A domme’s a domme for a’ that

 


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Here we go.


 

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

 

 

 

 

 

We do what we must

 …because we can.

Part 2 in the exciting Portal ripoff featuring Serena and Alice.  Read the first part here!  Read the ladies’ previous adventures here!  But don’t blame me if they haunt your nightmares, OK?

Warning: contains scenes of torture, mutilation, coprophagia, death and almost all the possible permutations of those things.  Or to put it bluntly: contains Serena and Alice.  If you don’t like reading such unpleasant tales, you’re probably a normal, well-adjusted ethical human being. And we don’t really cater for those around here.

 

 

Of course, this isn’t a picture of Serena and Alice, it’s just something I found on the Internet. But it looks remarkably like them, don’t you think?

 

Some hours later, a sparkling flash around the oval rim of
the orange portal on Serena’s wall, along with the happy laugh that so often
betokened Alice’s arrival, announced the ladies’ return.  The seven males within earshot – some engaged
in tasks, others simply secured or stored awaiting future use – flinched
visibly, their eyes cast down to the floor. Those two still free to use their
mouths whispered silently as if in prayer. 
Serena was nearby and that was never good news.  Admittedly, Alice was with her which
sometimes led to their Mistress being distracted by thoughts and pleasures
unrelated to inflicting agony on males, but those thoughts were never far away
and in any case, Alice’s presence often inspired still greater creative
cruelties in Serena’s dark and savage soul.

To be fair, Alice herself was also capable of immense
cruelty but in a more playful, carefree manner. 
Where Serena tortured hungrily, methodically, Alice simply dabbled:
turning dials, attaching weights or applying probes as if for the first time,
laughing in startled pleasure at the screams and desperate pleas that resulted,
as if it was her first experience of having a man strapped into whatever device
she was fiddling with.  Her childish
enthusiasm was oddly effective: many men went to their deaths experiencing
agonising pain at her delicate finger tips, yet still their last thoughts as
the red tide of pain finally overcame their senses, was often what a sweet
little thing she seemed to be.  Even
those who had seen the horrific results of her playful exuberance at close hand
managed to find her adorable, while also of course utterly terrifying.

This was the Alice who had finally allowed herself to be led
giggling from her bedroom at home, through a pair of portals connected by
dimensionless space, back to Serena’s underground laboratory.  For, dear reader, if you have neglected to
click back on the link above to read the first part of this tale (and why not
haven’t you?), you should know that Serena’s latest passion is portals:
teleportation gates, each blue and orange pair linked inseparably, no matter
how far the distance between them, much like Alice and Serena themselves who
loved one another deeply, united by a bond far stronger than merely sexual
desire for one another and for the suffering of men, although that was the root
from which their romance had grown. 

Portals can be small: 
small enough for a man’s genitals to poke through (as we saw in Part 1),
leaving those unpleasant organs In Serena’s hands to do with as she wished,
even though the male physically still attached to them was miles away (and
also, of course, in Serena’s hands, even if not physically, to do with as she
wished). They can also be large enough to travel through.  That was a slightly alarming concept to
Serena, whose life’s work and favourite leisure activities all depended on
males being unable to escape from the places she confined them, so she had
taken precautionary measures, including a ‘dead-switch’ that she could flick to
deactivate all portals under her control. Any male attempting escape through
one when she did so would find himself merely dashing himself against the
concrete walls of his cell. Of course, the dead-switch would also remove the
connection between the various sets of genitalia and the remote males who
wrongly considered those genitals ‘theirs’, resulting in instantaneous
castration.   

You might guess that Serena
would be unbothered by this thought but there, dear reader, you misjudge her,
as Serena regarded any castration that was ‘instantaneous’ as being a waste, as
well as somewhat unartistic. 
Nonetheless, if she recoiled at the thought of any male’s castration
being quick and near-painless, still more did she hate the thought of any of
them escaping her control and so avoiding the retribution they so richly
deserved for whatever wrongs they might have committed against women (she
rarely bothered to try to learn specifics these days, as in her experience all
men had), so the dead-switch never left her belt.

At the sight of the cabinet full of living male junk (an
appropriate name, Serena had always thought), Alice cooed with pleasure again,
especially at the sight of the dark purple flesh that had once been “Peter the
lawyer’s” pride and joy.  She flicked at
the bruised flesh hard with a finger, giggling delightedly at the thought of
how sensitive to pain it must be, after its earlier treatment.  She pinched hard, digging her nails in and
drawing blood. “Of course, if you’d rather we went back to my bedroom, it’s only
a few steps away’ she began slyly, but Serena shook her head.  “I’ve something else I want to show you” she
smiled, taking her wrist and leading her to a table in the corner of the room,
leaving Peter the lawyer’s bits to fall to the ground (much like Peter the
lawyer himself, who was presently writhing in agony on the floor of his
well-appointed office near St Pauls, desperately trying not to alert any of his
co-workers to his condition, as he knew full well that it was only the income
from his high-paying job, transferred each month into Serena’s account, that
explained why the 98% of his body that was not his genitalia was able to move,
free of burn marks and largely intact).

“Take your panties off” Serena instructed her lovely blonde
companion.

“Well, I wish you’d make your mind up” grumbled Alice.  “I mean, I’ve only just suggested that we go
back to the bedroom but you – “

Her friend shushed her. 
“And put this pair on” she said.

 

Alice gets ready to take part in an experiment exploring the physics of trans-dimensional space.

 

She was holding a pair of delicate cream silk panties from
one finger.  Looking closely, Alice could
see they seemed to have a reinforced gusset, as might be the case in a pair adapted
to take a thin sanitary towel.  Both
ladies were familiar with such garments, of course, both for their own use and
(in a rather coarser format) because the design was ideally suited to dealing
neatly with the mild bleeding and occasional oozing that often followed a
castration, particularly if carried out with blunt cutting instruments, or even
blunt instruments that did not cut at all.  
However, this pair was different, because nestled in the soft material
that would be going between Alice’s legs was a small dull oval, which Alice now
recognised as an inactive portal.

“Where’s the other end?” she asked, but Serena merely smiled
and dialled up a code on her phone.

The miniature portal flashed orange then, almost
immediately, a tongue appeared.  It took
up about half the area of the oval, the other half affording a glimpse into a
dark, living space behind.  Alice could
feel breath, as the tongue quested around for anything it should work on, and
then subsided, part drawing back. 
Clearly, the other portal was just inside some male’s mouth.

