There’s a place I know where we should go

Holi – holiday!

So, for the next two weeks Servitor’s owner will be on holiday, so I’ll have the pleasure of 14-hour workdays for no pay in a different location.

As regular ‘readers’ will be aware, this blog has a fine tradition of clearing out old unpublished images that aren’t very good posting extra, bonus images during the holiday period by putting up a daily post with three unconnected, unthemed captioned images without context, wit or point. So that will happen starting from tomorrow for two weeks.

For today, however, the first post of an occasional new series: Holidays in Heaven, which has as a theme slightly contrived situations in which a couple from a ‘normal’ country (i.e. a patriarchal hell-hole) are on holiday in a female supremacist paradise.

OK, very contrived then. Whatever. I need to go and get my crate ready for the long flight. Let’s hope I don’t spend too long trundling round and round on the luggage carousel before she collects me this time. Last time it was two weeks, the entire holiday. But she’s always been forgetful like that, bless her.

Twelve honest women

 

 

All rise for her Ladyship!   This court is now in session.

Members of the jury.  You have now heard all of the evidence in this case, as well as the summing-up arguments of the defense, so eloquently put to us by defending counsel Ms Ingrams there,whom I would like to compliment once more on her cogent arguments.  And the stuff that prosecuting counsel said too, of course. Ms… erm, Langham I think?  No, don’t get up, Ms Langham. You’ve said all you need to say, I think.  Don’t worry: you did quite well, too.

As you know, members of the jury, the prisoner – Ms Rebecca Frances Davenport – stands accused of various crimes of violence which are, in descending order of severity: grievous bodily harm, actual bodily harm and assault.  It is your job to decide whether she is guilty of any crime and if you do so decide, which of those it should be.

The fact of this particular case are not substantially in doubt or disputed by either party.  We are concerned with the injuries sustained by Ms Davenport’s husband, Tom, when she beat him, first with a cane and then with a riding whip, after he served her coffee that was too milky.

Now, members of the jury, you may well wonder what there is in this that requires the involvement of the law?  Surely in this day and age a woman has a right to beat her husband as she sees fit and for whatever reason she chooses – or indeed no reason?  I am sure we have all inflicted painful punishments on males from time to time, no doubt all richly deserved – should we therefore fear the heavy hand of the local police, following some healthy domestic corrective action?

Obviously not, members of the jury. The law, thankfully, recognises the needs of males for physical chastisement and the rights of responsible females to provide it.  Yet it also specifies that only ‘reasonable force’ can be used. You may feel that a wife’s rights over her husband should have no such limitation and so might I, so might any of us, but we do not make the law, ladies of the jury, and even after twelve years of Femsuprem government, this restriction remains in the law, albeit rarely tested in court.

What does it mean, this word ‘reasonable’, members of the jury? That will be for you to decide on the facts of this case, but I can give you some guidance.

First, ‘reasonableness’ refers to the severity of the beating sustained. You will have seen the detailed photographs of the buttocks and thighs of Ms Davenport’s Tom, following the beating. Or beatings.  You will have noticed the many criss-crossed welts from cane and whip, the extensive bruising in all shades of purples, browns and even black. I hope it is not inappropriate for me to note that Tom Davenport has a rather attractive, muscular pair of buttocks so no doubt – like me – you examined those photographs closely and with great interest.

In fact, Clerk to the court, do you think we might be shown the photographs again?

Splendid.  Mmm.  Yes, there we are, members of the jury.  Study the evidence carefully, so you can recall every detail when you come to deliberate.  Observe for example the cross-hatching on the right thigh, where Ms Davenport – clearly a most skillful wielder of the disciplinary rod – has first laid down a ladder of horizontal stripes with the cane, at near mathematically precise intervals, then some half an hour later, after devoting herself to abusing some other area of his flesh, returned and positioned herself in front of her secured husband and completed this grid pattern we see here with an exactly equivalent set of vertical strokes from her whip.

You will no doubt recall, members of the jury, how Tom sobbed with pain and fear even at the recollection of this part of his beating, as he described it stroke by stroke, with these fine photographs arranged to provide the colour, so to speak, to his shaking, tearful description.  Indeed, members of the jury, one of you at least will recall that testimony very well, as we all heard that you were unable to contain your excitement.  No cause for embarrassment, madam, still less – as counsel for the prosecution suggested – a reason to consider you biased and thus unfit to serve. It is perfectly normal, healthy and proper for a female to become sexually excited when contemplating a male being punished.  You merely articulated what many of us, I dare say, were feeling, but with fewer inhibitions.  And perhaps a little more loudly.

These bruises – whips and cane strokes, members of the jury – are the injuries at issue in this case.  The prosecution withdrew the allegation that the injuries to ankles and wrists were in any way Ms Davenport’s fault, as those were inflicted by her male upon himself, as he struggled under the lashes of her discipline.  A fine pickle we would all be in, members of the jury, if any husband could escape the consequences of wifely retribution merely by jerking his arms so much when secured across the family whipping block, so as to dislocate his wrist or elbow!

