Category: fiction

Fiction: Chopped and changed

Image of sexy masked nurse
“So what did you do?” asked Alice with interest, staring at the uncomfortable man in front of her.
Serena giggled.
“Oh” she said modestly, “just a little intra-body transplant.  Any incredibly highly-skilled surgeon could do it, if only they had the imaginative genius.”
She gently lifted his skirt.  Between his legs lay something small, and thin…and dark pink and quite moist.  As Alice watched in fascination, it curled its tip up and out towards her.
It was a tongue.
“May I?” breathed Alice, gesturing towards the displaced organ.
“Be my guest”, smiled her friend.
Alice slowly reached forward and touched the tongue.  It was wet, muscular and soft like any tongue.
“He’ll lick your hand if you tell him to” Serena advised.
Alice laughed delightedly as her hand was gently licked, like a loving puppy dog, by the little member wagging so obediently between Serena’s slave’s legs.
“So you took his penis off and replaced it with a tongue?” she said in wonderment.
Serena nodded.
“It’s his own tongue.” she said.  “All the muscles are attached as before.  Just…down there instead of in his throat.  It’s fully functional”
“You mean he can talk?” Alice asked, puzzled.
“Well, no” her friend admitted.  “We would need to combine the tongue with all the other bits for that, and those are still in his throat.  I mean it’s fully functional for oral sex – better, if anything, as it can curl right from the base now it’s not confined in his throat.”
“And you can have oral sex in the missionary position” mused Alice.  “I’m not sure I’d like that.  I enjoy having them kneel before me for sex.”
Her friend laughed out loud.
“Oh, you can still do that too!  Just in a different way.  In fact, I’m surprised he’s managed to keep his mouth closed all this time, with two attractive women standing before him like this.”
Alice looked closely and saw she was right.  The slave’s lips were bulging outwards as if something inside were swelling to push past.
“Down on your knees, and show Miss Alice what you can do.” Serena instructed quietly.
Epilogue
On the way home, in the taxi, Alice thought about what she had seen, and the offer that Serena had made.  She loved her husband, David, but it was true that he could be…improved.  In the Mistress/slave contract that they had signed, Alice had committed not to remove any part of his body without his free consent, a condition that David – who had a visceral fear of castration – had insisted on.  Alice, who loved the feeling of his cock inside her, had happily agreed, without a moment’s hesitation, telling him that she could never bear to have it removed.
“But the agreement doesn’t say things can’t be moved about a bit” she thought to herself happily, stroking the little vial of liquid her friend had given her to put into her husband’s drink.

Fiction: Waiting

You wait in silence, with the others.
You know all these men by sight and by name.  But you never really speak to them.  You nodded silently at them as you walked in, and you too joined the chorus of curt nods as later arrivals walked in and found a place.  But you don’t speak.  Later on, it’s not allowed but no one has ever said you can’t speak to them at this stage.  But why would you?  There’s nothing to say.  You know nothing of what they do.
Except that like you, they do this.
You know all their names because you hear the receptionist call them out when she’s checking attendance.  And later you hear them called one by one by a different voice, from behind the heavy wooden door.  The door is thick and muffles the sound.  But you listen with exceptional care, because the name might be yours.  Eventually, it will be yours, there can be no doubting or escaping that.  You long to get it over with.  But you dread it too, and breathe again as another man rises heavily to his feet, and reluctantly passes into the other room.
There is a large clock, which ticks and tocks heavily into the silence, from the corner.  You wonder whether it was placed there deliberately to add to the tension.  ‘Tension’ is barely the word, because to be truthful, what you feel is fear, plain and simple.  Fear building since the start of this week, as the day approached.  Fear that struck like an icicle in the pit of your stomach this morning, when you woke up knowing this was the day.  Fear that now seems ready to bubble over into panic, sending you hysterically fleeing from this place.  But somehow  you never do.
Now there are some sounds to be heard from behind the door, at the limit of hearing.  You can’t make out words but you can hear her voice, level and measured as always.  She never raises her voice and she never shouts.  She talks about her expectations for the men under her tutelage, and she identifies specific areas in which they have fallen short.  She asks precise, pointed questions and she listens carefully to the answers.
You can hear the man’s voice, answering her questions.  His voice is quiet too, but there is an urgency and a rush to it, as if he is trying to suppress the panic that might cause him to shout.  It is worth putting your point of view.  Perhaps it would be easier if she were more implacable, if nothing you said could make a difference.  But she listens, and will change her mind if the explanations are reasonable.  And so you explain, and you excuse and you apologise…and as in panic you see her unmoved by those carefully prepared explanations, you can find yourself gabbling.
This is what you hear now.  The man’s voice has become more shrill in tone, and urgent.  He is no longer discussing his behaviour, he is simply pleading.  And this does no good. She will not tolerate it for long, and the whining tones cease abruptly, no doubt at a curt word from her.
After a pause, her own voice can be heard again.  Now, she is giving her decision, and the reasons for it.  Now there is no pleading to be heard, because at this stage there is no point.  The voice – as measured and calm as ever – ceases and there is silence.
Total, empty silence, which the tick-tocking of the clock seems to swell to fill.
Inside the room, positions are being assumed.  Clothing is perhaps being adjusted.  Implements are being selected, laid out ready.  Restraints are almost certainly being applied: most men need them.  All is done in silence, and the men outside find themselves holding their breath.
It is always longer than expected.  Surely it must start now, you think?  But perhaps something is not yet quite right.  She will not begin until everything is ready, and she never hurries.
Total silence.
And then the silence is violently broken, by the sharp CRACK of an implement.  Wooden or leather?  A paddle or a cane?  On the bare flesh or (less commonly, except for the very harshest implements) across the clothing?  The sound of just one impact answers all of these questions.  You know precisely what is being done.  You have experienced it.  This is a heavy leather strap, applied across a bare bottom.  And although there is a feeling of relief that this time it is him and not you, you know too that it will be you.  Maybe not this implement, not this way, this time around.  But eventually, you will experience everything, and all of the combinations.  But just for now, just at this precise time, you are out here and it is someone else in there who is having that done to him.  And that is something for which you can only give thanks.
You don’t know how many.  And so you count.  You would prefer not to, you would prefer to think of something else.  But you count, of course you count.  All around the room, no matter where their gaze lies or what they seem to be thinking, all are counting.  There is no point in counting someone else’s strokes, as it will never affect your own later.  But you have to count, how can you not?
With each impact, you wonder whether that was the last.  As they build up, at regular intervals, milestones are reached.  At five, or at seven there is little doubt that another will follow after a pause.  But at six or at ten, exactly the same pause seems to stretch out until you wonder whether that is that… until CRACK tells you that there is more still to come.  She likes sixes, and the pauses at 12, 18 and 24 hang particularly heavily in the room. During a particularly hard beating, it is essential not to meet anyone else’s eye, as what expression could you possibly share when the 25th, or the 37th or even the 61st impact rings out across the room?  So eyes stay firmly fixed on the floor.
Mingled in with the sounds of this steady beating, the sounds of its results begin to be heard.  Grunts and heavy breathing barely make it through the thick wooden door, but after a while little cries and gasps start to emerge.  One or two men can remain silent almost throughout, and one new arrival is still helplessly noisy almost from the start when it is his turn.  But most find themselves involuntarily commenting on the discipline as it builds up, beginning to cry out as if in surprise at the fresh pain from each stroke.
You never ‘get used’ to it, either from one session to the next or from one stroke to the next.  Each impact outrages the nerve endings, which have evolved to report pain so it can be avoided.  Yet here it cannot be avoided, and so the nerves shout ever more angrily, ever more urgently.  Someone is hitting you, is calmly adding bruise onto bruise, is raising welts on ever more damaged tissue!  Pain receptors urgently report the assault, commanding an immediate response.  Run away!  Hide!  Fight back!
But you cannot do any of those things.  So what do you do?  You cry out.  You yell and shriek instinctively, to alert people around that you are in pain and need relief.  But there is only her, and she will not be providing any relief from this.  So you yell, and you cry and you shriek and…you beg.
Yes.  You beg.  You offer frantic apologies and promises and bargains.  You plead for mercy, knowing all the time that nothing will do the slightest good, that nothing you say can possibly dissuade her from her set course of action.  Your hopeless begging will not result in one fewer stroke or the most marginal diminution in the force with which any are applied.  Every time you tell yourself you will not beg, that you are a rational being and you will not be reduced to a piteous, mewling coward for no reason.  But you will beg for mercy, you know you will. You always do.
The pause after 24 is long.  After a while, you stop waiting for the sound of 25.  For some reason, tension around the room relaxes slightly.  Shoulders shift almost imperceptibly forwards.  Why the sound of someone else being beaten is so nerve-racking is hard to explain.  After all, when someone esle is being beaten, you are not.  It is now, after their beating,  that the door might fly open and a disshevvilled figure stagger into the room, to pass into the corridor where he will stand quietly facing the wall (fidgeting but not daring to explore his damaged flesh under the watchful eye of the receptionist), until all of the sessions are complete.  And if that happens, then it will be someone else’s turn.  And that someone might be you.
There are four other men in the room.  So there is a one in five chance that it will be you next time.  Eventually, of course, it must be you.  The probability rises until it reaches one, when the second-last is receiving his treatment and there is no one left in the room to wait with you.  You hate being last, like that.
But there is another possibility.  All the room’s occupants start visibly as the sound of another impact is heard.  This is quieter, more of a SNICK! than a slapping, cracking sound.  But it is nothing gentle.  You know it is the cane.
And even if you had not instantly recognised that soft, deadly, evil sound, the shriek that follows provides a further clue.   The previous session is not yet done, but has merely reached another stage.  You didn’t know that, as the sounds of the first beating built up. But the recipient in there almost certainly did, having had his punishment explained to him before it began.  He knew, all the way to 24 strokes, that this was merely the overture, that no amount endured from the strap in any way lessened the number of strokes of the cane yet to come.  Perhaps it would have been easier for him not to know.  But she did not give him that choice, because that is not the way she does it.
Somehow you find it hard to breathe when someone is being caned.  But you have to breathe, because the pace is slower, with long pauses between the strokes.  The pauses are not silent, because the recipient is now crying uncontrollably, having long lost the ability to form coherent words.  Yet the strokes punctuate and regulate the rhythm of the sobs, implacably.  The screams tell of agony and fear.  You already know that, because you have had the cane too.  And you screamed in just the same way.
Other men don’t do this.  It is the middle of a Friday evening, and other men are drinking with their friends, or dining with their dates.  Some might be having a quiet evening at home.  You have prepared lies in case any work colleagues ask what you were doing on Friday.  Because you are hardly going to tell them that you were bent over, being beaten on your bottom by a lady whose real name you don’t even know.  And thanked her afterward for the privilege.  And left swearing never to return, to recapture your life.  And knowing full well that next month you would be back here, waiting your turn, wishing things were otherwise.
Even if you could bear the embarrassment of telling someone…what could you possibly say, when they ask “Why?”?
The caning has finished, and the sobs die away.  There is a brief conversation.  She likes to end with a few brief comments and reminders of the key areas on which she expects improvement.  But no time is allowed for recovery: shorts are jerked back up, the door is flung open and the recipient must emerge still flushed in the face, sometimes still crying but in any event still tear-stained and dishevelled.
He staggers through the room and out into the corridor, where he will quietly await the others.
Again, there is no sound in the room but the tick-tocking of the clock.  It shows she is running a little behind schedule.  Probably, that means you will finish quite late, as she does not hurry and catch up the time.  She takes whatever time is needed.
Tick tock, tick tock.
There is silence from behind the heavy wooden door.   But soon it will be broken, when she calls the next name.
Will it be yours?  You’d like to get it over with.  The sooner it is your name the better.  You know that. Get it over with.
But oh please oh please, let it be someone else, just this time.  Not you.  Not yet.  You’re not ready just yet.  Please.
But that is not for you to decide.  She is reading through a report in there right now, and there is a name on top of it.  That is the name that will be called next, whatever you might want.  If it is your name, she is thinking about you right now.  If not, your name is waiting in the pile of reports before her.
You’ll find out soon.
You just have to wait.
The photo of course is from the formidable Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress.  A lady whose style and approach so closely matches my deepest fantasies of inexorable school-style beatings, and whose beauty so perfectly complements that role, that I can hardly bear even to observe her from afar.  And because my fantasies are so much ‘heavier’ than my real willingness to take punishment, I am too scared ever to visit her.  But she visits me, in my dreams.

