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.

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.

Island Madness

A woman in full possession of her powers can even do it with her arms. It is a specific test she uses to assess the reaches and limits of her strength. Those full, chubby arms, when displayed openly with confidence, are every bit as engaging as her legs and ass, bespeaking the ample implacability, the formidable solidity of her beautiful, powerful body, and the control inherent in its miraculous presence. The island provides the perfect showcase for a comprehensive demonstration of Vixen’s complete package of power. All around her, men are unraveling. Many are in conflict with girlfriends or wives over becoming entranced, mesmerized by her dark, hypnotic brown eyes, The Devil’s eyes, eyes that possess souls. She wields deep stares and casual glances alike, with the virtuosity of a warrior princess wielding her broadsword. Hers is the face that has launched a thousand divorces.

Hidden in equatorial dreams, among forests of coded signposts is a longing that no man can suppress. It is the longing for transcendence, and it is Vixen’s province. Her movements cause atmospheric disturbance, changing the very nature of her surroundings at the quantum level. Esoteric forces become activated, highly charged, and spring into action with dynamic, nuclear intensity. The tropical paradise is no longer simply dominated by her presence. She creates it. Her desires are expressed in reality and by reality all around her, brought to life through her very incarnation, the perfection of her powerful flesh, and her indomitable will. Her chubby ass wreaks havoc, bringing tears, sorrow, insanity, and even death to the scores of men who stumble upon its grandeur unaware. Her plump, powerful legs, bedecked in mango thong and adorned with rainbows of flowers and green grass skirt also spell the demise of an entire army of women. Insecure and wifely, their lives are destroyed, their minds crippled by Vixen’s sublime, fat thighs, thighs with infinite potential for prolonged, crushing, merciless death; the death of their men, the death of their dreams, the death of their own ideas about control and power. A death, it must be noted, that constitutes a man’s only true life.

Vixen is a ravishing, glorious monster, accomplishing her rampant destruction with an ease and flourish that is almost comical. Her will is unchallenged. A man may plant his nose deep between her ass cheeks. The frightening caress of divine flesh from each side, and the scent of her royal egesta results in collapse, the fatal cracking and breakage of a fragile mind. Ruled now only by Vixen’s whim, his individual being vanishes from existence. But in so vanishing, he is translated into hyper-dimensions where Absolute Being and ultimate purpose are revealed to him. Thus christened with truth for the first time, he brushes nose, lips, and cheeks against the upper expanse of golden thigh-flesh, which Vixen forces him to worship in myriad fashion; a sniff, a sweeping touch with tip of nose, a lick, rub of cheek, a deeper sniff, a savory bite, a longer, deeper sniff, all culminating in the snap-shut, Venus Fly Trap, loaded and locked crush of Vixen’s legs, head devoured in her plush, torturous, power-press of death.

The tropical sunset sheds its radiant orange glow down upon a tranquil indigo bay. Memories dance mournfully among the wreckage of spirits on the barren beach, ethereal tears feebly masking the heady aroma of death that permeates these ruins; ghostly remnants of a vanquished paradise. Along the undulating, amnesic coastline an eerie silence washes the echoes of broken love eternally out to sea on receding waves of Vixen’s laughter.

Part V: Vixen: The Ascent To Violence

Having now placed both Vixen and her subject in terms of their respective developments, it is now time to turn our attention to the true focus of our study, which is Vixen in action. With this section we begin our analysis of the most fascinating subject within the entire spectrum of Sexuality. This is Domination, an extraordinary realm of unconscious impulses and desires, of forbidden thoughts brought to life, of the most extreme reversals in conventional attitudes, actions, relationships and roles. It is the realm of fear, of rank and protocol, of altered states of reality, of the most fervent and existentially real forms of Religion and Worship, of dungeons and chains, and of a sizzling, stocking-adorned leg flashed furtively and to grand effect on a crowded subway. It is the realm of ultimate command and obedience, mistress and slave, oppressor and oppressed. In the end, it is the realm of violence. Vixen’s capacity for the inflicting of physical and emotional pain and suffering is unsurpassed. It is this aspect of her power that we will investigate in today’s post.

So how is it that a lovely young girl turns to violence? What has gotten into her that makes her crave the intoxicating empowerment of beating a man into utter submission? How is it that she happened onto that laugh, so reminiscent of an Evil Sorceress? And why does it comes forth in such lovely, lilting waves when the lowly man has been rendered tearful and helpless at the mere sight of her powerhouse legs? She has adopted, in many ways, the attitude of a cold-blooded killer, and she revels in the role. Assuming, of course, that we are now dealing with the woman that has undergone the transformations described in our previous posts, we begin, then, from the standpoint of a woman who is already quite accustomed to having her way. She controls men with consummate ease and even what we would describe as artistry. But the shift to availing herself of abject violence in the execution of her will is yet another phase that must be investigated.

