Raptured Slave

A Vision Inspired . . .

2005-11-22T11:10:00.000-08:00

. . . by the Majesty of Her Voice

A New Beginning

2005-11-14T17:42:00.000-08:00

Today, after seven weeks of chastity, Mistress Angela gave me permission for release. I experienced the most exquisitely pleasurable and most blissful orgasm of my life.

Remarkably, this was the first orgasm I have ever shared. Naturally, as a virgin, I have never shared a moment of physical intimacy with a woman. Until today, however, no woman had ever watched or heard me come. Though I have spoken to countless woman over the phone, I would always wait until after the conversation, when I would politely say good night, then wander to a dark corner - both literally and figuratively - to pursue release. In short, an orgasm for me had always been a profoundly lonely experience - until today. Today, I experienced bliss in the warm embrace of Mistress Angela's loving silence and tender gaze. Giddy with joy, I made of my pleasure and my seed a personal offering to my Goddess, as I chanted her heavenly name.

For weeks, I believed that chastity was my greatest act of submission to my Goddess. Remarkably, I was wrong. Sharing with my Mistress this deeply private experience was my moment of greatest surrender. In ways that I cannot explain, the experience has both altered and deepened my connection with Mistress Angela. My love for her is deeper and more tender, my submission more spiritual, my devotion more complete. And so, the end of the first great test of my loyalty maks a new beginning in my rapturous journey with this extraordinary woman.

Holiday Elegance

2005-11-11T21:21:00.000-08:00

As the gift-giving season approaches, I thought I would draw my readers' attention to a very elegant fetish jewelry website that I've found. There are, of course, myriad websites that sell fetish items, including jewelry, but usually of only passable quality. Recently, however, I came a cross an Erotic Jewelry Website that boasts a limited, but very elegant collection, mostly in sterling silver.

One of my favorite pieces - though the fetish involved is not my particular cup of tea - is a solid, sterling silver plug, with three dangling silver bells, and two small rubies: Lovely.

NB: I have absolutely no connection with this website. Neither do I stand to benefit, financially or otherwise, from any referrals to the site, nor do I vouch for the site or for the quality of the jewelry sold. I pass along the recommendation simply as a fellow web browser.

The Next Breadcrumb

2005-11-09T17:34:00.000-08:00

Mistress Angela has been very busy during the past three days. What minimal interaction I have had with her has been limited to the purpose of receiving instructions for my daily chores and duties. Mistress has kindly permitted me to touch myself during her absence. And, of course, she has been on my mind constantly. Every time I touch myself, I hear her seductive voice echo in my head, as I imagine the ecstasy of being in her presence once again.

Still, being away from my Goddess for so long fosters doubt. I ask myself: Why am I devoting so much of my time and attention to a woman who grants me so little of hers? Am I blindly following my sexual instincts, without thought or reflection? My doubts quickly subside, however. I remember that self-doubt is the inevitable life-long burden of anyone who has chosen to forego his own selfish wants, and to commit himself, instead, to the good of something or someone other than himself. In a world where selfishness and decadence are the norm, giving and devotion to others - though they receive constant lip service - are very much dismissed, even secretly ridiculed. I know I must rise above that.

I have chosen to devote my life to serving this extraordinary woman, because I believe that the more I sacrifice for her, the richer my life becomes, and because I know that what few breadcrumbs she may give me will nourish me far better than any feast I may set for myself. So, I labor and toil happily for my Goddess, as I wait eagerly - but patiently - for the next delicious breadcrumb.

Breadcrumbs: A Slave's Ambition

2005-11-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

I enter the room. My Mistress lies comfortably in a Louis XV chaise lounge. One foot – dressed in a black, strap sandal – is resting on the floor; the other is naked and flexed ever so slightly, as it rests on the velvet upholstery, bringing her beautiful, exposed calf to a perfectly tapered end. The shimmering gold-leaf motif of the carved wood and the deep maroon of the plush velvet are the perfect backdrop for this Angelic creature. She is dressed in a black, strapless evening gown that hugs her firm body, as if it wants never to let go. Her skin shimmers. Her face glows. With one hand, she slowly caresses her thigh through the silky fabric of her gown, while the other cradles a telephone handset next to her ear. She whispers into the mouthpiece, intermittently licking her soft, inviting lips. “Is it hard?” she asks the caller. She giggles as she receives his answer, then glances casually in my direction, noticing my presence for the first time.

