Forty years on

Once again, it is time for the nichest of niche postings: the third in a series I am calling ‘The 1980s called’. Regular readers (those of them who haven’t already turned away in frustration, knowing there will be no colour images of sexy young ladies captioned to say cruel things), will recall this as the series in which Servitor self-indulgently reminisces about British femdom mags that few if any of you ever read, then proceeds to try to reproduce sections of his own, made-up version of something that has been superseded first by magazines with higher production values, then by digital media and the Internet. Oddly, most people don’t seem to regret that, so just possibly, Servitor, nobody wants this crap, hmm?

But it’s no use. I’m nothing if not stubborn: just ask my SO who frequently has to go to the trouble of clicking her fingers twice, or raising an eyebrow more than a milimetre to get me to do her bidding.

So, as is now traditional in this series, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines. I’ll remind you again you can buy complete scans of these from Swish Publications and it’s an incredibly good deal: you actually pay fewer £s per mag than you would have paid in 1985. Inflation? Not in our femdom.

Those were real, from here on it isn’t.

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Isn’t that just about the most pointless thing ever? But I don’t care.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 6. Letters to The Editrix

Most superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have long admired your publication, but I felt compelled to write to you after reading Twenty rules for David in the last issue. I myself am lucky enough to live under speech rules imposed by my wise and beautiful wife, for which I give daily thanks.

Recently, my brilliantly creative wife extended these rules to include ‘codewords’ to be used when we can be overheard in public. She might, for example, say “Are you sure, darling?” which is a way of indicating that I have said something wrong and need to correct myself. If her response is “Are you quite sure, darling?”, then I have said something quite offensive and impertinent and proper correction is sure to be applied later, in private!

I wonder whether other couples have a similar system. Perhaps there are more of us than some people think! When next, at any dinner party, you hear a wife smilingly remark to her husband “We should go home soon, darling: so we can sort out those things in the attic”, just look closely to see if he goes pale! I would, as the only thing to be sorted out in the attic is my attitude. If she adds that we ought to be sorting out “Those things Aunt Susan gave us” I might even have to suppress a shudder, as ‘Aunt Susan’ is about three feet long and made of whippy rattan.

Anyway, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I must dash because it’s almost time to “do the weekly household accounts” and I fear this week those accounts might take a lot of balancing!

Respectfully

A devoted husband

Your ruler’s system sounds quite practical, devoted husband, although a little over-complicated for me. I hide nothing about my relationships and any male given the privilege of accompanying me in public can expect his status to be made perfectly clear to anyone in earshot, as the sound of a good hard slap to the face can carry a long way. I do approve of warning slaves well in advance of particularly severe punishments, however, as I enjoy watching them squirm. It would be delicious if your generous wife were to inform you early in the evening about a later encounter with Aunt Susan, to give you a few hours of dread while trying to keep up appearances in company. G-L. L.

To the exalted Editor-in-Chief

Another magnificent edition, thank you Goddess-Lady Lucia.

I particularly enjoyed the story entitled Adult Education as the ‘classroom’ scene has always fascinated me. With the greatest respect, however, I wondered whether something had gone wrong in the editing process, as on the second page of the story our protagonist receives the cane for mistakes in his algebra test – a test he only takes on the third page! Was this intentional; implying that Headmistress Burroughs could simply anticipate his hopeless performance and apply correction ‘in advance’ so to speak?

Yours in confusion

Jenkins minor, Guildford.

Your first suggestion was the correct one, Jenkins minuscule. Something did indeed go wrong – or rather someone did – and the columns of that particular story were ‘pasted up’ in the wrong order. Believe me, ‘the mistake is regretted’ as they say – regretted profoundly. ‘Pasting up’ involves taking columns of text printed on photographic paper by a Linotype machine and applying warm wax to them so they can be placed, along with photographs, on the page ready for printing. The wax is applied warm, not hot, so it sticks the items in place while allowing small adjustments to their positions. However, wax can be made hotter. Much, much hotter. And then it can be applied to other places, such as the more sensitive parts of some incompetent sub-editor (emphasis on the ‘sub’) who messed up the order of that story. I do like to make the punishment fit the crime. Equally, though, if a fitting punishment is not enough, I like to add more, so after the hot wax treatment I thrashed him with a riding crop. Then I fired him – banished from my divine presence forever. He will not make that mistake again… nor walk, for a few days I imagine. G-L. L.

To my esteemed sister in dominance

I am greatly enjoying the series Maid to Command as I have always taken particular pleasure in imposing the arduous lifestyle of a Victorian housemaid upon arrogant males. My husband inadvertently – and I suspect to his regret – introduced me to this hobby, through his sexual interest in frilly, lacey and submissive feminine dress. Such foolishness can and should be exploited and after a brief period of indulging his desires, I briskly moved things on. Today he wears a simple and practical uniform, as do two younger males whom I have also taken into service. Quite a few males have an interest in occasionally flouncing around in a frilly or rubber simulacrum of a French maid outfit but I find few who are prepared to suffer the real thing – or rather, enough of the real thing for them to be beyond the point of turning back. For that to happen, I find they need to be subjected to three important disciplines: if I can impose those, complete control is assured.

The first is submission to proper, painful chastisement. When assessing a potential recruit, I sooner or later put him across my lap for a firm hand-spanking. No implement is required: I am a large and powerful lady, with hard hands, and by God I can spank any man to tears. Held firmly in place with one hand in the small of his back, a male over my lap expecting a sexy foreplay spanking will be sorely – very sorely – disappointed. I do use other implements, but I pride myself on being able to inflict intolerable pain with my hands alone. Any male who submits to that twice, knowing what he is in for, is surely mine to do with as I please.

So the second discipline is rapidly imposed after the first proper spanking: chastity, of course. I control the pain, I control the pleasure. After perhaps an initial period to accustom the maid to the device, I quickly tighten up, limiting orgasms to a thoroughly impersonal three-monthly release, all the maids together to add to the humiliation. I never ‘reward’ with release. My husband will be 60 in two years’ time, at which point – I have informed him – that will be that as far as this particular aspect of his life is concerned.