Vixen’s propensity toward violence happens quite naturally in the course of her development, and there is no set stage during which she adds it to her repertoire of domination. Some are already experimenting in the Awakening stages, for others it begins during Discovery. It all depends on the personality. But regardless of age, it usually happens that she simply gets carried away in the heat of the sexual moment and follows an instinct that comes upon her, the impulse to strike. With that first slap, punch, or kick, and in fully grasping the import of her subject’s terrified reaction to it, she senses her power surging to even greater heights, and experiences herself as implacable tyrant, now possessing carte blanche to do with her puny, pathetic pig-boy anything she pleases. She no longer simply dominates him. After learning that she can beat him at will, she owns him. That first blow is routinely followed by all manner of corporeal experimentation in which Vixen discovers her preferred methods of breaking his body and demonstrating in no uncertain terms her unconditional authority. This continuous growth in Vixen’s power and authority has a dramatic effect on her own journey of sexual transcendence. The more power she exerts over her subject, and conversely, the more powerless he proves to be in her presence, the closer she comes to arrival at the desired state of sexual ecstasy in which she will experience her own ascent into translation.

Meanwhile, her subject is experiencing the reciprocal movement toward Kenosis (self-emptying). As he is progressively stripped of his power, his bodily control, and eventually his very will itself, he too is moving very near the state of transcendence or translation. So, what is this close connection between sensuality and violence? How can we explain the apparently incongruous fact that more suffering, and more infliction of suffering, produce in the principals the state of sexual ecstasy? Unfortunately, we learn very little from nature with regard to our question. While there is indeed significant violence in the sexual behavior of animals, as far as we can tell, none of it is premeditated for the purpose of achieving enlightenment. (Then again, who knows, Hmmm?) But with us, the natural element of sexual violence is not reserved for the act of consummation itself, but rather, it is introduced as an element of Ritual. It is a religious form of violence, the purpose of which is that of achieving a higher state of consciousness. As mentioned above, it is the infliction of violence that works toward Vixen’s translation, and the reception of violence that works toward the same in the case of the subject.

You will notice that I have used the term ‘translation’ in describing the alterations in consciousness through which Vixen and subject ascend to elevated states of being. Translation is contrasted to Transcendence by virtue of its describing the state of motion as such between planes, or from one to another. And so, as the sexual experience becomes progressively more heated and ecstatic, the moment comes when Vixen and/or the subject become ‘translated’ to the superior plane. Transcendence is reserved for indicating the actual state of being within the planes of higher consciousness. It is accurate, then, to speak of being translated into states of transcendence.

So, what exactly is happening during the infliction of violence? How is it so closely tied to sexual ecstasy? For the most part, we are conditioned to think of sexuality in terms of love, in terms of relationship, in terms of monogamy, marriage, etc., in short, as an expression of care and/or exclusivity between two people. A one-night stand may lack the deeper emotions associated with the relationship as such, but it is generally thought of as an expression of affection nonetheless. True Domination, inclusive of the potential for X-Treme violence, operates outside the limits of such a dynamic. Through the violence of Domination, Vixen is seeking her own orgasmic luxury through the manifold psychic highs that are the concrete effects of her mastery. There are endless variations to the qualities present in these highs, but they will tend to fall under the umbrella of the following basic forms. These forms include, Intoxication with her own strength, sexual arousal at witnessing the disorientation of her subject, the sense of ‘play’ that characterizes the encounter, the experience of translation, and finally orgasm itself. Orgasm may or may not signal the achievement of Transcendence for Vixen. Often, she will have already achieved it from the ecstatic flow of the encounter and from the fullness of spirit she receives from the depth of subjugation inflicted upon her subject. In such cases, orgasm usually follows closely after. It will be instructive, then, to look at these psychic highs individually.