Short fiction: In the morning

Jennifer quietly stood at the door of the kitchen, having followed the aroma of breakfast cooking from her bedroom.  Her husband/slave, Alan, standing naked but for a small pinafore which left his buttocks exposed to the air, hadn’t heard her enter.
She looked with satisfaction at her oblivious submissive, quietly getting on with serving her without specific instruction or fuss.  This was how it should be.  She caught sight of the marks on his lower left buttock, and she giggled softly.
Alan looked around in shock, and instantly dropped to his knees, crawling over to her to place his face against the ground just before her feet.
“You may.” she said quietly, after a moment, and he quickly placed light kisses on each of her feet, in the approved greeting.
“I’m so sorry, Mistress, I didn’t hear you come in…” he stuttered.
She smiled down at him.  “That’s all right, I was just standing there.”
She looked down affectionately at the blackened marks on his buttocks: her initials JMV somewhat stretched and distorted by his kow-towing posture.  She smiled again.
“You know, I just arrived at the kitchen door to see you preparing my breakfast so diligently, and I was so much reminded of the day of your branding.  Do you know why?”
Alan nodded urgently.
“I think so Mistress.  It’s that in my servitude to you, I know you are with me always.  That I am your slave, in attendance to your needs to the best of my poor abilities even when you are elsewhere, because I carry your name for ever.  The terrible pain from those red-hot brands not only seared your name into my flesh but burnt it into my very soul, and made me yours at all times.”
Jennifer leaned down and stroked his hair gently, thinking of that day and her husband’s desperate screams of agony and love.
Actually, she had been going to say that it was the smell of grilling bacon that had so vividly taken her back to it.
But a wise Mistress does not always tell her slave the whole truth, and so she merely murmured.
“That’s exactly right, my slave.  How well you know my mind.”

Bloggy femdomy story thing

Servitor read the message on his Blogger dashboard with interest:

Blogger has determined that your posts reflect a female domination/male submissive outlook. Would you like to turn on Blogger’s femdom features, for a more female-led blogging experience?

A little concerned by the apparent monitoring of his posts, but intrigued, he clicked on the link at the bottom: Activate female domination blogging features now.

A pop-up box appeared:

Blogger has identified that you are male. Please confirm, or press cancel to begin again.

Servitor confirmed, only to be confronted with another message box.

Are you sure you want to activate female domination features as a male blogger?

‘Worse than bloody Microsoft’, he thought, clicking “Yes” irritably.

After a few moments, a further message appeared, this time from his own PC, asking whether he would allow some programme called ‘Femlogger’ to make changes to his programme files and registry. Servitor hesitated, realising a cautious blogger might refuse at this point. But he was intrigued and excited, and thought of the occasions on which similar feelings had led him to the houses of complete strangers to be tied up. He was nothing if not a risk-taker. Although we like to be abused as cowardly worms, there’s actually no one as brave as a submissive feeling lecherous. So he clicked on “Accept” and watched what happened.

The answer, except for some brief whirring and chunking from his hard drive, was nothing. The Blogger dashboard reappeared, and Servitor could see no changes. Nor were there apparent changes to his blog. He tried to find out more about Femlogger on the web, but there seemed to be nothing. Shrugging, Servitor returned to his original intentions, uploading pictures of women too beautiful for him even to imagine speaking to, but with a few choice words he had added in the hope of appearing creative.

For the next couple of days, there was no real change. Servitor noticed that the ‘Audience’ stats for his blog separately recorded visits by males, females and those unregistered as either (and these were the great majority, although Servitor was cheered and excited at the thought that quite a few women did seem to have registered with the new female domination Blogger service).

Then, four days later, Servitor was excited to find that one of his posts had attracted several comments. With the usual trepidation, he opened the tab to read them. The display looked slightly odd, as one of the comments was in larger type than the others. This, the one at the top, turned out to be flagged as from a woman, while the others were from men. Servitor suddenly realised that despite being at the top, the time stamp on the woman’s comment showed it to have been posted in between the other two.

Thus, the software was identifying female comments and placing them first, just as it should be. Servitor felt mildly pleased that his blog should so automatically be honouring the superior sex, as he did genuinely believe in principle in showing due deference and courtesy to females. The picture right at the bottom of every page of his blog, of the divine Anne Hathaway, was to Servitor’s mind genuinely an image of divinity and one to which he occasionally murmured prayers of obeisance. That said, he spent a lot of his time trawling the Internet for pictures of women scantily-clad or even posing naked, solely for the sexual pleasure of men. But like other male ‘submissives’, Servitor happily ignored the hypocrisy of how an industry existed to serve up tasty images of superiors to inferior males like him, rather than the opposite that might be expected in a truly female-led world.

All the comments were reasonably complimentary. Servitor decided to post a quick friendly response to one of the male ones, before addressing himself more formally to the female commenter. Important to get the words and tone right, for that one, he thought to himself.

Still happily mulling over his possible reply to the female, he clicked ‘post comment’ to put up his reply to the first male comment. An error page appeared: There are still unanswered female comments.

Puzzled, Servitor clicked the ‘back’ button and tried again. Again, the message appeared, this time with the addition: This has been logged as a repeated offence.

Servitor sat in silence for a while. Clearly, he was supposed to respond to the female
comment before any males’. Again, feeling a warm glow of submissive joy (and even a slight swelling, although we won’t dwell on this aspect) he returned to the comments page to reply instead to his female commenter.

After some edits, he judged he had the tone just right. He was never quite sure how to respond to female dominant comments. He wanted to reply in submissive mode, but not so much as to be creepy or pervy. The comment had been a simple message of approval and encouragement, so he felt it would be inappropriate to respond as if he were a sub in a ’scene’ with her. That would seem almost to violate her privacy. So after a few goes, he had some text that seemed respectful without being creepy and he hit ‘post comment’.

Again, an error screen appeared. This time the words were much larger. Your reply has been flagged as unacceptably disrespectful, the large words across the top of the screen read.

Please correct the following elements of your post and try again.
1. Insufficient length (more information)
2. Insufficiently grateful (more information)
3. Spelling and grammatical errors (more information)

He clicked on ‘more information’ following the first item, to learn that replies had to be at least one and a half times the length of the original comment, to show due respect and gratitude to the lady who had taken the trouble to write it. Similarly, clicking on the second item he was taken to a list of approved words of gratitude, of which a sufficient number was required in any reply to a female. He thought the spelling mistakes point was self-explanatory.

Returning to his reply, he dutifully filled it out with expressions of gratitude and, to be on the safe side, made sure it was at least twice the length of the comment. He looked carefully through for spelling and grammatical errors, but found nun. Once again he clicked ‘post comment’.

He was disturbed to see the same words appear again: Your reply has been flagged as unacceptably disrespectful, along with (as he was beginning to learn to expect) the rider This has been logged as a repeated offence.

The only problem seemed still to be with spelling and grammar, so he clicked on ‘more information’. The rules for appropriate spelling and grammar appeared to be more complicated than he’d expected. Mostly, he was simply required to conform to ordinary English usage. However, every blogger registered as a female dominant by the software apparently had her own preferred form of address. His commenter liked to be addressed as Ma’am, conventionally enough. She could also register whether she preferred vanilla capitalisation or the You/i formulation that denotes submission. Ma’am liked the latter, it seemed. Finally, she could choose her preferred regional spelling. His commenter, it turned out, was American and so he would be replying to her (or rather, to Her) using American spellings where appropriate. If his reply failed to conform to her (Her) preferences, it would be flagged as incorrect.

Sighing slightly, he went back to his post and edited in the required changes. With relief, he was directed this time to a new page: Your comment has been humbly submitted for Ma’am’s attention. He returned to the male posts, fired off friendly messages of acknowledgement (no funny business about length or style for these – anything went, apparently) and went back to his main page.

He felt he had to admire the spirit behind this new software. He admitted to himself that he found it irritating in practice. But this, it seemed to him, was not really any different from the way he became excited at the thought of housework, only to become bored and frustrated when directed to do menial tasks even for 10 minutes, on the occasions he had visited (and paid) ladies prepared to act out his fantasies. Fantasy and reality were simply different for him, and he wished it were otherwise but knew deep down that he was too lazy ever really to serve.

Anyway, he told himself, now that he knew the rules, replying to comments in the prescribed way was no great burden. He might not be able in reality to enjoy anything resembling a life of drudgery, but this was one small thing he could do.

Ma’am did not respond, and so Servitor continued over the next few days posting captioned images that continued to claim to celebrate male submission but in reality mostly showed underpaid women pandering to the fantasies of wealthy men.

Then one day he opened up Blogger to find himself taken straight to the comments page. A single comment was visible, the others being greyed-out (that’ll be ‘grayed-out’ to Ma’am, of course). A bold headline above it read Your blog has been criticised by a female reader. The posting has been removed, pending apology and corrective action.

The comment above, did indeed have a label “unacceptable”. (Servitor was later to discover that his posts now appeared on female screens with a rating system running from ‘adequate’, through ‘poor’ to ‘unacceptable’). He read the comment with excitement and awe:

Servitor (or whatever your real name is – I imagine you as a nasty little overweight man crouched over his computer in a darkened, smelly room).

I have found the images you post to be increasingly disrespectful of a sex you claim to be superior – my sex! The images are exploitative and the captions – while occasionally mildly amusing – seem to me too frequently to cross the line to a point where you are laughing at female domination, a philosophy and practice I take very seriously.

Your latest post is disgraceful, so I am forced to take action. We see two images of females, which I suppose is the justification for the ‘jokey’ sexist title ‘Oh what a lovely pair’. The first is simply posing in lingerie for male pleasure, and your little caption about chastity does nothing to diminish the exploitation. But the second picture is far more disturbing. Is it not obvious that the lady is in extreme discomfort in that corset and those high heels? Far from being in charge, I would imagine she is close to fainting, the poor thing.

I would like to put you in a corset, tug it so tight you can hardly breathe, force your feet into rigid boots at least a size too small, and post a video of your pathetic wheezing on YouTube. But as you choose to hide behind your hypocritical pseudonym, I cannot. However, I was somewhat mollified to see that you have installed the Fond of Writing gadget on your blog. Accordingly, I have sent you a punitive exercise. I hope it teaches you to show greater respect.

I have disabled replies to this post as I have no wish to hear any more from you.

“Punitrix”

Servitor looked down at the bottom of the comment and saw that ‘reply’ had indeed been greyed-out. Furthermore, the name ‘Punitrix’ did not seem to be linked to a Google account. Clearly, ladies could comment anonymously.

There were only two options available in the comments tab: accept punishment and dispute punishment. Servitor had little hesitation in selecting the first. How exciting. He had to admit she had a point. He tried to be reasonably respectful – never for example featuring images of topless ladies, or of their private parts – on his blog. But the fact that it was the supposedly dominant side of the equation who dressed to the nines in uncomfortable clothing, for the pleasure of the slobby notionally submissive side did bother him.