Alice grabbed the panties and pulled them on,
enthusiastically.  Then she pulled them
up tight, brushed her skirt down smooth and stood there, beaming up into her
lover’s eyes.

“So what do we do?  Do
we need to give him a signal to – ooh!” 
She giggled.

“I think he got the – ooh! 
Oh that’s very nice.  He’s very
well-trained, this one, isn’t he? 
Because, I – oh!  Oh yes, this is…
this is…”

Serena broke into a broad smile, overjoyed to see her having
such a good time.  She put her arms
around her waist and hugged her tightly to her own body.

“You see, it’s just you and me here.” she murmured.  “We can have a perfect cuddle, undisturbed by
any unsightly males, while still enjoying the benefit of one of the few things
they can do to please a women.”  And she
crushed Alice’s lips beneath her own.

The two stayed locked in the embrace for a while.  When they drew back to breathe, Alice gasped
“Hey – I know!  How about if you wear one
too!”

Serena smiled and kissed her innocent companion on the nose.
“Already wearing one” she confided.  “I
put it on when we got dressed and activated it at the same time as yours.  I just don’t make… Alice noises when I’m
being served that’s all.”

“I don’t make – “ Alice began crossly, but proceeded to
betray her own stifled protestations, by gasping desperately.

Serena just chuckled and kissed her again and for a while
the two simply writhed in an embrace, the only sound being the ever louder
urgent gasps and cries as Alice reached her fifth orgasm of the day (Serena
herself was generally much quieter and in any event, the sounds of her own
climax were usually hard to discern above the loud screams or the grinding,
drilling and sizzling noises that often accompanied them).

 

No, none of these people are Serena or Alice either.  It’s a quiz!  Five lovely ladies above, all looking quite happy but only two of them are wearing Serena’s patented portal panties.  Can you pick the right two?  To make it easier, both ladies activated their portals about ten minutes before their pictures were taken so have been enjoying the attentions of some of Serena’s most skillful ’employees’ for a while. 

 

Eventually Alice flopped in Serena’s arms, smiling up at her
goofily.  “That was… oooh, that was
lovely!” she sighed contentedly. Then she frowned “Oops!  Need the little girls’ room – like I always
do, afterwards.” And she made to pull the panties down, physics-defying insert
and all.  But Serena just reached out to
stop her, shaking her head slowly.

Alice looked confused (it is a tradition in Serena and Alice
stories that Alice has to be far behind the curve and look sweetly confused at
least once).  Then realisation dawned (well
done, Alice, we knew you’d get there).

“Oh” she said.

“You mean, I can just…?”

Serena nodded.  “Right
here. Go ahead.”

The two ladies stood in silence for a moment, gazing at each
other.  Alice looked excited at first, then
her eyes took on an increasingly far-away look. 
Eventually she burst out giggling. 
“Look: I can’t do it if you’re watching!

Serena sighed and turned around.  “Better?” she asked.

“Or if you talk.” replied Alice, primly.  There was silence for a while.

“Oh, here we go” Alice remarked, after what seemed an age to
Serena. “Oh yes.  Oh this is nice.  Mm… I needed that, I really did.  Oh.”

Then she burst out in surprised laughter. “Oh – he’s licking
me clean!  What a well-trained boy!”

“One of my best” Serena nodded.  “He was already quite good when I recruited him and he was a volunteer too – fell in love with me, actually.  Those are often easier to train than abductees.  Plus, he has a low pain threshold which helps. One of the lowest I’ve ever encountered, actually”.  She smiled to herself, as if recalling a happy memory.

“Where is this one, then” Alice asked with interest. “Whose
mouth did I just pee in?  Government
Minister sitting quietly in his office? 
Respectable family man in his ‘den’ at home?  Ooh – or a priest or bishop or something,
pretending to pray by himself?  I’d love
to piss in the mouth of a bishop – don’t know why, but I’ve always wanted to.  They’re so… pompous.”

“Not a bishop” laughed Serena, making a mental note because
Alice’s birthday was just a few weeks away and she’d been unable to think of a
special treat for her.  “In fact, this
one’s strictly in-house. Very strictly, actually – come and see.”

She led Alice down a flight of steps into one of the many
dark sublevels below the laboratory.  She
flicked a light switch to reveal an empty room, with bare concrete walls.  The wall facing them was mottled in various –
but not as many as fifty – shades of grey.

“Oh, I recognise this place.” Alice said, after a while.
“You used to keep a lot of boys here. It was cages all over, you must have had
at least fifteen in here.  But the room
seems… smaller. Funny, because normally when you take the stuff out of a room
it looks bigger.”

“I still store males here.” Serena replied.  “More than ever, actually.  I think there’s now” – she quickly checked
her phone – “twenty-two.”

“But where?” wailed the reliably slow Alice.

“In the walls” smiled Serena.  “Look, I’ll show you.”

She pulled out an ominous, coffin-shaped box made of wood.
Inside were some rough cardboard shapes, of the sort that oddly-shaped packages
are often wrapped in for shipping.  She
picked one up: it looked like the crudest possible face-mask.

Alice looked adorably puzzled, once again.  “But where are the boys?”

“The male goes in the box” Serena explained.  “I put these things on him – like a cardboard
suit of armour, you see?  That’s to give
him just a little bit of wiggle room when I pour the concrete.  The cardboard soon decays so it’s just him in
the concrete space after that. It’s good to have a bit of an air pocket, so I
don’t lose them all if there’s a power outage, or something.  Plus, they seem to die very quickly if you
just pour wet concrete on them.  This
way, they can stay alive in their little male-shaped bubble inside the concrete
forever, as far as I can see. Haven’t lost one yet – not by accident, anyway.”

(Fear not reader: Alice is supposed to be delightfully slow
on the uptake but not an utter moron. 
She is not about to ask how the males can breathe or eat and drink
entombed in concrete.  Given the context
of the story, even Alice has worked that out. 
If there are any readers who haven’t, I suggest you try simpler femdom
sites that are more suited to your mental capacities, such as those with pictures of models with their
tits out over impractical latex garments, pretending to be dominatrices by
gritting their teeth at the camera and vaguely waving bullwhips.*)

“So all the stuff goes in and out…” Alice said wonderingly…

“Precisely” Serena beamed. 
“Or round and round, for that matter. 
Come and see.”

