Archive for the 'humiliation' Category

Fresh Content

What matters, what I’m trying to tell you, what I’ve been trying to tell you all night, is that you’re busted.  We can’t go back now.  There is no turning back.  I liked watching you much more than I like fucking you.  Can’t you understand that?  Don’t you get it?

But I thought you liked sex with me.

I do, or I should say that I did.  It’s been changing for a while now.  What, probably for a year?  Yes, at least a year.  It hasn’t been the same and you know it.  I know that you know it.  I mean look what you’ve been doing behind my back.

I … I …

Sush!

But …

I said to shush and I mean it.  There’s no sense in being embarrassed and I really don’t have the patience for any of your silly posing.

No fucking?

No fucking.  Besides the fact that you really have never been that good at it, and besides the fact that I’ve been rather bored with your “breast-grab, spread my legs and mount me” tactics, well, like I said, I’ve rather enjoyed watching you this past month.

You’ve been watching for an entire month?  What the fuck?

Hmph.  Like you have any room to judge me!  Let’s just remember who’s been sitting on a rickety stool in the back of the basement with his pants down around his knees any chance he gets.  Lets not forget who does it in the shower, on the toilet or even off the back deck, when he thinks he can get away with it.

You saw me on the deck?  Jesus!

I sure did.  In fact, tomorrow you are going to go down below the deck and clean off that bird feeder.  Absolutely disgusting.  And if you do something like that again, I’ll make you clean it off with your tongue.  Do you hear me?

Yeah.

Don’t you dare roll your eyes.  Come here; I want to show you something.  I said come here.  Come here right now!

Jesus!  Okay, what?

See this website?

Yeah, what about it.

I built it.  Don’t look so surprised.  I’m not as technically challenged as you think.

Oh fuck!  No, no no.  What the fuck?  What are those?  Oh, honey, you didn’t.

Oh yes I did!  Once I figured out how much you were “going at it,” I started taking pictures.  So let’s see.  Each page holds twelve pictures and so far I’ve got almost six pages.

Honey, baby.  This isn’t right.  What if somebody sees them for Christ’s sake?  You’ve got to get these down.  You’ve got to take this website down.

No.  Look closely.  See how I’ve blurred your face?  Nobody’s going to recognize you.  And, take it from me, even if you’ve cheated on me with hundreds of women?  Your dick just isn’t that memorable.

You bitch!

You have no idea.  Now get your pants down and start jerking that dick of yours.  This time you’re going to do it right in front of me.  No sneaking off like a dirty pervert.  Come on, get them down.

This is crazy.  You’ve gone off the deep end.

Here, let me show you something else.  With a click … here, here and then there.  Do you see that?  That picture is NOT blurred.  And I can do that to every last one of them.  And then, my love?  I can just pop a link into an email and send it out to all your business associates, your friends, even your family.  Like you just said — I’m a bitch.  But guess what?  You’re MY bitch.   Your my masturbating bitch boy from now on.  Whenever, wherever, however —  I tell you to drop your drawers and start pumping, you will do just that.  Do you understand?  Do you get it now?

I, but …

Let’s see, where is that email address to your secretary.  Or, better yet, your sister-in-law.  There they are.  I think I’ll just send it to both of them.

No. Please.

Then get busy.  Get busy now.  That’s a good boy.  Drop them lower.  Drop them down around your knees, you dirty little masturbator.  That’s right.  Now get jerking.  Wrap your grubby paw around that thick, useless cock and start stroking.  Look.  Look how hard your prick is.  You know what you are.  Stroke it.  Stroke it and repeat after me:  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch.  Go ahead.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Go ahead.

