when I dominate; its always felt like a confusion of purpose, so even as she was divested of her clothing down to cincher, hells and stockings, I remained fully dressed. That, to me, felt like control and control always, but always, begins with the self. The 4-walls theory can sometimes take a backseat, after all.

I would use toys, big and thick and heavy or slim and nimble and buzzy. I would make her bury her head in the pillow as I pushed my hand deep into her, something she found a deep, resonant joy in, even as mouth and tongue enjoyed her clit. Clamps on cords, pulled tight as she reached for the summit so she could roll down the other side. Zipper lines, running up her sides or around her breasts.

Each time she approached orgasm, I would stop, stand her up, and hurt her. Zipper lines tugged slowly or quickly off, clamps pulled shriekingly taut before giving way, pussy spanked, clit flicked, slapped wherever seemed appropriate, hair pulled vicisouly taut. Whatever came to mind, as I needed to administer it.

And often, I would use a cane or stick on her body. Ass, breasts (top and underside), thighs, soles of her feet, palms of her hand... anywhere, really. I knew that certain types of pain were like gasoline on a flame, so I avoided them and gave her what I knew she didn't like. Thuddy canes, for instance, she responded to with deep arousal, but thin and whippy she couldn't abide. Nonetheless, she took them until she was welted to my satisfaction.

When I called a halt to this cycle, she had the look of a fish you haven't hit hard enough with the bonker, a kind of stunned, defeated confusion. She was slow to respond, sluggish to move and looked utterly drained.

That's when I began giving her release. That went on for quite a while, too. The thing about the female orgasm is, even that can be made into an enemy.?

By the time I turned my attention to her pleasure, something that I had deliberately built up and denied throughout the day, it was buried under pain and torment. But not buried deeply. Laying her down, mouth and hands gentle, toys gentle, vibrations insistent but considered, it was there to be rediscovered, brought out and given time in the sun. Her first orgasm elicited something like a sigh of relief, and involved little more than her arching off the bed, shuddering and gasping and then sinking back.

But onwards I went anyway, same gentleness, same consideration, same relentless stimulation. She came repeatedly, initially with a kind of rich, savoured appreciation of the ecstacy, but, after a while, with increasingly obvious sensitivity.

At that point, I restrained her with the cuffs mounted, in the best vanilla with a twist tradition, to the corners of the bed. Spread-eagled, I put a spreader bar between her ankles, not to keep her legs open but so I could kneel on the bar (under a pillow) and stop her twisting almost entirely. And then I went to work.

At some point, I gagged her with a bit gag, so she could clench hard as her pleasure stopped being pleasure and become torment. Once I got her over that sensitivity, forced her beyond the limits of her own tolerance for sensation, she kind of broke, accepted her fate. At some point she began to cry, shaking her head furiously as the stimulation continued and her body ignored completely what her mind was saying, and went where it was led.

When I called a halt and took the 'after' picture, she looked ruined, purely and simply. She followed where I led with a kind of plodding acceptance, no comment or hesitation, no thought really. In the shower, she knelt and began to cry again as I urinated over her, shoving my cock into her mouth and putting the last of that into her belly, indifferent to her choking and gagging. She threw up a little, but nothing that seemed untoward, all things considered.?

It was in that state, puke on her striped tits, hair sopping and dripping with piss, abused, degraded, stunned and utterly beyond sense, that I stood her up, turned her to the wall, lifted her leg, and claimed her, once again, as mine. She barely responded and certainly didn't orgasm, but she was hot and wet and that was all I needed that day. I don't know how long I indulged my lizard brain, but at the end I told her to kneel, which she did, and I came on her face and then in her mouth. Again, she barely responded, barely reacted and somehow, that was glorious.

And after?

After, I undressed us both fully, and showered with her. I soaped and rinsed her with a kind of reverence, a deep gratitude at the gift that was Leigh and how she matched, met and fulfilled me in so many ways. I washed her hair, her feet, between her thighs, softly, tenderly and with pure love. Then I dried her with equal devotion and kindness and took her to bed, where we lay naked and spooning until lshe fell asleep in my arms and, shortly after, I joined her.

