Master Malcolm’s dreams come true

A maledom story!  Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.

Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures.  Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission.  Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides.  But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.

For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet.  In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock.  On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all.  Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again.  But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.

“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces.  “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.

One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object.  He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat.  Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.

As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home.  The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.

After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.

Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp?  Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed.  The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave.  As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.

Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough.  I often do.

Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness).  He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”

“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.

“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”

“Yes, Master” murmured the genie.  “Three wishes.  It shall be – “

“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly.  “Three hundred slavegirls… no!  More!  One for every day of the year!  All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces!  None of them fat.  And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…”  He was getting carried away.

“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him.  “Don’t you mean consensual?  I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “

Malcolm glared at her.  “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so.  “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not!  I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place.  To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”

The genie looked confused.  “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded?  “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.

Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.

The genie blinked once, very deliberately.  “I do now, Master.” she replied.  “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “

“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.

“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.

She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage.  Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound.  Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.

After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse.  Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.

“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm.  “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick.  And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock.  And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied.   I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.

The genie looked over at him and smiled.  “Your wish is my command, Master!  And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway.  Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself!  You shall have it all!”

And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…

Bewitched Nose Twitch GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing.  Isn’t it?


A vast ornate room.  Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs.  Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.

Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams.  Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.

On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within.  Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.

Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before.  He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins.  He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.

Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.

“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped.  “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here!  Where are the rest!”

The genie abased herself before him.  “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said.  “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection.  Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots.  And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”

Malcolm grunted in satisfaction.  “Adequate, I suppose.  So there’s 365 in total?”

“366 Master” replied the genie.  “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”

“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.

“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily.  “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”

“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.

Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy.  He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion.  He looked around the room.

Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back.  One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him.  Others merely craned their necks to get a better view.  Of him.  All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone.  They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.

He felt a sudden pang of fear.  He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour.  Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.

Malcolm turned and ran for the door.  Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not.  Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room.  They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.

He made it almost halfway.


And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised.  Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.

Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers.  His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.

Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.

Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop.  Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point.  There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.

But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler.  He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts.  Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.

Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock.  Especially his cock.

You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock.  His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond.  And it is indeed huge.  No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time.  It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue.  It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.

Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.

366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys.  Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded.  Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him.  It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done.    Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body.  The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.

Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities.  They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.

One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky.  Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day.  The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability.  She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances.  Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.

How many more will there be?  Who knows?  That depends upon the kindness of strangers.  You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm.  She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now.  She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself.  She asks whether the woman would like to release him.

So far, none has.


 I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist.  There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there?  Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.


 What’s that?  You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too?  I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert.  All right – but only one picture.  There’s rather a lovely story, actually.   Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were.  But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway.  Isn’t that sweet?




Talking about pain

 Not enough couples do that.



As you can see, she takes quite an old-fashioned approach to discipline.  Most wives these days just use the app.



She can put it with all the other things waiting for him in their honeymoon suite.

I hope she learns an important lesson about bullying.  Or a few new techniques, anyway.

How very tiresome.

Ironically enough, although they put on a remarkable burst of speed, when they reached Capri there’d been an unseasonable spring storm and the blossom was in tatters.  She took it in good part, though: silly to get upset over something like that.  There’s always next year.

And now for something largely similar

Right… ten more years then.  The terrible teens begin here.  How terrible can they be?  Let’s find out, shall we?



He should be thankful.  Not for anything in  particular – just generally, all the time.



Regrettably, he won’t be perfect for long.  She breaks things.




It is a good one.  Here’s another: what do you do if you see a blonde undressing, through an open window?  Eight years hard labour!  Do you get it?  Maybe one day you will.



Look at the lovely lady on the right, there.  Rightly proud of her work.




‘Something plausibly similar to male genitalia’ is the best some of us can hope for.

Looks like all those caning fantasies are going to come true.

Bad Pookie.  Just imagine being close to thinking about disobeying her like that!  On second thoughts, don’t imagine it… she wouldn’t approve.

If there was anything she could do to make you feel better, she’d do it – you know that, right?

Anyway, maybe some of the other patrons would like to skip the queue too.


Ooh – the tips of her shoes look just like the inside of my chastity belt!  Maybe we could strike up a conversation, now I know we’ve something in common.

And, of course:

Decadence: time for birthday spankings

Ten years today.  Good grief. 

