My extreme femdom philosophy dictates that I don’t sit facing the slave’s head during extreme pussy worship or extreme shit feeding; I always sit facing the slave’s balls. Today, I’m facing this way because, let’s face it, men like to see a face get attacked with a pussy.
To begin a teasing or toilet session, I always (since 2024) lay out three tools on the desk for the slave to see: a small branding iron sitting on top of my equally small electric oven, a taser, and the tiniest opaque bottle you’ve ever seen—the inside contains Resiniferatoxin, or what I tell my slaves is “hell unleashed on your balls.”
From that point, I matter-of-factly lay out the rules for the duration of my slave’s submission:
If I say ‘no noise,’ I mean absolute silence as if you were born without a tongue.
If I say ‘no sucking, licking, or biting,’ it means exactly that. Don’t even let your mouth quiver unless instructed to.
And if I say ‘lay motionless,’ it means you’d better be good at imitating a man in a coma, or else.
‘Or else’ means one of those tools on the desktop is going to be used somewhere on your testes or surrounding area.
Why? Why not just slap your balls or scratch you with my nails like most Mistresses do for ‘punishment’? Because I don’t punish like other Mistresses do, I weaponize dread.
The reason I’m so brutal and so strict with punishment is that I’m really not that smart of a girl, and I have no way of winning the trite little verbal or intellectual games that all men play. You win, hands down, every single time.
To that end, the only way I can declare myself to be your Mistress, your Domina, is to command absolute obedience from you.
The only way to accomplish that is to immediately let you know that I don’t fuck around. Disobey me, and the pain you’ll experience will be unparalleled.
In this order—the taser, the branding iron, and, if you really piss me off, the oil—will be used to eliminate any little game you have in mind to test whether I’m really in control.
That oil is $1,500 for a bottle the size of a coke bottle cap. Your balls will basically fall off your body if I touch them with a gloved finger smeared with that oil. Now you know why you see me wearing gloves in most of my teasing and shit feeding videos.
Regardless of whether I use the taser on your balls, the hot iron on the inside of your thighs, or a smear of the oil, your compliance thereafter will be swift and perpetual. If I command you to swallow my shit in absolute silence, to not do so would be an extremely foolish decision.
This is the only way I can truly dominate men fifty times smarter than I am.
People feared The Godfather, and he used that fear to control them. I do the same.
I’m only crazy extreme because I have to be; I’d be useless as a Mistress otherwise.
I didn’t have access to the level of education you had growing up, and though I’ve been trying to catch up, there’s still a chasm between your intelligence and mine. I’m a dreamer and more of a poet than a writer—always have been. None of these are qualities that help me in dominating men who have jobs far more fascinating than mine, yet who come halfway around the world with a snap of my fingers to serve as my slave.
I have only two tools in my toolkit of domination. The first is my demand for excellence—excellence in how I wish you to serve me. Basically, without fault. The second is the lengths I’m willing to go to find and extract the deepest, most despised fantasies that you boys have had and jerked off to since puberty.
I use absolute fear as a way to take us out of this fake mundane world and into one with a totally different ruleset—mine.
And that ruleset, as crazy and maniacal as it may seem to the average Joe on the street, takes something like shit eating and elevates it to an experience so pure that you can’t believe it’s happening to you.
I think there is an appreciation from my slaves for an experience so different from the banality of life, which makes men willingly submit to me, wanting and accepting my no-bullshit approach to whatever games we engage in.
^ So if you follow my jaa4u.com femdom blog, that’s what you’ve read already. Let me now humbly tell you why this extreme lifestyle feels like I’m walking a razor’s edge.
Mistress Jaa, the original one – went batshit crazy at the end of her tenure, letting her Mistress personality completely define who she was. Rainy, her successor who also went by the name Mistress Jaa let her Mistress personality eat away at who she was in real life and it changed her, though unlike Jaa, it didn’t entirely consume her.
