A Different Kind Of Dominance

Body/Mind/Soul/Brain. Her form, the totality that is Her, operates on a plane that is far superior to the mere senses. A dark place because it is unknown, frightening. We fear extinction here. At the same time we possess our ultimate security, the absolute certainty that this is where we want to be…and where we belong. It is the pathway to our redemption. Here…In the Darkness…This is Enlightenment…This is Hell.

She takes us there. She is Power. She is Grace. She is Incomprehensible Entity. Her flesh is borne of divine spirit, Satan’s most glorious gift when aligned with the maleficence that comes with such incendiary intent. Extra-Dimensional; strange galaxies merge into new worlds here. It is poetry. Beautiful. Unfathomable. The paralyzing, subtle tremors of her plush, cream-color leg-flesh drive the kneeling subject into mourning for parcels of his existence now being cast upon the altar of sacrifice for the last time. A final renunciation of all that came before. The Grand Farewell to the past. She will accept nothing less. Commitment to her must always be uncompromising; unconditional.

Very often, the most powerful subjection a man is forced to endure is accomplished with complete passivity on her part. Of course, she must wield her will with unchecked aggression. But physically, she may often accomplish the most remarkable results without lifting a finger.

A Vignette.
Coette was, like, this Deadly Domme. Big, fat girl…really cute…really super-hot…like, sexy as Hell.
Killer Coette, they’d say…cuz she was , like, deadly. She made him do it. We were the ones saw it, cuz nobody else wanted to come that day.  She showed him her killer ass and she sorta shook it real hot-like so he saw it real good, and then…just real fast outta nowhere she said; “Smash your face off the edge of that table.”
And it was so weird…I mean, he didn’t even hesitate. He threw himself pretty hard. And when he did, she laughed…cuz his face caught that sharp corner…and man did he yell out…had to hurt like hell what he did…but she was by no means satisfied. So she showed him her fat, luscious thigh…y’know, real hot-like, and she was in these, like, super-hot super-high heels, which unnerved him…like, a lot, I think…and then she told him to go again…well, to DO IT again, I think, only harder. Then she said, “A LOT harder!”
He kept doing it because she kept laughing and laughing and making him keep doing it HARDER and the table edge was really hard and it had like a sharp corner there too and she thought it was super-funny that he was getting so bloody and screaming and…and…you could see…that…he…didn’t know what to do but had to keep going because she kept flashing her body at him…especially those monstrous legs…well and her big, super-hot ass too…real sexy and hot-like…oh yeah…AND her cleavage…oh, man…it would be, like, bouncing…oh god…which was GORGEOUS…and her tits were, like, huge and….and…edible, I thought for some reason.
“Again. Harder!”
And then, BAM! He’d crash his face into it again…I mean so hard. Then he’d yell out…and the blood…god…there’d be more blood…really bad…It would, like, fly all over…then she’d laugh…and laugh…and laugh some more.
“Again. Harder!”
Omigod…then…then it was worse cuz he obeyed her some more and did it again…really bloody…splattering all over…something awful…and his voice…that yelling…so much pain…
And more laughter…like so sinister…we were pretty scared then…
“Again.”
Well, she just kept on and on and she like never touched the fuckin’ dude, but…you know, just kept laughing and telling him to do it again…it was SO weird! Well…by now you know what happened. Well…MOST of ‘em know by now, I guess. He eventually bounced off the edge of that table again…REALLY hard that time…and Coette just looked down at him so serious like and she had…I mean…there was no feeling…in that look…none…at all…she was like this girl version of Michael Myers, ummmm…so anyway…he slammed down to the hard tile floor…again…and…he…he DIED. For real. All just doing what she said. She never touched him. Just like ordered him…to…like…kill himself…basically. It was really weird. But…we were afraid of her too…and, like, we never asked…any questions.

Images courtesy of Bootlovers.Com & Lethal Lexi.Com. Thanks, Girls!

Part VII Dehumanization: The Final Frontier

We have covered considerable ground in our basic sketch of a philosophy of Female Domination, beginning with the impulse itself from both the male and female point of view, and on through the emotional birth and development of Vixen from her earliest inclinations toward dominance to its fruition within her in her 20’s. We then outlined the basic development of the phases of Domination from initiation through the power Vixen exercises through the encounter, and on to the phase of abject humiliation, at which point her subject has become an utterly helpless shell of a man, resigned in fullness to his subjugation to Mistress’s will. It is here that we finally reach the zenith of Vixen’s agenda, that of Dehumanization.

In this final phase of dominance, all semblance of the man’s identity as a human being is vanquished, and he becomes as a utensil, or appliance, useful only insofar as he serves some menial purpose for Vixen. As we have noted in the preceding essays, this has been Vixen’s real purpose all along; the stripping away of the subject’s very identity-as-person. This phase of Vixen’s comprehensive dismantling of her subject is easily the most misunderstood aspect of Female Domination. To many casual observers who instinctively recoil from the idea of submission, there is still an element of connection that exists when considering the world of the dominatrix. What man doesn’t feel at least some sense of erotic awakening when confronted with the image of a beautiful woman bedecked in leather fetish lingerie with stiletto heels, brandishing a whip and insuring that a measure of discipline will be exacted upon her downtrodden subject? Typically such an individual interprets FemDom as simply ‘good clean fun,’ all tongue-in-cheek, and is prepared to ‘go along with the gag.’ Such uninitiated willingness to play along with the idea will invariably break down, however, when it comes to the severe physical punishment Vixen administers as her game escalates, as it also does in the face of humiliation. But at its pinnacle, dehumanization, all attempts at understanding Domination become utterly inconceivable in the face of such extreme compromise. Vixen’s ultimate triumph can only be understood by the true initiate, the seeker of truth, the mystic, the enlightened…The Obsessed. To him, the transformation to sub-human is the fulfillment of his spiritual destiny. All his life he has envied the inanimate things in Vixen’s world; the chair upon which she sits with her glorious ass and legs, the table which holds her drink, the ashtray which receives her cigarette butts, and the toilet into which her divine golden nectar and excreta are deposited; these are the things that arouse his jealousy, the things to which his longings aspire. For this reason, many serious dominatrices actually refer to the phase of dehumanization as ‘de-animation,’ or ‘objectification.’ The emphasis here is on the idea of the man’s function becoming that of the strictly inanimate, as opposed to, say, a dog, monkey, or servant. (All of which are less than human, but still animate.)

Dehumanization is not only the final phase of Vixen’s sublime act of mastery, it is also the phase of ultimate transcendence. In renouncing fully his humanity, the subject has entered a separate reality, the dimension of the wholly sacred. Consciousness for him has been transformed in such a way as to preclude everyday brain functions such as choice, reason, evaluation, rationalization, etc. His mind-state, if it may still be categorized as such, is now that of simple unmediated compliance. This state may be better understood as a mind-body separation in which body fulfills its physical role as toilet, spittoon, coffee table, or ashtray while the higher self, (mind, soul, spirit, etc.) discovers its own oneness with the absolute. Vixen herself experiences transcendence in her role as goddess, creator and transformer; all-powerful and able to execute her will unconditionally. This dual transcendence represents a mystical state far in advance of any reached through other forms of worship. A man, having been reduced to mere raw material, no more significant than wood, metal, concrete, or porcelain, has become one with the cosmos. His spirit soars free even as his eyes continue to behold his Mistress and his body continues to obey her with perfect devotion. It is the ultimate union of ethereal substances, human consciousness with eternal absolute consciousness.

