Author: Servitor

Brought to heel

 

Hmm?  Oh.  Sure.

 

 

I don’t see why she would be so sure of that.  Just on this occasion he’s the expert, after all.

 

 

 

It’s hardly their fault – boys break so easily, just when it’s starting to get fun.

 

 

 

The worst of it is, she realised when he got home that one of the dresses was the wrong size and he had to go straight back to the shop to exchange it.  Someone must have put it on the wrong hanger – people can be so thoughtless and selfish, sometimes, can’t they?

That’s the thing about crush fetish play – it’s only fun for a short time.

 

Making the claimant whole

 


 

Ohh…kay.  I’ve heard
enough and I’m ready to render summary judgment here?

So, first off, obviously the claimant has suffered a loss
and associated trauma.  This court – and
I think all parties to this case – acknowledge his suffering and I am sure I speak for everyone in this room when I say we sympathise
deeply.  It was a terrible, terrible
thing to happen.

Equally, terrible things happen.  That’s life.  The medical profession makes mistakes, as do we all.  The apology the hospital issued was
short, admittedly, but “Sorry we castrated you by mistake.” is at least simple
and clear.  Brevity is a virtue: I see no reason to doubt the
sincerity of the apology offered.  The
hospital administrator has assured me that the additional comments added to
that email, referring contemptuously to the size of the material removed, were
never intended for publication and they do not know which of the nurses or
doctors – if indeed it was a member of the hospital personnel – was responsible
for that, or for the subsequent wide dissemination of the comments on social
media.  And also of course the photographs, which the claimant understandably found acutely embarrassing, not least because the
women’s undergarments and the ‘humorous’ positioning of the sex toy seem to have been placed on him after
the administration of general anaesthetic. 
Should the perpetrators ever be identified, they should suffer
consequences – a significant financial penalty at least – as this was a serious
breach of medical ethics.  As was the
medically unnecessary and inappropriate use of the enema.  These things should never have happened.

However, the hospital administrator has made strenuous
efforts to discover the perpetrator – or perpetrators – and failed. 
All three of the medical personnel who had the opportunity to have carried out these hurtful acts have testified in this
courtroom it wasn’t them. I have considered but here reject the claimant’s
lawyers interpretation of Nurse Taylor’s repeated giggling on the witness
stand.  Her subsequent comments on
Twitter, while hurtful in the extreme, do not in any way constitute evidence of
guilt.  Similarly, the fact that the bought the underwear in which claimant was so wrongly dressed up, while unconscious, and that the photographs were found on her phone, both constitute circumstantial evidence at best.  Another nurse on duty testified that Nurse Taylor is conscientious to a fault and I found the claimant’s counsel’s suggestion that this witness’s long-standing lesbian relationship with Nurse Taylor – and indeed her participation in a lesbian dating ring’ with the other two hospital staff who might have been involved – might in some way have influenced her opinion… well, I just find that suggestion to be offensive beyond belief.  I will note at this point that I myself am a lesbian, counsel, as it happens and I hope that you would not dream of suggesting that my opinion in a case in which three lesbians are alleged to have unnecessarily castrated a male and then exposed him to ridicule on social could in any way affect my judgement.  My comments complimenting Nurse Taylor on her appearance were simple courtesy, nothing more.  I shall be pursuing this matter further, counsel, believe me.

 


 

Where was I?  Oh yes.

Anyway, I think we just have to conclude we’ll never know. I am satisfied the
hospital administration was not at fault and the apology is there, so that’s
that.  Just one of those things: claimant
needs to move on, as Nurse Taylor so fetchingly put it.

Turning to the matter of compensation, of course some
financial settlement is due.  Claimant
has suffered a loss and deserves compensation just as would someone – say – whose car
had been unnecessarily crushed.  To pursue the analogy, however,
it would obviously not be just to award someone compensation as if they had
lost – say – a brand new Ferrari, when the vehicle of which they had been deprived was in fact an old two-door hatchback that won’t start without being given a push.  Or a rusty
bicycle with wonky wheels.  The compensation has to be commensurate with the value of what was lost – in this case, claimant’s genitalia.  Can we even put a monetary value on such a loss?  Many would find that distasteful, but the law requires us to try.

