Category: fiction

Tainted love

As the title suggests, we are once again back in the 1980s when all of Servitor’s tastes and obsessions, so fluid up until that point, suddenly seemed to fix, for life. Including femdom, so in the absence of actual magazines from the era*, here is the cover and letters page from a fictional femdom top-shelf mag from the period, Empress, based so closely as to be legally actionable loosely on the Vixen and Mistress magazines** of my furtive and spurtive later youth.

Letters

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

A longtime reader of your magazine, I felt I had to write to express my appreciation of the story Pretty Maids All in a Row. As someone whose deepest fantasy is to be dressed and treated as a housemaid I was thrilled at the thought of this group of neighbourly women getting together to enforce this form of subjugation on their husbands. Although I can obviously empathise with Ian and Robin, who share my obsession, as demonstrated by their ready embrace of their uniformed role, I also enjoyed reading about Timothy’s more reluctant and confused journey to acceptance of his new lifestyle. And of course John and Euan (or Jenny and Eunice, as they had become at the end), whose outright resistance, rebellion and inevitable comeuppance provided the main drama of the piece.

I thought that the author did a great job in quickly bringing out these different characters, and still more so those of their wives. I found Deborah to be the most exciting of these admirable ladies, although I suspect I would find her rule a little too harsh for comfort, while Lydia’s playful, highly sexualised style of dominance and Rita’s kindly but firm control of her household also struck a chord. Sandra and Naomi, in contrast, seemed less interested in the venture and I wonder whether Sandra was drawn into the plan only at the behest of her lover Deborah?  In which context, I adored the scene in which those two ladies despatch their maid-husbands to share a single bed in the guest room, while taking the ‘master’ bedroom for themselves. The surprise and confusion of Robin and Euan, locked into a small room together for the night, was a treat – would they experiment with homosexuality as their wives were so evidently and noisily doing next door? How very male of them never even to mention the possibility, but instead simply to lie motionless, each in his pretty nightie, and silent like two strangers ignoring one another in a public place, while the giggling and shrieks of sapphic pleasure came through the wall.

The rebellion plans hatched at the meeting of the Ironing Club were dealt with most effectively, I thought.  The accounts of John and Euan’s initial punishments were most exciting, as was the promise of the stricter regimes they would be following in future, with the assistance of Lydia’s formidable-sounding mother.  The story ended with them sobbing themselves to sleep… well, they didn’t get anything more than their just desserts, after all. I did wonder whether Timothy and Robin should really have got off scott-free, though? After all, they were present at the Ironing Club when this rebellion was discussed and even if they refused to go along with it, they should surely have reported the conversation immediately to their wives, as Ian did?  A maid’s duty is to her mistress, not to other maids, especially disloyal ones. Deborah and Naomi might want to ask them – rather sharply! – why exactly they believe a maid can keep a secret from her wife and mistress? Ian has the right attitude, although I hope that Rita’s praise for his actions doesn’t go to his head: maids who think too much of themselves can soon find themselves being taken down a peg or three! I hope too that the other maids come to realise in time that Ian was really acting in their best interests, in the long term.

Goodness, Goddess-Lady Lucia, writing this and recalling the story as I did so has left me hot and flushed! I had better go and scrub some floors to calm myself down. Thank you so much again, for your wonderful magazine. I do hope we’ll be reading more about the maids and their delightful wives.

With a deep curtsey

Maid Polly

A passable letter of appreciation, Maid Polly, I hope your needlework is up to the same standard. I’ve met several men who fantasise about the life of a housemaid. I usually find that they tire of it by the third or fourth hour and if I am feeling generous, I may accept their application to leave my service – although I do insist on a three-month notice period being worked out. Pretty Maids All in a Row will continue in the next edition. Now get on with your work, girl. G-L. L.

To my sister in dominance

I greatly enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about males in chastity, as my feeble excuse for a husband has been since day two of our marriage. Unlike some of the complicated rituals described in your stories, I take a no-nonsense approach to his infrequent releases. There is no set schedule, no anticipation on his part. I will one day suddenly produce the key and instruct him to fetch a pair of kitchen gloves. Unlocked, and wearing the thick rubber gloves, he kneels facing the wall and pumps as hard and fast as he can. He is forbidden to look at me, so there is no stimulation whatsoever, but having been locked up for so long, he almost always becomes erect immediately and rapidly reaches orgasm. It is usually over in less than a minute: he catches the foul stuff in his hand and licks the kitchen glove clean.

Then it is time for the crop, which I have been tapping, during his pathetic sexual activity, to remind him of what is coming. I beat him after every orgasm for two reasons: to make the overall experience unpleasant so that any excitement at the prospect of sexual release is mixed with dread, and because in his immediate post-orgasmic state, he will get no sexual excitement whatsoever from the thrashing: it is pure pain. He bends over and I deliver a rain of hard cuts across his buttocks, then – sobbing, reluctant and terrified – he is made to turn around, stand straight with his legs apart and arms behind his back, and receive as many flicks with the tip of the crop across his soft, shrivelled member, as I choose to give it. It is so sensitive at that moment, there is no pleasure greater to a true female sadist than to crack her whip across that pathetic little strip of flesh.

Finally, I order him to take a cold shower, for precisely three minutes under the full cold jet, then he dries off and must quickly return to beg me humbly to lock him back up again, which I willingly do.

Some might consider this cruel. I suppose I do. I imagine he does too, but I really don’t care.

Yours in sadistic sisterhood

Lady Monica

Oh, I thoroughly agree with your approach, Lady Monica. The male orgasm is such a disgusting, filthy business. It is naturally much briefer and less impressive than the female orgasm and it seems only proper, as well as being delightfully cruel, to curtail it further. I hope your husband is suitably grateful – I imagine he wouldn’t dare fail to be!  G-L. L.

Most exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

Do you have a favourite slave?

Most humbly

Trevor

Ha ha ha ha ha ! No.

For the same reason that I have no favourite among any of the pieces of used chewing gum I have occasionally been unlucky enough to find stuck to the sole of my shoe. G-L. L.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

Some time ago, I was accorded the privilege of having a letter about my relationship with a lady disciplinarian, my Governess, Miss H——–, printed in your superb magazine.  With Governess H——–’s permission, I am writing again on the off-chance that you and your readers might be interested in an update on that relationship.

Specifically: at the end of a recent disciplinary session, while I was drying my eyes and delicately easing my sore bottom back into pants and grown-up trousers, my Governess suddenly asked me whether I would like to meet her some time outside her classroom, for example a day out in London for some lunch, with shopping.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, I was thrilled! I am head-over-heels in love with this beautiful but strict lady and the thought of spending such time with her was a dream come true! I readily agreed and we made arrangements to spend a Tuesday three weeks later (so long to wait!): meeting at Regent’s Park in the morning, walking a little in the park, then down through Marylebone for lunch, before going to Oxford St for some shopping. My Governess made quite clear that any inappropriate behaviour on my part – whether over-familiarity inappropriate to a boy in the presence of his Governess, or excessive servility inappropriate in public, in front of people unaccustomed to relationships such as ours – would be punished, most likely later in private. I realised I would have to walk a narrow line: remaining respectful but not so forgetting myself as to behave like the naughty schoolboy I know myself to be in her presence. Alas, I strayed off that line on several occasions as I will now recount.

On the day, I was waiting for my Governess ten minutes before our agreed meeting time. She looked stunning, when she emerged from the Tube on that bright autumn morning: a long skirt, sharply-cut jacket and boots: every inch the Victorian governess yet also modern and elegant.  I was dressed smartly too: in a suit, as instructed, with the same school tie I wore on my visits to her the only hint of my inner schoolboy. She looked me up and down, sighed slightly, reached out to straighten (and tighten!) my tie, then nodded curtly.

I found myself tongue-tied and lost for words, particularly as I was used to speaking only with permission or when spoken to and of course to calling her ‘Governess’ or ‘Miss H——-’. She had anticipated both problems and informed me that the ‘speak when spoken to’ rule was suspended, unless she indicated otherwise by using the word ‘hush’ and that I could address her as ‘Miss’ when out of earshot of strangers, or ‘Mary’ if we could be overhead (this being understood to be a stand-in for ‘Miss’, not her forename, which I have never used).  She of course would simply address me by my first name (I will use ‘Simon’), as she always did except when calling me ‘boy’ (usually an ominous sign).

We strolled through the park, making occasional conversation about the ducks, the trees with their autumn leaves and so on. I ached to know more about her, but I sensed that such prying questions would not be welcome.  I caught myself starting the word ‘Governess’ once or twice and bit it off, to say ‘Miss’ instead, and I believe she noticed but did not react. We paused to sit on a bench, which I hurriedly tried to wipe down to remove the water droplets from an earlier shower.  Alas, I was in too much of a hurry and had not done the job thoroughly.

“Do you expect me to sit in that puddle, Simon?” she asked, sharply.

“I’m sorry, Governess – uh, Miss!” I replied, without thinking.

“Do it again. Do it properly.” She said, curtly, and I set myself to polishing away at the wood with my sleeve, while she gazed coldly off into the distance.

When we were seated, she took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen. She wrote in it for a while, then wordlessly showed me the page.  At the top it read “Simon’s faults, 11 October 1983.” A vertical line had earlier been ruled down the page, about two-thirds of the way across, dividing it into two columns. In the broader, left-hand column were two entries, each with a line drawn across the page underneath. The first read “Lazy and careless drying of bench.”, the second “Inappropriate mode of address (x3)”. I was right: she had indeed noticed my earlier verbal slips.

“Hush now” she said, putting the book away, and we sat in silence. Needless to say, I was in little doubt as to the purpose of the second column, which would surely later be filled in, with details of some painful consequences for the errors identified in the first!

“Let us continue.” she said after a while. “You may speak again from now.”

I did not think it wise to ask about the little book.  Nor could I think of much to say, but soon enough my Governess started the light conversation again, pointing out the ivy clinging to some magnificent old trees.

“What sort of trees are they, Miss?” I asked, without thinking.

She stopped and frowned at me. Too late, I remembered writing some homework for her just a month before, including an essay titled “Trees of London”. She sighed and pulled out the notebook again.

I don’t know if was nerves, Goddess-Lady Lucia, or whether my natural male gawkishness simply came to the fore, but from that point on, I could barely put a foot right.  The notebook came out three times more during our stroll in the park – once for accidentally bumping into her, once for failing to hold a gate open for a lady and once for ‘dawdling’, so I was glad when we left the park, to visit a restaurant she knew in Marylebone.  We studied the menu for a while – I was ravenous and decided on the pork chops for myself.

When the waitress came, my Governess ordered first, as ladies do, then just as I was about to name my choice, my finger resting on the words ‘pork chops’ on the menu, she murmured “I expect you’d like to have the salad, Simon.”  I managed to stop myself just as my lips were forming the letter p, and nodded, vigorously.

“Yes, salad for me.”, I croaked, my throat strangely dry.

The waitress visibly suppressed a giggle. “And to drink?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A small glass of the house white, I think.” my Governess replied, folding the menu and handing it back.  The waitress turned to me, her eyes dancing with fascinated amusement.  Across the table, the eyes of my Governess – cool, grey – fixed me with a steady gaze.

“I… I think I’ll just have water” I stammered out.  “Yes, just water for me, thanks.” And I handed back my own menu.  Christ I’d have liked to have had a proper drink!

As the waitress went away, the notepad came out.

“You didn’t say ‘please’, Simon”, she noted, and I watched her write out “Discourteous behaviour to a woman.”. It was upside down from my side of the table but her handwriting, although small, was very neat and I had learnt to recognise every letter from small, and frequently alarming, comments written in red in the margins of my homework.

“I’m sorry, Miss…” I replied, hopelessly. “I did say thank you.”

She looked up at me in surprise. “Hush, Simon.” she said sharply, drew another line and wrote “Answering back!”  She underlined that one twice, then turned the page over.  The next page had the same division into columns and was otherwise blank. She wrote a neat “2” in the top right corner, started to put the notebook away then seemed to think better of it, and placed it on the table. It remained there throughout the meal, when not in use.