The next day, when we went out for breakfast at a cafe just up the road from her place, she winced when she sat down and, when I smiled she smiled back and blushed, but not too much.

I miss her every day, and I miss who I was with her ever

Everything in the room is hidden under dustsheets, reduced to vague, ambiguous shapes.?

Some of these things are familiar even then, though. After all, an armchair with a canvas sheet over it, still looks kind of like an armchair, doesn't it? But is it, though? Perhaps the armchair is sumptuous and leather padded, the kind of chair that looks less like furniture and more like open arms waiting to embrace you. Perhaps it is a ceremonial chair, stout and hard and tall backed, unforgiving but nonetheless imposing and grandiose. Perhaps the chair comes with cuffs fixed to the arms and legs, and something thick and intrusive mounted in the middle of the seat waiting to impale.

Or maybe not.

And this... this is obviously a grandfather clock of some kind, all elegance and precision, a pendulum and deep, resonating chimes to signal the passing hours. Maybe, but if it is, what are the hours counting down, or up, to. What is happening in that passage of time? Perhaps it measures the time spent in the chair with cuffs. Perhaps it's not a clock at all, but a folded frame that opens out into an X, supports itself and allows someone to be fastened in place, awaiting... well, who knows? Could be, might not be. Who knows?

Ah, but this shape is clearly, incontrovertibly, a bed. Again, almost certainly is... but what type of bed? It's a single bed, the shapes of what must surely be the classic brass bed ends, curved and welcoming to a weary body. The mattress you can see an outline of may be soft and inviting, cradling you like a mother cradles a child. Or maybe the mattress is firm, almost medical in its construction. It might even be covered with a waterproof sheet in case of any spillages. What kind of spillages, you ask? Who knows? The human body is full of all kinds of things that you wouldn't want soaking into a mattress. And perhaps those bed ends are grey steel, cold and institutional, more suited to a cell than a bedroom. Maybe, tucked away underneath, are thick straps that hold you helplessly, hopelessly in place while the person who put you there enjoys themselves doing... well, who knows what?

What's the point of all these analogies and ambiguities?

None really, except to say that whatever is under those dust covers looks different to every one of us. They represent different things; hopes, fears, desires, shames, loss, failure, inadequacy and on and on and on. What lies under them may be?anathema to one and pure joy to another, but identical in every way nonetheless.

Or they may be completely different things that invoke the same feelings.

My point is that preconceptions are dangerous things around here. You cannot call yourself open-minded, curious and willing to learn if every time something doesn't meet your expectations, you sit back defeated and discouraged. Expectations are a way of setting yourself up for failure and also of hugely limiting your exposure to new experiences, feelings and emotions.?

It is not up to the things under the dustcovers to adapt to us. We must adapt to them, hearts and minds and eyes open.?

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You do not restrain a girl when she is to be punished. Restraints are a learning and teaching aid, or part of simply revelling in who and what you are together.

A girl who is to be punished lacks discipline, she lacks a sense of her place and purpose. Part of punishment is making her understand that the only way to get through punishment is forebearance, strength and devotion, both to you as her owner and herself as a slave. Restraining her removes the need for her to endure and to control her responses.

I usually discipline with a cane, and usually a thin, flexible one rather than a thicker, heavier type. In my experience, girls tend to prefer thuddy canes as the pain is much deeper and more rounded. Thin cane strikes are sharp and immediately, eye-wateringly painful. And yes, I have been caned and caned well - I know what I talk about. You can become lost in the heavy impacts of a stout cane, overwhelmed and rendered mentally helpless. The pain just swamps you. The bright, cutting pain of a thin cane constantly assaults your sense, but never enough that you are mentally able to travel elsewhere. Those impacts always, always drag you right back to the here and now.

My routine is to bend a girl over the end of the bed or a desk (not a chair - too liable to tip), and tell her the number of strokes she will endure (usually 10), that she will count them from 1 to 10 as they are delivered and that she will not be restrained at all. Hands planted on the top of whatever she is bent over, feet planted and about a metre apart. There are two rules.

