Men in Pain Suddenly Fades

I used to think the site Men in Pain was the web's true gift to me. It features men being tied up, beaten, and screwed with strap-ons by beautiful, and frequently boot wearing, women.

I highly recommend the site.

Only they now have a new site going.

It is called TS Seduction.

I am totally hooked.

The theme is about the same, only instead of women with strap-ons, this site features trans-sexuals that look like beautiful women but who need no strap-on to screw a man. They pack their own hard cocks under their seductive outfits.

I am so totally straight and yet when I go to this site I am completely transfixed, so to speak.

I want to be seduced by a tranny like these. I want to be made to suck their cocks in an attempt to please them. I want to be under their control while they decide whether my mouth was good enough or whether they should take my ass as well.

What does this mean?

Interview With The Riding Mistress

There I stood. My pants and underwear were pulled down around my ankles. My ass was red from a prolonged spanking. I could feel the red warmth of my butt cheeks with my hand, as they were suspended over my ass, wrists locked together with a pair of handcuffs. My shirt was still on, but that just served to make my sore nipples chafe a bit. They had been pinched and twisted a bit, just enough to make them ache. A scarf was tied around my head, covering my eyes. My cock stood firm, unencumbered and displaying my excitement.

Where was I?

In a closet.

In a conference room.

In the human resources department of a local firm.

And it was the manager of human resources that was working me over.

The call had come into my office that morning. "You will be over here as soon as you can. You will report to my office for an interview. The director is out of town, all my paperwork is done, and I want the gift you have promised me. The gift of your pain."

The voice on the phone was The Riding Mistress. To Her I am the stupid, worthless pony. She had given me tasks before, in email or over IM. She had even spoken to me on the phone on a number of occasions. But now I was being called to her presence.

I will scroll back in a future entry and detail the story of how I became the stupid, worthless pony to the Riding Mistress. But for now I want to highlight one of the most sublime encounters of my life.

I interest the Riding Mistress because I have promised Her my pain. She had a sadistic streak in Her. She is married in a vanilla relationship, but She likes the idea of a man who will submit to Her torment willingly, who will ask for nothing beyond the opportunity to allow Her to inflict pain on him for Her pleasure, and who will, in the end, thank Her and beg for more.

This I have promised Her. This I am now being asked to deliver.

When I arrive, I sign in with a fake name I have been assigned. I am there to be given a standard battery of tests that technicians at this firm are required to take and go through a series of interviews. I am left waiting nervously in the lobby for a while. Then the Riding Mistress appears. She calls my name without emotion and tells me to follow Her. I can hear the steel in Her voice.

Her attire is subdued. She wears a smart cropped jacket, a vest, a stiff looking white shirt, narrow cut black pants, and low heeled leather boots. She is not fantasy Goddess, the kind you find between sticky pages in adult book stores. She does not have to be. She is a real Goddess, and I am there to deliver the devotions such a Goddess requires.

She leads me through the halls, ending up in HR territory. Staff is sparse today. She is the only person in Her corner of the building.

We head into a large office She normally shares with two other people. She stops, tells me to stay put, then closes the door behind us.

Then She reaches up and grabs one of my nipples through my shirt, twisting it hard, making me wince and moan. We have begun.

I am motioned to adopt the pony position: on all fours, knees apart, head up high, eyes lowered. I follow her into the adjoining conference room.

I am told to drop my pants and underwear. The handcuffs come out and secure my wrists together. I have told Her in the past that there is no moment of foreboding like being locked into a pair of handcuffs. Once they are secured, you are at the other person's mercy. If they do not want let you go, you are not going anywhere.

Obviously She liked the idea.

For a while the whole encounter was quite stressful to me. I am somebody who likes structure. While the Riding Mistress and I had been in communication for quite some time, no protocol for an in-person encounter had been established. I made many mistakes in Her eyes. I was punished repeatedly, beaten until my ass glowed red.

Of course, the lack of structure and my many mistakes gave Her ample opportunity to spank, crop, and paddle me, so it might have been a deliberate stress exercise. People in HR are wily like that.

If it was meant to induce stress, it did. I have a very real need within me to obey, to do things right, to make my Mistress proud. If She wants to beat me for small imperfections, to bring me to higher state of obedience and performance, I am within the mental zone. But when I am lost, trying to obey, failing to understand, failing to do things right, that will induce stress in me.

So much punishment was applied. I felt I was completely disappointing Her. She later commented that I was flaccid through much of this stage, which is a pretty good indication of stress.

Just as things were starting to go smoothly, I was stood in the closet. She said She had work to do, that She couldn't just spend all day amusing me. I was told to keep absolutely still and absolutely quiet, no matter what, until She said otherwise.

The doors of the closet were closed. The lights in the conference room were turned off. The door to the shared office remained open, I could hear the Riding Mistress at work, but that was all the input I had in my dark little world.

