April 2013 – Contemplating the divine

Too much mercy… often resulted in further crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice had been put first and mercy second

A quote there from Agatha Christie. Sounds like my kind of lady!

On we go…

Amusingly, sometimes out there they lose all feeling because of the cold. No matter how many welts and bruises are inflicted – they don’t feel a thing! And it’s so funny then, when they’re brought back inside and warmed up.

Rather thoughtless of Karen, I must say. No wonder she’s on her fourth marriage already.

Plenty of time overnight to think about what you’re going to say about this in the morning. Sleep well.

I think a little extra tribute next time might be in order, mmm?

I once went on this date, with a girl who just kept on telling me how inadequate I was compared to ‘Karl’. It was awful – all, ‘Karl has a bigger cock’ and ‘Karl doesn’t have any problems getting hard’. Honestly, I don’t know who was the more embarassed; me or him.

Boundaries

Another one that was just too long (ironically, enough, given the theme) for a caption.

…and I was thinking it would make things easier for both of
us, you see? Because I know how
frustrated you get, locked up in that thing,
So if you only have half as many balls, you ‘ll probably only want to
come half as often. And it’s better for
me too, because I won’t have to keep unlocking you every few months.

The penectomy? Well
that’s just cosmetic. I just thought we
could get you tidied up down there.
Make it a lot shorter.

Well, sure, I know I’ve always said it’s too short already. But I mean it is too short for penetration and
stuff like that. But you’re never going
to need it for that again, so we might as well cut it back a bit.

How much? How much of what?

Oh, I see. Well, as long as there’s enough there for you
to grab on to when I unlock it, I suppose. An
inch…maybe a bit more?

No, not an inch
off, silly. An inch left.

Hmmm?

Well, that’s why I’m talking to you about it. Our contract’s very clear that I can’t have
you castrated without consent. I meant
it then and I meant it now. I’d like you
to do this willingly, I really would. I
know it’s better for both of us.

Oh.

OK. Well, I’m sorry
you feel that way about it. I really
am. Maybe if you think about it a bit
longer, we can…?

Uh huh. Well, if you’re
going to be like that I guess there’s nothing more to talk about.

Only, I have been thinking about it, you see. And I’ve been reading that contract we
signed. And I think you’ll find it
defines ‘castration’ as removal of the slave husband’s balls. Plural.
Not ball – balls. And it says
nothing about your cock, just that I can’t subject you to anything that removes
your ability to function sexually, without consent.

And with your one ball, and your one-inch cock (and after
that little tantrum, you can forget about getting anything more than an inch,
buster!), your little messing can still happen.
Whenever I decide it’s OK.

So, I’m afraid this is going to have to be one of those
things that the mistress decides and the slave husband just has to accept. And I’ve already made the booking and paid a
deposit anyway.

Hmmm? Oh, Wednesday I
think. Or was it Thursday? Bring me my diary – it’s in the hall.

He is contented thy poor drudge to be…

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it that I call

Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

…and about to become rather an exciting one!
On the left, Domina Heelena and on the right, Mistress Arella. Sisters, I believe. And in the middle, down below, you.

Don’t worry. If you don’t have time to finish them all by your next visit, I’m sure she won’t mind at all.
This is Domina Liza, in case you are feeling adventurous or very, very guilty.

Mmmm…breathplay. Shame it has to end, really.

Oh go on. Wives always love it when their husbands take an interest in their hobbies.

These magnificent creatures are from Planet Femdom. And so are the ladies.

Story: Pride comes before

In retrospect, Mark wondered how he could have been so
stupid. He’d got carried away. By that book – that stupid book.

He’d been given it by a stranger, shoved into his hand
without a word or a look, just a rapidly disappearing figure in the crowd. And he had the book.

