Houseboy slaves are not new to me. I have had a few in the past but that was when I was a gentler soul. Now I am a fully fledged bitch, a sadistic one at that, I think it is time to have another boy who can clean the house, do my chores and feel the sharp end of my fist or cane if he fails to do what is right by his mistress. My next house slave will be given a hard time…think of it as hard labour. Mind you he won’t be allowed to get hard unless I say so. I would want my entire house to be so spotlessly clean that my mistress friends would feel envious. That would mean starting at 6 am with preparing for my eventual wake up at 7am. He would lay out my day clothes, make sure they are pressed and ironed, prepare breakfast and ensure that my bathroom was clean as a whistle. When I awake, I would expect him to be at the ready with a tray of freshly squeezed (by him) orange juice and the day’s paper, bought from my local newsagent with his money of course. I might if too tired to read, expect him to pick out the best bits of the day’s news. Then he would hand me my robe, and escort me into the shower room and toilet. I would expect full toilet duties….that means vigorous work with his tongue on my toilet bowl and if I felt in the mood, on my arse. I would order him in one word: CLEAN. And this is just the beginning of the day. It goes without saying that failure to meet my stratospheric standards will be met with punishment, severe punishment such as a caning, 50 hard face slaps and/or a beating with my fists if I feel in the mood. While my house is whiter than white, his hide would be black and blue.
I had a very exciting session with a slave who asked for belly punching. He actually got far more than he asked for because I did a lot of boxing training and know how to use my fists. I donned a pair of good old boxing gloves and asked my friend Lady Lash to hold the slave still – with his hands locked behind his back – while I gave him a series of powerful blows in his belly. I worked up quite a sweat as I punched, lunged and jabbed his body. I used him as a punch bag and he was grateful. I have a lot of physical strength and natural energy and really got going. Many of my well-aimed blows brought the slave to his knees and he had to be dragged up to his feet again. He could take about 20 minutes of my hard punching and then cried ‘surrender’. I was in a compassionate mood and let him go….he was pretty battered and bruised and was only fit for crawling on his knees to thank me by kissing my boots (and those of Lady L).
The workout had me dreaming last night and it was a beauty. I dreamt I was a prison guard on some remote island for filthy criminals. In the dream, my job was to dole out punishments and torments to the male prisoners on the tropical island prison. In the dream, I ordered ten prisoners to line up to attention in the prison compound. I made them sweat in the hot sun for about 30 minutes. One fell to his knees in exhaustion. That was my cue to march in, whip in hand and deal him several blows until the wretch got up and stood to attention. Which he soon did. After half an hour, I ordered the prisoners to stand to attention with their arms behind their backs. Then I went down the line giving each of the miserable jailbirds – rapists and murderers – something they deserved. The first prisoner got a vicious kicking from my leather boots. I didn’t stop till he was down crawling on his stomach, groaning for mercy. The second man was shaking like a leaf after watching what I’d done to prisoner 1. I love to torment and gave him only a faceslap and then moved quickly to the third prisoner. He was caught unawares as I smashed my fists into his guts. Again and again I hit him and finished with a mighty right hook to his chin. He fell, out cold. The other prisoners got a mixture of punches, kicks, electric shocks (with my trusty cattle prod) and for the last guy: a severe caning to his arse. I lost count of how many strokes he got on that arse – and then I woke up. What a dream! If only I could turn that to reality eh?
Had a very interesting and unusual night last weekend. One of my regular naughty boys is a school cleaner who has access to some mobile classrooms at weekends. He and I have known each other quite a long time and I must have gone through quite a few leather paddles and bamboo canes on his worthless backside. He enjoys being caned and of course, I can think of nothing more pleasurable than wielding a thin swishy cane on a nice virgin arse. Why? There are lots of good reasons to enjoy dishing out a caning: the feel of the thin bamboo..that strange feeling that here is something so light and weightless and yet it can give the most intense pain. It requires no particular strength (though I am as it happens very strong) – it is all in the technique.
Anyway, Mark, my cleaner sub, arranged for me to meet him at the classroom (it is actually part of a further education college but that makes no difference). He was going to play the naughty school boy who had been sent to the headmistress (me) for behaviour correction. I arrived in the gloom of a late July evening and saw a light on in the classroom. Mark opened the door without a word and let me in. I was wearing a long rubber raincoat tightly belted round the waist. Mark had wasted no time in setting things up..there was an old fashioned chalk board standing beside the teacher’s desk and an array of implements for me to choose: an old white PE plimsole, a board ruler and a thin cane. My favourite. Mark as had been ordered by me was dressed as an old fashioned schoolboy: short trousers, shirt with tails, and a school cap.
I ordered him to stand in front of the desk while I took off the rubber coat: I made a big play of undoing the belt and very slowly revealing what I had on underneath. I was dressed as an old fashioned school maam – tight black skirt, white blouse (buttoned up) and my hair tightly drawn in a bun. Also a pair of black glasses perched down on my nose so that I could peer over the lenses.
“Why have you been sent here boy?” my tone was cold but calm
“Erm I have been naughy…..staring at the girls’ legs in class”
I sat on the desk giving the boy a good view of my black stockinged legs.
“Really….a young pervert are you boy?”
My tone became more angry: “Do not lie to me child. You are a dirty little pervert and that is why you have been sent here. To learn a lesson. Is that clear?’
The ‘boy’ nodded and looked down in disgrace.
“Well,” I said with almost a whisper, “we are going to have to beat that out of you..for your own sake. Is that understood?” He nodded. I then took off my spectacles and calmly put them away in the case. Then I leant forward and whispered into the ‘boy’s’ ear: “I want you to take down those trousers, and take down your underpants and then bend over this teacher’s desk. Is that clear?”
He shook with fear (or was it anticipated excitement). He did as he was told and presented his bare arse to me.
“I am not going to waste my time with the slipper or the ruler…you have been such a bad boy Mark that I am going to use the cane and mark your arse. The marks I shall make shall be a reminder of this session…every time you see those marks – for they will last several weeks – you will be reminded of what I have taught you. Is that clear and understood?”
Mark nodded, took in a deep breath and readied himself for the first cuts.
I let him quiver there for a few minutes…..there is extra torment in waiting for that first blow. I took time to take off my jacket, slowly hanging it up and then rolled up the sleeves of my blouse. Then I took the cane. Almost caressed it between my long fingers. My lips went dry with the anticipation of beating a man. I licked them and ran my fingers all the way up and down the cane..feeling its bumps, its knots and its tiny imperfections. Then I gave the cane a trial swish through the air. It made a wonderful whooshing sound – very high pitched, almost a whistle. I drew my arm back over my head and in one golf-like swing, brought the cane down on to his arse cheek. Mark knew that he was not allowed to cry out. Instead he issued an involuntary gasp and a low groan. That first strike was a mighty blow which cut deep into his flesh. The first mark was made. The rest followed in measured succession. I don’t believe in going too fast – I want to enjoy every stroke. After about 25 lashes, I inspected my work: his buttocks were a maze of red and purple lines criss crossing each other where the strokes had landed. His arse was hot to touch. I cooled it down with some gentle air from my mouth – a rare privilege for this boy. Then I resumed. 30, 40 maybe 50 strokes – each met with a low animalistic groan but no cry and certainly no tears. I do not tolerate tears.
When i was read to finish – I was by now hot and sweaty – I allowed the boy to stand and put his trousers back on. He did as he was told and I noticed that his eyes were moist. He held his backside and wiped away a rogue tear, kissed my hand and said that he had learnt his lesson. I wonder if he has?