Mistress Leesa’s Blog

Senator (now President Elect) Barack Obama had an energy plan for America.
So did Sen. John McCain.
Both plans, in varying degrees, called for a heavy infusion of capital into new energy technologies, including solar, wind power and biofuels.
Decades ago The Other World Kingdom (the FemDom fiefdom in The Czech Republic) rediscovered a cheaper solution to the fossil-fuel crisis.
In the courtyard of Queen Patricia’s palace, near the outdoor pillory, there’s a wooden human-powered generator. A whip-wielding member of the Queen’s palace guard chains a pair of volunteer male slaves to the turnstile’s arms and gives the “go” order.
The slaves trudge ‘round and ‘round, producing enough electricity to heat the water in Queen Patricia’s private palace bath.
There are a lot of other cool facts about The OWK that most people don’t know.
In fact, as a Sublime Lady Citizen of The OWK, I regularly get questions (in person and by email) from male slaves and Mistresses curious about this mysterious refuge from male dominance.
The OWK, on its web site, offers a comprehensive Q&A explaining its origin, mission and activities.
But there are subtleties that slip through the cracks.
In this post I hope to remedy that, answering the trio of questions I’m most-often asked.
Q: “Is The OWK hype or a true FemDom Valhalla?”
A: It’s the real deal. Women over men.
No male creature enters without a dog collar.
Paved paths throughout the property are reserved for Females; males plod meekly beside their Mistresses on dusty (sometimes muddy) dirt trails.
If you harbor any doubts about The OWK’s authenticity, they vanish the moment you enter the Great Hall of The Long House, where most visitors lodge.
At any time of day or night there’ll likely be Mistresses publicly humiliating their male slaves in steel cages scattered around the room. (Most guest rooms also are equipped with private slave cages and St. John’s Crosses.)
You’ll see other slaves tethered to spanking benches or suspended from medieval machinery for torment; the hapless male creatures grunt and groan as their Mistresses crack whips across their reddening-to-raw asses.
Meanwhile, several Mistresses may be playing pool or lounging on the leather couches in front of the massive fireplace. They sit there sipping champagne, oblivious to the background Muzak of male moans and whimpers.
Hungry?
Stroll down the hall to U Chomouta, the pub.
Mistresses sit on chairs; male creatures crouch uncomfortably below them on tiny three-legged wooden stools.
It’s not uncommon to see a nearly-naked slave “dining” on all fours from a dog dish, slurping soupy leftover slops collected from the kitchen. (Staffed, of course, by State slaves.)
The rule is that male creatures may speak to a Mistress only when spoken to. Impertinence isn’t tolerated. For example, say I’m dining with My German Mistress friend, and subby-hubby bob speaks out of turn. She’ll ask Me, “May I?”. Then She leans over, removes bob’s eye glasses and slaps him hard across the face.
Upstairs, there’s Club Wanda, the night club where Mistresses and their slaves gather each evening for entertainment, competitions and conversation. Amid the hubbub, a Mistress may be whipping a slave manacled to a Catherine Wheel while another Lady mummifies Her male sub in plastic wrap.
The ordinary sights and sounds of The OWK: women laughing and chattering; male creatures pleading and howling, saying, “Thank you, Mistress,” after every stroke.
Q: “When is the best time to visit The OWK?”
A: The OWK offers several FemDom Weekends throughout the year. But the premier events are the three-day annual June Anniversary Celebrations and the Special Weeklong Vacation in August.
I’ve attended both events. Although their scheduled activities are similar, they vary in ambience, pace and excitement.
The majority of Mistresses who visit The OWK during the August Weeklong Vacation are amateurs. (By “amateur” I simply mean non-professionals; often these Mistresses’ expertise at corporal punishment equals the skill of a top Pro Domina).
In August I’ve met Mistresses who are judges, doctors, lawyers, business executives and scientists, as well as housewives. Most come with their lifestyle partners, either a husband or boyfriend.
I’m generalizing, of course, but I sense that these Mistresses enjoy the leisurely, unpressurized pace, in the company of similar-minded couples. At least for a week, they don’t have to conceal their FemDom relationships from friends and family.
