If you make her that way. Or if you pay her enough, I suppose.
Anyway, the commanding tones of Mistress Hynde herald another trip down false memory lane: The 1980s called.
Been a while since I did one of these and it might be a very long time before I do another, although I have some ideas for variations on the theme. For those new to the blog (go and catch up: there’s fifteen years of nonsense here), this is where I attempt to reproduce letters and other pages from imaginary magazines similar to those from my mis-spent youth, such as these.
Letters to the Editrix
Most Majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia
I adore your magazine, but lately I have noticed a tendency towards more extreme and less realistic femdom scenarios, involving permanent slavery, branding and suchlike. Although I find such material (and especially the photos accompanying it) wildly exciting, I do hope you will not lose sight of more realistic themes, such as maternal spanking. Such themes do not always have to be ‘soft femdom’ either, as your short series Vigilante Vixens illustrated so well. Indeed, the brutal (if always well-deserved) kneeings and kickings administered by the girls in those stories were realistic enough to make tears come to my eyes just reading them and I am sure many other male readers felt the same.
In contrast, less realistic tales such as Fiona’s New Furniture, are amusing and that one was beautifully illustrated. The images of Fiona casually reading a book propped up in front of her, with a wine glass at her side and her feet up – thus providing employment to three men, not counting the out-of-shot light stand – were breathtaking. But I hope you will not entirely abandon scholastic, prison or other more plausible themes.
With the greatest respect
‘Humble petitioner’
I’m tempted to reply, sitting here as I am with my feet up on the slave who brought me your letter, that you cannot consider human furniture to be ‘unrealistic’ until you have been made to try it properly. However, although my own slaves do serve as inanimate objects, I have to say it is rarely practical. As with so many things in life, most males turn out to be less effective – and less intelligent – than simple pieces of wood, and they cost more in upkeep. I don’t know what you mean about branding being less realistic, though.
As for Vigilante Vixens, although names and other details have been changed because of this country’s absurd laws criminalising such activities, the girls and their exploits are quite real. Try visiting some of the seedier nightclubs in a certain city on the Humber and making yourself obnoxious (shouldn’t be too difficult) to a group of three attractive girls and you might even feature in a future instalment! G-L. L.
My dear Lucia
Like several of your correspondents, I am a contentedly tyrannical wife. I wasn’t always so: either tyrannical or contented. Although it is fair to say that I was probably the leading partner in our marriage, it was not until I discovered that he’d been losing half our income every month through gambling, that I decided to take absolute control. Even that was not really intended – I was going to divorce the bastard, but in a moment of fury, I slapped him hard around the face. To my surprise, he didn’t really protest, so I did it again. Two days later I bought a cane and in the shop where I found it, I saw a copy of your magazine. A week later, he was wearing a chastity belt and no longer had access to any of our funds, except a small allowance for daily expenses and a credit card for emergencies, the bill for which is rigorously inspected. A slave, in short, in a lifetime of service for the money he stole from me.
Recently I read in a very different magazine that gambling should be considered an addiction and treated with understanding, rather than condemnation. I thought this was funny enough to make him read it out, while bent over a chair while I cracked my belt across his backside. But it made me think that perhaps he needed to gamble and I was being unfair in not allowing him to do so. Indeed, I had taken him to the opposite extreme: a life governed by rigid, absolute rules. So instead I have begun to make use of little games of chance.
His chastity regime is the obvious one. I used to occasionally grant him an orgasm, which of course he would administer himself as I was quite happy to renounce any interest in his nasty little thing when this marriage ceased to be one between equals. Now, when I decide to allow him such pleasure, he only gets a chance. Ten cards are dealt from a deck without face cards. I then add between one and four jacks and between one and four queens. He draws cards until he has a jack: that is his orgasm card. At that point, I count up the number of dots on any other cards he has drawn. He will receive that many strokes with the tawse before being allowed to masturbate, and the same number after. As for the number of queens, that is the number of times he will be kneed in the balls once he has finished and is good and tender down there. He is not allowed to choose not to play. As you can imagine, if I put only one jack and four queens in, he has sixteen cards to choose from and may find himself holding a ‘hand’ of many unpleasant things before finally receiving the chance to use his hand for a different purpose. I expect that, as a gambler, he finds it all rather thrilling.
