Stories and pictures themed around female domination and male subjugation and servitude. Unsuitable for children, for alpha males, for hard-core practitioners with an interest in the politics of bdsm and the mechanics of complicated rope work. Of interest to perverts like me, basically.
Oh, and an extra captioned image, easy enough to provide as I didn’t have to write it: it is not one of mine. I’ll confess I don’t like many of the femdom captions I see on the Internet and it is very rare indeed that I see one and think ‘I wish I’d done that!’. But this one – from here, although I don’t know if that’s the origin – is certainly one of those few.
If you make her that way. Or if you pay her enough, I suppose.
Anyway, the commanding tones of Mistress Hynde herald another trip down false memory lane: The 1980s called.
Been a while since I did one of these and it might be a very long time before I do another, although I have some ideas for variations on the theme. For those new to the blog (go and catch up: there’s fifteen years of nonsense here), this is where I attempt to reproduce letters and other pages from imaginary magazines similar to those from my mis-spent youth, such as these.
Letters to the Editrix
Most Majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia
I adore your magazine, but lately I have noticed a tendency towards more extreme and less realistic femdom scenarios, involving permanent slavery, branding and suchlike. Although I find such material (and especially the photos accompanying it) wildly exciting, I do hope you will not lose sight of more realistic themes, such as maternal spanking. Such themes do not always have to be ‘soft femdom’ either, as your short series Vigilante Vixens illustrated so well. Indeed, the brutal (if always well-deserved) kneeings and kickings administered by the girls in those stories were realistic enough to make tears come to my eyes just reading them and I am sure many other male readers felt the same.
In contrast, less realistic tales such as Fiona’s New Furniture, are amusing and that one was beautifully illustrated. The images of Fiona casually reading a book propped up in front of her, with a wine glass at her side and her feet up – thus providing employment to three men, not counting the out-of-shot light stand – were breathtaking. But I hope you will not entirely abandon scholastic, prison or other more plausible themes.
With the greatest respect
‘Humble petitioner’
I’m tempted to reply, sitting here as I am with my feet up on the slave who brought me your letter, that you cannot consider human furniture to be ‘unrealistic’ until you have been made to try it properly. However, although my own slaves do serve as inanimate objects, I have to say it is rarely practical. As with so many things in life, most males turn out to be less effective – and less intelligent – than simple pieces of wood, and they cost more in upkeep. I don’t know what you mean about branding being less realistic, though.
As for Vigilante Vixens, although names and other details have been changed because of this country’s absurd laws criminalising such activities, the girls and their exploits are quite real. Try visiting some of the seedier nightclubs in a certain city on the Humber and making yourself obnoxious (shouldn’t be too difficult) to a group of three attractive girls and you might even feature in a future instalment! G-L. L.
My dear Lucia
Like several of your correspondents, I am a contentedly tyrannical wife. I wasn’t always so: either tyrannical or contented. Although it is fair to say that I was probably the leading partner in our marriage, it was not until I discovered that he’d been losing half our income every month through gambling, that I decided to take absolute control. Even that was not really intended – I was going to divorce the bastard, but in a moment of fury, I slapped him hard around the face. To my surprise, he didn’t really protest, so I did it again. Two days later I bought a cane and in the shop where I found it, I saw a copy of your magazine. A week later, he was wearing a chastity belt and no longer had access to any of our funds, except a small allowance for daily expenses and a credit card for emergencies, the bill for which is rigorously inspected. A slave, in short, in a lifetime of service for the money he stole from me.
Recently I read in a very different magazine that gambling should be considered an addiction and treated with understanding, rather than condemnation. I thought this was funny enough to make him read it out, while bent over a chair while I cracked my belt across his backside. But it made me think that perhaps he needed to gamble and I was being unfair in not allowing him to do so. Indeed, I had taken him to the opposite extreme: a life governed by rigid, absolute rules. So instead I have begun to make use of little games of chance.
His chastity regime is the obvious one. I used to occasionally grant him an orgasm, which of course he would administer himself as I was quite happy to renounce any interest in his nasty little thing when this marriage ceased to be one between equals. Now, when I decide to allow him such pleasure, he only gets a chance. Ten cards are dealt from a deck without face cards. I then add between one and four jacks and between one and four queens. He draws cards until he has a jack: that is his orgasm card. At that point, I count up the number of dots on any other cards he has drawn. He will receive that many strokes with the tawse before being allowed to masturbate, and the same number after. As for the number of queens, that is the number of times he will be kneed in the balls once he has finished and is good and tender down there. He is not allowed to choose not to play. As you can imagine, if I put only one jack and four queens in, he has sixteen cards to choose from and may find himself holding a ‘hand’ of many unpleasant things before finally receiving the chance to use his hand for a different purpose. I expect that, as a gambler, he finds it all rather thrilling.
I have also taken to turning many of his meals into surprises. He sits at the table on a low stool, his wrists tied behind his back, a tight blindfold over his eyes. I bring his meal in a big low bowl, set it down in front of him and – before he has had any real chance to process the smell – grab the hair at the back of his head and shove his face down into it. There he must remain, slurping and swallowing, until I decide enough of it has been eaten. Very occasionally he gets a nice meal – just so that there’s always that smidgeon of hope, to be dashed. More usually, though, he finds his face being mashed down into at best a bowl of cold baked beans or slightly mashed lumps of long-boiled turnip or swede, more usually mere leftovers like potato peelings with cold bacon rind. Occasionally, the meal is not really food at all, but he has to eat it anyway: he put away a good helping of dandelions one summer day and on another occasion, he munched his way through my hair, after I’d had it cut fashionably short. I bought a few tins of dog foods and cat food and greatly enjoyed his look of horror as he saw me put them in the cupboard. So far, all I have given him is cold meat stew and fish paste – neither particularly pleasant but at least notionally fit for human consumption. After each of those meals, he went to the cupboard to check the number of tins and looked very relieved. One day soon, there will be one fewer…
His beatings are of course covered by the same system. Once he has been strapped across the whipping bench, I place a coin on the floor below his face. When I have finished, I pick it up (sometimes it is flecked with tears) and flip it. Needless to say, if it comes up tails, the beating is simply repeated. With the coin replaced, of course, ready for another flip at the end. Once he scored four tails in a row! It was on a heavy beating too: twenty with the strap. I was quite exhausted after dealing out one hundred belters, so I was almost as relieved as he was, when the fifth toss came up heads. Well… I suppose he must have been much more relieved, really, but it does bring home how silly gambling is, don’t you think, Lucia? I cannot see the attraction in it, myself, and I think my dear husband might be coming round to my way of thinking on that.
Yours in certainty
Vera
A wife should hold all the cards, Vera! Men are prone to addictions and we should exploit those ruthlessly. The ultimate addiction, of course, is to a superior woman. Gambling itself is simply one more indication that a male cannot be trusted with money and should hand it over to someone better than himself. Your husband seems to be learning the real meaning of gambling, which is that it is an activity for losers. G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
How do dominatrices manage to suppress their natural feminine tenderness sufficiently to treat their clients with the harshness they require?
