Ah… the 1980s. What a feeling. Back when we worried about a Republican President of the USA being too hostile to the Russians. Many things have changed but some, like my tastes in music and femdom, have stayed frozen in time. Another affectionate tribute to that time when you got your porn from a magazine wrapped in a paper bag, when women were women and men – just like today – were worms. But worms with really dubious mustaches.
Letters to the Editrix
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
Although your magazine is truly wonderful, one of the best female domination publications around, [‘one of’?? G-L. L.] I believe the author of the article Madam Miranda’s School for Husbands, focused on the efforts of that good lady to assist couples experiencing relationship difficulties, may have painted an unduly harsh portrait of this institution.
I recently returned home after a three-week stay at Madam Miranda’s and I can assure you that I have nothing but good things to report about that fine lady and her extraordinarily dedicated team of assistants. Her ‘school’ is just that: an educational establishment and I can honestly say that I learnt more about being a good husband in those three weeks than you could in a lifetime of reading self-help books and magazine articles. I also managed to lose 7 pounds in weight and improve my housework skills.
The school does, obviously, employ corporal punishment techniques but no more than is necessary to help a trainee learn, when he has been at fault, to help him learn. In my case, I was frequently at fault, so it was often necessary, but I can honestly say I will never forget the lessons I learnt thanks to this educational technique.
In short, I am immensely thankful to Madame Miranda and her staff for their vigorous and effective tuition and to my beloved wife for sending me there. Difficulties in our relationship are a thing of the past; we have not quarrelled or even had more than the most ephemeral difference of opinion since my return from The School, nor will we ever while the memory of my stay there persists. Our relationship seems to me to be perfect, but as my wife says, it is always possible to do better, so perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to renew my acquaintance with Madame Miranda and once again benefit from her wisdom and guidance.
With the greatest respect
An appreciative husband
I have passed your letter to Madam Miranda, who says she remembers you and that you were not always so appreciative. Males often don’t know what is best for them and you are lucky (as I am sure you often admit) to have a wife with the vision to understand your potential. The good lady tells me that her school motto is Flagella facit homines obedientes. My secondary modern didn’t teach Latin, so I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds like the right approach. G-L. L.
Divine Goddess-Lady
As a boot fetishist, I was wondering whether you have a preferred technique when having your boots licked clean? I find it hard to achieve a properly clean upper, especially, without recourse to a cloth.
Yours in worship
Bootlover
My technique is simple: I tap my crop on the boot, command it to be licked clean and beat the living crap out of the slave if he fails to do it to my complete satisfaction. It seems to work. G-L. L.
Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia
I was wondering, what do you feed the office slaves who work on your wonderful magazine? I find the idea of being made to eat a disgusting meal, suitable for a lowly worm of my status wildly exciting. I fantasise about visiting two dominant ladies and being ‘treated’ to a three course meal. This begins with a steaming bowl of stinky sock soup, made by peeling those garments from my hosts’ feet at the end of a long working day and boiling them up in a pan, then squeezing carefully to ensure all the sweaty goodness is transferred to the soup. The main course is simply a healthy salad of raw vegetables: carrot rind, potato peelings, onion skins and cabbage, all as fresh and uncooked as the day they came out of the earth they grew in, much of which still clings to their sides. I of course gobble up every mouthful, naked and kneeling in front of the bowl in which it is all deposited, riding crops merrily cracking down should I hesitate. For pudding, a simple elegant used tampon, which is popped in my mouth all in one go but must be slowly chewed to open up the layered tissue to enable it to be swallowed piece by piece. Sometimes the ladies add a cheese course, having set aside some stilton or camembert in a warm spot some weeks before. No crackers being available, I lick the pungent stuff off the soles of their shoes.
I find the idea of eating dog or cat food exciting too, Goddess-Lady, but so nauseating that I think I might be sick. Is that your experience? I have also heard it may be unhealthy for human consumption.