If You’re a Mistress who fits that profile, the August Vacation may be a perfect fit.
In contrast, the June Anniversary Celebrations are more suitable for Pro Dommes.
Plenty of purely lifestyle Mistresses attend.
But the majority of Ladies are prominent Pro Dominas. Wealthy clients (who’ve paid all expenses, plus hefty fees for their Mistresses’ services) often accompany them. Other Pro Dommes visit alone. They want to meet old friends and make new ones.
It’s three days of wild FemDom partying, with hardly any sleep for anyone, amid a dozen or so events (pony-boy races, the slave egg-hunt, the slave auction, the best-whipped-male-ass contest, etc.) all squeezed into 72 hours.
At night the Women gather in Club Wanda for drinks, networking and “shop talk.” What’s the latest buzz about the Dutch government’s crackdown on S&M clubs and domination facilities? Are phoney “hookers with whips” in Germany driving real Pro Dominas out of business?
The Women’s corsets are dazzling; their day clothes on the cutting edge of Fetish fashion.
The energy level is electric.
Of course, the catalyst of much of this potent chemistry is the presence of Her Majesty, Queen Patricia 1, who reigns from Her Castle throughout the Anniversary Celebrations.
One evening, at Her Castle, Queen Patricia presides over the slave auction in Her Palace’s glittering Throne Hall. Another evening, Queen Patricia invites the Mistresses to the Castle for a banquet. After a sumptuous feast, Her Royal Highness awards the title of Sublime Lady Citizen of The OWK to applicants whom She’s deemed worthy.
It’s an honor to be chosen and a nice accolade to have on a Pro Domme’s resume.
The Annual Celebrations are tailor-made for Pro Dommes.
Q: “I’m a submissive male who would like to visit The OWK but I don’t have a Mistress to go with. How can I solve this problem?”
A: Find a Pro Domme who’ll permit you to accompany Her or apply to serve as an OWK slave.
If you don’t know any Woman truly into the FemDom lifestyle, or have never visited a Pro Domme, you’re probably a pseudo sub indulging in fantasies. Save your money, stay home and wank off in your living room.
However, if you’re a sincere submissive, with some experience, try contacting a Pro Domina on the internet. A good place to start is The OWK’s own Dominity Forum.
But be forewarned.
A Mistress will expect you to pay all Her expenses (airfare, lodging at The OWK, etc.) plus your own. There’ll also be a sizeable fee for Her time and services.
The option is to apply for a position as a State, working or specialized slave. (See The OWK web site for descriptions and details.) You’ll be charged for the privilege, of course.
Working slaves sleep in spartan conditions in the loft above the human stables, where human-pony carts and wagons are stored.
Their day begins with a beating.
Slaves line up in a row in the Palace Courtyard, bend over and get their bare bottoms whipped by a member of the Queens Guard.
Then they perform their assigned menial tasks around the property.
On a volunteer basis (no one at The OWK is coerced), slaves participate in many of the special events.
For instance, at the slave auction I always interview the volunteer slaves in search of a pain-slut. If I find one, I’ll outbid the other Mistresses. Then I’ll enter My new slave (in place of My tender-assed subby hubby) in the-best-whipped-male-ass contest, bruising his butt into brutal patterns of black and blue.
Not up to being a suffering slave?
There’s only one alternative left.
If you’re really desperate to get to The OWK, maybe you can buy it.
Details are shrouded in the usual OWK fog, but there is evidence on the web that The OWK property is for sale.
So break open your piggy bank.
The asking price is a paltry $11,000,000.

Every week I receive several petitions from submissive male creatures around the world begging to become My full-time live-in slave.
Typical is the comment posted on this blog recently (see “24/7 D/s Relationship: Is it Possible?”)
“Hi Mistress.
My name’s tarik i’m 28 years old guy from Algeria with a little body and want to live with you as a slave/servant for a long time.
if you accept please let me know.
to live [with] you as a slave that’s my dream just help me.”