This lucky lad is just about to be fitted out with portals and cardboard protectors, before being boxed and placed in a hole in the wall just to the left of this picture. Then the concrete will be poured.  He is actually looking towards the wall where his brother has been placed, while his father is about six inches inside the concrete just behind his feet.  Serena managed to capture the full set, on a family fishing trip that went wrong (for them – for Serena it went quite well, as – obviously – it also did for the fish).  Serena disapproves of fishing for sport, considering it cruel.

 

She led Alice back upstairs, down a corridor and threw open
some double doors to reveal a complicated machine.  Clear plastic pipes snaked around in convoluted
fashion, all connected up to a triple row of shimmering orange portals, each of
similar size to the ones sewn into the ladies’ adapted panties.  On the far right, a large plastic tank
labelled ‘food’ contained a greasy greeny-brown mush.  As Alice watched, a pipe suddenly started gushing
a lumpy reddish broth that raised the level of the mixture in the tank by about
two inches and turned it appreciably darker.

“Comes from various waste disposal points in the lab” Serena
explained.  “Obviously, there’s a
standard food waste shredder to make sure that nothing goes in that’s too wide
for the portals or might clog them up.  We
flush all the recipents through with high pressure water once a week or so, just to make
sure.”

“What do you feed them?” Alice asked.

“Oh, it’s mostly food waste.” Serena replied
dismissively.  “I try not to let non-food
ordinary household waste in too much – at least 75% of what’s in there is what
might be considered edible, at a pinch, in normal circumstances.  It seems to keep them alive, anyway.”

“And the outflow pipes…?” Alice asked, with a keen interest.

“Don’t always outflow straight away, obviously.” Serena nodded.  “They can loop back so the same male eats or
drinks his own excreta, or one another’s of course.  It’s easy enough to set up quite complicated
routes and loops, actually.  If you time
it right, the same food can pass through as many males as you like. One day I’m
going to try putting a radioactive tag in the food to see how many
of them I can get it through before flushing it away.”

“Oh: we tried that before, didn’t we?” Alice said enthusiastically. “You remember: when you were teaching me about the science of radioactivity!  You put a boy in a big metal box and dropped this special stuff in, and all his hair fell out!  It was funny.”

“Yes, but that was plutonium.**” began Serena “I’m talking about trace elements of – “

“And he said ‘Oh my skin feels itchy’ and then it turned black and started peeling off!” giggled Alice, remembering the salient parts of her science lesson.  “He looked so surprised!”

Serena smiled, indulgently.  “Anyway”, she said “it’ll be fun to see how many times I can get the same piece of food to pass through them all.    Of course, I could just close the loop and
they’ll just eat each other’s shit for ever.”

“Can we try?” Alice asked eagerly.

Serena looked serious. “No, that would kill them, so we can’t do that. Not yet.  I don’t know how long it would take or what specifically they’d die
of.  I’d keep the food going, so they
wouldn’t starve but I suppose in some way they’d just clog up or burst under the
pressure.  So… it’s going to be the grand
finale to this little experiment, but I’m not ready yet – lots more I want to
try first.”

Seeing the look of disappointment on her friend’s face, she added “Don’t worry.  I’ll let you know when I’m ready to do it.  Maybe over Christmas, OK?”

Alice cheered up, but was then struck by a rather horrible thought.  “So the mouth that just licked me out has
been…”

Again, the response was a shaking head.  “There’s a little warning that pops up if I’m
about to spray shit into the mouth of one of the ones I’ve flagged for oral
service.  So I don’t do that – not hygienic.
In fact, that reminds me…”

She checked her phone, frowning, then selected a few
options.

“OS23B?” she said, in a quiet speaking voice. “Oral service
slave formally known as Lee Taylor?  You’ve
been quite slack using your tongue lately, so now you’re going to taste
something different.  You have a couple
of seconds to say thank you Mistress, before your mouth fills with shit.”

A faint sound came from one of the tube-covered portals,
before being cut off by a squelching, gurgling sound.

“All of you other oral service slaves?  I hope you’re paying attention.” she added.

“They can hear us?” Alice asked.

“Oh yes” Serena replied. 
“Sorry, I suppose I should have told you. 
There’s a mic here – I sometimes like to tell them what’s about to
happen.  Or just talk to them about
stuff.  It must be very isolating, being entombed
in concrete, so I think it’s probably something they look forward to.”

“So… they heard our conversation just now?  They know they’re all destined to die choking on each other’s
shit when you’ve finished playing with them?” Alice asked.

“When I’ve finished conducting my scientific experiments
Serena corrected.  “Yes.”

“Well: they do
now, anyway.” she added.

“That must be quite demotivating” Alice remarked.

“Plenty of motivational devices here” Serena laughed and she
showed her friend the controls for the electric shock treatments.  Individual males could be shocked in various
places and at various intensities, so Alice had fun at first pressing individual buttons, while trying to guess
above which name a little light would go on indicating that electricity was
being applied.  Most also screamed (those that didn’t were probably in the process of being fed, or at least receiving some kind of solid matter through their feeding tubes). The screams
could only be heard faintly, as of course they emerged inside the plastic feeding tubes. Alice thought the effect was rather lovely – soothing, like church bells heard in the distance would be to someone without Alice’s fanatical sadism (or indeed to many people with it: it is an offensive caricature to believe that people like Alice and Serena who so love torturing, maiming or murdering cannot also apreciate the gentler pleasures in life).  

 Then Serena showed
her how to set up multiple and timed shock patterns, and how to run pre-programmed
sequences and Alice stood in wonder before the displays of flashing lights and
accompanying muffled screams.

“So pretty” she smiled. 
“I could watch all day.”

“Oh, but there’s more I want to show you” Serena smiled.  “Things you can do with portal-fitted males,
here on the outside.”

“The lucky ones” nodded Alice, only half-listening to her
friend as she continued to enjoy the son-et-lumi
ère show.

“Not really” Serena replied.

This attracted Alice’s interest.  “Worse than being entombed in concrete being
tortured with electric shocks – and nothing to look forward to but a slow death from being force-fed shit?” she asked, disbelievingly.

“Well, OK.” Serena conceded. 
“Not strictly worse, necessarily.  But just as bad.  Come and see.”

And she led Alice away towards part 3.  At the door, Alice cast one last admiring
look back at the lights flashing so prettily on the board and then the ladies
were gone, and the muffled (but frantic and urgent) screams had no one but the empty
room for audience. 


