Thoughts of an orphan

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!

She is seated on her throne, dressed in her underwear, chatting to one of her friends on the phone. He enters crawling on all his knees, naked, across the parquet wooden floor, feeling the hardness of the wood on his kneecaps, the coldness, matched with the the coolness of the indifferent, slightly callous glance she gives him as he draws within three feet if the throne.

That arched eye brow, it means, come here, get to work. She has trained him well and he knows every nuance of her body language. He draws closer into her orbit, her aura, she is still on the phone as she points her toe in the direction of his nose.

He shuffles closer, takes the beloved foot between his palms, careful not to tickle (for a tickle will earn him a good hard slap), and begins softly kissing the tips of each toe, savoring the salty tang of her sweat, massaging her feet, then swallowing the whole toe, working on it's underside with his tongue. It's his favourite part of foot worship, having his mouth wholly penetrated by her big toe. He moves down the row of scarlet nailed toes to the last one, and is rewarded with a playful kick across his jaw. It is her way of telling him to move to the next foot.

After that he moves slowly up the inside of her calf, planting a ladder of tender kisses along the sculpted alabaster of her skin. It is his lucky day, he reflects, as she opens her leg narrowly to allow his kisses to travel further still further up the sacred softness of her white inner thigh. Little flickers of tongue follow each delicately planted worshipful kiss as he moves ever upwards, her divine flesh ever warmer, more fragrant with the perfume of her female power...

"Ok, honey, gotta go! Love you!" He hears her end her phone call. He has no idea if she has been talking to a man or woman. His own penis, locked in its steely cage, twitches a tad tighter against the metal at the thought it might be a man. What cuckolding adventures may lay in wait tonight...?

Snap!

His dreamy sexual reverie is broken by the crisp click of her fingers. This is the signal for him to remove her black lace panties, slowly and gently down her sumptuous legs. He catches the whiff of her sex on the material as he lays the panties reverently down. She groans softly, settles her hips deeper into the chair, juts her pubis forwards and at once he is immersed in the fragrant forest of her pubic hair, his tongue questing for the gateway to her clitoris, circling, circling around the hairy outside.

"Lower," she says.

He moves his tongue lower...

"Lower..."

He obeys.

Soon she is making the sweet song of a woman approaching her orgasm. At the heavenly sound of her, his swelling cock is almost unbearable in the confines of his cage. But there will be no release for him. Not tonight, not for many nights. The closest he may come to orgasm is tasting another man's semen on her the next time he goes down.

She is getting closer and closer, her legs wrapped around him now, her fingers twisting her nipples, her eyes closed, mouth open, as though in a religious ecstasy, until the pleasure bursts out of her in scarlet shuddering waves.

And then in the aftermath she unravels her legs scratches the back of his head with her nails.

"Good boy!" She whispers.

Then another snap of her fingers. He replaces her discarded panties carefully,. Kisses each foot when he is done.

"Drink!" She says. He will make her a drink: gin of some premium brand, fresh tonic, plenty of ice. In a spotless glass; she is particular about that.

"And then choose me an outfit. One you think makes me look sexy. You're good at that... "A pause, as she looks at her phone.

"I'm going out tonight, slave. Don't wait up."

The end ... ?

My thoughts are like waves on the ocean. Surface stuff. They come and go. I let them bother me and obsess me but I don't need to.

Go deeper and I get in to myself. I understand what my real desires and my real self are.

So much of the time I'm cut off from myself by my surface thoughts.

Meditation and connection to the Goddess helps

What does it mean to be a male sub? To choose to serve a Woman, to give yourself to Her, to fight for Her, if She requests it, to build your life around Her...

It's not about having a taste for thigh boots (though there's nothing wrong with that) or jerking off to a certain kind of porn. It's about accepting a certain deep drive to recognise that Women are superior, and that we are happy to take a servant role.

It's like being a mediaeval knight, choosing to serve his Lady.

The right Mistress is one who personified the Divine Feminine for the sub. She becomes the Goddess herself when she is worshipped. She is the Holy Grail.

She will be found somehow, given time and patience.

My main desire at the moment is to go down on a mistress, to use my tongue to bring her to a climax, if I have the skill to do that.

I love the idea of Mistress' wet fragrant cunt over my mouth, my tongue inside Her, probing, bringing Her ever greater pleasure. I also fantasise about foot kissing and toe sucking. Basically anything from the waist down. Use me Mistress!