In response I offered My standard boilerplate:
“Hi (fill in the name):
At present, I have a live-in full-time slave so I am not accepting new applications. However, My situation may change, If it does, I’ll post My requirements for a new live-in slave on this blog. So be sure you continue reading.
Mistress Leesa”
Translated into common parlance: Thanks, but no thanks!
Training My subby-hubby bob has been trying enough.
Allowing another male creature into My domain would be as welcome as an unwanted gift pet.
But unlike a wormy drag-ass dog that never stops howling or a clawing cat determined to unravel the fabric of My universe, dropping off My new slave at an animal shelter or the local ASPCA wouldn’t be an option.
Another live-in slave?
Forget it.
At least that’s how I felt until, in a teasing mood, I broached the subject with subby-hubby bob.
“You wouldn’t mind if I took on another live-in slave, would you, bob?” I said sweetly.
“Are you crazy?,” he exploded, face flashing red then blue then red again, like a humanoid ornament atop a Christmas tree.
I punished him for his disrespectful outburst, of course, but didn’t raise the topic again.
Silently, though, I started weighing the pro’s and con’s of a second live-in slave.
Pro’s:
*subby-hubby bob hates the idea; that’s all the incentive I need to consider it.
*bob can be witty and charming; I enjoy his company and wouldn’t replace him. But bob is ancient, nearly ready for the glue-factory.
A younger additional slave could inject energy and fresh surprises into our tired domestic arrangement.
Occasionally, I might have My new pet play the role of loving husband, permitting him, say, to suckle My breasts.
Meanwhile, bob seethes in his sissy-maid suit, serving us cocktails and canapés.
*bob is a certified submissive, a born female-ass kisser. But he’s a wimp when it comes to pain.
Whipping men’s asses with all the force I can muster whips Me into an orgiastic frenzy.
A second slave who’s an insatiable pain-slut would solve My problem.
*Adding a second live-in slave might offer exciting scenarios for rewards and punishments.
For instance: I fantasize placing both slaves naked on their knees in front of Me, each with his cock in his hand.
At My command they masturbate furiously. The one who orgasms first is the winner and is privileged to suck his Mistress’s painted toes,
The loser licks the cum off his rival’s cock.
*Which raises the issue of feet fetish.
A second live-in slave would definitely have to be a foot worshipper. That’s My particular turn on.
I revel in having a male-creature supine before Me, polishing My leather boots with his tongue. Then, slowly removing My boots, he massages My feet feverishly using his fingers and mouth.
Unfortunately, bob doesn’t share this fetish; nothing below the female pelvis stiffens his droopy little penis.
*I’d make sure the successful candidate for live-in slave No. 2 was hung like a horse.
bob’s clit-sized pee-pee is laughable. I have to search for it with a magnifying glass.
Now for the con’s:
*If I post My requirements for a live-in slave, a significant percentage of respondents will be foreigners. I have no bias against foreigners, but My prospective new slave must understand English.
I don’t intend to carry a whip in one hand and, say, an English-Russian dictionary in the other.
Speaking English is less important.
All any slave needs to know is “Yes, Mistress.”
*For starters, I’d have to devise a list of nonnegotiable demands, beginning with perfect personal hygiene (no dirty fingernails, rusty skid-marked underpants or tobacco-stained teeth).
I’m particularly fussy about a slave’s anus. It’s no fun whipping a male creature’s butt when I’m staring at dirty bits of toilet paper stuck to his asshole.
Prior to each punishment session slave-hubby bob must bend over and present his joy hole for My inspection. If I detect one hint of filth, I order him straight to the shower.
Happily, bob finds this ritual deeply humiliating.
*Furthermore, the new creature must understand that he is committing to a lifetime of solo masturbation, on days and at times that I decree.
I’ll usually require him to spew his sticky spunk into a condom; I detest messy male orgasms.
Would a candidate for second slave be willing to tolerate My hygienic and sexual tyranny?
*Then there’s the financial issue.
When I married hubby bob I gained complete control over both his ass and his assets.