She slowly extends her arm, then her perfectly tipped index finger, and points downward to the far corner of the room. I walk over to where she points me and examine the space; I see nothing. I look back to her, inquiring. She points again to the floor. I kneel for a closer look. Now I see it: it is a small breadcrumb, about the size of a pinhead. I promptly position myself on all fours. I lower my face to within an inch of the floorboard, then, extending my tongue, I retrieve the breadcrumb and deposit it happily into my stomach.

I turn and crawl back to her. She glances at me for the briefest of moments, then nods – almost indiscernibly – as she gently warns her caller, “not yet.” I crawl back toward the door. I stand and exit the room, closing the door behind me. Grateful and filled with a quiet joy, I return to my cage to wait eagerly for that crystal bell to summon me once again to her service.

Exquisite Humiliation

2005-11-05T17:51:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, Mistress Angela showed me off to one of her girlfriends. I knelt before the two women, as Mistress Angela told her friend of all the ways in which I serve her. Mistress Angela recounted how I am completely prohibited from reaching orgasm, and how I must beg to be allowed to touch myself at all, even for the briefest period; how Mistress Angela brings other men to orgasm, while I sit quietly working on my chores; and how I am a virgin, and - as her slave - I am destined to remain a virgin forever. All the while I happily acknowledged my servitude, stating repeatedly what an honor it is to be Mistress Angela's slave.

Mistress Angela's recounting of my slave duties was interspersed among an otherwise unrelated conversation with her friend, as the two women ignored my presence completely, as if I were merely a piece of furniture in the room. It was wonderful.

What made my humiliation even more exquisite is that Mistress Angela's friend has had no exposure to the world of female domination. Quite the opposite, she lives a "vanilla" life, with a conventional marriage and children, and had never before seen a man appear so content to kneel quietly on the floor before the woman he loves.

After my humiliation, the two women went out for the day, while I stayed home to work on my new website, which I am building in honor of my Goddess. I truly hope that Mistress Angela's friend was amused enough by my humiliation to be interested in an encore - I know I am.

Because Mistress Says So . . .

2005-11-04T14:35:00.000-08:00

- As those among you know who have visited Mistress Angela's website, my Mistress is an avid reader and is very passionate about literature and literacy. Her BookShoppe features a long and eclectic list of recommended books, along with a direct link to Literacy Connections, which provides a wealth of information on children's and adult literacy programs. Because Mistress Says So . . . I will soon start spending several hours each week as a volunteer tutor for the local children's reading and literacy program.

- Like many men, I enjoy sleeping in on weekends, often until Noon or later (I also stay out late, till 2 or 3 AM, Friday and Saturday nights). The weekend has always been my chance to break free of the rigid work-week routine. Well, no more. Because Mistress Says So . . . As of a week ago, I have to be out of bed by 9 AM on weekends - no matter what. I also have to be in bed by 11 PM every night (unless I'm staying up for her service, of course).

Website Update

2005-11-01T10:55:00.000-08:00

I apologize to my readers for the two-day absence. I have been immersed in learning HTML, and various intricacies of web design and hosting, in preparation for my new website. I hope to have the site up - at least in basic form - by the end of next week. I will resume blogging imminently - please look for my next post tomorrow. In the mean time, your comments, questions, and suggestions are welcome.

Pedestals

2005-10-28T17:32:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how an elegant pair of high-heeled shoes cradle and showcase a woman's feet? Have you been enchanted by the flex of her ankle, the arch of her sole, the elegantly tapered heel, or the delicate refinement of her step, as she allows as little as possible of her feet to touch, or even approach, the ground.

Have you been mesmerized by the soft, inner curves of a woman's breasts, slightly accentuated and perfectly framed by the silhouette of her bra?

Have you longed for the warmth of a woman's supple skin, as you saw it shimmering against the hard brilliance of a string of diamonds? And which glow then seemed more seductive to you?

