Elegant arrogance
Category: electrics
Give me shudders in a whisper
Apropos nothing whatsoever, I thought this was very lovely. She can definitely come to my funeral dressed like that! No, hang on, erm… someone else’s funeral that I’m at…. but not someone so close to me I’d be too sad to perve. Oh, heck it doesn’t even need to be a funeral at all.
Owning him
Oh, if there is one Lady I’d love to see again, it is Lady Sophia Black. She lit our lives up like a, like a… hmm… comet? No, something brighter. Like a flamethrower, then retired too soon, too too soon.
The 1980s called back
Cast your minds back, British readers over a certain age, to a time when dominatrices advertised on little cards in phone boxes rather than OnlyFans, when femdom images were to be found only on furtive trips to specialised shops in Soho and when those same images came wrapped not in endless entreaties to subscribe to one or other specialised service but in plain paper bags, usually a pastel shade rather than brown, for some reason.
Yes, I am talking about last July, 2023, when this blog featured a post called ‘The 1980s called‘, devoted in part to rhapsodising about the magazines of Servitor’s mis-spent youth and in part to a rip-off of homage to those magazines, in the form of a ‘letters’ section written in his mis-spent late adulthood.
I warned you then this might become a series and so it has. OK, I recognise that the number of this blog’s readers who ever came across such magazines can probably be counted on the fingers of the one hand that is not presently in your trousers. But I don’t care: this blog has never sought the easy route of popularity, and it has been consistently successful in avoiding it.
So, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines.
So, so lovely…
These are from the web page of the helpful guy at Swish Publications. He’s scanned them all and is happy to sell them to you for a remarkably modest price (fewer £s than the originals cost way back then) so why you are still here reading my shabby imitation I have no idea. And I must also mention in a kind of Wayne’s World ‘we’re not worthy’ manner that the creator of the slightly later generation of femdom mag that was Cruella and Goddess is still going strong too, at https://cruella.com. Go on, Andy, Mr Rogue-Hagen, scan the old stuff and sell them as pdf mags… you won’t regret it. And we’d love to see ‘Victoria’ and co again.
Right…
As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Why? Oh, who knows. But with the world in such a terrible state, I guess we all just have to do what we can.
Empress Vol 3, Issue 2. Letters to The Editrix
Most sublime Goddess-Lady Lucia
The article entitled A dog’s life for Steven in the June 1986 edition of your wonderful magazine reminded me of something your readers might enjoy hearing about. My wife is firmly in charge in our marriage: in all important respects I am no more than her slave. I long since learnt that any failures on my part – let alone attempts at asserting my independence – will be met with swift and painful corrective measures.
Just over a year ago, my wife came back from the shops with a small package. It turned out she had been to the pet shop and bought what I understand is called a ‘shock collar’ for dogs. It looked like a regular thin leather dog collar, with a kind of plastic box attached to it, from the inside edge of which protruded two rounded metal studs. It came without batteries (why don’t manufacturers simply include them?), so I was sent out to the newsagent – it took one of those little 9 volt rectangular ones, and I bought one and a spare.
With battery installed, it was fastened around my neck and my wife fiddled a bit with the remote control that came with it and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that made me gasp. It’s hard to describe, Goddess-Lady Lucia, even though I have since experienced it hundreds of times. It is not a hot, searing kind of pain on the skin of the neck… in an odd way it’s not really pain at all, it’s a kind of wrench right inside one’s body. As I said, it’s not exactly pain but the sense that someone has reached inside your chest and tugged at everything inside there at the same time is deeply unpleasant. Of course, I begged and whined to be released – and she did take it off, but this turned out just to be to drill an extra hole through the leather collar, to fit a small padlock. And on it went again.
I now wear it whenever I am in the house, and quite often outside. I have never particularly liked roll-neck pullovers but now I have several of them because they are just what is needed to cover it up. We don’t play at my being her dog, you understand – it is just another way or punishing me for my faults and reminding me of my place whenever she deems that necessary. I am responsible for ensuring that it always has a working battery and that there is always a spare battery in the house.
