Stories and pictures themed around female domination and male subjugation and servitude. Unsuitable for children, for alpha males, for hard-core practitioners with an interest in the politics of bdsm and the mechanics of complicated rope work. Of interest to perverts like me, basically.
Again a post in which I have selected out those captioned images that seem to me to go a leetle too far into whimsy; which I’ll clumsily attempt to justify by sugesting they are in the style – although nothing resembling the same class – as Gary Larson’s brilliant Far Side.
Just to cite one possibility, at random, among so many.
The Honourable Dogbreath-Twattington takes his role very seriously and never reaches a decision without careful thought about the possible consequences of getting it wrong.
Some prefer candles and soft music but they’ve discovered through much experimentation that this is what works for them.
He’ll thank her for it eventually, you’ll see.
Oh, I hate playing the ‘guess what I stepped in’ game. Surprisingly enough, for instance, beetles and slugs taste very similar, despite actually coming from entirely separate phylla of the animal kingdom.
Oooh kerosene play! Quite edgy if you currently have quite a lot of body hair, I understand.
It took a while for me to get used to our D/S dynamic in restaurants. I used to get embarassed at being so publicly submissive – even over what are actually practical and necessary things like, for example, my SO requesting that my food be given a quick whizz in the liquidiser so it can more easily pass through my feeding funnel. But you soon realise that the waitresses just don’t care: they’ve got jobs to do, after all.
That’s awfully generous of her.
I can do some quite spectacular things with it. Just not while having sex. Or at least, spectacular things have occasionally been done to it, by mischievous and highly creative people.
She has a keenly attuned sense of what your needs really are.
She’s got a little whip on which each of the thongs is studded with diamonds cut into sharp little points. Some might think that’s overdoing it, but she thinks it and the marks that it leaves are pretty and as long as she likes it, really who is to question her taste? Not me, certainly.
Form an orderly queue by the stage door…. Hey! I said an orderly queue! Look, if you can’t even follow simple instructions, she’s hardly likely to …
As long-term ‘readers’ will know, I’ve written quite a few stories about Serena and Alice. These are among the most violent and twisted stories I’ve ever managed, featuring almost non-stop torture, murder and the non-consensual breaking of the laws of physics. If you don’t like that sort of thing, then you’re a sick weirdo, don’t read them. That said, the castrating and branding and suffocating and boiling alive and murdering and crushing and drowning and drilling and electrocuting and all the rest of it is really just the background for what is always – at heart – a simple love story.
Cast of characters:
Serena: a sadistic, murdering mad scientist genius. Serena is in love with:
Alice: a sweet little blonde nymphomaniac, who loves animals and environmental causes, as well as sadism and murder. Alice is not a genius but she loves Serena and also enjoys torturing and killing:
various males: not worth introducing in detail as they never last long.
So anyway, here are some Serena and Alice vignettes – little things not much more than a caption.The first two are a bit Easter-themed, which is what reminded me to post this.
Bunny girl
“So, knowing how much you dislike cruelty to animals, I thought you’d like to be the first person to see my display of top executives from the cosmetics industry!” Serena concluded triumphantly.
Alice gazed through the glass at the row of heads held tightly in medical-looking braces, with wide staring eyes gazing back at her in panic. Above each eyeball was the tip of a glass pipette, each apparently filled with a different liquid. “How do you keep their eyes open like that?” she asked, wonderingly.
“If you look closely, you’ll see the eyelids are held back with little wire hooks” Selena replied, happily. “Now come on – press the button to start the chemicals.”
And she indicated a large red button, to which Alice uncertainly extended the manicured tip of her finger.
“Nasty men… hurting all those poor little bunnies” she murmured, and pursed her lips in disapproval as she pressed.
Easter eggs
“I mean, it’s almost as if we’ve forgotten the true spirit of Easter”, Serena complained. “It’s all just chocolate eggs these days! So I wanted to try to bring back some of the solemnity and deeper meaning of the occasion.”
Alice nodded, gazing down at the terrified naked man strapped tightly to the hard wooden cross in front of them. “So can we start, then?” she asked, hefting her hammer as if to try out the weight.
Serena handed her a nail.
Medical play
“Actually, when I was young, I wanted to be a nurse” Alice said. “I had the outfit and a kit and everything.”
Serena nodded. The thought of her young blonde friend in a tight white nursing uniform was a very pleasing one.
