fiction – Page 3 – Contemplating the divine

Reunion

Oh my god. Oh my god
– little Bobby Jenkins, as I live and breathe!
“Sinatra55” is Bobby Jenkins! Wow. Who’d have guessed!

Well, “Sinatra55”,as you can see: “Sultry Suzie” from Elegant Escorts is
none other than Clarice Hoskins. From class of 2012. Surprise! How about that, huh?

Wow. Just wow. After all these years.

Hey, I guess I
haven’t seen you since that night I met you outside the cinema, huh? And listen, I’ve thought about that night a
lot, OK? That letter you pressed into my hand?
I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I did read it. I read it a few times, actually, and I tried
to write a reply – oh, must have been 15… 20 times? But I just couldn’t find
the words – you were the first boy who ever told me he loved me, you know? And there’ve only been one or two since –
none of them wrote me a letter like that.
Beautiful. And I wanted to tell
you how good it made me feel but also somehow tell you you just weren’t my
type, not in that way, and when I thought about how you’d feel when you read that
I’d just start crying, so… I could never finish the reply. You know how teenagers are.

Yeah. I guess we all have to grow up, huh?

The escort thing? Oh
yeah, been doing that a few years now. I
mostly just keep it to oral, you know, like you booked? But once you’re with a
client, you pretty much have to do what they want, so I’ve done a few
things. But I don’t mind.

Look, I’ve got to keep 20% back for the agency, OK? But I
can just refund the rest of your fee. No
problem. It happens from time to
time. Maybe we could just go for a drink
– I mean, we’ve got a couple of hours.

What do you mean why do you get a refund? You get a refund because we’re not going
to fuck, Bobby, yeah? If I know one thing,
it’s that the Bobby Jenkins who wrote Clarice that beautiful letter wouldn’t
want to pay her to kneel down in front of him for a meaningless, anonymous blow
job. So – no problem. The agency will
just credit your card. They won’t ask any questions.

No, really. It’s sweet of you, but I don’t really need the money just now. I’ve had a busy week already – I only toook this on because one of the other girls had to go visit her Mom. You keep your money – buy yourself something special, OK?

No. I wouldn’t hear of it. There – I’ve texted the agency to do the refund. End of discussion.

So – how about you, huh? What are you doing with
yourself? Guess you must be doing pretty
well to afford someone like me, huh?
What is it – hedge fund? You were always good at math.

In the morning…

…when the madness has faded.

Oh, yeah, it was good, thanks. Well, it was kind-of good, but it was kind-of
weird, too.

See, I picked up these two German guys – at Anaconda, you
know, that new bar by the river? Anyway,
Kurt and Walter, they were and we got talking and one thing led to another, and
I asked them if they wanted a fuck and so off we went.

And I thought they’d take turns, but they wanted to do me
together – one at the front, one at the back, you know? And they both had lovely big cocks, and they
were quite tall, so I’m actually impaled there, really, with my feet off the
ground with all my weight pushing them all the way into me, so that was great.
But I couldn’t really move, so I’m thinking ‘now what?’ and then they both just
start thrusting, using their knees to jiggle me up and down. They both had really strong thighs –
cyclists, I think.

Anyway, I’m just gasping away as all this is going on, and
then I realise they’re talking away to one another while they fuck. I don’t know what they were saying but they
were just looking straight at each other and chatting away, and when I tried to
kiss one of them he kind of brushed me away so he could keep on talking to his
friend.

And that’s when I realised, they weren’t really fucking me –
they were fucking each other! A bit like
when I realised on our wedding night that you were more interested in my panties
than in what was inside them. Remember?
Well… more fun than that, obviously. But
it was a bit humiliating actually – I guess they couldn’t admit to themselves
that they were gay, so they just had to use a girl like a… like a plug adaptor
or something.

They took me from both ends after that, with me down on all
fours, and then I really felt like a piece of meat. Hi guys – I’m Julie, I’ll be the tube
connecting your cocks tonight! Enjoy.

Anyway, they’re leaving for Germany this afternoon, so I
suppose that’s that.

It’s a bit sad,
really, don’t you think? That they fancy
each other so much but they have to fuck girls all the time to express it? It is a bit like you and the panties, isn’t
it? Only less pathetic.

Oh, that reminds me, actually – can we move your unlocked night to Wednesday next week?

Missives

Dear Miss Cavendish

As instructed, I am writing to
express my deepest gratitude for the beating you were kind enough to bestow on
me last Saturday. As you know, for some
time now I have been experiencing feelings of rebellion at our ‘little
arrangement’ and petulance at the constraints you so wisely impose on me.

The caning I received at your
hands opened my eyes to the ingratitude of this attitude on my part, compelling
me to re-examine my behaviour and see it for what it is: the result of my
undisciplined childhood, that you are now taking such effective measures to
remedy. I have been lucky indeed to
have made your acquaintance, even so late in life.
Had it not been for a chance encounter, I might never have experienced
the cane across my backside. It is hard to recall how it was not to know the pain of being thrashed with your cane, now that it looms so large in my life: constantly present in my thoughts as I try to follow your precepts in all that I do.

I hope that you were not
disturbed by my snivelling and pleading during the administration of this most
necessary exercise. I further hope, more
wholeheartedly than I can express in this short missive, that such floggings
will not be necessary in the future.
However, should the need arise, I am confident your strong right arm
will once again provide the correction I require and will undoubtedly richly deserve.

If (unlike my previous effort)
this thank-you letter meets with your approval, I very much hope that I will be
allowed the educative experience of copying it out a further 99 times. It has, as you will observe, met and indeed
exceeded the required length of 300 words and I believe there are no spelling
mistakes this time.

Your obedient and thankful pupil

Martin

———————————————————————————————-

Dear Sarah

You will perhaps not recall me
by name, but if I mention a disastrous dinner at the St George Hotel in 2011, followed
by a particularly cringeworthy experience back at your apartment, perhaps the
occasion we met will be called to mind.

In the years after our
catastrophic ‘date’ I have had the good fortune to meet a woman who knows
exactly how perverts like me should be treated.
On our wedding night, I made an attempt to be ‘a man’ and – you will be
unsurprised to hear from your own experience – failed utterly. That was the last time I attempted sexual
intercourse with a woman, as my wife decided that such activities should stop
then and there. The next morning – the
first of our married life – she purchased a steel tube and you will no doubt be
relieved to hear that my penis has penetrated nothing else since that
date. I will spare you the gory details,
but some minor piercings have now ensured that no lock or key is required to
keep the device in place, so the women of this world are finally safe.

After six years of tolerating
me, my wife finally decided to divorce me and marry one of her many lovers, so
naturally a divorce settlement needed to be drawn up, which brings me finally
to my purpose in getting in touch again, after all these years. My wife – soon to be ex-wife – does not need
my earnings, because the man she will be marrying is far richer than I, as well
as being more manly, witty and attractive.
However, it has been some years since I had any real financial
independence, so new arrangements must be made to ensure I have no spare funds
to abuse. My wife has therefore decided
that I should write to all the women with whom I ever attempted sexual
relations of any kind: firstly, to apologise and secondly to offer some financial
compensation. There are, luckily, not
many. Apart from my wife herself, I have
attempted penetrative sex with just three women, and achieved a sexual climax
in the vicinity of a further five, one of whom is unknown to me as she was
merely a fellow-traveller on the bus one day.
The former – including yourself – are each to be offered 20% of my
post-tax income in perpetuity, the latter 5%.
The 5% owed to the untraceable lady will be donated instead to a charity
supporting female participation in politics.

