The imperative mood

“The imperative mood
(often referred to simply as a command) is used to express demands,
instructions or requests. We usually use the second person (plural or
singular) with an unspoken “you” for the subject.” sez Learnenglish. The ‘you’ is indeed unspoken, although sometimes She substitutes other words to refer to Her servitor.

The grammatically correct response to the imperative mood is the submissive mood.
Ludicrous, unrealistic fantasy. Who’d pay $2500 for a male?

What’s that? You’re guessing ‘mandatory gender sensitivity training’?  Well, sure, maybe that too, that too.


I don’t see the point of these fancy electronic monitoring systems.  A sturdy 20-foot length of chain has always done the trick in our (actually Her) household.

Here’s a clue: whoever it was lifted the seat. So it won’t be Raoul for a start: he never does,

Marital law

I know how to satisfy my wife sexually.  I just have to hire some help to do it in practice.

Depends what you define as a problem.  There’s obviously going to be a lot of screaming, for a start, and – what’s that you say?  She doesn’t mind the screaming?  Oh, OK then.  No, I don’t think there’s going to be any kind of problem.

Of course, she doesn’t regard him as being on the same level as all her appliances.  She’s a lot closer to her vibrator, for a start.

You should keep the little teensie condoms around, though.  You might get lucky, after all!  How many have you got left?  Three?  Oh yes, that should be more than enough.  The honeymoon only lasts two weeks, after all.

Aunt Clarissa’s used to slightly looser men, of course. I mean, Uncle Arnold hasn’t spent a day without a butt-plug since the 1960s, I understand.


Men and their gadgets.  You can give him just as unpleasant a night with some good old-fashioned rope, a cold dripping shower and some nipple clamps.  Why does everything have to be so hi tech?

Regular readers will have gathered by now that this is a very, very hard limit for me.  I’m careful never to tell my SO, though, so it’s just a secret between you, dear Internet, and me.

Sounds like their sex life is about to improve.  Well, hers is.  His doesn’t sound like it’s worth keeping, really.

That is a lot simpler. Like her approach to marital arguments: also very simple indeed.

I am actually very sensitive to gender issues in the workplace.  Painfully sensitive, even.  When women are treated disrespectfully I feel physically bruised: sometimes immediately, sometimes a while later.

The Princess and the penis

Once upon a time there was a Prince who was handsome, witty,
kind and clever. He was heir to a prosperous Kingdom, where the people were
happy and peaceful.  The King and Queen
owned many palaces, all of them gleaming with marble, with cellars full
of gold and silver, with jewels beyond count. Truly, the Prince was the
luckiest man alive except for one thing: he had a laughably small penis.
When he was born, the court physician had
noticed how tiny the royal todger appeared to be even for a baby.  But he reassured the King and Queen that all
would be well, when the Prince hit puberty. 
Yet puberty came and went, and by the time he was 20, the Prince still
had a cock little larger than he had when he was a baby, although now it stood
up stiffly like a drawing pin whenever the Prince got excited – which was often.
The heir to a Kingdom needs an heir of his own, so the King
and Queen were anxious to marry their only son off as early as possible.  Beautiful princesses came from lands far and
near, but all had heard about the Prince’s little problem and all wanted to see
it before becoming betrothed.  Soon
enough, peals of girlish royal laughter would ring out through the palace, and
the courtiers would hang their heads in despair, as yet another royal carriage
rattled hastily away out of the palace gates, bearing a still-giggly princess
in the back.

They say it is a rare man who can always make a woman laugh. The Prince was such a man.

What were they to do? 
As word spread of the Prince’s embarrassing condition, the Kingdom
became known as ‘the Kingdom of the Prince with the laughably small penis’.  From the lowliest beggar to the mightiest
baron, all of the real men in the Kingdom, sporting perfectly adequate tackle,
found that they were thought by foreigners to have nothing worth speaking of
between their legs – and the women of the Kingdom had to fend off foreign men
eager to give them the pork stuffing that they were assumed to be lacking.
But the years went by, and the King and Queen despaired of
ever finding a beautiful Princess to whom they could wed their darling son,
with his dainty dangling ding-dong.
Then one day, a carriage drew up in the courtyard with a
clattering and a rattling that roused the whole palace. This was unusual in
itself, since it had been years since any princesses visited.  More unusual still, the driver and footmen –
footpeople – on the carriage were all women. 
Usually, princesses were accompanied by handsome young men, who would
sit making gestures towards their ample, bulging trouser treasure, while the Princess
was inside trying to control her laughter. Yet this carriage was accompanied
only by tall, rather serious-looking women.