A windowed programme opened up, labelled “Fond of Writing”. That was the name that ‘Punitrix’ had claimed existed as a gadget on his blog. He had never seen it, but he was beginning to suspect that the female user experience of his blog provided a few more options than were available to him or other males.

Fond of Writing (FoW) was a programme for writing lines. Rather like housework, this was an idea that Servitor liked more in fantasy than in reality. His professional Domme had occasionally set him lines – anything from 200 to, over one tedious night, 500 – and he always hated doing them. He loved appearing before her with his sheaf of papers on his next visit, though, for her to grind under her booted heel. So he examined FoW with interest.

It seemed that a specified line must be typed, a specified number of times. Extras would be added for errors. On completion of the assignment, a report would be sent to the assigning party (that would be ‘Punitrix’ presumably). It looked straightforward enough, and Servitor had some time on his hands (it was a Saturday), so with a warm and sexy feeling of submission, he clicked on ‘start’.

The line he had to copy was “I must learn to distinguish between images and concepts that properly reflect the superiority of women over men, from those that merely objectify and exploit the female form, to gratify the squalid desires of perverts like me.” It seemed he would be writing it 100 times.

He blinked. It was long and complicated – but 100 times was not too bad.

He started typing in the text box below the original line. It was harder than he had expected, as his own typing was replaced by asterisks as he typed, like a password. He clicked ‘submit’ and the entry box appeared again, cursor blinking for his next repetition. As he typed, he suddenly realised that the asterisks were no longer progressing along the box. It seemed to have lost the typing focus. He clicked back on it, but no blinking cursor appeared. Looking around the screen, he saw a small dialog box in the corner with the message ‘Click this button!’

‘What button?’ he thought irritably, before noticing a tiny square in the middle of the dialog box. Carefully positioning the mouse, he clicked it, the box disappeared and his cursor reappeared where he had been typing the line.

‘Where was I?’ he thought, staring at the asterisks. There weren’t that many, so he decided to start again, and began hitting backspace. Nothing happened, no asterisks disappeared. Cursing, he carefully counted the asterisks already typed, comparing them to the original line. Then he typed the remainder of the line, interrupted at one point by the random dialog box wanting him to press the microscopic button, this time near the left of the screen. On completion of the line, he clicked ‘submit’, and the text entry box appeared empty again for a third line.

‘Bloody hell, that’s only two’ he thought, unhappily. In fact, he was wrong about this. He had carelessly made an error on his very first line (ironically, the second despite being interrupted twice by distracting dialogs, was correct). The programme had not counted that first line, and awarded him two ‘extras’. So he now had 101 lines to go and in a sense had therefore completed just minus one lines of his original imposition. But he didn’t know that yet.

‘Sod this’ he thought, and clicked on ‘quit’. A dialog box appeared: Quit disabled while lines exercise incomplete. There were two options: OK and Allow temporary use of other programmes.

He clicked OK to return to the Fond of Writing dialog and immediately hit Control-Alt-Delete. Another dialog box appeared. Ctrl-Alt-Del disabled while lines exercise incomplete. Again: OK and Allow temporary use of other programmes.

Servitor pressed the On switch on his PC until all the lights died, then pressed again for a restart. ‘That programme is going’ he told himself determinedly, and thought about whether his various virus and malware programmes would be able to deal with it. He logged on, and was simply stunned to see the Fond of Writing dialog reappear, patiently waiting for his third line just as he had left it.

He double-clicked his anti-virus icon. A familiar image appeared: Access to other programmes disabled while lines exercise incomplete.

This time he tried clicking: Allow temporary use of other programmes

This responded with Do you want to be given access for one hour to your computer, in exchange for 50 additional lines?

‘All right’, he thought, and clicked OK.

Fond of Writing temporarily suspended. Time remaining until resumption of line writing exercise: 59:54. Exercises remaining: 1. Lines remaining in current exercise: 151.

Pausing only briefly to note, firstly, that the evil programme clearly allowed for more than one exercise to be due at any one time, and to puzzle over the mysterious extra line taking the remainder to 151 (‘shouldn’t it be 148?’, he thought vaguely), Servitor went to work to expunge the programme.

Just less than an hour later, all his open windows suddenly closed and the Fond of Writing dialog reappeared, the little cursor gently blinking in the empty text entry box, just as it had been before, patiently awaiting his third line.

Servitor swore and raced through the menu commands again for temporary computer time. He had some other ideas he hadn’t yet tried. This time the price of an hour’s computer time had risen to 100 additional lines. Blithely accepting the 251 he now had yet to do, Servitor frantically opened programmes and searched for hidden and system files, in a bid to shut this evil programme down.

An hour later, he found himself once again staring at the cursor. He resolved to use his next hour to go online, looking for advice and help about this maliciously dominant programme. He wondered bleakly whether the cost this time would be an additional 200, taking him to 451 (he had now worked out what the extra one was for, having read the help files for FoW in his fruitless search for an uninstall option).

But it was not an additional 200. Instead the dialog box read: Maximum temporary suspensions limit reached. Contacting taskmistress for authorization for additional temporary suspension.

The only option was OK so Servitor clicked it and was rewarded with a dialog box reading ‘Punitrix’ has now been contacted to authorize suspension of lines programme. No other programmes may be used until authorization has been received.

Once again, Servitor’s only option was to agree, so he returned to the text entry box. For want of anything more constructive to do, he began typing the line. For one thing he needed access to some documents from work that he said he would look at over the weekend.

Servitor typed away. It was repetitive and tedious. He grew to hate the little distracting dialog box, swearing viciously at it and hammering his mouse button down, when he finally managed to position the cursor over the button. He made steady progress, seeing little choice if he was to do any of the things – work-related and personal – for which he had planned to use his computer this weekend.

After about an hour and a half, a message popped up on screen. Reply from ‘Punitrix’. Request denied. Punishment doubled.

He swore vigorously, but found himself curiously inhibited from using the words such as ‘bitch’ that came into his mind. In a curious, but totally genuine way, he really was being dominated by this distant woman, and every click of the button labelled ‘submit’ was in its way a genuine submission.

It took him until late that evening before he had completed the assignment. In an unexpected moment of pure joy, the message Task completed. Do you wish to view the report? appeared.

Servitor clicked Yes and noted with grim satisfaction that in the end he had written 612 lines as a result of his 100-line punishment. 500 lines set in all, and presumably 56 errors. And that probably didn’t count the 56 themselves, he realised, so he had actually typed something resembling that stupid line 668 times.

Wearily he switched off his computer – now wonderfully restored to his control – and went to bed.

Servitor did not update his blog for several days after that, fearing even to look into the comments tab.

However, on the Thursday, he was greeted with the dreaded sight of the Fond of Writing programme, informing him that a lady reader called Ayesha was displeased about this, as she enjoyed his material, and was requiring him to write out ”I must update my blog more frequently.” 50 times. 50 was not too bad, and the line was short, and furthermore Servitor discovered with joy that he could see the line as he typed it – no asterisks – and the irritating distraction dialog appeared much less frequently. Clearly, these were options set by the user. This time, it seemed, he was receiving nothing more than a gentle reminder, and he found himself actually enjoying the submission to this mysterious and rather wonderful Ayesha, as he typed them.

Not requiring any temporary suspensions, and making few mistakes, Servitor was finished in less than an hour. Mindful of the warning, though, he resumed blogging, although he was much more careful not to feature images of women in excessively restrictive clothing or in any other way obviously being exploited.

He received punitive impositions from time to time. Few if any were as bad as his first experience, however (most of which was his own fault, the original tally having been 100). One occasional reader of his blog liked to set him lines in Czech, whenever she came across a post that she thought could be improved. She did not set very many, but Servitor had to concentrate hard as he wrote them. She did not supply translations so he had no idea what lesson he was being taught, but accepted it with good grace.

On another occasion, a British lady set him 2000 lines – a horrific surprise that he knew would take him several days. However, it was obvious from her comment that she had intended only 200 and had made an error using the FoW gadget. Servitor had emailed her with great trepidation, gently pointing out the possible error. He had spent a few hours in agonised anticipation, fearing that for questioning her authority he would receive 4000 or 20,000 or any other number (as far as he could tell, Fond of Writing could accept any number of repetitions up to 99999 and more scarily still could impose any number of ‘extras’ up to this limit for each mistake.) But to his relief, she accepted the point with good grace, merely increasing the imposition to 300 to provide – as she so excitingly put it – a little tap on the bottom for the impertinence.

And so it went on, for about eight months. Until one day, Servitor’s dashboard opened with a new message.

Femlogger now updated to 2.0. Click here for details of features. Your Dreamlover kit (more information) has been dispatched and must be installed within 48 hours of this message being displayed, for continued computer access.

Dreamlover? Servitor thought. He clicked the link…

Notes:

Fond of Writing is real. The features described here (asterisks, additional lines for mistakes and – most evil of all – that little distraction dialog) are all real. I understand it also sends reports to the task-setter by email, as here. However, the real programme does NOT (of course!) hijack your computer, render itself impossible to uninstall or in any other way behave like the malware described here.

I thought of making the compulsion element of the story stronger by letting the programme ransack Servitor’s hard drive and threaten to blackmail him or something if he didn’t finish the lines. But I’ve already made this sweet, sexy little programme sound like the worst virus ever, so I didn’t want to malign it further.

I am not sure whether Dreamlover is real or not. The website has been going some years, and contains multiple strong (and truly excellent) fantasy elements. For a long time, I thought it was a delightful fantasy, realised in wonderful detail, but the more recent posts about construction in China do actually start to make it sound like a real product.

Once again, though, I remind readers that in this blog everything is fantasy in essence. The programmes, people and weird sexual practices in my stories are fictional and in some cases impossible. That’s what fiction means: making stuff up.

