Cat's M/M Discipline Fiction


 Resident Agony Queen, Nowell Cowardice,
is on hand to give advice to those struggling with fetish fears and other problems that arise in the D/s lifestyle

 

Dear Nowell,

For years now I’ve been battling with unnatural desires. Lately however, I have been finding it harder and harder to keep myself under control. Just walking past the fresh fish counter in Tesco gives me an erection and I have an overwhelming urge to disrobe and do something perverse with the sardines, and they’re so small and helpless looking. Please, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with me?

Frightened,

Freddy


Fear not Freddy, fishy, fishy Freddy,

What you have is a fish fetish, Freddy, it’s quite natural, as are all fetishes, don’t be afraid of unbalancing the scales if you give in to it. In fact I recommend you surrender yourself to it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Somewhere out there is a sardine of legal age that has been waiting for you all its fishy life. Find it Freddy, find it and embrace it and love it and you’ll feel so much better. You are not alone in being a fish fetishist (I think I said that right) I knew a man who had a thing for oysters. For him they were more than an aphrodisiac, they were his friends, lovers; there was no one like him for bringing an oyster out of its shell. In fact he could bring a dozen out in under a minute and spit any pearls out of his mouth, which was pretty amazing when you considered the route they had travelled. What I’m saying Freddy, is that he wasn’t afraid to suck or blow and neither must you be. Freddy, darling, I implore you, kiss the fish, before it’s too late.

Kisses,

N

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Dear Mr Cowardice,

My Top is driving me mad. Whenever I’ve transgressed, in an adult and mature way of course, and he has cause to spank me, with my full consent and willing submission, and have gone across his knee, without fuss or thought of sexual gratification, he hums and I don’t mean he smells, though his underpants could be fresher. I’ve seen racetracks with fewer skid marks. No, I mean he actually hums a tune as he spanks me; it’s most disconcerting to have someone hum a medley of Beatles tunes as they beat your arse black and blue. What the heck is wrong with the man, I mean he could at the very least hum a medley of The Kinks tunes?

Yours in perplexity…Peter.

Dear Pete,

Be perplexed no longer. Your humming Top is nothing to fret about. He simply has an unusual variation on that old box standard fetish ‘the hum job,’ whereby a man hums a tune as he gives oral sex to another. Obviously your Top gets his kicks from beating out a rhythm on your naughty tom toms rather than blowing a tune down your reed instrument. I suggest you have a mature chat with him about his choice of music; after all Peter my pet, it’s your botty that has to do all the listening. At least you can’t say life is hum drum, hum bum perhaps…ha-ha, just my little joke there.

Ciao…N xx

*************

Dear no eyebrows of London,

Put bluntly your joint fetishes of ‘pumping’ and ‘golden showering’ just don’t mix, especially if the hoover is plugged in. Next time you might not be so lucky and the resulting explosion will blow off more than your eyebrows. Is a huge orgasm really worth that? You were also fortunate that no one else was in the office at the time. Fetishes are natural, but best practised safely at home with consenting and like-minded people rather than non-consenting electrical appliances. There’s an old and wise saying that you’d do well to heed: never piss into the hoover hose while it’s sucking dust from your lower stairs.

Yours Toppishly,

Nowell

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Dear Nowell,

Every time I get into a car I become very, very aroused, which isn’t too bad if I’m travelling alone or with my partner, it leads to some pleasurable pit stops. However, lately it’s got worse and has been accompanied by a desire to stick my erect penis into someone’s armpit. My partner, though slightly taken aback to find a cock under his arm as he tried to find a parking place at the shopping centre, took it quite well and said that he sweated much less under that arm afterwards. Alas, my boss was less laid back when I succumbed to the urge as he gave me a lift to a conference and although he managed to come out of the seventy miles an hour tailspin nicely without hitting any other vehicles, his wife who was travelling with us, sadly had a heart attack. I’m so confused, what is wrong with me? I want to be normal; I want to have nice acceptable kinky desires, like spanking and mouth soaping and wearing women’s knickers.

Sobbingly desperate,

Brad.


My dear desperate bagpiping Brad,

I’m quite moist here and not where you might think. Don’t despair. It seems to me that you’ve repressed things for too long and the result is an unfortunate, but powerful fetish combination of Auto/erotica, getting turned on in cars, and Auxiliary intercourse, also known as Bagpiping, basically a desire to climax in armpits. You simply need to confront your fetishes, own them, be proud of them, un-demonise them dear boy!  Just because they’re fetishes that are less known and less talked about than bdsm and such like doesn’t make them any less valid. You just have to learn to control them. Your partner sounds a jolly nice chap, I shudder to think how my own dear love would react if I shot off into his armpit while he was driving, and I suggest you work out a discipline system with him that involves punishments for inappropriate use of other people’s armpits while in a moving vehicle. That way you get to own and employ a nice acceptable kink to help you manage your more kinky kinks.

Ta-ta and best of luck…N. x

Be kinky, be happy, be empowered, whatever your kink, there’s someone out there who will share it if you ask nicely and wash your hands afterwards.

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Dearest Nowell,

I think I may be mentally ill!  I have a terrible urge to swear at nuns and stick my tongue out at elderly people and policemen! And at the age of thirty I have still not overcome a desire to knock on people’s front doors and run away, it’s such fun! I also ride my bike without lights or a bell to sound a cautionary warning, as I cycle through Tesco, eat sweets until they give me explosive diarrhoea and stay up all night playing Gin Rummy with my mother’s sewing circle of friends! Is there a cure?

