Oh-oh here she comes, watch out or she’ll do you in

Bow your mulleted heads down in homage before the power-suited Goddess-Lady Lucia, because we are once again taking a trip down the haziest of memory lanes to that time that fashion might well prefer to forget: the 1980s.

Don’t forget, you can buy the real things (Mistress and Vixen) here.

Letters

Dear Lady Lucia

I adore the depictions of males brought down to their proper place in the world in the pages of your magazine!  Progress is slow, but I feel there are increasing signs of this change happening in the outside world too. But there are still male chauvinist pigs around.

For about six months I have been working in an office in which there are far too many such beasts – and the arrival of a new colleague finally gave us ladies the courage to tackle their behaviour.  Gloria is her name, a powerful West Indian lady. On her very first day we warned her about Fergus, one of the worst office pests, whose constant obsession is with trying to peek up the skirts of the women working in the office – and boasting to his mates about any glimpses he manages to capture.

Sure enough, later that same day Fergus stopped by the typing pool, glanced at Gloria and immediately came out with a comment that was not only disgustingly chauvinist, but racially prejudiced to boot, along the lines of wanting to go on an expedition to ‘discover the Dark Continent’. To my and the other girls’ surprise – as we had her down as something of a termagant – Gloria just giggled and glanced away.

Towards the end of the day, when my friend Katie and I were packing up to go, the phone rang from an internal number. It was Gloria – who I’d assumed had already departed – calling from just outside a store room in the basement. Down we went, to find her sitting in the middle of a largely empty room, atop a figure bound up with parcel tape. We could not see his face, because that was concealed entirely underneath Gloria’s skirt-clad bottom, but it was obviously Fergus. Muffled sounds of protest were audible and he was wriggling away, but Gloria seemed to have him well under control.

“I thought I’d show him what was up there, as he seemed so curious!” Gloria smiled. “I don’t think he can see much, though: it’s quite dark.”

She eased herself up, and we saw Fergus’s red face, suddenly gulping air and blinking in the light. “YOU FUCKING BI – “ he began, but Gloria’s arse coming down on his face stifled the last word.

“And there I was, thinking he needed a chance to breathe.” she grumbled. “Apparently not, if he still had breath for being obnoxious.”  She settled herself further.

Once again, Fergus struggled ineffectually. Then he seemed to become calmer, then suddenly began jerking about frantically.

“Ah, now he’s running short of oxygen” Gloria remarked with satisfaction.

“You will, umm… stop before he actually…?” Katie asked nervously.

“Oh sure” Gloria replied carelessly, riding her desperately bucking bronco with aplomb. “They can take a lot of suffocation before any harm is done – not that brain damage would make much difference to Filthy Fergus here.”

Again she eased herself up and this time, Fergus wisely confined himself to gulping in as much air as possible before gasping “No, please!” as nemesis in the form of a huge bottom descended once more.

Gloria leaned forward and unbuckled his belt.  “Could you pull his trousers and pants down?  I can’t really reach.”

Giggling, Katie and I did just that – to expose the tiniest, saddest looking little percy I’ve ever seen. 

“That’s better” Gloria said. “I think he had a little stiffie – a very little stiffie – when we came in.  But let’s just make sure.” She nodded to a carboard box on top of which lay a staple gun. “Do you want to just fasten it neatly away?”

Katie was too squeamish, and I would have felt the same had I not suddenly remembered the occasion on which Fergus had gleefully told the other young men in the office about a pair of purple panties he had caught sight of by going down on all fours in front of me to pick up a pen (in fact, they had not been purple but dark rose but I was hardly going to correct him). I blushed much the same colour at the memory and picked up the device.

It was evident that Fergus was not Jewish, as he had a good long fold of skin available for stapling, in his shrunken condition. I gingerly held his cock in position and tried to staple it to his thigh. It didn’t really work, as everything was too soft and squishy and the first few goes did nothing but raise red marks and little spots of blood on his foreskin. Oh – and some wild shrieking and thrashing about, ably managed by Gloria who was encouraging me to press on.  Eventually I overcame my reluctance enough to hold the nasty thing firmly enough against the thigh to go straight through, although it didn’t stick.

“Have to get an industrial stapler next time” Gloria remarked. “I’m sure they’ll have one in the Post Room.”

Finally, she got up and extracted a promise from Fergus to tell nobody about this and to mend his ways, which he agreed to with alacrity.  Then she removed just enough tape from one arm for him to be able to unwrap the rest and we left him there. I was worried that he would get us into trouble – he was a nasty piece of work and what we had just done was surely a sackable offence at the least, if not criminal. But Gloria just laughed, said she’d had experience of these things, and she knew when she had someone firmly under her thumb. Or under some other part of her anatomy.

Sure enough, she was right. Fergus called in sick the next two days and when he did finally slink into the office, he tried to avoid the typing pool completely.  But Gloria wasn’t having that. When it was eleven, she called out “Fergus!” in a booming voice and he reluctantly sidled over.

“Three teas” she commanded, without looking at him, and Fergus wretchedly went to fetch them. Like many explorers, it seems, he had returned from his long and arduous trip to the Dark Continent a wiser and more careful man.

Now, I must go.  The box of one hundred bulldog clips of assorted sizes that Gloria ordered from Stationery has arrived, and Mr ‘Handy’ Thomas the Regional Sales Manager is about to find out what a pinched bottom really feels like!

In Sisterhood

Iris, Katie and the typing pool at ‘a well known home appliance company’.

