How Madam Carrie made me eat my own wedgies!
She did it quite often.
I’ve often mentioned Princess Joanie as the pinnacle of humiliation i.e. she was truly and still IS a humiliatrix and findomina “au extraordinnaire”, but believe me, the bodacious “broad hipped” Madam Carrie, that “rough” 23 year old girl from Sichuan?
The real estate agent “that once was”?
She was no less than Joanie!
Here’s a perfect example of what I mean.
(after she returned from an enjoyable trip in the UK that yours truly, of course, FINANCED!)
I’m nothing if not a good cuck and footboy, and human atm! “May I ask where you traveled in the U.K., Madam Carrie”, I remember timidly asking her after her return one morning after I served her breakfast, and I think she was in particularly bad mood that day.
“No. Shut up, boy. Can’t you see I’m eating?” (this of course in sharp contrast to other days where she’d want me to “entertain her” a.k.a. “speak up, boy! I want my morning entertainment”)
I think this was two days after she had gotten back, and the jet lag apparently hadn’t worn off, and she spoke in an irascible tone of voice, as if to say “why the fuck am I even being bothered at this point in time?”
“Ok, Ok” I said, as if on reflex, and upon looking back at it, that was one of the rare REAL mistakes I made (as opposed to the mistakes I made without intending to) in all my time with Madam Carrie.
There have been others, but this is one that sticks out in mind.
And in retrospect again (though hindsight, my dear reader is always 20/20 and more) I suppose my response was a little bit flippant even if we’re considering “vanilla” (a.k.a non female led) relationships. I mean, what woman would want a response like that when she was obviously not feeling on top of the world.
Perhaps I was feeling a bit peeved at the fact she wouldn’t even deign to tell me where she traveled (on my dime!), let alone tell me what she did.
Perhaps it was the pent-up feelings of being “loaned” to a relative stranger (the lovely Miss V, who I am glad to say is NOT a stranger anymore, at least not those beautiful long soles of hers!)
Whatever it was, it was a cardinal sin of the highest order.
But I suppose the punishment that ensured was enough reminder for me never to repeat the same mistake again, as her eyes lit up with anger (at about the same point I realized my very serious faux pas, and she tossed her orange juice in my face, and as I mumbled a hasty “sorry, Madam”, the words came out like a snort, as I gasped for air as some of the orange juice made it’s way inside my nostrils and my eyes literally watered.
This was followed almost thereafter by a loud CRASH!
Chinaware (NO puns intended!) crashed literally everywhere, and for a minute it sounded like all hell had broken loose, and in my dazed state of mind, still trying to figure out what happened, I saw the Queen alight from her “recliner”, and saw shards of china, drops of “Tropicana” orange juice (apparently she’s taken a fancy to this brand after the UK trip) and stray pieces of toast everywhere.
This was topped off by the mess right in front of me, which was an omelet copiously leaking butter, the stray chili on top of it looking back at me as if with a forlorn expression and saying “what just happened here, Mike”?
That’s what my visual sense processed, of course.
I felt something quite else, as repeated smacks to the head made me feel like a punching bag, and those strong palms literally smacked me harder every time the palm landed, or so it felt.
“How dare you behave like that, boy! You’re supposed to kiss my feet and say sorry you’re having a bad morning, Madam Carrie!”
And in the brief few seconds it took her to reel that off, her English apparently having improved by leaps and bounds, she also had time to spit in my face twice, something she had never done until now if I recall correctly.
As the spittle hit my left eye, making me blink again (as if the orange juice flooding down my forehead and bridge of the nose wasn’t enough), she slapped me a couple of times across the face for good measure.
Whack! The left cheek burned as the words “You’ll remember to behave next time, boy!” and the eyes flared with a rage and fury I had not seen in her ever prior to this.
My God almighty, she had really turned into a Queen, NO LESS, at least from a mental standpoint, and as I tried to (in vain) process all this, I felt a solid smack to the right cheek.
And then, I felt a sharp pain in my left toe, and a loud “OUCH” escaped me as I realized she had just stamped with all her considerable “bulk” if not “might” (and no, it wasn’t “mite”; I think you recall me mentioning just how strong some of these girls are).
fell to the ground, dizzy, and the next thing I knew was that I was “face deep” in omelet, as she took this opportunity to grind my face deep into the “eggy” mess in front of me, one foot regally on top of my head.
“I’ll show you, boy!”, said this fire breathing almost-25 year old Chinese vixen, and here I must admit that I almost started to shed tears, so surprised was I at this sudden, abrupt change in her, and kiss her feet and beg her to return to the old Madam Carrie.
Strict, imperious and demanding though the “old version” was, Version # “Post U.K.” was something else altogether, my friend.
I closed my eyes, willing the pieces of omelet and shards of glass not to enter my eyes, nostrils or lips, the three most vulnerable areas on my face as you might imagine.
“Stay like that, boy”, she suddenly spoke, this time with less venom, removing a foot from the top of my head, but there was a “cool sort of hidden menace” to her voice nevertheless, and this made me shiver.
And squeal as well, as one stray piece of yolk brushed my eyelids, but didn’t enter.
Something else did, though. Not at that point, but …
“Spread ’em boy!” and the order was clear, and I miserably spread my legs wide while in the kneeling position, face still buried in the gooey mess down on the floor, and it wouldn’t be in the least bit unsafe to assume that I had an “omelet” instead of a face by now.