As I am not a dog, of course, I can touch it with my fingers. So I soon realised that a small piece of paper, slid carefully down between my neck and the prongs, could insulate me from any shocks. I tried that once – just once. I jumped and squawked, whenever I saw her pressing the button, but of course sooner or later she gave it a press when I was not looking. The paper was found, the husband was caned mercilessly, every one of the shocks I had so deceitfully avoided (or her estimation of that total) were applied in triplicate and believe me I have never dared repeat the attempt.
I now give generously whenever I pass one of those collection boxes for the RSPCA. I have never been much of a dog lover, but I can definitely say they have my full sympathy!
In collared submission
Mrs Henshaw’s husband.
Well, Mrs Henshaw sounds like a lady after my own heart! I strongly disapprove of these devices being used to hurt our four-legged friends, so I hope that every one of the vile devices is bought up by wives to put to the excellent use you describe. There is, after all, no Society (Royal or other) for the prevention of cruelty to husbands and nor should there be! G-L L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
Your publication is simply wonderful, easily the best of its kind on the market. I particularly like the school-themed stories, as my own fantasies typically involve my sitting with head bowed at a plain wooden school desk, often frantically scribbling punishment lines, while a stern lady teacher taps her cane thoughtfully against her palm, planning the next phase of my detention.
Goddess-Lady Lucia, you are so beautiful and commanding and wise. I would love to spend my evenings in pointless drudgery, writing punishment lines at your command. If I could write lines in your honour, Goddess-Lady Lucia, what should I write and how many would you require me to do?
Yours in scholastic supplication
Dayboy
How ridiculous you men all are! Fine – why not? Take an edition of Empress, roll two dice to pick a page, then close your eyes and point at a sentence. If it’s less than fifteen words, close your eyes and point again until you find one. Then write it out for me, oh… shall we say a million times? Don’t write again until that’s done. If you manage to finish before you die, you can send the completed library-full to the address for letters – or better yet, don’t. If you die first, just make sure your will makes clear I do NOT want to see the stupid things. G-L L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
I have been an avid reader of your wonderful magazine since the first issue, having always fantasised about being under the command of a beatiful young lady like yourself. Recently, I got married to a sweet but very inexperienced girl and after a few weeks I plucked up the courage to ask her for a spanking. She looked shocked and confused and said she wanted to talk to her Mum about it.
Although embarassed she’d be talking to her Mum (a lady I’d always suspected did not approve of me – any more than I did of her), it was perhaps not that unreasonable, as she was so inexperienced in matters sexual. I was just relieved she hadn’t immediately said no, or laughed or something like that. But a few days later, I came home and she announced she was ready to give it a go. Delighted, I took off my trousers but then to my horror she shouted ‘Mum!’ and my mother-in-law came into the room, put me firmly across her ample lap and whalloped the bejasus out of me! My God, she had a firm hand – and a bloody strong right arm, too. When she finally let me up, my face was red and wet with tears and my buttocks were black and blue – I could hardly walk! Needless to say, my cock had shrivelled to almost nothing, it was the most unsexy experience of my life.
I thought maybe that would be that, she’d leave and I could talk to my lovely young wife and explain that this was not what I had in mind. But the old harridan had come to stay with us! The next day, after a night on the couch, I found myself alone with my wife and tried to speak about it but… ‘Mum!’. And you can guess what happened then.
Since then, they have found my stash of Empress magazines and I fear that has given them ideas. I do the housework in a little apron, I clean shoes with my tongue and handwash underwear – some very large and horribly stained underwear too – and they have bought a cane. All of my fantasies have come true – and I hate every moment. But the worst horror was to be threatened with ‘facesitting’ after my ‘Mother Superior’ read the story titled Lydia’s living cushion in one of the recent issues. I don’t think I’d survive – she must weigh 200 lbs at least!
Please, please Goddess-Lady Lucia, help me. You understand this is a sex fetish. Can you help me explain to my lovely young wife and her evil old cow of a mother that I just want an occasional sexy spanking, not to be the slave of some brutal old tyrant? I was thinking maybe an article about how to balance sex fantasies with reality? Obviously, please don’t print this letter.
