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]

 

Is this a picture of Harriet and Angela during their school days (before Angela got her prefect’s tie but after, just to reiterate, their eighteenth birthdays)?  Hard to say… it certainly looks like them.  But those skirts aren’t regulation length, they’re both wearing blazers that are clearly several sizes too small for them and those shoes!  I mean quite apart from not conforming to the school’s heel length policy, they’re thoroughly impractical.  How would the girls join in a jolly lunch-break game of British Bulldog (Angela especially used to love being one of the bulldogs: grabbing other girls as they tried to run past and holding them tight), wearing those monstrosities? So I think it must be two adult porn models who just look a bit like them.


 

 

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

 

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


 

Yes, Madam Minister

 

 

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

 

 

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

 Security classification: confidential policydev. Female eyes only.

Hi Tilly

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

Main points from the comms girls:

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

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

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

Kiss kiss

Lindy

 

Rt. Hon. Linda Harcourt, GCMG

Special Political Advisor to the Prime Minister

Prime Minister’s Office

10 Downing St

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

 

 

 

The woodsman and the findomme

 

 

In one of the comments in the last few days, someone was kind enough to say that my little captions sometimes manage to be both witty and erotic.  I mention this, not to show off (but it was a very kind thing to say, as this is usually exactly the combination I aim at) but merely as a segue to allow me to note that the tale below is neither witty nor erotic.  

On the contrary, it is a thoroughly unpleasant story (and not in a ‘good’ way).   Femdom-themed in parts, but not sexy.  Sorry.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.

 

Once upon a time there was a poor woodsman.  Every day he would rise with the sun and haul his axe off into the forest to chop trees and branches to sell for a few coppers in town.  It was hard work but he loved being outdoors, whether in the warm sunshine of the summer or even the fresh morning frost of the autumn.  In winter, he holed up in his snug cabin, a fire always burning merrily in the hearth, and rested and dreamed.  He was well-liked in the town for he was known for his bravery and had several times wielded his axe to help clear fallen trees, to rescue townspeople from collapsed buildings and even on one occasion to save a child from her burning home, delivering her safely to her crying, grateful mother.  Yes, although poor, the woodsman was contented with his life.

There was only one shadow over his happiness, one yearning he could not fulfill: the woodsman craved to be humiliated and ruined by a findomme.  Yes, when finally resting exhausted after a day chopping wood, or when snuggled down in his warm winter quarters, the woodsman’s hand would move down to his hardening cock and he would dream of spiteful, vicious young ladies taking everything he owned, on nothing more than a whim, and laughing their golden tinkling laughs at his humiliation and shame.  But the woodsman knew that no findomme would ever be interested in raping his meagre coin-purse for the few coppers it contained, or in demanding nine-tenths of his monthly income to spend on fripperies, as even with the last tenth added, few fripperies indeed can be bought for the proceeds of a woodsman’s labour.  And so the woodsman could only dream, but his dreams at least were rich – with humiliation, cruelty, beauty and disdain in equal measure.

Now, one fine spring morning the woodsman was far from home, seeking out an oak of great girth for a special commission from a rich merchant in town, who wanted a table made from a single tree-trunk.  (How the woodsman envied the merchant the wealth he could glimpse through the gateway of his grand house; how he would have loved to lay the titles to that fine house and all its rich furnishings at the feet of a beautiful and contemptuous young lady, to be picked up and taken without a word of thanks or even acknowledgement!).  After three hours, he came across a clearing, where stood the greatest oak he had seen in all his years of toil: seven yards around at least.  He took his axe from his backpack, took position next to the gnarled wood and prepared for the first of what he knew would be hundreds of hard, biting strokes, when an ethereal voice rang out across the clearing.

‘Woodsman spare my home!’ it called and a shimmering green shape appeared somehow formed from the change movements of the leaves of the tree.  A beautiful young lady, fine featured and elegant, yet with a face formed into a cry of horror and fear.

He knew of such things, although had never before seen one.  A spirit of the tree – a dryad – was here and if he chopped down the oak, she would live the rest of her days stunted and deformed, trapped in the bare and chastened tree trunk that would remain after the glory of the living tree had been lost.  Some woodsmen believed dryads to be evil spirits, others held that they were noble princesses imprisoned by some magic from the deep times, but all respected their power.  Our woodsman simply had no desire to deprive any creature of her home, no matter how humble or exalted, so he put down his axe.

