DEBRA’S SON: OUR MATRIARCHAL MARRIAGE, Part 2

(In the previous installment Debra's son described how he and Shayna met in an online chatroom, her uncompromising gynarchist views and their eventful first femdom weekend together at her semi-rural house.)

On the fourth weekend, I think it was, she introduced me to two female friends both about her age, Nikki and Madison. They weren’t gynarchists like Shayna, but definitely fellow travelers. They treated me like a butler if they wanted a drink or a snack, but mostly they ignored me. All three liked to go out clubbing together. Shayna looked so hot in a short, tight, low-cut club dress and heels, and she often went commando. Being chaste even part time had made me so horny I constantly fought the desire to fall at her feet. I wasn’t used to having masturbation restricted at all, and I had a hard time dealing with the intensity of my lust. Sometimes I begged her to let me out, but she said I was probably jerking way too much at my home already.

Shayna usually came back from clubbing either really late or early the next morning. Later, when Nikki and Madison visited again, I heard all three women talk about the hot guys they knew. I must have been acting disapproving or jealous, because after the women left, Shayna made it clear that abstinence wasn’t for women. Women had already been subject to enough chastity in history. She wasn’t ashamed of her high libido and would continue to be sexually active no matter how our relationship progressed or how long it lasted. She had a steady guy at the present time, and while she wasn’t in the habit of bringing home dates, privacy was essential if she did. She’d phone me before he came, and I would stay in another part of the house until he left. Afterward, I was to conduct myself as if nothing had happened—no jealousy, no passive aggression, no sullen moping. If I overheard or saw things, oh well, but I was NEVER to ask her any details of her sex life.

Of course, I agreed.

One night while Shayna was out she sent me a text saying, “Bringing him home. Go in top door and STAY THERE.

By “top door” she meant the door at the top of the stairs that run along the outside of her house. In other words, go directly to the second story and stay out of sight.

I walked up to the second floor and stayed where and as Shayna ordered. In a few minutes I heard my car drive up (she was using my car because her battery had given out that day). I heard two car doors slam, and then I heard the front door of the house open. I could hear a little of what was going on below—Shayna giggling and a man’s deep voice. I couldn’t hear much more than that, but I tried to picture what might be going on. After several hours I thought I heard the front door on the first floor shut. Good, I thought. She’s taking him back to wherever.

But that was wishful thinking. From one of my upstairs windows I saw Shayna running with this hunky young blond guy toward the above-ground pool she had in the yard. They were both nude. It was a hot night and dark, with a sliver of moon, but I could just make out what was happening. They were hugging and kissing in the water, and I heard her squeal as he bit her neck and then her breasts. He was really aggressive and drove her wild. I could see why she wasn’t attracted to me in that way.

After a while he climbed up and sat on a small wooden deck that’s level with the top of the pool. Shayna, while still in the water, glided over and started performing fellatio on him. She was incredibly expert and relished what she was doing. She teased him with her hands and tongue, and then she took him all in, her head bobbing back and forth in rhythm. This guy was just casually leaning back, as though he’d had it a hundred times before and was slightly bored. If it had been me, I would have been out of my mind with ecstasy. But it wasn’t me. I was upstairs in a chastity device with blue balls and dribbling precum while peeking through a curtain at my goddess and her stud.

While this was happening, a cloud covered the moon and I couldn’t see anymore. I could still hear, though, and I listened for a little. I felt a hundred things all at once. I was angry and jealous but obviously turned on. I was even proud of her in a weird way. I closed the window curtain and went to bed but tossed and turned all night.

The next morning Shayna’s stud had a friend pick him up. I did my best to keep my promise. I acted like nothing happened and so did she.

 

All that aside, as the months went by, Shayna and I went places and did things together, got to really know each other and slowly formed a closer bond. We shared affectionate kisses and embraces, but if I attempted anything sexual, I was sharply rebuffed. Despite that, I fell hopelessly in love with her, and one day I told her so.

She replied, “I love you, too. I never thought I’d run across a guy with your background.”

“Then marry me,” I said.

“Are you sure, Dave? You know what kind of marriage it will be.”

“I know.”

“Things will be basically as they are now.”

“Can’t we at least consummate our marriage on our wedding night?” I said, with a hopeful grin.

“I love you, but not in that way. Besides, you’re not circumcised. I don’t have sex with uncircumcised guys.” 