For her part, Vixen also reaches untold spiritual heights through her mastery of Man. In the process of domination, she reaches closer to godhead with every new level of compromise accomplished by her subject. And while she takes diabolical delight in belittling, beating, and humiliating him, it is not until dehumanization that she reaches her own point of transcendence. At this point, she becomes so in awe of her own perfection and power that she experiences a shift in consciousness, a transformation at once highly-charged sexually, emotionally, and spiritually. She finds her entire mood flowing beautifully into a state of bliss. She no longer needs to be supreme bitch. She simply relaxes and makes her demands calmly. Her subject is quiet and perfectly accommodating. She often experiences intense orgasm at this point, and may well ride her subject’s face as her own personal sybian in order to get there. Often, though, she needs no physical stimulation at all. The experience of communion with the absolute and the vision of her subject’s ultimately compromised body and mind are enough.

Thus far, we have been discussing the transcendental nature of dehumanization. But what is the final dynamic in this most singular of transformations? How long and how fully will Vixen’s subject remain in this state of ultimate and total kenosis? For an indeterminate period of time now he has chewed and swallowed her shit, drank down her urine, served as receptacle for her cigarette ashes and butts, and functioned as an ottoman upon which she rests her feet as she enjoys her favorite television programs. Unable to prepare her meals as a result of his loss of reason, she has had another slave cook for her and her dehumanized subject has served as her table, from which she has eaten and drank. Remarkably, Vixen does not speak to him during this phase. After all, why would a lovely woman speak to her toilet? Or to her dining room table? Somehow, he manages to anticipate her needs through some marvelous act of instinct and actually does a far superior job of serving her in this capacity than he did earlier when his own unevolved and insipid human senses caused him to fail her repeatedly through faulty thought processes and inferior logic. How long does it go on? Quite simply, it goes on until Vixen tires of him and kicks him (often literally!) out of her space. What happens to him then is none of her concern. Often her subject will sit naked at her doorstep waiting for the eventual return of his normal mental processes, a period that varies widely from one individual to another. Depending on her mood and/or her level of generosity, Vixen may deem to throw his clothes out with him, allowing him to at least dress before wandering the streets in search of home.

And so the final phase of the most extraordinary and powerful erotic ritual comes to an end. Vixen has achieved her ultimate high, and her subject has been to places he will never be able to describe to anyone. It has indeed been a secret ceremony, a magnificent rite through which both Mistress and subject have known the truth of authentic human experience. Happily, Domination is an experience more men are beginning to discover as they realize their utter inferiority to Woman through various fortuitous twists of individual fate. Sadly, however, they still comprise the vast minority in a world teetering on the precipice of mass insanity as a result of patriarchal stupidity run amok.

In this series of essays I have presented a basic overview or outline of the phenomenon of the Dominant Female and the phases of her development in terms of her self-perception and some of the inherent meaning that is born out of that self-perception.  I have also touched upon the mind-set of Vixen’s subject, typically male, allowing us to establish at least a basic framework within which we may come to view the phenomenon as a unified whole.  In the next series, we will tunnel even deeper into this mystical realm of role-establishment with a mind-blowing  journey into the dark, esoteric world of Extreme Mortification.  You won’t want to miss it.

The New Birth

You tell yourself it’s nothing, nothing strange, at any rate. You remember bits and pieces, but you always wish you remembered more. There could have been a touch involved, but it isn’t necessarily so. Sometimes, you remember it coming as nothing more than a slight movement, almost imperceptible, but—and here is where your memory fails—the storm inside that followed was a giant, a cosmic cyclone of immense proportion, crushing everything in its path with an incomprehensible, implacable fury; a monster, a mad galaxy of psycho-kinetic terror with death at its center. Such a tempest works its destruction with raw physical power, but at the same time, it renders retreat or escape impossible due to its extraordinary, singular beauty, which defies logic or description; a beauty that causes paralysis. Only through experience is one capable of understanding this. Neither soul nor body has movement here. This unstoppable force has a name. It is called Madness. It is the end of life and the beginning of life. It is certainly death, but beyond the threshold it is infinite potentiality, infinite source, infinite bliss. It comes in one form, and one form only. It comes as Vixen.

If she has coaxed your touch, it is already too late. Your tears, your supplication, your worship and your pleading only amuse her. You are a joke to her, a plaything, if that. Vixen deals only in reality. The reality of your destruction, and the accomplishment of her will. That is her reality. But within this dark reality, her reality, lies the infinite mansion, the Paradise of the Absolute; a fantastic, unspeakable, idyllic world where, if you plunge deep enough, dreams and forgotten memories collide and ignite, the sparks and subsequent flames giving birth to living patterns of all that will ever be, and to all that could ever comprise the total . And this sublime space-of-mind, timeless, bathed in its eternal mystery and resistance to common apprehension, cannot remain pressed in dream-dimension beyond the moment of your arrival, and so must transcend its ethereal barrier and emerge whole into singularity, that kid’s corner of Being that opens into hidden planes of self, and merges there, now in the deepest regions, into rainbows of desire, regret, reconstruction, failure, pain, love, misconception, awakening, enlightenment, flesh, flower, music and rain…and all this spiked anew (at this point) with sharp, blazing refractions from the roaring monolith that is the body of Vixen; Portal to Ultimate Truth! Guardian of the Unconscious, Keeper of all men’s souls. This, this is Madness!! She has accomplished it! Her witch-crafted laughter rings through your soul and into the very Death that awaits you now. You worship her legs, her ass, her face, her Divine Being, and you know that this phase is finished.

Your prayer goes up, something to this effect: Divine Vixen, I beg thee, with utter respect and humility, to have mercy upon me. For I am unworthy, and incapable of the perfect obedience you demand and deserve. Have mercy, benevolent Goddess!

Vixen knows exactly what she wants. She plans to become as the Arc of the Covenant to your Philistine fingers. She is going to destroy you with one single touch. Such a display of power is unprecedented. But the end will not be swift. It is her intention to make you wait. It will seem like an eternity, an eternity of electrifying cruelty. She will watch you suffer unspeakably, tortured, tormented by cascading waves of desire, an avalanche of need inflamed by restriction, by her divine commands, by the slightest gesture of her head as it shakes: No.

You can still see the gentle quivers of her legs and ass as your free fall ends. And here, in the darkness that becomes infinite light, you become, for the first time, one with your own true essence. She knows instantly when you’ve arrived.

-Now, she says.

You place your hand softly on the splendid flesh along the back of her upper thigh. Vixen lets out the slightest whisper of deadly laughter. You hear something else; indescribable, like a spirit in flames. Experience breaks up into a quantum matrix of Vixen’s scents and shapes—blinding, particulate—and a primal firestorm is born, breathing the new universe into existence.

Warning!! I’m Baa-aack!!