Yours in puzzlement
Toby
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ! Oh dear, I haven’t laughed this much since Office Slave 4 got his humbler caught in the electric fan! G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
How I enjoy the tales of enforced male chastity in your delightful magazine. I first locked a cock away when I was just nineteen and I am now the proud owner of a keyring on which jangle eleven keys to control male arrogance and lust. Eleven ‘men’ out there, working in offices, buying things in shops, ordering a meal in a restaurant and all secretly under my absolute control. And don’t they know it! Men think about sex all the time and mine are no different, no matter how much they try to suppress it!
It is their frustration that I enjoy the most – I don’t think I’d find half so much pleasure in knowing a man had been castrated so as to lose the urge completely. Initially I tried to impose as tight an enclosure as possible but I have come to realise that ‘less can be more’, in that a penis restrained just enough to begin to become erect but prevented from anything more imposes a constant hell of frustration. Any man on my keyring is lucky if I’ve squeezed his entire ‘manhood’ into a tight tube. More usually, only the top half is entubed, leaving scope for a short length of pink pork at the base to swell up to no purpose whatsoever, except frustrated impotence. How delightfully they twitch! And such a half-erection is almost impossible to dispel. A sort of steel corset just below the glans is another option – it might only enclose an inch or so, but a strong swelling below and even some purple engorgement above it does no good if that inch is tightly constrained!
My latest triumph is the no-tube chastity lock. I had one of my longer-serving boys pierced and ringed through his foreskin and then the through little bit of flesh behind the balls. A short chain, secured with a tiny padlock, connects the two. After experimentation with chain lengths, I have arranged things so he can swell somewhat, pulling the chain taut as it does so, but remains pointing down at about an angle of four o’clock and is never close to being straight. I rubbed and stroked to check and it is just not quite in a position to enable orgasm. And I believe in that position it is quite painful… which, as I have pointed out, is his own fault for being unable to control his lustful thoughts. Although of course I know quite well he can do no such thing! And anyway, I encourage the lustful thoughts with all manner of little ‘glimpses’ as I love to dress provocatively around my locked-up lads.
An occasional orgasm is useful, in a boy’s early years of chastity, to make sure he doesn’t lose that most unbearable of agonies: hope. I like to make them as difficult as possible. There’s a muddy field behind my house and when I’ve awarded a lucky boy a brief and precious release, I like to hurl the key far into it, to give him the fun of looking for it. They always find them, eventually, unless of course I’ve palmed the key when pretending to throw it and it isn’t there at all!
My next project is to find a way of allowing full erection but no orgasm. Some sort of rigid box in which no touching or manipulation of the penis would be possible. I am not sure whether this would be more or less frustrating than a half-erection, but there is only one way to find out! An initial experiment found the subject frantically wiggling his bottom from side to side in the hope of getting his engorged cock to slap against the sides hard enough to stimulate orgasm, which was quite amusing to watch. To be big enough to ensure this doesn’t happen, the attachment would have to be too large to wear in public, though, alas. But we’ll see how we go.
Yours in control
Melissa
Always a pleasure to hear from a fellow keyholder. Yes, I suppose once a male has been castrated things get a bit boring but the process itself is great fun, as is the reaction of other males once they know you’ve done it. Male lust is a filthy thing but it’s delightful to restrict and control it and in doing so, to control the male himself.
Most Sublime Empress Lucia [Not really my title but I suppose it has a certain ring. G-L. L.]
I was blown away by the simply stunning image of your divine form in the photograph accompanying the editorial in Empress Issue 6. You do quite literally have a body to die for. [I do and can prove it – but I prefer not to supply details, in order to avoid petty legal annoyances. G-L. L.] I did wonder, though, about the corset. It looks magnificent on you, of course, but it also looks awfully tight. Is a tight-laced corset not an age-old device for the male subjugation of women?
With head bowed low
Acolyte of Lucia
The opinions you express in your letter are not entirely wrong, which is actually quite good by the standards of most male correspondents, so I will provide a proper answer. I find the snug embrace of a corset quite empowering, knowing as I do the effect it has on weak-minded perverts such as yourself. I make sure it is not over-tightened, through the simple mechanism of whipping my dressing slave savagely if it is not fitted precisely as I like it. I do like to remind my slaves from time to time of their role in suffering to atone for the millennia of male oppression, though, by tight-lacing them in special canvas corsets I have had made. I like to leave them nearly breathless, and if I do occasionally overdo it, they are usually quick to let me know by passing out, and I loosen the stays as soon as I no longer have anything more important to do.
However, I think you need to think very hard – and at length and in pain – about “it also looks awfully tight”. Are you saying I’m fat? Not that there is anything wrong with ladies being large – I have a friend who has hugely put on weight since ensnaring a harem of slaves with her previously svelte body and she takes great delight in standing or sitting on them. It makes them delightfully miserable! But I am a perfect shape, as I am a perfect everything. Get to a phone box in Soho and make an appointment with the largest lady advertising disciplinary services on a card in there. Buy a strong corset from one of the many ‘private shops’ in the area and buy an instant camera if you don’t have one. Then in your session, ask her to tight-lace you, dangle you from a hook and whip you hard. You may find it necessary to say you do not need a safeword and to be gagged. Then make sure she takes a photo showing the results, with a placard reading “I regret my insolent words to Goddess-Lady Sublime Empress Lucia”, along with a recent newspaper to prove the date and send it to me. I don’t need (or want) to see your face but I do want to see welts, dozens of them. G-L. L.
Most Perfect Goddess-Lady
I have just read Volume 3 Issue 6 of your excellent magazine: another wonderful edition, which gave me many hours of pleasure [How revolting. G-L. L.].
I’m particularly enjoying the continuing saga of the cadets at the Birchwood Detention Centre. I spent many happy hours as a boy reading school stories and it’s wonderful to see that genre transferred into such a thrilling setting, with anxieties over upcoming exams focused on caning techniques rather than geography, and rivalries not over winning the house cup but rather over the production figures from the detainees’ forced labour in the quarry. The treatment of poor Angela’s ‘pash’ for Senior Section Leader Diana was genuinely moving, as she sat in mute admiration watching the powerful girl administer a 50-stroke thrashing, and I do hope that she finds the courage (I won’t say ‘spunk’) to admit her adoration and that it will be requited. Obviously, I’m greatly enjoying the way lesbianism is treated much more explicitly than in a traditional gymslip novel. I’ve been so captivated by these tales that I started enthusing about them just the other day to a lady I met in a café, who turned out to be a fellow devotee of school stories, and I briefly forgot that your magazine is ‘top shelf’. She innocently asked what the ‘very different setting’ was in the stories I was talking about and I panicked and off the top of my head I said it was a school for young witches and wizards! She looked interested and said she was trying to become an author and would I mind if she took that idea for her new novel? I said it was fine, of course, but I can’t see that catching on.
Say Arrghh! was genuinely scary, particularly the moment the helplessly immobilised Andrew realises who his new dentist really is. For those who might consider the story unrealistically brutal, I can only say that I know a couple going through a bad divorce and I could well believe that one or the other would wield the drill just as Linda did in this macabre tale, if given the chance.
The photographs illustrating the punk girl Tracy in Young Offenders were simply stunning. If I ever met the lady in question, I would fall to my knees without regard for any public setting we might be in and beg for permission to kiss her shoes. Her contemptuous gaze at the social worker who is trying to reform her, and the icy glee with which she shows him who is boss and who the ‘underclass’ are signs of a truly dominant personality. I realise of course that most of the ladies featured in your magazines are models but this one, surely, is the genuinely sadistic article. How I crave – and would quail – to meet her!