I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a —

Don’t stop.  I’m just getting the camera.  Got to have fresh content for the website, after all.

beyond that door

beyond that door
you are the brick-boy
the silver-tongued hero
you’re the whole shebang, motherfucker!

the hero, the big dick, the maaaan
the big man on campus
the man in the moon
the man to see
the man with a plan

you’re the taker
you’re the shaker
you’re the breaker
you’re the goddamn
candlestick maker

beyond that door
the world is your oyster
beyond that door
your kingdom come
beyond that door
women swoon and flirt and flatter

beyond that door
you are the candy man
the master of your own domain
you kick ass and take names
you are a player, a six-pack punk
every woman knows your name

but that door is closed
closed down, boarded shut, bang-bang
no way out, no where to hide
no where to go
but down down down

you’re on this side now
my side, mendicant man
my turf, toy wonder
you’re in the bosom of the bitch

you’re on this side:
you’re overpriced
and undervalued
and nobody gives two cents
suck it up

mendicant man
you’ve cashed your frequent flyers
mediocre man
you’ve burnt your neon bridges
nowhere man
you’ve spent your sorry wad

you’ll cease that fast-talking spinnity jive
right now (nobody cares)
and shuck that grandiose i-wish-it-were-my-dick tie
(nobody cares)
and lose those boot-cut Calvin Kleins
(not impressed)

get on the floor,
the stone cold floor
on this side of the door
where you belong

In the Corner

rubylipsnailsIn the corner he stands.  Facing the wall, his hands to his sides.  Naked and appearing so vulnerable, so alone.  And you might, indeed, think him a lonely man.  A sad man.  Even maybe a pathetic man.  But let’s take a closer look before we go away with our own first impressions, shall we?

Look, when we try to peer into his eyes (because really, when it’s all said and done, that’s where one can quickly ascertain the truth of a person, isn’t it?), there’s something covering his face.  My, oh, my, is that what I think it is?  Yes, it is.  Panties!  Panties covering the dear boy’s face.  Now what did he do to merit that?

But, wait!  Look at how the crotch of those panties are placed strategically over his nose.   We must get in a little closer.  Let’s just cozy up next to him and see exactly what is going on here.   Goodness!  Looked at how soiled the panties are!  Even from here the scent is quite robust.  The scent of sex, I dare say.  The pungent scent of man-woman sex.  Intriguing.  Quite intriguing.

Now that we are so close, do you see what I see?  Look at that penis sticking out so straight and stiff from his groin.  Hmmm.  A rather small one, isn’t it?  Nonetheless, it’s quivering and bobbing just a bit.  Pity to the poor woman he might try to mount with that silly little thing.  How tedious and utterly boring it would be for her, don’t you think?

Do you hear that?  Coming from the wall of the corner our little mini-meat-man stands against?  It’s muffled, but still exuberant and loud.  What could it be?  Did you see that?  I do believe that puny appendage of his just twitched.  Why, he’s reacting to the moans and groan, the creak of bed springs, the slapping of flesh we are hearing from the other side of that eggshell white wall!  And look at that!  He just took a deep sniff of those panties.  Oh, he did it again.  And again.  Look at that tiny stone pencil of his actually quivering.

Wait.  Someone is saying something from behind the wall.  Let’s listen.

This is what you deserve, you sad excuse for a husband.  Do you hear me, Henry?  Are you smelling the fuck on my panties while I’m getting my next dose of real man cock?  You’re a loser, Henry.  And you’ll stand there in the corner like the sorry dick-wad you are while I fuck this stud.

Oh my!  I think we have our answers.  And, at this point, I do believe we should leave Henry to his moment of bliss.

Candy Mouth

The lights are hotter than you’d imagined.  The makeup she’s applied feels shinier, brighter somehow under the glare.  You blink — your eyelashes like giant spider legs against your cheeks.  Your rose-rouged cheeks, you remember.  To match your whore lips, she’d said just moments ago.  You wonder what you look like in the camera’s lens, because it is pointed right at you.  You feel it like the hot point of a laser.

But it is your mouth you feel the most.  She’s outlined it — a brick smear all around the outside curve of your lips.   It makes your mouth the perfect bulls-eye for cock, she’d said, and you heard the girl giggles from beyond the light.  She never told you her friends would be here today, but they are.  You can’t see them but they can see you, and they are — have been and will be — watching everything.