So, members of the jury, have a last look at these photographs before I must ask the clerk to take them away again.  Consider the welts and bruises inflicted – consider them carefully. They are certainly skillful, and I think it is clear that they were most effective in bringing home to Tom the errors of his ways and thus ensuring a more harmonious domestic environment. You might consider them, although severe, well within the boundaries that are – and should be – allowed for domestic discipline in our society.  Bearing in mind the importance of suppressing all or any glimmers of male rebellion, after we finally threw off centuries of male oppression.  You might feel that Ms Davenport should be praised for her skill and her firmness in how she dealt with her husband and wish to reward rather than penalise her for that. However, your task is a simpler one: was this firm, effective – and no doubt for Ms Davenport thoroughly enjoyable – thrashing a reasonable way for her to discipline her husband, just as reasonable as any beating any of us might inflict on our partners, any night of the week? You may well think so, members of the jury, you might well think so.  

However, you might also choose to decide for whatever reason seems proper to you, that this action was unreasonably painful for Tom. The question, for the avoidance of doubt, being whether you consider the pain inflicted  unreasonably severe. You are not being asked to decide whether Ms Davenport was unreasonably lenient on Tom.  You might decide she was unreasonably severe… perhaps because you believe, in effect, that males even in firmly loving disciplinary relationships should be able to count on the law to protect them, should they – the males, members of the jury – themselves decide that the pain is too much for them.  Perhaps you might think that you would be entirely content if your own husband were to turn around and warn you not to hurt him too much, threatening you with prosecution. You might think any of those things, members of the jury, and if you do then you might decide that the level of pain inflicted in this case, as shown in these splendid photographs, was unreasonable.  You might decide that; you have that right and duty.  Or you might decide that there’s nothing wrong with a woman beating her man to the best of her ability and that the pain will do him nothing but good.  It is up to you.

Clerk of the court, with regret I must ask you to take the photographs away again.

Now, members of the jury, there is a second element to ‘reasonableness’ and that relates to the severity of the punishment in relation to the fault Tom committed.  As you will recall: he served his wife coffee that was too milky.

Now, counsel for the prosecution devoted considerable efforts to paint this act of Tom’s as somehow undeserving of the thrashing that he received. You may have found the prosecution’s arguments a little hard to follow there, members of the jury. I am not sure I myself can help you much in understanding them, but I will do my best.  I believe young Ms Langham’s point was that milky coffee is not such a bad thing.  That – in effect – Ms Davenport should simply have put up with the milky coffee.  Perhaps, members of the jury, the prosecution would like you to think she should have drunk coffee that was milkier than she enjoys, to avoid hurting the feelings of – or in other ways hurting – her husband.  She could, in short, have taken some discomfort upon herself, privileging the feelings and desires of a male, above her own.  As women did for so many centuries under the patriarchy.  Perhaps the prosecution also believes she should have taken on some of the housework, to give poor Tom a break, put on an apron and cooked him a meal – or even gone down on her knees before him, unlocked his belt and given him a blow-job? Perhaps.  We don’t know.  All the prosecution said was that Ms Davenport should have simply forced down the unpleasantly milky coffee without complaining. That this would have been more ‘reasonable’ then the actions she in fact took. Perhaps you agree with that idea, members of the jury.  Or perhaps you do not.

Let me nonetheless remind you of a few relevant facts to consider.  First: Ms Davenport has been Tom’s wife for over four years and was his Responsible Female for some eight months prior to that. She is not – and I believe this is undisputed – new to coffee drinking, members of the jury. Tom has been making her cups of coffee for all of that time. Every day, usually more than once. Tom knew how she liked her coffee, members of the jury.  A crucial point, so I shall emphasise it again: Tom knew how she liked her coffee.  Yet he made it too milky. She likes her coffee quite dark… Tom knew that but made it milky. An act of rebellion, perhaps, members of the jury?  Or merely the act of an unthinking male, characteristically concerned only with his own convenience and thinking nothing of the needs and wants of the woman whom he promised to love, serve and obey when they married? Either way, I am sure you will want to consider very carefully whether you wish to characterise a corrective beating in response to such behaviour as ‘unreasonable’, members of the jury. But of course that is a matter for your judgement.

Second, we have heard Ms Davenport’s evidence – corroborated by Tom when he was strapped across the witness block – that this was the third time in the last year that he had served her coffee that was too milky.  The third time, members of the jury! He repeatedly served her coffee he knew she would not like! Is that the act of an obedient husband? Should she allow it to pass unrebuked? Is it really that unreasonable for a husband to spend a few hours screaming and struggling under a relentless beating when he has willfully ignored his wife’s wishes time and time again? Indeed, how ‘reasonable’ would it be for Ms Davenport – for any woman – to suffer such a repeated gesture of contempt and not inflict a thorough beating, I ask you?  I can merely ask: it is of course for you to decide that, not for me.

