Orgasm Denial

I don’t think much of male-chastity devices (see My post “The Male Chastity Myth,” March 5, 2008), but I’m a firm believer in extreme orgasm denial.
When it comes to cementing a lasting FemDom relationship with a live-in slave husband, My credo is: the less sex the better and no sex is best of all.
No screwing, no oral.
And no masturbation!
In fact, If I ever catch My subby-hubby bob fondling his cock without My permission, he’ll be a certified candidate for castration.
Fortunately for bob, he’s as celibate as a monk, a lifestyle he reluctantly accepted a few months after he signed his slave contract.
One of the contract’s provisions stipulated that bob would surrender all conjugal rights pertaining to My torso.
Suddenly I could sleep all night without him gnawing on My nipples and poking his ridiculous little wiener into My privates.
And I was impressed by the change in bob's behavior.
Hungering for My flesh, he became the perfect submissive, groveling in the hope I'd grant him a quick feel of My boobs or some furtive groping of My ass while I was dressing.
But as the days wore on My hubby-slave's enthusiasm for serving his Mistress began to wane.
The telltale clues why?
Tiny bits of toilet paper stuck to his cock and a garbage pail teeming with stained bathroom tissues.
Secretly the wanker was milking his penis like a maniac.
I put a stop to that.
Henceforth I would permit him to masturbate only once a week, in My presence.
bob would sit naked on the edge of the jacuzzi in My master bathroom, a small plastic cup in one hand and his throbbing cock in the other.
I’d hover over him, completely nude, massaging My breasts and urging him to cum.
To make sure he was fantasizing about Me as he ejaculated, and not some sleazy porn star, bob was required to shout “Leesa, Leesa, Leesa” as his cum spurted into the cup.
Still I wasn’t satisfied with his level of adoration. Between those weekly jerk-off sessions, bob was becoming more and more prone to bouts of rebellion.
Then I had a revelation.
I realized that the moment bob’s spunk spewed into the cup, his adulation of his Mistress began to evaporate, to be miraculously resurrected only a day or two before his next self-abuse session.
The lesson?
The more bountiful My slave-hubby’s reservoir of stale sperm, the bluer his balls, the more worshipful was his behavior.
That was the revelation:
Sexual frustration is a supremely effective tool for controlling a personal slave. Orgasm denial breeds humility.
Just ask blissfully submissive bob.
Nowadays, the only time I permit his cock to stiffen is when, for My amusement, I clip the clamps of My electric joy-buzzer to his balls. Or when he misbehaves and I pummel his pee-pee erect with My cat-o’-nine-tails.
There’s one exception.
I derive intense pleasure from strapping on a fat dildo and ramming it repeatedly up hubby robert’s ass (or the ass of his tranny clone, sissy-maid ms. roberta). On those rare occasions I allow slave bob to hand-job himself to orgasm heaven, as long as his cock is sheathed in a condom. (You male-creatures are so, so messy!).
Otherwise, bob’s penis is strictly for pissing.
The result?
Every morning, when I climb out of bed, My slave-hubby is there to greet Me, naked on all fours in a pose of perfect abasement: Cock swollen with surging stickystuff, he’s panting with eagerness to wash both of his Goddess’s feet with his tongue, praying this is the lucky day I’ll finally let him blow his bursting wad.
Usually, though, bob's only "reward" is another beating.

Male-Creature Feminization

Fess up, little man:

Like most normal lads suffering through puberty, for a while you turned into a crypto cross dresser.

Alone at home you’d dally for hours in front of a mirror, teetering on mom’s only-for-best six-inch heels, enthralled by how damn’ hot you looked in your big sister’s silk panties and bursting-with-oranges bra.

Remember?

Of course you do.

That feminizing urge came to you as naturally as nightly wet dreams or abusing your pee-pee under the bed covers.

That was long ago.


Now you’re a rugged grownup with a bold crop of peach fuzz crowning your regal crotch.

But nothing has changed.

As a Pro Domme I learned that grown men are mostly very big boys. Big boys repressing their dainty inner girlish yearnings.

I love to scratch that itch.

It’s just so much damn’ fun!

Imagine the magic:

This swashbuckling, jutt-jawed Captain of Industry/Legal Eagle/Political Power Broker strides into My dungeon.

A half-hour later, Your Ladyship (Me) has morphed him into Her grovelling high-heeled She-slave, staggering around like a drunken trannie. Finally the creature figures out how (without falling on its rouged face) to hunker down and smear a sloppy lipsticked kiss across the Goddess’s bare butt-cheeks.

