… when knights were bold. Some possibly a little too bold, as we shall see.
…and finally, a succession of knights all seeking the same evil witch but who all ended up encountering a different lady entirely. What are the chances?
… when knights were bold. Some possibly a little too bold, as we shall see.
…and finally, a succession of knights all seeking the same evil witch but who all ended up encountering a different lady entirely. What are the chances?
Just another one of those captions that became so long it wasn’t really a caption any more so I’m calling it a story.
Your princess? Really, am I? Aww… that’s nice.
Maybe you’d like to hear your princess tell you a story, hmm? Don’t worry: you can keep doing that. Right between the toes: there’s a good boy.
Once upon the time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in far-off Milton Keynes. She was so beautiful and so talented that men from far and wide fell in love with her. Princes, knights, rich merchant bankers… even footslaves so ugly she had to make them wear latex masks, who loved to lick her sweaty toes. They all fell in love with her, but she really didn’t give a flying fuck, as long as they paid her and gave her presents on special occasions.
Like her birthday: that was the specialest occasion of all. The princess hated it if any of her ungrateful and moronic worshippers forgot her birthday. No – don’t stop doing the foot thing, slave. I’ve got something else planned in a moment, but you can keep doing that for now.
So, at the end of one birthday the princess made a little list of all the slaves who hadn’t fucking bothered to give her a present – who couldn’t even extend her the basic courtesy of an email or something. You know: to take, like, one minute out of their day to wish a happy birthday to the lady they claim is the light of their sad little fucked-up lives. And she decided that the next time each of those nasty little ingrates sessioned with her, she’d give them a really hard pain session, that went way beyond their ‘limits’. Like, for example, her pathetic little footslave who was ‘really not into pain, Mistress’: she decided she was going to clamp his nipples and bollocks with tight, tight clamps and attach heavy weights to them, then whip him raw. Maybe finish off with some electric shocks or ball-busting. Or both.
Of course, the princess realized, it would have to be consensual. But the self-centred bastards who’d forgotten her birthday would be given a choice: consent to the pain session the selfish little sods so richly deserved, or never see Mistress and her beautiful feet ever, ever, ever again. Either way, she thought, next birthday she’d have presents from all her slaves: any who didn’t consent would be living sad lonely lives without her and the remaining ones would be too fucking terrified to forget a second time, after the sheer hell she planned to deal out to them.
Now… I want you to help me write the end of the story, slave. Not the very end, that’s “And the princess lived happily ever after.” It’s the bit just before that. What do you think is going to happen?
No, you can stop licking my foot now – maybe that was for the last time, isn’t it exciting? – and I’ll go and get the bondage cross ready, while you have a think.
The part of the princess in this tale was played by the very lovely and delightful Tiffany Naylor, who does indeed hold court in the magical land of Milton Keynes*, where I once encountered her and very lovely and very delightful she was. Naturally, none of the actions of the fictional dominatrix depicted here should be attributed to the real Tiffany Naylor, although I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets cross if her regulars forget her birthday**, as that’s perfectly normal (and normally perfect) dominatrix behaviour.
* For Americans or other foreigners unfamiliar with this place, Milton Keynes is one of the most historic towns in England. You can easily spend several days there, just strolling around the medieval streets, drinking in the scenic beauty of the old town and swapping stories with its charming inhabitants. Wisely, the local authorities have avoided the excess tourism that has damaged the charm of some other historic English locations, like Stratford on Avon, by ensuring there is little to be found on the Internet about the rich history and architecture of this unspoilt gem, but those in the know regard it as being on the must-see list for any visitor seeking to explore England’s historic treasures.
** 3rd of August!
|A purpose for your life – at last!
|Magic mirror seems to understand his place, anyway. I’m sure her fairy tale prince will learn the same lesson – possibly even with the threat of the same hammer.
|Stand up for yourself! Who’s the boss in this relationship anyway?|
Cruella of course. Still going strong. And a bit of a change of scene from the bleak Northern landscapes, as some of their lovely ladies got to go to Spain recently, thank goodness.
|She’s trying to make the best of it… why can’t you?
|No spoilers… but I can tell you she’s determined to live happily ever after.
In one of the comments in the last few days, someone was kind enough to say that my little captions sometimes manage to be both witty and erotic. I mention this, not to show off (but it was a very kind thing to say, as this is usually exactly the combination I aim at) but merely as a segue to allow me to note that the tale below is neither witty nor erotic.
On the contrary, it is a thoroughly unpleasant story (and not in a ‘good’ way). Femdom-themed in parts, but not sexy. Sorry. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Once upon a time there was a poor woodsman. Every day he would rise with the sun and haul his axe off into the forest to chop trees and branches to sell for a few coppers in town. It was hard work but he loved being outdoors, whether in the warm sunshine of the summer or even the fresh morning frost of the autumn. In winter, he holed up in his snug cabin, a fire always burning merrily in the hearth, and rested and dreamed. He was well-liked in the town for he was known for his bravery and had several times wielded his axe to help clear fallen trees, to rescue townspeople from collapsed buildings and even on one occasion to save a child from her burning home, delivering her safely to her crying, grateful mother. Yes, although poor, the woodsman was contented with his life.
There was only one shadow over his happiness, one yearning he could not fulfill: the woodsman craved to be humiliated and ruined by a findomme. Yes, when finally resting exhausted after a day chopping wood, or when snuggled down in his warm winter quarters, the woodsman’s hand would move down to his hardening cock and he would dream of spiteful, vicious young ladies taking everything he owned, on nothing more than a whim, and laughing their golden tinkling laughs at his humiliation and shame. But the woodsman knew that no findomme would ever be interested in raping his meagre coin-purse for the few coppers it contained, or in demanding nine-tenths of his monthly income to spend on fripperies, as even with the last tenth added, few fripperies indeed can be bought for the proceeds of a woodsman’s labour. And so the woodsman could only dream, but his dreams at least were rich – with humiliation, cruelty, beauty and disdain in equal measure.
Now, one fine spring morning the woodsman was far from home, seeking out an oak of great girth for a special commission from a rich merchant in town, who wanted a table made from a single tree-trunk. (How the woodsman envied the merchant the wealth he could glimpse through the gateway of his grand house; how he would have loved to lay the titles to that fine house and all its rich furnishings at the feet of a beautiful and contemptuous young lady, to be picked up and taken without a word of thanks or even acknowledgement!). After three hours, he came across a clearing, where stood the greatest oak he had seen in all his years of toil: seven yards around at least. He took his axe from his backpack, took position next to the gnarled wood and prepared for the first of what he knew would be hundreds of hard, biting strokes, when an ethereal voice rang out across the clearing.