Yours in awe
Slave Cecil
It is a source of never-ending wonder to me how readers of this magazine can be so wrong and self-deluding, so much of the time. ‘Tracy’ is indeed a model, from a local agency called Rising Talent, selected in part on the basis of her size, as the photographer had the punky fetish outfit already. She arrived in her Mum’s car and found the whole set-up hysterically funny: the icy glee you picked up was her attempt to control her laughter as the ‘social worker’ crawled, grovelled and licked her shoes at her bidding. She was later picked up by her boyfriend, who didn’t approve of any of it but was mollified when assured she had not exposed her tits.
Anyway, keep buying the magazine, imbecile, it’s all you’re good for. Here’s an extra photo of Tracy, to encourage you.She did a good job, so I provided the agency name in case genuine photographers want to contact her but perverts hoping to be humiliated beneath her contemptuous mocking are warned she has a rather annoying, nasal laugh. And there is that boyfriend… G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
Once again, I thought you and your readers might be interested in hearing of one of my weirder clients. Now, when a dominatrix like myself speaks of a client being ‘weird’ I expect most people might start imagining exotic rubber costumes, spiked whips and huge mis-shapen dildos. To a dominatrix those are everyday matters, while even milder activities than these – shoe-licking, spanking, bondage and the like – are activities most vanilla women would never contemplate. I suspect many women might well enjoy subjugating a man through these techniques, if only in play, but I don’t mind them missing out: if my clients could get what they needed at home, I’d be out of a job.
No, this client is weird not in the normal way but in a weirder way. He wants to be treated unpleasantly, in a vanilla manner: by a nagging, I’ll even say ‘bitchy’ (a word not permitted to my slaves but the rules do not apply to me) manner.
He arrives and I let him in through the front door, then I go into my living room, closing the door behind me. I sit in an armchair and after a while there is a timid knock on the door, his head pops around and he says something cliched like “Hello, darling, I’m home!”
“About time” I might say, not looking up from my magazine, and I hold a hand out expectantly. “Pay day, isn’t it?”
“Err, yes, dear” he stammers and hands me the envelope with my tribute. I open it and leaf through.
“It’s… it’s all there, dear” he says nervously.
“Such as it is” I sneer. “Still too scared to ask Mr Turnball for a pay-rise, I suppose.” (as far as I am aware the names he has asked me to use are real – of course I have changed them here!).
“Well… it hasn’t really been a good time, dear…lately.”
“Fucked something up again, did you?” I say.
“Well, erm…” he stammers and launches into a complicated explanation, which I cut off with a weary wave of my hand.
“Oh shut up. I expect George Harcourt got a nice big bonus, did he?” (George Harcourt sounds like a great success at work – and also seems to be the office stud. I make frequent references to his likely sexual prowess, in our rows).
“Well, Yes, I think he did, dear, but…”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” I snap, glaring at him. Of course, had he not replied, I would have been equally furious about that! I aim to be unrelentingly unfair.
I silently screw the empty envelope up into a ball and chuck it onto the floor, then pointedly resume reading my magazine.
After a while I snap “Well? Aren’t you going to pick that up? Or do I have to sit surrounded by rubbish?”
He has to pick the litter up and transfer it to the rubbish bin, and as he does so my critical eye spots more items that need picking up, cleaning, or tidying away.
And so it goes on, my persona remaining relentlessly unreasonable and critical. I might find fault with him for not having bought some item I’d asked for on his way home, I’ll usually criticise his clothing and appearance and on one occasion I had him moving heavy items of furniture around, before eventually deciding I preferred it as it was and having him put them all back. All these tasks, of course, he carries out under my critical eye and fails dismally, every time.
He’s not the only client of mine who receives treatment of this nature, but for others it is invariably a precursor to ‘heavier’ activities that are more recognisably BDSM. But for him, there is a line he does not want crossed: he might be made to take my boots off, but not to lick them; I might throw my drink in his face but not pee or spit on him; he will certainly carry out little housework tasks at my direction, but not dressed as a maid, and so on. There is physical interaction: I might shove or drag him, possibly by the hair, but no ‘impact play’, not even face-slapping or kicking.
This continues for well over an hour. I have to be creative! Although, fortunately for me, long uncomfortable silences are also part of it, so I have as much planning time as I like. I am in control, after all. At one or more points I will burst out in frustration with something like “Oh, shut up! I can’t stand hearing your whiny, pathetic voice any more! God, you’re annoying!” and he shuts the fuck up. Sometimes I then ignore him, sometimes I stare resolutely at him (and he cannot meet my eyes when I do this – my stare is fierce!). Until the hectoring begins again.
No matter which of his many failings and weaknesses I have chosen to pick on, the last theme of the session is always the same: his sexual inadequacy. I make sure to leave at least half an hour for this, to allow me to go into the subject thoroughly and viciously. I make sure to cover all aspects, beginning of course with the length (and shape) of his penis, then disparaging his technique and his stamina (although frankly, given how bad I make the experience of sex with him sound, it is hard to understand why I would be disappointed in how little of it he can produce). I make comparisons to other men of whom I have had experience and also explain exactly what my female friends say, when I tell them all the sordid details.
He’s usually crying at this point. In our first session, I went briefly out of scene to check he was all right, but of course he was and I had to make it up to him by being extra unpleasant for a while!
Eventually I throw down a porn mag – of the most tawdry and garish variety – for him to masturbate to, while I continue to tell him what I think of him. If he comes immediately I sneer at how quick he’s been and how that would never satisfy a woman; if he takes longer I suggest he’s getting old and losing what little virility he has. He cannot win – obviously.
Then it finishes and we go ‘out of scene’ but, as with many of my clients, I sense little desire to talk, so I remain fairly distant until he departs.
Departs for what? Presumably not a home run by the real-life version of the harridan I become for his two hour session? Maybe a sweet, kind mousy wife who could never imagine how much more energetic their sex life would be if she only treated him unpleasantly? Or perhaps to no one, except his fantasy? Unlike many of my clients, though, he surely at least has a chance of meeting the woman of his dreams. In my experience, there are plenty of them around and it seems a shame if one of the very few men who might obtain some pleasure from the experience of being married to one, cannot find anyone to hen-peck him the way he needs. Except me, at a considerable cost, of course, so I have no real objection!
In dominance
Mistress R
I suspect that many ‘nagging’ wives are frustrated dominatrices, unleashing their natural contempt for their husbands in a manner that this patriarchal society accepts. If they could only liberate themselves sufficiently to just pick up a belt and start adding physical pain to the mental anguish they deal out to their lesser halves, I expect it would be a relief to both partners!
That said, I do sometimes miss being really unpleasant and unfair to ‘ordinary’ men. Obviously, I am vicious beyond imagining to my slaves but with them it is all ‘I’m so sorry, Mistress’ and ‘Thank you, Mistress’. There is pleasure to be had in ruining the life of a male who believes that he deserves better and clings onto some hope of fair or loving treatment. I used to adore making boys fall in love with me, then breaking them in two: crushing their pathetic little hopes and humiliating them utterly with harsh words. But that only works in a vanilla relationship. If you’ve got some lad’s bollocks wired up with electrodes, he’s generally not too bothered about being called a useless maggot. Perhaps it’s time I put myself back on the market and had a little fling or two. I need a couple more slaves, anyway.