Gloria sounds… glorious and I hope that you and Katie take inspiration (an activity long denied to Fergus in the boxroom, ha ha) from her example. More and more women are asserting their rights in the workplace. I myself briefly had an ‘office job’ as PA to a businessman and was shocked at the way I was treated: expected to turn up on time, do actual work, not slap him and so on. Fortunately I was able to make the Manager understand that my presence in his squalid establishment was a favour, not an obligation, and that my role was to bring meaning and discipline to his otherwise pointless and feckless existence. We also renegotiated the salary scale, as it is simply absurd that a businessman in his fifties should earn more than an unqualified but drop-dead gorgeous nineteen year-old. Even with these amendments I decided the life wasn’t for me, so quit after a few weeks – only to discover he had had the affrontery to stop paying me, just because I was no longer employed there! I soon sorted that out, I can tell you. But I can see it will be a long time before women are given their proper recognition in every workplace.  Good luck to you all.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I tremble in awe at your power and beauty as displayed in every edition of this wonderful magazine. I was wondering if this humble slave of yours could be permitted to show its devotion by enduring a period of effective imprisonment at your whim. I have purchased a strong chain and a padlock and intend to secure myself, naked, in the hall of my house, where I can reach any packages pushed through the letter box, a week’s supply of food but little else. Do I have your permission to post you the padlock keys, go home and click the padlock closed and await my release after whatever period of punishment You might see fit to impose?

Yours in trembling anticipation.

Prisoner of Lucia

Sure, moron, you go ahead. What could possibly go wrong, after all? Just send the keys – and some stamps to cover the return postage obviously – to the P.O. Box number listed at the end of the magazine. Or any other P.O. Box number you like, for that matter.  G-L. L.

Respected Lady Editor, Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have long been an avoid reader of your magazine, as I find the thought of being punished by beautiful, disdainful young women [‘ladies’.  G-L. L.] extremely exciting. I can hardly wait, when a new edition comes out, to thumb through it to look at the pictures of sexy young leather-clad beauties.  I also thrill to the stories, especially those featuring bondage and humiliation.

However, I do not mean to criticise [Don’t then. Idiot. G-L.L] but there is one theme you often feature, the attraction of which is quite lost on me and which seems to be published more frequently these days. I refer to stories featuring older ladies, either with no hint of sexual activity or in which the male participant is forced unwillingly to ‘service’ these older ladies.

The story Securing An Inheritance is a perfect example of such a tale, as the unfortunate Edward’s Governess Latham is clearly well into her sixties. The punishments he receives have no sexual connotations – for me at least. If anything, they merely bring back very unpleasant memories.

I had had a troubled schooling by my late teens [Oh, here we go. Always about themselves, with men, isn’t it? G-L. L.] and as my mother could not afford to send me to a boarding school, she arranged with a retired lady teacher, Mrs McLeod, to provide me with additional schooling, two evenings and all day Saturday every week. A dour Scottish lady, Mrs McLeod was an evil, brutal old tyrant. Her usual form of discipline was the tawse, on the hands.  This implement features often in your publication so I suppose some readers find the thought of it arousing, but I can assure you and them that there is nothing the least bit erotic about such hard thongs of leather cracking across shaking outstretched palms. The pain is simply brutal: an explosion of agony that leaves no room for thought of anything but pain, often producing a howl and breathless, gasping sobs.

Furthermore, unlike a miscreant strapped over a whipping bench, or a slave chained to a post, the recipient has to cooperate in the punishment, holding hands out flat.  If the hand is too far back, the tips of the tawse catch the fingers leaving them sore and bruised for days. Too far forward and the wrist gets it – and a big purple bruise appears and is not fully gone by the time of the next treatment, in my experience! Cup the hands and the tips of the fingers get smashed, splay too much and the skin is tight and the bones uncushioned…. So the hand must be held steady in just the right position, with no flinching – when flinching away from the awful pain to come is the natural, instinctive human reaction. And if these conditions are not met, in full? If the blow is considered ‘unsatisfactory’ despite the agonising pain inflicted? Then it is taken again. And if it is ‘unsatisfactory’ a second time, turn around and bend over for a stroke of the tawse across each thigh (sorry to disappoint prurient readers but my shorts were never removed during sessions with Mrs McLeod).  From my description of the pain of taking the tawse on the palms, one might ask why not simply accept the strokes across the thigh instead? Oh, because they are additional, not alternatives! Once they are received, one must straighten up, turn around to face one’s merciless punisher and meekly hold out the hand to receive – finally – the stroke that was due.

Mrs McLeod rarely awarded me more than six – three on each hand. Perhaps your readers fantasising of 24-stroke thrashings may consider that mild, but I can assure them it was quite enough, especially as I usually needed several ‘repeats’ and would almost always turn around and bend over at least once. On one occasion, I was so overcome with the pain, having had at least fourteen on the palms and ten across the thighs, that Mrs McLeod disgustedly called it a day and telephoned my mother to let her know she would be keeping me overnight to start all over again in the morning. You can imagine the night I spent (after being sent to bed with no more than a slice of dry bread for supper), hands and thighs throbbing with pain, sobbing in terror at the thought of the morning.  No doubt in an erotic story, Mrs McLeod would have visited my room and introduced me to the womanly arts, or humiliated me by making me masturbate before her.  In my reality, I think she made herself a mug of cocoa and turned in early. I could hear her snoring from two rooms away, as she passed an untroubled night before resuming her work in the morning.  On waking I had the distinctly unpleasant experience of seeing her in an old night-dress, with curlers in her hair, before experiencing the infinitely more unpleasant sensation of a tawsing on already-bruised hands.

At least in Securing An Inheritance, Edward is finally married off to his governess’s niece, after she came to stay. Even if his new wife did invite her aunt to remain in the same household as them, there would presumably have been some kind of sexual activity, even if Edward remained firmly under female control. [Of course there would have been sexual activity, but not of the heterosexual kind. You don’t imagine she was really the Governess’s niece, do you? G-L. L.].  There are so many others, including your long-running series Malcolm’s Aunts which just consists of one unpleasant-sounding old lady after another finding endless fault with the lad and hitting him with one implement or another.  I hope that the introduction of young Daisy, in the last instalment, will bring a change of theme and perhaps a punisher I could imagine finding exciting?  [It was going to, but now you have written this I have instructed the author to dispatch Daisy to Australia. Instead, he will introduce a new, even older character to the cast of Malcolm’s tormentors: Great-Aunt Augusta. I hope you don’t enjoy a word of it. G-L. L.]

In short, Goddess-Lady, I do wonder who could possibly find these tales of old women [ladies… G-L.L.] whacking unfortunate lads erotic. I can only assume that any men misguided enough to do so, have never experienced the real thing in its full horror. Of course, it is up to you what you print [Oh, thank you so much! G-L. L.] but this reader at least would be happy if no elderly aunt (or nun – I’m thinking of St Ursula’s Convent School for Boys!) ever again appeared in the pages of your otherwise wonderful magazine.

