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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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