“I got into a bit of trouble once, actually” Alice went on. “I bound up a boy’s broken arm, and all the grown-ups were upset because they said I should have called them straight away. It did set a bit crooked when it finally got better – they were so cross.”
“Did they stop you playing nurse after that, then?”, Serena asked.
“No, not just then.” Alice replied. “But a few months later I broke it again to see if I could get it a bit straighter, and that’s when they took the kit away from me.”
“Grown-ups can be such killjoys” Serena agreed. “Umm… if I were to fix up some kind of medical theatre and got a few patients for you to play with, do you think you might…”
Her voice trailed off, as she found herself feeling oddly shy.
“Dress up as a nurse for you?” Alice asked, arching an eyebrow. “That’s a bit kinky.”
She grinned at the sight of her friend blushing.
“Oh, you sweet, dear thing – of course I would! Now, do you think we could get some of those medical saws, and do amputations? Oh, and a little electric circular one for drilling into a head – I’ve always wanted to try that!”
“Whatever you like” smiled Serena, hugging her friend and thinking – not for the first time – how lucky she was to have such an angel as her girlfriend.
Obviously this is a picture of Margot Robbie (actually two Margot Robbies but you can only see the second one’s hands), not Serena or Alice. But the medical procedure they are attempting is one our two medical heroines pioneered, so I thought I’d include the picture.
My Little Pony
“So what was the kinkiest thing you did as a teenager?” Alice asked Serena, as the two lovers lay naked and exhausted together on the bed.
Serena thought a moment. “Oh – pony play, I suppose. There was a boy who asked for that, and I thought why not?”
Alice giggled. “I expect you gave him a few more with the crop than he’d bargained for!”
Serena pursed her lips and frowned slightly. “Oh – I only gave him a few strokes, really. Just so he’d know what he’d be in for if he ever complained to anyone about being gelded.”
A stitch in time
“You’re awfully good that that” Serena said, admiringly.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Alice replied, working efficiently away with her needle. “It’s functional enough, but it’s not supposed to be artistic – it’s surgical stitching, not embroidery.”
“Are you going to stitch his other arm to his side, when you’ve finished that one?” Serena asked, trying to keep her mind on the task in front of her and not on the sight of her young blonde friend so delightfully filling out a nurse’s uniform.
“Hmm… I dunno. Maybe. It’s just practice really: you’re not supposed to sew all over the place, like this. But I’d already done his nasty boy bits into a neatly sewn-up package, so I thought I’d attach his arm permanently to his body, that’s all. Oh – and I sewed his mouth up to stop him talking.”
“That’s a neat job too” said Serena, leaning over to inspect the surgical thread holding the patient’s lips together. She stroked the stitching gently, enjoying the muffled shrieks of pain and terror. “Maybe you could do his eyes, next?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Alice replied. “But it would be nice to work on stitching some actual wounds together, like a proper nurse.”
“Well that’s no problem! Where would you like him wounded first?”
Also not Alice, although I believe this image is similar to how she looks in her uniform. I tried checking with some of boys who had acted as patients for her, but I couldn’t find any that survived.
Brainiac
“Eugh – is that a human brain?” Alica asked with horrified fascination, as she peered into the glass tank.
Serena nodded.
“Near as males can get to one anyway. It belongs to that ginger lad you brought in a few months ago – I hope you weren’t too attached to him?”
“No, no…” Alice replied, distractedly. She paused. “Although he did have a lovely cock. I don’t suppose you might have kept…?” Her voice tailed off as she saw her friend slowly shake her head.
“No, there’s nothing left but this. I have this mildly acidic solution that dissolves away everything except nerve tissue. It takes a few weeks but believe me, his lovely cock will have been eaten away with the rest of him. Slowly and extraordinarily painfully.”
“Ah well” Alice replied. “I suppose there are plenty of others.”
She tapped on the glass.
“So now he’s just a brain?”
“Not quite” smiled Serena. She reached out and clasped Alice’s fingers in hers. “See all those little filaments in the water? Those are nerves.”
“Oh right. So he’s still got his whole nervous system?”
“No, just the pain receptors. Several thousand of them, providing the only input to his consciousness.So what you see here is a boy reduced to his most important essential characteristic: the ability to feel pain. He can literally do nothing else. ”
“Ooh” giggled Alice. “So how do we – ?”
Serena pressed a button. A light blue glow suffused the water.