One got down and opened the door, shouting out “Her Highness
the Crown Princess of Femlandia!”.  And
down from the carriage emerged a young lady of rare beauty and still rarer
richness of garment, whose countenance was sterner still than those of her
minionettes.  She looked around her, with
a bored and faintly contemptuous expression.
“Where’s little dick, then?” she enquired of no one in
“Erm… our son prefers to go by his given name of Richard”
puffed the King, who had come running out of the palace to greet his guest.
“Where’s little dick Richard, then?” the Princess asked,
fixing his watery blue eyes with a level stare from her pools of steel grey.
“Er… well, there…” the King began, pointing feebly towards
the South Eastern tower of the palace, but the Princess and several of her
entourage had already swept off and were entering the building.
In his room, Prince Richard was sitting quietly in the
gloom, feeling sad and useless, as he often did.  Had it been 700 years later, he would
probably have been wanking around to no purpose on the Internet, but in those
benighted days there was nothing better to do when wasting time than watch the
dust-motes dancing in sunbeams, so this was what he was doing.
There was a peremptory knock and the Princess swept in,
accompanied by two tall blonde courtiers, dressed in military regalia and
sporting swords.
“Who… who are you?” stammered Prince Richard, which was odd
because he had not previously had a speech impediment of any kind.
“Princess Valerie of Femlandia” came the curt response.
“Here to inspect the goods.  Trousers
“Er… Princess, you realise… of course… that I don’t really
have much to – “ began Richard, wondering where on earth that stammer had come
“Not something that really bothers me, to be honest”, the Princess
replied, smiling slightly at one of the female soldiers at her side, who
blushed and returned the smile more fully.
“But it’s as well to see what I’m getting. Trousers down –
or my guards here will take them down for you.”
The Prince reluctantly did as he was bidden, and stood
there, his legs illuminated by a sunbeam. There was silence in the room, which
was eventually broken by the Princess.
“And the pants”, she snapped.  “Obviously. 
The Prince hurriedly lowered his pants as well.
As it was dark in the room all three women leant forward for
a closer look and at almost exactly the same time, both of the female soldiers
burst out laughing.
“Oh shush!” the Princess tutted, but smiled herself and was
obviously not really cross with the two blonde warriors, who stifled their
giggles and brought themselves to a semblance of attention.
“Better” nodded the Princess, patting one of them gently on
the bottom, and stepped forward, bringing out a magnifying glass that she had
thoughtfully provided for herself, and examined the matter at hand more
“Hmmm” she said, then spoke no more for several
She reached out and roughly grabbed the Prince’s hair, jerking
his head forward so that he was staring directly at her milky and ample (but
not excessive) bosom.  Then she let go,
and continued her magnified examination. 
The Princely prick had become erect and had doubled in size to almost
nothing at all.
“Hmmm” she said again and then sighed.
“Pretty much as expected, I suppose.”
“But… but you’re not laughing?” prompted the Prince.
Princess Valerie shook her head decisively.
“Don’t have much of a sense of humour, really.  Everyone says so.  Especially where men are concerned” and an
expression of contempt came over her face, and her hand involuntarily jerked
slightly, as if flicking a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a riding whip.
She clasped both hands behind her back and stared straight
into the Prince’s face.
“Would you like it to be… bigger?  To feel like there’s more down there?”
“Oh… oh yes, Princess”, stammered the Prince wondering if he
had somehow been cursed to repeat the first word of every sentence he spoke for
the rest of his life.
The Princess smiled a mirthless smile. 
“I can fix things so you have more down there than you even
want. That you’ll be wishing for it to be smaller… would you like me to do that?”
“Oh, oh yes please Princess Valerie”, the Prince replied.  “I’d like that more than anything in the
world. I’d do anything.”
“Good” the Princess, said. 
“Marry me.”
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia, obviously”
she added.
“The, erm.. traditional customs of Femlandia?” the Prince
quavered. “I’ve heard those are, well, that they’re… rather strict.  To men, anyway.”
“Strict enough.” nodded the Princess.  “Men deserve it, I find.  Look: do you want an inconveniently large
cock or not?  Also – and I might not have
mentioned this – when we rule here together, your penis will be the largest in
the palace.  Would you like that, too?”
“Yes – oh yes, Princess, please” implored the Prince.  “Are you going to going to perform a magic
“It’s more in the nature of a magical ring” replied the Princess,
holding her hand out for a shiny metal object that one of her guards handed
“Legs apart”
She busied herself with the device, while the Prince gasped
at the touch of cold metal and instantly felt his prick soften back to its
previous (almost microscopic) size.
“Is it a magical ring from your own country of Femlandia?”,
he enquired, trying not to wince as he felt sharp pains and a weight as from a
thick band of iron tugging at his nonentity.
“Not exactly”, the Princess replied, working away with an
allen key (she was a well-equipped Princess, as befitted someone who was the
tyrannical honorary leader of the boy scouts movement of Femlandia). “You might
say it’s from the far-off fabled land of Hind. 
It’s called a Kali’s Teeth bracelet. 
There – it’s done.”
She stood back up and gazed down at her handiwork. The Prince’s
little disappointment was almost entirely invisible for real this time, swathed
as it was in a thick band of iron, studded with… well, studs.  The weight of it pulled down uncomfortably,
but it was not as uncomfortable as the sharp pins digging into the tender
“Errr” the price started, but his hair was grabbed roughly
once more and his face jerked forwards, this time actually being pressed down
into the Princess’s own warm, soft bosom. 
One of the guards looked slightly offended, but stared straight ahead.
Inevitably things started to grow as the Prince felt a surge
of excitement and then – a sharp, stabbing pain in his tenderest parts!  And another! 
And another! As the Princess rubbed his face across her bosom, his nose
pressing down deep into her cleavage, the Prince felt as if every nerve in his
stiffening member was screaming the same song of agony.
A shriek came out of his mouth and he collapsed to the
“Make it stop!  Oh
please, please make it stop!” he gasped,
The Princess kneeled down beside him.
“It’ll stop when you’re smaller again” she murmured.
“Oh!” moaned the Prince, in torment “Oh how I wish my penis
were smaller””
“It will be,” nodded the Princess, standing back up.