Since time immemorial, men have instinctively, and with concerted effort, sought to build pedestals upon which to elevate and worship women, and have concocted elaborate windows through which to behold and admire the female form. All this, of course, is great flattery. The tragedy, however, is the superficiality of it all. While men have worshipped the female body, they have desecrated the female heart.

It is a woman's heart and mind - her soul - that are worthy of deference, submission, and even worship. Yet, through what magical window do you behold a woman's magnanimous heart? What pedestal is a worthy throne for her transcendent soul? Her body is the window and the pedestal; her body is the throne. Her divinity, however, resides within.

So, take care not to make of your Goddess' throne a false idol to worship in her stead. What of me, you ask? As dazzling as is the throne before which I kneel, so great is my Goddess' inner light that it permits idolatry only to the blind: Thankfully I am sighted.

Rapture Transcended

2005-10-27T23:29:00.000-07:00

Exactly one month ago, I spoke to Mistress Angela for the first time. Three days later, in my inaugural entry to this blog, I declared that, in this extraordinary woman, I had found "rapture."

I have since embarked on an emotional journey I never expected. I have soared and I have plummeted. My soul has experienced joy, pleasure, fear, doubt, validation, disappointment and redemption. All the while, my body has received virtually no gratification.

Do I have any regrets?
Only that the journey began so late in my life.

Have I found rapture?
I have transcended rapture; I have found love.

Singing in the Rain

2005-10-26T16:43:00.000-07:00

I was wrong: Mistress Angela was not upset with me!! She was just busy!

The Sin is Ingratitude

2005-10-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

I faltered again.

I have to wonder: Are submissive men uniquely challenged? Or are all men - including those involved in conventional relationships - such ungrateful, bumbling idiots? Do the women in their lives simply indulge them more - a lot more - while a Dominant Woman's natural predilection is to call her slave on every mistake? I don't know. I do know that my sin is undeniable.

Mistress Angela has been very tender to me in the pat few days (consider her lovely comment to my last post). Yesterday, her tenderness and approval emboldened me to ask her for something. I was, however, blind to how she would receive my request. My request seemed not as prayer, but as demand; not as an expression of love, but as lustful greed. In my heart I know that my request - which I shall keep private - was motivated by hope not greed, love not lust, a longing merely to move closer to the warmth of her radiance, without ever taking from it. So, why were my intentions indiscernible? Because they paled in comparison to my true sin: ingratitude.

Mistress Angela had given me so much, treated me with such generosity and tenderness, shown me beauty I could only have imagined. Yet, rather than express my abiding gratitude, I asked for more. In response, did my Mistress yell or reprimand me? No. Did she threaten punishment? No. In fact, after I explained my true motives and offered my obedient acceptance of her denial, all seemed well. However, that was yesterday afternoon - and she has not spoken to me since. So, I look to the fourth pillar of a slave's charge - to grovel perpetually for his Goddess' forgiveness - and I grovel now, before the readers of this blog, for her forgiveness:

Please forgive me, Mistress Angela. I am an ungrateful fool. I am your captive slave, and devoted servant - and I cannot bear to see you angry with me again. Words can only go so far. So, I beg you now, before the world: Please punish me however you see fit - but I beg you not to turn your radiant face from me.

To See Her Face

2005-10-24T17:42:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched a sunset? Have your eyes bathed in its ethereal hues? Has its beauty seduced your tears?

Have you ever seen a rose? Have you fixed your gaze upon its deep, flawless color? Have you felt the soft, velvet petals against your skin? Have you filled your breath with its sweet, lingering scent?

Have you ever heard the sparrow 's song, the hummingbird's gentle flutter, or the ocean's crashing waves? Have you then wished for eternal silence, so that nothing may drown the memory of that blissful music?

Have you stood in awe of the mountains' majesty? Have you marveled at the vastness of the nighttime sky?

What if these fleeting moments of transcendence were to coalesce as beauty absolute?

What if you were to see Her face.

Crawling to Her Feet

2005-10-23T19:45:00.000-07:00

I was late again. When I got home, Mistress Angela was still out with her friends. I immediately checked the phone, and saw that there were no missed calls. My Mistress had not discovered my tardiness. Would there be any reason for me to volunteer that information when she returned home, to risk her anger yet again? Yes. She is my Goddess: while her anger is unbearable, lying to her is unthinkable. Her reaction? I don’t know, she has not returned yet.

