Month: September 2025

Bow your mulleted heads down in homage before the power-suited Goddess-Lady Lucia, because we are once again taking a trip down the haziest of memory lanes to that time that fashion might well prefer to forget: the 1980s.

Don’t forget, you can buy the real things (Mistress and Vixen) here.

Letters

Dear Lady Lucia

I adore the depictions of males brought down to their proper place in the world in the pages of your magazine!  Progress is slow, but I feel there are increasing signs of this change happening in the outside world too. But there are still male chauvinist pigs around.

For about six months I have been working in an office in which there are far too many such beasts – and the arrival of a new colleague finally gave us ladies the courage to tackle their behaviour.  Gloria is her name, a powerful West Indian lady. On her very first day we warned her about Fergus, one of the worst office pests, whose constant obsession is with trying to peek up the skirts of the women working in the office – and boasting to his mates about any glimpses he manages to capture.

Sure enough, later that same day Fergus stopped by the typing pool, glanced at Gloria and immediately came out with a comment that was not only disgustingly chauvinist, but racially prejudiced to boot, along the lines of wanting to go on an expedition to ‘discover the Dark Continent’. To my and the other girls’ surprise – as we had her down as something of a termagant – Gloria just giggled and glanced away.

Towards the end of the day, when my friend Katie and I were packing up to go, the phone rang from an internal number. It was Gloria – who I’d assumed had already departed – calling from just outside a store room in the basement. Down we went, to find her sitting in the middle of a largely empty room, atop a figure bound up with parcel tape. We could not see his face, because that was concealed entirely underneath Gloria’s skirt-clad bottom, but it was obviously Fergus. Muffled sounds of protest were audible and he was wriggling away, but Gloria seemed to have him well under control.

“I thought I’d show him what was up there, as he seemed so curious!” Gloria smiled. “I don’t think he can see much, though: it’s quite dark.”

She eased herself up, and we saw Fergus’s red face, suddenly gulping air and blinking in the light. “YOU FUCKING BI – “ he began, but Gloria’s arse coming down on his face stifled the last word.

“And there I was, thinking he needed a chance to breathe.” she grumbled. “Apparently not, if he still had breath for being obnoxious.”  She settled herself further.

Once again, Fergus struggled ineffectually. Then he seemed to become calmer, then suddenly began jerking about frantically.

“Ah, now he’s running short of oxygen” Gloria remarked with satisfaction.

“You will, umm… stop before he actually…?” Katie asked nervously.

“Oh sure” Gloria replied carelessly, riding her desperately bucking bronco with aplomb. “They can take a lot of suffocation before any harm is done – not that brain damage would make much difference to Filthy Fergus here.”

Again she eased herself up and this time, Fergus wisely confined himself to gulping in as much air as possible before gasping “No, please!” as nemesis in the form of a huge bottom descended once more.

Gloria leaned forward and unbuckled his belt.  “Could you pull his trousers and pants down?  I can’t really reach.”

Giggling, Katie and I did just that – to expose the tiniest, saddest looking little percy I’ve ever seen. 

“That’s better” Gloria said. “I think he had a little stiffie – a very little stiffie – when we came in.  But let’s just make sure.” She nodded to a carboard box on top of which lay a staple gun. “Do you want to just fasten it neatly away?”

Katie was too squeamish, and I would have felt the same had I not suddenly remembered the occasion on which Fergus had gleefully told the other young men in the office about a pair of purple panties he had caught sight of by going down on all fours in front of me to pick up a pen (in fact, they had not been purple but dark rose but I was hardly going to correct him). I blushed much the same colour at the memory and picked up the device.

It was evident that Fergus was not Jewish, as he had a good long fold of skin available for stapling, in his shrunken condition. I gingerly held his cock in position and tried to staple it to his thigh. It didn’t really work, as everything was too soft and squishy and the first few goes did nothing but raise red marks and little spots of blood on his foreskin. Oh – and some wild shrieking and thrashing about, ably managed by Gloria who was encouraging me to press on.  Eventually I overcame my reluctance enough to hold the nasty thing firmly enough against the thigh to go straight through, although it didn’t stick.