In that context, I am therefore going to admit the evidence
adduced by the defendants.  Although I
recognise that the claimant’s existing embarrassment has unfortunately been
enhanced by the sequence of witnesses who have been former sex partners – mainly paid sex workers – testifying
to his sexual prowess, or rather the lack of it, I am convinced that this is
relevant evidence. Indeed, from their testimony it is hard to see that the
claimant’s ability to engage in what he considers sexual activity has been
harmed in any way by his loss – after all, he still possesses a tongue and the
streetwalkers downtown still have shoes and toilets. Certainly, there seems to be no likelihood at all that the claimant has been deprived of anything that a normal person would describe as ‘sexual intercourse’ as – with all due apologies for any embarrassment this must undoubtedly cause him – he is thoroughly unattractive as he is and was probably still more so, when he had functional genitalia still attached.  Defendant’s counsel has suggested that ‘creepy’ is  the word that springs to mind on first meeting the claimant and I have to concur: that was precisely my thought on the very first day of trial.  This observation – undisputed by claimant’s own counsel who appears to avoid any close contact with him even here in court – seems highly relevant to the matter of compensation.

I am also aware that any financial compensation he receives could be used to further his disgusting pursuits, although obviously that consideration can play no role in my decision.

Nonetheless, claimant suffered a loss and I am therefore
here ordering that the hospital pay him the sum of two hundred and forty-five dollars and thirty-five cents in compensation.  Plus interest.  Let that stand as a statement of this court’s firm disapproval of the negligence the hospital showed in this case.  I don’t want to see you back here, so don’t do it again.

Right.

Now, turning to the question of costs, these have run into
many hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of this rather disturbing case. 
Claimant had every right to seek justice – but equally, the hospital has
a right to its defence.  Lawyers are
rightly not cheap, any more than the sex workers who had to be paid for their
time testifying – at length – about the claimant’s physique and practices.  Someone has to pay for all this.  The question I ask myself, is whether these
costs should be paid from the funds of a hospital, devoted to saving lives –
recognising that any such payment could directly impede their ability to
provide patient care – or, to quote one of claimant’s emails to a sex worker, a
“disgusting little worm” who pays women to humiliate and abuse his “revolting
micro-dicklette”.  Or did, before the
defendants did us all the service of removing it.

Not an easy decision, obviously.  Nonetheless…

 


Nurse Taylor’s the one on the left, in case you’re interested.  She’s giggling beneath her mask, but don’t worry: that’s just a nervous tic she has.  You’ll be fine.



NB: in case you were wondering how come the judge uses  lot of British language at times but the compensation is set in dollars, the explanation is, erm… it’s in Australia!  Or New Zealand.  Or somewhere like that, anyway, where all the legal terms are exactly as set out here.  I mean, it must be.  I don’t just make this stuff up, you know.

It feels so wrong it must be right

 

You’d thing she’d at least bother to write a fresh one, instead of bringing out the same piece of paper every time.  This is how marriages go stale, you know.

 

 

 

They’re probably thinking that with so many slaves to deal with simultaneously, it won’t be so bad for any one of them.  They’d be wrong about that, but it’s a comforting thought while they wait.


 

 

If she has to say no, you have to wait.  Or even if she doesn’t have to, but wants to anyway.

 

 

 

It’s good she’s stepping in to help with the scheduling.  My SO sometimes says she despairs of finding enough time for all of the punishment that I deserve, but somehow she always manages, bless her.

 

 

She’s actually done quite a few things that – when he finds out about them – he will consider to be very easy to criticise.  But he won’t be permitted to do so.

 

Brutal honesty

They do say honesty is the basis of every successful romantic relationship – but brutality has its place too.


Don’t worry – she has lots of equipment and techniques to help manage the pain.




They do say small ones have more pain receptors per square millimetre, which is actually quite a turn-on for a lot of ladies.



He’s the foundation of the building just behind her, by coincidence.




Time for the evil – sorry, what?  I can’t say that word!



OK, well if the other two are totally straight I guess they won’t need licking clean, for a change, so that’s a bonus.