Yours respectfully

Peter

Where to start?? You address me as ‘respected’ and conclude ‘respectfully’ and then fill the space between the two with a pile of the most disrespectful, impertinent and self-centred drivel it has ever been my displeasure to read. To make just one point, as obviously attempting to follow a full rebuttal would stretch your tiny brain to its breaking point, more than one person might be achieving an erotic experience when an ‘old woman’ whacks an ‘unfortunate lad’. Your assumption – your sexist, arrogant and bumptious assumption – is that only the young lad’s libido needs to be considered. I can assure you, I know many ladies of a certain age, and of a certain age beyond that, who find intense sexual pleasure in beating ‘unfortunate lads’. I suspect that your unpleasant and painful weekly visit to Mrs McLeod was for her a source of great joy, bringing pleasure to her later years. Her ‘educational methods’ sound thoroughly sadistic to me and, after all, do not seem to have resulted in your learning anything like literary style, brevity or common sense, so it seems to me almost certain that your suffering was largely inflicted for her pleasure.

Does that make you feel better about it? And do you think I care whether it does or not? For my part, I intend to live out my twilight years as an ‘evil, brutal old tyrant’ lashing out with my heavy stick to make utterly miserable the lives of the seven or eight fit young men I intend to have enslaved in my household. I don’t care whether they find me physically attractive or repulsive: I will be terrifying to them and that’s all I need. I hope your own retirement is lonely and care-worn, but you do have permission to keep buying the magazine, to help fund mine. G-L. L.

P.S. Inspired by my intense dislike of you and your letter, I have decided that the next issue of this magazine will be a special, featuring stories solely in the ‘mature domination’ theme and edited by my Mum. She’ll make sure aunts, grannies, great-aunts and elderly nuns feature throughout the stories, so you won’t like any of them. But there will be a double-spread feature of me in a leather bikini, so buy it anyway, scum.*

To the thankfully female Editrix

With a female friend, I recently went into a little ‘bookshop’ in Soho for a lark. It was such a relief to see your magazine, in amongst all the appalling publications on sale, that I had to write and express my appreciation. Empress was one of a very few ‘female domination’ themed magazines – the other such seemingly being American and featuring glamour models in implausible poses and outfits – in a display otherwise entirely devoted to abusing women. All of the other magazines – several shelves of them – featured women being tied up, spanked and humiliated. Several very unimpressive male specimens were looking through them with revolting interest… one of them, who seemed particularly keen on stories about schoolgirls getting the cane kept giving me and my friend side glances. Imagining us wearing the tacky gymslip costumes featured in the window display not doubt… honestly, had he turned directly towards us I swear I would have kneed the little weasel in the balls right there and then! 

One of the magazines was called Spanked Wives and its cover image was titled ‘A perfect marriage’ which in the opinion of the author seemed to be one in which a tearful lady in a little apron (and nothing else!) was kneeling and shining the shoes of a husband reading his newspaper! In this day and age!  How is this even legal?

Yours in furious sisterhood

Eleanor Lee

You are sadly correct, Eleanor. These attitudes to women are still only too prevalent. For every copy of this magazine sold, I expect that sordid shop sells ten featuring the abuse of women. The only saving grace being that in most cases, the photos are clearly posed and fake.  It is sad to consider that even today, in a country with a woman prime minister, publishers and shopkeepers can still make a living selling these unpleasant fantasies of ‘male domination’. 

You are right too that the buyers are not by any means macho, alpha males. Once, when inspecting the flat of a newly owned slave to remove any items inappropriate to his new status and confiscate any valuables, I was horrified to discover a ‘secret stash’ of magazines featuring the punishment of females – mostly schoolgirl themed but a few ‘submissive wives’. Some of the stories were particularly well-thumbed, usually featuring a ‘pert young bottom” getting smacked by some callous male. Believe me, his own pert not-so-young bottom soon found itself being thrashed with a cane as I explained that violence towards women is never acceptable! A few of the magazines also featured the repulsive practice of fellatio. I questioned him about that, slapping him vigorously about the face as I did so, to help him reply truthfully, and he tearfully admitted to finding the practice erotic although he had never actually experienced it. So with the assistance of the regulars at a local ‘gay bar’ I knew of, he spent several evenings becoming thoroughly familiar with the practice although I believe he never really acquired a taste for it. You might expect I’d have dismissed him from my service but I felt a responsibility to the women of the world, so he remains a possession, used for the more unpleasant tasks, his sole contact with females being his regular whippings and of course with a steel restrainer permanently locked with piercings to prevent any sexual excitement.

Sadly, there are many men out there, like the creepy perverts you encountered, who will not receive the whippings they so richly deserve for their unspeakable sexual interest in hurting women, or at least not until the law changes for the better. I got so angry reading your letter I made the nearest available slave turn to me for a good hard kneeing and I hope you managed to find an opportunity to do the same. It is delightful to reduce them to tears that way and as long as there is just one man out there fantasising about hurting women, every man must suffer the consequences, as far as I am concerned!

In sisterhood.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I was thrilled to read the story The New Camp Commandant in a recent issue of your wonderful magazine. The brutal prison-camp setting made an exciting change from the more common school and domestic scenes.  I wonder, could the events in this story have happened in reality – could they still be happening, in some hell-hole of a country? The way the Lady prison guards behaved seemed rather communist, especially the scenes in which prisoners were required to profess their love for the Party and their gratitude for the re-education they were receiving – even to the extent of quite literally kissing the boots that had just been kicking them in the faces, shins and testicles! But I can’t imagine that working naked on a chain gang would be possible (for more than a few minutes) in Siberia, so I suppose it was not the Soviet Union.  Another country behind the Iron Curtain, perhaps? I went to Czechoslovakia once and I was very excited by the sight of a parade of pretty ‘Young Pioneer’ teenage girls marching past in their red and white uniforms!  I’m sure those beautiful communist maidens could grow up to become cruel and domineering leather-clad guards (‘guardesses’?) in a prison camp created in a converted castle deep in Bohemia , delighting in screaming at male prisoners to work under the cruel lashes from their whips, before commanding those unfortunate souls to lick the mud from their boots!