In rapturous servility
Dustbin
You are quite revolting but also right, dustbin: dog or cat food can easily induce vomiting, especially in those not used to it. I don’t see any problem with that, as long as any such vomiting is done outside and the mess rapidly cleaned up – as in my household, it always is, of course. I too have heard that pet food is not fit for human consumption, which is why I feed it only to slaves. None have died yet and in any case, I am confident that any health dangers to them of eating the nasty stuff would be far outweighed by the health dangers of refusing my order to do so. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
I am a wife relatively new to the activities your magazine covers, but I wanted to write to let you know how much it has helped me since discovering my husband’s ‘stash’ of magazines and books. The majority of the publications merely featured images of young women in wildly uncomfortable clothing, often engaged in sex acts such as fellatio in which I have no interest. However, the stories and articles in Empress were far more informative and explained much that had puzzled me about my husband’s behaviour.
He was mortified when I confronted him, but calmed down when I explained that I was prepared to try out some – but by no means all – of the activities depicted. Not – needless to say – the fellatio featured in some of the other magazines, nor the bizarre rubber or leather outfits in which the young ladies in those magazines often unconvincingly posed. However, several of the stories in Empress featured looks such as a white blouse combined with a medium-length leather skirt, stockings and high-heeled (but not absurdly so) shoes or boots. I had already purchased a few such outfits when we had our ‘little talk’, so soon reappeared in front of him ‘dressed the part’ and I can say it went down extremely well! We had a thoroughly satisfactory evening of sexual intercourse, including some spanking, and I can honestly say he has never performed as well! The next night, I tried him on oral sex – which I had previously not felt I could ask for, since I was not prepared to carry out the same service – with even better results.
A week or so later, I visited a shop in Soho that advertised in your magazine and bought a cane, a tawse and some leather restraints, I was tempted by some chastity devices but thought it best to take one step at a time and in any event, some seemed unsuitable for long-term wear. It was when I first tried caning him that I encountered a problem: as he sprang up after only the first stroke, tearfully pleading that it was too painful.
Your wonderful magazine came to the rescue! I recalled Mrs Simmons’ approach in A Domesticated Husband and calmly informed him that the cane would be put away and not appear again – oh, and so would the boots, the leather skirt and all the other items in our little collection. And then I waited a few days, making clear that ordinary sex was on offer, if he liked, but nothing more. I did somewhat regret at that point not having tried a chastity belt, as he was obviously masturbating in the bathroom and I was sure the contest would have ended with my victory more quickly had he been unable to do so. However, after nine days he ‘cracked’, so out came the outfits he liked so much and the cane he hated with equal measure – and the leather restraints with which I secured him on the bed, to help him ‘take’ the caning that I administered without mercy. I also discovered the importance of gags, after a series of howls that I thought would have the neighbour call the Police on us! Recalling Mistress Maxine’s approach in your excellent Maxine’s Maxims series, I slipped off my knickers, and stuffed them in his mouth, then tied a stocking around to hold them in. This both excited and quieted him, while also leaving me liberty to resume the thrashing without fear of discovery. I did enjoy caning him, not sexually exactly (that came later, his tear-streaked face between my legs) but I do like the feeling of power.
After that, readers of accounts such as that of poor Robert in A Domesticated Husband will have little difficulty in guessing my husband’s trajectory. Having experienced the cane once, he was naturally keen to avoid its application and so things progressed most satisfactorily. Chastity – of course – and it did indeed require us to try a few different kinds of apparatus before finding one suitable for everyday wear, but now he does indeed wear it every day. A regime in which all the housework is his was easy enough to implement, as were restrictions on his lifestyle outside the house. Perhaps unsurprisingly, financial control proved to be the hardest thing for him to give up, but repeated use of the cane over an extended period of chastity did the trick and now he is, indeed, domesticated. There are several degrading activities depicted in your stories that I have no real desire to try, mostly involving bathroom activities, but also cuckoldry – his tongue is very well-trained by now, so why would I want some undomesticated male to take its place?
Obviously, he no longer has any need of your magazine, dear Goddess-Lady but in tribute to its role in transforming my marriage, I do require him to buy every issue. As he gets very little pocket-money, I am delighted to say that it accounts for around a quarter of his total expenditure – and locked in chastity as he is, he gets little from it. Indeed, he rather fears bringing it home, as we peruse it together looking for at least one punishment, humiliation or restriction that he has not yet experienced – and so far, you have never let me down, my dear!