Rest assured that no further
contact with me (even by correspondence) will be required on your part, should
you choose to take up the offer. My wife
has appointed a firm of (women) solicitors who will make all the arrangements
and will themselves receive a further 5%.
As my wife has pointed out, I am lucky indeed not to have experienced
more sexual encounters, or I would not retain even the 10% of my post-tax
income that I will keep under this arrangement.
Fortunately, my needs are very modest.
If, however, you would regard even receiving a monthly transfer from me
as being too unpleasant a reminder of my physical existence, then I would be
most grateful if you could nominate a charity to receive your 20% (or, if you
prefer, specify that the sum be burnt by me in cash each month, under the
solicitors’ supervision).

Please rest assured as well
that I have passed this letter to the solicitors to address and send. I do not
know your address. Furthermore, the solicitors can monitor my location using a chip implated under my skin and the geographical range of my movements is very tightly restricted.

Finally, whatever your decision
regarding restitution, please allow me to extend my deepest, deepest apologies
for my sexual advances towards you that night, and for the pathetic performance
when I attempted to follow through on them.
I hope that you have gone on to experience a rich and satisfying sex
life, as I now appreciate very well that most other men are vastly more
proficient in these matters, as well of course as being more personally
attractive. I hope you can at least take some comfort from the misery that I
have experienced in being forced to write this letter, and at the prospect I face so deservedly, of a
life of desperate poverty and toil without respite.

I am so very sorry.

Yours sincerely

Alan Harcourt (né Raeburn)

———————————————————————————————-

To the pretty nurses at St
Bathory hospital

Dear nurses. I hope you are all very well. If you are not, maybe a hospital is the best place to be! Because if you get sick in
hospital, you will get better quickly.

My Mummy, who is not really my
Mummy but I call her Mummy, has told me to write a thank-you note now I am
back from hospital, so here it is. You
were all very kind and nice to me after my operation, and the food was lovely
and I liked the way the bed went up and down when the buttons were pressed.

Mummy tells me I was very
grumpy before the operation but I don’t remember that. She said those straps on the bed were to hold my arms and legs still and stop me running away because I was so cross because I didn’t want the operation. She said I made a big fuss and shouted about
what an important and rich man I was, and how you couldn’t do this to me. Fortunately, there were no other patients on
my ward, but she says I was very rude to you nurses and called you rude names
and said lots of rude words. When I
asked her what words she laughed and would not tell me, so they must have been
very bad.

Mummy says that the reason I
was so cross was there was something wrong with my brain. There was too much ego and IQ in there. I asked her what those things are and she laughed
again and said it doesn’t matter, the important thing is that I have a lot less
of both of them now, because the doctors took out some bits of my brain.

I knew I must have done
something naughty, because you all spanked me before I left hospital. Nurses are strong, probably because you lift
heavy things all day. Mummy spanks hard
but you spank harder. The nurse with the
brown skin spanked me hardest of all.
Mummy says that’s because I said racist things to her before the
operation and I don’t know what that means but I hope it has been spanked out
of me and I am forgiven.

I hope the nurse with blonde
hair reads this. I liked her very much
but I want to say sorry for how my willy got all stiff whenever she tried to
help me do a wee-wee. Sorry. I don’t know why
it did that, but it does it whenever I think of her. Mummy says I might need another operation to
sort that out, so perhaps I will see you all in hospital again!

Mummy says my name is Sir James
Edmonton but that seems like too much name, so I am just Jimmy now.

Love from Jimmy, age 57

xxxx (and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx to
the nurse with blonde hair!)

Curled up with a good book

My weekend newspaper’s book review section always includes a roundup of the top five
bestsellers in some literary genre: science fiction, historical novels, that
kind of thing. This week, they’re focusing on castration lit. I was
heartened to see that this popular genre is breaking out into the mainstream at
last, so I thought I’d ignore the law on copyright and share the piece with
you.

I expect these
are all available on Amazon, somewhere. Incidentally, isn’t that a great
name for a company?

Bestsellers monthly: Cast-lit

This month, our bestsellers feature reports on the castration literature phenomenon that swept the
English-speaking world in 2016 and shows no sign of abating as 2017 draws towards its close. Here are the top five on this month’s
chopping block!

Find Out What you Mean to Me

Susan’s unhappy marriage turns into what seems likely to be
a still more unhappy divorce – until Susan has a brilliant idea to turn her
life around! Her husband Oliver is a deeply
dislikable character whose inevitable end on the cutting table we anticipate
with growing pleasure – and we are not disappointed. In the run up to this satisfying denouement,
however, Susan must first learn about the tools of her trade – and there are newspaper
boys, divorce lawyers and an unfortunate Anglican vicar along the way, to give
her the opportunity. Strictly by the
numbers but if you enjoy scenes of men in agony, pleading in terror to avoid
their richly-deserved fates – and who doesn’t? – this one is for you.

Rising cast-lit star Liz Folgate, author of Find Out What you Mean to Me.

Scream Louder for Me: the Chronicles of Cutting, vol 5.

Patricia Layton knows what her readers like and reliably
delivers it to them in a fifth volume of her popular series. Literary critics affect to despise her
contrived plots and weak characterisation, but no one writes a torture scene
like Layton. Every male character we meet is going to end up strapped to a
wooden block awaiting his fate in terror before too long anyway, so do we
really care much about their motivations?
More than 200 million sales worldwide says that most of us don’t.

The queen of scream herself, Patricia Layton. Not a believer in cruelty-free fashion!

Sins of Omission

Many would not consider this debut novel to be ‘cast lit’ at
all. Julie Melfoy builds her world slowly and with care, inviting the reader
fully to enter it – and readers seeking a slash and scream experience should look
elsewhere, as no cutting occurs at all in the first two-thirds of the
book. John Laurie, the main male character,
is far from the arrogant obnoxious stereotypical man providing the meat in a
typical cast-lit story and Rosie Vinners, his childhood sweetheart, no sadistic
torturess. Yet their relationship seems always fated to end up with him on the
cutting board and the path they take there is richly satisfying. For readers who want literary ‘meat’ as well
as the more ordinary kind, when reading about castration, this book is strongly
recommended.

Can men and women ever resolve their differences without resorting to castration? Sins of Omission explores this dilemma with flair and sensitivity. The movie adaptation, pictured above, is eagerly awaited for 2018.

Pride and Penectomy

Olivia Rawston’s tongue is always firmly in her cheek in
this witty homage to Austen. Will Mr
Darcy manage to save his family jewels?
Of course not. Austen-lovers will
adore Rawston’s wry and wickedly sadistic take on a classic, others will just
enjoy the inventive use of agricultural tools as Elizabeth and her sisters turn
the tables on their pompous suitors.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good set of genitals must be in want of a gelding knife.

