Thomas Lavalle's Blog, page 5

LEO: CUCKOLDING IN A MATRIARCHAL HOME

(Note from Thomas Lavalle: Last August this blog published, in three parts, the fond reminiscence of “Leo,” a 58-year-old submissive male, about coming of age in a strict matriarchal clan headed by his mother and her sister. In this continuation, Leo recalls how, in his early teens, he discovered that his mother regularly cuckolded his father, and, amazingly, how his father seemed to accept this humiliation almost as a badge of pride.)
I was 14 years old or so when I first realized that Mom had lovers. She used to go out some weekends and sometimes not come home until the next day. In my naivete at that age I thought she spent those nights with some of her girlfriends or with my aunt (her sister), but one night something happened that made me understand the reality about Mom’s erotic  wanderings.
It was a rainy night, I’m thinking around three a.m., when I heard Mom come home. From my room I heard the front door open abruptly downstairs and then my mother’s high heels clicking on the wooden floor of the front hall. Next I heard Dad moving downstairs, hurrying from the living room, perhaps anticipating what came next—his wife's angry voice.   “Where are you, idiot! “ she roared.  “It's raining and you’re not able to come out to meet me with an umbrella? You good-for-nothing! “
As I noted in my earlier postings about growing up in a strict matriarchal home, it had become a habit, perhaps a compulsion, for me to eavesdrop on some of my parents’ intimate conversations and interactions, some of which, as I have admitted, I found extremely arousing.
 “I'm sorry d-d-dear,” my father stammered, “I'm r-really sorry, I—”
Dad's cringing apology was silenced with a strong slap. Mom was really angry, I realized. But, instead of being troubled, I have to confess that I liked knowing that Mom was angry and that she was about to assert her supreme power and authority over my father.
Now let me pause to point out that this was in the early ‘70s, when the miniskirt was just becoming fashionable. Let me also note that Mom, who was in her mid-30s back then, was always a strikingly beautiful woman who relished the impact she had on the weaker male sex. In fact, she used to be openly seductive in those sexy outfits she wore, such as miniskirts, leather boots and low-cut blouses that attracted the eyes of every man in view.
Now I heard her start to climb the stairs, followed by Dad’s lighter tread. I had no trouble visualizing where his eyes would be! He would be incapable of taking his eyes off the voluptuous body of his stunning wife preceding him up the stairs. The following exchange carried up the stairwell, every word crystal clear:
“You're not going to ask me how my night was?” my mother called out with stinging sarcasm.
 “I hope you had a good night, dear,” came Dad’s reply.
“Oh, I did! I truly did! In fact, my night was just fantastic! I was dancing and having some drinks with a very handsome guy. And then we went to...  Well, I guess you can imagine where we went, can’t you, dearest?”
As Mom and Dad reached the second floor and started down the corridor past my room, I eased my door shut and put my ear close against it.
“I asked you a question, cuckold!” Mom demanded. “Answer me!”
A chill ran down my spine. Mom had called Dad a “cuckold!” Yes, I had a pretty graphic idea what that word meant from conversations at school with certain boys. A cuckold, they’d said, was a “wimp,” a “henpecked” guy who allowed his wife to fuck other men.
But there was a slight problem with their definition. It didn’t exactly fit my mother and father. Obviously Mom cuckolded Dad no matter if he  “allowed “ it or not. In fact, it was obvious he had no say at all in the matter! And it was evident from the tone of deep shame in Dad’s voice that he was feeling humiliated by his sexy wife while she was having fun taunting and bragging about the fact that she’d been out fucking another guy until three in the
morning!
That night I realized what it really means to be totally subjugated under the superiority of a woman. In a sudden flash of submissive understanding, I saw my father not as a “wimp”—not in the way that insult is usually intended, or the way the boys at school had meant. I saw my father instead as a kind of masculine role model who was “man enough” to accept his natural inferiority to women. An inferiority that I, too, felt, deep in my soul.
I’m in my late fifties now, but that realization has stayed with me ever since. Over time I realized that when Mom or my aunt or even my sister called  my father or uncle a “cuckold” or  “wimp,” that they were doing it to remind them of their inferior status, a status where humility, silence and obedience are masculine virtues that all need to be reinforced again and again.
Let me add here that, although my mother and my aunt were highly educated, enlightened and classy women, sometimes they deliberately employed a crudeness of vocabulary with their husbands. I have since learned that this is quite typical of women who rule their husbands and families with a firm hand. As my Mother used to say, “A woman can treat her men how she pleases, period.”
I encourage other men, and women, to share their experiences about living in strict matriarchal households. Over the years I've had several online friends in the lifestyle, but that was several years ago back when Yahoo! groups were the best and almost the only alternative to meet like-minded people, and unfortunately I lost contact with these online companions some years back.
In closing, let me emphasize again how much I came to admire my father for his unconditional subservience to my mother. In fact, I believe that he came to take a certain submissive pride in being her cuckold, although it was obvious that it could also be deeply humbling and painful for him to have her throw it in his face so frequently. But for my father, I am convinced, this was another way of demonstrating his reverence and veneration for the woman he loved with all his submissive soul.

 --Leo

ARTHUR: VIGNETTES FROM MY SUBMISSIVE LIFE IN A MATRIARCHAL HOUSEHOLD

When Miss Ling goes to work each morning, she requires me to open the driveway gate, then to close it after she drives through. Now, to understand what happened this morning, you need to know that for the past month Miss Ling has required me to wear only a shirt to bed and nothing else—no bottom, no underwear.
This morning, as it happened, I was still in bed when Miss Ling was ready to leave, so I jumped out of bed and hurried outside to open the gate. Miss Ling giggled, reminding me that I had no pants. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled the shirt down lower. She asked me to turn around so she could see what, if anything, was visible below the shirt. Her older daughter (Miss D), I should add, had just left, while her younger daughter (Miss A) was still asleep.
As Miss Ling was driving through, she lowered her window and said I was to be dressed like this when opening the gate from now on. She said it in a serious manner, so I bowed and said “Yes, ma'am.” She gave me a power smile, then giggled and drove on.
***
It is such a privilege to serve the magnificent Miss Ling and her two lovely daughters. I know how lucky I am. And just being able to see those six lovely feet each day is a wonderful reminder to me of my role in this matriarchal household.
Yesterday Miss A (aged 14) showed me her fingers with a new color polish she had just applied. They looked good and I told her so. Then I looked at her beautiful bare feet, which were not polished, and suggested that perhaps I should apply the same polish to those, too, as they should match.  Miss A smiled and said “Maybe.” I said we could even try different colors on each toe. Again, giggles. One day soon I hope I am rewarded with the opportunity.
***
This morning Miss A handed me her white tennis shoes and asked if I would clean them and dry them so she could take them with her on a school trip in the afternoon.
I thanked her for the privilege and took the shoes. Miss Ling has a special soap for this, I knew, but I didn't know where it was kept, so asked her. I was so glad I did ask Miss Ling, as she told me that only the rubber portions—the toe, along the sides and back—needed cleaning, so I had to take pains not to get them wet as they wouldn’t dry in time. Miss Ling found the soap, then got a toothbrush and showed me exactly how she wanted me to clean them. I followed her instructions, and they looked good and I dried them in the sun.
Later, when dry, I put them in Miss A’s room where she would see them.
Later Miss Ling told me that the toothbrush she handed me to use on her daughter’s shoes was mine!
***
About a month ago, Miss Ling decided that I would sleep at her feet on Thursday nights. I recall that when I first assumed this position and was fully accessible to her feet for kisses, I asked her if she was worried that one of the girls would walk in (they have full access to our bedroom).
No, Miss Ling wasn't worried, pointing out that they have both seen me kiss her feet before, as well as having had theirs kissed. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, Miss A quietly opened the door, whispered something to her mother, went to the bathroom to get something, and then left the room.
During this interruption, I stopped worshipping, but Miss Ling continued to wiggle her foot, signaling me to continue, which I obediently did. Miss A saw it all, but, exactly as her mother predicted, took it in stride and said nothing. Miss Ling and I eventually fell asleep, with me hugging her beautiful feet.
I look forward to Thursday nights!