Omigod, it’s hard to believe how long Girls In Control has been lying dormant. A Sleeping Dragon. A Genie in a Bottle. Well, I’m proud to say that I’m back, armed and ready to continue exploring the boundaries of the most intoxicating and psychologically fertile realm in all Erotica and Sexology, Female Domination. My hiatus was brought about by a great deal of other work, mostly in the arena of BBW, my other all-consuming love. I’ve built a successful Big Girl blog, and am working on another that will feature—for lack of a better phrase—mainstream BBW fiction. In addition to these, I have really been pushing the envelope with new FemDom fiction, some of it treading well beyond the boundaries of, shall we say, good taste. What can I say? Sometimes women can simply be THAT CRUEL!

The good news is that Girls In Control has continued to garner increasing readership, and I have been thrilled to discover how much interest exists out there for our sublime obsession, particularly in the intellectual realm. During these few months, GIC has gone to #1 on Google for FemDom Philosophy searches, and is Page 1 on Google for many other combinations of femdom search phrases. For this, I say “Thank You” to all you wonderful thrill-seekers out there who made it possible. But now, it’s time to move on with our explorations. So, allow me to present to you a wicked little piece called “The Unenlightened Man.” And be sure to let me know how I’m doing on my return to the scene. I always love to hear from you. J.T.

The Unenlightened Man

The threat, the anxiety, the fear, the desire. The feeling is like no other. Pure Bliss, Pure Conflict. She comes, always, brandishing her power like a broadsword. Her specific objective is always immaterial. It is the fact that she will have it, and will have it easily that commands our attention. Surely many will protest, arguing that her objective is indeed vitally important. After all, they will say, the difference between obtaining a set of car keys, or even a large sum of money is something entirely different from enforced cuckolding or being forced to follow her instructions in drinking a fatal dose of deadly poison. Rest assured that where the woman is concerned, the dynamic is undifferentiated. What DOES differ is the degree to which a man may or may not be evolved in the spiritual sense. For the man who seeks knowledge and wisdom, who has a taste for metaphysics and higher truth, for such a man, who has grasped the advent of the universe in the divine body of Vixen, there is neither concern nor thought as to degree. There is only unqualified obedience. Being enlightened, this man understands in his bones that his only true life comes in the form of her pronouncements and desires; of her voice, of her body. Alone, he is nothing. Only as the instrument of her will does he attain Salvation, fulfilling his metaphysical purpose as male life force on this planet.

The unenlightened man, however, faces grave difficulties. In the presence of Vixen, he is confused and uncertain. He has ideas about revolt and rebellion. He has delusions of superior strength and control. He has listened to others around him reinforce the pathetic lie that the man is the dominant one, that Male is the dominant gender. He has believed the ludicrous falsehoods about his role of leadership in mainstream society, and has arrived at the age of manhood unaware of his true role and of the metaphysical realities of the universe. Vixen exults in teaching such a man, such a pig, the laws of nature firsthand.

She will take immediate charge of him on all fronts, laying down the law verbally, and in no uncertain terms, and punishing him corporeally at each show of insubordination, no matter how slight. She will systematically dismantle him, stripping him of all pride, dignity, perceived strength, and most importantly, of every last vestige of power he imagined was actually his. His humiliation in Vixen’s hands will be extreme, made the more so because of the multitude of false beliefs with which he has been brainwashed for so long. It is one thing to discipline a man so thoroughly and harshly, but the deconstruction of his mind is the most painful thing of all. It is Vixen’s specialty.

No measures are considered too strong for this variety of heathen. She will demolish him with her gorgeous, powerful body. Her deadly thighs will crush his head until his skull cracks. Used in an incomprehensible body scissors, they will expel the breath from his heaving lungs and press his inner organs into mush. There will be no end to the punches, slaps, kicks, knees, battering him at will, beating him down into a useless pulp. The whole time, she has been reprogramming that pig’s brain of his with a new understanding; the understanding that he is less than nothing, and that, far more than just being boss, she is The Divine Vixen
-If you live through this day, she says, you will know your role forevermore.

If he lives. Sadly, many who come to her in this state of ignorance at this advanced age don’t make it. Their conversion is too much for them to grasp, and their resistance is often sufficiently strong that they have to be completely maimed, driven utterly mad, or worse. Many have ended paralyzed, their bodies useless, but their lips have continued to heap their infinite praises upon the goddess. Many others have lost their minds in one session with Vixen, being transformed into nothing more than puny little incoherent gargoyles, mumbling inconsequential nonsense for the rest of their worthless lives in some forgotten asylum. For the incorrigible ones, there is often no choice but to take things all the way. Better that they should be put out of their miseries than to live under their horrible delusions for one day longer. She has smothered many a one such as this beneath her big, beautiful ass, and crushed a good many more to death in the vice-like death grip of her sublime and shapely fat thighs. She takes exceptional pleasure in beating some into ultimate submission with her powerful fists, but whatever method she employs, she always executes her divine duty with the realization that the pig in question could have avoided such a fate by simply embracing the truth. That’s all she requires. But she will tolerate nothing less.

Part VI: Humiliation: A Journey Into The Unconscious.

In our last segment, we covered the exciting topic of Violence as it pertains to sexuality and to Female Domination in particular. We learned that Vixen will almost inevitably avail herself of extreme violence in the service of her sexual objectives (vis-à-vis her subject), and that she relies upon it not only to fuel her own sexual arousal in the exercise of her power, but also as a progressive form of further arousal as she then contemplates her subject’s state of extreme compromise and degradation after the fact. All her thoughts and actions are aimed squarely at the manifestation of her power in the most comprehensive possible fashion, and physical domination is of paramount importance for her in the achievement of this goal.

Beyond the level of physical rule, however, lies the true ultimate object of Vixen’s quest: the complete subjugation of the male’s very Being. This phase of Domination, being metaphysical, cannot be accomplished by mere physical punishment, no matter how severe. This she accomplishes through Humiliation, and finally Dehumanization. Here is the realm in which our study reaches its zenith. Here we probe the deepest darkest secrets of the unconscious, and learn the most extraordinary details about the activity of the human psyche, and indeed, about consciousness itself. This is the realm of The Mind, the psychological front, and it is the most fascinating frontier, not only of sexuality, but of Anthropology and Theology as well. It is here that we really learn what makes human beings tick!

So, just how do we define humiliation? Basically, it means that one is made to appear foolish or contemptible, especially in the eyes of others. It is certainly not uncommon for Vixen to mistreat her subject in front of an audience, and she generally has no problem with this if the opportunity is present at the time of her encounter. On a deeper level, however, and more applicable to our study, is the notion of humiliation as ‘degradation.’ In degradation, we move to a level beyond mere embarrassment, or of being made to look foolish. With degradation we are now concerned with the lowering of the subject’s status. To DE-GRADE is to lower in grade or rank, and may be thought of as a demotion. It is this dynamic that allows her to display her power more and more perfectly as her own status becomes ever-more exalted with the ever-diminishing status of the subject. This formula has some very interesting implications, as we will soon see. As a convenience, I will henceforth use the terms humiliation and degradation synonymously.