As for your client, I can’t understand his motivation for the simple reason that I have not tried. Feral men are horrible, disgusting creatures. It gladdens my heart to think that some are trapped in loveless, abusive marriages. Good to know as well that, for those who are not, a professional alternative is available. G-L. L.
Most esteemed Goddess-Lady Lucia
I have been reading your magazine for a few years now, and I have a few suggestions for improvements. [I have a few suggested improvements to make to you as well, but I’m not sure British obscenity laws allow me to print them. So just piss off. G-L. L.]
Most Imposing Goddess-Lady
I was wondering what process you use to put your wonderful magazine together. Have you joined the desktop publishing revolution? I hear computers can do wonderful things these days.
Yours submissively
‘Curious’
No computers for me, Tedious. I can’t see how they’d ever have any place in femdom. No: Empress is, and always will be, put together by hand, using text and images printed on photographic paper, on a linotype machine, owned by the manager of a local print firm, who is in turn owned by me. He takes the ‘copy’ and prints it, the text all in long columns, late at night after his workers have gone home, then delivers it here. He arrives early in the morning and waits until my subeditor slave has inspected it and reported to me that it is free of errors (he sometimes has to wait a while, after a long night, as I often sleep late, but that doesn’t matter). I usually don’t bother to see him in person, but sometimes he gets a slap for his trouble.
Then it’s time to ‘paste up’ the copy. The process is quite straightforward. I sit in an armchair, usually with a glass of chilled white wine, and my slaves bring me the pasted-up layout boards (one to each page) as they complete them using hot wax to fix the photographic paper, with scalpels to cut the text to length and trim each photo to the right size. There’s a lot that can go wrong: sometimes the strips of text are slightly wonky, or a photo is not trimmed neatly, or my glass of wine is empty without being refilled, or one of the magazine slaves looks at me in a way I don’t like – so I am usually kept quite busy with a tawse or a riding whip. You might be surprised at how much whipping is actually required to produce a magazine of this length, to my exacting standards. Sometimes a page has been pasted up neatly, but when I see the finished version I realise it would be better laid out a different way. Occasionally, the pages themselves are fine, but some idiot has failed to ensure that the right text runs from one page to the next, or that the photos match the story! So I’m often hard at work whipping, screaming abuse, kicking and so on, for several hours – it’s exhausting!
At last, we have a fully pasted-up magazine. It is presented to me by a trembling subeditor for a final check, page by page, then if all is well, the magazine slaves are kicked back down into the squalid cellar in which they pass the rest of their miserable little lives and the copy is sent to a printing press. The arrangement for printing and distribution is, sadly, merely a commercial one, in which I undergo the indignity of actually having to pay for services that could perfectly well be rendered for free – and if anything goes wrong, there’s no one I can whip (well… no one actually responsible. Someone gets whipped, obviously). If any readers have a large printing works, preferably along with distribution arrangements with all the seedier newsagents and porn shops in the country, and would like to work for me for no reward except abuse and beatings, please get in touch!
And then you go off to buy it, take it home wrapped in paper, in your excited shaking hands, then wank off to it, don’t you, ‘Tedious’? Would the wanking be any less satisfying if one column of text were a little askew, or if there were faint marks on the paper from inadequate cleaning of surplus wax? I suppose not, but I am a perfectionist and I take pride in making sure that even the slightest imperfection is thoroughly regretted by the slave responsible.
This text responding to your letter is particularly special, as these are the musings of the goddess-lady herself. Some slave will be reading these holy words right now, as he pastes up the letters pages. Are you trying to control your trembling hand as you trim down the side of the column with your scalpel, slave? If my words appear in any way that falls short of perfection… if they are not at a perfect angle of ninety degrees from the horizontal… if you leave just the smallest speck of extra wax distorting the appearance of even one letter… Don’t displease me, slave. I am always watching, and I am very hard to please! G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
Me and my friend Jackie wanted to write to thank you, as your story A Nice Little Earner from three years ago inspired the two us to run our own little blackmail operation, and a very nice little earner it has turned out to be!
We decided not to leave as much to chance as the lucky lady who discovered her victim’s little secret in your story. Instead, we have set up a pervert trap for knicker-thieves and similar, leaving exciting articles of underwear temptingly available, then cashing in when some sad bastard falls for it. We started small, but nowadays have quite the hi-tech set-up, inspired by a BBC programme called Foxwatch. Over the years we have made use of of a hi-tech camera shop, whose pathetic, lonely but usefully obsessive staff fondly imagine we have set up a system to capture the nocturnal activity of badgers, foxes and the like. In fact, our targets are much lower forms of life: male vermin.
Our garden is visible from a main road, and reasonably accessible down a side passage, via a gate with a temptingly broken latch. A washing line full of lingerie is often visible, the bras and knickers (and occasional more exotic items like corsets and teddies) flapping excitingly in the wind, and often left there overnight. We have motion sensors to trigger cameras, usually starting with night vision equipment but then switching on a set of floodlights for capturing high-quality well-lit portraits of any miscreants. The ‘broken’ gate then locks automatically and we come down with baseball bats and mace spray to see what we have caught in our trap. It wouldn’t be impossible to escape the garden, for a quick-thinking professional burglar, but these guys are like rabbits caught in the headlights – almost literally. Even if they do manage to flee, their faces are captured on film and we keep an eye out in local pubs and shops.
And captured they truly are. We threaten to go to the Police, of course. The penalties for stealing girls’ knickers aren’t all that severe – a fine for a first offence – but of course it is the humiliation and public exposure that most of our prey seek to avoid. If they’re unsure, we have newspaper clippings reporting the trials of the three (so far) men who have called our bluffs, full of horrifying quotes from the judges like “An apparently upstanding member of the community, who chose to satisfy his filthy desires by unlawfully stealing the property of these innocent, and understandably traumatised, young ladies.”. Nice one, judge! I’ll bet he’s a filthy pervert himself, though, with a boner throughout the trial.
The alternative to being arrested is us imposing whatever sentence we see fit. Over time, we have come to impose three different kinds of penalties: fines, community service and penance. It is obvious what ‘fines’ are. We were naïve at first, just demanding some cash for a shopping trip to treat ourselves, and doubtless leaving the sweating men enormously relieved with how easily they had got away. But this has now become our livelihood, so we take our time, usually a week or so: finding out how much each of our captives earns and has in savings, demanding bank statements and so on. We have a rough rule of fining them three months income as a one-off, then ten percent for three years (we have not yet reached the three years for anyone on that arrangement and we’ll have to decide whether to stop or just extend it when we do – I think extend, what are they going to do: sue us?). Married men pay half as much again, as an extra ‘wife tax’, because they’re more scared.