“Like that” she said. “Right now, all his pain receptors are firing at maximum. From having experienced nothing but black, deadly stillness and silence for days, he’s now experiencing a total pain overload – a universe of agony.”
“Gosh” said Alice and she gazed intently at the brain, floating in front of her, lit gently by the blue glow. As she moved in position, the little filaments briefly caught the light and sparkled, like a spider web.
“That’s um…”
“Well, I mean, it’s…”
She paused.
“Actually… it’s a bit boring, to be honest.”
Serena sighed.
“I know. It’s disappointing, isn’t it? I mean, it’s lovely to think of him screaming silently in unimaginable agony in there, but it’s not a very impressive spectacle.”
She brightened up.
“Oh – but I have something in the next room I think you’ll like better.”
“I can think of several things we’d both like better” smiled Alice happily, squeezing her friend’s hand as she was led off.
“Oh!” she said, struck by a sudden thought. “Did you switch the pain off, on the brain thing? Wouldn’t want to waste electricity, what with the climate crisis and all.”
Serena frowned. “I can’t remember.” she replied. “But don’t worry about it – really, it takes almost no electricity to stimulate a pain receptor. That electric field you saw making the tank glow uses less power than a low energy lightbulb.”
“Oh, OK then” Alice replied. “As long as it’s as little as that, it doesn’t matter at all, does it? Now: what was the other thing you wanted to show me?”
…and finally, although this blog does not feature identifiable images of Serena and Alice, respecting as I do the ladies’ privacy (and their capacity to inflict terrifying levels of violence and pain on those who annoy them), I am finally responding to the numerous requests for a picture of our two heroines, naked in bed together, below. Enjoy – but not too much, if you know what’s good for you.
More Serena and Alice here (and use the links within those to earlier ones as they’re not all categorised properly). I’m sorry if the justification in these stories seems a bit odd. I don’t mean the justification for all the torture and murder – that’s inherent in the character development – I mean the typesetting. These are old so they were imported using a tool from the old Blogger blog and the line justification is a mess.
Incidentally, as I may have mentioned before, some years after starting this series, by remarkable coincidence (unless it’s that synchronicity thing the Police sang about), my two consecutive ‘serious, long-term’ dommes were the magnificent Serena and the delightful Alice. They were even statuesque brunette and petite blonde, respectively. Just goes to show, eh? Unless it doesn’t, I suppose.
Good thing she brought a sub. They’re used to them on fashion shoots, of course: no self-respecting model would be seen without an obedient puppy boy on a leash or a sissy maid at a respectful three paces behind, these days.
She prides herself on being the perfect hostess: it’s all about making sure someone makes the effort to prepare everything properly before the guests arrive, apparently.
Humiliation play can be a tricky thing. I once met up with a domme in cafe for public humiliation play and soon found myself being insulted, belittled and eventually slapped by this elegant, blonde lady in high heels and furs. Perfect – until I discovered I’d got the wrong cafe entirely and the domme I’d booked had been waiting impatiently in the one around the corner. Most embarassing.
If all that fails, I understand there’s a briar patch they can throw you into.
I hope someone tells the patient that someone with the right skills and training is looking after his wife. Otherwise he might be feeling anxious for her.
Definitely an opportunity for some consciousness-raising!
They’d originally planned a very wide-ranging Internet site that people would come to for the black cock but then stay for all kinds of lifestyle interests, but having chosen such a specific name, they’d rather boxed themselves in.
Some of them might have wished for something like that in their retirement, while lying in bed imagining stern schoolmistresses, but don’t worry: they’ll start regretting it very quickly.
The journey of a thousand points starts with a single session hand-washing her panties.
Yeah, I think we know Trevor’s not going to step up, now the opportunity’s there. All mouth and no trousers, that one.
Despite what you might imagine, Russian clients are quite popular in the Central & East European femdom scene. In Ukraine I’ve seen some pictures of a BDSM facility they’re setting up modelled on the OWK, just for Russians. I think it’s a BDSM facility anyway…
Trying to top from the bottom again, were you? She’s wise to your little power-play.
Try thinking of her needs rather than your own, for a change.
If he correctly picks a yellow one he gets an orgasm. So there’s that to look forward to.
Just remember the two absolute rules: (1) never lie to Mistress and (2) Mistress is always right. As long as your answer conforms to both of those, you should be fine.
She likes it done just right. It never, ever is.
Oh dear. And the punishment was nearly done before that little act of defiance.
