Category: fiction

Take your passion, and make it happen

Ah… the 1980s. What a feeling. Back when we worried about a Republican President of the USA being too hostile to the Russians. Many things have changed but some, like my tastes in music and femdom, have stayed frozen in time. Another affectionate tribute to that time when you got your porn from a magazine wrapped in a paper bag, when women were women and men – just like today – were worms. But worms with really dubious mustaches.

Letters to the Editrix

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Although your magazine is truly wonderful, one of the best female domination publications around, [‘one of’?? G-L. L.] I believe the author of the article Madam Miranda’s School for Husbands, focused on the efforts of that good lady to assist couples experiencing relationship difficulties, may have painted an unduly harsh portrait of this institution.

I recently returned home after a three-week stay at Madam Miranda’s and I can assure you that I have nothing but good things to report about that fine lady and her extraordinarily dedicated team of assistants.  Her ‘school’ is just that: an educational establishment and I can honestly say that I learnt more about being a good husband in those three weeks than you could in a lifetime of reading self-help books and magazine articles. I also managed to lose 7 pounds in weight and improve my housework skills.

The school does, obviously, employ corporal punishment techniques but no more than is necessary to help a trainee learn, when he has been at fault, to help him learn. In my case, I was frequently at fault, so it was often necessary, but I can honestly say I will never forget the lessons I learnt thanks to this educational technique.

 In short, I am immensely thankful to Madame Miranda and her staff for their vigorous and effective tuition and to my beloved wife for sending me there. Difficulties in our relationship are a thing of the past; we have not quarrelled or even had more than the most ephemeral difference of opinion since my return from The School, nor will we ever while the memory of my stay there persists. Our relationship seems to me to be perfect, but as my wife says, it is always possible to do better, so perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to renew my acquaintance with Madame Miranda and once again benefit from her wisdom and guidance.

With the greatest respect

An appreciative husband

I have passed your letter to Madam Miranda, who says she remembers you and that you were not always so appreciative. Males often don’t know what is best for them and you are lucky (as I am sure you often admit) to have a wife with the vision to understand your potential. The good lady tells me that her school motto is Flagella facit homines obedientes. My secondary modern didn’t teach Latin, so I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds like the right approach. G-L. L.

Divine Goddess-Lady

As a boot fetishist, I was wondering whether you have a preferred technique when having your boots licked clean? I find it hard to achieve a properly clean upper, especially, without recourse to a cloth.

Yours in worship

Bootlover

My technique is simple: I tap my crop on the boot, command it to be licked clean and beat the living crap out of the slave if he fails to do it to my complete satisfaction. It seems to work. G-L. L.

Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

I was wondering, what do you feed the office slaves who work on your wonderful magazine? I find the idea of being made to eat a disgusting meal, suitable for a lowly worm of my status wildly exciting. I fantasise about visiting two dominant ladies and being ‘treated’ to a three course meal. This begins with a steaming bowl of stinky sock soup, made by peeling those garments from my hosts’ feet at the end of a long working day and boiling them up in a pan, then squeezing carefully to ensure all the sweaty goodness is transferred to the soup. The main course is simply a healthy salad of raw vegetables: carrot rind, potato peelings, onion skins and cabbage, all as fresh and uncooked as the day they came out of the earth they grew in, much of which still clings to their sides. I of course gobble up every mouthful, naked and kneeling in front of the bowl in which it is all deposited, riding crops merrily cracking down should I hesitate. For pudding, a simple elegant used tampon, which is popped in my mouth all in one go but must be slowly chewed to open up the layered tissue to enable it to be swallowed piece by piece. Sometimes the ladies add a cheese course, having set aside some stilton or camembert in a warm spot some weeks before. No crackers being available, I lick the pungent stuff off the soles of their shoes.

I find the idea of eating dog or cat food exciting too, Goddess-Lady, but so nauseating that I think I might be sick. Is that your experience? I have also heard it may be unhealthy for human consumption.

In rapturous servility

Dustbin

You are quite revolting but also right, dustbin: dog or cat food can easily induce vomiting, especially in those not used to it. I don’t see any problem with that, as long as any such vomiting is done outside and the mess rapidly cleaned up – as in my household, it always is, of course. I too have heard that pet food is not fit for human consumption, which is why I feed it only to slaves.  None have died yet and in any case, I am confident that any health dangers to them of eating the nasty stuff would be far outweighed by the health dangers of refusing my order to do so. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I am a wife relatively new to the activities your magazine covers, but I wanted to write to let you know how much it has helped me since discovering my husband’s ‘stash’ of magazines and books. The majority of the publications merely featured images of young women in wildly uncomfortable clothing, often engaged in sex acts such as fellatio in which I have no interest. However, the stories and articles in Empress were far more informative and explained much that had puzzled me about my husband’s behaviour.

He was mortified when I confronted him, but calmed down when I explained that I was prepared to try out some – but by no means all – of the activities depicted. Not – needless to say – the fellatio featured in some of the other magazines, nor the bizarre rubber or leather outfits in which the young ladies in those magazines often unconvincingly posed. However, several of the stories in Empress featured looks such as a white blouse combined with a medium-length leather skirt, stockings and high-heeled (but not absurdly so) shoes or boots. I had already purchased a few such outfits when we had our ‘little talk’, so soon reappeared in front of him ‘dressed the part’ and I can say it went down extremely well! We had a thoroughly satisfactory evening of sexual intercourse, including some spanking, and I can honestly say he has never performed as well! The next night, I tried him on oral sex – which I had previously not felt I could ask for, since I was not prepared to carry out the same service – with even better results.

A week or so later, I visited a shop in Soho that advertised in your magazine and bought a cane, a tawse and some leather restraints, I was tempted by some chastity devices but thought it best to take one step at a time and in any event, some seemed unsuitable for long-term wear. It was when I first tried caning him that I encountered a problem: as he sprang up after only the first stroke, tearfully pleading that it was too painful.

Your wonderful magazine came to the rescue! I recalled Mrs Simmons’ approach in A Domesticated Husband and calmly informed him that the cane would be put away and not appear again – oh, and so would the boots, the leather skirt and all the other items in our little collection. And then I waited a few days, making clear that ordinary sex was on offer, if he liked, but nothing more. I did somewhat regret at that point not having tried a chastity belt, as he was obviously masturbating in the bathroom and I was sure the contest would have ended with my victory more quickly had he been unable to do so.  However, after nine days he ‘cracked’, so out came the outfits he liked so much and the cane he hated with equal measure – and the leather restraints with which I secured him on the bed, to help him ‘take’ the caning that I administered without mercy. I also discovered the importance of gags, after a series of howls that I thought would have the neighbour call the Police on us! Recalling Mistress Maxine’s approach in your excellent Maxine’s Maxims series, I slipped off my knickers, and stuffed them in his mouth, then tied a stocking around to hold them in. This both excited and quieted him, while also leaving me liberty to resume the thrashing without fear of discovery.  I did enjoy caning him, not sexually exactly (that came later, his tear-streaked face between my legs) but I do like the feeling of power.