Here are some of my favourite ever captioned images.  In general, when there’s one I am really pleased with, it is because the words and photo go together perfectly.  Either because the lady’s expression seems just right – in that, once you’ve read the caption you can imagine she’s saying that, or even be unable to imagine she could be saying anything else – or just because the caption picks up some quirk in the scene.

Other people might like other ones.  Or stories.  But I adore each and every one of the ones below, so I won’t comment further.

And, of course….


… and…

…and finally, what my Tumblr stats suggest is the most popular captioned image I have ever done.  Which is quite heartening, as it’s not some fetish scene with latex-clad blondes (delightful though those are), but simply this:




So here’s to the next ten years.  Starting tomorrow with a bonus post of new stuff, to make up for all this recycled trash we’ve had over the last few days.





Decadence: the Ladies

What would this blog have been over its 10 years of existence, without its regular Ladies?  Ridiculous question, as that’s obviously where the main attraction lies.  Let’s pay tribute (no really – get yourself to an ATM and stuff an envelope) to those ‘regulars’ who all unknowingly, unceasingly, uncaringly and without regard to copyright, so often enlighten this otherwise dismal corner of the Internet.  

Some domme, some vanilla – the sole criterion today is frequency of appearance.  So here they are again (and they will all be back).  Most names are hyperlinks.

Mistress Eleise

 Not a particularly interesting caption, I’m afraid, but when the image is perfection itself, who cares?





Mistress Mina

have never met her, but her lovely, wicked smile is so much more fun to
caption than the stereotypical ‘domme grimace’ that she features here a


I have not met her either, obviously.  But I do envy her dog.

Mistress Sidonia





 Do you think we might like another picture of Gal?  I do.



The Ladies of Cruella (who took a flamethrower to my brain as a teenager in the 1990s). 

Link may not work but worth tracking down, as the guy who does ‘modern Cruella’ does seem to be the same as the one who did these all those years ago (he seems to keep re-doing his Internet sites, presumably trying to find ways to monetise this stuff – I hope he succeeds, as he deserves it).  The modern material isn’t bad at all either, but I have very special memories of furtive visits to Soho to summon up the courage to buy magazines featuring these lovelies.

NB: I once saw them on sale on the top shelf of a regular Pakistani newsagent… I could never imagine asking in a context so vanilla.  “Yeah, 20 Silk Cut please mate and erm… have you got a copy of the latest Cruella?  Oh – that’s last month’s isn’t it?  I’ll take the Goddess, then: the one with the guy licking the boot.  Yeah, thanks.  Oh – and I’ll have this Kit Kat too.”

Madame Katerina 

Whose name I have spelled many different ways over the years.  Shhh… nobody tell her, please.   OWK came in just about the end of my teenage formative years.  They published magazines for a couple of years, because they started just before Internet femdom took off.  They had advertised for a year or so in Cruella et al before launching: extraordinary, evocative pictures of concentration camp femdom.  The magazines did not disappoint, when they finally arrived.  Impressively high production values, and a convincing commitment to the fantasy.  I don’t care in the least whether it was ‘real’ in any meaningful way or not, I really don’t.


‘President Hathaway’ series would be rather shorter, without Megyn
Kelly.  I’ve never actually watched her on TV, I doubt I’d like her
politics.  But boy, does she look the part.  In fact, Fox News (now
without her) appears to feature almost nothing but leggy, imperious
blondes which is (for me) essentially its only saving grace.

And although I’m mostly heterosexual (or would be, if anyone ever let me), I’ve got to admit Trudeau does have a very spankable butt…

Nata Lee

lovely Russian model.  A lot of her content out there consists of what I
must regretfully call ‘tit and bum’ shots, which I think rather
unnecessary, given her sweet, extraordinarily pretty face.  But of
course, that’s up to her.

Lady Sophia

domme, whose in-session persona was actually very similar to this. 
Retired now, so no link – sorry, you’re just too late and that’s that.

Divine Mistress Heather

Rodea and Cindi

know, I know… Miami/American Mean Girls is a very commercial site,
nothing at all authentic about it – even some questionable content
recently too.  But unlike almost all the mean girl ‘hey loser’ content
out there, a lot of it is done very well and these two especially are
lovely: their disdainful personas perfectly matching their elegant
beauty.  ‘Goddess Rodea’, incidentally, has moved on to other things and
clearly despises the whole humiliation fetish scene.  Which just makes
it even better, ironically…

Young Goddesses, especially Irina

No link for this one because the guy who used to make them took against the whole business and links to his sites now just lead to complaints about the unprofessionalism of the ladies he had to work with, along with warnings about the perils of excessive masturbation – and not in a good way.

