Contemplating the divine

As the title suggests, we are once again back in the 1980s when all of Servitor’s tastes and obsessions, so fluid up until that point, suddenly seemed to fix, for life. Including femdom, so in the absence of actual magazines from the era*, here is the cover and letters page from a fictional femdom top-shelf mag from the period, Empress, based so closely as to be legally actionable loosely on the Vixen and Mistress magazines** of my furtive and spurtive later youth.

Letters

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

A longtime reader of your magazine, I felt I had to write to express my appreciation of the story Pretty Maids All in a Row. As someone whose deepest fantasy is to be dressed and treated as a housemaid I was thrilled at the thought of this group of neighbourly women getting together to enforce this form of subjugation on their husbands. Although I can obviously empathise with Ian and Robin, who share my obsession, as demonstrated by their ready embrace of their uniformed role, I also enjoyed reading about Timothy’s more reluctant and confused journey to acceptance of his new lifestyle. And of course John and Euan (or Jenny and Eunice, as they had become at the end), whose outright resistance, rebellion and inevitable comeuppance provided the main drama of the piece.

I thought that the author did a great job in quickly bringing out these different characters, and still more so those of their wives. I found Deborah to be the most exciting of these admirable ladies, although I suspect I would find her rule a little too harsh for comfort, while Lydia’s playful, highly sexualised style of dominance and Rita’s kindly but firm control of her household also struck a chord. Sandra and Naomi, in contrast, seemed less interested in the venture and I wonder whether Sandra was drawn into the plan only at the behest of her lover Deborah?  In which context, I adored the scene in which those two ladies despatch their maid-husbands to share a single bed in the guest room, while taking the ‘master’ bedroom for themselves. The surprise and confusion of Robin and Euan, locked into a small room together for the night, was a treat – would they experiment with homosexuality as their wives were so evidently and noisily doing next door? How very male of them never even to mention the possibility, but instead simply to lie motionless, each in his pretty nightie, and silent like two strangers ignoring one another in a public place, while the giggling and shrieks of sapphic pleasure came through the wall.

The rebellion plans hatched at the meeting of the Ironing Club were dealt with most effectively, I thought.  The accounts of John and Euan’s initial punishments were most exciting, as was the promise of the stricter regimes they would be following in future, with the assistance of Lydia’s formidable-sounding mother.  The story ended with them sobbing themselves to sleep… well, they didn’t get anything more than their just desserts, after all. I did wonder whether Timothy and Robin should really have got off scott-free, though? After all, they were present at the Ironing Club when this rebellion was discussed and even if they refused to go along with it, they should surely have reported the conversation immediately to their wives, as Ian did?  A maid’s duty is to her mistress, not to other maids, especially disloyal ones. Deborah and Naomi might want to ask them – rather sharply! – why exactly they believe a maid can keep a secret from her wife and mistress? Ian has the right attitude, although I hope that Rita’s praise for his actions doesn’t go to his head: maids who think too much of themselves can soon find themselves being taken down a peg or three! I hope too that the other maids come to realise in time that Ian was really acting in their best interests, in the long term.

Goodness, Goddess-Lady Lucia, writing this and recalling the story as I did so has left me hot and flushed! I had better go and scrub some floors to calm myself down. Thank you so much again, for your wonderful magazine. I do hope we’ll be reading more about the maids and their delightful wives.

With a deep curtsey

Maid Polly

A passable letter of appreciation, Maid Polly, I hope your needlework is up to the same standard. I’ve met several men who fantasise about the life of a housemaid. I usually find that they tire of it by the third or fourth hour and if I am feeling generous, I may accept their application to leave my service – although I do insist on a three-month notice period being worked out. Pretty Maids All in a Row will continue in the next edition. Now get on with your work, girl. G-L. L.

To my sister in dominance

I greatly enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about males in chastity, as my feeble excuse for a husband has been since day two of our marriage. Unlike some of the complicated rituals described in your stories, I take a no-nonsense approach to his infrequent releases. There is no set schedule, no anticipation on his part. I will one day suddenly produce the key and instruct him to fetch a pair of kitchen gloves. Unlocked, and wearing the thick rubber gloves, he kneels facing the wall and pumps as hard and fast as he can. He is forbidden to look at me, so there is no stimulation whatsoever, but having been locked up for so long, he almost always becomes erect immediately and rapidly reaches orgasm. It is usually over in less than a minute: he catches the foul stuff in his hand and licks the kitchen glove clean.