This reminds me of an incident in one of my favorite novels by the esteemed P.G.Wodehouse, and so hilarious it is that it bears mentioning here. I can’t quite remember the name of the novel, but it’s one of the “Jeeves” series, that incomparable butler that seemed to somehow save the “bumbling young Master Wooster’s” skin many a times.
“Thank you Jeeves”, I think was the title.
And here, due to certain reasons it so happened that Bertie Wooser was stuck on a ship full of “negro minstrels” (the term “Negro” being common in the early 1900’s when these novels were written) and had to escape without the owner of the ship, a burly “Old Stokes” noticing.
The plan of escape as outlined by Jeeves was to, well, blacken Wooster’s face so he’d appear “one of the band” in the “thick of night”, alight a boat with them and escape accordingly.
There has been never an author like P.G. Wodehouse before, so skilled at comedy, and so skilled at using the words of the English language to describe (slapstick) comedic events and occurrences in photographic and very “laughingly poignant” detail, and there never ever probably will be, my dear reader.
It seemed like a foolproof enough plan, and though Wooster did eventually carry it out, and “escaped” successfully, his embarrassment was nothing compared to mine at the moment, hindquarters high up in the air and legs spread, and a feeling of absolute terror possessed me as I thought she was preparing to deliver a kick to the family jewels, a kick like I had never received before, the pain the nature of which I had probably never felt before either.
“Madam, please! I’m sorry!”
“Forgive me, Madam!”
And these words gushed out of me, but the “messy” state I was in ensured that they sounded like the proverbial horse with half an neigh stuck in it’s belly, and it made no sense at all, sort of like garbled “human” radio waves as it were.
And the much feared kick to the nuts never came, but it didn’t lessen my terror one damn bit, as I cringed every time I “felt” her lift those feet of hers!
My entire body shook as I felt a few kicks to the left posterior region, but those felt oddly “soothing” in comparison to what happened before, and then, finally, the old Madam Carrie returned.
Or so I thought, as from somewhere deep in the “general vicinity” I heard a stolen giggle or two.
“You look adorable, boy! There you are, being punished for an infraction, with your face buried deep in that fucking mess!”
And then it happened, as she literally shoved a piece of burnt toast up my ass!
“What they call a wedgie”, giggled Madam Carrie as I squirmed uncomfortably, the butter making my asshole slick and easier for the piece of bread to slide in.
And as it quickly as it slid in, it slid out, apparently to be tossed somewhere, but replaced by another. It felt sort of like “micro-penises” were entering and leaving my asshole at random, willy nilly, but a penis never felt this “rough” did it?
“Veggies, veggies” chanted this new avatar of Madam Carrie, and it sounded almost like a yogic chant. “Wedgie boy”, she trilled.
And as she went on, I remember thinking what the “veggies chant” was all about.
I mean, yes I had wedgies up my ass, but …
“Fitness, my foot (and here she delivered a solid kick to the right posterior)!” she bellowed all of a sudden. “You like eating veggies, don’t you boy?”
And with a final kick, this time delivered to the center of the posterior region in all, a kick that sent the final piece of toast 99% up my hole, she ordered me to sit up, and what I saw around me revolted me.
It wasn’t so much the omelet, or the mess everywhere.
It wasn’t the glass and China which seemed to have settled into every nook and cranny of the room (and which I’d spend the next hour painstakingly cleaning, squirming as I wasn’t allowed to remove the “last wedgie” from my ass as I cleaned).
And somehow, just somehow, I knew what was going to ensure as I saw the pieces of toast that had been “in and out” of my rectum scattered near me.
Hindsight, my dear reader, is again 20/20 and I think I recall mentioning in no less graphic detail the sheer distaste I felt when being ordered to lick my own cum up in Volumes 1 and Volumes 2, but the one “benefit” was that my stomach muscles were well trained not to throw up by now, and as she ordered me to eat the pieces of toast, it was still all I could do to keep each piece down as I hastily “gulped” them down without daring to taste them.
But despite my intentions of not tasting, it left a horribly “stinky sour” taste in them, and anyone that (hopefully not) has ever tasted “toast from the rear end” will know what I’m referring to.
And she finally seemed happy with this as she plonked back down on the bed, and giggled as I ate the nasty pieces of bread, and pulled out her phone.
Click, click! It went, as she captured my indignity for posterity, and though it was a different click to the ones the dreadful nipple clamps I mention beneath will make, it was no less humiliating and fear inspiring.
And she made several comments during this whole ordeal, to each of which I was (obviously or else!) expected to respond.
“The wedgie boy likes to eat veggies, doesn’t he!”
And as I looked at her in a dumb, terrified sort of manner, the last piece of toast still “wedged” inside “wedgie boy’s rectum”, she bellowed again, and it sounded like a herd of angry elephants trumpeting in unison.
“Oh, yes I do, Madam! Of course I do, Of course! …” And I babbled incoherently as …
…. My word!
There’s more in the Madam Carrie series, of course!
But thats what you call a true Goddess, eh?
I gotta rush for now. Back soon with more!
PS – This post first appeared HERE – Canonical link
But since Medium saw fit to suspend the account, well, their loss ! Hehe.
Get Madam Carrie NOW – the book, I mean! You’ll NEVER want to put it down – – that I do guarantee.
PS #2 – A huge thank you to all paperback buyers, that shows you’re TRULY INTO IT!