Humiliation is intimately connected to the ego, the particular level of power that is present in ones own self-image. For example, before reaching a level at which he experiences humiliation, a man who perceives himself as ineffectual, inadequate, unworthy, etc. will require more extreme measures to be taken against him than will a high-profile, Alpha-type male who prides himself on his power, on his abilities to achieve, and on what he perceives to be the exalted status of his own personality and charm. Such a man as this may feel severe humiliation if his tie is slightly crooked in the presence of others. It takes very little for him to experience a sense of belittlement and embarrassment. And so, Vixen’s job differs from subject to subject, but either way it is only a matter of time before her penchant for degradation assumes full control of her quarry. Humiliation may be seen as the crossover medium between Violence and the ultimate end of Female Domination, Dehumanization. Through violence, Vixen shows the subject that she is in complete control of him physically. The threat of being beaten unmercifully is before him at all times. Note here also that the threat of physical violence is the standard expression of force in any cultural institution. It is the same threat used by the state, through the mechanism of its militia, in virtually every culture on earth. It basically says: ‘Get out of line and you’ll get your ass kicked.’

But having established this medium of control over her subject, Vixen takes her power to an even higher level by wielding complete psychological control through the process of humiliation. Let’s take another look at the steps involved in progressive degradation.

On the Physical Plane. You are Man, I am Woman. It is generally accepted that you are the physically stronger gender. I am going to DEGRADE you to that of an inferior by overcoming your so-called superior strength and beating you into utter submission.

Humiliation. Though I have proven myself stronger, DEGRADED you to physical inferior, you are still a man, a human being, deserving of certain inalienable rights and dignity. Therefore, I will DEGRADE you further, stripping you also of those human attributes. You shall have NO rights, other than those I sanction, and you shall obey my every command instantly and without resistance. And so we see that ultimate control comes by way of the progressive liquidation of qualities by which the subject defines himself. After removing his notion of physical superiority, the next thing to go is any sense of self-worth or self-assurance, and when those are gone, Vixen will have accomplished the liquidation of what the subject understands as his ‘dignity.’

Culture knows two basic forms of abject humiliation: Slavery and Imprisonment. Both of these forms of humiliation work on the premise that the removal of a subject’s freedom is the core mechanism for the breaking down of the will.  Vixen relies upon and interesting mix in this regard. The aspect of slavery is more or less self-explanatory, but concerning imprisonment, Vixen may use a very cruel form of reverse-psychology here. It is not uncommon for her to bid the subject his leave when he is desperate to remain in her presence, but to then imprison him forcefully at precisely such times as he may desire a return to his normal life or to take care of pressing affairs, etc. The dynamic is such that the subject NEVER acquires the fulfillment of a desire. As even the most basic desires continue to go unfulfilled, an inevitable feeling of loss begins to fill the soul of the subject. It is an escalating sense of frustration that all basic choices, choices long taken for granted, have been removed from ones own sphere of control. This brings about depression and feelings of worthlessness; precisely the mind-state Vixen has set out to produce in him. In addition to rendering him powerless, she will compound his feelings of worthlessness by forcing upon him ever-more unpleasant and menial chores. He will clean her shoes to an immaculate shine, often using nothing more than his tongue. And when the tops of them are clean, she will then have him lick the soles clean as well. All the while, she has been flaunting her glorious body at him in a compelling state of undress. As he is polishing her shoes to a sparkle, he is abjectly tormented by her big beautiful legs, with which she taunts him and teases him mercilessly as he works. The combination of beauty and power on her part, and intense, frenetic desire on his part can only lead to his breaking down when the situation is pushed to its limits. Rest assured, Vixen will push it there and beyond!

Humiliation compounds the subject’s state of degradation in significant and quite serious ways. The most powerful of these takes the form of a breakdown in the subject’s ability to reason normally, and more importantly, in a collapse of the will through which he begins to lose hope of escape from Vixen. A purely physical beating leaves the subject open to notions of escape. Even if he is beaten into unconsciousness, he reasons he may awaken to an opportunity to get away from her. Humiliation operates in the realm of the Unconscious, progressively wearing down this potential for hope until the subject ceases to see himself as an autonomous entity with the self-worth, dignity, and intelligence to even orchestrate such an escape, let alone survive on his own if he were to succeed. As Vixen continues to increase the level of humiliation, she drives her subject into a progressively more dehumanized state. Before long, his own self-image is that of a being whose perpetual mind-state is that of self-doubt, fear, and servitude. All this happens at his deepest level, in the dark realm of the Unconscious where his truest self actually resides. Vixen’s techniques of Domination and Humiliation constitute the tools she will use to access that most inaccessible part of his true being and effect her profound influence. Here she deals with his human essence completely free of all the standard ‘filters’ that socialization builds up between our true selves and the world in which we must function according to certain standards and practices. Here Vixen stands before her subject in accordance with his true desires, which are those of actually becoming assimilated into her divine being. Then, having bridged the gulf between the inaccessible and the world of everyday reality, the subject becomes a broken man on the one hand, as he can now no longer distinguish between his deeper self and the self that functions in the world, but on the other hand a free man, no longer enslaved by the soul-killing conventions of ‘normal’ society. He is almost beyond retrieval at this point, seeing himself only as a being whose identity lies in the charge of serving his mistress. He is not far from the end,–and the new beginning–dehumanization, which will be the subject of our next chapter.

The Techniques of Humiliation. Earlier, we broke the concept of humiliation down into two basic forms, Slavery and Imprisonment.  Within the contexts of these larger forms, the techniques of humiliation are as diverse as the personalities of Dominant Females and the men they rule. There are, of course, a few tried and true staples that are incorporated in most cases.

1. Verbal Abuse. This simple act on Vixen’s part is possibly the most effective of them all because it is so consistent. Verbal abuse accompanies almost every aspect of her dominance. The continual browbeating, screaming, threatening, barking of commands in the style of the stereotypical drill sergeant, the endless criticism with ne’er a word of praise; she fills him with a comprehensive understanding of his worthlessness in a very short time with this approach. Many men say it is the most debilitating tool in Vixen’s entire arsenal of abusive techniques.

2. Enforced Servitude. We’re all familiar with this one. Enforced servitude is a powerful tool in humiliation because it has the effect of lowering the subject’s own ideas about his status. Forcing him to do her cooking, cleaning, maid duties, difficult and dirty tasks, accompanied as always by the ongoing verbal abuse, quickly robs the subject of his dignity, and, beginning to realize that this is the position in which he will STAY, he descends into a more confused mental state, becoming more and more dependent upon Vixen’s instructions by which he is beginning to define himself.

3. Body Worship. This category covers any form of enforced ‘meditation’ by the subject on designated parts of Vixen’s anatomy. The most typical examples are enforced worship of the legs, thighs, feet, ass, or breasts, depending usually upon the subject’s particular sensitivities. For example, if it is Vixen’s thighs that generate the greatest arousal, then she will force him to kneel before them for extended periods, beholding them with undivided attention, and usually, as an additional stimulus, smelling her delightful, perfumed flesh in the same area as well. If it is her ass that drives him wild, she will force him to sit just inches from it and absorb its subtle movements, and certainly its perhaps not so subtle fragrances. The technique of body worship is extremely powerful, having been known to cause premature catatonia in various subjects without recourse to any higher forms of degradation.