After that, readers of accounts such as that of poor Robert in A Domesticated Husband will have little difficulty in guessing my husband’s trajectory. Having experienced the cane once, he was naturally keen to avoid its application and so things progressed most satisfactorily. Chastity – of course – and it did indeed require us to try a few different kinds of apparatus before finding one suitable for everyday wear, but now he does indeed wear it every day. A regime in which all the housework is his was easy enough to implement, as were restrictions on his lifestyle outside the house. Perhaps unsurprisingly, financial control proved to be the hardest thing for him to give up, but repeated use of the cane over an extended period of chastity did the trick and now he is, indeed, domesticated. There are several degrading activities depicted in your stories that I have no real desire to try, mostly involving bathroom activities, but also cuckoldry – his tongue is very well-trained by now, so why would I want some undomesticated male to take its place?

Obviously, he no longer has any need of your magazine, dear Goddess-Lady but in tribute to its role in transforming my marriage, I do require him to buy every issue. As he gets very little pocket-money, I am delighted to say that it accounts for around a quarter of his total expenditure – and locked in chastity as he is, he gets little from it. Indeed, he rather fears bringing it home, as we peruse it together looking for at least one punishment, humiliation or restriction that he has not yet experienced – and so far, you have never let me down, my dear!

Yours in gratitude

A Satisfied Wife

I am delighted to see the practical tips occasionally provided here for improving husbands being put to such effective use.  If his tongue is all you require as sexual service on his part, might I suggest you also consult the story ‘Nurse Eliza’s Private Practice’ in Volume 3, Edition 1? It sounds to me as if your husband is quite ready for such treatment, and it must be tiresome for you to have to indulge even occasional releases from chastity.  G-L. L.

Most magnificent Goddess-Lady

If I might ask … have you ever been tempted to ‘switch’ roles? Are you at all curious as to what it feels like to be on the receiving end of the treatment you so relish doling out?

Fascinated

Eric

What an impertinent question! Certainly not. Being under my lash looks and sounds to be a thoroughly unpleasant experience – why would anyone subject themselves to that? Except the male fools who read this magazine, obviously. And perverts beguiled by my beauty. Perhaps one day we will be lucky enough to meet and in-between screams you can gasp out to me an account of exactly what it feels like; I shall take a keen interest.  G-L. L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady

I have been a reader of your magazine for some time and stories featuring ‘male maids’ are something of an obsession of mine, so I was excited to see the teaser for your tale of the downfall of the ‘Honourable’ Peter Cuthbertson and his housemaid Molly, in an earlier edition.  The full story in your last issue did not disappoint!

Oh, what a fool young Peter was! But how easily I can imagine myself being led down to the same path to destitution and servitude! From the moment he took the proffered petticoat in shaking hands and tried it on under her smiling supervision, Peter was doomed. How pleasant it is for me, as it was for Peter, to think of the delightful pleasure of flouncing around in a lacy maid’s uniform, layers of soft petticoats swishing deliciously around my stockinged thighs! And then to carry out a few light housework tasks under Molly’s supervision? Well, that merely adds to the sensual pleasure of playing out this scenario. And of course there must be punishment for any naughty or lazy maids who don’t work hard for Mistress – perhaps with her loving but firm hand, applied to my naughty bottom as I wriggle helplessly and shriek with pleasure and pain across her lap.

But then of course it only makes sense to start taking things a little further.  If Molly is to play at being the lady of the house, then of course she should have fine clothes, she should sleep in the main bedroom and be waited on at table!  And she will have little time for her former housemaid job outside this role, so of course Peter must do more around the house – and perhaps it’s time to swap that frilly nonsense for a more practical, hardwearing outfit. All of this merely makes the fantasy more compelling, does it not? And after Molly has instructed him in some of the more demanding aspects of a housemaid’s role, it is only fitting that any necessary correction emphasises more the pain than the pleasurable aspects of discipline. There is still a sensual thrill to be had, even in the onerous task of scrubbing floors or in carrying heavy baskets of laundry to be hung up.

If Molly – Lady Molly, we must now call her – is to play her part of the Lady of the Manor to perfection then of course she must have some control over the finances of the estate, so she can pay tradesmen or buy things for herself, without needing to break the spell of this fascinating performance the two are playing out. It’s not as if Peter – or rather, Petunia – has time for such matters, not with the beds to be made, the linen to be aired and that big pile of ironing awaiting her in the laundry room, is it? Not with that horrible cane awaiting her if she should fail to complete all of her allotted tasks, to the complete satisfaction of the Mistress of the house!

And so to the last scene, in which Petunia awakes at five in the morning as usual, in her cramped and chilly attic room, washes carefully in the cold water in her bowl, then puts on her uniform to begin her fourteen hour day of servitude, while Lady Molly sleeps peacefully and happily in her soft warm bed, the little bell on her bedside table ready for her whenever she awakes.

So easy to imagine myself slipping easily – almost willingly – down the same slope. And although some of the ladies featured in your stories often strike me as implausibly cruel and domineering [Nonsense. Women are crueller than you know – I certainly am and so are some of my dearest friends. G-L. L.], if anyone is likely to relish the role of an exacting taskmistress over a domesticated male, it is surely a former domestic servant herself!

The story seems so complete, I can only regret that there is unlikely to be a sequel. But if I might humbly suggest one, perhaps young Petunia could attempt one last, woefully belated, act of rebellion? Either overtly or perhaps through an attempted escape? How crestfallen she would be, to discover that all Master Peter’s clothing has long since been donated to local charities and that thoughtful Lady Molly has had the word put about that the young Lord of the Manor has fallen victim to a regrettable congenital lunacy and needs to be humoured, but then forcefully restrained and returned, should the poor lad be discovered wandering the vicinity!

With my deepest curtsey

Maid Felicity, Whippingham Hall.

