June 2021 – Contemplating the divine

Permissive society

Contrary to what many people ill-informed about femdom relationships might imagine, I am not oppressed by my SO, in fact she actually makes a point of bestowing small freedoms on me. For example, she grants me a financial allowance out of my earnings, quite frequently permits me to speak as long as that privilege is not abused and even (speaking of abuse) permits occasional sexual release. I’m very lucky that way, as I often find myself compelled to tell her.

Like many submissive men, I find arguing with my SO can make me feel quite uncomfortable – sometimes immediately, sometimes over an extended period of time.

It’s the dreading that’s the worst part, I understand.

Whatevs.

Teasing and denial.

It’s the little things in a relationship that really define it.

Miss rule

I
usually find that my main thought during ‘thinking time’ is ‘I think I
can’t stand this much longer’ but my SO says it helps and I don’t like
to contradict her.

I think she’s over-reacting. First rule of army life: ‘stuff goes missing’, amiright?

That does sound fun. Don’t worry if you don’t get it the first time – you can have as many goes as you like, subject to any withdrawal limitations imposed by your bank (and you may want to try asking for those to be lifted, it’ll increase your chance of success).

They do other things too. But mainly that.

I think you’re about to make two lovely ladies very happy.

May not deal in doubt or pity

I’ve managed to give up quite a few little vices over the years – turns out, you don’t really need willpower, or rather you can rely on someone else’s.

My SO likes to speak hypothetically, for example when describing ever more elaborate situations in which she might allow me an orgasm.

The evangelicals will be relieved to discover that the OWK ladies are, for the most part, not actually observant Catholics. Although they do believe in the concepts of original sin, penance and purgatory.

It’s like any job, except that no domme has ever been known to assert that the customer is always right.

Mmmm… No, no.

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Out-takes

Even a highly professional operation like Contemplating the Divine gets it wrong
sometimes. As this blog is more than ten years old, I thought it
might be fun to open the vaults and find a few of the captions and images that
ended up on the cutting room floor – when things didn’t go according to plan!

Creating a captioned image involves bringing together lots of different things:
the photo, the characters, the situation, the witty plot twist and, of course,
the grammar to keep Tom Allen at bay. It’s a difficult balancing act,
requiring great skill to produce a polished finished product, so it’s no surprise
an incompetent little twerp like me never succeeds in that. Even churning out the tired,
derivative and shoddy captioned images that usually adorn these posts, though, there’s
much that can go wrong… as we shall see.

But the director didn’t say cut…

Now, our first example today shows how even the most professional performers can get it
wrong. A castration shoot, obviously. I can’t recall the planned caption,
maybe it was something to do with him asking for all those weights to be removed
as quickly as possible. Anyway, a professional submissive model down
there, coping manfully (i.e. squealing his little head off) with the weights on his genitals, self-same genitals
feeling the razor-sharp edge of a pair of professional bolt-cutters, wielded by
a beautiful lady from Cruella. Proper bolt-cutters, mind – beautifully
made so that a smooth and easy pressure on the handles translates through the
power of physics and leverage ito an unstoppable pressure as the blades
remorselessly close… just the thing to give our readers a little thrill, in
the safety of their darkened bedrooms.

A perfect set-up, you’ll surely agree. So what went wrong? Well,
just at the moment this picture was taken, just when the caption was about to be
added to the finished product, a low-flying RAF training flight created a sonic
boom up and down the remote valley where the shoot was taking place, the poor
lady jumped out of her skin and… the rest was history. Or biology perhaps…
rather messy biology too.

It was no one’s fault. Everyone was as sympathetic as they could be.
The fighter jet pilot was horrified when she found out, the cameraman did his
best to help, the Cruellan lady was… OK, she wasn’t enormously sympathetic if
I’m being entirely honest, but she did mutter ‘Soz’ as he was taken off in the
ambulance. The shoot wasn’t a complete write off: I actually managed to
get some rather gruesome captioned images done,
but so far my innate decency and a profound desire not to be arrested have
prevented me posting them. And don’t worry: the guy is still a guy, you
know? Still very much a man. Since the Gender Recognition Act was passed,
all he had to do was self-declare as a male and so he is treated as a fully
functional man for all legal purposes. Almost all, anyway. So…
just one of those things, I guess.