1. Intoxication with her own strength. With self-intoxication, we enter into the marvelous realm of Vixen’s confidence and arrogance, the two qualities that, after consideration of the outright allure of her beauty, are the most indicative of her power and best account for the particular level of dominance she has achieved. In playing with her subject as predator to prey, each vicious slap, each powerful punch, each devastating knee bash or leg lift, each act of smothering or face-sitting, each element of the brutal damage she will accomplish, makes her hungry for more as she becomes intoxicated with her own power to reduce a man to a useless, pathetic, and irrelevant lump of flesh. This self-intoxication makes her more dangerous as the encounter progresses because of the escalating level of arousal she is experiencing as she punishes him. This syndrome is not unlike that of the Great White Shark in the act of feeding. It is not only a show of devastating power, it is also a natural result of the violence itself. The more bloodletting that occurs, the more frenzied the shark will become. In the same way, the thrill of stalking, catching, and overpowering brings Vixen to a state of inner frenzy in which her excitement is manifest in even more accelerated violence. The knowledge that she can control another with such ease and impunity feeds upon itself causing her to access even higher levels of strength and power with each hard blow she administers upon her battered subject.

2. Sexual arousal vis-à-vis the disorientation of her subject. This follows closely, and is indeed connected to #1. Here we see a most disturbing and cruel side of Vixen, the actual arousal at the heavily compromised state of her subject, which typically will include X-Treme mental disorientation and even severe physical injuries by this point in the encounter. Let us be clear that this is a separate source of arousal from that of her self-intoxication. Self-intoxication, again, is the arousal that comes from within herself, a kind of high-level pride-in-self that comes from knowledge of her capabilities. It is inner-directed toward her own ego. This second state of arousal comes at the actual enjoyment of seeing her subject in a helpless condition, from a dark form of erotic satisfaction at seeing him in agony. Watching him grovel, beg, cry, writhe in pain, and make every effort to fight through the damage she has inflicted upon him in order to please her is a powerful source of erotic stimulation for her. We will speak more on the direct psychology associated with this particular psychic effect in a coming post, but we should note at this point that this fiendish sensual charge she gets from seeing her subject fallen into a devastating state of delusion and psychosis at her hands, is difficult to trace back to any particular psychological source. It is found as often in Power-Dommes who have never had issues with men as it is with those who use their dominance as a way of getting even with men for some earlier injustice in their lives. It appears that there are simply a certain number of women out there who love to batter men. They will tell you almost routinely that it was something that just ‘felt great’ right from the start with no qualifications needed nor expected. This state is outer-directed at the subject. It should be noted here that this near-obsession on her part with her subject’s helplessness and trauma often leads to more severe violence on her part. As she watches him struggle, she is usually prompted to ‘ratchet up’ the punishment and it is at this point in the encounter that she most often beats and humiliates the subject with such force that he will achieve translation. Her awareness that he has ‘left himself’ (kenosis) is often the trigger for her own translation as well. Obviously, each encounter is different and there are certainly no hard, fast rules as far as order and timing are concerned, but this description is certainly an accurate guideline for charting the different levels of violence that Vixen will enact due to the compromised condition of her subject.

3. The sense of ‘Play.’ The third psychic high experienced by Vixen through her mastery, though of course also related to the first two, involves a very different aspect of her interior make-up that is connected to her sense of innate creativity. It is a feeling that is invoked due to the role-playing character of the encounter and can also be compared to the feeling we might imagine to be present in a cat playing its game of death with a mouse. Contrasted to the the arousal at her own strength of point #1, and the arousal at the compromised state of her victim in #2, we are describing here the arousal that she feels in anticipation of ‘what happens next?’ It is the open-ended character of the event that stimulates her here. This state is both outer and inner-directed as it depends on the subject’s reactions to her abuse, and in turn, to her reactions to his reactions. I generally prefer to call this the ‘cat & mouse’ syndrome, but the correct psychological designation is that of ‘Play.’ Play involves freedom to act in random ways, unstructured, and without any necessary qualifying objective. It can refer to meaningless activity, enjoyable activity, experimental activity, sensory activity, almost any kind of activity that is performed strictly for its own sake. With this sensation of openness to the moment infusing her spirit, Vixen’s sense of creativity comes to the fore as she decides what the next development in the encounter is to be. She is the boss here, and nothing happens unless she wills it or approves it. Well, if you guessed that this concept inspires even more violence on her part, you’d be right. Abandoning herself to this quality during the encounter, she will most often experiment with the most unusual forms of violence and humiliation she can think of. This period can go very badly for the subject as the realization that no one can stop her from doing literally anything she wants to him takes hold of her.