“Have to get an industrial stapler next time” Gloria remarked. “I’m sure they’ll have one in the Post Room.”

Finally, she got up and extracted a promise from Fergus to tell nobody about this and to mend his ways, which he agreed to with alacrity.  Then she removed just enough tape from one arm for him to be able to unwrap the rest and we left him there. I was worried that he would get us into trouble – he was a nasty piece of work and what we had just done was surely a sackable offence at the least, if not criminal. But Gloria just laughed, said she’d had experience of these things, and she knew when she had someone firmly under her thumb. Or under some other part of her anatomy.

Sure enough, she was right. Fergus called in sick the next two days and when he did finally slink into the office, he tried to avoid the typing pool completely.  But Gloria wasn’t having that. When it was eleven, she called out “Fergus!” in a booming voice and he reluctantly sidled over.

“Three teas” she commanded, without looking at him, and Fergus wretchedly went to fetch them. Like many explorers, it seems, he had returned from his long and arduous trip to the Dark Continent a wiser and more careful man.

Now, I must go.  The box of one hundred bulldog clips of assorted sizes that Gloria ordered from Stationery has arrived, and Mr ‘Handy’ Thomas the Regional Sales Manager is about to find out what a pinched bottom really feels like!

In Sisterhood

Iris, Katie and the typing pool at ‘a well known home appliance company’.

Gloria sounds… glorious and I hope that you and Katie take inspiration (an activity long denied to Fergus in the boxroom, ha ha) from her example. More and more women are asserting their rights in the workplace. I myself briefly had an ‘office job’ as PA to a businessman and was shocked at the way I was treated: expected to turn up on time, do actual work, not slap him and so on. Fortunately I was able to make the Manager understand that my presence in his squalid establishment was a favour, not an obligation, and that my role was to bring meaning and discipline to his otherwise pointless and feckless existence. We also renegotiated the salary scale, as it is simply absurd that a businessman in his fifties should earn more than an unqualified but drop-dead gorgeous nineteen year-old. Even with these amendments I decided the life wasn’t for me, so quit after a few weeks – only to discover he had had the affrontery to stop paying me, just because I was no longer employed there! I soon sorted that out, I can tell you. But I can see it will be a long time before women are given their proper recognition in every workplace.  Good luck to you all.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I tremble in awe at your power and beauty as displayed in every edition of this wonderful magazine. I was wondering if this humble slave of yours could be permitted to show its devotion by enduring a period of effective imprisonment at your whim. I have purchased a strong chain and a padlock and intend to secure myself, naked, in the hall of my house, where I can reach any packages pushed through the letter box, a week’s supply of food but little else. Do I have your permission to post you the padlock keys, go home and click the padlock closed and await my release after whatever period of punishment You might see fit to impose?

Yours in trembling anticipation.

Prisoner of Lucia

Sure, moron, you go ahead. What could possibly go wrong, after all? Just send the keys – and some stamps to cover the return postage obviously – to the P.O. Box number listed at the end of the magazine. Or any other P.O. Box number you like, for that matter.  G-L. L.

Respected Lady Editor, Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have long been an avoid reader of your magazine, as I find the thought of being punished by beautiful, disdainful young women [‘ladies’.  G-L. L.] extremely exciting. I can hardly wait, when a new edition comes out, to thumb through it to look at the pictures of sexy young leather-clad beauties.  I also thrill to the stories, especially those featuring bondage and humiliation.

However, I do not mean to criticise [Don’t then. Idiot. G-L.L] but there is one theme you often feature, the attraction of which is quite lost on me and which seems to be published more frequently these days. I refer to stories featuring older ladies, either with no hint of sexual activity or in which the male participant is forced unwillingly to ‘service’ these older ladies.

The story Securing An Inheritance is a perfect example of such a tale, as the unfortunate Edward’s Governess Latham is clearly well into her sixties. The punishments he receives have no sexual connotations – for me at least. If anything, they merely bring back very unpleasant memories.

