Valentine’s Day Vesuvius

Feb 14, 2013

 After a prolonged period of chastity the male ego is certainly a fragile thing and so very easy to manipulate. I had coupled growing sexual frustration for one of my slaves with a week of constant teasing, continual rejection and denial during which I had fun with the wretch by suggesting daily that he come in for a session, only to make him wait for a number of hours and then decide: 'not today I'm not in the mood'. The mental cruelty was, of course, all part of my plan to build up the testosterone juices and create a wimpish wreck of a creature who became more and more desperate as I messed with his emotions: until today that is.

I knew that my day was going to start with a visit to my local beautician but still suggested that my subbie arrive nice and early to get the place warm for me in case I suddenly felt the urge to play. It was, of course, my intention all along to session with him today, but I was determined to keep him on his toes and wondering ‘will she, or won’t she’ until he was tearing his hair out with unhappiness and frustration. So, to that end, I left him desperate and stewing in his own sexual juices for an hour and a half before wending my way to work and demanding that he prepare my morning coffee and breakfast.


My dear friend, Zoe Fuckpuppet was due to pop along to collect some film footage, so toying further with my slave was easy. I made a point of not putting my makeup on and not getting changed into my work attire, and then concentrated all my attention on Zoe, with only the occasional brief glance at my slave. It was a dismissive technique that left him well aware of the fact that had no significance whatsoever in my life or my plans for the day. I dispatched him upstairs on a menial chore and then after a couple of minutes cornered him in the dungeon armed with a very, very tight hood, an extreme posture collar and straight jacket. Ok, he was desperate for a session, well: “Let the games begin,” I thought.


A few hoods and collars may not sound too terrifying but I knew the effect it would have on my slave, especially as the hood had such small nose, mouth and eye holes and the extreme collar would ran his mouth shut and make breathing difficult. All that was needed to induce panic was to add the strait jacket into the mix so that he had no possibility of freeing himself or making his breathing easier without my help. For the final phase I allowed my slave to sit down in front of the mirror and then, like a rather scary rabbit from a hat, produced hood No 2. As soon as he saw the extra leather layer about to encase his head, the uncontrollable yelping, swaying and moaning in fear began. ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘excellent start, we can build on this.’


It was time to explain the rules: I would fit the extra hood and then, most unluckily for him, I would have to pop downstairs on an urgent errand, leaving him alone with his fears to await my return. I instructed him to sit still but deliberately didn’t tie my slave to his chair; no need really when there was no way for him to free himself of his hated headgear wherever he wandered inside the dungeon. The other reason was that I secretly wanted him to panic and stand up so that I could feign extreme annoyance and use his misbehaviour as an excellent reason to chastise him.


Well the second hood did all that I could have wanted. With no eye holes, it left subbie in total darkness, while the few small air inlets meant that it created even more panic by pulling tight across his mouth with every deep gasp for breath. I stood up and left him to the sound of his own breathing, carefully positioning a small stool a few feet in front of his chair. Subbie heard me march across the floor, open the door and shut it behind me as I left the room: in reality I was standing, quiet as a mouse, by the door to watch my fun unfold. It did my cruel heart good to watch unseen as the terrified slave moaned, whimpered, cried and fought with his fear to obey my instructions and stay in his seat. After a few minutes of escalating panic the wretch stood and started to shuffle his way forwards towards the door. Within a couple of steps he knocked into my stool and I silently chuckled as he worked himself into a further tizz because he had lost his sense of position within the room.


Have you ever seen a caged animal, frantically in a panic, mentally breakdown and start to move in a multitude of directions, one after the other and getting nowhere whilst crying out in terror? Honestly, I couldn’t hold back my giggles another moment and spoiled my own game by letting out a huge laugh at the pathetic, animalistic spectacle my slave had become. Of course I had given the game away that he was not alone but I knew that the mental torture had already had the desired effect… and there was still more where that came from.


Telling off the slave for disobeying my explicit instruction not to move from his chair, I explained that it was only fair for him to pay a penalty. By now, subbie was begging and pleading with me to remove any or all of the hoods and his collar, but a deal is a deal and there was no moving on to stage Two while the penalty for Stage One remained unpaid. I told him that we were going to play ‘the counting game,’ one of his most dreaded torments. The game is simplicity itself: he sits there suffering and trying to breathe while I count (slowly) to a pre-determined number, in this case 20. Then he gets a short break to recover his composure before the hoods go back and we start round two: this time to 30. The beauty is that slave knows all along that there is always a final round that will take him to a slow and steady 40


With panic gripping the slaves heart, his terror continuing and getting worse through Rounds One and Two I had to tell him that the hood was NOT COMING OFF and there was bugger all he could do about it. In truth, this was as much as test of my resolve as his, but it was vital that I made him see it through to the end. Pushing boundaries is something that takes time, trust and knowing how far out of a comfort zone you can take an individual and of course this takes experience. Luckily my subbie knows better than to argue with me when I mean business. A calm but firm talking to is usually what’s needed to achieve the goal. In this case I was gratified that his trust in my expertise and his total devotion was enough for him to actually ask me to put the hood back on for the longest, 40-count final round when he was close to his breaking-point.


Best of all, this was just the first 30 minutes of his lengthy session: a further two-and-a-half hours of bondage and torment still remained that I knew might lead to a Vesuvius-volcano emptying of his overfull ball. What happened next? Well that’s for a future blog, probably.

Bookmark and Share