I love it.

Male-creature feminization is the equalizer, the tranquilizer, the world’s most lethal testosterone killer.

And there’s nothing more joyful (except collecting some cash for it) than ramming a stiff, fat strapon up a tight virgin manhole.

While I’m pounding away with My strapon jackhammer, revenge pulses through My blood.

I’m thinking: Here’s one more anal tribute to every Female who’s had to go bottoms up for Her man’s forced rear entry.


In My personal life that’s the first lesson male-creatures learn.

If you want to be My man, you have to take it like a Woman.

I wear the pants, you wear the panties.

Literally.

Consider My hubby bob.

Within a year of our rocky marriage, I owned both bob’s ass and all his assets.

His options were obey or be punished.

Or else walk one-way out the door carrying only the clothes on his back.

(On one of those rare occasions when I’d allowed him to wear any.)

Life turned less stormy.

But every so often bob would revert to his old self, messing up My kitchen or contesting My financial decisions.

It was time to turn surly slave-hubby robert into docile sissy-maid roberta.

The transformation began the morning he opened his underwear drawer and found a half-dozen colorful lacy panties (all with lockable cock slits) glowing among his drab white Jockeys.

“How did these get here?” he said, brandishing a fistful of pretty pink and black.

An intense “conflict resolution” session followed, mostly with bob on his knees with his ass in the air and Me flailing away with My cat-o-nine-tails.

The logic and energy of My arguments soon persuaded him.

He pulled on a pair silky black panties. I made him prance around the room for a while.

Then I led bob (wearing the panties under his jeans) on a shopping tour at our local mall.

My first stop was a kitchen store, where I purchased a knee-length white cotton apron, open sexily at the back.

bob was a recently-retired CEO with too much time on his hands.

He played golf every day, then got bombed at the clubhouse with his drinking buddies.

At the time, My maid came five days a week. I would cut her back to two.

The other three days My sissy-maid Miss roberta (aka hubby robert) would save Me money, performing the household chores I hated: ironing and mopping and cleaning toilets.

(Generously, to reduce Miss roberta’s workload in the bathrooms, later I would order her to cease splattering her pee all round from a messy male standing position. Nowadays she sits on the toilet to pee, like a true Woman.)


We completed roberta’s new wardrobe courtesy of a couple of department stores and a wig shop:

Thigh-high nylon stockings, a pair of shiny, patent-leather shoes with stiletto heels, a floor-length blue dress for everyday chores like ironing, a pretty red dress for the days Miss roberta served tea or cocktails for the entertainment of My friends. And finally, a cute, curly blonde wig.

From that day forward, slave-hubby bob had to share his closet with his feminine alter ego.

The gender-blending has done wonders.

Over time, bob’s seethiing anger has given way to resignation.

(Helped, I should add, by several dozen more furiously-physical “conflict resolution” sessions.)


bob still plays golf and gets drunk with his buddies.

Miss roberta is available the rest of the week for household chores plus whatever other playful humiliations I contrive.

The funny thing is, I think she’s beginning to enjoy it.

So I’ve saved some money off the maid.

And maybe saved My marriage.

What's New?

My hectic travel schedule the past three months (including trips across the U.S. to reintroduce several long-time clients to My whip) has left this blog a virtual orphan.

But Mommy is home now.

I promise to fatten this blog baby at a faster pace, starting later this week with a lengthy post on one of My favorite FemDom sports: Feminizing male-creatures.

Meanwhile, here’s a bonus:

Visit My site Mistress Leesa’s FemDom Links and click “Family Album” in the top navigation bar.

Every Tuesday I post a new, exclusive free “Family album” of personal pics from My real-life training sessions with slave-hubby bob.

This week’s “Family Album” reveals what happened when I was invited to a Fetish costume party, but slave-hubby bob refused to wear the costume I’d chosen for him.

I mean, it wasn’t as if I was being unreasonable, like asking him to prance around the party naked.

In fact, his outfit of pecker-nose glasses, blonde curly wig, 13-inch strapon dildo and high heels was perfectly modest, if (admittedly) not exactly manly.

Predictably, as you’ll see, bob changed his mind after I tattooed his bare butt for a while with My trusty carcass beater.

