Sunday, March 30, 2008

That millie...

I just don't think I can stand it - that millie is just sooooo adorable! Yesterday, it seemed that she just didn't know what she is about.

Which is not a total surprise, of course. But still.

Like a duck to water, she is. When she called - not the first time in the past week, mind you - she could barely speak. It's like that sometimes with many people. They've called before, and the conversation somehow took them to a place that was unfamiliar, uncharted, except in thoughts they would never dream of verbalizing. And sometimes, when they call back they're virtually, well, not quite pre-verbal... I mean they're not infants or anything... but there's this terribly sweet disconnect between a feeling they can't quite put their finger, or tongue, on and a burning need they have to be understood.

And so it was. Sweet, demure millie. She could barely bring herself to let me know who it was that was calling! When I realized the situation, I had her relax a bit. Maybe more than a bit, and before very long at all she was able to answer simple questions. Did she like it when I called her millie? Did it feel nice when we (oh, okay, when I) talked about how nice it is to feel the hose glide up over one's legs, the lovely constricting tightness... that made all her troubles seem to go away, pushed back into some dark crevice that was hidden from view?

So many things. So very many things she'd never really thought of before. she couldn't quite bring herself to articulate, but it was clear that there were just so many things she wanted, so many things she needed. I mean, it was just so obvious. When the hose were on snugly, and she was safely tucked away, she began to come out of her shell a little. To open up. Now, I don't think that my having her slide her fingers down over the hose and between her tightly clenched legs had everything do to with it. But somehow, knowing that no one would see it, that it wouldn't up and embarrass her, unexpectedly, just seemed to calm her and let her open up...

Just like the sweet, little slut she is becoming should.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

milton to mildred to millie

I do like the name millie.

Where were we? Ah. Yes.

He wasn't into feminization. Yes, he actually did and does like women. A lot. When he - okay, okay, enough of the he s/he thing, we'll stick with she - when I asked her what it was that was so appealing, the answers came out in a slow, steady, fluid stream - the softness, the patience, the willingness to endure, the gentle way a woman will touch her fingertips to her cheek, the carefulness in front of a mirror, the careless and careful way they apply lipstick in a restaurant after a meal.......

He went on and on. And on.

It was just utterly lovely. Truly. And quite revealing.

How many men, I ask you - oh, yes, alright, you're not a representative sample of the general population, now are you? - but how many men are actually aware of all these things? They see them every day, now don't they, and these seemingly listless acts register somewhere in the recesses of their minds, between Tiger's latest triumph and the birdie they themselves almost had when last on the links and the dick boss at work who took credit for another of their ideas and the wondering of whether their wife will ever learn her way around the head of his cock or at least to cradle his balls while taking him in her mouth.

The casual sensuality may register, but only as quietly as a leaf falling on dry autumn grass and with just as much effect.

Not so our - excuse me, MY - millie.

As she talked about these things, her voice softened. I asked when she'd last watched a woman hold a bottle of perfume to her neck and spray lightly. There was a moment of silence. Just a moment. Some moments seem to last forever. This was one of them.

Quietly, she said, 'i can't remember.'

I rustled in my chair and took the phone with me to the powder room (no, it's not a pastel pink, you dork - pink isn't the only femme color) and looked over a few bottles of perfume and eau de toilette and picked up the bottle of Coco Chanel, my fave, as my young neighbor would say, of the moment. The combination of citrus and woody - earthy and clean at the same time, with overtones of a distinctly human scent - seems to both relax men and prick their senses. I talked to him about it, and he heard the spray leave the bottle.

'I don't like to talk about these things with men, because they don't quite understand them - do you know what I mean,' I asked. That moment of silence, that lovely moment of silence, when her increasingly fluid and malleable gears were shifting.

'I know you're not interested in feminization,' I said sweetly, 'but it would be easier for me to talk about these things if I felt I was talking to a woman... a girlfriend - you wouldn't mind terribly if I called you millie, would you?'

The silence extended.

Why is it, with shy women, that they have just such a difficult time saying yes when they're being seduced?