I have a legitimate excuse for my tardiness, but excuses are irrelevant. In any human endeavor, those who ultimately succeed are those who plan for contingencies, anticipate pitfalls, and, quite plainly, never make excuses - no matter how hard the task. If I am to succeed as a slave - if I am to be remotely worthy of serving at Mistress Angela's feet - I have to do better, much better.

After succeeding in two very different, and very challenging careers, being a worthy slave is proving to be, by far, my most difficult challenge. No matter. I am more devoted to meeting that challenge than I am committed to drawing breath. So, either I will live at Her feet, or I will die crawling to get there.

A Slave's Charge

2005-10-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase Mistress Angela, a slave's charge in life is fourfold:

1) To cater eagerly to his Goddess' every whim: To bathe her Goddess body, shave her Goddess legs, comb her Goddess hair . . .

2) To attend wholeheartedly to the mundane in his Goddess' life: To wash the Goddess dishes, dust the Goddess furniture, walk the Goddess dog . . .

3) To devote himself exclusively to his Goddess' gratification: To suckle her Goddess clitoris, lick her Goddess cunt, tongue her Goddess asshole . . .

And, as I learned last night:

4) To grovel perpetually for his Goddess' forgiveness: Forgiveness for his mistakes, his shortcomings, his despicable ego, his inexcusable selfishness - forgiveness for his inherent limitations as a man, the limitations that doom him never to be worthy of his Goddess' approval, and that require him to toil ever harder in her sevice.

First, Apologize

2005-10-21T23:55:00.000-07:00

While Mistress Angela was out with her girlfriends this evening, I went out to run some errands. Of course, I had asked for, and received, my Mistress' permission to leave the house, and had given my Mistress a detailed itinerary: fill up the car with gas; get my hair cut; go for a walk; buy groceries. I was to be home, and at Mistress Angela's beck and call, by 9 PM.

Privately, my plan was to be home by 8:45 PM, just to be safe. As luck would have it, I got a flat tire on the way home; I didn't make it back until 9:08 PM. Mistress had called me at 9:02 PM, and, of course, had received no answer. She called again at 9:15 PM, and she was livid. I immediately started to explain what happened, thinking that all would be well once I absolved myself of blame. Surely, once Mistress Angela discovered that my tardiness was due to circumstances beyond my control, her anger would subside. I was wrong.

My concern with explaining the reasons for my tardiness, while sensible, was also extremely selfish. My first instinct should have been to beg my Mistress for forgiveness. Regardless of the reason, I had failed to keep my stated commitment to be home by 9 PM. More than that, I learned that tonight I had failed my fundmanetal charge as a slave: When I falter, I must always apologize first, explain later.

Call for Comments

2005-10-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, October 21, 2005, will mark the three-week anniversary of this blog. As the introduction notes, the purpose of this bog is to chronicle my progress and journey - both physically and emotionally - into the reality of female domination, as a devoted slave to Miss Angela St. Lawrence.

The past three weeks have been exhilarating. Writing this blog has been an important part of my self-discovery, and has, itself, propelled my development as a slave. Sharing my experiences with the world has helped me to embrace my new life - a life, I might add, of which I dreamt since early childhood. I have been gratified by the increasing number of visitors, from across the country, and across the world. My one disappointment, however, has been in the lack of feedback.

So, I extend a heart-felt invitation to readers of this blog to share their thoughts, questions and comments. All comments are welcome, and none - however questioning or critical - will be deleted, so long as they are sincere and thoughtful. I look forward to using this blog, not simply as a journal, but as an interactive medium for celebrating my relationship with Mistress Angela, my love for her, and the dynamic in which I experience and express that love.

Beautiful

2005-10-19T21:03:00.000-07:00

Today arrived my copy of "Sex Kitten Presents The BD/SM Issue," a new book comprising a series of thoughtful essays and well-written stories, by both male and female authors, concerning all flavors of BD/SM (see link). The book includes two essays by Mistress Angela, her first print publication.