Yours in gratitude
A Satisfied Wife
I am delighted to see the practical tips occasionally provided here for improving husbands being put to such effective use. If his tongue is all you require as sexual service on his part, might I suggest you also consult the story ‘Nurse Eliza’s Private Practice’ in Volume 3, Edition 1? It sounds to me as if your husband is quite ready for such treatment, and it must be tiresome for you to have to indulge even occasional releases from chastity. G-L. L.
Most magnificent Goddess-Lady
If I might ask … have you ever been tempted to ‘switch’ roles? Are you at all curious as to what it feels like to be on the receiving end of the treatment you so relish doling out?
Fascinated
Eric
What an impertinent question! Certainly not. Being under my lash looks and sounds to be a thoroughly unpleasant experience – why would anyone subject themselves to that? Except the male fools who read this magazine, obviously. And perverts beguiled by my beauty. Perhaps one day we will be lucky enough to meet and in-between screams you can gasp out to me an account of exactly what it feels like; I shall take a keen interest. G-L. L.
Most Superior Goddess-Lady
I have been a reader of your magazine for some time and stories featuring ‘male maids’ are something of an obsession of mine, so I was excited to see the teaser for your tale of the downfall of the ‘Honourable’ Peter Cuthbertson and his housemaid Molly, in an earlier edition. The full story in your last issue did not disappoint!
Oh, what a fool young Peter was! But how easily I can imagine myself being led down to the same path to destitution and servitude! From the moment he took the proffered petticoat in shaking hands and tried it on under her smiling supervision, Peter was doomed. How pleasant it is for me, as it was for Peter, to think of the delightful pleasure of flouncing around in a lacy maid’s uniform, layers of soft petticoats swishing deliciously around my stockinged thighs! And then to carry out a few light housework tasks under Molly’s supervision? Well, that merely adds to the sensual pleasure of playing out this scenario. And of course there must be punishment for any naughty or lazy maids who don’t work hard for Mistress – perhaps with her loving but firm hand, applied to my naughty bottom as I wriggle helplessly and shriek with pleasure and pain across her lap.
But then of course it only makes sense to start taking things a little further. If Molly is to play at being the lady of the house, then of course she should have fine clothes, she should sleep in the main bedroom and be waited on at table! And she will have little time for her former housemaid job outside this role, so of course Peter must do more around the house – and perhaps it’s time to swap that frilly nonsense for a more practical, hardwearing outfit. All of this merely makes the fantasy more compelling, does it not? And after Molly has instructed him in some of the more demanding aspects of a housemaid’s role, it is only fitting that any necessary correction emphasises more the pain than the pleasurable aspects of discipline. There is still a sensual thrill to be had, even in the onerous task of scrubbing floors or in carrying heavy baskets of laundry to be hung up.
If Molly – Lady Molly, we must now call her – is to play her part of the Lady of the Manor to perfection then of course she must have some control over the finances of the estate, so she can pay tradesmen or buy things for herself, without needing to break the spell of this fascinating performance the two are playing out. It’s not as if Peter – or rather, Petunia – has time for such matters, not with the beds to be made, the linen to be aired and that big pile of ironing awaiting her in the laundry room, is it? Not with that horrible cane awaiting her if she should fail to complete all of her allotted tasks, to the complete satisfaction of the Mistress of the house!
And so to the last scene, in which Petunia awakes at five in the morning as usual, in her cramped and chilly attic room, washes carefully in the cold water in her bowl, then puts on her uniform to begin her fourteen hour day of servitude, while Lady Molly sleeps peacefully and happily in her soft warm bed, the little bell on her bedside table ready for her whenever she awakes.
So easy to imagine myself slipping easily – almost willingly – down the same slope. And although some of the ladies featured in your stories often strike me as implausibly cruel and domineering [Nonsense. Women are crueller than you know – I certainly am and so are some of my dearest friends. G-L. L.], if anyone is likely to relish the role of an exacting taskmistress over a domesticated male, it is surely a former domestic servant herself!