‘Woodsman spare my home!’ it called and a shimmering green shape appeared somehow formed from the change movements of the leaves of the tree. A beautiful young lady, fine featured and elegant, yet with a face formed into a cry of horror and fear.
He knew of such things, although had never before seen one. A spirit of the tree – a dryad – was here and if he chopped down the oak, she would live the rest of her days stunted and deformed, trapped in the bare and chastened tree trunk that would remain after the glory of the living tree had been lost. Some woodsmen believed dryads to be evil spirits, others held that they were noble princesses imprisoned by some magic from the deep times, but all respected their power. Our woodsman simply had no desire to deprive any creature of her home, no matter how humble or exalted, so he put down his axe.
‘Ah, and now you claim your reward! A wish, that I must grant to clear my debt to you.’ the dryad sang out. But he merely smiled, shook his head and prepared to resume his search for an oak of the size he needed. He wanted no part of a magical bargain, having read too many fairy tales to believe that any good would come of it.
‘Oh? Is there nothing you yearn for? No deepest wish, no secret heart’s desire?’
The woodsman paused, a vision of a shapely foot, clad in a delicate jewel-encrusted shoe that would have cost more than ten generations of woodmen could ever earn, had forced its way to the forefront of his mind.
‘Ah – I see there is! Tell me, tell all! By the nine sacred branches of Father Oak, I command it.’
And the woodsman poured out his heart to her – at first reluctantly but then with increasing enthusiasm as the images tumbled one atop the other in his mind’s eye. He spoke of feminine radiance and contempt, of pay-piggies crushed beneath elegant heels, of priceless gifts spurned, of bodies and souls broken on the wheel of girlish cruelty and indifference. In short, there in the otherwise empty clearing, he spoke of his dreams of financial domination and sang of the findomme princess of his dreams.
When he had finished the dryad was silent for a moment.
‘I see’ she said at last. ‘Not quite what I am used to, I have to say. But I suppose it’s doable.’
‘You can bring a findomme princess here, to ruin me now?’ he asked eagerly.
The dryad laughed and her laughter was like the breeze moving through autumn leaves.
‘What would be the point in that? You’re not rich.’
‘Well, you could… make me rich.’ The woodsman replied. ‘And I could give it to her.’
‘Perhaps’ the dryad remarked. ‘But there is little humiliation in simply handing over a pile of gold that I magic up here. In any case, that would be two wishes, technically. No: leave it to me.’
And she disappeared, leaving only a tree – more massive than any other in the forest but still only a tree – and a very bewildered woodsman. He waited for an hour to see if she would return, then went off to seek another oak to cut. He was lucky and soon found one, worked all day, dragged the heavy cut trunk into town and received a small silver coin for his efforts. Still fired up by his visions from earlier, he immediately went to hand this to one of the town prostitutes hanging around behind the main square who, knowing his desires, slapped his face and threw it down to the ground for him to pick up and offer to her more humbly. Then she took the coin, kicked him in the face as she knew he liked and walked off, wishing she were young and pretty enough to make a career of this, rather than the blow-jobs and late-night knee-tremblers in the nearby alleys that were her stock in trade. And the woodsman went home.
Two days later there was a knock on the door of his forest hovel. On opening it, the woodsman was amazed to see three men dressed in the livery of the local lord. He was still more amazed when they explained that he was the distant heir of a minor branch of the local nobility and that all the land around – the forest, which covered three valleys and innumerable hills – belonged to him. One of the men was a ‘financial counselor’ and promised to help the woodsman decide what was best, to manage his newfound estate.
It was all very complicated. More complicated than chopping wood, the woodsman decided, with bewilderment. The land itself was valuable enough, worth a greater sum than the woodsman had imagined, but the annual returns were low, since few of the farmers or woodsmen who paid tithes had much income, although their numbers were many. Better by far – the financial counselor explained – to sell or lease it for ‘development’. This was a word the woodsman was unfamiliar with, but it seemed to mean bringing in machines and many people to extract the riches that lay beneath the ground.
‘Gold?’ the woodsman asked, eagerly, thinking of grovelling before an indifferent goddess and offering her gleaming jewellery from shaking hands.
But the counselor laughed and shook his head. Better than that, he explained: there was oil in great profusion, albeit locked inside shale beds that needed fracking to break open, and perhaps veins of heavy metals that could be leached from their deposits with the correct application of the right chemicals, in sufficient quantity. The woodsman understood little of this, but the counselor mentioned some financial figures ‘Just as a minimum, ball-park estimate’ and the woodsman realised that he could become one of the richest men in the kingdom. With wealth like that at his disposal, all of the most beautiful women in the kingdom would be queuing up to spurn him and treat him with the contempt he so craved. He barely paused, before grabbing the proffered pen and signing up to become a 50 % joint venture partner in a company called ‘Deposit Resource Yields – Advancing Development’, which would carry out these exciting plans.
Whoever owned the other 50% seemed not to need the woodsman to do anything, because later that same day a convoy of yellow vehicles and machinery arrived, all emblazoned with ‘DRYAD’ on the side and they began their work. Great bulldozers cleared trees at a thousand times the rate even an army of woodcutters could have managed. The lumber was machine-cut and ground into sawdust to make chipboard for cheap furniture, while steamrollers flattened the land for mighty roads laid down by hot, towering asphalt-burners, which lit the sky with their flames while pouring out the sticky black tar that coagulated to form the surface of the roads. Along these roads came more machines, to construct buildings for the many workers whose shouts and obscene jokes filled the air as they too laboured, to install drilling and injection machines, across the three valleys and the surrounding hills. The sky darkened with the fumes from their activities.
Then the drilling began, with a roar like ten thousand shrieking banshees, and great vats of chemicals were positioned to be pumped in to the ground, to lubricate the drills, to crack open the seams of slate to liberate the precious oil within and to leach heavy metals from their deep veins, to be collected by mighty open-cast mining rigs.
The trees that had not been turned to sawdust lost their leaves within days, birds died in their hundreds or fled, the streams and rivers first bloomed with sickly algae, which then itself died back leaving nothing but black water stinking of corruption and decay. After a couple of weeks, the air stank of smoke, of choking chemical fumes, of electrical discharges and of death.
Looking sadly out over the blackened, blasted hillside one day, the woodsman remembered the townspeople, in shock. He put on the protective rubber boots and respiration mask that the workman respectfully offered to him and hurried down into town. He walked down the main street, seeing no one. Most of the houses were boarded up, and when he knocked on those that were not, he was greeted only with cries of hatred and rejection, when the inhabitant realised who it was. The townspeople knew of his inheritance and how he had delivered their land and their livelihoods over to destruction, for personal gain.