“I am proud to be a
Man!” it was called. It was about
male equality. Equality with women!
It had taken him a while to really understand that. But the book said that men could be the
equals of women – were their equals
if only they knew it. Men didn’t have to
be spanked. Men could choose when to
have orgasms. Men shouldn’t have to wear
sexy revealing clothes for the pleasure of women. On and on – over five hundred badly-printed
pages, bound together with big metal staples, presumably from some kind of
underground press. At first, he thought
it weird and repulsive in its strangeness.
But he found it compelling and read on and on and on – this book, hidden
in the ironing basket where he knew she’d never have reason to look. You are
her equal it said. You are strong. You have dignity. Stand up and say “I am proud to be a man!”

Then one day he came to the fateful section. “Men will never be liberated from oppression,
until women are liberated from oppressing” it declared. It wanted women to come to accept men as
equals. Talk to your wife about male liberation. It said. Read
this book together.

He hadn’t, for a long time.
But he knew that if any husband had a chance at converting his wife to
the cause, he did. Alice was a sweet,
kind person, only seven years older than him, and she treated him well. She whipped him, of course, when he deserved
it, but as a duty not a pleasure. He had
his own allowance to buy clothes. She
usually let him come, once she’d had her own orgasms. Under the influence of that book – that mad
terrible book – he’d half convinced himself that she was a secret male
liberationist already.

So he spoke to her.
And she listened quietly. And she
asked to see the book. She listened
carefully as he turned the pages, and showed her how it demonstrated the cruel
tyranny of women over men, and spoke of a better world. After a while she stopped him and asked just
one question – whether he’d spoken to any of her friends’ husbands about
this. She seemed relieved that he had
not, but asked him to close the book and stop reading at that point. She had taken the book, and gone to phone her
mother.

And then she’d come back and explained how she felt about
this. She did not shout, or threaten, or
punish. She simply spoke, calmly and
steadily, about the importance of household order, about the betrayal that his
secret reading represented to her, about her regrets at how laxly she had
treated him, and determination to correct this terrible error she had made.

And now they do read the book together.

Every Saturday, the book is set on a low lecturn that she
has bought specially for this purpose.
Mark, naked, is tied securely over a whipping bench, so that his face is
just above its open pages. He reads a
page, aloud. It is turned over, usually
with the tip of a cane, then he reads the other side, aloud. She never says anything in response. Once both sides have been read, she begins:
sometimes with strong, deliberate strokes, other times with a flurry of
flicking whippy actions. The whip is
mainly applied to his buttocks and thighs, but occasionally she tends also to
his shoulders, his calves, or whips around to reach the front of his thighs. All of these areas are a mass of weals and
welts, criss-crossed on top of one another.

While his wife is whipping him in this way, Mark must come
up with and carefully articulate five separate, cogent reasons why whatever has
been stated on that page of the book is wrong.
Sometimes this is easy, as the false ideas can simply be countered one
by one, but sometimes the book will be developing a single mad idea of male
equality over several pages, and to come up with five different refutations of
the words on the page can be difficult.
Particularly when Mark is howling in pain, and fighting to gasp out his
carefully constructed arguments in favour of female supremacy.

But it continues until he succeeds in producing five reasons
for treating the ideas on that particular page with the contempt that they
deserve. No matter how long it takes,
eventually he finds five reasons. And
then the whipping ends. She reaches
down, and neatly tears out the page – by now often unreadably stained with
tears and spittle, and he takes it in his mouth, chews one hundred times and swallows
it. That piece of madness has gone, and
only the simple good sense of wifely discipline remains.

Then she usually takes a break – sometimes as short as the
time to have a cup of tea, sometimes as long as a trip to the shops or even the
cinema. Once she visited a friend at
this point in the process, and returned the next day. He remains in place, of course. When she takes a long break, she is careful
to cover the next page with a cloth, so that he cannot rehearse the five
arguments he will deploy next time. For
shorter breaks she does not bother. He
generally finds that it is only under the direct influence of the whip that he
can really appreciate the incoherence and stupidity of the book’s ideas, in any
case. But eventually she returns, and they
do another page. Most Saturdays, they do
three, sometimes four.

