Of a certain age

Once again, Servitor has spent an absurd and disproportionate* amount of time engaged in the pointless task of creating the letters section from a fictional version of those very British femdom magazines with which he mis-spent his young adulthood: Vixen and Mistress**. No, not Cruella. This was before Cruella. Yes: I am that old.

* But then I am an absurd person, with many body parts comically disproportionately sized and generally funny-looking.

** Available as pdfs at an absurdly low price from Swish Publications.

So, once again, from an alternative universe in about 1988 or so, I present: Empress magazine.

This one is a special edition, as I will grovellingly now beseech the Glorious Editrix, Goddess-Lady Lucia herself, to explain.

Right, male scum, pay attention! As promised in the last edition, this is a special ‘maternal domination’ issue of Empress (‘Dowager Empress’, perhaps?), for all you immature little mummy’s boys who crave the firm smack of domestic discipline. Infantilisation is not quite my thing – I find men to be quite infantile enough already – and any male who thinks I’m going to change his wet nappy is going to find himself running a half-marathon through the streets with the stinky thing glued over his head and his back a mess of whip-marks. However, Empress celebrates all forms of male subjugation, so I am handing the reins (and the whip) over to the most wonderful and inspirational woman in the world: my Mum, Lady Amelia.  Goddess-Lady Lucia.

Thank you, Lu!  Amy here, delighted to have this opportunity to contribute to my daughter’s wonderful magazine. I am so proud of what she has achieved: with no assistance from anyone else, she blackmailed the startup funding out of a businessman, enslaved several copy-editors then set up a weekly detention session for writers to produce what is now surely Britain’s leading magazine celebrating female dominance. She has always been a go-getter… I think she takes after her father in that regard. I’ll admit I’m not sure, as I barely knew him and mainly remember his cock and his remarkable sexual stamina. She certainly doesn’t take after my actual husband who I suppose was technically her step-father when she was growing up, the useless whining little wimp.  But Lu was always special, why I remember when she brought her first boyfriend home.  He was already sniffling in fear when dragged through the doorway on a leash, but then she took him upstairs and –

MUM?!  You’re not here to embarrass me!  Letters section? G-L. L.

Oh, very well, my dear. I expect you’re right.  You usually are. Lady Amelia.

I’m always right, Mum. Ask any of my slaves. G-L. L.

Of course you are!  Now then…. letters, was it?  Let’s have some letters. L.A.

Dear Madame Editrix

I was delighted to see that you propose to devote an edition of your wonderful publication to maternal discipline. Some may regard this as ‘the softer side’ of female domination. I do not and nor – I can state with confidence – does my thoroughly subjugated husband. He has no one but himself to blame for his condition (and no one to thank for it but me – and he does thank me, daily) because soon after we were married he asked if we could incorporate some ‘sexy spanking’ into our lovemaking. Well, how could I say no?  I hauled him across my lap and spent a thoroughly enjoyable ten minutes exercising my right arm.

When I finally released him, and after he had dried his tears and got his breath back, he explained that he preferred a light, playful spanking. So I grabbed him by the ear, dragged him over to the bed where I once more positioned him across my lap, took hold of a hairbrush from the bedside table (the palm of my hand feeling somewhat warm by then) and proceeded to turn his rosy arse purple, while explaining that I very strongly preferred it this way.

He asked the next day whether we could ‘discuss it’. So discuss it we did, in the same position and with the same hairbrush.  That was, I think, the last time he challenged my right to spank him however I see fit and we have been married for over twenty years now.

I do not ‘baby’ him or provide maternal comfort. But I certainly treat him like the little boy he truly is. Quite apart for the spankings, which I mainly deliver by hand, my palms having hardened over the years, I employ corner time, written line punishments, early bedtimes and even occasionally castor oil to keep him fully conscious of his status within the family hierarchy. As time went on, I started to get more and more sexual satisfaction from the discipline too, so a hard spanking almost invariably finishes with his wet, tear-streaked face, pressed between my thighs as his tongue ‘finishes me off’. So in a way he got his ‘sexy spanking’ after all, didn’t he?

