Amity invites her friends to learn how to train slaves in their stables with eight men she brings in to be her demonstrations.
Femdom Parlors
Breaking and Training Male Remote Slaves
by Amity Harris
TWO DAYS AFTER I had my girl send invitations, the Parlor’s inbox filled with replies from the eight guests. Their assignment was to answer one written question and compose a video essay to gain admission to the Femdom Parlor. The question was simple. “Who owns you?” Every reply said, “Ms. Amity,” with several in all caps. From now on, when they were allowed to speak, that was the only answer they would give to that question.
One of them wrestles his way into a cell in my attic. That’s where I keep my exclusive boys, the only ones who are allowed — or have the talent — to make my nights last until the sun rises.
Read a Sample of Femdom Parlors
WHEN THE PARLOR guests were fed, watered and uncaged, they were delivered to the main Parlor room. When I walked in, they wriggled out of their chairs and fell on their hands and knees, faces on the floor. There was no delay this time. So far, three hours of Parlor education and training produced obedient men who were miles — and mindsets — away from their not-so-normal lives. I altered their view of normal to new mindsets with a new focus.
Later, when the Parlor day was over and they boarded their planes to fly back to their usual notable lives, they would still be unique business leaders evidenced by what they did, who they controlled and how they lived. From hair color to shoe size, they didn’t share many characteristics, except the constant wielding of power. In their cores, all men are the same to me and the next session would show them how I change what they do and how they think when they’re in my world.
There’d be tears, complaints and a little backtracking to their egotistical selves during the four-week hiatus, but it didn’t matter. Men who thirst to submit to me share a similar persona. I’d show them theirs in this lesson. Then I’d change it into the one I want.
At the auction in Sweden, our first in-person get-together since the pandemic travel restrictions were lifted and we were all vaccinated, the girls from Denmark bought a half-dozen slaves to fill their herd. The girls were decent trainers, but two of their purchases were posing challenges. We chatted and they shipped them to me via Red Rick so I could break and then train them properly. I’ve got a reputation in our circle for breaking and training miscreants, so every now and then, Rick’s shipping service drops off a couple of cages in the transport garage from Dommes who need an assist. I enjoy the challenge of breaking the most difficult slaves. They learn it doesn’t matter who owns them. Their lot, the life they chose and willingly submit to, is slavery.
Their boys arrived two days ago. I had them caged apart from my stable in a small room in the equipment building so their misbehavior didn’t influence my slaves and I planned to use them for this Parlor demo. Just like a veterinarian examining a dog she’s not familiar with, the boys were gagged for their safety and hog-tied for mine. My girls hauled them to the stage on hand trucks.
As I’ve said, there’s no reason to explain anything to my slaves, or the temps I agree to break. They have easy lives. They are told what to do and when to do it. The two on loan squirmed against their bonds, decidedly uncomfortable with their wrists and ankles locked to the four-strap hog tie behind them. Discomfort would soon be the least of their problems.
I told the guests to watch the lesson and learn.
“I have a full stable and they are all the same to me. Yes, they have different talents and skills, but that’s fluff. No man can be my slave unless he completely, fully and unreservedly gives himself to me.”
They tried to absorb what that meant personally. They wondered if they were my slaves already and were scared of what that meant. But deep inside, being owned but not just by anyone, was what they sought. That fear and confusion is common to influential men. They imagine life without their power and often can’t even envision it. That’s why they have such specific fantasies. It’s their outlet from the responsibility they carry all the time.
I gave them the real life experiences they yearned for in safety. Once they tasted it, they hungered for more.
Every application they sent in had a check next to the phrase, “I want to give up my control and have someone tell me what to do.” It never means they want it forever. They want a temporary, safe refuge where they can live out their dreams. They were on the cusp of getting their hidden hopes. But it came with a price.
I warned them again, “All slaves are the same to me.”