Lady Sophia Black, who I can tell you from personal and painful but wonderful experience did the ‘impossible to please’ thing better than any other domme I have ever known.
Well, if she’s fine with it, I suppose you can just carry on twitching!
Not quite sure what she’s saying here… but just go along with it.
If all else fails ‘being male’ is usually a safe bet, although any dommes sessioning with me should be warned I barely qualify. Fortunately ‘being annoying’ works too.
Why would anyone want to be ‘liberated’ from… from… I mean, isn’t she? Don’t you think?
They’re betting on the outcome: loser’s slave gets a double beating. Which might not seem fair – seeing as the slave doesn’t actually get to position the ships or choose the locations of the salvos – but it’s not supposed to be.
Lovely Cruella shoot there, for once not in an abandoned industrial wasteland but instead an abandoned country house. If you haven’t checked Cruella lately, by the way, you should do: Andy has been fantastically active over the last few months. There must be a female standing over the lazy little sod with a whip because he’s put up lots of free and paid-for (PDFs of magazines) content. And you no longer need the bizarrely unobtainable ‘Cruella Card’ for the latter: just, y’know, money.
You could try pushing her boundaries – maybe she’ll crack eventually.
Ah… the 1980s. What a feeling. Back when we worried about a Republican President of the USA being too hostile to the Russians. Many things have changed but some, like my tastes in music and femdom, have stayed frozen in time. Another affectionate tribute to that time when you got your porn from a magazine wrapped in a paper bag, when women were women and men – just like today – were worms. But worms with really dubious mustaches.
Letters to the Editrix
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
Although your magazine is truly wonderful, one of the best female domination publications around, [‘one of’?? G-L. L.] I believe the author of the article Madam Miranda’s School for Husbands, focused on the efforts of that good lady to assist couples experiencing relationship difficulties, may have painted an unduly harsh portrait of this institution.
I recently returned home after a three-week stay at Madam Miranda’s and I can assure you that I have nothing but good things to report about that fine lady and her extraordinarily dedicated team of assistants. Her ‘school’ is just that: an educational establishment and I can honestly say that I learnt more about being a good husband in those three weeks than you could in a lifetime of reading self-help books and magazine articles. I also managed to lose 7 pounds in weight and improve my housework skills.
The school does, obviously, employ corporal punishment techniques but no more than is necessary to help a trainee learn, when he has been at fault, to help him learn. In my case, I was frequently at fault, so it was often necessary, but I can honestly say I will never forget the lessons I learnt thanks to this educational technique.
In short, I am immensely thankful to Madame Miranda and her staff for their vigorous and effective tuition and to my beloved wife for sending me there. Difficulties in our relationship are a thing of the past; we have not quarrelled or even had more than the most ephemeral difference of opinion since my return from The School, nor will we ever while the memory of my stay there persists. Our relationship seems to me to be perfect, but as my wife says, it is always possible to do better, so perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to renew my acquaintance with Madame Miranda and once again benefit from her wisdom and guidance.
With the greatest respect
An appreciative husband
I have passed your letter to Madam Miranda, who says she remembers you and that you were not always so appreciative. Males often don’t know what is best for them and you are lucky (as I am sure you often admit) to have a wife with the vision to understand your potential. The good lady tells me that her school motto is Flagella facit homines obedientes. My secondary modern didn’t teach Latin, so I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds like the right approach. G-L. L.
Divine Goddess-Lady
As a boot fetishist, I was wondering whether you have a preferred technique when having your boots licked clean? I find it hard to achieve a properly clean upper, especially, without recourse to a cloth.
Yours in worship
Bootlover
My technique is simple: I tap my crop on the boot, command it to be licked clean and beat the living crap out of the slave if he fails to do it to my complete satisfaction. It seems to work. G-L. L.
Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia
I was wondering, what do you feed the office slaves who work on your wonderful magazine? I find the idea of being made to eat a disgusting meal, suitable for a lowly worm of my status wildly exciting. I fantasise about visiting two dominant ladies and being ‘treated’ to a three course meal. This begins with a steaming bowl of stinky sock soup, made by peeling those garments from my hosts’ feet at the end of a long working day and boiling them up in a pan, then squeezing carefully to ensure all the sweaty goodness is transferred to the soup. The main course is simply a healthy salad of raw vegetables: carrot rind, potato peelings, onion skins and cabbage, all as fresh and uncooked as the day they came out of the earth they grew in, much of which still clings to their sides. I of course gobble up every mouthful, naked and kneeling in front of the bowl in which it is all deposited, riding crops merrily cracking down should I hesitate. For pudding, a simple elegant used tampon, which is popped in my mouth all in one go but must be slowly chewed to open up the layered tissue to enable it to be swallowed piece by piece. Sometimes the ladies add a cheese course, having set aside some stilton or camembert in a warm spot some weeks before. No crackers being available, I lick the pungent stuff off the soles of their shoes.
