There’s only one thing I wanna do

I wanna get back home to you. Yes, Servitor’s back!

Terrible pun? Yeah, I suppose it is: like I said, Servitor’s back. The material’s only going to get worse. It’s actually not Servitor’s back, in case you were wondering, but it looks like it belongs to someone almost as annoying.

So, normal service resumes. Oh… one small change. You’re probably all only too aware of the inflation that many countries have suffered over the last few years. Everything’s just going up, up, up. Well, I’m afraid Contemplating the Divine is no exception. I’ve tried to hold things as they are for as long as I can, but it’s time to reflect reality, so I regret to have to announce that from now on there will be six images in every post, not five.

I know, I know and I can only apologise. You’re just going to have to cope.

Most of the attractive guys have already been taken, I suppose.
Their champion in the high-heeled kickboxing would have won gold too, but she was unlucky enough to have a Russian male drawn as her target in the final, got a little over-excited and had to forfeit that match when the target died. Everyone sympathised but rules are rules. Her opponent, the Australian, deliberately kicked her own target to death when she saw what had happened, in a lovely display of sportswomanship, so they shared silver.
She’s not looking for an ally, more of a conquered subject.
He’s obviously having second thoughts, and they’re fine with that. My own SO always says that if ever I find the pain too much, I am welcome to regret doing whatever led to the whipping. And if it really gets unbearable, she always says I should tell her.

Mistress Sidonia and Lady Sophia Black, in the scene above, both quite wonderful. That’s quite in the sense of ‘very’ not in the sense of ‘just a little’. Why no link to Lady Sophia Black’s website, Twitter feed, Instagram or Only Fans profile you may ask? Because she has retired and the world is a sadder and less beautiful, if also less painful and humiliating, place as a result.

Usually they bring one over and grind it at your table, I understand.
His packets of condoms say ‘large’* so he’s always assumed…. well, anyway, Annie** set him straight as she has so many men.

* Although the stereotype is that condoms only come in sizes ‘large’, extra large’, ‘jumbo’ and so on (the point of the feeble joke in the caption if you didn’t get it – you’re welcome) there are actually condom manufacturers who specialise in the, erm… less over-developed male. Brands such as ‘Teenie peenies’, ‘It’s what you do with it that matters’, ‘Just right’ and of course ‘Fun-size’ are all condoms made to fit snugly on even the smallest… well, OK, maybe the second-smallest male out there. They’re quite expensive but the economics of the business are absolutely terrible: most of their clients will buy one or at most two packets in a lifetime, so they need to cover a lot of overhead. Fortunately, the cost of the rubber is very low – less than a fifth as much is used in the ones I buy as in the average-sized condom, they claim, which is environmentally very sound.

** Yeah, Annie. Instructions from Herself.

Unequal sex

It’s the best sort…

I read somewhere that the medical advice on stress has changed. It used to be seen as something for middle aged and older men to avoid, but apparently recent research has shown that repeated stress and anxiety can make men better at all sorts of useful things, that more than compensate for any loss of life expectancy.
If he’s worried about it dripping randomly, she can always bring the candle down closer for a more accurate aim.
I admire Sylvia’s idealism, but isn’t it about time we all just admitted that men are just too stupid for most modern jobs? I mean, nothing personal guys, but we all know it’s true, right? They’re even inventing artificial intelligence now, before the males of the species have managed the natural kind, so really I don’t see the point in trying to catch up. There are lots of things men are better at than women – mostly involving manual drudgery – as long as they’re firmly supervised, so isn’t that enough? Why just set yourself up to fail?
Always difficult, playing with amateurs. Oh well, how bad can it be?
He also consented to several amendments to that agreement, after a few days of marriage. Funny how there’s always a few things you didn’t think of, isn’t it?

…and two extras, why not, both inspired by a recent post by the femdom blogger-in-chief, Paltego on Femdom Resource.

Fettered access

The control collar was going on sooner or later, anyway. Married life will all be done ‘the hard way’ so why not the wedding ceremony too?
Don’t worry, you’re not taking advantage of the situation. You have permission to pay her double, too.
Everyone’s a critic.
Ooh – you’ll be the last one! I guess that makes you special. And they’ll probably try to make you last, too.
She’ll be OK. Everyone’s agreed there aren’t enough women in high-profile STEM jobs, nor enough men in menial and degrading positions.

Her opinions

 …although I share them, obviously, even the ones I haven’t been told about.


She’s taking this very casually at the moment, but don’t worry: I’m sure it’ll come up again in the next weekly reminder session.

Best to get it over quickly.  After all, the whole point of chastity play is the chastity, not the orgasms.  Some men don’t get that, at first.

Deniably, that is.  I’m sure she could think of many, many things he could die of, were it not for the pettifogging legal system.