The woodsman came to the place where the prostitute had plied her trade, but there was nothing but a bare stretch of ground, worn and marked by the high heels of generations of prostitutes but now unoccupied. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a haggard shopkeeper, grimly winding down his store-front blind, eying him with contempt.
‘Wait!’ the woodsman called. ‘Did she… I mean where has…?’ and he gestured helplessly at the empty pavement.
The shopkeeper shook his head, slowly. ‘Syphilis’ he replied, hoarsely. ‘The workers who came with the machines… soon enough all the working girls got it. Not a pretty death. But then – what death is?’
And he resumed winding down the blind, keeping eye contact until he disappeared from view behind the blank screen that left the woodsman feeling utterly alone.
He wandered back towards his home, meeting on the way a cart piled with the meagre possessions of what must have been at least three families: the children and infirm grandparents clinging grimly to it, while adults walked and took turns to push, alongside.
‘Hey’ he called out desperately. ‘Hey there!’
The sad little procession paused, and all turned to look at him. One of the women lifted her chin slightly, staring straight at him as if to appoint herself spokeswoman for them all. But none said a word.
‘I… I can help!’ he cried out. ‘See – see I have money! I can help.’ And he drew out a soft kid leather bag of thick gold coins and started to untie the cord, with shaking hands.
The woman stepped forward, lowered her head and spat, once, at his feet. Then she turned away and the group resumed their trudging, all without speaking or even looking back.
Back at his hut the woodsman looked out at the blackened, poisoned hillside where once had been trees and flowers, butterflies and birdsong, life and laughter. Beyond it, in the valley, huge machines rumbled and roared, shaking the ground and blackening the sky.
‘What have I done?’ the woodsman cried out in horror at the ugliness of the outside and his sudden realisation of the ugliness of the soul inside him that had created it. ‘Oh, what have I done?’
And he collapsed to the ground, sobbing helplessly in his shame and his chagrin. His tears fell from his hot, quivering cheeks and splashed onto…
…a shapely foot of greenish but flawless complexion, girt with an ankle strap of golden twine.
He looked up in shock, at the beautiful face of the dryad, gazing down on him with an indecipherable expression on her face.
‘I… I only wanted to be rich!’ he gasped. ‘So I could… you know, be ruined by a callous female.’
‘But you were rich’ smiled the dryad. ‘You were rich in the forests that surrounded you with beauty; you were rich in the gratitude of the people whom you had helped; and, above all, you were rich in the contentment you enjoyed, in a life that you knew to be worth living. You were rich beyond the dreams of kings and emperors.’
‘And now…’ the woodsman groaned, slowly, the dawning realisation in his reddened eyes…‘Now I have…’
‘Nothing.’ replied the dryad. ‘You have nothing.’
‘Nothing’ he acknowledged, hollowly.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Would you like me to put things back how they were?’ the dryad asked, sweetly. ‘Before you visited my clearing, before you made your wish, before you destroyed everything in your desire for a findomme princess?’
‘Yes – yes, put it back how it was!’ the woodsman cried desperately.
‘Hmm’ the dryad replied. ‘Maybe.’
The woodsman kissed the ground before her feet frantically, piteously begging with all the humility and desperation that filled his otherwise empty existence. He pleaded and beseeched with all his soul, shaking with the guilt and the helpless self-loathing that was all he felt inside.
‘Hmm’ she said again.
He paused, the despair within him somehow burning still more painfully now there was a tiny flicker of hope in his aching chest.
‘I don’t think so’ he heard, and then felt an explosion of pain that blotted out his vision. She had kicked him in the face, harder than anyone had ever kicked him before.
And when he came to, she was gone and the woodsman lay alone, spots of blood from his nose and tears from his eyes discolouring the ground beneath him, surrounded by the blackened hell that was the world he had chosen for himself. The flicker of hope in him had died, leaving nothing but darkness and despair.
He was ruined.
I did warn you. Unpleasant, not ‘unpleasant in a good way, full of vicious but exciting femdom torture like Serena and Alice‘. Just nasty and mean-spirited – and predictable too, right?
Here’s another very unpleasant story that my readers hated, if you want something else to dislike.
When I write nicer stories I try to illustrate them with pictures of pretty ladies that are at least somewhat relevant to the plot but for this one… well, I only found this and I think we can all agree this is not how the dryad looks:
Especially for all those readers who’ve been clamouring for captions of femdom in realistic, domestic settings – another post featuring fairytales and magic. What can I say… if you’re not into being treated with contempt, don’t read the blog, yeah?
|Story of my life… I start chatting to a pretty young lady and it’s going well, then up comes some handsome stud and I just get crushed underfoot and my sticky, bloody remains fed to the pigeons. Happens. Every. Single. Time.
|It’s lucky the castle has facilities to contain a wild beast securely. In fact, I’ve heard it has capacity for several, so you’ll be perfectly safe.
|She’s not good at small-talk, but I’m sure that when she meets the Prince that won’t be an obstacle to their romance blossoming.
|Occasionally you’ll spend an hour or so being only eight inches long – tall, I mean. But you need to practice holding your breath before she’ll try that.
|Don’t worry, she’ll look after you.
Once upon a time, in a small town in the forest-covered mountains, there lived a pretty blonde disciplinarian. She was young to hold such a responsible position in the community, her mother having retired early after fracturing her wrist in an ill-judged slash of the cane across a miscreant’s kicking calves, but she took her job seriously and had become skilled in the art of chastising males. From all over town – and from the outlying villages and isolated forest cottages around – disobedient husbands, inattentive boyfriends and elderly men needing reminders of their status were brought to be secured across her whipping bench and vigorously flogged.
All day long and into the evening, the tree-covered slope on the edge of town where she plied her trade would ring out to the merry cries of males in pain. In summer, she would move the whipping bench outside and her clients would experience their floggings in the fresh mountain air, their cries mingling with the birdsong and the buzzing of insects, their frantic and fruitless wriggling against the restraining straps mirrored in the eddies and splashes of the mountain stream that tumbled down the rocks beside the disciplinarian’s hut. Often the stripes on their soft, sensitive flesh would be produced by freshly-cut birch rods or switches, cut from the verdant stands that grew in that area, their whippy quality prized by disciplinarians far and wide, who could only dream of the perfection of agonies that could be inflicted by one of their number able to use implements freshly-cut that morning from the trees. In winter, all except the most aged of her ‘clients’ were forced to stand shivering in a line inside, wishing for warmth yet knowing all too well the fiery form in which it would come to them, when inside the hut the welts on their flesh would be lit by the cheery dancing flames and the hot tears rolling down their cheeks would fall softly onto the rich mahogany-dark patch of wooden flooring, to which so many men had contributed their tears before.
|Here’s a picture of the disci – oh hang on, that’s Divine Mistress Heather. I mean, she’s blonde and – obviously – lovely but she’s not the disciplinarian of the story so I’m not sure what she’s doing here. Sorry – we have a new photo-slave and it’s his first day on the blog. Won’t happen again.