Finally, we come to the conflicting evidence relating to Ms Davenport’s instructions to Tom, when she dispatched him to the kitchen to prepare the coffee.  She has testified that she clearly said “And don’t put too much milk in it, maggot!”, ‘maggot’ of course being the affectionate nick-name she uses at home to refer to Tom.  The maggot himself – Tom, that is – denies that she made any such remark, and maintained that position even under vigorous cross-examination over the witness block.  Rather a crucial piece of evidence, members of the jury, as even those of you who might for some reason feel well-disposed towards Tom and inclined to be lenient towards his apparent total lack of interest in his wife’s comfort might feel that serving milky coffee following such an instruction is tantamount to direct disobedience. Direct disobedience, members of the jury. 

Direct. Disobedience. 

Something none of us would tolerate in our own relationships, I venture to say. But that is of course for you to decide, not for me. Perhaps you are of a different opinion.  That is your right.

But many of us would no doubt feel that if such an instruction were given, Ms Davenport has no case to answer.

Yet was such an instruction given?  Here we have two witnesses offering conflicting evidence on this point, members of the jury!  Ms Davenport says she gave such an instruction, Tom says she did not. She says she did.  He says she did not.  How can we resolve this conundrum?  Fortunately, I can be of service to you on that point, as the law is quite clear in this regard: when a female witness and male witness provide conflicting accounts like this, the female’s evidence is to be accepted and the male’s disregarded. That is now established case-law, with numerous precedents dating back to soon after the Liberation. It is in any event only common sense: females being generally trustworthy while males, as we all know, are duplicitous, lying little weasels.  So you can put your minds at rest: Tom lied in the witness box and his evidence is to be disregarded.  He was instructed to ensure the coffee was not too milky: the evidence on that is uncontested.  Uncontested by any female, anyway, and legally that amounts to the same thing.

So: members of the jury, that is the case in a nutshell.  It is now for you to decide whether Ms Davenport is guilty or not guilty.

You will of course be well aware of the intense media interest in this case. Cases brought by husbands against their wives are thankfully rare and I believe this is the first time for several years that a male has sought to bring such serious charges against any Responsible Female, let alone his wife.  Public opinion in some quarters is running  understandably hot but I must advise you not to be influenced by anything you may have seen or read.  You must put such headlines as “Drink that, you bitch or I’ll have the law on you!” and “Criminal waste of police time and public money” or other such over-simplified characterisations of this matter entirely from your minds.  Similarly, you may or may not be aware that certain underground – and illegal – ‘men’s lib’ publications are following the case with keen, if rather furtive, interest. One such – a squalid publication absurdly named Equal rights for men now! – even sees the decision I shall shortly ask you to retire to consider to be, as with some distaste I quote, “the first step in rolling back the oppressive and brutal Femsuprem state.” 

 Like the rest of us, they must await your decision, ladies of the jury.  Whether you wish to encourage men’s libbers in their shrill and self-centred campaign, or not, I urge you to put any such considerations entirely aside and decide only the case in front of you: is Ms Davenport guilty, or not guilty?  And decide that on the facts. Let any political consequences fall as they may.

And that is the only decision in front of you: remember, Tom is not the accused and you are not here to decide what should happen to him, no matter how much you might like to be able to do so.  

No: the accused today is a woman, a female. As you are female.  As I am.  And I will leave you with just one more piece of legal advice and that – as counsel for the defense explained earlier so well – is something known as the golden thread that runs through English justice: the presumption of female innocence.  Every woman, no matter how severe a crime she is accused of, is innocent until proven guilty.  If there is any reasonable – that word again, madam jurors! – any reasonable doubt as to the guilt of the accused, then she must be set free. That is a cornerstone of female liberty, in this United Queendom.

So: members of the jury.  It is time for you to retire to consider your verdict.

(Two minutes later)

Madam Forewoman, welcome back.  have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?

Jury forewoman: We have, Your Ladyship.

And do you find the accused, Ms Rebecca Frances Davenport, guilty or not guilty?

Jury forewoman: Not guilty on all counts, Your Ladyship.

Thank you.  You have discharged your duty admirably, no doubt weighing up  –

Jury forewoman: And if I may say so, Your Ladyship, we think the little swine deserved everything he got and then some. I’d have given him a second full dose later the same day, if my husband had – 

Yes, erm.. thank you Madam Forewoman.  I’m sure we all share… anyway, you have been most helpful. You have carried out your duty in a case that… well, some might say should frankly never have been brought, but I am nonetheless grateful.  You may – 

Jury forewoman: And also, if any tosser of a man thinks he can – 

Yes, THANK YOU, Madam Forewoman, members of the jury. You may stand down.

Now.  First of all, it is my very pleasant duty, Ms Davenport, to declare you not guilty.  An innocent woman, entirely cleared of all charges and without a stain on your character. You may thrash males with the skill and vigour you displayed towards your Tom without the slightest concern that the law might seek to intervene to soften the blows, so to speak.

Rebecca Davenport: Thank you, Your Ladyship. I’m so pleased.