Endgame

Dark and complex, this novel turns the established cast-lit
plot on its head. The screaming never lets up, but this is no mere orgy of pain. Instead of meeting a sequence of unpleasant men who will
inevitably receive their just desserts, we are introduced to each character when he is already on the
cutting-table and we learn his story through his desperate confessions. Initially, our sympathies are –
for once – with the men, who seem to be the innocent victims, but the truth is
slowly and oh-so-painfully extracted from them and we come to appreciate and
admire the wielder of the red-hot pincers.
Her story is told only at second hand, through the agonised pleading of the men who have wronged her – but what a tale it is. Be warned: this novel will make you think, it
will make you weep and it may well change your life. Shortlisted for the Booker Prize.

All of Endgame takes place in a single room but somehow the novel avoids any feelings of claustophobia. Instead, in its life-affirming conclusion, true freedom is found within the bare stone walls of a torture cell.

The Princess and the penis

Once upon a time there was a Prince who was handsome, witty,
kind and clever. He was heir to a prosperous Kingdom, where the people were
happy and peaceful. The King and Queen
owned many palaces, all of them gleaming with marble, with cellars full
of gold and silver, with jewels beyond count. Truly, the Prince was the
luckiest man alive except for one thing: he had a laughably small penis.

When he was born, the court physician had
noticed how tiny the royal todger appeared to be even for a baby. But he reassured the King and Queen that all
would be well, when the Prince hit puberty.
Yet puberty came and went, and by the time he was 20, the Prince still
had a cock little larger than he had when he was a baby, although now it stood
up stiffly like a drawing pin whenever the Prince got excited – which was often.

The heir to a Kingdom needs an heir of his own, so the King
and Queen were anxious to marry their only son off as early as possible. Beautiful princesses came from lands far and
near, but all had heard about the Prince’s little problem and all wanted to see
it before becoming betrothed. Soon
enough, peals of girlish royal laughter would ring out through the palace, and
the courtiers would hang their heads in despair, as yet another royal carriage
rattled hastily away out of the palace gates, bearing a still-giggly princess
in the back.

They say it is a rare man who can always make a woman laugh. The Prince was such a man.

What were they to do?
As word spread of the Prince’s embarrassing condition, the Kingdom
became known as ‘the Kingdom of the Prince with the laughably small penis’. From the lowliest beggar to the mightiest
baron, all of the real men in the Kingdom, sporting perfectly adequate tackle,
found that they were thought by foreigners to have nothing worth speaking of
between their legs – and the women of the Kingdom had to fend off foreign men
eager to give them the pork stuffing that they were assumed to be lacking.

But the years went by, and the King and Queen despaired of
ever finding a beautiful Princess to whom they could wed their darling son,
with his dainty dangling ding-dong.

Then one day, a carriage drew up in the courtyard with a
clattering and a rattling that roused the whole palace. This was unusual in
itself, since it had been years since any princesses visited. More unusual still, the driver and footmen –
footpeople – on the carriage were all women.
Usually, princesses were accompanied by handsome young men, who would
sit making gestures towards their ample, bulging trouser treasure, while the Princess
was inside trying to control her laughter. Yet this carriage was accompanied
only by tall, rather serious-looking women.

One got down and opened the door, shouting out “Her Highness
the Crown Princess of Femlandia!”. And
down from the carriage emerged a young lady of rare beauty and still rarer
richness of garment, whose countenance was sterner still than those of her
minionettes. She looked around her, with
a bored and faintly contemptuous expression.

“Where’s little dick, then?” she enquired of no one in
particular.

“Erm… our son prefers to go by his given name of Richard”
puffed the King, who had come running out of the palace to greet his guest.

“Where’s little dick Richard, then?” the Princess asked,
fixing his watery blue eyes with a level stare from her pools of steel grey.

“Er… well, there…” the King began, pointing feebly towards
the South Eastern tower of the palace, but the Princess and several of her
entourage had already swept off and were entering the building.

In his room, Prince Richard was sitting quietly in the
gloom, feeling sad and useless, as he often did. Had it been 700 years later, he would
probably have been wanking around to no purpose on the Internet, but in those
benighted days there was nothing better to do when wasting time than watch the
dust-motes dancing in sunbeams, so this was what he was doing.

There was a peremptory knock and the Princess swept in,
accompanied by two tall blonde courtiers, dressed in military regalia and
sporting swords.

“Who… who are you?” stammered Prince Richard, which was odd
because he had not previously had a speech impediment of any kind.

“Princess Valerie of Femlandia” came the curt response.
“Here to inspect the goods. Trousers
down.”

“Er… Princess, you realise… of course… that I don’t really
have much to – “ began Richard, wondering where on earth that stammer had come
from.

“Not something that really bothers me, to be honest”, the Princess
replied, smiling slightly at one of the female soldiers at her side, who
blushed and returned the smile more fully.

“But it’s as well to see what I’m getting. Trousers down –
or my guards here will take them down for you.”

The Prince reluctantly did as he was bidden, and stood
there, his legs illuminated by a sunbeam. There was silence in the room, which
was eventually broken by the Princess.

“And the pants”, she snapped. “Obviously.
Moron.”

The Prince hurriedly lowered his pants as well.

As it was dark in the room all three women leant forward for
a closer look and at almost exactly the same time, both of the female soldiers
burst out laughing.

“Oh shush!” the Princess tutted, but smiled herself and was
obviously not really cross with the two blonde warriors, who stifled their
giggles and brought themselves to a semblance of attention.

“Better” nodded the Princess, patting one of them gently on
the bottom, and stepped forward, bringing out a magnifying glass that she had
thoughtfully provided for herself, and examined the matter at hand more
closely.

“Hmmm” she said, then spoke no more for several
minutes.

She reached out and roughly grabbed the Prince’s hair, jerking
his head forward so that he was staring directly at her milky and ample (but
not excessive) bosom. Then she let go,
and continued her magnified examination.
The Princely prick had become erect and had doubled in size to almost
nothing at all.

“Hmmm” she said again and then sighed.

“Pretty much as expected, I suppose.”

“But… but you’re not laughing?” prompted the Prince.

Princess Valerie shook her head decisively.

“Don’t have much of a sense of humour, really. Everyone says so. Especially where men are concerned” and an
expression of contempt came over her face, and her hand involuntarily jerked
slightly, as if flicking a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a riding whip.

She clasped both hands behind her back and stared straight
into the Prince’s face.

“Would you like it to be… bigger? To feel like there’s more down there?”

“Oh… oh yes, Princess”, stammered the Prince wondering if he
had somehow been cursed to repeat the first word of every sentence he spoke for
the rest of his life.

The Princess smiled a mirthless smile.

“I can fix things so you have more down there than you even
want. That you’ll be wishing for it to be smaller… would you like me to do that?”

“Oh, oh yes please Princess Valerie”, the Prince replied. “I’d like that more than anything in the
world. I’d do anything.”

“Good” the Princess, said.
“Marry me.”

“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia, obviously”
she added.

“The, erm.. traditional customs of Femlandia?” the Prince
quavered. “I’ve heard those are, well, that they’re… rather strict. To men, anyway.”