I find the idea of eating dog or cat food exciting too, Goddess-Lady, but so nauseating that I think I might be sick. Is that your experience? I have also heard it may be unhealthy for human consumption.
In rapturous servility
Dustbin
You are quite revolting but also right, dustbin: dog or cat food can easily induce vomiting, especially in those not used to it. I don’t see any problem with that, as long as any such vomiting is done outside and the mess rapidly cleaned up – as in my household, it always is, of course. I too have heard that pet food is not fit for human consumption, which is why I feed it only to slaves. None have died yet and in any case, I am confident that any health dangers to them of eating the nasty stuff would be far outweighed by the health dangers of refusing my order to do so. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
I am a wife relatively new to the activities your magazine covers, but I wanted to write to let you know how much it has helped me since discovering my husband’s ‘stash’ of magazines and books. The majority of the publications merely featured images of young women in wildly uncomfortable clothing, often engaged in sex acts such as fellatio in which I have no interest. However, the stories and articles in Empress were far more informative and explained much that had puzzled me about my husband’s behaviour.
He was mortified when I confronted him, but calmed down when I explained that I was prepared to try out some – but by no means all – of the activities depicted. Not – needless to say – the fellatio featured in some of the other magazines, nor the bizarre rubber or leather outfits in which the young ladies in those magazines often unconvincingly posed. However, several of the stories in Empress featured looks such as a white blouse combined with a medium-length leather skirt, stockings and high-heeled (but not absurdly so) shoes or boots. I had already purchased a few such outfits when we had our ‘little talk’, so soon reappeared in front of him ‘dressed the part’ and I can say it went down extremely well! We had a thoroughly satisfactory evening of sexual intercourse, including some spanking, and I can honestly say he has never performed as well! The next night, I tried him on oral sex – which I had previously not felt I could ask for, since I was not prepared to carry out the same service – with even better results.
A week or so later, I visited a shop in Soho that advertised in your magazine and bought a cane, a tawse and some leather restraints, I was tempted by some chastity devices but thought it best to take one step at a time and in any event, some seemed unsuitable for long-term wear. It was when I first tried caning him that I encountered a problem: as he sprang up after only the first stroke, tearfully pleading that it was too painful.
Your wonderful magazine came to the rescue! I recalled Mrs Simmons’ approach in A Domesticated Husband and calmly informed him that the cane would be put away and not appear again – oh, and so would the boots, the leather skirt and all the other items in our little collection. And then I waited a few days, making clear that ordinary sex was on offer, if he liked, but nothing more. I did somewhat regret at that point not having tried a chastity belt, as he was obviously masturbating in the bathroom and I was sure the contest would have ended with my victory more quickly had he been unable to do so. However, after nine days he ‘cracked’, so out came the outfits he liked so much and the cane he hated with equal measure – and the leather restraints with which I secured him on the bed, to help him ‘take’ the caning that I administered without mercy. I also discovered the importance of gags, after a series of howls that I thought would have the neighbour call the Police on us! Recalling Mistress Maxine’s approach in your excellent Maxine’s Maxims series, I slipped off my knickers, and stuffed them in his mouth, then tied a stocking around to hold them in. This both excited and quieted him, while also leaving me liberty to resume the thrashing without fear of discovery. I did enjoy caning him, not sexually exactly (that came later, his tear-streaked face between my legs) but I do like the feeling of power.
After that, readers of accounts such as that of poor Robert in A Domesticated Husband will have little difficulty in guessing my husband’s trajectory. Having experienced the cane once, he was naturally keen to avoid its application and so things progressed most satisfactorily. Chastity – of course – and it did indeed require us to try a few different kinds of apparatus before finding one suitable for everyday wear, but now he does indeed wear it every day. A regime in which all the housework is his was easy enough to implement, as were restrictions on his lifestyle outside the house. Perhaps unsurprisingly, financial control proved to be the hardest thing for him to give up, but repeated use of the cane over an extended period of chastity did the trick and now he is, indeed, domesticated. There are several degrading activities depicted in your stories that I have no real desire to try, mostly involving bathroom activities, but also cuckoldry – his tongue is very well-trained by now, so why would I want some undomesticated male to take its place?