I’m sure all right-thinking citizens are, Ms Davenport.  Indeed, although in my supervision of these proceedings and my summing up I had to be scrupulously unbiased, to ensure an absolutely fair trial, now the jury has reached its well-justified decision, I will note for the record that I believe the Police and the Public Prosecution Service have some serious questions to ask themselves about their decision to intervene in this matter. What exactly they were thinking, to bring the full majesty of the law into a simple and wholesome domestic beating? That mystifies me as it has mystified so much of the press.  It may even be a resigning matter, in some quarters. 

I’ll confess I found it difficult at times to restrain my extreme scepticism about the case that has been brought before me and my irritation at the – frankly – rather sexist implications of the idea that a woman cannot beat her male as she sees fit. I had thought those dark days of male impunity were behind us.  Following the jury’s wise decision, perhaps at last they are.

I should note for the record, however, that my criticism does not extend to counsel for the prosecution, who really has done her best, I believe.  Barristers, especially junior barristers (and by her youthful appearance I believe Ms Langham to be very junior), must accept briefs that come to them and Ms Langham was doing her job and carrying out her duty, in making the best case she could on behalf of this wretched male.

Ms Langham (blushing): Thank you, Your Ladyship.

And your rather pretty blush reminds me, Ms Langham, of how I – and I think we all – felt the greatest sympathy for your embarrassment when you had to present some of the more absurd elements of the prosecution’s case.  At least you did it most fetchingly – you wear the barristers robe so well – and it was a pleasure to have you in my court. No, sit down, now Ms Langham!  You have carried out your disagreeable task very well and if we did not always agree with what you had to say, I for one thoroughly enjoyed listening to you say it.  I hope you are able to take on rather more wholesome work as your career develops.

Finally, more seriously, I turn to what should become of Tom Davenport.  As I explained to the jury, he is not on trial here.  Yet there is obviously now a serious question of whether charges should be brought for wasting police time and for perjury – which he obviously committed when he contradicted the evidence of a woman, while under oath. These are serious charges and if found guilty of both, Tom Davenport as he now is (but he would lose his name, of course) could face a sentence of up to thirty-five years in a Male Re-education Centre.  Even without going to the trouble of such a trial, I could here and now sentence him to eighteen months in an MRC for contempt of court.

I am minded to do so. The healthy outdoor air, the constant physical labour and of course the frequent attentions of skilled and qualified Male Re-education Officers, would clearly do Tom nothing but good.  He would emerge a changed man – changed much for the better.  I can consign him to such a camp only for up to eighteen months, as I said, but the Camp Commander or her deputies can extend his stay indefinitely in the case of, for example, disobedience, disrespect or repeated laziness. Given his behaviour in married life, such offences seem almost certain, so although I cannot directly impose the sentence of many years that he so richly deserves, without wasting still more time and money on trials, I am confident he would receive an appropriate ‘education’ and would be able to take the time needed to let the lessons sink in.

However.

There is another course of action. His wife, Ms Davenport, has by her actions already demonstrated her devotion to his improvement and her determination that he should mend his ways.  As well has her skill and vigour in encouraging him to do so. Rather than making him a burden on the State and having him take up a square metre or two of bare concrete in a cell block that could otherwise be used to house a male with no such loving alternative, I am inclined simply to release him back into her care.  However, she is of course entirely within her rights to reject the selfish little swine, in which case I will happily consign him to the care of the MRS. Ms Davenport, would you be willing to take this ungrateful male back?

Rebecca Davenport: Oh yes, Your Ladyship. Willing and quite ready, believe me.

Your commitment to his welfare makes you a role model for women everywhere, Ms Davenport.  Very well.  Clerk of the court, please record that the court instructs the MRS to restore Rebecca Davenport’s rights over the boy Tom, of the same name, as his Responsible Female.  Also, that the aforesaid Tom receives a suspended sentence of eighteen months re-educational labour at the discretion of his Responsible Female, that sentence to lapse after thirty years if no further offence is committed.  And finally, the aforesaid Tom is hereby sentenced to – I’m sorry, that’s the wrong word, please strike it from the record – released into the care of his wife and Responsible Female, the aforesaid Rebecca Davenport.

Good. Anything else?

Thank you, ladies. This court is no longer in session.  Ms Langham, I wonder if you would care to join me in my private chambers, for a quick glass of sherry?

All rise!

 

Miss Langham.  She really is very young, poor thing, to take on such a difficult brief.  But her senior colleagues (who had all skillfully avoided taking the case) advised her that if she did her best and smiled at the judge a lot, the judge would probably treat her kindly.  And they were right.

 

Unrelenting love

Don’t worry: what it lacks in teasing, it makes up in denial.


 

My gender doesn’t so much sit on a spectrum as cower timidly beneath one.

 

 

He’s a bit dim too, to be honest.  Well… thick as two short planks, to be quite brutal about it.  But she doesn’t seem to mind that, oddly.

I think she might have had an idea.



Many women just hate it when important discussions are side-tracked by irrelevant opinions.  My SO has very low tolerance for that sort of thing, which is unfortunate as all my opinions are irrelevant.