Yours in need of severe re-education

Prisoner 6664329

Well, ‘29’ if I can call you that for short, I’m glad you found appropriately humble and undeserved joy in reading that story and you will no doubt have been contemptibly excited to find the sequel Summoned to The Camp Commandant’s Office in this edition. As for castles staffed by leather-clad whip-wielding maidens in Czechoslovakia, I think there you might have let your imagination run away with you. I can’t see that happening any time soon! Babushkas serving up boiled cabbage is more the comrades’ style, I think.  G-L. L.

Dear Lady Lucia

Your letters pages often feature accounts from professional disciplinarians such as myself, concerning the weird and perverted desires of their clients.  I think I can top the lot.  Earlier this year, I acquired a new ‘regular’ who mostly wanted the schoolboy treatment: strap on the hands, cane across the bum (not hard) and a quick wank – so far, so ‘normal’ in my world. However, after his third visit, he made a much stranger request in his quavering plummy upper class voice: he wanted me to pretend to be Margaret Thatcher!

Initially I was rather reluctant. Also insulted – I am a mature lady, but not that mature!  But he not only persisted he offered me triple the usual money, the filthy rich sod, so in Tory Britain’s best entrepreneurial fashion I agreed. Grovelling away, he explained that he wanted it done properly and seriously, not just my putting on a funny voice during the session and I agreed,  as long as he gave me some cash up-front for preparations. We agreed a date for about a month later.

I’ll confess I was rather intrigued by the challenge.  And the twinset and pearls look, for all its frumpiness, was certainly going to be more comfortable than the rubber and leather monstrosities I squeeze into for some clients.  So I went off and got myself some outfits, shoes, fake pearls and (of course!) a handbag from Oxfam, then started practising the voice.  I was lucky enough to find a tape of her speeches in the local video shop – though I thought I would die of embarrassment taking it to the counter. That must be how my clients feel buying their porno!

After a bit of practice I felt I had the slow, deep posh voice about right – I had listened to myself on tape and realised I had to go a lot deeper. I read once that she herself had voice coaching to achieve the same effect, but I was self-taught!  I also got a little book of quotes (again, with a deep blush of embarassment at the cashdesk…) to help prepare some phrases and scenes for the session. I don’t like to script my encounters with clients, but this was new and I needed to know where to go without dropping out of character.  She has said a few things that are very suitable for an S&M encounter: ‘if you want something done, ask a woman’, for instance, or ‘I usually make my mind up in about ten seconds and I rarely change it’.

Came the day, ‘Rupert’ arrived shaking and got the full Iron Lady treatment from the start. The premise was that he was a backbench Tory MP, summoned to explain why he hadn’t turned up for some important vote. He seemed very flustered at first and I was worried maybe I wasn’t getting it right, but then I noticed he had a bulge in his trousers and realised this was arousal, not disappointment. I administered the dressing-down quite seriously, although I did go further than I suspect the Prime Minister would have done into speculation that his absence might have been caused by wanking in the Parliamentary toilets. I slapped him hard across the face, only later realising that I should really have done that with my handbag!  Then I bent him across my desk and whacked him with the cane – rather harder than he was used to, as that seemed only right. I don’t suppose the PM does actually cane men, but I can certainly imagine that if she did, she would not hold back.

Afterwards, he was effusive in his praise. He did gently murmur that the caning had been a bit ‘brutal’ as he put it, the wimp, and could I perhaps ease off a little next time? I merely fixed him with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow and replied “The Lady’s not for turning!”. He collapsed at that point – almost literally, he fell to the floor and kissed my shoe. Then off he went, a happy and well-thrashed customer. After making another appointment – at the same highly inflationary price, of course. And he did get the handbag treatment when he came that second time!

Do you suppose this is a common fetish, Lady Lucia? Should I perhaps work up a discreet magazine ad, hinting at the services available to discerning gentlemen interested in discussing educational policies with a particular emphasis on corporal punishment?

Yours with steely conviction

‘Mrs T’

I am sure it must be quite widespread, as I have long thought that the lust for a stern nanny is behind much of her electoral appeal. You’ll need to be careful, though, as a quick straw-poll of my slaves (once they had been reassured that for once I actually wanted to know what they thought) suggested many more of them would run a mile, if greeted at the door by a Maggie lookalike, than would find it erotic. And as a working class girl who escaped a town where the only employer was a textile factory that has closed down, I myself feel more queasy about this kink than any other I have featured here – and I do hope you whack the Tory bastard until he cannot sit down. Still, this is the surely the first time in British history when any men have wanted to pay ladies like ourselves to dress as the Prime Minister – a shame, as I do a mean Gladstone and a passable Balfour – so I suppose we should make the best use of it: more power to your elbow.

Readers will notice that to spare those of a nervous disposition a shock, I have not illustrated this letter with as apposite a photo as I might have done – some things are too depraved even for Empress! G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I would love to know: are there any males out there walking around with your initials burned into their flesh?

Marked man, Leeds.

Initials? No: I insist slaves use my full name and title, at all times. G-L. L.

*Note by Servitor. Attentive readers will recall that the letters page of that special edition featured here some time ago. I have carefully looked through the entire magazine and cannot see any images of the Editrix herself in a leather bikini. I suppose she must have been mistaken, even Goddess-Ladies get things wrong occasionally. I hope Peter wasn’t too disappointed.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

More anachronous anecdotes.

It’s natural that with a young Queen, a few things should change to reflect her deeply-held whims. I suppose the system’s not enormously democratic, but when you look around at some of the leaders we elect, is that really so bad? Of course we need to get rid of all that nonsense about male succession.
They might need to comfort each other later, in private. Ladies on this blog often do, after suffering the ordeal of having to observe a male receiving a well-deserved thrashing.
The trouble is, how to know when to speak? In my experience, ladies’ killing rages can last a while and it’s not always obvious from their demeanour.
You might think that a lowly governess would be quite unprepared for a role in which she needs to command the respect of local society but in this – as in many things, dear reader, as you are almost certainly male – you’d be wrong.
The peak of civilisation.
He went to a school with a ‘modern’ approach to discipline, so it’s good he’s marrying a wife with a very different outlook on life.