Then it is time for the crop, which I have been tapping, during his pathetic sexual activity, to remind him of what is coming. I beat him after every orgasm for two reasons: to make the overall experience unpleasant so that any excitement at the prospect of sexual release is mixed with dread, and because in his immediate post-orgasmic state, he will get no sexual excitement whatsoever from the thrashing: it is pure pain. He bends over and I deliver a rain of hard cuts across his buttocks, then – sobbing, reluctant and terrified – he is made to turn around, stand straight with his legs apart and arms behind his back, and receive as many flicks with the tip of the crop across his soft, shrivelled member, as I choose to give it. It is so sensitive at that moment, there is no pleasure greater to a true female sadist than to crack her whip across that pathetic little strip of flesh.

Finally, I order him to take a cold shower, for precisely three minutes under the full cold jet, then he dries off and must quickly return to beg me humbly to lock him back up again, which I willingly do.

Some might consider this cruel. I suppose I do. I imagine he does too, but I really don’t care.

Yours in sadistic sisterhood

Lady Monica

Oh, I thoroughly agree with your approach, Lady Monica. The male orgasm is such a disgusting, filthy business. It is naturally much briefer and less impressive than the female orgasm and it seems only proper, as well as being delightfully cruel, to curtail it further. I hope your husband is suitably grateful – I imagine he wouldn’t dare fail to be!  G-L. L.

Most exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

Do you have a favourite slave?

Most humbly

Trevor

Ha ha ha ha ha ! No.

For the same reason that I have no favourite among any of the pieces of used chewing gum I have occasionally been unlucky enough to find stuck to the sole of my shoe. G-L. L.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

Some time ago, I was accorded the privilege of having a letter about my relationship with a lady disciplinarian, my Governess, Miss H——–, printed in your superb magazine.  With Governess H——–’s permission, I am writing again on the off-chance that you and your readers might be interested in an update on that relationship.

Specifically: at the end of a recent disciplinary session, while I was drying my eyes and delicately easing my sore bottom back into pants and grown-up trousers, my Governess suddenly asked me whether I would like to meet her some time outside her classroom, for example a day out in London for some lunch, with shopping.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, I was thrilled! I am head-over-heels in love with this beautiful but strict lady and the thought of spending such time with her was a dream come true! I readily agreed and we made arrangements to spend a Tuesday three weeks later (so long to wait!): meeting at Regent’s Park in the morning, walking a little in the park, then down through Marylebone for lunch, before going to Oxford St for some shopping. My Governess made quite clear that any inappropriate behaviour on my part – whether over-familiarity inappropriate to a boy in the presence of his Governess, or excessive servility inappropriate in public, in front of people unaccustomed to relationships such as ours – would be punished, most likely later in private. I realised I would have to walk a narrow line: remaining respectful but not so forgetting myself as to behave like the naughty schoolboy I know myself to be in her presence. Alas, I strayed off that line on several occasions as I will now recount.

On the day, I was waiting for my Governess ten minutes before our agreed meeting time. She looked stunning, when she emerged from the Tube on that bright autumn morning: a long skirt, sharply-cut jacket and boots: every inch the Victorian governess yet also modern and elegant.  I was dressed smartly too: in a suit, as instructed, with the same school tie I wore on my visits to her the only hint of my inner schoolboy. She looked me up and down, sighed slightly, reached out to straighten (and tighten!) my tie, then nodded curtly.

I found myself tongue-tied and lost for words, particularly as I was used to speaking only with permission or when spoken to and of course to calling her ‘Governess’ or ‘Miss H——-’. She had anticipated both problems and informed me that the ‘speak when spoken to’ rule was suspended, unless she indicated otherwise by using the word ‘hush’ and that I could address her as ‘Miss’ when out of earshot of strangers, or ‘Mary’ if we could be overhead (this being understood to be a stand-in for ‘Miss’, not her forename, which I have never used).  She of course would simply address me by my first name (I will use ‘Simon’), as she always did except when calling me ‘boy’ (usually an ominous sign).