4. Cuckolding. With this technique Vixen continues the trend of degradation, reinforcing the subject’s self-image of worthlessness by enjoying the romantic and/or sexual advances of other men while forcing him to bear witness. Here, Vixen demonstrates acceptance of the male in the service of her pleasure, provided he is possessed of all the qualities she deems necessary, while reinforcing the subject’s self-image of unacceptability. Instances of cuckolding range from playful romantic exchanges to the most intimate sexual relations, all enacted with the subject serving as audience to the proceedings.

These 4 main categories cover most, if not all, of what I am labeling as Humiliation. It may be objected that there are many more demeaning and humbling forms of humiliation than these, and of course, this is true. However, these harsher forms of humiliation fall into the final category of Female Domination, and that is Dehumanization. Dehumanization differs from humiliation in the nature of its objective. It’s objective is not that of lowering a man’s self-image. It is that of removing it altogether. With dehumanization comes the transformation of man into something sub-human. It is the final phase in Vixen’s glorious, ultimate triumph over the will of the human male. With dehumanization, she reduces him to the threshold of death.

Be sure and join me for the next segment in our study. Dehumanization: Vixen’s Grand Prize.

Boxer Girl

The whole time it was obvious she was in a hurry. We met for happy hour, downtown L.A., upscale hotel bar. Mystery woman, alright. I met her coming off an elevator. Rammed her full speed but, strange, she stood in place, planted like a giant oak. Force of impact knocked me right on my ass. Heard lotsa people laugh when I went down.
-(Wimp, chump, idiot, pussy, Nancy-Boy.) Heard shit like that, or, pretty sure I did. Goddamn, she was beautiful, though, and she stood over me.
-I’m sorry. Let me help you up.
Big girl. Damn. Tall, but solid too. Thick, shapely legs, high heels, short skirt, sumptuous chubby arms bare in sleeveless top. Something in her eyes, I remember now, something not quite right. Sorta demonic quality, maybe. Unusual way they glowed or something. Paid no attention to it under the circumstances. Definitely a little embarrassed, slamming into a woman-she didn’t budge-and getting knocked on my pansy ass.

So then we talked for a minute. Stayed right there in that lobby and she was OK small-talking and I was down with it too. Seemed like she was taking an interest in me. So she suggested it. It was her idea.
-Why don’t we have a drink or a bite to eat? I’m starved. -Sure! But I’ve got an appointment here I really have to make. I don’t think it’ll take long. There’s a really nice bar in the hotel across the street.
I looked at my watch.
-In fact, they’ll have happy hour going at four. They have great appetizers. I can meet you there.
-Right across the street?
-Right across the street. First floor. The bar’s right there.
-Take my cell number. In case you get held up.
Beautiful Clydesdale of a woman, flattens me, then gives me her cell number. Who’d ‘ve thought?

The bar was great. Really nice, elegant atmosphere. Moroccan buffet tonight. Girl could really put it away. Mechoui, Pastilla, kebobs of calf liver and lamb, couscous; ate like she’d never seen food before. And Stoli martinis, extra dry, super-chilled…with olives. Slammed ‘em down like fresh spring water. The whole thing was such a kick. But, like I said, she was definitely pushing, time-wise. Seemed up-tight in a way, and yet it was obvious she was enjoying herself. Her name was Connie.
-So, Connie, what are you doing later? I asked.
-Hmm? Oh, uhmmm, well, I assumed we were going to my place.
-You did?
-Mmm-hmm. Don’t you want to?
-Sure, yeah. That would be great. Just seems like maybe you’re in a hurry. I didn’t want to hold you up.
-No. I’m fine. I’m all yours.
Jeezus. What did she mean by that? Well…

We were pretty hammered by the time we left and I asked her how far of a drive it was.
-No drive, she said, I’m right over there.
She pointed to a hi-rise three buildings down.
-Wow, I said. A real city dweller.
-Mmm-hmm. It’s the only way to go. Work downtown, train downtown, live downtown. Keeps life simple.
-Train?
-Mmm-hmm. I’m learning to box.
-Cool!
-Yeah. I like it. C’mon. This way.
We weaved our way down the sidewalk to her building, laughing hysterically, having a great time. I couldn’t help my continual staring, though. She was so seriously, unbelievably hot. How did this all happen? What the hell was I doing here? Gorgeous woman, getting drunk, going back to her apartment? Ours is not to question…

As we entered the building, it all seemed like your standard issue office complex; very professional-looking with the obligatory modern art sculptures around the lobby. Cool ones, though. Felt like money. Rode the elevator up to where Connie lived on the 33rd floor. Her apartment was beautiful; spacious and tastefully furnished. A picture window formed the majority of the outer wall and the view of the city was fabulous from there.
-I had no idea there were such nice apartments here, I said.
-Oh yes. There’s been so much great development down here. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else now.
I looked around the lovely living room and noticed that Connie did have quite a few photographs of different boxers on the walls, and a large painting of Ali in his prime loomed imposingly above the faux fireplace.
-You really are serious about boxing, I said. That’s a great painting.
-Thanks, she said. Are you sticking with martinis?
-Sounds good.
Her Stoli martini was the best I had ever tasted. Dry as a bone and chilled to the marrow. Left me sipping it as she went off to change.

To say I was stunned when she returned doesn’t even begin to say it. She emerged from the hallway wearing a skimpy black bikini, matching black patent leather high heels and a pair of shiny new boxing gloves. She was also holding another pair, obviously designated for me.
-Here, she said, tossing them to me. These oughta fit you.
I was speechless. My god, her legs! So long and so big. So chunky and shapely. Her flesh was sublime. Her huge, gorgeous breasts threatened to burst the bonds of her tiny bikini top and her ass was so juicy and round it seemed to defy the very principles of anatomy.
-C’mon, put ‘em on, she said. I’ll show you what I’ve been learning.
Sounded innocent enough, but at the moment I was having a hard time even processing her words as I sat there bedazzled by her awesome beauty and power. She stooped over the coffee table and somehow managed to lift her martini clumsily to her lips in spite of the gloves, slamming it down in one gulp.
-Ahhh, that’s the ticket, she said. Nothing like a martini to bring out the beast in a girl.
I stood up and put my gloves on, thinking this was going to be the most fun I’d had since playing in mud puddles back in kindergarten. I moved around into the middle of the living room where Connie was already shadow boxing, her marvelous flesh bouncing gently and so enticingly before me. Who could concentrate on boxing, for god’s sake? Between the booze and my excitement from looking at her, I didn’t even know if I could keep from mauling her right here on the living room floor.