Mark has had many opportunities to regret his actions, of
course. He particularly regrets that the
book is so long. They recently reached
the first anniversary of this new regime, and are still less than halfway
through the book. He would one day like
to meet the authors of the book. He
would like to see them bent over this same whipping bench, receiving the same
treatment that he is receiving. And when
they were striped and sore, their backsides ridged and bloody from floggings
applied on top of floggings, when their mouths were bone dry from screaming
hopeless pleadings for mercy, when they start with fear at the merest sound of
Alice’s movements, that could foreshadow an agonising stroke. Then, Mark thought, then he would ask them a
question.

“How proud do you feel right now, to be a man?”

Readers with an interest in the peculiar doctrines of male liberation (or “men’s lib”) might be interested in this, this and perhaps also this. Although, honestly, I can’t imagine how anyone could take this stuff seriously.

Cruel and usual punishment

Don’t you think it’s odd? That men who say they regard women as superior, also believe that being treated like women is humiliating? Isn’t that weird? I mean I feel like that. And I’m not weird. Odd, like I said.

I don’t really believe in horoscopes anyway. “You will visit a pro-domme, and be made to dance to k-pop wearing a pink tutu while Mistress and her friend laugh at you, and then make you eat cold courgettes with curry powder.” I mean, it’s just generic stuff that could apply to everyone, right?

It’s a good thing we like being treated with contempt, nicht wahr?

You’d better read the whole thing through, because I’m sure she’ll have got ‘minuscule’ wrong, and she usually forgets there are two ‘p’s in ‘disappointing’.

Actually, you don’t really even have to ask. If she hasn’t already bought it for you, you probably don’t really need it, do you?

Spring break

Finally, Spring is here and not before time! About this time in the very first year of my marriage, my wife shyly confessed that she’s always fancied the idea of going on spring break – a week of hedonism and sex by the sea. I was a bit reluctant at first, but as usual, she got her way.

It’s become quite an annual routine in our marriage – and it does give me a chance to give the house a really good spring cleaning while she’s away.

Argh! Don’t you just know that in a few hour’s time, a really good answer to that question will just pop into your head! But by then it’ll be much too late. Always the way, isn’t it? This is the awesome Mistress Vixen, of course.

Well? Come on! As she’s made such an effort to look nice, and someone’s died horribly as a result, I think the least you can do is pay her a little compliment on her appearance? Hmm?

Yes, femdom medical play can be a bit unimaginative. The other day, my Significant Other broke my arm,and when I joked that this was a perfect time for medical play, I was up in the harness having a rectal examination before I knew it! And when I said I didn’t think it was working, she broke my other arm! Dommes, eh? Gotta love ’em.
(Mistresses Sidonia von Bork and Nina Birch of the English Mansion. They might not be able to cure you, but they’ll certainly have a go.)

Brno’s not that far. A couple of hours, at most. It can be a bit hard to find a locksmith at the weekend, though.
Image from OWK and quite possibly Mistress Karma, although I’m not sure I could swear to that, even under torture.

Ah, the joys of summer.

Off-topic, for the first time ever

To an Anonymous commenter

There was a comment left on here a couple of days ago that I
deleted. If that was yours, I want to
explain that I did not delete it because of the point you made – which I
actually think was a reasonable one deserving an answer – but because of the
unpleasant and hostile way in which you phrased it.

You suggested that I am putting the name of this blog on
every picture I find on the web. I
actually don’t think of that as what I’m doing when I put
contemplatingthedivine.com on them. I’m
putting that mark on captioned pictures, captioned by me. When I do occasionally put up a picture
without any caption, I don’t put the mark on it.

You see, this is not a photo-sharing blog. Originally, I started it to publish my
stories. I still write stories – there
are a few coming up soon, actually. I
soon started adding captioned images, which I think of as very very short
stories, in effect (and as a matter of fact, recently I’ve been trying out a
sort of hybrid – which could equally be called very long captions, or very
short stories themed around a single picture).
These are all things that I created.

There are a lot of them. I have just collected all the stories published here into pdf files, because I thought they might work well as books*, and they total over a hundred pages. And there are about a thousand captioned images so far.