Finally the third discipline, which I regret has not thus far appeared in Maid to Command, Madame Editrix: tight corseting. If there is one enduring symbol of the centuries of male domination over women it is the way our bodies were forced uncomfortably to conform to an ‘idealised’ female shape. Well, no more. I am a large lady, as I said, and I see no reason to constrain my natural girth. For my maids, however, it is different: their lives are shaped by my wishes and, thus, so will be their bodies. If in history females were corseted primarily for looks, with the discomfort as a side-effect, for my subjugated males it is the opposite: discomfort is the objective.

I particularly look forward to a new maid’s first corseting. The garment I use looks reasonably feminine, in white with black laces and even some floral decoration. But it conceals ribs of steel, those white laces when pulled can, through their actions across multiple eye-holes, exert a tremendous constraining pressure and the ensemble is topped off with a buckle, fastened with a small padlock ensures no loosening. This latter is probably superfluous – the corseted maid cannot really reach behind to loosen the firmly-tied bow and his fellow maids would never dare to help him do so! But the ‘click’ of the lock removes any lingering hope of relief from the pressure and is thus effective in bringing home the difficulty of the situation.

Difficult it is. I pull the laces with all of my strength, working them over several times to create the maximum pressure. This finishes with my foot or knee in the small of the panicking maid’s back, extracting the last tenth of an inch of tightness. And by God it is tight. “Mistress, I can’t breathe!” they will squeak in panic. And they’re right: they can’t. Not until they learn the technique: shallow, frequent breaths from the chest, no expansion at all at the waist. But fast shallow breathing merely adds to the sense of panic – and panic they do. Most will pass out, some several times. It does them no harm. When unconscious, their panic will cease and they will take in enough oxygen to recover. When fully tightened they will be perpetually short of breath, which is an important element of the corseting. The maids’ stays are loosened just a little at night, then each day they initially have a few hours of merely uncomfortably tight rather than painfully tight corseting, before once again my strong arm and my boot in the small of their backs restores them to doll-like weakness. It involves considerable effort on my part, of course, but I love it.

So constrained, my maids cannot undertake any activity involving great exertion. They can still serve and undertake certain household tasks but anything involving heavy lifting must take place in the hours between to start of their day at 5.30 and my rising, typically around 10. After that, work is slow. Even before their corsets are tightened, short lengths of chain between their ankles and between their wrists create some inefficiency. You might wonder how the housework ever gets done? The answer is simple: each housemaid works a fourteen-hour shift and I have three of them. Even in the absence of any labour-saving devices (I haven’t the slightest interest in saving labour: the more of it there is for me to enjoy, the better), there is plenty of time for everything to be done in the most, repetitive tedious manner possible. So what if it takes a maid half an hour to iron one of my blouses and carry it carefully up to my wardrobe on the third floor, stopping every few steps carefully to recover her breath? To do six such blouses takes only three hours, leaving eleven hours left in the working day. I read somewhere that the unions in France are striking for a forty-hour week. My maids each work a ninety-eight hour week and they don’t get paid for it, the incentive being provided by my hand rather than my purse.

In conclusion, my dear, I encourage the author of Maid to Command to embrace corseting. A male placed in rigid physical control appreciates all the more the inflexible moral regime under which he serves. Generations of women forced into these appalling devices will applaud – and laugh, as you will laugh, at the sight of the corseted male in his perpetual discomfort.

Yours in sisterhood

Lady Maud

I suppose as Editrix I should add a note of caution at this point, for readers tempted to try corseting a male so tightly as to restrict his breathing. However, Lady Maud’s description of the suffering this causes is so appealing that I cannot bring myself to do so. Have at it, ladies: tug away. G-L. L.

Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

I just had to write to express my appreciation for the Birchwood Detention Centre series. Too often, the personalities and backgrounds of the ladies in disciplinary literature are barely sketched, if mentioned at all. Here, we appreciate the three young heroines as fully rounded characters from the very opening of the first instalment, with them as raw young cadets on the train to their assignment at Birchwood. As I child I read and loved the ‘jolly hockey sticks’ style of girls’ school story – how lovely to see it transposed into such a setting… ‘jolly rattan cane’ perhaps? But not so jolly for the male inmates!

How I felt Angela’s embarrassment at being greeted in such an over-familiar fashion by an inmate who had briefly been her boyfriend, and how we all cheered when she was given an opportunity alone with him in the punishment room to teach him about their new ‘relationship’ at the Centre! How very wise of Senior Section Officer Wallace to give her that opportunity even if a Trainee Junior Disciplinary Officer is not really supposed to be left alone with an inmate – a true leader knows when to bend the rules and when to enforce them rigidly. Oh – and poor Rosie, accidentally setting off the shock collars of every inmate on the block when she was learning how to use her remote punishment device! No real harm done, of course, but how we felt for her when she realised her mistake, face burning with embarrassment, after SDO Morris stormed in to find out why her work detail were all writhing on the floor in agony instead of carrying their loads of bricks! It was a sweet and tender scene when Julie comforted her afterwards in her quarters… I wondered whether perhaps it became later even more sweet and tender? There seems to be to be a strong undercurrent of lesbianism in several of the girls’ relationships but only hinted at, at least in the first two instalments. Will romances perhaps blossom?

Finally, I am sure all your readers are enthralled by little Clara’s storyline. At present, I have to say she seems rather a fish out of water, being so easily upset at the sight and sound of boys in pain. Will she be able to overcome her squeamishness, or might we say goodbye to her, perhaps last seeing her sitting sadly alone on the train, contemplating an uncertain future? I do so hope not, as she is such a determined little thing, even if she lacks innate brutality. Disappointed too, I imagine, would be SSO Ryder, whose interest in her seems rather ‘closer’ shall we say, than is strictly required for her training role. Again, without necessarily wishing to see an explicitly lesbian sex scene as such, it would be lovely if these ambiguities could be resolved with a loving embrace or even a full kiss…?

Yours agog

Slave to schoolgirls

I am pleased to receive such appreciation of the narrative elements of these stories; so many male readers’ missives essentially saying little other than ‘Whoa, nice tits!’. Indeed, character development is central to the Birchwood series and the author assures me that new characters will be introduced over time, along with new dilemmas bringing triumphs and disappointments for our three heroines, in true ‘school story’ style. I believe that in so implying Clara’s continued presence, I am not giving away too much, since, as you will read in this issue, an encounter with a rather unpleasant trio of lads when on an out-of-uniform visit to the nearby town awakens something inside her and she – well, I’ll write no more here, in case any readers have turned to this letters page before reading the latest instalment. Let’s just say that it was a life-changing experience both for her and – once the process of the law had worked its course – the three boys, who are likely to have the dubious pleasure of meeting her again, in a subsequent instalment.