*

ARTHUR: MY FIANCÉE ARRANGES PRE-WEDDING WAXINGS, No. 8

Not long ago Miss Ling made arrangements for her younger daughter (age 14) to have her very first pedicure, then informed me that I would be accompanying them to the nearby spa, which offers pedicures and manicures, facials and massage, in addition to waxing. While Miss A was having her feet soaked, Miss Ling began a rapid-fire exchange with several of the spa ladies, including the owner, a very elegant and well-dressed woman in high, high heels. All this talk was in their native tongue, which of course I could not understand.
I did, however, manage to catch one word—“Brazilian.” So it was not a total surprise when Miss Ling turned to explain me that they’d been discussing waxing. Not just for herself, mind you, but for me, as well.
"They will do you,” she said, “for—” And she quoted a local price that equaled about $18. That was a bargain price, Miss Ling said, because she’d explained to the women that I had only light hair growth in my genital area, while hers was much heavier. The higher price for her waxing would be determined once they saw what it looks like. She had told the women that she wanted this done to give us both a fresh look for our wedding. “Of course, I told them that you are always happy to go along with whatever I say, so please turn to the ladies now and bow and nod your head several times.”
I did as told, and the spa ladies all had a good laugh over this.
So, while Miss A’s pedicure was still going on, I followed my ruling wife-to-be into the adjoining waxing room. Miss Ling ordered me to remove my pants and underwear and lie on the table, which was pointed directly toward the door. The door was still open at that point, and there was one other customer just outside, a young woman getting a facial, who obviously could hear everything we were saying—and see inside by simply turning her head.
Off came my pants and underwear, in front of Miss Ling and the waxing technician, an attractive and courteous woman about forty, who was also one of the spa pedicurists. This woman now placed a modesty towel over me before she going over to close the door, but a moment later the towel was whisked away so she could begin working on me.
Miss Ling remained, both to watch and offer occasional assistance, and she and the waxing woman chatted continually. As the woman began trimming my genital hair with scissors, Miss Ling turned to me and said the technician had been asking about my previous waxing experience. Miss Ling had explained that she’d had me waxed once before, during our early courtship, but now that our wedding was coming up, she wanted me done again.
“He will look and feel more naked this way,” she told the technician, “and more under my control.” Miss Ling said she told the woman that I was the type of man who deeply respected women and preferred to be with a type of woman who could exercise firm control. Apparently the technician very much enjoyed hearing all about who was boss and who obeyed in our relationship.
Several times during this conversation, the woman glanced over at me, but never spoke directly to me, only to Miss Ling. Apparently she told Miss Ling that it seemed very obvious that I was a subordinate, and Miss Ling agreed that was very much the case.
Another time during the session the technician left the room, and this time left the door slightly ajar—and didn’t even bother to cover me. Before she returned and closed the door again, two staffers passed by and looked in to see me lying naked with my legs spread.
I must say the technician was an expert waxer. She had no shyness about handling my penis or testicles (though Miss Ling did help out by stretching my testicles when the time came for them to be waxed). After a while, apparently satisfied that I was in capable hands, Miss Ling left to see how her daughter was doing with her pedicure, then returned when it was time to wax the area between the testicles and anus.
Miss Ling then asked the woman if she wanted my legs raised over my head to make the area more accessible. But as the technician said that wasn’t necessary, as she had already instructed me to lift my buttocks off the table and to spread my legs wide. I did, however, get the impression that the woman appreciated the directness of Miss Ling’s question. It showed that Miss Ling definitely wanted all my hair removed.  (I learned later that while some local women like to have this area waxed, mostly it’s foreigners who do it. Except for local “ladyboys,” who also have it done frequently.)
All in all, Miss Ling seemed very comfortable allowing the female technician to take control of my private parts for a good half-hour. Once the procedure was finally done, the technician rubbed in a solution to clean the just-waxed areas and another cream to reduce itching. (It worked, as I have had none since.) At this point the woman indicated to Miss Ling that I was finished and could get dressed.
As I started to obey, Miss Ling gave me a sharp look and told me to remain where I was, fully exposed. Then she turned back to the woman and they spoke for several minutes. The woman smiled, then laughed, and finally covered her mouth shyly at what Miss Ling was saying.  Finally Miss Ling turned back to me and told me it was “time to properly thank your Waxer.” I nodded, and bowed formally to the woman, expressing my thanks. Miss Ling shook her head and repeated the word “properly!” in a louder voice, pointing to the floor. So I kneeled at the woman's feet, bowed and thanked her. Again Miss Ling repeated the word “properly!” The woman was just standing still and smiling and watching me as I looked up to Miss Ling. Then I lowered my face to the woman’s pretty, well-pedicured bare feet and kissed both fervently and once more muttered my thanks.
This time Miss Ling approved and instructed me to get dressed. But she admonished me and said that next time I must obey immediately. “Yes,” I answered, “I will obey and I am sorry.” But my apology and promise was not sufficient. Miss Ling informed me I would be punished when we got home.
I think the technician, who was closely observing this, had a pretty good idea of what was going on. But just to be sure, Miss Ling now turned and translated my scolding to her, word for word. The technician nodded and smiled, then smiled at me and pointed to her own feet and politely thanked me for my special thanks.
It was Miss Ling’s turn to be waxed now. She asked me if I wanted to stay and watch, and of course I said “yes!” Actually, I was extremely excited by this prospect, and Miss Ling could see that, I’m sure.

As Miss Ling had mentioned earlier, her own genital hair growth was much more luxuriant than mine, so there was a lot of scissor work to start with. Miss Ling informed the technician that a previous treatment had caused itching in her vagina, and so the area was examined and the problem discussed in detail. This was all pretty hot from my standpoint. Although I couldn’t understand the actual discussion, I could make a pretty educated guess when my lovely bride-to-be spread her lower lips to show the girl precisely where the problem was.
After a while, despite my obvious preference to stay, I was dismissed from the room and told to wait outside and sit next to Miss A and observe how her pedicurist was doing her job. As I left, I heard both females laughing at another comment Miss Ling had just made, obviously relating to me.