“Strict enough.” nodded the Princess. “Men deserve it, I find. Look: do you want an inconveniently large
cock or not? Also – and I might not have
mentioned this – when we rule here together, your penis will be the largest in
the palace. Would you like that, too?”

“Yes – oh yes, Princess, please” implored the Prince. “Are you going to going to perform a magic
spell?”

“It’s more in the nature of a magical ring” replied the Princess,
holding her hand out for a shiny metal object that one of her guards handed
her.

“Legs apart”

She busied herself with the device, while the Prince gasped
at the touch of cold metal and instantly felt his prick soften back to its
previous (almost microscopic) size.

“Is it a magical ring from your own country of Femlandia?”,
he enquired, trying not to wince as he felt sharp pains and a weight as from a
thick band of iron tugging at his nonentity.

“Not exactly”, the Princess replied, working away with an
allen key (she was a well-equipped Princess, as befitted someone who was the
tyrannical honorary leader of the boy scouts movement of Femlandia). “You might
say it’s from the far-off fabled land of Hind.
It’s called a Kali’s Teeth bracelet.
There – it’s done.”

She stood back up and gazed down at her handiwork. The Prince’s
little disappointment was almost entirely invisible for real this time, swathed
as it was in a thick band of iron, studded with… well, studs. The weight of it pulled down uncomfortably,
but it was not as uncomfortable as the sharp pins digging into the tender
flesh.

“Errr” the price started, but his hair was grabbed roughly
once more and his face jerked forwards, this time actually being pressed down
into the Princess’s own warm, soft bosom.
One of the guards looked slightly offended, but stared straight ahead.

Inevitably things started to grow as the Prince felt a surge
of excitement and then – a sharp, stabbing pain in his tenderest parts! And another!
And another! As the Princess rubbed his face across her bosom, his nose
pressing down deep into her cleavage, the Prince felt as if every nerve in his
stiffening member was screaming the same song of agony.

A shriek came out of his mouth and he collapsed to the
floor.

“Make it stop! Oh
please, please make it stop!” he gasped,

The Princess kneeled down beside him.

“It’ll stop when you’re smaller again” she murmured.

“Oh!” moaned the Prince, in torment “Oh how I wish my penis
were smaller””

“It will be,” nodded the Princess, standing back up.

A few minutes later the Prince stood before her again,
panting slightly and brushing the tears from his cheeks.

“See?” the Princess enquired, brightly. “You wished for it to be smaller.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking” the Prince grumbled, feeling
that something was not quite right.

“So now you marry me” added the Princess.

The Prince drew himself up to his full height and spoke with
as much dignity as is possible, with a tear-stained face and a heavy spiked
ring fastened to your genitals.

“Certainly not.” he sniffed. “It was a trick.”

The Princess sighed and nodded to one of her guards, who
saluted and left the chamber, closing the door behind her. The tall blonde soldier stood outside for
fifteen minutes, as various strange sounds – thuds, and cracks and moans and
cries – emanated from within, but stood fast, preventing any of the curious
courtiers from gaining access to find out what was going on.

Eventually the door was flung open and the second guard
announced “Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia and her Prince
Consort-to-be”

Out strode Princess Valerie, accompanied by a shuffling,
shambling Prince Richard.

The King and Queen looked up in shock from the bottom of the
steps.

“Betrothed.” Princess Valerie informed them, smugly.
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia”

“I can see that” muttered the King, as the Prince raised his
head slightly to expose a heavy iron collar, with a chain sneaking off towards
the Princess’s left hand. “I’ve heard about those traditions of yours.”

“Richard!” the Queen called up sharply. “Do you consent to this?”

The Prince consort-to-be glanced at his fiancée, who nodded
imperceptibly.

“Yes mama”, he replied, dejectedly. “I made a deal. She… did something that made me, well, made
me uncomfortably large. You know. Down there.”

“I can see that,
too!” exclaimed the King, as a heavy cylindrical object distorted the line of
the Prince’s trousers. “Wow!”

“Well, my boy, we must begin the celebrations
immediately! Let the word go out to all
four quarters of the Kingdom that the lovely Princess, er… the lovely Princess..?”

But the lovely Princess and her followers – a word that now
includes young Richard – were heading to her coach. The Princess climbed straight in, leaving
Richard to be secured to the side by his collar.

“Goodbye dearest mother-to-be!” she called out. “And you,
too”, she added with a look of disgust at the King.

“But, but… you will return, will you not?” the King gasped.

“Of course!” she called out, drawing her head back inside
the coach and giving the signal to move off.
The horses started to turn the carriage around, and Richard jogged
around with it.

“But when?” both
parents wailed, at exactly the same time.

“When you’re DEAD, obviously!” came the cry from within, and
the whips cracked over the horses (accidentally catching Richard a nasty cut
across the shoulder) and the carriage lurched out of the courtyard, the heir to
the Kingdom desperately galloping alongside.

….

Several years passed. The King and Queen grew old before their
time, worn down by the cares their inadequately-equipped son had brought
them. Rich men, well aware of what
Femlandian rule would bring, paid for the finest medical experts to come and
treat them, but in a few years the Queen had died of sorrow and the King was on
his deathbed.

Some attempts had been made to prepare the Kingdom for
Femlandian rule. There was a woman prime minister (but she wasn’t very good,
being neither strong nor stable) and many businesses had been made over to
female ownership. In schools, girls were educated in sciences and business,
while boys were taught needlework, cooking and how to simper attractively.

Nonetheless, all men knew that the rule of Empress Valerie
the Vicious and Cruel of Femlandia would bring an end to the fair and happy
land they had known all their lives. The
stories coming out of the Empire were too alarming not to take seriously, and
after all, men told one another, any empress who chose for herself the moniker ‘the vicious and cruel’ was probably no
pussycat.

But despite the best efforts of his physicians, the King
wasted and died. And a few days later, the armies of Femlandia invaded,
receiving the surrender of the local militia forces with little mercy, much
brutality and a moderate amount of violent sexual abuse.

The same carriage swept back into the same courtyard, now
decorated with the brutal red, white and black symbol of Her Imperial Highness,
Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel, Oppressor of the Western Isles, Scourge
of the Northern Wastes and Terror of the Eastern Deserts, to give her her full
title. And trotting along at the side of
the carriage, the Prince Consort: older, considerably more scarred and with Her Imperial sigil burned proudly into his flesh – but still recognisably Prince
Richard.

Branding can be tricky but even an Empress will always prefer to do it herself, for that personal touch.

The Empress descended again and gazed around her with fierce
joy.

“I made you one other promise, maggot!” she called to her
long-suffering (oh, but she’d barely started) husband. “Do you recall?”

He looked confused, and shook his head sorrowfully.

Empress Valerie laughed.

Do you recall her
promise, reader? Not merely that he would have a penis that was uncomfortably
large. That he acquired the very day he met his wife-to-be, and had
still, as the bracelet of the Goddess Kali had not left his flesh since that
fateful day.

No, the Princess had
also promised that when she and her blushing bridegroom finally reigned
together (in a manner of speaking) that he would have the largest penis in the
palace. Do you remember that now,
dear reader? Because there will be a test.
And consequences.