Obviously, he no longer has any need of your magazine, dear Goddess-Lady but in tribute to its role in transforming my marriage, I do require him to buy every issue. As he gets very little pocket-money, I am delighted to say that it accounts for around a quarter of his total expenditure – and locked in chastity as he is, he gets little from it. Indeed, he rather fears bringing it home, as we peruse it together looking for at least one punishment, humiliation or restriction that he has not yet experienced – and so far, you have never let me down, my dear!
Yours in gratitude
A Satisfied Wife
I am delighted to see the practical tips occasionally provided here for improving husbands being put to such effective use. If his tongue is all you require as sexual service on his part, might I suggest you also consult the story ‘Nurse Eliza’s Private Practice’ in Volume 3, Edition 1? It sounds to me as if your husband is quite ready for such treatment, and it must be tiresome for you to have to indulge even occasional releases from chastity. G-L. L.
Most magnificent Goddess-Lady
If I might ask … have you ever been tempted to ‘switch’ roles? Are you at all curious as to what it feels like to be on the receiving end of the treatment you so relish doling out?
Fascinated
Eric
What an impertinent question! Certainly not. Being under my lash looks and sounds to be a thoroughly unpleasant experience – why would anyone subject themselves to that? Except the male fools who read this magazine, obviously. And perverts beguiled by my beauty. Perhaps one day we will be lucky enough to meet and in-between screams you can gasp out to me an account of exactly what it feels like; I shall take a keen interest. G-L. L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady
I have been a reader of your magazine for some time and stories featuring ‘male maids’ are something of an obsession of mine, so I was excited to see the teaser for your tale of the downfall of the ‘Honourable’ Peter Cuthbertson and his housemaid Molly, in an earlier edition. The full story in your last issue did not disappoint!
Oh, what a fool young Peter was! But how easily I can imagine myself being led down to the same path to destitution and servitude! From the moment he took the proffered petticoat in shaking hands and tried it on under her smiling supervision, Peter was doomed. How pleasant it is for me, as it was for Peter, to think of the delightful pleasure of flouncing around in a lacy maid’s uniform, layers of soft petticoats swishing deliciously around my stockinged thighs! And then to carry out a few light housework tasks under Molly’s supervision? Well, that merely adds to the sensual pleasure of playing out this scenario. And of course there must be punishment for any naughty or lazy maids who don’t work hard for Mistress – perhaps with her loving but firm hand, applied to my naughty bottom as I wriggle helplessly and shriek with pleasure and pain across her lap.
But then of course it only makes sense to start taking things a little further. If Molly is to play at being the lady of the house, then of course she should have fine clothes, she should sleep in the main bedroom and be waited on at table! And she will have little time for her former housemaid job outside this role, so of course Peter must do more around the house – and perhaps it’s time to swap that frilly nonsense for a more practical, hardwearing outfit. All of this merely makes the fantasy more compelling, does it not? And after Molly has instructed him in some of the more demanding aspects of a housemaid’s role, it is only fitting that any necessary correction emphasises more the pain than the pleasurable aspects of discipline. There is still a sensual thrill to be had, even in the onerous task of scrubbing floors or in carrying heavy baskets of laundry to be hung up.
If Molly – Lady Molly, we must now call her – is to play her part of the Lady of the Manor to perfection then of course she must have some control over the finances of the estate, so she can pay tradesmen or buy things for herself, without needing to break the spell of this fascinating performance the two are playing out. It’s not as if Peter – or rather, Petunia – has time for such matters, not with the beds to be made, the linen to be aired and that big pile of ironing awaiting her in the laundry room, is it? Not with that horrible cane awaiting her if she should fail to complete all of her allotted tasks, to the complete satisfaction of the Mistress of the house!
And so to the last scene, in which Petunia awakes at five in the morning as usual, in her cramped and chilly attic room, washes carefully in the cold water in her bowl, then puts on her uniform to begin her fourteen hour day of servitude, while Lady Molly sleeps peacefully and happily in her soft warm bed, the little bell on her bedside table ready for her whenever she awakes.