As it turned out, he did indeed ‘experience fresh challenges while continuing to deepen his existing skill set’ in his session with Strict Madame Lydia, so that worked out well too.

She gets a lot of job satisfaction.  Not just the pain she gets to inflict, obviously, because she’s a professional with a keen interest in social rehabilitation.  No: it’s the humiliation and the misery, too.

Just the way she likes it

  and no other way.  Ever.

Don’t worry, she’s a very good shot.  She’ll hit exactly what she’s aiming at, nothing else.  

Respect doesn’t have to be mutual to be heartfelt.

I hope he’s appropriately grateful for her trusting, easygoing nature.  I think things might get quite difficult for him if she loses that.

Oh dear.  I hope she doesn’t feel too bad about letting her friend down like that.

I’m sure she’ll say yes.  She’s a very kind person and it wouldn’t hurt anyone to… well, you know what I mean.  She’s not going to say no to her girlfriend, is she?  That would be mean.

Inexorable romantics

You know, sometimes I think women use ‘You’re washing my hair that night’ as an excuse, when they don’t want to go out.  A bit like “Sorry, I’m just not in the mood to unlock you this month, I’ve got a headache.”

The glamorous life of an OWK Lady.  Tomorrow, she’ll be going out for a slow plod around the grounds atop a human pony. Thrilling stuff.

What a bit of luck that she decided to have a meathook fitted, when she moved in.

Don’t worry, she’s very experienced.  She’ll know exactly what to do.

And remember it’s a ‘fee’, not ‘tribute’, OK?  It’s still going to be a suitably large number, though.

So… do you remember my post a few weeks ago, suggesting that the divine Anya rocks a dominant, fetish fashion look slightly more often than one might expect? Well, of course, the trouble with making that sort of statement is that you just know she’s going to prove you wrong immediately by showing up to every event for the next six months or so in a succession of elegant but disappointingly vanilla outfits.  Yeah, that’s definitely what should have happened, by the law of averages, reversion to the mean, all that.

Only to be expected, I’m afraid.

Except she didn’t.

See if, in this picture from Michelle Yeoh’s recent Oscar celebration, you can spot a subtle difference in style between Goddess Anya’s look at and that of… oh all the people there who aren’t Anya, if you can bring yourself to waste any time looking at them.


What’s that?  You want to see more of her in the dress?  Yes, I expect you would – there are some at this link, others around. You like that sort of thing, being a pervert, right? That’s OK, we’re all perverts here.  But be warned, let’s keep those expectations realistic, yeah?  We all know what ‘femdom in mainstream’ fashion shots are like. Sadly, even when a glamorous actress puts on some kind of fetishy outfit, she’s still just going to pout for the camera in vanilla style, right?  I mean, sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not as if she’s going to be photographed in the kind of haughty dominatrix pose that you and I find exciting, right?




Romantically hers


What a nightmare.  That happened to me once, but fortunately the lady I’d been following was very kind and really nice about it.  I can’t say the same about my SO when I was finally handed back, but being kind and nice just isn’t her thing.

If it’s important, it’s worth discussing properly, right?

Here we go again.

The weird thing is, he had his tonsils out when he was a kid. Must have grown back, I suppose.  Things sometimes do, you know.

Probably she’ll just be lying in bed later, trying to get to sleep, and it’ll just pop into her head, just like that.  Or in the morning.  Whatever.

Speaking of subjective opinions, I’d be interested in any thoughts on Blogger/Blogspot’s new policy of requiring sign-in for adult-themed blogs like this (I’ve personally always thought that it’s best described as childish and immature rather than adult, but there you go…).  I hadn’t even noticed, as I’m permanently logged in, but a commenter on my mirror Tumblr site let me know.

You’re the wrong people to ask, really, because by definition you’re here so it hasn’t stopped you.  But it seems from Internet chatter to have happened around the start of February and my traffic stats do seem to have dropped in half, overnight.

Hmm.  It’s not too bad.  Many people have Google IDs and some won’t even notice, like me.  But it’s a shame if new people cannot get here from search engines and suchlike.  I looked into alternative places to blog a few years back, when there was a threat to block adult blogs entirely, and I set up my Tumblr site but I cannot move fully there because (a) it doesn’t allow nakedness and although unlike many adult blogs, I rarely feature fully undressed ladies, this blog has never had a problem with images of males in the natural animal state in which the Goddess created them, their vulnerable flesh reddening under a whip or goose-pimpling as they engage in vigorous productive outdoor activity on a crisp winter morning in the snow.  Sorry, where was I?  Oh yes: (b) Tumblr is basically a clip or photo-sharing site.  I need a blank sheet of paper to write stuff; I still occasionally write stories and so on. Tumblr is more like a social media ‘feed’ but this blog – like its author – is hopelessly stuck in the past and I want a web page people come to and ‘read’.

