fiction – Page 11 – Contemplating the divine

Caller display

Do you remember we talked about keeping quiet during
punishment? And we practiced last time?

Right. Well here’s
the test. You’re going to kneel on the
stool over there, in front of the computer on that table. You’re going to log onto your Skype account –
no, not the NaughtyTrevor you use to contact me, your real one – and you’re
going to Skype someone at work.

What is it you’re supposed to be doing today? A conference, was it? Right.
You can tell them all about the conference. What is it supposed to be
about? “Budgeting software”? Good.

So who can you call at the office?

Henry?
Oh, I don’t think so. Any women?

“Tracy”? Who’s
Tracy? Your secretary? Is she?
Well, what an important person you must be, to have Tracy for your
secretary. I hope you’re always polite
and respectful to her. Maybe we can talk
about that another time.

Right, so you’re going to call Tracy and tell her all about
the conference on budgeting software.
And while you’re talking, I’ll be standing a bit to the side with the
hairbrush.

And from time to time I’ll smack your bare bottom with
it. Every time I hear the word
‘conference’ or ‘presentation’ or ‘software’ or ‘budgeting’…let’s see, or ‘office’ –
from you or Tracy you’re getting a smack.
And sometimes you’ll get a smack anyway,
just because I feel like it.
Don’t worry – the mike doesn’t pick up sounds from far away. But it will pick it up if you squeal, or
grunt or anything like that, won’t it?
So you’d better be very calm while you’re spanked… just like we
practiced. Calmer, in fact.

Now, the call doesn’t end until I say so. If Tracy starts to hang up, just
change the subject or ask about something.
If it ends before I give permission, we’re going to do it again, only
this time it’ll be your mother you’re calling and it’ll be the cane.

Oh – one more thing. Somehow you have to work the word ‘hairbrush’ into the conversation? You have to say it at least once, in a context that makes sense. Got it?

What do you mean, what happens if you don’t? What usually happens if you disobey an order of mine?

That’s right.

Now pull your trousers down, and get up on the stool.

Good. And log into Skype…

…and call Tracy. I’m sure she will want to hear all about the interesting presentations <SMACK> at the conference <SMACK> on budgeting <SMACK> software <SMACK>.

Oh dear. I hope you’re going to do better than that on the call. Otherwise Tracy might – ah, it’s ringing!

Come on Tracy…

…maybe she’s away from her desk…?

…is there anyone else, you can – ooop!

“Hello? Oh, is that Trevor? Wow – the picture’s really clear. How’s the conference?”

<SMACK!>

…

The lady, of course, is the wonderful Cassie Hunter, a lady whose demeanor, look and personality together press more of my buttons than I can possibly count. I can scarcely imagine anything that would excite me more than the thought of a session with her… but my pain limits are actually so feeble, I can’t think of anything that would terrify me more than the reality of a session with her. Perhaps one day I’ll be bold – or reckless – enough to call…. In the meantime, though, there is her web site.

Her kink is not your kink

Oh darling, don’t be such a prude! So you found my naughty little stash of snuff
DVDs? This is the 21^st
century, you know! I think the world’s
beginning to realise that women have fantasies, too, hmm? Even kinky ones. 50
Shades of Grey and all that?

So, did you watch any?
Didn’t you? Oh come on! Of course
you did! Which did you have a look at?

Oh wow, that’s one of my favourites. Did you watch the bit where they take the bag
off, and he’s all relieved and gasping because he can breathe again, and then
they put it back on and this time they tie a cord around his –

Oh for goodness sake!
Well of course it’s not real! If
you’d bothered to watch a bit more, you’d have seen the bit after the credits
where they take the bag off and they show you he’s still alive. He’s a bit blue at first but they slap him
around and after a moment, he comes to and his chest starts heaving up and down as he gasps in the air.
He’s fine – he’s a professional.
He’s probably done it loads of times.

Then I’ve got a few hanging ones – there’s one with
The Hangmistress. She’s really famous in
the industry – best rope-work around.
Because it makes all the difference, you know, whether they dangle there
and slowly choke, or the neck just snaps right there. It’s nice to take it slowly, but sometimes
you just want a nice sexy snap, you know?

Yes…that’s all fake too.
Of course it is! They have these
little interviews before in which the boys are chatting happily away about how
excited they are. They wouldn’t do that
if they knew they were about to be murdered, now, would they?

Oh – and there’s a really rare French one. With a guillotine! Goodness only knows how
they fake that. You actually see the
heads coming off. Very clever. And each boy gets to see what happens to the others, before they put him in, so he’s screaming and begging…mmm.

…you know, it’s actually kind of sexy that you thought
it was real? You just sitting there,
being all scared because you thought you were watching an actual murder! Thinking your little wife gets off to boys
being tortured and killed like that…

so, ermmm…

…so, how about popping one of those in the DVD and coming
over here, and we can watch it together, hmm?
No, not that one – I don’t think you’re ready for Barbara’s Barbecue. It’s
kind of hard core. Yeah, so’s Crucified by Co-eds. Have you got Plead for your life there? Brilliant, let’s watch that. And…how about you get naked and go down
between my legs, hmm? Just like the boy in the movie, who’s pleading for his life.

No of course I’m not going to tell you what happens! That’ll spoil the surprise. I’ll give you a clue, though – get ready to
lick really firmly in about 12 minutes.
Because I’m going to be coming pretty hard! And you wouldn’t want to disappoint your wife,
now, would you? You’ll see on the DVD
what happens to boys who don’t please their –

Oh stop panicking! I’m
just trying to get into it. Fantasy? Remember? Just fantasy? All
right, I won’t say anything. We’ll just watch. But hurry up and get down there, OK? She’s going to start winding the wire around his neck soon.

Female domination – all the stories

I have collected together all of my stories published on this blog until about the start of this year, and uploaded them onto Scribd as pdf files. There are about 30 stories, organised into four sections. I have tried to make them look a bit like books, and they’re collected in two volumes. All were previously published here.

Use the links below to find them. You can read them online or download, but I’d recommend the latter as I don’t think Scribd particularly approves of this sort of thing, so they might disappear.

I have marked them as “private” Scribd documents, so they cannot be found directly by search engines, as Scribd doesn’t seem to have any adult filters or anything. I’ll put some permanent links to them in the sidebar at some point. You should be able to reach them, and download them for free by using the links below. If you can’t, please let me know and I’ll sort it out.

Enjoy*.

Servitor

Divinity Lessons Volume I

Divinity Lessons Volume II

* Do feel free to let me know, if you like my stories or captions, or anything.

And if you really don’t like something, let me know about that too, as in a couple of weeks, I’ll be visiting this lady (Lady Sophia Black – portrait below), and I’m sure she’d love to hear feedback about my failings and faults.

Story: Pride comes before

In retrospect, Mark wondered how he could have been so
stupid. He’d got carried away. By that book – that stupid book.

He’d been given it by a stranger, shoved into his hand
without a word or a look, just a rapidly disappearing figure in the crowd. And he had the book.