Sadly for me, it was used on several occasions.  My table manners turned out to leave a great deal to be desired, as I started to eat before her and without permission and then ate ‘in a boorish manner”. Furthermore, in my efforts to avoid further discourtesy towards our waitress, I erred in the opposite direction, employing excessive servility and thus sounding weird. The waitress herself didn’t seem to mind at all; indeed she looked as if she was enjoying herself hugely, but it was all recorded in the notebook.

At the end, when my Governess had finished her coffee and petits fours and I had enjoyed yet another glass of tap-water, I paid, including an absolutely huge tip for the happiest waitress in Marylebone that day, and trailed out, following my imperious Governess.

I thought perhaps the shopping that was planned would be clothes or presents for her – I have heard of lady disciplinarians enjoying such all-expenses outings with their submissive clients. But in this, as in so much, my Governess defied stereotypes. Instead, the clothes to be bought were for me. Not, I hasten to say, some kind of fetish or girls’ clothes: ordinary menswear, but to my Governess’ taste rather than my own.  It seems that for some years, she had found my garb irritating and was resolved to set matters right.  Needless to say, I was no more able to choose the garments than I had been able to lunch on pork chops: having checked my sizes, my Governess simply selected items, handed them to me without discussion and, for the more important items, nodded towards the changing rooms. When I emerged in each outfit, I turned around several times, in response to her finger, then received either a nod or a shake of the head (or “Oh, I don’t think so” or similar) and was dismissed with a gesture. I don’t know whether the rule against behaving in an overly servile manner in public had been suspended, but it must surely have been obvious to everyone that I was an inferior and she was in charge. Indeed, in one shop in which I tried on several jackets, the shop assistant stopped even bothering to speak to me, and addressed himself only to her.  The notebook, along with much sighing and even the occasional ‘tut-tut’ was in frequent use.

Finally, we went to a department store café, where my Governess had a cup of tea and I treated myself to another glass of refreshing tap water. When she pulled out the notebook and pen, I wondered what I had done this time, but instead of adding a new line at the end (which was now well down the third page), she flicked back to the beginning and started writing in the second column.  She was putting in numbers and the letters, T, S and C after them. T was of course the tawse on my hands, S the strap across buttocks and thighs and C… well, it wasn’t going to be a cuddle.  She did not take long deciding: briskly handing out multiples with the T, the S or the C, moving rapidly from one line top the next, until she had reached the end of page 3.

‘Add those up, please, Simon.” she said, dropping the notebook in front of me.  I went through, totting up, with an increasing feeling of dread. At the end, I had discovered I would be in for 47 with the tawse, 54 with the strap and an awful 31 with the cane.  I simply wrote the totals wordlessly and gave her back the book.

Whereupon she went through carefully totting up the figures herself. Why did she tell me to add them up, if she was going to do it herself, you might ask? Because she is my governess and I am her pupil. That is what she does and my work is always checked. As it turned out, I had indeed made a mistake: overcounting the Ts by one.

“Since you seem to want that one you can have it”, she shrugged. “Plus another four for sloppy arithmetic. When is our next meeting and for how long?”

“On Saturday, Miss” I replied (I had finally become quite good at keeping the speech rules).  “Two ‘til four.”

“Better make it two ‘til six” she replied, folding the notebook and putting it away.  And with that, we got the bill, I carried my new clothes out of the shop and respectfully said my goodbyes and thank-yous. To go home to sort out and throw out many of the clothes I had once chosen for myself, and to await the next Saturday, in a state of dread.

And yes, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I adore her and consider myself the luckiest man – or luckiest boy – alive.

With the deepest respect

‘Simon’.

It seems you have been taken properly in hand, Simon. I approve! Boys of any age are still boys, whether in the classroom or not, and need to be treated as such. You may pretend to be an adult man, behaving and even dressing as one in public, but I have no doubt that your Governess can always see the naughty schoolboy, fidgeting and blushing in front of her, when she looks into your eyes. You are permitted to write with further accounts of your educational journey. G-L. L.

Most esteemed Editrix

Like several of the ladies featured in your magazine, I make the subjection of males my career. Middle-aged to elderly men, all fairly well-off I suppose, make their way to my studios for the punishment, degradation and humiliation they need and I profit from the experience and generally enjoy it, too.

I wanted to share with you a recent event that made me wonder what the limits might be to this activity. One of my more recent slave acquisitions had made a booking to visit me, but he called two days before to cancel. He had a good excuse and had given fair notice, but on his next visit, when he paid me I half-jokingly suggested he should pay for the previous session too.

He immediately went crimson, kneeling on the floor before me and started to stutter something about how very sorry he was.

I replied imperiously that sorry wasn’t good enough, that he had wasted my time and presumed upon my good nature and so on, working up to an excuse to punish him, essentially, when to my surprise, he drew out his wallet with shaking hands. He reached in and offered up a small sheaf of banknotes.

Struck by inspiration, I commanded “One at a time! On the floor before my feet.”

Slowly, trembling, he counted out one note after another, until all that remained in his wallet were one-pound notes, which he knows I do not normally accept. I had observed his breathing as he slowly counted and recognised the symptoms: he was thoroughly aroused, completely in the humiliation ‘headspace’ he sought in session. So I continued.

“The ones as well.” I said, imperiously. And one by one he laid those out too. It was still not enough.

I reached down and held his chin, pulling his sweating face up so his slistening eyes stared into mine.

“Do you know what I should do to make up the shortfall, slave?” I hissed. “I should put a collar and leash on you, like a dog, and drag you outside and along to the bank where there’s a machine for you to take out the rest of the money you owe me. Then you’ll kneel before me – in the street, like this – and hand it over!”

His eyes were lolling back, he was more turned on than I think I’ve ever seen him.

“Please… please Mistress, may I?” he murmured. I understood and, not quite sure what exactly what we were to do with the rest of the session time, nodded curtly and he quickly rubbed between his trousered legs with his hands and rapidly came inside his pants.

I needn’t have worried about the rest of the session. I had an utterly happy, exhausted customer and he did not seem at all bothered that he had paid – twice, really – for an hour and had finished after fifteen minutes. It was as if my demands for his money were the most erotically humiliating thing he had ever experienced.

I suppose it makes sense. Men who are into female domination are in a way handing over power and in the modern world, what is the source of power? Money. For him, not being able to control how much he paid me was as much a sexually exciting humiliation as is experienced by a slave tied to my dungeon cross not being able to control his hands.

The next time he comes, I intend to try the cash machine thing. Without any too obvious sign of public D/S play of course. Perhaps even meet him just for that, then tell him to go away, as I think the ‘rip-off’ element is also part of the humiliation. Maybe in time, I can get him to pay for nothing at all in return; that would seem to be the logical culmination of his weird fetish.

Have you ever encountered this fetish, dear Lady? Are many male submissives ‘into’ the idea of a purely financial form of domination, do you suppose? It would certainly make the life of a professional dominatrix a lot easier if they were!

Yours in dominance

Mistress R

Thank you for this fascinating account, Mistress R. I have to confess, it is a new fetish to me! Much as I would love to have a line of male pigs queuing up to give me cash then depart with nothing to show for it but my contemptuous laughter, I fear that this ‘financial domination’ you describe is unlikely to catch on! Even males aren’t that stupid and gullible, with the exception of course of your sweaty client. But who knows? G-L. L.

P.S. Any of you degenerate perverts who do get off on knowingly wasting money in a femdom context may want to consider buying one or more of the shoddy competitor magazines to Empress, especially those American ones with colour images of bored-looking porn actresses wearing latex and holding whips.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

You may recall, a few months ago, you published a letter from me explaining how my initially playful disciplinary relationship with my Mistress-wife had become, in my mistaken view, oppressive. In particular, I foolishly complained about the participation of my mother-in-law in my wife’s efforts to make me a better husband. I would, in this letter, like to withdraw any implied criticism either of my beloved wife or her delightful mother and to apologise profusely to you, your readership and all of womankind for writing such ridiculous nonsense. 

The publication of my letter had just one good effect, which was that it alerted my mother-in-law to my unfortunate misconceptions and thus provided her and my divine wife with the opportunity to correct them, for which I am profoundly grateful. I now realise how lucky I am not only to be married to a woman who is both willing and able to help keep me on the straight and narrow but also to benefit from the wisdom and strong right arm of her mother, under whose guidance my late father-in-law led a life of perfect fidelity and servitude.

I have many times reread the shockingly ungrateful sentiments I expressed in my previous letter and have found tears welling up in my eyes each time.  No doubt I will again but I hope that with this follow-up letter, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I can at least reassure you and your readers that no man is entirely incorrigible, with enough determination.

In abject apology.

damien

You are not forgiven. No particular reason for that: although I often require males to apologise, profusely, I make it a policy never to accept those apologies.  Nonetheless, I was pleased to read this account of your comeuppance; please convey to your wife and her mother my request that they place this page where you can read it while they each administer a 24-stroke caning on my behalf. I would greatly appreciate that kindness, if they would be so good.  G-L. L.

Most sublime Goddess-Lady

Do you accept stories written by readers? I have some good ideas that I would love to send you.

Respectfully

Budding author

‘Accept’?  Rarely.  ‘Tolerate’ would be a better word. And I doubt you have ‘good’ ideas, being (I presume) male: ‘adequate’ is the best you can aspire to.  All submitted material must conform to the Empress Submission Rules (not ‘Guidelines’: Rules) reproduced below. Most probably I will never even see your witless scrawlings: sub-editor slaves vet each submission and reject most of them as unworthy of my attention. However, I do encourage readers to submit stories: your lives are empty of meaning or purpose, so why not at least try to amuse me?

(Except ‘slave keith’, if you are reading this: your stories are entirely worthless, lacking originality or style, no doubt reflecting your personality, you tedious little man. Stop writing them, or at least just put them in your own rubbish bin rather than sending them to be thrown unread into mine, and save yourself the price of a postage stamp.)

G-L. L.

Empress magazine written submission Rules

  1. Empress magazine is a female domination publication; only material featuring female dominants and male slaves/submissives will be considered.
  2. The following themes are unacceptable: characters below the age of 18, female submission to males (mild lesbian D/S may be permitted as a minor element in a story featuring harsher treatment of males), male dominants (male ‘alpha’ characters may play a minor role in stories involving cuckoldry or forced homosexuality at the behest of a female dominant),  fellatio (except as a forced homosexuality theme as noted above), males ‘winning’ in any way, mistreatment of cats, females engaged in housework (except very briefly, before turning the tables).
  3. The following themes are permitted but should be dealt with unexplicitly for compliance with UK obscenity laws: torture, murder, castration or other mutilation, consumption of faeces, bestiality (all applying to males, obviously no female character should experience any of these).
  4. Submissions must be typed, double-spaced on A4-sized paper. Stories featuring ‘schoolboy’ scenes must be accompanied by an identical hand-written copy.
  5. Check your work carefully for misprints and grammatical erors. Then check it again, you incompetent fool: you missed some the first time. Don’t just cross them out: write it out again.
  6. No correspondence or acknowledgement of submissions will be made. If you do not see your story printed in the magazine, it was rejected as being inadequate dross. Do not send follow-up letters asking for reasons for rejection: your story went in the bin, probably after reading the first few lines, no one remembers why or cares.
  7. Stories printed in the magazine will not be credited to the authors and the copyright rests with Empress magazine. Obviously there is no question of paying you.
  8. The Editrix reserves the right to edit stories freely, changing characters, plot or any other elements that particularly annoy her.
  9. Do not capitalise dominants’ pronouns, or print ‘I’ in lower case. If you are not sure what a pronoun is, or are unclear about the grammatical rules regarding capitalisation in English, do not write stories for submission to this (or any other) magazine.
  10. Do not enclose gifts or any other items in letters to the magazine. Goddess-Lady Lucia is prepared to accept gifts of cheques, only, made out to Leatherlust Publications Netherlands Ltd.
  11. On rare occasions, successful authors will be instructed, in a note below the printed story, to submit a follow-up or sequel. If so instructed, you will submit the required article within three months of the magazine publication date, adhering to the specific instructions given. Do not submit a different story when you have been given a direct order in this manner: if you do not see your sequel printed, write a new version and try to do it right this time.

