LETTER FROM TACOMA

Dear Shoeblossom:

When my husband, who is owner and ringmaster of the Epic Circus, comes into our hotel room (We, thankfully, don’t have to live in the circus trailers) I’m ready for him. He lays the whip down, and then it’s my turn…”Strip it all off Spats, my love! Now you’ll get a nice thrashing….it’s MY turn to use the whip!”

Sometimes after that I put him through a grueling scene—if the hotel has any sort of eyehook in the ceiling, I’ll lock Spats’s wrists to the hook, and put huge, heavy cowbells through the loops in his pierced nipples, how painful!

And Spats will have to try and figure out the combination to the lock connecting his wrists and I can gloriously listen to his bells ringing as they bounce against his chest, and I relax and watch “Law And Order” reruns.

On the way to the bathroom, I stop and stroke his hard cock after I’ve removed it from his chastity tube…this completely destroys his concentration on the matter at hand, working out the combination to whatever gym padlock I’ve locked on there.

And then other times, he just comes begging to me…”Aurora darling, it’s been so long since I got to cum…it’s been six weeks. Won’t you—won’t you let me?”

I generally have shoved my big breasts into my tight circus horseback rider’s costume, and I sit back and listen to him beg, and of course Spats’s eyes are beadily examining my full cleavage.

Sometimes I bind Spats’s wrists and stroke his dick and kiss his mouth and tongue his ear…and my fingers do a mischievous dance on the underside, the V portion of his penis, making him beg and cry. Because of course, Spats is such a sissy. He can’t take anything manfully!

What I love is having Spats serve me when I’m with one of my young men…Robert helps with the lions, and is not terribly well paid, but I help him out with little driblets of money here and there!

What’s especially difficult for my poor husband is that I enjoy getting slammed by Robert as often as possible, and I invite Spats to join us in the bed, and have him suck Robert’s balls as Robert goes up and down fucking me hard.

Robert believes that Spats has gotten much better at sucking his balls. He told me recently that Spats is starting to have a mouth like lotion, whereas initially there was a bit of teeth feeling when Spats sucked.

But Robert backhanded  Spats a few times, and Spats has learned to lick and suck Robert’s scrotum quite gently, like a little girl would. Robert has threatened to knock Spats’s teeth out if he didn’t learn to suck gently, and this also has hastened Spats’s mouth to gentility.

Sometimes, when I’m too busy, Robert just comes over and has Spats service him for hours. He requires Spats to paint his own mouth with hot pink lipstick, and wear a wig, which keeps young Robert quite aroused.

Robert also enjoys bunging Spats’s ass cheeks. He has considered tattooing “Delivery In Rear” on Spats’s buttocks! Spats often comments bitterly that he didn’t get married so he would have to service young men, but I know he really loves it deep down.

Robert’s friends come over now and then and Spats can suck as many as ten penises in a row, and his belly is filled with lots of spew by the end of the evening. Usually then I don’t give Spats dinner, because I feel he’s had enough protein!

Then Spats still has to service me, and by the time I kick him out of bed to go and sleep in his little cage, his jaws are almost completely numb as if he’s gotten a shot of Novocain.

I also lock Spats in the closet for hours as well, and this makes him appreciate me, I think. Hours of being in that confined space, in the dark, waiting for me to let him out.

The ultimate thrill though for me is denying his orgasm, is that he can’t cum. He can’t cum, and this just makes his desire intensify by the hour. And I constantly remind him of this! I rub my cheeks against his hard dick when I brush by him as we relax in our hotel between performances.

I am constantly dressing in low cut camisoles and lingerie tops, exposing my cleavage to poor Spats, who has to keep his hands off. The regular rubbing, waving my boobs and enthralling him as best I can, makes my husband’s dedication to me quite palpable.

Sometimes I take off his chastity device and have him sit on his hands and just watch me walking back and forth in front of him…I stop now and then and tickle his cock and balls, and he just gets hornier.