That notion was dispelled rather quickly.
-Let’s see what you got, she said, bouncing up and down and punching her gloves together.
Before I could say ‘OK’ a hard left jab nailed me flush in the middle of my face. It was no love tap. It was the real thing.
-Ow! I yelled. Shit, Connie, what the–?
This time a big right hand. Pop!! Caught me on the temple and knocked me back toward the window.
-Better protect yourself, she warned. Remember ‘Million dollar Baby.’
It all happened so fast, before I could even protest. Another hard, straight jab, stronger than the last one, and I was seeing stars. Another one, right on the heels of the last one snapped my head back, hurting my eye and causing me to cry out again. As I lifted my hands to try and protect my face, she had her opening and slammed a hard right into my solar plexus. It knocked the wind out of me and I doubled over onto the floor. From there, I was staring at her marvelous feet in those high heels and hearing her voice badgering me.
-Get up, she said. At least give me a workout, ya fuckin’wimp!
I struggled to catch my breath and had to clutch onto her leg to have any chance of pulling myself up. As my face reached her glorious thighs I whimpered ‘Omigod,’ or some such exclamation. The perfumed scent of her crotch area and those incomprehensible legs acted as smelling salts upon me, helping me to rise tentatively to my feet. I saw her smiling at me, evil and utterly mad, like some sort of demoness. Then came a wicked combination: another jack-hammer left jab split my lip open and broke my nose. Hurt like a bitch. With each punch, I became insatiably aroused at the sight of her big, beautiful, powerful arms working their destruction upon me; so sexy and devastating. I longed to seize one of them and devour the luscious, divine flesh from which they were sculpted. That thought was bludgeoned out of me by a follow-up right to the middle of my chest, which stunned me badly. Felt like it made my heart stop. Began to panic. Processing that, and a monster left hook nearly decapitated me, causing my eye to swell shut almost immediately and opening a massive gash over the eyebrow that sent blood spurting across the room.

I went down like a bag of dirt from that and lay on the floor groaning in pain. She hovered over me immediately, laughing like some beautiful vulture inspecting her carrion .
-Up! she commanded.
No way. My head was spinning ’til I was sure I would throw up. Far too racked with pain to even consider making it to my feet. Connie bent down over me and grasping my head between her gloved hands, pulled me up.
-You know, you really need to learn how to defend yourself, she giggled.
Holding me flimsily in place with her left, she reared back and cold-cocked me with a brutal right to the face. That one pretty much flattened my nose, split my other eyelid open, and put another canal-like crack in my lip. It had now become a grotesque, bloody scene. Red splattered everywhere as I went reeling across the room, flipping head over heels before coming to rest flat on my stomach.
-I told you to get up and fight! she laughed. Now let’s go. Get up!

I was in a bad way at this point. Could hardly moan, let alone move, let alone get up. With each rapid heartbeat, blood pumped out of me from the lacerations around my eyes, from my demolished nose, and from huge cuts on my lips. She picked me up again, and my pulp-like face passed directly before her powerful thighs, which drove me to the brink of sexual madness despite the agony I was in. She held me in place there and stamped her legs down alternately, making me watch the delightful rippling of her leg-flesh as she did it. Began then to writhe like an epileptic, which amused her immensely. She laughed even harder, and holding me slightly stooped over this time, she blasted an inhumanly powerful right hand into my mid-section. I threw up instantly from the force of the blow, but before I could fall she caught me, held me in place again, and buried another wicked left hook into my kidney area. I had never felt such pain. I screamed out as the puke flowed from my mouth, but still, she didn’t let me fall. Set me up and exploded with the biggest right hand yet, straight into my face. The blow lifted me off my feet and I came crashing down on her coffee table, smashing it beneath my now critically battered body. I lay there, flipping, flopping like a flounder, my brains knocked into another dimension, noticing some sort of strange, hard pellets in my mouth, which I suddenly and horrifyingly realized were teeth. She had knocked my front teeth out, and now I lay there spitting them out like blood-soaked coins from a slot machine. I saw my life passing before my eyes.
-You goddamn, pathetic bitch! she snarled. How dare you break my fucking furniture! And look at this place! Look at the fucking mess you’ve made!
I was in no position to look at anything.

Unbelievable as it may sound, she continued to punish me like this for at least another half hour. When I came to I was in a hospital where I stayed for 6 weeks recovering from the beating I had taken. I never saw Connie again, which was just as well. After all, I was obviously not very good at boxing.

To Own A Man

Beyond torture, beyond fear
On the distant horizon beyond mere humiliation
After beatings, abuse and abject domination
Comes ownership
To steal an hour is mirth
A day, blissful indulgence
But to steal a life; that is magic
That is transcendence

His first sentence is banishment
To be exiled from me
To continue with his own affairs while already possessed
He thinks of nothing
But me
Nothing
But the afflictions I have visited upon him
The scent of my plump, powerful, shapely legs
The unbearable agony as they crushed his head into mush
The endless, vicious slaps and closed-fist punches
The glory of my divine, gorgeous ass
Which he was made to kiss, worship, and sniff
Over and over

He obsesses compulsively over the sound of my voice
So sexy, so demanding
Ordering him to bark
‘Bark, Bitch!’
Since he is, in truth, a pig
He grunts better than he barks
He was punished for such ineptitude
By full-throttle kicks
To the face and head
Blood-soaked swine
I made him my ash-tray
Devil only knows how many lit cigarette butts he swallowed
Begging each time for another
I spit into his urinal of a mouth
I toilet-trained him
He showered praises of gratitude upon me
For that moment of discovery
His true life’s calling
To receive with thanks
My piss
My shit

Hospitalized after his punishment
He remembers now
Relives each second
As his intolerable days pass
Yesterday, a record
71 cell phone calls
I never pick up
Waste phone minutes on human dung?
Why?

When at last he stops calling, I know it’s time
He has lost everything
His life has crumbled
Money, job, family, friends, fiancee
All gone
Because of me
Me alone
The conquest of the goddess
Come to me, I say
But say good-bye to all you know
From this day forward
I own you
He was sitting on the curb
In front of my house
When he called

Divine Femme

A movement. A flicker of flesh. A star-glint of light off her shiny high heel shoe. Here on the inside, there is solace and there is fear. The world outside; unable to encroach. But her very next command could mean your death. That is the nature of the pact. Here, you wager your very life on her whim, and you do so gladly. You come to worship, to sacrifice, to give yourself in uncompromising totality to her. You are hopeful only that she will find it in her heart to use you as she sees fit. You are prepared to die. It is the thought of dismissal that is unbearable.

Being capable of mercy, she allows you to lie beneath her table and beg contritely for scraps, but she never gives you any. Your gratitude is infinite for the privilege of making those few slight sounds in her presence. It is so much more than you deserve. Cleaning for her, polishing, scrubbing, any form of labor that she requires; you’re on the job. You are especially fond of cleaning out her bathtub with your tongue when she has finished bathing. But you must never let her know, for if she discovers you find pleasure in it, she will forbid you to do it ever again. She has a marvelous collection of vibrators and dildos, most of them bright, candy-colored neon phalluses with a wide variety of ‘technical capabilities.’ After she has chosen one, she is in the habit of making you watch while she brings herself to a delirious climax before yanking your head between her legs and cumming all over your stupid, pathetic face. She is then actually so benevolent as to order you to slurp it all down, insisting that you swallow every last drop. Such unwarranted grace and compassion!