I have also taken to turning many of his meals into surprises. He sits at the table on a low stool, his wrists tied behind his back, a tight blindfold over his eyes. I bring his meal in a big low bowl, set it down in front of him and – before he has had any real chance to process the smell – grab the hair at the back of his head and shove his face down into it. There he must remain, slurping and swallowing, until I decide enough of it has been eaten. Very occasionally he gets a nice meal – just so that there’s always that smidgeon of hope, to be dashed. More usually, though, he finds his face being mashed down into at best a bowl of cold baked beans or slightly mashed lumps of long-boiled turnip or swede, more usually mere leftovers like potato peelings with cold bacon rind. Occasionally, the meal is not really food at all, but he has to eat it anyway: he put away a good helping of dandelions one summer day and on another occasion, he munched his way through my hair, after I’d had it cut fashionably short. I bought a few tins of dog foods and cat food and greatly enjoyed his look of horror as he saw me put them in the cupboard. So far, all I have given him is cold meat stew and fish paste – neither particularly pleasant but at least notionally fit for human consumption. After each of those meals, he went to the cupboard to check the number of tins and looked very relieved. One day soon, there will be one fewer…
His beatings are of course covered by the same system. Once he has been strapped across the whipping bench, I place a coin on the floor below his face. When I have finished, I pick it up (sometimes it is flecked with tears) and flip it. Needless to say, if it comes up tails, the beating is simply repeated. With the coin replaced, of course, ready for another flip at the end. Once he scored four tails in a row! It was on a heavy beating too: twenty with the strap. I was quite exhausted after dealing out one hundred belters, so I was almost as relieved as he was, when the fifth toss came up heads. Well… I suppose he must have been much more relieved, really, but it does bring home how silly gambling is, don’t you think, Lucia? I cannot see the attraction in it, myself, and I think my dear husband might be coming round to my way of thinking on that.
Yours in certainty
Vera
A wife should hold all the cards, Vera! Men are prone to addictions and we should exploit those ruthlessly. The ultimate addiction, of course, is to a superior woman. Gambling itself is simply one more indication that a male cannot be trusted with money and should hand it over to someone better than himself. Your husband seems to be learning the real meaning of gambling, which is that it is an activity for losers. G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
How do dominatrices manage to suppress their natural feminine tenderness sufficiently to treat their clients with the harshness they require?
Yours in puzzlement
Toby
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ! Oh dear, I haven’t laughed this much since Office Slave 4 got his humbler caught in the electric fan! G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
How I enjoy the tales of enforced male chastity in your delightful magazine. I first locked a cock away when I was just nineteen and I am now the proud owner of a keyring on which jangle eleven keys to control male arrogance and lust. Eleven ‘men’ out there, working in offices, buying things in shops, ordering a meal in a restaurant and all secretly under my absolute control. And don’t they know it! Men think about sex all the time and mine are no different, no matter how much they try to suppress it!
It is their frustration that I enjoy the most – I don’t think I’d find half so much pleasure in knowing a man had been castrated so as to lose the urge completely. Initially I tried to impose as tight an enclosure as possible but I have come to realise that ‘less can be more’, in that a penis restrained just enough to begin to become erect but prevented from anything more imposes a constant hell of frustration. Any man on my keyring is lucky if I’ve squeezed his entire ‘manhood’ into a tight tube. More usually, only the top half is entubed, leaving scope for a short length of pink pork at the base to swell up to no purpose whatsoever, except frustrated impotence. How delightfully they twitch! And such a half-erection is almost impossible to dispel. A sort of steel corset just below the glans is another option – it might only enclose an inch or so, but a strong swelling below and even some purple engorgement above it does no good if that inch is tightly constrained!
