Everything that’s excellent

 Just a silly little tale…

 

“And so you claim you did not in fact pat the victim on the bottom?” the prosecuting counsel asked in a bored voice.

Her opponent leapt up from her seat at the other end of the leading counsels’ bench.  “The alleged victim, M’Lady” she corrected.

“Alleged victim then” said the prosecutor, waving her hand wearily as if to indicate the distinction was barely worth the least effort.

“Oh no, Ma’am – and Your Ladyship” the man in the witness box replied with a nervous glance towards the judge.  “I would never disrespect a female in that way.”

“M’Lady”, the prosecutor said, directly addressing the judge.  “I believe the accused is
lying and so in the interests of justice I request that he be fitted with a zapper.”

“A ‘zapper’, Ms Meadowes?” the judge replied, raising her eyebrows. “I am not sure I am familiar with the term.  Perhaps you mean an MMRS?  A Male Memory Recollection Stimulator?”

“I am indebted to Your Ladyship for the correction” the prosecutor murmured.  “An MMRS, indeed.”

“Well, I suppose if it helps us all get in with it” the judge grumbled.  “Clerk of the Court,
would you be so kind?”

The clerk, a heavyset woman, stepped up to the witness box.

”Hands on your head, boy” she said brusquely.  Unhappily, the accused complied.

The clerk loosened his trousers in a practised manner then busied herself with wires and clamps for a minute.  The accused man let out an occasional mild yelp, but knew better than to remove his hands from their position clasped tight atop his head.

The clerk inspected her work, nodded, then stepped back and handed a small black object to the prosecutor.

“Thank you, clerk.  With your Ladyship’s permission…?”

“Do get on with it, Ms Meadowes” sighed the judge, at which the prosecutor pressed a button and the courtroom was suddenly rent with an ear-piercing howl of anguish.  Her knuckle whitened as she kept the button pressed, while the man in the witness box thrashed frantically from side to side, screaming hysterically, all thought of maintaining his position abandoned in his agony.

Around the courtroom, pairs of female eyes watched this display intently, while the few males standing ready in the room to transport boxes of heavy files or serve tea mostly stared fixedly at the darkly varnished wooden floorboards .  A young stenographer, an intern intent on the heavy responsibility of taking the transcript for the first time in her career, paid particularly close attention, her eyes widening and shining and her breathing increasing in tempo as the screaming continued.  Nonetheless, her fingers continued to flicker over her machine, from which an accurate transcription of the courtroom sounds emerged, reading “OHHHHH!  OHHH GOD, PLEASE!  PLEEASE!!!  NO MORE, I can’t… AAARGHH!!!” and suchlike.

 

 

Ms Meadowes conducts a rigorous cross-examination.

 Eventually the prosecutor released her grip and the screaming ceased abruptly, the only noise in court being the hoarse breathing of the accused, forced down by pain onto his knees in the witness box.

“Now, Jason” she said calmly.  “I’ll ask the question again – and before answering this time, I want you to think very hard about what happens to boys who tell lies. Did you pat her bottom?”

Terrified, the man just shook his head mutely.

“Could you speak up for the record, prisoner?” the judge asked.  “Ms Meadowes, would you mind?”

The prosecutor nodded and gave the button a quick press eliciting another howl.

 “No, Ma’am, Your Ladyship” he sobbed.  “I didn’t, I really didn’t… I never – “

And he broke off, into further shrieks of pain as waves of agony tore through his body.  The
prosecutor was wiggling a dial on the control back and forth, while keeping the button pressed down, and it seemed to have a dramatic effect.

“Let me put the question in a different way” the prosecutor continued.  “Did you pat her bottom?”

Defending counsel jumped to her feet, waiting impatiently for a lull in the screaming in order to make herself heard.  The judge waved her hand in a downward motion at the prosecuting counsel and the button was released.

“M’Lady, that was exactly the same question as before!” she objected, indignantly.  “Surely the question has been put and answered – in the negative!  It is time to remove the MMRS and move on.”

The judge noticed a movement below her bench and glanced down to see the stenographer’s head turned around to look up at her, her eyes pleading mutely.

“I think we might allow Ms Meadowes to have a few minutes more” she smiled, indulgently.  “In the interests of justice”

In fact, it took less than three minutes for the accused, now writhing in agony at the bottom of the witness box, to admit freely and fully to the alleged crime. The prosecutor briskly set out, step by step, exactly how the crime had been committed, and the accused frantically agreed with her
characterisation of every particular.

“The prosecution rests” Ms Meadowes announced happily, sitting down and waving the remote in the direction of the clerk.

“Your Ladyship” began defending counsel, rising to her feet.  “This is a most unexpected turn of
events.  My client has changed his story while in the witness box and in order to defend his interests I believe I really must be allowed to press him on this topic.  I realise it is unusual for a
defending counsel to seek to cross-examine her own client, but I believe you will find there are ample precedents, so in the circumstances…?”

