Leatherotica

Readers Letters

DOMINATION - A PUSSY'S EYE VIEW

Naughty schoolboys, teenage sluts, TV skivvies, self-condemned criminals, adult babies, self-confessed outcasts and failures, guilt-ridden religious freaks
- you name 'em, I've seen 'em, from my vantage point on the top of my Mistress' wardrobe. Here, in the Dungeon, we get 'em all, men who need to exorcise their inner demons, purge their souls, be punished for their inadequacies, relive childhood experiences and adolescent fantasies. There's such a constant demand for my Mistress's services as a Dominatrix, the 'phone seldom stops ringing. Some call because they've seen Her ad in a specialist contact mag; others because my Mistress has been recommended to them by a previous satisfied client; while others, the mainstay of Her clientele, are regulars who use Her services anything between 4 and 24 times a year, depending on their ability to pay - and on the urgency of their sexual needs.

A Domina like my Mistress has to be all things to all men. To stage a convincing performance which enables the client to feel he's living out his most secret and obsessive fantasy, She must have an intuitive into the male psyche (so much more transparent and predictable than that of the Superior Female) and, because of Her long experience in the profession, She is not only attuned to their needs but also completely unshocked by their often preposterous requests. Some people are surprised to hear that women like my Mistress do not despise the male gender; yet most Dominas respect their clients, admire their often vivid imaginations and regard it as a challenge to identify with each one and to 'become' the fantasy Female of his erotic daydreams.

She thinks of Herself less as a prostitute (no penile penetration is permitted in the Dungeon) than as a highly specialised sex-therapist who exploits Her innate dramatic skills to create scenarios that the client will never forget - rituals that will transport him way beyond mundane reality and make him wonder whether he's been reborn in Heaven - or Hell! She has very few unsatisfied customers and most, after an initial session with Her, return on a regular basis.

By no means all come for draconian physical punishment: many get off on being verbally abused, humiliated, degraded or simply being made to feel helpless or interior, and regard the instruments of torture and correction which bedizen the walls of the Dungeon merely as scene-setting trappings, like the black candelabra, incense tapers and piped music, which enhance and intensive the atmosphere of anticipation, suspense - and Doom.

By and large, my Mistress prefers a client to give Her a rough outline of his fantasy rather than a densely detailed description, complete with stage directions and pre-scripted dialogue. Building on his basic framework, She can then make use of Her theatrical talents to expand on and embellish his original idea with all kinds of additions of Her own creation to add spice to the occasion.

One of Her most original regulars is Howard, who, in the persona
of Father Thomas, a lapsed Roman Catholic priest, comes to confess his sins to Mother Confessor (one of my Mistress' favourite roles!) and to atone for em. Like many of his religious persuasion, he is obsessed with sex and afflicted (as he puts it) with the most lurid and bizarre fantasies about the anguish his sinful soul with suffer when he dies and is condemned to an eternity in Hell. He needs regularly to unburden himself of his unclean thoughts and to experience a foretaste of Purgatory in order to prepare himself for the ordeal which awaits him in the next life.

He kneels at the Confessional, admitting to a long string of carnal sins and wayward desires, at the end of which the Mother Confessor emerges from behind the screen, very stern in Her long, raven black habit and sinister hood.
She looms above him, omnipotent and menacing, and orders him to strip naked then to crawl on his belly towards Her. Beneath Her habit, She is dressed in very unecclesiastical clothes but, at this stage in the ceremony, She reveals the pointed toers of Her tall lace-up boots with skyscraper heels, for him to pay homage to with his lips and tongue. He is then ordered onto his back, where he writhes in agony (or ecstasy?) on the cold, flagged floor while She cruelly tramples and gouges his wretched body with those vicious heels.

Next, "Father Thomas" is manacled, face to the wall, to the crucifix - a highly symbolic predicament for him - as a prelude to a ritual flagellation. Between each stroke of the cane, he must utter, in a loud, clear voice, one of his long litany of sins until, after he has exhausted the list, he must start all over again. As She beats him, the Mother Confessor vilifies him verbally, reminding him that what is suffering now is nothing compared for what the devil has in store for him in the Hereafter!

At the end of this ordeal, by which time his buttocks are aflame with a latticework of angry, red welts, he is released. He sinks to his knees in abject subjugation before the Mother Confessor, who, in one graceful movement, unclasps Her habit at the neck, allowing the heavy garment to fall open and reveal Her in all Her glory - quite naked but for those diabolical discipline boots and a tiny pair of pink panties, trimmed with white lace.