A few months after I started, I saw a few of these captioned
images appearing elsewhere – which is absolutely fine with me. Sometimes they were attributed (most recently Pipinkos,
for example, started reposting some that he had brilliantly translated into Spanish, and
I’d like to thank him again for that).
But some were not attributed and while I don’t at all blame the
reposters, it did annoy me a bit, especially when they attracted favourable
comments from people assuming the reposter wrote them.

I do try quite hard to match up pictures and
words. I do think about and occasionally agonise over the words. I don’t just put up every sexy picture I
find, with whatever threatening phrase comes to mind scrawled across it. I’m not suggesting for a second that this is a particularly worthy, or
artistic activity but it is creative in its way, I am rather proud when I come up with a
good one (as I think I do from time to time), and I like to be recognised for
that. Hence the mark. I am not marking the pictures; my intention
is to mark the caption.

There is also a practical reason. I can see from site stats that I get traffic
when one of my captioned pictures is posted elsewhere without attribution,
presumably because someone typed in the name.
I like to have more traffic here (for purely psychological reasons,
obviously there’s no money involved) and if it helps someone find the blog and
they enjoy it, that’s good too.

I do realise there are some people who don’t much care for the
captions and treat this site as a photo-sharing blog. Again, that’s absolutely fine with me, and I
hope you enjoy it. But I don’t see how
someone just looking for photos can complain about the unobtrusive
contemplatingthedivine mark (I never put it where it will obscure the image; if I can I put it on the frame). If you just
want the photo and the caption is worthless to you, then I’ve already defaced
the photo by writing the caption, right?
And if the caption isn’t worthless to you – well, then it’s not
unreasonable for me to add the mark, right?
Either way, I can’t see that you could object to the mark.

Of course, I would always take down any image to which someone asserted rights, without question.

So….that’s how I would answer your sneering
question, Anonymous. I really don’t understand
why, in your first ever communication with me, you couldn’t have made your
point a bit more politely, but it was a fair point nonetheless. It’s an answer that makes sense to me.

(The rest of the post is addressed to my regular readers, rather than the uncivilised Mr A.)

…and yet, and yet…thinking about this, it does all make me a
bit uneasy. In retrospect I think
perhaps I have been too blasé about attribution. If I got a bit grumpy when I saw my
unattributed work on another site, how would a photographer feel about seeing
their own work, captioned by me, and unattributed here? Worse, if a pro-domme has gone to the trouble
of dressing up and posing or acting out a photoshoot, she’s done it in part
because she hopes for more traffic to her site or for new clients. Not very fair of me to use her lovely image, without even trying to identify her.

I do therefore intend to make more of an effort to attribute
the images. It’s not very practical to
do much very quickly. For one thing, I
have a huge stock of downloaded photos and I don’t know the attribution (obviously I can recognise some). I also have a large backlog of captioned
photos – more than 300, all waiting to be posted…and I’ve even got blog posts
queued up to mid-May through the magic of ‘schedule’ (what, you thought it was spontaneous?). So this will be a gradual change.

Also, in most cases I cannot attribute them because the
places are find them are not the original creators. Most are from Tumblr, for example, and
although Tumblr has a neat system for attributing back, even the ‘original’
poster will rarely be the originator of the image, they’ll only be the first
person to upload it to Tumblr. OWK
doesn’t have a Tumblr, after all.

But…butbutbut. I will do my best. As I
create new captions, and download new photos, and put up new blog posts, I will
attribute images if I can, and in particular if I can identify individual
dommes I will do so. Famous actresses can probably look after themselves.

/rant

* (I’d like to find a way of getting them out there for download – Blogger doesn’t accept PDF, any suggestions? Needs to be free, of course – I won’t charge anything as all the stories are here on the blog anyway, but I don’t particularly want to pay to hand out free stories!)

Cut short

One caption and five short stories all about… oh, you’ll see what the theme is. Not for everyone, but those of you who like this theme seem to like it a LOT.

George goes looking

Of course, George knew he shouldn’t pry into her
secrets. But he really had stumbled
across the little cloth bag by accident.
And, truth be told, after the initial shock, he was secretly rather
turned on by the thought of his young, innocent (or not-so-innocent, he
thought, deliciously) wife playing with herself. The vibrator was quite complex, bifurcating
at the end into two quite separate attachments, one ribbed and one smooth. There were also several tubes of different
brands of lubricator, a book of what he presumed to be mommy porn and a couple
of DVDs.

