Bah, humbug

Mistress Valerie stars in a Christmas Movie

We begin by meeting Edmund Scrooge, a brash,
charmless, sexist 30-something yuppie in charge of a team of female office
workers.  We see him throwing his weight
around, making sexist comments and denying them any time off at Christmas
(“Unless you want to come round and cook my turkey, girls!”). 
Off he goes, bragging loudly on his mobile
about (quite imaginary) sexual conquests at work, before going down the pub
with his equally obnoxious mates to try out cheesy chat-up lines on
uninterested women.  He returns
(unsuccessful, of course, and drunk) to his bachelor pad, watches a porn video
and has a wank, before crashing out on the couch.


But this Christmas is different.  The ghost of his old drinking partner Joseph
Marley appears in the bachelor pad in the middle of the night, and what a
change from when Scrooge knew him!  He
clanks as he moves; heavy steel chains connecting shackles around his wrists
to the heavy steel collar around his neck, and trailing down from a heavy belt
around his waist to steel shackles around his ankles.  As he shambles forward we see a chastity belt
clamped firmly on his genitals and above his well-striped buttocks we see a
tattoo reading “Property of Mistress Valerie. 
Not to be removed without 
permission.” 
Marley has learnt
from Mistress Valerie the errors of his male chauvinist past – and he is here
with an awful warning for Scrooge to mend his ways!  Three spirits will help him in this task.


We begin with Mistress Valerie of Christmas past.  We see Scrooge, as the adult he is today but
in his childhood clothes, opening his presents on Christmas morning.  He has many but is dissatisfied and complains,
as each gift fails to meet his expectations. 
But then his weary parents fade from view, and Governess Valerie
appears: to show him what might have been had his upbringing been
stricter.  Each present is wrapped again,
and the tawse applied to his hands each time. 
He unwraps each again in turn,, with appropriately polite cries of
delight – and rewrapping each again for a dose of the tawse if  Governess Valerie deems his response too
churlish.  So it goes through the
day.  He gets the strap for not eating up
his sprouts, his knuckles are repeatedly rapped for cheating at Monopoly and
eventually Governess Valerie has had enough and administers a vigorous caning
before the boy is sent to bed.  Back in
the present day …Scrooge wakes up howling on the couch, his hands feel his bottom
incredulously, and he makes his way painfully to work.
 
 


The next night, it is the turn of Mistress Valerie of
Christmas present.  Here we see Scrooge
in the only place he is fit to encounter a lady: tied to the cross in Mistress Valerie’s
dungeon.  She enters, a classic
dominatrix, dressed in PVC.  She
introduces him to all of the modern techniques of punishment: electro play,
bondage and suspension, nipple clamps and flogging.  He is forced to lick clean Her boots, is tied
to act as an ashtray and is fed dog food. 
His genitals are tied, clamped, whipped and then shocked repeatedly with
an insect zapper.  Finally, he is wired
up to Mistress Valerie’s motion-sensitive e-stim and flogged with a long
leather whip, the motion detector clamped firmly between his teeth.  …Back in the present day, Scrooge at work has
his head down, not making eye contact with any of his staff, and he
involuntarily cringes as his secretary leans over the printer and innocently
asks “Shall I switch it on?”

 
 

On the third night, we meet Mistress Valerie of Christmas
yet to come.  Scrooge is an old man now,
gaunt and tired.  We see him in an apron
and nothing else, doing dishes and other chores around a kitchen.  We see his buttocks, striped and ridged after
what must have been decades of punishment. 
From the steel chastity belt around his waist, hangs a slightly rusty
padlock.  A handbell tinkles and he
hurries as well as his old bones can carry him to the living room, where
Mistress Valerie, eternally youthful, indicates his duties with a languid
finger.  It is obvious that his servitude
has been so long and so repetitive that no words need any longer be
spoken.  Mistress Valerie’s friends are
around for Christmas day, and we see them opening presents and laughing.  Some slaves are present, young fit and
obviously happy to be fulfilling their fantasies.  But Scrooge moves around silently performing
his chores, his face blank.  He carries
out his chores efficiently, obviously well schooled in his tasks and is at no
stage acknowledged by any of the party. 
Finally Mistress Valerie beckons him over, says “50” and hands him a
whip, without looking up.  We see him
retreat to a bare room and, alone, begin to lash his buttocks.  Fade out.