Any thoughts?

Hear her roar

 … and hear me squeak.

I’m not allowed to look my SO in the eye under any circumstances, so for that (and other) reasons this situation never arises for me.

Loving brutal domination… that hits the sweet spot (repeatedly, raising welts and leaving it throbbing and sore).

Hard to understand atheists who say there’s no such thing as a divine being, in a world on which Mistress Eleise walks among us.

I wouldn’t mind but it’s seven floors up and the male lift (‘elevator’, Americans but you knew that right?) has been out of action all week.

It’s odd how often I find myself begging my SO for mercy, when begging her for brutal and gleeful ferocity would be so much more likely to succeed.

It’s actually quite common for bridegrooms to feel a little nervous and apprehensive before giving up their their body and eternal soul to the control of a callous and evil witch the big day. Looks like she has a potion that will rob you of any means of resistance just the solution. I guess that’s you damned to an eternity of suffering and torment why you’re marrying her, right?

But there’s no sense crying over every mistake

So… a few years back I wrote two parts of a Serena and Alice story based on Portal, the truly wonderful game about jumping through transdimensional hoopy things.  And always intended to write a third part, maybe about using portals inside slaves’ bodies to make them into more effective human furniture, or something, I dunno.  But it never quite happened and so the story was left hanging, in a frustrating manner (and not ‘frustrating’ in a good way).

And last week someone left a comment on the second part, all the way back in 2018, asking where the third part is.  And that kind of shamed me (also not in a good way, although I do very much enjoy being shamed, in certain contexts) and inspired me finally to write Part 3.  So here we are, Serena and Alice, Thinking with Portals Part 3. 

Anyone not familiar with Serena and Alice might want to go and check out some of the previous ones.  Or just run away.  What follows contains scenes of extreme violence, non-consensual torture and murder, along with a lot of lesbian innuendo.  It’s a Serena and Alice story for goddess’ sake!  That’s what they do and they’re very good at it.  If you don’t like that sort of thing, don’t read it. And if you do like that sort of thing, you’re a despicable human being and probably a danger to society, just like me.

Here we go.

It’s hard to overstate my satisfaction

Thinking with Portals part 3 – a Serena and Alice story

The blonde schoolgirl stared down at the two figures before
her.  “What are you doing?”

A tall, dark-haired girl looked back up at her.  She was notionally dressed in the same school
uniform, but where the blonde somehow managed to fill out the costume in a traditional
– if cutely sexy – manner, she instead seemed to take an alternative slant on
every item, from the skirt slashed diagonally, via the tie being used as a
belt, to the asymmetrically-buttoned blouse. 
And where the blonde’s hair cascaded into golden curls, the dark hair
before her was slashed in random places – as if by a razor, which indeed it had
been.  She said nothing.

“You’re that weird goth-girl aren’t you?” the blonde
added.  “Why are you sitting on that

The other girl’s purple-highlighted eyes narrowed slightly.
“And you’re that blonde airhead.  One of
the ‘popular’ girls.”

She glanced down. 
Below her, occasionally wriggling slightly, was a figure in the male
version of that same uniform. He was lying flat on his front, the girl’s weight
pressing into the small of his back, his face smooshed onto the muddy gravel by the
ankle of one of her heavily booted feet resting on the back of his head. 

“I’m sitting on him because it’s more comfortable than
sitting on the ground.”

“Does he like it?”

The other one shrugged, causing the boy to yelp as her
weight must have pressed some bony part of his anatomy to the ground.

“Don’t think so.  A
few do – or they think they do until it gets serious.  But this one’s just scared of me.  Aren’t you, maggot!”

The ‘maggot’ sobbed a few indistinct words of

“I can make him do anything” she added,  “Anything at all.  Look.”

And she lifted her boot, extended her leg out, then scraped the heel back along the ground, building up  a mass of mud and gravel pieces, and continued scraping until the filthy mess was in contact with the boy’s lips.


Trembling lips closed around the slick, muddy mess and a
mouth frantically worked to remove it from the leather. 

“That’s bullying!” the blonde declared firmly.  “The school has a policy on bullying, you

“So do I” smiled the other. 
“This is it.”

The blonde smiled back uncertainly, not used to seeing a
happy expression on the face of the weird goth-girl that she and all her
‘popular’ friends had always avoided.

“Oh come on” the goth-girl said.  “Haven’t you ever thought about what you
would do if you had someone helpless – completely helpless?  And you could do anything you want to them?
Anything at all…?”

The blonde tossed her head proudly.  “I can get boys to do just about anything I
want anyway.” She said.  “Waiting for me,
falling in love… presents.” 

“I really like presents”, she continued, thoughtfully.