Destructive criticism


I was about to say they don’t get very many complaints but I looked into it and apparently they do get lots and lots of complaints, but they’re invariably withdrawn later.  Sometimes by the patients themselves, sometimes by their legal guardians if they’ve been declared mentally incapable.  So that’s all right.

 

Better do what she says.  Really.

 

 

You do have a safeword, of course.  Just use it if it all gets too much, and she’ll stop whatever she was doing immediately and do something else.  This, for instance.

 

 

 

Looks like it’s going to be all talk and no action!  What a disappointment.

 

 

 

You know, they gave him equal billing with her?  Sometimes the world makes no sense at all.

 

 

Fiercely feminine

Take it from me as a long-serving married man, you really don’t want to discuss it.  Let alone ‘discuss’ it.

 

 

 

Obviously.

 

There’s a thin line between chivalry and criminal sexism but fortunately we have women to help police that line – and run the re-education camps for anyone who teeters over it.

 

 

 

He’s just a bit nervous about getting married… which is silly, really, when you think about it.

 

 

 

Actually, the entire blog is literally nothing but a lot of fuss over a little smacked bottom.  With wholly inadequate thinking time set aside for it.


 

More in indifference than in anger

Actually, female spiders eat their mates in only a minority of spider species and you’re in luck – the one that bit her is not from one of them.  So I’m not even sure why she’s doing this, actually, but I’m sure if you point that fact out she’ll let you go.

 


Actually, the company medical plan does cover males but only for a few, specified surgical procedures.

 

 

 

Just go with it, see where it takes you.  She’s not going to rush anything, plenty of time.

 

You might develop a foot fetish, eventually.  And if you can develop a fetish for doing chores too you should have a very enjoyable marriage.  Oh – and findom, too.  Yeah, you definitely want to try to get into findom because there’s going to be a lot of that.
 
 
 

Irony… it’s like rain on your wedding day – which actually isn’t all that ironic, it’s just bloody uncomfortable, take it from me, especially when you’re chained up naked outside the church waiting for the bride.


 

Begging her pardon

Like many submissive husbands, I have a lot of uncomfortable conversations.  Apparently it’s good for me, though, so I can’t complain.


 

 

Don’t say anything to make her think less of you, as she takes her leave of you – she is trying very hard to keep her vow to love you until death do you part.

 

 

 

The younger generation of female supremacists are less militant, more comfortable in their dealings with the opposite and inferior sex.  I think that’s great.

 

 

 

Can’t you tell she’s tired?

 

 

Actually, she does rather mind but she’s too kind-hearted to refuse her.


 

 

 

 

Loving unkindness


There used to be a big problem with this sort of play in an office environment: which washrooms to use, the ladies’ or the gents’?  But more and more workplaces are moving to unisex, thank goodness, which makes (heterosexual) toilet play a lot less likely to cause a stir.

 

 

 

Yeah, she’s a sweetie.  By the way – this picture is the last known image of Helmut Kleinwanger, a German businessman who disappeared on a solo hiking holiday in the Czech republic.  If anyone has any information about what happened to him, please post it on a femdom porn story blog.

 

 

 

According to Freud, many men suffer from castration anxiety.  I quite often do, to be honest, but so far it’s always turned out OK.   

 

This caption was of course inspired by the 1960s film The Pure Hell of St Trinian’s, in which the temporary headmistress Matilda Harker-Packer (replacing the jailed Miss Fritton), played by Irene Handl, states proudly that she is among the very few heads of educational establishments who can produce a certificate actually  proving her sanity.  And you thought I only watched St Trinian’s movies for the sexy sixth-formers in gymslips!





Just
run around for a bit to try to keep warm.  You’ll need the accumulated
body warmth, for when you’re in the pillory, later.  Especially during
the snowballing scene and the ice bucket challenge (I know, I know: ice
bucket challenges haven’t been a thing since 2019 but you just try
telling them that…).






He’ll have to learn to write backwards, which will be difficult.  Fortunately, they have some very effective teaching methods, for young males.


Love and punishment

Corner time, thankfully, is one of those activities that is largely unaffected by the lockdown. In fact, lockdown is a little like corner time for the entire country, if you think about it (and I have lots of thinking time: several hours most days).

 



There’s no place for this kind of bigotry in the modern world.



Enjoy the view while it’s still unencumbered with tears.




Erm… “because it was a menial occupation that made insufficient use of her prodigious gifts”?


The angelic, diabolic and generally perfect Mistress Eleise, of course, beneath whose notice I have had the privilege on several occasions to crawl in person.  I have never tried her on ‘dumb blonde’ jokes, though… perhaps some more adventurous ‘reader’ could give that a go and let us all know how it works out, if still able to type after the experience.

 


 

He does agree. Several times, every day.  As often as she wants, in fact.

 

And finally a bit of found femdom.  I can’t believe I’ve not encountered* this before.  Nor was I aware that the lovely Alice, of Serena and Alice fame, has a twin sister.  Content warning (1) for those who do not enjoy scenes of brutal torture: contains brutal torture. Content warning (2) for those who do: contains only 1 minute and 45 seconds of it.