But there are some lovely images of some lovely Russian ladies, doing quite unpleasant things, out there.

Irina is the one on the left, showing off her trademark delightful, amused smile.  She is findable on the Internet as Irina or occasionally as Cofi Milan and she smiles a lot.

The Hunteress


and of course…

Decadence: just the pictures

 So… to celebrate 10 years of ruining otherwise lovely images of ladies, by sticking witless captions on them (but never, ever overlapping the ladies themselves – that’s a rule) I will be putting up some of my favourites over the next few days.  Yes: we celebrate 10 years by putting up repeats that you’ve already seen…

Today: some of my favourite images I have posted, selected without worrying too much about whether the captions are any good or not.  Some are, some aren’t: but occasionally the pictures are so perfect that they have to be captioned even if I don’t have any particularly good ideas.

I just like their expressions.

like their expressions too.  If they aren’t saying something hurtful
and humiliating, and enjoying it as much as they appear to be, well they
damn well should be, that’s all.

again, although here the likelihood that they were actually saying
something hurtful and humiliating is perhaps a little higher.

think this might be my favourite femdom image of all time.  It’s not
specifically a femdom image, of course.  When you search for it, you mostly
get sites relating to workplace bullying, which is probably an activity
that’s less fun in reality than in fantasy.  But… but she’s just
shouting… right in his face!  Isn’t it lovely?

Again, it’s the look.

Her expression… and the general situation.  Four of them… face it, you are going to be way out of your depth, even if the two at the back are more interested in each other than in you.

hard to say what it is I like about this photo.  Maybe the framing, or
the perspective?  It’s probably some kind of technical
photographological stuff like that, anyway.  Definitely probably
something like that.

Jenna Coleman, on a break during filming Dr Who, I believe.  We need
more pictures of beautiful actresses dressed as Victorian governesses. 
Many more.

I occasionally feature male dominants or others into heavy, macho S&M gear here – usually dressed something like this.

And, of course…

So true, so true.  And I have many pictures of her.

Decadence: themes

Just a brief guide to the last 10 years, for anyone confused (I am conscious that most of my readership is male, so clear thinking is likely to be in short supply). 

Sometimes the tags lead to posts entirely themed around the, erm, theme, sometimes just to posts that feature at least one captioned image in the theme.  Just work with it, yeah?

Downton domination.  Femdom from a more elegant age.


World War M.  Reminiscences from when the war between the sexes turned hot; styled on World War Z.  The war began in North America and was touch-and-go for a while, but the ability to multi-task and think rationally, on one side, as opposed to moronic sexism on the other, soon turned the tide.  The last fighting, in the hold-outs in Texas and other Southern states, was intense.  The conflict went global, finishing – naturally – in Saudi Arabia where some understandable acts of girlish exuberance following the final victory over patriarchy marred the ushering in of a more peaceful, better-ordered world.  NB: the vets refer to their opponents as ‘mutts’, loosely based on an acronym for male terrorists, or occasionally just ‘M’.  They also collect ‘trophies’ from dead mutts or, occasionally, live ones.


OWK Ladies remember.  Reminiscences in the style of a TV documentary.

Bit of politics.  Political captions, having nothing at all to do with Ben Elton apart from the title.  All of the ‘President Hathaway’ series are here, many of them using screencaps from TV programmes.  Possibly my most popular series, which is why it is unfortunate that it does not have its own tag, as there’s a lot of other stuff in the ‘bit of politics’ tag too (including anti-Brexit ones, just to bring the culture war home again).  So you have to look hard for the President Hathaway stuff, but then life’s supposed to be difficult for males, isn’t it?  Helps keep them focused.

Incidentally, the longevity of this blog is becoming a problem.  Some of these Femsuprem victories were predicted in what is now the past rather than the future (which just means we have more to look forward to, I suppose).

Another world.  Also political and therefore often included in the tag described above.  But the politics in this world are… different.  Still Femsuprem, but taking a more direct approach to redressing the balance of centuries of patriarchy.  That’s what you get for disparaging democracy and trying to deny the results of an election, I suppose.  Different paths… which will we follow?