She filled in the outline — the “bulls-eye” — with glossy red lipstick; showing it to you before applying it.  You’re just going to be the perfect little Candy Mouth with this on, she’d said, the perfect Cock Sucking Candy Mouth.  You couldn’t help yourself then and you whimpered.  And she slapped your face hard.  Of course, the girls laughed, one of them telling her, “That’s it.  Smack the fuck out of that sniveling, Candy Mouth Faggot.”

And now you are waiting.  Waiting on your knees in the glaring spot light, naked except for your make up and the large, red bow she’s tied around your penis.   Waiting in this cavernous, high-ceilinged and dull grey chamber.  Ignored for the moment as beyond the light last minute preparations are made.   And you are going to do this.  You know there is no going back now.

You are going to suck cock.  You are going to do it in front of the camera and Mistress will do as she pleases with the film.

A door opens and closes.  You hear the heavy footsteps.

“Wait.  One more thing.”

She kneels in front of you with the red lipstick.  She begins writing on your chest.  “Make sure you get this on film, too, ” she says to the person behind the camera.  To you she says, “You deserve this.  You deserve everything you’re getting.”

When she is done writing she tells you what she wrote on your chest, the asks, “Who are you?”  You’re not sure what she wants and don’t answer fast enough.  “I just wrote it on your chest, DumbFuck.”  She slaps you hard again.  “Figure it out.”

“I am Candy Mouth.”

“Now let’s get this right the first time,” she says as she gets up and walk beyond the light.  We are going to start filming and we’re going to start with you answering a few questions.  Got it?”

“Yes, Maam.”

“Okay, are we ready.”  She is talking to them, not you, and you are silent.

You here the low whir and see the blinking light that tells you filming has started.

Who are you?

“I am Candy Mouth.”

Does Candy Mouth fuck girls?

No Maam.

Why doesn’t Candy Mouth fuck girls?

Because I am a faggot cocksucker, Maam.

Then the shuffle of feet as a man steps into the light.  He is shirtless; you can see the muscles of his arms and chest pumping even as he steps forward.  The black leather hood covering his head matches his tight pants.  You can see his bulge, large and heavy riding up the right side of his crotch.

In spite of yourself — your embarrassment, your complete humiliation — you are getting excited.  You feel the red bow move against your upper thigh as you become erect.  The man is standing right in front of you when you hear Mistress speak again.

Why is your penis getting erect, Candy Mouth?

“Because I’m going to suck this big man’s cock, Maam.  I’m a faggot cocksucker.”

Don’t you think you better ask permission, Candy Mouth?

Your hands at your sides, you look up at this man you do not know, you cannot see.  You lick your lips, feeling your heart hammer against your ribcage.  You feel so small, so weak.

“Sir, may I please suck your man cock.  Can I put my sissy lips around your fat prick and take the load from your balls.  Please,  Sir?”

The girls giggle again, but this time Mistress is quick to shush them.  The man grabs his crotch and grunts; he teases you, running the tips of his sausage fingers over the shiny leather covering his bulge.  Finally, he unzips his fly, but then puts both hands on his hips.  He wants you to come after it.

And so, fingers trembling, you reach inside and pull out his cock.  It is thick and dense with veins; the head is the size of a small fist.  Although you want to swallow it whole, you move slowly.  Although you wish he would just grab your head and throat fuck you, you know better.  You move your head forward, opening your mouth and place the heavy bulk of his meat onto your tongue.

As you begin working your mouth up and down on his cock you hear him grunt from behind the hood:  “That’s it, Faggot; that’s a good, little Dick Bitch.”  Your own little penis thrills to hear the contempt in his deep baritone, causing its red ribbon to bob up and down.  Splaying his large fingers across your scalp he begins pushing his cock into your mouth, stroke by stroke, deeper and deeper.

