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.

1 Comment | Tags: panty sniffing, power play, submit to your mistress, trailer trash

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.

No Comments | Tags: bitch, dominant female, phone sex, sex fantasies, submit to your mistress, tease, trailer trash

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.

No Comments | Tags: beauty, lingerie, shopping, sissy maids, sissy make-overs, submit to your mistress

Talk To The Legs, art photo found via Pinkie’s BDSM blog.

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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.

1 Comment | Tags: ashtray, bitch, submit to your mistress, trailer trash