Warning 3: the Youtube clip does not appear to be available to viewers located in certain countries.  Gee, if only there were a way to reroute your Internet access through a server in a different country from your own.

* Yes, as a matter of fact I did consider using the lame “come across” joke again.  What of it? 

 

Now you’re thinking with portals

A Serena and Alice story


Ages since I wrote a story about these two lovely ladies.  Serena is smart as a whip but hurts a lot more.  Alice is sweet and playful and kind… OK, not always particularly kind, to be honest.  But definitely playful.  Anyway, they make a lovely couple. 

Fans of sweet and affectionate lesbian relationships, especially those spiced up with a delicious sprinkling of brutal torture of males, might enjoy the following and even find themselves drawn to check out a few more, here.

Readers of a nervous disposition, in contrast, should instead contact Serena in person.  She’d love to get to know you better.

Finally, anyone who is completely cool with castration, torture and murder for sexual kicks but has no idea what the whole ‘portal’ thing is about should watch this.  I believe that GladOS is actually based on Serena, although obviously the game designers made her a much nicer person, for a mainstream audience.

What adventures await on the other side of this mysterious orange portal?  Step through and find out.



Now you’re thinking with portals


“Whee!” Alice laughed delightedly as she tumbled through the
orange-rimmed oval into the waiting arms of her beloved Serena.  The two kissed passionately several times.

“That was my first time!” Alice gasped.  “It’s weird, isn’t it?  One minute I was there, the next I’m here…
with you.” And she smiled, shyly.

“Faster than light” Serena nodded.

Alice’s pretty brow furrowed in puzzlement, as it
occasionally does when the dialogue requires some explication.

“But – I thought faster-than-light travel wasn’t possible?  I thought scientists had proven that.”

“Male scientists” replied Serena.

“Oh I see” Alice replied. 
“Yes, that would explain it.  My husband David has all sorts of funny ideas about speed and time. Just the other day I
told him I needed the kitchen cleaned, the laundry done and dinner cooked all
by 7 o’clock and he said it wasn’t possible! 
I had to explain to him for almost twenty minutes that I wanted it
done.”   

“And did he manage it all?” Serena smiled.

“Oh yes” Alice replied. 
“In fact, he got it all done with five minutes to spare, even after I’d
taken that extra time explaining.  In fact, he
was begging to be allowed to get on with it less than halfway through my explanation.  He worked very hard after that – he’s a good
boy, really.”

“But he lied to you – when he said it couldn’t be done?”
Serena prompted.

Alice frowned again.  “Yes,
I suppose he did, didn’t he… the lying little toad!  I’ll have to talk to him about that.”

Serena felt a warm glow of satisfaction.  Although she felt no jealously towards David, she
always liked to hear about him suffering. 
As she did with all men, but David’s relationship with Alice gave her a
special interest in his welfare, one she hoped would one day lead to his taking
on a new role: as one of her experimental subjects*.  In the meantime, though, she enjoyed finding fault
with him from a distance.  For his part,
David had learnt to dread conversations with his beloved wife that began with “I
was talking to Serena, and…”

“Anyway, obviously they got the maths wrong” Serena began.

“David does a lot of that, too” nodded Alice. “When we first
got together, he used to use maths to try to get out of buying things for
me.  Things I needed.”  She looked upset again.

“And now we have these amazing portals everywhere” Serena
went on quickly, suddenly worried that her lover might have such a powerful
urge to go and ‘explain’ things to David that she might step back home through
the portal. “It’s astonishing how many uses there are for them.”

Alice took her hand and smiled up at her.  “Maybe.  But I don’t think I’m ever going to need another one, now I’ve got the link between my bedroom and here.”

The two embraced again, at length. 

Serena and Alice.  I believe this might not actually a picture of the two ladies, but David confirmed to me that this is very much how he sees them.  He told me that the one on the left is his beloved Alice and when I asked about the one on the right, he curled into a little ball and started gibbering about finding a happy place, so I guess that must be Serena.


“I mean, my bedroom’s just a few steps away…” Alice murmured,
through her smooshed lips.

“And I’d love to step through with you” smiled Serena. “But
I want to show you a few things first.  I’ve
been thinking with portals!”

“Am I about to have a science lesson?” giggled Alice. Although
not inclined towards intellectual pursuits, she had a keen curiosity about applied
science, as long as it was being applied to males as painfully as possible –
which, fortuitously, happened to be Serena’s main research interest too.

“What have you been doing with them… sending men to
unpleasant places?”

“Oh, portals aren’t just transportation devices.” Serena
replied.  “There are so many uses: they’re
going to transform the world.  You can
break the laws of thermodynamics with a well-positioned pair of portals, so you
can have unlimited free energy, for example. 
Imagine how that could liberate the world from toil and drudgery.”