Arrogant aristocratic males have – tragically – run this country for so long that stories in which the tables are turned appeal particularly to me, too. I myself was born on a council estate in Peckham because my parents moved to London, but my own ancestors, right down to my dear Nan, spent lifetimes scrubbing the floors of the stateliest homes of England. It therefore gives me particular pleasure to whack the backsides of some of the more inbred public schoolboys who so often seek such treatment and – foolishly – think they can remain in control. I always give them at least one extra for Nan: a particularly hard one, Goddess rest her soul.

Your idea for a sequel will be considered. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

What do you think of women’s lib? It seems to me that many of these harpies shrieking about their ‘rights’ don’t really understand how much power an elegantly dressed lady can have in our society. If they only smartened themselves up a bit, shaved their legs and put on some make-up and high heels, I am sure the more attractive among them could find themselves with far more power than they can ever achieve through ‘consciousness raising’ or waving silly placards about.

Yours

A puzzled lover of femininity

I have allowed this filthy missive to be printed in case any readers need reminding how males truly ‘think’ (if I can dignify it with that term), when they are not fantasising about strict mistresses. Pay attention, ‘puzzled’: only morons like you find it hard to understand why women need more rights after centuries of oppression. A lifetime of domestic drudgery, under the command of an abusive partner – believe me, you’d soon be ‘shrieking’ if subjected to such treatment, just as my males do. I myself dress for sexual power, many women’s libbers prefer to dress otherwise… who are you to decide what women should wear?  Perhaps you need to spend more time in tight corsets and ill-fitting high heels; with little padlocks in case you are tempted to try to remove them. I myself believe the women’s lib movement mostly does not go far enough – Valerie Solanas’ Society for Cutting Up Men is an honourable exception – but they are sisters to me in spirit and right to focus on oppression. I just believe in oppressing right back: a few centuries at least with the boot firmly on the other foot (and kicking hard and repeatedly into the male groin or face) is required to even the balance, that’s all. We cannot be truly free until men are enslaved but there are many paths to that. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I adore your magazine but I must confess myself simply revolted by the letter from ‘Mummy’s Boy’, a few issues ago, suggesting you print fewer stories focused on use of the cane.

I am a professional disciplinarian but my work is also my passion as I simply adore caning; no other disciplinary implement comes close to it, for me. It is the combination of its simplicity and its roots in ordinary educational life until very recently, on the one hand, with its sheer brutality on the other. For me, ‘spanking’ implements are simply too mild and playful, while whips of any kind are too exotic, redolent of fantasy.

I apply the cane mercilessly. Very few men can ‘take’ the cane although many fantasies about it – I believe around one in four of clients I see ever return for a second dose.  Fewer still enjoy it. My ‘repeat’ clientele is therefore from that thin sliver of male society who both fear yet crave the cane. However, this is acceptable, as they pay handsomely for the privilege of being thrashed.

Let me describe one such client, whom I will call ‘Steven’. Steven first contacted me two years ago, received the shockingly painful treatment I always administer to first-timers and left, seeming most unlikely to return. Yet every three months or so, I receive a nervous call booking another session. Steven’s voice is hoarse and rushed as he makes the arrangements: I suspect he has been agonising for days or weeks, and has decided to ‘get it over with’. I imagine he puts the phone down and is instantly appealed at what he has done. On one occasion he called back in the period before the appointment to cancel – and I cooly informed him that he was entitled to do so, but that if he did not go through with any booked appointment, he need never contact me again. He rang off on that occasion but called back two days later desperately begging for the appointment to be reinstated – although not as desperately as his cries when I later had the opportunity to explain with the cane how rude his behaviour had been. He has not repeated the attempt.

Steven always arrives promptly, of course and is well-dressed. I imagine he is something in the City or some other well-paid profession such as the law or medicine. I take little interest in my clients except as canvasses for the works of art I create with my cane.  He hands me the fee and removes socks and shoes. I then tell him exactly what I have planned: quite often it is six across the trousers, then a further six on the bare. I always provide the traditional multiples of six and have given up to twenty-four strokes in a single session but it is normally between six and eighteen. Six of course is relatively light and is handed out on very rare occasions to ‘regulars’ only because that way they have some faint hope of avoiding twelve; hope that is almost invariably dashed.

I usually apply the first six across the trousers and do not often start on the bare – although I always end up there – as I believe there should always be worse to come. It might seem that the cloth protection makes this initial caning less severe – and it is, but it is also subtly different, creating more of a widespread bruising effect than the slashing thin welts produced on the bare.  I use a heavier, less flexible, cane across the trousers and although all of my clients know full well that the later use of a whippier implement on their flesh will be a special kind of agony, they are still usually pleasingly (to me) shocked by the intensity that a caning across a cloth-covered seat can impose. Of course those later whippy strokes will be still worse for overlaying these horribly sore bruises.

I occasionally require counting or thanking me for each stroke, but only for those who need extra encouragement to experience fear from the relentless pace of the caning.  Steven is not among them – his fear is palpable and, for me, thoroughly enjoyable. To have a terrified man at one’s mercy – and to show none – gives me the most exquisite satisfaction.  My punishment room is soundproofed, of course. On the very rare occasions on which I have caned on ‘client premises’ so to speak, I always deploy a gag and I find it deeply unsatisfactory. I have also just occasionally gagged clients who – whether through foolishness or simply driven mad by the pain – have called me offensive names. I prefer not to hear that and although I suppose I could force silence with the promise of further strokes, I do not like to vary the punishment once commenced.

For a set across the bare, I often give Steven a version of a ‘cow and gate’ pattern, where an initial set of parallel, horizontal strokes, is then supplemented by slashing diagonals that overlay the previous ones. The simplest such gate has five parallels and one – awful – diagonal connecting them all, but I find a four plus two pattern to be more painful and thus preferably. Not only is the ultimately-painful diagonal doubled, in this way it must be experienced than anticipated and re-experienced, which is far worse than ‘taking it’ just once.

I know Steven will cry out with every stroke will be sobbing by the time we finish. Most satisfactory.

The caning complete, I put away the cane, unstrap one of his wrists and leave the room, going upstairs.  I prefer not to engage in conversation after a beating: I used to, but the clients would try to make light conversation, even comment on my technique. The change in mood was always jarring, so with trusted clients like Steven I simply leave them to make their own way out.  With one hand free, he can eventually unstrap himself and ease his battered and sore body off the bench. Every movement agony, of course.  I hear him take a shower: necessary, as he has sweated and cried so much.  Then I observe him heading across my front garden and down the road, walking slowly and stiffly.

I know he is thinking “never again – never again!”. He will be in great pain for a couple of days and sore for at least a week, during which he will swear over and over again nevermore to subject himself to this ordeal, never to forget how awful the reality of the experience is, no matter how compelling the fantasy.  But then his cravings will start to build up and in a couple of months will seem to him as unbearable as the pain he has felt today. And I will get another anxious, pleading call.