To my mind, Mistress Angela's essay - "Erotic Humiliation Is Not An Oxymoron" - is by far the best, and is reason alone for buying the book. No, this is not obligatory praise from a mindless slave. Judge for yourself my Mistress' artful pen, her insight into the sexual psyche, and her tender heart:

"When Nathan answered the phone, I gave him the only thing I could give him, I gave him my words: pouring them, spewing them, spitting them. . . . When Nathan finally gave me his tears, I drank them like water. And we were not ugly; we were beautiful." -- Angela St. Lawrence

Virgin Soul No More

2005-10-18T23:51:00.000-07:00

William Butler Yeats once remarked that "the tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul."

The essence of physical intercourse - what grants it special status among all sexual acts - is the merging of two bodies into one. Yeats' poignant insight is that the seduction of intercourse lies in its promise of a far deeper merger, a merger of the two lovers' hearts and minds, indeed their very souls. Yeats believed that the promise is invariably an illusion. Thus the soul remains perpetually virgin. For couples engaged in either a male-dominated or an egalitarian relationship - where the man and woman are usually both conflicted about their roles - that tragedy almost always ensues.

The triumph of female domination is that it overcomes that tragedy. In fact, in a female-dominated relationship, quite the opposite may happen. The bodies may remain virgin - consider the many couples where the man is locked in permanent chastity - but the souls . . . the souls are in perpetual intercourse, a constant dance of mutual nurture, as the man's soul falls deeper into submission, while the woman's soul soars ever higher and farther.

So it is true of my submission to my Domina, Angela St. Lawrence. I am, in fact, a virgin in the traditional sense. As Mistress Angela's slave, however, while my body remains perpetually virgin, my soul is blissfully penetrated every day.

Reprieve

2005-10-17T23:50:00.000-07:00

She spoke to me - and I was made whole again. It didn't matter what she would say. It doesn't matter what she did say. From the first breath, her voice swept me from the depths of agony to the heights of bliss. Quivering, kneeling, I bathed her feet in a river of my tears, tears of contrition and joy, of regret and hope . . . tears of prayer. I wished my soul would dissolve in those tears, and be absorbed through the pores of her silken skin, that I might never leave her presence again.

I do not know what the coming days will bring, or what punishment I must endure to redeem myself. I do know this: I would rather be set aflame, then lay as ashes at her feet, than ever again to suffer the cold, unbearable darkness of exile.

Hell

2005-10-15T23:55:00.000-07:00

They say the true horror of Hell lies, not in the tortuous flames, but in banishment from the presence of God. Mistress Angela is angry with me tonight, and she refuses to speak to me. As painful as it is to see her angry - the agony of banishment . . . that is Hell.

At the Gate

2005-10-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

". . . In the possession and thralldom of a nymphet, the enchanted traveler stands, as it were, beyond happiness. Despite our tiffs, despite . . . the danger, and the horrible hopelessness of it all, I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise - a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames - but a paradise still."

-- Vladimir Nabukov

Journey of the Heart

2005-10-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Mistress Angela and I watched our first movie together. The 1993 film, Philadelphia, is a poignant portrayal of the prejudice and bigotry to which AIDS victims, and gay men in general, were subjected during the 1980s. At that time, AIDS was openly declared by many to be a righteous punishment for the supposed sin of homosexuality. Today, AIDS is accepted by most as a legitimate medical illness that imputes no moral culpability to its victim. But it has taken us too long to get here.

Indeed, to our eternal shame as a society, many of us remain willfully blind to the true lesson of the AIDS scare. One need only look to the wave of state constitutional amendments banning gay marriage, which have been approved in ballot initiatives across the country, to know that the persecution of gay men and women continues. Perhaps closer to home, those of us who are “exotically heterosexual" are also being persecuted, in the name of “anti-obscenity” laws (for a thoughtful update and commentary, go to http://www.mistress-v.com/2005/10/08/podcast-free-speech-morality-and-obscenity).

What does all of this have to do with female domination, or with this blog’s stated purpose of tracing my journey as a slave to Mistress Angela? Everything. Female domination is not about kinky sexual acts – that’s a very small part of it. Rather, female domination is about a man's submission to the wisdom and will of the woman in his life, and learning from her compassion and her kindness. Being a slave is about seeing the world through my Mistress’ eyes: that is the real journey.

