Femdom Chat session

Oh hi, Mr Folkes. Yeah, I’ve drafted that report like you asked me.  Sorry it took so long. I’ve tried to make it read like you wrote it yourself, like you asked.

Actually… well, if you’re interested, I thought I’d try something a bit hi tech, since no one else seemed to want to give the intern work.  See, I realised there’s probably quite a lot of stuff out there that you’ve written, so one of these AI thingies ought to be able to write in your own style. Right? So I gave that ChatGPT thing a prompt about the report topic and ‘in the style of Mr Adrian Folkes’ and so on.  But it came up with the weirdest stuff!

Look: here’s the bit about the new marketing initiative in Scotland:

Douglas fidgeted nervously as he stood in regulation shorts and cap outside Mrs Harcastle’s oak door.  The quarterly sales figures were down by over 15%. Something would undoubtedly be said about that, he knew, and something would be done too.  His heart sank as he contemplated that prospect. It was going to be hard, there was no point in pretending otherwise.

“Come!” he heard, and he tried to control the butterflies in his stomach as he turned the door handle.  Mrs Hardcastle was standing there, the dreaded three-tailed tawse in one hand, his report in the other.

“So it seems middle-class ladies from Lothian in their fifties are particularly displeased with your performance, boy!” she sniffed, disapprovingly.  “That most certainly includes me and I do not propose to leave the matter unremedied.  Clearly, my previous efforts have not been sufficient and a more… vigorous approach is called for. Trousers down and bend over my desk.”

See what I mean?  It’s… kind of about the Scottish marketing initiative but… weird.

Here’s another about the new office in Prague:

Madame Loreen leaned back, allowing the heels of her boots to scrape the pallid back of the quaking slave kneeling before her.  The furniture in the new facility was barely adequate, she reflected, noting that the criss-crossed whip marks on her footstool’s buttocks suggested that her colleagues thought the same.  Furthermore, the artwork that was supposed to decorate the walls had not yet arrived, so the Ladies had tried to brighten the place up by dangling slaves from steel manacles across most of the walls. At least the electricity was working, she thought, watching the slave on the wall before her jerk frantically, mewing into his gag, as the electrodes clamped to his nipples delivered random jolts of electricity.

Clearly, the contractor had failed in the tasks assigned to him. A special meeting had been arranged, at which all the Ladies would have a chance to express their displeasure with him. Her fingers curled reflexively around the handle of her bullwhip as she thought about that.

Yeah.  It just produced something like that every time. Every item I tried: the GPT wrote up your monthly finance analysis as something about a princess and her ‘pay piggies’ for instance and it suggested replacing the contract cleaners with senior male managers dressed as little maids and spanking them until they met their targets. Oh, and the stuff about performance management was just brutal.

It’s weird isn’t it?  Do you suppose there must be another Adrian Folkes out there, writing stuff like that?  Only, I gave it your address and everything, so…

Anyway, looks like the technology has a long way to go, I ended up just writing the report myself.  Old fashioned style. I’ll email it to you, shall I?

I hope you like it. I really made an effort… worked all night on it… I’ve got my internship review coming up, after all Mr Folkes.  I’d love to work for this company… get a foot in the door of such a promising new business. I hope you’re going to make a submission to the review board.

I actually took the liberty of drafting one for you, using the GPT thing again. Funny: speaking of foot in the door, it’s mostly about feet, actually. My feet. And about you. Anyway, I don’t think it would be very suitable, but it might give you some ideas, if you’d like a copy?