She often commands you to crawl behind her in the house, observing the extraordinary movements of her body as she walks in her high heels, attending to the few affairs she likes to do herself, things that you are not allowed to do. Usually, she will have you lick the floor where her footsteps have fallen, worshiping the ground she walks on. On rare occasions, if you have been especially well behaved, she allows you to crawl on the floor behind her when she is wearing her lingerie. At those times you actually witness the shimmering of her body, the mind-fucking little tremors in the pudgy flesh of her glorious legs and ass as she moves…these precious moments are what you live for and you can never repay her for her kindness in allowing you to share in such unprecedented events.

The last time she allowed this, however, you became too aroused and your cock grew massive and hard as a California Redwood. This was in violation of your house pet agreement which states that you are not allowed an erection when you are naked as it can lead to dribbling which might, in turn, soil her carpet. She was not amused by your willful disregard of her strict policy, and yet, in her infinite capacity for forgiveness, your Divine Goddess troubled herself to devise a training plan through which you would be able to develop significantly increased levels of self-control. Of course, as punishment for your thoughtless transgression, there was still the hellacious beating to endure, which she executed in brutal fashion, and which you sorely deserved.

Every night for a week thereafter, she forces you to sit, naked, at attention while she enacts all manner of various enticing movements before you, decked out divinely in skimpy lingerie and towering high heels. You are not allowed to look away from her under any circumstances. She has no agenda beyond the testing of your will, and so, she begins to move; walking slowly one way, walking swiftly the other way, sitting down in her favorite chair and watching TV while she tortures you with an intensely hot leg show. While you worship her shoes, her feet, her legs, her divine presence, she makes you bark; first like a big dog, then like a Chihuahua. Cat noises, bird noises. She turns you into a barnyard impersonator. Chickens, ducks, turkeys…then back to dogs again. She laughs at you so cruelly. Then she rises to her beautiful feet and struts back and forth directly in front of you so that you notice in detail each subtle nuance of her movements; the bouncing of her breasts, the jiggle of her delicious ass and chubby thighs, the incomprehensible way that all the parts move together as one. All the while, you must repeat your animal impressions. She wants them louder. Then, she wants zoo animals; chimps, monkeys, baboons, gorillas, toucans, parrots, elephants…the list keeps expanding as she names them off. The whole time back and forth, laughing. So close, so imperious, so demanding, so dangerous. It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living god, The Divine Femme.

7 days and 7 nights of this spiritual training. During the day, you clean her shoes with your tongue; you do all her housework, which must be perfect beyond comprehension in order to receive her approval. If you finish all that, you alternate between yard work one day, and sitting (O Glory of Glories) on her bedroom floor sniffing pairs of her worn panties the next. She tells you that continued exposure to her divine scents will keep you in a heightened state of religious awareness and more intently focused on your obligations, which comprise nothing less than dedicating your entire being to the accomplishment of her will.

By week’s end, you are learning the discouraging lesson that training in spiritual discipline is a most difficult task. Despite your passionate zeal for pleasing god, you find that you have failed miserably. Throughout each of the 7 lessons this week, you have been utterly unable to suppress your erections, and have in fact been guilty of ‘dribbling,’ the very offense that is at the root of Divine Femme’s house law prohibiting naked erections. You cannot fully express your gratitude for the infinite patience she has shown with you all week. She has administered only light beatings upon you at the end of each unsuccessful training session, often nothing more than twenty to thirty minutes of crushing your puny skull between her powerful, rapturous thighs, but at the end of the week, you expect your punishment to be more in line with the epic proportion of your failure. Your only wish is that she would allow you to apologize, despite the fact that you deserve no forgiveness on her part.

She reserves the entire eighth day for the administration of her reprisal. You have never been more nervous in your entire miserable life. You expect that she will impose a ‘no contact’ period during which you will not be allowed the privilege of looking upon her, and perhaps even some measure of banishment. You have heard the frightening tales of banishments that match the length of the failed training periods. This would mean exile from her presence for an unbearable 7 days, and you try with all your power to tell yourself that your loving god is not capable of that kind of cruelty. You do not even allow dismissal to enter your mind.

When she appears before you in a mind-numbing black lingerie set with stockings and garter straps, teetering in her 5-inch black heels, you fall to your knees and raise your hands in fervent but silent praise. How could your inexcusable failures be punishable only by corporeal means? Could she possibly be extending to you a journey into heaven, the fruit of delicious violence enacted on her part and at your expense? You dare not dream it just yet. It becomes a day of the most joyous hardship. You have never experienced such a state of transcendence. You have imagined such things, but never expected to know them first-hand. On this extraordinary day she punches you with hard, devastating fists, slaps you continually with her open palm—all the while snarling the most vicious verbal abuses, which penetrate your psyche as only the word of the living god can. Kicking, smothering, crushing, her gorgeous legs punish you in every conceivable way, both physically and spiritually. In between thrashings, you are made to do chores. She stands directly before you as you polish her hardwood floor with your tongue, nothing but her imperious high heels visible in your line off sight.
–That floor better shine like the fucking full moon, she admonishes you.
She has a specially designed cat o’ nine tails, of which you’ve been aware, but which she has never actually used upon you. It has a multitude of hard steel goat heads threaded along the sharp leather strands. A formidable instrument, to be sure. Divine Femme flogs you across your naked back, reminding you always that you are receiving much less punishment than you deserve.
–Yes, I know, you cry. Thank you for your infinite mercy.
–Silence, Pig!
Another crack of the whip. The goat heads pierce your flesh with ease, and owing to their shape and sharpness, they rip small, bloody chunks of flesh from your back with each sadistic lash, lashes that The Divine executes with joyous, devilish laughter…over and over again.

She is not through with you. When she needs a restroom break, you become her toilet. When she has filled your mouth and made you swallow, you must wipe her glorious cunt with your tongue; it is you who must lick her ass spotlessly clean after swallowing down her morning shit. You continue to revel in your undeserved good fortune at being privileged to serve god in the execution of these delightful and necessary functions. More beatings, more humiliation. She notices a pile of shit in her back yard, left there by some stray dog.
–Go clean that up! She barks.
She makes you go out and eat it, straight off the ground. To wash it down? Dirty water from a standing puddle. You lap it up on all fours, naked; doggie-style.

The day goes so quickly. You are the luckiest man alive. She has shown you infinite mercy in allowing you to receive her abuse and to serve her as house-slave. She has even changed lingerie three times during the day and now stands before you topless, in sheer black panties with the words ‘Bad Ass’ scripted in pink embroidery across her divine ass, bare-legged, displaying the full glory of her unfathomable thighs, and of course, a pair of skyscraper black heels, this time with delicious, wrap-around ankle straps. If only she would allow you to speak. Such praise you would offer up to her!

–You have proven to be the most incorrigible of heathens, she says. No matter what I do, you refuse to learn. No matter how merciful and patient I am with you, you show your gratitude with nothing but contempt and insolence. At some point, a decision must be made to ‘cut ones losses.’ That decision came today, knowing finally, and with certainty, that you are constitutionally incapable of spiritual growth and of living the religious life. Your place is out there, in the world, with all the other ignorant, willful, un-evolved pigs. You are dismissed.