We fade back in again to see Mistress Valerie of Christmas
yet to come alone, surrounded by post-Christmas mess.  She is on the phone and saying “Yes, I’m
going to need a new slave.  I had that
last one for thirty-two years, but I suppose nothing lasts for ever“, and the
camera pulls back to reveal a pile of stuffed rubbish bags outside the front
door waiting to be collected.  One is in
the shape of a kneeling human form…

Back in the present, Scrooge wakes up in a cold sweat.  We see him heading out the door in a frantic
rush, and stopping off at a little shop in Soho on his way in to work.  In the office, to the ladies’ puzzlement,
there are presents for all: each receives a pair of new shoes and an implement:
paddles, canes, straps and whips. 
Scrooge explains that he has seen the error of his ways, and begs them
for some ‘performance management’.  The
ladies tuck into mince pies and chat delightedly, as, one by one, they recall
their boss’s most unpleasant habits, and exact a much-needed revenge. 

The camera pulls back from this scene of
Christmas cheer, the giggles and howls fading out, and we see Mistress Valerie,
watching approvingly from afar, a smile on Her face and a whip in Her hand…

 

 

This is one of the very first femdom stories I ever wrote.  I started because the first domme I ever had the pleasure of visiting – a lovely lady, thinly disguised as Mistress Valerie in these early tales – commanded me to write first of all an account of my sessions and then (when that became tedious and repetitive) stories.  I think my writing style has changed… not necessarily for the better.  Anyway, an icy blast from the past, there so wrap up warm.
 
Oh – and here’s an unrelated photo, too.  And a Merry Christmas to one and all!
 
She knows if you’ve been bad or good…
 

Effortless superiority

Don’t worry.  If you lack the self-discipline to stay away from the ciggies, I am sure she can find alternative, external sources of discipline.  She’s got willpower enough for both of you.
This is surely from Cruella, and this is Mistress Chambers, who quite apart from her other wonderful characteristics, has a delightfully pretty nose, I’ve always thought.  Seen to better advantage here. 

Hmm… Do you think they’re going to live happily ever after?
 

 

Well, it’s probably someone’s kink. A pink kink.
This is Mistress Jessica, looking remarkably stern and – fairly obviously – playing the role of Auntie  in her house.
 

 

That’s a relief.  I was beginning to think something was wrong with me.
 

Scamper back to little wife’s apron strings or stay talking to Ms Ratajkowski?  Oh what a horrible choice.  Dammit, I thought submission was all about giving up responsibility for difficult choices.

Story: the elves and the dominatrices

A story starring Mistress Valerie and her friend Sandra.

 
Once upon a time, there lived two ladies, and their names were Mistress Valerie and Sandra.  They were very poor.  Mistress Valerie worked all day, whipping and torturing men in the town prison.  But no matter how many backs she lashed, no matter how many thumbs she crushed, it never seemed to bring in enough money.  Poor Sandra sat at home, doing the accounts, and dreamed of having enough money to buy a new pair of shoes every day.  But they were so poor, that Sandra got only one new pair a year – a present from Mistress Valerie for her birthday.  And Mistress Valerie never drank Champagne, which she loved with a passion exceeded only by her love for Sandra.
 

 

Mistress Valerie loved her job at the prison.  But it tired her out.  Bastinado sessions, for example, rarely lasted less than two hours and her arm would ache terribly afterwards.

 

 
One year, for Sandra’s birthday, Mistress Valerie could not even afford to buy her one pair of shoes.  So instead, she bought the finest red leather her scant pennies could afford, determined to make a pair of shoes as best she could.  She took the leather home and got needle and thread all ready, then sat down with a cup of tea, before starting her night’s work.
 