In sisterhood

Joanna

What a well-ordered family life, Joanna! Like you, I discovered that the ‘softer’ side of femdom can develop into something deliciously ‘hard’, even if my style of domination does not involve whips, leather boots, pony-carts and the like. Corner time, early bedtimes and written punishments make up an important part of his life, if ‘life’ is really the right word for such a miserable existence. Of course, he has much useful work to do as well, but when all the housework is done to my complete satisfaction, he sometimes has a few hours still available and I make sure to fill them with tedious and uncomfortable activity. If he’d wanted any ‘free time’ he shouldn’t have married me, after all. But he did, so that’s that. Amy, Lu’s Mum.

‘Lady Amelia’, Mum! You don’t want the absurd wankers who read this magazine getting too familiar!  G-L. L.

Sorry darling! Lady Amelia.

Most Superior Editrix

I thought your readers might be interested in the account of a rather bizarre encounter I had recently. Having seen a card in a phone box promoting the services of ‘Matron Stern’, I nervously called, made an appointment and, a few days later, turned up in great trepidation at a nondescript house in a London suburb.

To my surprise and relief, the door was opened by a petite and pretty young brunette, who smilingly took my coat along with the envelope stuffed with fivers, while I removed my shoes. She asked me to confirm that I wanted ‘strict treatment’ from ‘Matron Stern’, as I had requested when I called and I readily agreed, betting that this young nymph’s idea of strictness was probably quite light.  ‘This way’ she said and led me upstairs.  ‘Mum’s in here’ she said, knocking on a door.

‘Mum’?  But it was too late. The door was opened from inside the room and I beheld… Matron Stern. I could see something of the family resemblance, with the addition of at least one hundred pounds, powerful and course looking arms and an expression that indeed matched her professional name. Admittedly this was approximately what I had expected when I made the booking, if somewhat more fearsome, and I had no thought of trying to back out but I might perhaps have taken an involuntary step backward… before my ear was grabbed between a powerful thumb and forefinger and I was dragged, stopping, into the room.  I heard a cheerful ‘Let me know if you need me, Mum’, as the door closed behind me… I certainly felt the need of some support!

After a remarkably painful spanking ‘to establish who was boss’ (although I had been in no doubt of that the moment I saw her), the medical ‘treatment’ began. I won’t describe all of the details but the enemas were particularly noteworthy, so I will concentrate on those.

I had noticed during the painful preliminaries the rubbery bags of different pastel shades, each with its tube hanging down, arranged neatly in a rack. Some of the bags were alarmingly large, so it was a relief when Matron Stern selected one of the smaller ones. Nonetheless, it was a startling experience. I had once been given an enema as a child, by a nurse at the local clinic, when I had a particularly bad bout of constipation. I remembered it as feeling weird but not necessarily unpleasant, as the warm water gently flowed into me.  This was somewhat different. For one thing, the tube had a bulb at its head, which felt uncomfortably tight as she shoved it in – yet shoved it was.  Second, the water was cold, stone cold and I gasped as it started to flow. Third, she lifted the bag high above me and furthermore, gave it a good squeeze, both of which caused the water to rush inside me much faster than the gently rising tide I recall from childhood. I cried out involuntarily at the feeling of immense and sudden fullness… followed by the simply impossible feeling of the water continuing to flow and fill me, when I would have sworn that my insides were full to bursting.

Eventually it stopped, the tube was jerked out and she curtly indicated a toilet in the corner of the examination room.  I rushed to it gratefully and had just sat sown when I heard “Don’t you dare release without permission, or you’ll be for it!”

I could only gape in astonishment, as the foul brown liquid spurted out of me into the waiting bowl. I could no more have held it than I could hold back a waterfall! The smell was thoroughly unpleasant but not as unpleasant as the bath brush applied repeatedly to my thighs, for disobedience, once the nasty mess had been flushed away.