My latest triumph is the no-tube chastity lock. I had one of my longer-serving boys pierced and ringed through his foreskin and then the through little bit of flesh behind the balls. A short chain, secured with a tiny padlock, connects the two. After experimentation with chain lengths, I have arranged things so he can swell somewhat, pulling the chain taut as it does so, but remains pointing down at about an angle of four o’clock and is never close to being straight. I rubbed and stroked to check and it is just not quite in a position to enable orgasm. And I believe in that position it is quite painful… which, as I have pointed out, is his own fault for being unable to control his lustful thoughts. Although of course I know quite well he can do no such thing! And anyway, I encourage the lustful thoughts with all manner of little ‘glimpses’ as I love to dress provocatively around my locked-up lads.
An occasional orgasm is useful, in a boy’s early years of chastity, to make sure he doesn’t lose that most unbearable of agonies: hope. I like to make them as difficult as possible. There’s a muddy field behind my house and when I’ve awarded a lucky boy a brief and precious release, I like to hurl the key far into it, to give him the fun of looking for it. They always find them, eventually, unless of course I’ve palmed the key when pretending to throw it and it isn’t there at all!
My next project is to find a way of allowing full erection but no orgasm. Some sort of rigid box in which no touching or manipulation of the penis would be possible. I am not sure whether this would be more or less frustrating than a half-erection, but there is only one way to find out! An initial experiment found the subject frantically wiggling his bottom from side to side in the hope of getting his engorged cock to slap against the sides hard enough to stimulate orgasm, which was quite amusing to watch. To be big enough to ensure this doesn’t happen, the attachment would have to be too large to wear in public, though, alas. But we’ll see how we go.
Yours in control
Melissa
Always a pleasure to hear from a fellow keyholder. Yes, I suppose once a male has been castrated things get a bit boring but the process itself is great fun, as is the reaction of other males once they know you’ve done it. Male lust is a filthy thing but it’s delightful to restrict and control it and in doing so, to control the male himself.
Most Sublime Empress Lucia [Not really my title but I suppose it has a certain ring. G-L. L.]
I was blown away by the simply stunning image of your divine form in the photograph accompanying the editorial in Empress Issue 6. You do quite literally have a body to die for. [I do and can prove it – but I prefer not to supply details, in order to avoid petty legal annoyances. G-L. L.] I did wonder, though, about the corset. It looks magnificent on you, of course, but it also looks awfully tight. Is a tight-laced corset not an age-old device for the male subjugation of women?
With head bowed low
Acolyte of Lucia
The opinions you express in your letter are not entirely wrong, which is actually quite good by the standards of most male correspondents, so I will provide a proper answer. I find the snug embrace of a corset quite empowering, knowing as I do the effect it has on weak-minded perverts such as yourself. I make sure it is not over-tightened, through the simple mechanism of whipping my dressing slave savagely if it is not fitted precisely as I like it. I do like to remind my slaves from time to time of their role in suffering to atone for the millennia of male oppression, though, by tight-lacing them in special canvas corsets I have had made. I like to leave them nearly breathless, and if I do occasionally overdo it, they are usually quick to let me know by passing out, and I loosen the stays as soon as I no longer have anything more important to do.
However, I think you need to think very hard – and at length and in pain – about “it also looks awfully tight”. Are you saying I’m fat? Not that there is anything wrong with ladies being large – I have a friend who has hugely put on weight since ensnaring a harem of slaves with her previously svelte body and she takes great delight in standing or sitting on them. It makes them delightfully miserable! But I am a perfect shape, as I am a perfect everything. Get to a phone box in Soho and make an appointment with the largest lady advertising disciplinary services on a card in there. Buy a strong corset from one of the many ‘private shops’ in the area and buy an instant camera if you don’t have one. Then in your session, ask her to tight-lace you, dangle you from a hook and whip you hard. You may find it necessary to say you do not need a safeword and to be gagged. Then make sure she takes a photo showing the results, with a placard reading “I regret my insolent words to Goddess-Lady Sublime Empress Lucia”, along with a recent newspaper to prove the date and send it to me. I don’t need (or want) to see your face but I do want to see welts, dozens of them. G-L. L.
Most Perfect Goddess-Lady
I have just read Volume 3 Issue 6 of your excellent magazine: another wonderful edition, which gave me many hours of pleasure [How revolting. G-L. L.].