Then there’s community service – the community in question being Jackie and me of course! This began with a bloke who pleaded that he could not afford the fine, as he was so in debt already. My response was just that this was tough titties for him and he shouldn’t be stealing knickers if he was in financial difficulties, but Jackie pointed out we couldn’t get money off someone declared bankrupt and he might even prefer to be reported to the Police. So we let him work off his debt and we had such fun making him do that at the princely sum of £1.15 per hour, which is the rate the Government pays in its ‘Youth Opportunities’ scheme. My brother was on that for three months and he said the people running it were bastards (but Jackie and me are much worse!). After a while, we started to impose community service even on rich wankers who could afford to pay us a lot of money – in fact, particularly on them. They do gardening, errands, housework… everything except laundry, as we’re not having the filthy scum handling our clothes! If we don’t have enough for them to do around our place, we send them out cleaning dog-shit off the streets for a day.
Finally, there is penance. Not everyone gets a penance, but most do, especially if they try arguing about the other stuff. Penance is… just anything unpleasant that we decide we want to make them do! It doesn’t benefit anyone, it’s just cruelty. We’re both becoming crueller but Jackie has really started to go for it lately – good thing it’s only these scum that are suffering! We’ve tried caning and belting them on their hands and arses – and it’s OK, I suppose but it feels a bit ritualised. Plus some of the public schoolboys might even enjoy it, although I should say there’s nothing playful in how we do it. But we make them walk miles in the driving rain, or they have to eat worms or lick the shit off the tires of my motorbike, or something. We sometimes turn to the pages of Empress for inspiration – or make a perve pick a page and a paragraph at random – but there’s a bit too much caning and some of the stuff is too sexual. Once one of our perves found himself staring at a paragraph involving chilli pepper sauce injected into the pee-hole – and very amusing it was, but he had to do it himself, ‘cos we certainly weren’t touching him down there! He was a bit reluctant but Jackie soon had him begging to be allowed to do it, after a vigorous kneeing. She’s getting quite creative, too: we’ve got a plug-in standalone radiator that gets hot (but not red-hot, like a bar fire) and she’s arranged things so a perve has to stand there on tiptoes to keep his cock and balls from resting on the scorching surface. For as long as she likes – she forgot about one once, and went to bed! But he survived. They always survive, like cockroaches.
One little humiliation we like to impose is that they have to go shopping to buy more of the lingerie we use as bait. I’m sure lots of men do buy that stuff for their wives, girlfriends and mistresses but our lot inevitably look so furtive as they do it, that the staff must clock them as the knicker-sniffers or trannies they are!
I said we baited our trap deliberately and that we don’t catch our victims by chance, but there’s been one exception. I went for a run in some old trainers once, and when I came home, Jackie insisted that I leave them outside the back door. The alarms and lights went off that night, and when we came down, we were surprised to find the washing line undisturbed, but what turned out to be some very fine photos of a scrawny young bloke lovingly laying his hands on my smelly trainers! So we leave those out occasionally too, and we’ve just ordered a pair of tacky red fetish boots and we’ll see if those get any takers!
One last thing. About three months ago, we got the alarms and the lights and we went down to see what we’d caught but no one was there. That’s not so unusual – occasionally the perverts have the presence of mind and athleticism to gap it over the hedge. Nothing gone from the line, either, which is rarer as the floodlights don’t go off straight away and our targets have usually been caught on night vision helping themselves to a few lacy items by that point. But when we developed the film, we couldn’t see anyone at first, either. Until Jackie spotted a pair of glowing eyes at the bottom of one picture, and we realised that our pervewatch system had in fact photographed a badger, just like it was officially set up to do! Poor little thing, it must have had such a shock. Jackie was quite upset – she can’t abide cruelty to animals.
So we adjusted the sensors and now if anyone comes into our garden, he can get away with it as long as he crawls on his belly all the time, dragging himself across the grass and dirt. If any of your readers happen to catch sight over a wall of a pair of knickers they fancy, perhaps they should try that – just in case they’ve chanced upon our place!
Yours in the money
Emma
Congratulations on your pervewatch programme. It sounds like you are being admirably inhumane to the vermin caught on camera. G-L. L.
Update: something went badly wrong with this site, deleting every change between May 5th to now, including all comments during that time. I’m really sorry about that, especially losing all the ‘maths teacher’ comments. I’ll keep looking into it, but from what I can tell, the site did not backup last week but instead reverted to the previous backup, which was May 5th. If any WordPress experts have suggestions, I’d welcome them but I’ve tried all the options suggested by Googling the problem and the site really does seem to have fully lost a week – comments are even missing from the wp_comments database. Ouch. I can only apologise to my brilliant commenters who got deleted. Not my doing!
Finally, a quick note about comments here on this blog. The anti-spam thingy (to use a technical term) seems to have been a bit too cautious of late, with some commenters being blocked. Sorry about that. If you are, I think you can request approval. I do see those (might take a day or two) and I’ll always approve any that aren’t obvious spam marketers. I think once you’re on the approved list you’re fine forever but I’m not sure – the anti-spam stuff keeps having to change to stay ahead. I’d love to just switch it off, but I see the list of spammy comments it has blocked and believe me, there are hundreds every week so that’s not an option.
…ive! It should really be alternative realities! Not alternate! Alternating means switching from one to the other!
Sorry but it’s always annoyed me, that.
Phew.
Some captioned images from a world less constrained by so-called reality than my usual efforts. Reality is over-rated, anyway.
and beyond.
Bow your mulleted heads down in homage before the power-suited Goddess-Lady Lucia, because we are once again taking a trip down the haziest of memory lanes to that time that fashion might well prefer to forget: the 1980s.
Don’t forget, you can buy the real things (Mistress and Vixen) here.
Letters
Dear Lady Lucia
I adore the depictions of males brought down to their proper place in the world in the pages of your magazine! Progress is slow, but I feel there are increasing signs of this change happening in the outside world too. But there are still male chauvinist pigs around.
For about six months I have been working in an office in which there are far too many such beasts – and the arrival of a new colleague finally gave us ladies the courage to tackle their behaviour. Gloria is her name, a powerful West Indian lady. On her very first day we warned her about Fergus, one of the worst office pests, whose constant obsession is with trying to peek up the skirts of the women working in the office – and boasting to his mates about any glimpses he manages to capture.
Sure enough, later that same day Fergus stopped by the typing pool, glanced at Gloria and immediately came out with a comment that was not only disgustingly chauvinist, but racially prejudiced to boot, along the lines of wanting to go on an expedition to ‘discover the Dark Continent’. To my and the other girls’ surprise – as we had her down as something of a termagant – Gloria just giggled and glanced away.
Towards the end of the day, when my friend Katie and I were packing up to go, the phone rang from an internal number. It was Gloria – who I’d assumed had already departed – calling from just outside a store room in the basement. Down we went, to find her sitting in the middle of a largely empty room, atop a figure bound up with parcel tape. We could not see his face, because that was concealed entirely underneath Gloria’s skirt-clad bottom, but it was obviously Fergus. Muffled sounds of protest were audible and he was wriggling away, but Gloria seemed to have him well under control.
“I thought I’d show him what was up there, as he seemed so curious!” Gloria smiled. “I don’t think he can see much, though: it’s quite dark.”
She eased herself up, and we saw Fergus’s red face, suddenly gulping air and blinking in the light. “YOU FUCKING BI – “ he began, but Gloria’s arse coming down on his face stifled the last word.
“And there I was, thinking he needed a chance to breathe.” she grumbled. “Apparently not, if he still had breath for being obnoxious.” She settled herself further.