Fiction: Well deserving of the cane

Elizabeth Aldrige, known today as Miss Wackham, put down the piece of paper, sighed and looked up at the ‘boy’ standing before her.
“Well, it’s not really good enough, is it?” she asked, mildly.
“No, Miss” the ‘boy’ replied, looking down in shame.  Like most of the ‘boys’ at Miss Flogswell’s Academy, he was in his late forties, greying and balding on top.  Also like most of the ‘boys’, he looked quite ridiculous in his school uniform.  But not as ridiculous as the ‘girls’, ‘Miss Wackham’ reflected.
“I hope you don’t think I’ll be going easy on you just because it is your first time” she said, sternly, wondering whether in fact she should do exactly that.  Did this idiot realise what he’d let himself in for?
“No, Miss Wackham” the ‘boy’ said, earnestly.
“As you know, we at the Flogswell Academy have strict standards for our pupils’ academic attainment, and enforce them on a weekly basis.  Enforce them with corporal discipline, boy. Cor-por-al discipline.”
“Yes, Miss Wackham” he replied, breathing rather harder and going red.  Elizabeth caught sight of his shorts, bulging right at her eye level and hurriedly looked back down at the report.  It was all so complicated, she reflected. She much preferred her regular job in her dungeon.  She would talk to the ‘slaves’ beforehand, find their limits, push them occasionally until stopped by a warning safeword and then let them beg to come.  Here, the rule was that the school fantasy was maintained at all times: no safewords, no out-of-character behaviour…and strict school rules about appropriate punishment.
Which, if followed to the letter, would probably constitute criminal assault in this case, she thought.
“It’s really very simple” she said, tiredly.  “Rote learning, boy, that’s our system.”
“Yes, Miss Wackham” he said.
“The teacher tells you what to learn, you learn it, you repeat it in the test.  Is that too complicated for you?”
“I…I found some of the lessons very hard, Miss Wackham”, the ‘boy’ replied, sweating copiously and quite unpleasantly through his shirt.  “I didn’t know it would be this difficult.”
“Difficult!” Elizabeth snorted.  “Let’s go through and you can tell me how difficult it all was.  History!  You got a D-.  Well that’s just dates and things. How difficult is that?  The comment says that you were told to learn the dates of sixteen of the Kings and Queens of England and you knew almost none of them.  Didn’t you bother to revise?”
“I got the right years, Miss Wackham”, the unhappy ‘boy’ replied.  “I didn’t realise they wanted the month and day, too.”
“Pathetic” snorted Miss Wackham.  “And what about this – maths.  D! Slow on your times tables!  Which ones?”
“The fourteen thousand, three hundred and fourteen times table, Miss Wackham.  And the nine elevenths times table.”
Miss Wackham peered at him over her glasses.  “Not very good at sums then, boy?”
“No, Miss” he replied.
Thinking of sums, she briefly reflected on the sums she needed to accumulate in order to retire from all this.  She’d hoped to have given it all up by now, and moved to that long dreamed-of little cottage in Bournemouth.  Maybe open a pet supplies shop.  She’d been saving away her hard-won ‘tribute’ for a few years, and had quite a little nest egg put aside.  Until the financial crisis had come along, swept up the nest , eggs and all, and smashed everything to little pieces. So here she was – still whacking the bottoms of aging perverts for a living, and likely to be doing so for quite a few years to come.
“What about this, then – modern languages?  E-.  Dreadful! Was that with Madame Sarka?  She says here you didn’t learn any of the poetry she set.  Not a single line without a mistake in it!”
“Yes Miss” he said, seeming close to tears.  “But I don’t speak any Czech.”
“But you don’t have to know any Czech!” she replied, exasperated.  “Madame Sarka set you some poetry to learn, and you learn it.  You learn it in Czech, you write it down in Czech in the test.  That’s what rote learning’s all about – we don’t care if you understand it or not!”
The ‘boy’ just hung his head in shame.
“Now by comparison, biology isn’t too bad” Miss Wackham said, judiciously. “ B-.  But then Miss Hardpalm has given you a black mark for” – she squinted at the report – “Refusal to take part in scientific experiments with the rest of the class.  What scientific experiments?”
“She was demonstrating the location of the body’s principal pain receptors, Miss”, he replied with a shudder.
“You do know disruptive behaviour in class merits an automatic use of the cane?” Miss Wackham inquired.  He hung his head still further.
“And this last one…home economics.  F.  F!  How could you get an F in home economics?  That’s just cookery, isn’t it?”
“Went to the wrong classroom, Miss” he muttered.  “One of the ‘girls’ told me it was in classroom 7.  Then when I finally got to the right classroom, I – ”
“…got angry and emptied the lasagne she’d been making all over her head.” read Miss Wackham, shaking her head over the report. 
“She had to go to matron to be cleaned up, Miss.”
Knowing the ‘girl’ in question, Miss Wackham privately thought that both the treatment in the cookery class, and matron’s likely cleansing techniques were probably the least that ‘she’ deserved.  Still, couldn’t have unruly behaviour.  Of course, ‘hazing’ new arrivals by getting them in trouble was a tradition.  Give them a taste of the cane.  The trouble was, this new arrival had already been due for a five-course banquet of the cane before being dropped in it so comprehensively by his cross-dressing classmate.
“So you spent the rest of the lesson in the corner, and got an F for home economics and a black mark – a second black mark – for disruptive behaviour.”
“And I had to clean up the mess over lunch break, Miss” the ‘boy’ added.  “Miss Birch said I could eat the uncooked lasagne for my lunch.”  He blenched slightly at the memory.
“Well.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a daily report like this.” she said, shaking her head sadly.  “The B- in Biology only merits the strap, but all the other grades mean the cane.  And each count of disruptive behaviour is twelve strokes.  Altogether, it’ll be…let me see.  Well, sixteen strokes with the strap, obviously.  But then that’ll be – ” she calculated silently for an instant – “ =fifty-eight strokes with the cane.”
“Oh Christ, please no – “ he burst out.
“Plus four for swearing takes us to sixty-two” she said quietly.
“Oh come on – for Chr- , I mean for mercy’s sake.  It’s only a game.”  Real tears were forming in his eyes.
“It most certainly is not a game.” She replied, primly.  Miss ‘Flogswell’ was quite clear that there would be no negotiations or slipping out of character where the subject of discipline was concerned.  This was what marked the establishment out, unlike those jolly japes schools in the North of England, where everyone was cheeking teacher all the time and laughing about jolly good whackings.  This was hard-core.  Very hard core.
Still…she thought about sixty-two strokes.  She knew very well what the cane could do, and to do it sixty-two times on the same area of the body was going to cause some serious damage.
“Oh please” he sobbed, the tears coming fast and furiously now.  “It’s my very first time.  Couldn’t you just go a little bit easy for my very first time?  I’ve got to go to work on Monday morning, you know?”
“Well…” Miss Wackham said, slowly, thinking hard.  She didn’t really want to flog this new client off the school books.  Maybe she could pretend to be using a triple-hard cane or something and only give him twenty… ?
“I’ve got to get in extra early on Monday, actually, while Tokyo is still open.” he added hurriedly, sensing some possible movement.
“Really?” Miss Wackham replied with interest.  “What job do you do?”
“I’m in finance” the ‘boy’ replied.  “Actually” – looking a little proud – “I manage a hedge fund.”
“Really.” Miss Wackham said again, grimly.  She thought of her little nest egg.  And of the cottage in Bournemouth.  Her hand tightened on the handle of the cane.
“Well, I’m sorry, boy, but I can tolerate no exceptions to the rules.  Sixty-two with the cane.  On the bare, I think.  Then I’ll finish you off with sixteen with the strap.  Shorts down and bend over that chair!”
“But I – ”
“NOW boy!”

