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The Male Submissive - Part 1 of 2

I was trained by call girls to lead a life submissive to women
In the early 1970s, as soon as I turned sixteen, I was encouraged by my classmates at school to make an appointment with a call girl to savour the delights of sex. Under no circumstances were my parents to be told. I rang the number provided, went directly to the address with my five-pound note and was received by a grinning maid who considered that I seemed underage and asked to see "the note from your Mummy allowing you to attend."

Giggling, she then led me into a bedroom with the comment, "We've had several boys from your school recently," and told me to strip. A blonde girl in her mid-20s soon appeared at the bedroom door and instructed the maid to "fetch the cane". I paid no fee, and had to bend over to receive a couple of quite hard strokes across my bare bottom. The punishment over, I stood up and looked at the girl wondering if this was the prelude to sex. Brushing a stray wisp of hair off her forehead she patted my cheek with a grin and told me, "Oh, I really love caning schoolboys. Do please bring some ID next time, my darling."

Thus without understanding the process, I was initiated into female domination (known today as FemDom) at no charge. It was at the hands of such young call-girls as this that I discovered it, and my fascination was soon kindled by the vivid perception that this kind of young woman, who was in the sex trade only for money, enjoyed disciplining males to such an extent that she was ready to provide the service free of charge if the need arose.

A few weeks later I booked again with the same call-girl. I had to strip naked (a common way of making a male feel vulnerable) and was then led into her study. We sat, and she asked me some questions about myself, and made her decision. "Darling, I'm going to follow my instincts and treat you seriously from the start. You're at just the right age, impressionable and the kind of boy we can do something with." What she meant was that by the use of corporal punishment I could be trained as a male submissive useful to women. "I've decided to give you two strokes of the cane today, and as hard as I can."

Her natural authority was very powerful, and even then I recognized how easy it is for a woman, to whom a much younger male is attracted, to deprive him of his will to resist her. I mention this detail for the fact that it was from my five free-of-charge visits to this call-girl "Sandra" in my formative teenage years that I learned obedience to women. Perhaps she was a witch. I have no means of knowing.

The cane Sandra used had a crooked handle, was very whippy, howled when she whipped the air with it, and was about four feet long. I remember it was yellow with a very delicate mottled pattern. I grew to fear this cane over the last three visits. She undressed to her panties. She had very round, beautiful breasts with large nipples which I had time to gaze upon. The effects were all psychological, to associate in my mind the connection between the maternal instincts, sex and pain inflicted by the female.

"OK, my darling, time for your lesson," she told me. She stood behind me to one side with her feet about a yard apart, adjusted my position to her satisfaction with gentle taps of the cane tip and then without warning whipped the cane across my buttocks as hard as she could twice within a few seconds. I heard her gasp with the effort. The pain was fierce and grew worse as it radiated outwards from the two reddening tracks. Tears filled my eyes as I stood up.

"Good boy, you took that well," she said kindly, placing the cane on the bed. It was wonderful how gentle and feminine she could be after having her pleasure in these sessions. It was not violence, she said, but fun. I do not think it amounted to sadism, for the purpose of the exercise was to train me in submission and obedience,and so meet the deepest needs of many women, and not to inflict pain for its own sake. I should understand that women did not require abject slavery but loyalty, obedience and due respect. 

She did not grudge the time she gave me and my training at her hands never cost me a penny. I was a selected personality whose purpose in life was to get young women to appreciate the meaning of FemDom, and that it is a prize to be pursued. This can really only be done with the willing collaboration of a trained male. He will be mature enough to share his insight through articles like this one, even by opening resource centres.

In my late teens subsequently, when I frequented call-girls in London I noticed with surprise at the negotiating stage how often I was asked if I wished to be caned for free, and how disappointed some of the girls appeared when I politely declined (as in all sexual matters one has to be attracted to the girl).

I also noticed that if I agreed to accept a specified number of strokes, upon completion the girl would often beg permission to "give an extra couple for luck". When I paid two young Greek mistresses for six strokes, without permission they continued with the punishment after I started dressing. "C'mon, get on with it!" - whack! "What did I just tell you?" - whack! Of course I did not object, but it showed the strange delight young women have in humiliating and punishing males.

It always gives me pleasure to recall my greatest success with a call-girl. She had advertised her availability for straight sex and hand relief, and upon knocking at her door found myself in the presence of an enchantingly beautiful woman of my own height if not an inch taller. She had blonde hair piled loosely on her head, bold eyes, a firm mouth and chin, and obvious self confidence. I realized at once that this was a woman who ought to be in FemDom. I enquired if she offered "discipline" which she denied with the observation, "I wouldn't do that, my darling, I don't think it's right, women shouldn't". Simple as that."