My breakdown last year, at the end of 2023, I still don’t think it was because of the same issue … I prided myself on the fact that for 10 years I was able to just act like a Mistress … and once the session was over I had no problem going back to being the sweet, humble quiet girl I am the other 22 hours of the day.
But maybe there’s no escaping it. Maybe being a Mistress is like a shroud that just slowly consumes you without being aware of it doing so. All those extreme sessions I was doing from 2021 to the middle of 2023 could have sub-consciously made me question who I was in real life, though I brazenly denied it the whole while.
One thing is for certain.
That from 2012 to 2022 I was a junior Mistress, learning the lifestyle one year at a time. But from 2022 until 2024 I have become something completely different. I’m way beyond a Head Mistress … that would imply that all I had to do was step into Rainy’s shoes … but I’ve done so much more than that.
You see, once Rainy quit, I had nobody to fall back on. You know I watch hockey right? Well her quitting abruptly was like being a backup goalie in hockey and being fine with playing once or twice a month when then main goalie needed a game off … but then suddenly being the #1 goalie when the starter suddenly quit playing.
Not only that, but you’re on a team with championship pedigree and expected to maintain the same level of excellence that the former #1 goalie provided.
To step into that role, wouldn’t you agree that you’d have to greatly refine your approach to your job? That’s what I had to do.
So I had this French guy, Gerard, a late 50’s gruff and unpleasant businessman who treated people like shit … and he wanted me to arrange sessions that were so unspeakably outrageous but not really participate in them. Just to arrange for him all his deepest fantasies and make them come true.
For this, I got paid extremely well and it’s one of the things that saved me through covid. That and he constantly sent me support money to get me through those tough two years of lockdowns.
Now one day I’ll go into detail on all those sessions, but for the purpose of this story who’s topic is Punishment – I’ll tell you how working for him began to change who I was as a Mistress.
You see, the majority if not all of those sessions involved multiple people … ladyboys, well hung men, working girls and a couple of submissive girls that were pain freaks.
I’m but a quiet shy girl when I’m not a Mistress, however I couldn’t at any time let all these new people that I was bringing to these sessions see that side of me. And yet, I’m not boisterous in my sessions – I command by actions and demeanor and hardly rely on spoken words at all.
I once had a session with a very wealthy client who said little and when I queried him on it he said something I’ve never forgotten and have taken it as a valuable piece of life advice: “a wise man listens more than he speaks because the more one talks, the more power one gives away.”
Those words have served me well in my career as a Mistress.
So then, if my natural personality is that of a quiet girl, and I don’t speak much in sessions … how then could I command a room with so many people around who know nothing of me and are judging me every minute of the session?
Fear. That’s how.
Fear is my number one tool as a Mistress and the kicker is – I only ever use it once. Like the rich guy told me … the more you speak, the more power you relinquish … and that also applies to dolling out punishment for the more I have to do it … the less effective the technique becomes.
To learn how to properly punish then – I attribute ALL of what I learned to this video on Boston Rob from Survivor
Because once I saw that video – back in 2020 during the covid lockdown year, I subscribed to Paramount+ and watched every single episode of every single show that had Boston Rob in it … so we’re talking every season of Survivor and The Amazing Race … and I studied him, intently.
Had I studied in school the way I studied him that year, I’d be a neurologist by now, but sadly nothing they taught me in school interested me. I have only been obsessed by one thing and one thing only … and that is how to control people, how to exert dominance over someone, preferably without them knowing it.
What I saw that year was a masterclass in how to control people and have them be absolutely clueless that you’re doing it. Would it be that I was the director of a school and had a say in what was taught – I’d have a full year dedicated to Boston Rob.
Anyways, I had never seen The Godfather and luckily that year it was on Netflix with Thai subtitles … and even then I had to watch it 3 times to fully understand it.
What I did understand though – immediately – was the scene where the Hollywood director wakes up with his prized horse’s severed head under his own blankets, the bed soaked in blood.