Struck by her beauty

The purest feeling a woman can have for a man is the desire to hurt him.
Oh dear, I hope he hasn’t lost all feeling in them. That would ruin her plans for the evening.
Poor thing, she’s obviously been fretting. I’m sure it’ll all go perfectly, then tonight you can help relieve her stress in her favourite way.
That sounds scary. Thank goodness you’ve got a few hours outside in the snow, first.
They used to use waterballoons, then one of the girls had the brilliant idea of filling the balloons with other liquids and… well, it just developed from there, really.
If only people were more thoughtful… I think about Annie all the time.

Facts are stubborn things

… a bit like donkeys, then, and males. Today we have OWKFacts! Ages since we had any OWKFacts… this blog will be in danger of losing its reputation as the femdom blog of record and its obsession with accuracy and verisimilitude (oh, thank the Goddess for spell-checkers) if I don’t put some more facts out there.

And she’s got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need

More Downton Domination: captioned images of high society and lowered trousers, in the 1930s and a little bit beyond.

The title of course is a quote from one of those frightfully amusing tales by dear old Plum.

Fascinatrices

Trust is important in marriage, but not as important as discipline. She’d like to trust you, but like any caring wife she just wants to make quite sure.
She doesn’t know much about horses. You know, she didn’t even realise you don’t have to peel carrots before you give them to a horse? So someone spent over an hour peeling carrots… and then there were all the scrapings to be eaten up off the ground. All in all, it’s fair to say this is not what he expected when he paid a domme to come out to his place in the country… which is probably why he tipped her double and emailed her the very next day requesting another session.
Just after this picture was taken, he made the mistake of replying that in that case he would be happy to help out by doing half of the spanking. This did not go down well, but after a very long discussion their marriage emerged stronger than ever.
Fair enough to pay extra for an orgasm but I’ve heard there are some fake dommes who charge extra for simple things that really ought to be included in the up-front tribute, like being untied, having the beating stop or just the plastic bag removed from over your head. It’s a rather shady practice, in my view.
The most important thing for her to realise is that she’s in control.
I find it hard to look at her without suffering an Anya-ism. Well, “suffering” isn’t really the right word.

Women of consequence

You often hear it said that women don’t really care about cock size and that’s certainly been my experience. Most women I’ve dated have made clear to me that the size of my cock is of no interest or practical significance whatever, as far as they are concerned.
In the modern world, men have to learn to be supportive if they want to remain useful.
Oh, you can stick with being Number 13. You’re already among the luckiest men alive, to be one of her paypigs, so I don’t think you need to worry about anything bad happening.
Men don’t really do irony. Screaming and begging for mercy, that’s what they do.

Tamara Kenworthy there… oh, Tamara Kenworthy.

Who is also the lovely Samantha Alexander, here being delightful and non-dominational in a video introduced by (formerly Strict Miss) Zoe Page. So regrettably vanilla, although so captivating in appearance and voice and the line “We’re not in Chesterfield any more” gets extra points for Britishness. Does anyone know if the other lady, Charlotte Elizabeth, is also a domme? She looks kinda dommey.

Now he has to endure that agonising pause while he awaits her reply. She’s really good at agonising pauses.
How could you not, when she smiles so sweetly?

Repression obsession

Several strokes of luck – and don’t forget to count them and thank her for each one.
There’s more of us cucks around than many people realise. But we’re not coming out of the closet – not until she says so, obviously.
Goodness there are some weirdos around. I’m glad he’s seeking professional help.
That looks like a lot of fun, for almost everyone involved.
It can be hard to tell with males as we don’t start out with a lot of higher brain function to begin with.
And let’s face it, in those circumstances it’s not as if you need an actual woman to be present, right?

Take your passion, and make it happen

Ah… the 1980s. What a feeling. Back when we worried about a Republican President of the USA being too hostile to the Russians. Many things have changed but some, like my tastes in music and femdom, have stayed frozen in time. Another affectionate tribute to that time when you got your porn from a magazine wrapped in a paper bag, when women were women and men – just like today – were worms. But worms with really dubious mustaches.

Letters to the Editrix

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Although your magazine is truly wonderful, one of the best female domination publications around, [‘one of’?? G-L. L.] I believe the author of the article Madam Miranda’s School for Husbands, focused on the efforts of that good lady to assist couples experiencing relationship difficulties, may have painted an unduly harsh portrait of this institution.

I recently returned home after a three-week stay at Madam Miranda’s and I can assure you that I have nothing but good things to report about that fine lady and her extraordinarily dedicated team of assistants.  Her ‘school’ is just that: an educational establishment and I can honestly say that I learnt more about being a good husband in those three weeks than you could in a lifetime of reading self-help books and magazine articles. I also managed to lose 7 pounds in weight and improve my housework skills.

The school does, obviously, employ corporal punishment techniques but no more than is necessary to help a trainee learn, when he has been at fault, to help him learn. In my case, I was frequently at fault, so it was often necessary, but I can honestly say I will never forget the lessons I learnt thanks to this educational technique.

 In short, I am immensely thankful to Madame Miranda and her staff for their vigorous and effective tuition and to my beloved wife for sending me there. Difficulties in our relationship are a thing of the past; we have not quarrelled or even had more than the most ephemeral difference of opinion since my return from The School, nor will we ever while the memory of my stay there persists. Our relationship seems to me to be perfect, but as my wife says, it is always possible to do better, so perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to renew my acquaintance with Madame Miranda and once again benefit from her wisdom and guidance.

With the greatest respect

An appreciative husband

I have passed your letter to Madam Miranda, who says she remembers you and that you were not always so appreciative. Males often don’t know what is best for them and you are lucky (as I am sure you often admit) to have a wife with the vision to understand your potential. The good lady tells me that her school motto is Flagella facit homines obedientes. My secondary modern didn’t teach Latin, so I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds like the right approach. G-L. L.