As I’ve said, I’m afraid I don’t have any actual photographs of Serena or Alice.  However, I’m told by people who have met Serena and survived that this picture is extraordinarily similar to how they remember her, when they awake in the cold sweat of terror in the middle of the night.


It took a few years but Part 3 is finally here… 


* Actually, we feature those images here sometimes too.  But ironically, you know? 

** You might think Serena having access to Plutonium is a terrifying idea.  But actually, when you think about it, it’s only marginally more terrifying than Serena not having access to Plutonium.  It’s just one more thing, is all I’m saying.  If you want to read more about Alice’s science lessons read Love among the test tubes.  It is the Serena and Alice story: so much so, that I didn’t write another for years afterwards, because it all seemed to have been said.

Hack job

 

“Dear Strict Mistress Tricia

Thank you for your reply. I am so much looking forward to visiting you again at your dungeon this afternoon. You asked whether I had any special requests for this session and I am writing to convey a fantasy that I have long nurtured but never really dared to express before.

Please could you “

No.

Please could you I humbly beg for a much ‘harder’ session than usual. I have been quite exceptionally naughty and I believe that I deserve particularly severe punishment. I humbly request that we start ‘in character’ from the very second I walk in the door: you can order me to remain silent, while I strip, then without a word you handcuff me and gag me with a”

With a… with a…

a with one of my own socks, firmly held in with masking tape, so I cannot make a sound. Then I deserve nothing less than two hours of relentless physical chastisement. Hard spanking with a wooden paddle, the belt across my shoulders and back and please could you finish with an exceptionally hard beating on my buttocks and thighs with a”

Hmm…oh yes, of course.

“cane. Yes: a long, brutal caning with a long, brutal cane. I need to be strapped securely across a whipping bench and thrashed soundly. Don’t worry about my ‘limits’: Just for once I need to be seriously hurt, so no play acting. My wife is away so don’t worry about leaving marks either. I want my bottom to be a mass of welts and bruises.

I have one slightly strange request, Strict Mistress. Each time you begin with a new implement could you say “This is from Lucy”? It’s just a weird little fetish I have had for a long time and I hope that being very thoroughly beaten “for Lucy” will help me get it out of my system.

Counting the hours until I can be at your feet again, Strict Mistress.

Trevor”

No

“Slave Trevor”

And… send!

 

 

 

Shattered ever after


“My other daughter, Cinderella”, the merchant
gabbled, bowing low to the Prince and his party. A
haughty young blonde strode into the room, sat down in the armchair and
crossed her booted legs.  She stared with contempt at her father and step-sisters, huddled together against the back wall.  

“Well?” she demanded.  “Get on with your chores” and she watched them scurry from the room, stammering their apologies.


The Prince sank to his knees before her.  “May I?” he murmured, reaching out with a
trembling hand.  She
nodded curtly and the Prince slowly
unzipped her boot with his right hand, cradling the heel in his left. A moist,
warm miasma emerged as the loosened boot was gently lifted free.

“Sorry about the smell.  Been on my feet all day”, Cinderella
explained.

“It’s, erm… it’s no problem at all.” gasped the
Prince.   “You know, Lord Chamberlain, I think we don’t even
need to try the slipper. 
This is obviously the right pair of… pair of feet.” and he moved closer,
his face hovering just above the damp, stockinged foot. 

“Oh yes.  Yes: these are the feet.”

“Are you sure, your Majesty?” the Chamberlain
replied.  “They look a little on the
large side to -”

“Well then the slipper must have shrunk!”
snapped the prince, not taking his eyes from the foot he held so gently.

“Shrunk, Sire?” the Chamberlain replied, one eyebrow
raised.  “The
glass
slipper?”

The Prince turned on him in fury. 
“How dare you question your Prince! 
Arrest this man!  I shall decide
what to do with him later.”

“Perhaps a few years in the salt mines?” Cinderella suggested. “With hard labour? I’ve heard that can be quite
effective.”

The Prince looked up into her blue eyes in shock.  “That’s quite a harsh, erm… well, for a man in
his age
and condition…
I think…” he tailed off, noting a distinct pout coming over the lovely features
above him.

“Quite right, my dear, of course.” he continued.  “As you wish.”

Her restored smile seemed
to light up the room.  “And
we won’t be needing
that silly thing” she added, indicating the glass slipper with an elegant
finger.  The finger pointed towards a spot on the
floor, where the Prince placed it. 

Stand back”, she instructed.  And down
came Cinderella’s other, still-booted, foot shattering the slipper into ten
thousand iridescent shards.

“Oh dear” she smiled.  “So now I suppose whoever’s foot fits into that gets to be Queen?”, and the Prince raised the boot he was holding in shaking hands towards her gracefully-pointed toes.

And it was a perfect fit.

Stunted little runt




OK, so the story is that the guy had won
a chance to meet me – it was a charity thing I did, yeah?  Raised a lot of money. For, maybe, stray cats
or something?  Or dogs, I don’t
remember.  Maybe homeless people, come to think of it.

Anyway, I met the guy backstage at a convention like this one and… let’s just say he was the typical loser fanboy?  I mean, no offence to anyone here but you know the type, right?  Lanky hair, black t-shirt, scuzzy
trainers.  He
started out by saying he’d been hoping I’d be wearing the Wonder Woman outfit,
which was kind of a bad sign from the beginning, you know?

And then he said ‘can you do a fight
move’?  And I was, like, no way: that’s
only on-set in carefully controlled conditions, with professional
stunt-men.  But he started ducking and
dancing about saying ‘I know
stuntwork – fight me’ and… well, suddenly I saw he
had this massive – actually not so massive but very prominent – bulge in his pants, you know?  The guy had a boner.  And I just reacted instinctively and I spun
and kicked hard at the side of his head.

OK, he’d said he knew stunt work,
right?  He’d said that.  When you’re taking a hit to the
head, you lean with it.  Everyone knows that. Day one at stunt school – lean with the blow. But he leaned
into it.  Got the full force of the kick
right to the side of the head –
blam
I was a physical fitness instructor in the Israeli army, yeah?  I’ve got strong legs.

