Clit-Orations

I am the baby of the family, youngest sibling to three brothers. A surprise baby, I was born years after anyone had any idea of having more kids. My eldest brothers, Mark & Saul, were out of the house before I was five and even Jeff’s a whopping eight years older than I am.

Growing up, everyone called me “Baby Girl” — including people outside our family, who called me “Baby Girl [Surname]“.

Until I turned twelve, that is.

It was at that time that the candy giving changed. Even if my body hadn’t quite blossomed (and some might still be waiting for my ittie bittie titties to grow-in — but they won’t, ya’ll; that’s the way they is), there were subtle changes… I became not only longer in leg, but in tooth, as they say. I started to not only know the score, but what the game was all about.

It wasn’t the magic number “12″ or maturity’s hormones which had me growing up, but life at home.

Momma caught Dad sniffing some other woman’s panties.

All hell broke loose, as you can imagine. Mom left and took up with men years her junior who she treated like slaves — and they only adored her for it. Dad bellowed and stormed around, rather like a wounded boar. He put himself inside the bottle, and then sobered up when he realized “his Patsie” (her name is Patricia, and he’s always called her “Patsie”; it is not to mean she was a patsy) wasn’t going to come back to some slob she’d have to take care of. Now & then she “comes home”, let’s him wait on her & submit to her, and then, when he fails her, she’s off again with some buck with a proper attitude (and some money doesn’t hurt either).

It’s been a decade of watching my parents perform this strange dance of submission, denial, and love — which literally continues to this day. The details of which may become another post; but for now, let’s return to me.

Finally seeing my parents’ relationship for what it was, how it worked, and what it meant was not just an eye-opener about them or even relationships in general — it was self-illuminating. At that moment, their relationship did not die or really even change, but become crystal clear to all of us. And it helped me see myself better.

I wasn’t going to remain anyone’s “baby girl” — I was far too powerful for that. And it all had to start with a name change. At the age of 12 I became what I could; I made them stop calling me Baby Girl and call me Miss Angel.

“Baby Girl” didn’t die some tragic death, wasn’t part of childhood’s innocence lost and all that crap; “Baby Girl” never really existed, you see. She was an idea, or the ideal, of others; but she wasn’t me.

Now I seethe when I’m called “Mistress” or “Goddess” because those are generic terms for generic women, in generic roles. I don’t “play” that way; I have my own games, my own rules, my own role. So you will call me The Celebutaunt or Mock-tress or whatever name I tell you to address me by. Got it? Good.

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From the November 1995 issue of The New Yorker. Photographer, Richard Avedon; model, Nadja Auermann. Via MaliciousGlamour.

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So call, try to look up my skirt, or stay hidden in the bushes and peep at me wearing my animal print dress — I know you’re there, so I’ll slowly strip and tease the shit out of you, loser.

Get your kicks in quick, because I’ll be gone for the holiday weekend. And you’ll miss me.

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Piggies tend to wander off a lot, it’s true; but occasionally you find a few worthy of making into pets. Sissies, on the other hand, tend to travel around much more. I think it’s because they are always in search of a new make-over, because they are always looking for a new party to be the queen at (they are always second place at my parties, of course), and because they are often let go by Mistresses who can no longer put up with their ineptitude.

With a constant stream of sissies, I do give a lot of make-overs. Whether they want them or not — you wouldn’t believe how badly some of them dress & poorly they groom themselves. Some of them, even with coaching & training, must be let go; they remain too sloppy, in look or behavior, to be around me. But that’s OK, another one will show up in a few minutes. There is no sissy shortage.

Unless you count their genitals.

Thankfully, I do enjoy dressing & styling new sissies.

Recently, while dressing a new sissy maid (Marie), I found her a cute pink wig & pretty flirty skirt (which I always modify so that the back is shorter, the ruffles higher, for greater access and vulnerability).

Usually such small sizing isn’t an issue; many sissies are slim (some could even wear my pants — even though they’ll never “get into them”!). But sometimes, a sissy can’t buy “just anywhere” or might even struggle to find properly fitting attire. (And I am very picky.)

Marie was one of these sissies. She isn’t a big-boned-girl or anything, but the ‘one size fits most’ skirts are not going to work. Then, it’s off to eBay where one can usually find a discreet seller who either has a larger selection, including sizing, or who does custom work (totally worth the price when you are dealing with someone as particular as I am).

However, this can pose problems for sissies. Since many sissies have short attention spans &/or impulse issues, and cannot stand waiting while searching for the perfect skirt, the correct shade of lippie, etc. This is largely how they end up looking so horrid.