Mistress Leesa is not a charity.
Rather, I resemble one of those doomsday cults where you surrender your worldly goods to your Goddess of Pleasure Through Pain.
No dough? You go. Your application lands in My round file,
*Next comes the administrative/legal mumbo jumbo: personal references, a thorough background check (including employment history and academic credentials) plus a physical exam.
An applicant who passes these preliminary tests must then (at his own expense) travel for a personal interview during which his compatibility, character and (especially) his ass will be tested.
The applicant would have to sign a detailed contract drawn up by My lawyers, listing his financial assets (which I’d generously agree to manage), the terms of his personal servitude to Me and My right to send his sorry ass packing, without prior notice, the moment I decide he’s unworthy.
*And finally this:
At the end of the day, despite My careful vetting, I might end up wallowing in a sea of squabbles, having to referee My slaves’ endless petty tantrums over who’s getting too little attention from Me, who has the prettier French Maid outfit, who travels with Me on trips, whose turn it is to clean the toilets with his tongue. . .
The moping, the bawling, the whining . . .
Why, I wonder, should I subject Myself to all this bother?
But then I recall the benefits.
I’m still undecided.
Anyone out there with a suggestion?
Post your comments.
I welcome them.

I have joyous news!
In previous posts you’ve met My aged subby-hubby robert and his alter-ego sissy-maid roberta.
Now I’m celebrating a new addition to this humbled household.
Meet My 180-pound bouncing baby boy: Adult Baby Bob.
Alongside the blonde wig, dresses, apron and stiletto heels, hubby bob’s closet now sports two-dozen disposable adult diapers, a nippled baby bottle and a pacifier.
Happily, hubby bob hates it.
I say “happily” because that’s the difference between My dual roles as Professional Mistress and Mistress Wife.
As a Pro Domina I’m paid to give a client the punishment he wants.
If the client is a glutton for pain, I’ll whip his ass until My arm aches. I’ll target his cock and balls with as much torment as he can tolerate.
In contrast, as a Mistress Wife I please Myself, rendering not the punishment My slave hubby wants but what he deserves.
At home My goal is behavior modification; pleasuring a domesticated male-creature with pain is definitely not on My to-do list.
Fortunately, hubby bob is far from a pain slut, so his disciplinary training includes muscular sessions of severe ass and cock play.
But the penalty must always fit the crime.
There are domestic misdemeanors and there are domestic felonies.
For slave-hubby robert (and his girlie twin ms. roberta) corporal punishment alone is an appropriate penalty for such misdemeanors as disputing a command from his Mistress Wife or grumbling about doing the ironing and other menial household chores.
Domestic felonies deserve a more creative reprisal.
Hubby bob’s felonies usually pertain to his penis: how rarely he gets to use it except to piss.
bob’s cry-baby act began when I eliminated his weekly self-jerk-off sessions. (See My post “Orgasm Denial,” June 27, below.)
Soon the pitiful bleating about his enforced celibacy became so unbearable I caved in and allowed him one masturbatory orgy a month.
Was My slave hubby grateful?
Instead of kissing his Mistress’s feet for Her act of compassion, hubby bob whined and wailed even more. He needed more sex. He needed sex with Me! It was like having an adult baby in the house with an incurable, worsening rash.
Fed up with his tantrums I issued this ultimatum:
“Behave like a baby and I’ll dress you in diapers.”
Ever since, when bob starts his bawling-baby routine, I march straight to his closet and wrap his ass and balls in a disposable adult-baby diaper.
I sit on My spanking bench.
bob must crawl to Me on all fours and kneel at My feet.
Then I pull down his diaper.
I paddle his ass red with My hand.
This Adult Baby punishment scenario started on September 1, after one of bob’s scheduled sexual-release sessions.
On the first day of each month I permit hubby bob to play with his cock until he cums.
I have hectic work and social schedules.
I can’t afford to waste time waiting for bob’s sperm geyser to erupt.
So to speed things up I straddle him wearing a bra and panties and massage the cocktail sausage between his legs until it’s a bloated, throbbing bratwurst.