As his movements become quicker, his breath raspier, you fumble to pull his balls from the open zipper.  Feeling their swollen fullness, thinking about taking all of that down your throat, you believe you might actually swoon.  But suddenly he stops and pulls his cock from your mouth.

“You want that,” he says as he smacks his cock back and forth across your face, strands of pre-cum streaming across your nose, your eyebrows, your painted cheeks.  “You want what’s in those balls?”

You moan.  “Yes, Sir.  Yes, Sir, please.  I want it.  I want your cum.  I want to eat your cum.”

Then Mistress speaks from the dark, from behind the camera:  Tell us who you are.  Tell everybody on the Internet who is going to watch this who you are, and then we’ll let you have your Cock Juice.

And you do.  You tell the world:

“I am Candy Mouth.  I’m a Faggot Bitch Dick Eater.  I suck man cum out of Real Men’s Balls.”

Then he is leaning over you, pushing his cock so far back into your throat that your are gagging.  His bloated balls are like rocks against your chin.  And you don’t care that everyone and anyone will be able to see this, see you humiliated and used like this.  Because you want that cum.

Because you are Candy Mouth.

you might say

… well, a lot of things.

maybe that you fear me
that my erotic sway brings you to your knees
or my voice is all you hear
above the din, beyond the clamor
of what you once mistook for life

that you despair, yet crave all that i am
(you know that i am)
my sharp words
exigent carriage
cavalier inclinations
callous requisitions

that you love me with desperation
(your senseless desperation)
… despite
my cold disdain
contemptuous breadth
my reserved contempt

that you would kneel before me
give to me
sacrifice for me
venerate, cherish, celeberate me
suffer for me
cry, beg, whine, snivel, squirm
humble your undistinguished self
at my feet

or whatever

because i will say
that you are irrelevant
and i am disinterested
that i disdain
your impotent efforts and puny ambitions
that you are
inconsequential, even despicable
that you are …
a paltry wretch
a lacking vassal
a lamed fuck
a stumbling picador
a shadow man

or whatever

his prick

merely a pet
nothing more, quite easily much less
a whispered white lie
between lily white sheets
stained now and then
here, there
because it’s a crying shame
that’s all there is, don’t you know?

no no no
don’t mete your pity
it’s all his fault
after all
he wouldn’t be anywhere but here

he knows the shame
he owns the blame

don’t tell me

don’t tell me
that i can’t fuck around
maybe i don’t care if they’re not as smart, as slick-savvy as you
so what if they don’t have your big cock
or buy me diamonds and pearls and rubies
in platinum or eighteen karat gold

don’t tell me
that i shouldn’t stay out or turn off my phone
or take candy from strangers
because you just might not be around
when i change my mind

don’t tell me
that i just don’t care, that it doesn’t mean a thing
that i’m just a fucking cunt
a bitch from hell, a vicious harpy, a narcissistic wench
well … just because
we already know that,
don’t we?

don’t tell me
that i’m your perfect girl,
or call me babe, or honey, or sweetheart
for christ’s sake, get a grip
keep your sticky fingers to yourself
take your heart off your sleeve
and stick your dick back into your pants

don’t tell me
that it’s chemistry or destiny,
we’re written in the stars
get over your romantic self
and off me, out of my face

wipe off that drool
straighten your tie
stand up like a man
and don’t tell me.

Just Say No – To Pussy

Why? Because it’s not good for you. That’s why, asshole. You get around snatch and lose your grip, become a babbling, sniveling, whining, ridiculous, piece-of-shit excuse for a man.

You do stupid things, too. Your dick gets hard when there’s even a hint of pussy–the scent of perfume, the click of high heels, a glimpse of panties. Then you spend your money, buy presents, lend her your car…whatever it takes to keep her close. Yet all for naught; after the frenzy there you are: Alone and slapping your salami.