Turning Points.  Oh, you know what this is. Paltego likes these.  So do some other people.


Hot chicks in empire-line dresses.  Captioned images from earlier days than the period covered in Downton Domination – before the Gill Sans font was invented, even.  Occasionally feature images of heart-stopping beauty, thanks to the movie Becoming Jane.  NB: if you don’t know what an empire-line dress is, you’re not paying enough attention to your needlework lessons, sissy.

Advice to… well, to various people, really.  To novice subs, to American subs visiting Europe, to male maids, even (in a spirit of humble suggestion) to novice dommes.  From whence came, just last year, Rule 18.  Note that Contemplating the Divine bears no liability for any injuries suffered as a result of following the advice presented.


Fairy tales.  Stories and captions that are, erm… fairy tales.   About fairies.


Includes my story The Lovelorn Blacksmith, which got some good reviews. 

Speaking of stories… so many stories, not all consistently labelled as such.  Actually, many of them are just captions that got too long to be a caption.  So there aren’t many long-running themes but here are a few.

Mistress Valerie – ancient tales (most pre-blog), written for and about my first domme (whose name was not Valerie, but was not far off it either).

Serena and Alice – stories about a man-hating mad scientist and her girlfriend, featuring extreme, sadistic violence against males: torture, mutilation, scat, death.  But at their heart, they are sweet and touching love stories, like all the best tales.  Boy meets girl, girl meets girl, girls enslave boy and torture him to death for sexual kicks… that kind of thing.  The first of these was written about ten years ago, so it was a bizarre revelation in the middle of last year when I realised that my two ‘steady’ dommes over… oh about the last six years now, were first Alice, then Serena.  Kismet.  Synchronicity.  Or more likely just a coincidence.

Fembots – not a consistent series (unlike Freddie’s more sustained efforts) but I have dabbled in the genre.

A few favourite stories:

Missives, especially the third one

The Princess and the penis (also in ‘fairy tales’ surprisingly enough)

Final edits – humiliation, vaguely turning points-ish

Extra service – one of many ‘helpline’ stories

Can you imagine? – definitely not a ‘turning point’ and rather melancholy.

Cashless society – almost startlingly prescient, in retrospect.

Reprogrammed (fembot!)

Street vendor – looking for humiliation play.

Priorities (male maid!  science!)

Tomorrow’s World – especially for Brits of a certain age.

Crossover – Just a little musing on what a ‘mainstream’ porn star (the wonderful Gigi Allens) thinks of her femdom work and the ‘men’ who like it… It’s about as complimentary as regular readers of this blog might expect. Is it a good story?  Let’s just say that it has lots of pictures of Gigi Allens, so I expect we can agree the quality of the prose really doesn’t matter, can’t we?

Slave Tony.  Bleak and depressing.  No, really: it is. 

Rewards and penalties.  Much more fun.  Read this instead of Slave Tony.

Waiting.  A joke-free and I hope fairly atmospheric rendition of one of my most common fantasies: it’s all about the build-up to the beating, not the act itself.

Oh, and in case you’re losing touch with it: a dose of reality.


And finally, the only CtD post you’ll ever need.  And yet, almost seven years on I am still knocking them out at a rate of two a week (oo-err!).  In Gill Sans, obviously. 

A decade of decadence

This blog started on January 26 2011.  So it has been almost ten years… and here’s me, with so much ironing still to do.

Nonetheless, it’s true: this blog has been wasting everyone’s time (well… the time of an infinitesimal fraction of the human race) since that long-ago date, with a post titled “Why are we here?”, the answer to which remains obscure 1318 posts later.

I hadn’t originally expected to focus on captioned images.  A couple of years before, I had visited a domme for the first time; a lady who was to be the only domme I visited for the next three years.  She has now retired and has a vanilla profession so I will say nothing to identify her.  At the end of my first – wonderful, life-changing – session she instructed me to write an account of the session, for her web site, which I did and I was immensely proud when she published it.  It became a habit, and after a while I also started writing short fiction stories to send her.  I think she did genuinely like most of them.

Anyway, I set up the web site to publish those stories, along with any random wittering that might occur to me.  I did put up most of them – if you are interested, the easiest way to see them is to download the pdf collections using the ‘Servitor’s femdom stories’ links to the right, there.  My wonderful Lady and her lesbian partner feature in them too, under the pseudonyms of Valerie and Sandra.  This one perhaps gives the most lifelike impression of her: Take me to your Mistress.  But this is my favourite, because of the way it shows the relationship between the two of them: The elves and the dominatrices.    