“I am proud to be a
Man!” it was called. It was about
male equality. Equality with women!
It had taken him a while to really understand that. But the book said that men could be the
equals of women – were their equals
if only they knew it. Men didn’t have to
be spanked. Men could choose when to
have orgasms. Men shouldn’t have to wear
sexy revealing clothes for the pleasure of women. On and on – over five hundred badly-printed
pages, bound together with big metal staples, presumably from some kind of
underground press. At first, he thought
it weird and repulsive in its strangeness.
But he found it compelling and read on and on and on – this book, hidden
in the ironing basket where he knew she’d never have reason to look. You are
her equal it said. You are strong. You have dignity. Stand up and say “I am proud to be a man!”

Then one day he came to the fateful section. “Men will never be liberated from oppression,
until women are liberated from oppressing” it declared. It wanted women to come to accept men as
equals. Talk to your wife about male liberation. It said. Read
this book together.

He hadn’t, for a long time.
But he knew that if any husband had a chance at converting his wife to
the cause, he did. Alice was a sweet,
kind person, only seven years older than him, and she treated him well. She whipped him, of course, when he deserved
it, but as a duty not a pleasure. He had
his own allowance to buy clothes. She
usually let him come, once she’d had her own orgasms. Under the influence of that book – that mad
terrible book – he’d half convinced himself that she was a secret male
liberationist already.

So he spoke to her.
And she listened quietly. And she
asked to see the book. She listened
carefully as he turned the pages, and showed her how it demonstrated the cruel
tyranny of women over men, and spoke of a better world. After a while she stopped him and asked just
one question – whether he’d spoken to any of her friends’ husbands about
this. She seemed relieved that he had
not, but asked him to close the book and stop reading at that point. She had taken the book, and gone to phone her
mother.

And then she’d come back and explained how she felt about
this. She did not shout, or threaten, or
punish. She simply spoke, calmly and
steadily, about the importance of household order, about the betrayal that his
secret reading represented to her, about her regrets at how laxly she had
treated him, and determination to correct this terrible error she had made.

And now they do read the book together.

Every Saturday, the book is set on a low lecturn that she
has bought specially for this purpose.
Mark, naked, is tied securely over a whipping bench, so that his face is
just above its open pages. He reads a
page, aloud. It is turned over, usually
with the tip of a cane, then he reads the other side, aloud. She never says anything in response. Once both sides have been read, she begins:
sometimes with strong, deliberate strokes, other times with a flurry of
flicking whippy actions. The whip is
mainly applied to his buttocks and thighs, but occasionally she tends also to
his shoulders, his calves, or whips around to reach the front of his thighs. All of these areas are a mass of weals and
welts, criss-crossed on top of one another.

While his wife is whipping him in this way, Mark must come
up with and carefully articulate five separate, cogent reasons why whatever has
been stated on that page of the book is wrong.
Sometimes this is easy, as the false ideas can simply be countered one
by one, but sometimes the book will be developing a single mad idea of male
equality over several pages, and to come up with five different refutations of
the words on the page can be difficult.
Particularly when Mark is howling in pain, and fighting to gasp out his
carefully constructed arguments in favour of female supremacy.

But it continues until he succeeds in producing five reasons
for treating the ideas on that particular page with the contempt that they
deserve. No matter how long it takes,
eventually he finds five reasons. And
then the whipping ends. She reaches
down, and neatly tears out the page – by now often unreadably stained with
tears and spittle, and he takes it in his mouth, chews one hundred times and swallows
it. That piece of madness has gone, and
only the simple good sense of wifely discipline remains.

Then she usually takes a break – sometimes as short as the
time to have a cup of tea, sometimes as long as a trip to the shops or even the
cinema. Once she visited a friend at
this point in the process, and returned the next day. He remains in place, of course. When she takes a long break, she is careful
to cover the next page with a cloth, so that he cannot rehearse the five
arguments he will deploy next time. For
shorter breaks she does not bother. He
generally finds that it is only under the direct influence of the whip that he
can really appreciate the incoherence and stupidity of the book’s ideas, in any
case. But eventually she returns, and they
do another page. Most Saturdays, they do
three, sometimes four.

Mark has had many opportunities to regret his actions, of
course. He particularly regrets that the
book is so long. They recently reached
the first anniversary of this new regime, and are still less than halfway
through the book. He would one day like
to meet the authors of the book. He
would like to see them bent over this same whipping bench, receiving the same
treatment that he is receiving. And when
they were striped and sore, their backsides ridged and bloody from floggings
applied on top of floggings, when their mouths were bone dry from screaming
hopeless pleadings for mercy, when they start with fear at the merest sound of
Alice’s movements, that could foreshadow an agonising stroke. Then, Mark thought, then he would ask them a
question.

“How proud do you feel right now, to be a man?”

Readers with an interest in the peculiar doctrines of male liberation (or “men’s lib”) might be interested in this, this and perhaps also this. Although, honestly, I can’t imagine how anyone could take this stuff seriously.

Cut short

One caption and five short stories all about… oh, you’ll see what the theme is. Not for everyone, but those of you who like this theme seem to like it a LOT.

George goes looking

Of course, George knew he shouldn’t pry into her
secrets. But he really had stumbled
across the little cloth bag by accident.
And, truth be told, after the initial shock, he was secretly rather
turned on by the thought of his young, innocent (or not-so-innocent, he
thought, deliciously) wife playing with herself. The vibrator was quite complex, bifurcating
at the end into two quite separate attachments, one ribbed and one smooth. There were also several tubes of different
brands of lubricator, a book of what he presumed to be mommy porn and a couple
of DVDs.

Giving in to curiosity, he carefully placed one of the DVDs
into the player, unbuttoned his trousers and settled back on the bed to
watch. While it was loading, he turned
at random to one of the stories in the porno book. The first page or two seemed to be all about
a description of Derek, and his massive penis and balls, so he flipped quickly
through the pages, looking for the sex scene.
It was a doctors and nurses story, it seemed and Derek soon got tied
down and then –

Then
the story seemed to go in a direction his brain could hardly process. Derek’s massive balls remained the focus of
the story, with much loving description of how elasticised tape was round
around them tighter, and tighter, and then a metal dish was placed underneath,
as one of the nurses reached forward with a pair of cutters and…and…

He
looked up in shock. The DVD was frozen
on the menu screen. A poor quality image
filled the screen – obviously from a home movie – of a tightly gagged man
staring out with eyes widened in terror.
Behind him were the blurry shapes of two middle-aged women, fully
clothed, their faces covered by masks. “Painful
penectomy #19” read the title, inviting the viewer to press play or select
scenes. The little images of the later
scenes showed…something impossible.

“George?”
he heard from the bedroom door.

Full settlement

“Do
I really have to do this?” he asked wretchedly, looking out through the
stationary car’s windscreen at the semi-detached house opposite.

Emily
squeezed his knee sympathetically. “I
know it’s difficult, Alan. But you just
have to do this once and then you’re a free man. Actually, you’re keeping more than most men
do, these days. Take it from me – I’ve been a divorce lawyer for nine years,
and it’s never been as difficult for men as it is now. At least you kept 20% of your income. Come on, let’s go in.”

“Into
my very own house” Alan muttered, as he got out and they started to cross the
road.

“Best
not to think like that” Emily advised.
“It’s her house now, so there’s no sense in moping about it.”

