EXAMPLES OF HUMILIATION TRAINING

HUMILIATION within BDSM

In BDSM, humiliation is one psychological technique a top may use on a bottom. It is generally considered edge play because it touches strong emotional buttons.

The word humiliation comes from a Latin root meaning earth. To "humiliate" someone is to bring him or her down low to the ground.

Humiliation is a highly subjective issue, and depends greatly on context. Although there are many examples of humiliation as a technique, success in training all depends upon the slave and what they find personally to be most degrading. While in a dominant-submissive scene or relationship, the submissive takes a subordinate role and may be called "slave", "boy ", "dog" or something similar. The submissive may also make displays of subservience, such as lighting cigarettes, walking a pace behind the dominant, only speaking when spoken to, etc.

Humiliation play can involve physical and/or verbal methods. Some seek to be demeaned by acting a role, while others enjoy to be 'tongue lashed' and to be constantly told of their low status, and even be made to repeat this back to the humiliator. One example may be as simple as having a slave call their Master "Sir" or "Master." For some, this in and of itself is utterly humiliating, while other slaves may find that is not humiliating whatsoever. On the flip side, having a slave wear a collar and perform submissive acts in public or within the confines of a scene with other people may seem humiliating to some, but normal and natural to others.

However, a dominant may take care over insulting the submissive. Terms like "fat", "ugly", "stupid" or "worthless" could be considered abuse if this is not part of the understanding the top and bottom have negotiated for their role play scene.

Depending on the roles and persons involved, terms like " slut", "tart", "bitch" and "whore" may or may not be considered humiliation. For some people, such names are a way of achieving ego reduction, entering bottom space, or getting over sexual inhibitions.

A classic technique to put a submissive into bottom space is to combine humiliation with pleasurable physical sensation, including sexual stimulation. Someone who is already inclined to be subby can often be put into a very submissive mental state by simultaneously turning that person on physically while humiliating them.

Sexual role-playing may or may not involve humiliation. For example, one bottom who plays the part of a dog may enjoy being mock-forced into it and the top will emphasize the lowness of the bottom's status as an animal. Another dog-player would rather play the role of the dog without any element of humiliation.

One such form of sexual role-playing is objectification, where the bottom is cast in the role of an object.

It is also widely accepted that there are individuals who seek humiliation as a form of emotional release, thus, doing things like eating out of a dog dish, being forced to always kneel, displaying oneself or being forced to cross dress, are just methods a Master can use to bring their slave that much wanted emotional release.

COURTESY OF: INFORMED CONSENT

House Plants of Gor

I found this little story on Evil Monk  -  I found it amusingly true to some BDSM submissives.

by Ellerol Elvish

The spider plant cringed as its owner brought forth the watering can. "I am a spider plant!" it cried indignantly. "How dare you water me before my time! Guards!" it called. "Guards!"

Borin, its owner, placed the watering can on the table and looked at it. "You will be watered," he said.

"You do not dare to water me!" laughed the plant.

"You will be watered," said Borin.

"Do not water me!" wept the plant.

"You will be watered," said Borin.

I watched this exchange. Truly, I believed the plant would be watered. It was plant, and on Gor it had no rights. Perhaps on Earth, in its permissive society, which distorts the true roles of all beings, which forces both plant and waterer to go unhappy and constrained, which forbids the fulfilment of owner and houseplant, such might not happen. Perhaps there, it would not be watered. But it was on Gor now, and would undoubtedly feel it's true place, that of houseplant. It was plant. It would be watered at will. Such is the way with plants.

Borin picked up the watering can, and mushily watered the plant. The plant cried out. "No, Master! Do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. "Please, Master," begged the plant, "do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. It was plant. It could be watered at will.

The plant sobbed muchly as Borin laid down the watering can. It was not pleased. Too, it was wet. But this did not matter. It was plant.

"You have been well watered," said Borin.

"Yes," said the plant, "I have been well watered." Of course, it could be watered by its master at will.