But Mistress Valerie had dealt with too many stubborn men that day, and her arms were tired and her eyelids were heavy.  So as she sat there in front of the warming fire, she closed her eyes with the intention of snatching no more than five minutes rest before starting to sew.  But soon her head lolled to one side, and she was fast asleep.
She woke with a start to the sight of early-morning sunlight streaming in through the window, and the sound of birdsong.  She jumped to her feet, horrified that Sandra’s birthday had come and she had slept all the way through the night she had set aside for making a present.  Sandra came dancing into the room, and Mistress Valerie felt she couldn’t meet her eyes to tell her that there was no present this year.
 
So she looked down instead and there – to her amazement – on Sandra’s feet were the most wonderful shoes.  Obviously new, the shoes were of the same bright red leather as Mistress Valerie had bought the day before.  But where had they come from?  She looked up at her friend in surprise.
 
“They’re the best birthday present ever!” Sandra pronounced, twirling and admiring her feet.  And very dainty they looked too, the arches set off beautifully with small flowers artfully carved from the leather itself.  Mistress Valerie looked over to the table where she had laid out the things the night before.  They were gone – except for one small item, apparently made of the same material as Sandra’s new shoes.
 
“Not sure about that thing, though.” Sandra said, looking puzzled.  “Does it go with the shoes?”
 
“No” Mistress Valerie replied, looking at it carefully.  “It’s something for a boy.”
 
Sandra looked blank.  She had very little to do with boys, except for occasionally helping out at the prison when things were exceptionally busy.
 
“It…errr…came with the shoes.  Don’t worry about it.” Mistress Valerie said firmly, and swept it off the table into her handbag.
 
After celebrating a birthday breakfast with her friend, Mistress Valerie headed into town.  Once out of sight of the cottage, she opened her handbag and took out the red leather object.  She turned it over and over in her hands, studying it carefully.  Like the shoes, it was beautifully made.  And like the shoes, too, it used no materials except the thinnest scraps of red leather and the thread that Mistress Valerie had laid out.  It had been made from the same material sure enough.  She had recognized it immediately.  It was a cock-harness, but like none she had ever seen before.  Despite the shortage of materials, it looked strong, its straps coming together neatly in a loop allowing it to be secured in a position in which artfully contrived little leather spikes would dig gently but firmly into soft male flesh.
 
Mistress Valerie had a brainwave.  She headed for the richest house in the village, and knocked confidently on the door.  A servant appeared and tried to shoo her away but Mistress Valerie calmly gave her the device and instructed her to show it to her Mistress.  It wasn’t long before the lady of the house appeared, delighted and welcoming.  Clever Mistress Valerie knew very well that this lady had a teenage son, and she also knew that she was too soft-hearted to whip him enough to stop him playing with himself.  The foolish rich lady was in a quandary, on the one hand not wanting her son to engage in such vile practices, but on the other too tender-hearted to apply the daily beatings necessary to ensure that he learnt not to do so.  The cock restraint was the answer to her prayers, and she asked Mistress Valerie excitedly where she had got it.  Mistress Valerie would not say, so pressing three gold coins into her hand, the kind-hearted lady bade her farewell, and disappeared to place the cock restraint on her spoiled son.
 
Mistress Valerie chuckled as she walked along, jingling the coins in her hand.  She was about to go to the wine merchant and buy the biggest bottle of Champagne she could carry when, passing the leather stall from which she had bought the red leather the day before, she had an idea.  Firmly putting away dreams of Champagne, she bought twice as much of the very finest black leather, as she had bought of red leather the day before, and some tassels and spikes of shiny chrome with the money left over.
 
That night Mistress Valerie set out the materials on the table, and settled down in the same armchair to see what would happen.  But the day’s celebration with Sandra had tired her out, and quickly she nodded off again and was soon sleeping deeply.
 
