Thoughts of an orphan

I am unhappy.

I can't remember the last time I was happy. Maybe I was, once, long ago, I  don't recall 

I feel ashamed that after 50 years on this planet I still am unhappy, as unhappy as I was as a teenager. I have not figured out the happiness trick.

Sometimes I think I will never be happy. That I can't be happy.

Sometimes I think no one is happy. They may seem that way but they are pretending or lying to themselves.

Tears come.

My Goddess comforts me. 

She holds me in her arms, the mother I never had.

(for Miss M)

He was her boot slave.

His job was simple: to keep her collection of shoes and boots in spotless condition. 

To polish them, arrange them, dust them, repair them when necessary, to put them on her beautiful feet in the morning (delightful task) and (even more delicious) to take them off at night.

Taking them off was the best task. Of course it was. To pull the warm, moistened leather off her exquisitely shaped feet, to massage her skin and caress her toes and heels, and (if she was in a good mood) to suck her toes, tasting the salt of her sweat, the delicious memory of her scent, her power, her mistresshood...

This was the finest moment of the day for boot slave. To kneel on the floor, worshipping those perfect, fragrant, red-varnished toes, cleansing them with his own saliva, basking in his slavery...

"Good boy," she would murmur, between puffs of her cigarette.

And his life would be complete.

But it was putting them on that was the most dangerous task of the day. Mistress would not tell him which footwear to bring to her. Instead she would make some vague remark, like, " I'm feeling very Dita Von Tease today", or" I need a pair of shoes to show I'm a woman who doesn't take any shit."

And of course he would opt for the patent black stilettos with the red soles, or the red boots that laced all the way up to her knee. But heaven help him if he got it wrong. If he chose black suede when she wanted snakeskin, or patent red boots when she wanted tigerskin pattered kitten heels. Then he would need to pull down his trousers and boxers, kneel on the floor before her, and wait while she chose her cane of choice.

"Sorry madam!"

Oh, so sorry!"

He would whelp as she dished the strokes out, careful to make a neat set of parallel lines on his ass cheeks, six of them that would mean he couldn't sit down all day without a reminder of her displeasure, her power, her divine feminine sadism.

Worst of all would be if he brought her shoes that were in any way dirty: even a speck of dust or the smallest scuff and Madam would curl her lip in disgust.

"You useless slave. Perhaps I should get rid of you. Find a slave who knows how to treat quality footwear.

"Oh no, madam, please!"

"How many strokes should it be then, what would be a sufficient number, to show you are truly sorry?"

And this was a dangerous question. If he chose too low a number, she would play the game called Double Up; basically she would double the number of strokes. So if he said six, he would end up caned 12 times. If he said 12, he might end up with 24 agonising stripes on his ass cheeks. If he went higher, he was guaranteeing his own pain.

How she loved this game! She could play it for hours. It was almost worth having an incompetent slave for the deliciousness of inflicting pain.

How he loved to be her boot slave! He would take any punishment to stay at her feet, to care for her shoes, to be her slave...

And she, she knew it.

What makes me more aroused, the taste of her moist pussy on my questing tongue or the pain she inflicts on my helpless body?

Her black nails cascading down my shaft or the bite of the cane on my butt cheeks?

The manacles around my wrists or the feel of her hand around my throat?

The knowledge that she could strangle me and I would love it, or the knowledge that she would never be found out?

I am Her slave. She is my Goddess.

My pain is her pleasure. She loves causing me pain, thrives on it, gets wet with it. Seethes in pleasure with it.

She is a Sadist. She is pure night.

And that is the ultimate arousal, Miss.

I've recently realised my second, sacral chakra is in a really bad way. It connects creativity and sexuality and it's really not been healthy or happy for years. I picture it as all bleeding and bruised and twisted and painful.

I need to bandage it up and give it time to heal. I need to nurture it...

So I'm trying to take time to give myself pleasure, bit beat myself up about my creative side and the fact that it hasn't always got results... Masturbate and take pleasure in masturbation. Do yoga.

No more shame, self hatred and self disgust...

Only care and healing and pleasure.

And so mote it be

He crawled to her throne, on his knees, cane between his teeth like a dog. As she had commanded.

As he approached the throne he looked up...

And she looked down on him, majestic, imperious, crossing and uncrossing those perfect, stocking-clad legs.

It was punishment time. His heat pounded hard in his chest, his palms were wet, his cock engorged and naked.

Cold air on the exposed buttocks. His mouth filled with saliva, dripping down his chin, a solitary drop falling on the floor.that he would lick up later, along with ... 

He had been away a long time, she said, but he could never escape her, her smoky voice, her cruel, dominant stare, her superb leather- clad body. He could not resist those holy curves, that divine cleavage, that scent, those perfect feet.

The cane would lash down mercilessly, punishing his dalliance, his disobedience.