So easy to imagine myself slipping easily – almost willingly – down the same slope. And although some of the ladies featured in your stories often strike me as implausibly cruel and domineering [Nonsense. Women are crueller than you know – I certainly am and so are some of my dearest friends. G-L. L.], if anyone is likely to relish the role of an exacting taskmistress over a domesticated male, it is surely a former domestic servant herself!
The story seems so complete, I can only regret that there is unlikely to be a sequel. But if I might humbly suggest one, perhaps young Petunia could attempt one last, woefully belated, act of rebellion? Either overtly or perhaps through an attempted escape? How crestfallen she would be, to discover that all Master Peter’s clothing has long since been donated to local charities and that thoughtful Lady Molly has had the word put about that the young Lord of the Manor has fallen victim to a regrettable congenital lunacy and needs to be humoured, but then forcefully restrained and returned, should the poor lad be discovered wandering the vicinity!
With my deepest curtsey
Maid Felicity, Whippingham Hall.
Arrogant aristocratic males have – tragically – run this country for so long that stories in which the tables are turned appeal particularly to me, too. I myself was born on a council estate in Peckham because my parents moved to London, but my own ancestors, right down to my dear Nan, spent lifetimes scrubbing the floors of the stateliest homes of England. It therefore gives me particular pleasure to whack the backsides of some of the more inbred public schoolboys who so often seek such treatment and – foolishly – think they can remain in control. I always give them at least one extra for Nan: a particularly hard one, Goddess rest her soul.
Your idea for a sequel will be considered. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
What do you think of women’s lib? It seems to me that many of these harpies shrieking about their ‘rights’ don’t really understand how much power an elegantly dressed lady can have in our society. If they only smartened themselves up a bit, shaved their legs and put on some make-up and high heels, I am sure the more attractive among them could find themselves with far more power than they can ever achieve through ‘consciousness raising’ or waving silly placards about.
Yours
A puzzled lover of femininity
I have allowed this filthy missive to be printed in case any readers need reminding how males truly ‘think’ (if I can dignify it with that term), when they are not fantasising about strict mistresses. Pay attention, ‘puzzled’: only morons like you find it hard to understand why women need more rights after centuries of oppression. A lifetime of domestic drudgery, under the command of an abusive partner – believe me, you’d soon be ‘shrieking’ if subjected to such treatment, just as my males do. I myself dress for sexual power, many women’s libbers prefer to dress otherwise… who are you to decide what women should wear? Perhaps you need to spend more time in tight corsets and ill-fitting high heels; with little padlocks in case you are tempted to try to remove them. I myself believe the women’s lib movement mostly does not go far enough – Valerie Solanas’ Society for Cutting Up Men is an honourable exception – but they are sisters to me in spirit and right to focus on oppression. I just believe in oppressing right back: a few centuries at least with the boot firmly on the other foot (and kicking hard and repeatedly into the male groin or face) is required to even the balance, that’s all. We cannot be truly free until men are enslaved but there are many paths to that. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
I adore your magazine but I must confess myself simply revolted by the letter from ‘Mummy’s Boy’, a few issues ago, suggesting you print fewer stories focused on use of the cane.
I am a professional disciplinarian but my work is also my passion as I simply adore caning; no other disciplinary implement comes close to it, for me. It is the combination of its simplicity and its roots in ordinary educational life until very recently, on the one hand, with its sheer brutality on the other. For me, ‘spanking’ implements are simply too mild and playful, while whips of any kind are too exotic, redolent of fantasy.
I apply the cane mercilessly. Very few men can ‘take’ the cane although many fantasies about it – I believe around one in four of clients I see ever return for a second dose. Fewer still enjoy it. My ‘repeat’ clientele is therefore from that thin sliver of male society who both fear yet crave the cane. However, this is acceptable, as they pay handsomely for the privilege of being thrashed.
Let me describe one such client, whom I will call ‘Steven’. Steven first contacted me two years ago, received the shockingly painful treatment I always administer to first-timers and left, seeming most unlikely to return. Yet every three months or so, I receive a nervous call booking another session. Steven’s voice is hoarse and rushed as he makes the arrangements: I suspect he has been agonising for days or weeks, and has decided to ‘get it over with’. I imagine he puts the phone down and is instantly appealed at what he has done. On one occasion he called back in the period before the appointment to cancel – and I cooly informed him that he was entitled to do so, but that if he did not go through with any booked appointment, he need never contact me again. He rang off on that occasion but called back two days later desperately begging for the appointment to be reinstated – although not as desperately as his cries when I later had the opportunity to explain with the cane how rude his behaviour had been. He has not repeated the attempt.