Once again, Fergus struggled ineffectually. Then he seemed to become calmer, then suddenly began jerking about frantically.
“Ah, now he’s running short of oxygen” Gloria remarked with satisfaction.
“You will, umm… stop before he actually…?” Katie asked nervously.
“Oh sure” Gloria replied carelessly, riding her desperately bucking bronco with aplomb. “They can take a lot of suffocation before any harm is done – not that brain damage would make much difference to Filthy Fergus here.”
Again she eased herself up and this time, Fergus wisely confined himself to gulping in as much air as possible before gasping “No, please!” as nemesis in the form of a huge bottom descended once more.
Gloria leaned forward and unbuckled his belt. “Could you pull his trousers and pants down? I can’t really reach.”
Giggling, Katie and I did just that – to expose the tiniest, saddest looking little percy I’ve ever seen.
“That’s better” Gloria said. “I think he had a little stiffie – a very little stiffie – when we came in. But let’s just make sure.” She nodded to a carboard box on top of which lay a staple gun. “Do you want to just fasten it neatly away?”
Katie was too squeamish, and I would have felt the same had I not suddenly remembered the occasion on which Fergus had gleefully told the other young men in the office about a pair of purple panties he had caught sight of by going down on all fours in front of me to pick up a pen (in fact, they had not been purple but dark rose but I was hardly going to correct him). I blushed much the same colour at the memory and picked up the device.
It was evident that Fergus was not Jewish, as he had a good long fold of skin available for stapling, in his shrunken condition. I gingerly held his cock in position and tried to staple it to his thigh. It didn’t really work, as everything was too soft and squishy and the first few goes did nothing but raise red marks and little spots of blood on his foreskin. Oh – and some wild shrieking and thrashing about, ably managed by Gloria who was encouraging me to press on. Eventually I overcame my reluctance enough to hold the nasty thing firmly enough against the thigh to go straight through, although it didn’t stick.
“Have to get an industrial stapler next time” Gloria remarked. “I’m sure they’ll have one in the Post Room.”
Finally, she got up and extracted a promise from Fergus to tell nobody about this and to mend his ways, which he agreed to with alacrity. Then she removed just enough tape from one arm for him to be able to unwrap the rest and we left him there. I was worried that he would get us into trouble – he was a nasty piece of work and what we had just done was surely a sackable offence at the least, if not criminal. But Gloria just laughed, said she’d had experience of these things, and she knew when she had someone firmly under her thumb. Or under some other part of her anatomy.
Sure enough, she was right. Fergus called in sick the next two days and when he did finally slink into the office, he tried to avoid the typing pool completely. But Gloria wasn’t having that. When it was eleven, she called out “Fergus!” in a booming voice and he reluctantly sidled over.
“Three teas” she commanded, without looking at him, and Fergus wretchedly went to fetch them. Like many explorers, it seems, he had returned from his long and arduous trip to the Dark Continent a wiser and more careful man.
Now, I must go. The box of one hundred bulldog clips of assorted sizes that Gloria ordered from Stationery has arrived, and Mr ‘Handy’ Thomas the Regional Sales Manager is about to find out what a pinched bottom really feels like!
In Sisterhood
Iris, Katie and the typing pool at ‘a well known home appliance company’.
Gloria sounds… glorious and I hope that you and Katie take inspiration (an activity long denied to Fergus in the boxroom, ha ha) from her example. More and more women are asserting their rights in the workplace. I myself briefly had an ‘office job’ as PA to a businessman and was shocked at the way I was treated: expected to turn up on time, do actual work, not slap him and so on. Fortunately I was able to make the Manager understand that my presence in his squalid establishment was a favour, not an obligation, and that my role was to bring meaning and discipline to his otherwise pointless and feckless existence. We also renegotiated the salary scale, as it is simply absurd that a businessman in his fifties should earn more than an unqualified but drop-dead gorgeous nineteen year-old. Even with these amendments I decided the life wasn’t for me, so quit after a few weeks – only to discover he had had the affrontery to stop paying me, just because I was no longer employed there! I soon sorted that out, I can tell you. But I can see it will be a long time before women are given their proper recognition in every workplace. Good luck to you all. G-L. L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
I tremble in awe at your power and beauty as displayed in every edition of this wonderful magazine. I was wondering if this humble slave of yours could be permitted to show its devotion by enduring a period of effective imprisonment at your whim. I have purchased a strong chain and a padlock and intend to secure myself, naked, in the hall of my house, where I can reach any packages pushed through the letter box, a week’s supply of food but little else. Do I have your permission to post you the padlock keys, go home and click the padlock closed and await my release after whatever period of punishment You might see fit to impose?
Yours in trembling anticipation.
Prisoner of Lucia
Sure, moron, you go ahead. What could possibly go wrong, after all? Just send the keys – and some stamps to cover the return postage obviously – to the P.O. Box number listed at the end of the magazine. Or any other P.O. Box number you like, for that matter. G-L. L.
Respected Lady Editor, Goddess-Lady Lucia
I have long been an avoid reader of your magazine, as I find the thought of being punished by beautiful, disdainful young women [‘ladies’. G-L. L.] extremely exciting. I can hardly wait, when a new edition comes out, to thumb through it to look at the pictures of sexy young leather-clad beauties. I also thrill to the stories, especially those featuring bondage and humiliation.
However, I do not mean to criticise [Don’t then. Idiot. G-L.L] but there is one theme you often feature, the attraction of which is quite lost on me and which seems to be published more frequently these days. I refer to stories featuring older ladies, either with no hint of sexual activity or in which the male participant is forced unwillingly to ‘service’ these older ladies.
The story Securing An Inheritance is a perfect example of such a tale, as the unfortunate Edward’s Governess Latham is clearly well into her sixties. The punishments he receives have no sexual connotations – for me at least. If anything, they merely bring back very unpleasant memories.
I had had a troubled schooling by my late teens [Oh, here we go. Always about themselves, with men, isn’t it? G-L. L.] and as my mother could not afford to send me to a boarding school, she arranged with a retired lady teacher, Mrs McLeod, to provide me with additional schooling, two evenings and all day Saturday every week. A dour Scottish lady, Mrs McLeod was an evil, brutal old tyrant. Her usual form of discipline was the tawse, on the hands. This implement features often in your publication so I suppose some readers find the thought of it arousing, but I can assure you and them that there is nothing the least bit erotic about such hard thongs of leather cracking across shaking outstretched palms. The pain is simply brutal: an explosion of agony that leaves no room for thought of anything but pain, often producing a howl and breathless, gasping sobs.
Furthermore, unlike a miscreant strapped over a whipping bench, or a slave chained to a post, the recipient has to cooperate in the punishment, holding hands out flat. If the hand is too far back, the tips of the tawse catch the fingers leaving them sore and bruised for days. Too far forward and the wrist gets it – and a big purple bruise appears and is not fully gone by the time of the next treatment, in my experience! Cup the hands and the tips of the fingers get smashed, splay too much and the skin is tight and the bones uncushioned…. So the hand must be held steady in just the right position, with no flinching – when flinching away from the awful pain to come is the natural, instinctive human reaction. And if these conditions are not met, in full? If the blow is considered ‘unsatisfactory’ despite the agonising pain inflicted? Then it is taken again. And if it is ‘unsatisfactory’ a second time, turn around and bend over for a stroke of the tawse across each thigh (sorry to disappoint prurient readers but my shorts were never removed during sessions with Mrs McLeod). From my description of the pain of taking the tawse on the palms, one might ask why not simply accept the strokes across the thigh instead? Oh, because they are additional, not alternatives! Once they are received, one must straighten up, turn around to face one’s merciless punisher and meekly hold out the hand to receive – finally – the stroke that was due.
