As dear old Plum’s Bertie Wooster noted, but even back in the early twentieth century, they were fortunate enough to have women to lead ahead or walk sternly behind them. More Downton domination.
Men aren’t smart enough to go it alone
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.
Nurses’ Gossip
It always puzzled those
(invariably pretty) nurses in field hospitals. Young officers with a pair of neat surgical scars where their testicles should be.
The answer lay in the notorious salon of Madame Severine (real name Eliza Stanbury) – society dominatrix based in Cavendish Square throughout the inter-war years. She was enthusiastically accommodating, it was said, to the more extreme perversions of the Establishment class.
There is some evidence she worked for British intelligence during the war, interrogating suspected spies and Nazi sympathisers. Everyone did their bit.
PP
Everyone pulled together, PP, that was the thing. From the lowliest sissy-maid to the grandest dominatrix in the land, all saw that the British way of life – cold showers, beatings and dreadful food – could only preserved by making sacrifices. This nurse has been busily helping her wounded heroes do just that.
Best wishes
S
PS: actual PG Wodehouse quote: “We must always remember, however,” said Psmith gravely, “that poets are also God’s creatures.” He doesn’t say much about perverts, alas, not directly, anyway.
Oh my! How spiffy. These are jolly good captions old chap.
-paltego
(I particularly love the enthusiasm of Evangeline’s friend)
One morning I awoke with the sort of bleary eye that suggested I had spent the night being pursued through the streets of London by a pack of Czech girls with whips, and was greeted by the welcome, if somewhat impressionistic, sight of Jeeves shimmering into the room with the breakfast.
A telephone lay on the tray.
This was ominous.
I ignored it, together with the unusually unsubtle glances which Jeeves was directing at it, until I had got some tea inside me and disposed of an egg. One cannot, after all, be expected to confront the world of femdom without first having established a sound egg-based defensive perimeter.
Having fortified the inner male, I eventually picked up the telephone and inspected the old blog.
“What ho, Jeeves,” I said. “I see that the chappie who runs the Femdom Resource blog has left a comment here. In twenties’ argot, or something remarkably like it.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
“I shall have to think up a reply immediately, what? Something simultaneously witty and slightly smutty, alluding to our common interest.”
Jeeves did not reply to this. He merely inclined his head by approximately the width of a gnat’s chastity tube.
“Something like…” I said, and paused to chew a pencil. I then decided that the pencil was getting me nowhere and exchanged it for a toasted soldier.
“What ho, old pal. ‘Pal’ for Paltego, you see, Jeeves?”
“Indeed, Sir,” he murmured.
“Rather a neat little play on the fellow’s bally name, you see,” I added, helpfully.
His head inclined another microscopic fraction.
“Only then I’ve got to think of something for Servitor,” I continued, chewing my way through another soldier and, for good measure, a kipper. “And perhaps something about aunts. You know. In keeping with the femdom theme and all that sort of thing.”
There was a silence.
I have always maintained that Jeeves can be extraordinarily unhelpful when he puts his mind to it. Much like a findomme, in fact, though findommes generally contrive to make the experience more expensive.
“Oh, hang it all, Jeeves,” I burst out. “Why don’t I simply reply in P. G. Wodehouse language?”
“I have already taken the liberty, Sir,” he replied.
He was leaning forward now, and there was another telephone in his hand. Jeeves, I should explain, is not a man who does things by halves. If he decides that a situation requires a telephone, he tends to produce them with the quiet efficiency of a magician who has been specialising in telephones. It was displaying the comments page of my blog.
“If you would merely press ‘Reply’, Sir?” he added.
So I did.
And, having at last attended to the matter of the blog, I was able to return to the kippers, which by this time would have been tapping their riding crops reproachfully against their boots, had they been in possession of either item.
“Gosh Jeeves, I feel quite drained after all that work. I think I shall have a – ”
But the bally fellow interrupted me. “Your aunt, Sir? Arriving at 11 – I did inform you yesterday, three times I believe – and she has made clear that she will be bringing her cane.”
Best wishes
S