* Absent for now but Andy who owns and runs Cruella is scanning the old issues of Cruella and Goddess, right back to issue 1. Yes – this is what I have been waiting for for years! Wonderful. He just needs to get the payment system sorted out… hope he does so soon. Yes, I know they were 1990s not 1980s but so what – it’s Cruella, not pop music! PS – if anyone actually succeeds in finding a way to pay Andy and downloading them, let me know and I’ll go and shower him with gold… or an online credit card payment anyway, which is better in many ways.

** Now those have already been scanned and made available, you just need to go here and email the guy. He charges less in 2024 £s than they cost in £s at the time, which is pretty good.

Books and bookwomen

Naturally, as a high-profile influencer, I get sent all manner of free materials, although regrettably few outright bribes. Most of this stuff goes straight in the bin, or is pulped and force-fed to me, depending on my SO’s mood, but I thought some of the upcoming book titles publishers are pushing might be of interest to those few of my readers who do more than look at the pictures and flick the ‘page down’ key with their spare hand. So, without further ado (what is ‘ado’ anyway?), here are some of those publishers’ blurbs.

I don’t have any information on the likely publication dates for these titles, but they should be available in all disreputable bookshops, so just keep an eye out.

If it please the court

Your Honour, I appear for the hospital in this unfortunate matter.  And let me say at the very start that the hospital takes full responsibility for its actions and deeply regrets the error that led to Mr Harcourt’s loss. We have offered a full and generous compensation settlement but that has regrettably been declined to date. We have great sympathy with Mr Harcourt, but we respectfully submit that the quantum of damages he is claiming is absurd and excessive.

We will be presenting extensive evidence in that regard, if it please the Court. To begin with, Mr Harcourt’s loss was, shall we say… less than might have been expected, for an average adult male.  Considerably less. With apologies for any discomfort it might unavoidably cause the Claimant, we will present pictures of the item in question, alongside illustrations of healthier, more robust and, well, larger male members for comparison.  We will also hear from several eminent sexologists who will dispel myths about size not being important and comment on the degree of sexual stimulation – if any – likely to afforded to any females in the unlucky and unlikely position of having sexual intercourse with Mr Harcourt.

I say unfortunate and unlikely because it is central to our case that Mr Harcourt has not for many years had any kind of sexual relationship – at least with another person – and would not have been likely to, even had the unfortunate mishap not occurred. We will hear from one witness who many years ago found herself in bed with the Claimant and she will describe what occurred, which we say in no way constituted ‘sexual intercourse’ as such.  We have then lined up a succession of female witnesses of various ages and backgrounds, each of whom has had a chance to meet Mr Harcourt and will testify under oath as to his attractiveness: his physical appearance, personality, sexual chemistry – or lack thereof – and so on.  The Court will hear how – without exception – each considers him to be an entirely unattractive mate, so Mr Harcourt’s penis would not have any value to him in that regard, even had it not been sent to an incinerator as hospital waste.

Of course, none of this will be necessary were the Claimant to accept our generous settlement offer, which still stand.  I am looking at my learned friend, counsel for the Claimant…?

It seems we are to proceed. So having dealt – I hope the Court will agree, comprehensively – with the utter implausibility of Mr Harcourt’s penis ever encountering another human being, we will turn to the final matter in question: its value to him as a masturbation aid.

I am conscious that this must be very disagreeable for Mr Harcourt and I can only regret the necessity that finds us here. I am aware this case has attracted considerable media interest and even though I am opposing Mr Harcourt’s side in this case, I can only plead with media organisations to act responsibly and if they feel they have to report this matter, to do so without undue sensationalism. It would be quite unnecessary, for instance, were Mr Harcourt have to suffer headlines such as How Much for a Wank? or Todgerless Tosser seeks Relief, while even a more understanding and factual headline such as Masturbation Compensation for Castration could easily cause him distress. It is so, so easy to mock – indeed, my team and I have thought up many more such headlines and we would be happy to brief any journalists keen to avoid humiliating Mr Harcourt’s feelings in any number of ways.

And of course much of the four days we have scheduled for cross-examination of Mr Harcourt himself will be taken up with a rigorous – although I hope always sensitive and respectful – exploration of his former masturbatory habits.  I will lead that cross-examination, although I am grateful to be assisted by my juniors Ms Elliott and Ms Lyons, in that regard. We will regrettably be requiring Mr Harcourt to take us through several of the masturbatory magazines that were found in his apartment, as well as some of the material disclosed from his computer, and he will be explaining – for the benefit of those of us not sharing his rather unusual tastes – just why these images of items of clothing, unpleasant activities and even – somewhat ironically, it might be said – images of ladies dressed in rubber simulacra of nurses’ uniform, wielding implements of castration – sexually excite him and what he would do, while looking at them.  It is important, we feel, to give Mr Harcourt an opportunity to explain what it is he has actually lost by being denied any further opportunity to rub one out, so to speak, while watching videos of naked men with dildoes up their rectums and dirty socks in their mouths being peed upon.  He will be in the witness box, on oath, describing his feelings on watching one such video, which we will play simultaneously, and many other items of pornography in his possession.  Many, many others. 

Unless he accepts the generous settlement my clients proposed.  As I said. A choice which remains his and his alone, my clients having gone as far in that respect as they can.

Losergroup

GODDESS ONLINE

Hey there!  Welcome to Yvonne’s Losergroup’s weekly remote control session – you know, this is the only cam session I do each week where the guys mostly don’t want me to take my top off?  ‘Cos it hurts your little dicks when you try to get hard, right? Aww… poor little losers.

Oh-kay… let’s see, we have twelve logged-in losers right now. So… object443 told me he can’t make it this week, so he paid the fine and he’s not here, that’s OK, but that should still leave thirteen… so who’s missing…?

Right, dicklessjerk hasn’t logged on.  Sending him a punishment buzz… level 5.

And level 6…  Oh, hey there he is.  And you thanked Mistress in the chat, dickless, well done.  One more level 6, though, for being late.

You’re welcome, dickless.

Yay!  Full stable of thirteen losers, all with cocks wired up to the Internet and controlled from here. Hey, yvonnestoy, your device is on, like 30% charge?  That should get you through the call but recharge afterwards, or it’ll go into low charge punishment mode, yeah?  Here’s a level 5 buzz to remind you.

Yeah, you’re welcome yvonnestoy.  OK, losers.  So this week we have… four punishment buzzes to hand out.  Three eights and – wow- a nine! Wonder who’s getting that!  Well, I know of course.  OK, and one… wait for it… release!  Who’s going to be the lucky guy who gets the sexy wanking fun, huh? Just have to wait and see.

OK, so we’ll start with financial contributions. Nobody gave zero this week, but you already all guessed that, because I didn’t announce a level 10 this week.  But someone among you thirteen losers was less generous than the others, wasn’t he?  And Yvonne doesn’t like it when her boys are mean like that, does she?  So she gets to be mean back.

OK, so… level 8.  I’ll give you a clue… if you gave more than £200 this week, you can relax, for now.  OK.  But that still leaves five of you who didn’t!  Five mean guys!  But who was meanest and is going to be screaming in a moment, hmm?  I’m gonna give those five a little level 2 buzz, just so they know who they are, in case any of them forgot that they gave me less than a measly two hundred.  Hi guys.

Now for the level 8. And it’s…. ladysman!  Welcome to hell, ladysman.  I can see him screaming and writhing around there… yeah, not gonna lift my finger off the button yet, ladysman.  Take it all.  There it’s finished… ooh, no it hasn’t, I lied!  You gonna be less of a skinflint next week, ladysman?  I hope so.  OK, you’re done.

You’re welcome, ladysman.  OK, next two level 8s are both going to be for the poems you all wrote me.  Fuck, they were bad.  All of you deserve to spend the rest of the session just getting nothing but electric shocks for bad poetry, OK?  If any of you losers ever, ever have a chance for, like, an ordinary relationship – which you never, ever will because I’ve got you and because there just aren’t enough women that crazy – do not write her a love poem, OK, because you are seriously shit at it.  Each and every single one of you.

Oh – and another tip just in case you ever do get into a relationship with a woman: don’t let her lock electrodes onto your genitals that she can remotely activate whenever she pleases, either!  Oh – but you did, didn’t you?  ‘Cos you’re fucking losers.  Here’s a level 6 for everyone.  That’s not for the bad poetry, just for being losers.

OK and here’s a level seven for everyone’s bad poetry.  Wow… look at you all, pathetic. Like your poems. I mean it, I’m not doing the usual mean girl domme thing – even if this was a completely vanilla session, I would still say that every single one of those poems was painful to read. Maybe not quite as painful as getting electric shocks to the genitals – although I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tried it, amazingly enough because I’m not stupid enough to let anyone do that to me – but really, really bad.

Yeah, yeah, you’re all very welcome.  Not thanking me, slapface, yvonnestoy?  There a reason for that?  Not enough electricity for you maybe? Oh no, slapface, too late now. Try this.

That’s better.  You’re both welcome.

Right.  But two of the poems were worse than all the others. Tough bar to beat but they managed it. So, each of those two is going to type his poem into the chat and I’ll read it out – trying not to puke – and at the end of each line he’ll get a level 8, OK?

OK. So… all of you are horrible, terrible poets… but who was worst? Was it you, socksniffer? Yeah, you should look terrified. Because your poem was bad, socksniffer, really bad… but not as bad as…

irishmike’s!

That was a level 8, irishmike, just to remind you what it feels like. OK, start typing the poem in the chat.

Yvonne the goddess of my dreams – no, stop, I’m gonna zap you, remember. There we are.

You’re welcome. Just this once, you don’t need to thank me in the chat after the zap – just write the next line.

OK, She smiles so prettily at the screams. That actually doesn’t scan, irishmike, you’re lucky to be only getting level 8.

Her slaves devoted, far and near. Yeah, yeah. Scream, scumbag.

Her all obey, through love and fear. Hmm. Do I allow you losers to say you ‘love’ me? I thought we made a rule about that… lockedtinycock you look it up in the rulebook after the session and post it in on the LoserBoard. Anyway, only two lines to go, thank God.

Our minds and hearts she firmly locks. Zap. Zapzapzap. Don’t forget to breathe, irishmike.

And rules our cocks with painful shocks. She fucking does, irishmike, you said it. In astonishingly bad poetry. So now you’re feeling it.

OK, you’re done irishmike. But we’re going to have to change your name, I mean it’s much too ‘normal’ anyway. From now on you’re ‘shitpoet’, OK? I’ll sort it out in the system after the session.

Right… that was pretty bad, huh guys? The poetry, I mean. Probably the electric shocks too, but what did we think of the poetry?

Not a rhetorical question: answer. Level 4.

That’s right, it was. Oh – and you all thanked me for the shock too – you’re learning! Nothing like pain to teach a meathead how to behave.

So… who else wrote a poem as bad as that? I’ll give a clue: if you thought writing a limerick – a fucking limerick – was going to be good enough, then your cock and balls just might be about to get fried.

That’s right, pigface4, it’s you. Welcome to level 8.

You’re welcome. Now type this fucking limerick so we can all see what a total jerk you are.

The beautiful Mistress Yvonne. And that’s a zap.

Found one day that her money was gone I wish the rest of you guys could see pigface4 when I zap him, he sort of gets off the chair and jumps around. So funny… almost makes up for the poem. Not quite though.

But relief it came swift. Let’s try a little sequence of zaps. One two three four five. One two three four five.

With the generous gift. And this time a lonnnnng slowwww hold. Holding… holding… there.

C’mon pigface. Your hands can’t be shaking too much to type. I mean, if they are then obviously you won’t be able to complete Yvonne’s instructions, and what do we do to –

Oh, apparently you can still type. Yay.

From her pig-faced old sub-slave named Jon. Die, jon, die. Plenty of charge in your battery, so let’s really make some good use of it.