I recognise in Clara a lot of women I have known, who came late to the realisation of how much they truly enjoy hurting males. I believe that at least half of all females have that potential inside them, whether the pleasure they will find is sexual or has a different aspect. But in our woefully male-led society, few develop it. I myself have been an enthusiastic persecutor of the male sex since childhood bullying days, but in so many others it is latent. I have a friend who horrified me by her lovey-dovey, indulgent attitude to the young man she eventually married, but I am so glad I did not cut all ties because one day something simply snapped and ‘hubby’ painfully learnt the consequences of presuming on a lady’s good nature. I visited them recently and observed with approval his nervous attention to her every casual word, the cane hanging so brazenly on a hook in the hallway leaving very little doubt as to what he feared!

As for the lesbianism, StS, it’s really none of your business. I know men fantasise about this, but the reality of female-only romances is far too complex for the brute emotions of males to comprehend, so any description of such a relationship in a magazine that out of commercial necessity is aimed mainly at a male readership, could only ever present the surface, obvious elements of a lesbian tryst. Lesbianism is not for provoking sexual arousal in males, only sexual frustration at the realisation that we can do quite nicely without male sexual activity (of which none is therefore required nor permitted).

Hmm. I have bestowed on you rather a longer reply than you deserve, StS. I order you to write another letter about Birchwood. This time, provide a long paragraph on each of the principal characters, avoid speculating about lesbian affairs that are not explicitly present (you may, therefore, refer to Rosie’s visit to SSO Ryder’s quarters, from the instalment in this issue of the magazine) and try to use proper punctuation. I had to edit the letter above, to make it readable and my time is incomparably more valuable than yours. G-L. L.

In the light of your insistence on males in your presence being naked, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I wonder if you have a view on the ideal length of the male penis? I have heard that some ladies do not like them too large?

Too much effort to add a line of respectful greeting or sign off your ‘letter’, boy? You don’t really deserve a reply, but I will just note that opinion is divided on the topic. Many ladies of my acquaintance – especially those of a lesbian persuasion – believe that the ideal size is ‘zero’ and some have devoted themselves to reducing the average towards that. Me, I like a man to have plenty of flesh there, as larger penises have more pain receptors in proportion. But if I decide a man would serve me better with less down there, I am quite prepared to follow the example of my sapphic sisters! G-L. L.

To the supreme Goddess-Lady Lucia

I am a submissive male who has the privilege occasionally of serving a superior lady in person. However, I cannot visit her as often as I would like, so she has taken to setting me time-consuming menial tasks, so I will think of her in the long gaps between visits.

I write lines, of course, hunched over my desk at home like a schoolboy, copying out endlessly some uplifting moral message, such as “My heart and soul belong to Mistress [X], at whose whim I am writing out this line five hundred times and who delights in setting a long sentence for this tedious task, regardless of whether the resulting absurd pile of words makes sense, the point merely being to ensure I spend my time in this repetitive task so befitting of my status.”

However, she has lately hit upon what she calls the ‘lottery game’. This was inspired by a game she invented for playing during our sessions, when she would scatter a pack of cards around a room and I would crawl around picking them up (sometimes with hands restrained). On one occasion, she told me that one card had been removed and that it was my task to identify it. Of course, a missing card cannot be identified until all the cards have been gathered, so I had to carefully sort them in to order once all had been gathered up.

When I was leaving her house after a later session, she handed me a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a mass of lottery tickets, of the sort sold in tear-off books for use at summer fete raffles and the like. They had indeed been torn off and simply filled the bag higgledy-piggledy, like waist paper. She informed me that they were from a book of 500 tickets and that at my next session I should report the number of the one she had removed.

Perhaps your readers can imagine what a tedious task this turned out to be. The 500 (or rather, 499) tickets had to be sorted into order, which took me several hours. The beauty of the system, of course, is that the dominant can perfectly accurately verify the amount of work her submissive put in with almost no effort – she simply had to take a ticket at random and note the number.

Since then she has varied the task occasionally. She almost always uses books of 1000 tickets, after I made the mistake of truthfully reporting how long it had taken me (she looked disappointed). She no longer tells me how many tickets she has taken – it could be two, three or four, or – and this caused me the most immense anxiety – none. Sometimes I am at ‘liberty’ to carry out my tedious task at any time in the interval between my visits to her (I usually try to deal with it fairly early, as it is horrible having the task hanging over me), on other occasions she might require an answer by telephone within 24 hours. On one occasion when I had done that, I was surprised and delighted to receive a package in the post a couple of days later – out of which fell, of course, another batch of lottery tickets.

All of this, of course, merely serves to remind me that my time is hers to command, and so I will take this opportunity to record my gratitude to my creative and thoughtful Mistress, for giving me so many hours of opportunity to spend my time in her service.

Her obedient servant

Timewaster

P.S.: My Mistress has just ordered me to copy out this letter several times. She has not yet informed me how many copies I will write, but I am to begin now and she will tell me when I have reached – or exceeded – the target she has decided upon. How silly of me to have written so much but that is my own fault for being such a tedious little man. This postscript was written under dictation.

I did indeed receive 30 copies of the letter above.

If Timewaster’s Mistress is reading this, she might care to note that there was a spelling mistake – regrettably repeated in each copy – that I have reproduced in the printed version above. Once he has found it for you, you might decide it is appropriate for him to write out a corrected version, or several. For my part, if I receive a written punishment that contains an error, I usually quadruple the required length or number of copies, but of course that is up to you, my dear. You might also have spotted that he describes telling you the truth as a ‘mistake’, which I found infuriating and I do not even know the wretched little man!

Nonetheless, the contemptible Timewaster’s letter has inspired my generous nature to provide a task to the absurd male creatures who make up the mindless majority of this magazine’s readership. How many times does the word ‘cane’ appear in this edition? Include all instances, whether in the main text, letters or advertisements but do not count any variants such as ‘canes’ or ‘caned’. The sub-editors have counted very carefully (they came to different totals the first time, so they did it again). Once you have counted, send your answer on a postcard clearly marked ‘I wasted my time at Goddess-Lady Lucia’s direction’ to the usual address. There are no prizes, of course, the opportunity to engage in a completely pointless task I commanded from you should be reward enough, along with the thrill you will get thinking of the contempt for you I will feel in the unlikely event that I bother to look at any of the postcards. Get on with it, scum. G-L. L.