Thrills and spills

Ah, now this one was my fault, I am afraid. Very much my fault. I
apologised to the lady concerned and still do, on a regular basis. The skirt was
a write-off, the shoot was abandoned… what can I say? Fortunately, my SO
has since come up with a solution to prevent this happening ever again.

Way around wrong

So… the shoot has gone off perfectly, the images of the lovely ladies and
slug-like men are all saved on the encrypted hidden drive and a caption has been
created. Nothing left to go wrong, right? Well… you’ve still got to get
the caption onto the right image. In the two pictures below, someone (with
a name beginning with S) didn’t manage to accomplish even that simple
task. Two pictures, two captions, Servitor – and you had one job!

Well, this mix-up resulted in not one but two captioned images that fell
well below this blog’s normal standards of coherence and had to be
abandoned. For which the management can only offer Servitor’s heartfelt
apologies.

The Snitch, her Teacher, the Maitresse and her Lover

Now, the pair of photos below tell the sorry tale of a failed photoshoot that – for once – was most definitely the fault of the ladies and not the author of this blog. Everything had been arranged very carefully for a photoshoot with the above title that would have cemented this blog’s place as the number one destination for anyone interested in strict schoolmistress femdom. The script was elaborate, true, but you might expect that professionals would be able to cope with that. I won’t go through it in detail, but it involved a schoolgirl whose complaint had led to my being brought in to see the Headmistress, a nymphomaniac lesbian French teacher, a class teacher and of course the Head herself, all involved in a complex sequence of humiliation and discipline that ended with my being forced – forced humiliatingly – to masturbate before them all, kneeling on the floor. Yum.

What went wrong, you ask? I might ask ‘what didn’t?’. The schoolgirl turned out to be more of a lesbian nympho than the lesbian nympho character, they all got ‘interested’ in each other, someone found a very large bottle of gin and they all got quite interested in that and pretty soon everyone (everyone female, that is) was too drunk to be safely in charge of a cane, kit off and fucking like rabbits.

So: nothing very femdom came of it unless you count my cleaning up the vomit afterwards, it and I seriously considered not paying them the full fee but sadly there are downsides to being a submissive when it comes to financial bargaining with four beautiful women, even when they are badly hung-over. I present, for the historical record, the two photos that just about manage to reflect the theme of this blog, before the whole thing went sideways.

Hot cross bunny

Now this one was… oh, do you know, even after all these years I can’t really bring myself to talk about this one? The memories are too painful. I thought I was ready but… just move on, move on. She was amazing, though: so professional.

Role reversal

Ah, now as you can tell from the picture, the lovely lady below turned up to the photoshoot having definitely not read the memo about what side of BDSM this blog celebrates! The photo below is taken just when she, in her Gorean slave position, notices that I too am in a Gorean slave position and as we both think we’re supposed to be following Gorean speech rules, neither can do much about it!

After an hour or two the impasse was broken and we had a lovely talk. I don’t know many female submissives (I find the whole concept a bit weird to be honest) but she was really nice. She was very gentle and I could tell she didn’t really like the idea of hurting me, but we got to talking and she had an idea for a kind of ‘worm turns’ scene where I’m a male dom (let’s just skip over that bit: it was less than two minutes in the final photoshoot and I can only say I was no more convincing than you might imagine) and she’s playing the sub and she’s on her knees and just about to take me in her mouth when she suddenly decides to turn the tables, and then we get into nice healthy femdom play. Just before we were about to start, she suddenly remembered something and asked if instead of being some generic dom being sucked off, could I be ‘Master Paul’ from Luton who wanted to come in her hair. It seemed oddly specific but she insisted so I gave it a go and – boy! For a subbie she certainly knew how to inflict pain! I got one of the most brutal beatings I’ve ever experienced. So it worked out OK in the end.

There’s a funny post-script actually. Just two weeks after this photo-shoot, I read about this guy called Paul Evans who was found beaten to death in a lay-by on the Luton by-pass. He had semen in his hair (his own, goodness only knows how he’d managed it).

Amazing coincidence, huh? But it’s probably just another one of those things. Most things are.

Who loves the sun?

