Clippitty cloppity clog

“First times” are often disappointing, and frequently frustrating. Some of you may be recalling that very first time you had sex. You probably ended up asking yourselves, as so many of us have: What is all the big fuss about? As debutants we don’t realize that, as in any other human activity, complete mastery requires many hours of practice, preparation, and that stern word: discipline.

But I’m not talking about sex here. Or rather, yes, I am, but almost certainly not as you presume: I’ll never forget that very first time I ever wore a pair of clogs. I’m not talking about the all-wooden Dutch clogs here, but the Danish or Swedish style, with a leather upper and wooden sole, which had been so “in” during the 70’s and 80’s, and worn by both sexes.

I was madly in love with them from the day a fellow male student showed up at school wearing his pair with total naturalness… can guys wear those too? I wondered. I then became aware of Europeans boys, happily clogging along without any problem.

How, and why did clogs become my fetish? Maybe at a sub-conscious level, they meant for me some kind of transgression, the possibility of “crossing” that taboo line towards a femininity which I hadn’t explored yet at that time. Was it that wearing some “unisex” garment made it “socially acceptable” for a guy to cross that border? These considerations never crossed my head at the time. I simply loved their looks, loved the sound they produced when walking, and girls in clogs really turned me on (they still do). I loved to watch gals playing with them, sliding their feet out of them and putting them back on… As a true fetishist, even as a teenager I became obsessed about getting my own pair. But they were already going out of fashion, and it was not easy to come across them, unless, of course, I traveled to Sweden! (Today Sandra can get whatever she wants for me over the Internet)





So there I was that lazy afternoon, at a friend’s house, watching TV. Or should I rather say, she was watching TV, I was staring at the wonderful worn-out clogs she had just kicked off her feet and that were sitting there, on the floor. As we were both lying on her bed, I had taken my shoes off too.

“Are these any comfortable?” I asked, trying my best to sound as natural as possible.
“Sure”
“Some guys wear them too” I clarified
“Sure”, she said, without taking her eyes away from the TV set, “Try them on”

I slid my feet into them. I felt elated, and was probably blushing. Even if they were not my number (I blessed with small feet: women’s 8), the sensation of my feet in contact with the wood was something amazing, but then… comfortable? Not really! I couldn’t walk. I, who had barely worn anything other than sneakers during high school, tried some steps around the room, but they were as demanding as walking on the moon. Much more difficult to wear than I had ever imagined: they slipped off, bent my ankles, and so forth.

“You get used to them” she commented squarely, while still watching TV.

Had my love affair ended abruptly that day? Not indeed: I did get my own pair, in my number, but I stack them in my closet and wore them very seldom, mostly at home.





It was a Saturday morning and my second weekend as Debbie, Sandy’s maid. I had changed into my uniform, like the previous weekend, and was looking forward to a wonderful weekend of hard work as a submissive housekeeper, rounded off with a session of wild sex, hopefully stamped by Sandra’s muddy boots, and, if I was lucky enough, with a complete orgasm, which she had previously denied me.

“Those shoes are terrible”, she said as soon as she saw my sneakers, “we have to get you some new shoes… something like maryjanes or sandals”

“Why not…” I dared to say timidly, “why not…?”
“Why not what?” she asked inquisitively as though she had caught me into some secret of mine (she actually had)
“Why not clogs?”
“So you like clogs, naughty little girl, huh? Good. Granted: As Debbie, my own personal sissy-maid, from now on, you’ll always wear clogs”

I hastly went to her room, and took out of the closet my old, almost unworn, pair of clogs. I showed them to her for her approval.