Fiction: You can’t always get what you want

Many of us have dreams and fantasies. But it falls to few of us to realise those fantasies and live them in our daily lives. This is the tale of one such fortunate soul, whom I will call David.
Part 1 – Fantasy
David had been troubled – or delighted – by fantasies of submission to dominant women, since early childhood. He could dimly remember, before teenage years, before any notion of a sexual dimension to the thoughts, lying in bed and constructing elaborate fantasy worlds in which wicked ladies (often nurses) did unspeakably degrading things to him and to other boys. Just occasionally, he would supplement these thoughts with thoughts of some of the girls at school, in some way forcing him to wear their soiled knickers and humiliating him in public.
He knew enough even at this tender age, to say nothing to anyone of these thoughts. And so the solitary vice continued, stimulated by occasional passages in novels in which “S&M” was mentioned, fired further by occasional photos of women dressed in leather or rubber, to illustrate boring articles in the magazines his parents read, and once flamed to a white heat by the rocket fuel of a brief scene in a Pink Panther movie, in which the bumbling French detective is whipped and chased by a leather-clad dominatrix (a term he could find sexually exciting just from its dictionary definition).  He also discovered the link with sex and with masturbation, a link that only wired the impulses ever harder.
At college he made his first nervous foray to seedy shops in London to buy pornography. At the same time, he discovered real sex with real girls, and enjoyed the novelty. But the two were different, like lemonade and vodka.
After college and some success in his career, he was continuing to pursue both interests, now as a married man. Alice had been a college friend, elegant and attractive, clever and rather serious-minded, and always fiercely sought-after. He had – as he convinced himself – fallen in love, and had been surprised and delighted when on meeting up some years later, his feelings had been cautiously welcomed and eventually reciprocated. They married, and seemed headed for the typical life of a successful middle class couple. Alice, it turned out, could not have children and the love of the two for one another sustained them through the desperate disappointment this caused.
It was not this blow that drew them apart, but simple boredom, nurtured by the resurgence of David’s fantasy life, more vigorously than ever.
After about a year and half of marriage, he had finally taken the step he had been dreaming of since childhood and visited a professional dominatrix. Terrified that his fantasies would come crashing down in a squalid flat with an uninterested aging gin in leather several sizes too small for her, he had instead been surprised and delighted by the understanding and creativity his Miss Whiplash (as we shall impertinently call her) brought to her work. He was a little disappointed in his ability to ‘take’ or in any way enjoy real pain, and by how tedious and uncomfortable he found it when briefly assigned repetitive household tasks. But he felt that his addiction was being fed in the best way it could be and if, like any addiction, it grew more needy rather than more sated as a result, well he found that his career provided ever more money and the increasingly loveless marriage ever more time for more of the drug.
Part 2 – discovery
Then one day – as they say – everything changed. David was woken on a Saturday by his wife, who had been up for some hours, and said she wanted to talk to him. Downstairs, laid out across the dining room table, was the report of a private detective whom Alice had engaged for the last two months. Everything was there – the timings of David’s visits to the suburban dungeon in Kent, receipts for the ‘little presents’ he had taken her, photographs of him arriving at the house bearing flowers and furtively knocking at the door.
Hopes David had of somehow convincing her that this was a ‘normal’ affair were scotched by photos the private eye had secured of Miss Whiplash entering and leaving her house, in normal street clothes, and comparing them to pictures of her in her working outfits from her web site. As the clinching evidence, a long telephoto lens seemed to have produced a blurred and dark image of someone in a maid’s uniform, seen through a kitchen window through into a neighbouring room, standing in front of someone sitting on a couch and apparently raising his skirt. It was ‘his’ skirt, because although the photo was so blurred as for identity to be fully arguable in a court of law, David and his wife knew him immediately, from the stance and something about the set of the shoulders.
In any case, the private eye had also helpfully laid out David’s fantasy life for Alice’s inspection by eviscerating his computer. From the hidden, password protected areas, the investigator seemed effortlessly to have extracted photos and lists of videos. Casting his eye across it, David reflected ruefully that he had done a good job in presenting a representative selection of the immense stock of material. All of David’s fantasy life was here: from leather-clad dominatrices whipping pony boys and other slaves in the open air in Eastern Europe, via stern governesses wielding canes over quaking ‘schoolboys’, alongside nurses performing surprisingly intimate procedures wearing rubber gloves, to more maternal types, welcoming their naughty charges across their aproned laps with a wooden hairbrush and an understanding smile.
Finally, there were emails to Miss Whiplash: emails of thanks for past joys and of hopes for the future. They were all signed ‘little davey’.
David looked into Alice’s accusing eyes.
“I…I’m sorry” he began.
“How much?” she broke in coldly.
“How much? How much what?” he replied in confusion.
“How much of our money have you spent on her? On that tart? On all this? How much?”
In some ways relieved that he wasn’t being asked to explain or discuss his behaviour – at this stage – David worked out for her how much money had been spent, on ‘tribute’, on presents and suchlike. It came to an amount that surprised him, and he stood again in silence.
Alice thought for a while.
“Go back up to our bedroom” she said, flatly without looking at him. “I’ll come up and talk to you later.”
Part 3 – reality
About an hour later, she walked into their bedroom without knocking. He looked up from the tear-stained pillow where he had been lying in misery.
“I’ve been reading about this stuff, since the investigator gave me a preliminary report about a month again”,
she informed him. “I know you need discipline, and to be given orders and humiliated.”
He started to trot out his rehearsed protests of how he would change, all this would be put aside, but she cut him short.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you can’t stop either. It’s an addiction. You need this. Do you want to try telling me that isn’t true?”
He opened his mouth but no words emerged. It was true, and both knew it.
“I’m not having you spending our money on that whore.” she went on, with the air of someone who has come a decision.
“So from now on, I’ll be doing it for you.”
She walked over to her dressing table and picked up a hair brush.
“You need to be spanked, I’ll spank you for free. And it stays here, in the house.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Here” she said, simply, pointing to her lap.
David looked at her, aghast. This was not an outcome he had expected or wanted. It had been a long time since he connected this middle-aged woman with anything sexual. As he looked at her, looking tired and depressed, with bags under her eyes from lack of sleep and no makeup, David was appalled at the thought of playing his sexual games with her. She was nice enough in her way but he just didn’t think of her…like that. He looked at her white flabby thighs and thought longingly of Miss Whiplash’s legs, all fishnetted elegance.
“Look, Darling, I really don’t think you need to – “ he began.
“Over here NOW!” she shouted.
And David scrambled into position. He was no sooner there than CRACK! as the hairbrush hurtled down to crack against the unprotected skin of his backside, as his dressing gown lay open.
“Oh Christ!” he shouted, unthinkingly. “Fucking hell Alice, not like that – “
SLAP!
“AH! No, it’s a fucking game, it’s just a fucking – oh no, Jesus, don’t”
CRACK!
“Oaaagh. Oh God, Alice, it’s a game with a safeword, let me tell you about fucking safew – “
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
Taking advantage of his momentary breathlessness following three punishing blows to his sore rump, Alice put the brush down as she calmly explained that she was well aware that little Miss Whiplash didn’t do it like this. That was because little Miss Whiplash was being paid to play games, and she, Alice, was doing it for real this time.
Picking up the hairbrush again, Alice resumed the slapping, this time at a steady pace. And over the increasing howls and horrified pleading coming from below, she calmly explained that sometimes she might play games, but she would also do this for real when she was angry with him. And today, she was very angry indeed.
When he was finally pushed off, David was sent downstairs to make Alice a cup of tea. Halfway downstairs he paused by a mirror and gingerly lifted his dressing gown to look at the damage. Christ – the mad bitch had almost killed him. Alice played tennis regularly, and had strong arms and a good wrist action. And David had really felt it, he thought, tears returning to his eyes. His rear was a mass of bruises, glowing and angry like their perpetrator. He staggered on downstairs barely able to walk with straightened legs, such was the pain he was in.
While the tea brewed, he resolved on a course of action. He would sit down (gently!) and try to have an adult conversation with her about all this stuff. After all, she was very new to it. She had to be told that this simply wouldn’t work. In a friendly manner (“Look here, old girl…”) he’d explain that there was a world of difference between being battered by a (middle-aged! dumpy!) wife on the one hand, and playing complex psychological roleplay games with a professional (young! gorgeous!) dominatrix on the other. He would promise to go for psychological counselling. Or the bitch can have a divorce, he told himself as he went back upstairs with the tea and a cup of coffee for himself, ruefully calculating the likely alimony required to buy her silence.
But the conversation didn’t go like that. Instead, Alice simply inquired why he had made himself a cup of coffee when she had instructed him only to make the tea for her.
“There are new rules now in this house” she remarked, getting up and staring him in the eye. And she hit him – hard – across the left cheek. When he straightened up to protest, she hit him again, this time across the right cheek.
“But – “ he began, but shut up when he saw the glare on her face, through his teared-up eyes.
“Give me your dressing gown cord” she commanded, and David handed it to her wordlessly. Alice took a pair of scissors from her dressing table and neatly cut it in two.
“Turn around” she ordered “and put your hands behind your back.”
Unable to be surprised by anything more today, David felt oddly normal as his wife firmly tied his wrists together behind his back. She gave a final tug to tighten it.
“Ouch!” he winced. “Not so tight – you can cut off the blood if you’re not careful.”
She spun him round to face her.
“I have heard quite enough for one day” she informed him coldly, and taking the other cord half she neatly tied a large squashy knot in its middle.
“Open wide”.
David did as he was bidden, without a word. And so, as the bunched up cloth entered his mouth, to be secured firmly behind the back of David’s head, the last chance passed for him to influence, or even comment on, the future course of his life.
The gag stayed on all day, with a brief break at lunchtime for silent refreshment, the wrists stayed tied until the morning after. When the gag was removed, David understood a lot of things about how things were going to be in the future. Above all, he understood that it was not up to him.
Alice had explained that she knew about his needs and was going to meet them. Often, the way she would meet them would not be pleasant or enjoyable for David.
She explained that she herself gained no sexual pleasure from punishing him. However, she would use it to enforce her wishes. She liked the thought of being obeyed without argument, and she liked the thought of the housework being done by David. She did not like dressing up in ‘erotic’ costume or anything like that, and she would not be doing it. She did not like the thought of ‘foot worship’ or anything similar, so there would be none of that either. She liked the idea of being in control of all the finances and making all the decisions about their lives, and she was also looking forward to making David work harder to be more successful in his career. She did not like the thought of masturbation – which would be strictly controlled – or pornography which would be banned.
She explained all of this in a way that left David in no room for doubt, either about her wishes or her determination to enforce them. This was how she wanted it to be, from now on. And that was that.
Part 4 – misery?
Fast forward eleven years.
Alice is sitting in their living room. There are a few changes. She has become rather fat. Not gross or obese, but Alice enjoys her food and sees little reason to keep herself in trim. She wears no makeup. She sits there in an armchair, looking quite self-contained, reading a magazine quietly.
You would be forgiven for not noticing David, but he is still there. He has not become fat. On the contrary, he is rather gaunt. He stands quietly at the back of the room, hands by his side, wearing a maid’s costume. This is not a frilly, sissy frou-frou naughty French maid’s outfit but just a straight up and down black pinafore, hard-wearing and hard-working as worn by equally gaunt cleaners in hard-up hotels up and down the country. David’s knees are red and callused. Clearly, he spends a lot of time down on them.
There is an umbrella stand in the corner. In it, along with two walking sticks and an umbrella, stands a crook-handled cane. To you, this might be barely noticeable. To David, it – together with his wife – forms one of the two focal points of the room. He is constantly aware of it. The cane is rarely used in their marriage, but when it is, it is not soon forgotten.
Alice never did see the point of playful punishment, and continued to apply herself with the same forceful determination to inflect real pain that she displayed so shockingly with the hairbrush on that very first day. With the cane, she can reduce David to howling, fearful incoherence with just a couple of strokes – and double and redouble the pain with every subsequent stroke. With the cane, she can dictate obedience, as David will willingly submit to any punishment, to any humiliation knowing that the cane stands ready for use as a last resort. With the cane, Alice rules her marriage. It comes out of its stand not more than once or twice a year. Then it is used on David’s buttocks. But every day, and every hour of every day, it is used on David’s mind.
Were he to raise his skirt (which he would not do without an order) we would see David’s chastity device. This was always a great fantasy of his, and occasionally in later years he tried to remember why. Chastity is a sexy idea, but it is sexy primarily for the thought of release. Under Alice’s command, release is never to be discussed (an early, tentative inquiry by David as to when Alice might be considering it brought about one of the earliest and best-remembered encounters with the cane).
Release does come, but when it does it is unannounced and brief. Typically, Alice unlocks the device and informs David that he has five or ten minutes to himself in the bathroom, before she comes in to supervise a cold shower and the re-encasement of his neglected genitals. This has generally happened every few months or so, but lately Alice seems to have lost interest or forgotten, as it has been six months since the last occasion. David has not forgotten and is still very interested, but dare not speak about the subject.
Alice has consistently refused to accommodate any notion that the discipline and punishment within their marriage has any sexual component. Early on, they tried forced oral sex. Alice found it mildly stimulating, but she never became the nymphomaniac ordering daily intimate worship, of David’s fantasies. Actually, David had thought this just as well, as the half-hours spent before her on his knees had been agony, and his tongue had always started to ache long before any signs of sexual satisfaction on her part. So their marriage had become completely sexless. Alice had later taken up with a young lesbian called Clare, but David was kept firmly hidden away during that affair, and Clare never did discover that her partner was even married.
David rises every day at 5.30, doing chores before heading off to work at 7am. On his return at 7pm (or later, if he has a legitimate work-related reason for lateness and seeks permission by phone) he changes into his maid’s uniform, prepares Alice’s dinner and serves her. After dinner, he present receipts for any money he has spent during the day, he waits for any further instruction – which is where we see him now – and is eventually given permission to go to bed. His room is a cubbyhole in the cellar.
Adjoining his room is the utility room, where David spends a lot of his weekends ironing. It also doubles as a punishment room. Alice keeps meaning to soundproof the room, but has never really got round to it (and in any case feels mildly embarrassed at the thought of knowing looks from the workmen), so a gag is usually employed during beatings, to spare the neighbours’ feelings. Alice has moved on from the makeshift dressing gown cord gag of that very first day, and a well-chewed ball gag hangs on the wall, next to the equally worn and well-used instruments of correction.
And so this is their ‘marriage’. In early years, Alice would refer to him as her ‘slave’ and David had to admit that in all relevant aspects, that word was the right one. He had just once laid plans for escape, carefully accumulating cash in a hiding place in the utility room, following a rather complex series of transactions that allowed him to keep about 10% of his work expense claims out of sight of his wife. He had almost saved up enough, and had already made discrete arrangements to sleep on the sofa of an old friend who lived in the North, while he looked around for a menial job under an assumed identity. But on the day before his escape, he had quietly told a few people at work that he was unlikely to return. Unknown to him, one of his female colleagues had long ago been befriended by Alice, who had asked her to look out for any peculiar behaviour by her serially unfaithful husband. David had indeed failed to show up for work the next day, calling in ill, and it was the next Monday before he reappeared. The informant colleague (still incognito to David) thought he looked as if he’d had a good telling-off and so indeed, among other things, he had. He had also learnt that Alice had no intention of allowing him or anyone else to change their living arrangements. He had thought that he had already experienced the worst she could do. But he had been wrong.
And so he is a slave, truly a slave. Alice still prefers to call him ‘husband’, but she knows and he knows it means the same thing. David will retire in a few years’ time, with a large pension, the thanks of his grateful co-workers and nothing but years of hard labour and pain ahead of him.
This is – is it not? – the life of his fantasies.
Is David happy?
Look at his face, as he stands meekly there by the wall. No – he is not happy. He hates the chastity, he hates the housework and the early mornings, he hates that gag and above all he hates the pain. Every time Alice hits him, with leather, wood, plastic or hand, whether on his bottom, his palms, his thighs, his face or any other part of his abused, battered body; he is reminded all over again how startlingly painful real pain is, and wonders how he ever fantasised about it. He is miserable. As he cries himself to sleep each night, in pain and rage and frustration and hatred of the bitter lot that is his life, he wishes every time that he had never married her, that she would just leave or…or go away some other way. The love went out of their marriage long ago. It was a shock when he finally admitted it to himself (and I am sorry to have to report this) but David hates her: hates her cruelty, her indifference and her power.
But the fear she inspires is stronger than the hate, and every morning, chores complete, he knows he will knock gently at her door, tiptoe in and deposit the silver tray of her breakfast at the side of her bed. Then he will go to the dressing table, pick up the same hairbrush that she deployed all those years before, kiss it gently then place it near her on the bed. Then he will meekly await his morning spanking. Not a single day has passed since that first one when the hairbrush has not been used. And it hurts like hell now, just as it did all those spankings before. As it will every day that is yet to come.
So – is it a sad tale, this one of David’s? Perhaps. But Alice has been a most constant wife to him. She never said she would give him what he wants, but only what he needs. He does not want it, he does not like it… and this many years after his infidelity, perhaps he does not even deserve it any more. But deep down, he suspects that she is right about this, that she knows him better than he knows himself, that to be treated as he is, is what he needs.
And if she’s wrong – well, she wouldn’t care and David’s in no position to object and no one else knows.
And anyway, it’s all just a silly fantasy for my femdom stories and captions blog. Isn’t it?  I did make quite clear that nothing here is real, so why worry?
PS – Miss Whiplash, in case you were wondering, is no longer Miss Whiplash but runs a small shop selling pet supplies down in Bournemouth. She takes in and looks after stray cats, and she is happy. One of the cats is called ‘little davey’.