Other times I let him masturbate in front of me, but I order him to pump SLOWLY, not fast.  Then when I am annoyed because he’s jerking too fast, I again order him to put his hands on his head, or under his butt, until he cries and begs me to forgive him and let him jerk himself again…

The idiocy of my poor hubby, who of course wants to finish quickly so he can stop thinking about pleasing me because the cum, the need has left his brain…but I want the need to stay! I want to keep the INTEREST there…

Having him locked in chastity most of the time is great, because when he’s around the circus, looking at the cute girls in their short-shorts who’ve come to the show with their buddies, staring at the sexy moms with their kids, it’s all stimulation to him. And I don’t object to that, as long as there’s no release.

For his excitement just jells and then the pressure on his cock and balls, all the pumped up semen, causes him to serve me, his Mistress Aurora with real energy and integrity!

We never had kids, looking after my submissive husband is a full time position, you know.

I also own a chair with a hole in it, and Spats sometimes is put under the chair, his hands bound, and he must eat me to five orgasms before he gets a chance to rub his dick against one of the chair legs for a possible squirt. But I time him. He gets three minutes to rub his dick, and if he can’t cum, then he is locked up again.

It may seem heartless, but I really want my husband to appreciate his orgasms. If he gets too many, it just makes him a bit jaundiced and complacent, and we really don’t want that!

And Spats loves, virtually worships my long legs…he shaves them for me, and rubs them with aloe, and when I’m in a good mood, I’ll tie him up and rub my toes all over his frustrated cock.

He isn’t really a foot boy, but he loves watching my long legs in my lingerie underwear (often French panties) as I run my toes all over his thrusting shaft.  “Aurora, you’re so beautiful” Spats murmurs, hoping I will rub my toes long enough to let him cum.

But I’ve been at this twenty years, folks. There’s not much chance of that happening!  I take my breasts out of my bra and rub them as well as the toes go up and down, scraping Spats’s glans, his frenulum and then “by accident” stomping his unfortunate testicles.

Nut stomping is such fun—I can bring tears to his eyes quite easily. And then I’ll reach down and pick up my fiberglass cane and WHACK his dick, after carefully pulling my feet away, my delicate little size Sevens.

As tears spring to his eyes, I ask cruelly. “What’s wrong, faggot? Can’t you take it? Don’t you realize that if you want me to toy with your dick with my toes, you’ve got to pay the Piper? That’s the way life is, Spatsy.”

And then I WHACK his cock and balls two or three more times before resuming my foot massage…and he thanks me so earnestly. It’s rather hilarious.

I’m also quite cruel to Spats…a few years ago I stopped letting him touch my breasts. And I love rubbing and kissing them, they’re rather big, while he stares at me with begging eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to lick and kiss my nipples, Spatsy?” I tease. “But you can’t because I only let big, masculine men touch them. Sissy boys like you, who I put in diapers and who dresses up in drag to go out and suck other men’s dickies? I don’t want some pitiful loser like that sucking my honeys. You understand, don’t you?”

Spats’s eyes are now filled with tears. “But Aurora darling, you make me go out and do that. I don’t want to…I want to be a real man and to get to kiss your breasts!”

“Shame on you, Spats. You’re just a little sissy-faggot. Don’t you really just wish I had a dick so I could fuck you full time? I know that’s your fantasy, honey.

I can remember when we were just friends, when you were hiring professional prostitutes who were female to order you to suck off their male colleagues. That’s truly pathetic, Spats. And you know that’s what you want now…more cocksucking, right?”

And he’d cry and whine, begging for just one chance at my large pink nipples. I am a Milf or even a Grand Milf, by some standards, but I’m still a hot bitch, and he’d really like to suck my nipples!

Then sometimes I take my riding crop and I whip his dick until he cries even MORE. “How dare you beg for my breasts…you don’t deserve them! You only deserve to be my urine receptacle if that!”

Oh, I have a lot of fun…

I’m aware that Spats bitterly resents my creampies, almost more than he does servicing me directly when I’m with another man. Because I love going into the different towns our circus visits, and trying out the singles bars there.

After all there are so many men and so little time! Making out with horny guys in the back of bars, being taken to their houses and getting a good screwing is such fun. And then I go home and poor Spats has to do licking out!