Down the corridor, a naked male on hands and knees who had
been scrubbing the floorboards with a small brush looked up.  Unluckily, he happened to meet Serena’s gaze
and instantly dropped his head down again, applying himself still more
vigorously to the task. A light sheen of sweat appeared, as he trembled in
fear.

“Yes, well, I mean that toil and drudgery will become
optional, anyway” Serena added, staring coolly at the labouring man. “Only
available to a lucky few.”

“Who had better hope for a lifetime of toil and
drudgery.” she continued, in a quiet voice that seemed nonetheless to carry
effortlessly over to the male’s location. 
“Because there are plenty of alternatives and believe me, they are all so much
worse.”

She watched for a moment more, observing the brush which
itself seemed close to breaking the lightspeed barrier, so quickly was it
flashing back and forth.  A few tears
splashed down and were vigorously rubbed into the wooden boards.  Serena didn’t mind that.  In fact she thought it
provided a pleasant and delicate patina to a wooden surface.  When she’d had a new wooden floor put into
her bedroom, she had worked most of the morning to acquire a bucket brimming
full of male tears, to allow the whole surface to be thoroughly doused with
this most enriching substance.

Serena took out a leather-covered box, of the sort an
expensive ring would come in.  Which is
exactly what it had been, when originally purchased to present Serena with one of
the eleven engagement rings she had received in her life.  None of the men in question had ever actually become her husband, of course, but nine had succeeded in their ambition to
spend the rest of their lives with her, and the surviving two were still
working on it, deep in the cellars beneath her mansion house.

She opened it, to show Alice the ovals glowing orange and
blue against the black velvet cushioning, one in the base and one in the lid of the unclasped box.

“But what’s the point when they’re so small?” Alice asked,
supremely oblivious of the almost intolerable temptation she was placing on the author to make an obvious and very bad joke. 

“I’ll show you” smiled Serena, and she led her lover by the
hand, to a well-furnished room, one side of which was occupied by a large
glass-fronted cupboard that could serve well as a trophy cabinet.  Inside were the trophies: row after row of
male genitalia, most of them with penises encased in a chastity device, some
with permanent-looking piercings apparently achieving the same end.  Some were bruised or showed other signs of violent
treatment; all had a gentle glow of orange or blue behind them, showing the
presence of science’s latest triumph.

Serena opened the door and reached in, for a large, pallid
and relatively undamaged example hanging under a sign reading “Peter the lawyer”.



Here’s
a picture of Peter the lawyer, in case you were wondering what he looks
like.  This photo was taken the day he met Serena, I believe, which
explains why he is still looking so calm and unbruised.  What’s that? 
You don’t want to see pictures of Peter, you want pictures of the
ladies?  Well, that’s typical of the dismissive attitude to males in
femdom porn, frankly.  He’s central to the story too, you know.  He’s
the canvas on which the work of art will be created, after all.

She flicked open the chastity tube, which had been secured
but not locked, removed it and handed the pallid pile of flesh to her
companion.

After at first simply goggling at it lying helplessly in her
hands, Alice turned it over in wonder. 
She had held men’s genitals in her hands before, of course.  Sometimes living and attached to men,
sometimes detached and floppy – more often the latter, since she had become
Serena’s lover.  But never had she held a
set of genitals that were both separated from their owner yet also, somehow,
still attached.  For around the base of the
penis and balls, where the arrangement would normally fuse seamlessly with the rest
of a man’s body, glowed the orange light of a miniature portal some two inches
in diameter, just like the ones Serena had shown her before.

Alice had little doubt that, wherever Peter the lawyer happened
to be, there was a blue glowing ring between his legs, of just the same size as
this one.  When she turned the genitals
over to look closely into the ring, she could see how it cut across the
still-living tissue.  Blood vessels pulsed
gently, showing that vital fluid was circulating still in the penis that,
although still very much attached to its owner’s body, was also in the extraordinarily perilous position of being in Serena’s trophy cabinet and indeed, in Alice’s
hands.  For Serena, as a lesbian, genital
torture was merely another way to inflict pain, but Alice – to her lover’s mild
disapproval – was bisexual and her continuing heterosexual leanings provided
her with a frisson of interest in a shapely cock. Of course, the end result of
the two ladies’ interest in male genitalia was much the same, as Alice’s
sexuality was firmly oriented towards the sadistic end of the spectrum.  But holding a living cock for her still provided
some of the same thrill she had first experienced at school when she had felt a
boy becoming hard in his trousers as he pressed against her in the school diner
queue.  On that occasion, the boy in
question had merely been expelled when she reported him, but the pleasure of
punishing an errant penis had remained with her.

Soon there was no need to observe cross-sectioned vessels pulsing
in order to deduce that blood was flowing into the spongy tissues of the penis,
as Peter the lawyer, his penis liberated from the tight embrace of his steel
tube, was responding naturally to the soft touch of Alice’s hands.  It was unconscious, simply an automatic
sexual response – as was Alice’s desire to inflict unspeakable pain on him, when she saw
what was happening.