I do! After a miserable rainy May, we now have bright sunshine chez elle (i.e. where I live) and I thought I’d do a sun-drenched special to celebrate summer’s balmy days. Admittedly, I myself haven’t yet seen the sun, as there are no windows in the part of the house where I live (not a problem, of course – after all, what would be the point, this far underground?). But she’s promised to break out the summer sweaters and the heavy rubber gimp suit, to take me out into the garden this weekend to where the treadmill awaits, bathed in sunshine. So that’ll be a nice change. I’ve also just booked a romantic stay for two at a beach resort for later in the summer, but I wont divulge the details as she hasn’t decided which boyfriend to take with her. They get so jealous – especially a certain old bull I won’t name! *

Anyway, here we are: summery captions.

I doubt that. I have actually become quite good at accurately judging women’s weight. But sometimes you have to tell them little white lies – bless them. The number of times I’ve had to control my breathing carefully to say ‘no, no – light as a feather!’ without gasping…

It’s great. Yeah. I’m getting quite good at never having any sexy thoughts at all, as long-term readers of this blog will know only too well.

Oh… don’t mind me.

She
likes long walks in the country, getting caught in the rain and keeping
up with the latest developments in applied metallurgy.

Actually, I brought a spare myself. I always do, just in case. I mean, imagine how awful it would be to run into Gal by chance and not have a leather belt or similar implement on you… a lifetime of regret would await.

* Regular readers shouldn’t worry. There’ll always be a place for Raoul in her heart – and in her vagina, mouth and anus, too of course.

Brought to heel

Hmm? Oh. Sure.

I don’t see why she would be so sure of that. Just on this occasion he’s the expert, after all.

It’s hardly their fault – boys break so easily, just when it’s starting to get fun.

The worst of it is, she realised when he got home that one of the dresses was the wrong size and he had to go straight back to the shop to exchange it. Someone must have put it on the wrong hanger – people can be so thoughtless and selfish, sometimes, can’t they?

That’s the thing about crush fetish play – it’s only fun for a short time.

Making the claimant whole

Ohh…kay. I’ve heard
enough and I’m ready to render summary judgment here?

So, first off, obviously the claimant has suffered a loss
and associated trauma. This court – and
I think all parties to this case – acknowledge his suffering and I am sure I speak for everyone in this room when I say we sympathise
deeply. It was a terrible, terrible
thing to happen.

Equally, terrible things happen. That’s life. The medical profession makes mistakes, as do we all. The apology the hospital issued was
short, admittedly, but “Sorry we castrated you by mistake.” is at least simple
and clear. Brevity is a virtue: I see no reason to doubt the
sincerity of the apology offered. The
hospital administrator has assured me that the additional comments added to
that email, referring contemptuously to the size of the material removed, were
never intended for publication and they do not know which of the nurses or
doctors – if indeed it was a member of the hospital personnel – was responsible
for that, or for the subsequent wide dissemination of the comments on social
media. And also of course the photographs, which the claimant understandably found acutely embarrassing, not least because the
women’s undergarments and the ‘humorous’ positioning of the sex toy seem to have been placed on him after
the administration of general anaesthetic.
Should the perpetrators ever be identified, they should suffer
consequences – a significant financial penalty at least – as this was a serious
breach of medical ethics. As was the
medically unnecessary and inappropriate use of the enema. These things should never have happened.

However, the hospital administrator has made strenuous
efforts to discover the perpetrator – or perpetrators – and failed.
All three of the medical personnel who had the opportunity to have carried out these hurtful acts have testified in this
courtroom it wasn’t them. I have considered but here reject the claimant’s
lawyers interpretation of Nurse Taylor’s repeated giggling on the witness
stand. Her subsequent comments on
Twitter, while hurtful in the extreme, do not in any way constitute evidence of
guilt. Similarly, the fact that the bought the underwear in which claimant was so wrongly dressed up, while unconscious, and that the photographs were found on her phone, both constitute circumstantial evidence at best. Another nurse on duty testified that Nurse Taylor is conscientious to a fault and I found the claimant’s counsel’s suggestion that this witness’s long-standing lesbian relationship with Nurse Taylor – and indeed her participation in a lesbian dating ring’ with the other two hospital staff who might have been involved – might in some way have influenced her opinion… well, I just find that suggestion to be offensive beyond belief. I will note at this point that I myself am a lesbian, counsel, as it happens and I hope that you would not dream of suggesting that my opinion in a case in which three lesbians are alleged to have unnecessarily castrated a male and then exposed him to ridicule on social could in any way affect my judgement. My comments complimenting Nurse Taylor on her appearance were simple courtesy, nothing more. I shall be pursuing this matter further, counsel, believe me.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Anyway, I think we just have to conclude we’ll never know. I am satisfied the
hospital administration was not at fault and the apology is there, so that’s
that. Just one of those things: claimant
needs to move on, as Nurse Taylor so fetchingly put it.