And the Empress, as she now was, always kept her
promises. When she wanted to, anyway.

“Lock the palace gates” the Empress called. “And summon the Imperial Gelding Squadron”.

She looked around the courtyard, at the men standing, or kneeling… mute, anxious, frightened. She smiled, in satisfaction.

“They have work to do.”

And they all lived happi… well, not all of them, obviously,
but some of them were happy, I
suppose, some of the women anyway, and, look, She certainly lived very, very Happily Ever After, OK? And that is what matters.

The End.

It’s ages since I wrote a story this long. I don’t know if it’s just age or the Internet destroying attention span but I used to write lots of stories. I find that I can only sustain interest for bite-sized captions and vignettes, these days. Where was I… attention span… oh yes! So anyway, writing stories is actually how I started. My very first ever visit to a domme (was wonderful, utterly wonderful) and at the end of it, She commanded me to write up my session to publish on Her web site. I did and She did and it’s still there, and I took to writing more things for her and Her friend. Usually stories about them.

Some of these old stories can be found by clicking on ‘Mistress Valerie’ in the word cloud there (although the first one that comes up, abput Christmas, doesn’t really work, I think). They concern Mistress ‘Valerie’ and Her friend ‘Sandra’ , which are not quite their real names. But Mistress Herself has now semi-retired, or at any rate developed a vanilla business so She wants a low web profile.

This isn’t a Valerie and Sandra story, but the Empress’s personality has a bit of ‘Valerie’ so I gave Her that name for old-times sake. If you want to read another fairy tale, that is a much closer description of the two ladies, try this. That’s one of my all-time favourites, the others being this and this.

Of academic interest

In a change to the usual format, today we are publishing the preamble to an academic sociology thesis. Pretty hot, huh? You don’t get that on Men in Pain or Cum Eating Cuckolds, do you? Can’t imagine why not…

Extract from Male Liberation Theory: prevention and cure, a thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of Sociology (Male Studies Unit)
Sheila Harrietsdaughter, King’s College, Cambridge, May 2086.

Alan Travis (as he was named at birth) is one of the more
interesting revisionist male liberation theorists. Reading his books in
sequence provides an insight into a fascinating philosophical journey. Born into a society almost unimaginable today, in which women had achieved mere ‘equality’ in society with men, he lived through the most profound and joyful social changes – changes that he, like many males, struggled at first to accept. His early works are hard to obtain, but even
the list of titles evokes the dilemmas he was forced to confront, as he redefined his views on male liberation and as his thought
developed and matured. A selective biography:

Grateful thoughts from a
male feminist: how the women’s rights movement has given us all a more
equal society (2013).

De-gendering social change:
the role of male allies in transformative feminist thought (2014).

Let men help: the concept of
sexism and its interpretation by feminists and their male allies (2015)

Women’s rights, political
correctness and male identity (2016)

A united front against
sexism? The value of male voices in the feminist movement (2017)

Not ‘all’ men are bastards:
deconstructing the divisive rhetoric of the ‘new’ women’s movement (2018)

Reverse oppression? Sexism
and the ‘new’ women’s movement (2019)

Criminalising men: sexist
jokes are not ‘rape’ (2020)

The enemy within? Male
supporters of the ‘new’ women’s movement (2021)

No votes, no voice – men’s
place in the ‘new society’ (2023)

We will not be silenced:
free speech and the prohibition of ‘sexist views’ (2025 – unpublished)

Second class citizens?
Men in the ‘New Society’ (2026 – unpublished)

Voices in the darkness: the
testimony of male victims of the ‘New Society’ (2028? Published informally
by the men’s underground movement)

Men’s Liberation – A
manifesto
(2030? Published informally by the men’s underground movement)

“Writing this line over and
over again will help me to learn that my own opinions are of no
importance: women are in charge and we males will do as we are
told.” 20,000 lines written in Re-education Camp 9, published in six
volumes (2041,
writing as ‘Prisoner M847733847’)

Eating dogshit – grateful
reflections on a re-educational stay (2043 – published by the Department of Male
Education and Correction, as part of their ‘The life that awaits you’
series for schools).

Male Liberation – who needs
it?
(2044, writing as Alan Lucysboy)

Why I do not miss my penis –
and nor does anyone else! (2048, writing as Alan Lucysboy)

Much-needed correction: a
humble appreciation of the first 25 years of the New Society by a
well-disciplined male (2051, writing anonymously as ‘Boy – aged
61’)

Pleats and seams – the
complete guide
(2056, writing as Alan Elainesboy, Volume 13 in Ironing for Men).

What silly boys we were: a
personal recollection of the Male Liberation movement and its ridiculous
ideas (2061,
writing as Alan Elainesboy).

Good for nothing – a last
testament from a soon-to-be euthanised surplus male (2068, published posthumously
as Alan Nobodysboy).

By chance, the last item on this prolific list of
publications was discovered by a worker at the male disposal plant who had read
and greatly enjoyed some of Alan’s later works.
Accordingly, rather than being boiled down for glue, his body was taken
to King’s College in Cambridge, where he had held a fellowship until 2025. He was stuffed and mounted in a corner of the
dining hall, where he remains today, in mute testimony to the remarkable
achievement of the New Society in convincing even its most strident critics of
the justice of female supremacy.

This thesis is concerned with why Alan altered his views so
profoundly in mid-life. Of course, a
facile answer is “Because he spent over ten years in a re-educational camp
being starved, whipped, electrocuted and forced to eat excrement”.
Indeed, a cursory reading of some of his later works, notably Eating Dogshit (2043), would seem to confirm
this. However, I believe that a closer
examination of his works points to a more fundamental realisation and acceptance of his own
inferiority, and by returning to the original manuscripts of his texts –
including the profoundly moving 20,000 Lines, stained in places with the
philosopher’s own tears – I intend to show that…

….

(and so on and so on for another 98,000 words. I’ll post the rest some time when I have nothing better to do and the Internet really needs another PhD thesis).

Let’s just finish with the photo appendix. What do you mean, real PhD theses don’t have photo appendices? My own thesis, submitted last year, had over 3000 images. It still rankles that they rejected it. Call themselves a Women’s Studies department and what do they do when someone submits a thesis that entirely consists of studying women, close up and personal? They call it ‘porn’. Oh well. “Dr Servitor” sounds a bit weird anyway. Back to Dr Harrietsdaughter’s work:

Plate 10: This photograph, used to illustrate one of Alan’s early works, has
puzzled researchers for years. Captioned merely “The worm that turned”
it appears at first sight to show an ordinary unit of Re-education Corps
Servicewomen going about their work. However, the Corps was not established until 2030: 11 years
after the book in which it appeared. Furthermore, the Corpswomen are wearing extremely small shorts, indicating a hot summer day, yet the weather appears to be anything but hot. Research into the undeleted
fragments of the Male Internet (access permitted under scholastic
exception), associates it only with the phrase “The two Ronnies”, who were presumably early female supremacist thinkers both called Ronald, whose work has now been lost.