Some men desire to lick the boots of a girl brandishing a whip… or want a ‘Mummy’ like your wretched correspondent – and I don’t doubt there are ladies who will supply that service. My clients simply need to be beaten and I am very, very happy to oblige.

Yours sincerely

Governess Charlotte

Yes, the ‘fearing but craving’ male is my quarry too. Although I myself do go in for boot-licking and the use of a leather whip, I prefer to enslave males who find themselves hating the treatment and needing it, all at the same time. It is odd how men can be so complicated and yet also so very, very simple.  Keep up the good work!  Perhaps you could inform Steven on his next visit that, in thanks for providing the material for such an interesting account for my magazine, I have requested you give him double?  G-L. L.

To the majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your uncompromising approach to femdom makes me tremble in awe. I was wondering: have you ever accidentally killed a slave?

Humbly

Lucia’s acolyte

Accidentally? No. G-L. L.

Still in beta

Just a silly thing. See this too, if you like this sort of nonsense (and haven’t used up all the computer time she allows you).

Dungeon Creep 2 Early Access – Patch Notes for V0.8 update.

General

  • Game set-up now includes ‘Forced Bi’ options:OFF, MILD or ON. Affects gameplay in minor ways throughout but Missions “Boris” and “Hanging out with the boyfriends” are unavailable if Forced Bi is OFF and Missions “Drinks with the rugby team” and “Bring out the gimp” unavailable if set to OFF or MILD. Four new NPCs will be available as lesbian girlfriends to Mistresses if Forced Bi is set to OFF: Kitten, Lucy, Treasure and Brenda.
  • Real-time detentions. If this option is selected, detention, corner time and line-writing activities must be completed in a single sitting. Lines must be written continuously and during any corner time, sitting at desk with hands on hand and similar immobilisation, Player will be required occasionally to respond to required key-presses to confirm his presence. After an initial warning, a failed detention / line-writing task will reset and the game will not proceed until it is completed. This option may not be turned off during an uncompleted task.
  • Slaves may now be marked with tattoos (5 – 15 pain) or branding (70 – 90 pain). Marks may strengthen ownership bonds with Mistresses or simply confer humiliation (+10 to +20, permanent).
  • Mistress’s armpits are now playable body parts and can be shaved, kissed and licked. Mistresses can use armpits to carry out the Smothering action, similar to hands, and armpits may be Sweaty. Selecting ‘Armpits’ as a player fetish in the character selection phase confers triple Arousal for all armpit-related tasks and increases Ridicule from all NPCs.

Map

  • New area: Forest walk, featuring an extended pony track with hills (minimum 70 stamina recommended), mud puddles and paintball arena (see Missions, below).
  • New Area: Garbage Bins. Used in Daily Cleaning Tasks and Missions Obedience Training with Mistress Rita and Extreme Slave Feeding. Garbage bins require Cleaning, contents can be carried and slaves can be locked into bins. Note that garbage bins are among the places a discarded Chastity Key may be found.
  • New layout: floor grill in Main House Level 0 now allows feeding, pissing and mocking actions to be performed down onto slaves in cells 4 – 8 in Dungeon Level -1.
  • Three new bedrooms (Red Room, Spider’s Web and Cucky Corner) in Main House.
  • Increased the number of wall intersections that are classified as Punishment Corners.

Missions

  • New Mission (Level 5): Muddy Footprints. During an ordinary floor-scrubbing task, player notices a trail of muddy footprints. The player must identify and track down the Mistress with muddy boots and persuade her to allow him to clean them, all the while cleaning the floor to avoid increasing Displeasure in other Mistresses. On Hard / Impossible settings the mission will take place with hands tied behind player’s back.
  • New Mission (Level 8): Paintball. Mistresses may choose Paintball as a daytime or night-time activity after Level 7. Slaves run / hide in the outdoor paintball arena. Each paintball hit adds 5 pain (except Mistress Marissa who has a modified paintball gun inflicting 15). Three worst scoring slaves receive Punishment (60, 40 and 20, respectively). Note that being caught and immobilised with bondage, chains or cage does NOT prevent Mistresses continuing to shoot the player.

New skins / costumes / items

  • New player outfit: sissy maid frillies. An absurd pink, frou-frou confection entirely unsuited to serious housework. Confers +10 sexual excitement on the wearer but 20% higher chance of being judged improperly dressed, increasing Mistress Displeasure +30 – 60 (except Governess Tania, for whom it causes +80 Displeasure with certainty). Increases the chance that Mistresses (except Governess Tania) will assign lighter housework tasks.
  • Players attending the Schoolroom may now be dressed in girls’ school uniform instead of boys’: green knickers, knee socks, blouse, gymslip and tie. Additionally, hockey skirts will be worn for gym class. Confers increased humiliation and / or sexual excitement depending on player’s cross-dressing ability. Punishment will be earned for incorrect dress, including stains or rips inflicted by Bullies.
  • New chastity item: programmable zapper. Item combining the functions of remote control collar (upgradable) and chastity belt. Obedience +15 at all times when fitted and +20 Ownership bond with Mistress who owns the control. Note that if player is fitted with the remote control collar and programmable zapper, it is possible for him to be under the control of two Mistresses, possibly giving incompatible Commands. This is not a bug.
  • Clothing items worn next to skin may now contain inward-facing spikes (small, medium or large).
  • New flavours of dogfood (rabbit, turkey) and catfood (trout).
  • The following items are now considered food and may be consumed by slaves: pubic hair, toenail clippings, grass, gravel.
  • There are now several models of wooden stick, to make them harder to find when playing Fetch. Bringing Mistress the wrong stick will result in +20-60 Displeasure.

Bugfixes

  • Fixed occasional issue with Mistresses setting punishment lines exceeding the length of the text input box.
  • Fixed bug causing Mistress Elektra’s panties always to have period stains.
  • Adjusted item positioning and collision detection in Forest area, to prevent occasional issues with sticks being unreachable during Fetch games.
  • Fixed issue with Mistress Rita continually demanding tea.
  • Fixed issue with certain kinds of Mistresses’ boots being considered ‘clothing’ for the purposes of laundry tasks. Boots placed in washing machines will now become ruined (+80 Displeasure).
  • Fixed exploit where players fitted with Kali’s teeth and similar spiked chastity belts could get sexually aroused without suffering Pain increment.
  • Fixed the ‘infinite enema’ issue in the Nusing Station, in which certain liquids would flow without cease, regardless of the size of the enema bag.
  • Fixed issue with highly sadistic Mistresses (sadism 60 or higher) not deriving sexual pleasure from inflicting cigarette burns.
  • Reduced Displeasure multiple for Mistress Marissa to avoid occasional loop in which the player is immobilised with no means of reducing her Displeasure below 100.
  • Fixed issue of ponyslaves occasionally remaining permanently hitched to a carriage for the remainder of the game.
  • Fixed exploit where kitchen slaves could add dogfood or catfood to meals prepared for Mistresses without penalty.
  • Boots now need to be polished with the right colour polish, to complete Task (use of the wrong colour will incur Displeasure).