A few minutes later the Prince stood before her again,
panting slightly and brushing the tears from his cheeks.
“See?” the Princess enquired, brightly.  “You wished for it to be smaller.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking” the Prince grumbled, feeling
that something was not quite right.
“So now you marry me” added the Princess.
The Prince drew himself up to his full height and spoke with
as much dignity as is possible, with a tear-stained face and a heavy spiked
ring fastened to your genitals.
“Certainly not.” he sniffed. “It was a trick.”
The Princess sighed and nodded to one of her guards, who
saluted and left the chamber, closing the door behind her.  The tall blonde soldier stood outside for
fifteen minutes, as various strange sounds – thuds, and cracks and moans and
cries – emanated from within, but stood fast, preventing any of the curious
courtiers from gaining access to find out what was going on.
Eventually the door was flung open and the second guard
announced “Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia and her Prince
Out strode Princess Valerie, accompanied by a shuffling,
shambling Prince Richard.
The King and Queen looked up in shock from the bottom of the
“Betrothed.” Princess Valerie informed them, smugly.
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia”
“I can see that” muttered the King, as the Prince raised his
head slightly to expose a heavy iron collar, with a chain sneaking off towards
the Princess’s left hand. “I’ve heard about those traditions of yours.”
“Richard!” the Queen called up sharply.  “Do you consent to this?”
The Prince consort-to-be glanced at his fiancée, who nodded
“Yes mama”, he replied, dejectedly.  “I made a deal.  She… did something that made me, well, made
me uncomfortably large. You know.  Down there.
“I can see that,
too!” exclaimed the King, as a heavy cylindrical object distorted the line of
the Prince’s trousers. “Wow!”
“Well, my boy, we must begin the celebrations
immediately!  Let the word go out to all
four quarters of the Kingdom that the lovely Princess, er… the lovely Princess..?”
But the lovely Princess and her followers – a word that now
includes young Richard – were heading to her coach.  The Princess climbed straight in, leaving
Richard to be secured to the side by his collar.
“Goodbye dearest mother-to-be!” she called out. “And you,
too”, she added with a look of disgust at the King.
“But, but… you will return, will you not?” the King gasped.
“Of course!” she called out, drawing her head back inside
the coach and giving the signal to move off. 
The horses started to turn the carriage around, and Richard jogged
around with it.
“But when?” both
parents wailed, at exactly the same time.
“When you’re DEAD, obviously!” came the cry from within, and
the whips cracked over the horses (accidentally catching Richard a nasty cut
across the shoulder) and the carriage lurched out of the courtyard, the heir to
the Kingdom desperately galloping alongside.