'millie, please get the lipstick and remove the wrapping and close your eyes. Turn the case a little, yes, a little more. i know this isn't really your thing, but would you mind, for me, bring it to your upper lip and touching it lightly? That's okay, isn't it? Yes. Like that. Now, slowly, slide it across your upper lip, starting at the center and going outwards... yes. That's it. Yes. Thank you, millie.'

millie, it seemed, needed to be taken.

I won't bore you with the details, but before long, before too very long at all, millie was able to push past the initial burning sensation and discover her internal pleasure spot - for the sake of her ego, I explained that males have them as well. As she quietly explored, and I feared that her cockometer might explode from internal pressure - and I don't mean explode as in shoot - under my soft but unyielding control, I made her promise that just for a minute, no matter what she heard or felt, she wouldn't change a thing about what she was doing. And I found myself reminding her of something.

That no self-respecting man would be caught dead writhing in bed wearing lipstick with a finger up her ass.

Now would he?

There wasn't total silence on her end. I believe I heard the soft rush of a moan, the kind of sound heard when air leaves the distended neck of an old balloon.

'Now would he, millie?'

For the first time in quite awhile, she was able to summon the strength to form a word. Two of them, in fact.

'No Beverly.'

'No millie. Now be a good girl and touch your clit for me...'

No sense in going on. But you get the idea.

So did she.

How do I know?

At the end of our conversation, past the point of decompression and reorientation, where some, um, men are just dying to get off the phone, she said, 'Thank You."

Well. That was a few days ago know, and she's called a couple of times since. And do you know what's so remarkable, so rewarding? When I answer the phone, she says, 'Hi Beverly - it's millie...'

And when she called last, I replied, 'Oh, millie - hi. It's so nice to hear from you. I was afraid it was going to be this repulsive creature I spoke to once. His name was - I must have put it out of my mind. Oh. Yes. That's it. It was Milton.'

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


I love mildred. I know. It might be a crush. But I've learned to enjoy these things for what they are.

mildred happened upon My line last night. I wasn't fishing. The lure was simply there, dangling, waiting, and then, mildred bit and really quite outdid herself. That sweet, tender voice, the yearning edge, at least to start, though her agonized whimpers of frustration were.... Hmm. I seem to be getting ahead of myself.

Briefly, the caller introduced himself as milton, presented himself as a sub, and chatted quite rationally through the first drink I had him consume. Along the way, I asked him a few questions - the research and development phase, as I think of it. My fave pieces of equipment - naturally - are the body and the voice. Ask a question, get a response. Ask another, get another response. The little telling clue, and the key to his undoing, or her doing, was the question about what color panties would look best clading his crotch. Milton, apparently, had never been into feminization, or so he said, but when I asked, his cockometer ran a fever and became infected and engorged.

I proposed a deal: that I guide him for part of an evening, and at the end, if he didn't say thank You, I would give him ten free calls. Mind you, I didn't mention that the ten free calls would come in his next life, but I was confident in what the end result would be.

The silly thing agreed, and we reconvened half an hour later, after he'd gone off and bought a pair of stockings and some lovely pink lipstick. I'm a fan of Revlon for my callers, in case you were wondering.

Tucking doesn't come easily to everyone. The first problem, especially for newbies, is tumescence. They find the feel of the tight, clingy material just a little too interesting. My experience, however, is that after half an hour to 45 minutes of having their crotches encased in the restrictive control top, things have quieted down. At that point, the testes are quite warm and things have softened up quite a bit. millie, as s/he was now known, was still slightly feverish and, I must say, still quite game. A bit of trancing and relaxation will help with these things. Down went the inflate-a-clit, up went the testes, and before millie could cry 'Mommy!' s/he was sporting a new streamlined look.

So, I thought, let the fun begin.

Oh dear. My student is here. (He's learning photomanipulation.)

To cut to the chase, compression worked wonders, and within an hour s/he didn't know which end was up and telling me that s/he'd never felt quite so alive, even as that lovely crotch felt like it was on fire and s/he'd confessed to a number of things s/he didn't initially even know s/he had to confess to. Now s/he'll have to live with the shame of knowing exactly how s/he debased humanity with her vile thoughts and actions. But we can talk about those later. To put it simply, s/he made Gus look like the silly winged fairy that he is.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

New entry from Mistress Beverly

Mistress Beverly of the Academy has neither censored nor changed the blog entry by stupid boy below. Let his own words humiliate his person, but I'll give him this... he was quite zealous in his follow through.