You’ll also see a photo set from the morning I singed two fingers (My vengeance hand) cooking bob’s breakfast. I told bob I couldn’t give him the punishment he’d earned the previous day. bob was elated, until I ordered him to march directly to his bedroom and punish himself.

(I confess, to my amazement and amusement, that bob did a surprisingly professional job.)

Visit Mistress Leesa’s FemDom Links and click “Family Album” in the navigation bar.

And while you’re at the site, check out this week’s edition of “Free Pics” featuring top Dominas strutting their stuff. Every Friday I update “Free Pics” with a fresh gallery.

Cheers!

The Male Chastity Myth

Lately there’s been much babble in the FemDom blogosphere about the benefits of male-chastity devices.

The premise behind the chatter is that male creatures have a big head and (between their legs) a little head.

Too often men think with the little head.

The Woman who cages that pee-brain sliver of cartilage becomes gatekeeper of Her consort’s sticky liquid ego.

No more unsightly erections suddenly tenting his trousers in public.

No more surprise gobs of smelly spunk staining the near-pristine panties She'd left in the laundry basket yesterday.


And Hallelujah!

She sleeps at night without fear of a stealth frontal assault or a forced rear entry.

But here’s the problem:

If male chastity devices truly empower Women, why is it that men are the ones who buy them?

It’s men whom these contraptions truly empower.

Take My husband. (“Please!”, to paraphrase Henny Youngman’s classic line.)

Soon after I’d tamed--at the tip of My whip--My subby-hubby’s male-creature carousing he started begging for a chastity device.

Finally I agreed.

As a Pro Domme I’d offered My clients key-holder services.

Lock up their rubbery male pride in a CB-6000 chastity cage, then pocket the key and My fee.

No big deal.

At home I had a spare, unused CB-3000. I locked up hubby bob’s penis and hid the key in My everyday handbag.

What a relief!

No more bathroom drainage problems from the non-biodegradable tissues the wanker uses to clean the cum off his cock. No more telltale bits of toilet paper stuck to his balls, while he swears up and down he's given up masturbating forever.

My relief was short-lived.

I’d come home from a hard day at the dungeon. But instead of kicking off My boots and watching a TV cooking show with a glass of wine in hand, I’d have to deal with hubby bob’s ever-needy sperm factory.

The chastity device was too tight or too loose or itching.

Every day a new concocted crisis of discomfort that required Me, the Mistress, to go down on My knees and nearly bury My face in his balls, fiddling with his dam chastity cage.

Occasionally I’d glance up and catch his face contorted in a triumphant smirk.

The worst was when he misbehaved and I wanted to punish him with My penis whip.

First I’d have to rummage through My cluttered handbag searching for his CB-3000 key, which (like a solo sock) had somehow migrated to a parallel universe.

Rather than controlling, I was being controlled.

I took off his chastity cage and reverted to My pre-industrial plan A.

Nowadays, once a month. without prior notice I hand bob a red plastic cup and order him into his bedroom.

he has five minutes to spew his cum into the cup, then bring me the proof.

If he fails to bring Me his fluids within the allotted five minutes, as a masturbatory aid I batter his ass with My black leather paddle.

If that fails and I‘m forced to milk him by hand, I turn his tiny pee-pee beet-red with My penis whip.

It’s easier for a male creature to think with its big head if its little head is suffering a severe migraine.

slave bob's Self-Punishment

Male-creatures are like pet dogs.

Let your normally-obedient pooch off the leash and it’s likely to go wild.

Similarly, no matter how well-trained, unleash a male slave and you’re liable to lose control of it.

For instance, last week I attended a crowded late-night fetish party with hubby-slave bob in tow. Amid all the fun and conversation, bob was free to sniff around on his own.

My mistake.

Predictably, despite My whispered warnings, bob drank far too much. Worse, he kept disappearing outdoors where I couldn’t observe him. I knew he was smoking like a chimney, wildly exceeding his shrinking daily allotment of cigarettes.

I decided not to create a scene.
But I was furious.

That night I locked up bob in the cage I keep in My guest house and promised him the beating of his life in the morning.

Most submissive male creatures would have been ecstatic at the prospect. Male subs fork out handsome fees at the OWK for the privilege of spending a night in a damp underground prison cell, followed by a brutal ass-whipping.

But not My slave bob.

bob needs My permission to play golf and go to the bathroom and masturbate. And he loves it. bob relishes My psychological dominance over him and the fact that I control every aspect of his life.

But bob is no pain-slut. he hates--and fears--the physical punishment he gets when he screws up.

