Serving Madame Caramel: Part 2

I become 'domestic' for the first time

Clutching a yellow shoulder bag containing rubber hood, collar and CB-6000, I listened carefully while Madame Caramel told me what she expected. We were making slow progress through heavy traffic in south London, on our way to Red Spot Studios.

“This shoot is about Me. I am the focus, not you. When we arrive, I want you to lay out my clothes carefully, to help me with my shoes and anything else I may need. At other times, you will kneel in the corner and wait until you’re told what to do. You’re there to be used in whatever way Mistress Eleise or I need for the camera”.

I felt myself blushing slightly: the minicab driver could hear everything that was said. Madame had glanced at him and spoken sotto voce when She first broached kinky topics but now She didn’t seem to care what he heard.

“Did you bring your cage?”

I squirmed. “Yes, Ma’am”

“Well, I don’t want you getting an erection when I put it on, do you understand? I don’t have time to waste”

My cock was already hard. I tried to compress it with the hand that was under my yellow bag but that just made it worse. I could only hope that when the moment arrived, with other people in the studio, I would find the situation more mundane and detumesce accordingly. If it remained stubbornly erect, not only would I be humiliated and embarrassed as Madame tried to squeeze me into the sheath of transparent plastic, but I also ran the risk of annoying Her for the second time that day. I was very anxious to avoid incurring her wrath again: I wanted to please.

Madame Caramel was taking something of a risk in inviting me, almost a complete stranger, to participate in the day’s shoot for Femme Fatale Films. I was desperate, not just to be a good slave (obedient, attentive, anticipating Her needs and making no demands) but to perform well in the scenes.

I had seen an email in which Mistress Eleise had said that She would like to re-create the artwork of Namio Harukawa  so I knew that I would be spending much of the afternoon with my face pinned under Madame Caramel’s voluptuous buttocks. Apart from that, (which I was looking forward to enormously), I didn’t know what to expect. When I’d asked what She had in mind, Madame had told me that it was better if I didn’t know. Would there be pain? Would I be awkward and clumsy on camera?

I checked the navigation app on my phone: we would arrive at the studio in 8 minutes. I wasn’t sure whether I was feeling excited anticipation or nervous dread: whatever it was, the adrenaline was pumping.

………….

“Make sure the seams are straight and don’t you dare ladder them”. I was kneeling at Madame’s feet in the dressing rooms of Red Spot Studios. It was the first time I had seen Her in anything but street clothes and I was beginning to understand what BBW can mean. Madame is a beauty of Rubensesque proportions: curvaceous, powerful and strong.

“But I’m not soft,” she said while I carefully rolled her stockings up her legs.

“Feel”

My breathing was shallow and fast as I slowly reached up and touched the firm brown flesh of Madame’s thigh: I felt muscle, not fat. My deepening sense of submission was reinforced as I realized that, psychological domination aside, She was quite capable of overpowering me physically.  As I fumbled with the stockings, my hands were impatiently brushed aside.

“If you are to serve me permanently, you will have to do better than that. Get  undressed and kneel in the corner. Don’t get in the way”

Very conscious of my persistent erection, I kept still and watched as Madame Caramel sat on a high stool in front of mirrors surrounded by light bulbs while Mistress Eleise of Femme Fatale Films applied make up in preparation for the shoot. I might as well have been part of the furniture for all the attention they paid me. My role was clear to be of service when required, otherwise to be invisible. I did my best to fulfill it.

It is often these in these quiet moments when there is no obvious domination, no verbal or physical interaction, that I am most conscious of joy in submission. The two Dommes chatted about make-up, maids and other matters as if I was not in the room. I felt completely at ease, content that my only responsibility was to do as I was told.

“Come here and bring your cage with you”. 