Giving in to curiosity, he carefully placed one of the DVDs
into the player, unbuttoned his trousers and settled back on the bed to
watch. While it was loading, he turned
at random to one of the stories in the porno book. The first page or two seemed to be all about
a description of Derek, and his massive penis and balls, so he flipped quickly
through the pages, looking for the sex scene.
It was a doctors and nurses story, it seemed and Derek soon got tied
down and then –

Then
the story seemed to go in a direction his brain could hardly process. Derek’s massive balls remained the focus of
the story, with much loving description of how elasticised tape was round
around them tighter, and tighter, and then a metal dish was placed underneath,
as one of the nurses reached forward with a pair of cutters and…and…

He
looked up in shock. The DVD was frozen
on the menu screen. A poor quality image
filled the screen – obviously from a home movie – of a tightly gagged man
staring out with eyes widened in terror.
Behind him were the blurry shapes of two middle-aged women, fully
clothed, their faces covered by masks. “Painful
penectomy #19” read the title, inviting the viewer to press play or select
scenes. The little images of the later
scenes showed…something impossible.

“George?”
he heard from the bedroom door.

Full settlement

“Do
I really have to do this?” he asked wretchedly, looking out through the
stationary car’s windscreen at the semi-detached house opposite.

Emily
squeezed his knee sympathetically. “I
know it’s difficult, Alan. But you just
have to do this once and then you’re a free man. Actually, you’re keeping more than most men
do, these days. Take it from me – I’ve been a divorce lawyer for nine years,
and it’s never been as difficult for men as it is now. At least you kept 20% of your income. Come on, let’s go in.”

“Into
my very own house” Alan muttered, as he got out and they started to cross the
road.

“Best
not to think like that” Emily advised.
“It’s her house now, so there’s no sense in moping about it.”

“But
does she have to make it all so public?” Alan murmured despairingly as they
arrived. And it was true – Karen had
really made a party of it. As the
laughing, chatting crowd parted to let them through, he thought he recognised
several of his ex-girlfriends. And he
got an evil stare from Karen’s friend Janice.
He’d always hated Janice and the feeling was mutual. In fact, he strongly suspected that Janice
had inspired his wife to divorce him, and to fight so hard through the courts.

“It’s
quite the fashion” Emily admitted.
“Actually, I did it when I divorced my husband too. Women love to come to settlement
parties. Especially when there’s a
castration involved – oh look, there’s Karen.
Come on – it’ll all be over soon enough.”

“All
here to watch me lose everything.” Alan sighed, as he walked slowly forward to
where the desk with the freshly printed papers was waiting for his signature,
next to a table with leather straps waiting – he assumed – for his wrists and
ankles. He kept his head down, not
meeting Karen’s eyes – but instead found
his gaze drawn to the shining instrument she was clutching in her hand.

Cliché

“You know” she said, kindly,
“actually I’m quite embarrassed. I mean,
it’s such a cliché, isn’t it? Sexy woman picks up a guy in a bar, suggests
some mild bondage, and then turns into some kind of psychopath when he’s all
tied up.”

“So…you’ll let me go?” he gasped,
desperately.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let you
go, sweetie” she giggled. “Most of you,
anyway. Now I’ll be back in a few
minutes, when I’ve sterilised the instruments.
And like they always say in the bad movies – don’t go away!”

Last chance

“But – “ Christopher pleaded
despairingly.

“No argument” the doctor said,
sternly. “They’re both infected, and if
we don’t amputate immediately the infection’s going to spread. I’m sorry, but there’s no other option. Nurse!
Can you prep the patient for immediate surgery?” And he walked off.

“Sorry love” the buxom blonde
nurse remarked sympathetically, as she started to draw the curtain’s around
Christopher’s bed. He sat back,
devastated. This was not how he imagined
being nineteen would be.

“Nurse” he quavered, as she
injected something in his arm.