The fame of the disciplinarian had spread throughout the kingdom and she had even had an offer to come to the Queen’s Palace to work in the torture chambers. But after many days contemplating the temptation of this offer to work at the peak of her profession , she regretfully put aside the thoughts of red-hot branding irons, mechanical testicle presses and other such exotic delights, for the simple pleasures of small-town life. Unlike so many people, she had discovered early in life what made her happiest and although she loved inflicting pain, she loved still more the thought that she could walk down the main street of her town knowing that all recognised and respected her and that her appearance struck terror into the pits of the stomachs of every man in the town and for many miles around.
|Oh bloody hell this is DM Heather again! I’m really, really sorry about this, I don’t know how – what’s that, readers? You don’t mind seeing pictures of her? Even though you know they’re not really in keeping with the story? I mean, that latex outfit is just way ahead of the technology in the story and – oh really? You’re sure you don’t mind at all? Oh, OK. Fine.
Now there also lived in that region – in a small hut just over the ridge beyond the outskirts of town – a huntress. She was poor but hardworking and honest. She made her living hunting the birds and animals in the forest, mostly living off the forest itself – feeding and clothing herself from her catch – but occasionally selling meat or hides to the villagers, especially to the leather-maker whose fine products were much in demand in those parts. With the few coins she earned, she was able to furnish her cottage simply but with well-made furnishings, and she was able to keep a boy for housework, errands and occasionally helping fetch the game she shot with her supple bow or retrieve the rare arrow that missed its target. Sometimes, she would put her skills to other uses, when she assisted the townsfolk in tracking down and returning escaped males, but she never asked for money for such help, seeing it as her duty to her community and although she would occasionally receive presents from a grateful wife or aunt of some returned reprobate more usually a word of thanks was her only compensation and that was enough for her.
She was happy in her life, most times, most days, but there was one aching hole inside her that she could never fill, except occasionally in her dreams. The huntress was in love. Madly, passionately, deeply in love, with a blonde lady a year or two below her in age with a whippy cane and a look that could strike terror into the heart of any male like a shard of ice thrust into his chest. Yes: the huntress loved the disciplinarian and could spend entire days walking in the forest, ignoring birds or small game right under her feet, as she thought of nothing but gently-curled golden locks, the elegance of a pair of bared shoulders flexing the cane or the silver bell of a laugh ringing out over a male’s sobbing and pleas for mercy. Yet she had never spoken to her. The huntress would rehearse a hundred different speeches of introduction, but each time would bite her lip in embarrassment at what she knew to be her uncultivated words. Unlike the disciplinarian, whose softly-spoken reprimands could reduce a waiting male to a quivering heap of fearful jelly, the huntress had little call for fine speeches in her profession and it showed. As well as fearing the awkwardness of any clumsy attempt to tell the disciplinarian of her feelings, she was also ashamed of the home-made skins she wore or the clean but simple furnishings of her humble cottage. So her love was hidden and unspoken – but no less intense for that.
|Huntress! Not Hunteress! God’s sake… why do I have to work with such amateurs?
So on days when she was not hunting, she would sit behind a rock by the mountain stream, from where she could watch her heart’s desire plying her trade without herself being observed and as the shrieks and cries rang out from below, she would dream of leaning over the quivering, abused flesh of a well-beaten back and finding a willing pair of soft lips to meet hers in silent, shared joy.
Now, one fine summer day the huntress was perched in her usual spot, thinking hopeless thoughts of the months and years that were passing in lovelorn loneliness, when she saw a strange couple approaching the door of the disciplinarian’s cottage. No one else was there – the previous week, the town had hosted a football match and so many over-excited boys and men had needed firm correction after that excitement, that the male population of the town was mainly in that much-desired state of best behaviour that follows a really severe flogging. So the disciplinarian was sitting outside her cottage, alone (as she thought, being unaware of the pair of besotted eyes fixed upon her from further up the slope) when the couple approached.
Both the disciplinarian and the huntress, separately, thought the two people to be the oddest pair they had ever seen. An old woman – the ugliest woman either had ever seen – was leading the largest male either had ever seen, on a thin leather leash. The male was colossal – eight feet tall, shambling and lurching on legs like tree trunks. He had a heavy forehead that concealed his eyes in dark pits, a neck that had more muscle in it and greater girth than the muscled abs of an athlete and thick, curly hair coming from his ears, his hands, his feet… almost every part of his body except his smooth bald head, which gleamed in the early morning sunshine. The old woman held a small white riding crop, barely ten inches long, which was surely entirely inadequate to dealing with this behemoth, who nonetheless seemed quite docile, responding to the smallest jerks of his leash.
The disciplinarian stood up politely to greet her guests, wondering whether they were clients too. She felt excited at the thought of chastising and subduing such a beast – a lesser soul might have been daunted, but she was a spirited girl and her heart rose at the thought of such a challenge.
“Good morning, Lady Citizen” she remarked, formally, as the older generation often preferred such courtesies. “May I be of service?”
The old crone merely grunted and jerked a thumb at the giant behind her.
“Needs beating. Hard. Reckon you can manage it?”
“Of course” replied the disciplinarian. “How much does he need?”
The crone’s discoloured, watery eyes rose to reach hers. Then looked her slowly up and down.
“A lot, dearie. More than you can manage, from the look of it. Perhaps I’ll go elsewhere.”
“I’m afraid there’s no other disciplinarian in town” the disciplinarian replied, without thinking. Then, realising this sounded rather feeble she added “But I’m sure I could manage him. I’m stronger than I look.”
“Hmmm.” grumbled the crone. “He’s a big bastard. From your reputation I’d expected someone… older. Some fifty-year-old aunt with arms like a wrestler, thighs like tree trunks and a face that could stop traffic. That’s what I was after. Sorry girlie, but I think I’ll walk on to the next town. No offence, but he’s not a job for a pretty little thing like you.”