As I turned away I said it was to be regretted, I was prepared to pay X pounds, a sum which was about four times what she would get for straight sex, and at that she called me back. "Oh well, I suppose business has been a bit slack lately," she admitted, "what would I have to do?"

"Just imagine you administer the punishments at a women's prison. I am a depraved sex offender sent to you by the courts to receive six strokes before beginning my sentence at a male institution. How would you go about it?"

"Oh, if you put it like that it sounds quite fun" she said cheerfully, "only thing is, I haven't got a cane or stick." I had passed some trees in the street from which the parks department had been lopping off branches and twigs and said I would go and select a suitable one. A half hour later I was back in the bedroom which she reserved for her clients in their more normal pursuits, and stripped naked for her.

"Look, I've been thinking about what you said," she warned me. "You can back out now if you want to. I really want to get the feel of this part and punish you just as if you were a sex offender, but I don't know my own strength."

I assured her I would go through with it. I had been caned times without number by when I was twenty years of age, all as part of the game with women, but this particular whipping with a rod of hazel made me gasp with pain. After six strokes she told me to stay down as she thought four of them had not been hard enough, and I had to endure a repeat. At last she allowed me up, her cheeks flushed with enjoyment. She seemed intoxicated by what she had done, her eyes were full of light, and her voice had a strange, caressing quality. She ignored my obvious pain and took down some details from me.

A few weeks later I was surprised to receive a letter. She wrote that the experience had changed the way she viewed things. She had started to build up a "discipline clientele" with a female partner. She now had "some notoriety" with the birch, and should I call by the address any Sunday or Monday my first session would be free of charge.

The following Sunday of course I took her up on her offer. I was admitted by her co-partner, a young Parisienne, who invited me to undress and grinned at the sight of my upright penis. "He won't be so cocky once Madame Hazel has started on you," she said. 'Hazel' - she had taken her trade name from the whippy branch she had used on me - entered clad only in white fishnet stockings to just below her pubis. She had a thick tuft of dark blonde hair and cute breasts with small nipples and smiled when she saw me looking. "Rule of the house - look but don't touch," she told me.

'Hazel' showed me the birch she was going to use. It was a wicked bundle of seven long whippy hazel twigs which she then stood in a bucket of water. The water prevented the buttocks becoming too raw but also increased the weight of the birch twigs to inflame the buttocks. She placed me over a kind of low frame and told me the punishment was twenty strokes. I was to count the strokes aloud. One stroke every fifteen seconds. By the tenth stroke the build-up had so inflamed my bottom cheeks, making them so tender and burn so fiercely, that I could take no more. I begged for a respite.

There was an awful silence. I had failed to observe the submissive's code. I had proved to be a wimp. Hazel said that her co-partner the French girl would allow me a five-minute respite, then start the punishment again from the very beginning, twenty strokes, but twice as hard. She counselled me "not to interrupt the French girl like you did me, my dear. You must go through with it".

Mademoiselle Annette, a pretty, dark-haired girl in her early twenties, was keenly appreciative of the humorous situation. "M'sieur is ze wimp, n'est-ce pas? Eh bien, now I shall make you wish you had never heard of la France." Her words seemed to animate her face. I had always disliked the French and I felt sure this was going to do nothing to change my opinion of them. I was right. Annette was a vicious, sadistic bitch and made every stroke count. Apparently she had had several years of practice at it. I gritted my teeth - no folded rag to bite on! - and suffered the agony of it in silence, determined to hang on to the end.

"Vingt! There we are!" she said at last, and gazed at me with what looked like admiration. "You must disregard what Hazel says. To survive twenty strokes from Annette without begging for mercy tells me you are not a wimp. I would like you as my private slave."

I had no desire to find employment in that role in some French flagellation brothel and declined her kind offer. My theory, after the thirty strokes lashed out by Hazel and Annette, was that FemDom is a natural component of the female psyche allied to the maternal instinct. The female may not be deadlier than the male, but she certainly enjoys it when she has sovereignty over him.

I read an article in the magazine Mistress which set out the simple and highly desirable path a male has to follow to convert "the typical girl of today" into a dominatrix. He must "convince her that she has the ability to dominate him and, having done so, realize that she will never take one step back." How true this was I discovered in the future, as I shall relate in the concluding part of my story.

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