Steven always arrives promptly, of course and is well-dressed. I imagine he is something in the City or some other well-paid profession such as the law or medicine. I take little interest in my clients except as canvasses for the works of art I create with my cane. He hands me the fee and removes socks and shoes. I then tell him exactly what I have planned: quite often it is six across the trousers, then a further six on the bare. I always provide the traditional multiples of six and have given up to twenty-four strokes in a single session but it is normally between six and eighteen. Six of course is relatively light and is handed out on very rare occasions to ‘regulars’ only because that way they have some faint hope of avoiding twelve; hope that is almost invariably dashed.
I usually apply the first six across the trousers and do not often start on the bare – although I always end up there – as I believe there should always be worse to come. It might seem that the cloth protection makes this initial caning less severe – and it is, but it is also subtly different, creating more of a widespread bruising effect than the slashing thin welts produced on the bare. I use a heavier, less flexible, cane across the trousers and although all of my clients know full well that the later use of a whippier implement on their flesh will be a special kind of agony, they are still usually pleasingly (to me) shocked by the intensity that a caning across a cloth-covered seat can impose. Of course those later whippy strokes will be still worse for overlaying these horribly sore bruises.
I occasionally require counting or thanking me for each stroke, but only for those who need extra encouragement to experience fear from the relentless pace of the caning. Steven is not among them – his fear is palpable and, for me, thoroughly enjoyable. To have a terrified man at one’s mercy – and to show none – gives me the most exquisite satisfaction. My punishment room is soundproofed, of course. On the very rare occasions on which I have caned on ‘client premises’ so to speak, I always deploy a gag and I find it deeply unsatisfactory. I have also just occasionally gagged clients who – whether through foolishness or simply driven mad by the pain – have called me offensive names. I prefer not to hear that and although I suppose I could force silence with the promise of further strokes, I do not like to vary the punishment once commenced.
For a set across the bare, I often give Steven a version of a ‘cow and gate’ pattern, where an initial set of parallel, horizontal strokes, is then supplemented by slashing diagonals that overlay the previous ones. The simplest such gate has five parallels and one – awful – diagonal connecting them all, but I find a four plus two pattern to be more painful and thus preferably. Not only is the ultimately-painful diagonal doubled, in this way it must be experienced than anticipated and re-experienced, which is far worse than ‘taking it’ just once.
I know Steven will cry out with every stroke will be sobbing by the time we finish. Most satisfactory.
The caning complete, I put away the cane, unstrap one of his wrists and leave the room, going upstairs. I prefer not to engage in conversation after a beating: I used to, but the clients would try to make light conversation, even comment on my technique. The change in mood was always jarring, so with trusted clients like Steven I simply leave them to make their own way out. With one hand free, he can eventually unstrap himself and ease his battered and sore body off the bench. Every movement agony, of course. I hear him take a shower: necessary, as he has sweated and cried so much. Then I observe him heading across my front garden and down the road, walking slowly and stiffly.
I know he is thinking “never again – never again!”. He will be in great pain for a couple of days and sore for at least a week, during which he will swear over and over again nevermore to subject himself to this ordeal, never to forget how awful the reality of the experience is, no matter how compelling the fantasy. But then his cravings will start to build up and in a couple of months will seem to him as unbearable as the pain he has felt today. And I will get another anxious, pleading call.
Some men desire to lick the boots of a girl brandishing a whip… or want a ‘Mummy’ like your wretched correspondent – and I don’t doubt there are ladies who will supply that service. My clients simply need to be beaten and I am very, very happy to oblige.
Yours sincerely
Governess Charlotte
Yes, the ‘fearing but craving’ male is my quarry too. Although I myself do go in for boot-licking and the use of a leather whip, I prefer to enslave males who find themselves hating the treatment and needing it, all at the same time. It is odd how men can be so complicated and yet also so very, very simple. Keep up the good work! Perhaps you could inform Steven on his next visit that, in thanks for providing the material for such an interesting account for my magazine, I have requested you give him double? G-L. L.
To the majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia
Your uncompromising approach to femdom makes me tremble in awe. I was wondering: have you ever accidentally killed a slave?