“I’ll get circumcised.”

“Ha! Is that a fact? Okay, then. If you do, we’ll have a traditional wedding night, but after that, expect very little sex. That’s not what I need from you. Remember what I said about the types?”

“I know, I know.”

“I just can’t faze you, can I? I don’t believe you’re for real.”

“I love you, Shayna, and I’m for real. I promise things will be exactly the way you want them in every area of our lives. Forever. I promise.”

“Then let’s set a date. For your circumcision first.”

I did get circumcised, and though it was more of an ordeal than I thought, I healed relatively fast. We set a wedding date for 13 months to the day after we met online.

During our engagement we met each other’s families. My mom and my fiancee liked each other, but there was some tension, mostly due to personality differences. Shayna was impressed by my mother and her matriarchal history, but Mom thought Shayna’s attitude toward the spiritual aspects of matriarchy (and a lot of other things) was too light and casual. Mom took her Goddess-centered beliefs seriously. Shayna felt that while the Goddess was important in gynarchy, it was utilitarian, best used as a concept to empower women rather than taken too seriously as an actual entity. There were other differences, too, but Mom told me afterward in private that she basically approved. If I was sure about Shayna, she was happy for me. Dad, my sisters, and nieces were happy too.

We visited Shayna’s family next. Her parents don’t relate to matriarchy or anything resembling it, so we had to be a normal vanilla couple when were there. They were very nice, but I could tell they thought I was way too old for her. I liked them though.

 

Shayna and I had a quick perfunctory civil ceremony by a judge, just to make sure our marriage was legal in our state. Her parents and a few vanilla friends attended that. But what we consider our real wedding was performed later the same day. It was private and small, attended by my family and a few of Shayna’s radical feminist friends. Shayna put it together, using her own ideas and borrowing some from my account of a matriarchal wedding of a friend of my family. It bore her own stamp without a doubt, reflecting her unique combination of humor and dominance that I fell so much in love with. I’ll have to leave some things out due to length, but you’ll get the gist…

(To be continued…)

 

 

DEBRA’S SON: OUR MATRIARCHAL MARRIAGE, Part 1

I left off in my last installment at the point where I met my wife in an online chatroom. I’ll describe her below and continue my history from there. Shayna is a sexy brunette with brown eyes and olive skin. Being a fitness buff, she works hard to keep her 5’7’’ feminine hourglass figure well toned. She’s a technician at a home security/surveillance supply corporation. Growing up, she was as an only child who lived part of the time with her widowed grandmother, due to her parents both being in the service. She took Navy ROTC herself in college, but decided the military wasn’t for her.

Against this rather traditional atmosphere, she held feminist and later gynarchic views developed from a variety of influences. She was introduced to the concept of female domination as an adolescent when she and a friend were snooping around her friend’s parents’ house and found a stash of literature and “toys.” In addition, the Internet was a continual source, her generation having grown up with it. When she got to college, she took women’s studies courses along with her technology major, and she was exposed to feminists of many different stripes. By the time of her graduation in 2008, she thought of herself as a full-blown gynarchist. She prefers that term to similar ones without worrying about the fine points of definition.

Discussing ideas with her online before we met in person was fascinating. She felt that while most females might be inherently more monogamous than most males, culture plays a part, too. Women are taught that the man they’re attracted to both physically and romantically (the rush of falling in love) must be the right one, because women are supposed to find everything in one package. One man only, forever. That’s why a woman, when married a few years, can become depressed and restless and prone to being seduced by another man. She’s fair game for someone who makes her feel the way her husband used to. The bond she’s built with her husband through a shared past, shared values, child-rearing, etc.., loses its power to this new “soul mate.” She ends up with a guy who excites her, but is not suited to settling down.

The solution, according to Shayna, is to become comfortable with non-monogamy: One type of man for settling down with and raising a family and, for other needs, another type of man (one or two can be enough; promiscuity is permitted but not required!). I recognized that view as being similar to my mother’s. The main difference was that Mom’s had a more spiritual (Goddess-centered) basis than Shayna’s. I half-jokingly asked Shayna which type of man she thought I was. She said, “Oh come on, you already know; I don’t have to tell you!”

We discussed men, too, but that’s by the by. I’ll skip ahead to when we met in person. She lived in the same (U.S.) state, several hours’ drive away. I agreed to come up and stay for a three-day weekend. She knew all about my background by this time, and told me to prepare for a weekend of servitude.