Yours in supplication
Desperate Dan
Ha ha ha! My favourite letter of the month… oh I hope it is true. And if the lady you describe as an ‘evil old cow’ is reading this then I hope she both takes note of how you described her and also reads carefully through the story titled ‘The queue for the Ladies”, because I think the scenario described there is another that you would probably enjoy less in reality than in fantasy. But I’ve tried it and it’s perfectly practical: all she’ll need is a plastic funnel and a suitably contemptuous attitude. Ladies of a certain age often need to pee quite frequently, so having someone ready (if not truly willing) wherever she is, at a moment’s notice, would be a great comfort. Try eating asparagus first too, my dear, to give him an even more revolting time! G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
I have noticed that many of the stories in your magazine feature lesbians. The beautiful girls who seem to indulge in this practice are often accompanied by pasty-fleshed, unattractive middle-aged males. Do you think perhaps they might take more of an interest in men if they had more impressive specimens to play with? I myself am fit, young and particularly well-endowed and I would be happy to teach any of these girls about the joys of being on the business end of a real man’s tool.
Rifleman James
I assume this is a joke. You certainly are, small-bore Jimmy. I myself am bisexual as although I prefer to date women (the conversation, sex, hygiene and manners are all infinitely better), I do love the male penis. I have a special box full of small braided whips, clamps, spiked wheels and rough sandpaper and will happily spend an hour or two playing with a firmly secured fine male appendage, to get into the mood before sinking into the arms of my blonde beloved later. Your own penis sounds so lovely, I think I would probably want to keep it. In a box by the bed. Now go and wank off to a different magazine, as this one is obviously too difficult for you to understand. G-L L.
Esteemed Lady Lucia
I so admire the ladies in the stories in this magazine. I myself was ‘introduced’ to female domination as fantasy play by the man who become my husband and then, soon after our wedding, it was my turn to introduce him to what a real disciplinary relationship can be like. This came as quite a shock for him… I think he had expected me to prance around in leather and occasionally gently tap his bottom with the end of a riding whip, the silly thing. Needless to say, as soon as I had grasped the basic concept and with the help of lesser magazines than yours, I decided that a cane was my preferred instrument. Although ‘bondage’ hadn’t featured in his fantasies, I also soon discovered that a good caning could only be administered if his wrists and ankles were secured. And the combination of a firmly secured man and a cane wielded with determination and entirely without mercy has provided me with a thoroughly satisfactory domestic arrangement ever since.
He said the funniest thing the other day, while strapped down over an armchair in our sitting room, awaiting the second dozen of a twenty-four stroke caning. Amidst all the tears and pleading, he blurted out “You don’t know how much it hurts!”. And of course, he’s entirely right. I have never allowed anyone to hit me with a vicious implement like that and I never will. Why on earth would I? In this world, there are those who cane and there are those who are caned – and I have no doubt which side of that divide I prefer to be on! It is truly better to give than receive, as my dear mother used to say. Don’t you agree, Lady Lucia?
A generous wife
No doubt you make sure that your husband appreciates the gifts you so generously bestow on him. As for the great divide, I quite agree about which side it is best to be on. I know there are some females who prefer the submissive role, but I have never felt the slightest desire to experiment with that! Unlike you, though, I have tried out the cane – I once asked a dear lady friend to give me just one stroke on the thigh, just to see what it was like. Bloody murder it was – and I am sure she did not lay it on hard. It almost made me sympathise the next time I had to dish out a proper caning to one of my slaves. Almost, but not quite. My own mother used to say ‘Life’s not fair’ and it has been a delight for me, discovering just how unfair it can be made to be. G-L. L.
To Our Lady Lucia of the Boots
Oh, Mistress Lucia, what a delight to see so many pictures of you in lace-up boots in the March edition of your perfect magazine. I found myself consumed with jealousy at the sight of your two office slaves, permitted to lick the divine leather after their well-deserved thrashings.