While pigface4 – whose real name is Jon, obviously, but don’t worry I won’t give away any more, this isn’t a blackmail gig – while Jon is gasping in agony, I’ll just explain that he gave easily the most money this week. Which was nice, pigface4, but trying to remind me of it with a fucking limerick – no don’t try typing an apology, pigface, just take the punishment, my finger’s not lifting up off this button until I’m done talking – was not only boorish (oh, that’s a bit funny, ‘boorish’, like a boar, right?) but disrespectful after I’d asked for a love, fucking poem. Fuck it, 5 seconds of level 9 to finish you off.

There.

You’re welcome, pigface Jon.

Oh… kay. Now, we come to the grand finale. Someone’s getting an orrrrrr-gasm! Who’s it going to be? And someone else is getting level 9! Who’s that going to be? So, this week I thought we might try something different…. First of all I’m going to remotely unlock the lucky lucky boy. Then when he starts jerking off, that’s when the level 9 shocks will start for the other, much more unlucky boy. Who I say is unlucky, but in fact deeply deserves what’s coming to him. I’ve set it up for a random sequence of level 9s – fast and slow – and it’ll go on until the semen’s all out. Or a bit longer if that’s too quick, we’ll see.

OK, so the lucky lucky boy is… is…

Hmmm. Who’s been without longest, hmm? Let’s have a look here. Ooh, herslave2, that’s been a while, hasn’t it? And irishmike – sorry ‘shitpoet’ – too. I’m not counting ‘dontpissyvonneoff’ because he’s obviously still working through his punishment year, so for him it’s been almost eight months.

Well, his poetry is shit but his financial gift was acceptable so it’s… pigface4! Sending the unlock command now, pigface, hope your cock still works after all that zapping. Keep your hands off it for now.

So the rest of you know you’re not squirting today. Aww… poor frustrated things! maybe next time, huh? Except you, obviously, dontpissyvonneoff. But there’s still something to look forward too: most of you won’t be on the floor screaming in level 9 agony, while pigface here fumbles away at his rancid sweaty cock… I can see it actually and it’s a hairy, nasty little thing. Getting a bit bigger, though, isn’t it pigface? Hey – wouldn’t it be funny if I was fooling you and you had to go and have an icebath and go straight back in and get the level 9 treatment?

Don’t worry… I was about to say I’m not that mean, but I am, aren’t I? So maybe I’ll do that some time. But not today. No, today I’ve already decided on someone else as our special, special victim and it’s not you, pigface.

In fact, rather than announce it, I think I’ll just let the shock announce itself and then explain why while pigface here wanks (Hands off, pigface! Level 7. You’re welcome). So in just a moment, basically, if you’re not experiencing level 9 pain, you’ll know it’s not you, OK!

Now!

Fooled you! I haven’t started yet! Oh you all looked so relieved! But you still each have a one in twelve chance… don’t imagine that just because you were one of the level 8s, you’re not in the frame for this. You are, because I’m nasty like that. Pigface isn’t obviously… can’t have a wank while being shocked. can you? I wouldn’t have thought so, maybe we should try it some time. No, the level 9 shocks start…

Now.

No – another false alarm. See, I want it to be unexpected so

Right, start wanking pigface, while I explain why crybaby is currently experiencing unbearable pain. You see, it’s getting almost to be a bit of a chore for me, thinking up all of these punishments. And you’re all so fucking scared of me, you’re frankly all a bunch of obedient little wimps who try to do everything right and it’s only the fact that you’re all a bunch of complete morons that really gives me a chance. Slowly, pigface, I don’t want you going off just yet. Well, anyone can tell you’re morons, right? No one with even half average intelligence would let someone do this to them. So, yeah, anyway, I thought who’s going to get tortured on the call today and it struck me – I can just pick any of you fuckers at random.

So, crybaby, if you can hear me through the screaming I can see you’re doing, and the blood pounding in your head, you didn’t do anything wrong. Matter of fact, I let my cat choose. I put all the list of names in front of her, and she put her paw on yours first. I think. I wasn’t checking too carefully. Anyway, doesn’t matter. The point is it was just capricious – that’s a good word, isn’t it? Capricious Yvonne. So that’s why you’re –

Oh! Well done pigface. Still working after all this time, is it? Now you have a sweaty, hairy cock that’s dribbling with come too. Makes a girl feel so special.

Yuk. Filthy beast. There it goes. Let’s just make sure it’s all out. Tug tug!

In case you’re wondering why you’re still getting electric shocks, crybaby, pigface’s cock is sort of hanging at halfmast and we’re just waiting to see if there’s any more to come out of – oh, there’s a little twitch and one more little droplet came out! Hope you enjoyed all that, pigface. And you too, crybaby. Let’s just switch off the sequence, won’t be a moment…

Oh, butterfingers, I pressed the wrong one! That’s level 10, isn’t it? Hang on. There.

Oh – disgusting! Are you vomiting? That is a repulsive sight, I’m switching off your camera. OK, you can have just a moment to crawl back to the keyboard, crybaby.

But I won’t wait forever.

You’re welcome.

OK, pigface you have ten minutes to clean up and get yourself locked away again. I’ve started the timer now – don’t try asking for more time if you’re too slow, as I won’t be online. It’s automatic.

And I’ve put next week’s instructions up in the shared Loserspace, OK? Normal week really. Level 7 to wake you up at 5.30 every morning and one hour online devotions. Two pieces of homework: 500 lines and a 2000-word essay on Yvonne’s eyebrows. Erm…new weight targets for those of you on a diet, obviously. Especially you, fatbastard, so I hope you’re not planning any dinners out, because anything other than a couple of pieces of lettuce will take you right over. Financial contribution counter’s reset to zero, there are two shopping trips to sponsor and a girls’ night out – and I’ve put some bills up for adoption too. Oh, and I’ve got a special shopping mission for each of you, too – an item of clothing, sort-of clothing anyway, that I want to see you all wearing on next week’s call. Who knows – you might even see someone else buying the same thing… you could have a little Yvonne’s losergroup bonding.

OK, losers. Quick level 8 double-tap to say goodbye.

You’re welcome. You’re all very welcome indeed.

GODDESS DISCONNECTED

The part of the lovely (but somewhat unpleasant) Yvonne in this little story was played by the no doubt equally lovely (but probably rather more pleasant) Ally Tate, who can be found online doing all sorts of things that male ‘readers’ of this blog really aren’t really allowed to watch. According to the various website identifiers in the screenshots above, she seems to do a lot of stuff involving sisters. Which sounds rather sweet, although does put in mind of the day my sister discovered that I’d damaged one of her dolls… a painful memory, although I expect the experience helped make me the man I am today.

Anyway, I’m sure Ally Tate is a very nice lady, so if you like nice ladies: go and watch her doing something unmentionable. If, instead you like vicious, brutal ladies more like Yvonne, just stick with this blog and you’ll be fine.

Everything that’s excellent

 Just a silly little tale…

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Ms Meadowes conducts a rigorous cross-examination.

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

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

Terrified, the man just shook his head mutely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any suggestions?” the judge asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Ladyship?”

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

Less than a minute later, the verdict was in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

***

(Later that evening)

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Arguably… very circumstantial.” grumbled Harriet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean you’re going to – “

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

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

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

*** 

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

 

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

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

 

(Epilogue) 

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

 

 

Beast

Rather uniquely for me, this is a lesbian BDSM tale. No really: it’s not going to be another one of those where it seems to start off with some kind of femsub vibe but then has a (entirely foreseeable) plot twist in which the tables are turned and a male ends up being punished. There are simply no males in the story to end up in that position. So if scenes of the superior sex being spanked distress you, even when the spanker is another member of the same superior sex, don’t read this.

It’s a schoolgirl scene. Obviously, the two schoolgirl characters have both just passed their eighteenth birthdays, conveniently enough. They should be understood to be at the sort of posh British girls’ boarding school that features in old fashioned British school stories. The girls there are all jolly good sports, of course, but occasionally… just occasionally one of them might do something to offend another and be accused (in a cut-glass British accent) of being ‘an absolute beast!’.

Beast

“Oh I say” Harriet said to her friend admiringly. “You’ve put on your school prefect’s tie! It looks awfully smart on you.”

“Thanks” Angela smiled, fingering the garment around her neck, whose thin yellow stripe superimposed on the normal school colours symbolised her newfound rank. “Miss Gorman put up the list of new school prefects today, so it’s official.” I’ve got this room too, all to myself.

“Well I hope your new importance won’t turn you into one of those stuck-up prigs!” Harriet replied, smiling back. “You’re still Ange to me and we’re still chums, I hope.”

Angela’s expression turned serious. “Well, I hardly think it’s conducive to maintaining good discipline if I let you call me Ange, I’m afraid. ‘Angela’ from now on I think. Or even ‘Williamson’”

She burst out laughing at her friend’s crestfallen face. “I’m joking, silly! Of course I’m Ange!”

“Although… she went on. “In all seriousness, I have now taken a vow to uphold the school rules, you know, Hat. And I do intend to do my best to do that.”

“Of course” her friend replied. “Rah rah and up the jolly old school, what!”

Angela smiled, more thinly this time.

“No. But I do have an obligation to report any rule-breaking I hear about, Hat. If I were to learn that anyone had been… for instance… sneaking out to buy chocolate without a pass and storing it at the back of her locker.”

Harriet’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of shock.

“You wouldn’t! Would you, Ange? Anyway, I gave some of it to you – just yesterday, for instance. You’d get in trouble too!”

Angela shook her head slowly.

“Nothing in the rules to stop a girl accepting a present from a friend, Hat. I didn’t sneak out, did I? No… I’m afraid…”

“Surely there’s something I can do…” stammered Harriet. “You can, you can have all of the rest of the chocolate, if you – “

“Attempting to bribe a prefect in the performance of her duties” tutted Angela, still slowly shaking her head. “No, Harriet, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. However, I am prepared to resolve this without taking it to any of the teaching staff, as a special favour to you, given our long friendship.”

And she reached over to a table, to where her gym kit lay strewn and picked up a plimsoll* and eyed, it thoughtfully.

Now it was Harriet’s eyes that formed perfect ‘O’s as she stared at her friend gently tapping the thin rubber shoe against the palm of her hand.

“Surely… surely you don’t mean…” she stammered.

“One of the more unpleasant duties my prefectorial responsibilities require of me, I’m afraid.” sighed Angela. “Of course, if you’d rather I took it to Miss Rathbone…”

“No…no” Harriet burst out desperately. “Please don’t tell on me Ange. I’ll let you – “

“I think we will make it ‘Angela’ now, just for this” her friend interrupted. “And it’s not about letting me. Confess your crimes and ask. Politely.”

And she went to sit down on a small armless chair and stared up at the other girl expectantly.

“Ange… ela I, erm, I broke school rules by sneaking out to the shop without a pass, to buy sweets.” Harriet said, in a low, hesitant tone.

“Dear me.” Angela replied. “Whatever shall we do about that, Harriet?”

“I’d like you to punish me, please Angela”, Harriet replied, her face turning crimson with shame. “To… to smack me with that plimsoll.”

And, trembling slightly, she held her left hand out, palm up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, kiddo” Angela said curtly. “You’re going over here”.

And she indicated her lap, where her knees and lower thighs lay bare, beyond the length of her pleated school skirt.

“You’re going to… going to…” Harrier stammered.

“Smack your bottom.” nodded the prefect. “And don’t think you’re keeping your knickers on, either.”

“You want me to take my knickers off?” Harriet replied in horror.

“Or I can do it” shrugged Angela, reaching up.

“No, no, I’ll do it” shrieked her friend, hurriedly hooking her thumbs into the elastic and pushing down.

Before the shapeless blue cotton knickers had reached her ankles, she found herself being pulled across her friend – former’s friend’s – lap.

“Oh you beast, Ange” she said bitterly.

“Now now” Angela replied, briskly folding Harriet’s skirt up across her back. “Less backtalk.”

“Ange, please, I – OWWW! Ow, that hurt, Ange you – OWWW!”

And so it began.

 

Forty minutes later. Two piles of schoolgirl uniform lie untidily beside the bed. The plimsoll sits abandoned on the equally abandoned chair. The bed, designed for just one person, is clearly full beyond capacity, though, as what seems a single shapeless mass gently moves under the covering blanket. A nearby listener (there are none) would hear soft murmuring.