At times discipline is sought and punishment is the only language understood. As my tribe of 'femmes' would confirm, I am not about sadistically inflicting pain, but if I am going to do something, indeed anything, I'm going to do it well, and... enjoy it immensely.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Message from a stupid boy:

Dear fellow subs, slaves and perverts.

This is the story of a very silly little boy (me) who loves having his Mistress Beverly degrade and hurt him - but sometimes feels as if that isn't enough and that what he really needs is to be completely ruined by her. It is just a fantasy but sometimes I get stupid and almost make it happen! Blackmail is a dangerous game, and if I had tried it with most other Mistresses then I probably would have been 'ruined' by now. Recently I annoyed Ms Beverly (who is a lenient soul) so much that she actually put a photo of me with my face exposed up on this very blog (see below entry about a stupid boy) She then decided that I was enjoying it a little too much, and therefore decided to remove that photo and concentrate on giving me some serious pain instead.

My girlfriend is currently away on Holiday so Ms.Beverly decided to take advantage of the fact that she could therefore leave marks without them being something that I had to hide from her. We began speaking at around around 7:30pm my time last Friday and she proceeded to tell me how utterly stupid I am. This lesson was designed to show me the difference between silly and stupid. Silly is fun and can be good, stupid isn't and can get a little perverts into a lot of trouble. She spent the next two hours having me beat my arse with a variety of different things (wooden spoon, belt etc). We eventually stuck to a long round (and fairly thick) piece of wood that came from an old chair that had broken. Her aim (as she kept telling me) was to make me cry. I had got drunk before we spoke so that I would be able to take more pain then usual, and despite beating myself for two hours I did not cry (sorry Beverly!)

I was however left with a very bruised bum (see photo!) that I am not sure is going to heal by the time my girlfriend returns this weekend! I could be in deep do do here.

Saturday, March 1, 2008


I'm still a bit flushed. After all, it had been awhile since I'd been, well, not to put too fine a point on it, seduced.

No, I don't expect you to know what I mean.

And by a - well, not a sissy exactly. But a strikingly, er, accomodating, male.

It started in conversation of course. Always does, you know. Yes, he was pleading, but without really pleading. Just being so casual, so open about things. What things? Oh, pretty much everything. Humor. Frustrations. Desires. He could barely speak of needs. Not because he doesn't have them. But because he felt like, as if he didn't actually deserve them. Not in his state. Neither here nor there, really.

And so attentive! he really just hung on my every word, my every inflection. Even when I asked about things he never said "No." No matter what it was! The most unusual notion popped into my mind, one that I was sure he'd never contemplate, even for a moment (yes, it is a tender bit, and people don't like to imagine being without it), he just said, "i hadn't thought of that."

It was a particular thought of mine that got me going. The way he leaned back into me, resting himself against my shoulder. Kind of melting, really, as if he wished to disappear into the fold of my arm. he just wanted so badly ... so terribly badly ... to be embraced for all of himself. his confusion. his wanting. The ache he felt in his chest. So tender. It made me think of my breasts when my body first started being flooded with hormones and how even the thought of a touch made me withdraw.

Despite how much he wanted, the thing he wanted more than anything was simply be able to share what I felt and to understand what I was thinking or might want. It wasn't of himself that he spoke, unless I prodded him, but of what my desires might be like, what I felt was important to talk about.

And when I put my arm around his neck and down across his shoulder, and my hand came to rest lightly on his chest, on his breast, and I felt a faint roundness, there was a sigh that escaped his lips, a sigh that felt endless, timeless, eternal. Released by the lightest of touches. When I cupped him in my hand, gently, his body seemed to melt into mind and he said just the sweetest thing:

"Please. i need to please You so terribly. Please let me."

his voice so was soft, i could barely hear it. But it had a resonance that shuddered down my spine and ran through my back and shoulders. I had no choice, really.


I let him.

And now she's mine.