“Very well Ms Blaine” muttered the judge, apparently lost in admiration of the stenographer’s deft fingerwork as she tapped out the transcript.

“And if I may, er…?” defending counsel persisted, gesturing towards the object in her prosecuting counterpart’s hand.

“You want to zap your own client, Ms Blaine?” the judge asked in surprise.

“If I may make so bold, I imagine Your Ladyship intended to ask whether I wish to use the MMRS to assist him with his recollection? If so, then, yes, that is indeed my request, M’Lady. In the interests of justice.”

The judge’s eyes narrowed but she nodded curtly.  A barely-suppressed giggle of excitement seemed to emanate from the stenographer’s seat.

The next five minutes were a mirror image of the earlier cross-examination.  Ms Blaine initially
gave her client a few good hard jolts, then proceeded to demolish the veracity of the earlier confession, point by point. It finished with her client, curled up in foetal position in a pool of sweat and tears, having apparently retracted his confession and sworn to his absolute innocence.

“Well, this is all most unsatisfactory!” grumbled the judge. “The accused has at the very least committed perjury once, perhaps twice!  Do you understand the oath that you swore to
the tell the truth, young man?  That oath should be absolute… no matter what, erm… pressure you might feel yourself to be under.  I hope you realise I intend to deal most severely with this, most severely. I cannot abide lying males at the best of times, certainly not in my courtroom!”

“Ms Meadowes, your witness!  Again!” she snapped, as the shattered male tried to control his juddering jaw sufficiently to stammer out an apology.  The remote was passed between
the two lawyers and the screaming began again, more hoarsely this time.

Five minutes later, the judge was furious, the two barristers were almost physically tussling over who would next use the remote and the stenographer had a huge dreamy smile on her face, as she continued to tap out the transcript.

 

The stenographer – from a judge’s eye view, so to speak.  Sadly, as she is
not looking around, we cannot see her pretty eyes, but we can see her
skillful long fingers, the rapid and delicate movements of which seemed
to fascinate the judge.

The judge brought out her gavel and banged it repeatedly down in frustration.

“This is intolerable!  By my count the accused has now confessed and retracted his confession four times!  This court will not be made a mockery of – find a solution or I will declare a mistrial and we will all have to start again!”

“And I don’t mean by fighting over that thing like schoolgirls!” she added, as Ms Meadowes made a grab for the remote, which Ms Blaine foiled by whipping her hand high up into the air while hissing “Mine!”

“Sit down!  Both of you. And clerk to the court – please take possession of the zap… the recollection stimulator control.”

The two barristers subsided into their seats, Ms Blaine giving up the device with ill grace.

“Any suggestions?” the judge asked.

Ms Meadowes just sighed and blew her lips out with a  frustrated ppphhhh.

Ms Blaine looked thoughtful.  “We could… toss for it, Your Ladyship?”

“Toss a coin?” the judge replied in scorn.  “Allow the process of justice to be decided
by the random fall of a piece of metal?”

“At least we’d have an answer, Your Ladyship”.

“And we’d all go home early” chipped in her prosecuting counterpart, helpfully.

The judge glanced down, to see the stenographer’s dark eyes once again gazing up at her.  How odd she’d never noticed before how deep those dark pools were, the judge mused to herself.  She could almost be lost in the…

“Your Ladyship?”

She jerked herself awake again.  “Oh very well” she snapped.  “Clerk of the court, do you have a coin?”

Less than a minute later, the verdict was in.

“The prisoner will rise” the judge said. “Help him please, ushers”

Two large uniformed women strode over to the witness box, leaned down and hauled the sobbing, shattered remnant of the accused to his feet and held him there.

Ms Blaine, contemplating her eighth successive defeat in court.  If she wants to improve her record, she really needs to stop defending males, as they are almost invariably guilty, but such cases can provide opportunities for a young barrister to develop her skills before she is ready to take on important cases for full citizens.

“Prisoner, you have been found guilty by a properly constituted court of law and the toss of a fair – well, anyway, you have been found guilty of a Category Two sexual offence.  For which the maximum sentence, which I do not hesitate to impose, is 12 years in a male reformatory camp, with hard labour.”

“In addition you have committed” – she consulted her notes – “seven separate acts of perjury, each of which carries a sentence of up to fifteen years.  Again, in the view of the rapidity and apparent insouciance with which you changed your story, while under oath, I have no hesitation in imposing the maximum penalty for each.”

“I would remind you that the purpose of the male reformatory camp is re-education, not mere punishment. I can only hope you make use of this experience to think about your behaviour and learn something, so that at the end of your sentence, in erm… let me see…12 years for the sexual offence, then seven times…

Ms Meadowes rose.  “One hundred and seventeen years, Your Ladyship.” she said.  Defending counsel politely clapped this display of mental arithmetic.