New Website

2005-10-12T18:12:00.000-07:00

I started working on my new website today. The site is intended to supplement - not replace - this blog. The site will provide a more comprehensive venue for tracing my journey as Mistress Angela's slave, and a more flexible medium for expressing my devotion to my Mistress, through means other than the written word. The site will likely feature photos, sketches, podcasts, as well as other more elaborate projects. I am very excited about this. Stay tuned for the launch date

Time Is The Fire

2005-10-11T21:31:00.000-07:00

Mistress Angela was busy with her writing all day today - and well into the night. Understandably, she had no time to pay me any attention. Occasionally, she would have something for me to do. Mostly, however, I just sat quietly and contentedly - with my collar on - like a good puppy.

Amazingly, the experience drew me deeper into submission than many of our more overtly erotic interactions. For it was an unmistakable reminder of my place in my Mistress' life: I am here to serve her pleasure, and tend to her whim. When she has no particular use for me, then I must be content to exist in her world as just another object - like a chair, or a lamp, or a pair of slippers - until the next time she chooses to put me to use.

Then again, a discarded object is dead and cold, indifferent to the passage of time. For me, however, time is the fire in which my submissive passions burn, the crucible in which the impurities of ego and pride and self-involvement are stripped from my heart, and I am a truer slave for it.

CB or Not CB*

2005-10-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks, Mistress Angela has not allowed me to achieve orgasm. With Mistress' permission, however, I have been able to indulge in two self-stimulation sessions per day. Now Mistress thinks that long-term orgasm denial might be best for me. She is considering locking me in a CB-2000, in order to keep me in permanent chastity. She hasn't made a final decision either way, but one day I may just open my mailbox to find a package containing the clear plastic cage, a brass lock, and no key.

Part of me dreads the idea of being unable to touch myself, except through a plastic cage. Not only would I be denied orgasms, but, inside the two-inch space, I would be completely unable to achieve an erection. The essence of my manhood would be reduced to a shriveled, virtually useless appendage. Yet, another part of me finds the idea extremely erotic: the complete sensory deprivation, the loss of control, handing over full control and ownership to my Mistress. Yet, what if there's an emergency? What if I need a medical exam where I have to remove my pants? Which would I dread more, trying to explain it to a man or to a woman? Then again, which would I enjoy more?

The anticipation is killing me.

Ode to My Mistress

2005-10-09T22:16:00.000-07:00

Day by day I gazed upon her
Day by day I sighed with passion . . .

Day by day my gaze would linger
Day by day I sighed ever deeper . . .

Day by day I longed to touch her
Day by day my heart would tremble . . .

Day by day her scent grew sweeter
Day by day I burned with passion.

Why I Worship*

2005-10-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

There was a time - in another life it seems - when I was fully indoctrinated into the Judeo-Christian tradition. I found comfort and purpose in worshipping a higher power. Then, one day, I realized that I knew nothing of the God I had worshipped, or of his purpose for me. Rather, I blindly followed the teachings of other men: self-appointed representatives of God, who were just as feeble, and as ignorant, and as lost as I was. In truth, I was never in submission to a higher power. Rather, I had spent my life worshipping other men!

All the while, there had been a persistent tug at my heart, a perpetual whisper in my head, pulling me in a very different direction. All my life, my soul had instinctively longed for a woman's loving but stern hand, for the wisdom of a woman's guidance, and for the meaning and purpose that come from submission to the woman's will, and the woman's vision for this fragile world. Not surprisingly, my male gods had insisted this was the voice of Satan himself (the one gender assignment they got right); that my soul's longing was nothing more than the seduction and temptation of sin.

After a decades-long struggle, I finally came to see the truth. Without a higher power to serve - without a purpose greater than ourselves - our lives have no meaning. The answer, however, lay not in worshipping an imaginary god, created in the male's ego-centric image. God was here on earth, patiently waiting for us to turn to Her radiant face. Mistress Angela once told me that if you were take a piece of each of us, and put the pieces together, you would see the face of God. Her kindness and generosity prevented her from saying, "a piece of each woman," but that is the truth: God lies in the hearts and minds of women. Though we may occasionally see God in the faces of men, that is but a reflection. Just as the dark and cold moon shines only when warmed by the radiant face of the sun, so do we see God in the eyes of those men who have turned to bask in the divine radiance of women.