"I have watered you well," said Borin.

"Yes, master," said the plant. "You have watered your plant well. I am plant, and as such I should be watered by my master."

The cactus plant next to the spider plant shuddered. It attempted to cover its small form with its small arms and small needles. "I am plant," it said wonderingly. "I am of Earth, but for the first time, I feel myself truly plant like. On Earth, I was able to control my watering. I often scorned those who would water me. But they were weak, and did not see my scorn for what it was, the weak attempt of a small plant to protect itself. Not one of the weak Earth waterers would dare to water a plant if it did not wish it. But on Gor," it shuddered, "on Gor it is different. Here, those who wish to water will water their plants as they wish. But strangely, I feel myself most plant like when I am at the mercy of a strong Gorean master, who may water me as he pleases."

"I will now water you," said Borin, the cactus's Gorean master.

The cactus did not resist being watered. Perhaps it was realizing that such watering was its master's to control. Too, perhaps it knew that this master was far superior to those of Earth, who would not water it if it did not wish to be watered.

The cactus's watering had been finished. The spider plant looked at it.

"I have been well watered," it said.

"I, too, have been well watered," said the cactus.

"My master has watered me well," said the spider plant.

"My master, too, has watered me well," said the cactus.

"I am to be placed in a hanging basket on the porch," said the spider plant.

"I, too, am to be placed in a hanging basket on the porch," said the cactus.

"I wish you well," said the spider plant.

"I, too, wish you well," said the cactus.

"Tal," said the spider plant.

"Tal, too," said the cactus.

I did not think that the spider plant would object to being watered by its master again. For it realized that it was plant, and that here, unlike on Earth, it was likely to be owned and watered by many masters.

Pet Shaming..BDSM style

Naming and Shaming your Pets. Amusing....

ASH - My True Submissive

 This is dedicated to ASH - My Submissive

To be a submissive is different for everyone. We each have different ideas of what a submissive is, should and might be. 

I meet many different types of submissive in my line of work. Some I will remember for eternity, others not. Some I have enjoyed being Mistress to, others I have not.

I can outline four types of submissive I have come into contact with - all in their own ways unique and interesting.

The Role Play Submissive is just that - They want to play at being a submissive either face to face with a Mistress or online. For a few hours they will "play" the part of a submissive calling Me Mistress in order to fulfil a fantasy they have.

The Sexual Submissive have a kink or fetish they wish to explore. They want and need to be restrained, blindfolded, spanked, flogged, beaten or whatever their fetish is. And once the fetish and sex act is over, they go away happy until the next time.

Then there is the Online Submissive. I first discovered just how many online submissives there were when I joined Twitter. Within this group there are submissives who do genuinely devote their time to one Mistress, there are those who are 'Fans' or active followers of a Mistress. But there are also those who are submissive while in the chat room, write out elaborate serves for the One they serve, vow eternal love and submission to the One but then when they go to another room or another name they're saying the same things to Another. Sometimes, they even have a camera to prove how submissive they are - photos to prove it.

To me, a True Submissive is not easy to find. When you do, it's hard to let them go. These are the submissives I am fond of and eagerly await our meetings. To me, a true submissive serves from his heart, and they don't need a Mistress driving them to do something, they do it willingly, gladly, eagerly.

They have insight and truly care. They see their Mistress's glass as half empty and they fill it, they take care of their Mistress's needs. I have found that True submissives  don't need words of praise showered upon them, it is enough that their Mistress is pleased and comfortable - knowing their Mistress is content  is praise enough. The sparkle in their Mistress's eyes or a touch by the hand of their Mistress is high praise.

Recently, I found one such potential submissive. He had all the qualities to become a perfect true submissive. I call him Ash. He takes what I teach seriously and into his heart. he practices tasks I may have asked of him and endeavours to perfect them. He remembers the rules, the postures and instructions.