I had had a troubled schooling by my late teens [Oh, here we go. Always about themselves, with men, isn’t it? G-L. L.] and as my mother could not afford to send me to a boarding school, she arranged with a retired lady teacher, Mrs McLeod, to provide me with additional schooling, two evenings and all day Saturday every week. A dour Scottish lady, Mrs McLeod was an evil, brutal old tyrant. Her usual form of discipline was the tawse, on the hands.  This implement features often in your publication so I suppose some readers find the thought of it arousing, but I can assure you and them that there is nothing the least bit erotic about such hard thongs of leather cracking across shaking outstretched palms. The pain is simply brutal: an explosion of agony that leaves no room for thought of anything but pain, often producing a howl and breathless, gasping sobs.

Furthermore, unlike a miscreant strapped over a whipping bench, or a slave chained to a post, the recipient has to cooperate in the punishment, holding hands out flat.  If the hand is too far back, the tips of the tawse catch the fingers leaving them sore and bruised for days. Too far forward and the wrist gets it – and a big purple bruise appears and is not fully gone by the time of the next treatment, in my experience! Cup the hands and the tips of the fingers get smashed, splay too much and the skin is tight and the bones uncushioned…. So the hand must be held steady in just the right position, with no flinching – when flinching away from the awful pain to come is the natural, instinctive human reaction. And if these conditions are not met, in full? If the blow is considered ‘unsatisfactory’ despite the agonising pain inflicted? Then it is taken again. And if it is ‘unsatisfactory’ a second time, turn around and bend over for a stroke of the tawse across each thigh (sorry to disappoint prurient readers but my shorts were never removed during sessions with Mrs McLeod).  From my description of the pain of taking the tawse on the palms, one might ask why not simply accept the strokes across the thigh instead? Oh, because they are additional, not alternatives! Once they are received, one must straighten up, turn around to face one’s merciless punisher and meekly hold out the hand to receive – finally – the stroke that was due.

Mrs McLeod rarely awarded me more than six – three on each hand. Perhaps your readers fantasising of 24-stroke thrashings may consider that mild, but I can assure them it was quite enough, especially as I usually needed several ‘repeats’ and would almost always turn around and bend over at least once. On one occasion, I was so overcome with the pain, having had at least fourteen on the palms and ten across the thighs, that Mrs McLeod disgustedly called it a day and telephoned my mother to let her know she would be keeping me overnight to start all over again in the morning. You can imagine the night I spent (after being sent to bed with no more than a slice of dry bread for supper), hands and thighs throbbing with pain, sobbing in terror at the thought of the morning.  No doubt in an erotic story, Mrs McLeod would have visited my room and introduced me to the womanly arts, or humiliated me by making me masturbate before her.  In my reality, I think she made herself a mug of cocoa and turned in early. I could hear her snoring from two rooms away, as she passed an untroubled night before resuming her work in the morning.  On waking I had the distinctly unpleasant experience of seeing her in an old night-dress, with curlers in her hair, before experiencing the infinitely more unpleasant sensation of a tawsing on already-bruised hands.

At least in Securing An Inheritance, Edward is finally married off to his governess’s niece, after she came to stay. Even if his new wife did invite her aunt to remain in the same household as them, there would presumably have been some kind of sexual activity, even if Edward remained firmly under female control. [Of course there would have been sexual activity, but not of the heterosexual kind. You don’t imagine she was really the Governess’s niece, do you? G-L. L.].  There are so many others, including your long-running series Malcolm’s Aunts which just consists of one unpleasant-sounding old lady after another finding endless fault with the lad and hitting him with one implement or another.  I hope that the introduction of young Daisy, in the last instalment, will bring a change of theme and perhaps a punisher I could imagine finding exciting?  [It was going to, but now you have written this I have instructed the author to dispatch Daisy to Australia. Instead, he will introduce a new, even older character to the cast of Malcolm’s tormentors: Great-Aunt Augusta. I hope you don’t enjoy a word of it. G-L. L.]