Plate 13. This illustration, from No votes, No voice (2023, restricted access), reproduces a poster widely used by the male resistance. Titled “The Future Under The New Society”, the poster was presumably intended to alarm males and to encourage them to cast their votes (odd as it is today, to contemplate males voting) for masculinist parties. However, in a classic example of male incompetence, the poster backfired and is credited with boosting the New Society vote by ten percentage points or more among males, who seem to have found the image attractive. Such self-defeating displays of stupidity were a recurring feature in the male resistance movement, as Alan himself thankfully recorded in What Silly Boys We Were (2061).

Plate 19: Malcolm Harris. Harris collaborated with Alan on some of his early works, in particular the so-called Men’s Liberation Manifesto (not available for public distribution),
several versions of which circulated secretly among subversive males
around 2030. Harris believed that only violent action could overthrow
the New Society, leading a party of armed subversives hiding out in the
Yorkshire Dales for over two years, before being betrayed by a
submissive male posing under-cover. Harris made occasional covert radio
broadcasts, including the famous “Call to Arms” of 2031, which Alan
described as ‘inspiring’ at the time, but later admitted to have been “a
petulant stamp of the foot: a tantrum by a spoilt brat who was
severely overdue for a spanking.”. The photograph shows the former
Harris (renamed ‘Scrub’) some years later.

Plate
24: This photograph shows ‘Prisoner M847733847 during his years in a
re-educational camp. Note the penis: in these early years of the New
Society, male re-educational inmates typically retained their penises
and testicles, although in most cases these items became too damaged to
function as a result of the repeated application of increasingly
sophisticated re-educational techniques

The re-educational officer to the right of the Prisoner, Karen Susansdaughter, was by chance a former student of his when he had lectured at Cambridge. Interviewed in the course of research for this thesis, she cheerfully recalled how pleased she had been to discover him in her cell block, and the many opportunities it provided to reprise their warm disagreements over female supremacist philosophy. The officer to the left has not been identified but may be the “Anna” whose name was branded onto Alan’s thigh at some point during his stay.

Plate 27: an illustration from Eating Dogshit (2043). Note the lemon slice on the side of the bowl, which has caused much confusion to historians of the period. In contrast to some erroneous claims made regarding this image (e.g. Too soft on the bastards? Re-education camps in the early years of the New Society in The United Queendom, Francine Fille-de-Marie (2062)), this does not represent an actual food bowl from Prisoner M847733847’s re-educational camp. Rather, in the second chapter of Eating Dogshit (op .cit.), the author eloquently describes the essential pleasures of drinking a bowl of clean slightly lemony water, presumably after his release, to establish a contrast for the chapters that follow, which describe the experience of being forced to eat dogshit in the detail that is now familiar to generations of male teenagers from compulsory study classes (but are best avoided by female citizens without very strong stomachs).

These chapters can be envisioned simply through their evocative titles: “The Smell”, “First Refusal and its Consequences”, “Begging Permission to Eat”, “First Taste”, “Second Refusal and its Consequences”, “The First Mouthful“, “The First Swallow”, “Pleading for Water”, “The Whip”, “The Second Mouthful”, “Chewing”, “Swallowing”, “Vomiting”, “The Whip, once more”, “Re-ingesting”, “Licking the Bowl, “Gratitude”, “Once is not Enough”, “No Easier the Third Time”, “A Weekly Dogshit Day”, “Attempted Suicide”, “My Life is not My Own to Take”, “Grateful Acceptance and Weekly Treats”, “An Aftertaste for Life”.

Plate 28: Alan and his first Responsible Female, Lucy Deborahsdaughter, enjoy a riding holiday in France. Riding became an increasingly important part of Alan’s life in his Lucysboy period and the couple were a familiar sight around the hills and lanes of West Derbyshire, where they lived. Alan’s waning strength as he aged led Lucy first to castrate him, in the (mistaken) belief that geldings are stronger and then to sell him on e-bay.

Although academic institutions bid for him, keen to possess such a well-known figure on the philosophical landscape, Lucy decided in the event on a private sale because, as she put it “the little bastard needs to work for his keep, not laze around on display in a museum”. His eventual buyer cheerfully admitted that she had never heard of him or read anything he had written – nor indeed ever did she. But it was to be in Elaine Ruthsdaughter’s laundry room that Alan was finally to discover a philosophy of contentment – and personal happiness at last.

Plate 32: This image, from the frontispiece to Pleats and Seams (2056) shows Alan soon after Elaine Ruthsdaughter became his Responsible Female. Often treated merely as a practical guide to ironing, of no use to anyone except household sissies, this work can also be read (albeit at the price of extreme tedium for the average citizen, who will never have to iron a pleat in her life) as a subtle and mature work reflecting on how males can find purpose in menial acts that provide some service to the superior sex. As Helga Fridastochter has written in Spanked, Serving and Satisfied (2072): “There can be few intellectual journeys more inspiring than that of Alan Travis, from the petulant claim in 2019 that men’s self-realisation demanded full participation in the government of society, to Elaine’s happy houseboy, ecstatically recalling her murmur of ‘good boy’ following four hours of work on one of her long pleated skirts that he loved so much.”

If you are not fully satisfied…

Hi, is that Mr Williams?

Oh, good afternoon, Mr Williams. My name’s Debbie. I’m with Trading Standards.

No, nothing wrong at all.
Actually, I’ve got some quite good news for you. We’ve recently prosecuted a company
called A.G. Trading for fraud and as part of the settlement, they are paying
compensation to affected customers. You’re down as having purchased items
regularly from them over the last three years or so, and so you’re due for a
substantial payment.

A. G. Trading. No, I expect you won’t have heard of them,
they operated lots of different front companies. Let’s see… you’ve made purchases from, erm…
“Mistress Alicia Amazon”, “Sheila’s Stinky Socks” and “Patricia the Piss
Queen”, is that right?

No? Oh.

Are you sure? “Harold
Williams, number 73 Park Road, Guildford”?
Credit card number 5847 624 – Oh, OK. So that is
you? Great.

Yes, it’s easy to forget these things.

So, the fraud concerned a number of different product lines
but all in the category of ‘used and worn items’, you see, Mr Williams. Mostly lingerie, socks, shoes and boots –
that kind of thing. Tampons and sanitary
towels too, but I don’t see any purchases like that on your record.

Anyway, the whole thing was a scam, I’m afraid. The proprietor, Mr Patel, and his family
mostly just wore the items themselves.
Some of them were shipped over from India – seems there’s quite a little
business going on pre-soiling items for masturbatory purposes out there.
There’s a whole village where it sounds like everyone’s walking around in
lingerie and high heels just to get the smells in. And I’m afraid the only person pissing in
Patricia’s panties was Mr Patel’s cousin Rajesh.

Yes, it’s shocking isn’t it?
Mr Patel made over £20 million out of it, before we got involved – can
you believe that? All by exploiting
lonely, desperate sad little men.

No offence.

Anyway, if I can just run through the purchases we’ve got
here we can sort out your claim?

So: I’ve got nine pairs of worn panties, three of them
pissed in, a pair of scuffed trainers, two pairs of boots, eleven pairs of
socks, two bras and a sweat-stained top, is that right? For a total expenditure of £3,540.

Hmm?