But much worse would be the voice, the soft cruel voice, reminding him he could never escape, never. He was hers forever, no going back. He was chained to her dominance, his Queen!

I wish I had

The kind of mother

Who would stand up to

My father

And his violent rages.

I wish I had

The kind of mother

Who would nurture me,

Protect me

From my father

And his violent rages.

I had the kind of mother

Who did not intervene

Too scared perhaps

Of her own husband

Or perhaps orchestrating

The whole thing

Behind the scenes.

What I needed was

A powerful mother

A dependable mother

An iron mother.

But I did not have her,

Or even know that I needed her.

And now I am prone to my own violent rages,

Misogyny, self-loathing...

Watch out, mothers!

You are huge!

He wanted to be with her.

To be on an island with her, far, far away from everything and everyone else.

To hear her voice only, obey her command only.

Bring her fruit, pour her wine, wash her feet, feel the pain she wanted to inflict on him 

Bathe in the sadistic pleasure she took in mortifying his flesh.

Feel the twitch in his stiffening cock as she stood over him, whip in hand...

Taste her pussy that she commanded him to lick...

He wanted all these things...

But knew they couldn't come to pass.

Knew that the sweet fantasy of her and him was just that, a fantasy...

But he still thought of her, dreamt of her, heard her smokey voice in his head...he was still her plaything.

The end...?

She is carried through the endless desert on her golden thrown, held aloft by four gigantic Arabian slaves. She sits up high, her petite curvaceous body wrapped in leather as black and glossy as her raven dark hair.  She sips wine, eats grapes, surveying all that surrounds her, all that she owns.

And as I dream of her, lying alone in my bed, far away from that desert scene, I hear her voice: I don't care about your pleasure, she whispers, I don't give a fuck whether you come or not. And those contemptuous husky words make me come all the harder for her, my Queen of the Desert.

"I saw sensuality as sacred, indeed the only sacredness. I saw woman in her beauty as divine... I saw woman as the personification of nature, as Isis, and man as her priest, her slave, and I pictured her treating him as cruelly as Nature, who, when she no longer needs something that has satisfied her, tosses it away, while her abuse, indeed her killing it, are it's lascivious bliss"- Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch.

At the Temple if the Goddess, the Priestesses satisfied themselves sexually in myriad ways. But Priestesshood could only be passed on matrilineally, at birth. So the Priestesses needed male lovers to impregnate them to ensure the Priestesshood was continued, with little girls initiated into the mysteries of magic and the Goddess cult. Who could help them with this delightful task of ensuring the bloodline would continue? Clearly the priestesses would need to be extremely selective. Young men who excelled in athletics, swordplay and endurance would be chosen by the great high priestess, aided by the female elders, on a special feast day. It goes without saying these young men were strappingly built, with phalluses of impressive length and girth. On the Day of Breeding a dozen of the finest male specimens would be led blindfold into the temple, washed carefully, massaged, their glistening muscled bodies anointed with precious oils and spices, and simply dressed in linen loincloths and given a delicious warm spiced wine to drink. The wine stimulated them sexually, until their loincloths were tented with powerful erections as they were led, still blindfolded, their blood pumping with a delicious mix of anticipation, desire and uncertainty, into the scarlet domed great chamber of the Temple. 

There, under the statue of the Goddess astride a lion, twelve divans were set out across the marble floor. The divans were made up with crisp white linen sheets, but had steel handcuffs attached at each corner. The blindfolded male slaves were then led to their allocated divans, laid flat on their backs and locked into position. Then the loincloths were removed. After careful inspection of his physical attributes and state of desire, each slave was chosen by a Priestess, and then the real fun began... 

Each Priestess could please herself with her chosen slave as she wished. Some released their slave's hand and guiding it to the most intimate parts of their bodies. Others found sadistic delight in twisting their slave's nipple, or running their fingernails over the man's body till they drew blood.Others rubbed their nipples against their slave's chest, or filled his mouth with the sweet fruit of her breast, bidding the slave to nibble or lick. Others mounted the face of their slave, instructing their slave to press his tongue into their vagina, or else, perhaps more delightfully, rode them facing the cock of the slave, pushing the slave's nose into her lovely spicy ass while she slapped and scratched the poor slave's twitching, hardened phallus. Moans and grunts of lust and pain rose delightfully in the sacred incense-laden air of the Temple, while the Goddess looked on, delighted.

Finally it was time for coitus itself. Some slaves did not last long before they shot their slave seed deep into the juicy waiting womb of their holy priestess. Yet the priestesses showed no mercy, continuing to ride the still stiff young cock of the premature slave until they met their ecstatic climax. Other boys, intimidated by this extraordinary sacred orgy, were unable to ejaculate at all, and we're unstrapped and used for the pleasure of the crones.

All hail the Goddess! All hail Female Power!