When she awoke she was disappointed to see that once again she had slept right through to dawn.  But her disappointment turned to joy when, in the morning sunlight, she saw what was on the kitchen table.  A pair of the finest high-heeled boots stood there, along with a smaller pair of black patent shoes, and a soft leather strap.  When Sandra saw the shoes, she could not keep her hands off them and was soon coo-ing delightedly over the fine stitching and graceful design.  But she stopped when she saw the boots and the leather strap.
 
“Not…really my thing” she began, but Mistress Valerie simply whisked them away.  “Just samples” she said brightly, and headed off towards town again.
 
That evening, one of the Lady Mayor’s daughters was strutting round delightedly in leather boots, while the assistant boy in the grocery store was stacking shelves faster than he had ever done in his life, as his boss stood approvingly nearby, the leather strap dangling elegantly from her hand.  And Mistress Valerie was sipping Champagne, while gazing happily at an expanse of purple leather, shiny metal eyeholes and diamante studs on the table.
 
And so it went on.  Each day, Mistress Valerie would buy leather and other materials for shoes, and each morning there would be a pair of shoes for Sandra and several other pairs or other valuable items for sale.  Sandra was soon let into the secret and she delighted in trying to catch out the mysterious shoemakers by buying odd materials or pieces of inconvenient shape.  But the secret people who made the shoes each night could always conjure up something stunning for her to wear on her feet, and every day seemed to bring shoes that were more thrilling, more stylish and more gorgeous than the last.  The ladies had never been happier.
 
The townspeople were happy too.  The ladies of the town strutted round in the finest fetishwear, while the men found themselves excited by their partners’ clothing but increasingly restricted, controlled and tortured by the magic shoemakers’ creations.  Even the King and Queen had heard about the amazing leatherwork from this little town.  Mistress Valerie had proudly presented the royal household with a stunning green leather harness, which the King would wear when pulling the royal carriage around, to the accompaniment of merry cracks from a whip Mistress Valerie had presented to the Queen in person.

 

Newly rich from sale of the fine fetish gear, Mistress Valerie bought herself a beautiful fur coat.  But she was careful to keep it hidden from Sandra, who disapproved of fur because she thought it cruel.
 
Yet still, neither lady had ever seen the mysterious creators of the amazing leather products.  They had each tried to sit up all night, but each had been defeated by drowsiness, and the end result was always the same: daylight streaming through the kitchen window, illuminating a pile of elegant fetishwear, dainty shoes and ingenious bondage devices.  Yet the makers were nowhere to be seen.
 
One day Mistress Valerie came home with a large bucket and a brush.
 
“What’s that?” Sandra asked, looking at the creamy liquid in the bucket and wondering – not for the first time – what exactly her friend got up to with the prisoners.  
 
“Bird-catcher” Mistress Valerie replied, curtly.  “Like quicklime, it makes birds’ feet stick to the branch.  But it’s stickier than quicklime.  Plus  “ – and she painted a line on the table, which merely glistened faintly in the light – “ it’s almost invisible.”
 
“Are you expecting them to get their fingers stuck?” Sandra asked in confusion, but her friend just shook her head, muttering something about having a theory, and proceeded to paint all over the table top.  The two ladies went to bed, wondering if this night the longstanding mystery would finally be solved.
 
When they came down the next morning, for the first time in months the sight that greeted their eyes was not a neat pile of fetish items and a pair of stunning shoes.  Instead, the materials sat there untouched.  But just in from the edge of the table stood two tiny naked men, each no higher than a pepperpot.  They made little squeaking sounds, as the two ladies approached.  Their feet were obviously stuck.
 
“Goodness” Mistress Valerie said, wondering, as she leaned down to take a close look at one of the little men.  “Are they elves, would you say?”
 
“Or pixies?” Sandra agreed, reaching out a finger and gently flicking at one of the small figures. It made another squeaking sound, more urgently this time.
 