Hot guys turn me on, but of course they don’t make good husbands. I need to live with someone who is a perfect gentleman, who won’t put his hands on my ass without permission, who will be grateful for the chance to sniff my panties instead of insisting on a blowjob.

I’m turned on by smooth, seductive guys, but it’s nice to have a devoted lap dog at home to keep me relaxed, you know?

When I get back to the hotel, my lipstick smeared and my dress torn, the lacy tops of my thigh highs just a little bit withered from the “man handling” of the real men, Spats just sighs sniffs my remaining perfume and takes me to the bathtub and undresses and bathes me, and then brings me back to the bed and licks all the used semen out of my well rogered quim.

It’s wonderful. Spats is like a Water-Pik with legs and a bank account, you know?

And I moan and howl as he brings me to orgasm after orgasm after he’s cleared my vagina of all the other men’s seminal fluids. After the licking is over,  Spats gives me an extensive massage and brings me a glass of sherry, and then I go to sleep, and he goes to finish whatever he was doing…though of course he can’t cum…just such a sad situation for him.

The poor thing is constantly squirming, his balls aching when he rubs me, and I feel sorry for him, being so close to me, wanting to feel himself in me, but he has to just let go and do his massage of me without any hope of release on his part. Poor baby.

I mean, he’s a good sport, and he doesn’t complain about his heavy balls, and the backed up semen. It’s too bad that he’s a sub, because he’s an attractive guy, but you can only get so excited about a submissive male.

He’s just a big sissy maid, and I’m lucky to have him!

Another fun exercise I put poor Spats through is, after a long period of chastity, tying his hands behind his head, blindfolding him and having him stand on his tippie toes in front of me—exercising his legs as it were.

Then I rub his poor penis until he gets completely distracted, and goes down on his heels again. And then of course I stop. “Sorry, darling. You can’t cum unless you can do it on your toes…”

Poor Spats. This is an especially cruel game when he’s really, really horny. And of course the blindfold just makes him so disoriented, there’s almost no balance there.

And then he gets back up on his toes, and I begin playing with his cock and balls, using my long purple nails to tickle the underside of his anus so he begins shaking with pleasure and anticipated excitement.

Sometimes, if he is still able to stay on his toes, I push him back on his heels with a little hand. That’s cheating, but I don’t have any rules to follow, right?

I am a platinum blonde, even at fifty, and I have long, sexy acrylic nails and I use them to drive poor Spats as crazy as possible.  I’ve kept Spats in chastity for twenty years, and gradually reduced his orgasms.

In 1990, I teased him constantly, and let him cum about once every three days, and my God, he bitched about being locked up, though he’d been the one to order and pay for the chastity belt.

He’d told me with absolute horror about being forced to wear pancake makeup by his mother and suck cocks for money, and being locked in a chastity belt 90 % of the time during his teens and early twenties, until he escaped.

But if this was post-traumatic stress, why was he so erect when he told me about it? Then I locked him in the chastity belt, and after three days of being locked up, he was ravenous for me…

At first he’d screw me every three days, and he had to eat me out the other two, going to bed horny and insane…whee!

But then as I met other interesting men, I decided Spats could just jerk off every three days, and he could screw me once a month,  and then I decided that he could only screw me on Christmas and his birthday…and then, I decided I’d rather give him a tie for a gift!

So then Spats was reduced to only jerking off every seventy-two hours, and the rest of the time he could worship my body, and eat me out, but there would be no sex for him other than by his hand.

In ’92, I reduced Spats’s orgasms to once a week, and in ’96 once a month. In 2002, I decided that Spats shouldn’t have a regular orgasm to look forward to on the first of the month…it was so tiresome, after all.

I mean, he’d wait for me, and then I’d have him beg for the key to the belt, and finally, after pretending I’d lost it (This always reduced Spats to bitter, tearful tantrums)

I’d finally give him the key, and he’d unlock his belt and masturbate onto a little dish and then lick it up, and kiss my feet and thank me for this awesome privilege!

But then, as I said in ’02, I told Spats that the good news was he would now be eligible for 18 orgasms a year, instead of just one a month…the bad news would be that he would have to earn them, and if he didn’t impress me, he wouldn’t even get ONE for the whole year!