Turning to the matter of compensation, of course some
financial settlement is due. Claimant
has suffered a loss and deserves compensation just as would someone – say – whose car
had been unnecessarily crushed. To pursue the analogy, however,
it would obviously not be just to award someone compensation as if they had
lost – say – a brand new Ferrari, when the vehicle of which they had been deprived was in fact an old two-door hatchback that won’t start without being given a push. Or a rusty
bicycle with wonky wheels. The compensation has to be commensurate with the value of what was lost – in this case, claimant’s genitalia. Can we even put a monetary value on such a loss? Many would find that distasteful, but the law requires us to try.

In that context, I am therefore going to admit the evidence
adduced by the defendants. Although I
recognise that the claimant’s existing embarrassment has unfortunately been
enhanced by the sequence of witnesses who have been former sex partners – mainly paid sex workers – testifying
to his sexual prowess, or rather the lack of it, I am convinced that this is
relevant evidence. Indeed, from their testimony it is hard to see that the
claimant’s ability to engage in what he considers sexual activity has been
harmed in any way by his loss – after all, he still possesses a tongue and the
streetwalkers downtown still have shoes and toilets. Certainly, there seems to be no likelihood at all that the claimant has been deprived of anything that a normal person would describe as ‘sexual intercourse’ as – with all due apologies for any embarrassment this must undoubtedly cause him – he is thoroughly unattractive as he is and was probably still more so, when he had functional genitalia still attached. Defendant’s counsel has suggested that ‘creepy’ is the word that springs to mind on first meeting the claimant and I have to concur: that was precisely my thought on the very first day of trial. This observation – undisputed by claimant’s own counsel who appears to avoid any close contact with him even here in court – seems highly relevant to the matter of compensation.

I am also aware that any financial compensation he receives could be used to further his disgusting pursuits, although obviously that consideration can play no role in my decision.

Nonetheless, claimant suffered a loss and I am therefore
here ordering that the hospital pay him the sum of two hundred and forty-five dollars and thirty-five cents in compensation. Plus interest. Let that stand as a statement of this court’s firm disapproval of the negligence the hospital showed in this case. I don’t want to see you back here, so don’t do it again.

Right.

Now, turning to the question of costs, these have run into
many hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of this rather disturbing case.
Claimant had every right to seek justice – but equally, the hospital has
a right to its defence. Lawyers are
rightly not cheap, any more than the sex workers who had to be paid for their
time testifying – at length – about the claimant’s physique and practices. Someone has to pay for all this. The question I ask myself, is whether these
costs should be paid from the funds of a hospital, devoted to saving lives –
recognising that any such payment could directly impede their ability to
provide patient care – or, to quote one of claimant’s emails to a sex worker, a
“disgusting little worm” who pays women to humiliate and abuse his “revolting
micro-dicklette”. Or did, before the
defendants did us all the service of removing it.

Not an easy decision, obviously. Nonetheless…

Nurse Taylor’s the one on the left, in case you’re interested. She’s giggling beneath her mask, but don’t worry: that’s just a nervous tic she has. You’ll be fine.

NB: in case you were wondering how come the judge uses lot of British language at times but the compensation is set in dollars, the explanation is, erm… it’s in Australia! Or New Zealand. Or somewhere like that, anyway, where all the legal terms are exactly as set out here. I mean, it must be. I don’t just make this stuff up, you know.

It feels so wrong it must be right

You’d thing she’d at least bother to write a fresh one, instead of bringing out the same piece of paper every time. This is how marriages go stale, you know.

They’re probably thinking that with so many slaves to deal with simultaneously, it won’t be so bad for any one of them. They’d be wrong about that, but it’s a comforting thought while they wait.

If she has to say no, you have to wait. Or even if she doesn’t have to, but wants to anyway.

It’s good she’s stepping in to help with the scheduling. My SO sometimes says she despairs of finding enough time for all of the punishment that I deserve, but somehow she always manages, bless her.

She’s actually done quite a few things that – when he finds out about them – he will consider to be very easy to criticise. But he won’t be permitted to do so.

Brutal honesty

They do say honesty is the basis of every successful romantic relationship – but brutality has its place too.