“This one never buys me presents” the seated girl
remarked.  “Because he never has any
money, because he gives his pocket money to me on the day he gets it.  Don’t you, maggot?”

Her seat gurgled his assent, apparently trying to swallow a
particularly troublesome lump of gravel.

“So… so, OK.” the blonde nodded.  She could see the point of that. “And you
don’t even have to have sex with them?”

“I don’t really like sex with boys” the other replied.  She looked up, again.

“Not with boys” she repeated.

The blonde wasn’t paying much attention, her gaze fixed on
the brutalised boy, who was now frantically licking the seam of the boot before
him, trying to restore it to the pristine condition it had been in before it
had been used to scrape up his indigestible meal.

“I suppose you could… could make them do sex the way you
wanted it, instead of the way they like it” she murmured thoughtfully.  “Using their tongues more, for instance.  For longer.”

“I mean, not this one obviously” she added, wrinkling her
shapely nose in disgust at the blackened tongue.  “Not after where that’s been.”

“Plenty more of them.” the other replied disdainfully.  “Honestly, there’s no shortage of males in
this world – nasty brutish things.  But
you know, girls have tongues too.  And
they taste nicer.  How about letting me
show you?”

She shuffled back slightly on the boy’s back, to make enough
space for a second person.  They boy,
realising what was about to happen, started taking deep breaths as if
oxygenating his bloodstream for a deep dive under the ocean.

“Well, I’m not sure” the blonde replied, but, rather
uncertainly, she stepped over the prostrate form, took the other girl’s
proffered hand and lowered herself onto the waiting back.

“Whoops” she cried out, toppling sideways, but an arm reached
out quickly to grab her waist, steadying her and bringing her back
upright.  And then remained around her

“I’m not a lesbian, you know” she remarked, primly.

“How do you know? 
Have you ever had sex with a girl?”

“Well… no.”

“That’s probably why, then. 
I wasn’t a lesbian either, before I had a sex with a girl.  That’s how you become one – let me show you.”

“Well… maybe just a kiss. 
Erm…. Look, sorry but I don’t actually know your real name.  I just think of you as ‘weird goth girl’.”

“Serena.” smiled the other, pulling her closer.  “And I think I know your name, little blonde
airhead, but I’d love to hear you say it as I kiss those lips.”

“Alice.  I’m – oh! –
I’m Alice.”

As they leaned into their embrace, and the male below
struggled helplessly to breathe, two shadowy figures vanished in an orange flash behind the nearest bike stand, with an eerie whooshing noise, leaving behind a sharp smell of ozone.
But, engrossed in one another, neither girl noticed any of these things.

“That was amazing!” shrieked Alice happily, tumbling
out of the blue-edged time portal in Serena’s laboratory.  “How do you turn portals into a time

Serena smiled indulgently. 
She thought about quantum entanglement, about paired sets of particles
separated through proximity to the event horizon of a minuscule artificial
black hole she had held stable, for the microseconds before it dwindled to nothing from the Hawking
radiation into which its mass had to turn; she thought about the particle accelerator extending out
for miles around the underground facility, in which one of each pair of
particles, accelerated to near the speed of light, found itself separated in
time and space from its stationary counterpart, while still in a deeper sense
remaining adjacent to it in all these dimensions. About manipulation of matter
at the subatomic level, using techniques far in advance of any other
nanotechnology, to seed the paired particles into the matter of a pair of
transdimensional portals…

She thought about these things and also thought about Alice,
about her sparkling blue eyes and her cascading blonde curls.

“Science” she replied. 


Readers interested in trying to reproduce Serena’s time machine might want to make use of some of the sciencey maths sums on the board behind this lovely lady.  I’m not saying it will work, but it can’t hurt your chances.  No idea who the delightful auburn-haired lady is… maybe one of Serena and Alice’s friends?  They do have friends, after all; they don’t spend their whole time torturing males and fucking each other, you know.  No more than 95% of their time in fact… 97, tops.


“And you really were such a goth girl!” Alice
giggled.  “I’d forgotten.  Purple eye-shadow, Doc Marten
boots… the works.”

“Just a phase” Serena replied, slightly put out.  “Anyway, I met a little blonde airhead who
made me happy.  And you can’t really keep
doing the goth thing if you’re happy – doesn’t work.  I still like The Cure, though.”

“And wasn’t I cute!” Alice gasped.  “Oh my god… I could so have fucked

“So could I – and I did, just two days later, remember? –
but, you know, I actually prefer the slightly curvier look of you now…” began
Serena, but Alice wasn’t listening.

Instead, she seemed to be thinking hard, her pretty brow
furrowed as it always did when she carried out this out-of-character task.

“Hey” she said slowly. 
“We could go and visit me.  Or
you!  I could fuck two of you at the same
time.  I’d like that!”

“But I’d really, really like to fuck myself.” she added,
wistfully.  “Can we?  Please?”