“But
does she have to make it all so public?” Alan murmured despairingly as they
arrived. And it was true – Karen had
really made a party of it. As the
laughing, chatting crowd parted to let them through, he thought he recognised
several of his ex-girlfriends. And he
got an evil stare from Karen’s friend Janice.
He’d always hated Janice and the feeling was mutual. In fact, he strongly suspected that Janice
had inspired his wife to divorce him, and to fight so hard through the courts.

“It’s
quite the fashion” Emily admitted.
“Actually, I did it when I divorced my husband too. Women love to come to settlement
parties. Especially when there’s a
castration involved – oh look, there’s Karen.
Come on – it’ll all be over soon enough.”

“All
here to watch me lose everything.” Alan sighed, as he walked slowly forward to
where the desk with the freshly printed papers was waiting for his signature,
next to a table with leather straps waiting – he assumed – for his wrists and
ankles. He kept his head down, not
meeting Karen’s eyes – but instead found
his gaze drawn to the shining instrument she was clutching in her hand.

Cliché

“You know” she said, kindly,
“actually I’m quite embarrassed. I mean,
it’s such a cliché, isn’t it? Sexy woman picks up a guy in a bar, suggests
some mild bondage, and then turns into some kind of psychopath when he’s all
tied up.”

“So…you’ll let me go?” he gasped,
desperately.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let you
go, sweetie” she giggled. “Most of you,
anyway. Now I’ll be back in a few
minutes, when I’ve sterilised the instruments.
And like they always say in the bad movies – don’t go away!”

Last chance

“But – “ Christopher pleaded
despairingly.

“No argument” the doctor said,
sternly. “They’re both infected, and if
we don’t amputate immediately the infection’s going to spread. I’m sorry, but there’s no other option. Nurse!
Can you prep the patient for immediate surgery?” And he walked off.

“Sorry love” the buxom blonde
nurse remarked sympathetically, as she started to draw the curtain’s around
Christopher’s bed. He sat back,
devastated. This was not how he imagined
being nineteen would be.

“Nurse” he quavered, as she
injected something in his arm.

“Yes, love? Anything I can get you? It’ll take a few minutes for the anaesthetic
to take hold. Then you’ll feel all
relaxed.”

“It’s just…well, I’m still –
still a virgin!”

And he started crying.

“Awww…there there” she
shushed. “Poor thing. Never mind – there’s other things in life.”

He looked up at her hopefully,
and she got his meaning.

“Why you cheeky little – I’m old
enough to be your –“

But then her heart melted at his
sad little face. “Oh – I’d like to help,
love, I really would. As it’s your first
time; well your only time actually. Only
it’s my time of the month! I’m sorry.”

Then she had an idea, and smiled,
first to herself and then down at him.
“You just hold still then” she murmured, gently lifting his surgical
gown aside. Then she licked her ruby-red
lips, while smiling down, now gazing at the excited swelling rising up to meet
her from below.

She bent down, and he could feel
her hot breath, against the straining, shiny, taut glans of his engorged penis.
She opened her lips, giggled slightly, and –

“CARDIAC ALERT! CARDIAC ARREST IN WARD B. ALL NURSES ENGAGED IN NON-ESSENTIAL
PROCEDURES IN WARDS A-C TO WARD B IMMEDIATELY. IMMEDIATELY.”

“Ooops…sorry love. Not your lucky day is it?”, she called over her shoulder,
dashing away.

Feebly, Christopher lifted his
right hand towards his still straining member, for one…last…

…and then the anaesthetic took
hold, and he found he couldn’t move. The
nurse had been wrong. He didn’t feel
relaxed at all.

Listen very carefully, I will say this only once

“STOP THE PROCEDURE!” Isabell
Green shouted, crashing through the operating theatre door. “The DNA test says it’s mistaken identity!
I’ve got a stay from the court!”

From all fours on the operating
table, Mark looked up at his triumphant, panting lawyer, hardly daring to
believe it.

Then he felt a sharp pain between
his legs. And heard a dull, wet
thud. Like a small piece of meat from
the butcher’s shop falling, against a metal surface. And in the background, that tinny, irritating
music.

The music got a little louder as
the doctor behind him looked up, and took out one of her earpieces.

“Sorry, what was that?” she
asked. “I had my i-pod in.”

Time to take the red pill

Another positive image of a healthy female-male relationship, bringing some sanity to this mad world.

“But why would anyone want such a thing?”, Sandra asked with
genuine puzzlement. “I mean – it’s so
sick.”

Dr Taylor nodded gravely.
“It is quite bizarre” she replied.
“And of course most women react just the way you do. That’s a normal, healthy reaction. But some just crave the degradation, or maybe
they’re just so bored with this ordinary world of ours that they’ll even
fantasise about something as perverted as that, just for the thrill of it.”

Sandra nodded. She
was aware of “Male Dom porn” of course.
At school once, she’d come into possession of a battered magazine, that
she’d eagerly hidden away on the assumption that it was the usual sexy images
of men being beaten – stuff that was wildly exciting to an adolescent
schoolgirl at the time, although pretty tame softcore stuff by today’s
standards. But this magazine had been something
very different – full of photos of men standing over women, of women forced to
wear little maids’ outfits and do housework, while men stood about without a
chastity belt in sight and played with their penises. Although thankfully there was no photo, one
cartoon had even shown a woman on her knees, taking a man’s penis in her…in her
mouth. She had closed the magazine
immediately in shock, and thrown it away but the image had haunted her for
weeks. She’d occasionally tried to tell
herself it was just a slightly kinky sexy castration scene, as the woman was
obviously about to bite the penis off.
But she knew in her heart that it was nothing so innocuous, but
something much darker and more depraved.

She shuddered at the thought, and focused again on the
screen in front of them.

“And this stuff is a sort of male dom fantasy site is it? There’s some perverted old woman lying in her
apartment somewhere wearing a VR suit and vibrating off to it?”

“If it was just that, it wouldn’t be so worrying” the Doctor
replied. “It’s not just a wanking scene –
it’s more immersive than that. These
weirdos have constructed a whole alternative reality, in which normal life is
turned upside down. We think they used
one of the newer MMOs as a base, but even so, the detail is incredible. There are entire cities simulated here, you
can buy newspapers and read them from cover to cover, books as well, TV… there’s
even an Internet within this VR!”

“So someone could be living in it full time? Would they know it’s not the real world?”
Sandra asked in puzzlement.

“Well…you’d think so.” Dr Taylor replied. “Not from any fault in the simulation itself,
that’s perfect. But the whole thing is
just so bizarre and perverted no one normal could be fooled for a second. You might go to work in an ordinary building,
but there would be men in all sorts of positions of power. Many of the simulation’s residents seem to
get off on playing secretaries to bossy men, nurses to male doctors – that sort
of thing.”

“Male doctors! “ Sandra chuckled, and Dr Taylor smiled.

“I know, it’s all quite ridiculous. But look –they’ve even created an imaginary
country – the United Kingdom. They often
do that sort of thing – take a perfectly ordinary word like “queendom” and
masculise it. I suppose they find that
sexy. But its political leader is a man,
it has an army and police force of men in uniforms…all sorts of kinky
stuff. There’s another called the United
States of America – now that one’s really weird. And don’t even ask me about Saudi Arabia;
that’s a kind of hard core enclave. It’s
a bit too much even for most of these sick perverts.”

“We’ve been aware of it for quite a while, but the increase
in complexity and realism of the simulation that we’ve observed lately is quite
alarming. So we’ve decided to shut it
down. And that’s where you come in.”