In short, Goddess-Lady, I do wonder who could possibly find these tales of old women [ladies… G-L.L.] whacking unfortunate lads erotic. I can only assume that any men misguided enough to do so, have never experienced the real thing in its full horror. Of course, it is up to you what you print [Oh, thank you so much! G-L. L.] but this reader at least would be happy if no elderly aunt (or nun – I’m thinking of St Ursula’s Convent School for Boys!) ever again appeared in the pages of your otherwise wonderful magazine.

Yours respectfully

Peter

Where to start?? You address me as ‘respected’ and conclude ‘respectfully’ and then fill the space between the two with a pile of the most disrespectful, impertinent and self-centred drivel it has ever been my displeasure to read. To make just one point, as obviously attempting to follow a full rebuttal would stretch your tiny brain to its breaking point, more than one person might be achieving an erotic experience when an ‘old woman’ whacks an ‘unfortunate lad’. Your assumption – your sexist, arrogant and bumptious assumption – is that only the young lad’s libido needs to be considered. I can assure you, I know many ladies of a certain age, and of a certain age beyond that, who find intense sexual pleasure in beating ‘unfortunate lads’. I suspect that your unpleasant and painful weekly visit to Mrs McLeod was for her a source of great joy, bringing pleasure to her later years. Her ‘educational methods’ sound thoroughly sadistic to me and, after all, do not seem to have resulted in your learning anything like literary style, brevity or common sense, so it seems to me almost certain that your suffering was largely inflicted for her pleasure.

Does that make you feel better about it? And do you think I care whether it does or not? For my part, I intend to live out my twilight years as an ‘evil, brutal old tyrant’ lashing out with my heavy stick to make utterly miserable the lives of the seven or eight fit young men I intend to have enslaved in my household. I don’t care whether they find me physically attractive or repulsive: I will be terrifying to them and that’s all I need. I hope your own retirement is lonely and care-worn, but you do have permission to keep buying the magazine, to help fund mine. G-L. L.

P.S. Inspired by my intense dislike of you and your letter, I have decided that the next issue of this magazine will be a special, featuring stories solely in the ‘mature domination’ theme and edited by my Mum. She’ll make sure aunts, grannies, great-aunts and elderly nuns feature throughout the stories, so you won’t like any of them. But there will be a double-spread feature of me in a leather bikini, so buy it anyway, scum.*

To the thankfully female Editrix

With a female friend, I recently went into a little ‘bookshop’ in Soho for a lark. It was such a relief to see your magazine, in amongst all the appalling publications on sale, that I had to write and express my appreciation. Empress was one of a very few ‘female domination’ themed magazines – the other such seemingly being American and featuring glamour models in implausible poses and outfits – in a display otherwise entirely devoted to abusing women. All of the other magazines – several shelves of them – featured women being tied up, spanked and humiliated. Several very unimpressive male specimens were looking through them with revolting interest… one of them, who seemed particularly keen on stories about schoolgirls getting the cane kept giving me and my friend side glances. Imagining us wearing the tacky gymslip costumes featured in the window display not doubt… honestly, had he turned directly towards us I swear I would have kneed the little weasel in the balls right there and then! 

One of the magazines was called Spanked Wives and its cover image was titled ‘A perfect marriage’ which in the opinion of the author seemed to be one in which a tearful lady in a little apron (and nothing else!) was kneeling and shining the shoes of a husband reading his newspaper! In this day and age!  How is this even legal?

Yours in furious sisterhood

Eleanor Lee

You are sadly correct, Eleanor. These attitudes to women are still only too prevalent. For every copy of this magazine sold, I expect that sordid shop sells ten featuring the abuse of women. The only saving grace being that in most cases, the photos are clearly posed and fake.  It is sad to consider that even today, in a country with a woman prime minister, publishers and shopkeepers can still make a living selling these unpleasant fantasies of ‘male domination’. 