I very soon started producing captioned images as well as stories and… now I’ve published just over 5000 such images, horrifyingly enough.  I do occasionally still write stories, but more often when something appears as a story on this blog it’s just a caption that became unfeasibly long.  I have over 2000 unpublished captioned images and I produce anything up to another 100 each month, so it’s not stopping any time soon.

So… a great deal of drivel has been produced – and more of it to come.  I’m going to put up some of my favourite drivel over the next few days.  

We’ll begin with some of the silliest.  I get the impression that the silly ones that make me giggle aren’t the most popular.  I don’t mind.  I like silly.  I love to behave in a foolish manner in session and get slapped for it.  Let’s get the silliest over with, then it’ll get more sensible as we move towards the actual deciversary (deci-anniversary?).



I love this one.  Not just because of the latex-clad lovelies, although they help a lot, it’s true.



Lovely Lexi Sindel.

kind of writing is obviously inspired by the Far Side.  I do that a
lot.  I realise it’s nothing like as funny as the Far Side – and incomparably more
perverted – but inspired from there nonetheless.

See? Again: like Gary Larson but with added obscenity and subtracted wit.

I’ve always liked this one.  Sadly, neither of the UK’s two new aircraft carriers will be called HMS Cindy, although I did hear that former President Trump frantically tried to name one of the new US super-carriers the USS Svetlana, for reasons presumably known only to him and the Russian intelligence services.

Very Far Side.  Plus testicles.

What a lovely smile.  Two lovely smiles.

Sorry about that…couldn’t resist.

‘Oops’ has to be right up there near the top of the list of ‘words you don’t want to hear in session’ . ‘Tarantula’ would be above it, for me anyway.

Would probably have been included in Rule 18 if I’d been doing that back when I made this.

Ooh… edgy.  Self-referential and self-loathing too!

I quite like mocking session conventions (see Advice to a Novice etc…). 
This caption might have run away from me a bit, but I just love the
idea that a bit of strict schoolmistress play has turned into a
discussion of the annealing process for glass, because of some random
stuff she wrote on the blackboard.

Grrr!  Picture from the heyday of Cruella, there.  More of those to come.

Could have been any of them.

And, of course…


Girl talk

 Boy silent.  Nodding is permitted.

Has it really?  Goodness, it’s so easy to lose track of time.  It feels like it was only yesterday.

Forgive it magnanimously?  No?  Oh well.

Dommes undertaking electrical play should ensure that some thick non-conducting material is in constant contact with any electrodes.  Males work fine.

It’s not a very big tube but it’s just large enough.

Funny how failures to communicate always involve me misunderstanding her and never the other way around.  Of course, the fact that I’m rarely allowed to speak could be a contributing factor.

Unforced feminisation

My SO looked a bit worried when I asked her to ‘feminise’ me.  She gently explained that no matter how hard I tried, I’d never make a convincing woman.  Even if I were to try to mimic feminine behaviour such as intelligence, competence, courage and leadership, I simply could not get away with it.  So obviously she was immensely relieved when I explained that all I meant was that I wanted to be dressed in a frilly pink dress and ordered to flounce around with a pout on my excessively made-up face.  I was soon happily across her lap having my naughty little knickered bottom spanked and shrieking like a little girl, so that was all right.

I don’t think I’d want to be a real woman anyway.  Too much responsibility.  And not enough chores.


Don’t you just hate it when you’re sent off to play with other sissies?  They can be so self-centred and immature. I’d rather just flounce about in front of Mistress, showing off my frillies.  Perhaps I should try having a tantrum about it.





She looks lovely in it.  And you’ll look lovely ironing it, too.



Actually, quite a lot of things taste a bit shoey to me right now, but that’s because for obvious health reasons I’m wearing the mask she made me most of the time, so it’s if the world were made of stinky socks.  I’m not saying that’s a bad thing…




Don’t worry about looking foolish when you’re doing the little dance.  Most of the passers-by probably won’t know what the moves and actions are supposed to be anyway. I’m sure they’ll find it amusing, though, and that’s the most important thing.




Rather like me, this gentleman makes an unconvincing woman, exhibiting as he does stereotypical male behaviour such as whining, laziness and cowardliness.  Fortunately, Her Maj has ways of dealing with those.










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