I picked up the CB6000 and its middle-sized securing ring.  My cock had wilted a little under the scathing gaze of the two Dommes but it was still a struggle to squeeze on the transparent case and fix it on to the three white stalks which locked it into place. I handed Madame the padlock.  I’d never been in chastity while shaved: if you are going to be denied access to your cock, the experience is greatly improved by not getting hairs trapped in hinges or snagged elsewhere in the device.

We were both ready: Madame elegant in black seethrough dress and corset, Her slave naked except for his cage. I picked up my rubber hood and followed Her into the studio.

We enacted three scenes. The first, for Femme Fatale, involved facesitting.

I drowned in Madame’s voluptuous backside, slipping between ecstasy as my whole face was enveloped between the capacious cheeks of Her ass, and moments of panic as I reached the limit of my capacity to hold my breath. With Madame astride my head, I was trapped: even if I had wanted to, I could not have thrown her off,  I writhed, slapped my hands and beat my feet on the floor until She lifted for a moment allowing me a few seconds to gasp for air and then settling her weight on me again. If you do watch the film, you will see that I was completely at Her mercy: had she wanted to suffocate me, there was nothing that I could have done.

If you want to know what happened next, you can see for yourself at Femme Fatale Films - search for 'In The Zone"

The other two scenes were for Madame Caramel’s own site. In the first of these, a scenario in which I played an incompetent servant punished for failing to clean the floor of Her boudoir properly, I acquired a name that has subsequently become a continuing fixture.

“What shall I call you? Something which describes your status as a slave….I know: ‘domestic’”.

And ‘domestic’ I have remained: it’s stayed with me longer than the nick on my cock inflicted when Madame kicked me as I was removing the offending wax  with my mouth.

To my surprise and delight, Madame Caramel permitted me to hold her hand in the cab back to Hoxton.

“Yes, domestic,” She said. “I think we’ll get on very well”.

Serving Madame Caramel Pt 1

I could barely believe what I was doing. Four days previously I'd been idly browsing fetish sites on a wet Sunday morning, now I was taking a day off work to play the part of a slave in a FemDom movie with a Mistress I had met only once.

For the second time that week I was on the 149 bus bearing breakfast: a carton of Tropicana (smooth with no bits) and croissants. Madame Caramel had asked for ham and cheese but I couldn't find any on Church Street. Faced with the choice of either failing to deliver what She had ordered or being late for my 9:15 appointment, I'd bought strawberries in the hope of appeasing and pleasing Her.

It hadn't been my most productive few days at work; I'd barely been able to think about anything else since my interview. Apart from trying to imagine how it would be to recreate the artwork of Namio Harukawa under the majestic frame of Madame Caramel, I'd been preoccupied with complying with Her instruction to shave - completely. Sitting nervous on the bus, it felt strange (and slightly erotic) to be wearing trousers over legs now naked as a plucked chicken.

I arrived at Her apartment in good time and, to my relief although She asked about the ham and cheese croissant, She did not seem too annoyed at my failure to deliver it. Instead after serving breakfast, Madame Caramel permitted me to worship her feet for the first time.

Morning Service

It's hard to explain the intensity of the excitement and joy, the blissful sense of completion I feel kneeling before a powerful Woman, slowly pressing my lips to shoe leather or, if I'm lucky, to skin. When I first came out to myself as kinky, this kind of role play was just that: a performance. Over time it has become real and heartfelt, 'the outward sign of an inward state' as the Catholics say. This fundamental position of the slave has become more than external expression of submission: it's a gateway to joyful, willing immersion in the service of a Goddess.

Several hours later, on our way back from the studio I was to tell Madame Caramel: "You owned me from the moment You told me to kiss your feet".

Unfortunately there was no time to extend my descent into subspace. Ms Caramel had a schedule and I had been summoned early to be useful, not to indulge myself. Guests were about to arrive from Canada at her other apartment, the Hoxton Dungeon Suite, and She had an appointment with a client at around the same time. A receptionist was needed for the visitors. After I'd tidied her lounge, done the washing up and helped Her on with her shoes, we set out to walk the short distance to the dungeon. Mistress lead the way while I followed a few paces behind, carrying Her jacket.