So… he’d wanted a fight move, I was doing a fight move. That spin and kick – it’s a two
stage move.  A kick to the head, the
stunt guy falls back and sideways, I finish the spin, shift the weight from one
foot to the other and do the second kick which just misses his chin but with
the right camera angle, th
e audience can’t see that. It’s all one motion – has to be, or I’d fall over.  I need the second kick to balance up.  It’s just reflex with me now, anyway.

So I came around and I guess I could somehow sense he wasn’t in the right place.  Totally not in the right place. He was
reeling, staggering, whatever,and he was way too close.  But I had no time to think and the second kick
went right in, and it was still on the upstroke
, probably just at its most powerful moment,
unfortunately, right up between his legs. 
The force actually carried him off the ground… and he was kind of overweight, so there was a lot of power going in there.
Like I said, I’ve
got strong legs.

And that was it… my people called an ambulance
immediately, obviously.  He was quite
lucky actually – he had a minor fracture to the skull from the first kick, but
no permanent cranial or brain damage. That would have been really bad.  The second kick… yeah, well, that didn’t work
out so well for him.

I’m actually sorry for the guy, yeah?  I really am.  I don’t mean I said sorry for what I did – that’s actually a different word in
Hebrew, the difference is clearer.  Maybe I should say I don’t ‘apologise’?  Because everything was the guy’s own
fault, right?   But he had a pretty sad life to
begin with and now there’s… less in it. 
So I feel kind of sorry about that.  Although I don’t think he was ever going to have much of a sex life
anyway, if you know what I mean.

And we raised a lot of money for the stray cats.  I don’t know how much, but I heard it was a
lot.  Or for the homeless people – whatever.

Now and then we wonder who the real men are






Oh yes, a proper little sissy, that one.  Has been for years.  Hard to imagine him not in his frillies or
little maid’s dress, to be honest.
You want to know if he’s ever been out in public dressed that way?  Funny how many visitors want to
know that…
Well… he has, from time to time.  But that’s not the most humiliating public
display he’s experienced – is it sissy? Oh, sure, it would be embarassing to appear in public in a little girl’s dress, but the very worst public humiliation he has
experienced was a time when he went out pretending to be a normal man.  Because it’s so ridiculous an idea!  Simply ridiculous, isn’t it, sissy?  That’s right, it is.  And so are you, aren’t you?  
I said: aren’t you ridiculous, sissy?

That’s better.
I’ll tell you the story. 
It was when our ‘relationship’ had just started and it was still a
rather playful, sexual thing, not the 24/7 servitude it is now. Maybe he could
see the direction things were taking, I don’t know, but I found that more and
more often he was asking whether we could just have an evening out ‘as normal
people’.  A guy and his girlfriend, not a
sissy-maid and mistress.  After all,
despite all the games, he was a man, he would say.
Why not?  So we went on a ‘date’. 
 On went a smart jacket and tie…  frilly knickers below them, admittedly, and a
remote-controlled shock device below those, but he looked ‘normal’ enough on the
surface – a bit dweeby, maybe – and out we went, to a trendy bar.
He was nervous about the zapper, but I told him it was just
a mind-game (oh how naïve he was about my intentions towards him back then) and
I was true to my word and zapped not once, no matter how tempted.  We had been in the bar for about half an hour
and he was beginning to relax, when I made my move.
“Look at those two at the bar” I remarked, smiling.  “Don’t they look lovely?”  And I nodded towards two young women laughing
and joking together.  They were indeed
rather glamorous.  I imagined they were
having a couple of drinks together before going on to meet their dates – they certainly
looked dolled up for someone and I was not getting a lesbian vibe from them.
Sissy looked rather alarmed and started wittering about how
they were not as lovely as me, but I shushed him and told him it was fine: I
just meant they looked good, that was all. 
“It’s OK for you to find other women sexy, you know” I smiled. “After
all, I do have the key – and not just to your heart.” He laughed too – more out
of nervousness than the feeble pun, I expect, and admitted that the two ladies
were indeed attractive.
Image result for liqueur"
These are not actually the two ladies from the story.  But the vibe is similar and so is the barman’s beard, which was just like that.
“Right” I said, quietly. 
“Off you go, then.”
“Erm… off I go? Go where?”
I nodded towards the attractive pair.  “Go chat them up.  That’s what real men do.  See if you can get off with one of them.  Give them your best pick-up lines.”
“But I… I…”
I took the remote for his ball-shocker out of my bag and very
deliberately clicked it up to 16 out of 20, holding it so he could see.  His previous record was 14 and he had nearly
screamed the house down.  
“We’ll start at 16.” I said. 
“And we’ll go up to 20.  The
battery’s fully charged.”  I picked the
remote up and rested my thumb on the button.
“Or…” I said, indicating the two at the bar with the remote
itself.  He looked desperately around.
I yawned.  “You can
show me your pulling skills, or you can scream. 
Five, four, three…”
He shot to his feet and barrelled over to the two ladies,
knocking violently against a stool as he went. The disturbance made them both look up, and one smiled in a puzzled, friendly
way.
What sissy used for chat-up lines, I shall never know.  I doubt the two young ladies do either, because
he was stuttering and shaking with embarrassment as he tried to engage them in
conversation, so I doubt he made much sense even close up.  Almost immediately, it became clear that it
was not going well.  The friendly puzzled
smile faded, and she spoke quietly but firmly to him, while her companion just
pursed her lips in disapproval and called the barman for another drink.  Obviously, he had not “pulled” (I’ll confess now
that I had no Plan B for what to do if he had… but it had not seemed very
likely).
With a palpable sigh of relief, he turned away from them, towards
me and started coming back.  I met his
eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head and then gestured back towards
the bar.  He knew what I meant.  Real men don’t give up that easily, sissy. Be
forceful. Keep at it.
He looked horrified so I gently slid my thumb across the
button again, and as if by magic he turned back, to play the real man once
more.  His face was white – almost greenish.
His attempts to appear masculine were not helped by the fact that his sweating had
made translucent spots on his shirt, so the shadow of the bra underneath was
very visible, although I don’t know if either of the two ladies noticed.  Again, he spoke to them and this time there
was the reaction I’d hoped for.
No – not a face-slap! 
He’d have enjoyed a face-slap, but that was never going to happen, not
in the vanilla world, only in BDSM sessions and in movies. No: the one who hadn’t
spoken to him so far just lost it, basically. 
She stood up, in his face (slightly taller, in her high heels) and told
him what she thought of creeps like him. 
She spoke loudly and angrily – not quite shouting, but everyone in the
bar could hear her give my poor sissy a piece of her mind about how she was
sick of being unable to sit in a bar and have a quiet drink with her friend
without sad little bastards like him coming up and ogling them and trying on
his lame pick-up lines…. She went on for a while.  It looked rather cathartic.  I smiled myself and quietly left the place,
as a couple of other people went up to the bar to help. 
Only in movies, I’m afraid.  And femdom sessions.  And femdom movies, for that matter.
I hadn’t abandoned him. 
I had just sidled into a nearby doorway to see what happened. Don’t
worry: he wasn’t beaten up or anything – they just marched him out of the bar
and shouted quite a bit more.  Poor sissy.  He does not deal well with conflict.  Perhaps that is why he has allowed himself to
be sucked into his present lifestyle – there is no possibility of conflict in
his life now, just obedience.
He was still shaking when we got home.  He took off his ridiculous male outer clothes
with revulsion and popped on a maid’s outfit to serve me a drink.  I allowed him to calm down, kneeling at my
feet, for quite a while before making sure the lesson had sunk in.
“Any time you feel you want to behave like a real man again,
sissy…” I started, but he shook his head violently.  A shame. 
I was going to suggest going to a football match and getting into a
fight with the other side’s supporters. 
Or paying some streetwalker several decades past her prime for an
encounter in a bleak concrete lay-by smelling of piss and diesel fumes (I don’t
think he’d even need his tube locked on: I have several times forced him to
tell me honest accounts of his fumbling attempts at sexual liaisons in early
adulthood and I can confidently predict that in that circumstance, little peter
would not be rising to the occasion).  Real
man stuff.   
If he ever asks again, I have
quite a few things he might try.
But somehow, he never has. 
 