Serena had been thinking too, as soon as she saw where her
friend’s mind was going.  Serena could
think a lot faster than Alice and in any event, had thought of all of this long
before and had even tried it out.  So she had
thought a lot more things in the same time, before Alice had formulated her question. Disturbing

“Multiple us-es” she smiled. 
“Maybe not quite such a good idea. Imagine if there were two Serenas and
one had to watch the other kissing you. 
You know how jealous I get and when I get jealous I become. – “

“Homicidally violent” Alice nodded.  She didn’t know much about science but she
understood Serena and although she loved
her more than anyone or anything in the world, she felt certain that one Serena
was quite dangerous enough, for the world and everyone in it except Alice
herself.  Two or even more was a
terrifying prospect.

“But multiple Alices would be OK, though” she pleaded.  “We’d just have sex,  Lots and lots and lots of sex.  Come on – wouldn’t you like to watch me
kissing myself?  Wouldn’t you like to be
kissed by two of me – we could kiss you in different places at the same time.”

Serena tried to suppress thoughts of how much she would like
that.  She remembered a bedroom, the
flash of orange light as a portal appeared, a delighted cry as one Alice
recognised herself in the other.  The
wild, passionate sex, the extraordinary things that Alice could do to her being
done to her twice, multiple times… she remembered all of that and found herself
breathing heavily.

But she also remembered the demands for more Alices.  That if sex with two Alices was amazing,
imagine how sex with four would be.  Or
more… please?  Pleeease?

And she remembered two pairs of blue eyes gazing pleadingly
at her, and how much harder it was to resist than when only one pair did that.  And realised – just before pressing the
button to bring another pair of Alices into this universe – how much harder still
it would be to resist four pairs of pleading eyes.

And she remembered envisaging the exponential curves, as
four delighted, squealing orgasming Alices became eight, then sixteen, then
thirty-two and how Serena’s capacity for rational thought – normally superlative but liable to turn to goo when confronted with those dancing
blonde curls – would collapse and the button would be pressed and pressed
again, and the pile of writhing, gasping Alices would grow and grow until the
mass of sexually insatiable Alices began to generate its own gravity field and
the Earth itself crumbled into the event horizon created by a near-infinite replication
of her pretty girlfriend – and she remembered staying her hand and not pressing
the button.

Because, vicious, vindictive and mass-murdering though she
was, Serena did not actually want the world to end. As long as it still had
males in it to torture to death – and as long as it still had Alice, of course
– she rather liked the world.  So with a
supreme effort, she had said no, even when both golden-curled heads tossed so
very fetchingly in annoyance and disappointment.  Serena, she who could watch acid burning off
the entirety of a man’s flesh, layer by layer, while sipping tea and taking
notes, had to suppress that memory rapidly, with a shudder.  Strong as she was, there were things even she
could not bear.

“Not possible” I’m afraid., she replied brightly.  “It would create a paradox.  Two Alices, occupying the same position, in
time and space…”

“Well, not exactly the same position” Alice said, coyly.  “See, I was thinking that I could
go between your legs, while the other Alice…”

 “…in time and space”
continued Serena, loudly, “that would break the laws of causality.  What you do to the other Alice would be done
to you – in a sense – and –“

“I know: that’s the point.”

“…and if you’ve done something to yourself before the other
one remembers doing it to you, then how can your other self not remember doing
it, when she comes to do it?  When she’s
you?  A paradox, you see?”

Alice was staring at her blankly. 

“Paradox” said Serena, again.  She briefly wondered whether Alice knew what
a paradox was. 

“I mean it’s against the laws of physics.” she added.

“But I don’t care about the laws of physics!”
retorted Alice, near tears.  “I just want
to fuck myself.  It’s not as if we care
about other laws, is it?  I mean,
kidnapping and torturing and murdering men must be against a whole bunch of
laws, too, right?  I mean, I haven’t checked
but it must be.  And that’s never stopped
us.  Please?”

“The laws of physics are different” began Serena,
weakly.  And then she had a brainwave.

“Plus, obviously, if there were two Alices each would
only get half the number of presents” she added, casually.  “I mean, that’s just arithmetic: more Alices, fewer presents per Alice.  If two Alices were given a pair
of gold ear-rings, for example, oh… say with inlaid rubies, they could each only have one. 
Although, I suppose
they could share them… take turns…”

“No, no you’re right.” Alice said, quickly.  “Quite right. 
That would be awful… imagine having to share presents.  I mean, even with myself.”  She shuddered.

“And there’s those laws of physics to consider.” she
added.  “Mustn’t break those. And all
the paradoxes, the nasty things.”