My fantasy is to be nothing but a boot cleaner. Chained in a steel compartment, I wait for a passing lady to deposit a pair in the chute leading down to my box. I get to work, first carefully unlacing them, then licking all the mud off, before commencing the brushing and polishing and relacing the boots. A suitably dirty pair will take anything up to 12 hours. I place the cleaned boots on my back and lean forward into a floor-level pillory that automatically snaps into place. This displays a sign outside my box that the boots are ready and some time later that day or the day after, the front of the box will be lifted up, the lady customer will pick up and inspect her boots, award me a rating out of ten and administer any additional strokes of the handy crop she deems appropriate. Every few days the overseers come around and thrash us, at a rate of ten strokes for each rating short of a perfect ten we have received for each pair of boots serviced.
Goddess-Lady Lucia I know of course that my fantasy is unrealisable but while there are booted and demanding Ladies like yourself out there, the dream remains alive.
Bootcleaner #23
Well, #23, your fantasy, while ridiculous, is amusing enough and shows a proper appreciation of your place in this world. Licking boots, however, is a privilege not a valuable service: the tongue applied to a truly muddy boot will merely smear the mess around and excessive saliva does the leather no good. I insist instead on vigorous brushwork – but I do make the slave eat up the pile of dirt left on the newspaper when it is done. The boots you saw being licked are a special pair I wear when a slave deserves the reward of using his tongue – and I make sure he knows full well that the leather is impregnated with the saliva of many males before him. Yet still they beg for the privilege – what absurd and easily-enslaved creatures you all are! G-L. L.
Goddess-Lady Lucia is presently overseeing the production of the next issue of Empress, which will feature:
- The continuing Trials of Steven: released from the Training Centre back into Ms Judy’s care, Steven learns that he is now just one of a stable of slaves who must compete for her favour!
- Re-educating the chauvinist. Malcolm mocks a women’s lib demonstration and is taught the error of his ways.
- Office Politics Part 2: the typists’ revolt continues.
- Return of the Gymslip Gumshoes. Our schoolgirl detectives are back, this time investigating a series of underwear thefts.
- Nursing a Grudge: with his legs and arms in plaster, Ian can do nothing when the ward nurses decide to give him a series of enemas.
- .And of course Empress Editorial, Readers’ Letters and the ‘winners’ of Goddess-Lady Lucia’s Stupidest Slave Haircut competition.
Male creatures are instructed to ensure they have sufficient funds to buy it, then give the rest of their money anonymously to a woman.
Degraded images
This lovely lady is Maitresse Blanche, based just outside Paris, whose medical skills have from time to time been employed in trying to sort out the many, many things that are wrong with Servitor.
Losergroup
GODDESS ONLINE
Hey there! Welcome to Yvonne’s Losergroup’s weekly remote control session – you know, this is the only cam session I do each week where the guys mostly don’t want me to take my top off? ‘Cos it hurts your little dicks when you try to get hard, right? Aww… poor little losers.
Oh-kay… let’s see, we have twelve logged-in losers right now. So… object443 told me he can’t make it this week, so he paid the fine and he’s not here, that’s OK, but that should still leave thirteen… so who’s missing…?
Right, dicklessjerk hasn’t logged on. Sending him a punishment buzz… level 5.
And level 6… Oh, hey there he is. And you thanked Mistress in the chat, dickless, well done. One more level 6, though, for being late.
You’re welcome, dickless.
Yay! Full stable of thirteen losers, all with cocks wired up to the Internet and controlled from here. Hey, yvonnestoy, your device is on, like 30% charge? That should get you through the call but recharge afterwards, or it’ll go into low charge punishment mode, yeah? Here’s a level 5 buzz to remind you.
Yeah, you’re welcome yvonnestoy. OK, losers. So this week we have… four punishment buzzes to hand out. Three eights and – wow- a nine! Wonder who’s getting that! Well, I know of course. OK, and one… wait for it… release! Who’s going to be the lucky guy who gets the sexy wanking fun, huh? Just have to wait and see.
OK, so we’ll start with financial contributions. Nobody gave zero this week, but you already all guessed that, because I didn’t announce a level 10 this week. But someone among you thirteen losers was less generous than the others, wasn’t he? And Yvonne doesn’t like it when her boys are mean like that, does she? So she gets to be mean back.