New endings for some old favourites

Sometimes the endings of fairy tales need a little modification, to bring them into line with modern conceptions of male/female roles…

from Snow White and the seven dwarves

My my, such a dear little house, but you really don’t clean it properly, do you?” said Snow White.

“Would you like me to help out around the place and get it all spick and sparkling span for you?

“Yes, yes!” chorused the seven dwarves, even Grumpy forgetting himself enough to join in with enthusiasm

“Well then, here’s my dear little whip!” said Snow White, with a merry laugh.

“Now, start cleaning up this mess and if it isn’t spotless by suppertime, well, there’ll be seven darling little beaten bottoms at bedtime, now, won’t there?”

from Beauty and the Beast

“So if your true love kisses you before the last petal falls, you resume your true form as a handsome prince? gasped Belle, staring at the wilting rose.

“Yes” replied the hapless beast.

“One kiss and all of this castle and kingdom will be restored as it was before I was enchanted, and I will assume the throne. But if the petal falls first, I remain a beast for ever, without even the power of speech that I have now.”

The two gazed at the rose, in its glass case. Having perhaps been disturbed by their footsteps on entering the room, the last petal drooped gently down, hanging on to the stem by the merest thread.

“A beast for ever…” murmured Belle, absent-mindedly stroking the collar and leash that she held in her hand.

She started tapping the glass case gently with the end of her riding crop.

“But still rich, right?”

Femdom story: A normal marriage (part 3 of 3)

The story so far: Christopher, following a sheltered upbringing, has been taught by his wife that sexual intercourse consists of her beating him until she reaches orgasm.  After a couple of years of marriage, Janice has started spicing up this vanilla sex life with toys such as canes and bondage gear – because being tied allows him to ‘hold on’ much further, as the pain of the beating builds up.  Lately, Janice’s friend Paula has taken to staying over.  Silly Christopher worried that they might be having intercourse, but after a night tied tightly in their room, he is reassured that no beatings or other forms of sexual intimacy are going on: just tickling, licking and so on…

Now read on.

Then one Sunday something appalling happened.  He was cleaning Paula’s house, as usual, and was standing before her, as she angrily pointed out a spot he had apparently missed on the carpet.  Her eyesight-  or standards of cleanliness – was more acute than his, and he stood in confusion thinking that the carpet looked pristine.
“Look at it – just there, look closely!” she had insisted furiously, and he had bent down to observe better (and indeed, could then see to his shame, a small patch of dust that had previously escaped his attention.  He was about to get up to present his testicles for the inevitable kicking, when he was startled by Paula’s hand raising his skirt, followed by the ‘crack’ of her other palm impacting his upper thigh, in the gap between his stockings and his panties.  He froze in shock and the hand descended again, slapping him over and over and driving his face into the carpet where he knelt.
He knew afterwards that he should have protested at the very first stroke.  But in confusion (and perhaps lust?) he remained kneeling for the entire thing, only then rising, his face crimson and backing away towards the door.  In his confusion and shame he had run from Paula’s house in full maid’s uniform, and as he clattered home in his high heels, he was well aware of the sight he must be, in his disshevelled uniform, with tears pouring down his face.  But he didn’t care, and once home (Janice was out) he ran upstairs to the spare room, as he could not bring himself to enter the marital bedroom, his heart pounding and his vision blurred.
How could he?  With her best friend?  After all she had done for him, introducing him to the sacred mysteries of the rod and the whip, after so gently dealing with his fears about sex, even – especially – after taking the trouble to show him how harmless and innocent her little games with Paula had been?  How could he have allowed her best friend to spank him?  He was an adulterer, a cheating husband, he told himself in misery and panic.  Even if it never happened again, even if his relationship with Paula stayed strictly proper, as Mistress and maid, Paula would always know.
And worse…he would.  And so, surely, would Janice.  They had never had secrets from one another.  They shared everything.  Early on, Janice had even explained that many wives kept their monthly period from their husbands, but that because she knew their marriage should be completely open one, she was going to trust and permit him to buy, apply and dispose of her tampons.  She wanted them to share every aspect of their lives, and now he had betrayed her.  Christopher sat on the edge of the bed in misery.
When Janice came home, there was no point in pretending.  Quite apart from his inability to control his emotions, there was the fact that he was home in the middle of the afternoon.  Normally, his chores at Paula’s house kept him there well into the evening.  In fact, Sunday night was a favourite for a sleepover, so Paula was often already tucked up in bed with his wife, by the time he returned with aching arms and sore knees from the day’s labours.
“Christopher?  Darling!  Whatever’s the matter?”.  She rushed to the bed, and held him in her arms.
And slowly, through sobs and long pauses, Christopher explained to his wife what had happened.  At first, she seemed simply confused, but as understanding dawned, her expression hardened and the arms around her sobbing husband seemed to stiffen.  When he had finished his explanations, she pushed him away wordlessly and his dress rustled as he squirmed in his place.
“I need to talk to Paula” she said, flatly, and left the room.  Christopher took off his dress and wondered what he should do.  He did not have to wonder long.  Janice came back carrying bondage gear.  Clinically and efficiently, she tied him up – his hands behind his back, his knees and ankles securely fastened and a hood with gag over his head.  Before tightening the gag, she had paused and said “I need to know, Christopher.  Do you still love me?”
“I love you, Janice!  I love only you, and always will” he had sobbed, with heartfelt devotion.  Then the gag had tightened in place and the hood was placed over his head.  From inside the darkness, he heard the door slam behind her.  Later, he thought he heard raised voices from downstairs, but he could not be sure as the hood muffled most sounds very effectively.
He lost all track of time, lying there on the bed.  He later discovered it had been just over 15 hours, and he had a raging thirst and (to his shame) had wet himself and the bed by the time he was released.  Janice removed his hood (but not the gag), and unfastened his hands.  She looked down in disgust.  “Clean yourself and this up – then I want to talk to you downstairs.”
Christopher was able to remove his bonds and tidy up the mess, then got dressed and went downstairs to face his wife.  She was sitting in a chair in the living room, reading a magazine, and glanced up as he approached.  “I said I wanted to talk to you, I didn’t say I wanted you to talk” she said.  “Go and put that gag back on right now – and take those ridiculous clothes off.”
Four minutes later, naked and gagged, Christopher stood in front of his wife.  Had he been able to speak, he would have begged for forgiveness, would have offered anything – anything – for their marriage to be as it was.  Instead, he simply had to listen in silence.
It was worse than any beating he had ever experienced.  She explained, calmly and without emotion, that he had betrayed her, as had Paula.  She described how hurt and insulted she felt, how none of the relations between the three of them could be the same again.  And when she had done this, she set out how things were going to work in the future.
Quite clearly, neither he nor Paula could be trusted.  She had been allowing him too much personal freedom, and now her trust had been abused, she understood that she could not be so liberal.  He would be kept under much closer control in future.  As for Paula, she had started their conversation last night determined never to see her again.  But Paula had cried and apologized, and Janice had simply decided that she could not lose her best friend and her husband both at the same time.  But she needed to keep an eye on Paula, too.
So: this was how it would be in the future.  Paula would move in with them.  Christopher would give up his job, and would be kept permanently supervised in the house.  On occasions when Janice was out, Christopher was to be locked away (a cupboard could be adapted for the purpose, Janice thought, or she might purchase a cage from the bondage catalogue).  He would not be permitted clothes or speech, would eat leftovers after the ladies of the house had finished their meal and would do nothing but perform the most menial household tasks.
And so it has been ever since.  Christopher lives in a cage, wears a mask and gag all the time and is only allowed out in Janice’s presence – and then on a chain.  He eats scraps, liquidized in a blender and sucked up around his ballgag through a thick straw.  An electric shock device has been fitted to his testicles, to which both ladies have a control.  The device is quite robust, though, and is not usually dislodged by even the most vigorous beating on his testicles.
She sleeps in the master bedroom with the forgiven Paula, unforgiven he sleeps alone in his cage.  Occasionally, the two ladies introduce other women or even men to their tickling games, and on these occasions Christopher is kept well out of sight.  He cleans up afterwards, and more than once had had to deal with what he now knows to be the ‘milky fluid discharge’ from a stiffened male penis.  He shudders at the thought, and prays silent thanks to the loving wife who made sure he never had to experience such a horror.  The stiffening in his own penis has long since ceased, something Janice’s nursing friend put down to the now daily applications of the hairbrush to his testicles.

He has not spoken a word since the profession of love for his wife on that day of shame, and perhaps he never will.  Yet that is all he needed to say, all that he knows, all that he is.

Do not pity Christopher.  He still has a very full sex life, as his buttocks are whipped by his wife (or occasionally – Christopher suspects from inside his hood – by Paula) and his chores fill his days with meaningful work.

Whatever the future may hold for him – and it is unlikely to hold anything very different – he knows that it is because his wife loves him so much that she cares enough to subject him to this lifetime of penitence.

Femdom story: A normal marriage (part 2 of 3)

The story so far: Christopher, following a sheltered upbringing, was inducted into the sweet mysteries of sex by his lovely wife, Janice, on their wedding night.  He now knows that sex consists of the woman beating her man until she achieves orgasm.  Initially, Christopher’s penis got in the way of their love-making, but the application of a lockable medical device solved that problem.  Their love life is therefore entirely normal.  But now Janice has started trying to spice it up…