Her two-story house was in a semi-rural area like mine, but closer to a large city. It was quite old but nice and needed only a little work to put it in good shape.

It had been raining, and the first thing she said when I hit her doorstep was, “Remove your shoes. It’s hard enough to keep the floors clean. But then now that you’re here, you can clean them.”

Shayna was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt and had just finished working out. I could see she wasn’t out to impress me — I would have to impress her. She was still hot as hell though. Her beautiful bare feet led to legs that were toned and shapely with a thin sheen of sweat, her tight shorts hugged her sexy hips, her round, braless breasts had prominent nipples that were visible through her damp shirt, and her long dark hair was in a ponytail.

“Take your bags and go put your things away in that bedroom,” she said, pointing out the way. “There’s a list of chores in there, too. I’m going to shower and then watch a DVD. When you’ve done everything on the list, let me know.”

Okayyyy, I thought to myself. No preliminaries here. Well, she did say servitude.

They were basic domestic tasks (dishes, laundry, cleaning bathrooms), but it took nearly five hours to do everything. Shayna was napping on the couch wearing a fresh t-shirt and shorts when I finished, and I waited quietly in a nearby chair until she awakened. She asked if I was finished, and I said, “Yes.”

She inspected my work and then assigned even more chores. It was late and I was really tired when I finished.

She said, “You did what I told you. I had to test your work ethic first. I had to be sure you weren’t here just for fun. Now, go take a shower, then go into your bedroom naked, and wait for me.”

I obeyed.

Despite having been accustomed to being dominated by females, I found myself getting nervous as I stood naked waiting for her. I was hoping to be able to sport a strong erection in front of her, but it was more like a frightened turtle trying to retreat in its shell. After about ten minutes she marched in and looked me over.

“Hmmm. You’re not circumcised. That’s bad. But you look like you work out and keep fit. That’s good,” she said.

I was nervous and jabbered something about how even though I was no longer serving my family, I tried to keep fit and—

She casually put her hand over my mouth. "I didn’t give you permission to speak, babe.”

I kept quiet and stood as still as I could. She kept eyeing me up and down as she walked a circle around me a couple of times before she spoke.

“It looks like you’re about as soft as you can be already. That’ll make this easier.”

She walked over to a closet and came back with a plastic chastity device.

I must have had a puzzled look on my face because she said, “Now, don’t tell me you don’t know what this is. You said you were chaste when you lived with your sister, didn’t you? You can answer.”

“I know what it is, but I didn’t say Jill kept me chaste. I said she kept me celibate. I wasn’t discouraged from masturbating in private whenever I wanted. It was her view, as well as Mom’s, that a man of the home should intentionally develop the habit to keep him from getting distracted by women and to become accustomed to that form of release alone.”

“That’s not my way,” Shayna huffed. She slapped my face. “Don’t contradict me, and don’t give me a lecture on your family’s philosophy every time I make a decision. I’m in complete control of your cock while you’re here. You’ll wear this, or you’ll get out of my house right now!”

I said, “Yes, Shayna.” That’s what she preferred to be called, not Mistress, etc.

She put the device on me, taking the time to adjust it properly. It really took some getting used to. It pinched and was irritating at times, but later, when our relationship got serious, she had a device specially made that was much more comfortable. I spent that weekend in domestic service and running errands for her. She allowed me to massage and kiss her feet, but that was the extent of our physical contact. I served her to the best of my ability.

Unlike my sister, she didn’t take out her frustrations on me, but if I disobeyed or made a mistake, I got an old-fashioned hard paddling or a sharp smack across the face. These decreased as I learned her ways, and in the main, she was very impressed with every aspect of my conduct. When it was time for me to leave, she let me out of the device. I was so horny I had to stop and masturbate in my car as soon as I cleared the view from her house.

I began going up to her house every weekend or more often if I could…

(End Part One ~ To be continued…)

ZOE AT HOME

 It is a wintry day in January in the UK. I am working from home in my "garden office." The garden looks so pretty. From my office I can see the house and the two large ash trees.

Max is indoors completing his morning chores. After breakfast he will dust and vacuum the six bedrooms, dust the three downstairs rooms and start a hotwash. I don’t micro-manage him as he knows what needs to be done and will get on and do his little sissy jobs.