Don’t worry – she has lots of equipment and techniques to help manage the pain.

They do say small ones have more pain receptors per square millimetre, which is actually quite a turn-on for a lot of ladies.

He’s the foundation of the building just behind her, by coincidence.

Time for the evil – sorry, what? I can’t say that word!

OK, well if the other two are totally straight I guess they won’t need licking clean, for a change, so that’s a bonus.

Three wishes for Sissy Jemima

One afternoon, Sissy Jemima was – as usual – on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was a thrice-daily task, because Mistress reasoned that it was a lot easier simply to have her sissy clean the floor than to waste too much time carefully wiping her feet. Just at the point when she was about half-way finished, there was a flash and a crack and she looked up to see a flustered, middle-aged lady floating in the air before her. Jemima – assuming this was one of Mistress’s friends and thinking nothing of the levitation except relief that her nice wet floor would not be sullied – bowed her head low and murmured a respectful greeting.

“No need to bow, James” the apparition said. “I’m your fairy godmother!”

Jemima wondered who she was speaking to. Then she remembered.

“Erm, it’s Jemima these days, Ma’am. Hasn’t been James for a very long time.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “And I’m Fairy Godmother, not ‘Ma’am’”

“Yes, Fairy Godmother” Jemima replied dutifully, happy that she was being given clear instructions.

“And I’m here to grant magical wishes!” the Fairy Godmother continued, brightly. “I was supposed to appear on your twenty-first birthday but… well, it’s been a bit busy, and anyway, better late than never, and here I am!”

“You get three wishes – your heart’s desire, anything you want!”

She looked around, then down at the figure in the pink maid’s dress outfit beneath her hovering feet. She noticed the short chain connecting the ankles. Using her fairy senses she could discern too the tightly-laced corset, as well as the steel tube nestling between whip-marked thighs beneath her god-sissy’s skirt. Looking around, she saw a piece of paper attached to the fridge door, with a table headed “Sissy Jemima’s chores.” It was a long list.

“You know…in case there’s anything in your life you’d like to change?” she suggested.

Sissy Jemima looked up. “Can I give my wishes to Mistress?”, she asked, eagerly.

“What? No – non-transferable” the Fairy Godmother replied, slightly taken aback.

“Oh…” the sissy said, looking worried. “Oh dear. Can I at least ask Mistress what I should choose?”

“Certainly not” the Fairy Godmother replied, more firmly. “You need to decide now – and time has stopped for your wife Sarah and everything in the world except you and me, here and now.”

Sissy Jemima glanced up at the clock and saw its second hand wasn’t moving. So there was no danger of her chore being finished late, which was a relief. Still, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of having to make a decision – three decisions! And she wasn’t even allowed to ask Mistress. It had been a long time since she had made any decisions… she still vaguely recalled the big decision to sign the agreement with Mistress Sarah, but after that everything in her life had been fairly clear and straightforward, albeit not always easy.

“I wish that Mistress can have three wishes – a hundred wishes!” she ventured, but the Fairy Godmother shook her head.

“Doesn’t work like that – just wishes for yourself. You know: like Cinderella.”

The Fairy Godmother instantly regretted mentioning Cinderella, as she feared this simpering thing that James had become might wish to be swept off in a coach to dance with a handsome prince. Princes of any sort were in short supply in 21st-century London and the only one who could be described as even slightly handsome was already married and had renounced his position and decamped to Canada.

But Sissy Jemima was thinking along different lines. “Could I… do you think I might have a new scrubbing brush?” she asked, shyly.

“Really? Just that? Do you want… I don’t know, a magic scrubbing brush, maybe, that does the floor by itself? I can do that.”

Sissy Jemima shook her head. “Just the same as this one” she replied, indicating the battered and bleached wooden implement she had been using. “But new. See: the bristles are all bent.”

“Not that I’m complaining!” she added quickly. “I’m very lucky that Mistress lets me use this wonderful brush.”

The Fairy Godmother sighed, then waved her wand in the tiniest imaginable circle in the air. Shifting patterns of green and purple swirled in the air around the brush for a moment, then vanished. A brand-new wooden scrubbing brush, bristles standing tall and ready for use, lay before them on the half-cleaned floor.

“Thank you Ma’am” said Sissy Jemima automatically. “I mean, Fairy Godmother”.