“Exactly” sighed Serena, making a mental note to compel
someone to buy a very expensive pair of ear-rings. Gold, with rubies.  “And you know… I’m very happy with just the
Alice I’ve got.  She’s perfect.  Now – how about I show you a few tricks with

And the two friends spent a happy afternoon discovering
ever-new ways of using time travel to inflict pain and suffering on males,
perhaps because the author realised that readers of Contemplating the Divine
might actually want a bit of femdom content, for goddess’ sake, in what has otherwise been
essentially a lesbian love story,* with some slightly ropey science attached.


Aliceworld (in this image Alice is played by an actress who looks a bit like her).  OK, I’ll admit there are worse possible fates for the planet but it’s probably still better not to risk it.

Alice giggled as her friend turned a dial and the genitals
of the restrained male before them turned old and wizened, trapped as they were
by a thin band of time portal in an era when this body had become 90 years old**.  Then she turned the dial the other way and
after a brief spell as a healthy adult male organ, the penis shrank back into a
twig-like state and the balls lifted up into the helpless male’s crotch.”

“Aww… like a liddle boy” mocked Alice and blew the man the
sort of kiss that could usually raise at least a twitch in the adult male organ
– but of course could do nothing for the pee-pee of a six year-old.

They spent a few hours watching the Spanish Inquisition at
work, Serena taking careful notes about the operation of the rack, before
returning to their present with the inquisitors themselves.

“I suppose they’d be interested to see how torture
technology has progressed in the last few centuries” Alice remarked, as she
watched the last of them being lowered automatically into his holding cell,
shrieking in terror and fury in a mixture of Spanish and Latin, about devils,
witches and (she-) demons.

“We could give them a thorough demonstration this Saturday.”
nodded Serena.  “I expect they’ll be
quite impressed.  Still… they knew how to
make a rack back then.  Did you hear when
the tendons around his knee snapped?”

“Pop!” shouted Alice, delightedly.  “I love it when that happens. And the
screaming of course. What’s next?”

What was next turned out to be two naked males, in a largely
bare room.  One was strapped to a table
and had obviously been the recipient of Serena’s attention for some
time already.  What remained of his body was
covered in small bloodied cuts and, more importantly, what remained of his body
was not that much. Many of his extremities were missing or had large chunks chopped
out of them.  The other male appeared to
be unharmed, seated in a high chair affording him an excellent view of the
torture victim, a view that he could not avoid because his neck and head were
strapped into a steel contraption that forced him to gaze in a prescribed
direction and his eyes, behind transparent plastic lenses of saline solution,
were clipped open.  Alice had seen this
before: it was the set-up Serena used when she thought it was important that a
boy should see something that he might otherwise be too terrified to look at.

Serena went over to the quivering bloodied torso and held up
a small steel object with pride.

“All done with just one pair of pliers!” she declared,
flexing her palm to show the blades – which cannot have been longer than one
and half centimetres – opening and closing.

“I thought it would be fun to limit myself just to these,
you see.  Like an artist – another
artist, I mean, a different kind of artist from me – limiting herself to
just one brush or some such.  And it was
really interesting.  Obviously, working
steadily up the joints of each finger was straightforward  – that’s what these are really for, after all
– but then for example the larger limb parts presented quite a challenge.  It took ages to do this knee for instance”
she said, gesturing casually to the bloodied stump of one leg, where splinters
of twisted and crudely cut bone stuck out of raggedly-abused flesh in which, indeed, each
zig and each zag was no longer than the blades of the pair of pliers.

Alive clapped politely.

“And what about him, then?” she asked, gesturing to the
uninjured male in the chair.

“Is he next?”

Serena chuckled.

“In a way, yes.  Look
closely at this one’s face.”

Alice leaned over the savaged bloody mess that had once been
a face, and looked with interest, then glanced back at the figure in the chair.

Reader, if at this point you expect Alice to say something
like “Oh, they’re very similar, are they brothers?” then I must disappoint you.  Alice is a little ignorant of certain
scientific, historical, geographical, astronomical, literary and other matters (although she
has unparalleled expertise in certain specific aspects of biology) but she is
not stupid.  She got it immediately.

“Ooh! This – “ and she indicated the bloodied mess – “ is
the future him.” and pointed to the immobile figure high in his

 Serena smiled.  “That’s right.  He’s seeing his future.  I’ve been working on him on and off for a few
weeks now; there’s probably a few weeks to go. 
He gets videos to review on days when his future self isn’t being
tortured too, so when I send him back to his own time he’ll have a really
excellent knowledge of exactly what will happen.  Then from time to time I visit his cell and
bring him here and strap him down.  And
on one of those times – it might be the first, it might be the hundredth –
it’ll start.” 

“So he’ll see his own death?” Alice asked.  “That would be spooky, wouldn’t it?  I don’t think I’d like that.”