Both ladies giggled.  “Oh how sweet!” Mistress Valerie declared, and drew her index finger firmly back before flicking it hard with a release of the thumb, to catch her little man right between the legs.  This time the squeaking and screeching hit a pitch almost too high to hear, before cutting off abruptly as Mistress Valerie gently folded her thumb and finger over the little man’s face.
 
“So you are the boys who have been making all this stuff?” Mistress Valerie said, half to herself in wonderment.
 
The other boy – who was not being smothered – nodded urgently.
 
“And made all those fabulous shoes.” smiled Sandra.
 
At this, the little man smiled too, and gave a small and graceful bow, although he nearly toppled when coming back up as his feet were still firmly stuck to the table.
 
Mistress Valerie released her grip on the other, who swayed wildly, breathing frantically.
 
“Well.” she said.  “From now on, you’re both going to work a lot harder.”
 
And they did.  Under Mistress Valerie’s firm direction, the two little men no longer simply worked through the eight hours of the night, but instead worked fourteen hours a day, in two shifts each.  Their first task was to fashion a more delicate set of items than even they had ever produced before as – to Mistress Valerie’s exacting specifications – they turned out sets of harnesses, straps, whips and collars all just one-thirtieth of normal size.  By applying these, Mistress Valerie found that not only could the little men be made to work longer hours, they would work so much harder that production was three times what it had been before.  And they made such sweet little squeaking noises whenever they were whipped, too!
 
And so Mistress Valerie and Sandra became very rich.  Sandra had a new pair of shoes every day and Mistress Valerie had daily deliveries of Champagne.  They lived in a fine town-house in the smartest quarter of town, with its own wine cellars and dungeons and were driven around everywhere in a coach pulled by six fine young gelded men.  But they never forgot that they had once been poor, and they never forgot the source of the fortune that had brought them these pleasures.

 

The ladies had everything they wanted – and more boys than they knew what to do with!

 

So once a year, on Sandra’s birthday, they would buy none of the material on which their tiny slaves usually labored the long day through.  Instead they would paint the table with bird-catching glue, stick their two tiny workers in convenient positions and ready some needles on the fire until they glowed red-hot.  And the night air would fill with high pitched screams and gasps, as the little men were reminded, once more, who their boss was and why it was so important – so very, very important – to keep her happy.
 
And they all lived happily ever after.  Except the boys, of course.  And the elves (unless they were, in fact, pixies). 
 
THE END

 

Did you make your quota this week?  No?

 

 

Thou shalt not

Not without permission anyway.




Cinderellas twin domme sisters oh my
And they all lived happily – oh no, hang on, no they didn’t.





Bunny girl dominatrix...always wanted to type that phrase
I think it’s great when husband and wife can work together.  But don’t expect her to help out with the housework – remember who’s bringing home the big bucks in this relationship.  She earns more money, too.





Cruel dominant lesbian wife...what's not to like?
A G5?  A G5 airplane?





I expect its perfectly safe
You have to time it right.  Best to work up to it in stages, taking him a little further each time until that IQ’s just down where you like it.

She's not going to lick it off you know.
You need to learn to respect her rights.  Or just respect her.