He has always chosen to bring me a gift - not because I asked him, but because he wanted to - it is what true submissives do. They think of their Mistress, even at an airport lounge and purchase a little something to see the sparkle in their Mistress's eye. It pleases Me when I know I have a session with Ash, I know it will be, for me, both a spiritual and mental pleasure to have him in the dungeon. In our last session, he informed me that he would probably have to leave at the end of May to return to India as his work would come to an end. This saddened me. For a blinding few seconds, My mind sparked for inspiration as to how I could keep him in the UK - for My own selfish reasons.

A true submissive is difficult to find. I am hoping Ash will find more work in the UK as he serves from his heart. He will do something, willingly, gladly and fervently.

I will purchase him a gift this week - A colour coordinated bra and panty set. I know he will wear them well, even when not asked to.

We need to give up transphobia

March 27, 2013

By: Nico Lang

Trigger warning: Transphobia. A lot of transphobia.

A month ago, my friend Todd Clayton came out as a recovering transphobe in an incisive essay for the Huffington Post entitled “The Queer Community Has to Stop Being Transphobic.” In the piece, Clayton details his own journey on transphobia and inclusion, how a Lana Wachowski speech opened his eyes to the quiet bigotry in his own life. He hadn’t openly attacked trans people or worked against their freedoms. Clayton was transphobic in a lot of the ways our community members are: insensitive and dismissive, not realizing the ways in which trans lives and struggles intersect with our own.

When he asked me to read it, I told him it was a common experience of cisgender people in the community. As someone who came from a similar place as he did, it was my experience. I told Todd that if he ever published it, I would come out with my own story. This is that story. It’s not easy to tell. I’ve been holding onto it for awhile, keeping it secret and safe. But it can’t stay secret any more.

My name is Nico Lang, and I used to be transphobic.

I never thought about myself that way. I thought that my emotions were normal and valid, feeling justified in my passive disgust for trans bodies. The first time I heard about trans people was when my father talked about seeing The Crying Game in the theatre and the way the audience convulsed with shock when the heroine’s “secret” was revealed. My father claimed that people walked out or threw up when confronted with the image of transness or a life that didn’t fit their binaries.

I was a teenager. Binaries were all I knew. Like Patty Hearst, I grew to love my captivity. I identified with my oppressors, working to uphold that marginalization in my own life.

When I met a trans person for the first time, I didn’t think my emotions were hatred, but they had to show on my face. For the purposes of this essay, her name was Megan, and she was one of the oddest characters I’ve ever met, the kind of person you’ll never forget. Megan claimed to be a vampire and drink blood; she also told us stories of being a general’s wife and getting married in Egypt, as if she were a real-life Orlando or Candide. She wanted to believe she led a life that was too big to comprehend.

I thought she was pathetic. Rather than looking at her identity as a natural defence mechanism for a conservative Cincinnati that would always see her as an outsider, I refused to understand her. I didn’t try. My friend told me that Megan had been kicked out of her home and most schools she’d attended. This should have helped me be more compassionate, but my heart couldn’t open to let her in. I still think about her sometimes. I don’t know if she even knows I have anything to be sorry for, but I want to apologize anyway.

Like all hate, I held onto it and secretly nurtured it in my refusal to believe there was anything wrong with the way I felt. On my first day of Human Sexuality in college, we watched a video on transitioning, one that included thorough graphics on gender assignment surgery. Just as the doctor discussed creating a vagina out of the shaft of a penis, I tapped out. I went for a drink of water. I milled around in the halls, checking fake text messages. I didn’t even have a texting service at that time. I just couldn’t go back in there. This wasn’t what I’d signed up for.

I wasn’t sorry yet. I started to feel the void where sorry was supposed to be, the same one I felt when I saw Transamerica and turned away during its brief flash of nudity. I couldn’t look at her, just like a part of me couldn’t comprehend the identity of a trans masculine classmate of mine. When a friend showed me what trans masculine bodies looked like (from a coffee table book he owned of Loren Cameron's work), I almost couldn’t believe it.

This is an actual quote: “But they look so normal.” It would be years before I learned to regret those words. I wish I could go back in time and punch that person in the face.