Players should note that Mistresses in the game are intended to be unreasonable and unfair in their behaviour, so considerable frustration is to be expected in normal play. Several aspects of gameplay that have been reported as bugs are deliberate including: players not given the time to complete tasks to deadline, or being restrained in ways that prevent delivery, Mistresses requiring tasks done to an impossible standard or deadline, players being blamed for inevitable outcomes (such as bathwater cooling down below a Mistress’s required temperature range, or Mistresses judging the quality of boot-cleaning only after walking across a muddy field) and so on.

Graphics

  • Improved textures for all types of leather, as well as various mud/spittle/semen staining effects during close-up bootlicking.
  • Improved reflections for latex, particularly after shining (may cause performance degradation in all but high-end systems).
  • Mistress jewellery (rings, bracelets, pendants and ear-rings) is now created as individual items, not merely modification of costumes.
  • Corner time now has unique textures for each corner, rather than generic walls.

Tweaks / rebalancing

  • Boot-licking now produces only 20% reduction in Mistress Displeasure, not 40%.
  • Player movement reduced by 20% per quart when retaining enemas.
  • Sexual Frustration can now increase without limit.
  • Slaves dangling on anal hooks may now be Faceslapped. Note that this removes an occasional problem in mission Show me How Sorry You Are, in which suspension on an anal hook prevented the player from Apologising sufficiently to Mistress Neeta, making it impossible to complete the mission.
  • Reduced detrimental effects of tight-laced corsets on player (Mistress corsets are purely decorative without equivalent effects).
  • Receiving strokes from a whip during Pony Racing now adds +30 Speed and raises Stamina limit +20 for 10 seconds.
  • Ashtray slaves may now be required to dispose of chewing gum or any item consumable by slaves.
  • Punishment lines now only use ordinary letters and punctuation, no symbols (Mistress Elektra still sets lines in Greek script).
  • Wearing a corset now diminishes Stamina by 10 – 40 points.
  • Ballbusting is now an Activity, not always a Punishment.
  • Displeasure reduction from Grovelling and other Pleading actions halved (Pleading penalty with Sadistic Mistresses is unchanged).
  • Obedience boost from electric shocks now double the Pain increase, for all shock collars and similar worn electric devices (unchanged for external implements such as cattle prods).
  • Movement penalty from wearing humbler decreased to -70%. All Tasks not requiring running can now be completed possible while wearing humblers, although not necessarily within the time allowed by task-setting Mistresses.
  • Pain increments from whipping rebalanced to decrease Pain from riding crops, increase pain from bullwhips, cat o’nine tails and single-tailed whips. Pain per stroke from Mistress Taylor’s monogrammed quirt reduced by 40% but whipping speed + 25%.
  • Mistresses will now come more frequently during lesbian sex.
  • Boots, shoes, socks and feet now acquire +5 Stinkiness from each 60 seconds kicking a slave.
  • All chastity durations increased by 20%.

Call for playtesters! FD Gaming is working on integrating Dungeon Creep 2 with the Safekeeper 9000 remote chastity device. We are looking to recruit beta-testers (in possession of a Safekeeper 9000 or prepared to purchase one) as we iron out the bugs in this exciting new development in DC2 gameplay. Please email us at the usual address to apply. Note that all beta-testers will be required to sign a waiver absolving FD Gaming from liability for any harm resulting from the testing.

The images accompanying this nonsense are of course from ‘Saints’ Row: Enter The Dominatrix’, which I am sure is very lovely but does tend to appear rather too often in my web searches for real world stuff. Personally, I prefer quieter games, like housework simulators and line-writing programmes.

The Eternal Blacksmith

Some years ago I wrote a story called The Lovelorn Blacksmith, which quite a few people seem to think is the best thing I’ve ever written. A low bar, but there is no bar so low I can’t try to slither under it, so, like Hollywood, I decided it would be easier to write a sequel than bother to come up with a new idea.

If you liked The Lovelorn Blacksmith you… well, you might like this or you might not. It’s rather different in tone even though it continues the story directly from where ‘Blacksmith 1’ left off. That story was a pure love story, with anything vicious, violent and sadistic happening off-screen, so to speak, and merely hinted at. That’s lovely – same vibe as Turning Points, in some ways – but you can’t maintain that kind of Niles-and-Daphne ambiguity for ever. I can’t anyway. So this one is much more explicit and many times nastier. It is still about the pure flame of true love, very much so, but it also features a lot of other uses for flame, many of them extremely painful. In fact, it’s not at all far off a Serena and Alice story.

Contains images of torture, death and over-uses the word ‘agony’ extensively. If you don’t like that, well…. quite possibly you might not want to spend so much time on this blog that so often features fantasies of extreme non-consensual BDSM? I mean, there are blogs that don’t – some are about golf, for instance, or flower-arranging. I’ve heard there may even be blogs devoted solely to amusing videos of cats, though I can’t say I’ve ever found one. Anyway, just think about it, yeah?

It really is a direct sequel so do go and read the first, if you haven’t.

The blacksmith soon adjusted to his new life.  Melissa and Harriet’s cottage turned out to have an extensive cellar where he was helped into the heavy shackles he had brought and allowed to use his tools to hammer flat the fastenings, rendering them permanent. The young ladies’ lifestyle was unusual, to say the least, involving as it did the enslavement of young males (the blacksmith was pleased to see that the ladies had rescued the missing young lads from the wild beasts of the forest) and frequent use of whips or other implements of chastisement to make them work. The blacksmith felt he needed no such stimulus to work himself to the bone for the divine Melissa, but the ladies – Harriet especially – seemed to believe strongly that males needed frequent beating, which he accepted as stoically as he could at the hands of the vicious Harriet and with joy and pride on the very rare occasions when she was unavailable to apply the lash and Melissa reluctantly took on the task.