4. Translation, Orgasm, and Transcendence. With regard to these final phases of encounter, we will have more to say when we discuss the Religious elements of FemDom. Their relationships to violence are generally indirect, which is to say that while violence certainly plays a significant role in getting Vixen to these levels, once translation is achieved, we have effectively left its province behind and must begin to avail ourselves of other concepts that are more suitable for the analysis of these psychical and physical states. At this point it suffices to note that Translation, Orgasm, and Transcendence do not necessarily follow any particular order and may occur independently or in such rapid succession as to be experienced as one progressive state, with a nearly infinite combination of variations possible between the two extremes.

Regardless, then, of the forms Vixen’s violence takes on, the simple answer to our topical question is that she employs violence because it gives her pleasure to do so. It is also clear that she is a most greedy task-mistress when it comes to violence, which, as we noticed in our study, tends to beget itself over and over within her as she continues to employ it. We must try to come to grips with this aspect of human nature, because that will-to-violence is part of us. It is within us, and it is alive. Vixen’s manner of manifesting it on the physical plane just happens to be the most delightful and fascinating form of it known to us at present. Does it surprise you that I use the adjective ‘delightful’ in describing the brutal violence at which Vixen is so consummately adept? If so, you must remember the maxim, so apropos of the subject of Female Domination, that Pain is a Pleasure. This is, after all, a study of Obsession by one who is Obsessed. So, yes, I’ll stick to my guns and shout from the rooftops that Vixen’s use of violence is delightful, delightful indeed! Long may she reign.

Birthday Girl

I knew she was annoyed with me. The only question was ‘how annoyed?’ I tried to put it out of my mind, but it’s not so easy. Such questions always cause massive lesions in the flow of my functionality. But then, so does everything else where she is concerned. All it takes is one look at those exquisite, massive legs of hers and I can actually become dumbstruck, unable to focus properly on attending to her needs of the moment; Just the sort of thing that makes her annoyed. Her size and power are enough of a worry, but her violent temper is what really strikes the fear into me. When you plant an intense desire to punish and maim into the soul of a woman that stands 5’3” and weighs over 300 lbs., let me tell you, you’ve got yourself one hell of a killing machine. Oh yeah, and mix that all in with the fact that she’s easily the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen, and you can well imagine that your troubles are pretty much of an on-going variety. To fall in love with such an exquisite and rare creature has been my dubious fate.

Anyway, as I was saying, she was definitely annoyed with me, and there was no doubt in my mind that a severe reprimand was coming my way when we got home. I had taken her to a concert to see John Mayer and Melissa Ethridge, her two favorite performers of all time. If it seems a bit of a lucky coincidence that her two favorites would appear on the same bill, well, it is. I’m the one who arranged and promoted the concert. I’m Kip Lansford, and I’m a big-shot. I’m president of Cameo Productions in Los Angeles, and we just happen to be the hottest concert promoters in the biz. But this isn’t the point. The point is that I put this concert together just for her. Her name is Asal, and I did it as a present for her on her 24rd birthday. Young and fine; the impossible combination. I attended to every detail of her special night personally, to be sure that nothing was left to chance. The most expensive luxury box in the concert hall, complete with the finest champagne and caviar, 5-star dining, complete security clearance to go backstage or wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted. The entire concert hall was at her disposal for the duration of the show.

The performances were exceptional. Asal seemed thrilled with everything. Everything but me, that is. She spent the better part of the evening wandering the concert hall, flirting with boys, talking to her home girls that she had invited. She would reconnect with me off and on for a drink, or an introduction or two to people she wanted to meet, but the whole time she was ice-cold where I was concerned. She knew that attitude caused me to feel unsettled and acutely anxious and she did it just to make sure I was uncomfortable. That was normal for her. It was simply the way she expressed her dominance over me, like she was constantly angry with me. Although I certainly hated the feeling, I had at least begun to get used to it on some level. But as we rode home in the limo, I knew there was something more on her mind. I tried to talk to her about it, but she refused.
-Shut up, she snapped. We’ll discuss this when we get home.

My stomach was in knots as I opened the front door for her. She walked ahead of me, so cocky and so hot; her huge, glorious body exploding from her skin-tight mini-dress, teetering in her elegant 5-inch heels.
-Honey, I hope your—“
-I told you to shut up! she said as she turned on me, slapping me violently across the face. This goddamned insolence of yours is really starting to get on my nerves! Now make me a fucking drink and meet me in the bedroom. And hurry your bitch-ass up.