Divine Goddess-Lady

As a boot fetishist, I was wondering whether you have a preferred technique when having your boots licked clean? I find it hard to achieve a properly clean upper, especially, without recourse to a cloth.

Yours in worship

Bootlover

My technique is simple: I tap my crop on the boot, command it to be licked clean and beat the living crap out of the slave if he fails to do it to my complete satisfaction. It seems to work. G-L. L.

Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

I was wondering, what do you feed the office slaves who work on your wonderful magazine? I find the idea of being made to eat a disgusting meal, suitable for a lowly worm of my status wildly exciting. I fantasise about visiting two dominant ladies and being ‘treated’ to a three course meal. This begins with a steaming bowl of stinky sock soup, made by peeling those garments from my hosts’ feet at the end of a long working day and boiling them up in a pan, then squeezing carefully to ensure all the sweaty goodness is transferred to the soup. The main course is simply a healthy salad of raw vegetables: carrot rind, potato peelings, onion skins and cabbage, all as fresh and uncooked as the day they came out of the earth they grew in, much of which still clings to their sides. I of course gobble up every mouthful, naked and kneeling in front of the bowl in which it is all deposited, riding crops merrily cracking down should I hesitate. For pudding, a simple elegant used tampon, which is popped in my mouth all in one go but must be slowly chewed to open up the layered tissue to enable it to be swallowed piece by piece. Sometimes the ladies add a cheese course, having set aside some stilton or camembert in a warm spot some weeks before. No crackers being available, I lick the pungent stuff off the soles of their shoes.

I find the idea of eating dog or cat food exciting too, Goddess-Lady, but so nauseating that I think I might be sick. Is that your experience? I have also heard it may be unhealthy for human consumption.

In rapturous servility

Dustbin

You are quite revolting but also right, dustbin: dog or cat food can easily induce vomiting, especially in those not used to it. I don’t see any problem with that, as long as any such vomiting is done outside and the mess rapidly cleaned up – as in my household, it always is, of course. I too have heard that pet food is not fit for human consumption, which is why I feed it only to slaves.  None have died yet and in any case, I am confident that any health dangers to them of eating the nasty stuff would be far outweighed by the health dangers of refusing my order to do so. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I am a wife relatively new to the activities your magazine covers, but I wanted to write to let you know how much it has helped me since discovering my husband’s ‘stash’ of magazines and books. The majority of the publications merely featured images of young women in wildly uncomfortable clothing, often engaged in sex acts such as fellatio in which I have no interest. However, the stories and articles in Empress were far more informative and explained much that had puzzled me about my husband’s behaviour.

He was mortified when I confronted him, but calmed down when I explained that I was prepared to try out some – but by no means all – of the activities depicted. Not – needless to say – the fellatio featured in some of the other magazines, nor the bizarre rubber or leather outfits in which the young ladies in those magazines often unconvincingly posed. However, several of the stories in Empress featured looks such as a white blouse combined with a medium-length leather skirt, stockings and high-heeled (but not absurdly so) shoes or boots. I had already purchased a few such outfits when we had our ‘little talk’, so soon reappeared in front of him ‘dressed the part’ and I can say it went down extremely well! We had a thoroughly satisfactory evening of sexual intercourse, including some spanking, and I can honestly say he has never performed as well! The next night, I tried him on oral sex – which I had previously not felt I could ask for, since I was not prepared to carry out the same service – with even better results.

A week or so later, I visited a shop in Soho that advertised in your magazine and bought a cane, a tawse and some leather restraints, I was tempted by some chastity devices but thought it best to take one step at a time and in any event, some seemed unsuitable for long-term wear. It was when I first tried caning him that I encountered a problem: as he sprang up after only the first stroke, tearfully pleading that it was too painful.

Your wonderful magazine came to the rescue! I recalled Mrs Simmons’ approach in A Domesticated Husband and calmly informed him that the cane would be put away and not appear again – oh, and so would the boots, the leather skirt and all the other items in our little collection. And then I waited a few days, making clear that ordinary sex was on offer, if he liked, but nothing more. I did somewhat regret at that point not having tried a chastity belt, as he was obviously masturbating in the bathroom and I was sure the contest would have ended with my victory more quickly had he been unable to do so.  However, after nine days he ‘cracked’, so out came the outfits he liked so much and the cane he hated with equal measure – and the leather restraints with which I secured him on the bed, to help him ‘take’ the caning that I administered without mercy. I also discovered the importance of gags, after a series of howls that I thought would have the neighbour call the Police on us! Recalling Mistress Maxine’s approach in your excellent Maxine’s Maxims series, I slipped off my knickers, and stuffed them in his mouth, then tied a stocking around to hold them in. This both excited and quieted him, while also leaving me liberty to resume the thrashing without fear of discovery.  I did enjoy caning him, not sexually exactly (that came later, his tear-streaked face between my legs) but I do like the feeling of power.

After that, readers of accounts such as that of poor Robert in A Domesticated Husband will have little difficulty in guessing my husband’s trajectory. Having experienced the cane once, he was naturally keen to avoid its application and so things progressed most satisfactorily. Chastity – of course – and it did indeed require us to try a few different kinds of apparatus before finding one suitable for everyday wear, but now he does indeed wear it every day. A regime in which all the housework is his was easy enough to implement, as were restrictions on his lifestyle outside the house. Perhaps unsurprisingly, financial control proved to be the hardest thing for him to give up, but repeated use of the cane over an extended period of chastity did the trick and now he is, indeed, domesticated. There are several degrading activities depicted in your stories that I have no real desire to try, mostly involving bathroom activities, but also cuckoldry – his tongue is very well-trained by now, so why would I want some undomesticated male to take its place?

Obviously, he no longer has any need of your magazine, dear Goddess-Lady but in tribute to its role in transforming my marriage, I do require him to buy every issue. As he gets very little pocket-money, I am delighted to say that it accounts for around a quarter of his total expenditure – and locked in chastity as he is, he gets little from it. Indeed, he rather fears bringing it home, as we peruse it together looking for at least one punishment, humiliation or restriction that he has not yet experienced – and so far, you have never let me down, my dear!