I’m particularly enjoying the continuing saga of the cadets at the Birchwood Detention Centre. I spent many happy hours as a boy reading school stories and it’s wonderful to see that genre transferred into such a thrilling setting, with anxieties over upcoming exams focused on caning techniques rather than geography, and rivalries not over winning the house cup but rather over the production figures from the detainees’ forced labour in the quarry. The treatment of poor Angela’s ‘pash’ for Senior Section Leader Diana was genuinely moving, as she sat in mute admiration watching the powerful girl administer a 50-stroke thrashing, and I do hope that she finds the courage (I won’t say ‘spunk’) to admit her adoration and that it will be requited. Obviously, I’m greatly enjoying the way lesbianism is treated much more explicitly than in a traditional gymslip novel. I’ve been so captivated by these tales that I started enthusing about them just the other day to a lady I met in a café, who turned out to be a fellow devotee of school stories, and I briefly forgot that your magazine is ‘top shelf’. She innocently asked what the ‘very different setting’ was in the stories I was talking about and I panicked and off the top of my head I said it was a school for young witches and wizards! She looked interested and said she was trying to become an author and would I mind if she took that idea for her new novel? I said it was fine, of course, but I can’t see that catching on.
Say Arrghh! was genuinely scary, particularly the moment the helplessly immobilised Andrew realises who his new dentist really is. For those who might consider the story unrealistically brutal, I can only say that I know a couple going through a bad divorce and I could well believe that one or the other would wield the drill just as Linda did in this macabre tale, if given the chance.
The photographs illustrating the punk girl Tracy in Young Offenders were simply stunning. If I ever met the lady in question, I would fall to my knees without regard for any public setting we might be in and beg for permission to kiss her shoes. Her contemptuous gaze at the social worker who is trying to reform her, and the icy glee with which she shows him who is boss and who the ‘underclass’ are signs of a truly dominant personality. I realise of course that most of the ladies featured in your magazines are models but this one, surely, is the genuinely sadistic article. How I crave – and would quail – to meet her!
Yours in awe
Slave Cecil
It is a source of never-ending wonder to me how readers of this magazine can be so wrong and self-deluding, so much of the time. ‘Tracy’ is indeed a model, from a local agency called Rising Talent, selected in part on the basis of her size, as the photographer had the punky fetish outfit already. She arrived in her Mum’s car and found the whole set-up hysterically funny: the icy glee you picked up was her attempt to control her laughter as the ‘social worker’ crawled, grovelled and licked her shoes at her bidding. She was later picked up by her boyfriend, who didn’t approve of any of it but was mollified when assured she had not exposed her tits.
Anyway, keep buying the magazine, imbecile, it’s all you’re good for. Here’s an extra photo of Tracy, to encourage you.She did a good job, so I provided the agency name in case genuine photographers want to contact her but perverts hoping to be humiliated beneath her contemptuous mocking are warned she has a rather annoying, nasal laugh. And there is that boyfriend… G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
Once again, I thought you and your readers might be interested in hearing of one of my weirder clients. Now, when a dominatrix like myself speaks of a client being ‘weird’ I expect most people might start imagining exotic rubber costumes, spiked whips and huge mis-shapen dildos. To a dominatrix those are everyday matters, while even milder activities than these – shoe-licking, spanking, bondage and the like – are activities most vanilla women would never contemplate. I suspect many women might well enjoy subjugating a man through these techniques, if only in play, but I don’t mind them missing out: if my clients could get what they needed at home, I’d be out of a job.
No, this client is weird not in the normal way but in a weirder way. He wants to be treated unpleasantly, in a vanilla manner: by a nagging, I’ll even say ‘bitchy’ (a word not permitted to my slaves but the rules do not apply to me) manner.
He arrives and I let him in through the front door, then I go into my living room, closing the door behind me. I sit in an armchair and after a while there is a timid knock on the door, his head pops around and he says something cliched like “Hello, darling, I’m home!”
“About time” I might say, not looking up from my magazine, and I hold a hand out expectantly. “Pay day, isn’t it?”