I have just finished a Facetime call with our New York office. I expect my boss will want me to visit next month. It is a high-pressure office with lots of powerful and rich female clients, who all want equal attention.

I am wearing skinny jeans with a thick oversized jumper. Heeled boots and gold jewelry on my wrists and neck. Max appears at the door. He comes in and waits with his eyes on the floor.

"What is it, honey? Have you finished your chores?"

"Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if you would like some coffee and chocolate cake. I made it yesterday. May I worship your feet, ma’am? I will be quiet, you won’t know I am here."

I smiled at my sweet sissy slave.

"I would love coffee and cake. As for my feet, you can look after them when I have a chat with my mommy, okay? Good boy."

I love Max’s baking, so delicious. I was chatting to my mom about holidays and family stuff as Max lay at my feet, kissing and sniffing and licking.

Four days later I am talking to Max about his chastity schedule for 2024.

Last year he went a whole year without release. It was okay but I missed an aspect of our life together that meant he was eager to be allowed release.

I decided that a whole year without release was too much and that it would not be repeated.

I have signed up with a plan on my phone app which designates release dates based on scores for performance. For example, the chocolate cake scored Max 7 out of a top score of 10. I enter 7 into the app and it calculates a release time based on certain criteria I had previously entered.

"Max, I am travelling again this year, not so much as last year but still I will be away a bit. As it is a new year, I will need to ‘diary’ your chastity release. Okay?"

''So, ma’am, does that mean I am not to be kept locked for another year?"

"Yes, honey, it does. I think it is best. Now I have spoken to my mom and she has agreed that when I am not able to supervise release, then she will step in and unlock you. What do you think of that? I know it is a bit odd for an older woman to deal with these things. I know you like my mom, and she is kind to you, isn’t she?"

"I love your mom so much. That is amazing, ma’am. Thank you. I promise I will be a good boy for you and work to deserve release. May I ask when the next one is due?"

"Well, you know the app I have on my cell? I showed it to you last week, Okay? Well, I have scheduled one release every six weeks. But the chocolate cake has rescheduled that to one week earlier. So I guess it will be in early February. Did I say stop kissing my boots?"

"Mmm. ma’am, you are the best. (Kiss, kiss, kiss. Lick, lick, lick.)."

It is good to see Max appreciative of my decision, and he is pleased that I changed my mind because I got bored last year, when he was in chastity permanently.

Sissy slaves, like Max, get used to the whims and desires of their owners or wives. Max has seen many changes.

When we were first married, we were like any other newlywed couple. The only difference, really, was that I was in total control of our lives. We made love often, but Max was always put back into chastity afterwards.

At work I have been put in charge of checking the efficiency and work practices of our branch in Singapore. I have been there many times and always stay at the same hotel on Fullerton Square.

Fullerton Hotel, Singapore

For the new year I have bought three new skirt suits to refresh my wardrobe. Also, I have six new silk blouses which I adore. I love to buy new clothes; it gives me added confidence and makes me appreciate my life.

In January a routine has been established and Max knows what is expected of him. Worship of my feet, appreciation of his life and efficiency in the home.

 *

LEO: GROWING UP IN A MATRIARCHAL HOME, Part One

[Note from Thomas Lavalle: This guest post, which appeared some years ago in an earlier version of this blog, came to me as an email from a regular reader. "Leo" shares fond memories of coming of age in a no-nonsense matriarchal clan headed by his mother and her sister. In Part Two, "Leo" describes how the torch of female authority was passed from his mother to his older sister and how she began to exercise dominion over him at an early age. PS: "Leo" is also the author of "The Husband's Guide" posted previously on this blog.]

I am a 58-year-old man who believes strongly that women were born to rule. I was fortunate to grow up in a household ruled by women. In fact, the women's authority in what I will call our matriarchal clan (which includes the family of my wife’s sister) was absolute and unquestionable. My mother and her sister both ruled their homes under the philosophy and precepts of a strong matriarchy.

You need to understand that I'm talking about the ’60s and ’70s when women needed to ask their husband's permission to work outside the home. But not in our family! On the contrary, my mother and aunt were the ones who worked outside the home while their husbands remained at home doing all the household chores.