That hit home, big time.
What that scene taught me is that punishment has to be dolled out in a manner that extracts the most fear humanly possible.
That scene – in femdom terms – was brilliant. There was no bodily harm done – they didn’t beat the shit out of the movie director to prove a point – there was no violence at all. But the message was sent, wasn’t it? “Fuck with me on this, and it won’t be the horse’s head in the bed next time” was the subtle but oh so effective message.
And what I’ve done, is I’ve simply taken that severed horse head scene from The Godfather – and the ruthlessness of making people fear me the way Boston Rob did in Survivor – and I incorporated it into how I conduct my femdom sessions as a Mistress.
Punishment needs to act as a deterrent. Nothing else. Just that.
I had a hockey player who used to come and see me every summer, until he retired. He was actually Rainy’s “slave” – if you can call a mountain of a man seemingly made of muscle a “slave” – but he was initially attracted to her beauty and did his first session with her.
She popped over to my condo to pick up all the spanking toys we have as that’s what she does – she lays them all out on the table at her condo like it’s a buffet table – tells her slave to put his hands over his head and lean against the wall. She then pulls the boy’s pants down to his ankles and begins with the crop which deals out the least amount of pain and works her way up to the tungsten handled crop which – if applied with force – not only hurts but breaks skin.
And she’d then go and spank her slaves the way a teacher would dole out punishment to a kindergarten kid, like wtf?
That’s punishment? How is that a deterrent? Watch that video and tell me if you’re trembling in your boots. lol
She used her sex appeal – and while I’d agree that made her sessions a fun two hours as her slaves would sneak peaks at her every chance they got, there was a hell of a lot of play acting and laughing going on. Which is fine, I guess, if you’re into playful domination.
Some submissive men come to Bangkok looking for a thrill – a night with a super hot lady – and she’d provide that knowing that the center piece of her session was her body. At first her ass and then when she got her boobs done she had a double barrel shotgun of toys that her slaves could gawk at.
I have no such weapon.
Also, copying her methods would simply result in a lesser version of what she was, and where’s the value in that. No, if I was to become a Mistress of any popularity whatsoever, I had to carve out my own path.
And so, I’ve studied this video, just as I’ve studied thousands of others to extract what’s good about the session and refine it ten fold, all the while tossing out the actions that weaken the session.
In that video, the part I put in my toolbox was the laying out of the punishment devices on the table for full display. Now, she was doing that in the video as a promotional tool to show you what tools we have for spanking. But in my mind, I saw the tools laid out on the table as a variation of this “is it safe” torture scene from Marathon Man:
There’s another moment like this in the movie Hostel, the first torture scene when the German lunatic has all the torture tools laid out on the table beside the American kid who looks at them in absolute horror.
So, kind of like cooking, I take those three ingredients, throw them into the big melting pot that is my brain and I come up with the following conclusion:
The tools of torture on display – so long as they are maniacal enough to extract a maximum amount of fear – should be enough of a deterrent in most cases for a femdom session.
You walk into a Mistress’s room and you see 3 spanking crops on the table, perhaps you acknowledge what they’ll be used for and at most that inspires a bit of trepidation, but it certainly doesn’t put the fear of god into you, does it?
You walk into the same Mistress’s room and you see a red hot branding iron, a powerful tasing device and a tiny bottle – I’m quite certain your first thought it something along the lines of “holy fuck, this girl’s batshit crazy!”
Those three tools are exactly what I have laid out on the table for my extreme sessions and as soon as the slave sees them and regains eye contact with me I do a girly wave with my hand and say “oh don’t worry about those, they’re just there in case you break any of the rules” as if I’m severely downplaying their importance in the session.
But the slave now knows they are there, within the reach of my hand. The seeds of deterrence have been planted.
Since I have always tied my slaves up using inescapable Japanese Shibari rope techniques, I can tell you that the difference in the slave’s demeanour with those torture devices present and without are like night and day.