I was given the opportunity (or rather, I was compelled) to try again.  Again, the cold water rushed in, again it seemed to continue far beyond my capacity and yet again all of the water went in… and this time I managed to ‘hold’ for perhaps two seconds after getting onto the toilet, before once again a splashing rush betrayed my blatant disobedience. At least this time there was hardly any smell… but the spanking was worse, this time extended to the insides as well as the reddened backs of my thighs.

‘Would you like some help holding it in next time?’ she asked, curtly? Looking at the bath brush in her powerful hand, I could only nod yes, although I’ll confess to being dismayed by the ‘next time’. However, help was welcome as I clearly had no chance of obeying a command to hold it in – especially when, for the third attempt, she selected a rather larger bag than before. However, despite the larger volume this time did not feel quite so bad – whether because I was psychologically getting used to it or because my insides were stretching!  I caught sight of myself in the mirror: on her examination table on knees and elbows, smacked arse and red-raw thighs held up high and a tube snaking up to where the bad was discharging its contents.  It seemed impossible to imagine that less than an hour before, I had been an ordinary man in a suit, ordering a coffee in a local café while waiting to present myself for this bizarre appointment.

I wondered how she was planning to ‘help’ when, for the third time, the tube was jerked away – but this time, almost immediately, something else was shoved in. Another bulbous object, about the same diameter as the tube-head. At first. Then I saw her making pumping actions with her hand and to my horror I felt it expanding inexorably inside my anus.  I realised there was another bulb just outside my exit and that was inflating too. Just when it seemed I might burst inside, she stopped and something was detached, leaving me firmly plugged, inside and out.

I expect most readers have experienced a desperate need for the toilet. This felt ten times worse. The plug, although physically preventing any evacuation, did nothing to diminish the urge.  Bent forwards there on the table, I was just beginning to wonder whether I should beg her to remove it when I was commanded to stand up and I discovered that the pressure feels even worse when the blocked exit is facing down, with all the weight of that liquid pressing down on it. For some reason, I couldn’t stand straight, I crouched before her with legs bent, gasping.

‘Please, please Matron Stern…’ I stammered, to be cut off with a hard slap to the face. ‘It’s not me you have to ask’, she informed me. ‘Go and ask Natalie’.

It is an indication of how hopelessly befuddled I was that I had no idea who she meant. But she indicated the door with a finger and I understood that – humiliatingly – I was going to have to ask the pretty young lady downstairs for permission to evacuate my distended bowels. I was fitted with a nappy – because, as she said Natalie was ‘not going to want to see that nasty little thing’ and also to prevent leaks, then the door was opened and I staggered slowly downstairs, feeling like I had a ten gallon sack sloshing around inside me.  She was reading a book, on a couch in the living room, and did not even look up as I made my way painfully over to her.

‘Please, Natalie, I’m to ask you…’ I began.

‘Miss Natalie’ she said off-handedly, not even looking up.

‘Please Miss Natalie’ I tried again, ‘could I please have your permission to go to the toilet?’

‘Number one or number two?’

‘Er… number 2, Miss.  I’ve been given an enema.’

She finally looked up, took in the shambolic sight in front of her apparently without the least surprise and frowned (she was pretty even when frowning).

‘Can’t you just fill your nappy?’.

I explained about the plug and she just nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. She pursed her lips, and I found myself praying desperately that this young lady who had so much power over me would exercise it mercifully.

‘Well… I don’t see why not’ she said after an agonisingly long wait. ‘But make me and Mum a cup of tea, first’ – and she indicated the kitchen I had passed when entering (when I was still an adult human being, with a modicum of self respect).

Making the teas was a torture, especially when I realised I had not yet asked how they each took it and had to stagger back to ask (both milky, sweeteners for Miss Natalie, one sugar for her Matron Mum). Once Natalie had received and doubtfully approved the tea, she asked, innocently ‘Now… what was it you wanted, again?’

Unable at this point to stop the tears, I gushingly pleased with her for permission to use the toilet and, with a dainty sigh, this request was granted. ‘But make sure you tell Mum that you didn’t call me Miss’.  I staggered back upstairs and delivered this news, along with the welcome permission to defecate.