 

The 1980s called back

Cast your minds back, British readers over a certain age, to a time when dominatrices advertised on little cards in phone boxes rather than OnlyFans, when femdom images were to be found only on furtive trips to specialised shops in Soho and when those same images came wrapped not in endless entreaties to subscribe to one or other specialised service but in plain paper bags, usually a pastel shade rather than brown, for some reason.

Yes, I am talking about last July, 2023, when this blog featured a post called ‘The 1980s called‘, devoted in part to rhapsodising about the magazines of Servitor’s mis-spent youth and in part to a rip-off of homage to those magazines, in the form of a ‘letters’ section written in his mis-spent late adulthood.

I warned you then this might become a series and so it has. OK, I recognise that the number of this blog’s readers who ever came across such magazines can probably be counted on the fingers of the one hand that is not presently in your trousers. But I don’t care: this blog has never sought the easy route of popularity, and it has been consistently successful in avoiding it.

So, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines.

So, so lovely…

These are from the web page of the helpful guy at Swish Publications. He’s scanned them all and is happy to sell them to you for a remarkably modest price (fewer £s than the originals cost way back then) so why you are still here reading my shabby imitation I have no idea. And I must also mention in a kind of Wayne’s World ‘we’re not worthy’ manner that the creator of the slightly later generation of femdom mag that was Cruella and Goddess is still going strong too, at https://cruella.com. Go on, Andy, Mr Rogue-Hagen, scan the old stuff and sell them as pdf mags… you won’t regret it. And we’d love to see ‘Victoria’ and co again.

Right…

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Why? Oh, who knows. But with the world in such a terrible state, I guess we all just have to do what we can.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 2. Letters to The Editrix

Most sublime Goddess-Lady Lucia

The article entitled A dog’s life for Steven in the June 1986 edition of your wonderful magazine reminded me of something your readers might enjoy hearing about. My wife is firmly in charge in our marriage: in all important respects I am no more than her slave. I long since learnt that any failures on my part – let alone attempts at asserting my independence – will be met with swift and painful corrective measures.

Just over a year ago, my wife came back from the shops with a small package. It turned out she had been to the pet shop and bought what I understand is called a ‘shock collar’ for dogs. It looked like a regular thin leather dog collar, with a kind of plastic box attached to it, from the inside edge of which protruded two rounded metal studs. It came without batteries (why don’t manufacturers simply include them?), so I was sent out to the newsagent – it took one of those little 9 volt rectangular ones, and I bought one and a spare.

With battery installed, it was fastened around my neck and my wife fiddled a bit with the remote control that came with it and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that made me gasp. It’s hard to describe, Goddess-Lady Lucia, even though I have since experienced it hundreds of times. It is not a hot, searing kind of pain on the skin of the neck… in an odd way it’s not really pain at all, it’s a kind of wrench right inside one’s body. As I said, it’s not exactly pain but the sense that someone has reached inside your chest and tugged at everything inside there at the same time is deeply unpleasant. Of course, I begged and whined to be released – and she did take it off, but this turned out just to be to drill an extra hole through the leather collar, to fit a small padlock. And on it went again.

I now wear it whenever I am in the house, and quite often outside. I have never particularly liked roll-neck pullovers but now I have several of them because they are just what is needed to cover it up. We don’t play at my being her dog, you understand – it is just another way or punishing me for my faults and reminding me of my place whenever she deems that necessary. I am responsible for ensuring that it always has a working battery and that there is always a spare battery in the house.

As I am not a dog, of course, I can touch it with my fingers. So I soon realised that a small piece of paper, slid carefully down between my neck and the prongs, could insulate me from any shocks. I tried that once – just once. I jumped and squawked, whenever I saw her pressing the button, but of course sooner or later she gave it a press when I was not looking. The paper was found, the husband was caned mercilessly, every one of the shocks I had so deceitfully avoided (or her estimation of that total) were applied in triplicate and believe me I have never dared repeat the attempt.

I now give generously whenever I pass one of those collection boxes for the RSPCA. I have never been much of a dog lover, but I can definitely say they have my full sympathy!

In collared submission

Mrs Henshaw’s husband.

Well, Mrs Henshaw sounds like a lady after my own heart! I strongly disapprove of these devices being used to hurt our four-legged friends, so I hope that every one of the vile devices is bought up by wives to put to the excellent use you describe. There is, after all, no Society (Royal or other) for the prevention of cruelty to husbands and nor should there be! G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your publication is simply wonderful, easily the best of its kind on the market. I particularly like the school-themed stories, as my own fantasies typically involve my sitting with head bowed at a plain wooden school desk, often frantically scribbling punishment lines, while a stern lady teacher taps her cane thoughtfully against her palm, planning the next phase of my detention.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, you are so beautiful and commanding and wise. I would love to spend my evenings in pointless drudgery, writing punishment lines at your command. If I could write lines in your honour, Goddess-Lady Lucia, what should I write and how many would you require me to do?

Yours in scholastic supplication

Dayboy

How ridiculous you men all are! Fine – why not? Take an edition of Empress, roll two dice to pick a page, then close your eyes and point at a sentence. If it’s less than fifteen words, close your eyes and point again until you find one. Then write it out for me, oh… shall we say a million times? Don’t write again until that’s done. If you manage to finish before you die, you can send the completed library-full to the address for letters – or better yet, don’t. If you die first, just make sure your will makes clear I do NOT want to see the stupid things. G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have been an avid reader of your wonderful magazine since the first issue, having always fantasised about being under the command of a beatiful young lady like yourself. Recently, I got married to a sweet but very inexperienced girl and after a few weeks I plucked up the courage to ask her for a spanking. She looked shocked and confused and said she wanted to talk to her Mum about it.