In my early days as a Mistress every single slave would willingly hold up his hands to be bound together and then lift his legs happily towards his ass to be hog tied. Or if I was tying him spread-eagled on the bed which takes a good 10 minutes to do so properly, there was always playful chatter going on between me and the guy I was about to dominate. All the while, as I was applying the rope around the man’s wrist he’d often reach out with his still free hand and caress my leg or my ass, some even daring to brush their fingers against the lips of my pussy.
I can tell you that not one single time since I’ve had those devices laid out beside me on the table has a slave dared to touch my body – which is proof positive of the deterrence already in action.
What has changed is the nervousness of the slave as he’s being tied up. The once playful banter has quite often changed to quick rapid-fire questions where the slave is quick testing whether I’m insane or not, lol.
Note: there is no way I can pull this kind of environment out with slaves new to the femdom game or especially those who have been to Bangkok several times and are both wary and untrusting of the city and its denizens. I did, for a period of time, lose customers by having them simply leave the room on the spot and without paying too.
There is a great amount of trust that must naturally exist between the Mistress and her slave—one of the reasons I’ve decided not to return to Bangkok. The city carries too much stigma, and that reputation is well-earned.
And anyways, my reputation for being super-extreme and ‘all-in’ on the domination & submission experience has spread so much—probably through forums and whatnot—that this reputation, combined with my ten-year tenure as a Mistress, has earned me the trust needed to carry out my sessions in such a manner.
So, bringing this back to Gerard, the French gentleman, and the sessions where many ladyboys and girls I had only briefly met would be showing up… can you visualize the control I had? The fear and unease in the room were palpable as everyone arriving would enter and immediately see the tools laid out on the desktop beside the bed, where Gerard was already hogtied and squirming.
Like Boston Rob said, ‘If people fear you, they’ll do what you tell them to do,’ and so, in all those sessions I had in the middle of the COVID lockdowns, without speaking a word, I instantly had command of the room—an experience which launched me further down this path of using extreme punishment as both a threat and a tool.
Sometimes, while I’m doing these femdom sessions, I get challenged. Oh sure, it’s a playful challenge—but it’s a test of my dominance nonetheless, and I don’t have the brainpower to go toe-to-toe with any foreigner, even one who is bending the knee to me. Mini-games, if I let them slide, erode my power.
For example, say I’m facesitting a slave, and I tell him, “Don’t lick, don’t suck, don’t bite.” After a minute of compliance, he tries to get away with a baby-like suck of my clit. If I don’t immediately punish such an action, he’ll do it again—and more often—until the session breaks down entirely and we end up having sex, which is what he wants, obviously. I’d never let that happen, not once, not in a million years.
Now, other Mistresses will playfully slap the slave’s face or give him a sharp thrash with a crop if she’s holding one—but that’s not a deterrent, not one that will act as a “stop and desist” message.
Or what if I’m facesitting a slave, and he’s enjoying it so much that he reaches out with his fingers, stretching the rope that’s binding his wrists just to brush up against my ass? What do you think will happen if I let that tiny action go unpunished?
It’ll become a mini-game in that session and all future sessions—which, if that’s the mood a Mistress wants to set, like Rainy often did, then that’s fine, I suppose. But let me ask you: if you grope her boob and your hand gets slapped away, and a few minutes later you grope again and it’s allowed for a few seconds before she steps back and slaps your ass with her cane—and then you resume the “domination” all over again—is that really a femdom session?
You know, where femdom means “female domination”—is that really domination? Or is that just playful banter under the guise of a slave acting like he’s being submissive to his dominant Mistress?
What I’ve always wanted to offer is an “Is it safe?” type of experience, borrowing again from that scene in the movie Marathon Man. Or let’s go with this scene in Die Hard:
I could say that exact same sentence to any slave in my presence: “We can go any way you want. You can walk out of here or be carried out. But have no illusions—I am in charge.” Perhaps I nonchalantly walk over to the taser on the desk, pick it up, and look at it curiously as I speak—just to make the point crystal clear.