Isn’t that better, sissy?  Much more your thing.

Back-room girls

A true herstory from World War M.




Oh yeah, this lab did a lot of war work. I mean: I don’t
want to claim that our contribution was the same as those of the front line
troops, OK?  Those girls risked their
lives.  We were in a safe female-led
environment the whole time.
But scientists were important in the war too.  Men are physically stronger than women,
right?  So to win, we had to use our
other advantages like our superior intelligence, judgment, balance, wisdom, perception, creativity, social
skills, memory – all those things.
Quite early on, we’d been working on some basic male control
drugs?  Really crude compared to the kind
of stuff we have today, but with so many of the more committed femsupremacists
fighting at the front, the government was worried about all the males back home.  The more masculine ones were kept on
chain gangs, obviously, but the streets were full of all these supposedly
submissive males and I don’t think more than – oh 25%? – of them were really
believers in male inferiority, you know? 
Fifth columnists, even when all dressed in frillies.  It wasn’t like it is today.  So we
were developing these basic obedience drugs: sissy pills, IQ reduction
treatments, willpower suppressants, that kind of thing.  But it was a bit hit and miss – and there
were side-effects.  You’d think it wouldn’t
be a problem for a guy to be ‘too obedient’ but we had cases whose egos had
been too smooshed by the chemical cosh for them even to chew food without an
order from a woman. Kind of funny, but we needed guys working in the factories
and fields to support the girls fighting patriarchy at the front.  Can’t do that with a wimp who’s too scared to
eat.
So the development of the brain clamp was
super-important.  We didn’t invent it
here, but we did all the initial testing. 
We’d been working on pain receptors in male brains, so we were the
obvious lab to try out the first batch of implants.  
And at first, you know, everyone thought it wasn’t
working?  The first set of test subjects screamed
continuously because their clamps just fired up those pain receptors and kept
going.  The engineers were kind of
pissed, because they’d done a lot of work to ensure all it would do was pick up
sexist and derogatory thoughts about women. I guess we’d expected we’d see them
being shocked occasionally, then they’d get it under control within a few
hours?  Took us a while to realise that
men think those things, like, all the time.  We didn’t know that, back then.  There were lots of things we didn’t know about men, because we hadn’t really been able to experiment on them properly, under the patriarchy.  I guess if women had understood more about what men were really thinking, we wouldn’t have had all that feminist nonsense about trying to build a society based on equality between the sexes.  We know better now.
So, yeah, that first batch, we turned the clamps off after a few
hours because we thought there must be something wrong with them.  Pulled out the implants and the
engineers went off to recalibrate.  Then
strapped the males back down again, shoved those implants back in – and it was
just the same.  Room full of guys
screaming their heads off.  I guess
talking about it now, that sounds like quite a turn-on but the war wasn’t going
too well at this point, so we were too focused on the work to enjoy it.   
The engineers were going crazy trying to work it out.  What was going wrong with the implants?  It’s hard to understand, now – I mean, really, which was more likely?  That something was wrong with a piece of female-designed technology or that something was wrong with the entire male population of the planet? Nowadays, we’d obviously go straight to the second of those hypotheses, but we weren’t as knowledgeable then.  Femsuprem science was just getting started and we were still throwing off the shackles of the patriarchal past, and beginning to think about ways to develop new shackles for the matriarchal future.  Metaphorically, I mean: I’m not talking about actual shackles, you understand.  Other labs were developing those.
It was Karen who first suggested just leaving them on to see
what happens.  Karen Lucysdaughter – you
know?  She got the Nobel Prize for it
later.  She put a batch of brain-clamped
guys into a secure facility and hooked them up to, like, intravenous feeds and
stuff and left them to scream.  It went on
for days.  Most of us gave up.  To be honest, we thought Karen was just getting revenge.  Most of the test subjects were former senior scientists and lab administrators and Karen had been an intern – obviously, she had some issues she wanted to work out.  But it turned out she was doing science down there: making notes on a little tablet while these guys just shrieked and struggled
in agony hour after hour, day after day.  She wasn’t just waiting.  She’d done her PhD on male screams, so she was taking careful notes on that.  She wrote the standard textbook on it,
later.  There’s all kinds of different screams
and it turns out you can tell a lot about what a guy’s going through from the
modulation and the frequency of the screaming, you know?  Not just the loudness, although that’s important too, obviously.  Pretty interesting stuff.
Anyway, on about day 4 she got the breakthrough she’d been
looking for. One of the guys stopped screaming. 
And she knew immediately he hadn’t – like – died, you know, ‘cos he was whimpering
and pleading and all that.  But for a
moment there he wasn’t thinking sexist thoughts, so the clamp was giving his
pain receptors a rest.  And Karen
went over to him and when he saw her, I guess he must have thought something bad,
because he started right up again. But over the course of the next day or so he
and a couple of the other subjects started to have moments not being in
agony.  They were learning not to think
patriarchal thoughts!  The brain clamps had
been working just fine all along; it just takes a lot more pain to persuade men
to start thinking the right thoughts than anyone had ever believed possible.  Except for Karen – she’s such a visionary. 
Matter of fact, the Nobel Prize committee asked just last year about the guy. The first successfully brain-clamped male.  They have a museum in Stockholm with memorabilia relating to the prizewinners, apparently, and they wanted to put him on display.  I don’t know if they were going to keep him as a live specimen or have him stuffed or whatever but it didn’t matter in the end, because unfortunately the lab had sold him off a couple of years before.  We tend to have more males than we need, because you often have to use fresh ones for the experiments, so we have a clear-out from time to time: sell the less damaged ones at bargain prices.  Maybe he’s still out there – some lucky girl owns a piece of living female supremacist herstory, and doesn’t even know it, I guess.
Anyway: you know the rest. 
Brain clamps went into full production. 
It’s hard to imagine the modern world without them, really, isn’t
it?  Imagine if men could just think
disobedient or disrespectful thoughts without agony.  The first production batches went straight to
the front, of course.  They didn’t bother
too much with controlled experimental conditions there: captured enemy soldiers
got the implant and were typically just left to work it out for
themselves.  If they managed to get their
thoughts straight before dying of starvation and stress, they’d get a collar
and a lock on their cock (those who hadn’t had their trophies taken) and sent
to the rear. Those who never really got it… well.  They actually tried extracting and re-using
the implants at first, but pretty soon as the factories started churning them
out by the millions, it was cheaper not to bother.
Of course, nowadays with boys brought up to be obedient,
they don’t usually suffer so much when they first get clamped.  But the older guys – wow, some of them never
get it.  You know, we’ve had an experiment
running since the war, to see how long it would take some of these sexists to
start thinking straight?  There’s guys
down there who’ve been clamped for over a decade and still can’t get through a
single waking hour without a jolt.  Of
course, they’re very polite and obedient to us when they get a chance to speak –
I guess you would be after ten years strapped in agony to a gurney – asking for
a merciful death and stuff.  But you can’t
hide your thoughts from the clamp, so we can tell it’s all just a sham.  You’d think they’d get wise – start to
recognise sexist thoughts forming and learn to replace them with healthier,
obedient ideas instead.
I guess they’re just too stupid to do that.  But I suppose we shouldn’t mind that males
are stupid, should we?  
After all: that’s
why we won.
 