“Err, yes, dear” he stammers and hands me the envelope with my tribute. I open it and leaf through.
“It’s… it’s all there, dear” he says nervously.
“Such as it is” I sneer. “Still too scared to ask Mr Turnball for a pay-rise, I suppose.” (as far as I am aware the names he has asked me to use are real – of course I have changed them here!).
“Well… it hasn’t really been a good time, dear…lately.”
“Fucked something up again, did you?” I say.
“Well, erm…” he stammers and launches into a complicated explanation, which I cut off with a weary wave of my hand.
“Oh shut up. I expect George Harcourt got a nice big bonus, did he?” (George Harcourt sounds like a great success at work – and also seems to be the office stud. I make frequent references to his likely sexual prowess, in our rows).
“Well, Yes, I think he did, dear, but…”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” I snap, glaring at him. Of course, had he not replied, I would have been equally furious about that! I aim to be unrelentingly unfair.
I silently screw the empty envelope up into a ball and chuck it onto the floor, then pointedly resume reading my magazine.
After a while I snap “Well? Aren’t you going to pick that up? Or do I have to sit surrounded by rubbish?”
He has to pick the litter up and transfer it to the rubbish bin, and as he does so my critical eye spots more items that need picking up, cleaning, or tidying away.
And so it goes on, my persona remaining relentlessly unreasonable and critical. I might find fault with him for not having bought some item I’d asked for on his way home, I’ll usually criticise his clothing and appearance and on one occasion I had him moving heavy items of furniture around, before eventually deciding I preferred it as it was and having him put them all back. All these tasks, of course, he carries out under my critical eye and fails dismally, every time.
He’s not the only client of mine who receives treatment of this nature, but for others it is invariably a precursor to ‘heavier’ activities that are more recognisably BDSM. But for him, there is a line he does not want crossed: he might be made to take my boots off, but not to lick them; I might throw my drink in his face but not pee or spit on him; he will certainly carry out little housework tasks at my direction, but not dressed as a maid, and so on. There is physical interaction: I might shove or drag him, possibly by the hair, but no ‘impact play’, not even face-slapping or kicking.
This continues for well over an hour. I have to be creative! Although, fortunately for me, long uncomfortable silences are also part of it, so I have as much planning time as I like. I am in control, after all. At one or more points I will burst out in frustration with something like “Oh, shut up! I can’t stand hearing your whiny, pathetic voice any more! God, you’re annoying!” and he shuts the fuck up. Sometimes I then ignore him, sometimes I stare resolutely at him (and he cannot meet my eyes when I do this – my stare is fierce!). Until the hectoring begins again.
No matter which of his many failings and weaknesses I have chosen to pick on, the last theme of the session is always the same: his sexual inadequacy. I make sure to leave at least half an hour for this, to allow me to go into the subject thoroughly and viciously. I make sure to cover all aspects, beginning of course with the length (and shape) of his penis, then disparaging his technique and his stamina (although frankly, given how bad I make the experience of sex with him sound, it is hard to understand why I would be disappointed in how little of it he can produce). I make comparisons to other men of whom I have had experience and also explain exactly what my female friends say, when I tell them all the sordid details.
He’s usually crying at this point. In our first session, I went briefly out of scene to check he was all right, but of course he was and I had to make it up to him by being extra unpleasant for a while!
Eventually I throw down a porn mag – of the most tawdry and garish variety – for him to masturbate to, while I continue to tell him what I think of him. If he comes immediately I sneer at how quick he’s been and how that would never satisfy a woman; if he takes longer I suggest he’s getting old and losing what little virility he has. He cannot win – obviously.
Then it finishes and we go ‘out of scene’ but, as with many of my clients, I sense little desire to talk, so I remain fairly distant until he departs.
Departs for what? Presumably not a home run by the real-life version of the harridan I become for his two hour session? Maybe a sweet, kind mousy wife who could never imagine how much more energetic their sex life would be if she only treated him unpleasantly? Or perhaps to no one, except his fantasy? Unlike many of my clients, though, he surely at least has a chance of meeting the woman of his dreams. In my experience, there are plenty of them around and it seems a shame if one of the very few men who might obtain some pleasure from the experience of being married to one, cannot find anyone to hen-peck him the way he needs. Except me, at a considerable cost, of course, so I have no real objection!