Finally Miss Ling came out, announcing that her waxing had cost twenty-five percent more than had mine. Later, after I had paid for both waxings and for Miss A’s pedicure, plus generous tips all around, Miss Ling told me that the technician who’d worked on us was an employee of the shop, but was soon hoping to leave and open her own studio. She and Miss Ling had exchanged phone numbers in order to keep in touch. The idea, Miss Ling told me, was that a waxing every few months would have less complications and aftereffects.
In the lobby, as we waited to go home, Miss A got an earful of information from her mother about my waxing experience, and about my proper and respectful demeanor in the presence of the other women.
Quite an exciting day, all around!

*

DEBRA’S SON: GUIDELINES FOR GYNARCHIC OR MATRIARCHAL FAMILIES

I’ve been asked to share some thoughts on the family dynamics of a gynarchic or matriarchal household. First, let me make clear that the following is based solely on my personal life experiences described elsewhere on this blog. This makes mine a somewhat informed, experienced opinion, I’d argue, but an opinion nonetheless. In my examples, I’ll use a family formed by a Wife, husband and children for convenience only. These suggestions can apply to any family type.
To rein in my tendency toward long-windedness, I’m going to use a trite but hopefully effective aid to put my few random thoughts in some sort of order—the anagram. In this case, the anagram is W*O*M*A*N.
The first letter, “W,” stands for Wisdom.
I don’t believe it’s wise to post just a set of gynarchic principles on the wall, no matter how clear and precise, and expect everybody in the household to follow them or be punished. A cult-like isolation is required for such a method by itself to be effective. In the modern world, our kids are influenced by the Internet, their peers, celebrities, teachers, the watchful eyes of various officials, and a thousand other things.
Our ideas regarding female superiority must compete with mainstream culture and win. This is where wisdom comes in. If I could give only one sentence of advice it would be this: TEACH BY EXAMPLES FIRST, AND CONCEPTS SECOND. We have to show our kids that gynarchy works in a practical sense. All adult males in the household, be they fathers, brothers, uncles, “mannies” or non-familial servants, have to show that serving and obeying females is a privilege, as well as a fulfilling and proper way of life.
An adult male ought to go about his chores cheerfully during the day and expect the younger males to help him as a matter of course. It’s not so different from the older patriarchal practice of women taking pride in their culinary and housekeeping skills, and passing that pride and skill on to their daughters. A male needs to show pride and skill in everything from managing the mundane task of monthly bill paying, to fixing a teenager’s broken heel, to cleaning the commode (and keeping the seat down), depending on what the ladies of the house want and expect of him.
As for concepts, they can be taught formally, of course, from any number of sources, just as religious parents teach their kids from scriptures. But in my experience, informal chats and musings are at least as effective, probably more so. For example, let’s say a father or manny is preparing a favorite dessert of Mom’s or of one of the girl’s. One or more boys are helping him. There’s a radio or TV on, reporting some major or minor wrong against a woman by a male (there’s never a shortage of such reports) . Depending on the story, the father might say, “Men like that are a big part of what’s wrong with this world. Look at the way he treated her. The gall! He really thinks he has the right to do that. Real men know better. Real men know that everyone would be a lot happier if women were in charge and led the way.” A boy of any age can learn something from nonchalant comments like these. Girls too, if they’re nearby.
Having said the above, let me admit that formal instruction is vital. We ought to be able to defend our way of life to our kids the same as anybody else. We can use older texts like those mentioned elsewhere on this blog, as well as contemporary ones such as Sheila Ellison’s (ed.) If Women Ruled the World , or Donlan and Graves’ Her Turn: Why It’sTime for Women to Lead in America. A word of caution, though. Don’t get caught up in endless debate with a child. A sharp boy (or girl, for that matter) can pick holes in the most coherent philosophy just for the thrill of it. If that happens, you need to say something like, “That’s enough. This is how we do things here. If you don’t see the wisdom of it now, you might when you get older.”
“O” is for Oversight.
If you’re a male with some authority in the home, you should make sure it’s known by all that everything you do or want done is ordered or sanctioned by the female(s) in charge. In my experience, indicating this fact repeatedly through casual chitchat is effective. For example, you’re moving furniture around, and you might say, within earshot of the kids, something like, “All right. Mom wants this table moved over here, because she and Haley need more room when they do Pilates. Tim, Danny, take the other end and lift. Mom will be back soon, so we better get this done.”
Any male you enlist to help must be aware of who is really in charge, and the younger they are when they learn this, the better. If you’re not sure of what to do, say, “We have to ask Mom” or “Mom needs to know about this,” and, of course, “Wait till Mom comes home!” ought to be a classic phrase in the matriarchal household.
Now, if phrases like those above are repeated enough, I can almost guarantee that before long a child is going to say something like, “Is Mom the boss here?” Your response should be a firm, serious, “Yes, Mom is the boss here.” Say it as though it’s the most natural thing in the world (as it really is), conveying the fact that you wouldn’t want it any other way. If the child wants to know why, give him or her intelligent reasons, but as I mentioned above, don’t get caught up in an argument. Make it clear that we adults think that matriarchy is better for everyone, and that’s the way it’s going to be.
“M” is for Maturity.
Again, setting an example is key. An adult male should not complain about his lot. Don’t grouse or show resentment over the sacrifices you have to make and the orders you have to obey. And, above all, don’t use the children as confidants for your venting. You agreed to live in a matriarchal household, so suck it up. If you have concerns or problems, take them up with the appropriate female, according to the procedure she’s laid down. You are subordinate, and you have to bear that with cheerful, stoic perseverance and pride, as an example to everyone else in the household.
Females are going to have more privileges from birth, and will gain ever more authority as they mature. It is up to you to show the other males how to react. It’s likely that girls will have the bigger bedrooms, more privacy and downtime, more autonomy and money, and, as soon as they are able, the privilege of command. To use a military parallel, you might be an experienced master sergeant, but as your adolescent daughter matures, she becomes a lieutenant, and you have to recognize her authority and obey her within the limits of reason and safety. All females are officers or officer candidates, and males are perpetually enlisted. Your job is to simultaneously aid your wife in teaching the “Officers” leadership skills while setting an example for the “enlisted” and preventing too much resentment among them.
I’ll take time now to mention the obvious. The most important foundation for everything else is love. Boys need to know their place, but they should never feel unloved or unwanted. If they get enough affection and attention, they will be a lot less likely to rebel against the established matriarchal household order. Sometimes it takes conscious effort on our part. As Gynarchists, Matriarchists, Female Supremacists, etc. (choose your term), our natural instinct is to favor the females in our lives, whatever their ages. That’s fine, but we should do it with wisdom and skill.
“A” is for Ancillary Aspects.
This is a broad topic, and I won’t spend much time on it because the details will vary among families. It includes whatever peripherally promotes gynarchy and female superiority. Everything from special ceremonies and celebrations, to art reproductions and decorations, to the books and magazines that lie around the house. I’ve mentioned a few examples from my own childhood in other posts, such as the celebration ceremony my family had when a girl reached menarche, the artwork depicting heroines from history and mythology, and classic books on matriarchy. Even hobbies and craft projects can be employed for this purpose. In my childhood home, a feminist spiritual atmosphere was prominent. I remember my mom having me help her create a small wall-hanging that put a twist on the famous religious quote. It said: “AS FOR ME AND MY HOUSE, WE WILL SERVE THE GODDESS.”

