Boybreaking
Category: male maid
Tainted love
As the title suggests, we are once again back in the 1980s when all of Servitor’s tastes and obsessions, so fluid up until that point, suddenly seemed to fix, for life. Including femdom, so in the absence of actual magazines from the era*, here is the cover and letters page from a fictional femdom top-shelf mag from the period, Empress, based so closely as to be legally actionable loosely on the Vixen and Mistress magazines** of my furtive and spurtive later youth.
Letters
Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia
A longtime reader of your magazine, I felt I had to write to express my appreciation of the story Pretty Maids All in a Row. As someone whose deepest fantasy is to be dressed and treated as a housemaid I was thrilled at the thought of this group of neighbourly women getting together to enforce this form of subjugation on their husbands. Although I can obviously empathise with Ian and Robin, who share my obsession, as demonstrated by their ready embrace of their uniformed role, I also enjoyed reading about Timothy’s more reluctant and confused journey to acceptance of his new lifestyle. And of course John and Euan (or Jenny and Eunice, as they had become at the end), whose outright resistance, rebellion and inevitable comeuppance provided the main drama of the piece.
I thought that the author did a great job in quickly bringing out these different characters, and still more so those of their wives. I found Deborah to be the most exciting of these admirable ladies, although I suspect I would find her rule a little too harsh for comfort, while Lydia’s playful, highly sexualised style of dominance and Rita’s kindly but firm control of her household also struck a chord. Sandra and Naomi, in contrast, seemed less interested in the venture and I wonder whether Sandra was drawn into the plan only at the behest of her lover Deborah? In which context, I adored the scene in which those two ladies despatch their maid-husbands to share a single bed in the guest room, while taking the ‘master’ bedroom for themselves. The surprise and confusion of Robin and Euan, locked into a small room together for the night, was a treat – would they experiment with homosexuality as their wives were so evidently and noisily doing next door? How very male of them never even to mention the possibility, but instead simply to lie motionless, each in his pretty nightie, and silent like two strangers ignoring one another in a public place, while the giggling and shrieks of sapphic pleasure came through the wall.
The rebellion plans hatched at the meeting of the Ironing Club were dealt with most effectively, I thought. The accounts of John and Euan’s initial punishments were most exciting, as was the promise of the stricter regimes they would be following in future, with the assistance of Lydia’s formidable-sounding mother. The story ended with them sobbing themselves to sleep… well, they didn’t get anything more than their just desserts, after all. I did wonder whether Timothy and Robin should really have got off scott-free, though? After all, they were present at the Ironing Club when this rebellion was discussed and even if they refused to go along with it, they should surely have reported the conversation immediately to their wives, as Ian did? A maid’s duty is to her mistress, not to other maids, especially disloyal ones. Deborah and Naomi might want to ask them – rather sharply! – why exactly they believe a maid can keep a secret from her wife and mistress? Ian has the right attitude, although I hope that Rita’s praise for his actions doesn’t go to his head: maids who think too much of themselves can soon find themselves being taken down a peg or three! I hope too that the other maids come to realise in time that Ian was really acting in their best interests, in the long term.
Goodness, Goddess-Lady Lucia, writing this and recalling the story as I did so has left me hot and flushed! I had better go and scrub some floors to calm myself down. Thank you so much again, for your wonderful magazine. I do hope we’ll be reading more about the maids and their delightful wives.
With a deep curtsey
Maid Polly
A passable letter of appreciation, Maid Polly, I hope your needlework is up to the same standard. I’ve met several men who fantasise about the life of a housemaid. I usually find that they tire of it by the third or fourth hour and if I am feeling generous, I may accept their application to leave my service – although I do insist on a three-month notice period being worked out. Pretty Maids All in a Row will continue in the next edition. Now get on with your work, girl. G-L. L.