Three wishes for Sissy Jemima





One afternoon, Sissy Jemima was – as usual – on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was a thrice-daily task, because Mistress reasoned that it was a lot easier simply to have her sissy clean the floor than to waste too much time carefully wiping her feet. Just at the point when she was about half-way finished, there was a flash and a crack and she looked up to see a flustered, middle-aged lady floating in the air before her. Jemima – assuming this was one of Mistress’s friends and thinking nothing of the levitation except relief that her nice wet floor would not be sullied – bowed her head low and murmured a respectful greeting.

“No need to bow, James” the apparition said. “I’m your fairy godmother!”

Jemima wondered who she was speaking to. Then she remembered.

“Erm, it’s Jemima these days, Ma’am. Hasn’t been James for a very long time.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “And I’m Fairy Godmother, not ‘Ma’am’”

“Yes, Fairy Godmother” Jemima replied dutifully, happy that she was being given clear instructions.

“And I’m here to grant magical wishes!” the Fairy Godmother continued, brightly. “I was supposed to appear on your twenty-first birthday but… well, it’s been a bit busy, and anyway, better late than never, and here I am!”

“You get three wishes – your heart’s desire, anything you want!”

She looked around, then down at the figure in the pink maid’s dress outfit beneath her hovering feet. She noticed the short chain connecting the ankles.  Using her fairy senses she could discern too the tightly-laced corset, as well as the steel tube nestling between whip-marked thighs beneath her god-sissy’s skirt.  Looking around, she saw a piece of paper attached to the fridge door, with a table headed “Sissy Jemima’s chores.”  It was a long list.

“You know…in case there’s anything in your life you’d like to change?” she suggested.

Sissy Jemima looked up. “Can I give my wishes to Mistress?”, she asked, eagerly.

“What? No – non-transferable” the Fairy Godmother replied, slightly taken aback.

“Oh…” the sissy said, looking worried. “Oh dear. Can I at least ask Mistress what I should choose?”

“Certainly not” the Fairy Godmother replied, more firmly. “You need to decide now – and time has stopped for your wife Sarah and everything in the world except you and me, here and now.”

Sissy Jemima glanced up at the clock and saw its second hand wasn’t moving. So there was no danger of her chore being finished late, which was a relief. Still, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of having to make a decision – three decisions! And she wasn’t even allowed to ask Mistress.  It had been a long time since she had made any decisions… she still vaguely recalled the big decision to sign the agreement with Mistress Sarah, but after that everything in her life had been fairly clear and straightforward, albeit not always easy.

“I wish that Mistress can have three wishes – a hundred wishes!” she ventured, but the Fairy Godmother shook her head.

“Doesn’t work like that – just wishes for yourself. You know: like Cinderella.”

The Fairy Godmother instantly regretted mentioning Cinderella, as she feared this simpering thing that James had become might wish to be swept off in a coach to dance with a handsome prince. Princes of any sort were in short supply in 21st-century London and the only one who could be described as even slightly handsome was already married and had renounced his position and decamped to Canada.

But Sissy Jemima was thinking along different lines. “Could I… do you think I might have a new scrubbing brush?” she asked, shyly.

“Really? Just that? Do you want… I don’t know, a magic scrubbing brush, maybe, that does the floor by itself? I can do that.”

Sissy Jemima shook her head. “Just the same as this one” she replied, indicating the battered and bleached wooden implement she had been using. “But new.  See: the bristles are all bent.”

“Not that I’m complaining!” she added quickly. “I’m very lucky that Mistress lets me use this wonderful brush.”

The Fairy Godmother sighed, then waved her wand in the tiniest imaginable circle in the air. Shifting patterns of green and purple swirled in the air around the brush for a moment, then vanished. A brand-new wooden scrubbing brush, bristles standing tall and ready for use, lay before them on the half-cleaned floor.

“Thank you Ma’am” said Sissy Jemima automatically. “I mean, Fairy Godmother”.

There was silence for a moment, as both contemplated the new brush. Sissy Jemima began to feel uneasy.

“It’s very different, isn’t it” she remarked. “I hadn’t realised quite how much the bristles had bent. And it’s a different colour too – darker and varnished.”

“Exactly the same type of brush”, the Fairy Godmother replied. “£4.99 from any hardware shop… even cheaper at Tesco’s. Supernatural power to reshape the universe to your desires was in your hands, and you chose a new scrubbing brush. Can you try to be a little more ambitious with the remaining wishes? Riches, fame, love…?”