I wish there were a moment where I look at my behaviour and realized that I needed to change, but life isn’t like that. There isn’t always a moment; there are a million moments, where you are made accountable to your lack of compassion and openness to the experiences of others, and that part of you will always still be there, nagging and pulling. Sometimes hate stays the same way it did before, and sometimes it lives on in racism, sexism and homophobia. Sometimes it just takes a nap.

My hate was always secretly directed inward. From an early age, I identified as female, and it was years before my parents could get me to put on a pair of jeans. I wanted to wear dresses. I settled for sweatpants. Most kids were obsessed with Barney or Chuck E. Cheese; I wanted to be like Jane Fonda, in her spandex and matching headband, commanding a room of women to be their best selves while protesting the war in Vietnam, winning Oscars and being married to an eccentric billionaire. Many of us grew up secretly believing we could have it all. I knew I could. Jane told me so.

My father has the same name as I do, and I didn’t want his name, just like I didn’t want his maleness. I went by the name “Nicky.” When my parents resisted, I started spelling it in increasingly elaborate and stripper-esque ways, like “Nicki,” “Nickie,” “Nikki” and “NICKEE*.” I dotted it with hearts, wrote it in pink and shellacked it with glitter. Some kids have to come out; I was barely ever in.

For a long time, my parents let it slide. This was at the height of my brother Jonathan’s illness, and my mother’s days were too filled with breathing tubes, doctor’s visits and press appearances to pay attention to anything else. My brother was born with a condition that they didn’t have a name for. Basically, his insides swelled until they couldn’t anymore. It was like his brain was trying to push its way out.

They didn’t name my gender variance either. They figured that if they didn’t pay attention to it, the problem would go away, like a car alarm or a Jehovah’s Witness. My father expected that I would grow to only love the things he did; he expected me to give up Barbies for G.I. Joes and teatime for football, the sport he so loved. He just wanted us to be playing on the same team. He didn’t expect to see me in dresses.

As a culture, when we see a man in a dress, we do one of two things: We laugh or we beat it out of him. We do that in different ways. My parents caught me playing Cinderella at daycare one day after work, and they didn’t hit me or punish me. They didn’t throw me on the street or pawn me off on a religiously conservative relative. They just showed me that wasn’t an option. This isn’t what boys do. I was never taught that it was okay to be a woman or that it was okay to be myself. Boys aren’t princesses; they rescue them.

They didn’t realize that one day I would need to rescue myself.

Hating yourself is easy. I found a million outlets to hate myself. I had Jesus, who was nailed to a cross because I wasn’t good enough. I had the locker room, which helped me learn to hate my body, on top of hating my soul. I had the guys who would wait outside my Pre-Calculus class to stare at me as I walked by, treating my queerness as a spectacle. I had the uncle who stopped talking to me when I came out, who would only direct questions or statements to me through my mother. He didn’t hate me for being a socialist or wanting to tear down his capitalist patriarchy because of my political beliefs or any interesting reason. He hated me for the same boring reasons everyone else did. He hated me without even knowing why.

Boring or not, hate sticks. And low-simmering hate is particularly dangerous, because it's easy to ignore. Hate becomes a pattern, and you learn to hate for the same stupid reasons everyone else does. You hate without even knowing why, not recognizing that hate is a reflection of yourself.

You don’t choose to give up hate one day and wash your hands of it forever; the feelings stick with you, and they take lifetimes to cleanse. It’s not enough to simply not hate people, and you don’t get a pat on the back for looking at Lana Wachowski and saying, “Oh, I accept you now. Here’s an award. Go us!” You have to actively work to include trans people in your lives and spaces, accept a callout when you get it wrong and educate yourself to be better. You have to be accountable to yourself.