The ladies shared a bedroom to which they would happily retire at almost any hour of the day. Harriet often seemed to feel the need to grab the hand of her housemate and drag her away to bed, especially after administering one or more particularly brutal whippings. Despite the hours spent in the bedroom, the two ladies did not seem to get a lot of sleep, giggling and shrieking happily together all through the night, while the chained-up males eyed one another nervously and grunted pointlessly through the gags they habitually wore.

This isn’t actually a picture of Melissa and Harriet, but it’s very like them. The Harriet-like lady on the right looks dressed for hunting, so those fierce beasts had better watch out!

Soon enough the ladies started to put the blacksmith’s skills to use, setting up a miniature forge and anvil for him to create in metal. Their first request was for branding irons, which caused the blacksmith to quail. In his profession he had too often encountered the momentary agony of an accidental burn: the initial, breathtaking searing shock and then afterwards the long burning pain of the injured flesh, seeming to burn on no matter how much water or cream might be applied – sometimes for days. The thought of being subjected to that deliberately – of the hot iron being held against the skin with no possibility of jerking away – was unbearable. He had always been reluctant to construct such things even for farmyard animals but he was in no doubt who would be the recipient of these irons of torture. But Melissa explained to him how much she wanted their marks put on the men they were so proud to possess and this was enough in itself to change his mind – and just to make sure, Harriet applied her own form of persuasion, until he screamed out his acquiescence to his owners’ wishes.

He created a beautiful, curling, intertwined M&H brand to the ladies’ design, well aware that every curliqueue and flourish would further multiply the agony. His fears were fully realised when the brand was first applied to one of the rescued lads, who had been secured very tightly over a bench near the forge where the brand glowed red hot. There was a sizzle and a horrible smell followed almost instantly by a scream that the blacksmith thought must pierce the very heavens (but in fact was confined to the cosy moss-covered cellar, as the ladies had intended when they constructed it), followed by such animal-like howling as almost to justify the abusive treatment of this flesh as belonging to something less than human.

Harriet, who had applied the brand, went white and whispered “Oh my…”. The blacksmith thought for a second that she had finally encountered a cruelty against which even she could find a conscience in opposition, but instead she merely dropped the brand on the stone floor, grabbed Melissa by the wrist and dragged her soundlessly and urgently towards the bedroom.

The others received their marks over the next few weeks. Melissa wanted the branding completed quickly but gave in to her friend’s pleas to “spread it out a bit – pace ourselves.”

When it came to his turn, the blacksmith was surprised to hear a shrieking wail of despair as the letters burned his flesh and still more surprised to realise it was his own. Then he spent several hours bellowing like a bull, and struggling pointlessly against the restraints, at the agony he could not escape, while the ladies busied themselves in the neighbouring bedroom.  It had been as bad – worse – than his fears. But a few days later, when the pain had dulled to a bearable throb, he caught sight of his backside in a mirror and experienced a surge of pride at seeing the ‘M’ so prominently emblazoned there (he would have preferred it without the H, but had had little choice in the matter).

He also fashioned intricate and ingenious cages for each of the captive males’ penises, to a design by Melissa, as Harriet preferred not to think about such male organs, except as opportunities to inflict pain. He had initially been sceptical, as these steel creations were considerably smaller than the leather restraints which the ladies had been using, but with some skill and much determination, each of the lads’ members was finally forced into its rigid container. His own such device was heavy, wrought of thick crude iron, as the ladies considered it more appropriate for his (admittedly impressive) organ. It weighed down his every move and constantly pulled, but the blacksmith simply told himself that this was the aching tug of his love Melissa and came to accept this, too, with pride.

Another successful rescue operation – a pile of boys all safe and sound beneath Melissa and Harriet’s cottage in the woods. Just as well – there are some dangerous things living in those woods. Very dangerous indeed… as we shall see.

***

Now, one night when the ladies were sleeping peacefully in their bed and the slaves were sleeping less comfortably shackled to the stone floor of their pen, there came a terrible shouting and smashing sound from outside the cottage. The ladies quickly pulled on gowns and hurried upstairs and looked out, to see flames lighting the sky and agricultural implements being waved by a mob of townsfolk outside.

“Witches!  Burn the witches!” they heard, across of a cacophony of yells and cries.  Three burly men from the village were busy pounding on the cottage door with hammers, while all around the ladies could see faces distorted with yells of hatred and fear, as flaming torches dimly illuminated placards demanding the deaths of the foul witches of the forest.

There was no time to resist, as almost before the ladies could think about what to do, the cottage door burst open with a splintering crash and the mob were inside – and held Harriet and Melissa, vainly protesting that they were not witches, fast.  They had left the hatch down to the cellar open, so very soon some intrepid villagers ventured down, then returned to report grimly on their enslaved compatriots and the torture chamber (not to mention a bedchamber of thoroughly perverted female lust) that they had seen.  The lads were joyously freed but when it came to the blacksmith’s turn, he roared in rage, smiting the village-folk around him with his dangling chains and his burly arms felled strong men to left and to right as he tried to force his way through the yelling, stampeding crowd to where Melissa was being carried off.  But eventually sheer weight of numbers subdued even this mighty warrior and he full unconscious beneath the blows of the crowd, as they shouted that he must have been bewitched by the foul sorceresses.

He awoke in tighter restraints than ever, standing but unable to move his wrists, arms, ankles or legs, so firmly had the villagers wrapped leather cords around him, to keep him from harming them under the spell by which they so firmly believed he had been enraptured. To his horror, in front of him Melissa was staggering as she was pulled to and fro by angry villagers, her white cotton shift torn and her face streaked with tears as she frantically proclaimed their innocence.

“I’m not a witch – we’re not witches!  There’s no such thing as witches, that’s all just a folk tale used by the patriarchy to oppress independent and creative women!”

She paused, gulped back tears, and her pure blue eyes shone as she stared straight into the face of the ringleader – whom the blacksmith recognised as the village cobbler – and asked plaintively “Do I look like a witch?”

The cobbler stared back at her golden locks and angelic visage.

“No, mayhap not.” He growled.

Then he cast his gaze over to the raven-haired Harriet, dressed all in black and standing upright in silence, glaring malevolently around her. She seemed somehow to chill the air and the villagers holding her did so at a distance, as if handling a poisonous snake.

“But she does. Burn her!”

This isn’t Harriet of course but the lady in the picture is modelling one of Harriet’s favourite dresses. As you can tell, she went through a bit of a ‘Goth’ phase in her youth and still likes the style. Unlike witches, which everyone knows don’t exist, there is such a thing as goths.