OK, so… level 8. I’ll give you a clue… if you gave more than £200 this week, you can relax, for now. OK. But that still leaves five of you who didn’t! Five mean guys! But who was meanest and is going to be screaming in a moment, hmm? I’m gonna give those five a little level 2 buzz, just so they know who they are, in case any of them forgot that they gave me less than a measly two hundred. Hi guys.
Now for the level 8. And it’s…. ladysman! Welcome to hell, ladysman. I can see him screaming and writhing around there… yeah, not gonna lift my finger off the button yet, ladysman. Take it all. There it’s finished… ooh, no it hasn’t, I lied! You gonna be less of a skinflint next week, ladysman? I hope so. OK, you’re done.
You’re welcome, ladysman. OK, next two level 8s are both going to be for the poems you all wrote me. Fuck, they were bad. All of you deserve to spend the rest of the session just getting nothing but electric shocks for bad poetry, OK? If any of you losers ever, ever have a chance for, like, an ordinary relationship – which you never, ever will because I’ve got you and because there just aren’t enough women that crazy – do not write her a love poem, OK, because you are seriously shit at it. Each and every single one of you.
Oh – and another tip just in case you ever do get into a relationship with a woman: don’t let her lock electrodes onto your genitals that she can remotely activate whenever she pleases, either! Oh – but you did, didn’t you? ‘Cos you’re fucking losers. Here’s a level 6 for everyone. That’s not for the bad poetry, just for being losers.
OK and here’s a level seven for everyone’s bad poetry. Wow… look at you all, pathetic. Like your poems. I mean it, I’m not doing the usual mean girl domme thing – even if this was a completely vanilla session, I would still say that every single one of those poems was painful to read. Maybe not quite as painful as getting electric shocks to the genitals – although I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tried it, amazingly enough because I’m not stupid enough to let anyone do that to me – but really, really bad.
Yeah, yeah, you’re all very welcome. Not thanking me, slapface, yvonnestoy? There a reason for that? Not enough electricity for you maybe? Oh no, slapface, too late now. Try this.
That’s better. You’re both welcome.
Right. But two of the poems were worse than all the others. Tough bar to beat but they managed it. So, each of those two is going to type his poem into the chat and I’ll read it out – trying not to puke – and at the end of each line he’ll get a level 8, OK?
OK. So… all of you are horrible, terrible poets… but who was worst? Was it you, socksniffer? Yeah, you should look terrified. Because your poem was bad, socksniffer, really bad… but not as bad as…
irishmike’s!
That was a level 8, irishmike, just to remind you what it feels like. OK, start typing the poem in the chat.
Yvonne the goddess of my dreams – no, stop, I’m gonna zap you, remember. There we are.
You’re welcome. Just this once, you don’t need to thank me in the chat after the zap – just write the next line.
OK, She smiles so prettily at the screams. That actually doesn’t scan, irishmike, you’re lucky to be only getting level 8.
Her slaves devoted, far and near. Yeah, yeah. Scream, scumbag.
Her all obey, through love and fear. Hmm. Do I allow you losers to say you ‘love’ me? I thought we made a rule about that… lockedtinycock you look it up in the rulebook after the session and post it in on the LoserBoard. Anyway, only two lines to go, thank God.
Our minds and hearts she firmly locks. Zap. Zapzapzap. Don’t forget to breathe, irishmike.
And rules our cocks with painful shocks. She fucking does, irishmike, you said it. In astonishingly bad poetry. So now you’re feeling it.
OK, you’re done irishmike. But we’re going to have to change your name, I mean it’s much too ‘normal’ anyway. From now on you’re ‘shitpoet’, OK? I’ll sort it out in the system after the session.
Right… that was pretty bad, huh guys? The poetry, I mean. Probably the electric shocks too, but what did we think of the poetry?
Not a rhetorical question: answer. Level 4.
That’s right, it was. Oh – and you all thanked me for the shock too – you’re learning! Nothing like pain to teach a meathead how to behave.
So… who else wrote a poem as bad as that? I’ll give a clue: if you thought writing a limerick – a fucking limerick – was going to be good enough, then your cock and balls just might be about to get fried.
