Femdom-Blog

My Private Garden

Tibullus was a Roman poet who lived c 55 BC-19 BC.
His poetry often features his two mistresses- Delia and Nemesis. To both he showed a slavish devotion, but especially to Nemesis.
Here are lines which inspired this drawing :-
I shall plow the fields at my mistresses command
From chains and lashes I shall not shrink
A woman’s slave am I, and know it well.
Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty!
In wretched slavery and chains I dwell,
For love’s sad captives never are set free.

ad imperium dominae sulcabimus agros:
non ego me uinclis uerberibusque nego.
Hic mihi seruitium uideo dominamque paratam:
iam mihi, libertas illa paterna, uale.
seruitium sed triste datur, teneorque catenis,
et numquam misero uincla remittit Amor,

Tibullus Book 2 chapters 3-4

He still remembers how lost he felt before she found him. How empty and alone. How all the success and access has left him feeling bloated and bored… totally benign. That was before she glided into his world. How funny, his world… his world doesn’t exist anymore. With one effortless gesture she swallowed him up completely, and it all became hers in an instant.
No longer empty, perpetually completely full and now he needs again. No longer bobbing unconsciously in a sea of complacency, but decidedly drowning happily in her essence. As much as she gives him, he always craves more.
It used to be a topic for conversation this developing “need“ he had for her attentions. His “thirst” for her. They used to spend countless hours teasing and tempting each other about how he never felt completely full unless he was at her feet, in her thrall. The more she exploited this thirst the more insatiable he became. The most interesting part about his need for her overwhelming encompassing attentions, is how his need increases exponentially to his exposure to her.
He still remembers the day he pleaded with her to drown him in her in a generous attempts to quench his undying thirst for her. She makes him feel so small, as though her spit is all he needs to sustain his newfound obsession.

© Mistress Wycked Kitten 2006

12. The American Way

In recognition of my performance with Mr Diebitz—and as compensation for the disappointment of the wristwatch—Madame took me to lunch at l’Epoque. This is not a particularly fashionable restaurant, but it is a very good one, in the penthouse of a Kensington hotel block with a view over the Park. Madame had gone shopping in Knightsbridge, but she had already booked our table. I was to wait in the adjacent bar until she arrived.

I was dressed up for the occasion in my bottle green trouser suit with high-heeled black boots, a coloured scarf and large tortoiseshell earrings. My taxi made surprisingly rapid progress across London from Highbury to Kensington with the result that I was twenty-five minutes early. Since Madame was certain to be late, I would have a long wait in the bar; but it couldn’t be helped.
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Even though in reality he’s very free to come and go as he pleases, he prefers to stay close.

And even when he is gone away, he’s not far.

Ever since she agreed to take control of his orgasms, she’s slowly gained control over the rest of him. Effectively turned him into her pet, her toy, her boy, here he sits and waits. Ready for her, ready to perform, ready to serve, ready with all encompassing need, ready when she becomes ready. Like a toy he is shelved – disregarded until the urge to play or to use her boytoy strikes… then with fierce hunger, she opens his box and they are free.

© Mistress Wycked Kitten 2006

Her Majesty, The Divine Female, The Goddess, The Princess Joanna. She was wearing a short purple silk dress, and her skin was beautifully pale, her blond hair was cut short, just above her shoulders, and she wore sunglasses. She re-crossed her legs, and the dress went up an inch or so, exposing the lower part of her gorgeous thigh, just very slightly above her knee. She made a slight gesture with her long pale hand and the butler, in suit and a bowtie, opened a jeweled cigarette-box and reverently presented it to Her. Miss Joanna turned to her girlfriend, a beautiful brunette sitting across the table on the veranda of Her Imperial Palazzo. She rose her foot slightly.
“You wouldn’t guess what my shoe is really made of, darling.”
“A male’s belly?” said the brunette.
They both laughed.
“No,” Princess Joanna laughed, “the male’s skin really doesn’t take color well – it’s a boy’s buttock’s leather.”
She was just joking, but the butler thought dreamily that he would get quite a thrill if She decided to have him killed for the purpose of making a shoe out of his belly. Too bad, his skin wasn’t anything particular to serve as a material for the Goddess pump. The brunette took a sip of Champagne and put her glass away on the table.
“But really.”
“It’s just Alpaca leather.”
“But it looks so soft, and it’s incredible it’s still patent leather.”
“It’s made by Carvelli – he is really one of my best shoemakers. All I need to do is to put him ‘on the program’ for a few days and his talent seems to just fly on air.”
They laughed again, as the butler stood in the slightly bowed-down position, completely ignored by Her who he lived only to serve and please, the cigarette extended for Her to take the moment She felt like it, but instead She, while continuing to talk to her girlfriend, just pointed, with her bloody-red lacquered dainty finger nail to her patent leather red high-heeled pump. The butler put away the cigarette-box, and rushed to his knees. The warm breeze arose and blew her purple dress up, revealing a bit more of the impeccable pale skin on Her divine thigh, and she just let it stay there. She glanced down Her leg towards the butler, and a lovely smile, spiced up perhaps with a bit of mockery, appeared on Her beautiful face, the dark red lipstick underscoring the shape of Her lips against Her white skin. The butler realized the impertinence of his looking at the Goddess’ face, the act he was not allowed and not worthy of, and immediately lowered his eyes in fear and veneration. He felt privileged to be so close to Her foot. He was given a permission to look at It freely while performing the duty given to him. He took a pristine white handkerchief, and cleaned an almost invisible speck from the side of the heel. She snapped Her fingers. More »

“Tony, dear, you aren’t jealous of David, are you? Oh! Sorry, you can’t speak with a gag on, but you can shake your head to let me know that you are not jealous of David. Come on, shake your head.”

And I had no option but to shake my head…

I had promised Helen, my wife, that I wasn’t going to be jealous of David when she told me that her close friend Vera was going to spend some time in Canada and wanted David, Vera’s husband, to stay with us, so Helen could keep a close eye on him.

I even had boasted that David was not the kind of man that could make me jealous, partly because I knew about two previous affairs of Vera and had witnessed several times Vera flirting with other men in front of David, and, more important, because I needed to boost my ego after the previous occasions in which Helen had made clear that she was not going to tolerate the tiniest hint of jealousy. It was still vivid in my mind the occasion when Helen had made me buy her two bikini sets that were almost close to nudity for the weekend she was going to spend with Carl, one of the associates at the law firm where she works, at his house in the Mediterranean coast. Not that I hadn’t found it demeaning, but Helen stressed her opinions on jealousy… and I had complied… with a hurt pride desperately in need for recovery.
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