‘Ah, and now you claim your reward! A wish, that I must grant to clear my debt to you.’ the dryad sang out.  But he merely smiled, shook his head and prepared to resume his search for an oak of the size he needed.  He wanted no part of a magical bargain, having read too many fairy tales to believe that any good would come of it.

‘Oh?  Is there nothing you yearn for?  No deepest wish, no secret heart’s desire?’

The woodsman paused, a vision of a shapely foot, clad in a delicate jewel-encrusted shoe that would have cost more than ten generations of woodmen could ever earn, had forced its way to the forefront of his mind.

‘Ah – I see there is!  Tell me, tell all!  By the nine sacred branches of Father Oak, I command it.’

And the woodsman poured out his heart to her – at first reluctantly but then with increasing enthusiasm as the images tumbled one atop the other in his mind’s eye.  He spoke of feminine radiance and contempt, of pay-piggies crushed beneath elegant heels, of priceless gifts spurned, of bodies and souls broken on the wheel of girlish cruelty and indifference.  In short, there in the otherwise empty clearing, he spoke of his dreams of financial domination and sang of the findomme princess of his dreams.

When he had finished the dryad was silent for a moment.

‘I see’ she said at last.  ‘Not quite what I am used to, I have to say.  But I suppose it’s doable.’

‘You can bring a findomme princess here, to ruin me now?’ he asked eagerly.

The dryad laughed and her laughter was like the breeze moving through autumn leaves.

‘What would be the point in that?  You’re not rich.’

‘Well, you could… make me rich.’ The woodsman replied.  ‘And I could give it to her.’

‘Perhaps’ the dryad remarked.  ‘But there is little humiliation in simply handing over a pile of gold that I magic up here.  In any case, that would be two wishes, technically.  No: leave it to me.’

And she disappeared, leaving only a tree – more massive than any other in the forest but still only a tree – and a very bewildered woodsman.  He waited for an hour to see if she would return, then went off to seek another oak to cut.  He was lucky and soon found one, worked all day, dragged the heavy cut trunk into town and received a small silver coin for his efforts.  Still fired up by his visions from earlier, he immediately went to hand this to one of the town prostitutes hanging around behind the main square who, knowing his desires, slapped his face and threw it down to the ground for him to pick up and offer to her more humbly.  Then she took the coin, kicked him in the face as she knew he liked and walked off, wishing she were young and pretty enough to make a career of this, rather than the blow-jobs and late-night knee-tremblers in the nearby alleys that were her stock in trade.  And the woodsman went home.

Two days later there was a knock on the door of his forest hovel.  On opening it, the woodsman was amazed to see three men dressed in the livery of the local lord.  He was still more amazed when they explained that he was the distant heir of a minor branch of the local nobility and that all the land around – the forest, which covered three valleys and innumerable hills – belonged to him.  One of the men was a ‘financial counselor’ and promised to help the woodsman decide what was best, to manage his newfound estate.

It was all very complicated.  More complicated than chopping wood, the woodsman decided, with bewilderment.  The land itself was valuable enough, worth a greater sum than the woodsman had imagined, but the annual returns were low, since few of the farmers or woodsmen who paid tithes had much income, although their numbers were many.  Better by far – the financial counselor explained – to sell or lease it for ‘development’.  This was a word the woodsman was unfamiliar with, but it seemed to mean bringing in machines and many people to extract the riches that lay beneath the ground.

‘Gold?’ the woodsman asked, eagerly, thinking of grovelling before an indifferent goddess and offering her gleaming jewellery from shaking hands.

But the counselor laughed and shook his head.  Better than that, he explained: there was oil in great profusion, albeit locked inside shale beds that needed fracking to break open, and perhaps veins of heavy metals that could be leached from their deposits with the correct application of the right chemicals, in sufficient quantity.  The woodsman understood little of this, but the counselor mentioned some financial figures ‘Just as a minimum, ball-park estimate’ and the woodsman realised that he could become one of the richest men in the kingdom.  With wealth like that at his disposal, all of the most beautiful women in the kingdom would be queuing up to spurn him and treat him with the contempt he so craved.  He barely paused, before grabbing the proffered pen and signing up to become a 50 % joint venture partner in a company called ‘Deposit Resource Yields – Advancing Development’, which would carry out these exciting plans.