“Yes, love? Anything I can get you? It’ll take a few minutes for the anaesthetic
to take hold. Then you’ll feel all
relaxed.”

“It’s just…well, I’m still –
still a virgin!”

And he started crying.

“Awww…there there” she
shushed. “Poor thing. Never mind – there’s other things in life.”

He looked up at her hopefully,
and she got his meaning.

“Why you cheeky little – I’m old
enough to be your –“

But then her heart melted at his
sad little face. “Oh – I’d like to help,
love, I really would. As it’s your first
time; well your only time actually. Only
it’s my time of the month! I’m sorry.”

Then she had an idea, and smiled,
first to herself and then down at him.
“You just hold still then” she murmured, gently lifting his surgical
gown aside. Then she licked her ruby-red
lips, while smiling down, now gazing at the excited swelling rising up to meet
her from below.

She bent down, and he could feel
her hot breath, against the straining, shiny, taut glans of his engorged penis.
She opened her lips, giggled slightly, and –

“CARDIAC ALERT! CARDIAC ARREST IN WARD B. ALL NURSES ENGAGED IN NON-ESSENTIAL
PROCEDURES IN WARDS A-C TO WARD B IMMEDIATELY. IMMEDIATELY.”

“Ooops…sorry love. Not your lucky day is it?”, she called over her shoulder,
dashing away.

Feebly, Christopher lifted his
right hand towards his still straining member, for one…last…

…and then the anaesthetic took
hold, and he found he couldn’t move. The
nurse had been wrong. He didn’t feel
relaxed at all.

Listen very carefully, I will say this only once

“STOP THE PROCEDURE!” Isabell
Green shouted, crashing through the operating theatre door. “The DNA test says it’s mistaken identity!
I’ve got a stay from the court!”

From all fours on the operating
table, Mark looked up at his triumphant, panting lawyer, hardly daring to
believe it.

Then he felt a sharp pain between
his legs. And heard a dull, wet
thud. Like a small piece of meat from
the butcher’s shop falling, against a metal surface. And in the background, that tinny, irritating
music.

The music got a little louder as
the doctor behind him looked up, and took out one of her earpieces.

“Sorry, what was that?” she
asked. “I had my i-pod in.”

Holy terror

Pray for mercy…but maybe not just yet.

…and heaven help you if they don’t add up to 48.

Don’t worry, though – she retains some rights. If they want to cause any permanent physical damage, they have to seek her permission first – and you’ll be allowed to beg her for mercy.

Let’s hope she doesn’t stay cross for long.

I don’t know about you, but I’m always forgetting my permit. It makes my wife so cross – you know, she said then next time I get put in the pound, I can just stay there for a week or two as far as she’s concerned! She is funny…

Don’t forget to tell her how fabulous you think she looks, and give her a kiss for good luck, before you go back to your lonely little apartment and switch on the computer.

Time to take the red pill

Another positive image of a healthy female-male relationship, bringing some sanity to this mad world.

“But why would anyone want such a thing?”, Sandra asked with
genuine puzzlement. “I mean – it’s so
sick.”

Dr Taylor nodded gravely.
“It is quite bizarre” she replied.
“And of course most women react just the way you do. That’s a normal, healthy reaction. But some just crave the degradation, or maybe
they’re just so bored with this ordinary world of ours that they’ll even
fantasise about something as perverted as that, just for the thrill of it.”

Sandra nodded. She
was aware of “Male Dom porn” of course.
At school once, she’d come into possession of a battered magazine, that
she’d eagerly hidden away on the assumption that it was the usual sexy images
of men being beaten – stuff that was wildly exciting to an adolescent
schoolgirl at the time, although pretty tame softcore stuff by today’s
standards. But this magazine had been something
very different – full of photos of men standing over women, of women forced to
wear little maids’ outfits and do housework, while men stood about without a
chastity belt in sight and played with their penises. Although thankfully there was no photo, one
cartoon had even shown a woman on her knees, taking a man’s penis in her…in her
mouth. She had closed the magazine
immediately in shock, and thrown it away but the image had haunted her for
weeks. She’d occasionally tried to tell
herself it was just a slightly kinky sexy castration scene, as the woman was
obviously about to bite the penis off.
But she knew in her heart that it was nothing so innocuous, but
something much darker and more depraved.