To her surprise her friend shook her head.  “I don’t want to give him the comfort of
knowing when he’ll die.  You might
not want to know when you’ll die, but it’s different for them, on the torture
bench, because it’s the one thing they have to look forward to; the thing they
long for more than anything else in the world.”

“No.  When he’s not
much more than a cube of living, hurting flesh, I’ll stop and it’ll be for his
former self to imagine how long he has to endure in that state until his body
grants him the privilege of non-existence.”

This was all a bit philosophical for Alice, who was looking
again at the face of the moaning torture victim.

“You haven’t done the eyes yet.  Can we do an eye?  It must be tricky with the pliers… they’re so
small. I mean, I suppose we could just stab and gouge it out with the blades
together, but it seems a bit too easy for him.” 
She paused.

“Hey!  How about if we
snipped around his eyeball?  Instead of
gouging the eyeball out, we could snip away all the bony bits holding it in,
one at a time.  Would that work?”

“Clever you!” Serena said. “I’d been wondering how to do the
eyes.  How about you do the cutting too –
I’ll hold his eyelids out to start with, while you snip them off.”

And she handed her friend the pliers and the two happily
went to work, accompanied by the screams of the victim, whose tongue had long
since been too lacerated to allow human speech but whose vocal chords were in
perfect condition for the screaming they so often had to do.  Perhaps through the agony he dimly
remembered, too, seeing the same scene from outside, from high up in the chair
where his former self watched, every snip, every twisted off bone, every gouge
cut in quivering flesh adding to his stock of dread for his inevitable fate.

“You’d think someone who gave his name to the practice of ‘masochism’ would be better at it.” complained Alice, as they entered the orange portal to return to the 21st century. “And a bit more grateful when someone takes the trouble to show him how femdom techniques developed after his time.”

“Those who can, do, those who can’t, tech” shrugged Serena.  “Have you tried this Sachertorte?”

A memory (with Alice once again played by an actress – a different one this time) from the ladies’ trip to meet William Tell. I didn’t write this one up, because Alice was embarrassed about her poor archery skills, although I think she didn’t do too badly.  Most of her shots were fairly close and she did manage squarely to hit the apple on her 23rd go.

Later, in bed, the two reflected on their day.

“You know”, Alice said, “I don’t really see the point in
time travel.  I mean, it was fun but
there are lots of other ways to torture boys. 
And those history trips were OK, but you can watch a movie instead, and that’s
often … I dunno… more exciting.  Except
maybe when we went to that sunny country, where they were nailing guys to those
wooden things… that was nice, and they don’t show those bits in movies, not

“You mean, when we witnessed the crucifixion of Christ?”
Serena replied, quietly.

“Yeah, that.” Alice replied. 
“Like that Mel Gibson thing.  That
was all right, I suppose.  But what I
mean, is that I don’t see the point of trying to change the past.  Why would we want to do that, when it’s all
been so good?”

“I suppose some people might have regrets… might want to go
back and change things so their lives worked out better.” Serena replied.  “Try to warn their former selves about
mistakes they will make.”

“I expect most of the males who’ve ever met me would very
much like to do that, actually.” she reflected.

“Yes, but that’s not us, is it?  That’s them, and they don’t matter.  Except as slaves and pain-toys. But I mean,
even people who don’t end up being enslaved and tortured might want to
go back and change things… give them some information that might make their
former selves money, for instance, which – “

“Which would reverse the principle of causation and thus
endanger the integrity of the universe.” Serena reminded her.

“Yeah, right.  But
even if we could, we wouldn’t want to, would we?  I mean, you don’t need any money; you haven’t
since the day that mysterious woman appeared and gave you those winning lottery
numbers, and you used the jackpot to buy your first lab and invent stuff and become
a billionaire, right?  So why would we go
back? Life’s perfect and it has been ever since we met.”

“That’s right” Serena replied, thinking it might be best not
to dwell too long on the mysterious stranger she had met soon after leaving
school.  “Best not to mess with causative
reality, anyway.”

“Cos of the platypuses” Alice murmured, resting her head
against Serena’s chest and closing her eyes.

“Paradoxes” smiled Serena, kissing her friend’s golden locks and wondering whether her girlfriend had been imagining the world being over-run by scurrying Australian beaver-like animals throughout the earlier discussion of temporal causal loops.

She gazed down at her fondly.  Alice was no intellectual, but she had a deep
reserve of common sense that Serena knew she could rely on.  Her friend was right, of course.  She, Serena, was wealthier than any human in
history, had hundreds of men locked away trembling in terror at the very
thought of her and she could do anything she wanted – anything at all, just as
she had dreamed of, when bullying boys at school. Few people in history had ever
experienced sadistic desires to match hers, but surely none even of those had
ever had the opportunity to put their every vicious desire into practice on such an
endless number and variety of unwilling victims. 
Truly, she was blessed,  And above
all, she had Alice: beautiful, wise and sexually insatiable. 