There were no more delays, thank God (or rather, thank Matron Stern). I was soon sitting on the toilet, atop a jet of liquid… I would not have been surprised if I had been propelled upwards like a rocket, so powerful was the blast. Then it was time to discover that not calling her daughter ‘Miss’ (only once!) was the worst sin I had committed so far, deserving of a caning.  Thankfully, we must have been out of time, as after ten hard strokes, I was allowed to drag myself into the shower, then get dressed again and my medical examination was over.

Downstairs, Natalie was waiting with my coat and – once again – her lovely smile. She offered to call a taxi, but I simply needed to stagger out back into the real world.  I don’t know whether I was still supposed to call her ‘Miss’ or not, but it seemed prudent to do so, so I was very polite.

After all, I might go back for another dose, some day.

Yours sincerely

The English Patient

I have always been vaguely intrigued by weirdos like you who will pay to be mistreated. I have occasionally considered trying it, but I suspect the reality involves pandering to male fantasy, rather than simply indulging my more vicious instincts and also being paid for it. Also, I don’t own any ridiculous rubber clothing and have no desire to promote my services on the insides of telephone boxes. Fortunately, my husband has always provided very well for me and darling Lu, financially, if in no other way at all – indeed, he would hardly dare do otherwise. It is regrettable that you retain a choice as to whether to return to the tender mercies of ‘Matron Stern’ and her daughter, but I trust that if you do so you will pay them well. L. A.

Most Superior Lady

The Lady whose house I live in, whose husband I am, has instructed me to write to You as She thought You and Your readers might find an aspect of my subjugation amusing.

She was always the dominant partner in our relationship and soon after we got married, I was put most firmly in my place. Today I am Hers to command or ignore in all respects, having long ago had any insubordination beaten out of me and self-respect removed. There are many rules that must be followed in Her household but one is very simple: everything belongs to Her and must be referred to that way.

Thus, I clean Her floors, in Her house. I take Her clothes, to Her utility room, where I put some in Her washing machine, while handwashing the delicates on my knees on Her floor. In the evenings, after I put Her dinner on Her table and draw Her curtains over Her windows, I might put Her television on, if so instructed, or perhaps play some music on Her record player.

Although I am properly to consider myself Her property, however, She does not like me to refer to parts of my body or anything I wear as being Hers. She considers that demeaning. Thus it is my penis that is firmly locked inside my chastity belt, my knees and hands that hurt as I enter the third hour removing moss from between the flagstones of her garden path and of course my bottom that is soundly thrashed with one of her many implements of punition, with my skirt raised and my panties down.

There is of course one other area where ownership is entirely my own: faults. My mistakes, my laziness, my incompetence and my stupidity. These things are all my very own, as is the pain, discomfort and pleadings that inevitably follows.

My life, as the phrase has it – and welcome to it.

Sincerely Hers

Ladysboy

Nonsense, I don’t believe a word of it. Is this the sort of rubbish you are accustomed to receiving from the nasty little perverts who buy your magazine, Lu? Dear me. Still, I suppose it helps fill up the pages and they’ll buy it anyway, if it has pictures of ladies looking stern to help them get their little peepees hard. Try to write more coherently next time, ‘Ladysboy’ and perhaps drop the ridiculous capitalisation (you will have noticed that although I allowed the capitalisation of She and Her to be printed as you had written them, on this occasion, I could not bring myself to allow ‘i’ to be published). Oh – and should your name not contain an apostrophe? Better yet: don’t write at all. L.A.

Most respected Lady

I am writing to express my humble and deep admiration for the photo-story Traditional Values. This has been by far my favourite item you have ever published, as the account of poor young Alasdair’s fate at the hands of his strict aunts was so utterly unrelieved by images of sexy young ladies to compensate for his suffering with pleasurable thoughts. Instead, Alasdair must fetch and carry, scrub and scour, wash and iron – oh, and spend hours in the schoolroom as well – all under the eyes of two such pitiless old battleaxes.

