Oh, I almost forgot....# 7 has nice dimples
I only had eyes for #7's lovely dimples....
A toast, the "lovely dimples" and "nice dimples"
Top-Cat
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Every Girl's Guide To Being A Slave
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
A toast, the "lovely dimples" and "nice dimples"
Top-Cat
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Yes we have snow and ice... There is even a rather (lame) ski resort 20 minutes from the Tree estate...
T
Nice, Tree
A resort near Hill Of 100 Cruzes.
I know it snows in the United States, but has started to snow?
Top-Cat
HEAVENS NO!!! Not here at least! Last winter we had a near record amount with snow on the ground well over two months... Almost ruined my crux business. Fortunately I have my dungeons to fall back on!!!!
T
HEAVENS NO!!! Not here at least! Last winter we had a near record amount with snow on the ground well over two months... Almost ruined my crux business. Fortunately I have my dungeons to fall back on!!!!
T
And they say that dungeons are icy environments, image in winter.
More than two months of snow!
It is a long time.
I wonder how many snowmen you do in the winter!
Top-Cat
and this sequence is exquisitely beautiful too -
the slave shows perfectly the quiet,
calm but totally alert responsiveness
a girl must show to her Master.
the slave shows perfectly the quiet,
calm but totally alert responsiveness
a girl must show to her Master.
#1 and #3 are especially pleasing examples of submissive kneeling,
note that in both, the slave's forehead is pressed on the floor;
#1's sideways glance might be deemed impudent by a harsh Master,
maybe asking for Punishment!
But the floor she's no doubt polished in readiness
reflects her beauty deliciously.
And #3 is a classic 'Whip-ready' pose.
Both should be carefully studied and regularly practised.
#6 is lovely - but remember, you slavegirls,
if your Master has a dog (as mine does),
you must show the same respect to the dog as you show to Him -
I have to serve the dog's food just as humbly and attentively as I serve Master's,
I'm just the slave-bitch!
...and when the dog is done eating Eul must eat the leftovers...
Tree
Tree
#10 - exactly!
Here's a bit of this slavegirl's poetic journal:
Journey South
A weekend’s work in ‘Enbra’,
welcomed – as one should be,
who knows a bit (perhaps a lot)
about a little…
Off now. Pick up my car,
across the Border
(‘England’ it says –
not even ‘Welcome’!)
High Cumbrian fells,
then busy Lancashire,
dark Pennines,
off the motorway,
the known, narrow, twisting lanes,
entwining, draw me on…
My homeland’s tough enough,
wildwood and windy moor,
sharp crags and lonely farms –
yet softness from the Irish Sea,
mild, moist south-westerlies
make Galloway a round-edged,
feminine realm.
These Yorkshire gritstone heights
are harsher -
angled jags like nails
top drystone walls,
the wind whirrs whiplash
over bleached cotton-bog,
becks in the cracked cloughs
driving the torture-wheels
in dark sadistic mills.
While, underground,
stark naked youngsters toil
to hoik the coal and ore
for Masters’ branding braziers.
The lay-by. Time to strip off
my scholar’s suit,
slip rag-hemmed cutoffs on my loins.
Wrapped in my waterproof
to hide for now my slave undress,
a passing trucker toots –
he likes my legs!
And so the last long ash-dripped lane
snakes down the dreary dale,
the crumbly pillars, rusty iron gate,
the rhododendron jungle hides
the place.
Soft crunch. Kick off
my trainers, slip my coat,
tiptoe across coarse gravel,
ring, then to slave-knees,
forehead and fringed hair
brush the smooth stone step,
smell foretelling dungeon-dust
seeps into swiftly pulsing breasts,
already sweaty -
hear my heart.
Shiver at this strange,
delectable demotion,
scholar to slavegirl.
Door clicks, creaks,
the leather lash-tip
touches my bare back.
Lift my face
to kiss
his boot sole.
“Up, slave!”
Surrender car-keys,
receive my shackles,
bite on my left wrist
just for now, ready,
slave-symbol.
My first task
tea for my Master –
and for his slave.
I take it kneeling
happy, at his feet.
Few words –
no need.
I’m ready for the Dungeon,
but my Lord insists
I rest.
So shower, use loo
(a pot’s in my cage,
but rather not use it)
mug of water, torch.
Down to the cellar,
stone steps chafe my soft soles.
Familiar cobwebbed darkness.
Right, little passageway,
I crawl
to where my cage sits
(in room once for a wine-vat,
under a stone shelf,
now just right
for a cubic metre cage)
The rough old blanket’s there –
shake out the spiders –
rag-sack for my pillow.
Torch off,
till torture starts,
crawl in my slave-cell,
pull the door shut,
click!
Till some small hour
I snooze,
dreamingly restless,
yet still quiet, at ease,
this is my place,
the only sounds
the whispers of air
across old stone, oak, iron …
Rrrrrrrrrrring!
His whip-crop handle
rattles the cage-bars,
key grinds,
out quick I crawl,
naked now, blinking,
manacled, ready arms
uplifted –
“Do with me Master
what you will,
use me
as only you know how!”
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