We strolled through the park, making occasional conversation about the ducks, the trees with their autumn leaves and so on. I ached to know more about her, but I sensed that such prying questions would not be welcome.  I caught myself starting the word ‘Governess’ once or twice and bit it off, to say ‘Miss’ instead, and I believe she noticed but did not react. We paused to sit on a bench, which I hurriedly tried to wipe down to remove the water droplets from an earlier shower.  Alas, I was in too much of a hurry and had not done the job thoroughly.

“Do you expect me to sit in that puddle, Simon?” she asked, sharply.

“I’m sorry, Governess – uh, Miss!” I replied, without thinking.

“Do it again. Do it properly.” She said, curtly, and I set myself to polishing away at the wood with my sleeve, while she gazed coldly off into the distance.

When we were seated, she took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen. She wrote in it for a while, then wordlessly showed me the page.  At the top it read “Simon’s faults, 11 October 1983.” A vertical line had earlier been ruled down the page, about two-thirds of the way across, dividing it into two columns. In the broader, left-hand column were two entries, each with a line drawn across the page underneath. The first read “Lazy and careless drying of bench.”, the second “Inappropriate mode of address (x3)”. I was right: she had indeed noticed my earlier verbal slips.

“Hush now” she said, putting the book away, and we sat in silence. Needless to say, I was in little doubt as to the purpose of the second column, which would surely later be filled in, with details of some painful consequences for the errors identified in the first!

“Let us continue.” she said after a while. “You may speak again from now.”

I did not think it wise to ask about the little book.  Nor could I think of much to say, but soon enough my Governess started the light conversation again, pointing out the ivy clinging to some magnificent old trees.

“What sort of trees are they, Miss?” I asked, without thinking.

She stopped and frowned at me. Too late, I remembered writing some homework for her just a month before, including an essay titled “Trees of London”. She sighed and pulled out the notebook again.

I don’t know if was nerves, Goddess-Lady Lucia, or whether my natural male gawkishness simply came to the fore, but from that point on, I could barely put a foot right.  The notebook came out three times more during our stroll in the park – once for accidentally bumping into her, once for failing to hold a gate open for a lady and once for ‘dawdling’, so I was glad when we left the park, to visit a restaurant she knew in Marylebone.  We studied the menu for a while – I was ravenous and decided on the pork chops for myself.

When the waitress came, my Governess ordered first, as ladies do, then just as I was about to name my choice, my finger resting on the words ‘pork chops’ on the menu, she murmured “I expect you’d like to have the salad, Simon.”  I managed to stop myself just as my lips were forming the letter p, and nodded, vigorously.

“Yes, salad for me.”, I croaked, my throat strangely dry.

The waitress visibly suppressed a giggle. “And to drink?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A small glass of the house white, I think.” my Governess replied, folding the menu and handing it back.  The waitress turned to me, her eyes dancing with fascinated amusement.  Across the table, the eyes of my Governess – cool, grey – fixed me with a steady gaze.

“I… I think I’ll just have water” I stammered out.  “Yes, just water for me, thanks.” And I handed back my own menu.  Christ I’d have liked to have had a proper drink!

As the waitress went away, the notepad came out.

“You didn’t say ‘please’, Simon”, she noted, and I watched her write out “Discourteous behaviour to a woman.”. It was upside down from my side of the table but her handwriting, although small, was very neat and I had learnt to recognise every letter from small, and frequently alarming, comments written in red in the margins of my homework.

“I’m sorry, Miss…” I replied, hopelessly. “I did say thank you.”

She looked up at me in surprise. “Hush, Simon.” she said sharply, drew another line and wrote “Answering back!”  She underlined that one twice, then turned the page over.  The next page had the same division into columns and was otherwise blank. She wrote a neat “2” in the top right corner, started to put the notebook away then seemed to think better of it, and placed it on the table. It remained there throughout the meal, when not in use.

Sadly for me, it was used on several occasions.  My table manners turned out to leave a great deal to be desired, as I started to eat before her and without permission and then ate ‘in a boorish manner”. Furthermore, in my efforts to avoid further discourtesy towards our waitress, I erred in the opposite direction, employing excessive servility and thus sounding weird. The waitress herself didn’t seem to mind at all; indeed she looked as if she was enjoying herself hugely, but it was all recorded in the notebook.