Mrs McLeod rarely awarded me more than six – three on each hand. Perhaps your readers fantasising of 24-stroke thrashings may consider that mild, but I can assure them it was quite enough, especially as I usually needed several ‘repeats’ and would almost always turn around and bend over at least once. On one occasion, I was so overcome with the pain, having had at least fourteen on the palms and ten across the thighs, that Mrs McLeod disgustedly called it a day and telephoned my mother to let her know she would be keeping me overnight to start all over again in the morning. You can imagine the night I spent (after being sent to bed with no more than a slice of dry bread for supper), hands and thighs throbbing with pain, sobbing in terror at the thought of the morning. No doubt in an erotic story, Mrs McLeod would have visited my room and introduced me to the womanly arts, or humiliated me by making me masturbate before her. In my reality, I think she made herself a mug of cocoa and turned in early. I could hear her snoring from two rooms away, as she passed an untroubled night before resuming her work in the morning. On waking I had the distinctly unpleasant experience of seeing her in an old night-dress, with curlers in her hair, before experiencing the infinitely more unpleasant sensation of a tawsing on already-bruised hands.
At least in Securing An Inheritance, Edward is finally married off to his governess’s niece, after she came to stay. Even if his new wife did invite her aunt to remain in the same household as them, there would presumably have been some kind of sexual activity, even if Edward remained firmly under female control. [Of course there would have been sexual activity, but not of the heterosexual kind. You don’t imagine she was really the Governess’s niece, do you? G-L. L.]. There are so many others, including your long-running series Malcolm’s Aunts which just consists of one unpleasant-sounding old lady after another finding endless fault with the lad and hitting him with one implement or another. I hope that the introduction of young Daisy, in the last instalment, will bring a change of theme and perhaps a punisher I could imagine finding exciting? [It was going to, but now you have written this I have instructed the author to dispatch Daisy to Australia. Instead, he will introduce a new, even older character to the cast of Malcolm’s tormentors: Great-Aunt Augusta. I hope you don’t enjoy a word of it. G-L. L.]
In short, Goddess-Lady, I do wonder who could possibly find these tales of old women [ladies… G-L.L.] whacking unfortunate lads erotic. I can only assume that any men misguided enough to do so, have never experienced the real thing in its full horror. Of course, it is up to you what you print [Oh, thank you so much! G-L. L.] but this reader at least would be happy if no elderly aunt (or nun – I’m thinking of St Ursula’s Convent School for Boys!) ever again appeared in the pages of your otherwise wonderful magazine.
Yours respectfully
Peter
Where to start?? You address me as ‘respected’ and conclude ‘respectfully’ and then fill the space between the two with a pile of the most disrespectful, impertinent and self-centred drivel it has ever been my displeasure to read. To make just one point, as obviously attempting to follow a full rebuttal would stretch your tiny brain to its breaking point, more than one person might be achieving an erotic experience when an ‘old woman’ whacks an ‘unfortunate lad’. Your assumption – your sexist, arrogant and bumptious assumption – is that only the young lad’s libido needs to be considered. I can assure you, I know many ladies of a certain age, and of a certain age beyond that, who find intense sexual pleasure in beating ‘unfortunate lads’. I suspect that your unpleasant and painful weekly visit to Mrs McLeod was for her a source of great joy, bringing pleasure to her later years. Her ‘educational methods’ sound thoroughly sadistic to me and, after all, do not seem to have resulted in your learning anything like literary style, brevity or common sense, so it seems to me almost certain that your suffering was largely inflicted for her pleasure.
Does that make you feel better about it? And do you think I care whether it does or not? For my part, I intend to live out my twilight years as an ‘evil, brutal old tyrant’ lashing out with my heavy stick to make utterly miserable the lives of the seven or eight fit young men I intend to have enslaved in my household. I don’t care whether they find me physically attractive or repulsive: I will be terrifying to them and that’s all I need. I hope your own retirement is lonely and care-worn, but you do have permission to keep buying the magazine, to help fund mine. G-L. L.
P.S. Inspired by my intense dislike of you and your letter, I have decided that the next issue of this magazine will be a special, featuring stories solely in the ‘mature domination’ theme and edited by my Mum. She’ll make sure aunts, grannies, great-aunts and elderly nuns feature throughout the stories, so you won’t like any of them. But there will be a double-spread feature of me in a leather bikini, so buy it anyway, scum.*
To the thankfully female Editrix
With a female friend, I recently went into a little ‘bookshop’ in Soho for a lark. It was such a relief to see your magazine, in amongst all the appalling publications on sale, that I had to write and express my appreciation. Empress was one of a very few ‘female domination’ themed magazines – the other such seemingly being American and featuring glamour models in implausible poses and outfits – in a display otherwise entirely devoted to abusing women. All of the other magazines – several shelves of them – featured women being tied up, spanked and humiliated. Several very unimpressive male specimens were looking through them with revolting interest… one of them, who seemed particularly keen on stories about schoolgirls getting the cane kept giving me and my friend side glances. Imagining us wearing the tacky gymslip costumes featured in the window display not doubt… honestly, had he turned directly towards us I swear I would have kneed the little weasel in the balls right there and then!
One of the magazines was called Spanked Wives and its cover image was titled ‘A perfect marriage’ which in the opinion of the author seemed to be one in which a tearful lady in a little apron (and nothing else!) was kneeling and shining the shoes of a husband reading his newspaper! In this day and age! How is this even legal?
Yours in furious sisterhood
Eleanor Lee
You are sadly correct, Eleanor. These attitudes to women are still only too prevalent. For every copy of this magazine sold, I expect that sordid shop sells ten featuring the abuse of women. The only saving grace being that in most cases, the photos are clearly posed and fake. It is sad to consider that even today, in a country with a woman prime minister, publishers and shopkeepers can still make a living selling these unpleasant fantasies of ‘male domination’.
You are right too that the buyers are not by any means macho, alpha males. Once, when inspecting the flat of a newly owned slave to remove any items inappropriate to his new status and confiscate any valuables, I was horrified to discover a ‘secret stash’ of magazines featuring the punishment of females – mostly schoolgirl themed but a few ‘submissive wives’. Some of the stories were particularly well-thumbed, usually featuring a ‘pert young bottom” getting smacked by some callous male. Believe me, his own pert not-so-young bottom soon found itself being thrashed with a cane as I explained that violence towards women is never acceptable! A few of the magazines also featured the repulsive practice of fellatio. I questioned him about that, slapping him vigorously about the face as I did so, to help him reply truthfully, and he tearfully admitted to finding the practice erotic although he had never actually experienced it. So with the assistance of the regulars at a local ‘gay bar’ I knew of, he spent several evenings becoming thoroughly familiar with the practice although I believe he never really acquired a taste for it. You might expect I’d have dismissed him from my service but I felt a responsibility to the women of the world, so he remains a possession, used for the more unpleasant tasks, his sole contact with females being his regular whippings and of course with a steel restrainer permanently locked with piercings to prevent any sexual excitement.