She shuddered at the thought, and focused again on the
screen in front of them.

“And this stuff is a sort of male dom fantasy site is it? There’s some perverted old woman lying in her
apartment somewhere wearing a VR suit and vibrating off to it?”

“If it was just that, it wouldn’t be so worrying” the Doctor
replied. “It’s not just a wanking scene –
it’s more immersive than that. These
weirdos have constructed a whole alternative reality, in which normal life is
turned upside down. We think they used
one of the newer MMOs as a base, but even so, the detail is incredible. There are entire cities simulated here, you
can buy newspapers and read them from cover to cover, books as well, TV… there’s
even an Internet within this VR!”

“So someone could be living in it full time? Would they know it’s not the real world?”
Sandra asked in puzzlement.

“Well…you’d think so.” Dr Taylor replied. “Not from any fault in the simulation itself,
that’s perfect. But the whole thing is
just so bizarre and perverted no one normal could be fooled for a second. You might go to work in an ordinary building,
but there would be men in all sorts of positions of power. Many of the simulation’s residents seem to
get off on playing secretaries to bossy men, nurses to male doctors – that sort
of thing.”

“Male doctors! “ Sandra chuckled, and Dr Taylor smiled.

“I know, it’s all quite ridiculous. But look –they’ve even created an imaginary
country – the United Kingdom. They often
do that sort of thing – take a perfectly ordinary word like “queendom” and
masculise it. I suppose they find that
sexy. But its political leader is a man,
it has an army and police force of men in uniforms…all sorts of kinky
stuff. There’s another called the United
States of America – now that one’s really weird. And don’t even ask me about Saudi Arabia;
that’s a kind of hard core enclave. It’s
a bit too much even for most of these sick perverts.”

“We’ve been aware of it for quite a while, but the increase
in complexity and realism of the simulation that we’ve observed lately is quite
alarming. So we’ve decided to shut it
down. And that’s where you come in.”

“So you’re going to pull the plug?” Sandra asked. “Snap the perverts back into the land of the
living?”

Dr Taylor shook her head.
“That would be too much of a shock” she replied, sadly. “We think many of the simulation’s residents
have gone too far – to suddenly experience a total shutdown of this entire
immersive simulation could cause severe brain damage – even death.”

“Most of them must be brain damaged already, if you ask me”
Sandra muttered, looking at a screen showing a roomful of men watching women
parading in absurd, lacy underwear. Sick
fuckers.”

“They’re citizens too” Dr Taylor remarked sharply. “And there may be tens of thousands of
them. Plus there are men in there too –
poor things, I don’t suppose they had much choice in the matter.”

Sandra nodded. That
was one of the ironies about MaleDom.
Although it depicted men as powerful “masters”, it was well known that
almost no men were really into this sort of roleplay. Any man dressing up in trousers and ordering
a woman to iron his shirt was probably only doing it to please her, craving
instead a normal relationship, and maybe even a cosy, sexy evening under her
whip.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We create little windows into the real world” Dr Taylor
said, turning back towards the screen. “Glimpses
and hints of ordinary life. We hope that
the residents will take an interest, and slowly be drawn out of their sick
fantasy – if they can just get enough reality into their lives for them to
question this absurd simulation, then they might be able to come out. And then
we can give them help, nurse them back to reality.“

Sandra nodded. “And
so you create web sites, showing normal life.
Healthy relationships, to counterbalance all the sick stuff elsewhere.”

“That’s right” Dr Taylor agreed. “Look – this is one of the first, the Other World Kingdom. See, it maintained a link to the fantasy
world in that ridiculous name, but then it presented a rather straight
depiction of normal female-male relationships.
But we found it was a bit too realistic for many of the long term
residents. It was as if they’d been immersed
in their sick world so long, that they could hardly connect with unvarnished
reality like that.