You are right too that the buyers are not by any means macho, alpha males. Once, when inspecting the flat of a newly owned slave to remove any items inappropriate to his new status and confiscate any valuables, I was horrified to discover a ‘secret stash’ of magazines featuring the punishment of females – mostly schoolgirl themed but a few ‘submissive wives’. Some of the stories were particularly well-thumbed, usually featuring a ‘pert young bottom” getting smacked by some callous male. Believe me, his own pert not-so-young bottom soon found itself being thrashed with a cane as I explained that violence towards women is never acceptable! A few of the magazines also featured the repulsive practice of fellatio. I questioned him about that, slapping him vigorously about the face as I did so, to help him reply truthfully, and he tearfully admitted to finding the practice erotic although he had never actually experienced it. So with the assistance of the regulars at a local ‘gay bar’ I knew of, he spent several evenings becoming thoroughly familiar with the practice although I believe he never really acquired a taste for it. You might expect I’d have dismissed him from my service but I felt a responsibility to the women of the world, so he remains a possession, used for the more unpleasant tasks, his sole contact with females being his regular whippings and of course with a steel restrainer permanently locked with piercings to prevent any sexual excitement.

Sadly, there are many men out there, like the creepy perverts you encountered, who will not receive the whippings they so richly deserve for their unspeakable sexual interest in hurting women, or at least not until the law changes for the better. I got so angry reading your letter I made the nearest available slave turn to me for a good hard kneeing and I hope you managed to find an opportunity to do the same. It is delightful to reduce them to tears that way and as long as there is just one man out there fantasising about hurting women, every man must suffer the consequences, as far as I am concerned!

In sisterhood.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I was thrilled to read the story The New Camp Commandant in a recent issue of your wonderful magazine. The brutal prison-camp setting made an exciting change from the more common school and domestic scenes.  I wonder, could the events in this story have happened in reality – could they still be happening, in some hell-hole of a country? The way the Lady prison guards behaved seemed rather communist, especially the scenes in which prisoners were required to profess their love for the Party and their gratitude for the re-education they were receiving – even to the extent of quite literally kissing the boots that had just been kicking them in the faces, shins and testicles! But I can’t imagine that working naked on a chain gang would be possible (for more than a few minutes) in Siberia, so I suppose it was not the Soviet Union.  Another country behind the Iron Curtain, perhaps? I went to Czechoslovakia once and I was very excited by the sight of a parade of pretty ‘Young Pioneer’ teenage girls marching past in their red and white uniforms!  I’m sure those beautiful communist maidens could grow up to become cruel and domineering leather-clad guards (‘guardesses’?) in a prison camp created in a converted castle deep in Bohemia , delighting in screaming at male prisoners to work under the cruel lashes from their whips, before commanding those unfortunate souls to lick the mud from their boots!

Yours in need of severe re-education

Prisoner 6664329

Well, ‘29’ if I can call you that for short, I’m glad you found appropriately humble and undeserved joy in reading that story and you will no doubt have been contemptibly excited to find the sequel Summoned to The Camp Commandant’s Office in this edition. As for castles staffed by leather-clad whip-wielding maidens in Czechoslovakia, I think there you might have let your imagination run away with you. I can’t see that happening any time soon! Babushkas serving up boiled cabbage is more the comrades’ style, I think.  G-L. L.

Dear Lady Lucia

Your letters pages often feature accounts from professional disciplinarians such as myself, concerning the weird and perverted desires of their clients.  I think I can top the lot.  Earlier this year, I acquired a new ‘regular’ who mostly wanted the schoolboy treatment: strap on the hands, cane across the bum (not hard) and a quick wank – so far, so ‘normal’ in my world. However, after his third visit, he made a much stranger request in his quavering plummy upper class voice: he wanted me to pretend to be Margaret Thatcher!

Initially I was rather reluctant. Also insulted – I am a mature lady, but not that mature!  But he not only persisted he offered me triple the usual money, the filthy rich sod, so in Tory Britain’s best entrepreneurial fashion I agreed. Grovelling away, he explained that he wanted it done properly and seriously, not just my putting on a funny voice during the session and I agreed,  as long as he gave me some cash up-front for preparations. We agreed a date for about a month later.