Now I know you’re probably wondering why someone as wealthy as I am, only 35 years old and with my considerable influence in the entertainment business, with this beautiful home in the Hollywood Hills, with all I’ve got going for me, why would I take this kind of shit from a fat, young nobody of a girl? I can already hear you saying it. ‘Just tell her to hit the bricks, dude! You can have anybody you want.’
Well, that’s exactly the point. I want Asal. Honestly, and I’m not bragging, just telling the truth, I’ve had my share of girls. Hot girls. But no one has ever made me feel like Asal. She’s too much. Her big, beautiful legs and incomprehensible ass drive me to madness. Just to touch her flesh, omigod. She lets me sometimes. She has let me kiss her thighs. She has smothered me, sitting on my face with all 300-plus lbs. of her forced down on that spectacular ass and onto my helpless face. When I see her, I tremble with excitement. When I think of her, I shiver with waves of ecstasy. No, no. I could never leave her. Never. The greatest fear in my life is that she will leave me, and I am simply not prepared for it. For the chance to be crushed just one more time between those ungodly, delicious thighs of hers, I am prepared to give my very life.

I moved like a man possessed, making her drink and getting to that bedroom. She was down to her bra and panties, still shod in those amazing high-heels. I handed her her drink, ever so contritely, and waited for her to speak. She strutted back and forth a couple of times, her giant body swaying and swirling in such luscious, indescribable motions that she seemed to be defying the laws of physics. I choked down a sip of my drink, trying to steady my nerves. The sight of her body like this, and its mind-fucking movements had me dizzy. I felt as if I might throw up from the tension. The whole time she’s looking me over, up and down, her expression and demeanor letting me know in no uncertain terms that I’m less than a dog turd to her right now. At length, she told me to sit down. She straddled a corner of the bed and sat down also, staring a hole through me, and flashing those surreal thighs at me. For a moment she just sat there, taking a couple of sips of her drink and glaring at me with the most severe, intimidating expression. Finally, she spoke.

-Here’s the thing, she said. It’s getting to a point where I just don’t know if there’s any hope for you. I don’t know if you’ve got some kind of constitutional attitude problem, or if maybe you just enjoy pissing me off for some reason, or if maybe you’re just actually that fucking stupid that you actually don’t understand me when I tell you what to do. My real concern is that that’s it, that you’re just a big, fucking stupid dumbass who’s incapable of doing what I say. And I know you’ll agree with me, that a girl as hot as I am deserves a hell of a lot better than a fucking stupid dumbass, do I not?
-Of course—
-Shut up! You see, there you go, being a fucking dumbass! Just nod, idiot! I’ll tell you when you can speak.
I shuddered in terror, nodding agitatedly to meet with her approval.
-I hardly know where to begin. I’ve tried to think if there were any more ways you could have fucked up this evening for me, and if there were, I can’t think of them offhand. But let’s just start with this.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a dinner napkin. She handed it to me so that I immediately noticed a stain on it. It was black, like dirt or thick dust.
-Can you tell me anything about this? She asked.
I had no idea what to think. Asal had always been a clean-freak, so I knew it had something to do with something that wasn’t clean, but I had no clue as to the details. The look in my eyes told her that I knew better than to speak without permission.
-If you know something, you may speak.
I didn’t, so I just shook my head silently.
-That’s what I thought, she said. Suppose I were to tell you that this disgusting smudge rubbed off on my napkin from under the dinner table where I was sitting. Can you wrap your fucking pea-brain around that as a way of showing your love and respect for me? To place me at a table, where they’re serving my food, ON MY BIRTHDAY, NO LESS, with this kind of filth under the edge of it?
I was horrified. Of course, I hadn’t thought to have the table cleaned underneath. Shit. No wonder she was pissed. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just looked at her, petrified.
-Well, anything you can tell me about this, dumbass? Go on, speak up.
-No darling, I-I can’t believe it. I was VERY specific with the maitre d’ that every inch of the place had to be spotless for you. I can’t imagine how they would let this happen.
-I see, she said. So it’s the maitre d’s fault?
-I-I think so, yes.
-Mmmm-hmmm. So you’re saying that making me happy is the maitre d’s job, is that right?
-Well, I—
-Be careful on this one!
-I, well, it seems like, in this case, he certainly should have—
Slaaaap!! She slapped me so hard she almost took my head off.
-Fuck you! She growled. This is what I’m talking about! You and your fucking bullshit! Now you want to lie to me on top of everything else!
-I’m not ly—
-Craaaack!! She slapped the shit out of me again.
-Bullshit!! Just answer the question, you goddamn pig! WHO is responsible for my happiness? Who? Some idiot maitre d’ I never heard of, or you?
I felt tears beginning to come, but held them back. I realized there was no escaping her logic. She slapped me again, so hard.
-Well?!!
-I am, my darling. I am.
-That’s right. So, when I sit down at some filthy fucking table for my birthday dinner which YOU have arranged, and get filth like this on my napkin, WHOSE FAULT IS IT?
-It’s mine, I cried, it’s all my fault.