Again, however, these aspects will vary widely depending on the household. My wife has made it clear that while she wants to retain some Goddess symbolism, she prefers a more “secular” atmosphere overall. She’s going to emphasize more contemporary heroines from the STEM fields and athletics, and naturally I’ll follow her lead in this direction.
“N” is for Normalize.
Every idea and manifestation of matriarchy must be made a normal part of everyday life. Ideally, from the time your family is formed until the last person leaves or passes, female rule and privilege should run through everyone’s life like a string through the beads of a necklace. There would be no necklace without the string, and there would be no family without matriarchy. Like the string, matriarchy might not always be blatantly visible to outsiders, but it will be there, holding the family together.
There’s no one way to achieve this, of course, but in my opinion, a stable, productive household atmosphere, routine but not boring or stultifying, is vital. Males need to know what is expected of them, and females need guidance to enable them to enjoy their power and privilege within the family as early as possible. The senior adults of the family, regardless of gender, need to have their act together. That’s not always possible, but it should be the goal, because if there’s too much dysfunction (I’m thinking of things like drug abuse) among those in charge, matriarchy won’t save the family. Speaking of things that are not always possible, any matriarchal family needs to try hard to find at least one other functional matriarchal or gynarchic family. The sense of community, even among only a couple of families, can have tremendous benefits that are too obvious to need explaining.
Our household now consists of my wife, myself, a son, and a daughter on the way. Using what I’ve learned from my own childhood and from helping raise my nieces, I’m trying to take my own advice—that is, I’m trying to set a good example above all. Her son is only 3, but he already sees that his mother has supreme authority in our home. He watches her tell her older husband what to do and he sees me do it with cheerfulness and alacrity. We want to normalize female authority for him, so when he faces the situation in the future when his younger sister becomes a “lieutenant” and he’s still a “private,” he’ll see it as simply the way things are done. And if we’re successful in getting across the reasons why, and showing how well and happy our family can be, he’ll see it as the way things ought to be done.


To me that’s the most important thing: Passing gynarchy onto the next generation.
*

ARTHUR: WEDDING PHOTOS & PROPER PROTOCOL IN PUBLIC, No. 7

Two weeks ago we had a photo session for our upcoming nuptials with me dressed in a borrowed suit. (Since all my dress clothes are still back in the U.S., I'm having a suit made for the wedding, but it isn't ready yet). The three “girls” were all dressed up and made up and looking particularly beautiful. Then, yesterday afternoon, Miss Ling informed me that we all had to go to the wedding shop to look at the pictures and select the best one to be framed for the reception. So off we went, and the selection was made, a large photo, probably around 20 by 20, with Miss Ling, of course, casting the deciding vote.
Then it came to choosing the frame. We couldn't agree, and, risking insubordination, I respectfully pressed my point. In my view (though I didn’t actually say this) her choice was, stylistically, right out of the 1950s. But in this Asian country, there are culture issues at stake, and Miss Ling did not understand my objection. But, rather than make a scene, and seeing that several of the female staff in the shop seemed to agree with me, she informed me, in front of all, that she would allow me to choose, but that this was the last time I would ever have my way. Well, there was loud laughter all around at that! Miss Ling and her daughters and I were sitting side by side, with the wedding shop staff around us. To emphasize her statement, Miss Ling pointed down to her bare foot. When she does that, it is her signal for me to stop talking and to listen to her. It can also be her signal to kneel or to kiss her foot. I stopped talking.
Later, after we had left the shop, I asked her about the finger pointing. Did I react properly, or did she want me to kneel and kiss her foot to show my obedience? She said that I should have gotten on my knees and bowed, but without a foot kiss. She said that, with younger people present, including her daughters as well people in their twenties to forties, it would be appropriate for me to promptly obey her order and kneel so all could see her power and my obedience. And that is the response that she will expect from me from now on. But with older people more her Mother's age, such a submissive response from me would be viewed as disrespectful to them as they would not have seen that and might be embarrassed by it. While younger people, if unfamiliar with such public male deference, would perhaps simply ask, “Why is he kneeling?” Which would give Miss Ling the opportunity to talk about an FLR and all its advantages.

I said that I understood and I apologized for questioning her choice, and then for my inadequate response to her hand signal. I suggested, for future reference, that if I ever fail to react to her signal properly, she simply say “Down!” If she wants me to also kiss her foot, then she should raise it close to my face. That would solve any misunderstanding. She agreed to that and went on to say that she thinks she will be doing this more at home, as well. I agreed that this is a good idea as it will help the girls get good training themselves in male-control, and they will of course be pleased to witness the way their mother continues to have the upper hand over me.
As for why no public foot kiss, Miss Ling explained that that is only allowed in front of her daughters and perhaps close friends, but not at a place of business. I did not mention that, a couple of years ago, I was told by Miss Ling to kiss her foot when helping her choose new shoes in a shoe store—and in presence of the young female clerk.
I didn't bring it up because I believe that not only can women change their mind at any time, but that they are also free to amend their rules at any time.
*