The 'sinner' already highly aroused by his recent chastisement, is now sporting an uncontrollable erection. This evidence that, even after suffering a prolonged flagellation, he is still in the possession of the Devil and his carnal lusts, infuriates my Mistress, and She warns him that She is now going to suffer even more exquisitely as She concentrates Her sadistic attention on this shameless display of concupiscence. Ordering him to stand to attention before Her, eyes downcast, wrists cuffed behind his back and scrotal sac tightly bound with a 1eather tourniquet, She flogs his pulsating shaft with an evil little martinet, squeezes his distended balls, scratches with red painted talons between his widespread legs along the swollen root of his penis, warning him of the dire consequences that await him should he dare to disgrace himself by having a climax.

'Father Thomas grits his teeth, vainly trying to resist the increasingly intense feeling surging up inside him as his Tormentress continues to abuse his person, until, unable to contain himself a moment longer, he erupts copiously into the
silver chalice of communion wine' which She holds to receive his disgraceful Disgraceful 'tribute' . He is forced to drink this down before She releases his bloated equipment, although his wrists are still cuffed behind his back as he shuffles painfully behind Her towards Her 'Holy of Holies', the place of his final degradation.

He is ordered to lie on his back on a wide rubber groundsheet, while She. having discarded Her panties, positions a low, seatless stool above his face. Lowering her bottom onto this, so that Her buttocks protrude through the opening and Her fur-fleeced sexual parts, in contact with his mouth, gape wide and moist, She signals Her readiness for him to make his final and most humiliating act of obeisance. The trapped 1priest' greedily licks and laps and feasts on the very centre of Her divine Womanhood, bringing Her to a shuddering climax.

But his degradation is still not quite over; there is one more indignity which he must suffer before he is purged of his sins. She orders him to remain in position below Her until, once the final tremors of Her climax have subsided, She opens Her full bladder on the wretch, flooding him with a deluge of Her own astringent 'communion wine', a hot and copious libation in which he feels he will surely drown!.

After releasing him, She attends him in the shower and informs him that his sins have, temporarily, been absolved, although any future impure thoughts or desires will provoke further and increasingly severe retribution. It is now that Howard, who feels physically purged and spiritually elated by his experience, discards the persona of Father Thomas - although both he, my Mistress and I have no doubt that the naughty cleric will be back before long to confess another list of transgressions and to throw himself on the not-so-tender mercies of the Mother Confessor.

It's a great life being the pet Tom cat of a Dominant Mistress and daily eyewitness to the rituals staged by Her for the benefit of Her kinky clients. Don't you envy me? Maybe I should get next door's tabby to lock the catflap, tie me up and give me a good scratching with her claws some time! Or maybe my Mistress should just calm me down by lacing my next saucer of milk with a dose of Noggydon! Meow - See you in the next issue!

Wolfgang

DOMINATION - A PUSSY’S EYE VIEW (Continued)

In the sweltering heat and half-dark of my mistress’ Torture Chamber, the paunchy middle-aged man sweats and strains against his bonds, powerless to break free or to shield his great cadaver from the vicious hail of blows which She is inflicting – strokes of the cane which cut him to the quick; lashes from the oiled leather cat whose stinging tendrils have left the marks of their cruel kisses on his loins. Yes George Bates is indeed suffering the torments of Hell, and if he weren’t gagged with a pair of my Mistress’ balled-up panties, tightly secured by a stocking, he’d be pleading for mercy.

Well, how would you like to be tethered by your testicles to a radiator while a sadistic bitch flayed YOUR tender hide with every evil instrument of chastisement that came to hand ?

For that is his shameful predicament. From my secret vantage point on my Mistress’ wardrobe, I have witnessed every stage, every excruciating detail, of his ordeal, this ritual of humiliation and degradation which has reduced Mr Bates from a proud, arrogant and confident macho man to this pathetic specimen of writhing, perspiring, grunting humanity !

The imagined "crime" which has brought him to this chamber of Horrors? Shoplifting. Once again, this incorrigible shoplifter has been seen on closed-circuit security TV stealing girls’ briefs from the lingerie department, his every move observed and recorded for my Mistress, who today plays the part of the store’s Chief security officer.