Although embarassed she’d be talking to her Mum (a lady I’d always suspected did not approve of me – any more than I did of her), it was perhaps not that unreasonable, as she was so inexperienced in matters sexual. I was just relieved she hadn’t immediately said no, or laughed or something like that.  But a few days later, I came home and she announced she was ready to give it a go. Delighted, I took off my trousers but then to my horror she shouted ‘Mum!’ and my mother-in-law came into the room, put me firmly across her ample lap and whalloped the bejasus out of me! My God, she had a firm hand – and a bloody strong right arm, too. When she finally let me up, my face was red and wet with tears and my buttocks were black and blue – I could hardly walk! Needless to say, my cock had shrivelled to almost nothing, it was the most unsexy experience of my life.

I thought maybe that would be that, she’d leave and I could talk to my lovely young wife and explain that this was not what I had in mind. But the old harridan had come to stay with us! The next day, after a night on the couch, I found myself alone with my wife and tried to speak about it but… ‘Mum!’. And you can guess what happened then.

Since then, they have found my stash of Empress magazines and I fear that has given them ideas. I do the housework in a little apron, I clean shoes with my tongue and handwash underwear – some very large and horribly stained underwear too – and they have bought a cane. All of my fantasies have come true – and I hate every moment. But the worst horror was to be threatened with ‘facesitting’ after my ‘Mother Superior’ read the story titled Lydia’s living cushion in one of the recent issues. I don’t think I’d survive – she must weigh 200 lbs at least!

Please, please Goddess-Lady Lucia, help me. You understand this is a sex fetish. Can you help me explain to my lovely young wife and her evil old cow of a mother that I just want an occasional sexy spanking, not to be the slave of some brutal old tyrant?  I was thinking maybe an article about how to balance sex fantasies with reality?  Obviously, please don’t print this letter.

Yours in supplication

Desperate Dan

Ha ha ha!  My favourite letter of the month… oh I hope it is true.  And if the lady you describe as an ‘evil old cow’ is reading this then I hope she both takes note of how you described her and also reads carefully through the story titled ‘The queue for the Ladies”, because I think the scenario described there is another that you would probably enjoy less in reality than in fantasy. But I’ve tried it and it’s perfectly practical: all she’ll need is a plastic funnel and a suitably contemptuous attitude. Ladies of a certain age often need to pee quite frequently, so having someone ready (if not truly willing) wherever she is, at a moment’s notice, would be a great comfort. Try eating asparagus first too, my dear, to give him an even more revolting time!  G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have noticed that many of the stories in your magazine feature lesbians. The beautiful girls who seem to indulge in this practice are often accompanied by pasty-fleshed, unattractive middle-aged males. Do you think perhaps they might take more of an interest in men if they had more impressive specimens to play with? I myself am fit, young and particularly well-endowed and I would be happy to teach any of these girls about the joys of being on the business end of a real man’s tool.

Rifleman James

I assume this is a joke. You certainly are, small-bore Jimmy. I myself am bisexual as although I prefer to date women (the conversation, sex, hygiene and manners are all infinitely better), I do love the male penis. I have a special box full of small braided whips, clamps, spiked wheels and rough sandpaper and will happily spend an hour or two playing with a firmly secured fine male appendage, to get into the mood before sinking into the arms of my blonde beloved later. Your own penis sounds so lovely, I think I would probably want to keep it. In a box by the bed. Now go and wank off to a different magazine, as this one is obviously too difficult for you to understand. G-L L.

Esteemed Lady Lucia

I so admire the ladies in the stories in this magazine. I myself was ‘introduced’ to female domination as fantasy play by the man who become my husband and then, soon after our wedding, it was my turn to introduce him to what a real disciplinary relationship can be like. This came as quite a shock for him… I think he had expected me to prance around in leather and occasionally gently tap his bottom with the end of a riding whip, the silly thing. Needless to say, as soon as I had grasped the basic concept and with the help of lesser magazines than yours, I decided that a cane was my preferred instrument. Although ‘bondage’ hadn’t featured in his fantasies, I also soon discovered that a good caning could only be administered if his wrists and ankles were secured. And the combination of a firmly secured man and a cane wielded with determination and entirely without mercy has provided me with a thoroughly satisfactory domestic arrangement ever since.

He said the funniest thing the other day, while strapped down over an armchair in our sitting room, awaiting the second dozen of a twenty-four stroke caning. Amidst all the tears and pleading, he blurted out “You don’t know how much it hurts!”. And of course, he’s entirely right. I have never allowed anyone to hit me with a vicious implement like that and I never will. Why on earth would I? In this world, there are those who cane and there are those who are caned – and I have no doubt which side of that divide I prefer to be on! It is truly better to give than receive, as my dear mother used to say. Don’t you agree, Lady Lucia?

A generous wife

No doubt you make sure that your husband appreciates the gifts you so generously bestow on him. As for the great divide, I quite agree about which side it is best to be on. I know there are some females who prefer the submissive role, but I have never felt the slightest desire to experiment with that! Unlike you, though, I have tried out the cane – I once asked a dear lady friend to give me just one stroke on the thigh, just to see what it was like. Bloody murder it was – and I am sure she did not lay it on hard. It almost made me sympathise the next time I had to dish out a proper caning to one of my slaves. Almost, but not quite. My own mother used to say ‘Life’s not fair’ and it has been a delight for me, discovering just how unfair it can be made to be. G-L. L.

To Our Lady Lucia of the Boots

Oh, Mistress Lucia, what a delight to see so many pictures of you in lace-up boots in the March edition of your perfect magazine. I found myself consumed with jealousy at the sight of your two office slaves, permitted to lick the divine leather after their well-deserved thrashings.

My fantasy is to be nothing but a boot cleaner. Chained in a steel compartment, I wait for a passing lady to deposit a pair in the chute leading down to my box. I get to work, first carefully unlacing them, then licking all the mud off, before commencing the brushing and polishing and relacing the boots. A suitably dirty pair will take anything up to 12 hours. I place the cleaned boots on my back and lean forward into a floor-level pillory that automatically snaps into place. This displays a sign outside my box that the boots are ready and some time later that day or the day after, the front of the box will be lifted up, the lady customer will pick up and inspect her boots, award me a rating out of ten and administer any additional strokes of the handy crop she deems appropriate. Every few days the overseers come around and thrash us, at a rate of ten strokes for each rating short of a perfect ten we have received for each pair of boots serviced.

Goddess-Lady Lucia I know of course that my fantasy is unrealisable but while there are booted and demanding Ladies like yourself out there, the dream remains alive.