All the better

“Goodbye mother!” Red Riding Hood called out gaily, and headed off into the forest, swinging his basket as he went.  He was off to visit his auntie, because his poor dear mother was too tired to beat him properly, and without a good paddling every few days, little Red just couldn’t help getting up to the most awful mischief.  He hadn’t been paddled for almost a week now, and his exhausted mother had taken just one look at the stained sheets in his bedroom and packed him off to auntie May’s, with a selection of leather and wooden paddles in his little basket.
She was glad that he was finally about to receive a bottom appropriate to his name,  but Red’s mother knew that there was a dangerous dominatrix who lived in the woods through which he had to pass, and warned him not to talk to any strange women. Except his auntie, obviously.
So Red went skipping along the path, stopping once or twice to play with himself by the side of the road.  But although he was almost permanently horny, he was a good boy at heart and dutifully recorded each ejaculation in the little punishment book he was carrying, to show his auntie.  He knew that he was being particularly bad, as his mother had warned him not to stop at all along the way, for fear of the dominatrix.  But Red’s urges were simply too pressing, and anyway despite living alongside the forest all his life, secretly he didn’t believe in the big bad dominatrix, who would lock you up for life, make you scream for her pleasure and do dreadful things to your most sensitive parts.  He thought she was just a story mothers told their sons and husbands, to get them to bend over quietly for a spanking.
Anyway, this time he certainly didn’t meet a dominatrix, or anyone else and soon he arrived at his auntie’s cottage.  It was years since he’d seen her.  He supposed her daughter Jenny, his cousin, was all grown up now, like him.  Even as a teenager, when they had last met, she had beguiled him with her long dark hair and her soft lips.  The thought made him consider disappearing behind a bush for as few minutes, but he decided instead it was better to get it over with (and, in truth, he was rather concerned about how much correction the sins already listed in his little book would entail), so he nervously knocked and the door and waited for a response.
After a few moments, the door slowly swung open, and Red peered uncertainly into its dark interior.  He could see nothing except a hall extending away into blackness.
“Come in!” he heard, in a deep but sensuously feminine voice.  It seemed to be coming from the very end of the hall, so he gingerly entered the house and tiptoed forward.  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the voice had emanated from a door, lightly ajar ahead of him at the very end of the hall.  He advanced towards it, and raised his hand nervously to knock.
“I said come IN, boy!”  the voice rapped out, this time with a distinct air of irritation.  Red gulped, and pushed the door open quickly and steeped through.
Inside, through the gloom, he could dimly make out a figure seated in a chair at the far end of the room.  The chair was raised up on a platform, like a throne, and around it and on the walls hung dark and menacing shapes.  He started backwards in shock.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”, the figure in the chair asked in a silky, seductive voice – the impatient air of command gone now.
“Er…it’s Red” he stuttered in reply.  “Little Red, here for a spanking from my aunty, with a basket full of paddles.”
“I see” the figure said.  “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Red.  Do you have your punishment book?  Bring it here and we can get started.”
“Yes, err… Auntie?” Red replied.  He tottered forward slowly.  His eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and soon he could make out some details of the figure he was approaching.  She was wearing long black leather boots, that went up at least to her thighs as there was not a trace of leg to be seen.
“What big boots you have, auntie”, he remarked, desperately trying to break the oppressive silence.
“All the better to crush you under, my dear” the seated figure replied, pleasantly, and Red’s gaze instinctively flinched away to her arms.  She was holding a cane, and flexing it easily between two deceptively slim arms.
“What strong arms you must have, auntie” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry.
The figure laughed gently.  “All the better to thrash you with, my dear” it replied, softly.
Finally, the boy’s eyes met hers: dark eyes that sparkled with amusement in a face of utter perfection, framed under a leather cap.
“What big eyes you have, err…auntie?” he gasped.