But Sissy Jemima wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the brand-new brush with increasing disquiet.

“What if she notices?” she murmured. “I mean, she might not, but what if she does? And I hadn’t told her. Perhaps I ought to tell her? But then she’d be cross… I’m not allowed to ask for things.”

She shifted uneasily on her aching knees, feeling the cane marks on her bottom and thighs from last Friday’s ‘reminder’.

“I shouldn’t have done that” she whispered, sadly. “I’m a bad, wicked sissy, ungrateful for the lovely brush Mistress gave me.”

“Oh get on with it.” the Fairy Godmother sighed. “Second wish – come on. The readers will be wondering whether this story’s worth persisting with.”

Jemima had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Could I – have the old brush back?” she asked, eagerly.

“Really?” the Fairy Godmother replied, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to have spent two of your three wishes that way?”

The sissy nodded vigorously. “Then I wouldn’t have done anything Mistress might not like, would I? Because I’d still have the same brush she gave me… so I wouldn’t have been a bad sissy at all!”

“Well…” she went on. “I suppose I would still have had the bad thoughts. But she might never find out about that.”

“Oh for god’s sake” the Fairy Godmother muttered, twiddled her wand back around in the opposite direction, and the rough unvarnished wood of the old brush lay before them once more.

“Third wish” she said, thinking she would never again object to over-extravagant wishes, or those that sought to reshape the fundamentals of the universe. “Come on. Something you really want. Something that would make you happy – you’re supposed to live happily ever after, you know?  This is your one chance – don’t waste it.”

Jemima shut her eyes tight and thought and thought. This wasn’t something she was used to and it gave her a bit of a headache. But just at the point when the Fairy Godmother was about to start making suggestions, she opened them again and looked up again, beaming with pleasure.

“I have it!” she said, and explained what she wanted.

“Are you sure?” the Fairy Godmother replied doubtfully. “Just that?”

“Oh yes” Sissy Jemima sighed. “That would make me happier than anything in the world.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “At least it’s not another fucking brush. Here we go.”

And she raised her wand.

*******************************************************************


In case you were wondering what Mistress Sarah looks like: she looks like this.


Two hours later, Sissy Jemima was standing slightly to the right of the back of her Mistress’s armchair, feet neatly together, her hands clasped before her. Mistress Sarah reached out for the cup of tea at the table to her right and took a sip.

There was a pause, during which Sissy Jemima hoped that her thudding heart was not audible.

“Very good, sissy!” Mistress Sarah remarked, with some surprise. “You actually managed not to stew the tea for once – and you haven’t made it too strong or too weak either.”

She took another sip.

“And just about the right amount of milk, too.” she added. “Now if only you could make every cup like that, sissy.”

“Perhaps I will, from now on Mistress.” Jemima replied, her voice quavering slightly as her heart tried to burst with unaccustomed pride.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” her Mistress said, not sounding too optimistic. “But well done for this one, sissy. Footstool!”

So Sissy Jemima got down on all fours and crawled in front of her, to receive the welcome weight of her Mistress’s legs across her pink-clad back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, as Mistress continued to sip the tea with satisfaction.

And she lived happily – except, obviously, during weekly ‘reminders’, additional punishments and the occasional visits by Mistress Sarah’s sister – ever after. 

 
THE END
 
 

Mistress Sarah’s sister – pictured here on the left – likes tea, too.  Sissy Jemima hoped that it would help mellow her attitude towards lazy, incompetent sissies a bit, but it turns out she doesn’t like tea that much.

 

 
 
 
 
 
Addendum
 

This is not a picture of Sissy Jemima.  This is Sissy Peggy and unlike Sissy Jemima, Sissy Peggy used her wishes unwisely.  In particular, she used one wish to get the frilliest, froo-froo-est maid’s dress ever – but neglected to use another wish to ensure Mistress did not react badly when she came home and saw her sissy husband wearing this monstrosity.

 

Brutal persuasion

 

“Do you still need the ring gag?” is one of those questions that’s often quite hard to answer coherently.

 

 

You’ll probably feel more comfortable doing what you’re told, too.  Or experience discomfort if you don’t – which is basically the same thing.