To my sister in dominance
I greatly enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about males in chastity, as my feeble excuse for a husband has been since day two of our marriage. Unlike some of the complicated rituals described in your stories, I take a no-nonsense approach to his infrequent releases. There is no set schedule, no anticipation on his part. I will one day suddenly produce the key and instruct him to fetch a pair of kitchen gloves. Unlocked, and wearing the thick rubber gloves, he kneels facing the wall and pumps as hard and fast as he can. He is forbidden to look at me, so there is no stimulation whatsoever, but having been locked up for so long, he almost always becomes erect immediately and rapidly reaches orgasm. It is usually over in less than a minute: he catches the foul stuff in his hand and licks the kitchen glove clean.
Then it is time for the crop, which I have been tapping, during his pathetic sexual activity, to remind him of what is coming. I beat him after every orgasm for two reasons: to make the overall experience unpleasant so that any excitement at the prospect of sexual release is mixed with dread, and because in his immediate post-orgasmic state, he will get no sexual excitement whatsoever from the thrashing: it is pure pain. He bends over and I deliver a rain of hard cuts across his buttocks, then – sobbing, reluctant and terrified – he is made to turn around, stand straight with his legs apart and arms behind his back, and receive as many flicks with the tip of the crop across his soft, shrivelled member, as I choose to give it. It is so sensitive at that moment, there is no pleasure greater to a true female sadist than to crack her whip across that pathetic little strip of flesh.
Finally, I order him to take a cold shower, for precisely three minutes under the full cold jet, then he dries off and must quickly return to beg me humbly to lock him back up again, which I willingly do.
Some might consider this cruel. I suppose I do. I imagine he does too, but I really don’t care.
Yours in sadistic sisterhood
Lady Monica
Oh, I thoroughly agree with your approach, Lady Monica. The male orgasm is such a disgusting, filthy business. It is naturally much briefer and less impressive than the female orgasm and it seems only proper, as well as being delightfully cruel, to curtail it further. I hope your husband is suitably grateful – I imagine he wouldn’t dare fail to be! G-L. L.
Most exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia
Do you have a favourite slave?
Most humbly
Trevor
Ha ha ha ha ha ! No.
For the same reason that I have no favourite among any of the pieces of used chewing gum I have occasionally been unlucky enough to find stuck to the sole of my shoe. G-L. L.
Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia
Some time ago, I was accorded the privilege of having a letter about my relationship with a lady disciplinarian, my Governess, Miss H——–, printed in your superb magazine. With Governess H——–’s permission, I am writing again on the off-chance that you and your readers might be interested in an update on that relationship.
Specifically: at the end of a recent disciplinary session, while I was drying my eyes and delicately easing my sore bottom back into pants and grown-up trousers, my Governess suddenly asked me whether I would like to meet her some time outside her classroom, for example a day out in London for some lunch, with shopping.
Goddess-Lady Lucia, I was thrilled! I am head-over-heels in love with this beautiful but strict lady and the thought of spending such time with her was a dream come true! I readily agreed and we made arrangements to spend a Tuesday three weeks later (so long to wait!): meeting at Regent’s Park in the morning, walking a little in the park, then down through Marylebone for lunch, before going to Oxford St for some shopping. My Governess made quite clear that any inappropriate behaviour on my part – whether over-familiarity inappropriate to a boy in the presence of his Governess, or excessive servility inappropriate in public, in front of people unaccustomed to relationships such as ours – would be punished, most likely later in private. I realised I would have to walk a narrow line: remaining respectful but not so forgetting myself as to behave like the naughty schoolboy I know myself to be in her presence. Alas, I strayed off that line on several occasions as I will now recount.
On the day, I was waiting for my Governess ten minutes before our agreed meeting time. She looked stunning, when she emerged from the Tube on that bright autumn morning: a long skirt, sharply-cut jacket and boots: every inch the Victorian governess yet also modern and elegant. I was dressed smartly too: in a suit, as instructed, with the same school tie I wore on my visits to her the only hint of my inner schoolboy. She looked me up and down, sighed slightly, reached out to straighten (and tighten!) my tie, then nodded curtly.