The mob yelled in righteous fury and seized the grimly unresisting Harriet and dragged her over to what the blacksmith realised was a pile of dry wood with a small wooden platform atop, not two yards from where he himself stood bound. Melissa’s shrieks of horror as her unresisting friend was bound to the stake by her wrists were like a dagger in his heart.

“No – no let her go!  She’s done nothing! What proof do you have – you have no proof, you cannot have proof because there’s no such thing as witches!” Melissa was pleading, as her delicate body struggled helplessly in the grip of three strong villagers.

Soon enough, the horrible spectacle was ready and torches were thrust forward, causing flames to spring up from the dry wood. Through the crackling flames and smoke the blacksmith could see that Harriet had somehow worked her wrists free, but she was surrounded by a curtain of flame, with no hope of escape. Tears welled up in his eyes as he heard Melissa’s frantic and exhausted cries for help for her dear friend… and he made a decision.

He could not move his arms and legs, but he could shake himself free of the post to which he was loosely tied, to topple over. And he could not do much directly to help poor Harriet but he could at least provide… a bridge across the flames. Leaving himself no time at all to think of the consequences of what he was doing, he lurched his great form in the direction of the now furiously-burning pyre and fell sideways, the flaming embers of the glowing and burning wood rushing up to meet him as he threw the only thing he had – himself – over the flames to provide Harriet with a means of escape.

In these same few split seconds, when the blacksmith’s attention was focused solely on his imminent self-immolation, many other things happened. Had he been able to hear, over the shouting of the mob and the crackling of the terrible flames, he would have heard his beloved Melissa say “Right then” quietly and he might have seen her calmly raise her head.

If he had, he might have noticed that her cool blue eyes had become a fiery red, outshining the flames themselves in crimson fury. He might have observed her flesh start to glow with an eerie golden light and he certainly would have noticed the fifty-foot high phantom in Melissa’s own image that appeared in the sky above them.

The possessed fury that Melissa had become began to chant and around her flashes of lightning sparked.  The three men who had lit the fire with their torches seemed transfixed and then found themselves slowly rising into the air, before descending onto their own pitchforks, skewered from anus to mouth and yet somehow – and obviously agonisingly – still alive.

The rest of the villagers ran, with the exception of the cobbler, whose boots, which he himself had made, were suddenly transfixed with large iron nails, literally nailing his feet into the ground.  In the sky, the phantom Melissa turned in the direction of the village, which seemed to be undergoing a bombardment of flaming rocks, and cast a wispy arm in the direction of the fleeing mob, each of whom gradually stopped, unable to move first his feet, then his legs, then his torso, as a gradual, creeping petrification turned their twisted, horrified forms to immobile stone. Melissa’s chanting, although quiet, somehow seemed also to be the loudest thing in the universe, as the power she channelled electrified and froze the world for miles around.

The blacksmith perceived none of this; he was feeling nothing but an agony which made the branding he had so unwillingly received some months before seem as nothing. His body lay fully stretched out on the furiously-burning pyre, his head lying above a crackling white-hot log just next to the platform where stood Harriet. Despite the overwhelming assault on his senses from the pain, he could smell the same acrid odour of charring flesh that he had during the brandings: he knew he was being cooked alive. Then he felt Harriet’s bare foot daintily feeling out his head, as she tested this bridge across the flames that had so unexpectedly appeared. Satisfied, she put all her weight onto it, pressing his head firmly down onto the burning log and blinding him instantly in a right eye that was forced against the red-hot embers with a terrible squelching hissing sound. Then her other foot stepped on his back, impelling his rapidly-blackening chest deeper into the nest of flames, and so on down his body as she walked deliberately, without panic, across her human bridge, then ran over to where Melissa was standing in the centre of a swirling mist of occult matter, lit by unearthly flashes of arcane power, her eyes still burning crimson.

Harriet took Melissa’s glowing hands in her own and whispered. “Come back now, Melissa, my love. It’s OK. I’m all right. Everything’s all right now. Please don’t leave me.”

The figure that had been her lover stared back at her through opaque flaming eyes. Harriet tried again, gazing anxiously into the pools of liquid fire that had been the eyes of her lover. “Come back” she murmured again, “Come back to me.” And she squeezed her friend’s hands tighter.

Suddenly, the occult swirling began to dissipate and a moment later, Melissa shook her head and looked straight back into her friend’s eyes, her own eyes their normal shade of blue.

“What happened… did I… did She…?”

Harriet nodded and embraced her friend. “Yes, but it’s all right now.  It’s all all right.” She glanced up. The monstrous apparition had gone and a few brave birds were beginning to venture their song.

“Oh” screamed Melissa, at the sight of the blacksmith’s charring, twitching body atop the still-burning pyre.

“Oh yes.” Harriet said. “ That happened too. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.”

“You and you!” she pointed to the formerly enslaved, then freed, now re-enslaved lads who had been cowering against the wall while all this was happening.  “Pull him out!”

Not without difficulty, the blacksmith’s smoking form was dragged from the flames and turned to face upwards. Much of his ragged remnants of clothing was on fire, but when those had been torn off or stamped out, Melissa leaned over him and gazed into what remained of his face, her eyes brimming with tears.

The blacksmith was, remarkably, still conscious. The pain had grown so great as almost to separate his mind from reality, and yet he had held on. He knew he was dying. He welcomed it, as release from his agony and as a triumph of his love for Melissa, as he had so willingly given his life to save her friend. Yes, he thought, as his beloved mistress’s tearful face was swallowed up by the encroaching blackness of eternity… death in this moment of ecstasy is a sweet, sweet release from this unbearable pain… it is all that I desire…

Then he sensed a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth. Some liquid was being poured in, from a little vial. “This won’t ease his pain, but it will at least save his life” he heard Melissa say.

“That’s good” he heard Harriet reply and that was the last thing the blacksmith heard for a while, as the pain returned, washing over his body like a flood and drowning him in agony.

***

The ladies were busy in the weeks that followed. Firstly, there were the skewered villagers who had lit Harriet’s pyre to be dealt with.  Harriet set up a turning spit above a bed of embers, and roasted them each very slowly, occasionally paring off a delicate body part too. Each took about three days, before succumbing to blissful death, to Harriet’s annoyance. Three days of roasting, screaming and pleading – and of course three days during which an increasingly giggly Melissa was led off to the bedroom by a wildly excited Harriet. Harriet tried to pace herself, as she put it, but could only hold out a few days before hoisting the next culprit up onto the spit and beginning the process again.