Several years passed. The King and Queen grew old before their
time, worn down by the cares their inadequately-equipped son had brought
them.  Rich men, well aware of what
Femlandian rule would bring, paid for the finest medical experts to come and
treat them, but in a few years the Queen had died of sorrow and the King was on
his deathbed.
Some attempts had been made to prepare the Kingdom for
Femlandian rule. There was a woman prime minister (but she wasn’t very good,
being neither strong nor stable) and many businesses had been made over to
female ownership. In schools, girls were educated in sciences and business,
while boys were taught needlework, cooking and how to simper attractively. 
Nonetheless, all men knew that the rule of Empress Valerie
the Vicious and Cruel of Femlandia would bring an end to the fair and happy
land they had known all their lives.  The
stories coming out of the Empire were too alarming not to take seriously, and
after all, men told one another, any empress who chose for herself the moniker ‘the vicious and cruel’ was probably no
But despite the best efforts of his physicians, the King
wasted and died. And a few days later, the armies of Femlandia invaded,
receiving the surrender of the local militia forces with little mercy, much
brutality and a moderate amount of violent sexual abuse.
The same carriage swept back into the same courtyard, now
decorated with the brutal red, white and black symbol of Her Imperial Highness,
Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel, Oppressor of the Western Isles, Scourge
of the Northern Wastes and Terror of the Eastern Deserts, to give her her full
title.  And trotting along at the side of
the carriage, the Prince Consort: older, considerably more scarred and with Her Imperial sigil burned proudly into his flesh – but still recognisably Prince

Branding can be tricky but even an Empress will always prefer to do it herself, for that personal touch.
The Empress descended again and gazed around her with fierce
“I made you one other promise, maggot!” she called to her
long-suffering (oh, but she’d barely started) husband.  “Do you recall?”
He looked confused, and shook his head sorrowfully.
Empress Valerie laughed.
Do you recall her
promise, reader? Not merely that he would have a penis that was uncomfortably
large. That he acquired the very day he met his wife-to-be, and had
still, as the bracelet of the Goddess Kali had not left his flesh since that
fateful day.
No, the Princess had
also promised that when she and her blushing bridegroom finally reigned
together (in a manner of speaking) that he would have the largest penis in the
palace.  Do you remember that now,
dear reader? Because there will be a test. 
And consequences.
And the Empress, as she now was, always kept her
promises.  When she wanted to, anyway.
“Lock the palace gates” the Empress called.  “And summon the Imperial Gelding Squadron”.
She looked around the courtyard, at the men standing, or kneeling… mute, anxious, frightened.  She smiled, in satisfaction.
“They have work to do.”
And they all lived happi… well, not all of them, obviously,
but some of them were happy, I
suppose, some of the women anyway, and, look, She certainly lived very, very Happily Ever After, OK?  And that is what matters.
The End.