Then, as a reminder that in life there’s no pleasure for him without pain, I’ll batter his swollen member with My penis whip, which stiffens it even more.
Finally, I permit him to masturbate to orgasm while he chants My name. (To ensure that he isn’t fantasizing about some celebrity slut he’s ogled on TV.)
The problem has been that the whole procedure is so messy.
Last month, for example, at the climactic moment he lost control, splattering his sticky jism over the bed, the walls, even over Me.
That’s when I decided to buy the first batch of disposable adult diapers.
During this month’s sexual-release session I made bob put on a diaper and shove his hand inside to pump his pee-pee. And that’s where he safely shot his load.
That evening we were meeting friends for dinner.
I ordered him to wear the cum-filled diaper under his trousers.
It amused Me to be the only person at the table (not counting My diapered subby hubby) who knew that throughout the meal bob was squirming in curdled spunk.
The disposable diapers are also a perfect protection against him masturbating without permission when I’m away.
Before I leave to see a client, I dress bob in a diaper and serve him “dinner” (his baby bottle filled with milk).
Then I force him to his knees and cuff his wrists and ankles to a leg-spreader.
That way i can leave the wimp alone, without wondering, in My absence, whether he’s busy abusing his bratwurst.
And if My session extends into an all-nighter, I don’t have to worry.
Helplessly locked to the leg-spreader Adult Baby bob has My permission to go potty in his Pampers.
Now I’m thinking: What’s a Norman Rockwell-style, portrait-perfect American family like Mine without a 180-pound pet pooch snoozing by the fireside?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Depressing news.
After My last blog entry (see October 23, below), My plan for curing slave bob’s wretched addiction to tobacco nearly . . .went up in smoke.
I found out yesterday that, behind My back, during the past month My hubby slave’s consumption of cigarettes sneakily climbed from eight a day to a pack and a half!
I was (and still am) in a rage.
For nearly an hour I spanked the betrayer’s bare ass so severely that I had to turn up the stereo full blast to keep the neighbors from hearing his howls.

How had My subby hubby managed to defy Me?
The truth is, for several weeks I’ve been preoccupied with a serious domestic problem.
Toilet-paper rolls, cleaning liquids, tissues, even My shampoo had started vanishing into that parallel universe where lone lost socks reside. Except that, unlike lost socks, no household items ever re-materialized to turn up under the bed.
Somehow My prima donna, overpaid maid had been harvesting the household goodies for her own private horde, walking them right out My front door.
I fired the greedy bitch.
Now I had to find and hire a new maid, one who would steal at a more moderate pace than her predecessor.
This tiring search for domestic help took weeks. Meanwhile, I had to clean the house (and guest house) plus manage all My other business, including financial transactions, investments, etc. (I not only own hubby bob’s ass, I own his assets, too).
I’’d become so exhausted that I’d stopped recording the number of cigarettes bob smoked each day, depending on him to give Me an honest count.
Fat chance!
The worm took advantage of My plight and turned into a human chimney again.
Now I’m exacting My revenge.
I realized: Why should I hire a maid when I already owned the perfect candidate for domestic servitude?
Why not transform My slave robert into sissy-maid roberta?
So daily now I force the slut to doll up in drag, don the curly blonde wig I bought her and do the daily drudgery that the maid used to do, from ironing to clothes washing to mopping.
When roberta/bob fails to perform flawlessly, I bend her over My spanking bench and beat her butt raw.
In particular, if I find dirt on the floor that she’s allegedly already mopped, I make her drop to her knees and lick the tiles clean with her tongue.
Not that roberta’s alter ego, hubby robert, is getting off easy.
This morning I resumed My smoking cure, delivering 35 enthusiastic strokes–one for each cigarette smoked yesterday–to his/her defenseless, quivering ass.
But, hey, don’t think I lack holiday spirit.
I’m going to print up some Christmas cards, featuring this photo (below) of My special gift to bob this year.

I’ll mail these Christmas cards to all bob’s stuffy buddies at the country club.