“Is it really?  Goodness me. I’m grateful, Ms Meadowes.  Hmm.   Yes, well, as I said, prisoner, I hope you will be reformed by this generous allocation of the state’s resources to your rehabilitation.  If not, it is my duty to warn you that your custodial sentence may be extended at the state’s pleasure: consider yourself warned. And I do not want to see you in my court again.  Take him down!”

The prisoner sobbed quietly as he was dragged off to the waiting prison van.

***

(Later that evening)

Finding the day to have been tiresome, the judge had retired early to bed in her chambers behind the courtroom.  The stenographer lay beside her, dreaming of the brilliant legal career that lay ahead of her as the girlfriend of a judge.  The judge snored contently, dreaming of the stenographer.

***

Counsel for the prosecution and defence, when not in the courtroom, were Harriet and Suzie, and were enjoying a glass of wine at the home they shared.  “Sorry about that” Harriet smiled.  “But ‘win some lose some’, eh?”

“I suppose so” her counterpart recently for the defence sighed.  “I really thought this one was
innocent, though – he seemed quite convincing.”

“Men often do – lying little toads” remarked her friend, reaching for the bottle and in doing so knocking her document bundle off the sofa, strewing papers across the floor as the red ribbon bow gave way.

“Chump” remarked her friend, helping gather the scattered papers. “Hey, what’s this?”

“Probably nothing”, Harriet replied, making a quick grab for the document, but as with the zapper control in court, Suzie was too quick for her.

“Statement of Ms Yvonne Headly” Suzie read.  “Attesting to the presence of the accused,
Jason, in my bedroom at the time of the alleged – hey!  This is an alibi.”

“Arguably… very circumstantial.” grumbled Harriet.

“But… but….this is exculpatory evidence!” Suzie gasped.  “Proving my client’s innocence!  You should have disclosed this to the court!”

“Mmmm… s’pose,” shrugged Harriet, refilling her glass.

“Well, I’m sorry, Hattie” Suzie went on.  “But this is serious.  Very serious. You deliberately withheld evidence material to the proceedings.  That is a severe breach of professional ethics!”

“You don’t mean you’re going to…” her friend replied, her eyes widening in shock.

Suzie nodded primly.  “I think I have no choice, do I?  I can’t let this go – it’s not just the innocence of my client.  There must be consequences: as a fellow barrister I have to uphold the integrity of the profession.”

“Oh please, Sooze” Harriet replied.  “Surely you can – “

“My duty is clear and I won’t let you talk me out of it!” Suzie declared.  “Take off your knickers!  Now!”

“You mean you’re going to – “

“I’m going to spank your bare bottom, Hattie! Spank it until….”

“Until we both come?” asked Harriet eagerly, easing herself over her friend’s lap.

“I was going to say ‘until you’ve learnt your lesson’” giggled Suzie.  “But your idea’s good
too.”

*** 

I believe this stage of the legal process is called ‘oral pleadings’.

 

And far outside London, a locked van rattled down a dark country road.  Inside lay Jason, his genitals now pierced in multiple places with a permanent and more powerful version of the courtroom zapper, bouncing around naked on the bare metal floor with fourteen other moaning bound males.  He was trying very hard not to think of what his life would be like from now on – and failing miserably.

And with that, dear reader, we shall bring this little tale to an end.

 

(Epilogue) 

In the middle of the night, while all our other female protagonists were fast asleep in post-orgasmic bliss, the clerk to the court suddenly awoke with a jerk.  “Hey – I never got my fucking coin back!” she blurted out, to no one in particular, and turned over angrily to fall back to sleep.  Beside her, her husband froze in terror, and spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was that had annoyed his beloved so much and desperately, hopelessly praying that this time it was not his fault.

 

 

Written pleadings

 

It’s not really a choice, as she’ll probably find an excuse to do the bottle thing even after posting the photos.  And vice versa.  But he doesn’t know that, because males are very stupid creatures.

 

 

 

He’s lucky to have such an understanding Responsible Female; I hope he’ll have the sense not to push that luck too far.  Female supporters of men’s lib are a bit weird in my opinion, but even
most of them understandably draw the line at disobedience or answering
back.


Mistress has also learnt from experience that the way to get a really smart, polished pair of shoes or boots is not to have someone slobber over them while masturbating. 

 

She doesn’t really need the meter, given the screaming thing, but it’s nice to be sure and anyway, she has some plans to fill his mouth later.

 

 

 

She’s right.  Just remember that and you’ll be fine.

 

And an extra one, just a little bit o’politics.  Just what you’re looking for when you go surfing for femdom porn, right? 

 


Still, inept political commentary incomprehensible to non-Brits notwithstanding, any image containing Morrigan Hel and Goddess Sophia has got to be worth at least a few long, lingering, longing stares, 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?