Such relentless supervision! How I felt for poor Alasdair as he staggered downstairs to the laundry room with yet another double armful of incomprehensibly complicated old ladies’ undergarments! And when his big plans for his monthly Sunday afternoon ‘off’ were scuppered with an extra detention. It was not specified what the line was that the poor lad had to write but I like to imagine it was something like “Had I behaved better over this past month, I would be enjoying an afternoon off but instead I must sit here writing this line.” Or perhaps “I am most grateful to my aunts for the opportunity to learn self-control and discipline, rather than wasting an afternoon gadding about in the sunshine.”

I have little doubt that I myself would very quickly find a life under such domestic tyranny to be unbearable, but as a fantasy it exerts a strange fascination on my soul. I very much hope we will be able to read more about Alasdair’s travails and perhaps other accounts of young men being brought to book by stern, older females.

Boy, 47

You seem thoroughly confused, ‘boy’, which is no doubt a consequence of a thorough lack of the discipline you half-heartedly crave. Your letter speaks of humility and respect for females but you obviously regard ‘images of sexy young ladies’ as an opportunity for pleasure while describing their older kin as ‘battleaxes’. Well, boy, as a ‘battleaxe’ myself I can assure you that neither sexiness nor the act of sex itself ceases at any arbitrary threshold of age. I still enjoy a very active sex life with my husband, albeit one entirely focused on my sexual needs. I take a little longer than I used to, but with him tightly restrained on his knees between my legs, there is no hurry and I make use of a whip to ensure he maintains a steady pace with his tongue for as long as is required. So much better a use for that body part than speaking, a privilege he is rarely accorded these days. As for the difference between fantasy and reality, you are probably correct that you would find such an arrangement unbearable, but I have little doubt that you could easily enough be forced to ‘bear it’ nonetheless.

Should you ever send another letter to this magazine, it must be accompanied by 300 hand-written lines reading “I apologise profusely to the Editrices and readers of Empress magazine for my first letter, which I recognise was published only to make me ashamed to see my witless drivel in print. There is little to no chance this follow-up will be published, so in writing it and these lines I am merely wasting my time and making myself ridiculous.” L.A.

Most severe and magnificent Mistress

I am humbly writing to inform you of the ritual I follow when paying due obeisance to Your divine image, each time a new edition of Empress is published. I make sure I have an evening with no distractions, prepare myself with a tub of Vaseline and then I –

Oh no, I don’t think so. That’s quite enough from you, ‘acolyte’. Some things are best kept private, don’t you think? Or abandoned altogether in favour of healthier pursuits. L. A.

Dear Madame Editrix

Maternal domination may be the softer side of female domination but for my husband it is anything but! Having inherited a comfortable fortune, my husband Geoff was something of a playboy when we married. Alas for him, I soon got wind of his ‘playing away’ and, rather than divorce him, concocted a scheme with my mother to keep him from straying or indeed bothering me at all. He lives in an attic in her secluded house, thoroughly babified and without any contact with the outside world except occasionally to receive cheques or sign authorisations relating to the finances. We put it about that he is ill, poor dear.

He has had a rather dull life. Mum thinks that young men should not be over-stimulated, so with his hands permanently fastened in soft pink mittens, his arms and legs restrained, his mouth gagged with a tube that permits feeding him liquids and mush and of course, thick nappies, he can do little more than wriggle, and look around his room, which is almost entirely pink and features images of ducklings, bunnies and the like for his sole intellectual stimulation.

He made a bit of ineffectual fuss at first, as you might imagine, but Mum is strong and very determined and she put a stop to that. He is spanked once a week and gets the cane once a month, to keep him aware of who is boss, plus of course additional punishment if he ever manages to do anything naughty, although frankly he has very little opportunity to do so.