In dominance
Mistress R
I suspect that many ‘nagging’ wives are frustrated dominatrices, unleashing their natural contempt for their husbands in a manner that this patriarchal society accepts. If they could only liberate themselves sufficiently to just pick up a belt and start adding physical pain to the mental anguish they deal out to their lesser halves, I expect it would be a relief to both partners!
That said, I do sometimes miss being really unpleasant and unfair to ‘ordinary’ men. Obviously, I am vicious beyond imagining to my slaves but with them it is all ‘I’m so sorry, Mistress’ and ‘Thank you, Mistress’. There is pleasure to be had in ruining the life of a male who believes that he deserves better and clings onto some hope of fair or loving treatment. I used to adore making boys fall in love with me, then breaking them in two: crushing their pathetic little hopes and humiliating them utterly with harsh words. But that only works in a vanilla relationship. If you’ve got some lad’s bollocks wired up with electrodes, he’s generally not too bothered about being called a useless maggot. Perhaps it’s time I put myself back on the market and had a little fling or two. I need a couple more slaves, anyway.
As for your client, I can’t understand his motivation for the simple reason that I have not tried. Feral men are horrible, disgusting creatures. It gladdens my heart to think that some are trapped in loveless, abusive marriages. Good to know as well that, for those who are not, a professional alternative is available. G-L. L.
Most esteemed Goddess-Lady Lucia
I have been reading your magazine for a few years now, and I have a few suggestions for improvements. [I have a few suggested improvements to make to you as well, but I’m not sure British obscenity laws allow me to print them. So just piss off. G-L. L.]
Most Imposing Goddess-Lady
I was wondering what process you use to put your wonderful magazine together. Have you joined the desktop publishing revolution? I hear computers can do wonderful things these days.
Yours submissively
‘Curious’
No computers for me, Tedious. I can’t see how they’d ever have any place in femdom. No: Empress is, and always will be, put together by hand, using text and images printed on photographic paper, on a linotype machine, owned by the manager of a local print firm, who is in turn owned by me. He takes the ‘copy’ and prints it, the text all in long columns, late at night after his workers have gone home, then delivers it here. He arrives early in the morning and waits until my subeditor slave has inspected it and reported to me that it is free of errors (he sometimes has to wait a while, after a long night, as I often sleep late, but that doesn’t matter). I usually don’t bother to see him in person, but sometimes he gets a slap for his trouble.
Then it’s time to ‘paste up’ the copy. The process is quite straightforward. I sit in an armchair, usually with a glass of chilled white wine, and my slaves bring me the pasted-up layout boards (one to each page) as they complete them using hot wax to fix the photographic paper, with scalpels to cut the text to length and trim each photo to the right size. There’s a lot that can go wrong: sometimes the strips of text are slightly wonky, or a photo is not trimmed neatly, or my glass of wine is empty without being refilled, or one of the magazine slaves looks at me in a way I don’t like – so I am usually kept quite busy with a tawse or a riding whip. You might be surprised at how much whipping is actually required to produce a magazine of this length, to my exacting standards. Sometimes a page has been pasted up neatly, but when I see the finished version I realise it would be better laid out a different way. Occasionally, the pages themselves are fine, but some idiot has failed to ensure that the right text runs from one page to the next, or that the photos match the story! So I’m often hard at work whipping, screaming abuse, kicking and so on, for several hours – it’s exhausting!
At last, we have a fully pasted-up magazine. It is presented to me by a trembling subeditor for a final check, page by page, then if all is well, the magazine slaves are kicked back down into the squalid cellar in which they pass the rest of their miserable little lives and the copy is sent to a printing press. The arrangement for printing and distribution is, sadly, merely a commercial one, in which I undergo the indignity of actually having to pay for services that could perfectly well be rendered for free – and if anything goes wrong, there’s no one I can whip (well… no one actually responsible. Someone gets whipped, obviously). If any readers have a large printing works, preferably along with distribution arrangements with all the seedier newsagents and porn shops in the country, and would like to work for me for no reward except abuse and beatings, please get in touch!