Yanking my chain

Don’t you hate it when she does that?


Nah, same old. Just got a new hood that’s all – and some fresh whip-marks.




Models have something of a reputation for aggressive behaviour, which is often quite undeserved, sad to say. 




To be honest, if I had to choose my perversion, there are probably easier options than being submissive.  But fortunately I cannot choose and as a submissive I’d rather not anyway.





Many brides can be a bit on edge during the big day – the whole ‘bridezilla’ thing, you know?  Just humour her… soon you’ll have tied the knot and can settle down to a lifetime of married bliss.






Hmm.  Seems a bit unprofessional, to have mixed up the creams like that.  Probably best not to complain, though.





Dressed to suppress

You should stop asking… makes you come across as kind-of obsessive, and needy, you know?  Just play it cool, say nothing and I expect she’ll make sure it happens when you really need it – and maybe even when you least expect it.

 



Looks good on her, but then she’s not attached to the wall by a chain clipped to her genitals, desperately gasping for short breaths.

Hah – actually the investment bank of which he is finance director has investments in several app developer start-ups.  So I expect he knows all about it. And if not, there’s nothing like a sequence of electric shocks to to the cock to help you learn something quickly, believe me.

 

 

They’re just redistributing the wealth. From each according to how much she wants from him, to each according to whatever the little fucker deserves.

 

 

 

Good thing she had a humiliation session booked later the day she discovered the putrefying remains. 

 

 

Words can never hurt you

 …but these ladies can.

You might think it a little unfair that only one of the submissives in this relationship does all the housework – but remember, she needs to rest during the day after a busy night looking after Mistress’s sexual needs.

 



Let’s just say I’ve had time to get my hand in.


They should be more careful with their property.

Unlike regular sex work, paid femdom doesn’t have to involve hanging around on cold rainy street corners, wearing nothing but a latex miniskirt, tiny top and uncomfortable high heels – but if that’s what my dominatrix says is going to happen, I usually don’t argue.



Don’t be alarmed; her mother may be a bit bossy but at least she likes you.  She described you as ‘very suitable’ when you were first introduced to her, remember?


Delightfully despotic

Better do as she says.  But with dignity, right?  Always with dignity.

 

 

 

For those of you objecting that getting an erection is a natural reaction to the situation, merely an expression of sexual desire, should realise that exactly the same argument applies to her giving you powerful electric shocks.

She needn’t hurry.  This isn’t going to be over any time soon.  Not ever, actually.

 

 

She’s not saying it’s a hard limit, mind.

 

 

 

Maybe since she broke her side of the bargain, you should ask for all the presents back? It’s only fair.  Admittedly, fairness has never really been big in this relationship.

 

Nonjudgemental cruelty

Hmmm… nothing springs to mind. Still, as long as the two of you are talking about it, that’s a good start.



There’s also a scheme now to get paid to feed power back into the grid, which might explain why so many dommes these days have started offering treadmill sessions.

 

 

 

All kinds of feelings can be communicated through dance: humiliation, shame, timidity… it’s a very expressive medium.

 

 

He won’t be able to afford to pay for any more domination sessions, poor chap, but maybe he’ll have had his fill of that sort of thing by then.



 


Fortunately it is a mistake that is easy to rectify.  Easy for the person doing the actual rectifying, anyway.

 

 

Comeuppances

 A lovely word.  Rarely used in the plural, but there are some of us that need repeated reminders.


Of course, as an employee you are welcome to put forward any criticisms you might have of that policy. They have policies about dealing with employee feedback, too.  Lots of policies.



Perhaps he could save himself some tribute money, when they announce the results of the next teachers’ pay review.



There’s a reason that dial goes up to ten, so why not turn it all the way and let it stay there? I suspect the guidelines are erring on the side of caution and anyway, even it does break, they could always get another.


Sounds like she has the haughty ‘domme’ attitude down pat already.  I suspect she’s going to be really good at this.



That does sound a bit fearsome. Thank goodness it’ll only be temporary.






Harsh unreality

Many women are actually very good at verbal humiliation play without even realising it, in my experience.

 

Don’t forget to shout out your safeword if it all gets too much.  Fire ant play can be quite intense.

 

 

He reports to the Chief Prison Inspector for the region, who in turn reports to his wife – whose lover by curious chance, is the Governess of this facility.  But they are all scrupulously independent.

 

 

 

Sookie was doing well this month: got to day 3 without any class 1 faults.  That’s a record.

 

 

 

It might be a while – she has a very high tolerance for pain.

 

 

 

(Oh, and I just thought you might like to see a picture of the Prime Minister of Finland.)


 

Actually, speaking of politics (as fetish porn blogs so often will), the British Tory party has another opportunity to opt for the smack of firm government and elect Penny Mordaunt.  Let’s hope they know what’s good for them this time.

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