Again, I don’t have to use pain to arouse the necessary fear to control the situation; I merely need the threat of pain.
So, I’ll hop aboard and face-sit the slave while facing his stomach. As I lower my pussy onto his face, I’ll instruct: “Hold my clit in your teeth. Don’t move—don’t bite—don’t lick—and don’t even think of sucking. Just let the drool run down your face, and I don’t want to hear a single sound for the next two hours.”
While he begins to comply, I’ll reach over and grab one of the tools from the tabletop—starting with the taser—and lay it on the skin of his stomach.
Again, copying that scene from Marathon Man, I’ll say: “Life can be quite simple, don’t you agree?” I’ll wiggle my pussy around his mouth and continue with the word “pleasure.” After I stop and let the air fill with silence, I’ll pick the taser up off his stomach and fill the room with its electric cackle as I activate it briefly in mid-air, finishing with the word “discomfort.” Then, I’ll let his imagination run amok.
I keep borrowing from movies because there’s no need to reinvent the wheel when I can bring the very best scenes in movie history to life right in the middle of my sessions. I’m selective, though—I’m into cerebral flicks like Marathon Man, not torture porn like Hostel.”
There’s my slave—my clit between his teeth, drool cascading down his face, his entire body deprived of movement—not just by the bonds that bind him, but by the threat of the taser in my hands, caressing his balls ever so gently.
He’d want to yell out, “You crazy fucking bitch,” but he knows that would earn his testicles a sharp jolt from the taser. So, he decides against any form of protest. Every innate instinct urges him to suck my clit as he’s done countless times in his life—to savor the taste and imagine the possibility of hearing me moan from above.
And yet, the taser acts as the perfect deterrent. In 99% of my sessions, the slave fully realizes the gravity of the situation and interprets the absolute control I hold over his predicament.
In most cases, that feeling of total submission to the Mistress excites the slave deeply. It is what he has craved his entire life—a release from the bullshit of the real world and a first step into my world… one where dominance and submission are carried out in their purest, most distilled form.
But there’s always the 1%, isn’t there?
That small, inquisitive percentage of society who wants to test the situation’s limits, to see if it’s just a mirage or if it’s real. “She has a taser, but I doubt she’ll ever use it—let’s find out,” and then I feel the penetration of my pussy with his tongue as he fatefully giggles from below.
When such a situation presents itself—it rarely does, but it happens from time to time—the punishment must be as severe as the director finding his horse’s head in bed with him. The message sent must be as brief as it is horrifying, as painful as it is clarifying.
I’ve found, over the last couple of years, that tasering the testicles isn’t nearly as painful as lifting them up and out of the way to allow me clear access to tasering his prostate. That, my friends, might just be the very definition of pain itself
Hey, if I could wrap two slaves’ heads together like I’m kneading dough, I’d do it—but I can’t, so tasing the prostate for a good 5 seconds suffices.
All in all, I think I’ve tased only about ten slaves, and you know what? Not a single one has dared to break any rules further.
Punishment has to be severe, almost maniacal, but if done correctly, it only ever needs to be done once.
Oh, what bullshit are those sessions where you see the Mistress continually thrashing the slave, hurting him over and over. For what reason?
Unless the session’s parameters have been pre-defined—and the slave has specifically asked to be spanked or hurt because he derives pleasure from pain—any other use of administering pain, in my opinion, is excessive and dilutes its purpose.
Punishment, and the pain that goes along with it, is just a tool. You wouldn’t use a screwdriver to change a tire, would you?
The only time I use pain and punishment is when it is totally random and out of the blue.
Last April, I rented a huge luxurious mansion for one of my 30-day Human Toilet Slavery sessions. On the seventh day, I showed up early for lunch. Normally, I visit the slave no more than twice a day when it’s time for him to be fed, but this time I showed up with two picnic baskets—the wicker type, like the one Dorothy used to hide Toto in The Wizard of Oz.