That’s right, pigface4, it’s you. Welcome to level 8.
You’re welcome. Now type this fucking limerick so we can all see what a total jerk you are.
The beautiful Mistress Yvonne. And that’s a zap.
Found one day that her money was gone I wish the rest of you guys could see pigface4 when I zap him, he sort of gets off the chair and jumps around. So funny… almost makes up for the poem. Not quite though.
But relief it came swift. Let’s try a little sequence of zaps. One two three four five. One two three four five.
With the generous gift. And this time a lonnnnng slowwww hold. Holding… holding… there.
C’mon pigface. Your hands can’t be shaking too much to type. I mean, if they are then obviously you won’t be able to complete Yvonne’s instructions, and what do we do to –
Oh, apparently you can still type. Yay.
From her pig-faced old sub-slave named Jon. Die, jon, die. Plenty of charge in your battery, so let’s really make some good use of it.
While pigface4 – whose real name is Jon, obviously, but don’t worry I won’t give away any more, this isn’t a blackmail gig – while Jon is gasping in agony, I’ll just explain that he gave easily the most money this week. Which was nice, pigface4, but trying to remind me of it with a fucking limerick – no don’t try typing an apology, pigface, just take the punishment, my finger’s not lifting up off this button until I’m done talking – was not only boorish (oh, that’s a bit funny, ‘boorish’, like a boar, right?) but disrespectful after I’d asked for a love, fucking poem. Fuck it, 5 seconds of level 9 to finish you off.
There.
You’re welcome, pigface Jon.
Oh… kay. Now, we come to the grand finale. Someone’s getting an orrrrrr-gasm! Who’s it going to be? And someone else is getting level 9! Who’s that going to be? So, this week I thought we might try something different…. First of all I’m going to remotely unlock the lucky lucky boy. Then when he starts jerking off, that’s when the level 9 shocks will start for the other, much more unlucky boy. Who I say is unlucky, but in fact deeply deserves what’s coming to him. I’ve set it up for a random sequence of level 9s – fast and slow – and it’ll go on until the semen’s all out. Or a bit longer if that’s too quick, we’ll see.
OK, so the lucky lucky boy is… is…
Hmmm. Who’s been without longest, hmm? Let’s have a look here. Ooh, herslave2, that’s been a while, hasn’t it? And irishmike – sorry ‘shitpoet’ – too. I’m not counting ‘dontpissyvonneoff’ because he’s obviously still working through his punishment year, so for him it’s been almost eight months.
Well, his poetry is shit but his financial gift was acceptable so it’s… pigface4! Sending the unlock command now, pigface, hope your cock still works after all that zapping. Keep your hands off it for now.
So the rest of you know you’re not squirting today. Aww… poor frustrated things! maybe next time, huh? Except you, obviously, dontpissyvonneoff. But there’s still something to look forward too: most of you won’t be on the floor screaming in level 9 agony, while pigface here fumbles away at his rancid sweaty cock… I can see it actually and it’s a hairy, nasty little thing. Getting a bit bigger, though, isn’t it pigface? Hey – wouldn’t it be funny if I was fooling you and you had to go and have an icebath and go straight back in and get the level 9 treatment?
Don’t worry… I was about to say I’m not that mean, but I am, aren’t I? So maybe I’ll do that some time. But not today. No, today I’ve already decided on someone else as our special, special victim and it’s not you, pigface.
In fact, rather than announce it, I think I’ll just let the shock announce itself and then explain why while pigface here wanks (Hands off, pigface! Level 7. You’re welcome). So in just a moment, basically, if you’re not experiencing level 9 pain, you’ll know it’s not you, OK!
Now!
Fooled you! I haven’t started yet! Oh you all looked so relieved! But you still each have a one in twelve chance… don’t imagine that just because you were one of the level 8s, you’re not in the frame for this. You are, because I’m nasty like that. Pigface isn’t obviously… can’t have a wank while being shocked. can you? I wouldn’t have thought so, maybe we should try it some time. No, the level 9 shocks start…
Now.
