One Woman's Opinion

Author Unknown


Illustration by Robert Bishop


Originally published in Bound To Please Vol. 2 No. 11

Scanned by EKrayon; transcribed and edited by guardian46w

Bish0280 by guardian46w

Well, after reading your second ONE MAN'S OPINION, DON'T TOUCH in Bound To Please 2/10 I have just about given up hope for any of them.  F.E. Campbell, your so-called author, is about as far off base as anyone can get!  With pen in hand he wasted over two full pages of your excellent magazine boring me with what men end up with - a nag for a wife, up to his ears in hock for rings, dishwashers and mortgage payments, and he says it shouldn't be like that!  Ah, ha.  who made it like that?  Certainly not us girls.  We know our place and would gladly fill it if there were any Masters around!

But first, let me introduce myself.  I am a thirty-two-year-old divorcee with an executive position for a Chicago manufacturing company.  I am reasonably attractive, with the proper proportions for my 5'4" frame and adequately intelligent.  Much too adequately intelligent to accept Mr. Campbell's assessment of things.


THERE IS NO ROOM FOR COWARDS HERE! 

He says men hate women, do from the beginning.  Well I wonder.  I submit to you that they hate themselves for the cowards they have become and toss it all off on the women!  Here we are, hundreds of thousands of us daily reminding Joe Macho that he ain't what he was meant to be.  Get rid of us and there would be no reminder of such unpleasant things as not living up to your role in life.  I sit here behind my big mahogany desk making decisions while we have a man about my age shuffling bolts around in little boxes in the warehouse.  I'm no smarter than he.  It's just that he's not willing to take the responsibility of yes, or no.  He can deal with bolts that have to go into a numbered cubicle.  There's no right nor wrong to that, just match the numbers.  That's where Women's Lib comes in if you want to know.  There are NO masters left.  What are the women to do?  I'll tell you what they have to do.  They have to fill the big void.

Let's examine the other side of the coin.  Pretty little girl meets prince charming, wide-eyed, helplessly in love with the big brute.  After many passionate days and nights of massive overdoses of petting, wild love and sweet nothings with him taking and holding control she concedes, marries him and goes off to their little cottage fully expecting it to continue.  She knows she will be loved, wanted and desired but what does she get?  Basically, just let down.  He gets so caught up the rat-race of making it, living his life for the office or the garage or the damn phone company that he comes home beat as hell, pours himself a beer and flops down on the sofa in front of the tube and rots.  Then once a week or so he rolls over to her side of the bed, humps for awhile and then drops off to sleep.  No wonder she says she has a headache more often than not.  Any wild exciting dreams she may have had about being loved, wanted or taken by this unimaginative hunk of nothing simply disappears.  Now what have we?  A completely new situation from what the newly married blissful bride expected.  She looks for a chink in his armor and finds it.  There!  She has a perfect way to get even with the bastard for denying her what was originally promised.  She zooms in and begins to tear him apart - not all at once, you know we women are clever if nothing else.  Little by little, day by day, year by year until he is damn well aware of what she is aware.  He is nothing!  But then again, anyone who would deny her the greatest pleasures in life certainly must be nothing!

And worse - by far worse: he probably has a secret hiding place at work, surely a locker, jammed full of Bound To Please, Hogtie, etc.  There in the deep recesses of his mind, he is angry.  Angry that his woman won't let him tie her hands.  Angry that she won't let him be her master!  But will she, or won't she?  Why does he, on one hand, deny himself and on the other, deny her?  Will he ever let his wishes be known - ever?  Will he ever just stand up and take his rightful place at the lead?  NO!  He lives in mortal fear that someone will find out!  There we are - her wanting desperately the joy of being his but instead ending up a collector of various sizes of brooms, mops and beer steins, living the life she wants by night in her dreams and taking her anger out on him by day because he has denied her – and him living his life in a hidden locker, daring not let her know for fear of who knows what.

But it does get to be irrelevant, doesn't it?  The bastard has deprived her for so long now and she has progressively got even for so long that nothing short of a nuclear attack could get them both in one spot long enough to even really talk.

What could have happened so long ago before the chasm became so deep - the feelings hurt - the rejection completed, when love was still there?

Yes, I see myself turning around in my argument, why?  Because I really want to believe that there is just O N E master out there right now or that maybe, just maybe, one will read this and take a stand and I might just meet him someday and find my place beside him.

MY QUEENDOM FOR A PRINCE WITH FIFTY FEET OF ROPE

MY PANTIES FOR A GAG

MY NYLONS FOR A BLINDFOLD


I cannot begin to tell you what I wouldn't give to be a bound pleasure slave to a real man.  My queendom for a prince with fifty feet of strong nylon rope, my panties for a gag and my stockings for a blindfold.  My Queendom to awaken in the morning with my feet linked together by a golden chain, my wrists being held to the bed post by another, his from the very beginning of the day - to hobble to the kitchen to prepare our breakfast, to spend the day in anticipation of his return with a very large reminder of him making itself known to me with each step I take - to shower, sudsing very carefully around my nipple rings, - to perfume my body knowing that it is his.  What in life could be more beautiful than standing in the center of our living room wearing the softest and most supple of leathers, molded to the contour of my body, my head held high by a stunning collar decorated with rings for his use.

With hobble and blindfold, earplugs and fetters, my arms not my own, my body available for his exclusive use at his leisure - who could want more?  To be owned, loved and used - and abused as it pleases him!  Do I misbehave, unconsciously seek my master's punishment?  Does he flare up in anger and run to the divorce court as our beer drinking idiot or does he strap me to the hook in the wall and lash out, lovingly correcting his pleasure slave with each slice.  I would cry and moan and love him more when it was over and he ran his hand tenderly over the welt that he placed upon my flesh.

IS THERE A MASTER IN THE HOUSE? 


So, is there such a man in existence?  Was there ever?  Will there ever be?  Can there be a man who is brave enough to make his wishes known?  Secure enough to say, this is who I am and what I do!  There is no room for cowards here!  Could there be one who is bold enough to come out of hiding, interested enough to design the straps that will hold his slave, caring enough to discipline her while being tender enough to love her as well as sensitive enough to know her needs and responsible enough to fill them?  In my own dreams he is there but, alas, when I awaken, he is not.  I plod onward in my fruitless search while filling the rightful position of a man in life, holding my head high, knowing every second that my neck is exposed and should have a shiny collar on it, with rings.

It is my opinion that you publish dream books, Miss Behr.  And isn't it fitting that it should be you - a woman - that does it.  The feminine hand that reaches out and tightens the strap cinching it tighter into feminine flesh.  You, with the slender hands bejeweled with red fingernails, are the one that forces the gag deep into her mouth giving her her rightful place if only for that moment, that hour when she is in your control.  The few men that do attempt to publish bondage magazines have no idea what it could possibly be about - they torture, they try to get even with us on paper, they show phony ropes, stupid gags and lurid poses.  If someone would bind me like that, I would take the ropes off and throw them at the fool.

I am not saying that you are 100% Barbara.  Business is business and a deadline must be just as serious in your business as in mine.  I know if I wasn't pressed with a deadline a few things would be re-worked each quarter.  The same must be true for you.  But basically, you know what you're doing.  You show things the way they should be.

Still it's incredibly sad that it's a feminine hand that does it, but on the other hand it is you that leaves me with that ray of hope.  Somewhere out there are slaves with masters - you publish their letters relating their experiences.  Somewhere out there…