Luv and kisses,

Worried Willy


My dear worried little Willy (or is that just a rumour?)

Bad news I’m afraid, I have consulted my Bumper Book Of Medical Conditions and alas, you are not mentally ill, you are in fact a Brat, Category 1. There’s no stigma, no shame in it, it happens, we can’t all be well balanced sensible grown up types, thank heavens, think what a dull little world it would be, you are one of the threads in life’s rich tapestry. Your condition is incurable, but fear not my pet lamb, it isn’t quite as bad as it sounds, it’s not terminal and it can be effectively controlled by the simple means of acquiring yourself a Top. I shall forward your name to the Very Strict Top’s Bureau post-haste and hopefully they will fix you up very, very soon. I must warn you that, initially, you may have some rather unpleasant side effects, such as a very sore bottom and a soapy mouth, but in time these will disappear as you learn to obey your Top without question, apart from the odd slip of course, after all, Brats are only human, Tops are another matter…little joke there for M.O.D.L.

Hugs and stuff,

Nowell x

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Dear Mr Cowardice,

I have a terrible confession to make, after twenty-five years living with my Brat, I find I’m unsettled. He’s wonderful, we work like a well oiled machine and that’s before we apply the KY Jelly, he hangs up his coat without being asked, makes dinner without catastrophe, works hard, plays hard, drinks moderately, only swears when unbearably provoked, balances his chequebook, never makes mistakes or does anything foolish, he’s tidy, neat and clean, in fact perfection, and life is dull, dull, dull…I blame myself!

Yours sadly,

Tom


Dear Tom, dear, dear sad Tom,

Please don’t blame yourself…oh go on then, do blame yourself, because the fact is, it is your fault that your life and indeed your Brat is dull, dull, dull. However, you must keep this in perspective, you are having what we in the profession call a mid-life-fully evolved-brat crisis. You have done your duty as a Top and done it well, successfully, turning a chaotic Brat into a fully functioning, obedient machine, er, I mean human being and you feel there is nothing left for you to do, you feel useless, obsolete, outmoded, superseded and other similar adjectives. Perhaps in part, you are missing the frisky, fun-loving little rogue who used to stick his chewing gum on the bathroom mirror, forget to flush the loo and microwave pizza with the plastic wrap still on. You miss the innovative excuses he used to dredge up to explain things that inevitably earned him a trip across your knee and dare I say it, but you may even be missing the feel of your hand bouncing off his naughty little botty, your right wrist now feels limp and lifeless? It will pass. You will accept that those heady discipline days are gone and that you have entered the vanilla twilight of your life. It’s a price that successful Tops and Brats have to pay. Join a chess club together, or take up a new sport such as Bingo and enjoy the fruits of your labour…boredom.

Love,

Nowell


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Hello Nowell,

I recently took part in an all Gay version of the reality TV show Big Brother and after shagging three of the other contestants, two cameramen, the lucky mascot, the Presenter and a couple of interestingly shaped vegetables (I was drunk what can I say) found myself falling for another of the contestants in the B.G.B. House, a late arrival, who as it turned out, turned out to be straight. He said he wasn’t interested in me and I threw a real tantrum, well I’m not used to being spurned. Anyway, he put me over his knee and spanked me, I couldn’t believe it, so I threw another tantrum and he spanked me again, well, I behaved myself after that and we became quite good mates, but I still got voted out. I can’t stop thinking about him, I think I might be besotted, should I try and contact him, I think he was gay really; I think he was just pretending to be straight to keep viewers interested. What shall I do, shall I stalk him?

Love sick Carey.


Dear Carey,

No, you naughty lad, do not stalk him. However, I think you should contact him and ask him if there’s any possibility of you sharing a flat as just good mates, as he obviously has a calming and settling influence on you, which is all to the good given your scandalous behaviour on the show, I for one will never eat parsnips again. The homegrown vegetable economy could very well collapse after your antics, young man. However, I digress; let’s get back to your lovesick dilemma.  If the one you are besotted with agrees to share a flat and is in fact gay as you suspect, then your love might be requited in time and you’ll live happily ever happy. I hope so. I must confess I cheered when he walloped your arse; if ever a B.B. contestant needed a damn good spanking it was you, plus quite a few others. I have written to the Shows producers and suggested that they install a resident Top for the next series and issue him with a paddle.

Yours huggingly,

N. x

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Sci-Guy Problem Pick of the week:

Dear Thing,

I quite understand your vexation at the continuous teasing and taunting of your fellow Superhero Johnny or The Human Torch, he is a total Plasma Brat and in the considered opinion of M.O.D.L. needs his bottom setting alight in a way that has nothing to do with personal mutagenic changes. With that in mind I shall personally write to Mr Fantastic himself with instructions on moulding his rubbery right hand into a nice broad, heat resistant paddle shape. One last thing, Thing, may I suggest a good moisturising cream for dry skin, something to help close up some of those surface cracks, try a product in the L’Oreal range, because after all, as a Superhero, you’re worth it.

Ta-ta for now,

Nowell, xx

 

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 Written by Cat.