Beast. Beast!

Oh, you deserved it. Anyway, you asked me to do it.


Only because you said you’d tell on me if I didn’t! My bottom’s going to be sore for a week! Beast.

Didn’t I kiss it better enough, then?

And that’s another thing! I’m not a lesbian, you know!

Really? You gave a very good impression of one. Twice.

I hardly had the choice, did I? It was… it was rape is what it was. I can’t believe you did that, you beastly thing. After we’ve been chums all these years without ever… ever… well, you know. I should tell Miss Rathbone you raped me. Twice.

Oh…well, I suppose if you’re going to do that, you might as well tell her it happened three times.  At least… C’mere, kiddo.

Oh!  Oh, Ange, you… you b… b… – Oh.  Oh, yes, there!    Oh Ange!

The next day

“Oh, Harriet! Would you mind taking Angela Williamson this book” Miss Lavery said brightly, as the girls filed out of her class. She held out a book. “She’s in your dorm, isn’t she?”

“Happy to, Miss Lavery” Harriet replied. “But of course she’s got her own room next to the dorm, now. She’s a prefect, you know.”

“Oh yes, of course” the grey-haired teacher replied. “Well done her. How’s she taking to it?”

Oh, erm… all right I suppose, Miss” Harriet replied, her hand fluttering back as if to pat her skirted bottom for reassurance, before being firmly stopped in an effort of the will. “I suppose it’s quite a lot of responsibility… for enforcing the school rules and suchlike. It’s a bit weird, for those of us who are friends with her too.”

“A lot easier than it was when I was at school” Miss Lavery laughed. “You know, back then prefects were allowed to discipline the students directly. With corporal punishment. At least you don’t have that to worry about!”

“Aren’t prefects allowed to discipline the other girls any more then?” Harriet asked, forgetting the customary ‘Miss’ in her confusion. “I thought…”

“Good lord, Harriet, of course not. This isn’t the 1960s you know!”

“No… no of course it isn’t” replied Harriet thoughtfully. Then she brightened up.

“Thanks Miss!” she said cheerfully, and rushed out of the classroom, holding the book.

Later on

“What are you doing in my room? Very serious business entering a prefect’s room without permission, Hat! I hope I don’t have to… to…”

And Angela’s voice trailed off in confusion, as she stared at her friend, who was seated in the chair in the middle of the small room, holding the plimsoll in her right hand and tapping it gently against the palm of her left.

“As serious as violently assaulting a fellow pupil with something like this?” Harriet replied coolly. “And then forcing her into lesbian sex – repeated lesbian sex – all on the pretext of prefectorial powers that were abolished forty years ago? That sounds pretty serious to me… probably would to Miss Rathbone, too.”

Angela stood in silence. Harriet sighed.

“Whatever shall we do about that, Angela? Hmm?”

She did not wait for a reply, instead simply pointing to the other girl’s waist and flicking her finger downwards in an unmistakable gesture of command.

“Oh…” gasped Angela, as with bottom bared and with hot tears of shame welling up in her eyes, she found herself slipping over her friend’s lap. “Oh you beast, I – OWWW!”

And so once again it began. And there, dear reader, we will depart the scene and leave the two chums to it. Whatever ‘it’ might be and whatever other ‘its’ might follow.

Epilogue – ten years later.

Angela is a lawyer in one of the smartest City firms of solicitors; Harriet a journalist writing features for a trendy magazine. They share a flat near Edgware Rd in London and although both lead busy professional lives, they make sure that at least twice a week they return to it in time to spend a full evening together. One or other will cook, usually something quick and simple, and they eat quite hurriedly. Hanging up in the cupboard in their bedroom are two school uniforms: the same school uniforms, into which they both still just about fit . Harriet now finds her blouse rather tight, but Angela says she prefers her like that, so Harriet squeezes herself in.

But the two ties are different, so a choice must be made. One of the ties bears simply their old school colours, while the other displays the striking addition of a thin yellow stripe, betokening higher status. Sometimes, they have already agreed who will wear the prefect’s tie. If one of them, for instance, forgets that it is her turn to take out the rubbish on dustbin day, she might lay the prefect tie out for the other to possess, in a gesture of apology. If neither has any particular reason to accept to wear the ordinary tie, they might discuss over dinner whose turn it is. But they can rarely agree, so it often turns into a sudden rush for the cupboard and to the victor who grabs it first, the prefectorial spoils. Of course, having been the beneficiary of an expensive education, the loser always puts on her less colourful tie without argument… but sometimes, just sometimes, if she feels the tactics by which the other had seized the prefect’s tie were a little… underhand, she might hiss out a resentful “Beast!”

And then it begins. 

 [THE END]

 


 

* A ‘plimsoll’ is, or was, a British sports shoe: a simple canvas upper over a rubber sole.  Like a trainer (or even a ‘sneaker’)  but thinner, much less complicated and never, ever fashionable.  But they had their uses…

 

Something like this… although these don’t look very clean.  I’m sure well brought-up English schoolgirls would never spank one another’s bottoms with a plimsoll that had seen outdoor use.  After all, there’s always the hairbrush…



Yes, Madam Minister

 

 

In the so-called ‘real world’ the new female PM of the United Kingdom is having a difficult start, having accidentally killed off a beloved monarch in her first week and then hurtling downhill from there. In a better-run parallel world, however, a newly-elected counterpart is getting on with some much-needed legislative reforms.  The email below reached me through a trans-dimensionoodly doohickey gizmo, so I thought I’d pass it on to you.

 

 

To: tjl@mmc.gov.fem
From: lhh@pmo.gov.fem
Subject: Draft Male Re-education legislation

 Security classification: confidential policydev. Female eyes only.

Hi Tilly

Just passing on some drafting points for the MRA your department is preparing.  The PM asked her comms team for some advice and they’ve come up with the following. Anything you don’t agree with, just brief your Minister and she can bring it up in Thursday’s Cabinet. PM still absolutely committed to this: it’s the centrepiece of her programme.  Mostly just some language
suggestions.

Main points from the comms girls:

  1. They didn’t like the name.  Male Re-education Act.  Not sure why, maybe same idea as not liking ‘Re-education
    Camp’, see below.  But this is the name we’ve been using since the election campaign, so ignore this one.  Anyway, it is going to be educational.    Very!  😉 
  2. Replace ‘sexist scum’ in Intro with ‘males with old-fashioned attitudes’.  And throughout.
  3. Similarly, in the background section remove the word ‘moronic’ from the stuff about patriarchal oppression and they suggest using ‘a healing process’ instead of ‘retribution’. Shame to tone down what I thought was an excellent section but the important thing is to get the law passed.  Then we can say and do what we like.
  4. In ‘Our proposals’ section use ‘meaningful exchange of views’ instead of ‘grinding the sexist opponents of female
    supremacy beneath our boots’.  I think I detect your Minister’s own hand (and boot!) in that one!  PM loved it, but probably has to go. 😊
  5. ‘Re-education camps’.  This is the big one: comms team just went on and on about totalitarian imagery, blah blah fascism.  They suggested ‘Nurturing Centres’ – excuse me while I vomit!  So, maybe this is something to discuss.  A quick brainstorm round the girls in the PMO came up with ‘Sexism Retraining Facilities’ (but it sounds like we’re training them to be better at sexism, which is the opposite of the point!), ‘Male Re-orientation Facilities’ (I quite liked that) and ‘Male Betterment
    Centres’ (bleah but at least it’s not ‘nurturing’). Welcome suggestions!
  6. Use ‘appropriate medical intervention’ for the c-word.  Actually, this is something you really should already have picked up on: a memo was sent around just after the election banning the word ‘c*str*tion’ or any direct synonyms in any official government
    communications.  (And on Twitter – maybe something you could remind your Minister about, hmmmm??  Again!??).
  7. Some of the budget line items: ‘restraints’, ‘cattle prods’, ‘whips’ etc could all be consolidated into one line reading ‘educational equipment’; ‘enemas’ and ‘ice baths’ into ‘medical supplies’ etc.  Plus, see point 6 above concerning some of the medical supplies, OK?  You know the ones I mean.
  8. NB: not a comms issue but just on the finances, the reviewers commented on how low the budget for inmate food is.  I had the same reaction: I divided the total by the expected number of inmates and I was a bit shocked.  Are you quite sure you can keep an adult male alive on this much?  I mean, we’re all in favour of saving taxpayers’ money, but we don’t want them dying of starvation.  Not many of them, anyway.  Just have another look.
  9. On the other hand, the budget for guards’ uniforms is astronomical!  We want them to look smart but the girls at HM Treasury are going to push back on this.  I understand this is because you plan to use high-quality leather designs and I’m sure they’ll look fabulous – so just make sure they do, OK?  Goddess knows they should, for that kind of money!  PM is probably OK to sign off, but you might want to kit out a couple of guards in demonstration uniforms and send them across to No 10 for
    the PM to take a look.  I suggest younger guards, preferably blonde, and you might want to check they’re not entirely
    heterosexual too, if you know what I mean?  I think you do!  😜
  10. Back to drafting points.  A few words the comms girls flagged for reconsideration: ‘insects’ (only problematic as used to refer to males, OK in the context of the inmates’ diets), use ‘benefiting’ not ‘suffering’ throughout, ‘developing practical work skills’ not ‘forced labour’ (and omit the reference there to nudity), ‘meditation posts’ for ‘pillories’, ‘step exercise’ not ‘treadmill’, ‘
    well-adjusted’ not ‘obedient’, ‘intensive care’ and ‘treatments’  not ‘torture’ – and actually, you can lose the entire section describing all the ‘treatments’ recalcitrant offenders can receive in what I’ll call the ‘intensive care’ facilities.  The section must have been fun to write and it was certainly fun to read (not sure I’ve ever been aroused by a legislative draft before 😏) but all of these ‘treatments’ you describe in such agonising (pun intended!) detail are authorised under the general language of Article 17(d) anyway, so no need to spell it all out. Any male who claims he didn’t realise the meaning of ‘any method the Warden (or any Guard to whom she deputises that decision) considers appropriate’ has only himself to blame when he’s strapped down
    shrieking to an ‘intensive care’ table for ‘treatments’ !
  11. On the same theme, returning to the budget, have you considered saving 12% on the cost of the ‘intensive care centre’ in the camp (sorry!  old habits!) facility by leaving out the soundproofing? It’s already deep underground.  And if any faint sounds do get out, does anyone really mind?  Could be quite ‘educational’ for the other inmates, anyway, hearing a little of what happens if they misbehave.  Incidentally, I understand there will be a VIP viewing area in the first ‘facility’.  Looking forward to my invitation to the grand opening!
  12.  Finally, just on how you describe the procedures for the release of rehabilitated prisoners… I’m really going to have to insist here. Cos the PM herself is a bit annoyed about this one, OK, Tilly? And you know how bad that can be.  Look: she loves your Minister’s commitment to female supremacy and there isn’t a hairs-breadth difference between them on policy matters. But she had to come down hard on this sort of language during the election campaign when your Minister let her enthusiasm run away with her and she’s disappointed to see the same language in this draft.  Once and for all: males on release are ‘Citizens Under Supervision of Responsible Females’ and when they pass from one RF to another a ‘Custodial Acceptance Fee’ is paid.
    They are not ‘slaves’ and they are certainly not ‘auctioned off to the highest bidder’.  For Goddess’ sake, can you just get
    your Minister to read the f***ing memo?

Sorry to come down so hard on that last point.  But the PM was quite insistent.  She was in a foul mood when she left the meeting but I think she took it out on her husband as usual, so the thunderclouds have now cleared and we can all breathe easily again here in the PMO!

More domestically, are you still on for lunch on Sunday? I thought I might tell Mike to prepare a roast – very traditional!  As is the new uniform I bought him, as you’ll see!  Let me know if you’re going to bring George but there should be enough scraps for both of them anyway.