 

 

 

 

He used to think size doesn’t matter.  He’s learning that it does.

 

 Mistress Eleise de Lacy, there.  Speaking, as we were, of feeling weak in the knees…

 

 

 

There’ll be thin lines in lots of places quite soon.  Cris-crossing, some of them, and that can be agony.

I’m not a very spiritual person, myself, but my guess is that she will.

Youngers and betters

 

Memo to self: stop using the phrase “there’s nothing worse than X” in front of SO.  She takes it as a personal challenge.



You’ll soon discover that a day with no whipping at all is a special day. Very special.

 

 

 

 

Don’t worry, they’re not having you castrated and lobotomised until after the marriage.  Just after: between the ceremony and the reception.  You can think of it as your wedding gift to them.

 

 

 

 

 

Poor old Simon – doesn’t get to see the sexy lingerie!  And to think she was worried you might be jealous of him.



Appendectomy: of course.  After all, that nurse would hardly have shaved his groin area this morning if it was his throat that was being operated on, now would she?  

 

Rulebreakers

Which rule?  Rule 18, of course.  Which states – as I’m sure you know – that dommes should “Try to avoid sessions with clients who have really specific fetishes and can’t get off unless it is done exactly right.”

Alas, unlike my own SO’s ninety-seven House Rules, which are quite strictly observed and still more strictly enforced, I encounter* examples of rulebreaking daily for this one.

So… yeah, here are some more.


Notice the thick socks inside the fur boots.  Socks are often a giveaway of a Rule 18 violation in progress.  Not if the socks are smelly from exercise and being used to wipe the face of a humiliation slut, though… that’s just good healthy femdom play.



Orca play.




Actually, this one started when his domme turned up one day and said “I’m afraid my leather jacket is being cleaned – will this do?”  And he never looked back.



It’s not just the use of the domestic flamethrower that makes this a Rule 18 violation… it’s the flying golden penis to the left of the flowers that are being torched and it’s the Shredded Wheat package.  Oh… the Shredded Wheat package.  “Can’t get off unless it is done exactly right.”?  One day, she didn’t have any and used Weetabix instead… nearly lost a client.




Not quite sure whether this one belongs here or in my series on femdom scenes being played out with heavy industrial machinery… but it definitely needed wider circulation.  By the way, those knees: do you think she originally had it installed for a slave who was just a little shorter?
  



She’s supposed to beat his ‘snake’ with a shillelagh, while commanding it to leave Ireland.  Or something.




OK, this whole video (and, as far as I can tell, much of the careers of the two lovelies featured here) is basically just one long Rule 18 violation.  If you’re into latex-clad pretty ladies cooking and eating men dressed as broccoli in order to get rid of bags under their eyes… well, I guess this is the video you’ve been waiting for your entire life.  If not, you might like it anyway.  I did, actually.  In fact I just watched it again. My eyes hurt… but in a good way.

 

Oh look, I embedded it.  I particularly like the way they look cross so often.  I love it when pretty women look cross.




* Did you notice the way I managed not to write ‘I come across’ there?  See, I’m dealing with my addictions.

Governing bodies

 

Everyone feels a bit uncomfortable, on their first day in the torture room.




Really?  Oh… that would be just awful!

 

 

 

 

Don’t tell her she’s not doing it right – it works for her, OK?




Language barriers can be overcome, with good will on both sides – or failing that, one side holding a whip and not giving a shit about what the other side might actually be saying.


His musical tastes are more Bruce Springsteen than Ariana Grande.  He did tell them that, but then he also told them his session tastes were more towards sensual domination than frequent, brutal electric shocks to the balls… so it looks like they didn’t pay a lot of attention.


 

Striking poses

As my SO points out: lots of women enjoy sex with their husbands, she prefers sex without her husband.  The difference is only a few letters but it’s a big deal for her, so who am I to argue?

 

 

Mmmm … a severe scolding, Mistress?

 

 

 

It’s going to be a special day for her boyfriends too.  And their mates.

 

 

 

Of course the OWK had safewords really.  In a variety of quite widely-spoken Central European languages, so there was really no excuse for ‘guests’ not knowing how to pronounce them perfectly.

 

Her kink is not your kink – are you going to make a selfish fuss?