Yours in gratitude

A Satisfied Wife

I am delighted to see the practical tips occasionally provided here for improving husbands being put to such effective use.  If his tongue is all you require as sexual service on his part, might I suggest you also consult the story ‘Nurse Eliza’s Private Practice’ in Volume 3, Edition 1? It sounds to me as if your husband is quite ready for such treatment, and it must be tiresome for you to have to indulge even occasional releases from chastity.  G-L. L.

Most magnificent Goddess-Lady

If I might ask … have you ever been tempted to ‘switch’ roles? Are you at all curious as to what it feels like to be on the receiving end of the treatment you so relish doling out?

Fascinated

Eric

What an impertinent question! Certainly not. Being under my lash looks and sounds to be a thoroughly unpleasant experience – why would anyone subject themselves to that? Except the male fools who read this magazine, obviously. And perverts beguiled by my beauty. Perhaps one day we will be lucky enough to meet and in-between screams you can gasp out to me an account of exactly what it feels like; I shall take a keen interest.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady

I have been a reader of your magazine for some time and stories featuring ‘male maids’ are something of an obsession of mine, so I was excited to see the teaser for your tale of the downfall of the ‘Honourable’ Peter Cuthbertson and his housemaid Molly, in an earlier edition.  The full story in your last issue did not disappoint!

Oh, what a fool young Peter was! But how easily I can imagine myself being led down to the same path to destitution and servitude! From the moment he took the proffered petticoat in shaking hands and tried it on under her smiling supervision, Peter was doomed. How pleasant it is for me, as it was for Peter, to think of the delightful pleasure of flouncing around in a lacy maid’s uniform, layers of soft petticoats swishing deliciously around my stockinged thighs! And then to carry out a few light housework tasks under Molly’s supervision? Well, that merely adds to the sensual pleasure of playing out this scenario. And of course there must be punishment for any naughty or lazy maids who don’t work hard for Mistress – perhaps with her loving but firm hand, applied to my naughty bottom as I wriggle helplessly and shriek with pleasure and pain across her lap.

But then of course it only makes sense to start taking things a little further.  If Molly is to play at being the lady of the house, then of course she should have fine clothes, she should sleep in the main bedroom and be waited on at table!  And she will have little time for her former housemaid job outside this role, so of course Peter must do more around the house – and perhaps it’s time to swap that frilly nonsense for a more practical, hardwearing outfit. All of this merely makes the fantasy more compelling, does it not? And after Molly has instructed him in some of the more demanding aspects of a housemaid’s role, it is only fitting that any necessary correction emphasises more the pain than the pleasurable aspects of discipline. There is still a sensual thrill to be had, even in the onerous task of scrubbing floors or in carrying heavy baskets of laundry to be hung up.

If Molly – Lady Molly, we must now call her – is to play her part of the Lady of the Manor to perfection then of course she must have some control over the finances of the estate, so she can pay tradesmen or buy things for herself, without needing to break the spell of this fascinating performance the two are playing out. It’s not as if Peter – or rather, Petunia – has time for such matters, not with the beds to be made, the linen to be aired and that big pile of ironing awaiting her in the laundry room, is it? Not with that horrible cane awaiting her if she should fail to complete all of her allotted tasks, to the complete satisfaction of the Mistress of the house!

And so to the last scene, in which Petunia awakes at five in the morning as usual, in her cramped and chilly attic room, washes carefully in the cold water in her bowl, then puts on her uniform to begin her fourteen hour day of servitude, while Lady Molly sleeps peacefully and happily in her soft warm bed, the little bell on her bedside table ready for her whenever she awakes.

So easy to imagine myself slipping easily – almost willingly – down the same slope. And although some of the ladies featured in your stories often strike me as implausibly cruel and domineering [Nonsense. Women are crueller than you know – I certainly am and so are some of my dearest friends. G-L. L.], if anyone is likely to relish the role of an exacting taskmistress over a domesticated male, it is surely a former domestic servant herself!

The story seems so complete, I can only regret that there is unlikely to be a sequel. But if I might humbly suggest one, perhaps young Petunia could attempt one last, woefully belated, act of rebellion? Either overtly or perhaps through an attempted escape? How crestfallen she would be, to discover that all Master Peter’s clothing has long since been donated to local charities and that thoughtful Lady Molly has had the word put about that the young Lord of the Manor has fallen victim to a regrettable congenital lunacy and needs to be humoured, but then forcefully restrained and returned, should the poor lad be discovered wandering the vicinity!

With my deepest curtsey

Maid Felicity, Whippingham Hall.

Arrogant aristocratic males have – tragically – run this country for so long that stories in which the tables are turned appeal particularly to me, too. I myself was born on a council estate in Peckham because my parents moved to London, but my own ancestors, right down to my dear Nan, spent lifetimes scrubbing the floors of the stateliest homes of England. It therefore gives me particular pleasure to whack the backsides of some of the more inbred public schoolboys who so often seek such treatment and – foolishly – think they can remain in control. I always give them at least one extra for Nan: a particularly hard one, Goddess rest her soul.

Your idea for a sequel will be considered. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

What do you think of women’s lib? It seems to me that many of these harpies shrieking about their ‘rights’ don’t really understand how much power an elegantly dressed lady can have in our society. If they only smartened themselves up a bit, shaved their legs and put on some make-up and high heels, I am sure the more attractive among them could find themselves with far more power than they can ever achieve through ‘consciousness raising’ or waving silly placards about.

Yours

A puzzled lover of femininity

I have allowed this filthy missive to be printed in case any readers need reminding how males truly ‘think’ (if I can dignify it with that term), when they are not fantasising about strict mistresses. Pay attention, ‘puzzled’: only morons like you find it hard to understand why women need more rights after centuries of oppression. A lifetime of domestic drudgery, under the command of an abusive partner – believe me, you’d soon be ‘shrieking’ if subjected to such treatment, just as my males do. I myself dress for sexual power, many women’s libbers prefer to dress otherwise… who are you to decide what women should wear?  Perhaps you need to spend more time in tight corsets and ill-fitting high heels; with little padlocks in case you are tempted to try to remove them. I myself believe the women’s lib movement mostly does not go far enough – Valerie Solanas’ Society for Cutting Up Men is an honourable exception – but they are sisters to me in spirit and right to focus on oppression. I just believe in oppressing right back: a few centuries at least with the boot firmly on the other foot (and kicking hard and repeatedly into the male groin or face) is required to even the balance, that’s all. We cannot be truly free until men are enslaved but there are many paths to that. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I adore your magazine but I must confess myself simply revolted by the letter from ‘Mummy’s Boy’, a few issues ago, suggesting you print fewer stories focused on use of the cane.