The story seems so complete, I can only regret that there is unlikely to be a sequel. But if I might humbly suggest one, perhaps young Petunia could attempt one last, woefully belated, act of rebellion? Either overtly or perhaps through an attempted escape? How crestfallen she would be, to discover that all Master Peter’s clothing has long since been donated to local charities and that thoughtful Lady Molly has had the word put about that the young Lord of the Manor has fallen victim to a regrettable congenital lunacy and needs to be humoured, but then forcefully restrained and returned, should the poor lad be discovered wandering the vicinity!
With my deepest curtsey
Maid Felicity, Whippingham Hall.
Arrogant aristocratic males have – tragically – run this country for so long that stories in which the tables are turned appeal particularly to me, too. I myself was born on a council estate in Peckham because my parents moved to London, but my own ancestors, right down to my dear Nan, spent lifetimes scrubbing the floors of the stateliest homes of England. It therefore gives me particular pleasure to whack the backsides of some of the more inbred public schoolboys who so often seek such treatment and – foolishly – think they can remain in control. I always give them at least one extra for Nan: a particularly hard one, Goddess rest her soul.
Your idea for a sequel will be considered. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
What do you think of women’s lib? It seems to me that many of these harpies shrieking about their ‘rights’ don’t really understand how much power an elegantly dressed lady can have in our society. If they only smartened themselves up a bit, shaved their legs and put on some make-up and high heels, I am sure the more attractive among them could find themselves with far more power than they can ever achieve through ‘consciousness raising’ or waving silly placards about.
Yours
A puzzled lover of femininity
I have allowed this filthy missive to be printed in case any readers need reminding how males truly ‘think’ (if I can dignify it with that term), when they are not fantasising about strict mistresses. Pay attention, ‘puzzled’: only morons like you find it hard to understand why women need more rights after centuries of oppression. A lifetime of domestic drudgery, under the command of an abusive partner – believe me, you’d soon be ‘shrieking’ if subjected to such treatment, just as my males do. I myself dress for sexual power, many women’s libbers prefer to dress otherwise… who are you to decide what women should wear? Perhaps you need to spend more time in tight corsets and ill-fitting high heels; with little padlocks in case you are tempted to try to remove them. I myself believe the women’s lib movement mostly does not go far enough – Valerie Solanas’ Society for Cutting Up Men is an honourable exception – but they are sisters to me in spirit and right to focus on oppression. I just believe in oppressing right back: a few centuries at least with the boot firmly on the other foot (and kicking hard and repeatedly into the male groin or face) is required to even the balance, that’s all. We cannot be truly free until men are enslaved but there are many paths to that. G-L. L.
Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia
I adore your magazine but I must confess myself simply revolted by the letter from ‘Mummy’s Boy’, a few issues ago, suggesting you print fewer stories focused on use of the cane.
I am a professional disciplinarian but my work is also my passion as I simply adore caning; no other disciplinary implement comes close to it, for me. It is the combination of its simplicity and its roots in ordinary educational life until very recently, on the one hand, with its sheer brutality on the other. For me, ‘spanking’ implements are simply too mild and playful, while whips of any kind are too exotic, redolent of fantasy.
I apply the cane mercilessly. Very few men can ‘take’ the cane although many fantasies about it – I believe around one in four of clients I see ever return for a second dose. Fewer still enjoy it. My ‘repeat’ clientele is therefore from that thin sliver of male society who both fear yet crave the cane. However, this is acceptable, as they pay handsomely for the privilege of being thrashed.
Let me describe one such client, whom I will call ‘Steven’. Steven first contacted me two years ago, received the shockingly painful treatment I always administer to first-timers and left, seeming most unlikely to return. Yet every three months or so, I receive a nervous call booking another session. Steven’s voice is hoarse and rushed as he makes the arrangements: I suspect he has been agonising for days or weeks, and has decided to ‘get it over with’. I imagine he puts the phone down and is instantly appealed at what he has done. On one occasion he called back in the period before the appointment to cancel – and I cooly informed him that he was entitled to do so, but that if he did not go through with any booked appointment, he need never contact me again. He rang off on that occasion but called back two days later desperately begging for the appointment to be reinstated – although not as desperately as his cries when I later had the opportunity to explain with the cane how rude his behaviour had been. He has not repeated the attempt.