-Now, think about this, bitch-ass, and see if your feeble brain can follow along. If I hadn’t placed that napkin on my lap, WHERE would this filthy, disgusting smudge of dirt gone?
I almost choked as I tried to swallow.
-On your dress, I whimpered.
She became enraged. She stood up, flashed her massive thigh in front of me, then reared back and slammed it hard right into my face. The force of the blow knocked me over in my chair and sent me sprawling onto the floor. There had to be more power in those legs of hers than a 16-wheeler.
-No, goddammit, no! she screamed. Think! For one second in your stupid, worthless fucking life, THINK! What was I wearing? God, I’m so sick of your infinite stupidity!
That powerhouse kick had almost knocked me cold, but since it didn’t, my head was throbbing so hard I couldn’t pick myself up. Still, I began to realize the point. She had been wearing that ultra-short, skin-tight mini-cocktail dress, so the dirt wouldn’t have gotten on her dress. It would have gotten on her leg.
-Leg, I whimpered. I’m sorry. It would have gotten on your leg.
-Beautiful, Einstein! You see, this is what I don’t understand. You seem capable of thinking when you want to. So WHY is it you refuse to think where I’m concerned? And what other conclusion can I come to other than that you saw no problem in taking me out for a so-called ‘elegant’ birthday dinner, and then seating me at a table so filthy and disgusting that this greasy fucking smudge would have ended up on my gorgeous legs. Do I have it about right? This is the consideration you show me on my fucking birthday?!
-I’m sorry, I blubbered
-You’re sorry?! Fuck you!

She stood over me now, the predator inspecting her prey. My god, those giant legs! So exquisitely shaped, and so terrifyingly powerful. I started to cry as her slightest movements caused that leg-flesh to jiggle and quiver directly in front of me.
-Well, she continued, I’m sorry too, then. Let’s see how you like it.
With that she bent down and stuffed the smudged napkin into my mouth.
-Here you go, pig! YOU eat it, Motherfucker!
She continued to force more and more of it into my mouth until I started to gag.
-What? She railed, What’s wrong? Oh, you don’t like the taste of this filthy fucking napkin? Come on, you bitch! I want every last inch of this fucker in that big, fat, stupid mouth of yours!
She continued to shove it in above my muffled moaning.
-I don’t get it, she went on, it was OK on my leg, but not good enough for you to eat? Fuck you, Pig!
Finally, I managed to take the whole napkin into my mouth. I couldn’t breath.
-There, she said, you can just meditate on that for a little while.
She pulled my face into her crotch area, knowing how it drove me wild being so close to her legs. As I struggled to keep from suffocating, the electrical allure of her powerful body added even more juice to my gyrations. Asal laughed at my complete helplessness, and then slammed that massive, battering ram of a thigh hard into my face again. The pain was indescribable. Though I instantly felt sure the blow had broken my nose, my bigger concern was that this must be what a concussion felt like. Everything went dark, and I had the distinct sensation that my skull had cracked and that my brain had just been scrambled like so much Hamburger Helper. I lay on the floor, writhing in pain, instinctively trying to pull the napkin out of my mouth. Asal reached down and callously ripped it out herself.
-I should let you choke on that shit, but guess what? This wasn’t everything. Now that your brain’s beginning to work, I’ve got something else to show you. It looks like you just need some fucking sense knocked into you before you can fucking comprehend anything.

She strutted back to her purse, driving me to utter insanity with each gargantuan step of her enormous body. This time she pulled out a fork and brought it over to me for inspection. I had painfully reached a sitting position on the floor by this time.
-Take a look at this, she said, and tell me what you see.
I was still seeing stars from the brutal force of that massive thigh to the face, so it was hard to focus. Thankfully, my vision had cleared just enough to notice that the fork had spots on it from the dishwasher. Oh God, I thought. How could I have let this happen?
-Well?
I started sobbing harder now, knowing I was in serious trouble.
-It-It’s…
-It’s WHAT?
-It’s…DIRTY.
-Dirty?
-Yes.
-Is that it?
-It’s got spots.
-IT’S FILTHY!! She screamed. It’s fucking disgusting! And you didn’t give a rat’s fucking ass if I ATE WITH IT, did you?
-Oh, god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.
-You didn’t know? You’re sorry? Bub, you’ve been SORRY from the get-go. But what do you mean, you didn’t know? How were you going to know when you didn’t attend to these fucking details personally? You’re such a fucking idiot! Always carrying on with people about how good you are, how organized you are. What a bunch of fucking bullshit! You’re lucky I don’t shove this up your fucking ass right now! But you know what, you pig-ass bitch-boy? There’s still more!