It’s ages since I wrote a story this long.  I don’t know if it’s just age or the Internet destroying attention span but I used to write lots of stories.  I find that I can only sustain interest for bite-sized captions and vignettes, these days.  Where was I… attention span… oh yes!  So anyway, writing stories is actually how I started.  My very first ever visit to a domme (was wonderful, utterly wonderful) and at the end of it, She commanded me to write up my session to publish on Her web site.  I did and She did and it’s still there, and I took to writing more things for her and Her friend.  Usually stories about them.
 Some of these old stories can be found by clicking on ‘Mistress Valerie’ in the word cloud there (although the first one that comes up, abput Christmas, doesn’t really work, I think).  They concern Mistress ‘Valerie’ and Her friend ‘Sandra’ , which are not quite their real names.  But Mistress Herself has now semi-retired, or at any rate developed a vanilla business so She wants a low web profile.

This isn’t a Valerie and Sandra story, but the Empress’s personality has a bit of ‘Valerie’ so I gave Her that name for old-times sake. If you want to read another fairy tale, that is a much closer description of the two ladies, try this.  That’s one of my all-time favourites, the others being this and this.


Oh, just go with it. You enjoy sexy abbatoir play, she enjoys bacon sandwiches.  You’re very compatible.

Don’t worry. She respects the hard limits imposed by the Geneva Convention.  No hollow-nosed bullets, just a good clean round through the forehead if you get the password wrong.

Poor thing. She obviously misses him terribly.

Yes, I could use a muscle relaxant.  I’m feeling strangely tense about this – which is silly, because there’s really nothing that can go wrong with a tonsils operation.

Love that biker chic.  He’s a switch – prefers to top, but confident enough to play the strong and silent sub on the bottom, you know?  Goes by the name of Master Marcus when he’s domming.  He’s also bisexual, or he soon will be, anyway.

Sub title


On the other hand, until she’s actually checked the lingerie, she won’t know.  I mean, he might.

Safewords are a hard limit for my own domme.  She understands why some people like to use them in play, but it’s just not for her.  Or – therefore – for me, obviously.

Oohhh I ‘d say… three times…maybe three and a half times?  Oh – sorry – you mean in absolute terms?
Gotta take out those male supremacist religious maniacs.  We like female supremacist religious maniacs.  With a vigorous approach to rooting out sin.

I’ve heard employers like to see a broad range of skills on your CV (resumé, Americans, resumé), so this sounds like 10,000 hours well spent.

Alternative facts

I know you all yearn for a Goverment committeed to the smack of firm but loving matriarchal discipline but if we’ve learnt anything over the last year or two, it’s that in politics anything can happen and it doesn’t always turn out the way we might like.

As for those males commited to absurd old-fashioned notions like sexual equality and who might think that the future envisaged under President Hathaway is oppressive (to be honest, not many such males read this blog), they need to be aware that another world is certainly possible.  

I was going to say “your choice, guys”.  But of course, it won’t be.


So pretty, oh so pretty

Not the version by those dreadful yobs, of course, but by Mistress Joan.

Oh well, I suppose it’s something to take my mind off it.

She’s Prisoner Welfare Officer too, so you know she’s got your best interests at heart.
A lot of new findommes have the wrong idea about financial domination.  It’s actually quite hard work. But not for the domme, obviously.

This being a fantasy blog, I expect she’s going to ‘punish’ you by doing all the things you’ve always dreamed about, rather than just divorcing you and exposing you to ridicule in the newspapers. 

They’re very zealous about it. Indeed, I believe that some of his team are about to raid an establishment where they’ve received a tip-off about repeated violations of the ban on smoking in the workplace.  They don’t give any warning – just burst straight in through the door, cameras at the ready.

Pink? Pink? Well, what’s wrong with pink?

 Seems like you got a pink kink in your think!

Thank goodness I’m not going to be the only one there in pink, anyway.

I only went for the make-up tips anyway.
Ah – the rolling pin!  Just in that sweet spot between loving domestic discipline and cranial fracture.
Time to come out and play!

Nor are there many rhymes for “penectomy”.  I mean, you can just about work something in with “respect for me” but it’s a bit contrived, don’t you think?  And we don’t like to have excessively contrived notions here on Contemplating the Divine, as you probably know.

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