Whoever owned the other 50% seemed not to need the woodsman to do anything, because later that same day a convoy of yellow vehicles and machinery arrived, all emblazoned with ‘DRYAD’ on the side and they began their work.  Great bulldozers cleared trees at a thousand times the rate even an army of woodcutters could have managed.  The lumber was machine-cut and ground into sawdust to make chipboard for cheap furniture, while steamrollers flattened the land for mighty roads laid down by hot, towering asphalt-burners, which lit the sky with their flames while pouring out the sticky black tar that coagulated to form the surface of the roads.  Along these roads came more machines, to construct buildings for the many workers whose shouts and obscene jokes filled the air as they too laboured, to install drilling and injection machines, across the three valleys and the surrounding hills.  The sky darkened with the fumes from their activities.

Then the drilling began, with a roar like ten thousand shrieking banshees, and great vats of chemicals were positioned to be pumped in to the ground, to lubricate the drills, to crack open the seams of slate to liberate the precious oil within and to leach heavy metals from their deep veins, to be collected by mighty open-cast mining rigs.

The trees that had not been turned to sawdust lost their leaves within days, birds died in their hundreds or fled, the streams and rivers first bloomed with sickly algae, which then itself died back leaving nothing but black water stinking of corruption and decay.  After a couple of weeks, the air stank of smoke, of choking chemical fumes, of electrical discharges and of death.

Looking sadly out over the blackened, blasted hillside one day, the woodsman remembered the townspeople, in shock.  He put on the protective rubber boots and respiration mask that the workman respectfully offered to him and hurried down into town.  He walked down the main street, seeing no one.  Most of the houses were boarded up, and when he knocked on those that were not, he was greeted only with cries of hatred and rejection, when the inhabitant realised who it was.  The townspeople knew of his inheritance and how he had delivered their land and their livelihoods over to destruction, for personal gain. 

The woodsman came to the place where the prostitute had plied her trade, but there was nothing but a bare stretch of ground, worn and marked by the high heels of generations of prostitutes but now unoccupied. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a haggard shopkeeper, grimly winding down his store-front blind, eying him with contempt.

‘Wait!’ the woodsman called.  ‘Did she… I mean where has…?’ and he gestured helplessly at the empty pavement.

The shopkeeper shook his head, slowly.  ‘Syphilis’  he replied, hoarsely.  ‘The workers who came with the machines… soon enough all the working girls got it.  Not a pretty death.  But then – what death is?’

And he resumed winding down the blind, keeping eye contact until he disappeared from view behind the blank screen that left the woodsman feeling utterly alone.

He wandered back towards his home, meeting on the way a cart piled with the meagre possessions of what must have been at least three families: the children and infirm grandparents clinging grimly to it, while adults walked and took turns to push, alongside.

‘Hey’ he called out desperately.  ‘Hey there!’

The sad little procession paused, and all turned to look at him.  One of the women lifted her chin slightly, staring straight at him as if to appoint herself spokeswoman for them all.  But none said a word.

‘I… I can help!’ he cried out.  ‘See – see I have money!  I can help.’  And he drew out a soft kid leather bag of thick gold coins and started to untie the cord, with shaking hands.

The woman stepped forward, lowered her head and spat, once, at his feet.  Then she turned away and the group resumed their trudging, all without speaking or even looking back.

Back at his hut the woodsman looked out at the blackened, poisoned hillside where once had been trees and flowers, butterflies and birdsong, life and laughter.  Beyond it, in the valley, huge machines rumbled and roared, shaking the ground and blackening the sky.

‘What have I done?’ the woodsman cried out in horror at the ugliness of the outside and his sudden realisation of the ugliness of the soul inside him that had created it. ‘Oh, what have I done?’