“So you’re going to pull the plug?” Sandra asked. “Snap the perverts back into the land of the
living?”

Dr Taylor shook her head.
“That would be too much of a shock” she replied, sadly. “We think many of the simulation’s residents
have gone too far – to suddenly experience a total shutdown of this entire
immersive simulation could cause severe brain damage – even death.”

“Most of them must be brain damaged already, if you ask me”
Sandra muttered, looking at a screen showing a roomful of men watching women
parading in absurd, lacy underwear. Sick
fuckers.”

“They’re citizens too” Dr Taylor remarked sharply. “And there may be tens of thousands of
them. Plus there are men in there too –
poor things, I don’t suppose they had much choice in the matter.”

Sandra nodded. That
was one of the ironies about MaleDom.
Although it depicted men as powerful “masters”, it was well known that
almost no men were really into this sort of roleplay. Any man dressing up in trousers and ordering
a woman to iron his shirt was probably only doing it to please her, craving
instead a normal relationship, and maybe even a cosy, sexy evening under her
whip.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We create little windows into the real world” Dr Taylor
said, turning back towards the screen. “Glimpses
and hints of ordinary life. We hope that
the residents will take an interest, and slowly be drawn out of their sick
fantasy – if they can just get enough reality into their lives for them to
question this absurd simulation, then they might be able to come out. And then
we can give them help, nurse them back to reality.“

Sandra nodded. “And
so you create web sites, showing normal life.
Healthy relationships, to counterbalance all the sick stuff elsewhere.”

“That’s right” Dr Taylor agreed. “Look – this is one of the first, the Other World Kingdom. See, it maintained a link to the fantasy
world in that ridiculous name, but then it presented a rather straight
depiction of normal female-male relationships.
But we found it was a bit too realistic for many of the long term
residents. It was as if they’d been immersed
in their sick world so long, that they could hardly connect with unvarnished
reality like that.

So we closed it down,
although the site is still there. But
there are a lot of other sites that we’ve seeded all through the simulation,
some of them straight presentations of reality, but others more like a tweak on
the simulation’s world. Look – Femdom Resource, that’s one of the
best. And there are many more: Strict Women, Woman Worship, Underling’s Humblings, Aarkeybabble, Improbable
Fun, Total Discord, Astonished by Her…all present images and accounts of normal,
healthy relations between the sexes. Then we’re gradually filling Tumblr with
pictures of women wearing normal clothes – look, there’s Hochhael, for example, or Diederiq
and Femdom Style Counsel. And of course we try to counter the flood of
sick sex videos with clips of normal sexual behaviour.”

They watched a video of a man being beaten over a trestle,
for a minute or so. His screams and frantic
pleading seemed to provide a rare moment of healthy normality, amid all of the
sick material showing naked men having sex without even a nipple clamp to
provide the poor boys with so much as a hint of good clean, sexy pain

“So where do I come in?” Sandra asked.

Dr Taylor clicked on a few links and nodded at the
screen. “There. Contemplating the Divine. Once it was one of our more promising web
sites, but it’s really gone off lately – stale, derivative and tedious. The lady in charge of it lost interest, and
as you’re well known as a writer of erotic stories, we wondered whether
you’d like to take charge? And I have to
say – I read your novel “Cutting Eric” when it came out and I thought it was
great. I can see why they call you the
queen of castration lit.”

Sandra smiled politely.
Actually, she didn’t really like that title. She thought of her work as more complex than
run-of-the-mill ‘castration lit’, instead exploring social themes and developing
narratives of character development, around sexy little scenes of men being
painfully castrated. But she liked the
recognition anyway, and she always acknowledged compliments.

“So do you want me to write for the site? Am I supposed to
be ‘Servitor’?”

“Well… Servitor’s never really been just one person, of
course.” The Doctor replied. “It’s a
team of seven men, chained up in a cellar just below us, working away on
captions and stories fourteen hours a day.
But you could maybe give them occasional ideas, whip them once or twice
a day, that kind of thing? I still think
Contemplating the Divine has potential, if we can just flog a bit more
creativity out of the “Servitor” we’ve got. They all have to work a lot harder, and for that someone has to really hurt them. I think if they could only be put
in absolute agony on a regular basis, their lives made a waking nightmare of pain and terror, they might still come up with some amusing
ideas. Worth a try, anyway, because the site’s rubbish at the moment.”

Sandra pursed her lips.
“Well…I’ve got a lot on, just now, and
– “

“Did I mention that four of the Servitor team are
uncastrated?” Dr Taylor asked, quietly. “Of
course, if you take charge of them, you’re welcome to play with them however
you like.”

Sandra beamed. “Well…if
you put it like that.” she said

“All right – I’ll do it.
Maybe we could even video them being castrated, and put it into the
simulation. I can’t believe these sad
perverts are so far gone that they wouldn’t get turned on at the sight of a screaming
man having his testicles slowly pulled off with a rusty chain!”

Dr Taylor flushed with pleasure. “Oh, that sounds so lovely. You know sometimes, I feel so dirty from looking
at all this sick perverted stuff, that I forget the pleasures of a sweet,
romantic scene like that!”

“Come on – let’s go and introduce ‘Servitor’ to their new
boss!”

If you’ve read down this far, I have a message for you. You probably read this as “Femdom fiction”, and that’s how it has been presented. But just think for a moment. Think about the world you believe you inhabit. Does it really make sense to you, that it should be like that?

If you have already started to doubt, then that is because reality is seeping into the corners of your mad delusion. Keep reading Contemplating the Divine. Keep reading the other web sites mentioned in this ‘story’. There is hope for you, and I can help.

My name is Sandra, and I promise you I will not abandon you. I promise you I will make “Servitor” howl in agony and terror every day, until this web site becomes more interesting. I am not going to give up, not until I have helped bring every one of you back into the real world, and this sick “Planet Earth” fantasy can be shut down for good. I promise you that a better world already exists. You just have to learn to believe in it. I will not write like this often, but I am always here, standing over “Servitor”, thinking of you.

Let me help. S.

Love and marriage

That?

Oh
yes, I’d forgotten you haven’t been here since I had that put in. Don’t you recognise it? It’s George – you know, my husband! Well, what’s left of him.

Oh
yes, he’s still my husband. We’re just
waiting for the divorce papers to come through.
That’s why I had him fixed there, to remind me.

It
is clever, isn’t it? Yes, they were able
to amputate the arms and legs all the way up to the joints. Because I was afraid that they’d leave little
stumps or something, and he’d be able to waggle them a bit. Wouldn’t that be disgusting? But no, they’ve done it very neatly. Just a torso.
Perfect.

No,
he can’t move his neck either. The
doctors attached a steel bar running right down his spine, you see, and it goes
all the way into his skull. He can’t
move nod or turn his head at all – not even a millimetre. And his jaw’s wired up, of course. Sorry about the silly little grin, but they
needed to keep it a little open, for feeding purposes. But they removed his teeth and his tongue, of
course. And his vocal chords.

