Slipping the drawers open, the sweet sachets. Her underwear. The shoe racks lining up pairs of heels i felt incredible hunger for.
Sneaking into the locked space of Her bathroom and trying Her stockings on, blinding me with unexplainable need and a willingness to give up anything.
i spent the three days following shaving my legs and retrying-on her nylons, driving the streets looking for 'girls' like me, wanting a world of sissy, to be 'nancy'.
Not the danger of misapplication, inadvertently rupturing the colon and introducing sepsis -- that's mentioned.
What isn't mentioned is the danger of habituation. The need for enema.
When cleansed by a Woman with institutional or motherly or taunting or rough words, the weak male reinforces the requirement of his continued re-exposure to colonics.
The voice of an institutional Female, professional and unconcerned, or that of the succoring Mother, the taunting Whore, the pitiless Dominatrix, underscores the reality felt now not just in mental images, but in bodily -- daily -- process.
What Woman aims to have a male regress to the point of requiring Her to delivery him of his bowel movement?
She would have to be special, rare.
And when the male delivers himself into that condition, when he becomes child-helpless again, does his search for The Woman then not take on more urgency? When he couches diapered and sitting on his shame, unable to release without the potency of Her withheld bag, he prays for Her welfare and Her quick arrival.
If Women feel cheated by males, betrayed by them, soiled by them, then Women should be repaid.
By confession, by service, by economic transfer. By the reduction of maleness, by the adoption of customary femaleness, by regression to the status of the secondary.
If i feel myself thrill in saying what i've just said, if i feel myself harden at the thought of becoming scapecoat, then proof that is that i need the plastic-and-metal control of chastity, the locked cock-chamber whose key is held in Her whimsical possession and used only to assure continuing fidelity to Her will.
my milk unlawfully spills, and i need Her to arrest me for it.
Wanting to defend ourselves, what little we have left of that sense of 'defense', we give up the male as much as we can and assume the Female as much as we can.
She has the power. She. So we must emulate Her.
(photo: courtesy of 'whitefemmysissyfagettes' yahoo group)
More thoughts on enema. Not only the inherent qualities of the bag and the insertion make enemas potent. It's who controls them.
Woman.
She Who Inserts. She Who Fills The Bowel. The feelings of vulnerability, the pleasurable discomforts of needing to excrete yet being held back from doing so by Her. Not until all the toxins get churned up, not until full cleansing is possible.
And when She allows the expulsion, when the filth jets out, it is She who has an option of how to define that moment.
She may say Look at what you've done! Clean up that mess! Aren't you ashamed? Can't you ever grow up?
She may say I'm so proud of you! What a good poo-poo! It's all right. Look at it. What a good boy!
In either case, She freezes you in developmental time, She aids in your reversion to an earlier stage when you had less or no control over your own body.
Only a strong Woman would want to take you there. It is our quest to find a strong Woman.
i ought to explore enemas. Let this be a first step in discussion? The bag itself is a fetish item: it has distinctive shape, its material, rubber, has familiar, rooty smell and a touch that skids off the fingers or rubs a bit raw against bare skin.
It hangs above you. You are squatting or on 4s. It has a nozzle that's meant to intrude, meant to have access with no apology. It's filled with warm liquid and its exterior transfers that warmth. If touched, the firm slosh of a mother's breast filled with milk.
You are prepared for entry, slickened with lubricant and posed for insertion. It, too, 'slicks up' and gingerly gets its way pushed past most sensitive membranes in order to leak its fill into you, give you a bloat, make its liquid seem solid, dislodge your solids, make you want to respond to it.
Not enough tribute is made to the Black Female. Particularly BBW Women of Color whose sense of command comes from survival under residually-racist conditions.
i do worship Black Females not just for their bluff humor and strikingly beautiful faces, but for their feet, their buttocks, their full bosom, their snap-back, no-nonsense attitude. And don't let wiry body types fool you -- plenty of determination and 'mean' hidden beneath a smile.
She is blatantly strong in her approach. She is said to have recused herself from the discipline profession, but if you haven't seen her work through The English Mansion, i encourage you to do so.
A rubber-dressed male with his genitals exposed and tied vulnerably. Her arrogance in despising him, his weakness, his maleness. Letting him draw drink through a catheter linked to a translucent rubber enema bag filled with her warm urine.
Male service, when the Woman wishes it, does best lowest.
Foot massage and bathing, pedicure, foot-bottom worship, nylon and shoe attendance.
More exotic are bathroom duties, special and rare, but at peak moments of excitement -- for the Woman -- in dominating, punishing, rewarding, humiliating, degrading, exposing, at those moments, close connection should and will be made.
Toilet furniture brings the male face close to the genitals and opens him to body functions heavy with smell and dirt. No Domme wants simply to expend her male -- she's put too much training time into him. So she's careful not to make him ill.
But having him do worship to her expulsions, a closeness to what she's actually had inside!
At several cosmetic counters, i've bought lipsticks and i've bought nail polish. Always armed with a "buying it for my wife" explanation.
The savvy women knew, nevertheless, that whether or not married, i was doing this to become like one of them. That must have sickened them at first to think that what was male was not man, not fully man.
Then that may have filled them with a kind of strength, living up to the role they must now realize was theirs all along. Leader. The primary one.
Having me talk to them, my voice constricted from nervousness and from an inner sense of 'femininity', eventually has to become, for them, enduring proof.
May they always take the lead. May i always be a sign to them.
After hearing two mothers speak down to their three collective children, i held onto the words of power and direction. i digested them and applied them to myself. the power of desire to remake one's psyche!
She would come over before her nights out and tell me how much she loved me. Then leave. Hours later, jealousy would drive me to call around, and I usually found her bar, the one where she used a fake name and let it be known she wore nothing under her skirt.
I would coax her home, difficult to do since she was letting herself go, getting very hot, feeling very desired.
Past one, she would arrive still a bit drunk and ornery to have been tracked down. I would prepared some tea and massage her feet. Relaxed, she had me lick her while she told me how hot she had gotten that evening. All about the men who -- almost? -- had her.