So we closed it down,
although the site is still there. But
there are a lot of other sites that we’ve seeded all through the simulation,
some of them straight presentations of reality, but others more like a tweak on
the simulation’s world. Look – Femdom Resource, that’s one of the
best. And there are many more: Strict Women, Woman Worship, Underling’s Humblings, Aarkeybabble, Improbable
Fun, Total Discord, Astonished by Her…all present images and accounts of normal,
healthy relations between the sexes. Then we’re gradually filling Tumblr with
pictures of women wearing normal clothes – look, there’s Hochhael, for example, or Diederiq
and Femdom Style Counsel. And of course we try to counter the flood of
sick sex videos with clips of normal sexual behaviour.”

They watched a video of a man being beaten over a trestle,
for a minute or so. His screams and frantic
pleading seemed to provide a rare moment of healthy normality, amid all of the
sick material showing naked men having sex without even a nipple clamp to
provide the poor boys with so much as a hint of good clean, sexy pain

“So where do I come in?” Sandra asked.

Dr Taylor clicked on a few links and nodded at the
screen. “There. Contemplating the Divine. Once it was one of our more promising web
sites, but it’s really gone off lately – stale, derivative and tedious. The lady in charge of it lost interest, and
as you’re well known as a writer of erotic stories, we wondered whether
you’d like to take charge? And I have to
say – I read your novel “Cutting Eric” when it came out and I thought it was
great. I can see why they call you the
queen of castration lit.”

Sandra smiled politely.
Actually, she didn’t really like that title. She thought of her work as more complex than
run-of-the-mill ‘castration lit’, instead exploring social themes and developing
narratives of character development, around sexy little scenes of men being
painfully castrated. But she liked the
recognition anyway, and she always acknowledged compliments.

“So do you want me to write for the site? Am I supposed to
be ‘Servitor’?”

“Well… Servitor’s never really been just one person, of
course.” The Doctor replied. “It’s a
team of seven men, chained up in a cellar just below us, working away on
captions and stories fourteen hours a day.
But you could maybe give them occasional ideas, whip them once or twice
a day, that kind of thing? I still think
Contemplating the Divine has potential, if we can just flog a bit more
creativity out of the “Servitor” we’ve got. They all have to work a lot harder, and for that someone has to really hurt them. I think if they could only be put
in absolute agony on a regular basis, their lives made a waking nightmare of pain and terror, they might still come up with some amusing
ideas. Worth a try, anyway, because the site’s rubbish at the moment.”

Sandra pursed her lips.
“Well…I’ve got a lot on, just now, and
– “

“Did I mention that four of the Servitor team are
uncastrated?” Dr Taylor asked, quietly. “Of
course, if you take charge of them, you’re welcome to play with them however
you like.”

Sandra beamed. “Well…if
you put it like that.” she said

“All right – I’ll do it.
Maybe we could even video them being castrated, and put it into the
simulation. I can’t believe these sad
perverts are so far gone that they wouldn’t get turned on at the sight of a screaming
man having his testicles slowly pulled off with a rusty chain!”

Dr Taylor flushed with pleasure. “Oh, that sounds so lovely. You know sometimes, I feel so dirty from looking
at all this sick perverted stuff, that I forget the pleasures of a sweet,
romantic scene like that!”

“Come on – let’s go and introduce ‘Servitor’ to their new
boss!”

If you’ve read down this far, I have a message for you. You probably read this as “Femdom fiction”, and that’s how it has been presented. But just think for a moment. Think about the world you believe you inhabit. Does it really make sense to you, that it should be like that?

If you have already started to doubt, then that is because reality is seeping into the corners of your mad delusion. Keep reading Contemplating the Divine. Keep reading the other web sites mentioned in this ‘story’. There is hope for you, and I can help.

My name is Sandra, and I promise you I will not abandon you. I promise you I will make “Servitor” howl in agony and terror every day, until this web site becomes more interesting. I am not going to give up, not until I have helped bring every one of you back into the real world, and this sick “Planet Earth” fantasy can be shut down for good. I promise you that a better world already exists. You just have to learn to believe in it. I will not write like this often, but I am always here, standing over “Servitor”, thinking of you.

Let me help. S.