At the end, when my Governess had finished her coffee and petits fours and I had enjoyed yet another glass of tap-water, I paid, including an absolutely huge tip for the happiest waitress in Marylebone that day, and trailed out, following my imperious Governess.

I thought perhaps the shopping that was planned would be clothes or presents for her – I have heard of lady disciplinarians enjoying such all-expenses outings with their submissive clients. But in this, as in so much, my Governess defied stereotypes. Instead, the clothes to be bought were for me. Not, I hasten to say, some kind of fetish or girls’ clothes: ordinary menswear, but to my Governess’ taste rather than my own.  It seems that for some years, she had found my garb irritating and was resolved to set matters right.  Needless to say, I was no more able to choose the garments than I had been able to lunch on pork chops: having checked my sizes, my Governess simply selected items, handed them to me without discussion and, for the more important items, nodded towards the changing rooms. When I emerged in each outfit, I turned around several times, in response to her finger, then received either a nod or a shake of the head (or “Oh, I don’t think so” or similar) and was dismissed with a gesture. I don’t know whether the rule against behaving in an overly servile manner in public had been suspended, but it must surely have been obvious to everyone that I was an inferior and she was in charge. Indeed, in one shop in which I tried on several jackets, the shop assistant stopped even bothering to speak to me, and addressed himself only to her.  The notebook, along with much sighing and even the occasional ‘tut-tut’ was in frequent use.

Finally, we went to a department store café, where my Governess had a cup of tea and I treated myself to another glass of refreshing tap water. When she pulled out the notebook and pen, I wondered what I had done this time, but instead of adding a new line at the end (which was now well down the third page), she flicked back to the beginning and started writing in the second column.  She was putting in numbers and the letters, T, S and C after them. T was of course the tawse on my hands, S the strap across buttocks and thighs and C… well, it wasn’t going to be a cuddle.  She did not take long deciding: briskly handing out multiples with the T, the S or the C, moving rapidly from one line top the next, until she had reached the end of page 3.

‘Add those up, please, Simon.” she said, dropping the notebook in front of me.  I went through, totting up, with an increasing feeling of dread. At the end, I had discovered I would be in for 47 with the tawse, 54 with the strap and an awful 31 with the cane.  I simply wrote the totals wordlessly and gave her back the book.

Whereupon she went through carefully totting up the figures herself. Why did she tell me to add them up, if she was going to do it herself, you might ask? Because she is my governess and I am her pupil. That is what she does and my work is always checked. As it turned out, I had indeed made a mistake: overcounting the Ts by one.

“Since you seem to want that one you can have it”, she shrugged. “Plus another four for sloppy arithmetic. When is our next meeting and for how long?”

“On Saturday, Miss” I replied (I had finally become quite good at keeping the speech rules).  “Two ‘til four.”

“Better make it two ‘til six” she replied, folding the notebook and putting it away.  And with that, we got the bill, I carried my new clothes out of the shop and respectfully said my goodbyes and thank-yous. To go home to sort out and throw out many of the clothes I had once chosen for myself, and to await the next Saturday, in a state of dread.

And yes, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I adore her and consider myself the luckiest man – or luckiest boy – alive.

With the deepest respect

‘Simon’.

It seems you have been taken properly in hand, Simon. I approve! Boys of any age are still boys, whether in the classroom or not, and need to be treated as such. You may pretend to be an adult man, behaving and even dressing as one in public, but I have no doubt that your Governess can always see the naughty schoolboy, fidgeting and blushing in front of her, when she looks into your eyes. You are permitted to write with further accounts of your educational journey. G-L. L.

Most esteemed Editrix

Like several of the ladies featured in your magazine, I make the subjection of males my career. Middle-aged to elderly men, all fairly well-off I suppose, make their way to my studios for the punishment, degradation and humiliation they need and I profit from the experience and generally enjoy it, too.

I wanted to share with you a recent event that made me wonder what the limits might be to this activity. One of my more recent slave acquisitions had made a booking to visit me, but he called two days before to cancel. He had a good excuse and had given fair notice, but on his next visit, when he paid me I half-jokingly suggested he should pay for the previous session too.

He immediately went crimson, kneeling on the floor before me and started to stutter something about how very sorry he was.