Kiss kiss

Lindy

 

Rt. Hon. Linda Harcourt, GCMG

Special Political Advisor to the Prime Minister

Prime Minister’s Office

10 Downing St

 I’ll be sure to share any follow-ups with you, of course.  Thus far, I have only seen one email with no text except the words “No worries, Lindy: they do look fabulous 😍😍😍 !” and the attachment below.

 

 

 

The woodsman and the findomme

 

 

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.’

‘Beg.’

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:

Once you pop you just can’t…

I thought I’d try a mini-man story, very loosely inspired by the magnificent art of NKS Volkov from whom (with permission) the illustrations come.

 

 

Mini-men?  Oh dear, are you from one of those awful countries where popping hasn’t yet
been legalised?  There’s really nothing wrong with it, nothing to worry about.  Not for us women, anyway.  Just settle back, my dear, while I explain.  If you want a drink or anything else to make you comfortable just announce your wishes loudly – there are plenty of little helpers around who will be only to pleased to scurry off to satisfy your every whim.

So…where to begin?

First of all, obviously, no actual ‘shrinking’ is
involved.  That would contravene the laws
of physics.  When a guy goes into the
chamber and a mini-man pops out, the remaining matter can’t just disappear (or
be converted into energy – no matter how useful that would be).  No: if a six foot tall man goes in and a four-inch
mini-man comes out, then there’s a lot of matter left.  How much? 
Well, the mini-man is only a third of a foot, so he’s 1/18th
of the height of the original guy.  But
that’s not the right answer.  The volume
(and the mass – that is, the weight) of a man – or any other object – is
proportional to the cube of its length. 
So, the mini-man is 1/18th the height of the original man, he
has 1/324 of the area of the original and he has 1/5832 of the volume and also
1/5832 of the mass.  Of course, the
actual ratios will vary – anything between about 5500 and 6500 is possible, but
6000 is usually the working assumption. 
That’s a lot of little people.  


So: your newly-popped mini-man is not unique.  You can pop about 6000 mini-men out of one
original.  Not all at once, thank
goodness – imagine them all swarming all over the floor, squeaking away! – but
once a man has been processed, you can keep popping up to that limit.  The rest of his body will be held in a sort
of stasis.  There’s no going back.  You might think you could just pull him back
out having lost only 1/6000th of his body mass but it just doesn’t
work like that.  Something to do with
quantum entanglement states, the scientists say.  Whatever. 
For the rest of us it’s just one of the mysteries of the process – like
why it only works for men, not for women. 
There was a lot of scientific interest in that, at first, but they never
really worked it out and no one cares much any more.  It’s just one of those things.

No going back.  In
fact, one of the advertising slogans for the first commercially-available
devices was “Once you pop, you just can’t stop!”.  Which was intended partly to warn users about
the irreversibility of the process, of course, but nowadays just reminds us how
much easier, wealthier and just plain fun the whole mini-man process has
made all our lives.  Who could imagine
going back?

Easier?  Of
course.  I’m sitting here dictating this
article to the very latest MM-autowriter. 
Like an old-fashioned computer keyboard but with extra-large keys, with a
mini-man straddling each group of five.  Ankles, wrists and nose each attached to a key, by a tiny metal chain
I could snap with a near-effortless tug, each has to push down with all his
might – and in precise harmony with the others – when I say a word containing
one of his five letters.  Every sentence
produces a frantic ripple of activity.  I
have the keyboard laid out so that D, W, E, A, R and N are worked with their
heads.  So when I say “Andrew” they all have
to bash down hard with their little faces. 
‘Andrew’ of course, being the name of my dear sweet husband, from whom
all these little treasures popped. 
Andrew. 
Andrewandrewandrewandrewandrew.

And down by my feet, a little line of mini-men – more Andrews,
so many Andrews (oh yes, that’s right my dears, faces smacking down on those keys!) – are wearily
scrubbing the floor.  So much more
precise and effective than a big silly mop – and so what if it takes a bit
longer?  If I really wanted it done
quickly I suppose I could pop a few more out, but why bother when it can be
polished to perfection in just a few hours by these little toilers?  Twelve’s plenty and in fact, now I think
about it, I suspect that if the number were quickly reduced to eleven, those remaining
eleven would work so extra hard, they could do it just as well.  Even having to clean up the mess that used to
be number twelve – isn’t that right, my dears? 
I wonder which of you will be number twelve?  We’ll see – keep scrubbing.

And on the rug, there, four of them with baskets on their
backs, wearily picking up every item of fluff. 
Of course a vacuum cleaner could do it better but where would be the fun
in that?

Shoe-cleaning is a particular pleasure to watch, of
course.  It can’t be so much fun for
them.  I live in a green, leafy suburb
where many of the paths are quite muddy, I’m afraid.  And when I do walk on the pavement, there’s
all manner of grime and filth my shoes can pick up.  I even trod in some chewing gum, a few days
ago!  Quite disgusting – some people have
no consideration for others!  Thank
goodness for mini-men – I gave four of them little nails to use as scrapers and
after just a couple of hours the sole was spotless again!  I also love to put them into the shoes and
have them sponge the damp inner soles for an hour or two, when I come in after
a long day.  I don’t know if it does much
good, but the sponges and the mini-men certainly give off quite a pong when I
shake them out again, so it must be better having that out of my shoes rather
than in!  A foot-fetishist’s dream, I
suppose – what a pity for Andrew he’s not at all that way inclined.  In fact, one evening soon after we were
married he complained about how he could smell my shoes just after I’d taken
them off and put my feet up for the first time, after a long day! So
inconsiderate!  I like to remind of of
that, as I pick him up and attach sponges to his tiny wrists and ankles, before
dangling him over the gaping black hole that is the top of one of my well-worn
boots.  Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tactless,
I wouldn’t make him do this.  I wonder if
he thinks about that, down there.

 

So…life is easy.  And
I think I mentioned ‘wealthy’ too? 
Why?  Oh, simple enough.  Lots of people think that a mini-man must
produce less than his full-size equivalent. 
But so little of our modern economy depends on physical strength these
days!  That’s why women were increasingly
economically dominant even before the mini-man technology came along but
now…  Why train 100 software developers,
when you can train one and pop out six thousand?  Or engineers, machinery operators, remote
vehicle drivers… it’s been estimated that 60% of all jobs can be done by
mini-men.  And of the remaining 40%, at
least half are highly-skilled positions best carried out by women, so really
only 20% or so of all jobs need to be done by the remaining full-size men.  Simple, manual tasks requiring nothing more
than brute strength and close supervision. 
Of course, the recent changes in our political arrangements have helped
ensure that the right jobs go to the right people, so to speak.

The politics?  Oh,
that’s simple enough.  Males have no
rights, obviously.  That was an
unexpected side-effect of the minimising process, actually.  Initially, there were these wild notions that
mini-men would be treated as fully competent human beings – but that was
obviously unworkable.  I mean, can you
imagine?  Any male could be popped to
produce 6000 extra voters!  As women
couldn’t follow suit, that was obviously going to lead to male domination of
our political society very quickly! 
Fortunately, in most countries where mini-man technology was legal, the
danger was recognised quickly.  Women
voted in a coherent bloc, while the male vote was largely split because many
men were sympathetic to our feminist arguments that it wasn’t fair for women to
be outvoted  – the sweet, trusting little
dears – and mini-men lost the right to vote. 
There was a brief suggestion that they should each get 1/6000th
of a vote but as the leader of the Female First party so rightly said “Oh come
on – why bother?”.  And then with such a
large proportion of the male population being converted as business clamoured
for mini-workers… well, it was straightforward enough to complete the great
work started by our suffragette sisters at the start of the last century and
remove all civil rights from males. 
About time too.

Not all countries managed to see the danger in time to take
such bold political steps, of course. 
Some left it too late – and had to suffer a period of domination by the
swarming numbers of mini-men. 
Fortunately, it was precisely the more patriarchal males who had
themselves converted – if even mini-men can vote, then any ambitious politician
is quickly going to pop out 6000 of himself, just before election day.  They hadn’t really thought through the
consequences of how to actually enforce their democratically-achieved mandate
on the numerically tiny but physically massive remaining female
population.  Most such mini-men
governments fell rather quickly to domestic rebellions… those that didn’t were
helped along by invasion from more enlightened regimes.  Most military equipment, after all, is rather
more suited to being wielded by full-sized soldiers than by squeaky little
imps.  Although, as General Sally Curtis
remarked, after the ‘Two day war’ that put an end to the last of these nasty
little nests of male privilege: “The most effective weapon a soldier can deploy
against an army of mini-men is her pair of tough leather boots.”

Ah – I suppose that brings me on to the topic of ‘smooshing’
doesn’t it?  Yes… smooshing.  ‘Squishing’ some people call it.  I suppose it is a bit cruel, really, but it
does help keep the remaining little dears focused on their work.  And it is such fun!

 

 

I suppose we’ve all become accustomed to it now.  It was a little shocking at first, I suppose,
when women began to realise that with all those silly civil rights taken away
from mini-men, there was no longer anything to stop them.  The first mini-man I smooshed was a complete
stranger, oddly enough!  I remember it
well – I was at a party at a friend’s house. 
I can’t have popped more than fifteen or twenty Andrews at that point
and I was still treating them almost as if they were people – I had a couple
with me, in my pockets you know.  Anyway,
my friend had her mini-husband running around pulling carts with drinks on and
that sort of thing – I remember feeling quite excited about how powerful it
made us all seem, ironically enough.  I
say ‘ironically’ because my idea of exerting power over a mini-man at the time
was to put him up on a shelf for some quiet time and similar (Andrew squeaked
huis little head off the first time I did it, too, but I left him up there all
night).  And then, my friend Yvonne,
who’d been getting more and more cross with them all, just got up from her
chair, strode across the room and – STOMP! 
Well, the room just fell absolutely silent… then one of the girls
giggled.  I couldn’t laugh I was… not
horrified, exactly, but I was quite shocked. 
And excited – but it wasn’t obviously excitement in a good way, you
know?  My heart just started
thudding.  And I remember noticing what a
mess it made – she’d stamped hard, so he’d burst and there was blood all
around, you know.  Not like a slow crush,
when you steadily break the bones from the feet up.  And all these little mini-men scurrying to
clean it all up… as if their lives depended on it.  For good reason.

Well, later that night I was walking home.  I’d decided to walk rather than take a taxi,
because my mind was still buzzing about what I’d seen.  And we were still just getting used to the
almost total absence of crime, so like a lot of women I loved walking alone
after dark, feeling totally safe as I did. 
I was walking up a quiet side-street, no one around, and this mini-man
just ran out in front of me, coming out from behind some bins.  I don’t know whose he was and what he was
doing there but I just reacted instinctively. 
I shrieked “Ohh – horrid thing!” (such a feminine stereotype, rather
like a  1950s TV housewife seeing a
mouse, I’m afraid!) and I just stamped on it, almost without thinking.  I remember afterwards puzzling over whether
I’d realised it was a mini-man, or whether I’d thought it was a cockroach.  I thought it odd that I couldn’t remember,
until I had the revelation: it didn’t matter.

One of the Andrews had been watching out of the edge of my
pocket.  I picked him up and stared at
him… he was white and shaking with terror. 
I blew him a kiss and put him back and we all went home.  I smooshed my first Andrew the very next day.

It’s funny how you get used to things.  Smooshing used to be something you did
secretly, for the most part – that’s why seeing Yvonne squishing her husband so
brazenly was a shock.  But we women like
to gossip and we pretty soon realised everyone was doing it.  And nowadays… have you ever watched Rapist
Release?  They’ve got all the males who
were convicted of sexual offences stored up, and they have these special
enclosed courtyards where they’re all popped at once.  I often go and watch and I’ve been lucky
enough to win a ticket to take part three times!  You all assemble in the courtyard – about
eighty women, typically?  Mostly quite
young, but I’ve seen old aged pensioners there, all booted and waiting for the
release.  Then you get a short film about
the prisoner and what he did – they don’t usually dwell on the awful details,
it’s supposed to be a fun evening out after all, but they tell you enough to
get everyone fired up and ready for the action. 
At this point, the prisoner himself doesn’t know what’s going to happen
– he’ll have been in stasis since the days before the female take-over, after
all.  I’ve heard they even tell them
they’re going to be ‘released’ which is true, of course, but not in the way
they think it is.  And then they pop all six
thousand, all at the same time, and they come scurrying out of these little
passageways.  There are passageways over
the other side of the court signed ‘Exit’, so once they’ve got their bearings,
they usually go pelting off towards those. 
It’s not quite the ‘exit’ that they might hope for either, as the few
that make it discover, but I suppose it’s nice for them to have something to
try for, in the last moments of their miserable lives.