“Oh please” the disciplinarian said. “Let me try – I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
The crone’s eyes narrowed.
Taken aback, the disciplinarian was lost for words.
“Well, I mean… I’ve never had a – “
“Sure enough to… stake a little something on it?” interrupted the crone. “A little wager, perhaps?”
“Well, I don’t have a lot of money…” the disciplinarian began.
“I wasn’t thinking of money” snorted the old woman. “Something a bit more… personal.”
She reached out a withered hand and stroked the disciplinarian’s soft cheek with the backs of her gnarled fingers. There was a sudden gasping cry from behind a rock further up the slope, where the huntress’s hand had just tightened around her bow in an involuntary spasm of shock and anger – but the sound was masked by the running, falling water and neither of the two females below noticed, intent as they were ontheir negotiations.
“Yes, more personal” she smiled. “You’re a pretty little thing, like I said. How about: if you can’t make him cry after – 12 strokes, shall we say? – I stay the night here? Hmm? In your bed.”
“With you” she added, just in case her meaning had not been taken.
Yet it had. By the disciplinarian at least, who was thrown into turmoil by the request. She was not one for romantic engagements, although she had kissed a few girls at the town’s weekly dance. In fact, she was a virgin, more experienced in the joys of covering male flesh with stripes of burning pain than covering a lover’s upturned face with soft kisses… although she had often thought about that, as girls will, and wondered when the right young lady would come along. Those dreams had certainly not involved bedding a creature such as the wizened old woman who now stood stooping before her and she did not know what to think.
Behind her rock, the huntress watched in puzzlement. Even her sharp hunter’s hearing could not make out the crone’s words, which was just as well, as she might not have been able to restrain herself had she heard and the conversation might have been cut short by the buzz of a jealously-released arrow and the snick of its razor-sharp head piercing a bony, lecherous old head.
“Oh, but of course if you don’t think you can do it” sighed the old woman, painfully turning around and making to hobble away. “Come on, Bonehead, we’ll have to go elsewhere.”
“No, no!” the disciplinarian protested. “I’ll do it – I accept the wager. Twelve strokes to make him cry or…or… what you said.”
“All right then” the crone replied, with a toothless smile. “Bonehead! Over the block.”
The mountain of muscle shambled over to the awaiting whipping block and bent over, like a tree bending in a high wind. The disciplinarian struggled to close the ankle straps, which finally grasped his thick bare legs, while straining at the last possible hole. Similarly, his ankles at the front. The mighty curve of his back arched high above the surface of the block – clearly the usual back-strap the disciplinarian used to hold her clients firmly in place would be useless.
‘Bonehead’ was wearing a simple one-piece shift so there was no reason to lower any trousers or pants. His vast buttocks seemed to the disciplinarian like the empty map of a territory waiting to be explored: at once tempting and daunting. She went into the cottage, opened a cupboard with a quick gesture (normally she would open it slowly, the loud resulting creak striking terror into those who had heard it before but she guessed that no such noise would have the slightest effect on the placidly-awaiting Bonehead).
She paused awhile, contemplating her choice. The trade-off, as ever, was between weight and suppleness; strength and whippiness; the force and the speed of the impact. She chose a dark, rattan cane that she knew well would produce plenty of both. It had soaked for almost three weeks in linseed oil when first purchased, then hung to dry. Straight, just over a metre in length from ribboned grip to the varnish-sealed tip, it was about a centimetre in width but much heavier than might be expected, because of the soaked-in oil. A novice disciplinarian would struggle to control the wrap-around from such a long instrument but in the hands of an expert, it could flex on the downstroke so that the whole last 30cm was moving much faster than the impulse provided by the arm and wrist alone, the lower third of the cane hanging back at the start of the stroke, high behind the wielder’s shoulder, but then racing forward to impart the maximum momentum to the recipient flesh, at the point of impact. Such was the science of it but there was art too: poetry. The cane seemed to quiver with creative potential as she lifted it by its red-ribboned handle and to sing of delights and agonies to come, as she swished it through the air. Yes: this one.
|Yeah, close enough.
Outside, she stood before the wall of flesh that was her target. She lifted the cane high and swished it down through the air: once, twice, three times. Each time she increased the force of her practice stroke and the swish of the first movement gave way to an ominous whirr as even the air found itself shrieking to escape the implement’s dreadful descent. The disciplinarian had often reduced men to gibbering wrecks of terror just from these warm-up flourishes but today not a quiver of flesh disturbed the serenity with which the tied Bonehead awaited his lesson.
So be it. She drew the cane back. Sometimes she would continue the psychological torment at this point (new clients sometimes felt this to be the worst part of the caning, although they usually realised their mistake once the real thing began), with further swishes, or gentle ‘aiming shots’ (which she did not need – her aim was perfect from the start), in which she would merely tap the buttocks as if for practice. Clearly, Bonehead was impervious to psychological torment, as perhaps she might have guessed from his name. But presumably he felt pain like any other human male, even if he was built on a near superhuman scale.
Her arm drove forward, her wrist flicking at just the right moment so that the cane tip whipped around and forward, her stance such that it was precisely parallel to the target just at the point of impact. The dark implement met the flesh with a ‘crack’ like a rock breaking in two, burying itself into the flesh, the end wrapping around to deliver a furiously-enhanced sting to the top of Bonehead’s right thigh. As ever, the ‘crack’ of impact rang out across the hillside and the world seemed to stop, as if in horror, as if holding its breath for that split second, awaiting the inevitable gasp and scream.
There was nothing. A faint pink line appeared across Bonehead’s white flesh, slightly redder on the right-hand side. He himself did not move or even seem to have noticed the dreadful stroke.
From above, the huntress looked on in confusion. She knew full well how a stroke of that power should be received and this was not it. There had been something odd in the background as well, she thought, drawing upon her subconscious hunter instincts. Something had moved or flickered in a way it should not. She frowned and focused all of her attention on the scene below.
‘Confusion’ was a wholly inadequate word to describe the disciplinarian’s feelings at that moment. She had not, obviously, expected crying from the first stroke. Clearly, the old woman would not have made her bet (and it only occurred to her now in irritation that there seemed to be nothing on offer in return except the vindication of victory) had she not known that Bonehead was tough. Crying is a result not of mere pain but of the relentlessness, the inevitability of pain. Generally, it occurs some way into the beating, at the point when the recipient finds even the thought of further strokes unbearable, when they have ‘had enough’. At that point, their irresistible conviction that they can take no more comes up against the immovable will of their disciplinarian that more will be given – and also up against the physical reality of the constraints. Unable to reconcile the impossibility of any more pain, with the inevitability of its occurring, the male mind simply collapses into infantile helplessness and sobs unstoppably. An instinct: crying for Mummy to help. Yet Mummy will not or cannot come or help – indeed Mummy is sometimes the one standing over the sobbing, crushed figure with an implement and a grim smile.