“Cool! I love them! We’ll have to get a new pair, though, more feminine, with hand painted flowers or something… We can go to the art fair and see if…”

“There’s a problem, ma’am…. As you now know, I not only love clogs, but they are actually a fetish for me. But, on the other hand, they are not too comfortable for me to wear: I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do every single house chore wearing clogs… maybe I could wear them only for…”
“Stop it! I didn’t say you could speak! What do you mean they are not comfortable? All you need is some discipline! You won’t wear anything but clogs, all day long, seven days a week, during a complete month, starting today and that’s that”




Clog-discipline

For those early days as a sissy-maid, Sandy bought for me a a beautiful pair of white clogs. After the first couple of weeks in her "nothing but clogs" training, I found them not only confortable, but a real delight to wear. They are still my favorite footwear. Sandy has bought me more clogs that any other kind of shoes, including some with thick wedges and high heels. For house-work, I still prefer traditional Danish clogs

“But I can’t wear clogs to the office!”
“But you will!”
“Sandy, please!”… And the delightful answer, so longed for in my inside, came ringing out:
“You will do exactly what I say! Now go, start cleaning up, sissy-maid! Wearing your clogs… Or don’t you want an orgasm tomorrow night either?”

Debbie in Wonderland

Sandra and I are not yet married by the church. Not that we are nonbelievers or unconcerned about religion, on the contrary… we’d love to be united spiritually by a religious ceremony of some kind. But one has to admit that the priest should be quiet open minded to welcome two brides advancing down the aisle at the same time.

For now, while our marriage is not yet consecrated by any heavenly tie, it is bound by our unique lifestyle, not shared by many couples: I would divide my current conjugal status into three categories:







1. Sandra’s wife

That’s my condition most of the time: I do all the dusting, cleaning, and laundry that needs to be done at home. While I cannot say that I love each single activity involved in housekeeping, I do enjoy it, mainly because it makes me aware of my submissiveness and my place in our relationship. Besides, I really love most of my duties: cooking, decorating the house, shopping for groceries.



And I dress for the part: my clothing doesn’t differ at all from the garments worn by my female colleagues, down to the underwear. I don’t like the word “cross-dressing”, as I don’t fell I’m really “crossing over” any fashion limit. Just as women outfits designed for the corporate world look more and more masculine, to show their assertiveness and competitiveness, I find it only natural that the spouse performing the role of the wife should appear more passive, compliant, and sensitive, traits considered, well… feminine.

There is a major difference, though. While my fellow shoppers demonstrate their good taste (or lack of it) by the clothes they chose to wear, it is Sandra who dictates what I am to be dressed in each day. She starts by picking out the shoes, and then “builds me up” accordingly. Only when she is unable to do it, because she needs to leave early, or when if she is out of town, for example, I have a chance to “express myself”, but in those cases I often get all mixed-up.






2. Sissy maid





When Sandy is throwing a party or entertaining her friends, something like once a week, she loves me to serve as her maid. I stop being her equal, her loving and caring wife, and become a humble, gracious and well mannered servant. She becomes my bossy and demanding superior, and has even humiliated me in front of the guests.

In those happy occasions I wear one of the uniforms, chosen by my mistress, and matching Danish clogs. She loves to see me serving in clogs, and they are my favorite footwear.

Although I do my best effort to pass unnoticed, I can’t help enjoying the compliments my mistress gets on my perfect manners. They are no coincidence… I had to be trained, and it was hard, I should admit.

3. Slave

I become Sandy’s slave almost exclusively for our private sexual practices. As soon as she places my collar around my neck in the morning before I get dressed, I understand that she is in her kinky mood and we might be having one of our BDSM sessions that evening or in the following days. As her victim, I’ve been inflicted (and taken pleasure in) all sorts of torments: I’ve been bound, spanked, held in a cage… But I won’t get into details because, as I said, those are private practices.

Or are they?

According to our contract, I am to become Sandy’s slave at any time she pleases, even in a public setting if she so commands. She has made use of that privilege several times. Our favorite humiliation is when she hand-cuffs me on my back, and drags me from my collar with a dog chain. In that fashion, we go a restaurant or a café: I am to sit on the floor, at the side of her chair, while she chats with her friends. I can have only the leftovers, of course.

As her in-house victim, my favorite torture is to be into one of her “predicament bondages”: She puts me into an uncomfortable body position, from which I cannot move unless I get into a painful one: With my ankles tied spread to the floor, my hands tied on my back, I can’t sit down, because my nipples are clamped to the ceiling, nor can I stand erect, as my genitals are tied to the floor by a short string. She can keep me in those positions for hours.