Sadly, there are many men out there, like the creepy perverts you encountered, who will not receive the whippings they so richly deserve for their unspeakable sexual interest in hurting women, or at least not until the law changes for the better. I got so angry reading your letter I made the nearest available slave turn to me for a good hard kneeing and I hope you managed to find an opportunity to do the same. It is delightful to reduce them to tears that way and as long as there is just one man out there fantasising about hurting women, every man must suffer the consequences, as far as I am concerned!
In sisterhood. G-L. L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
I was thrilled to read the story The New Camp Commandant in a recent issue of your wonderful magazine. The brutal prison-camp setting made an exciting change from the more common school and domestic scenes. I wonder, could the events in this story have happened in reality – could they still be happening, in some hell-hole of a country? The way the Lady prison guards behaved seemed rather communist, especially the scenes in which prisoners were required to profess their love for the Party and their gratitude for the re-education they were receiving – even to the extent of quite literally kissing the boots that had just been kicking them in the faces, shins and testicles! But I can’t imagine that working naked on a chain gang would be possible (for more than a few minutes) in Siberia, so I suppose it was not the Soviet Union. Another country behind the Iron Curtain, perhaps? I went to Czechoslovakia once and I was very excited by the sight of a parade of pretty ‘Young Pioneer’ teenage girls marching past in their red and white uniforms! I’m sure those beautiful communist maidens could grow up to become cruel and domineering leather-clad guards (‘guardesses’?) in a prison camp created in a converted castle deep in Bohemia , delighting in screaming at male prisoners to work under the cruel lashes from their whips, before commanding those unfortunate souls to lick the mud from their boots!
Yours in need of severe re-education
Prisoner 6664329
Well, ‘29’ if I can call you that for short, I’m glad you found appropriately humble and undeserved joy in reading that story and you will no doubt have been contemptibly excited to find the sequel Summoned to The Camp Commandant’s Office in this edition. As for castles staffed by leather-clad whip-wielding maidens in Czechoslovakia, I think there you might have let your imagination run away with you. I can’t see that happening any time soon! Babushkas serving up boiled cabbage is more the comrades’ style, I think. G-L. L.
Dear Lady Lucia
Your letters pages often feature accounts from professional disciplinarians such as myself, concerning the weird and perverted desires of their clients. I think I can top the lot. Earlier this year, I acquired a new ‘regular’ who mostly wanted the schoolboy treatment: strap on the hands, cane across the bum (not hard) and a quick wank – so far, so ‘normal’ in my world. However, after his third visit, he made a much stranger request in his quavering plummy upper class voice: he wanted me to pretend to be Margaret Thatcher!
Initially I was rather reluctant. Also insulted – I am a mature lady, but not that mature! But he not only persisted he offered me triple the usual money, the filthy rich sod, so in Tory Britain’s best entrepreneurial fashion I agreed. Grovelling away, he explained that he wanted it done properly and seriously, not just my putting on a funny voice during the session and I agreed, as long as he gave me some cash up-front for preparations. We agreed a date for about a month later.
I’ll confess I was rather intrigued by the challenge. And the twinset and pearls look, for all its frumpiness, was certainly going to be more comfortable than the rubber and leather monstrosities I squeeze into for some clients. So I went off and got myself some outfits, shoes, fake pearls and (of course!) a handbag from Oxfam, then started practising the voice. I was lucky enough to find a tape of her speeches in the local video shop – though I thought I would die of embarrassment taking it to the counter. That must be how my clients feel buying their porno!
After a bit of practice I felt I had the slow, deep posh voice about right – I had listened to myself on tape and realised I had to go a lot deeper. I read once that she herself had voice coaching to achieve the same effect, but I was self-taught! I also got a little book of quotes (again, with a deep blush of embarassment at the cashdesk…) to help prepare some phrases and scenes for the session. I don’t like to script my encounters with clients, but this was new and I needed to know where to go without dropping out of character. She has said a few things that are very suitable for an S&M encounter: ‘if you want something done, ask a woman’, for instance, or ‘I usually make my mind up in about ten seconds and I rarely change it’.
Came the day, ‘Rupert’ arrived shaking and got the full Iron Lady treatment from the start. The premise was that he was a backbench Tory MP, summoned to explain why he hadn’t turned up for some important vote. He seemed very flustered at first and I was worried maybe I wasn’t getting it right, but then I noticed he had a bulge in his trousers and realised this was arousal, not disappointment. I administered the dressing-down quite seriously, although I did go further than I suspect the Prime Minister would have done into speculation that his absence might have been caused by wanking in the Parliamentary toilets. I slapped him hard across the face, only later realising that I should really have done that with my handbag! Then I bent him across my desk and whacked him with the cane – rather harder than he was used to, as that seemed only right. I don’t suppose the PM does actually cane men, but I can certainly imagine that if she did, she would not hold back.
Afterwards, he was effusive in his praise. He did gently murmur that the caning had been a bit ‘brutal’ as he put it, the wimp, and could I perhaps ease off a little next time? I merely fixed him with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow and replied “The Lady’s not for turning!”. He collapsed at that point – almost literally, he fell to the floor and kissed my shoe. Then off he went, a happy and well-thrashed customer. After making another appointment – at the same highly inflationary price, of course. And he did get the handbag treatment when he came that second time!
Do you suppose this is a common fetish, Lady Lucia? Should I perhaps work up a discreet magazine ad, hinting at the services available to discerning gentlemen interested in discussing educational policies with a particular emphasis on corporal punishment?
Yours with steely conviction
‘Mrs T’
I am sure it must be quite widespread, as I have long thought that the lust for a stern nanny is behind much of her electoral appeal. You’ll need to be careful, though, as a quick straw-poll of my slaves (once they had been reassured that for once I actually wanted to know what they thought) suggested many more of them would run a mile, if greeted at the door by a Maggie lookalike, than would find it erotic. And as a working class girl who escaped a town where the only employer was a textile factory that has closed down, I myself feel more queasy about this kink than any other I have featured here – and I do hope you whack the Tory bastard until he cannot sit down. Still, this is the surely the first time in British history when any men have wanted to pay ladies like ourselves to dress as the Prime Minister – a shame, as I do a mean Gladstone and a passable Balfour – so I suppose we should make the best use of it: more power to your elbow.
Readers will notice that to spare those of a nervous disposition a shock, I have not illustrated this letter with as apposite a photo as I might have done – some things are too depraved even for Empress! G-L. L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
I would love to know: are there any males out there walking around with your initials burned into their flesh?
Marked man, Leeds.
Initials? No: I insist slaves use my full name and title, at all times. G-L. L.
*Note by Servitor. Attentive readers will recall that the letters page of that special edition featured here some time ago. I have carefully looked through the entire magazine and cannot see any images of the Editrix herself in a leather bikini. I suppose she must have been mistaken, even Goddess-Ladies get things wrong occasionally. I hope Peter wasn’t too disappointed.
Passionate love should always come with a twinge of gut-wrenching fear.
Lovely Cruella shoot. Go buy the original magazines!