Girls!  Inspired by this story?  Ever wondered where the ordinary male-control gadgets and torture items you use every day got started?  Try visiting the R&D section of your local male control facility and prepare to be amazed.  And the work goes on.  Female supremacist science is just getting started – we’re just scratching the surface of how we can put the laws of Mother Nature to work in developing new ways of oppressing males.  There is so much out there yet to be discovered!  Maybe you can be part of the continuing story – think about a career in science.  Because men deserve so, so much more.
 Readers interested in how science can help make our world a less pleasant, more terrifying, place may want to check out the stories about Serena and Alice, from this blog’s very early days.  Torture porn with a scientific bent – but also a rather sweet love story running through them, as you’ll see.

Advertising Spot


Thanks for coming in – listen, we’re really excited about
this campaign and it would be great to have you on board!  I don’t know how much you’ve been told?  The client’s a major supplier of household
products and they’ve got this premium dog food product, yeah?

So: the spot opens in the… well, the ‘dungeon’, I guess, of
a dominatrix.  And she’s got a slave on
the floor in front of her –that’s you! – and we see her grab a can of generic
dog-food and pour it into a bowl in front of him.  Really nasty stuff – you know?  Slops into the bowl and glistens
unappealingly. Slave takes a sniff and retches, refuses, so she pushes his head
into the bowl with her boot and starts whipping him – and she whips him harder
and harder, until he’s eaten the whole thing. 
We see him taking mouthfuls and swallowing with disgust – that’s important.
Then we see him dressed, thanking her for the session and he goes outside and
is violently sick on the street. With me so far?

OK, then we see him arrive for his next session, and he’s
casting nervous glances at the shelf where she keeps her dog food as he hands
over the tribute, see?  But this time
when he’s naked at her feet, she grabs a can of the Product, and tips it into
his bowl. Lovely chunks this time, with translucent jelly just catching the
coloured dungeon lights – mmm.  Slave
sniffs nervously, looks surprised, starts eating it and then begins wolfing it
down, you know? Can’t get enough!  And we
finish with him in doggy-begging mode below the shelf, barking excitedly up at
another can of the Product, as his mistress stares at the empty bowl in puzzled
disappointment.

We were originally going to use actors and beef stew, but it
wouldn’t be legal to show someone eating stuff that isn’t actually the Product, you know? That would be false advertising. 
So… we asked around if anyone knew
anyone and Lucy in accounts  – she’s in accounts but she really wants to join the creative team – Lucy said she knows a findomme with piggie slaves who’ll do
anything she tells them and… well, here you are!

There’s be quite a lot of money in it. The client sells in
over 30 countries, and the packaging is different in most of them so we’ll have
to re-shoot. You have to eat it again each time, too – pesky advertising laws,
I’m afraid.  And the nasty competitor
product. We were a bit worried about the whip marks, but Sophie thought we
could just completely cover your back with them to begin with – like you’d
already had a good thrashing, yeah? – so there wouldn’t be continuity problems
with that. Of course, we won’t make you do more than seven or eight spots in
any one day.  But you get paid for each
you see – well, or rather your findomme does, I suppose.