ARTHUR: A SPECIAL VALENTINE’S DAY IN OUR MATRIARCHAL HOME, No. 6

(Arthur’s continues the account of his submissive courtship of the dominant Miss Ling in the lead-up to their matriarchal marriage, and his ongoing devotional service to Miss Ling's two live-in daughters from a previous marriage.)
When Miss Ling marries me and we build a house together, which we both want to do, the plan is for a separate small building for the Power Room, sort of like a mother-in-law suite. (Note: The Power Room is a separate room that Miss Ling uses for my discipline sessions, giving me a serious talking-to, etc. It has one chair for her to sit, and a second chair that I lean over when being spanked, caned, etc.; otherwise I kneel at her feet. I have mentioned to Miss Ling that I would also like to have a proper pedicure chair in the Power Room, and perhaps a massage table as well, and she seems agreeable.)
Before Miss Ling’s two daughters (Miss A, age 14, and Miss D, age 23) came to live with us, the rule was that I was always to be kept naked in the Power Room. Obviously having a separate building for our intimate rituals would give Miss Ling more privacy to express her feelings, wishes, demands and frustrations. She says she is also thinking about adding another chair or two, or perhaps even a sofa, because “You never know, I may have guests.”
The implication is quite clear. At some point I am sure the girls will be invited to witness my discipline sessions (with me clothed, of course) and maybe receive some training themselves in proper execution of discipline of the male. Perhaps one or two of Miss Ling’s cousins or even a few close friends will be invited in to witness how our matriarchal marriage is conducted.
I don't think the girls will be given authority to discipline me outright, at least not yet. More likely they will be encouraged to report any faults or misbehaving or disrespect to their Mother, who will decide what to do, in consultation with them. And if it's decided that I am to be disciplined, I am certain one or both will attend the Power Room session and perhaps even be given the cane or crop to use.
I confess that just thinking about all this can be a bit overwhelming! Like everything else in my future, it is all in Miss Ling’s hands.
*
Tuesday, of course, was Valentine’s Day—the first one for me with all three “girls.” Miss Ling told her girls that Papa had something for them for Valentine’s Day and would give it to them after dinner. So, after dinner, I was told it was time to celebrate Valentine’s and I was instructed to go to the Power Room. Normally, when I hear these words, I must strip naked and, in the Room, wait for her, kneeling with face to the floor, facing towards the door. This time she said I could sit in the chair and wait for them.
I immediately gathered my small gifts and cards and did as she ordered. Five minutes later the three girls came in. I immediately stood as Miss Ling sat in the chair. The girls stood on either side. Miss Ling told me to kneel before  her. Her daughters giggled as I obeyed. She told the girls that I had something to say, then looked at me and said, “Okay, honey.”
I said that this was a very special Valentine’s Day and how lucky I am to have three Valentines to whom I may say “I love you,” and also that I am privileged to serve. And then to Miss Ling I added a special love message about how lucky I am to be married very soon and how I know I will be in good hands for the rest of my life to serve her, to obey her and to be trained and punished as she wishes in order to make me a better person. As I said these words Miss Ling looked at her daughters and all were smiling brightly.
Then I handed to each a Valentine’s card with a message similar to what I had just said aloud. There was also a small amount of money in each envelope, which they liked, of course. Then I gave to each a small gift: To Miss D a bar of coconut soap, which is supposed to be very good for the skin; to Miss A, a tube of special body lotion; and to Miss Ling a natural shampoo health product. All gifts related to their bodies to keep them “lookin’ good.”
I then asked them if I had forgotten anything? Miss A said that chocolate is customarily given on Valentine’s Day along with flowers. “Ah yes,” I said, “I forgot.” Then I looked in my bag and  said, “Wait a minute.” And pulled out three nicely wrapped brownies fresh from the local bakery. They loved that. Then I said. “One more thing. Come outside a minute.'” And mother and daughters all  followed me to the garden and saw three hanging plants with decorative message and clay hearts. This, too, I was happy to see pleased them very much.
Then Miss Ling told us all to return to the Power Room for one more thing. The girls giggled again. Inside, I was instructed by Miss Ling to kneel before her again. She said that she and her daughters wanted to thank me for my thoughtful gifts and heartfelt words. “We are very pleased at what you have done,” she said, “and here is your special reward.” With that, Miss Ling extended one bare foot for me to kiss, then the other, and I gave each of her lovely feet a long devotional kiss. Then she turned and nodded to Miss D, who extended a bare foot to be kissed, then the other. Miss A continued to giggle and certainly did not have to be told what to do. She, too, extended a lovely bare foot, then the other, to be kissed. After each kiss, I made sure to say, “Thank you.”
It was a very special Valentine’s Day, one I will never forget. I am such a lucky man.
Remember, men, that women all over the world like to be told that they are special, and that they like and deserve to be treated with respect and devotion. Many women—more and more, in my opinion—also like to be obeyed. Matriarchy gives women the power to ensure that husbands remain always true to their word and faithful. Female power is a wonderful thing! I wish more women—and their males—understood this!
*

ARTHUR: HOW WILL MISS LING SHOW HER POWER AT OUR WEDDING? Post. No. 5

(Arthur’s continues the journal of his submissive courtship of  the dominant Miss Ling in the lead-up to their matriarchal marriage, and his increasing service to Miss Ling's two live-in daughters from a previous marriage, Miss A, age 14, and Miss D, age 23.—Thomas Lavalle)
Yesterday Miss Ling went looking at wedding outfits with a girlfriend who got married two years ago. They had a lot of fun, girls’ time together.
This morning in bed I asked her if she was planning to show her power at the wedding. She looked at me for a few seconds, then said “Secret.” I asked her if she had discussed something like this with her friend. She smiled and said “Yes,” so I may be in for a shock. I said I think her friend has the power. Miss Ling agreed that was true. I asked her if they discussed their female power in their relationships. She said that they did, but would say no more about it. Damn!
I’m pretty sure she wants to show her power in some manner in front of all, but how, I don't know. It’s a pretty vanilla group, and it's a conservative Asian culture. But a show of power would do wonders for Miss Ling’s standing in her family, and also with the girls’ standing with their female cousins.
And of course I think back to our proposal ceremony, and especially the part where I was ordered to kiss the feet of both girls as well as Miss Ling. That was such a very special moment, never to be forgotten by any of us. I wish and hope it will happen again, and that it could become a regular ritual in our matriarchal family.
Meanwhile I'm becoming quite diligent with my laundry duties for all three ladies. Miss D prefers to do her own wash and hand-washes some underwear. But I am permitted to do her ironing after her clothes are dry.
The other day Miss D told me she had no work shirts and had to borrow one of her mother's. After she left for work, I retrieved her dirty laundry, washed and ironed all her work shirts and pants and left them neatly folded on her bed, along with her folded underwear. I also cleaned her shoes and flip flops. During all of this, I was sinking deeper and deeper into submission. When Miss D returned from work and saw all her neatly folded clothes, she gave me a big smile and thanks. I wanted to kneel at her feet at that moment to properly thank her for not being mad that I had done this without permission and to tell her that thanks are not necessary as my duty is to serve her, her sister and her Mom. But I didn’t!
However, because of her pleased reaction, I am assuming that I now have permission going forward to do her laundry. Maybe I will ask her just to be clear. If she says yes, then that will give me the opportunity to ask if she wants me to hand-wash anything. I can mention that her Mother tells me when she wants anything hand-washed. And as for Miss D’s younger sister, Miss A, she now takes my laundry service for granted, including asking me to iron specific items immediately when she wishes to wear them.
Miss Ling has taken my laundry service, or subservience, much farther. A year or so ago she would place her clothes on the bed, no matter where she took them off. I suggested politely that she simply leave them on the floor for me to pick up and put in the laundry room, that she need not remind me, that I would be pleased to help relieve her of this simple task, and that I felt this was another way a man can serve a woman.
Her response was quick and decisive. “I like that,” she announced. “Yes, that will be your job, but I expect my clothes to be picked up promptly.”
I responded with a quick “Yes, Ma’am” and a thank-you. She initiated the procedure that very day, casually dropping her clothes on the floor, and this is now an every-day, or every-night, routine. It would be great if the girls followed their Mother’s lead, but so far she has not instructed them to do so. I do pick up Miss A’s dirty clothes out of the hamper in her room, and, as I mentioned, am hoping to begin doing the same with Miss D.
*
Today I took Miss D to the airport. She has a four-day break and went back to her home town. I asked her if she was being picked up when she lands. She said no, but would call a male friend. I suggested that she call the friend now, before she takes off, so he can be waiting when she lands.
“You are learning from your mother that the man must always serve the women,” I said respectfully, “so here is a way you can teach him his proper role, and you don’t have to wait for him to show up.”
If you begin to think this way, I went on, in time it will be natural for you, and natural too, for some of your men friends to be under your control if they want to please you. Not all men, of course, but more and more men are seeing the light.
Miss D is still a bit confused with this FLR approach, as this is alien to her culture, but she seems to like what she hears.
I also told Miss D that I had noticed a big load of dirty laundry in her room when I was picking up the trash from her wastebasket. I asked if she would “allow” me to take care of her laundry while she is away. She smiled and said yes, and thanked me. I reminded her that I am here to serve all three of them, just as we discussed on Proposal Day. I said that I want to do it and like to do it.
She smiled again and exclaimed “I  know!” I also told her that she need not be shy if she needs something or wants me to do something. “Just ask or instruct me. I want to serve.” She promised she would.
All in all it was a good discussion we had on the way to the airport. Tomorrow I will wash and iron some of her clothes and leave them neatly stacked on her bed, which will remind her of my proper function in the matriarchal household.
In fact, as soon I got home from the airport I went to clean her shoes, starting with her flip-flops. (BTW, a shoe cleaning always starts with a respectful kiss of each shoe at the toe and inside where the female's heel rests.)
 *