So the disciplinarian was fully prepared for an absence of tears at this point. They would come, but later. She had even admitted to herself it was possible Bonehead would be strong enough not even to cry out. But this… no gasp, no flinch, not even a detectable change in his breathing. Indeed, now she came to think of it, she could neither hear nor see any breathing at all. Bonehead’s massive form was inert, unmoving, only the pink line betraying any change since he had creakily bent down over the whipping block.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, breathed deeply, then drew back the cane and let fly again. Another pink line appeared, precisely three quarters of a centimetre below the previous one and perfectly parallel to it along all its length. Had circumstances been different she might have felt pride in the precision of such a hard follow-on stroke, but in the absence of any reaction from Bonehead, she felt nothing but disappointment. A third stroke produced no more result. The disciplinarian changed tactics. Normally, she would wait until at least five strokes were present before applying any crosshatching, in the classic ‘five plus one’ farm gate pattern, creating five overlaps of the most hellish agony. However, this time, so desperate was she to achieve an effect – any effect – that she angled her fourth stroke to slash across the first three, finishing with a deep impact in Bonehead’s right thigh.
“Is this the actual beating or are you still warming up?” remarked the crone, who had been watching with amusement. “It’s punishment I brought him for, girlie, not tickling. How’m I going to make him work if he only gets a little pat when he’s been lazy?”
By the stream, behind her rock, the huntress was notching an arrow onto her bow. Her intent was not murderous, but she had seen something she didn’t understand and she was determined to resolve the puzzle. Each time the disciplinarian slashed with the cane, the old woman twitched her own, tiny riding whip and flashes appeared. At first, the huntress had thought they were merely gleams from the white of the puny whip’s ivory shaft, but after watching several times she was sure they appeared in the air around the whip and they were certainly nothing natural.
And so the three awaited the next stroke, each with clutching their chosen instrument. The disciplinarian drew back her cane in near-hopeless determination, the crone almost imperceptibly gripped her whip a little more tightly and, far above, the huntress drew back her bow and sighted along the arrow towards the scene outside the cottage.
|OK. That might be a little too hi-tech but… I’m not saying I’m complaining.
No longer expecting any reaction, the disciplinarian let fly with stroke number five, this time a brutal slash across the junction of buttock and thigh. Yet this time, there was a reaction. An extraordinary one.
Just as the length of rattan whirred busily through the air, a higher-pitched whirr surprised both ladies, and the crone’s little white riding whip was snatched from her hand to appear just a fraction of an instant later, pinned to the side of the cottage by an arrow, purple and orange sparks flickering around it. At almost exactly the same time, the cane cracked against its target but not with the satisfying thwack of wood against flesh, but instead the soulless click of two rigid objects in collision. Not noticing the drama of arrow and riding whip behind her, the disciplinarian could only gasp in confusion as she noticed that Bonehead’s buttocks had gone grey and the little pink lines had disappeared. And they were – like the rest of him, which was also greyish – if anything even larger than before. And for once, Bonehead was making a sound – but not the longed-for scream let alone a sob, but instead a deep angry roar.
He reared up, the ankle restraints snapping away as if they were cotton. His body twisted around, leaving the remnants of the ankle straps flapping free as if they had been made of tissue and the disciplinarian looked up in horror into the one-eyed snarling face of a mountain troll.
No wonder her cane had had so little effect: it simply was not designed to work on stone.
It is sometimes said that someone in mortal danger sees their life flash before them, in their last instants. Had this happened to the disciplinarian, it would have been a pleasant sequence of flogged males, some of them accompanied by images of her beloved mother wielding the cane, while the young disciplinarian watched, hugging herself in happy childish confidence of her mother’s love. Alas, there was no time for such reminiscence but the disciplinarian did feel the curious peace that comes to those who have devoted themselves to good causes. She had beaten a great many boys and men already in her short life – enough to know she was leaving the world a better place than she found it. She closed her eyes and waited for the death that was coming from furious troll and from the claws reaching towards her – then wondered at the sound of a now somewhat familiar whir, and opened her eyes again wide with astonishment to see the troll, an arrow buried deep in the socket of his own one eye – the vulnerable spot all hunters in the mountains were taught to aim for – toppling backward and collapsing, dead, on the ground before her.
She turned in confusion to the old woman who, in a surprising turn of speed for one of her age, was lurching towards the wooden logs making up the cottage wall, obviously determined to recapture her wand (for a wand it was, the feeble leather loop disguising it as an innocent whip having been knocked off when the arrow carried it out of the old crone’s hands). But another person was heading towards the same destination, a figure in hunter’s green running full-tilt at the speed that can only come from hurtling downhill without regard for self-preservation and it was this figure which collided with the wall first, not slowing down until thrown against the logs but – after this unconventional halt – grabbing and holding the wand in triumph.
|Looks nothing like the huntress… but, OK, I suppose it captures the essence of the situation.
The disciplinarian stared in shock at the sight of this panting, triumphant figure who had appeared like a guardian angel. Unlike conventional images of angels, though, she was muscular, dark haired and had the healthy glow of one of spends much of their life outdoors, in fair weather and foul. The crone reacted with a screech of rage and leapt towards her, reaching out in fury for her wand which –
– was bending across the new arrival’s muscular thigh to be –
snapped in two by a pair of strong hands, leaving a brief shower of sparks and two, very ordinary-looking, broken ends of what seemed now merely to have been a white stick.
The crone halted and screamed in disappointment and rage. But her voice changed as she screamed, becoming less crackly, deeper and more full-throated. As the disciplinarian and the huntress watched, her appearance began to change too. Her wrinkles softened and vanished, her hair lost its wiry character and became rich and glossy, a deep and rich auburn suffusing it and driving out the grey. Her shapeless rags took shape and they too acquired a richness – of velvet and of inlaid jewels, all shaped by finest tailoring. The old crone was transformed into…
A handsome prince.
The disciplinarian fell back in uncontrollable revulsion. She had committed to a wager to go to bed with… a male! She desperately tried to keep her gorge down as the full horror of the situation hit her. She barely noticed the prince’s attempt to flee, or the ease with which her rescuer overpowered him. A male. She nearly had sex with a male, a bestial subhuman sporting between his legs his… his…
“Help me tie him over!” the huntress called, her business like demand breaking into the disciplinarian’s sickened thoughts. “Here – we can use these thongs” and she produced some short strips of leather from a pouch on her waist. Mechanically, the disciplinarian skilfully secured ankles and wrists, then pulled the heavy restraining strap (which remained undamaged as it had not been used on the troll) across the prince’s bucking back.