I found myself tongue-tied and lost for words, particularly as I was used to speaking only with permission or when spoken to and of course to calling her ‘Governess’ or ‘Miss H——-’. She had anticipated both problems and informed me that the ‘speak when spoken to’ rule was suspended, unless she indicated otherwise by using the word ‘hush’ and that I could address her as ‘Miss’ when out of earshot of strangers, or ‘Mary’ if we could be overhead (this being understood to be a stand-in for ‘Miss’, not her forename, which I have never used). She of course would simply address me by my first name (I will use ‘Simon’), as she always did except when calling me ‘boy’ (usually an ominous sign).
We strolled through the park, making occasional conversation about the ducks, the trees with their autumn leaves and so on. I ached to know more about her, but I sensed that such prying questions would not be welcome. I caught myself starting the word ‘Governess’ once or twice and bit it off, to say ‘Miss’ instead, and I believe she noticed but did not react. We paused to sit on a bench, which I hurriedly tried to wipe down to remove the water droplets from an earlier shower. Alas, I was in too much of a hurry and had not done the job thoroughly.
“Do you expect me to sit in that puddle, Simon?” she asked, sharply.
“I’m sorry, Governess – uh, Miss!” I replied, without thinking.
“Do it again. Do it properly.” She said, curtly, and I set myself to polishing away at the wood with my sleeve, while she gazed coldly off into the distance.
When we were seated, she took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen. She wrote in it for a while, then wordlessly showed me the page. At the top it read “Simon’s faults, 11 October 1983.” A vertical line had earlier been ruled down the page, about two-thirds of the way across, dividing it into two columns. In the broader, left-hand column were two entries, each with a line drawn across the page underneath. The first read “Lazy and careless drying of bench.”, the second “Inappropriate mode of address (x3)”. I was right: she had indeed noticed my earlier verbal slips.
“Hush now” she said, putting the book away, and we sat in silence. Needless to say, I was in little doubt as to the purpose of the second column, which would surely later be filled in, with details of some painful consequences for the errors identified in the first!
“Let us continue.” she said after a while. “You may speak again from now.”
I did not think it wise to ask about the little book. Nor could I think of much to say, but soon enough my Governess started the light conversation again, pointing out the ivy clinging to some magnificent old trees.
“What sort of trees are they, Miss?” I asked, without thinking.
She stopped and frowned at me. Too late, I remembered writing some homework for her just a month before, including an essay titled “Trees of London”. She sighed and pulled out the notebook again.
I don’t know if was nerves, Goddess-Lady Lucia, or whether my natural male gawkishness simply came to the fore, but from that point on, I could barely put a foot right. The notebook came out three times more during our stroll in the park – once for accidentally bumping into her, once for failing to hold a gate open for a lady and once for ‘dawdling’, so I was glad when we left the park, to visit a restaurant she knew in Marylebone. We studied the menu for a while – I was ravenous and decided on the pork chops for myself.
When the waitress came, my Governess ordered first, as ladies do, then just as I was about to name my choice, my finger resting on the words ‘pork chops’ on the menu, she murmured “I expect you’d like to have the salad, Simon.” I managed to stop myself just as my lips were forming the letter p, and nodded, vigorously.
“Yes, salad for me.”, I croaked, my throat strangely dry.
The waitress visibly suppressed a giggle. “And to drink?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A small glass of the house white, I think.” my Governess replied, folding the menu and handing it back. The waitress turned to me, her eyes dancing with fascinated amusement. Across the table, the eyes of my Governess – cool, grey – fixed me with a steady gaze.
“I… I think I’ll just have water” I stammered out. “Yes, just water for me, thanks.” And I handed back my own menu. Christ I’d have liked to have had a proper drink!
As the waitress went away, the notepad came out.
“You didn’t say ‘please’, Simon”, she noted, and I watched her write out “Discourteous behaviour to a woman.”. It was upside down from my side of the table but her handwriting, although small, was very neat and I had learnt to recognise every letter from small, and frequently alarming, comments written in red in the margins of my homework.
“I’m sorry, Miss…” I replied, hopelessly. “I did say thank you.”
She looked up at me in surprise. “Hush, Simon.” she said sharply, drew another line and wrote “Answering back!” She underlined that one twice, then turned the page over. The next page had the same division into columns and was otherwise blank. She wrote a neat “2” in the top right corner, started to put the notebook away then seemed to think better of it, and placed it on the table. It remained there throughout the meal, when not in use.