Although concepts such as female supremacy and female superiority were not used in those days—or at least were not a topic of discussion anywhere that I ever saw—the women in our family could be accurately described as staunch female supremacists who exercised over their men an indisputable authority. A stern look from either of these two sisters was enough for their husbands to shut their mouths instantly and humbly bow their heads. Such was the respect and, yes, fear that my father and my uncle had for their ruling wives.

Some people may think that fear has no place in a healthy relationship. But, with all due respect for others’ opinions, I have to say that I have seen that a good dose of fear reinforces the respect and obedience that a husband should always have for his wife. In fact, I am convinced that a wife who truly loves her husband is a wife who does not spare the rod, the leather belt, slapping, etc., in order to educate her husband and make him a better man. In our family, the men were grateful for any such physical correction, since they knew, as all males should instinctively know, that the proper position of a man before a woman is one of absolute subordination.

I had a happy childhood in this matriarchal environment. My mother patiently guided and educated me and very early in life I learned to respect and obey her. During those early years, as I recall, her punishments were limited to half a dozen spankings to correct the natural rebelliousness or tendency to be naughty that boys have. In light of this, I thought it completely natural to see my father obeying my mother, just like I had to do, and to see her correcting and even berating him for any negligence or sign of laziness.

As I grew older, however, I began to see that the domination my mother exercised over my father went way beyond mere scoldings. I must have been around 12 or 13 when I secretly listened outside my parents’ bedroom one evening and overheard my Dad begging Mom not to beat him again. Her response was to order him, in no uncertain terms, to shut up (actually she used stronger language).

Then came the punishment, which I also overheard and which must have lasted about 15 minutes. Believe me, I trembled as I listened to the obvious thrashing my mother was giving my father. But, to my surprise, when he finally finished moaning, he began thanking her for the physical correction she’d just given him!

I also must confess that what I overheard that night behind closed doors caused me some arousal—and also made me feel deeply proud of my beloved mother.

Over the next several years, certainly by the time I was 15, I had eavesdropped on many such beatings of my father by my mother. She had also begun to assert her authority openly in front of all the family. More than a few times, in fact, I witnessed Mom silencing Dad with a hard slap for speaking disrespectfully or thoughtlessly. One of the many lessons that I began to learn, from those days onward, was that silence, humility and obedience are virtues that males need to cultivate. When the women of the family were speaking, Dad and I knew to remain in absolute silence.

(End Part One) 

ZOE: FROM MATTY TO MAX

(In her previous post, “Growing Up in a Gynarchic Family,” Miss Zoe mentioned, almost as an aside, her “first sub-hubby, Matty.” In this follow-up posting, Miss Zoe explains how that first gynarchic or matriarchal marriage came about, and then gives us a short summary of some main female-led events in the years since. BTW, Zoe has also indicated her willingness, within her professional time constraints, to respond to selected questions from open-minded readers concerning her female-first lifestyle.)

MISS ZOE:

I was happily married to Matty for four years. We married when I was 23 and in my first job as a newly qualified lawyer. He was 34 and very handsome.

His job was as a ‘Gofer’ in one of my mummy’s hair salons. He answered the phone, made coffee for clients, swept up after a client left, cleaned the ladies’ toilet and did shopping errands for the stylists. He was a “good boy” and very obedient.

I loved my job and was always busy. My mom bought me an apartment in a converted box-making factory near the river (note: the Thames, as we were living in London). She suggested I get someone to help with housework as I was always living in a mess. She suggested that Matty could come round once or twice a week to dust and vacuum, wash up the dirty dishes, tidy the apartment and generally be a help.

This went on for a while and one day I needed a ‘’plus one’’ for a social event at work. I invited Matty to accompany me. He was such a cute partner and we laughed and danced and had such fun.

We dated for a while and one day I sat him down and explained all about the gynarchy lifestyle and my family’s strongly held views on how women and men should live together. He would have to ask permission for anything he wanted to do, he would wear a CB6000 chastity device and he would be allowed release at least twice a year – on my and his birthdays, with my permission.

He understood and agreed. Fortunately, his job had already accustomed him to being in a very inferior position with the women hairstylists. and he was happy that if we got serious, he would be the submissive and lesser partner.

We married in a quiet Registry Office ceremony with our parents, our siblings and some friends. Our vows were gynarchy ones and he promised to obey and I promised to protect. Afterwards the twenty of us went to a local pub for a meal and chat. No speeches, no big fuss.