However much Geoff may have disliked his new life, however, it recently took a turn for the much, much worse. Mum occasionally goes out and, if she is planning to be out for a whole evening, Geoff needs a babysitter. Of course, he is safe enough upstairs and is often left trussed up for days with a nice big nappy firmly sealed inside tightly stretched rubber pants, a feeding tube and absolutely nothing to do except regret his miserable existence. Nonetheless, someone really ought to be around in case something happens, so I used to pop around and sit downstairs watching TV with a glass of wine, while Mum was out enjoying herself and Geoff was upstairs being miserable.

I say ‘used to’ because Mum found another babysitter when I was recently on holiday for a few weeks (sun, sea, sand and Sangria – and no question of taking Geoff, of course!). I returned to discover that Mum had found a nineteen year-old name of Rachel and was very happy with her. Of course, I panicked and immediately started quizzing her about whether Rachel could really be trusted to keep Geoff under strict control – what is she loosened his gag and was somehow persuaded to release him? Mum just laughed and said that should be the least of our worries – and that Rachel was coming around that evening and I’d see for myself.

Rachel turned out to be a slight and rather shy little thing with a blonde bob cut. I have to say, on meeting her, I felt that my fears were justified.  However, when we all went upstairs to where my dear husband was (of necessity) waiting, something happened to make me change my mind. Mum and I walked in first and as usual were greeted with the half pleading half apprehensive look from the neatly-bound package in the cot. But when Rachel walked in behind us, he began thrashing violently (if completely ineffectually) in his bonds and squealing plaintively into his gag.  His eyes were wide open in what I can only describe as terror and he was sweating and shaking in fear.

You see, sweet little Rachel turned out to be something of a sadist. Now, I am perfectly happy to see my husband in pain when need be and I think Mum rather enjoys whacking him… but Rachel’s interest in pain goes well beyond that. Let loose on my husband during my holiday, she had with Mum’s blessing amused herself with Mum’s cane, she applied bulldog clips to his ears, nipples and armpits (she had apparently been reluctant to open his nappy for access to his genitals) and she rubbed chilli powder up his nose and into his eyes. I suppose Geoff had assumed that the hours of agony he had spent with her had been a one off, so his horrified reaction was understandable. Assuring her that this time all was clean and dry inside his nappy, so she could play down there as well, Mum and I went back downstairs, to the accompaniment of stifled but obviously agonised shrieks.

And so I hope Geoff has come to appreciate his treatment by Mum and me. After all, for about 28 days most months, he is not under Rachel’s tender care, which must make him very happy, because the times she is there are hell on earth for him.  It is lovely to see his reaction when an evening with sweet Rachel is in store. Just this morning, I had a call from a friend suggesting a ‘girls’ night out’ next Thursday, which is Mum’s regular bridge night with her sister. I had to say I’d need to check I could get a babysitter, but alas Rachel wasn’t answering her phone so he spent the whole day not knowing whether he’ll be spending Thursday evening screaming or not. Fortunately, when I finally got through to her, she said she’d be delighted, so that’s settled. Such a relief to have a reliable babysitter!

In blissful supremacy

Irene

Dear me, it does sound as if young Rachel is going through a bit of a ‘phase’, as young ladies will. I remember being thoroughly worried when I found a cigarette lighter in my darling Lu’s room and confronted her about the evils of smoking – only to be laughingly shown the homemade branding irons she had cunningly fashioned out of paper clips stuck into corks, the clever thing. Just in case I had any lingering suspicions (which I did not, as I raised an honest girl), she showed me the little squirls she’d burnt into the flesh of whatever useless rag of a male she was seeing at the time. She was never a babysitter, though, which is just as well, as I think it wouldn’t have suited her. But in any case, she had plenty of money because she was blackmailing her head teacher. I remember this one time, she –

Thanks Mum, that was brilliant! Let’s just leave it there! G-L. L.

Oh, is that enough, dear? It felt like I’d hardly got started. I was just about to tell the readers how you used to –

No, no: quite enough, thanks Mum. The filthy little perverts who buy the magazine don’t deserve any more of our attention. Now they have to wait another month. G-L. L.

Very well dear. Thank you so much for letting me contribute, I’d often wondered what you get up to here. And to you filthy perverts: no masturbating, now! I will know. We always do. L. A.