It must be quite a shock for them, especially those who were
put into storage before the whole mini-men thing happened, suddenly to run out
with a bunch of other men who look just like you, into a gigantic cavernous
space full of these huge, towering women…. And then when you realise what those
towering women are doing – when you see first one, then another of your
doppelgangers converted into a patch of red mush on the bottom of a boot, and
then when you look up to see that same boot – with perhaps some of the mush
just starting to peel away and drop off it – raised above you, and beyond it an
excited, grinning young pretty face!

It’s a lot of fun to take part – and it’s quite a lot of fun
to watch, too!  I was at a special the
other night, when they did three men in succession.  Oh – when the third was popped, it was crazy!  The floor was so slippery from the twelve
thousand smooshed predecessors, so the girls were slipping and sliding around,
and clinging onto each other while they shrieked with laughter, trying to get
the third batch.  Quite a lot of the
participants ended up on the messy wet floor, often in each others’ arms – and
some of them quite lost interest in smooshing the mini-men at that point, if
you get my drift!  As did some of us in
the audience: I found myself in a tight embrace with this complete stranger,
and we ended up going home together. 
There was something about the shrieks of horror from the third batch,
even higher-pitched than usual, if you can imagine such a thing.

 

I suppose that brings us on to the topic of sex.  To be honest, despite a few wild lesbian
episodes like that one, I do still enjoy a full-sized penis from time to time.  But there are plenty of full-sized male sex
workers for hire and they’re not expensive – it’s one of the few jobs they can
do, after all.  But the sexual
possibilities that mini-men provide… well, there’s a lot more to them than the
microscopic penis that remains to them, after all.  I’ve got one of those dildo holders – you
know?  Like an old-style vibrator, only
with a open-ended hollow base.  You put a
mini-man into a tight rubber tube – you just roll it down – to keep him fairly
rigid, then up he goes, head-first.  OK,
four inches isn’t much but that’s why there’s the base of the dildo behind him.  Most of the best toys on the market have a
vibrate function and an electric shock option to make him squirm around by
himself.  They’re quite safe – the
electrodes go up inside the rubber tube so you can’t shock yourself.  Of course, he can’t breathe up there but be a
stroke of luck, they don’t need to very often. 
Something to do with surface area to body mass ratios – I don’t really
understand the science to be honest, but I know that a mini-man can last ten to
twelve minutes without taking a breath. 
Which is usually long enough for me, especially as he is squirming
around frantically for the last two or three as he suffocates.  Anyway, if I’m not quite there I can usually
get off on what’s left of him – or I have another ready, if I’m feeling like
I’m likely to be slow.  Half the time,
though, I come so quickly that he’s still alive when I’m done!  I’ve got one who’s managed it six times!  I call him my ‘champion stud’ and keep him in
the dildo draw.  I swear he gets better
every time, so who knows how long he’ll last?

I suppose we have all become more callous about, well…
killing them, I suppose, although most of us don’t like using that word.  But it just sneaks up on you.  Take my friend Amy, for instance.  Such a sweet little thing.  She married a guy called Leo, quite a few
years before everything changed.  She
must have been very young at the time she married – nineteen at most?  And I think Leo was a few years older and the
only bread-winner, so I think he was very much in charge in their marriage, you
know?  He was a young lawyer and doing
quite well, but then mini-men came along and all of a sudden there were hordes
of fully-qualified mini-lawyers chasing the work that one used to do.  So although they didn’t want to, they agreed
to have him processed and pop out ten or twenty Leos, however many were needed
to bring in as much money as before.

That went OK for a few years, I think: she treated her Leos
as if they were still proper people – seems quite creepy now, but a lot of that
went on in the early years.  She even
bought one of those devices that brings the pitch of their voices down so you
can understand what they have to say. 
But of course, she’s surrounded by images of mini-men being smooshed,
and punished and enslaved and all that… it must have been hard to come home and
try to treat these squeaky little things with respect.  I’m proud to say that I had a part in her
eventual conversion, though.  We were
shopping together and we saw a pair of Asphyxiknicks – you know?  Pairs of rubber panties with a thick but
stretchy gusset, lined with a very strong rubber hem around the tops of the
legs.  They were all the rage a few years
ago.  I have a pair somewhere but I
generally prefer the dildo – I like to feel something inside me.  But I use them from time to time.  Anyway, Amy saw them and she couldn’t tear
her gaze away – she seemed fascinated – so I explained how they’re used.

She looked so confused – the dear, innocent thing!  I remember her asking me “But how does he
breathe?” and then looking horrified when I explained that not only can’t he
breathe, the frantic writhing when he realises that he can’t breathe is the whole point of
them.  

 

It took a bit of persuading, but we walked out with a pair
of Asphyxiknicks in Amy’s shopping bag. 
She told me later how she’d dithered for days… she’d take them out of
the drawer where they were hidden, feel the rubber, think about what it might
feel like to have a little body pressed against her, writhing inside it, then
quickly shove them back in the drawer with a guilty flush.  Apparently, it was Leo himself who helped her
overt the hurdle, silly little thing.  He
made his way into her panty drawer – and I wonder why he did that, the little
pervert – and found them and asked her about them.  Of course she didn’t give all the details –
and she certainly didn’t tell him they were called ‘Asphyxiknicks’ which might have been a
bit alarming for him – so he agreed to have a go.  She pulled him out after just a few minutes,
as she’d promised, his chest heaving.   I
understand that when he’d breathed heavily for at least five minutes solid, he
told her he was OK with it.  She, on the
other hand, had stopped just at the point when it was getting interesting, so
she went to bed feeling frustrated, her nerves jangling.  Typical selfish male.

I won’t give you all the details, but let’s just say that
Amy has learnt to use the Asphyxiknicks in the manner for which they were
designed and Leo’s wishes on the subject don’t get much of a look in.  It turns out that she can only really reach
sexual fulfillment when the wriggling stops – when little Leo, down there,
departs this mortal coil.  The first time
she got there was by accident – she’d forgotten to set the timer on her phone –
but after that, she was hooked.  She was
conflicted, poor thing, because she did still have tender feelings for Leo, but
she had her own happiness to think of too. 
She kept the little secret hidden from her existing Leos at first, the
dear sweet angel that she is.

Of course, every mini-man that’s popped out remembers
nothing later than when his original body was processed.  So Leo – the latest mini-Leo – pops out
feeling as if he is the only Leo in existence, having last seen his loving wife
bravely smiling at him through the tears as the lid closes on him in the
processing unit.  Expecting to emerge –
small but still respected by his wife and society – into a world in which he
will work as a lawyer, enjoy high-quality but microscopic quantities of the
finest food and drink and generally live as before, if rather smaller. Instead
of which, this Amy plucks his naked body out the delivery tray and plonks him
down into a high-sided glass container by her bed, then goes around the room
lighting scented candles.  Soft music
plays and there is a glass of full-bodied red wine standing next to the glass
container, which must look odd to the newly-diminished Leo, as it is almost
exactly his height.  While lying on the
bed… a pair of black rubber knickers. 

Does Leo feel an ominous sense of trouble when he sees
those?  Does he think about what that
rounded gusset might be built to contain and does he work out the meaning of
the thicker hems that hold the leg-holes tight – airtight in fact – when the
legs are worn?  If he does, I expect he
starts squeaking in concern, then panic. 
He probably scrabbles at the high glass of the container, perhaps bangs
on it as hard as his little fists can bang. 
It will do him no good.  Soon Amy
removes her clothes, climbs up onto the bed and pulls the rubber knickers
halfway up.  She reaches over to the
bedside table and Leo shrieks in hysterical fear – then subsides when he sees
her fingers close around the stem of her wineglass.  Then has hardly time to scream again when 20
seconds later, the hand that replaces the wine glass on the table reaches in,
grabs him and lifts his desperately struggling body into the air.  He has just time for a quick glimpse of her
giant face, lips pursed in anticipation, before he is shoved firmly into the
welcoming rubber and finds himself swiftly jerked up as she lifts her buttocks
and pulls up from the waist – affording Leo a last glimpse of light before the
hem seals the boundary between rubber and flesh and with it seals Leo’s fate.

Ours is the luckiest generation, I often think.  Not only do we have the mini-men to enjoy;
they are first generation of mini-men and they are often comically – blissfully
– unaware of their positions.  Later
generations will only have mini-men who know full well what awaits them and
will perhaps be resigned to lives that are unpleasant, painful and – like them
– short.  The ladies of that far-off day
will still have fun and live lives of ease, of course, but they will never know
the joy of watching a little face screw up in terror or disbelief at what is in
front of him.  Successful men, confident
in their citizenship and their positions when they went into the processor
emerge to find themselves… what?  In a
plastic box, equipped only with miniaturised computer terminal, exercise wheel,
feeding tray and a sawdust-strewn floor: one of 50,000 workers in a
purpose-built facility powering the service-based economy?  Gasping in exhaustion on a miniaturised
bicycle, to power a fan blowing cool air over their lady, on a hot day?  Chained together, as a novelty bra, limb
joints stretching and cracking under the weight of the flesh it’s their job to
support?  Or just alone inside an
otherwise empty cardboard box, jolting as they’re carried along to the sound of
excited girlish laughter, to whatever might await.

They do say it’s the little things that make life worth
living.  They’re right.

 


 

 Illustrations, once again, courtesy of NKS Volkov. 

 

 

 

Another World

Trigger warning: this story features descriptions of activities that are quite extreme even by the standards of this site.  Readers are warned that some of the behaviour here reaches heights of perversion that even I find unsettling, although fortunately the more graphic elements are presented at one remove so to speak (on a television programme) rather than directly.  Also, I have taken the decision to intersperse the text with unrelated images of more wholesome, healthy activities, so that readers can be reassured and reminded that the disgusting things being described are no more than a twisted sex game, acted out in a fantasy setting in a far-off country of which we know little.

You have been warned.

Not that that has ever stopped you, right?

 

 

 

“Hi Vanessa”, Sylvie called over her shoulder, hearing the
door slam. 

Her wife appeared in the doorway, shrugging off her heavy
coat for a slave to dive for – he managed to catch it just before it reached the floor.  “Hey babe! 
Busy?”

“Just watching TV” Sylvie replied, nodding towards the
screen.  “Did you get everything you
needed?”

“Yeah, more or less”, Vanessa replied absently.  “They didn’t have all the branding iron shapes I
wanted, but they had those sigmoid curves I really need for this weekend and
they’ve ordered the rest.  Oh – and I finally remembered to get new batteries for the cattle prod.  So you can stop nagging me about that.”

Sylvie smiled, at the implied compliment – both ladies knew that she would never dream of nagging her wife.  She
was proud to be married to an artist and loved to watch her at work in her studio.  With
seemingly random touches of a glowing brand here and there, the burns on a
screaming slave’s flesh could suddenly turn into a pastoral scene, a wicked
caricature of  a public figure or just a
complex and intriguing abstract design.  Vanessa’s current project – a huge canvas which had been prepared using a high
calorie diet over several months, was currently hanging by its ankles in her studio.  She had been working on it for a week already
and had at least another three weeks to go – after which, she would exhibit it in one of the top galleries on Bond
St where it would undoubtedly sell for an astronomical price.


“Anything good on?” Vanessa asked.

“It’s that programme about weird, kitsch stuff” Sylvie replied.  “EuroTrish.”

“Oh yeah – yodelling nuns and suchlike, right?” her lover replied.  “I quite like that – shove up.”