Fortunately for them, my sissies have me.

I distract them with other sparkling items while they wait, punish them when they are too impulsive, or otherwise occupy their time (maybe an orifice or two too).

And if they don’t like it, they can move along now… Another sissy will be by in 15 minutes or so.

And I’ll get to name her, and dress her, bend her in strange positions, and loan her out to my brothers — just like I did with Barbie.

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In response to a piggy who wonders why he oinks upon my command (and to those who find themselves oinking at the thought of me)…

Little piggy balls are like my very own — miniature — crystal balls; I see everything I need to in them to control you.

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His name is Stuart, but he’s a submissive piggy boy, so I get to call him what I wish.

Me: I will now call you stew-y d. moore — that’s how you’ll sign all your messages to me, from now on.

stew-y d. moore: Yes, Mistress.

Me: And don’t call me “Mistress” — I am now The Celebutaunt. One part “celebutant“, one part “taunt.”

stew-y d. moore: Yes, Celebutaunt. May i ask you a question?

Me: you may ask; I’m not certain about the answer…

stew-y moore: Why did You name me stew-y d. moore?

Me: Are you questioning The Celebutaunt?

stew-y: No, Celebutaunt. Just wondering.

Me: you are stew-y d. moore because you have a little bit of meat, just like stew, but it’s so small that it must be “dinky,” not Dinty. And no matter what it’s called, I’m not going to eat it.

1 Comment | Tags: bitch, dominant female, piggy tales, small cock

I like summer; most people do. But summer’s where the money is for a trailer trash girl.

In winter there is the occasional, by comparison, crunch of tires on icy gravel, announcing the arrival of little piggies who come to view yours truly. But they stay in the car, with the engine off so as not to arouse suspicions while they arouse (and hope to relieve themselves of their arousal). But if breath-frosted car windows don’t block the view, my curtains drawn to keep heat in my trailer do; and then, of course, there is the matter of mittened-hands working zippers and what is inside them.

But in summer, piggies park elsewhere and sneakily creep (or so they think) into the bushes where they can (& quite often do) spy upon me. Exposing themselves to the summer environment is more comfortable, and it sure must be OK with them for they are rarely alone… It seems to me there are far more piggies in my bushes than the proverbial birds.

And the birds would have much better luck being in my hand.

From the bushes they peep, looking for signs of me. More than my comings and goings they see me in the windows — and at my favorite place, the screen door.

It’s one of those “half & half” doors; the top is screen and the bottom is that tin sort of metal. I use it to my advantage, standing before it, removing my panties and holding them up for the bush-pigs to see. They wank on their wee willies and dream.

They cannot see me, which only makes them pine more. And sometimes, when the mood strikes, I’ll toss my panties out the door onto the dirt before the steps to see what happens. I can hear the absence of the piggy pants — they freeze, including holding their breath. Will one of them run out to claim them? Will they fight for my panties?

Well, not yet. At least not that I’ve ever seen.

I sometimes call, “Sue-y!” to alert them. But they don’t need alerting; they know my worn panties are there. What they need are the balls to come forward. But balls they don’t have. Wee willies to wank, yes; balls no.

So I’ll retreat to the shadows of the trailer, where they cannot see me through the screen, and I wait. Eventually, if I do not get too bored, one of them will endeavor to come and get them. He will try to act nonchalant, strolling by, trying to act as if on a walk — and wait a minute… what’s that spot of red (or yellow, or white…) on the ground there? They squint and make like they will casually investigate; but they always chicken out.

My calls of, “Here piggy piggy piggy,” taunt them as they nearly run back into the bushes or down the drive which likely leads, somewhichway, to their car - and escape.

Other times I get bored waiting. When I remember to look for my panties I sometimes find them still there; other times I do not. I have found them behind the bushes, or on the steps to my trailer — and once, on the seat of my car — freshly laundered and delicately, reverently placed, like a rare offering. Other times, they hang soiled and used in the bushes, or, like the gift of a cat, dirty and abused, outside my door. But if the panties have been taken, returned or not, there is always a gifty for me.

Sometimes it is jewelry, or a gift card for clothes or DVDs, maybe cash, or a bottle of amaretto (my favorite, especially on ice on a summer night), perhaps, rarely, a card or note (most piggies are too timid to leave their names, especially with a pair of panties); but it’s always some little gift.

I do love summer.

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Hey, loser, hand your my money over.  …All you’ll be left with is the despair.

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Only when I say I have ashtray feet, I mean real ones; from obliging piggies, like you.

Yes, losers, there’s an ashtray in the photo. I know how easily distracted you are by tits, but jeebus.

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