As Virginia Mamey Mollenkott argues, "It is vital for gay men, lesbians and bisexuals to recognize our movement as basically a transgender movement." Mollenott tells us that it’s not just about homosexuality. It’s about being queer -- or  different from the norm. Our struggle is about gender. She writes, "The fact that the most effeminate gay men and the butchest lesbians are the most endangered among us should alert us to the fact that society cares less about what we do in private than it cares about a challenge to its longstanding gender assumptions."

There was a time when I accepted not hating people as enough and credited myself as a good ally for “having trans friends.” Look how far I’ve come! However, our engagement needs more than love; it needs action. Trans people are some of the most visible and at risk in our collective struggle, and we must actively work with trans people, rather than simply for them. Gay cisgender men need to stop wondering where the T is and realize that the T is all around us, organizing and working to make the community safer for all of us. The trans movement isn’t the next movement.

Look around you. The movement is happening now, whether we care to recognize it or not.

The movement is KOKUMO. The movement is Kate Bornstein. The movement is Monica Roberts. The movement is Julia Serano. The movement is We Happy Trans. The movement is Girls Like Us. The movement is the Trans Month of Action. The movement is being broadcast all around you, and it’s coming to Chicago this weekend with The Trans 100, celebrating the incredible diversity of the trans community. Trans people are here. Are we paying attention?

I thought of Megan this week when GLAAD announced that it would be changing its acronym. The organization will no longer stand for the “Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation” but GLAAD, as in the emotion. This reflects that the organization not only speaks for gays and lesbians, but also includes trans people in its mission. This was announced even though the G and the L will remain in the organization's name and their board is mostly comprised of white, cis males -- much like HRC, our friendly neighbourhood transphobes.

I don’t discredit them for that. I know personally that we all have to start somewhere, and that we can’t move forward without taking that first step. However, in giving up transphobia, we must do more than just mention trans folks. Trans people are worthy of full inclusion, and they must lead, speak, sign, march, walk and wheel next to us (or in front of us). We must realize that their perspectives and issues are as worthy of championing as ours. We need to shut up and learn to listen. As GLAAD moves forward, I hope they continue to listen and push inclusion further. I hope we all do.

A month ago Janet Mock very politely called me out on Twitter for getting something wrong in an article I wrote on transphobia in The Observer, and I learned from her. I haven't always been great with callouts, but this time, I was happy to get schooled by the best. My work isn’t perfect. My work needs to be pushed and to push itself. I’m still learning -- and that includes learning to love myself, finally. Personally, I’m still figuring out what gender means to me. Like everything else in my life, it’s a journey.

If I saw Megan today, I wouldn’t just apologize to her. I would thank her. After all, she succeeded in at least one way: I never forgot her.

Nico Lang writes about LGBTQ issues in Chicago. You can follow Nico on Twitter, Tumblr or on Facebook.

http://gendertrust.org.uk/

A scenario for the true masochist! James Bond interrogation.

You will be playing the role of Bond in this scenario and you have information I require. I will also require 2 submissive's  to play the roles of guards who will capture Bond and bring him to my Dungeon.

The role of Bond must be for the real, true masochist as there will be very few rules, in fact, Bond can only choose 3 things which I cannot inflict onto him. Only 3, so you will have to choose wisely as other than those 3 things - all is fair game. So, think carefully about your choices!

Here is a basic outline of the scenario

Bond will receive via email a code which must not fall into My hands at any cost. (this code is also your safe word!) The code is the information I will interrogate you for. You will be ambushed and taken from a street in Reading by the 2 guards, brought to Me at my dungeon.

Here I will interrogate you in any manner I please, until you tell me the code, or use the code as a safe word. There will be no escape until the end of the session unless you divulge the code. the guards will cater to My every need, fetch equipment, man handle Bond and even participate in his interrogation.

Simple!

The session will be for 2 hours. I need a Bond and 2 guards - this scenario cannot be played without all the required character, so encourage others to apply with you.

Tributes: BOND £200.00

             GUARDS £100.00 each

Don't waste my time by applying then cowering out! Not cool! 

EMAIL ME TO APPLY: mistress.lady.leyla@gmail.com