And then you go off to buy it, take it home wrapped in paper, in your excited shaking hands, then wank off to it, don’t you, ‘Tedious’? Would the wanking be any less satisfying if one column of text were a little askew, or if there were faint marks on the paper from inadequate cleaning of surplus wax? I suppose not, but I am a perfectionist and I take pride in making sure that even the slightest imperfection is thoroughly regretted by the slave responsible.
This text responding to your letter is particularly special, as these are the musings of the goddess-lady herself. Some slave will be reading these holy words right now, as he pastes up the letters pages. Are you trying to control your trembling hand as you trim down the side of the column with your scalpel, slave? If my words appear in any way that falls short of perfection… if they are not at a perfect angle of ninety degrees from the horizontal… if you leave just the smallest speck of extra wax distorting the appearance of even one letter… Don’t displease me, slave. I am always watching, and I am very hard to please! G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
Me and my friend Jackie wanted to write to thank you, as your story A Nice Little Earner from three years ago inspired the two us to run our own little blackmail operation, and a very nice little earner it has turned out to be!
We decided not to leave as much to chance as the lucky lady who discovered her victim’s little secret in your story. Instead, we have set up a pervert trap for knicker-thieves and similar, leaving exciting articles of underwear temptingly available, then cashing in when some sad bastard falls for it. We started small, but nowadays have quite the hi-tech set-up, inspired by a BBC programme called Foxwatch. Over the years we have made use of of a hi-tech camera shop, whose pathetic, lonely but usefully obsessive staff fondly imagine we have set up a system to capture the nocturnal activity of badgers, foxes and the like. In fact, our targets are much lower forms of life: male vermin.
Our garden is visible from a main road, and reasonably accessible down a side passage, via a gate with a temptingly broken latch. A washing line full of lingerie is often visible, the bras and knickers (and occasional more exotic items like corsets and teddies) flapping excitingly in the wind, and often left there overnight. We have motion sensors to trigger cameras, usually starting with night vision equipment but then switching on a set of floodlights for capturing high-quality well-lit portraits of any miscreants. The ‘broken’ gate then locks automatically and we come down with baseball bats and mace spray to see what we have caught in our trap. It wouldn’t be impossible to escape the garden, for a quick-thinking professional burglar, but these guys are like rabbits caught in the headlights – almost literally. Even if they do manage to flee, their faces are captured on film and we keep an eye out in local pubs and shops.
And captured they truly are. We threaten to go to the Police, of course. The penalties for stealing girls’ knickers aren’t all that severe – a fine for a first offence – but of course it is the humiliation and public exposure that most of our prey seek to avoid. If they’re unsure, we have newspaper clippings reporting the trials of the three (so far) men who have called our bluffs, full of horrifying quotes from the judges like “An apparently upstanding member of the community, who chose to satisfy his filthy desires by unlawfully stealing the property of these innocent, and understandably traumatised, young ladies.”. Nice one, judge! I’ll bet he’s a filthy pervert himself, though, with a boner throughout the trial.
The alternative to being arrested is us imposing whatever sentence we see fit. Over time, we have come to impose three different kinds of penalties: fines, community service and penance. It is obvious what ‘fines’ are. We were naïve at first, just demanding some cash for a shopping trip to treat ourselves, and doubtless leaving the sweating men enormously relieved with how easily they had got away. But this has now become our livelihood, so we take our time, usually a week or so: finding out how much each of our captives earns and has in savings, demanding bank statements and so on. We have a rough rule of fining them three months income as a one-off, then ten percent for three years (we have not yet reached the three years for anyone on that arrangement and we’ll have to decide whether to stop or just extend it when we do – I think extend, what are they going to do: sue us?). Married men pay half as much again, as an extra ‘wife tax’, because they’re more scared.