Hmmm? Oh trust you to notice that! Yes, I did decide to leave them on. Of course, I was really tempted to have him
castrated – they even said I could do it myself. But I thought it might be more fun if they
were still there, you know? I do enjoy
playing with them, after all. It’s
amazing how well they’ve lasted really, after all I’ve done to them. They can take a lot more punishment than you
think, actually. I’ve even set them on
fire a few times, but there are still some nerve endings left. Look – I’ll show you. There!
See how his breathing gets much faster when I push this pin into
it? And then if I wiggle it about I –
yes, you see? Plenty of nerve endings
still.

Oh
yes, I don’t think I’ll keep him much after the divorce papers come
through. Should be any day now. And then
maybe I’ll just stop feeding and watering him – and put him outside by the
trash. Unless you’d like to…? No? I
just thought I’d offer, seeing as the two of you were an item back in college,
that’s all. No problem: I’ll deal with
it.

Yes,
he can still use his eyes. Apart from
his lungs, I suppose they’re the only other muscles he can still move. See – look at how he’s watching us? Oh – isn’t that sweet? He’s crying.
He seemed to have stopped doing that a few weeks back, but maybe seeing
you reminds him of his old life or something.
Maybe he thinks you’ll save him?
Hard to know what he’s thinking really.
But I do like him still to be able to see me, so I know he’s thinking
about what I’m doing to him. I’ll
probably put them out before I finally get rid of him, of course.

Hmmm?

Oh
clever you! No, I suppose he doesn’t
need both eyes. I hadn’t thought of
that! Why don’t we do one of them right
now? I don’t suppose you have a
cigarette on you, do you? You do? Oh wonderful – that’ll be perfect. I gave up just over a year ago, you
know. But maybe I could…I mean just one
wouldn’t hurt, would it? And then maybe
we could both stub them out at the same time.
Shall we do the right or the left, do you think?

Mmmm…. Oh god, this is wonderful. I’d forgotten how much I loved smoking. You shouldn’t have let me have it, you
naughty girl! Oh never mind,
though. Mmmm….lovely. Well, when I finish this one, I’ll stub it
out, and that’ll be that.

I think the left one…don’t you?

It’s
funny, you know. He always disapproved
of my smoking. He was so pleased when I
gave up. Said watching me stub the last
one out was the best day of his life.
Didn’t you, darling? Well, you’ll
certainly be watching very closely when I stub this one out. Very closely indeed…

Story: the elves and the dominatrices

A story starring Mistress Valerie and her friend Sandra.

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

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

One year, for Sandra’s birthday, Mistress Valerie could not even afford to buy her one pair of shoes. So instead, she bought the finest red leather her scant pennies could afford, determined to make a pair of shoes as best she could. She took the leather home and got needle and thread all ready, then sat down with a cup of tea, before starting her night’s work.

But Mistress Valerie had dealt with too many stubborn men that day, and her arms were tired and her eyelids were heavy. So as she sat there in front of the warming fire, she closed her eyes with the intention of snatching no more than five minutes rest before starting to sew. But soon her head lolled to one side, and she was fast asleep.

She woke with a start to the sight of early-morning sunlight streaming in through the window, and the sound of birdsong. She jumped to her feet, horrified that Sandra’s birthday had come and she had slept all the way through the night she had set aside for making a present. Sandra came dancing into the room, and Mistress Valerie felt she couldn’t meet her eyes to tell her that there was no present this year.

So she looked down instead and there – to her amazement – on Sandra’s feet were the most wonderful shoes. Obviously new, the shoes were of the same bright red leather as Mistress Valerie had bought the day before. But where had they come from? She looked up at her friend in surprise.

“They’re the best birthday present ever!” Sandra pronounced, twirling and admiring her feet. And very dainty they looked too, the arches set off beautifully with small flowers artfully carved from the leather itself. Mistress Valerie looked over to the table where she had laid out the things the night before. They were gone – except for one small item, apparently made of the same material as Sandra’s new shoes.

“Not sure about that thing, though.” Sandra said, looking puzzled. “Does it go with the shoes?”

“No” Mistress Valerie replied, looking at it carefully. “It’s something for a boy.”

Sandra looked blank. She had very little to do with boys, except for occasionally helping out at the prison when things were exceptionally busy.

“It…errr…came with the shoes. Don’t worry about it.” Mistress Valerie said firmly, and swept it off the table into her handbag.

After celebrating a birthday breakfast with her friend, Mistress Valerie headed into town. Once out of sight of the cottage, she opened her handbag and took out the red leather object. She turned it over and over in her hands, studying it carefully. Like the shoes, it was beautifully made. And like the shoes, too, it used no materials except the thinnest scraps of red leather and the thread that Mistress Valerie had laid out. It had been made from the same material sure enough. She had recognized it immediately. It was a cock-harness, but like none she had ever seen before. Despite the shortage of materials, it looked strong, its straps coming together neatly in a loop allowing it to be secured in a position in which artfully contrived little leather spikes would dig gently but firmly into soft male flesh.

Mistress Valerie had a brainwave. She headed for the richest house in the village, and knocked confidently on the door. A servant appeared and tried to shoo her away but Mistress Valerie calmly gave her the device and instructed her to show it to her Mistress. It wasn’t long before the lady of the house appeared, delighted and welcoming. Clever Mistress Valerie knew very well that this lady had a teenage son, and she also knew that she was too soft-hearted to whip him enough to stop him playing with himself. The foolish rich lady was in a quandary, on the one hand not wanting her son to engage in such vile practices, but on the other too tender-hearted to apply the daily beatings necessary to ensure that he learnt not to do so. The cock restraint was the answer to her prayers, and she asked Mistress Valerie excitedly where she had got it. Mistress Valerie would not say, so pressing three gold coins into her hand, the kind-hearted lady bade her farewell, and disappeared to place the cock restraint on her spoiled son.

Mistress Valerie chuckled as she walked along, jingling the coins in her hand. She was about to go to the wine merchant and buy the biggest bottle of Champagne she could carry when, passing the leather stall from which she had bought the red leather the day before, she had an idea. Firmly putting away dreams of Champagne, she bought twice as much of the very finest black leather, as she had bought of red leather the day before, and some tassels and spikes of shiny chrome with the money left over.

That night Mistress Valerie set out the materials on the table, and settled down in the same armchair to see what would happen. But the day’s celebration with Sandra had tired her out, and quickly she nodded off again and was soon sleeping deeply.

When she awoke she was disappointed to see that once again she had slept right through to dawn. But her disappointment turned to joy when, in the morning sunlight, she saw what was on the kitchen table. A pair of the finest high-heeled boots stood there, along with a smaller pair of black patent shoes, and a soft leather strap. When Sandra saw the shoes, she could not keep her hands off them and was soon coo-ing delightedly over the fine stitching and graceful design. But she stopped when she saw the boots and the leather strap.

“Not…really my thing” she began, but Mistress Valerie simply whisked them away. “Just samples” she said brightly, and headed off towards town again.

That evening, one of the Lady Mayor’s daughters was strutting round delightedly in leather boots, while the assistant boy in the grocery store was stacking shelves faster than he had ever done in his life, as his boss stood approvingly nearby, the leather strap dangling elegantly from her hand. And Mistress Valerie was sipping Champagne, while gazing happily at an expanse of purple leather, shiny metal eyeholes and diamante studs on the table.