Sylvie wriggled along the couch, in her tight leather
shorts: a sight that caused Vanessa to consider proposing heading for the
bedroom instead, but her attention was caught by the scene on the TV, so
instead she sat down in the space vacated by her wife, put her feet up on the
naked slave cowering in front and shouted “Cigarette” to the room in general.

“So what’s that” she asked, nodding towards the screen, as a
slave scurried to kneel by her side, cigarette in one hand and lighter in the
other.

“Oh this is really strange” Sylvie replied. “It’s a place
called The Other World Kingdom – in the Czech Republic I think.  It’s, like, this place where males and
females are equal.”

“What – you mean there’s only one slave per citizen?” her
wife replied in puzzlement.  “That must
be difficult for them.”

“No, no” Sylvie replied. 
“Look – I’ll rewind.  Back five!”

A slave hurried forward and pressed buttons on the TV,
reverting the programme to five minutes before, then returned to his waiting
position.


On screen was a low-quality image of a woman standing by the
gateway of some kind of manor house.  It
was blurry and slightly jerky, reminiscent of videotape technology from the
1980s.  She was speaking but her lip
movements were thoroughly out of sync with the sounds from the TV, which were
obviously badly dubbed into English.  But
it was the words themselves that caused Vanessa to draw hard on her cigarette in
shock, before resting it in the open mouth of the ashtray slave at her side.

“Here in the Other World Kingdom, women and men live in a
state of perfect equality with each other. 
Men are citizens, nothing less, to be treated by women with the respect
and kindness that they deserve.  And they
themselves desire nothing less than to spend each waking moment in full command
of their own lives and destiny, unenslaved and free.”

“Good Goddess!” she exclaimed.  “Why would anyone want to live somewhere like
that?”

“I don’t think it’s really serious.” her companion
replied.  “Just a place people can visit, to act out weird sex
fantasies.  ‘BDSM’, you
know? ‘Benevolence Decency Sympathy and Mercy’ – it’s a kink in which women get
off on not hurting men, treating them with respect and so on.  I was reading an article about it – there are
some girls who get turned on by that sort of thing.”

“It’s just sick!” Vanessa replied, in horror.  She took a few more puffs of her cigarette,
then laid it aside on the shaking palm of the slave kneeling beside her.  “And what on earth is she wearing?”

“Clothes made out of cloth, as far as I can see”, Sylvie
replied.  “Cotton, mainly.  Nothing made of leather or latex at all.”

“You mean like underwear? 
I don’t think I’d like to walk around like that.  Look – those jodhpurs she’s wearing are so
loose you can hardly see the shape of her arse, let alone her thighs.  It’s not decent.”

“They’re called trousers, apparently. Even though they’re not made of leather like normal trousers” Sylvie said.  “And some of the women wear skirts too, but they’re
shockingly long – most finish well below the upper thigh.  It’s all part of the fetish.  I suppose it’s OK in the bedroom, if that’s what they’re into, but imagine walking around outside wearing something like that; I’d just die of embarrassment.”

“Has she got her boots tucked inside these, ‘trousers’?” Vanessa asked.

Her wife shook her head. 
“She’s not wearing boots – just shoes,”

Vanessa looked confused.  “Then I suppose her legs must be awfully short.”

“No, it’s nothing to do with her legs.  Her shoes don’t have high heels – they’re flat.” Sylvie replied, quietly. 

“No… no high heels at all?  But without boots or high heels… I mean, how does she stride?”

“She doesn’t” Sylvie replied.  “Just walks along on the flats of her
feet.  She must have to practice for ages not to fall backwards, but again, I think it’s all part of the kink.  You know: not wearing towering high heels is a way of artificially making
herself not taller than the men?  So it’s
easier not to dominate them, I suppose.  And I suppose her shoes don’t make a menacing sound when she walks across a wooden floor – that’s pretty creepy, isn’t it?”


“But that’s not
the kinkiest thing about it, though: just watch.”

The screen showed in low resolution the presenter walking
(in her flat footed way) along a path leading to a grand doorway, while the
dubbed commentator burbled something about ‘an atmosphere of mutual
respect’.  By the doorway, waiting to
greet her, was –

Vanessa’s jaw dropped open. 
“Is he wearing…?”

“Clothes” Sylvie nodded. 
“It’s a big part of the kink – dressing men up as if they were
human.  Look – his clothes are similar to
hers.”

It was true.  The
‘trousers’ were a little tighter, the jacket a more sombre colour than that
worn by the woman, but the screen undeniably showed a man and a woman, both
dressed similarly, apparently greeting one another as friends.

Vanessa felt slightly sick, but couldn’t take her eyes of
the screen, as the camera drew closer in on the man.

“No collar… not even any restraints or fetters” she remarked
in puzzlement.  “But how is he secured
when he needs to be whipped?”

“Oh my sweet, innocent girl.” giggled Sylvie, clasping her
hand and squeezing it affectionately. 
“He’s not going to be whipped. 
Not in this place.  Watch.”

The two watched the grainy video with rapt attention for a
few minutes.  They saw women greeting
men, chatting to them, smiling and nodding as they – and this made both ladies
gasp in shock – listened to them as the men themselves spoke.  Fortunately, only the dubbed commentary could
be heard, so no actual male speech emerged from the television, but the men in
the video were clearly speaking, not merely to acknowledge orders or plead, but
speaking and laughing with the women as if they were proper human beings.


It got worse.  The
lady guide provided brief tours of the cellars, where dank concrete spaces that
in happier days had presumably been prison cells had been converted to store
wine; the club ‘Nas Styl’ where women and men sat at tables and conversed over
food and drink as if it were the most normal thing in the world (revoltingly,
the men were eating proper, cooked food, from plates); a bedroom in which the
narrator pointed out how men and women shared the tasks of folding and tidying
away clothes; and finally, the stables.

“Oh no” Vanessa said. 
“Is that really…?”

It was.  Blurry as it
was, the screen undeniably showed a carriage being pulled along by… a
horse.  While behind, in a carriage, sat
a man and a woman (fully clothed – by this stage, incredibly, this no longer
seemed so shocking).

“The poor thing” breathed Vanessa.  “Look, it’s really pulling the carriage.  They’ve adapted the bridle and reins and
things to fit it.”

Sylvie nodded uncertainly. 
“I don’t think they can really treat them as carriage slaves, though”
she said.  “I mean, not using whips or
spurs and so on.  Not on an animal – that can’t be legal.  Even in the
Czech Republic.”

Indeed, the horse had slowed to a gentle amble and nothing
the man and woman could do with encouraging words and gestures seemed able to
make it go any faster.  It looked to be a
very dull ride, slowly plodding around the sandy track at whatever speed the
horse chose, a sad and sick parody of a country ride at a brisk canter, whips
cracking, spurs flashing and male lungs heaving with the effort of obtaining
the oxygen needed for their charmingly exhausted, aching muscles.  Another World indeed.

 


“But of course” the narrator (or rather her
English-speaking overdubber) continued, speaking directly to camera, “even
in the paradise of equality that is the Other World Kingdom, men and women do
not always agree with one another. 
Sometimes a man might say something that annoys or upsets a woman.  Of course, this must be dealt with
immediately, to preserve the harmony that is the OWK’s watchword.  So for such cases, there are special chambers
available so that any woman upset by something a man has said or done can…”

“Oh thank goodness.” Vanessa sighed.  “I was beginning to think they – “

“…talk it out.” continued the narrator,
cheerfully.  The television showed a room
with comfortable chairs and a sofa, decorated in gentle pastel colours.

“Yes, here in the Other World Kingdom, arguments rarely
happen – and they never last long before they are resolved with a vigorous
discussion, conducted in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.  This room has been specifically furnished to
create an atmosphere of kindness and forgiveness.  Here, men and women can listen to one another’s their concerns and try to resolve them with empathy and understanding.  If a woman in the Other World Kingdom turns out to be in the wrong, she apologises – freely and without reservation – to everyone concerned, men included.”

“That’s…” Vanessa began, dumbfounded.  “That’s so fucked-up!  And women actually visit this place – for
kicks?”

Sylvie nodded, sadly. 
“They pay for the privilege, apparently. 
What lonely lives they must lead, having to keep their perverted desires
hidden from everyone.  Imagine being so screwed-up that you can only get off sexually if a male is happy and
unhurt.  I wonder what can have happened
in their childhood to make them fantasise about something so twisted.”

 

The ladies’ ruminations were interrupted by a sharp gasp
from the slave kneeling at Vanessa’s side. 
She glanced over in irritation, to see her long-forgotten cigarette
still smouldering on the seared flesh of his now-shaking palm.

“Idiot” she said, curtly, picking the cigarette up, and flicking
the long tail of ash that had built up into his open mouth.  She tried a quick drag, but the embers had gone
out and all she could taste was the acrid and familiar tang of charred male
flesh.  Despite her annoyance at being
deprived of her nicotine hit, it reminded her of the beauty of her branding
art.  Smell is the most evocative of the
senses and – together with the barely suppressed whimpers of a male in agony,
it brought her back to the colours and beauty of the real world – a place where
women could love and be loved, in the healthy shared joy of despising,
oppressing and torturing males.

She glanced at her wife, whose eyes met hers with amused
affection.  “This idiot let my cigarette
go out” she drawled.  “And he’s ruined
his hand for housework – look!”  And she
grabbed the slave’s shaking wrist and held his hand up so Sylvie could see the puffy
white flesh, already forming blisters, where Vanessa’s forgotten cigarette had
lain. 

“Whatever are we going to do about that?”

She clipped a leash onto the unresisting slave’s neck, then
stood up.

“I was thinking we could take him off to the bedroom and…
talk it out.  Talk it out thoroughly.” And
she gave the leash a sharp tug.

“What a good idea!” giggled Sylvie.  She reached for a whip.  “We could listen to his concerns and resolve
them in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.”

“Not forgetting the ‘kindness and forgiveness’” Vanessa
added, rootling in her shopping bag for the batteries she had bought for the
cattle prod.  “For which we’ll need these
– I’m feeling particularly kind and forgiving today.”

And so the two ladies strode out of the room, their high
heels clacking with delicious menace on the floorboards, their shapely buttocks superbly outlined in
leather shorts and jodhpurs respectively, their leashed pain-toy dragged
carelessly behind.


The television burbled on. 
The blurry, badly-dubbed lady was explaining the uses of something called
a ‘doormat’ which appeared to involve removing mud from shoes in a most
peculiar way.  Sylvie and Vanessa’s TV remote control
slave knelt motionless, in an agony of indecision as to whether or not to
turn it off.  If he did and the ladies still
wanted to watch it, they would be furious with him.  On the other hand, if he did not, he might be
beaten for wasting electricity.

He did briefly reflect on some of the scenes that he had
witnessed on the television he was responsible for working.  Something about Mistresses in some far-off
country who had presumably invented some new and complex method of torturing
males that he had not quite been able to follow.  He had not understood much of what he had
seen, to be honest.  He briefly wondered
what a ‘kingdom’ was, for example.  Or ‘kindness’,
for that matter.

A sudden agonised scream from the bedroom brought him back
to reality.  That seemed to indicate that
his Mistresses had moved on to other things but still… he had not received a
specific order to turn the television off. 
What to do, what to do.

As he dithered, the item from the Czech Republic ended and the
presenters – two ladies with almost parodically strong French accents, seated for
comic effect on slaves who were, respectively, massively overweight and skeletally
thin – briefly bantered about it, before introducing the next item.  This featured an elderly couple in Sweden who
had set out to paint all of the trees in their local forest pink – just the two
of them. 

With only twelve slaves, it had taken them several weeks,
but the results were impressive.

 

 

 

 

‘Eurotrash’ was a British series that ran in the 1990s that for one deliriously-wonderful episode, during Servitor’s young adulthood (I’m now on my second childhood, or possibly third), included a brief feature on the OWK using footage from OWK introductory videos ( possibly this one – but I warn you it could be a slightly dodgy site).  However, their more normal fare is best seen in this item, for example, in which a former topless model interviews the then Prime Minister’s brother about his garden gnome obsession.

 

Oh, and as it was Bastille Day this week, what about those ‘almost parodically strong French accents‘…. ?

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