There was silence for a moment, as both contemplated the new brush. Sissy Jemima began to feel uneasy.

“It’s very different, isn’t it” she remarked. “I hadn’t realised quite how much the bristles had bent. And it’s a different colour too – darker and varnished.”

“Exactly the same type of brush”, the Fairy Godmother replied. “£4.99 from any hardware shop… even cheaper at Tesco’s. Supernatural power to reshape the universe to your desires was in your hands, and you chose a new scrubbing brush. Can you try to be a little more ambitious with the remaining wishes? Riches, fame, love…?”

But Sissy Jemima wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the brand-new brush with increasing disquiet.

“What if she notices?” she murmured. “I mean, she might not, but what if she does? And I hadn’t told her. Perhaps I ought to tell her? But then she’d be cross… I’m not allowed to ask for things.”

She shifted uneasily on her aching knees, feeling the cane marks on her bottom and thighs from last Friday’s ‘reminder’.

“I shouldn’t have done that” she whispered, sadly. “I’m a bad, wicked sissy, ungrateful for the lovely brush Mistress gave me.”

“Oh get on with it.” the Fairy Godmother sighed. “Second wish – come on. The readers will be wondering whether this story’s worth persisting with.”

Jemima had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Could I – have the old brush back?” she asked, eagerly.

“Really?” the Fairy Godmother replied, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to have spent two of your three wishes that way?”

The sissy nodded vigorously. “Then I wouldn’t have done anything Mistress might not like, would I? Because I’d still have the same brush she gave me… so I wouldn’t have been a bad sissy at all!”

“Well…” she went on. “I suppose I would still have had the bad thoughts. But she might never find out about that.”

“Oh for god’s sake” the Fairy Godmother muttered, twiddled her wand back around in the opposite direction, and the rough unvarnished wood of the old brush lay before them once more.

“Third wish” she said, thinking she would never again object to over-extravagant wishes, or those that sought to reshape the fundamentals of the universe. “Come on. Something you really want. Something that would make you happy – you’re supposed to live happily ever after, you know? This is your one chance – don’t waste it.”

Jemima shut her eyes tight and thought and thought. This wasn’t something she was used to and it gave her a bit of a headache. But just at the point when the Fairy Godmother was about to start making suggestions, she opened them again and looked up again, beaming with pleasure.

“I have it!” she said, and explained what she wanted.

“Are you sure?” the Fairy Godmother replied doubtfully. “Just that?”

“Oh yes” Sissy Jemima sighed. “That would make me happier than anything in the world.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “At least it’s not another fucking brush. Here we go.”

And she raised her wand.

*******************************************************************

In case you were wondering what Mistress Sarah looks like: she looks like this.

Two hours later, Sissy Jemima was standing slightly to the right of the back of her Mistress’s armchair, feet neatly together, her hands clasped before her. Mistress Sarah reached out for the cup of tea at the table to her right and took a sip.

There was a pause, during which Sissy Jemima hoped that her thudding heart was not audible.

“Very good, sissy!” Mistress Sarah remarked, with some surprise. “You actually managed not to stew the tea for once – and you haven’t made it too strong or too weak either.”

She took another sip.

“And just about the right amount of milk, too.” she added. “Now if only you could make every cup like that, sissy.”

“Perhaps I will, from now on Mistress.” Jemima replied, her voice quavering slightly as her heart tried to burst with unaccustomed pride.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” her Mistress said, not sounding too optimistic. “But well done for this one, sissy. Footstool!”

So Sissy Jemima got down on all fours and crawled in front of her, to receive the welcome weight of her Mistress’s legs across her pink-clad back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, as Mistress continued to sip the tea with satisfaction.

And she lived happily – except, obviously, during weekly ‘reminders’, additional punishments and the occasional visits by Mistress Sarah’s sister – ever after.

THE END

Mistress Sarah’s sister – pictured here on the left – likes tea, too. Sissy Jemima hoped that it would help mellow her attitude towards lazy, incompetent sissies a bit, but it turns out she doesn’t like tea that much.

Addendum

This is not a picture of Sissy Jemima. This is Sissy Peggy and unlike Sissy Jemima, Sissy Peggy used her wishes unwisely. In particular, she used one wish to get the frilliest, froo-froo-est maid’s dress ever – but neglected to use another wish to ensure Mistress did not react badly when she came home and saw her sissy husband wearing this monstrosity.