And we won’t even talk about your porn addiction, that you sit in front of your computer for hours, jerking it to pictures of girls who wouldn’t give you the time of day. It’s all you think about, all your stupid little mind can conjure. Even though you never get any, which seems to me a waste of time and makes you a waste of space.

Jerk it, stroke it, rub it, and eventually make the little bastard squirt. All by yourself, because…ewwe…I certainly don’t want your skankie pecker- pus anywhere around me. And then start all over again.

BUT….no pussy for you. No pussy…NOT EVER!

Krista’s Cock-Pig

It is in front of your face. You can smell it. It is cock. It is the cock you are going to suck tonight. Perhaps it is a cock that will fuck you, too. You have no say. You are, after all, only a Cock-Pig.

Once you were a man. You lived a free life, had a fairly successful career. You worked hard, you played hard. Lots of young, hot women. Footloose and fancy free, as they say, living what you thought was the good life.

But then you met Krista. Tall, beautiful and wickedly sexy, she was different somehow. Different than the girls you usually bedded and forgot about. At first, it was just filth whispered into your ears as she fucked you. Then it was porn while she sucked your cock. The porn started getting kinkier, freakier. And you couldn’t get enough, could you? You were obsessed, wanted to be with her all the time.

And that is how she began training you, although you were too stupid to know it at the time. Even now when you think of before and now, you’re not sure exactly how she did it. Soon, though, you began living your weekends in a cage in her basement, your cock in a device that kept it hard, yet wouldn’t permit orgasm. You were an animal.

Krista’s Cock-Pig. That is what she started calling you. She would come to you with a strap-on and make you suck it. Then she would promise orgasm, that she would remove your Cock-Pig chastity device if you bent over and spread your ass and begged for her big, girl-dick. And you did. You would have done anything to cum. The thing is, just like she knew would happen, you started liking it, didn’t you? You started to like taking that big, fat strap-on up your ass.

It wasn’t long before she’d tricked you into leaving your job and turning over everything you had –your money, your house, your car, your savings– to her. She took away your life as a free man and put you in the cage full time. You became her 24/7 Cock-Pig.

That was when she began cum-training you. You would hear her upstairs fucking some guy –you never knew them, at least at first– and your dick would twitch and strain against the chastity device. Later she would come down to you. She’d taunt you, show you her swollen pussy lips. “Remember how tight this pussy is, Cock-Pig,” she’d ask, pushing on her stomach, causing milky cream to drip out of her slit, down the crack of her ass. “Remember when I used to let you fuck me?” You did remember and it made you crazy hot.  So easy for her to make you eat her out, lap up all that cream pie.  You would have done anything to get your chastity device off at that point.

Then she started bringing you down cups of cum, even a bowl of cum one time. “Come here, Cock-Pig,” Krista would say, putting the bowl on the floor right inside your cage. “Crawl over here and get your cup of cum, Cock-Pig. Come lap it up and I will take off your device for a little bit. Maybe I’ll even give you a good, hard fucking.”

And so it went. You really were some new low form of animal, Krista’s Cock-Pig.  But Krista had a plan.  And you soon learned you could even go lower.

“Oh, Cock-Pig,” you heard her calling as she came down the stairs. Only this time  she wasn’t alone.  There was a second set of footsteps.  Heavy footsteps.

And then she was there in front of you, a man beside her. A very big man with his very big cock in his fist. “Now I’m going to show you what a Cock-Pig is really good for,” Christa cooed, opening your cage. “Crawl out here now.” Her voice was as sexy as ever, but there was a breathiness to it you hadn’t caught before. This was exciting her. This was where she’d been leading you since the beginning.

“Suck it, Cock-Pig. Suck this big fat cock. When the cock cums, you get to cum.”

And so you sucked it. When he was getting close to cumming, Krista removed your chastity device and whispered in your ear, “When that cock cums, you can cum. From now on the only time you will ever cum is when you are sucking a cock and it comes.” And she wrapped your own hand around your dick. “Play with it, Cock-Pig. Jerk it while you suck that cock.”