She knows all she needs to know about the miscreant:- his name, address, position in his firm, car number, credit rating, wife’s and children’s identity, PIN number…..For, during the interrogation in the store’s security office after his arrest,

She made him empty his pockets of all his personal belongings - including his mobile - making detailed notes of all She found. She had enough incriminating evidence either to spill the beans to his wife, employers and the local press- not to mention the police- or to blackmail him into letting her deal with him on a one-to-one basis.

Faced with these two choices, both equally terrifying, he had agreed to place himself at Her not so tender mercy, an offering to be systematically slaughtered as a sacrifice to Her monstrous sexual lusts. For the Chief security officer, in this particular erotic psycho-drama, is a sadist, a dedicated tormentress of the male, whose delight is to wreak vengeance on Her victims by means of humiliation and extreme physical punishment.

He has already suffered his ordeal for a full forty minutes. In order to make him drink to the full the bitter chalice of degradation, She has made him parade up and down wearing nothing but the skimpy knickers found in his possession, dozens of delicate confections of silk and lace designed to fit slender young women rather than a beer-bellied, balding man with a raging erection like a stallion's pizzle! Urging him on with Her bullwhip, his Tormentress ridicules the obscene spectacle as he struggles to pull the elasticated waistbands over his gross paunch. He is a million light years away from the Company Boardroom where his managerial skills and business expertise are so respected - yet, perversely, he feels infinitely more stimulated and exultant staging this bizarre fashion show for the benefit of a mocking woman in this underground Dungeon than he ever does while dictating commercial strategy to his minions.

For each knicker which he rips in his clumsy efforts to pull them on, for each one that doesn't fit and for each which he stains with his copious pre-cum, he is rewarded with further punishment - bent over the flogging block, roped to the pillory, manacled to the scaffold or made to grovel on the carpet as he suffers the savage assault of his Captor's 6" stilettos. This draconian treatment is all part of what my Mistress calls Her 'Aversion Therapy', designed to cure him of his kinky fixation on Female underwear.

While he is almost demented with pent-up frustration, snorting through his gag, heaving and straining like a beached elephant seal, She, by cool contrast, is composure itself, haughty, detached and in absolute control of the situation - fully dressed in a smart, dove-grey business suit, dark tights and elegant sling-backs. Her method of lacing up his gonads at the root of the scrotum and attaching the lace to the radiator means that he dare not struggle or strain back too far without either pulling the rad. from the wall or, worse still, causing himself the most acute pain. In this predicament, they both know, She could quite easily emasculate him!

Thus shackled, and with yet another pair of skimpy knicks at half mast and a bum like a Caribbean sunset, he stands there, abject, weeping with frustration, trembling with apprehension and totally defeated, while She mocks him from the sidelines, rejoicing in his anguish, savouring his futile struggles and enjoying Her third cigarette before renewing the assault, this time with a multi-twigged birch which, applied to his already acutely sensitised hide, makes him wince and whinge in agony.

But his ordeal is far from over. The door to the Dungeon opens and in come two of my Mistress' Female friends - a fellow Dom and an eager trainee - who've come to gloat over the victim, to verbally abuse him and to admire my Mistress’ expert handiwork. They stalk around him, prodding and scratching him with red-painted talons as they touch his welts and lewdly feel between his open thighs to toy with his obscenely swollen gonads.

While the trainee Dom drips hot candle-wax on his nipples (already tenderised by my Mistress' metal clamps), the other Dom bum-fucks him with a well-oiled dildo until he is in a delirium of pain and pleasure and on the very cusp of a climax.

As he is still facing the wall, he does not see - as I do - all three Women slowly strip down to their knickers, and he only realises what is happening when my Mistress unties his balls, un-gags him and turns him to face his Tormentresses. Instinctively, as any male would when faced with such a heavenly vision of ripe and nubile Female pulchritude, George Bates sinks to his knees in mute adoration.

He is commanded to lie on his back, while each Mistress in turn, clad only in the tightest, skimpiest knicks, sits full on his face, ordering him to pleasure Her with his tongue through the gusset until She climaxes. As he performs his enviable task, the other two Mistresses tease and torment his balls and cock - by now at bursting point - until, unable to hold back a moment longer, he erupts like Krakatoa.

'Well', says my Mistress, triumphantly, 'In future don't let me catch you hanging around the lingerie department or I'll call the police. Let's hope my Aversion Therapy has done you some good I'

I doubt it - don't you? Watch this space...

WOLFGANG