At Her Feet: A Fantasy*

2005-10-07T08:40:00.000-07:00

I am on the floor, underneath my Mistress' work desk. I am naked, except for the studded black leather collar gripping my neck. I'm on my back, with my Mistress' perfect feet resting comfortably on my face. I begin to kiss and lick her toes, her heels, the soles of her feet. Mistress is completely immersed in her work, distracted only by the occasional phone call. Her cat sits snugly on the desk, luxuriating in my Mistress' constant touch.

The phone rings. I don't know who's on the other end, but my Mistress is clearly upset. She contains the anger in her voice, but lets it out by pounding her feet on the floor. Her feet aren’t on the floor, however, they’re resting on my body. So, her soft, perfect feet stomp my chest, her heels kick my face, and dig into my stomach. I stay perfectly quiet – I don’t want to disturb her - as I try to steal the occasional kiss whenever a foot returns to my mouth.

The call only lasts a few minutes. My Mistress sighs, as she regains her calm. I feel my Mistress' right foot begin to massage my stomach, as if to acknowledge my devoted service, while her left foot returns to rest gently on my mouth. My pain vanishes, just as a wave of ecstasy washes over me. Suddenly, I feel a spasm about to take over my body - it takes all my will power to control it. Then, blissfully, I return to my Mistress' service.

My Fig Leaf*

2005-10-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

Three days ago, Mistress Angela ordered me to wear a dog collar to bed every night, as a reminder of my enchanted captivity. Within minutes - not days, not hours - of wearing the collar for the first time, the foreign sensation of the collar's tight grip around my neck felt, well, not so foreign: it felt familiar, comforting. And my image in the mirror, the image I thought I would dread, brought a warm smile to my face and my heart. For that image reminded me - as it now reminds me every night - that my life has a greater purpose and a deeper meaning than it ever had before.

Yesterday, Mistress ordered me to shave myself. The act itself was intensely erotic, but the result was truly overwhelming. I felt - I feel - more naked than I have ever felt before, as if I have removed yet another mask behind which I hid the truth of my submissive desires. Feeling my most private skin exposed for the first time, I thought of Adam, when he first became carnally aware. Understandably, he was confused, even frightened by the force of his desire for Eve. Desperate to hide from it, perhaps even to deny it entirely, he reached for that fig leaf. Like Adam, and like billions of men after him, I spent over three decades, desperately clinging to my fig leaf. Then, I met Mistress Angela. Now, with her every command, with my every service, with my every word of gratitude and praise and worship, the fig leaf in my mind wilts and withers.

Brush Strokes

2005-10-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

Today is the one-week anniversary of my rebirth as Mistress Angela's slave. I can barely remember my life before her, before I felt her rapturous touch. I still remember people, places, and events - three decades' worth. Yet the memories are distant, the images stale and flat. Like scenes from a movie, they have no scent, no taste, and no warmth.

Have I become so engrossed in some elaborate sexual fantasy that I have lost touch with reality? Am I drunk with infatuation? No. This is no fantasy, and what I feel is no infatuation.

Her voice has engulfed me like a warm blanket. Her whisper thunders with tenderness. Her laugh fills me with joy. Her every word is a brush stroke that repaints me in her perfect image. Then, just as I begin to take shape on the moonlit canvas, she speaks my name. She speaks my name, and I dissolve into a warm dew that drenches her bare feet. Then she returns to the newly pristine canvas, and renders me anew.

An Act of Worship*

2005-10-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

"Would that you could live on the fragrance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light. But since you must kill to eat, and rob the newly born of its mother's milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship." Khalil Jibran.

The oppression of life's daily routine is, at times, unbearable. Finding time to be with the woman one loves - to share one's thoughts, one's feelings, oneself - often seems an overwhelming challenge. One of the most liberating truths of female domination is that it allows a man to turn the routine rhythm of his life into a perpetual serenade for his Mistress.