Bootcleaner #23

Well, #23, your fantasy, while ridiculous, is amusing enough and shows a proper appreciation of your place in this world. Licking boots, however, is a privilege not a valuable service: the tongue applied to a truly muddy boot will merely smear the mess around and excessive saliva does the leather no good. I insist instead on vigorous brushwork – but I do make the slave eat up the pile of dirt left on the newspaper when it is done. The boots you saw being licked are a special pair I wear when a slave deserves the reward of using his tongue – and I make sure he knows full well that the leather is impregnated with the saliva of many males before him. Yet still they beg for the privilege – what absurd and easily-enslaved creatures you all are! G-L. L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia is presently overseeing the production of the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

  • The continuing Trials of Steven: released from the Training Centre back into Ms Judy’s care, Steven learns that he is now just one of a stable of slaves who must compete for her favour!
  • Re-educating the chauvinist. Malcolm mocks a women’s lib demonstration and is taught the error of his ways.
  • Office Politics Part 2: the typists’ revolt continues.
  • Return of the Gymslip Gumshoes. Our schoolgirl detectives are back, this time investigating a series of underwear thefts.
  • Nursing a Grudge: with his legs and arms in plaster, Ian can do nothing when the ward nurses decide to give him a series of enemas.
  • .And of course Empress Editorial, Readers’ Letters and the ‘winners’ of Goddess-Lady Lucia’s Stupidest Slave Haircut competition.

Male creatures are instructed to ensure they have sufficient funds to buy it, then give the rest of their money anonymously to a woman.

 

The 1980s called

and they want their femdom… no that doesn’t work.

OK, look, I’ve put up some posts before that I know are likely only to appeal to a small group of people, but this one really takes the dog biscuit, if you know what I mean. So please don’t go commenting that you don’t get it: unless you were born in the UK in the 1960s or before, you almost certainly won’t.

It’s about the British magazines of the late 80s and early 90s. Pre-Internet, in effect, even if some geeks were already hunched over thick glass cathode ray tube screens, downloading ‘threads’ from ‘messageboards’ to the sound of an irritating whine from the modem (and occasional whines too from other household members about hogging the phone line). Yes, that long ago. No, I’m not even talking about Cruella and Goddess: before them, there were Vixen and Mistress. This is British femdom pre-history.

Vixen and Mistress featured femdom stories with some fairly high production value photos, at least in the earlier editions, and a reasonable attempt to use those photos to illustrate the stories. Otherwise, femdom magazines available mostly consisted of American stuff with not much story but lots of garish pictures of women dressed in very fetishy clothing brandishing whips – I’m not saying I objected to that, but it never quite did it for me in the same way. In Britain, there was also Madame in a World of Fantasy, with much lower production values and an obsession with the more, shall we say, maternal and matronly end of femdom (Mistress Scarlet’s site and her publications today have a similar vibe and often refer to Madame). And cross-dressing. Nothing wrong with any of that either, but it was Vixen and Mistress which exploded into my just-old-enough-to-buy-them young psyche.

Then, a couple of years later, came Cruella and Goddess, with better quality pictures and excitingly violent stories, then OWK produced a few magazines with simply astonishing photos and articles and then… well, then there was the Internet, wasn’t there, and that was that. Nothing wrong with that either. At least I no longer had to drop into several pubs around Tottenham Court Road, to get my nerve up to walk into Lovejoys or Janus, to hand over cash for magazines that were carefully placed into a plain paper wrapper for me to place inside my bag with trembling hands and somehow resist looking at on the train ride home. We have it easy today. But something was lost, too.

(Sardax has written – and obviously drawn beautifully – about this too).

Maybe that’s just nostalgia on my part. Our earliest porn is always the most exciting, right? Found femdom in the Two Ronnies, the Pink Panther or Space 1999 – I could hardly breathe for excitement when watching those scenes, while today (old, jaded and less potent as I am) I might skip impatiently through some Internet video showing much more. Nonetheless, having thrown out (and destroyed) all of my physical porn collection decades ago, I have long searched for scans of these wonderful old mags online.

And then I found them. Here: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/magazine-scans. I contacted the guy who runs the site, and received PDF scans of all of the Vixens and Mistresses he has, which is most of them, for a very reasonable price. Extraordinarily reasonable, given how much I had longed for them over the years… I would genuinely have paid ten times what he asked (but I didn’t: sorry!). Before you ask I am NOT going to post the PDFs here. You can buy them for yourself by emailing swish.publications@gmail.com: he is very nice and helpful, they’re cheap, they arrive quickly and the scans are excellent quality. Go for it. And he has lots of other stuff too. Not Cruella, alas, presumably because Andy Rogue-Hagen is still going (but hasn’t posted anything lately) and is protecting copyright and quite right too. But, Andy, there’s no point in hoarding copyright without monetising it… I’d pay very good money for scans of Cruella, Goddess and even Victoria, especially the early ones. Come on, mate.

Back to Vixen and Mistress. I won’t copy here any of the content, but I will republish here some of the cover pages, as the seller has made those available and I hope some of you will follow through and buy stuff from him. Again: don’t ask me for the PDFs; you’ll have to buy them from Swish Publications.

So here are the Vixen cover pages: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/vixen

And Mistress: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/mistress

So… did the mags live up to my memories? Well, yes and no. ‘No’ because maybe that was an impossibly high bar to meet. We never get to recapture fully that first excitement. But they were still very good – at least the earlier ones. You can just about tell from looking at the cover pages in the two links above: the earlier ones are much classier than the later materials. The same was true of the content: the articles were much the same, but in the later issues there was no real attempt to match the pictures in any way to the words, it all had a sense of being more thrown together. Oh, and I had never noticed as a young lad buying them one at a time how similar many of the stories were: whoever wrote it was obsessed with males committing crimes, then being blackmailed into non-consensual service to a woman, usually in some remote country cottage. Which is indeed a lovely femdom fantasy, but should be one among many rather than (I’d say) about 70% of all the stories. But up to – say – issue 15-20 of each… pure femdom gold, at least for us chaps of a certain age.

The two issues below, for example, and the two ladies featured on the cover of each… I’d remembered them from 30 years before and they are still wonderful.