And he collapsed to the ground, sobbing helplessly in his shame and his chagrin.  His tears fell from his hot, quivering cheeks and splashed onto…

…a shapely foot of greenish but flawless complexion, girt with an ankle strap of golden twine.

He looked up in shock, at the beautiful face of the dryad, gazing down on him with an indecipherable expression on her face.

‘I… I only wanted to be rich!’ he gasped.  ‘So I could… you know, be ruined by a callous female.’

‘But you were rich’ smiled the dryad.  ‘You were rich in the forests that surrounded you with beauty; you were rich in the gratitude of the people whom you had helped; and, above all, you were rich in the contentment you enjoyed, in a life that you knew to be worth living.  You were rich beyond the dreams of kings and emperors.’

‘And now…’ the woodsman groaned, slowly, the dawning realisation in his reddened eyes…‘Now I have…’

‘Nothing.’ replied the dryad.  ‘You have nothing.’

‘Nothing’ he acknowledged, hollowly.

There was silence for a moment.

‘Would you like me to put things back how they were?’ the dryad asked, sweetly.  ‘Before you visited my clearing, before you made your wish, before you destroyed everything in your desire for a findomme princess?’

‘Yes – yes, put it back how it was!’ the woodsman cried desperately.

‘Hmm’ the dryad replied.  ‘Maybe.’

‘Beg.’

The woodsman kissed the ground before her feet frantically, piteously begging with all the humility and desperation that filled his otherwise empty existence.  He pleaded and beseeched with all his soul, shaking with the guilt and the helpless self-loathing that was all he felt inside.

‘Hmm’ she said again.

He paused, the despair within him somehow burning still more painfully now there was a tiny flicker of hope in his aching chest.

‘I don’t think so’ he heard, and then felt an explosion of pain that blotted out his vision.  She had kicked him in the face, harder than anyone had ever kicked him before.

And when he came to, she was gone and the woodsman lay alone, spots of blood from his nose and tears from his eyes discolouring the ground beneath him, surrounded by the blackened hell that was the world he had chosen for himself. The flicker of hope in him had died, leaving nothing but darkness and despair.

He was ruined.

 

 

I did warn you. Unpleasant, not ‘unpleasant in a good way, full of vicious but exciting femdom torture like Serena and Alice‘.  Just nasty and mean-spirited – and predictable too, right?  

 Here’s another very unpleasant story that my readers hated, if you want something else to dislike.

 

When I write nicer stories I try to illustrate them with pictures of pretty ladies that are at least somewhat relevant to the plot but for this one… well, I only found this and I think we can all agree this is not how the dryad looks:

Once you pop you just can’t…

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

 

 

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

So…where to begin?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 


 

 Illustrations, once again, courtesy of NKS Volkov

 

 

 

Another World

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

You have been warned.

Not that that has ever stopped you, right?

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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


“Anything good on?” Vanessa asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

 


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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“Whatever are we going to do about that?”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

Master Malcolm’s dreams come true

A maledom story!  Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.

Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures.  Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission.  Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides.  But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.

For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet.  In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock.  On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all.  Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again.  But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.

“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces.  “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.

One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object.  He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat.  Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.

As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home.  The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.

After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.

Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp?  Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed.  The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave.  As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.

Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough.  I often do.

Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness).  He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”

“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.

“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”

“Yes, Master” murmured the genie.  “Three wishes.  It shall be – “

“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly.  “Three hundred slavegirls… no!  More!  One for every day of the year!  All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces!  None of them fat.  And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…”  He was getting carried away.

“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him.  “Don’t you mean consensual?  I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “

Malcolm glared at her.  “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so.  “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not!  I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place.  To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”

The genie looked confused.  “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded?  “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.

Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.

The genie blinked once, very deliberately.  “I do now, Master.” she replied.  “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “

“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.

“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.

She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage.  Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound.  Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.

After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse.  Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.

“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm.  “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick.  And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock.  And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied.   I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.

The genie looked over at him and smiled.  “Your wish is my command, Master!  And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway.  Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself!  You shall have it all!”

And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…

Bewitched Nose Twitch GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing.  Isn’t it?

 


A vast ornate room.  Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs.  Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.

Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams.  Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.

On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within.  Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.

Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before.  He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins.  He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.

Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.