“He’s being naughty” she remarked, handing the growing item
back to Serena.  Serena smiled and grasped
the end of the penis, firmly tweaking the end three times to the right.  “That’s a signal” she explained.  “In case he’s out in public: it’s to tell him
to go somewhere private.  Let’s give him sixty
seconds.”

She took a heavy bulldog clip and trapped a generous pinch
of foreskin between its tight jaws then hung the ensemble from a hook in the
wall.  From a small drawer she took a
foot-long metal ruler and a tiny vicious-looking whip with eight thin leather
strands, each terminating in a tight little knot.  She offered both soundlessly to Alice who
dithered pleasurably for a few moments before selecting the whip. 

They waited a moment longer, then Serena said “That’ll do”
and the two ladies went vigorously to work.

Alice had whipped men’s genitals before, of course.  But there was something delightfully different
about flicking the thin leather strands across a pair of balls that dangled at
the end of an object itself hanging from a clipped foreskin.  They moved more than she was used to, the
punished testicles acting as the weight of a pendulum that swang back and forth
as Alice rhythmically struck from one side to the other.  Serena got into the game too, cracking her
ruler to accelerate the battered testicles as they swung back, at one point
cracking so hard that they described a complete circle.

“We could try hooking them up to one of those… what do you
call them – tennis things” gasped Alice, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Swingball!” Serena called back joyously, sending Peter the
lawyer’s testicles hurtling around another full circle.  She grinned at her lover, delighted by her
creativity.  It was Serena who usually
came up with the most unpleasant ideas between the two of them, but she herself
would be the first to admit she would not have invented half the things she
had, without someone to show them off to. 

They batted back and forth for a few minutes more, then
stopped to admire their handiwork.  Peter’s
balls (or, technically, Serena’s balls that happened to be attached to Serena’s
male body often designated ‘Peter’) were swollen and purple.  In
places, burst blood vessels added a still darker patch to the abused
flesh.  Serena took out her phone with
satisfaction, dialled two digits and held it out on speaker.

“Th… thank you Mistress Serena” sobbed the man at the other
end.

“And?” snapped Serena.

“And… and…. I deserved it, and I need the punis – “

“I mean, Miss Alice, you ungrateful little sod!” shouted
Serena and clicked the phone off, in the middle of a gasped “Oh – thank you Miss
A-“.  Then she grasped the abused scrotum
hanging so forlornly on the wall and began twisting it around and around, swapping
hands to maintain the tension as she did so. After six turns, the penis reminded
Alice of a wet towel twisted around to administer a beating (another image that
recalled fond memories of school days, when she had made boys beat one another to
win her favour) but this time it was the rolled-up sausage itself that took the
beating, as Serena expertly cracked the steel ruler across it, working her way
around and down to ensure no nerve endings were left untreated.

Finally, she stopped, allowed the bruised, battered mass to
unravel itself, and hung it back inside the cabinet, beneath the sign proclaiming
the lucky recipient of the desperate nerve signals shrieking their agony out through
the dimensionless portal, to be ‘Peter the lawyer’.

“Aren’t you going to put the chastity tube back on?” asked
Alice, always alert to the danger that a male might obtain some enjoyment in what
was intended to be the eternal misery of his life.  Serena cast an expert eye over the dark
purple mounds that held the future of Peter’s genetic line.

“Probably no need” she murmured.  “Still: best to make sure” and she reached
out and tugged the testicles smartly in a half-circle and down, in a single
sharp motion.  “There” she said.

Serena had more things to show her dear sweet Alice, but
Alice insisted on leading her back through her own portal, the one leading to
her bedroom where, dear reader, whatever the laws of physics might say, you and
I cannot follow.

[End of Part 1. Will there be a Part 2?  Who knows.  I certainly don’t.  Update: now I do and here it is.  And even a Part 3]



It’s OK, they’ve finished now.  You’re allowed in to bring them breakfast when summoned.  It’ll make a nice change for Alice, not to have to wait until that lazy bastard Dave finally gets around to thinking of someone other than himself… **

**(Actually this isn’t a picture of them either.  I was asked not to use real pictures of either lady and when I asked why, Serena muttered something about needing to keep her anonymity so she can track down and ‘collect’ readers of this blog, whatever that means.  Anyway, she’s a very private person.)


 *  Attentive readers might be aware that in an earlier story, that is exactly what happened.  But what is ‘earlier’ and what ‘later’ when we are dealing with concepts such as faster-than-light travel, which can break the laws of causality?  And, for that matter, with Serena and Alice, who have never yet encountered a law they did not feel they could break if they really, really wanted to?  Life is not linear.  It’s more like a wibbly-wobbly ball of timey-wimey…stuff, anyway.

PS – It has just this second occured to me that although I created this series in 2011, the only professional dominatrices I have seen on any kind of a regular basis  in the last five years have been… Serena and Alice.  Both are utterly, utterly wonderful, neither is really much like the characters here***, but I just wonder… is this a subconscious thing?  Or might there be something to this time travel malarky after all?  Cue spooky music…

 *** Except, come to think of it, in hair colour.  Spooky ooky…

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