Matty wore a blue suit and I wore a long white dress with some flowers in my hair. It was such fun, and we laughed all night. That night he was allowed to make love without his CB6000, and he was a sweet and considerate lover.

At home we got quickly into a good routine. He did the food shopping, the dusting and vacuuming, the washing and ironing, all the house stuff. I gave him his chores and controlled the money and the life we had. His opinions were agreed with mine, he responded at once to me clicking my fingers and he was altogether a good sissy.

We were happy. I got pregnant and we had a lovely daughter, Anna. Matty was her caregiver and daddy. It worked perfectly for us.

When I was 29, I got promotion to be a Senior Partner and the pressure began to build. If Matty was slow or gave me an attitude, I would punish him severely. If he was weepy or needy, I would slap him and shout at him.

I travelled a lot and was often off to our offices in the USA and Canada or Malaysia and Singapore or Australia and New Zealand. I was having a great time and making a great deal of money. My salary was 6 figures and my bonus put me in the 7-figure range. Matty tried his best, and I loved him and still thought he was a great husband and father.

Temptations were around though, and I had lots of fun with other guys. Matty knew about these friendships and often I would bring some handsome guy home to chill and have fun.

Matty would serve them and be an obedient sissy slave.

However, there was one guy I met who I began to feel serious about.

His name was Max.

I dated him exclusively for about 6 months before he moved in with Matty and me and it was so exciting and fun.

Max was a Gynarchy boy. His family consisted of three girls and his parents. He did the chores, he obeyed his sisters and helped their dad, who was the family slave. After a while I realised that Max was doing a lot of the work in my apartment.

Max asked my permission before he did anything, and if I was praising Matty for a job well done, Max would get jealous and act up.

Once Matty was kissing my feet in the kitchen whilst Max prepared supper. He looked over and asked Matty to help by peeling some spuds.

‘’Max, don’t give Matty orders, he is doing fine where he is. Don’t be jealous, babe.’’

‘’But ma’am, I do all the cooking and he has all the foot worship action, it is just not fair, sorry.’’

‘’Max, be quiet. Matty is a good boy. Aren’t you, Matty, aren’t you a good boy.’’

Matty: ‘’Thank you, goddess. I will help Max if you want me to. I love to help in the kitchen.’’

I went to have a shower, whilst Max and Matty worked on supper.

After a few months I realised I needed to choose. I didn’t need two sissy slaves.

Max won. Matty was sold.

Max is now my sissy slave, and Matty belongs to a Frenchwoman and lives the Gynarchy lifestyle in Paris. I am a friend of his owner, Isobel, and I hear he is very happy.

Max is at my feet as I type. He is worshipping my stinky gym feet.

Such a good boy.

*

ZOE: GROWING UP IN A GYNARCHIC FAMILY

[Note from Tom Lavalle: I’m honored to have been given permission to publish some of the delightfully dominant opinions of Zoe, or Miss Zoe, whom some readers may recall as a frequent and favorite commenter to Mistress Kathy’s “Femdom 101”  blog. Miss Zoe is pleased to share, with open-minded readers, a few of her vivid memories of growing up in a loving, if strict matriarchal home. Stay tuned to this space for more contributions from Miss Zoe.]

MISS ZOE: 

I was brought up in a femdom family with my daddy as the family slave. Everyone in our family obviously knew the situation. My older sister and I learned at an early age who was in charge and who followed, and my two uncles were also in femdom marriages and all my parents’ friends were aware of this.

I don't remember any embarrassment or awkwardness when anyone came over. They naturally expected my daddy to answer the door, take coats, and make small talk as he curtsied and showed them to wherever the family were. It was natural for him to serve drinks and disappear until needed and then ordered to do whatever.

I guess there were people who didn't approve, but, growing up, I wasn't aware of any problems. When I got to my teen years I, too, ordered him about if I needed anything. My school friends didn't expect their fathers to obey them, but they took it for granted that my daddy would do as I said.

Here are some memories from my childhood:

I am 8 years old and we are going to my grandma's house for Boxing Day. My sister and I are in the back of the car and my mother is driving. She turns to Daddy and says, “Now, Babe, remember to go and help my Daddy in the kitchen when we get there. After you’ve unpacked for me and the girls, you go straight ahead and help Daddy. And remember to thank Mummy for your Christmas present and curtsey when she speaks to you.”