I replied imperiously that sorry wasn’t good enough, that he had wasted my time and presumed upon my good nature and so on, working up to an excuse to punish him, essentially, when to my surprise, he drew out his wallet with shaking hands. He reached in and offered up a small sheaf of banknotes.

Struck by inspiration, I commanded “One at a time! On the floor before my feet.”

Slowly, trembling, he counted out one note after another, until all that remained in his wallet were one-pound notes, which he knows I do not normally accept. I had observed his breathing as he slowly counted and recognised the symptoms: he was thoroughly aroused, completely in the humiliation ‘headspace’ he sought in session. So I continued.

“The ones as well.” I said, imperiously. And one by one he laid those out too. It was still not enough.

I reached down and held his chin, pulling his sweating face up so his slistening eyes stared into mine.

“Do you know what I should do to make up the shortfall, slave?” I hissed. “I should put a collar and leash on you, like a dog, and drag you outside and along to the bank where there’s a machine for you to take out the rest of the money you owe me. Then you’ll kneel before me – in the street, like this – and hand it over!”

His eyes were lolling back, he was more turned on than I think I’ve ever seen him.

“Please… please Mistress, may I?” he murmured. I understood and, not quite sure what exactly what we were to do with the rest of the session time, nodded curtly and he quickly rubbed between his trousered legs with his hands and rapidly came inside his pants.

I needn’t have worried about the rest of the session. I had an utterly happy, exhausted customer and he did not seem at all bothered that he had paid – twice, really – for an hour and had finished after fifteen minutes. It was as if my demands for his money were the most erotically humiliating thing he had ever experienced.

I suppose it makes sense. Men who are into female domination are in a way handing over power and in the modern world, what is the source of power? Money. For him, not being able to control how much he paid me was as much a sexually exciting humiliation as is experienced by a slave tied to my dungeon cross not being able to control his hands.

The next time he comes, I intend to try the cash machine thing. Without any too obvious sign of public D/S play of course. Perhaps even meet him just for that, then tell him to go away, as I think the ‘rip-off’ element is also part of the humiliation. Maybe in time, I can get him to pay for nothing at all in return; that would seem to be the logical culmination of his weird fetish.

Have you ever encountered this fetish, dear Lady? Are many male submissives ‘into’ the idea of a purely financial form of domination, do you suppose? It would certainly make the life of a professional dominatrix a lot easier if they were!

Yours in dominance

Mistress R

Thank you for this fascinating account, Mistress R. I have to confess, it is a new fetish to me! Much as I would love to have a line of male pigs queuing up to give me cash then depart with nothing to show for it but my contemptuous laughter, I fear that this ‘financial domination’ you describe is unlikely to catch on! Even males aren’t that stupid and gullible, with the exception of course of your sweaty client. But who knows? G-L. L.

P.S. Any of you degenerate perverts who do get off on knowingly wasting money in a femdom context may want to consider buying one or more of the shoddy competitor magazines to Empress, especially those American ones with colour images of bored-looking porn actresses wearing latex and holding whips.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

You may recall, a few months ago, you published a letter from me explaining how my initially playful disciplinary relationship with my Mistress-wife had become, in my mistaken view, oppressive. In particular, I foolishly complained about the participation of my mother-in-law in my wife’s efforts to make me a better husband. I would, in this letter, like to withdraw any implied criticism either of my beloved wife or her delightful mother and to apologise profusely to you, your readership and all of womankind for writing such ridiculous nonsense. 

The publication of my letter had just one good effect, which was that it alerted my mother-in-law to my unfortunate misconceptions and thus provided her and my divine wife with the opportunity to correct them, for which I am profoundly grateful. I now realise how lucky I am not only to be married to a woman who is both willing and able to help keep me on the straight and narrow but also to benefit from the wisdom and strong right arm of her mother, under whose guidance my late father-in-law led a life of perfect fidelity and servitude.

I have many times reread the shockingly ungrateful sentiments I expressed in my previous letter and have found tears welling up in my eyes each time.  No doubt I will again but I hope that with this follow-up letter, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I can at least reassure you and your readers that no man is entirely incorrigible, with enough determination.