No – another false alarm. See, I want it to be unexpected so
Right, start wanking pigface, while I explain why crybaby is currently experiencing unbearable pain. You see, it’s getting almost to be a bit of a chore for me, thinking up all of these punishments. And you’re all so fucking scared of me, you’re frankly all a bunch of obedient little wimps who try to do everything right and it’s only the fact that you’re all a bunch of complete morons that really gives me a chance. Slowly, pigface, I don’t want you going off just yet. Well, anyone can tell you’re morons, right? No one with even half average intelligence would let someone do this to them. So, yeah, anyway, I thought who’s going to get tortured on the call today and it struck me – I can just pick any of you fuckers at random.
So, crybaby, if you can hear me through the screaming I can see you’re doing, and the blood pounding in your head, you didn’t do anything wrong. Matter of fact, I let my cat choose. I put all the list of names in front of her, and she put her paw on yours first. I think. I wasn’t checking too carefully. Anyway, doesn’t matter. The point is it was just capricious – that’s a good word, isn’t it? Capricious Yvonne. So that’s why you’re –
Oh! Well done pigface. Still working after all this time, is it? Now you have a sweaty, hairy cock that’s dribbling with come too. Makes a girl feel so special.
Yuk. Filthy beast. There it goes. Let’s just make sure it’s all out. Tug tug!
In case you’re wondering why you’re still getting electric shocks, crybaby, pigface’s cock is sort of hanging at halfmast and we’re just waiting to see if there’s any more to come out of – oh, there’s a little twitch and one more little droplet came out! Hope you enjoyed all that, pigface. And you too, crybaby. Let’s just switch off the sequence, won’t be a moment…
Oh, butterfingers, I pressed the wrong one! That’s level 10, isn’t it? Hang on. There.
Oh – disgusting! Are you vomiting? That is a repulsive sight, I’m switching off your camera. OK, you can have just a moment to crawl back to the keyboard, crybaby.
But I won’t wait forever.
You’re welcome.
OK, pigface you have ten minutes to clean up and get yourself locked away again. I’ve started the timer now – don’t try asking for more time if you’re too slow, as I won’t be online. It’s automatic.
And I’ve put next week’s instructions up in the shared Loserspace, OK? Normal week really. Level 7 to wake you up at 5.30 every morning and one hour online devotions. Two pieces of homework: 500 lines and a 2000-word essay on Yvonne’s eyebrows. Erm…new weight targets for those of you on a diet, obviously. Especially you, fatbastard, so I hope you’re not planning any dinners out, because anything other than a couple of pieces of lettuce will take you right over. Financial contribution counter’s reset to zero, there are two shopping trips to sponsor and a girls’ night out – and I’ve put some bills up for adoption too. Oh, and I’ve got a special shopping mission for each of you, too – an item of clothing, sort-of clothing anyway, that I want to see you all wearing on next week’s call. Who knows – you might even see someone else buying the same thing… you could have a little Yvonne’s losergroup bonding.
OK, losers. Quick level 8 double-tap to say goodbye.
You’re welcome. You’re all very welcome indeed.
GODDESS DISCONNECTED
The part of the lovely (but somewhat unpleasant) Yvonne in this little story was played by the no doubt equally lovely (but probably rather more pleasant) Ally Tate, who can be found online doing all sorts of things that male ‘readers’ of this blog really aren’t really allowed to watch. According to the various website identifiers in the screenshots above, she seems to do a lot of stuff involving sisters. Which sounds rather sweet, although does put in mind of the day my sister discovered that I’d damaged one of her dolls… a painful memory, although I expect the experience helped make me the man I am today.
Anyway, I’m sure Ally Tate is a very nice lady, so if you like nice ladies: go and watch her doing something unmentionable. If, instead you like vicious, brutal ladies more like Yvonne, just stick with this blog and you’ll be fine.
The Facility
New occasional theme that’ll be included in regular posts from time to time, but I thought I’d introduce it in a themed post. Brutal, non-consensual – if you don’t like those things… well, you’re probably reading the wrong blog to begin with, quite frankly.
Embarassing observations
The untruths hurt, sometimes.
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
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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?