Why travel into the past, when your life today is perfect?

“Light off” she commanded quietly, and in a neighbouring
room two sweating slaves on stationary bicycles came to an exhausted halt and
the lights in the bedroom dimmed to darkness. 
And Serena settled back, her lover’s head heavy on her chest, and fell
into a contented, deep sleep.



In the middle of the night, Serena stirred into
consciousness, awoken by an insistent prodding at her shoulder.

“But hang on!  If we
can duplicate Alices by bringing them from another time or universe, why can’t
we do the same with presents?  Then
there’d be enough to go around no matter how many of me there are!



*Remember this is Serena we are talking about.  Anything she finds ‘disturbing’ can safely be
assumed to be very, very bad indeed.

**But that of course is the secret of the Serena and Alice
tales.  Each one, though it may include
graphic descriptions of the most stomach-turning torture, twisted and vicious
illustrations of the extremes of woman’s utter inhumanity to man culminating in
the agonies of multiple lonely meaningless deaths, is at its heart a love
story.  A rom-com, if you like, but one
featuring charred flesh, splintered bones, gouged eyes, and the desperate echoing screams of the lover’s doomed victims. 
Notting Hill, eat your heart out.

*** Another paradox, if you will, as there is obviously
no way that any male under Serena’s control would make it to a ripe old age
like that – unless being subjected to some very long-running torture (she is
proud of having used her time machine to set up a “slow drip” experiment in which a hot beaker of tar drips onto
awaiting male flesh no more often than once two or three years.  It has been running for over thirty years already).

… oh and a little vignette of an extra tale, for those who have read down this far.  Since we’re on the theme of parallel universes…

“I’m not sure, Mistress”, W said, nervously eyeing the futuristic headset.  “I’ve tried a couple of VR things before and they’re just mainstream porn – pounding away at a gasping naked girl just isn’t my thing, you know?”

“Oh just relax, W” Mistress Valerie tutted.  “Honestly, it’s bad enough you shrieking like a little girl every time I tap you with a paddle… just try this, OK?  Even though you’ll feel everything, it can’t do you any real harm, you know that.  And I promise it’ll be kinky enough – in fact, I guarantee it.  You’ll see.”

So W lay back and let his Mistress fit the complicated apparatus over his head, then watched her attach the various tubes and cables to the control equipment.  She pressed a few buttons and W flinched in fear as he felt the nanotubes snake into his flesh, to bury themselves deep inside his brain, but – coward though he was – he trusted his long-standing Mistress and had let her secure his wrists before she started.  She patted his hand reassuringly.

“Now… you’ve got an exit, like a safeword.  Your wrists are secured but if you get worried, you can just tap the index and middle finger of your right hand together three times and you’ll come straight back, OK?  Now… are you ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.  Erm… if I may, what’s the theme of the fantasy you’ve chosen for me?”

“But that’s the point, W.  I don’t choose.  It just looks inside your mind, finds a fantasy that you find exciting and makes it real for you.  So it’s bound to be something you like, you see?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so Mistress” W said, as the real world started to fade, to be replaced with the inputs from his new neural connections.

“Only…” he had a sudden thought.  “Mistress, no!  Wait!  Please!  Some of my fantasies are a bit – “

But it was too late.  W found himself in a clinical white space, still apparently secured to a couch.  He saw a young woman seated in front of him, blonde curls cascading around her perfect face, her big blue eyes staring right at him.  She was the most beautiful girl W had ever seen.  But something about her expression alarmed him.

Then he became aware of another woman standing by his side, dark-haired this time, wearing a lab coat.  She seemed to be fixing something onto the fingers of his right hand, holding his index and middle fingers in a rigid V-shape, unable to move.  W felt a stab of dread in his stomach.

“Hello ‘Servitor'”, smiled Serena, looking down at him.  “We’ve both been so looking forward to meeting you, after all this time and all those things you wrote about us.  Haven’t we, Alice?”

A bit of harmful fun

Some might say it’s too late for that but every little helps.

“Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.”

OK, so it seems I’ve used this one before.  Extra captioned image now posted below, with thanks to an anonymous commenter who isn’t femsup for spotting it.  If it’s any consolation, seven of the forty-three clauses in that contract do have that exact same text – just to make sure.


Makes a change from the more traditional British party games, like ‘Musical gimp’.’Spin the gimp’ or (my personal least favourite) ‘Pin the tail on the gimp.’


Sometimes the wisest thing for our forces of law and order to do is to hold back and watch the males truly fuck things up, as only a male can.  Teachable moment, here.




Another teachable moment.  What an educational post it’s been today.  See you next time.


Or see you right now for that extra image I promised!


Apparently it works better than caffeine.


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