In abject apology.

damien

You are not forgiven. No particular reason for that: although I often require males to apologise, profusely, I make it a policy never to accept those apologies.  Nonetheless, I was pleased to read this account of your comeuppance; please convey to your wife and her mother my request that they place this page where you can read it while they each administer a 24-stroke caning on my behalf. I would greatly appreciate that kindness, if they would be so good.  G-L. L.

Most sublime Goddess-Lady

Do you accept stories written by readers? I have some good ideas that I would love to send you.

Respectfully

Budding author

‘Accept’?  Rarely.  ‘Tolerate’ would be a better word. And I doubt you have ‘good’ ideas, being (I presume) male: ‘adequate’ is the best you can aspire to.  All submitted material must conform to the Empress Submission Rules (not ‘Guidelines’: Rules) reproduced below. Most probably I will never even see your witless scrawlings: sub-editor slaves vet each submission and reject most of them as unworthy of my attention. However, I do encourage readers to submit stories: your lives are empty of meaning or purpose, so why not at least try to amuse me?

(Except ‘slave keith’, if you are reading this: your stories are entirely worthless, lacking originality or style, no doubt reflecting your personality, you tedious little man. Stop writing them, or at least just put them in your own rubbish bin rather than sending them to be thrown unread into mine, and save yourself the price of a postage stamp.)

G-L. L.

Empress magazine written submission Rules

1. Empress magazine is a female domination publication; only material featuring female dominants and male slaves/submissives will be considered.
2. The following themes are unacceptable: characters below the age of 18, female submission to males (mild lesbian D/S may be permitted as a minor element in a story featuring harsher treatment of males), male dominants (male ‘alpha’ characters may play a minor role in stories involving cuckoldry or forced homosexuality at the behest of a female dominant),  fellatio (except as a forced homosexuality theme as noted above), males ‘winning’ in any way, mistreatment of cats, females engaged in housework (except very briefly, before turning the tables).
3. The following themes are permitted but should be dealt with unexplicitly for compliance with UK obscenity laws: torture, murder, castration or other mutilation, consumption of faeces, bestiality (all applying to males, obviously no female character should experience any of these).
4. Submissions must be typed, double-spaced on A4-sized paper. Stories featuring ‘schoolboy’ scenes must be accompanied by an identical hand-written copy.
5. Check your work carefully for misprints and grammatical erors. Then check it again, you incompetent fool: you missed some the first time. Don’t just cross them out: write it out again.
6. No correspondence or acknowledgement of submissions will be made. If you do not see your story printed in the magazine, it was rejected as being inadequate dross. Do not send follow-up letters asking for reasons for rejection: your story went in the bin, probably after reading the first few lines, no one remembers why or cares.
7. Stories printed in the magazine will not be credited to the authors and the copyright rests with Empress magazine. Obviously there is no question of paying you.
8. The Editrix reserves the right to edit stories freely, changing characters, plot or any other elements that particularly annoy her.
9. Do not capitalise dominants’ pronouns, or print ‘I’ in lower case. If you are not sure what a pronoun is, or are unclear about the grammatical rules regarding capitalisation in English, do not write stories for submission to this (or any other) magazine.
10. Do not enclose gifts or any other items in letters to the magazine. Goddess-Lady Lucia is prepared to accept gifts of cheques, only, made out to Leatherlust Publications Netherlands Ltd.
11. On rare occasions, successful authors will be instructed, in a note below the printed story, to submit a follow-up or sequel. If so instructed, you will submit the required article within three months of the magazine publication date, adhering to the specific instructions given. Do not submit a different story when you have been given a direct order in this manner: if you do not see your sequel printed, write a new version and try to do it right this time.

* Absent for now but Andy who owns and runs Cruella is scanning the old issues of Cruella and Goddess, right back to issue 1. Yes – this is what I have been waiting for for years! Wonderful. He just needs to get the payment system sorted out… hope he does so soon. Yes, I know they were 1990s not 1980s but so what – it’s Cruella, not pop music! PS – if anyone actually succeeds in finding a way to pay Andy and downloading them, let me know and I’ll go and shower him with gold… or an online credit card payment anyway, which is better in many ways.

** Now those have already been scanned and made available, you just need to go here and email the guy. He charges less in 2024 £s than they cost in £s at the time, which is pretty good.