There was a lot of jewelry buying, and I’d given Spats his first thirteen orgasms in about ninety days, and then I decided he was wasting his money, and so I made him deposit his salary (since he was working for me anyway) into my bank account, and gave him a small allowance, so he couldn’t purchase any more.

Then I got Spats to do household chores around the hotel….and of course after that I decided to have him service my lovers…earning an orgasm was tough!

Spats had talked about how horrible it was to have his mother dress him in drag and prostitute him, but he talked about it so fervently, that I then told him that if he could make money to buy me GOOD jewelry by servicing various men in the neighborhood of whatever city the circus was in, while dressed in drag…I’d go for it!

But you know, not many men are that attracted to middle aged tranny whores. It would take Spats MONTHS to get enough money to buy me a respectable piece of jewelry. If you get ten to twenty bucks a blowjob, and you need fifteen hundred to buy the cheapest tennis bracelet…

So in 2003 Spats earned enough to have four orgasms, in ’04  I had mercy on him and he was able to earn money just for letting my lovers come on his face, and he got nine orgasms…and this year ’10 he’s had about seven since January.

But I’m probably going to have to be stricter with him. God knows I don’t want to spoil him!

Spats joined our circus in ’83, and became its owner in ’86, and married me that same year—and quietly signed the whole shebang over to me in 1991, though no one knows it…

Because long-term chastity can make a man negotiate! Although Spats was quite the cocksman with the different circus bimbos, screwing makeup girls, trapeze artists, and even our female Fire-Eater, I knew he wanted something different.

I’d found his S&M tapes in the garbage cans outside his trailer, and the first time I got alone with him, I took him over my knee, and then drilled his buttocks with a nice big strap-on! He could’ve put me in jail for this assault, but instead he gave me an engagement ring!

Our circus is passing through Washington State, so this letter is from Tacoma, I suppose. I am writing to respond to “Letter from Raleigh”. I am married to Spats, the older brother of Leary Maher, who wrote the letter about being raised in a female dominated household.

Spats told me the whole story, about his mother, and his brother Terpsichore, who became “Terp the Perp”, a criminal known to all of the South before he died, just to escape his mother’s chastity training!

Spats quit college, joined a carnival, became manager, and then was hired away from the show to be a ringmaster in Epic Circus, where he met me, and I’m a retired bareback horse rider.

And what I must tell you is—Spats, like Leary, was unable to escape the psychic scars of his Mother’s training…but was it his fault, or his father’s? His father of course was getting “trained” initially by a professional domme, Ms. Snaith.

I’ve heard the stories—apparently Spivey, that’s Spats’s father (They’re named Spivens Maher the Fourth and Spivens the Fifth, and go by Spivey and Spats, nauseating, right?) would tell Spats the stories of his initial submission, and how he made the “mistake” of transforming his marriage after he terminated with Ms. Snaith.

But Ms. Snaith was the initial dominator, when Spivey was still single. The chastity belts were primitive things, but they did exist, and Ms. Snaith  had Spivey locked in one. For a fee, she held his keys, and once a week he came to see her…

It apparently was always a rough week, you know. Spivey was dating, and sometimes girls would invite him upstairs, even in the staid 1950’s, and after extensive make out sessions, Spivey would have to go home, not having taken off his clothes, because he didn’t want them to see his belt!

The ladies, of course just thought that Spivey, who was one of Greensboro, N.C.’s most eligible bachelors was too much of a gentleman to take a girl’s virtue before they hit the altar.

And then of course there were the long, lonely nights when poor Spivey was just at home in his bachelor’s apartment, and couldn’t even masturbate. And how rough that must’ve been, because that was in the age before cable television, so he really had nothing else to do, either…

He’d call Ms. Snaith, and she’d tell him what a worm he was, and threaten not to let him cum when she DID see him. Then when he showed up (every Thursday evening at seven) all bottled up with cum and horniness, Ms. Snaith, who looked, according to Spivey like a severe Audrey Hepburn, would order Spivey to get naked.