Steven always arrives promptly, of course and is well-dressed. I imagine he is something in the City or some other well-paid profession such as the law or medicine. I take little interest in my clients except as canvasses for the works of art I create with my cane. He hands me the fee and removes socks and shoes. I then tell him exactly what I have planned: quite often it is six across the trousers, then a further six on the bare. I always provide the traditional multiples of six and have given up to twenty-four strokes in a single session but it is normally between six and eighteen. Six of course is relatively light and is handed out on very rare occasions to ‘regulars’ only because that way they have some faint hope of avoiding twelve; hope that is almost invariably dashed.
I usually apply the first six across the trousers and do not often start on the bare – although I always end up there – as I believe there should always be worse to come. It might seem that the cloth protection makes this initial caning less severe – and it is, but it is also subtly different, creating more of a widespread bruising effect than the slashing thin welts produced on the bare. I use a heavier, less flexible, cane across the trousers and although all of my clients know full well that the later use of a whippier implement on their flesh will be a special kind of agony, they are still usually pleasingly (to me) shocked by the intensity that a caning across a cloth-covered seat can impose. Of course those later whippy strokes will be still worse for overlaying these horribly sore bruises.
I occasionally require counting or thanking me for each stroke, but only for those who need extra encouragement to experience fear from the relentless pace of the caning. Steven is not among them – his fear is palpable and, for me, thoroughly enjoyable. To have a terrified man at one’s mercy – and to show none – gives me the most exquisite satisfaction. My punishment room is soundproofed, of course. On the very rare occasions on which I have caned on ‘client premises’ so to speak, I always deploy a gag and I find it deeply unsatisfactory. I have also just occasionally gagged clients who – whether through foolishness or simply driven mad by the pain – have called me offensive names. I prefer not to hear that and although I suppose I could force silence with the promise of further strokes, I do not like to vary the punishment once commenced.
For a set across the bare, I often give Steven a version of a ‘cow and gate’ pattern, where an initial set of parallel, horizontal strokes, is then supplemented by slashing diagonals that overlay the previous ones. The simplest such gate has five parallels and one – awful – diagonal connecting them all, but I find a four plus two pattern to be more painful and thus preferably. Not only is the ultimately-painful diagonal doubled, in this way it must be experienced than anticipated and re-experienced, which is far worse than ‘taking it’ just once.
I know Steven will cry out with every stroke will be sobbing by the time we finish. Most satisfactory.
The caning complete, I put away the cane, unstrap one of his wrists and leave the room, going upstairs. I prefer not to engage in conversation after a beating: I used to, but the clients would try to make light conversation, even comment on my technique. The change in mood was always jarring, so with trusted clients like Steven I simply leave them to make their own way out. With one hand free, he can eventually unstrap himself and ease his battered and sore body off the bench. Every movement agony, of course. I hear him take a shower: necessary, as he has sweated and cried so much. Then I observe him heading across my front garden and down the road, walking slowly and stiffly.
I know he is thinking “never again – never again!”. He will be in great pain for a couple of days and sore for at least a week, during which he will swear over and over again nevermore to subject himself to this ordeal, never to forget how awful the reality of the experience is, no matter how compelling the fantasy. But then his cravings will start to build up and in a couple of months will seem to him as unbearable as the pain he has felt today. And I will get another anxious, pleading call.
Some men desire to lick the boots of a girl brandishing a whip… or want a ‘Mummy’ like your wretched correspondent – and I don’t doubt there are ladies who will supply that service. My clients simply need to be beaten and I am very, very happy to oblige.
Yours sincerely
Governess Charlotte
Yes, the ‘fearing but craving’ male is my quarry too. Although I myself do go in for boot-licking and the use of a leather whip, I prefer to enslave males who find themselves hating the treatment and needing it, all at the same time. It is odd how men can be so complicated and yet also so very, very simple. Keep up the good work! Perhaps you could inform Steven on his next visit that, in thanks for providing the material for such an interesting account for my magazine, I have requested you give him double? G-L. L.
To the majestic Goddess-Lady Lucia
Your uncompromising approach to femdom makes me tremble in awe. I was wondering: have you ever accidentally killed a slave?
Humbly
Lucia’s acolyte
Accidentally? No. G-L. L.