“Okay. Can I eat with the family?”

“Of course not. You eat with my Daddy in the kitchen. We'll have a lovely time. The girls are so looking forward to it.”

And we did have a lovely time.

*

I am 12 years old and I come out onto the upstairs landing at our house. I can see the kitchen door ajar and my Mummy is shouting at my Daddy. I can’t hear exactly but I can see my Daddy on his knees begging my Mummy for mercy. He looks scared and has his arms raised. It then goes quiet and someone shuts the door. I know who is in charge, and it isn't my Daddy.

I am 14 and I come into the hallway after a day of exams at school. I drop my bag and take my coat off and let it fall to the ground. My Daddy hurries out of the kitchen and says, “Hello, Zoe, have a good day at school? How did you do on in the math exam?”

I ignore him and order a soft drink and some cake to be brought to my bedroom. He hangs my coat up in the hall cupboard, picks up my bags and takes them upstairs to my bedroom, and then hurries to do as he is told. When he comes into my bedroom, he asks again about my day, but I ignore him. You may ask why. I guess I don't want to tell him.

*

Another day when I was about 14 I was in the TV room with one of my school friends (Janette, I think), and I realized the glasses that had been filled with milk and the plates that had had cookies on them were still on the coffee table. I immediately pressed the buzzer to summon my Daddy. I told him I didn't expect to be staring at dirty crockery and to clear them away at once. He was very apologetic and did as I said.

*

Sometimes I would have study days at home and chat with Daddy over coffee and cookies. I was always amazed he didn't know where Washington D.C. was or the capital of France.

I would often get Daddy to do errands in the house. Go fetch a book, or cardigan or clean my shoes or check if my sports kit is okay. My friends accepted that when they were in my house they would tell my Daddy to do something rather than ask. If he was not cooperative, or showed any lack of enthusiasm in doing as he was told, they would mention it to me.

I would speak to him when they had gone or, if it was a serious incident, report to Mummy. I don't know what she did, but Daddy invariably apologized to me and to my friends when they were next over to our house.

*

I remember one night when my friends and I all went clubbing, I was about 15 years old, I arranged for Daddy to drive us and pick us up. He had to be outside at 10 p.m. in case any of us wanted to leave early. We didn't come out until 11:30, and he didn't complain. By the way, he had special permission from Mummy to stay up past his 9 p.m. bedtime. On that occasion he got into trouble for looking a little too long at my friends’ short skirts and low tops. He was reported to Mummy. I have no idea what happened, but he apologized most profusely. My friends hadn't even noticed, but I had.

*

Looking back, I remember how casual my dealings with Daddy were. I would order him about, or request urgency in doing a chore for me. I never considered the possibility of any disobedience or argument from him, just a worried "Yes, Miss" or "Yes, Zoe." Lots of the things I got him to do were trivial. Like getting him to make sure my skirts were on hangers or looking for runs in my pantyhose.

I was talking to my Mummy about some of the minor rules in our house when we were growing up. One was that Daddy wasn't allowed to open the post or read anything that came by mail, even if it looked like junk mail or was obviously a birthday card for him. He had to place the mail on the hall stand in a silver tray used for the purpose. When I came home from school he sometimes asked permission to open a card that was from his mother (he could tell by the handwriting in blue ink). I knew it was a strict rule and always said, “No, Daddy, go and do your chores. Is my room tidy? Have you hung up my skirt from yesterday?’’

BTW, I allowed this rule to be part of my life with my first sub-hubby, Matty. However, because I sometimes needed to know if a legal contract had been sent home, I would allow him, under strict instructions, to telephone me if an envelope from a particular organization had arrived. He had to decide if it was appropriate. When I left for work I might say, ‘’Oh, Matty, dear, I’m expecting a big brown envelope from Saunders and Saunders. Telephone my PA if it arrives, and she'll tell you if you can open it, okay? Good boy.’’

Matty was allowed to make some decisions about washing powder and types of cleaning stuff he needed. He had to confirm with me, however. He couldn’t just buy what he wanted. I usually couldn’t be too bothered with his choices, but he had to ask as a matter of politeness and good manners.

(Additional note from Thomas Lavalle: Miss Zoe also posts occasional comments on the extremely witty and daring female supremacist blog, Contemplating the Divine. 

 *