Category: fiction

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 very 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 fun!

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!

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.

   

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