boots – Contemplating the divine

Hell hath no fury like a woman…

…does.

Men don’t really understand stuff like that, unless it’s slapped into them.

It’s a symbolic denial of heterosexuality, you see. And a rather practical and concrete physical one too, of course.

Actually, of course, lady Vikings didn’t usually go raiding. No: they waited at home, standing there tapping their feet and idly stroking their whips as their apologetic husbands returned with more meagre and unsatisfactory booty. There is a reason Vikings were so fierce, you know.

Of course, it doesn’t take the human element out completely – it can’t whip you, for instance.

Thank goodness for that. She must have been quite distraught.

Even if you’re sure it’s not yours (and let’s face it – in your condition, you can be reasonably confident it isn’t, right?) it’s polite to offer to lick it off.

You made the rules and you could not see

…y ou made a life out of hurting me.

Males always have disgusting things in mind. It’s not their fault (but that’s no reason to let them off a beating for it) – they *are* disgusting.

Contrary to the stereotype about women’s sexual preferences, findommes tend to want to skip the foreplay of little teasing gifts and just get straight into deep penetration of their partners’ bank accounts.

She’s going to be hanging around in lingerie a lot from now on. It’s just her making sure, to show how she feels about you.

I was about to ask whether there’s anything worse than having a lovely pair of shoes when your chain’s *just* too short for your lips to reach them… but there are worse things, obviously. Many, many worse things – as my SO has been kind enough to teach me, over the years.

This could explain some of the apparently random and heartless decisions global companies have taken in recent years, actually. Maybe I’ll write something for the Harvard Business Review.

Must be nice for Kate and her boy, being ‘out’. I’ve had to read up about epilepsy, because that’s our cover story if anyone ever sees me writhing around on the floor gasping incoherently after saying the wrong thing to my SO (or looking like I might be about to). Still, I suppose that’s a small price to pay for living the fantasy in reality.

A surprising facility for pain

Essentially the title is purely descriptive: we are back (after waking up woozily, dangling upside down, swaying around sickeningly as the abduction van tackles the winding country lanes) in the Facility. It’s a woman-owned, woman-run business that provides an ideal country break. Women can relax here, while men can get away from the stresses and cares of their everday lives to experience stresses and cares that are so, so much worse, for as long as their sponsors decide to keep them there.

She walks in beauty, like the night

She’s right, of course (as women do tend to be in my experience). You can only feel frustrated while you retain hope.

Many rich man marrying younger second wives worry that they’ll be reckless with money, but in this case it does look as if he’s married someone capable and willing to exercise strict financial control.

Of course there’s nothing wrong with a sissy having opinions, as long as they are sensible opinions derived from someone else – someone without intellect-destroying Y-chromosomes.

The problem is, she’s a perfectionist, but really, why *should* she have to give up on the ideal of perfection? Looks to me like she’s determined to keep trying, despite these setbacks, which I find admirable.

Typical selfish male behaviour on maggot’s part, there, not even managing to remain alive despite the two ladies having a clear use for him at least for the next hour or so. But as things turned out, the resulting photo-shoot went really well – in fact they resolved to use dead slaves more often, as they’re less annoying.

A classic from Cruella. And you can now download the originals, the stories in which are no less deliciously dismissive and brutal than my caption. Wonderful stuff.