“I… thank you. Oh, thank you – whoever you are!” the disciplinarian gasped. “I owe you my life”
The huntress looked up, into her eyes. Her blonde curls framed that perfect face, her blue eyes seemed to stare into the huntress’s soul and her questioning, quivering lips seemed to demand answers.
The huntress flushed pink with shyness.
“Oh well, I’m umm…. I mean, I’m just…”.
She stopped, realising in horror that she actually could not recall her own name, so bewildered was she to find herself so close to the object of her greatest desires.
“Erm…” and she looked down, at the earth that she hoped would swallow her up, so ashamed was she to be so tongue-tied and awkward. But her chin was stopped by a soft but firm finger, which led her face back up to the waiting lips which pressed against hers. The huntress leaned – or perhaps floated, it seemed to her – forward and took her beloved in her arms, returning her kiss passionately, bravely, decisively. Below them, the restrained prince moaned softly and wriggled in his bonds. His turn would come. But this moment belonged to the two lovers.
…. will nowhere feature in this post* as this one is about magic and fairy tales. Sorry.
|Their marriage remained strong all through their lives, I’m happy to be able to report, although it’s true that ‘occasional froggy days’ soon grew to outnumber the non-froggy days. And she also got a lid for the jar, but that was more because of a very close shave involving her cat than anything one could truly call ‘oppressive’.
|Actually, the signs were there from the very first night of the Prince’s ball. Anyone outside his palace soon after her dramatic arrival would have seen the ‘horses’ gasping in heaving lungfuls of air to get their breath back after the journey – as well as the whip marks on the backs of the ‘horses’ and ‘footmen’. But if anyone noticed, they didn’t tell the Prince. Ah well.
|She does occasionally put honey on things. And not only to attract fire-ants to pegged-down naked humans screaming in fear, just in case you were wondering.
|You can bet if I’m ever shrunk by an evil witch, I’ll be no more than three inches tall… four, tops. It’s just my luck.
|On the other hand, with the stepsisters gone and the Prince preoccupied (obsessed, even), Cinderella was able to inherit her father’s cobbler’s business. She became quite rich, in due course, when the Prince became King and everyone wanted to wear boots like the Queens’*.
* Or any post here, frankly.
* Note the position of the apostrophe on that word.
“No need to bow, James” the apparition said. “I’m your fairy godmother!”
Jemima wondered who she was speaking to. Then she remembered.
“Erm, it’s Jemima these days, Ma’am. Hasn’t been James for a very long time.”
“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “And I’m Fairy Godmother, not ‘Ma’am’”
“Yes, Fairy Godmother” Jemima replied dutifully, happy that she was being given clear instructions.
“And I’m here to grant magical wishes!” the Fairy Godmother continued, brightly. “I was supposed to appear on your twenty-first birthday but… well, it’s been a bit busy, and anyway, better late than never, and here I am!”
“You get three wishes – your heart’s desire, anything you want!”
She looked around, then down at the figure in the pink maid’s dress outfit beneath her hovering feet. She noticed the short chain connecting the ankles. Using her fairy senses she could discern too the tightly-laced corset, as well as the steel tube nestling between whip-marked thighs beneath her god-sissy’s skirt. Looking around, she saw a piece of paper attached to the fridge door, with a table headed “Sissy Jemima’s chores.” It was a long list.
“You know…in case there’s anything in your life you’d like to change?” she suggested.
Sissy Jemima looked up. “Can I give my wishes to Mistress?”, she asked, eagerly.
“What? No – non-transferable” the Fairy Godmother replied, slightly taken aback.
“Oh…” the sissy said, looking worried. “Oh dear. Can I at least ask Mistress what I should choose?”
“Certainly not” the Fairy Godmother replied, more firmly. “You need to decide now – and time has stopped for your wife Sarah and everything in the world except you and me, here and now.”
Sissy Jemima glanced up at the clock and saw its second hand wasn’t moving. So there was no danger of her chore being finished late, which was a relief. Still, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of having to make a decision – three decisions! And she wasn’t even allowed to ask Mistress. It had been a long time since she had made any decisions… she still vaguely recalled the big decision to sign the agreement with Mistress Sarah, but after that everything in her life had been fairly clear and straightforward, albeit not always easy.
“I wish that Mistress can have three wishes – a hundred wishes!” she ventured, but the Fairy Godmother shook her head.
“Doesn’t work like that – just wishes for yourself. You know: like Cinderella.”
The Fairy Godmother instantly regretted mentioning Cinderella, as she feared this simpering thing that James had become might wish to be swept off in a coach to dance with a handsome prince. Princes of any sort were in short supply in 21st-century London and the only one who could be described as even slightly handsome was already married and had renounced his position and decamped to Canada.
But Sissy Jemima was thinking along different lines. “Could I… do you think I might have a new scrubbing brush?” she asked, shyly.
“Really? Just that? Do you want… I don’t know, a magic scrubbing brush, maybe, that does the floor by itself? I can do that.”
Sissy Jemima shook her head. “Just the same as this one” she replied, indicating the battered and bleached wooden implement she had been using. “But new. See: the bristles are all bent.”
“Not that I’m complaining!” she added quickly. “I’m very lucky that Mistress lets me use this wonderful brush.”
The Fairy Godmother sighed, then waved her wand in the tiniest imaginable circle in the air. Shifting patterns of green and purple swirled in the air around the brush for a moment, then vanished. A brand-new wooden scrubbing brush, bristles standing tall and ready for use, lay before them on the half-cleaned floor.
“Thank you Ma’am” said Sissy Jemima automatically. “I mean, Fairy Godmother”.
There was silence for a moment, as both contemplated the new brush. Sissy Jemima began to feel uneasy.
“It’s very different, isn’t it” she remarked. “I hadn’t realised quite how much the bristles had bent. And it’s a different colour too – darker and varnished.”
“Exactly the same type of brush”, the Fairy Godmother replied. “£4.99 from any hardware shop… even cheaper at Tesco’s. Supernatural power to reshape the universe to your desires was in your hands, and you chose a new scrubbing brush. Can you try to be a little more ambitious with the remaining wishes? Riches, fame, love…?”
But Sissy Jemima wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the brand-new brush with increasing disquiet.