And she stayed so close that you could hear each of her breaths, smell her perfume. Soon the man was grunting, thrusting his hips, grabbing your head. And then you were taking your first load right from that swelling, jerking, squirting cock and cumming all over your own belly at the same time.

And you were finally real. You were Krista’s Cock-Pig.

Stigmata: Erotic Humiliation

Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification. -John Donne

A while back, I tackled this topic for the book, Sex Kitten Presents The BDSM Issue. In writing that essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, I took a personal journey, an internal retrospective of sorts, recalling my initial shock upon receiving such a request and my eventual delight (and maybe even a bit of sexual excitement) with this particular form of domination.

I wrote:

The slave brings his desire to be dominated and the Mistress brings her dictionary and thesaurus, because it is her facility with language which authenticates her authority in this empyreal dungeon.

It’s no secret that I deeply believe in the power of words. They are, after all, what saved me so very long ago and far away. When I was too small, the world was too big and too many caretakers were impotently wicked and/or emotionally anemic. Even today, a library is consecrated ground for me–my church, my mosque, my synagogue, my cathedral–my sacred place of transformation.

And yes, at certain times, my dungeon.

Think about sex: the sex you do have and then the sex you think about having. I would bet that, regardless of your particular kink (high heel fetish? spanking? hard fucking? cuckolding? controlled masturbation? cross dressing? romantic sensuality?), the sex you think about having includes a lot of verbiage.

i.e.

  • Rub your dripping prick down the length of my stiletto heel. That’s it. Now take the tip, just the tip, and run it around the ankle strap. Slowly, very slowly.
  • You know you’ve got it coming. Over my knee. NOW! Hmmm. Should I use this ping pong paddle or my hand? Such a tender little ass.
  • Beg for my fat dick, you little slut. Spread those legs like a dirty little whore and jerk off your clit. Beg for my fat dick, and then I’m going to ram it into you so hard that you you’re going to cry like a bitch in heat.
  • I love you, baby, but I need big cocks and lots of them. So get in between my legs and clean up the mess, baby. Marcus and Jerome fucked me sooo hard. Look how swollen my cunt is. Lick it baby. Make it feel better.
  • Do you like it when I wrap my little hand around this thick man-cock of yours and stroke it like this? Oh, you’re throbbing. What if I rub my pretty little French nail back and forth every-so-lightly across the frenum?
  • Oooh…your cute little satin panties feel so good between your little sissy stick and my wet pussy. But I think little panty sluts deserve a good fucking. Go get the strap-on, sweet bitch-girl.
  • I love you so much, darling. Fuck me harder, my beautiful lover. I want your cum deep inside of me, honey. I need it. I need it so bad.

See what I mean? (and if you don’t, you might want to schedule an EEG)

Anyway, for those of you who haven’t run off to call your neurologist, can you understand how verbal abasement can up the ante for the submissive man or woman? And for some, perhaps even be a more-intoxicating form of domination all by itself? More powerful than whips and chains? And is particularly apropos when the dungeon is virtual, a creation of the imagination, the meeting of two minds? Two well-developed, very kinky brains?

I also wrote:

This is BDSM without the net, unconditional love on Prozac, Creatine-enhanced tough love.

And I believe it.

Some of the most intense phone domination sessions I’ve participated in have been humiliation fantasies. Meaning that I have almost dived –and perhaps even did a very feminine swan dive– into subspace with the target of my verbal venom on more than one occasion. What Tom Petty calls “free-falling.”

Done correctly (dispensing “tough love” requires a measure of love, of trust, of mutual respect), Erotic Humiliation can turn the known world upside down for both Mistress and Slave–defying physical boundaries, transcending emotional and psychological bastilles.

It is a thing of great beauty and deep mystery.

And it all starts with words. Simple, yet all-powerful words.

Now and forever. Amen.

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