The dungeon was a revelation: a luxurious bedroom, kitchen and bathroom complemented two contrasting studios equipped with every conceivable instrument of discipline, torture and delight. I tried not to reveal my curiosity and excitement as I was given my instructions. I was to wait for Mistress Michelle and her boy to arrive, greet them politely, help with their luggage and show them round. Mistress left me her phone in case they called for directions. I put on my collar, hung my jacket and Hers in the hall cupboard and started to explore discreetly.

I had barely entered the main dungeon room when I heard a taxi pull up outside, followed by negotiations with the driver and a knock on the door.

If Mistress Michelle was surprised to find me there, she did not show it. I explained Madame Caramel’s absence while helping the boy (in his mid forties, bespectacled and bearded) with what seemed like an endless stream of bags. While he started to unpack, I made Mistress a coffee, we talked about Toronto, where She lived and Her plans for a week in London. She was very happy with what she had found in the apartment.

“You can’t really tell from what you see on the internet”, she said. “But this place is great. Why stay in a hotel when you can be somewhere you can have so much more fun?” She cast an imperious glance at her boy and smiled.

Realising that I was now superfluous, I wished them a pleasant stay and left, remembering to take Madame Caramel’s phone with me. I decided to walk back towards Her other flat and wait by the main entrance; if She had a client I didn’t want to disturb her. That was my second mistake. I had yet to realize my first.

After waiting for half an hour Madame’s Blackberry rang. I saw that the incoming call was from an American number and answered it.

“Francis, where are you?” Somehow I'd missed her.

I explained and was told to head back to the dungeon quickly. Before I reached it, I met Madame coming the other way. She wasn't happy. She was now behind schedule and walking at a very brisk pace. As we headed up the stairs of her apartment block, she turned to me.

“Where’s my jacket?”

Oh shit.

I felt a stab of anxiety. Things had been going so well. I thought I’d been making a favourable impression. 

Now this.

“Er…I left it at the dungeon, Ma’am”

There was a slight break in Her stride; then an ominous silence. We turned a corner and arrived at her front door. She went to the living room and sat in a tall chair.

“Francis, come here.” Her voice was calm but icy; she pointed at the floor by her feet and I knelt.

“Closer”. Head bowed, I shuffled forward.

“Look at me”.

She took my chin firmly in her left hand, lifted my face and slapped me. Hard.

 I felt tears pricking but held them back.

“If you are to be of any use to me, learn to look after my things” Another stinging blow.

She didn’t need to say anything more by way of chastisement; Her look was enough.

“Now go upstairs and fetch the suitcase on my bed, we’re late. I don’t think I’ll risk another jacket. You’ll probably lose it.”

A few minutes later, ashamed and seething with annoyance at myself for my stupidity, I followed Madame downstairs to wait for a taxi.

We were on our way to Red Spot Studios and my initiation as Madame Caramel’s slave for Femme Fatale Films.

To be continued

Meeting Madame Caramel

Things have got interesting in the past few days.

Last Saturday morning I was idly browsing fetish sites pursuing my two primary interests at the moment: crossdressing and femdom when I found something that looked very interesting: "Dommes Gone Wild". Well...I haven't been to a club or a party for quite a while (to be honest, I haven't done anything much actively to indulge my inner pervert for a few months), so I thought I'd write and make an application to participate.

To my surprise I had a reply from Madame Caramel in just a few minutes. After we'd exchanged emails for half an hour, I found myself getting dressed and leaving the house to go for an interview in Her flat in Hoxton, pausing only to pick up bring the orange juice and croissants that I'd been instructed to bring.

I was very nervous as I climbed the stairs to Her apartment and admitted to Her living room. Madame is a strong, imposing, feminine presence and my immediate instinct was to kneel at Her feet but I knew it would have been presumptuous to do so.  I was sent to the kitchen to find a plate and a glass for the juice and pastries. After I had served them, I was permitted to sit and offered a cup of tea. And then we talked for nearly three hours.

