Girl on the Net

SHE’S BACK! My favourite kinkster – Jenby Doll – who has written so many incredible guest blogs for the site (and recorded lots as audio porn too!). I get so excited when her name pops up in my inbox, because I know what I’m about to read will be both funny as fuck and kinky as fuck too. Without further ado, here’s Jenby to tell you all about her TPE (total power exchange) relationship…

Note: this story contains kink, power exchange (duh!) and age play, including the use of ‘Mummy’ as an honorific. Everyone in the story is over 18.

No hoes barred – total power exchange

Greetings, GotN readers. It’s been nine months since my last confession.

During that long gestation my relationship with my Mummy has inched its way, like a sub in a sleepsack, to the one-year mark. And during that time it’s become a full-on 24/7 D/s dynamic.

So let’s talk about Total Power Exchange.

I’ve talked briefly about TPE before, and not just in relation to the thermoplastic elastomer in my pigtail butt plug. I’ve dabbled with the tools of the trade. Infantilisation, surveillance and erotic hypnosis for example. But until now I never had anyone both kinky and committed enough to use them all on me in a sustained way to achieve a tangible horny result.

Strap in, gentle reader (and on, if that’s your jam).

In May of this year, five months into our relationship, my Mummy – with my resounding consent – installed parental controls on my phone. Now my location’s visible to her at all times and I’m unable to access websites that she deems inappropriate, i.e. just about every adult site (including this one, funnily enough), with specific exemptions only granted to those necessary for the small matter of my full-time job as a pornographer. Anything else requires permission.

I only get thirty minutes of social media time a day – and I must admit, I don’t hate it – plus the odd reminder that Mummy is very much in control in the form of random bouts of my phone locking itself, just to reinforce how powerless I am in the face of her whims.

This it also does every ‘school night’, shutting down at ten and unlocking at six the next morning, leaving me only capable of using my phone as a phone (the horror) and in no doubt as to who holds all the cards in our dynamic.

And I really do mean all the cards. Mummy decides not only my bedtime, but also when I wake, eat breakfast and brush my teeth, thanks to a handy app which needs to be placated each morning by my ticking off each task as I complete it, and I’m far too good a girl to even think about lying.

She also has a complete photo inventory of every piece of clothing I own, totalling some 200 items. If she desires she can dress me for the day, down to the last ankle sock.

Like a doll.

I should mention at this point that I trust my Mummy implicitly, and that this arrangement has been entered into with the fullest of informed consent from both sides. We’re responsible pRACKtitioners, and if either of us decided to withdraw that deliciously revocable consent at any time, the dynamic would obviously cease.

There will of course be those who say that this is still no guarantee, and that power exchange as comprehensive and all-pervading as ours is inherently prohibitively risky as, by its nature, there is no safety net if things go wrong.

Yes. I agree. No. No, there isn’t. But that really is, and I cannot stress this enough, why it’s so fucking hot.

Not to be glib. These dynamics mirror some of the most insidiously abusive of relationships, but at a certain point everyone who practises TPE looks at their partner(s) and affirmatively decides that the notion of controlling or being controlled by them, in toto, makes them so deliriously happy that after every single iota of consideration they can muster, they are prepared to take the risk.

So if my Mummy turns into a monster, all I can say is fair play. Didn’t see it coming.

Another thing I didn’t see coming is how much of an effect this would have on me both psychologically and physically. Clearly as a lifestyle submissive having the minutiae of my day-to-day existence controlled – whether it be by informing Mummy when I go out or get home (something I definitely remember to do), or telling Mummy each evening whom I spoke to that day and about what (likewise) – invariably fills me with unutterable joy and a cast-iron sense of purpose, which can only be a good thing for my mental health.

But I’ve noticed other changes too. Early on in our relationship I assented to having Mummy condition certain behaviours in me, without my necessarily having any knowledge of what those behaviours might be. Obvious ones include my sleep patterns completely shifting (I now start getting drowsy around eight, and frequently awake in the small hours having had a full night’s sleep), or that surge of panic when I catch myself about to release a full bladder into my diaper when I’m in fact wearing panties, but in other more subtle ways, Mummy’s incremental regression of her baby is continually taking effect…

I can only come with Mummy’s express permission, and she does so love keeping me denied. So much so that during a recent episode, while enjoying the privilege of being able to masturbate, I found myself suddenly stopping at the crucial moment. And when Mummy enquired as to why I couldn’t help but blurt out the truth.

It didn’t feel like ‘good girl behaviour’.

Cue a long stint of my orgasms being taken away for good.

Well I had admitted that it hadn’t felt like ‘good girl behaviour’ after all, and didn’t I want to be a good girl?

Mummy and I have now been together for twelve months. By way of marking the occasion, Mummy is getting my ears pierced for the first time, and having a piece of jewellery welded shut around my leg in the form of an anklet. A permanent symbol of her ownership.

I just hope to high heaven I remember to curtsey when I meet her at the piercing shop, and not to sit down before her when we go in for our appointment, or who knows what she’ll devise for me after that.

The piercer’s also does tattoos, after all…