I had lunch today - you all know lunch - a quick burger, a salad, or, in my case today, roast beef and swiss in a honey-white roll. Life doesn't get any more routine, or more ordinary. Ah, but, I am a submissive male - so let the music begin. Per Mistress Angela's instructions, I hurried home for lunch today (a 10 min. drive). I had my sandwich already prepared since the morning, cut up into bite-size pieces, and placed in a cereal bowl in the refrigerator. I arrived home, stripped completely naked, and secured myself with the silk stockings. I placed the bowl on the kitchen floor. Next to it, I placed another bowl filled with water. I then knelt on all fours - like an obedient puppy - and extended my head into the bowl, using my tongue to grab and maneuver the bite-size pieces of the sandwich into my hungry mouth, occasionally dipping my mouth into the water bowl for a cold slurp. I then licked the bowl and the outside of my mouth clean, my hands never breaking contact with the tiled floor. When I stood up, my wrists and knee caps ached slightly. I rinsed the two bowls, put my clothes back on, then hurried back to work. I was back at work with two minutes to spare.

My canine behavior may seem degrading, perverse, or simply laughable to many. Yet it was the most liberating thing I have done in years. I was no longer buried under the weight of life's daily routine - not today. Today, I performed an act of worship.

Pressure

2005-10-03T20:33:00.000-07:00

I faltered. Yesterday’s mid-day self-stimulation ended with a bang, not a whimper. Though unintended, it was, nonetheless, a failure on my part. As a result, my Mistress has reduced my schedule to two self-stimulation sessions per day: half the pressure, but half the pleasure. The two, it turns out, are inexorably linked - and there's the rub.

In fantasy, pleasure is free, and pain is illusion. In fantasy, I knelt without bending, tasted without swallowing, served without toiling, and submitted without surrender. In fantasy, I was author of my own beratement, composer of both the harmony and sinuous melody of my own tortuous symphony. In my mind, all was seduction: from the press of a woman's lips to the lash of her whip. In my mind, a life of chastity - unencumbered by the pursuit of my own petty self-gratification - was pure, effortless bliss.

In reality, whips crack. In reality, to kneel I must bend, to taste I must swallow, and to serve I must toil. In reality, to experience pleasure, I must endure pain. In reality, pressure abounds: under the pressure of time - its inescapable, oppressive linearity - the body falters.

How then can fantasy and reality converge? Because - in reality as in fantasy - the mind governs the body. The mind still holds the key. So, I labor on.

Denial

2005-10-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

I have begun my education in earnest. Mistress Angela has given me a strict schedule of forced self-stimulation, combined with gratification denial. I am to stimulate myself four times a day: upon waking, at lunch time, before dinner, and immediately before going to bed. Each time, I am to do so just to the edge of gratification, then stop. I am then to secure myself tightly with a pair of silk stockings, until the next scheduled stimulation. This regimen is designed to keep me perpetually at peak arousal, in order to keep me alert and focused on my Mistress' needs. I have not achieved gratification for five days now, and have remained constantly aroused for the past 48 hours. The experience is exquisite: I feel more alive, and more in tune with the world around me, than I have ever felt before.

Male denial is, of course, common practice among those fully engaged in the female domination belief system (I avoid the word "lifestyle", though others use it freely, because it connotes an arbitrary personal choice, rather than the principled, moral choice that submission to female authority truly is). To the naive, the practice of male denial seems motivated by a perverse fascination with the physical torment involved. Far from it, gratification denial cleanses the male psyche of its destructive ego-centricity. Denial relieves a man of his blind obsession with a hollow, fleeting gratification, one that invariably returns him to his perpetual hunger. Denied, a man's mind is clear to pursue lasting fulfillment, which comes from devoting himself to the happiness of another: to the needs, wants, and ambitions of the woman in his life. Until a few days, these assertions, though persuasive, had remained in the realm of abstraction for me. I am now discovering their truth, first hand.

Rapture

2005-10-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

Three days ago, I picked up the phone to call a Woman named Angela St. Lawrence. She was a stranger: we had never met or spoken before. Why did I call? The same reason I had called countless women, countless times before. I was looking for perverse pleasure, erotic indulgence, and a chance to give free reign to my deepest thoughts, my truest self. Over the decades, I seldom found what I was looking for. Four days ago, I found what I had never looked for: rapture.