Sounds kind of kinky
On day, Janice suggested introducing bondage into their lovemaking.  At first Christopher had protested.  He had caught sight of one or two articles about this, and was sure that it went well beyond what normal people got up to in the bedroom.
“You’re such a prude” she had laughed, when he’d objected.  “If it wasn’t for my making you try new things, we’d never do anything but the missionary position” (the ‘missionary position’, he’d learnt, was the proper term for their usual lovemaking position: she sitting on the edge of the bed, he draped over her lap having his bottom spanked).  So he had consented, and soon found himself tied over a chair as Janice applied one of her ‘love toys’ to his bottom.
They immediately discovered a wonderful effect of bondage – that it could allow them to go further in their love-making than ever before.  Previously, as Janice vigorously engaged in sexual intercourse – especially if she was using an implement to do so – Christopher would find himself unable to lie still, or to keep quiet.  She was good at holding him in place, especially when he lay in the missionary position across her lap.
But there had been more than a few occasions on which Christopher had began howling and thrashing around under the blows, and although this behaviour did seem to excite Janice to approach her orgasm more quickly, it was not unknown for them to have to terminate the love-making before she had reached an orgasm, as Christopher involuntarily struggled free, or the noise seemed likely to annoy the neighbours.
Janice explained that breaking free like this was called ‘coming too soon’ – when the man reached a pain level under the spanking that he could no longer take, before the woman was fully satisfied.  It made Christopher feel deeply ashamed, after all the effort Janice put into beating him, that he could not always hold on long enough for her to reach orgasm.
Bondage supplied the answer.  When Christopher was securely fastened over a chair, or simply tied to a bed-post, there was obviously no danger at all of his scrambling away as Janice laid into him with the chosen implement of the day.  The shrieking and howling could have become even more of a problem, but fortunately Janice decided, soon after they had started to experiment with bondage, to replace the ropes and cords they had been using with proper equipment.  She sent off for a catalogue, and was delighted to find in it a selection of gags to control noise as well as straps to control movement.  They tried a few, and soon selected a ball-gag that was able to stifle most of the shrieks.
With this in place, Janice could happily thrash away with whatever instrument she liked, with complete abandon, until fully satisfied.  Sometimes she would even leave him secured between bouts of lovemaking, returning to the fray when rested and recovered from her own orgasm, and further applying the loving caresses of her whip (it was around this time that Janice had brought a riding crop into their lovemaking) to his already well-flogged bottom.
The gag allowed nothing to emerge but little moans and shrieks.  On a weekend at a country hotel, however, they had become concerned that even this might be too much, as they had no desire whatever to be asked to leave for over-loud love-making.  Janice had suggested a wadded-up bit of cloth, and Christopher had immediately produced his handkerchief.  Janice, though, had been concerned that this might be too rough for his mouth, and had instead produced her own panties.
Her husband had begged her not to waste her own clothing just to make him comfortable, but his loving wife had insisted and he and soon found himself tied tightly down on the hotel bed, his wife’s balled-up panties firmly secured inside his mouth with a strap, very effectively suppressing the screams that would otherwise have disturbed the other hotel guests.  That night had been almost a continuous session of love-making, and although Christopher found he could barely walk for days afterwards, the glow of sexual satisfaction on his wife’s face made it all worthwhile.
Since then, she had on several occasions insisted that he be gagged with her panties again – even though less expensive and personal alternatives existed – for old times’ sake, as she put it.  Christopher had once bought a pack of panties so that he could take clean ones in his mouth (he hadn’t wanted to mention anything to his wife, out of embarrassment, but from the very first occasion he had been able to detect a distinct taste of pee, and more recently the stains had been visible and the taste pronounced), but she had laughed and said this would be wasteful and that it was better for her to wear the new ones, and to use old ones that had become stained beyond further use when gagging him for a bout of silent sex.
Christopher helps out at home
Early on, they had fixed upon Fridays as the regular weekly slot for love-making.  Christopher often found movement difficult the next day, and after being asked a few times at work why he was wincing, they had agreed on this. Saturday was no day of rest, though.  Janice was (as she put it) a proper little homemaker, and as Christopher was out at work most of the week, at the weekend the housework was his responsibility.  Feeling relaxed and drained after the agony of the previous night’s orgasms, Janice loved to wake up to breakfast in bed on a Saturday morning, and it was the greatest of pleasures for Christopher – if he had been fully untied from the night before – to scurry downstairs and prepare it for her, before commencing his chores (cleaning the house from top to bottom).
When doing this, he wore a maid’s costume.  He had protested when this had been produced, but Janice had patiently explained that the maid’s uniform, being designed to the purpose, was perfectly suited to doing housework.  He had asked whether he could not wear overalls instead, but Janice had giggled and drawn him closer, before whispering that she might want quickly to bend him over and make love – perhaps with a paddle or a ruler – while he was engaged in the housework ‘to spice it up’.
Generally, Christopher found on a Saturday that he had had just about all the lovemaking that his poor bottom could stand, but he knew that her sexual drive was stronger than his and so of course he consented to her request.  The costume stayed on all day, from the early-morning chores, through serving his wife her mid-morning coffee, right through to the inspection of his work (Janice was quite particular) and maid-service at Saturday dinner.  He was taught to curtsey and call her “Mistress’ because, as Janice pointed out, if he was going to act as her maid, it would be such fun to do it properly.
Janice and Paula…
His friend had warned him to watch out for other men after his wife, so sexy and beautiful was she.  In truth, Christopher had very little idea how he would react were any man seriously to make eyes at Janice.  It put him in a flush of red jealously just to think of it.  As it happened, though, the only time he had had any real suspicions had turned out to be a ludicrous misunderstanding – and not with a man, but with another woman!  Janice had introduced him to Paula, with whom she had been at boarding school.  The two ladies did everything together, and Paula frequently came round for the evening.  On an early one of these occasions, she was still there at 11.30, and Janice had suggested that she might like to stay over.
“Ooooh yes – it can be just like a sleepover at school!” Paula had giggled.
“We used to cuddle up to one another in bed after lights-out” Janice explained happily to her husband.
“Just talking and joking, and sometimes tickling each other and so on.  It would be lovely, just for old times sake….would you mind terribly sleeping in the spare room tonight, darling?”
And “darling” had done as he was asked, happy that his wife was reacquainting herself with old friends (and thrilled to be married to a lady with such a playful, girlish outlook on life).
Since then, Paula had stayed over more and more frequently.  Friday nights were off-limits, of course, but otherwise Christopher found himself in the spare bedroom two or even three nights a week.  Despite his best intentions, he found himself becoming jealous, and even felt an awful suspicion forming.  Could the two of them be…well, might it be a bit more than girlish hi-jinks and ‘tickling’?  They couldn’t be making love in there could they?
Hating himself for it, Christopher took to creeping out of his spare room and listening quietly at the door.  This was mostly quite reassuring.  He could hear lots of giggling and muffled little shrieks of glee.  Nothing that sounded like the regular slapping sound of a hand on a bottom, or any of the other sounds he associated with a loving beating.  He took himself back to his room and went to sleep, contentedly.
But over the next few weeks, he could not resist going back more and more frequently.  In amongst the laughter, he thought on occasion he could hear Janice making some of the sounds of orgasm, and he could frequently hear Paula making noises that were rather different but…could they be her equivalent?
Of course, he was found out.  Paula had opened the door, on her way downstairs to get a drink of water, and had shrieked at the sight of her friend’s husband jumping back in shock.  Wordlessly, he had run back to his room, and sat on the bed, quaking in fear.  It had not taken long for Janice to appear, the bondage gear in her hands.  She had said almost nothing, just quietly instructed him to lie down and proceeded to secure him tightly to the bed, the ball-gag firmly in place.  He knew very well that this had nothing to do with love-making, and this was confirmed the next morning when she appeared with a hairbrush in her hand and proceeded to spank him in the one place that they had discovered so early to be completely unrelated to any sexual pleasure – his testicles.
Later that day, when he had recovered, they talked.  At first, Christopher could do nothing but apologise profusely, crying for forgiveness, while Janice was coldly furious and kept slapping the hairbrush against her palm meaningfully.  But as Christopher confessed his fears, Janice slowly put the implement down and began to listen.  She smiled, and stroked his cheek, and soon all of Christopher’s deepest fears and jealousy were pouring out.  The conversation ended with him sobbing in her arms, as she patted him gently, murmuring “You silly, silly boy.”
When he had recovered enough to listen, Janice calmly explained how baseless his fears were.  She described some of the little games she played with her old school friend – how they tickled each other, and tried to get the other to shriek with surprising little bites and nips.  The loving couple talked and talked all morning, and in the end Janice decided that the best thing was for Christopher to see for himself.  He begged her not to bother, explained frantically that he believed her, that his fears had been laid completely to rest.  But she was implacable, determined that not the slightest hint of suspicion should taint their perfect marriage, and she went off to phone her friend.
Christopher learns the truth
Paula, it seemed, was still furious at the intrusion into her privacy, and it had taken Janice a while to calm her down.  She insisted that he pay some penalty for his actions, and although mollified by the account of the hairbrush applied to his testicles, she obviously felt that more was required to reflect the seriousness of the situation.  Janice had therefore had to agree that Christopher would receive a monthly dose on the same day for the next six months.
With Paula in a calmer state of mind, at this thought, she had introduced the idea of his observing their night games.  This had immediately put Paula right back into a fit of fury, but Janice knew her friend well and was eventually able to talk her round.  Finally, it was agreed, as long as Christopher was completely unable to move or speak throughout the entire thing, and as long as Paula herself could supervise a really firm application of the hairbrush to his testicles at the start of the night and again the next morning.
Furthermore, Janice promised that Christopher would clean Paula’s house every Sunday from now on, and that Paula herself would be permitted to apply the hairbrush, or just a firm knee, if anything were unsatisfactory.  On this basis, Paula gave her consent.
It took Janice about ten days to obtain some additional items from her bondage catalogue, because she knew how concerned her friend was that the immobilization of her husband should be complete.  She also bought an additional maid’s outfit, so that Christopher could be clean and smart on both days of the weekend.  During this time, she went to Paula’s house whenever it was a sleepover night and so, of course, on the Sunday, did Christopher.
Paula seemed reluctant to really acknowledge his presence, and gave him his instructions rather impersonally as “The maid will do this”, “The maid will ensure that…” and so on.  With the Sundays dedicated to housework as well (and, as they shortly agreed, a trip to Paula’s on the way home from work on Tuesdays and Thursdays, to do the washing-up), Christopher was now spending almost 25 hours a week in domestic service.  But it was worth it, for his wife to keep her friendship with Paula, and her love for him, as he told himself.
The night finally came.  Janice very carefully secured Christopher to the posts of the great four-poster bed in their room.  He was tightly encased in a rubber suit, his mouth firmly gagged with just his eyes visible behind holes in his mask.  The rubber suit had a hole for Christopher’s genitals to emerge, making him wonder once again whether other couples incorporated testicle-spanking in their normal lovemaking.  It seemed hardly conceivable, the pain was so great.  He thanked his lucky stars that his wife’s desires were so normal.
The hairbrush was produced, the penis-tube was lifted neatly to one side and Janice applied the implement vigorously to his dangling testicles, noting with satisfaction that not a squeak could be heard emerging from the tight gag.  Then she nodded curtly, and went downstairs to join her friend.
A few hours later, they came up, both obviously a little tipsy and Paula especially so, perhaps Christopher thought, out of shyness at having their girlish games observed.  Paula checked his bonds, and also gave him a few firm kicks, perhaps again to check out the effectiveness of the gag, as without it Christopher was not in the slightest doubt that he would scream for mercy.  Satisfied, the two women started to remove one another’s clothes, slowly and with little giggles.
At first, Paula especially seemed understandably inhibited.  But as she got into it, she perhaps forgot the looming presence of the tied-up man over the end of the bed, and concentrated on playing the tickling games.  These were indeed, Christopher thought (with a great sense of guilt over his unfair suspicions) entirely innocent and non-sexual.  For a start, Paula was naked in front of him as they bounced on the bed together, and he could see clearly that her white bottom had never felt a firm slap from a hand, let alone anything more directly sexual such as the strap or the cane.
Christopher felt tears welling up in his eyes yet again (he had cried twice already tonight, during his wife’s and Paula’s respective attention to his testicles) as he thought how her tools of lovemaking – excitingly visible hanging on the wall to the left of the bed, were reserved for him and for him alone.
What the two ladies got up to was in no way related to any of the techniques for sexual intercourse to which Janice had introduced him since that first time on the night of their wedding.  There was no beating, no one was tied up, indeed there seemed to be no pain involved at all.  Christopher settled himself to enjoy the sight of his wife and her friend playing their girlish games.
It was – as she had assured him all along – just tickling.  Mostly, they tickled one another between the legs, although they also kissed one another a lot and stroked and tickled each other’s breasts.  Later, the tickling took a surprising turn, as first Janice and then Paula wriggled down to place her head between the legs of her partner and tickled their wee-hole orally, mostly by licking with the tongue but occasionally also sucking and even gently biting between pursed lips.
Christopher felt relieved that Janice didn’t want to play such games with him, as it looked distinctly smelly.  I’ll never complain about being gagged with stained panties again, he thought.  The use of the mouth must have been particularly ticklish, as each lady rapidly found herself hysterical with gasping laughter quite soon after experiencing it.  That must have been what I thought was an orgasm, Christopher thought to himself.  And indeed, it did sound similar, so he chuckled inwardly at how foolish he had been.
Later in the night, the games took an even stranger turn, as the ladies produced a black rubber object, and proceeded to insert it into one another’s wee holes.  Christopher wondered how they could possibly stand the feeling – it must tickle even more than the licking, he thought.  But the ladies seemed not to mind too much, although they could barely control their gasping sobs of laughter as it moved smoothly in and out.
The activities ended with Janice kneeling above Paula’s face, in what seemed to be a competition for who could stand the tickling longest.  Paula was using her tongue, while Janice was applying some kind of buzzing device between her friend’s legs.  Both became almost hysterical with giggles, but eventually Janice seemed to win, as Paula struggled for mercy shrieking “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!”, and Janice rolled off and allowed her to recover.
After switching the light off, the two friends fell asleep in one another’s arms, and Christopher hung from aching wrists in the darkness, thinking once again how lucky he was to have a wife such as Janice.
To be continued…