DEBRA’S SON: MATRIARCHAL MARRIAGE, Part 3 ~ OUR GYNARCHIC WEDDING

(As explained in the previous post, Shayna arranged for us to be legally married in a quick perfunctory civil ceremony attended by her parents and a few vanilla friends. What we consider our real wedding occurred later that day, attended only by my matriarchal family and a few of Shayna’s radical feminist friends. Shayna put it together, showcasing her unique combination of humor and dominance that I had fallen so completely in love with.)
Shayna wore a dark red satin blouse displaying her gorgeous cleavage, a tight black leather miniskirt, sheer nude hose and dark red, peeptoe, four-inch pumps. She dressed me in a regular man’s suit, but all white to symbolize my virginity. (Yes, it’s true; see the earlier postings.) Days before the wedding I had begged her not to announce the reason for the color in public.
She said, “Throughout time men have expected women to value virginity, so, sauce for the goose, Dave. Besides, our guest list is so small and select that everyone knows or suspects anyway.”End of discussion.
The Priestess at our wedding was Madison’s friend Angela, a solitary witch (i.e., not a member of a coven). She wore a long, red, wraparound dress. Shayna and I stood at the altar.
Angela read the lines below. Shayna and Angela wrote the vows, but most of the passages were selected and edited by my fiancée from English translations of the ancient Hindu text known as the The Laws of Manu. The twist was that anywhere words denoting males (husband, son, etc.) appeared, Shayna switched them with corresponding female pronouns:
“A boy, a young man, or even an old man should not do anything independently, even in his own house. In childhood a man should be under his mother’s control, in youth under his wife’s, and when his wife is dead, under his daughters’. A man should try not to separate himself from his mother, his wife, or his daughters, for his separation from them would make both families (his own and his wife’s) contemptible. He should always be cheerful and clever at his business; he should keep his household utensils polished and not have too free a hand in spending...
“A virtuous husband should be always faithful and constantly serve his wife like a goddess, even if she freely indulges her lust. A woman’s womb is her fertile soil and the seed comes from men. She owns her soil as a farmer owns land; she alone chooses the source of her seed regardless of her marital state. A virtuous husband will cherish the fruit of her womb no matter the source...
“Men, through their passion for women, their mutable temper, their natural heartlessness, they become destroyers, however carefully they may be guarded. But those men who of their own accord keep guard over themselves are well guarded. Be well guarded, then, David.”
I smiled sheepishly and nodded. There were lots of giggles and snickers from the guests.
“David, I understand that you come to Shayna a virgin, that you have never known a woman. Is this true?”
“Yes, Priestess.” (I felt my face redden and I could have crawled in 
hole.)
“Very Good. Congratulations, Shayna.”
[Hoots and giggles, mostly from Shayna’s friends.]
“Shayna, do you affirm that David is the man you have chosen for your lifelong helpmeet, to be your husband, that is, house-band, bound to your household in accordance with gynarchic principles, as you view them?”
“Yes, Priestess,” Shayna said.
The vows were next.
“David, do you promise to love, honor, cherish and OBEY [more giggles from the guests] Shayna, to live in her household, completely according to her rule, as she sees fit, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Shayna, do you promise to love, honor, and cherish David, always keeping him as part of your household, ruling him as you see fit—well, I don’t mean you can leave the boy with any long-term injuries—[laughter from the guests] for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
Angela said, “David, do you have the key?”
“Yes, Priestess.”
“Make your pledge.”
“With this key I give myself to you, Shayna, body, heart, mind, and spirit, forever.”
The key was my chastity key on a chain, and Shayna put the chain around her neck, letting the key dangle in her cleavage.
“With the power vested in me by the Goddess, I now pronounce you
Woman and husband. Shayna, you may kiss the groom.”
As Shayna kissed me, I never felt more submissive and owned by a woman in my life. The kiss was long and got more passionate as the guests laughed and applauded. We ended up soul kissing, and I surrendered to her tongue as she silently let me know that I belonged to her, absolutely, forever.
We kept kissing, and finally the Priestess stepped down from the altar. As she walked past us she slapped me on the backside and said, “Good luck, David, you’re gonna need it.” Shayna, without completely breaking our kiss, giggled and said, “Shut up, Angie.”
Though we hadn’t planned a reception, people hung around for awhile. Mom was cordial though reserved. I knew this ceremony hadn’t been solemn enough for her in terms of Goddess-worship, but I wasn’t going to defend Shayna’s decisions. We were beyond that now.
Shayna and I left as everyone wished us well. I felt great, but I was worried about that night. I was a 41-year-old man who was going to have sex for the first time. I always knew I was hetero, and had a high libido, but I had never touched a woman in a sexual manner. I was really afraid of not being able to maintain an erection. You would think it would be the opposite, that I’d be raring to go, but I had a bad feeling.
My fears weren’t unfounded. Shayna unlocked my chastity belt and started stroking me, but before we got very far I kept losing my erection over and over. I tried to explain things to her. She said she understood, but I believe deep down she was thinking, “This just proves my theory. I should have left well enough alone and made him keep his virginity. This won’t do either of us any good.”
I told her I thought it’d help if I gave her a massage. I started rubbing her beautiful feet and moved up to her toned legs, her gorgeous ass (“birthing hips” I thought at that moment, for no reason at all), her narrow waist and up her back. I had her turn over, and she looked so beautiful I stopped massaging and just started kissing her face and going down her neck. I stuck my nose in her cleavage and inhaled her scent. I spent a long time sucking her breasts and, as I did, I felt myself get really hard, and I let my erection throb against her leg.
I moved down to her midriff, and kissed all around her belly button for awhile. Then I went to her pussy, and had my first taste of ambrosia. Finally I felt relaxed enough to try entering her. I did, and she felt so great, like liquid velvet.
I could scarcely believe it. This is what I’d fantasized about for so long. Pure ecstasy. I couldn’t possibly hold back. In less than twenty seconds, I squirted what felt like a gallon. I was so happy I didn’t lose my erection that I said, “Oh, god, Shayna, that was so good, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to go again in no time, and I promise it’ll be longer.”
She said, “No.”
“What?” I replied, surprised.
“No.” Her tone was serious and resolute. “We’ve consummated our marriage. I kept my promise. That’s it for a long, long time.”
I didn’t say anything.
After a minute or so, she said, “Don’t look so mopy. You had to know I meant what I said.”
Pathetic as it might sound, I begged, “Please Shayna, let me clean you at least.”
She didn’t say a word and kept staring at the ceiling, but she spread her legs slightly. I took a chance that she meant yes, and started licking her thighs and pussy clean.
I couldn’t complain. She had made it clear before we married that I didn’t excite her in “that way,” and she was not going to be one of those women who had sex all the time out of duty. Intercourse with her was extremely rare after that night (my birthday and our anniversary, and they’re only two months apart!).
She does allow me to perform cunnilingus if I really beg for it. I just have to be intuitive and make sure I don’t pester her often. Occasionally she likes being begged, but usually she’s annoyed and I get nowhere.
One time I kept begging to lick her pussy and she said, “No, but you can lick my ass.”
That was okay—more than okay! I loved it! Diving deep between the cheeks of her heart-shaped ass and tonguing her rosebud were sheer heaven for me. 
As for enforced chastity, it’s still difficult, but I’ve learned to live with it. I have to take a break from even the specially made device sometimes, but I’ve learned to control myself (usually) when not wearing it. Shayna allows me two orgasms by masturbation a month to “clean the pipes.”
After the honeymoon I sold my house and moved into hers. She didn’t want to leave the area or her job, and I was pretty sure I could set up an accounting practice there. It was a slow start, but I’ve built up a good home business in this area and it’s still growing. I was able to pay off her mortgage and began having the house repaired and remodeled as she desired.
We’ve been married five years now. Shayna is 30 and I’m 46. We enjoy time together, we’ve remained affectionate, and our bond grows stronger as the years pass. Life has gone on mostly as before, but there have been two wonderful surprises in our lives. Shayna gave birth to a boy in 2013, and we found out she’s going to have a girl this coming April of 2017.
We’ll be raising our kids in a matriarchal, or as my wife prefers to say, a gynarchic home. I feel so much more sure of myself now because I’ve done it before. The difference is I’m raising a son, but my dad helped raise me in a matriarchal home, and I have those experiences to draw on. I’m still close to my parents, and my mom is gracious and accepting of my choices. I’ll always love and honor her for that. I’m happy, healthy, and so is my ruling wife and our growing family. Despite what anyone might think, I feel incredibly blessed to be right where I am.