Sadly for me, it was used on several occasions. My table manners turned out to leave a great deal to be desired, as I started to eat before her and without permission and then ate ‘in a boorish manner”. Furthermore, in my efforts to avoid further discourtesy towards our waitress, I erred in the opposite direction, employing excessive servility and thus sounding weird. The waitress herself didn’t seem to mind at all; indeed she looked as if she was enjoying herself hugely, but it was all recorded in the notebook.
At the end, when my Governess had finished her coffee and petits fours and I had enjoyed yet another glass of tap-water, I paid, including an absolutely huge tip for the happiest waitress in Marylebone that day, and trailed out, following my imperious Governess.
I thought perhaps the shopping that was planned would be clothes or presents for her – I have heard of lady disciplinarians enjoying such all-expenses outings with their submissive clients. But in this, as in so much, my Governess defied stereotypes. Instead, the clothes to be bought were for me. Not, I hasten to say, some kind of fetish or girls’ clothes: ordinary menswear, but to my Governess’ taste rather than my own. It seems that for some years, she had found my garb irritating and was resolved to set matters right. Needless to say, I was no more able to choose the garments than I had been able to lunch on pork chops: having checked my sizes, my Governess simply selected items, handed them to me without discussion and, for the more important items, nodded towards the changing rooms. When I emerged in each outfit, I turned around several times, in response to her finger, then received either a nod or a shake of the head (or “Oh, I don’t think so” or similar) and was dismissed with a gesture. I don’t know whether the rule against behaving in an overly servile manner in public had been suspended, but it must surely have been obvious to everyone that I was an inferior and she was in charge. Indeed, in one shop in which I tried on several jackets, the shop assistant stopped even bothering to speak to me, and addressed himself only to her. The notebook, along with much sighing and even the occasional ‘tut-tut’ was in frequent use.
Finally, we went to a department store café, where my Governess had a cup of tea and I treated myself to another glass of refreshing tap water. When she pulled out the notebook and pen, I wondered what I had done this time, but instead of adding a new line at the end (which was now well down the third page), she flicked back to the beginning and started writing in the second column. She was putting in numbers and the letters, T, S and C after them. T was of course the tawse on my hands, S the strap across buttocks and thighs and C… well, it wasn’t going to be a cuddle. She did not take long deciding: briskly handing out multiples with the T, the S or the C, moving rapidly from one line top the next, until she had reached the end of page 3.
‘Add those up, please, Simon.” she said, dropping the notebook in front of me. I went through, totting up, with an increasing feeling of dread. At the end, I had discovered I would be in for 47 with the tawse, 54 with the strap and an awful 31 with the cane. I simply wrote the totals wordlessly and gave her back the book.
Whereupon she went through carefully totting up the figures herself. Why did she tell me to add them up, if she was going to do it herself, you might ask? Because she is my governess and I am her pupil. That is what she does and my work is always checked. As it turned out, I had indeed made a mistake: overcounting the Ts by one.
“Since you seem to want that one you can have it”, she shrugged. “Plus another four for sloppy arithmetic. When is our next meeting and for how long?”
“On Saturday, Miss” I replied (I had finally become quite good at keeping the speech rules). “Two ‘til four.”
“Better make it two ‘til six” she replied, folding the notebook and putting it away. And with that, we got the bill, I carried my new clothes out of the shop and respectfully said my goodbyes and thank-yous. To go home to sort out and throw out many of the clothes I had once chosen for myself, and to await the next Saturday, in a state of dread.
And yes, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I adore her and consider myself the luckiest man – or luckiest boy – alive.
With the deepest respect
‘Simon’.
It seems you have been taken properly in hand, Simon. I approve! Boys of any age are still boys, whether in the classroom or not, and need to be treated as such. You may pretend to be an adult man, behaving and even dressing as one in public, but I have no doubt that your Governess can always see the naughty schoolboy, fidgeting and blushing in front of her, when she looks into your eyes. You are permitted to write with further accounts of your educational journey. G-L. L.