The first is that she will not move, speak or cry out. If she does, the count starts over and the leniency with which I apply that rule is at my discretion and dependant on what she is being punished for.

The second rule is that we will not stop until all 10 strokes land according to the first rule.

If the rear becomes too welted, then there are the front and backs of her thighs, her breasts, the soles of her feet and several other places.?

She will take her 10 and she will do so with resolve, commitment and determination. She will do so with discipline.

And once punishment is delivered, the sin is forgotten. It is not referred to again, it is not held over her and is not used as some kind of fucked up supporting evidence of a future transgression.

It is done. The girl is cleansed and I tend to her. I bathe her from top to toe, slowly and with care, I ease her pain best I can and, if the situation permits, I reward her with pleasure. At the very least, she sleeps in my arms and when she awakes, it is a brand new day for us both.

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Training, discipline, & punishment.

These have become almost interchangable in modern D/s, but as most who've actually practiced what they preach would confirm, they are very, very different things. Let me explain...

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Training

Training is best described as introducing something new. It can be practically anything, but it is unfamiliar, usually goes against a girls existing ways, and takes time for her to adjust to becoming comfortable with. Perhaps it requires her to learn how to move in a way that pleases his eye, or how to dress or speak in certain situations. It may be a routine he desires her to follow, or an unfamiliar chore that she needs to complete. Perhaps it is a desire of his that she does not share, though it is rarely simply sexual in nature. After all, most women know the basics of pleasing a man sexually, they usually just need to refine their technique. Training is for things that he wishes her to provide that she would not have been exposed to before.

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Discipline

If training is instilling in the girl the knowledge of how to perform the new and unfamiliar task, then discipline is raising the girls proficiency to the desired standard. Mostly this is repetion and study for the girl, and? patience and clarity of communication for him. Discipline may also encompass things she is familiar with but does not perform to his desired standard, and these are sometimes sexual in nature, though not as much as you might think. With training having provided the basic fundamentals of the new and unfamiliar, discipline teaches the girl to consistently fulfill the task as he expaspects and deserves but, more importantly as she is capable of providing.

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Punishment

And if she is capable of providing the task as he wishes, then what is the justification for her failing to do so? Well, perhaps she is sick, physically or mentally. Perhaps she has had bad news and is suffering under the weight of it. Perhaps his belief that discipline had given her a strong foundation for completing the task was a mistake, and more work is needed. Whatever it may be, he must not punish in haste. Few girls wilfully fall short, precisely because the consequence is punishment. He should always ensure the girl is free to approach him with concerns, and does not fear doing so, as open and honest communication is everything.But if there is no reason for the girl to have dropped her standards, standards she is very capable of maintaining, then correction is needed, and punishment must be delivered.

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And punishment, I assure you, is not to be approached lightly, delivered disproportionately, or allowed to linger before and after.

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Shall I go on?

Imagine you are bungee jumping, standing high above a gaping chasm that looks as beautiful and beguiling as it does intimidating and overwhelming. At some point, you have to make the choice to either step down off the platform and back to the known and familiar world of solid ground and safety, or to step off the platform and begin to fall, until the cord goes taught and holds you above the abyss.

And that's bungee jumping.

Serving as a slave is similar to this, except that when you step off the platform, you have no idea if the cord is attached. You have chosen to plummet into an abyss without knowing if he will keep you safe from whatever fate awaits you at the bottom. Without, in fact, knowing if he is capable of keeping you safe.

And that's serving.

You do not know what awaits. You only know that, sometimes, it doesn't matter if the cord is attached or not, or even if there is a cord in the first place.

Sometimes, you just have to jump and find out.

Slavehood is a vocation, comparable and equal in every way to any religious calling.

And, like a religious calling, slavehood cannot be understood by those who do not hear its siren song.

If a dominant is the centre of a submissive's universe, it is because she thinks so, not because he does.

No one is respected, let alone obeyed, just coz.

The truth of the matter is that owning is at least as much work as being owned.

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