*

DEBRA’S SON: OUR MATRIARCHAL MARRIAGE, Part 2

(Previously I described how Shayna and I met in an online chatroom, her uncompromising gynarchist views and our eventful first femdom weekend together at her semi-rural house.)
On the fourth weekend, I think it was, she introduced me to two female friends both about her age, Nikki and Madison. They weren’t gynarchists like Shayna, but definitely fellow travelers. They treated me like a butler if they wanted a drink or a snack, but mostly they ignored me. All three liked to go out clubbing together.
Shayna looked so hot in a short, tight, low cut club dress and heels, and she often went commando. Being chaste even part time had made me so horny I constantly fought the desire to fall at her feet. I wasn’t used to having masturbation restricted at all, and I had a hard time dealing with the intensity of my lust. Sometimes I begged her to let me out, but she said I was probably jerking way too much at my home already.
Shayna usually came back from clubbing either really late or early the next morning. Later, when Nikki and Madison visited again, I heard all three women talk about the hot guys they knew. I must have been acting disapproving or jealous, because after the
women left, Shayna made it clear that abstinence wasn’t for women. Women had already been subject to enough chastity in history. She wasn’t ashamed of her high libido and would continue to be sexually active no matter how our relationship progressed or how long it lasted. She had a steady guy at the present time, and while she wasn’t in the habit of bringing home dates, privacy was essential if she did. She’d phone me before he came, and I would stay in another part of the house until he left. Afterward, I was to conduct myself as if nothing had happened—no jealousy, no passive aggression, no sullen moping. If I overheard or saw things, oh well, but I was NEVER to ask her any details of her sex life.
Of course, I agreed.
One night while Shayna was out she sent me a text saying, “Bringing him home. Go in top door and STAY THERE.
By “top door” she meant the door at the top of the stairs that run along the outside of her house. In other words, go directly to the second story and stay out of sight.
I walked up to the second floor and stayed where and as Shayna ordered. In a few minutes I heard my car drive up (she was using my car because her battery had given out that day). I heard two car doors slam, and then I heard the front door of the house open. I could hear a little of what was going on below—Shayna giggling and a man’s deep voice. I couldn’t hear much more than that, but I tried to picture what might be going on. After several hours I thought I heard the front door on the first floor shut. Good, I thought. She’s taking him back to wherever.
But that was wishful thinking. From one of my upstairs windows I saw Shayna running with this hunky young blond guy toward the above-ground pool she had in the yard. They were both nude. It was a hot night and dark, with a sliver of moon, but I could just make out what was happening. They were hugging and kissing in the water, and I heard her squeal as he bit her neck and then her breasts. He was really aggressive and drove her wild. I could see why she wasn’t attracted to me in that way.
After a while he climbed up and sat on a small wooden deck that’s level with the top of the pool. Shayna, while still in the water, glided over and started performing fellatio on him. She was incredibly expert and relished what she was doing. She teased him with her hands and tongue, and then she took him all in, her head bobbing back and forth in rhythm. This guy was just casually leaning back, as though he’d had it a hundred times before and was slightly bored. If it had been me, I would have been out of my mind with ecstasy. But it wasn’t me. I was upstairs in a chastity device with blue balls and dribbling precum while peeking through a curtain at my goddess and her stud.
While this was happening, a cloud covered the moon and I couldn’t see anymore. I could still hear, though, and I listened for a little. I felt a hundred things all at once. I was angry and jealous but obviously turned on. I was even proud of her in a weird way. I closed the window curtain and went to bed but tossed and turned all night.
The next morning Shayna’s stud had a friend pick him up. I did my best to keep my promise. I acted like nothing happened and so did she.
All that aside, as the months went by, Shayna and I went places and did things together, got to really know each other and slowly formed a closer bond. We shared affectionate kisses and embraces, but if I attempted anything sexual, I was sharply rebuffed. Despite that, I fell hopelessly in love with her, and one day I told her so.
She replied, “I love you, too. I never thought I’d run across a guy with your background.”
“Then marry me,” I said.
“Are you sure, Dave? You know what kind of marriage it will be.”
“I know.”
“Things will be basically as they are now.”
“Can’t we at least consummate our marriage on our wedding night?” I said, with a hopeful grin.
“I love you, but not in that way. Besides, you’re not circumcised. I don’t have sex with uncircumcised guys.” 
“I’ll get circumcised.”
“Ha! Is that a fact? Okay, then. If you do, we’ll have a traditional wedding night, but after that, expect very little sex. That’s not what I need from you. Remember what I said about the types?”
“I know, I know.”
“I just can’t faze you, can I? I don’t believe you’re for real.”
“I love you, Shayna, and I’m for real. I promise
things will be exactly the way you want them in every area of our lives. Forever. I promise.”
“Then let’s set a date. For your circumcision first.”
I did get circumcised, and though it was more of an ordeal than I thought, I healed relatively fast. We set a wedding date for 13 months to the day after we met online.
During our engagement we met each other’s families. My mom and my fiancee liked each other, but there was some tension, mostly due to personality differences. Shayna was impressed by my mother and her matriarchal history, but Mom thought Shayna’s attitude toward the spiritual aspects of matriarchy (and a lot of other things) was too light and casual. Mom took her Goddess-centered beliefs seriously. Shayna felt that while the Goddess was important in gynarchy, it was utilitarian, best used as a concept to empower women rather than taken too seriously as an actual entity. There were other differences, too, but Mom told me afterward in private that she basically approved. If I was sure about Shayna, she was happy for me. Dad, my sisters, and nieces were happy too.
We visited Shayna’s family next. Her parents don’t relate to matriarchy or anything resembling it, so we had to be a normal vanilla couple when were there. They were very nice, but I could tell they thought I was way too old for her. I liked them though.
Shayna and I had a quick perfunctory civil ceremony by a judge, just to make sure our marriage was legal in our state. Her parents and a few vanilla friends attended that. But what we consider our real wedding was performed later the same day. It was private and small, attended by my family and a few of Shayna’s radical feminist friends. Shayna put it together, using her own ideas and borrowing some from my account of a matriarchal wedding of a friend of my family. It bore her own stamp without a doubt, reflecting her unique combination of humor and dominance that I fell so much in love with. I’ll have to leave some things out due to length, but you’ll get the gist…