So bob was anything but a happy camper that night, lying in his cold cage and dreading the beating I was going to give him.

The next morning I left bob in his cell a while to sober up and reflect on his bad behavior at the party. I devoted My time to cooking up a curry for lunch.
In the process, I painfully singed the tips of the thumb and forefinger of My right hand.

My whipping/paddling/spanking hand!

When I unlocked bob’s cage that morning, I informed him that I couldn’t punish him and why. he gushed with concern over My minor burns, but I could tell he was secretly gloating.

“And since I can’t punish you,” I added, “you’re going to have to punish yourself.”

I led him stunned and naked into his bedroom and put on his mask and ball gag. I ordered him onto the bed. Then I handed him a basket of clothespins. I pulled up a chair and flipped open a cooking magazine.
“Get busy,” I said.


I spent a delightful morning reading My magazine while My hubby slave pinched his cock and balls with colored clothespins, then pounded his ass raw with a black leather paddle.


To view more pics of bob’s self-punishment session, visit Mistress Leesa’s FemDom Links and click “Family Album” on the navigation bar.

New Features On Mistress Leesa's FemDom Links

Sorry for the lack of fresh posts recently, but I've been busy adding new free features to Mistress Leesa's FemDom Links.

First and foremost is My "Family Album".

Every Tuesday you'll find a fresh set of graphic personal pics that offer an exclusive peep-hole into My private life.

I'm an obsessive photographer and videographer.

Naturally, except for the occasional impromptu face slap or knee in the groin, I can't resist recording every corrective torment I inflict on My suffering (but still stubborn) slave husband.

I've found that this photographic archive is as useful a tool of control as crushing his quivering testicles in My clenched fist.

He knows that, if angry enough, I'm perfectly capable of selecting a pic of him naked and groveling and putting it on the front of next year's Christmas cards.

Now you can see what he doesn't want you to.

And here's another new feature.

Every Friday, in the "Free Pics" category, you'll find a fresh gallery of FemDom photos showing prominent Pro Dommes disciplining Their useless male slaves.

So on Tuesdays and Fridays, respectively, to view the new features visit Mistress Leesa's FemDom Links and click on "Family Album" or "Free Pics" in the navigation bar.

Mistress Leesa's Smoking Cure: Part 1

For years I’d tolerated My slave bob’s filthy cigarette habit.

At home he’d litter My pristine white floor tiles with disgusting flecks of ash. He’d pile high every ashtray with the gruesome corpses of deceased cigarette butts.

bob had turned My house into a stinking tobacco mortuary.

Every so often I’d try to convince him to quit smoking. I’d point out that I could buy numerous outfits or have a spectacular vacation for the annual cost of his cigarettes.

bob’s mantra never changed.

Whenever I raised the smoking issue he’d whine that he wanted to quit, but smoking was an addiction. he was powerless against the lure of the wicked weed.

Finally, this past summer, I decided I’d suffered enough.

I enrolled slave bob in My radical “Mistress Leesa’s Smoking Cure”.

Since then he’s cut down his consumption from three-packs to less than ten cancer-sticks a day. I won’t be satisfied until bob quits smoking completely.

The secret of My smoking cure’s success?

I make cigarette smoking a real pain in the ass.

The seed for bob’s quit-smoking program was planted at The OWK’s June 2007 Celebrations.

Daily we ate our meals at Pub U Chomouta and spent our late evenings at the nightclub Club Wanda.

At both venues OWK etiquette required Mistresses’ male-creatures to huddle humbly by Their feet.

In My case, that meant sitting above a perpetual chimney, constantly puffing out pollutants.

I would complain bitterly, in the presence of other Mistresses, about the smoke blowing in My face and the noxious odor those fumes left behind.

I complained so often that My friend Mistress Minka (who needed permission from no one) would politely ask Me if She could smoke.

My obvious irritation had an impact.

By the close of the June Celebrations, bob himself had decided that it was more important for him to please His Mistress than to continue smoking.

he begged Me to devise for him a quit-smoking program.

I was more than happy to comply.

My pleasure was twofold.

I was helping My slave get rid of a nasty habit and saving Myself the expense of his cigarettes.

In My next blog entry, I’ll describe in detail “Mistress Leesa’s Smoking Cure”.

Suffice it to say now that there is only one way I will ever permit bob to inhale a cigarette, illustrated by the image at left.

Tune in for Part 2.