She was always sitting in a hot little black cocktail dress or something, and Spivey reported to Spats that he actually never got to see Ms. Snaith in the nude. Sometimes she would take off her panties and ride his face, and he’d end up giving her LOTS of orgasms…but then she would still keep her dress on.

After Spivey was naked and his hands tied except for the infernal belt, Ms. Snaith would ask him why he deserved to be allowed to masturbate…

“After all, Spivey, look at my poor husband Dalton, over there in the corner…he hasn’t been allowed to cum in four months. Four long months. And here you are, selfish and self-centered, demanding to be allowed to cum, just because you pay me $300 a week to hold your chastity key.” (This was back when $300 a MONTH would feed a family of six)

And of course poor Spivey would look over at Dalton, who was kneeling naked in the corner, his nose pressed to the wall. Dalton was president of the Chamber of Commerce, a big wig who had decided it would be a lark to marry his dominatrix, but was it really?

“Please, Ms. Snaith, it’s been so long,” Spivey would beg. “You wouldn’t let me cum last week, you just teased my cock for an hour and locked me back up, so it’s been about fifteen days, and I am so backed up, ma’am.”

Ms. Snaith would laugh, and then she’d unlock the belt, which just drove Spivey insane with lust! She’d toy with his poor bloated member with her long burgundy nails…

“Just because you didn’t get a release last week means NOTHING to me, Spivey. You’re a worm, and you whine and snivel, and frankly, it’s a bit disgusting.”

Then Ms. Snaith would get her little wooden pointer and WHACK! Spivey’s erect cock  and he’d bite his tongue to keep from crying.

A few words about Dalton…

Although I have respected Spats’s fervent wish that I not get in touch with his mother, who truly is guilty of heinous abuse, I did write to Ms. Snaith, who is now in a nursing home.

I was fascinated to hear of the early days of chastity key holders, and we still e-mail back and forth (It is a luxury retirement village, and Ms. Snaith has a nice big computer). Ms. Snaith was able to retire rather well fixed, with a comfortable income.  Some of that was because of her various chastity and domination clients, and of  course she was married to Dalton, whose last name cannot be revealed here.

Dalton began initially visiting Ms. Snaith for the traditional bare-bottom spankings, and then sometimes she’d let him perform orally upon her. As Dalton was a big shot in North Carolina, the pressures of his job caused him to really need to turn the reins over to another when it came to the bedroom.

Was the first time he felt ultimate submission when Ms. Snaith drove her dildo into his ass-fucked back door? Who knows…he spent a lot of time between her legs, when he wasn’t being fucked, or given enemas…and then Dalton found out about Ms. Snaith’s chastity belt training program.

It was remarkable  how quickly Dalton went from screwing young women in seedy motel rooms to chastely taking them to Mass, movies or the theater, and then letting them off with a peck on the cheek. Everyone remarked at the change of Greensboro’s most eligible bachelor!

Dalton really felt secure in the belt. He’d often, even after spending a libidinous night, feel lonely when the girl left…and he’d jerk his dick until he couldn’t cum anymore, and go to bed feeling lost.

But with the belt on, Dalton began focusing on other things. He began working harder in his father’s business, and eventually was able to take it over. He looked forward to his visits to Ms. Snaith (a bit wealthier than Spats’s father, Dalton could go several times a week to visit his dominant Mistress).

Of course, just because Dalton visited Ms. Snaith two to five times a week, didn’t mean that he had any advantages over other clients in the orgasm department. I applaud Ms. Snaith for this bit of business genius—

Imagine a rich man coming to your house three times a week, desperate and horny, laying a couple of C-notes on you every time. You tie him up, take off his chastity device and rub his cock until he’s even MORE desperate and frustrated, and then sending him home, re-locked! Of course he’s hot to come back, to see if you’ll feel more generous.

But Ms. Snaith wasn’t terribly generous, certainly not as generous as Dalton was. Sometimes she’d tire of him trying to talk her into an orgasm…and then she’d pull out a ruler, or some sort of riding crop, and thrash his penis until he cried….and mysteriously, this made him even MORE interested in her.