So – you up for it? Obviously, you can only sign the
contract of your own free will, but if you need a day or two for someone to
force you to agree, we don’t have to sign today?
THE END
Epilogue
Actually, this was just the start.  Lucky old Spot (yeah, the slave’s called Spot…bit of a coincidence, I know) went on to star in a wildly popular campaign for a well-known brand of toilet cleaner.  Again, a frustrated domme finds that when she’s used the Product, her toilet no longer tastes foul, so she ends up having to take him out to lick a public urinal clean.  Last I heard, he was getting so many offers his findomme had decided he should resign from his day job and do it full time – pretty great, huh?
Uncharacteristic boasting
Incidentally, if you’re ‘reading’ this far (and you shouldn’t, it’s unhealthy to edge for too long – go on, get it out.  There.  That’s right. Phew  – isn’t that better?), you  might want to know that January 2019 was the most popular month in this blog’s history.  More than seventeen pageviews from at least four separate people… no, actually, I’m pretty sure it was more than seventeen… ah yes, that’s right, over 100,000, that’s it. The pageview count went over 100,000 in the month for the first time ever. It’s almost exactly eight years since the blog started: 7.5 million page-views, over 1000 comments. Goodness me, if this keeps up, how ever will I be able to maintain my self-image as a worthless loser? 
Thank you all – keep on coming.*
OK, so some of it is probably people not using Tumblr so much.  Still…
*  Yes, I know.  Sorry.  But after all those page-views you are used to it by now, right?

Special delivery

 
Yes, it’s from Harold. Listen to this, Marion:
My dearest Bess.  I write these words in haste.  I hope you are well and have not been too worried
by
my unexpected absence.  If you are reading this missive then I have the joy to announce that our enforced separation can at last be ended.
You see, my love, there has been the most monstrous misunderstanding.  The uncle of yours, to whom you suggested I apply for a position, appears to have been under the impression that I was a potential pupil for a school of which he acts as governor.  I  am not aware of the precise location, but somewhere on a bleak moor in Derbyshire, I am enrolled in a boys’ boarding school! 
In vain, I have pointed out that I am no schoolboy, but an independent gentleman of 25 years, recently contracted in the blissful state of wedlock with a beautiful young lady. Yet the school , it seems, caters to delinquent young men and the headmaster appears to assume that I am one such.  I have ceased to protest for fear of his cane, which he and the staff use viciously to deal with any minor infraction or even annoyance.  Most of my ‘class’ appear to be well into the age of majority, and have advised me to ‘buckle down and take it’, so beaten into submission are their poor spirits.
My own spirit is flagging somewhat, I will admit, under the oppression I suffer daily.  As you know, dearest Bess,
since I recall you remarking on it with a smile when I mentioned the fact, my own school had a more progressive outlook and so the canings, cold showers and country runs are taking a terrible toll on my physique, not to mention my mental state, which alternates between terror of a forthcoming thrashing and tedium as I complete the mindless rote-learning tasks that pass for instruction in this benighted institution.  I have been here not more than three weeks, yet already I have written over five thousand lines!  Yes, my dearest, lines: it apears modern educational theories have yet to reach whatever godforsaken corner of Northern England holds me captive.
Furthermore, several of the tutors take… liberties with the ‘boys’ that I will not commit to paper for fear of being prosecuted for penning an obscene publication – and are in so sense fit to mention to a young lady, even one with
such enlightened ideas as I was pleased if somewhat shocked to experience on our wedding night.  
I am handing this missive to a groundsman, to whom I have entrusted the last of my secreted funds. I can only
hope and pray you see it and intervene with your uncle before the end of the week, when I have been promised the thrashing of a lifetime.
I kiss the air and pray for your well-being, my love, my only dearest. 

Your ever-faithful
Harold.
Goodness. Marion, my darling, will you bring me paper and pen?  I need to write to my uncle.  Is the boy who delivered this still waiting downstairs?
Excellent.  Give him some supper.  Tell him I want him personally to deliver my letter to Uncle Frederick, will you?  I’m sure Uncle Fred will enjoy dealing with him himself.  Honestly: taking money from pupils to deliver letters.  You can’t trust anyone these days. 
Oh – and that reminds me: we need to pay Harold’s school-fees for the rest of the year.  Apparently after this first year, we can set up a trust which pays the fees in perpetuity, so we don’t need to be bothered with it again.
But we can sort that out tomorrow.  Run my bath, will you Marion dearest?  And get in: I’ll join you there when I’m done with this.

Sweet tooth

 

Now Eleanor, you simply must have a pinch
of this sugar in your tea. You see, it’s ver
y special.

You remember that sub I had – Charles? I
used to call him
pissbreath. He
was an investment banker – and he was as stinking rich as his pissy breath, too. 
Anyway, I had this medical student staying with me one summer – lovely
girl from the Caribbean – and for some reason she got interested in his
ancestry, and guess what? It turns out his family used to own several of her
relatives as slaves
Mmm!  Back in the eighteenth century. Had them
shipped over to Barbados for the sugar plantations, you know.  Basis of Charles’s family fortune although
you won’t read about that in Who’s Who!

Well, of course as soon as I found out about it, I said that she simply must take him home with her in chains. I mean, I didn’t mind – no shortage of devoted subs wanting to worship at our feet, is there?  So I’m afraid I rather insisted – I mean, it’s only right, isn’t it?  She was a little reluctant at first (and you know, I suppose it is understandable
to be a bit funny about slavery with a family history like that, isn’t it?  But it’s not
really the same, after all) but she soon came round and we faked his death,
collected all his lovely cash and shipped him off in irons.

Her family still work a sugar plantation,
although apparently it’s all modern now. Anyway, they set up this little corner
just like it was when his ancestors used to run it and they make him work all
day on a chain in the hot sun. He absolutely hates every second of it, she tells me – nearly managed to escape once!  Goodness only knows what he’d have told the authorities  – I wonder if they’d have been sympathetic?  Fortunately they got him back and they hobbled him by cutting half his foot off. Oh – and they branded him too. Several times, I understand, with their own family initials. Such fu
n!

Of course, even with all the whipping, he doesn’t make much sugar on
his own.  But they sent me this little
packet as a thank-you all the same – wasn’t that lovely?  Honestly, I was a little cross at first – I mean, I’d only just managed to get myself strictly onto the sweeteners.  They never really taste the same, though, do they? Anyway, I decided as long as I go out on my morning ride each day, it won’t do any harm to treat myself to a quarter-spoonful in my Darjeeling, when I get back.  

That reminds me, actually, I’m pretty sure your Nigel’s people were out East, weren’t they? Now, it wasn’t tea, was it… they were something in
Malaya, weren’t they?  Rubber tappers or whatever the word was. Maybe that’s why he’s so obsessed with wearing the stuff.  Do you fancy looking them up on the Google
thing? I’m sure
Pippa’s friend Zaheera
would love to have a crack at a pair of colonialist buttocks with a good old
fashioned
malacca
cane. She’s frightfully progressive!

Verified by MonsterInsights