And they had letters pages. I suspect most of the letters were genuinely sent, even if what they described was obviously almost entirely made up. The letters were addressed to equally fictitious editors, who were supposed to be dominant ladies, whose brief and haughty responses to the letters were in character with their supposed personas. (Cruella did the same thing when it started, by the way, its editor notionally being Victoria – a strikingly dominant-looking lady as seen here – whom Cruella‘s creator has cheerfully admitted was a barmaid in whom he saw femdom potential. And Madame too, some of the letters from which are available on Mistress Scarlet’s site.)

I don’t imagine anyone truly believed in the contents of the letters or in the editors. But it was all part of the fun.

So much part of the fun, in fact, that after reading all of the letters to the editor in the scans that I bought, I found myself hankering for more. So I wrote some. Mine are to the editor of a magazine that I will call Empress, which never existed but if it had would have published from some P. O. Box between the years 1985 and 1992 or so. Its editor (although she prefers ‘editrix’) is Goddess-Lady Lucia, and heaven help any male creatures daring to write in to her august journal who fail to show her the respect due by using her proper title.

So here we go: a selection of letters to Empress magazine, from an alternative universe about thirty-five years ago. Illustrated with artificially aged pictures from various places (some from the defunct Young Goddess site) that seem roughly in keeping with the style.

Empress Vol 2, Issue 3. Letters to The Editrix

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

Please excuse my impertinence in writing to your esteemed publication, but I felt I had to tell you of my awe and express my thanks for deigning to publish such a wonderful magazine. When I see a new edition in the newsagent, my heart always leaps into my mouth. The embarrassment of taking it to the counter is excruciating, but I know that the reward will be worth it, when I get home and take it out of the plain paper bag.

I have a routine, Goddess-Lady Lucia.  The first night I have a new edition of your wonderful magazine at home, I am not permitted to do more than kneel in front of it and kiss the cover.  Kissing the cover of the March 1985 edition, with the gorgeous blonde lady glancing down backward over her shoulder, was a particular thrill, as the respectful kiss I was able to bestow was placed humbly on her magnificent leather-clad rear end. But whatever the subject matter on the cover, I kiss it in homage and do no more that first night.

Then, the second night – what a thrill! – I turn the cover to see the contents page.  So much excitement promised!  I kiss each story title in turn, my head spinning with the thought of what lies in store for me. Occasionally, there is a picture of your stunning self, Goddess-Lady Lucia, and then I must take an extra day to kiss that reverentially before proceeding further.

From then, Goddess-Lady Lucia, the divine goddess Lady Luck takes command.  Each time I need to advance a page, I roll a die and if it comes up three or less, I am denied and must wait.  If it turns out that the next page is the start of a new story, I must roll a six to continue. Sometimes I go almost mad with frustration – stuck on the same page for a week or more.  But I am as strict with myself as no doubt you would be were you towering over my trembling, naked form, and I never break my rule.

Finally, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I reach the letters pages and each time, I am desperate to write you a missive expressing my deepest admiration and gratitude. I have never dared before, but now finally I have done so and I will burn with anticipation while working through the next issue – or the one after or the one after that – to see if my words have been considered adequate to publish and perhaps even (sacrilegious thought!) deemed worthy of a reply from your own fair hand.

Acolyte

Well, you sound like a very tedious little man, ‘acolyte’. I deliberately held back from publishing this or replying for several months and I hope you found the wait thoroughly unpleasant. You are entirely wrong to say you are as strict with yourself as I would be: from now I decree that your criterion for turning a page is to roll a two or less, not your current four or more, lower numbers and a smaller chance both being more appropriate to your lowly condition. Strict enough for you? I’m afraid it will have to be, as I doubt you dare disobey a direct instruction like this. Your letter, although as pointless as no doubt everything else you do in your pathetic life, at least showed the proper respect and you are permitted to write again.  As a special favour, I will permit you to purchase ten copies of the next issue, which you will prove by enclosing ten triangles cut from the bottom-right corner of the back page: I permit you to cut the magazine in this way and I note that that corner will not contain any images or text except the page number.  To maximise the humiliation, I command you to buy the ten copies from ten separate newsagents. G-L L.

Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

The giggling schoolgirls featured in Caught in the Shower in your July 1985 issue reminded me of an episode from my own schooldays in the early 1960s.  I grew up in a small country town and my route to and from school took me along reed-lined country paths on the outskirts of town, past several small lakes and ponds.  One hot summer day, I was on my way home when – passing the cool water of one of the secluded ponds and wishing to delay starting my homework as long as possible – I decided to take a dip.  I quickly stripped off, leaving my clothes of a wooden platform jutting over the water, and dived in.  On finishing my swim and reluctantly hauling myself out, however, I became aware of a mischievous pair of eyes watching me, and quickly ducked back down to preserve my modesty, as trill of mocking girlish laughter rang out.  It was a girl from school called – well, I suppose she is a respectable married woman now, so I will preserve her anonymity by calling her ‘Gloria’ and during the school day, she would never normally address a word to me. But here she was – grinning in triumph, with my pile of clothes behind her.

Well, of course I threatened to ‘tell on her’, which made her cross and she picked up my shorts and hurled them into a stand of nettles.  “There you are – get them yourself!” she spat.  But of course, I could not run past her with nothing covering my private regions, even if I were to brave the stings on my shivering wet legs – or more sensitive parts!  I begged for my pants but she just laughed again, picked them up carefully holding the seam between the tips of two fingers and hurled those so far into the foliage that I knew they would never be found.

“Do you want some underwear, then?” she asked, mockingly.  I agreed that I did, in a humbler tone, I was beginning to imagine myself traipsing hither and yon among the nettles, chasing up each item in turn.  I cannot have been thinking straight because I somehow seized upon the wild hope that she had a ‘spare’ pair of y-fronts with her, or had some plan to recover mine – but of course it was nothing like that.  Instead, she reached under her skirt and pulled down her own knickers, then held them out to me.  “Come on, then, poof.  Put your knickers on.”

I was mortified, but I saw little alternative, so I reached out for the shameful garment and was just about to reach it when with a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the water.

I had had enough. I saw red and started to haul myself out of the water – if she was going to see my privates, so be it!  She had chosen for herself and I was not going to pull a pair of soaking wet girl’s knickers over them!  But seeing my intention, she called out as if to someone else “Malcolm showed me his willy, Mum!  He shouldn’t have done that should he?” and for a second time I sank back down, defeated.