No, you don’t have to produce the items, Mr Williams. We have all the records here. Anyway, some of these purchases go back over
three years. I don’t suppose you’d have kept them around all this time, would you? That would be –

Have you? Gosh.

Erm… even the items from ‘Patricia the Piss Queen’…?

Wow.

Oh-kay!

Anyway, that’s not necessary, Mr Williams. Actually, you should probably dispose of the
items. Especially those you ordered
from, erm, ‘Patricia’. Our colleagues in
Health and Safety say they probably don’t meet EU hygiene standards.

Did you? Oh, I voted
Remain myself. Still, EU or no EU, it’s
probably not a good idea to keep that sort of thing around, Mr Williams. You might want to go for a health check.

Now, I’ll send you a claim form, and you just have to fill
it in and send it straight back and we’ll arrange for your compensation, as son
as we can.

Hmm? Oh, it depends
on how much is recovered by the auditors.
Should be at least a third of what you paid, though – over £1000, I
expect! Quite a nice little windfall,
isn’t it? You could go out and treat
yourself to something nice, like…

…erm…

Erm… well, anything you like, really. Not my business to ask!

Now, Mr Williams, is there anything you’d like to ask me?

I’m sorry, what’s that?

Erm… no, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, Mr
Williams. I just… well, I just buy things for
my own use then I wash them or throw them away, you know?
That’s what most people do. Anyway, Trading Standards Officers aren’t allowed to conduct private business, so…

No – no problem at all!
To be honest, you’re not the only person who’s asked since I started
this assignment!

No, I’m not going to tell you what colour they are, Mr
Williams. Goodbye now!

No, Mr Williams.
That’s private. Goodbye, Mr Williams!

Eugh!

Eugh eugh EUGH!

Dave, can you do my next call? I’ve got to go and wash my face.

And can we PLEASE swap? Honestly, I’d so much rather deal with VAT fraud. You wouldn’t believe how much I’d like to deal with VAT fraud.

Sometimes you need a little help

Hi there! Amdigames
in-game help, Sara here! What can I help
you with?

Er… no, sir, I guess all our male helpers are busy with
other callers. And also, that’s just a
little sexist. I am entirely familiar with all our –

Sure, OK. No
problem. So: what game have you been
playing?

Virtual Girlfriend 3.0?
Oh-kay! Let me just load that up
for you. And are you playing the
parentally blocked version, or the adult edition? Oh-kay.

So… menu screen… full adult.
Do you have kind of sex toys plugged in or are you just using…

Your hand? What do
you mean, you’re using your – oh I see. No, I actually meant what game controller are you
using. I’ll just put mouse and keyboard.

OK, and can you tell me which virtual girl you chose? Oooh, Suki! OK.

So what’s the problem?

She won’t what, sorry? ‘Put out’?

Oh, I see. OK, hold
on. What level are you on? Cos like for
the first few levels, you’re just wooing them and it’s only on level three that
they –

Level six? OK,
that’s weird. She should be putting out everything she’s got by then, no question. And did she, er…, ‘put out’
on the earlier levels? No?

OK. Let’s see. I’ll just run through a quick script to shortcut through to … OK, so I’m on
level six, and I’ve poured her a drink and Suki says… what does Suki say, hang on…

Suki says she wants to run her hot
tongue up and down my throbbing love piston.
She also says her pussy is soaking with carnal desire.

You got the same dialogue? No? What does she say on yours?

She’s ‘got a headache’?
Hmm… That’s really not supposed to happen. Is your avatar still wearing
clothes? OK, try dropping your
pants. Let her see your, erm… ‘throbbing
love piston’.

She’s what? She’s laughing? What kind of laughing? Laughing funny, or laughing hysterically, or laughing like – I dunno. How’s she laughing?

She’s ‘laughing like the girls always laugh’? OK. You know, sir, I’m not sure what you mean by that. But I think it sounds like Suki
might be a little glitched there. Maybe
we could try a different girl? Can you
go back to the menu page?

Yeah, just choose any of them. You should see 24.

Only three? OK, well, just choose one of them, I guess.

Amber? OK, sure. So, you click on Amber and you should see her
phone number. And then you’re gonna call
her, and Amber’s gonna get all hot just at the sound of your voice and then –

She hung up on you?

OK, well you can still visit her apartment. You know – you can get these stealth skills,
so you can sneak into girls’ apartments and hide in their closets as long as
your stealth skill is at level 3 or above, so –

– your stealth skill
is at level 19? Wow. I didn’t know it went up that high. You must really like sneaking around in
girls’ erm… anyway! That’s great. So –
let’s break into Amber’s apartment and see if we can surprise her undressing or
something. (euw)

You in? OK? So what’s
Amber doing?

What do you mean, she’s not there? She has to be there. She’s just a few lines of code in a game, she
doesn’t get to decide to go out and do something else…

Nowhere to be seen? Are you sure?

OK, well look sir, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what the heck has gone wrong
with your game, but we can send you a voucher that you can use to purchase any
of our – what?

She left a pair of stinky trainers and her bin is full of
used tampons? OK, well like I said sir, I’m really sorry that this has happened
and –

Fine? What do you mean, it’s fine?

Sir?

Sir I’m still online here and I can hear you. If you wouldn’t mind putting the phone down
before you… before you finish what you’re doing I’d appreciate it. Only we’re not allowed to terminate the call
ourselves you see, and –

Oh gross. Oh I so hate my job.

Hhhhhhmmm.

Sir?

Oh, hi? So… Sara
still here… Amdigames? Can I take it
you’re now OK with your game?

Great. And… ermm… I
have to ask, were you satisfied with the way this call went?

‘Entirely satisfied’.
Yeah, I kind of guessed that. OK,
well, I’ll say goodbye then and … go off and have a shower or something.

Wait! I did not say
that! You are NOT to think about me
having a shower, because –

Damn, you’ve gone.

EUUUGGHHH! That was so…. Oh, YUK!

Hey Tony, can I take a five minute break? I need to wash. Like, really thoroughly. Then I’d like to go back to the MMO section,
if I can? I miss the days of telling
nerds they need more strength to lift their orc-cleavers.

Fiction: Boundaries

[There’s a general disclaimer to the right over there about the factual accuracy of this blog (zero), but just for the avoidance of doubt – and because I would never, ever want to put someone off taking that step of contacting a pro-domme for the first time – let me just emphasise that this is a work of total fiction, and utter nonsense. OK? OK then.]

My new project? Yes, sure. I can talk about that. Yes, it’s actually quite exciting. In a way, what I’m trying to do here is push
the bounds of femdom – or rather push beyond the bounds that have traditionally
defined it, if you see what I mean.

So much of femdom is clichéd and stereotypical, don’t you think? Especially in the pro-domme space. So
I’ve always tried to experiment, but until recently it was always still basically within those same
bounds. But what I’ve been trying lately
with some of my more experienced clients is more… holistic, in a way. Kind of edgy and experimental, but there’s a
thrill to it too.

An example? Sure.
Erm… well, suppose I’ve got a client who’s into humiliation. He likes to
prance around in a maid’s costume and I’ll order him about and I’ll find fault
with everything he does and punish him, then send him home happy, OK? And that’s fine – it’s a fun way to
play. But what do you do when you’ve
played that same session a hundred times?
Well – what about all of the time when he’s not in session? How about playing the same game – very same game – there?