I’ll confess I was rather intrigued by the challenge.  And the twinset and pearls look, for all its frumpiness, was certainly going to be more comfortable than the rubber and leather monstrosities I squeeze into for some clients.  So I went off and got myself some outfits, shoes, fake pearls and (of course!) a handbag from Oxfam, then started practising the voice.  I was lucky enough to find a tape of her speeches in the local video shop – though I thought I would die of embarrassment taking it to the counter. That must be how my clients feel buying their porno!

After a bit of practice I felt I had the slow, deep posh voice about right – I had listened to myself on tape and realised I had to go a lot deeper. I read once that she herself had voice coaching to achieve the same effect, but I was self-taught!  I also got a little book of quotes (again, with a deep blush of embarassment at the cashdesk…) to help prepare some phrases and scenes for the session. I don’t like to script my encounters with clients, but this was new and I needed to know where to go without dropping out of character.  She has said a few things that are very suitable for an S&M encounter: ‘if you want something done, ask a woman’, for instance, or ‘I usually make my mind up in about ten seconds and I rarely change it’.

Came the day, ‘Rupert’ arrived shaking and got the full Iron Lady treatment from the start. The premise was that he was a backbench Tory MP, summoned to explain why he hadn’t turned up for some important vote. He seemed very flustered at first and I was worried maybe I wasn’t getting it right, but then I noticed he had a bulge in his trousers and realised this was arousal, not disappointment. I administered the dressing-down quite seriously, although I did go further than I suspect the Prime Minister would have done into speculation that his absence might have been caused by wanking in the Parliamentary toilets. I slapped him hard across the face, only later realising that I should really have done that with my handbag!  Then I bent him across my desk and whacked him with the cane – rather harder than he was used to, as that seemed only right. I don’t suppose the PM does actually cane men, but I can certainly imagine that if she did, she would not hold back.

Afterwards, he was effusive in his praise. He did gently murmur that the caning had been a bit ‘brutal’ as he put it, the wimp, and could I perhaps ease off a little next time? I merely fixed him with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow and replied “The Lady’s not for turning!”. He collapsed at that point – almost literally, he fell to the floor and kissed my shoe. Then off he went, a happy and well-thrashed customer. After making another appointment – at the same highly inflationary price, of course. And he did get the handbag treatment when he came that second time!

Do you suppose this is a common fetish, Lady Lucia? Should I perhaps work up a discreet magazine ad, hinting at the services available to discerning gentlemen interested in discussing educational policies with a particular emphasis on corporal punishment?

Yours with steely conviction

‘Mrs T’

I am sure it must be quite widespread, as I have long thought that the lust for a stern nanny is behind much of her electoral appeal. You’ll need to be careful, though, as a quick straw-poll of my slaves (once they had been reassured that for once I actually wanted to know what they thought) suggested many more of them would run a mile, if greeted at the door by a Maggie lookalike, than would find it erotic. And as a working class girl who escaped a town where the only employer was a textile factory that has closed down, I myself feel more queasy about this kink than any other I have featured here – and I do hope you whack the Tory bastard until he cannot sit down. Still, this is the surely the first time in British history when any men have wanted to pay ladies like ourselves to dress as the Prime Minister – a shame, as I do a mean Gladstone and a passable Balfour – so I suppose we should make the best use of it: more power to your elbow.

Readers will notice that to spare those of a nervous disposition a shock, I have not illustrated this letter with as apposite a photo as I might have done – some things are too depraved even for Empress! G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I would love to know: are there any males out there walking around with your initials burned into their flesh?

Marked man, Leeds.

Initials? No: I insist slaves use my full name and title, at all times. G-L. L.

*Note by Servitor. Attentive readers will recall that the letters page of that special edition featured here some time ago. I have carefully looked through the entire magazine and cannot see any images of the Editrix herself in a leather bikini. I suppose she must have been mistaken, even Goddess-Ladies get things wrong occasionally. I hope Peter wasn’t too disappointed.