Eventually, with red face and a pair of soaking cotton girls’ pants barely covering my modesty, I dashed past her into the foliage where I was able, with a few nettle stings to the legs, to recover my shorts.  Sadly, even after a few minutes’ searching (and many more encounters with the nettles), I never found the underpants. When I came back to the shore of the pond and my clothes were there – although she had tossed them into a muddy puddle, leaving them in a state which got me into trouble when I got home.  As she no doubt intended.

The next day – and for ever after – she reverted to the silent treatment and never spoke to me again.  But I did get a note from her pointing out that she had graciously given me a pair of her knickers, so it was up to me to buy her a new pair: she specified the size. Two weeks pocket money gone in five minutes of utter embarrassment at Marks & Spencers… I was terrified I might run across someone I knew.

At the time I burned with resentment and shame and spent nights plotting over more complicated revenges on my tormentor.  But girls were out of reach – they could always ‘tell’ and would be believed over boys.  So I kept the resentment bottled up.  But oddly, I also felt a powerful thrill, a fascination with the idea of being bullied and mistreated by a female, which has led to… well, Goddess Lady Lucia, as you can see I am an avid reader of your journal. Perhaps that says it all.  I believe I have ‘Gloria’ to thank for that. 

I wonder whether Gloria occasionally thinks of that day, too?

Knickerboy, Bishop’s Stortford

From your pen-name, Knickerboy, it seems a fair bet that Gloria’s actions that day have shaped your life.  I wonder: do you pay professional ‘ladies’ to make you pull on soaking wet items of female underwear?  Do they send you home with the cold water dripping down your thighs, and a face burning red with the shame both of what you had to do and the fact that you secretly enjoyed it? As for ‘Gloria’, on the other hand, she is probably happily married to a proper man and enjoying a healthy, normal sex life. I expect she’s forgotten all about you. G-L L.

Dear Ms Lucia

Your magazine is always wonderful but it was delightful to see some ‘larger’ ladies featured.  I myself believe that some folds and curves only add to the attractiveness of the female form and I deplore the modern cult of the stick-thin so-called ‘supermodel’.  Hoping to see some more lovely ladies of this type – or even more substantial – featured soon!

Curvelover

How dare you!  Do you think that a woman’s weight is to be judged by how attractive it makes her to a member of the inferior sex?  We women have had quite enough of that.  If I had you in my grip, ‘Curvelover’ it would be YOU whose diet and shape would be made to appeal to someone else – specifically, to ME, as I believe that looking starved and miserably hungry ‘only adds to the attractiveness of the male form’.  You would spend a week or two on a starvation diet, I would gag you tightly and eat cream patisseries in front of your mutely pleading face! And (once and for all) I am not to be addressed as ‘Dear’! G-L L.

Respected Editrix

I wonder whether you or your readers might be able to weigh in on a little discussion I have been having with one of my fellow dominant wives? We both like to use both the wooden paddle and the cane on our good-for-nothing, lazy husbands.  However, I prefer to paddle first, creating a hot and sensitive bottom on which to apply the agony of the cane, while my friend Frieda prefers to cane first (leaving distinct cane weals like footprints across newly-fallen snow, as she so poetically puts it), then paddle the resulting mass of weals until she is satisfied the lesson has been learnt.

We decided to try an experiment, to resolve the matter.  Her husband was secured tightly (he is a bit of a wimp) and we applied my method to the left buttock and Frieda’s to the right one.  It took a while, but eventually with twenty slaps of the paddle and six of the best with the cane on each, we were done.  The left buttock appears rather more savagely welted, the right more bruised but both are pleasantly purple.  We shall see how they develop over the next few days.  Each resulted in very gratifying shrieks and sobs, so both methods are obviously highly effective, but it was by no means clear which was better.

We are planning to repeat the experiment on my husband this weekend, once he has had a few days to dread it, but we wondered whether you had any suggestions or views on the matter?

Madame Rita

Dear Madame Rita.  I was inspired by this to try out the paddle and the cane in sequence on a few of my own slaves.  I can particularly recommend not informing the target of how many times the two implements will be swapped in session – let him think he is ‘over the caning’ before coming back after the paddling for another go!  As to which sequence is more effective, I think it is down to individual taste.  As the simple opinion of a lying male cannot be trusted, I suggest two possible tests. First, after you have subjected your husband to the two methods, have him write 300 lines each day, for a week or so, sitting on a hard wooden stool.  If you do not have one high enough to keep his feet off the floor, you can tie them back: it is important that all the weight should be borne by his sore backside. Then observe which side he seems to favour, as he shifts around trying to find the least uncomfortable position.  Alternatively, simply announce that next time he can choose between your and your friend’s approach.  He will be sure to choose the one he finds least agonising.  Then give him the other one of course, in double dose!  Perhaps whichever lady turned out to be wrong should be the one to administer it, to work off any feelings of disappointment she might experience.  My best wishes to both of you.  G-L L.

Sublime and all-powerful Lady Lucia

Do you think it might be possible for some of the stories in your wonderful magazine to feature castration?  This has always been a huge fantasy of mine.

Snippy

I’d love to, but it’s hard to find the male models for the accompanying photoshoots! In the mean time, why not do the human gene pool a favour by turning your fantasy into reality, creep?  G-L L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia commands you to buy the the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

  • The continuing Trials of Steven, under the watchful eye and vicious lash of Miss Judy!
  • Distance Domination: a ‘phone dominatrix’ shares her secrets.
  • The saga of Miss Taverstock’s crusade against male masturbation in nineteenth-century London continues, with our heroine taking on and triumphing over a leading West End Club for English gentlemen.
  • Slave exercise routines.
  • A new series: Martin’s downfall. A successful businessman takes on a new housekeeper – and soon finds himself the one in domestic service!
  • Readers’ letters and a special message from the Editrix Herself.

So there you have it, for now (there may well be more). Self-indulgent twaddle? Yes, obviously. Only of interest to British femdom-obsessed men in their mid-fifties or above? Perhaps. But since one of them writes the blog, and does so primarily for his own amusement rather than any other reason, that’s all the audience that is needed. Possibly right now, I’m just talking to myself but if there are one or two others of a similar vintage who made it down here and recognise what I have done, I hope you enjoyed it. There may be more. There may not.

To the others: you missed out, back in 1988, but not to worry. There’s still plenty of modern femdom around and I’ll be adding to it, at least twice a week, every week.

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