With that, she again pulled my face up near her crotch, just inches from those killer thighs. Her scent was maddening. Her skin smelled so perfect, like lilacs in the spring, and along with that I could detect just a hint of the divine bouquet of her cunt.
-Please, I cried. I didn’t even know what I meant by it.
Then came another big thigh, flush and powerful into my throbbing head that sent me tumbling across the room, slumping to rest in the corner. She followed immediately, killing me with the incomprehensible movements of her body.
-Now answer me this, moron! Did you notice anything unusual about our waiter tonight?
I tried to think. I remembered him well, but I couldn’t think of anything wrong or unusual.
-Well?
I didn’t answer, but just broke into deeper sobbing.
Asal reached down and slapped me again with the full weight of her body behind it. I clutched at the wall, yelping in pain.
-You didn’t notice that he SMELLED A LITTLE FUNNY? She asked.
I couldn’t place what she meant.
-God, you’re such a dip-shit. I have to spell out everything for you. And why? Because, like I keep saying, you’re nothing but a stupid fucking moron. Hell-O? He was wearing fucking Drakkar Noir! How could you miss that? It’s a man’s fucking cologne! You’re supposed to be a man! Am I missing something here? You know I HATE FUCKING DRAKKAR NOIR!! And you let him wait on me? For my BIRTHDAY!?! God, you make me sick!

I couldn’t believe it. She was absolutely right. I couldn’t say I was automatic when it came to colognes, but I certainly should have recognized the damned Drakkar Noir. Should have seen to it her waiter wore something she liked. I slumped in that corner, pretty much fetal, and mumbled a continuous mantra of ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’
-Yeah, yeah, she scoffed. Well, mister, you’re going to pay for this bullshit. I suppose you thought I was going to allow you some mind-altering sex tonight, too, eh? Show my appreciation to you for such a ‘wonderful’ evening? Well, three guesses whether that’s going to happen. I’ve never been so fucking humiliated in all my life. So it seems to me that your punishment should fit the crime. And you know what I feeling like doing to finish off my birthday? I feel like cooking.

The Devil alone knew that this might mean. Cooking? It was after midnight. Whatever she was up to, I had a bad feeling about it.
-Let’s go, she said. You’re going to watch.
Groggy from all the blows to the head, I managed to stumble behind her out to the kitchen area. She made me sit at the kitchen table and watch her as she moved about, so impossibly sexy in her skimpy thong bottom and lacy bra. Every move she made in those awesome high heels made my cock harder and harder. Within a few minutes I was practically panting. Asal strutted around haughtily, obviously taking great delight in driving me out of my skin with raging desire. She was making breakfast; eggs, bacon, sausage, mixing it all together in a large skillet. Fighting the onset of insanity caused by my lust for her, I tried to focus on what she might be up to. I couldn’t get a handle on what might be ‘cooking’ in that devious mind of hers. I just kept remembering the line about the ‘punishment fitting the crime.’

-Keep your eyes on my legs and ass, she said as she undulated to and from the table, bringing over condiments, silverware, glasses, etc. Watching her ass sway like a wrecking ball and the maddening shakes and quivers of those huge legs with every delicious movement of her glorious, fat body was taking its toll. I was so fucking horny I thought I might explode. She purposely exaggerated each movement as well, so as to have maximum effect on my withering soul. At last she made her final approach, holding the skillet with a potholder in one hand and what appeared to be a rolled up paper towel in the other.
-Here we are, she said. Let’s share a nice late night birthday breakfast together.
I didn’t know how to respond, the whole thing was so strange. Plus, my entire focus was still on her monster thighs as she stood right in front of me.
-I thought that after treating me to such a lovely evening, I might return the favor. So, how about a little something to eat, fuck-stick?!

Without warning, she proceeded to fling the entire contents of the skillet in my face and onto my chest. Turned out she had practically filled the pan with cooking oil before putting the food in and now that scalding hot grease might as well have been a beaker full of acid as it proceeded to eat into my flesh. I screamed in pain and flipped out of the chair and onto the floor, pawing helplessly at my face.
-Oh, what’s the matter? She taunted. Oh, did you get something disgusting on your clothes? On your face? Oh my! I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought to see if that grease was hot before I threw it in your face. What COULD I have been thinking?
Asal stood over me like a vulture, watching me gyrate like a top on the kitchen floor.
-You see, bitch, she snapped, two can play this ‘Oh, I forgot’ game. Well, now let’s see how you like it!