Femdom story: A normal marriage (part one)

Christopher hurried home through the drizzling rain.  It was Friday, and that meant just one thing: making love to his beautiful wife.  As so often on the days set aside for sex, she had called him teasingly at the office in the afternoon.  He’d hoped that none of the other staff could see him going crimson in his cubicle, as she’d outlined some of the things she would be doing to him, and giggling at his stammered, coded responses.
His wife, Janice, was beautiful, sexy, intelligent and…so creative in the bedroom.  Christopher sighed. He knew how lucky he was.  Other men would kill to have a wife like that – and he’d often caught his colleagues looking longingly on the occasions she came into the office, sashaying across the floor with the confidence that only a beautiful woman can muster.  Yes, he was very lucky.  It was just that…he found that perhaps he didn’t always enjoy having sex as much as he had imagined he would.  Sometimes, to be honest, he would rather just watch TV.
His first time
It had started on his wedding night.  Christopher had had a very sheltered upbringing.  Brought up in an all-female household, and educated at home, he had been carefully shielded from inappropriate and vulgar material.  He knew nothing of sex, although he was aware it was something to be experienced only with a wife – and where was he to find one, as he never left the house?  His mother had therefore been delighted when the niece of an old friend of hers had taken an interest in her lad at the tender age of seventeen, and after a brief courtship they had married two days before his eighteenth birthday.  She was eight years older, and when – in perhaps the most excruciating conversation of his life – Christopher had stammered out that he was still a virgin, and knew nothing of lovemaking, she had simply laughed, taken his hand in hers and told him that she knew precisely what to do.
By the time Christopher and his lovely bride reached the bedroom after all the wedding festivities were complete, Christopher was in a state of intense excitement – while still almost entirely ignorant of what was supposed to happen.  “Don’t worry” she had whispered.  “I’ll just do everything this first time.”  And she had slipped off her bridal gown, to reveal her lithe young body clad only in sophisticated lingerie in pure, innocent white.  And beckoning to her virgin husband, she had gently tugged at his belt until it came free, slipped his trousers down and hooked both thumbs over his shorts before sliding those slowly and deliberately down around his ankles. The she looked up at his panting face, smiled and breathed “Over you go” and Christopher had felt a hand in the small of his back, pushing firmly, and he found himself lying there, across the warm bare thighs of his bride.
She made a few adjustments to his position, stroked him slowly up the inside of the thighs and then the sexual intercourse had begun.  Christopher’s first time.  He smiled now to remember how much noise he had made, as the flat of her hand came down first on one cheek, then on the other, cracking down in a steady pace.  ‘So this is sexual intercourse?’, he’d thought to himself.  It was a strange sensation.  A lot more uncomfortable than he’d expected, as his buttocks turned red under the relentless slapping of her palms.
By the standards of their later love-making, it had been very mild.  She had used only her bare hands throughout, but still Christopher, after an initially brave start, had found himself first wriggling, then bucking about as he tried to keep the tears welling up in his eyes from falling to the floor.  He was yet to learn that it was no shame to weep during their trysts – indeed these days, it was a rare encounter that did not result in tears.  It had seemed like an age across her lap, the blows coming harder and harder and faster and faster, as she also began to pant in rhythm until…just when he thought he must scream and beg for release from the pain, she began to make some extraordinary gasping noises, then little cries and finally an almost roaring sound of release…then pushed him hard to fall on the floor, and lay back on the bed, panting and murmuring to herself.
This, she told him when she had caught her breath, helped him up and they were discussing the extraordinary event that had just occurred, this had been an orgasm.  Women had them.  Men did not.  The culmination of love-making for the woman was the orgasm, while for men it was the bright red, sore bottom that he had just received.  She had laughed when he asked nervously whether the orgasm hurt – and told him that it was an agony that he could barely begin to conceive of.  “But in our shared pain – my orgasm and your whacked bottom – we become one and celebrate our love.” she had said.
He had always wondered what sex was like.  That night he discovered, and was grateful to his lovely wife for teaching him. 
They had made love twice more that night.  On the second time, almost exactly the same thing had happened. Of course, Christopher’s bottom was already sore when the love-making started, so after just a few strokes he had begun to yelp, and to beg pathetically for mercy.  Fortunately, soon after he had started to plead in this way, the panting and gasping had begun – it seemed that nature had designed things so that when he was brought more rapidly to a state of agony, her orgasm would come along more quickly.
When she had teasingly asked if he was man enough for a third time, he had experienced an uncontrollable sense of fear, and sobbed – while being lovingly cuddled in her arms – that his poor bottom was in too much pain.  So she had introduced him to what she called a ‘hand job’.  Positioning herself in front of him, she had instructed him to hold his hands out – palm upwards – and while smiling sweetly into his eyes the whole time, she brought out a short leather strap. 
“Ready?” she breathed, and without waiting for a reply swung the strap down hard, making him yelp in pain and surprise.  The pain was different – in many ways worse – but at least it gave his aching bottom a rest.  And, as she pointed out afterwards, the advantage of the hand job was that they could make love face to face, staring lovingly into one another’s eyes as she gradually built up the pattern of welts across his palms and lower wrists.
After this third bout of love-making, they had gone to sleep, cuddled in one another’s arms.  Christopher had been confused – and very much in pain – but he also felt more in love than ever with this woman, who had introduced him to the sacred mysteries of sex.
He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.  Did all men find it that difficult, that painful?
Getting used to it
He found it almost impossible to talk to any of his friends about sex.  But one evening, in the pub, with his oldest and closest friend, he had nervously ventured onto the subject of sex.  “Janice is” he had coughed “very active, you know.  Very forceful. In bed.”
His friend had simply congratulated him, in a beery way, and made a rather crude remark about his luck and needing to watch no one else took her away from him.  Swallowing his distaste, Christopher had pressed the point.
“Only” he had whispered.  “I was wondering.  After a really hard session….is it normal for me to feel, well…a little sore?”
His friend had stared at him.  “I mean down there.” He whispered urgently.
His friend had roared with laughter, and told him that it was perfectly normal to feel sore after a heavy bout of lovemaking, if you were lucky enough to get one.  Sometimes, he said, ‘down there’ could be left so sore it could be sensitive to the touch for days.  Christopher had been reassured, as he often found after making love, that his bottom was so bruised that he could hardly bear to sit down for, as his friend rightly said, days at a time.
“And er…well, about orgasms, you know” he’d gone on, wondering whether he would ever be able to speak to this person sober again (he could not, it turned out).
“She, well she usually screams when she, you know and er…” 
“And you scream as well, I’ll bet, you lucky devil.” His friend had laughed, digging him painfully in the ribs.
“Yes, I frequently do.  I scream a lot.” He’d admitted candidly.
“Gets you pretty hot down there, does she?” his friend had embarrassingly continued, and Christopher had mumbled that yes, indeed, he often felt burning hot during a bout of intercourse and left it at that, mortified at how far the conversation had gone, but reassured that their love-making was ‘normal’.
A troubling development – and Janice’s solution
There was one aspect that was not.  From the wedding night onwards, the newlyweds had noticed a peculiar development during their lovemaking.  Christopher’s penis had a tendency to go stiff, usually just at the point at which they were about to begin.  During the intercourse itself, as the blows came thick and fast, it would usually go down again, but sometimes the stiffness would return soon afterwards when, with reddened bottom and tears in his eyes, he lay beside his panting wife on the bed.
He had been summoning the courage to go and talk to a doctor about the little problem, but fortunately one of Janice’s friends was a nurse and she had been able to raise the issue with her on their return from honeymoon.  It seemed quite a number of men were afflicted with this complaint, although it was so embarrassing that it was never discussed in public.  Apparently the stiffening was essentially harmless, but Janice’s friend had said that if it ever progressed to a discharge of milky-looking fluid it was important to take measures, such as suppressing the stiffening by encasing the penis in a metal or plastic tube.  Christopher had not liked the sound of a fluid discharge at all, so when Janice had pointed out that the stiffening – even if harmless – impaired their lovemaking, by getting in the way when he went over her knee, he had readily agreed, and had been fitted with a medical device that very night.
He was relieved to have the thing locked away, as it reminded him of an excruciatingly humiliating conversation on the third night of their marriage, in which his total ignorance of sexual matters had been exposed.  He thought he had heard from somewhere that the penis could also be involved in lovemaking (although he had no idea how) and had shyly suggested this to his wife.
“What – you mean the dangly thing you pee out of?” she had asked, taken aback.
He was hastening to reassure her that he must have misunderstood, and she should forget the idea.  But she had shrugged and said that she’d try anything once.  With some difficulty, he had positioned himself across her lap facing upwards, his penis embarrassingly stiffer than ever.  It had taken only the first few spanks across his penis and – especially – his testicles, to convince him that whatever he had read about the role of these organs in love-making, he had somehow got completely the wrong end of the stick.  He had shrieked and pleaded with Janice to stop, but she had said that it was worth trying to go through with it, and did, eventually, manage to reach orgasm, finishing up with a firm sequence of swats on his testicles.
Christopher had never mentioned the ridiculous idea again, and was most relieved that his penis was locked away in its tube.  Occasionally, Janice’s love-making did extend to a few swats on the testicles, but he never again had to experience such a full-on, passionate spanking applied to them.  Christopher did know from reading that some men apparently used their genitals in love-making all the time.  It made him shudder even to think about the pain it must involve.
Becoming more adventurous
It was now two and a half years since that wonderful wedding night, and the spark had not left their marriage.  Janice was a great believer in spicing up their love-making, and barely a month went by without her producing one or other new sex toy to experiment with.  They now had a fine collection of paddles and straps, each producing a slightly different sensation and sound, each quite satisfactory in its own way in working his bottom into a state that made Christopher cry with pain, and his wife cry in ecstasy.  On their first wedding anniversary, she had produced a cane – which had taken their intimacy to a whole new level.  From the very first stroke, Christopher had screamed in shocked agony, and he had begged for mercy, for relief from any more such awful blows.  The pleas had been to little avail, but fortunately the cane, while producing ferocious angry weals on his bottom, also seemed to excite Janice immensely, and after ‘just’ six strokes, he had heard the cane clatter to the floor, above the sound of his wife in the throws of rapture.
Since then, the cane had been kept for special occasions.  Janice seemed to understand that he needed sometimes to make love at a lower intensity, that the pain from the cane was not something that could be inflicted every single week.  But he would often see her looking longingly at the feared instrument where it hung on the wall, and would take the greatest possible pride occasionally – when he could bear it – in murmuring shyly “perhaps you’d like to cane me tonight, darling.”  Anniversaries and birthdays brought the cane, and on one occasion Janice had had an exceptionally bad day at work, and was waiting for him cane in hand, when he arrived home.  Without formalities, he had bent across the kitchen table and she made love to him right there, with nine searing strokes of passion.
Not all the ‘spicing up’ had reached such passionate heights of pain, though.  Once, she had gigglingly asked him whether he thought corsets were sexy.  He had readily replied that he did, and was charmed when she delved into the department store bag in front of her and brought out a heavily-boned, red lace-up contraption.  It had taken a while to get him into it, and as she pointed out, when he bent over to receive the blows of their love-making, it did seem rather to cut into his stomach and restrict his breathing.  But it had nonetheless become an important part of their sex life, and he had learnt to love the feeling of the heel of her shoe in the small of his back as she strained to pull the laces to achieve the greatest possible constriction.

(to be continued…)

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