I arrived, took him by the hand, and led him out by the pool, where we went skinny dipping to cool off from the intense heat that April brings. Then, I laid out a picnic towel, opened the basket, and arranged a cheese and crackers tray on the ground beside the pool.
“I thought there was no food allowed this month—only your poop?” he asked.
“Secret,” I said, much like Parvati said to Russell Hantz after blindsiding him and his whole team in that ultimate Survivor episode:
Like a mouse creeping from his hole to steal forbidden cheese, he nibbled away, sometimes smiling fretfully, sometimes examining it like he suspected I had poisoned it.
Oh, there was something poisoned, all right. Not the cheese itself, but his choice to eat it. He must have realized that after the third bite because he tentatively asked, “What’s in the second picnic basket?”
I glanced over at the basket, then smiled wickedly. “Oh, this? I’m glad you asked.” I opened the lid, revealing an Indiana Jones-style bullwhip coiled inside.
My gaze flicked to the X-shaped wooden cross nearby, the one meant for acts of insolence. His eyes followed mine, and I saw the panic creep into his expression as I led him to the device.
“Turn around and lean against it,” I commanded.
“You’re not going to bind me?” he asked, his voice quivering.
I laughed. “How would you eat your cheese if I did that?” I handed him the glass plate piled with meats and cheeses.
Taking out the whip, I gave it a few practice flicks, the sharp cracks echoing in the air. “Oh, and one more thing—if that glass plate breaks, we’re going to be here a while.”
Punishment may seem random, but it always serves a purpose. He was being punished for falling into my trap, for daring to eat food when I had explicitly told him on day one: “Though there will be temptations, you will survive the entire month—or until you quit—eating only what I provide. Do you understand?”
Of course, he had said yes.
The whip cracked again, this time striking true, and he screamed so loud that the sound likely startled the cows grazing beyond the field. “Not a sound,” I warned, my voice sharp. “Take your punishment boldly and silently.”
It was harder to aim than I expected. Out of eighteen swings, seven missed entirely, one grazed his calf, and two landed with satisfying precision on his back and ass. He shook uncontrollably with each strike, trembling so much that the glass plate wobbled dangerously in his hands.
By the seventeenth swing, when the whip narrowly missed his face, I couldn’t help laughing at my own clumsiness. “Do hold still,” I teased, catching my breath. The final lash struck squarely, leaving a welt across his ass. The punishment was done—or so he thought.
I stepped closer, the whip coiled in one hand, and ducked under the tray he still held with trembling hands. Kneeling, I brushed my cheek against his hardening cock, gazing up at him through the glass plate.
“I’ll let you feel how good I am at sucking cock,” I murmured. “And I’ll even let you come in my mouth. But for that pleasure, you owe me twenty more lashes.”
His response was immediate. “No. No, thank you.” He hesitated, then added more emphatically, “Fuck no.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, standing and walking over to where I’d undressed earlier. I slipped on my clothes, leaving him standing there, shaking, the tray still balanced in his hands.
“I’ll be back at six to feed you,” I called over my shoulder. “Be ready—mouth open.” With a playful wave, I left him there, hard and hurting.
Since then, he’s written me countless times, confessing that he masturbates furiously every night—not to the days when he ate only what I provided, but to that single, unforgettable day with the cheese and the cross. He regrets not saying yes to my offer and claims it was the most erotic moment of his life. He’s already saving up to return later this year.
It’s a pattern I’ve noticed. Every slave who has attempted the full 30 days has asked to come back—not for the more extreme aspects of the experience, but for the way they felt in my presence. As one slave put it:
“It was the most alive I’ve ever felt, Mistress. Since returning home, I’ve felt dead inside.”
That’s the power of what I create. Pain, punishment, and fear—all carefully orchestrated to make the slave want to comply. It’s not just physical; it’s psychological, and it lingers long after they leave.
Mistress Wael