Then there’s community service – the community in question being Jackie and me of course! This began with a bloke who pleaded that he could not afford the fine, as he was so in debt already. My response was just that this was tough titties for him and he shouldn’t be stealing knickers if he was in financial difficulties, but Jackie pointed out we couldn’t get money off someone declared bankrupt and he might even prefer to be reported to the Police. So we let him work off his debt and we had such fun making him do that at the princely sum of £1.15 per hour, which is the rate the Government pays in its ‘Youth Opportunities’ scheme. My brother was on that for three months and he said the people running it were bastards (but Jackie and me are much worse!). After a while, we started to impose community service even on rich wankers who could afford to pay us a lot of money – in fact, particularly on them. They do gardening, errands, housework… everything except laundry, as we’re not having the filthy scum handling our clothes! If we don’t have enough for them to do around our place, we send them out cleaning dog-shit off the streets for a day.
Finally, there is penance. Not everyone gets a penance, but most do, especially if they try arguing about the other stuff. Penance is… just anything unpleasant that we decide we want to make them do! It doesn’t benefit anyone, it’s just cruelty. We’re both becoming crueller but Jackie has really started to go for it lately – good thing it’s only these scum that are suffering! We’ve tried caning and belting them on their hands and arses – and it’s OK, I suppose but it feels a bit ritualised. Plus some of the public schoolboys might even enjoy it, although I should say there’s nothing playful in how we do it. But we make them walk miles in the driving rain, or they have to eat worms or lick the shit off the tires of my motorbike, or something. We sometimes turn to the pages of Empress for inspiration – or make a perve pick a page and a paragraph at random – but there’s a bit too much caning and some of the stuff is too sexual. Once one of our perves found himself staring at a paragraph involving chilli pepper sauce injected into the pee-hole – and very amusing it was, but he had to do it himself, ‘cos we certainly weren’t touching him down there! He was a bit reluctant but Jackie soon had him begging to be allowed to do it, after a vigorous kneeing. She’s getting quite creative, too: we’ve got a plug-in standalone radiator that gets hot (but not red-hot, like a bar fire) and she’s arranged things so a perve has to stand there on tiptoes to keep his cock and balls from resting on the scorching surface. For as long as she likes – she forgot about one once, and went to bed! But he survived. They always survive, like cockroaches.
One little humiliation we like to impose is that they have to go shopping to buy more of the lingerie we use as bait. I’m sure lots of men do buy that stuff for their wives, girlfriends and mistresses but our lot inevitably look so furtive as they do it, that the staff must clock them as the knicker-sniffers or trannies they are!
I said we baited our trap deliberately and that we don’t catch our victims by chance, but there’s been one exception. I went for a run in some old trainers once, and when I came home, Jackie insisted that I leave them outside the back door. The alarms and lights went off that night, and when we came down, we were surprised to find the washing line undisturbed, but what turned out to be some very fine photos of a scrawny young bloke lovingly laying his hands on my smelly trainers! So we leave those out occasionally too, and we’ve just ordered a pair of tacky red fetish boots and we’ll see if those get any takers!
One last thing. About three months ago, we got the alarms and the lights and we went down to see what we’d caught but no one was there. That’s not so unusual – occasionally the perverts have the presence of mind and athleticism to gap it over the hedge. Nothing gone from the line, either, which is rarer as the floodlights don’t go off straight away and our targets have usually been caught on night vision helping themselves to a few lacy items by that point. But when we developed the film, we couldn’t see anyone at first, either. Until Jackie spotted a pair of glowing eyes at the bottom of one picture, and we realised that our pervewatch system had in fact photographed a badger, just like it was officially set up to do! Poor little thing, it must have had such a shock. Jackie was quite upset – she can’t abide cruelty to animals.
So we adjusted the sensors and now if anyone comes into our garden, he can get away with it as long as he crawls on his belly all the time, dragging himself across the grass and dirt. If any of your readers happen to catch sight over a wall of a pair of knickers they fancy, perhaps they should try that – just in case they’ve chanced upon our place!
Yours in the money
Emma
Congratulations on your pervewatch programme. It sounds like you are being admirably inhumane to the vermin caught on camera. G-L. L.