“All the better to watch you suffer, my dear” she replied with a smile, getting to her feet.  “Now – down on your knees and kiss my boot.”
Red felt his legs collapsing under him, and he frantically jerked his head to one side to break free of the fascinating, mocking gaze.  In doing so, he found himself looking at the wall, and suddenly realised what he was looking at there.  It was a naked figure, apparently a woman in her late 50s, chained tightly to the wall by her ankles and her wrists.  Her mouth was gagged, small shiny clips seemed to be attached to her nipples and from between her legs, several wires snaked down, to vanish into an evil-looking electronic device beside her.  She was frantically jerking her head from side to side, and the gentlest whimpering sounds emerged through the gag as she thrashed about.
“Auntie!” Red gasped with shock, recognising her despite her peculiar predicament.  He looked back at the figure standing before him in horror.  “What have you done to her, you evil witch?  And where’s Jenny?”
The dark lady burst out laughing.  “Where’s Jenny?  Oh Red, did I really make so little impression on you?  And there was I thinking the tent-pole in your shorts was for me when you visited that time.”
“J-jenny?” Red asked, wonderingly.  “B-b-but what are you doing to our dear auntie?”
“Oh, just a little game to while away the long nights here in the forest”, Jenny said, casually.  “Sometimes she needs rather…severe measures.” She gently pressed a button, on a device held lightly between her fingers, and the figure attached to the wall began to buck around violently, making frantic keening sounds through its gag.”
“Bad auntie”, Jenny said, vaguely, and held the button for a few more seconds before releasing it, and letting the figure hang slack from its wrist restraints – now sweating profusely.
“But – your own mother?”  Red asked.
“Oh, she’s not really my mother.” Jenny said dismissively.  “Look closely there between her legs.”
Red peered, feeling rather out of place as a nephew inspecting his auntie’s genitals.  He wasn’t quite sure what he saw.  It didn’t look like his image of female genitalia, but there wasn’t really enough there to be a male either.
“Behold your uncle Malcolm”, Jenny said dismissively.  “Tranny, sub and perverted old pain slut.  I was found abandoned on the doorstep when I was a baby.  He brought me up as his child, but we’re not relations, so there was really no reason when I came of age not to make him my bitch.  He was gagging for it anyway.”
“Did he have a sex change?” Red asked with fascination, trying to discern exactly what it was that the seating creature had between its legs.
“Not exactly”, Jenny said.  “I mean, surgical procedures were carried out, and it certainly doesn’t really count as male any more, but…well, it’s a bit complicated.”
She looked down at Red, kneeling at her feet.  “Anyway, I’m not related to you, either.  Isn’t that interesting?  It certainly creates some new possibilities.”
Red looked up at her face, and started to smile, before reeling under a savage slap to his cheek from her gloved hand.
“Now – we’ll have that punishment book please”, she commanded.  “And we’ll have to add something there about failing to kiss my boot when commanded.”
*
Four hours later, Red lay panting, suspended (like his “auntie” opposite) from wrist restraints.  His back was a mass of bruises and welts from Jenny’s cane and a variety of whips.  His nipples were sore beyond belief, having been pulled, twisted, crushed and burnt until he had lacked the breath to scream any more .  Between his legs, though, his penis (which had also seen its share of rough treatment) finally hung flaccid, Jenny’s ministrations having finally exhausted even this randy twenty year-old’s capacity.  He was sore all over, and exhausted , but strangely happy.
“Did you really think I was your auntie?”, Jenny asked, with a kittenish grin.  “I should be offended – to be mistaken for that wrinkled old bag” – and she lashed out playfully with her whip, the tip of which caught auntie hard across ‘her’ left breast, where it added an angry red mark to the pattern of welts that already existed.
“I had my doubts” confessed Red, sheepishly.  “Actually” he admitted, with an embarrassed grin, “I thought perhaps you were the big bad dominatrix who lives in the woods.”
“The one who tortures bad boys and girls for fun?” laughed Jenny.
“Yes” he admitted.  “And keeps them in her lair until she’s bored with them, then cuts off their…their…”  Red’s voice trailed off, as a rather unpleasant thought occurred to him.
“Oh you silly boy.” Jenny said, her hand snaking down to his genitals, and stroking them thoughtfully.
“Surely you know that’s just a myth.”