(To be continued…)

DEBRA’S SON: OUR MATRIARCHAL MARRIAGE, Part 1

[image error] I left off in my last installment at the point where I met my wife in an online chatroom. I’ll describe her below and continue my history from there.
Shayna is a sexy brunette with brown eyes and olive skin. Being a fitness buff, she works hard to keep her 5’7’’ feminine hourglass figure well toned. She’s a technician at a home security/surveillance supply corporation. Growing up, she was as an only child who lived part of the time with her widowed grandmother, due to her parents both being in the service. She took Navy ROTC herself in college, but decided the military wasn’t for her.
Against this rather traditional atmosphere, she held feminist and later gynarchic views developed from a variety of influences. She was introduced to the concept of female domination as an adolescent when she and a friend were snooping around her friend’s parents’ house and found a stash of literature and “toys.” In addition, the Internet was a continual source, her generation having grown up with it. When she got to college, she took women’s studies courses along with her technology major, and she was exposed to feminists of many different stripes. By the time of her graduation in 2008, she thought of herself as a full-blown gynarchist. She prefers that term to similar ones without worrying about the fine points of definition.

Discussing ideas with her online before we met in person was fascinating. She felt that while most females might be inherently more monogamous than most males, culture plays a part, too. Women are taught that the man they’re attracted to both physically and romantically (the rush of falling in love) must be the right one, because women are supposed to find everything in one package. One man only, forever. That’s why a woman, when married a few years, can become depressed and restless and prone to being seduced by another man. She’s fair game for someone who makes her feel the way her husband used to. The bond she’s built with her husband through a shared past, shared values, child-rearing, etc.., loses its power to this new “soul mate.” She ends up with a guy who excites her, but is not suited to settling down.

The solution, according to Shayna, is to become comfortable with non-monogamy: One type of man for settling down with and raising a family and, for other needs, another type of man (one or two can be enough; promiscuity is permitted but not required!). I recognized that view as being similar to my mother’s. The main difference was that Mom’s had a more spiritual (Goddess-centered) basis than Shayna’s. I half-jokingly asked Shayna which type of man she thought I was. She said, “Oh come on, you already know; I don’t have to tell you!”
We discussed men, too, but that’s by the by. I’ll skip ahead to when we met in person. She lived in the same (U.S.) state, several hours’ drive away. I agreed to come up and stay for a three-day weekend. She knew all about my background by this time, and told me to prepare for a weekend of servitude.
Her two-story house was in a semi-rural area like mine, but closer to a large city. It was quite old but nice and needed only a little work to put it in good shape.
It had been raining, and the first thing she said when I hit her doorstep was, “Remove your shoes. It’s hard enough to keep the floors clean. But then now that you’re here, you can clean them.”
Shayna was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt and had just finished working out. I could see she wasn’t out to impress me — I would have to impress her. She was still hot as hell though. Her beautiful bare feet led to legs that were toned and shapely with a thin sheen of sweat, her tight shorts hugged her sexy hips, her round, braless breasts had prominent nipples that were visible through her damp shirt, and her long dark hair was in a ponytail.
“Take your bags and go put your things away in that bedroom,” she said, pointing out the way. “There’s a list of chores in there, too. I’m going to shower and then watch a DVD. When you’ve done everything on the list, let me know.”
Okayyyy, I thought to myself. No preliminaries here. Well, she did say servitude.
They were basic domestic tasks (dishes, laundry, cleaning bathrooms), but it took nearly five hours to do everything. Shayna was napping on the couch wearing a fresh t-shirt and shorts when I finished, and I waited quietly in a nearby chair until she awakened. She asked if I was finished, and I said, “Yes.”
She inspected my work and then assigned even more chores. It was late and I was really tired when I finished.
She said, “You did what I told you. I had to test your work ethic first. I had to be sure you weren’t here just for fun. Now, go take a shower, then go into your bedroom naked, and wait for me.”
I obeyed.  Despite having been accustomed to being dominated by females, I found myself getting nervous as I stood naked waiting for her. I was hoping to be able to sport a strong erection in front of her, but it was more like a frightened turtle trying to retreat in its shell. After about ten minutes she marched in and looked me over.
“Hmmm. You’re not circumcised. That’s bad. But you look like you work out and keep fit. That’s good,” she said.
I was nervous and jabbered something about how even though I was no longer serving my family, I tried to keep fit and—
She casually put her hand over my mouth. ”I didn’t give you permission to speak, babe.”
I kept quiet and stood as still as I could. She kept eyeing me up and down as she walked a circle around me a couple of times before she spoke.
“It looks like you’re about as soft as you can be already. That’ll make this easier.”
She walked over to a closet and came back with a plastic chastity device.
I must have had a puzzled look on my face because she said, “Now, don’t tell me you don’t know what this is. You said you were chaste when you lived with your sister, didn’t you? You can answer.”
“I know what it is, but I didn’t say Jill kept me chaste. I said she kept me celibate. I wasn’t discouraged from masturbating in private whenever I wanted. It was her view, as well as Mom’s, that a man of the home should intentionally develop the habit to keep him from getting distracted by women and to become accustomed to that form of release alone.”
“That’s not my way,” Shayna huffed. She slapped my face. “Don’t contradict me, and don’t give me a lecture on your family’s philosophy every time I make a decision. I’m in complete control of your cock while you’re here. You’ll wear this, or you’ll get out of my house right now!”
I said, “Yes, Shayna.” That’s what she preferred to be called, not Mistress, etc.

She put the device on me, taking the time to adjust it properly. It really took some getting used to. It pinched and was irritating at times, but later, when our relationship got serious, she had a device specially made that was much more comfortable. I spent that weekend in domestic service and running errands for her. She allowed me to massage and kiss her feet, but that was the extent of our physical contact. I served her to the best of my ability.

Unlike my sister, she didn’t take out her frustrations on me, but if I disobeyed or made a mistake, I got an old-fashioned hard paddling or a sharp smack across the face. These decreased as I learned her ways, and in the main, she was very impressed with every aspect of my conduct. When it was time for me to leave, she let me out of the device. I was so horny I had to stop and masturbate in my car as soon as I cleared the view from her house.

I began going up to her house every weekend or more often if I could…