“It amazed me” Ms. Snaith wrote in an e-mail. “I kept thinking he’d just ask for the key back and go get a normal life, but Dalton was determined to EARN his orgasms. Perhaps it was because I was the only person he couldn’t control. He’d had tantrums and been spoiled by his parents, girlfriends, his staff at work…and I was the only one who wouldn’t put up with it.”

Dalton apparently relished having his poor cock locked up in the tight, mean little cage. He would call Ms. Snaith with descriptions of what it was like to be unable to go to the lavatory at work to masturbate (He had especially treasured getting promoted to having his own one-person executive restroom, and all of a sudden he didn’t need it)

Not that all of Ms. Snaith’s key holding clients were as prosperous as Dalton was. In fact, they were quite varied. She had a Greyhound bus driver, a surgical technician, a boat builder, two carpenters, a professor of kinesiology and a variety of other people.

Dalton was Ms. Snaith’s most frequent client, but not even one of her favorites. She had one fellow, a park ranger who brought her fresh wildflowers and wrote her sonnets, and another who was a garage mechanic who also composed songs to her on the flute!

“No one complained about his chastity as much as Dalton did, certainly” Ms. Snaith reported, “But in his complaints, I found him endearingly comical, in a way.”

Eventually Dalton proposed to Ms. Snaith, and she acquiesced, with the codicil that she could continue her good work. But of course Dalton had thought that perhaps he would get extended (sexual) privileges with this marriage, and it didn’t work out that way.

As a matter of fact, that was when Ms. Snaith informed Dalton that his orgasms would be even further restricted! On their wedding night, Ms. Snaith had the wedding consummated by having Dalton anally and orally raped by a variety of young black men who lived in town (This was a big no-no in the Fifties South).

And, although they were married happily for forty years, Dalton was never allowed to penetrate Ms. Snaith’s “area” with anything stronger than his tongue. And Ms. Snaith had other men, in her life, whose keys she held for anywhere from five to eighteen years!

One fellow, Cranston came to her once a month while passing through town for a teasing, a harsh whipping, and bathing and cleansing of his chastity belt and his genital area. Cranston had a sexless marriage with his wife, and was quite happy to chastely gaze at pictures of the lovely Ms. Snaith until it was time for him to come and visit her!

“Cranston would spend two of our three hours together every month with his head between my thighs, making me squeal with pleasure” Ms. Snaith told me in one e-mail. “Between his extensive fee and his extensive tongue, I was quite the happy girl!”

Cranston was always appreciative and effusive in his praises of Ms. Snaith whether or not she chose to let him cum on that first day of the month. Sometimes, especially when she was on the rag, she’d send Cran on his way, to live his lonely life for thirty more days…after of course teasing and cleaning him! And then now and then, she’d allow him to masturbate into a brandy snifter and drink up his backed-up ejaculate, which was a good exercise for a strapping fellow, don’t you think?

Melvin paid Ms. Snaith to lock him in a small closet with a hood over his head, being fed with a tube from Friday to Sunday night, every weekend, in the attic of her house, for most of the Seventies. He never did get to orgasm, being in chastity 365 days a year, and he had to subsist on anal milkings to reduce the pressure on his prostate.

One guy, a professional football player, asked Ms. Snaith to gauge his orgasms on his win-loss level. (I can’t imagine how he dealt with the belt being on in the locker room). Ms. Snaith said the fellow averaged about one orgasm every 42 days, and she generally had him cuff his hands behind his back and get off by rubbing his dick against his winning football!

But in the end, it was Dalton who looked after Ms. Snaith her entire life…he was the ultimate submissive, and her full time slave boy. And the ways she kept Dalton’s orgasms few were even more interesting than the way she restricted Spivey, in my opinion!

Spivey was actually rather lucky, because Dalton was on the Marble program, which was why he had not cum in four months. Ms. Snaith had a box of twenty white marbles and one black marble.

If Dalton’s tongue had brought Ms. Snaith to forty orgasms during the week (forty, no less,  Ms. Snaith counted them) AND had done all the housework, and also completed his line-writing assignments (He was copying and construing the first book of Virgil, Latin no less) then Dalton was qualified, every Monday to take a marble, while blindfolded out of the box.