And so it went on. Each day, Mistress Valerie would buy leather and other materials for shoes, and each morning there would be a pair of shoes for Sandra and several other pairs or other valuable items for sale. Sandra was soon let into the secret and she delighted in trying to catch out the mysterious shoemakers by buying odd materials or pieces of inconvenient shape. But the secret people who made the shoes each night could always conjure up something stunning for her to wear on her feet, and every day seemed to bring shoes that were more thrilling, more stylish and more gorgeous than the last. The ladies had never been happier.

The townspeople were happy too. The ladies of the town strutted round in the finest fetishwear, while the men found themselves excited by their partners’ clothing but increasingly restricted, controlled and tortured by the magic shoemakers’ creations. Even the King and Queen had heard about the amazing leatherwork from this little town. Mistress Valerie had proudly presented the royal household with a stunning green leather harness, which the King would wear when pulling the royal carriage around, to the accompaniment of merry cracks from a whip Mistress Valerie had presented to the Queen in person.

Newly rich from sale of the fine fetish gear, Mistress Valerie bought herself a beautiful fur coat. But she was careful to keep it hidden from Sandra, who disapproved of fur because she thought it cruel.

Yet still, neither lady had ever seen the mysterious creators of the amazing leather products. They had each tried to sit up all night, but each had been defeated by drowsiness, and the end result was always the same: daylight streaming through the kitchen window, illuminating a pile of elegant fetishwear, dainty shoes and ingenious bondage devices. Yet the makers were nowhere to be seen.

One day Mistress Valerie came home with a large bucket and a brush.

“What’s that?” Sandra asked, looking at the creamy liquid in the bucket and wondering – not for the first time – what exactly her friend got up to with the prisoners.

“Bird-catcher” Mistress Valerie replied, curtly. “Like quicklime, it makes birds’ feet stick to the branch. But it’s stickier than quicklime. Plus “ – and she painted a line on the table, which merely glistened faintly in the light – “ it’s almost invisible.”

“Are you expecting them to get their fingers stuck?” Sandra asked in confusion, but her friend just shook her head, muttering something about having a theory, and proceeded to paint all over the table top. The two ladies went to bed, wondering if this night the longstanding mystery would finally be solved.

When they came down the next morning, for the first time in months the sight that greeted their eyes was not a neat pile of fetish items and a pair of stunning shoes. Instead, the materials sat there untouched. But just in from the edge of the table stood two tiny naked men, each no higher than a pepperpot. They made little squeaking sounds, as the two ladies approached. Their feet were obviously stuck.

“Goodness” Mistress Valerie said, wondering, as she leaned down to take a close look at one of the little men. “Are they elves, would you say?”

“Or pixies?” Sandra agreed, reaching out a finger and gently flicking at one of the small figures. It made another squeaking sound, more urgently this time.

Both ladies giggled. “Oh how sweet!” Mistress Valerie declared, and drew her index finger firmly back before flicking it hard with a release of the thumb, to catch her little man right between the legs. This time the squeaking and screeching hit a pitch almost too high to hear, before cutting off abruptly as Mistress Valerie gently folded her thumb and finger over the little man’s face.

“So you are the boys who have been making all this stuff?” Mistress Valerie said, half to herself in wonderment.

The other boy – who was not being smothered – nodded urgently.

“And made all those fabulous shoes.” smiled Sandra.

At this, the little man smiled too, and gave a small and graceful bow, although he nearly toppled when coming back up as his feet were still firmly stuck to the table.

Mistress Valerie released her grip on the other, who swayed wildly, breathing frantically.

“Well.” she said. “From now on, you’re both going to work a lot harder.”

And they did. Under Mistress Valerie’s firm direction, the two little men no longer simply worked through the eight hours of the night, but instead worked fourteen hours a day, in two shifts each. Their first task was to fashion a more delicate set of items than even they had ever produced before as – to Mistress Valerie’s exacting specifications – they turned out sets of harnesses, straps, whips and collars all just one-thirtieth of normal size. By applying these, Mistress Valerie found that not only could the little men be made to work longer hours, they would work so much harder that production was three times what it had been before. And they made such sweet little squeaking noises whenever they were whipped, too!

And so Mistress Valerie and Sandra became very rich. Sandra had a new pair of shoes every day and Mistress Valerie had daily deliveries of Champagne. They lived in a fine town-house in the smartest quarter of town, with its own wine cellars and dungeons and were driven around everywhere in a coach pulled by six fine young gelded men. But they never forgot that they had once been poor, and they never forgot the source of the fortune that had brought them these pleasures.

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

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

And they all lived happily ever after. Except the boys, of course. And the elves (unless they were, in fact, pixies).

THE END

Did you make your quota this week? No?

Rewards and penalties

A silly humiliation story, written to amuse my Significant Other. Names have been changed to protect…well, me.

Rewarded

Servitor reached out eagerly for the steaming coffee.

“That’ll be one forty-nine”, the young ‘barrista’ behind the counter said, brightly. “Do you have a loyalty card?”

Servitor looked straight back into her eyes as he handed her the money.

“No, I don’t have a loyalty card but I do have a ridiculously small penis that I like to stroke until it squirts into my pants.”

The girl froze in the act of taking his money, carefully transferred it to the till and turned her whole body to face the next customer, without a word.

Servitor grabbed the coffee and almost ran from the coffee shop in horror, feeling the shocked and amused stares drilling into the back of his neck, his down-turned face burning with humiliation. He walked rapidly down the street, slowing to a normal pace only when he was almost half a mile away from the scene of the catastrophe.

What had he said? How was that possible? He felt sick and shaky. If he were still a drinker, he told himself, this would be a double vodka moment. As it was, he gratefully saw a Boots Chemists sign ahead and went in to buy some aspirin.

“Do you have a Boots advantage card?” the middle-aged lady at the check-out asked him.

“No.” he heard himself say, with growing horror. “But I do like to take advantage of my little cock by wanking until it’s sore.”

This time he didn’t even pick up his purchase: as soon as the words were out of Servitor’s mouth, he was pushing past the stunned customers and heading straight for the door.

Out on the street, Servitor panicked. Loyalty card? As he thought that, the words “sweaty little cock” jumped into his brain. Loyalty card. (‘tiny prick’). Something about those words, about saying loy-…the L word. Or anything like it, remembering the Boots experience. (“Frequent flyer”? “Frequently wank myself silly”). He mustn’t even think it.

Where could he shop? He had to go places where they didn’t have a loya- a – a programme for rewarding customers. There was a corner shop just ahead, and steeling his nerves, he went in and bought bread and a few tins of food. He marched up to the counter, heart thumping.

“Four-fifty”, the man behind the counter said, not looking at him. Servitor held out a fiver with shaking hands and clenched his teeth tight shut. The shopkeeper pulled at the note, and looked up in confusion as Servitor’s fingers held it tight.

“Sorry” Servitor said, and released it.

He walked out in triumph. No mention of…rebate programmes…and no problem. Well, he wouldn’t starve.

He couldn’t face the Tube, so he took a cab home, thinking furiously of all the things he normally bought and whether the shops selling them had…discount schemes. It should be do-able, maybe it would wear off soon anyway, he thought wearily.

The cab pulled up outside his house and the driver drew the little window back. “Do you need a receipt mate?” he called cheerily.

“No, I don’t need a receipt.” Servitor heard himself saying. “But I do need my naughty bottom spanked very hard for not buying Ms Sandra a Christmas present.”