“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped.  “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here!  Where are the rest!”

The genie abased herself before him.  “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said.  “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection.  Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots.  And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”

Malcolm grunted in satisfaction.  “Adequate, I suppose.  So there’s 365 in total?”

“366 Master” replied the genie.  “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”

“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.

“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily.  “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”

“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.


Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy.  He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion.  He looked around the room.

Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back.  One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him.  Others merely craned their necks to get a better view.  Of him.  All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone.  They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.

He felt a sudden pang of fear.  He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour.  Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.

Malcolm turned and ran for the door.  Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not.  Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room.  They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.

He made it almost halfway.

Epilogue

And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised.  Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.

Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers.  His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.

Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.

Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop.  Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point.  There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.

But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler.  He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts.  Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.

Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock.  Especially his cock.

You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock.  His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond.  And it is indeed huge.  No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time.  It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue.  It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.

Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.

366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys.  Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded.  Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him.  It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done.    Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body.  The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.

Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities.  They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.

One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky.  Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day.  The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability.  She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances.  Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.

How many more will there be?  Who knows?  That depends upon the kindness of strangers.  You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm.  She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now.  She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself.  She asks whether the woman would like to release him.

So far, none has.

THE END

 I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist.  There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there?  Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.


 

 What’s that?  You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too?  I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert.  All right – but only one picture.  There’s rather a lovely story, actually.   Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were.  But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway.  Isn’t that sweet?

 

 

 

A domme’s a domme for a’ that

 


Hmm?  You want to know what? 
The ‘most domme thing I’ve ever done’?

Oh, I dunno.  The
usual stuff, you know?  Whipping,
ball-busting… humiliation scenes.  I
mean, the first time you piss on a guy, for instance, you think, like ‘this is
radical’ but then a bit later you just find yourself putting the kettle
on an hour before a piss session without even really thinking about it.  It’s just an extra cup of tea.

Or the first time you stub a cigarette out on someone – like
I’m going to with this one.  He wasn’t expecting that, actually – just watch him shit himself now!  But it’s just the job, really.

Oh – there was this one time!  I got some guy’s name wrong when setting up a
session – it was one of those that can be spelt different ways, like ‘John’
with and without an ‘h’ right?  And he
wrote this creepy email in sub-speak, you know the sort of thing: “Most
imperious and perfect Mistress, although it is not the place of a mere slave to disagree with You, this worthless worm would humbly note’ – and all that. 
Irregular capitalisation, even – I hate that.  So I just snapped off this dommy reply:
“I am never wrong, so change your name by deed poll, slave!  I will not see you in session until I see proof you have
done so.” 


Anyway… he did! 
I’d forgotten all about it, but then a few weeks later he got in touch again and he’d uploaded these documents to prove it – you get an amendment to your birth certificate, apparently.  Showed some commitment, anyway – makes a change from slaves who want to
spend hours cleaning your flat then get bored after five minutes and start whining
to be spanked.  Changed his actual name,
just like that.  He must have had to sort
out bank accounts, passports, god knows what.

Funny thing, though: I never did session with him.  As it happens I was going through some
changes in my life just then, wanted to cut down the number of slaves I was
seeing, so I just started saying no to new ones.  He was quite persistent, now I come to think
of it.  Had to block the annoying little
bastard’s email address, in the end.

Hmm?  Oh I don’t
remember.  John or Stephen or something
like that.  You know – a name that can be
spelt different ways?  That’s the point
of the story, anyway – it doesn’t actually matter who he was, does it?

Right.  Time to put this cigarette
out.  If you want to see
something ‘domme’ watch this.  New experience for maggot here, though I’ve done it thousands of times.  He’s been lying there all this time, shitting himself wondering how much it’ll hurt.  Hurts like hell, actually – pretty hard-core stuff, but it’s about time he had his limits stretched.  Fucking wimp.

Don’t you dare drop my fag packet, maggot!  Or break it by biting too hard.

Here we go.


 

The part of the domme in this little tale was played by Lady Sophia Black, undoubtedly one of the dommiest dommes it has ever been my extraordinarily good fortune to encounter.   She is beautiful, haughty, creative and – tragically – retired.

 

 

 

 

 

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