“What if she notices?” she murmured. “I mean, she might not, but what if she does? And I hadn’t told her. Perhaps I ought to tell her? But then she’d be cross… I’m not allowed to ask for things.”
She shifted uneasily on her aching knees, feeling the cane marks on her bottom and thighs from last Friday’s ‘reminder’.
“I shouldn’t have done that” she whispered, sadly. “I’m a bad, wicked sissy, ungrateful for the lovely brush Mistress gave me.”
“Oh get on with it.” the Fairy Godmother sighed. “Second wish – come on. The readers will be wondering whether this story’s worth persisting with.”
Jemima had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Could I – have the old brush back?” she asked, eagerly.
“Really?” the Fairy Godmother replied, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to have spent two of your three wishes that way?”
The sissy nodded vigorously. “Then I wouldn’t have done anything Mistress might not like, would I? Because I’d still have the same brush she gave me… so I wouldn’t have been a bad sissy at all!”
“Well…” she went on. “I suppose I would still have had the bad thoughts. But she might never find out about that.”
“Oh for god’s sake” the Fairy Godmother muttered, twiddled her wand back around in the opposite direction, and the rough unvarnished wood of the old brush lay before them once more.
“Third wish” she said, thinking she would never again object to over-extravagant wishes, or those that sought to reshape the fundamentals of the universe. “Come on. Something you really want. Something that would make you happy – you’re supposed to live happily ever after, you know? This is your one chance – don’t waste it.”
Jemima shut her eyes tight and thought and thought. This wasn’t something she was used to and it gave her a bit of a headache. But just at the point when the Fairy Godmother was about to start making suggestions, she opened them again and looked up again, beaming with pleasure.
“I have it!” she said, and explained what she wanted.
“Are you sure?” the Fairy Godmother replied doubtfully. “Just that?”
“Oh yes” Sissy Jemima sighed. “That would make me happier than anything in the world.”
“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “At least it’s not another fucking brush. Here we go.”
And she raised her wand.
There was a pause, during which Sissy Jemima hoped that her thudding heart was not audible.
“Very good, sissy!” Mistress Sarah remarked, with some surprise. “You actually managed not to stew the tea for once – and you haven’t made it too strong or too weak either.”
She took another sip.
“And just about the right amount of milk, too.” she added. “Now if only you could make every cup like that, sissy.”
“Perhaps I will, from now on Mistress.” Jemima replied, her voice quavering slightly as her heart tried to burst with unaccustomed pride.
“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” her Mistress said, not sounding too optimistic. “But well done for this one, sissy. Footstool!”
So Sissy Jemima got down on all fours and crawled in front of her, to receive the welcome weight of her Mistress’s legs across her pink-clad back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, as Mistress continued to sip the tea with satisfaction.
And she lived happily – except, obviously, during weekly ‘reminders’, additional punishments and the occasional visits by Mistress Sarah’s sister – ever after.
|Mistress Sarah’s sister – pictured here on the left – likes tea, too. Sissy Jemima hoped that it would help mellow her attitude towards lazy, incompetent sissies a bit, but it turns out she doesn’t like tea that much.|
|This is not a picture of Sissy Jemima. This is Sissy Peggy and unlike Sissy Jemima, Sissy Peggy used her wishes unwisely. In particular, she used one wish to get the frilliest, froo-froo-est maid’s dress ever – but neglected to use another wish to ensure Mistress did not react badly when she came home and saw her sissy husband wearing this monstrosity.|
A maledom story! Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.
Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures. Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission. Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides. But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.
For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet. In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock. On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all. Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again. But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.
“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces. “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.
One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object. He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat. Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.
As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home. The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.
After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.
Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp? Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed. The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave. As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.
Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough. I often do.
Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness). He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”
“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.
“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”
“Yes, Master” murmured the genie. “Three wishes. It shall be – “
“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly. “Three hundred slavegirls… no! More! One for every day of the year! All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces! None of them fat. And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…” He was getting carried away.
“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him. “Don’t you mean consensual? I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “
Malcolm glared at her. “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so. “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not! I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place. To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”
The genie looked confused. “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded? “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.
Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.
The genie blinked once, very deliberately. “I do now, Master.” she replied. “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “
“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.
“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.
She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage. Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound. Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.
After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse. Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.
“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm. “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick. And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock. And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied. I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.
The genie looked over at him and smiled. “Your wish is my command, Master! And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway. Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself! You shall have it all!”
And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…
OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing. Isn’t it?
A vast ornate room. Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs. Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.
Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams. Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.
On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within. Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.
Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before. He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins. He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.
Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.
“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped. “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here! Where are the rest!”
The genie abased herself before him. “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said. “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection. Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots. And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”
Malcolm grunted in satisfaction. “Adequate, I suppose. So there’s 365 in total?”
“366 Master” replied the genie. “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”
“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.
“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily. “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”
“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.
Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy. He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion. He looked around the room.
Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back. One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him. Others merely craned their necks to get a better view. Of him. All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone. They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.
He felt a sudden pang of fear. He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour. Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.
Malcolm turned and ran for the door. Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not. Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room. They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.
He made it almost halfway.
And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised. Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.
Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers. His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.
Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.
Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop. Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point. There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.
But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler. He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts. Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.
Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock. Especially his cock.
You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock. His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond. And it is indeed huge. No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time. It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue. It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.
Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.
366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys. Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded. Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him. It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done. Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body. The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.
Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities. They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.
One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky. Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day. The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability. She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances. Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.
How many more will there be? Who knows? That depends upon the kindness of strangers. You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm. She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now. She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself. She asks whether the woman would like to release him.
So far, none has.
I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist. There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there? Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.
What’s that? You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too? I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert. All right – but only one picture. There’s rather a lovely story, actually. Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were. But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway. Isn’t that sweet?
… as old as time for this bright new year!
Fairy tales, that is. Not all themed around Beauty and the Beast. Well… except insofar as everything that has ever appeared on this blog does have that theme, if you think about it.
|And of course she’s keeping the whip and the
cattle prod. But she’d have those anyway – her mother would have
presented her with them as a wedding gift, had circumstances not caused
her to need them sooner.
|Many girls dream of meeting a handsome Prince, when they grow up. Only a small fraction of those girls also dream of watching him being eviscerated by a seagull and then going off to make passionate love to their girlfriend… but enough do to make the world a more interesting place.
|Well, let’s hope she turns him back soon. It won’t be much fun for her having to look after a guy who’s basically not much more than an erect penis with a handle.
|He’s going to need her to try the black leather corset, too.
|Don’t try warning her how fattening you are. Women find that offensive and patronising.