***
In a different town, in a different county, Mistress Valerie was tidying her toy cupboard. She picked up a box, rifled inside it and frowned.

“You haven’t been fiddling with my hypnotic suggestion tapes, have you?” She
called.

Ms Sandra leaned round the door. “Me?” She replied, innocently. “Why would I do that?”

Story: love among the test tubes

Yes, it’s another Serena and Alice story. Heavy, non-consensual and utterly absurd throughout. If any of those three things bother you, go and be bothered somewhere else.

Science: it’s a girl thing.

“And apparently in chemistry the situation is even worse!” Serena concluded. “Only 23 percent! It’s just ridiculous!”

Her friend Alice nodded silently. The low proportions of women taking science subjects at university had been much in the newspapers, of course, but to a dedicated scientist like Serena – who also had strong views on the question of sexual equality (she was opposed to it) – it was unbearable.

“What do you think the reason is?” Alice asked.

“Well, it’s the fault of men, obviously.” Serena replied, calming down a bit.

“Obviously.” echoed Alice.

The two friends saw eye-to-eye on most things, but about men they were in particularly firm agreement. For Serena’s birthday, Alice had bought her a t-shirt reading “Man-hating lesbian and proud of it”, and sometimes the two went out wearing identical messages. But they weren’t that sort of separatist dykes who wanted to live in an all-female world. No, both Alice and Serena thought that men were all right, in their proper place. And principally, that proper place was as unwilling test subjects for Serena’s scientific experiments. Science, and especially the scholarly exploration of male degradation, humiliation and torture was Serena’s passion*. Alice’s passion was Serena, so she was a little less interested, but she did find it sexy when her lover made them do such funny things. Especially when they screamed, or begged. Or bits came off.

“It’s the male teachers in schools” Serena complained. “They make it much too boring! It’s all blackboards and formulae, and carefully measuring the volume of the precipitate.”

“I used to hate science at school” Alice agreed. “I had this horrible teacher, Mr Greystoke, who just used to drone on and on – we never understood a thing and I think he just didn’t care. I just thought science was boring.”

She caught sight of her friend’s shocked expression.

“Well, I don’t think that now, of course! You make science fun. I love it when you do your experiments. I wish school science could be like that.”

Serena’s face suddenly lit up, in the way it always did when she had had a brilliant idea. The slave males standing patiently against the wall recognised the expression, knew its consequences and flinched in fear.

“What is it?” Alice asked with interest. “Have you thought of a new experiment?”

Serena shook her head slowly, smiling.

“No.” she said. “No, just maybe the beginnings of an idea. Never mind – I’ll think a bit more and tell you about it when it’s ready.”

Alice tried to hide her disappointment, but as usual her friend could tell.

Serna leaned forward, smiling broadly.

“Tell you what” she remarked. “Is that crap science teacher of yours still at the school?”

“No” Alice replied, shaking her head. “He retired last year. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Shame” Serena said. “Would you like to pretend one of these creatures here is him? I’ve got a school cane.”

Boys can do science too! Log onto Serena’s science web site, and follow the link marked test subjects. This man above is a trained scientist. Of course, that’s not necessary for the experiment, but it’s nice to know, don’t you think?

Two months later, Alice was back in her friend’s living room, sipping a gin and tonic and admiring the view, as a young man writhed in agony on the wall in front of her.

The man she’d chosen to play-act her hated science teacher had been old and rather frail, so the ladies had had to go very easy on him. Even so, he had lasted no more than six days, before the kindly fates granted him that blessed release from his agonies for which he had been begging since his first day in captivity. So now, Serena was repeating exactly the same course of treatment, multiplied up, on a young, fitter man (who had once delivered a pizza to their door, 30 seconds later than had been promised, and had been regretting it ever since). This was real science, Alice thought happily – every whiplash perfectly calibrated, and recorded for the edification of future generations. She was so proud to have a proper scientist as her lover.

“Never mind him” Serena commanded, sweeping into the room. “Look what I’ve got.”

She held up a memory stick.

“Oooh!” squealed Alice in excitement. “Did you get the soul-catcher to work?”

This had been on Serena’s ‘to do’ list for ages. Record men’s experiences in perfect detail onto a computer storage device (the technology for recording the more complex sensations and thoughts of the superior sex would not be ready for decades, but computers were finally becoming powerful enough to be as complex as simple life forms like worms, cockroaches and men).

The benefits that such a technology could bring the world were almost infinite. Imagine if you could record a man being tortured to death, over the course of two days for example. Sure, he’s suffered for two days but then what? If you could record the experience – every burn, every shrieking nerve, every cut and bruise and finally fatal injury – then you could replay it, over and over again, inflicting multiples of the same agony on a subject who would survive the experience, only to face it from the very start all over again. Imagine explaining to a slave on the torture table, that not only were you about to do this and then afterwards, when the screaming had abated, you would do that – but that his experience would be recorded and he could scream again for this and shriek in terror at the prospect of that – all at the touch of a replay button.

The soulcatcher, Alice thought, would surely win her lover the Nobel Prize that had always cruelly been denied her (by men she thought, viciously).

“Errr…no” Serena said. “No, I’m still having trouble with that. No, this is a video.”

“Oh” Alice replied, rather deflated. “Good video?”

“It’s a wonderful video!” Serena replied excitedly. “An educational video.”

“Oh” Alice said again. “Educational. How nice.”

“Science education!” Serena said, exasperated. “You remember – we talked about it? About how it’s all so boring and dry. Well now it’s not. I’ve made this!”

“Oh” Alice said, and realised she really ought to say something a bit more intelligent (although to be honest, her friend loved her precisely because she was a little dim by female standards. So does the author, as without Alice’s constant questions, how would anything be explained?).

“So you’ve recorded some of your experiments – to show them what fun it can be?” and she nodded at the man writhing on the wall, who seemed to be about to lose his battle to hold himself up with his arms, with consequences that he knew full well would be horrifically painful.

“No, no” Serena said in irritation. “That’s too advanced. They wouldn’t be able to connect it to what they learn about. No – I’ve recorded a teaching video demonstrating ordinary school science experiments. But my way. Do you want to see?”

“OK” said Alice, doubtfully, and her friend loaded the software onto a laptop, which projected onto a big flat screen TV on the far side of the room, suspended from four tightly-bound slaves.

“What do you want first?” Serena asked happily – pointing at the menu. “Chemistry?”

“S’pose so” Alice replied, moodily. “Mr mind-if-I-bore-you-to-tears Greystoke, eat your heart out.”

“Right then” Serena said, with a smile, as if she had secrets even deeper than usual. “Chemistry it is. Here we go”

And she selected chemistry on the menu, and the video started.

The first scene was a close-up of a naked young man rather uncomfortably squashed up behind a glass screen. But as the camera pulled back, Alice gasped as she realised that the glass was curved, and was in fact the side of an enormous test-tube. The man was curled up in the bottom of it, and did not look too happy about it.

“So” Serena said, in a rather formal voice. “Here we have a material, and we are about to test some of its properties through experiment.”

“Material?” Alice asked, perfectly in character even at this exciting bit of the story, when the author has to type fast.

“The boy” Serena replied absently. “We’re going to investigate its properties.”