If it was a white marble, and there were 20 of them, no orgasm, just a 3 hour tease by Ms. Snaith…wonderful but frustrating!  And then Dalton would be locked up again. About seven times in the sixteen years they’d been married, Dalton had gotten a black marble out…and he’d gotten to masturbate briefly to an orgasm.

Ms. Snaith also allowed quarterly orgasms, so Dalton didn’t have it that badly, but still, four orgasms a year was a cruel sentence…and Spivey should have appreciated the comparatively good situation he was in. But we never do, do we? We always want more…

Sometimes Spivey would be unable to get Ms. Snaith to give him an orgasm for weeks, and Thursday after Thursday, he would show up, be manacled, and have her meticulously remove his chastity device, wash it, wash his genitals and shave them, and then stroke and tease him for an hour or so until he was absolutely blubbering.

When he whined too much, Ms. Snaith would take him over her knee, or strap him to a St. Andrew’s cross and whip his back and buttocks bloody, and when he could afford an entire weekend session, she would put a hood on him, and lock him in her basement…

There he would service other slaves, who stuck their dicks through the hood, and he’d also blindly endure assaults from her various whips, crops, tawses, scourges, paddles and other paraphernalia that welted his body and re-organized his priorities, as Ms. Snaith liked to say.

At the end of one of these weekends, Ms. Snaith would give poor Spivey a violent rogering with one of her huge dildos and this just brought him into abject submission, and kept his ego in check…

Spats told me all these stories about his Dad and Ms. Snaith, but he is not clear on how Spivey and Earline, Spats’s mother met. Probably at some North Carolina society function—they were that kind of people.

Their dating ritual went the way most did then, and at some point, when it came time for a bit of “fooling around” Earline discovered the chastity device, and demanded (for she was that kind of girl) an explanation.

What could Spats do but bring her to his next Thursday appointment with Ms. Snaith? The two women hit it off immediately, and Ms. Snaith encouraged Earline to watch as she went through the manacling, belt removal, cleaning and teasing of Spivey.

Ms. Snaith also “lent” Earline the use of Dalton for the weekend, so she could be trained herself in handling a slave boy…and by the time Spivey was reunited with Earline, she understood the deal.

They married, and had children, and all was well as long as Earline dominated Spivey behind closed doors…

The depravity started, I think, when she noticed what rambunctious sons she had. Spats, Terp and Leary were normal boys, but perhaps Earline was a nervous type, or maybe she just wanted the sort of calmness she’d brought about in her husband.

In Leary’s “Letter from Raleigh” you learned the basics of what was done—the chastity belting of the teenage boys, and the heavy physical discipline, and of course the transvestite prostitution of Spats.  (Leary escaped this, but just barely).

But of course Leary only got to see a bit of this. Spats told me the entire story…Mother really got him started on cocksucking lessons using bananas, cucumbers, and then she began skull-fucking him with a variety of dildos—her own son!

Earline must’ve noticed what a selfish, self-centered boy Spats was—in his relations with girls, he treated them badly, and spent a lot of time, as boys do, drinking beer, smoking doobies, and being a general asshole.

Earline didn’t really try to amend Spats’s daytime behavior, except, of course to lock him in the chastity belt. But in the evenings, she dressed him in crinoline, or stripper lingerie and heavy makeup and had him service men for cash…and donated the money to a variety of important women’s causes.

Spats finally ran away after a particularly energetic party, filled with LOTS of men, where he’d been forced to suck dicks and take them anally AND give hand jobs, all at once for several hours!

For a good decade after leaving his Mother’s world to live in the world of the carnival, Spats reverted to his old ways of lovin’ and leavin’ the women, etc…he is, after all that kind of man.

But he had an ingrained submissive streak. It was a powerful one! So, eventually when he was hired away to the circus, his desire to be enslaved returned, and I have continued his mother’s good work.

But I had to give you an update, Shoeblossom. You are the sounding board for the world of the submissives!

Best,

Aurora Maher

Dear Aurora,

Your letter is both informative and entertaining. What would we do without ladies like you to keep the slave boys in line, eh?

Best,

Shoeblossom

All my stories are here!

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