Then it was the cobbler’s turn.  Harriet was more careful with him. He had, undoubtedly, been the instigator of the whole thing, so his culpability was much greater than that of his accomplices – and his punishment should be correspondingly more severe.  Harriet used every trick she knew to exact the maximum in agony, while keeping her subject alive as long as possible – if the state of pleading, shrieking horror in which the cobbler spent his days could be called ‘living’. But after about three weeks, the blackened, bruised scraps of remaining flesh and exposed bone finally gave the cobbler’s spirit its longed-for release.

Harriet was disconsolate for a day or two. The blacksmith, through his one partially-functioning ear, could hear her occasionally wheedling to her (and his) beloved Melissa. “Please ?  Pleasepleaseplease…?”

Eventually, Melissa must have relented, because she curled her fingers slightly, her eyes very briefly took on the merest hint of crimson, and the cobbler was back, healthy and hale, chained naked to the wall.  He glanced down at his unmarked, unharmed body in shock, then looked up, saw Harriet smiling at him and began to scream in uncontrollable terror.

And so it went on.  Harriet had never been able to work on a victim over multiple lives before and gradually learnt everything there was to know about the cobbler’s body and how it experienced pain. Over hundreds, then thousands of resurrections (because, once the villainous man had expired a second time, Melissa knew better than to try to resist her lover’s pleading looks) the cobbler discovered not only that the dread of known, repeated, expected tortures was almost as bad as the pain itself, he also discovered that clever Harriet’s capacity for inventing entirely new ways to make him suffer seemed inexhaustible.

And what of the blacksmith?  His body had been ruined beyond all repair by his noble act. Of course, once he had seen the first resurrection of the doomed cobbler, he had wanted to know whether the same could be done for him (without the ensuing torture, of course) and once his parched, shrivelled vocal chords had managed to croak that out enough to be understood, his beloved Melissa had had to explain that to make him whole would cheapen what was for her the most cherished memory of his sacrifice to save her friend.  She could not bring herself to change what was, for her, the most inspiring possession she owned: his blackened, twisted and ruined form that so perfectly embodied his noble sacrifice.  To have restored him would have removed a symbol of the two people in this world she loved, she explained tearfully.

Two people she loved, the blacksmith thought, in the depths of his damaged consciousness. Two. And he felt happier than he had felt in all his life.

They made use of him as a table, one of the other slaves rigging up a sort of wooden frame on which his broken body was fixed. It wasn’t a very good table, being knobbly rather than flat and prone to shuddering as the aches and pains from that long-ago self-sacrifice racked the blacksmith’s shattered nervous system. Yet Melissa loved to spend her evenings sitting before him, sewing and mending, while her lover tortured the cobbler on the other side of the room and he felt a sense of total fulfillment and contentment in supporting her thread, cloth and sewing instruments as she did so.

Once he felt Harriet sit before him and he heard her say “Oooh – pins!” delightedly. He steeled himself as he felt her fingers exploring some of his few remaining areas of unblackened flesh but then, to his surprise, he felt no sharp jabbing.

“Oh all right, I suppose you did save my life” he heard her grumble, and she patted him absent-mindedly then wandered off, gently rattling the box of pins. A few moments later, a series of shrieks from outside told him that she was trying out her needlework skills on one of the house slaves instead.

And so the happy trio – Harriet, Melissa and the table that used to be a blacksmith – endured.  So too, did the unlucky cobbler. The months became years, the years decades… perhaps the decades even centuries. Yet all four of them stayed youthful as ever.  The house slaves got older and occasionally Melissa and Harriet would set off with their hunting gear and rescue a few more lads from wild beasts to replenish the herd. But they all lived happily ever after – except the cobbler, obviously, who hated and regretted every second of his infinitely prolonged existence. The ladies stopped thinking of the blacksmith as a blacksmith, he was just Melissa’s favourite sewing table. But she never forgot why it was her favourite table, and would occasionally stroke the burnt stubs of his hair on his scorched scalp, while the blacksmith, for his part, rejoiced at his luck in being the happiest remnant of a man (still just about) alive.

THE END

Just thought you might like to see a picture of the cobbler. This is a special place the ladies dug for him (well… made the males dig for him) because the sight of him disturbs the other slaves. In this picture he’s well over a hundred years old! Looking good for his age and still screaming every day with all the vigour of a young man experiencing extreme torture.

Epilogue

What of the neighbouring village, you might ask? Well, having been subjected to a bombardment of flaming rocks and brimstone, and having had about half of its men turned to stone, it endured a few difficult years, it’s true. It had been cursed for eternity: the few children born were stunted and deformed, no crops would grow and all the animals… well, they did not die, since the author of the curse loved animals too much, but they wandered off to live happy lives elsewhere. Worst of all, every so often, one male inhabitant over the age of 16 – apparently selected at random – would wake up screaming as the words “There’s no such thing as witches” appeared on his back, burned into his flesh one slow and agonising letter at a time from an unseen, invisible brand. So the menfolk went to bed each night in perpetual terror. In all these ways, the remaining villagers had ample opportunity to regret their rallying to the cobbler’s cause.  However, no recourse to the ladies of the forest was possible, as the village was surrounded by a shimmering dome of magical light, which prevented the villagers leaving, although anyone else could come and go.

However, the human spirit is resilient and the villagers soon found a way to profit from their self-induced misfortune. The towering mystical figure dispensing firebolts that night, as well as the continuing shimmering dome, had attracted considerable interest in the region, so the villagers established a tourism business.  The stone villagers fleeing Melissa’s wrath, the impact craters and burnt-out dwellings all over the village and the male villagers showing off their scorched backs all became attractions in the ‘No Such Thing as Witches Experience’, for which visitors willingly paid. 

And so the villagers, after a day spent recounting the horrors of the encounter in the forest to their rapt visitors, would retire to their vulnerable hovels and regard the skies warily. “There’s no such thing as witches” they told each other. “There’s no such thing as witches” they told their children. And each huddled up alone on their bed each night, whispering “There’s no such thing as witches” over and over again until they fell into an exhausted, nervous sleep.

For there is no such thing as witches, and it is very, very important to remember that.

REALLY THE END

A picture created by one of the villagers. It’s not particularly good and the few other surviving villagers who witnessed the apparition say that it fails to capture the scale, the power and the sheer malevolence of the figure but it’s the only picture we have. The creator titled it Definitely Not a Witch and it hangs in the village art gallery, along with works such as Distant view of the cottage of those nice ladies who live in the forest, Strange but entirely natural meteorological phenomena that seem to prevent all our crops from growing nowadays and of course No cobbler: no new shoes!

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.

 

 

 

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