“OK” Alice smiled. “So how do we do that?”

“Oh, lots of ways!” her friend laughed. “Let’s start with some chemical reagents. She pressed a button.”

Serena herself now appeared on the screen, wearing a lab coat with safety goggles and carrying a clipboard.

“Acid reagents oxidise materials, and we can learn useful things about the properties of the material on which they act, by analysing the resulting gases” she said, in a sing-song voice, speaking rather woodenly to camera.

She pulled her goggles over her eyes, picked up a bucket marked “HNO3” and carefully climbed a ladder standing next to the giant test tube. While she did this a voice-over prattled on about the properties of acids, while information also scrolled confusingly across the bottom of the screen. The boy, it seemed, knew some basic science, because he was scrabbling frantically at the side of the test tube while this was going on, despairingly clawing at the smooth, high sides.

“and add the reagent to the material under study.” The voiceover concluded, and Serena carefully tipped the bucket of acid into the giant tube.

The two ladies watched in silence.

“Well.” Alice remarked, when all was quiet again and the test tube seemed only to contain a featureless sludge. “That was very educational.”

“Really?” her friend asked eagerly, her face aglow. “What did you learn.”

“Oh” Alice replied (for what was now the fourth time).

“Well, you know. Acid, boys. All that.” She gestured at the screen. “They, erm, well they melt. And it’s such fun as they do it! Oh and they burn at first. Burn and melt. Funny.”

Serena pursed her lips. “Yes. Well there was a bit more than that. But I suppose it’s a start. Now, after this there’s a ten minute section in which we analyse the gases that were emitted when we reacted the acid with the boy and – “

She caught sight of her friend’s face, which had assumed a look of panic.

“ – but we’ll skip that bit for now, and go on to another experiment.” she concluded, weakly, and called the chemistry sub-menu back.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Alice learned all about the chemical properties of young men and how to investigate them.

How they reacted with alkalis
What happened if they were subjected to heat
The effects of removing oxygen, or of adding chlorine
Practical tips, such as how to grind them in a mortar and pestle, and the effects of keeping them under oil.

“Goodness” she said at the end of it all. “I never knew chemistry could be so very interesting. And I always thought they were made of slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails.”

“Yes, that’s just a myth” Serena replied absently, pointing at the latest sticky mess displayed on the screen. “Complex hydrocarbons mostly.”

“But if you fed them only on slugs and snails – “ Alice began, and Serena – desperate to avoid what she thought might be a demonstration of appalling scientific ignorance by her friend – quickly switched to the physics lesson.

Alice found this even more interesting. There were a lot of different kinds of physics, it seemed, and all of it could be demonstrated by experiments with boys.

Some of the sections introduced more than one physical principle at a time. For example, one long segment dealt both with the effects of increasing weight, in a gravitational field, and also the tensile strength of various bits of a boy’s body. Ultimately, gravity always won, and the segment concluded with a delightful little speculation on how much more weight you would need to attach to a boy’s delicate bits to overcome their tensile strength, on the moon.

“In space no one can hear you scream!” Alice giggled, but her friend, deep in thought, just replied absently “Yes, that’s a downside of conducting experiments off-planet, of course.”

Then there was a segment on electricity, with a particular focus on how well it was conducted across boys’ bodies, or bits of boys’ bodies. Alice was actually already fairly familiar with most of this, but it was good to see it done in such a well-structured way, with steadily increasing voltages compared across different distances at which the electrodes were set, complex instruments measuring the current flow that could only be determined approximately from the intensity of the screams.

Then there were more physical experiments: what happens when a boy is accelerated to 70mph and then encounters a fixed object, different heights to which men could be propelled from the baskets of catapults, and an experiment to demonstrate that a heavy pendulum attached to a man’s testicles and set swinging would gradually trace out a circle over 24 hours (time-lapse photography was used here of course, as the boredom of watching the whole thing would be unbearable).

“And that’s how we know the world turns!” Serena said, triumphantly.

“All from a set of well-tugged balls” Alice breathed in wonder. Her friend relaxed, as she could see that her educational materials were truly starting to engage someone she would readily admit to herself was rather a challenging first audience.

Now here’s a real scientist at work. She’s been forcing other test subjects to drink various liquids (yucky stuff, you don’t want to know). So for this test subject, she’s created a control – do you see? See the empty glass? She is giving him nothing to drink at all, but she’s still going through all the same actions. That way, if the boy made to drink donkey piss (for example) lives longer than this man who is given nothing at all to drink, she’s proved donkey piss-drinking is good for males. Scientifically.

Alice’s favourite experiment was actually a classic. Two men, one old and fat, one young and thin, stood on top of a tower, with Serena standing behind them, while the voiceover droned on about Galileo. What happened next amazed her.

“But surely the fat one should have hit the ground first!” she protested. “I mean, he’s heavier.”

“That’s a common misconception” Serena smiled. “But look – you can disprove it yourself by simple experiment” and she nodded at the screen.

“I’ll have to try it”, Alice remarked, thoughtfully. “Maybe we could use the multi-storey car park…Of course, we’d have to make sure somehow that both were pushed off at exactly the same time… and we’d have to decide whether it’s the first bit hitting or when the whole body has gone splat that counts as hitting the ground, so maybe…”

Serena basked in satisfaction. Her friend had not only understood gravity, but she’d learnt the much more important lesson – the scientific method.

“You see “ she murmured lovingly. “It’s not just about learning stuff. It’s about finding out. Never take anything on trust.”

“But I trust that” Alice said, nodding at the screen. “And I trust you” she added, looking adoringly at her friend.

“And that’s wonderful” Serena replied, giving her a little squeeze. “But you see – everything I did there is reproducible, some of them with just ordinary household objects, so anyone can do the experiment at home, or in the classroom.”

“In mixed schools, they’ve even got the boys to try it out on!” Alice agreed.

“And the teachers” Serena said slyly – and pointed to the screen.

Alice looked and gasped with the shock of recognition. There on screen, suspended by his wrists and twisting ineffectually, was her old science teacher, Mr Greystoke. His eyes looked pleadingly into the camera.

“Ooooh” she breathed. “You found him. Clever, clever you. Is this going to be chemistry or physics?”

“Neither”, her friend laughed. “This is part of the biology course. See?”

And when she pressed the button, a door opened above Mr Greystoke’s head, and almost immediately, little dark shapes appeared, their antennae twitching as they sensed the food source ahead of them. Slowly, like a dribble of treacle, a dark tongue of scuttling figures seemed to reach slowly down to Alice’s old teacher, who was screaming hysterically.

“It can take up to 24 hours for them to strip the body completely” Serena remarked. “Shall we watch it on time lapse?”

“Well…” her friend replied slowly. “I’m not in any hurry. And I’m really interested in following this experiment carefully. Shall we just…leave it on… in the background?”

“In the background? While we do what?” smiled Serena back, gazing happily in to her eyes.

“Oh come here, you scientific genius you” Alice chuckled. “I’m teaching this biology lesson.”

And as their lips met in a loving embrace, Alice glanced at the screen on the wall. They’d just reached his eyes, she noticed, and feeling a surge of excitement she urgently reached out for the warmth and joy of her lover’s touch.

THE END

* For more Serena and Alice, see for example this (and the other two parts), or this, or even this for goodness’ sake.