More new endings for old tales

The Prince held the glass slipper in one hand and with the other gently supported Cinderella’s foot as it slipped delicately inside.  It was a perfect fit.
He looked up adoringly at the golden-haired vision of loveliness seated in the chair in front of him.
“I knew such a divine creature as you was not born to labour all day in rags” he breathed.  “From this day forward you shall live in a palace, as is your right.”
Cinderella smiled and nodded gently with satisfaction.  Behind her, there was a swirling in the air and her Fairy Godmother appeared.
The Prince hardly noticed, as his gaze was drawn back down to the glass slippers.  The perfect crystal of which they were made concealed nothing of the feet inside.  An elegant ankle was gently cradled by the rim of the shoe, within which Cinderella’s feet arched delicately down to where her toes lay gently clasped within the transparent material of the shoes.  The toes wriggled slightly, and – drawn by an impulse he had never felt before – the Prince’s head slowly inclined forward as he bent down to kiss them.
“What are you doing?” he heard Cinderella enquire, sharply.
He looked up in some confusion.
“I…I’m kissing the dear feet of my bride to be” he replied, awed at the cold beauty of her face.
Cinderella laughed, and kicked him sharply in the chest.
“Bride?  I’m not going to marry you, you idiot.  Marry a man?  Nasty, sweaty hairy things.  Never.”
And she gazed affectionately up at her fairy godmother, who reached down and gently stroked her hair.  She clasped the outstretched hand in hers, and brought it softly to her lips.
“But…but…don’t you want to live in a palace?” the Prince stammered in confusion.
“Of course I do” she replied, scornfully.  “But not by marrying you.  That wasn’t the deal at all – was it Fairy G?  Not in this fairy tale.”
And the Fairy Godmother shook her head, laughing, then waved her wand thrice around and the room filled with purple light.
When the Prince’s eyes recovered, he was amazed at the transformation that he saw.  Above him, in the chair was Cinderella but now dressed as a prince in a suit – his suit! – of jewelled finery.  She stood up, admiring her clothing with satisfaction.  He looked down at his own clothing in confusion.  He was in rags, wearing nothing but a torn and faded dress, with an apron tied around it.  A gentle draught blew through the room as a servant opened the door for Cinderella to leave, and he felt the cold running through him as it curled around and under his skirt, chilling the unprotected regions beneath.
Cinderella turned to look at him.  “The cleaning materials are all in the cupboard below the stairs” she smiled.  “You’ll find it easily enough – it’s where you sleep.”
She turned to one of her servants (his servants!).  “I think I want to interview all of those young ladies we’ve been seeing, all over again.  Have them brought to my bedchamber.  Let’s say…two, no make it three of them each night.”
And with that, she swept out of the room and the Prince was left alone, kneeling on the floor.  But he was not alone for long, as the door to the hall was flung open.
What are you doing loafing around there!?  IF WE’RE NOT MARRYING THE PRINCE, THAT AT THE VERY LEAST WE CAN LIVE IN A HOUSE THAT’S PROPERLY CLEANED, CAN’T WE? AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE ABOUT OUR DINNER?”
The Prince looked up, to see the two rather statuesque ladies of the house who had earlier tried the slipper, standing before him.  He opened his mouth to speak, but he found it had gone dry.  He looked from one unsmiling sister to the other.  Both were holding whips.
And Cinderella lived happily ever after.  And so did the Prince, really, little pervert that he is.

The end.

New endings for some old favourites

Sometimes the endings of fairy tales need a little modification, to bring them into line with modern conceptions of male/female roles…

from Snow White and the seven dwarves

My my, such a dear little house, but you really don’t clean it properly, do you?” said Snow White.

“Would you like me to help out around the place and get it all spick and sparkling span for you?

“Yes, yes!” chorused the seven dwarves, even Grumpy forgetting himself enough to join in with enthusiasm

“Well then, here’s my dear little whip!” said Snow White, with a merry laugh.

“Now, start cleaning up this mess and if it isn’t spotless by suppertime, well, there’ll be seven darling little beaten bottoms at bedtime, now, won’t there?”

from Beauty and the Beast

“So if your true love kisses you before the last petal falls, you resume your true form as a handsome prince? gasped Belle, staring at the wilting rose.

“Yes” replied the hapless beast.

“One kiss and all of this castle and kingdom will be restored as it was before I was enchanted, and I will assume the throne. But if the petal falls first, I remain a beast for ever, without even the power of speech that I have now.”

The two gazed at the rose, in its glass case. Having perhaps been disturbed by their footsteps on entering the room, the last petal drooped gently down, hanging on to the stem by the merest thread.

“A beast for ever…” murmured Belle, absent-mindedly stroking the collar and leash that she held in her hand.

She started tapping the glass case gently with the end of her riding crop.

“But still rich, right?”

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