Next she unrolled the paper towel she brought to the table and took a fork out of it. She had soaked it with cleaning fluid and dishwashing detergent and then coated it with Comet. She speared one of the sausages with it and bent back over me.
-Here, she said, eat this.
The pain was so intense that I couldn’t stop my flip-flop routine on the floor. The molten grease had already singed away sections of my face and riddled my head and chest with severe burns.
-Sit still, pig, she yelled, and open your fucking mouth.
She grabbed my hair and held my head steady as she shoved the fork into my mouth.
-Chew it up, god damn you! Right now!
She forced me to chew, and right away I could taste the Comet, though I wasn’t totally sure what the rest of the toxic mixture might be.
-Go ahead, mister big shot. Eat! It’s only a little silver cleaner and some detergent. Oh, and of course, a nice healthy portion of Comet.
I really started to buck now. She laughed and held me firmly in place.
-Oh, no, she said, it’s OK. This stuff’s good for you. What? You don’t care for it? Oh, well, you know it’s the damnedest thing. I didn’t THINK to see if that fork was clean. Aww, and now you’ve swallowed some kind of poison. I’m really sorry. I’ll try to do better next time. You don’t mind, do you?

I was freaking out, now. The chemicals began to burn the living shit out of my mouth, throat, and lungs. I struggled to breath. I felt like the flesh from my whole face had now been eaten away. It became harder to scream as the noxious toxins stormed my esophagus. All of this seemed to amuse Asal immensely. She laughed and continued to stand over me, taunting me and still showing off those devastating legs, which wasn’t helping.
-Is any of this perhaps making an impression on you, asshole? she railed. Am I getting through to your stupid ass, or has my approach been a little too subtle for that pea-fucking-brain of yours? Well, maybe I can summon the waitress over here to help you. Hmmm. I hope she doesn’t smell too bad, though.
She jerked me by the hair right up to her ass and proceeded to cut loose with a huge fart, right in my face.
-Smell that, pussy-ass, she said. And don’t you DARE touch me with that et-up face of yours. I did my best to inhale through the nose, but my system was just about on complete tilt. She fired away with another big, smelly fart. I would normally have reveled in such humiliation, but combined with the very real injuries and damage she had wrought upon me, I couldn’t really enjoy it at that moment, though the sight of her exquisite ass in my face did still have me swinging nothing but wood. She laughed as she looked back at me in my agony. Then she cut a third one, the smell flowing directly into my brain.
-Oh, jeez, my bad, she giggled. I think maybe your waitress smells a little funky tonight, don’t you? Gee, too bad I didn’t think to check and see if she felt like farting in your worthless fucking face tonight. It must have slipped my mind. Oh well, these things happen you know.

Then she turned on me again, and slammed another knee lift into my face. I felt sure now I was going to die. My throat and lungs were entirely constricted, my burns were throbbing beyond description, and now another concussion-style blast to the head. She followed me as I flipped again half way across the kitchen. She could plainly see I couldn’t breathe.
-Happy Birthday to ME, she said, and Happy 911 call to you, moron.
With that, she held me in place by the hair and fired that big thigh right into my solar plexus with everything she had. The air rushed out of me like it had been shot from a cannon and I slumped to the floor like a bag of dirt, gasping helplessly for the breath that wouldn’t come. I could hear Asal still cussing me out as she stalked away, those divine high heels clacking imperiously on the hardwood floor. Somehow, I did manage to get to my cell phone and call 911. It was close. The doctors said I was lucky. I made up some ludicrous story about someone breaking in while I was cooking and doing this to me for reasons completely unknown to me. I don’t think they believed me, but the whole thing blew over without an investigation.

Well, this was about a month ago, and my face is permanently scarred. I’m going back to the surgeon next week for another skin graft. They think I can look relatively normal again if we work hard enough at it. My esophagus, lungs, and stomach suffered damage from the chemicals, but I’m taking some meds that should help them recover with time. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to make amends with Asal, hoping she’ll eventually forgive me for being such an idiot. She pays very little attention to me, except to reprimand or punish me for my wrongdoing. Nothing as severe as her birthday night, of course. But I’ve always got to be on my toes so it doesn’t happen again. She’s a sharp cookie, and very demanding.