I could hear Her typing. She spoke on the phone. Several people stopped by Her office to talk. Time went by. I remained still.

Time went past at a leisurely rate.

Eventually She reached a point when She could take lunch. Since She was there alone, the HR office could be legitimately locked, as though She had gone out.

The lights came on in the conference room. The closet door was opened. I was led out, uncuffed, and put ordered into the pony stance again.

There followed a much more concentrated session of punishment. She straddled me, facing the opposite direction, and beat my ass further. She examined my cock, squeezed my balls, and kneaded and pinched my sore red cheeks between paddlings. She told me how worthless I was, how much training I obviously needed, and how lucky I was that She would even bother with a pony so untalented and worthless.

Suddenly, things were at an end. I was told to dress. She guided me to the office door. I was so happy with my experience that I wanted to hug Her, kiss Her, hold Her.

My move in that direction got a stern look and a reproof. The Riding Mistress does not kiss worthless ponies.

Remembering my place, I asked if I might be allowed to kiss Her feet in thanks. This was allowed, and I got down on the floor and kissed Her low heeled boots passionately. The taste of the supple leather was in my mouth when I finished.

She showed me to the front door, giving a nipple one last hard twist when we were outside. Then off I went, back to my life.

My ass was red and swollen. It became black and blue and stayed that way for a week. My nipples ached so I had to put band-aids on them to keep them from chafing on my shirt.

I was told to keep KY Jelly and latex gloves in my car at all times from now on. If I were to be summoned again, I would undergo a much more thorough examination, both to test my condition and my limits.

That was a few years ago. I am still waiting for my summons back to HR for another round of interviews.

Porn Shows Me The Way

Somewhere along the way through high school I ran across something that focused my desires. It came in the form of a catalog for porn.

The Adam & Eve catalog, a company that is probably long out of business, found its way to a friend of mine. It had the usual variety of moderate porn for a wide range of tastes. But on one page there was a magazine I knew I had to have. I forget the actual title today, but it was something along the lines of "The Dominatrix Phenomena," and it featured a woman in high heeled boots on the cover, with a man on all fours kissing them. That had me written all over it.

Of course, I couldn't go straight at this. I was in high school. You cannot admit you are anything but normal in high school without being derided as a weirdo.

Alone with the catalog at one point, I detached the order form inside, noted down the item number and price of the magazine I wanted, and stuck the form in my backpack. Later I got the money together, bought a money order, and sent in the order. I put down my name, but my grandmother's address for delivery. I knew she would not bother opening the package, and if I said it was a surprise, she would not pry.

One day the package arrived. My grandmother called up to say that a large envelope had shown up for me at her house. I was lucky in answering the phone, as that meant no awkward questions about what had come. I told her I would come by on the weekend to pick it up.

That weekend I drove my recently acquired car over for a visit. I dismissed the package as nothing really, told her about school, family, and the like for a while, then headed home with my prize.

Late that night, with my parents watching TV down stairs, I got my reward. A magazine full of women in high heeled boots, stockings, and leather outfits. There was a write up in the magazine, a pseudo-scholarly work on the role of the dominant female in modern society, but that was minor filler that flowed around all of the pictures.

I was a bit worried about looking at the men. All the men in the magazine were in very submissive roles. Some were kissing or licking boots, acting as foot stools or chairs, or dressed up in French maid outfits serving tea. Others were bound up, or in the process of being bound up, with rope or leather straps. A man on all fours, naked, wearing a dog collar and a leash held firmly by a booted goddess, was another common theme.

And many of the men were being punished. They were being spanked, cropped, or whipped. Candle wax was being dripped on some men, while others were suffering with clamps or clothespins on their nipples and weights hung from their testicles by straps so constraining that the skin of their sacks was pulled smooth and firm.

I found that I could look at them because I identified with them.

A girlfriend I showed this magazine to much later told me it was horrible.

I thought it was wonderful. I wanted to be the men in these pictures. Any of them. Even the one being menaced by a whip with a rubber handle shaped like a large penis. ("Why was she hitting his butt with that end?" I wondered in my naivety. )

I had not associated pain, through corporal punishment and tight bondage, with my submission fantasies up to that point. But once I saw it, it seemed a very natural extension to my desire. I wanted to be tied up and beaten by a woman in boots. I wanted to wear a thick leather collar and be lead around on hands and knees by such a woman.

And of course, I wanted to jerk off. And I did. Furiously. For weeks. I had to swipe my step-sister's hand lotion, as I was getting raw jerking myself dry or into my T-shirts. (The softest material I could find, until I discovered my step-sisters cable-knit knee socks.)

Of course, that wasn't going to get my anywhere closer to these women in boots. I had no idea how to get there. I had no focused idea of what I really wanted. I thought it was really about a little bondage, a woman in boots, a spanking, and then sex. I had a long way to go.