Madame was warm, gracious and understanding, I found myself longing to serve her in whatever way I could and, before I left, she gave me the opportunity. Just a little domestic service, shopping and washing up, but it was a start.

The exciting thing is that not only had I been accepted for Dommes Gone Wild but Madame invited me to be her plaything in a film shoot with Femme Fatale Films later this week. It would mean missing a day's work but I didn't hesitate in accepting: I knew I would regret it for ever if I let the opportunity pass.

The next day Madame sent me more information about the shoot. The scene for Femme Fatale will involve clothed face sitting and body worship, inspired by the art of Namio Harukawa. There were also some very clear instructions for me:

"Slaves in my presence are completely naked and collared fully shaved! Bring a rubber hood and ID"

It's a long time since I've removed all my body hair. The last time was years ago, early in my journey into kink: when I was still married I'd spent a night and a day being feminised at Mrs Silk's. I'd made a complete mess of shaving my legs for the first time, bleeding all over her bathroom and subsequently my stockings. It was very embarrassing.

I was determined to get it right this time, so yesterday I went to Boots at lunchtime and bought a 'Venus' lady's razor, enough wax strips to pluck a polar bear, a jar of Veet oriental wax and new blades for my own shaver. Hard to concentrate on my meetings in the afternoon: I just wanted to get home and  depilate.

Eventually I got away. As soon as my front door closed behind me, I got naked and set to work with the wax strips: not only did they seem remarkably effective but the ripping sensation as they came off was a thrill for my inner painslut.

After a while I retired to the bathroom and went to work with my razors. I loved slathering my cock and balls with lather and then running the blade over them.

I think I'm ready. I hope Madame will find the result acceptable:

"Ready for my close up, Mr De Mille"

A walk on the beach

Between April 2010 and the summer of 2011, I traveled frequently to Denmark to visit the Empress. Here's an account of one of our weekends together:


i traveled to Copenhagen to visit Her last weekend and, having stopped at her favourite S&M shop (http://sm-shop.dk/butik/) and a pet shop to buy me a leash, we drove over the amazing bridge separating Denmark from Sweden for some training. This in part as preparation for next week's Cruel Huntress event in Kent where i will be her prey.

Highest of The Empress' priorities was to walk me on the leash in public; she decided to do this in Sweden, judging that the Swede's reserve would mean there would be little overt reaction. Once over the bridge (through a customs point which featured in a recent episode of Wallander) we drove some 20 kilometres down the coast to a small, upscale resort called Skanor.

As i stepped out of Her car, the Empress told me to kneel, She buckled on my collar and attached the leash. What then followed felt to me one of the most extreme D/s scenes i have ever experienced. The Empress was enjoying Herself hugely, behaved as if having a 50 something man on a lead was entirely natural and proceeded to take me on a tour of the harbour and along the beach which was populated mostly by kite surfers. i kept my eyes fixed on her boots for the most part; certain that the laughter i could hear as we passed the surfers was directed at me. To my great discomfort she stopped to pat a passing dog (which had been allowed off the leash), and chat to its owner. The fact that i couldn't understand a word of what was being said just reinforced my sense of helplessness.

After this initiation as Her pet, we found a nearby hotel which had just one room left; the whole of the rest of the place had been booked by a wedding party, many of whom were wearing traditional costume. Our room had a balcony overlooking the reception in the garden below; Empress insisted that i wear a skirt, stockings, suspenders and high heeled boots as we sat outside and drank a glass of wine.

The following morning we took another walk around the town. I was only allowed off the leash when we saw children; unfortunately for me there were none in the supermarket where every holiday maker in the place seemed to be buying ingredients for a picnic. The queue for the checkout was particularly excruciating.

i had a fantastic weekend. Thank the lord for Swedish reserve.