She turns and walks away for the last time. That incredible, divine body bounding like a force of nature toward her bedroom. Her divine scent fading away. Those words! Those horrible, devastating words! You are dismissed! Your heart is broken, your soul shattered, inconsolable. You cannot imagine what will become of you. She can administer no punishment now that is more devastating to you than this, so you muster your last shred of boldness and ask if you may have your clothes before leaving.
–No.
Her voice rings, disinterested, from the bedroom. You close the door behind you. The sun is going down and you squint as the last shard of daylight slips past the neighboring rooftop.  All that remains…is death.

Feeding Time

The rusted hinges squeal like nails across a blackboard as the tattered wooden door is opened. The summer sunlight nearly blinds the creature within, forcing his eyes shut tight as they await acclimation. There is a grotesque, fetid stench of shit and urine wafting heavily from the box as a powerful hand jerks the creature by his hair towards the light.
-How dare you close your eyes in my presence, an imperious, angry voice says. Look at me, you fucking slug!
Then a raging slap across the face, followed by the returning backhand opens his eyes, wide and alert. The harsh sun burns his retinas. He stares, blurry-eyed, straight ahead into the most incomparable pair of thighs; fat, golden, shapely, and powerful. So very powerful. As they begin to come into focus, the creature trembles as he comprehends the totality of the vision, the way Vixen has chosen to exhibit her glorious legs, adorned in the divine regalia of absolute perfection. Delicate, sheer stockings caress the exquisite flesh of her legs up to the middle of her thighs at which point an array of mind-bending black garters come to the rescue from her tight corset, holding them firmly in place. Through the constraints created by the stockings and garter straps the plump flesh of her thighs explodes, bulging deliciously over stocking-tops and between the garter straps, seeking to exert its dominance and shatter its delightfully exotic bonds. Between her thighs, a lovely lace g-string, in a floral pattern that matches the upper section of her corset, cloaks her warm goddess’s cunt from the view of the unworthy.

The creature whimpers involuntarily. For this insubordination he receives two more devastating slaps to the face.-You haven’t been fed for a few days, she says. I brought you something, thinking you might be appreciative enough to behave properly in my presence. But it looks like I was wrong. Perhaps a few more days of starvation will straighten out your attitude. Is that what you want?
The creature shook its head.
-Alright, then. One more fuck-up, and that’s it. You read me, you disgusting shit?
The creature nodded.
She spit in his face contemptuously.
-You better hope you can fly right, then, maggot.
From a large canteen, Vixen poured him a fresh bowl of water.
-Drink up, fuck-stick, she said.
Then she set another bowl on top of the box where he was kept. It was a weathered old wooden box turned on its side so that the top functioned as a door. It was just large enough to contain the creature when he was curled up into the tightest crouch possible. Time had stopped for him. He no longer had any idea how long she’d kept him here. All he seemed to realize now was how ungodly hot it was, and how he figured it would all be over sooner than later.
-You fucking stink! she said. But I guess that’s only natural for a fucking pig. She stood over him as he guzzled his water, flaunting the most exquisite body in the universe. In addition to her formidable lower body, her breasts were also beyond belief. Huge, perfectly round implants made her boobs look like two twin planets orbiting her upper body. The delicious floral top section of her corset could scarcely contain them as they bulged indescribably outward and upward.

Alright, slug, that’s enough.
She filled his water dish with enough water to last a few days if he was thrifty.
-Now for your exercise, she said. Follow me, close to my ass.
He crawled as quickly as his hands and knees would carry him, following behind her incredible ass as it swayed incomprehensibly in front of him. She led him around in circles a few times, and then back to the box, ordering him to ‘sit.’ The creature obeyed and beheld his mistress contritely.
-OK, mongrel, she said, all that stands between you and your meal is one brief moment of obedience. Are you going to be a good dog?
He nodded.
-Good. Now get up. On your feet.
It got harder and harder for him to stand as his interminable period of
confinement dragged on. This time he managed better than expected and now stood straight before his goddess.
-All you have to do, she said, is to worship my breasts for a count of thirty. You know the drill. Not one sound, and no trace of a fucking erection. Right?
He nodded.
-Here we go. Start counting.
He stared into the canyon of her enormous cleavage, watching those mountainous breasts heave intensely with her every breath. At the same time she used her face to intimidate him, lifting his chin up with her index finger and forcing eye contact with him. Her expression was raw power incarnate. He was already at twenty. She lowered his chin with that same index finger, back to her cleavage. She pushed him closer. Somehow he reached thirty without falling apart. Vixen could hardly believe he had done it.
-Hmmm. Very impressive. Only thirty more seconds to go. Back down on your knees, maggot.
The creature dropped down, petrified of what was sure to come. Vixen directed his gaze at her golden thighs.
-Thirty seconds, bitch. Look at my thighs intently as you smell their glorious fragrance. Not a fucking peep, and no erection. Here we go.

Her scent alone was enough to ruin him. She pulled him closer, within an inch or two.
-Don’t you touch me, you fucking piece of shit!
He didn’t even contemplate it. Now the power of her fragrant flesh, the sweet bouquet of her cunt, it all blended into a sexual potpourri the likes of which he’d never imagined. Somehow he held on. He passed ten. Eleven. Then she gently pushed his face back maybe an inch or two, directing his line of sight to her upper thigh. He bristled. That plump, powerful thigh was going to be too much. He felt the blood coursing into his cock. Working now with everything in him to hold back the moaning. Sixteen, Seventeen. Just then, she shifted her body weight ever so slightly, causing that fat thigh to quiver deliciously, jiggling like hell’s own Jell-O, an earthquake of flesh felling the very soul of the now helpless creature. He burst into tears, sobbing loudly, uncontrollably despite the fact that she instantly began slapping him viciously, ordering him to shut his cakehole. His cock was solid wood, spurting pre-cum in huge globs onto the ground between his legs.
-You fucking slimy maggot! She barked. Well, you just signed your own starvation papers, you goddamn slug! Back into your box! Go on!

She kicked him hard with her sharp high heels, goading him swiftly back into the swelter of his days-old shit and piss. And the heat. He might not survive it without nourishment.
-I want you to see what you passed up, she said, what your fucking foolish insolence costs you when you disobey me. This is what you would have eaten today!
She bent over in front of the box, holding the dog bowl down for him to see. In it was a savory mix of her own shit and piss from that morning, mixed with his favorite treat of all, her vomit.
-You see what I try to do for you, you pig?! After shitting and pissing for you, I
even took the trouble to stick my finger down my throat and puke up my breakfast for you. Then, I spend my valuable time bringing it all the way out here for you. But do you care? Of course not. Because you’re nothing but an inconsiderate, stupid fucking bitch of a maggot-infested mongrel-PIG, that’s why!
She slapped him again.
-Now back up, go ahead. Back your ass into your fucking box! And you can just stay there and meditate on your insipid behavior for a few more days. Then we’ll see if you’re deserving of being fed. And just to remind you of what you missed, I’m leaving the bowl right here in front of your box so you can smell it and consider your goddamned inexcusable actions here today!
She slid his water dish into the box and locked it with her padlock. Then she set the food bowl down angrily, just inches from the door. The creature could smell the glorious odor from these delightful fruits of the goddess’s body. He cried and whimpered endlessly until the ingredients in the bowl finally hardened the next morning. He shifted as much as he could in his tiny, dark wooden box, eventually passing out in puddles of his own excrement.