So, I
got him to start telling me more about his life and his work and all of that,
and one day I took a stroll around the hard drive of his laptop while he was
tied down upstairs. And I started
looking through this Powerpoint show he’d made on his computer for an important
client meeting the next day –

– well, yes, it is a true story, actually.

Anyway, I expect you’re thinking I’m going to say I put in
pictures of him in his maid’s outfit or whatever, to humiliate him in public?
And I was thinking of that, but then I thought – well, that’s really just
another femdom cliché, isn’t it? Let’s
try something different! So I just
fucked around with it a bit: putting in spelling mistakes, changing some of the
calculations so they didn’t add up. Put
in the name of a different company, to make it look like he’d recycled a
presentation for someone else. That kind
of thing.

So the next session I asked him all about it and he just
poured out this tale of humiliation and shame!
He’d lost the contract and his boss had spent the whole afternoon
shouting at him in front of the whole office.
I got a fit of the giggles to be honest, but he was quite upset. So I pointed out that he’d been thoroughly
humiliated – at my hands – and wasn’t that something to be grateful for?

Hmm? Was he
grateful? Well, no. Not at first. Actually he stormed off. But when he got back in touch wheedling to
see me again, I made it a condition that this was something I was going to be
working into the play from now on, so if he wanted ever to see me again, he had
to accept it.

Yeah, sure, he still comes for sessions. Not as often as he used to. He’s been sacked
from a couple of jobs now, so his income’s a lot less than it was. Plus, my
fees have gone up so it’s a lot less affordable all round. But he still sessions when he can.

Anyway, that was the start.
I do still play games in session.
I’ll dress in leather and I’ll spank and I’ll dress the clients in
humiliating clothing and all the rest of it.
But I insist on more commitment than that too. So – yes, I can spank your bottom. But I’m also going to insist that before our
next session you break your arm. Yes,
you can clean out my toilet. But you’re
also going to be getting an evening job cleaning public urinals. Yes, you can
have a bondage session. But you can also
spend your summer holiday chained up in your back yard, eating raw
potatoes. Yes, I can stomp on your
fingers. But I’m also going to run your foot over, in my car. That kind of vibe.

Is he wearing a mask because he’s playing a role? Or because his face is marked with cigarette burns? And if so – isn’t that just another role, really?

It can get pretty edgy. Like, last year I finally tried out
something I’ve wanted to do for a long time and got a client sent to
prison. I helped him beat this other
client of mine with a baseball bat, and then he got arrested and sentenced to six
months. If you can get into the right
headspace for it, that would be quite a trip, right?

Hmm? Is he what?

Oh, is he in the right headspace? I don’t know. He’s only done four months, so far. I’ll find out when he books his first session
after being released, I suppose. When he
comes out I’m thinking of setting up a revenge beating – you know, reversing
the roles? But don’t print that: it’s
going to be a surprise for both of them.

This is not a prison scene. There are no beautiful blonde warders spanking your bottom in prison – but there are people who might put glass into your food. Are you ready for that?

Do they enjoy it?
Hmm. You know, I’m not sure
that’s really the right question. Sure, you can visit a pro-domme and get
slapped around and spat on, and that’s going to be fun, yeah? But is it enough? Really? Is it creative, is it radical, are
you pushing the bounds? I sometimes
think life is nothing more than the experiences we have and the goal is to have
as many experiences and as varied an experiential journey as possible. And if you’ve – say – find yourself naked
and alone in the back streets of Johannesburg without a wallet or a passport…
well, maybe you won’t ‘enjoy it’ as such. In fact, you’ll probably hate every moment.
But you’ll certainly have something to remember, won’t you?

Hmm? Yeah, exactly
that. I’ve done it twice actually. And I’ve tried it
in Caracas too, but that didn’t work out so well.

No, I don’t want to talk about that. It was a bit upsetting. I
shouldn’t have said anything. Move on.

So you’d eat the ash from my cigarette in session… but would you lick out the public ashtray at the entrance to your office building? You don’t know? Then maybe we should find out.

Where can I take this next? OK – now that is a good question. But I’m not going to give too much
away! As you can imagine, surprise for
the clients is a big part of this whole scene.
Plus I haven’t worked out all of the details, to be quite honest. But one idea I’m really excited about is taking medical scene femdom
out there into the real world. I’ve been
reading up on some medical web sites – and I’ll admit I’ve had a little help
from a client with medical qualifications too! – and I think I’ve got a few ideas. I’ve started a couple of things with one or two clients
already, by spiking their drinks, but they won’t have noticed anything yet, as it takes the symptoms a
while to emerge. Actually, one of them
called me today to delay his next session, because he thought he had some kind
of cold coming on, but actually that’s the more serious symptoms just beginning to
manifest themselves. He’ll notice soon that it’s not just a cold. Anyway, we’ll
see. They’re both going to experience a
lot of pain and some quite significant permanent damage to several major
organs, so… it’ll be quite intense.

And I’ve a few more things planned too, in the medical
area. Like – lots of people with
incurable diseases think to themselves ‘why me?’, you know? So how’s that going to feel if you know the
reason why you’ve got just six months to live, or whatever, hmm? If you know who did that to you? And how are they going to serve me, how are
they going to relate to me in those last few months?

I don’t think it’ll be easy for either of us.

Brutal? Yeah… yeah I can’t argue with that. It’s brutal. But life’s brutal too, isn’t it? I mean, we can kid ourselves that everything’s fine, but with all the suffering that’s going on in the world, don’t we have a duty to be exploring where femdom fits into all of that? I think my art – and yes it is an art – should mirror reality in all its horror. You see pictures of those awful boats full of refugees, sinking in the Mediterranean and what do you do? You switch channels, you look away, maybe you give a donation on the way into your comfortable office the next day. But me, I see a former foot-slave of mine called Simon, who took what he thought was going to be a holiday trip to Tunisia with me, and whose body was washed up onto a remote beach on Malta last month. So don’t talk to me about brutality. I’ve been there.

Sorry. That got a bit heavy. But… this is my life, you know? It’s what I live every day and it’s important that I keep on going, pushing the boundaries, seeing where I can take this thing I’ve dedicated my life to.

What’s that? Yeah,
I’m still accepting new slaves. I’m
quite choosy and I’m very particular about who I see. But if any of your readers would like to meet
me in session they can go to the web site and respectfully – respectfully –
fill out the form. Don’t worry about all
of the stuff I’ve been talking about here.
We’ll just play within the usual femdom boundaries until… well, until I’ve
decided you’re ready to move on. Some
never are. And if you are lucky enough to be taken there… then you’ll be a part
of my life journey, won’t you? And I
think any true submissive would be happy with that.

[Once again, this is a work of total fiction. Mistress Eleise, whose pictures grace and magically improve this depraved little tale, is the most professional, careful and thoughtful mistress imaginable. She is very choosy indeed about her slaves – that bit is actually true – but if you are granted the privilege of meeting her, you won’t regret it.]

Category: fiction

The game is a foot