I am a professional disciplinarian but my work is also my passion as I simply adore caning; no other disciplinary implement comes close to it, for me. It is the combination of its simplicity and its roots in ordinary educational life until very recently, on the one hand, with its sheer brutality on the other. For me, ‘spanking’ implements are simply too mild and playful, while whips of any kind are too exotic, redolent of fantasy.

I apply the cane mercilessly. Very few men can ‘take’ the cane although many fantasies about it – I believe around one in four of clients I see ever return for a second dose.  Fewer still enjoy it. My ‘repeat’ clientele is therefore from that thin sliver of male society who both fear yet crave the cane. However, this is acceptable, as they pay handsomely for the privilege of being thrashed.

Let me describe one such client, whom I will call ‘Steven’. Steven first contacted me two years ago, received the shockingly painful treatment I always administer to first-timers and left, seeming most unlikely to return. Yet every three months or so, I receive a nervous call booking another session. Steven’s voice is hoarse and rushed as he makes the arrangements: I suspect he has been agonising for days or weeks, and has decided to ‘get it over with’. I imagine he puts the phone down and is instantly appealed at what he has done. On one occasion he called back in the period before the appointment to cancel – and I cooly informed him that he was entitled to do so, but that if he did not go through with any booked appointment, he need never contact me again. He rang off on that occasion but called back two days later desperately begging for the appointment to be reinstated – although not as desperately as his cries when I later had the opportunity to explain with the cane how rude his behaviour had been. He has not repeated the attempt.

Steven always arrives promptly, of course and is well-dressed. I imagine he is something in the City or some other well-paid profession such as the law or medicine. I take little interest in my clients except as canvasses for the works of art I create with my cane.  He hands me the fee and removes socks and shoes. I then tell him exactly what I have planned: quite often it is six across the trousers, then a further six on the bare. I always provide the traditional multiples of six and have given up to twenty-four strokes in a single session but it is normally between six and eighteen. Six of course is relatively light and is handed out on very rare occasions to ‘regulars’ only because that way they have some faint hope of avoiding twelve; hope that is almost invariably dashed.

I usually apply the first six across the trousers and do not often start on the bare – although I always end up there – as I believe there should always be worse to come. It might seem that the cloth protection makes this initial caning less severe – and it is, but it is also subtly different, creating more of a widespread bruising effect than the slashing thin welts produced on the bare.  I use a heavier, less flexible, cane across the trousers and although all of my clients know full well that the later use of a whippier implement on their flesh will be a special kind of agony, they are still usually pleasingly (to me) shocked by the intensity that a caning across a cloth-covered seat can impose. Of course those later whippy strokes will be still worse for overlaying these horribly sore bruises.

I occasionally require counting or thanking me for each stroke, but only for those who need extra encouragement to experience fear from the relentless pace of the caning.  Steven is not among them – his fear is palpable and, for me, thoroughly enjoyable. To have a terrified man at one’s mercy – and to show none – gives me the most exquisite satisfaction.  My punishment room is soundproofed, of course. On the very rare occasions on which I have caned on ‘client premises’ so to speak, I always deploy a gag and I find it deeply unsatisfactory. I have also just occasionally gagged clients who – whether through foolishness or simply driven mad by the pain – have called me offensive names. I prefer not to hear that and although I suppose I could force silence with the promise of further strokes, I do not like to vary the punishment once commenced.

For a set across the bare, I often give Steven a version of a ‘cow and gate’ pattern, where an initial set of parallel, horizontal strokes, is then supplemented by slashing diagonals that overlay the previous ones. The simplest such gate has five parallels and one – awful – diagonal connecting them all, but I find a four plus two pattern to be more painful and thus preferably. Not only is the ultimately-painful diagonal doubled, in this way it must be experienced than anticipated and re-experienced, which is far worse than ‘taking it’ just once.

I know Steven will cry out with every stroke will be sobbing by the time we finish. Most satisfactory.

The caning complete, I put away the cane, unstrap one of his wrists and leave the room, going upstairs.  I prefer not to engage in conversation after a beating: I used to, but the clients would try to make light conversation, even comment on my technique. The change in mood was always jarring, so with trusted clients like Steven I simply leave them to make their own way out.  With one hand free, he can eventually unstrap himself and ease his battered and sore body off the bench. Every movement agony, of course.  I hear him take a shower: necessary, as he has sweated and cried so much.  Then I observe him heading across my front garden and down the road, walking slowly and stiffly.

I know he is thinking “never again – never again!”. He will be in great pain for a couple of days and sore for at least a week, during which he will swear over and over again nevermore to subject himself to this ordeal, never to forget how awful the reality of the experience is, no matter how compelling the fantasy.  But then his cravings will start to build up and in a couple of months will seem to him as unbearable as the pain he has felt today. And I will get another anxious, pleading call.

Some men desire to lick the boots of a girl brandishing a whip… or want a ‘Mummy’ like your wretched correspondent – and I don’t doubt there are ladies who will supply that service. My clients simply need to be beaten and I am very, very happy to oblige.

Yours sincerely

Governess Charlotte

Yes, the ‘fearing but craving’ male is my quarry too. Although I myself do go in for boot-licking and the use of a leather whip, I prefer to enslave males who find themselves hating the treatment and needing it, all at the same time. It is odd how men can be so complicated and yet also so very, very simple.  Keep up the good work!  Perhaps you could inform Steven on his next visit that, in thanks for providing the material for such an interesting account for my magazine, I have requested you give him double?  G-L. L.

To the majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your uncompromising approach to femdom makes me tremble in awe. I was wondering: have you ever accidentally killed a slave?

Humbly

Lucia’s acolyte

Accidentally? No. G-L. L.

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