Most esteemed Editrix
Like several of the ladies featured in your magazine, I make the subjection of males my career. Middle-aged to elderly men, all fairly well-off I suppose, make their way to my studios for the punishment, degradation and humiliation they need and I profit from the experience and generally enjoy it, too.
I wanted to share with you a recent event that made me wonder what the limits might be to this activity. One of my more recent slave acquisitions had made a booking to visit me, but he called two days before to cancel. He had a good excuse and had given fair notice, but on his next visit, when he paid me I half-jokingly suggested he should pay for the previous session too.
He immediately went crimson, kneeling on the floor before me and started to stutter something about how very sorry he was.
I replied imperiously that sorry wasn’t good enough, that he had wasted my time and presumed upon my good nature and so on, working up to an excuse to punish him, essentially, when to my surprise, he drew out his wallet with shaking hands. He reached in and offered up a small sheaf of banknotes.
Struck by inspiration, I commanded “One at a time! On the floor before my feet.”
Slowly, trembling, he counted out one note after another, until all that remained in his wallet were one-pound notes, which he knows I do not normally accept. I had observed his breathing as he slowly counted and recognised the symptoms: he was thoroughly aroused, completely in the humiliation ‘headspace’ he sought in session. So I continued.
“The ones as well.” I said, imperiously. And one by one he laid those out too. It was still not enough.
I reached down and held his chin, pulling his sweating face up so his slistening eyes stared into mine.
“Do you know what I should do to make up the shortfall, slave?” I hissed. “I should put a collar and leash on you, like a dog, and drag you outside and along to the bank where there’s a machine for you to take out the rest of the money you owe me. Then you’ll kneel before me – in the street, like this – and hand it over!”
His eyes were lolling back, he was more turned on than I think I’ve ever seen him.
“Please… please Mistress, may I?” he murmured. I understood and, not quite sure what exactly what we were to do with the rest of the session time, nodded curtly and he quickly rubbed between his trousered legs with his hands and rapidly came inside his pants.
I needn’t have worried about the rest of the session. I had an utterly happy, exhausted customer and he did not seem at all bothered that he had paid – twice, really – for an hour and had finished after fifteen minutes. It was as if my demands for his money were the most erotically humiliating thing he had ever experienced.
I suppose it makes sense. Men who are into female domination are in a way handing over power and in the modern world, what is the source of power? Money. For him, not being able to control how much he paid me was as much a sexually exciting humiliation as is experienced by a slave tied to my dungeon cross not being able to control his hands.
The next time he comes, I intend to try the cash machine thing. Without any too obvious sign of public D/S play of course. Perhaps even meet him just for that, then tell him to go away, as I think the ‘rip-off’ element is also part of the humiliation. Maybe in time, I can get him to pay for nothing at all in return; that would seem to be the logical culmination of his weird fetish.
Have you ever encountered this fetish, dear Lady? Are many male submissives ‘into’ the idea of a purely financial form of domination, do you suppose? It would certainly make the life of a professional dominatrix a lot easier if they were!
Yours in dominance
Mistress R
Thank you for this fascinating account, Mistress R. I have to confess, it is a new fetish to me! Much as I would love to have a line of male pigs queuing up to give me cash then depart with nothing to show for it but my contemptuous laughter, I fear that this ‘financial domination’ you describe is unlikely to catch on! Even males aren’t that stupid and gullible, with the exception of course of your sweaty client. But who knows? G-L. L.
P.S. Any of you degenerate perverts who do get off on knowingly wasting money in a femdom context may want to consider buying one or more of the shoddy competitor magazines to Empress, especially those American ones with colour images of bored-looking porn actresses wearing latex and holding whips.
Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia
You may recall, a few months ago, you published a letter from me explaining how my initially playful disciplinary relationship with my Mistress-wife had become, in my mistaken view, oppressive. In particular, I foolishly complained about the participation of my mother-in-law in my wife’s efforts to make me a better husband. I would, in this letter, like to withdraw any implied criticism either of my beloved wife or her delightful mother and to apologise profusely to you, your readership and all of womankind for writing such ridiculous nonsense.
The publication of my letter had just one good effect, which was that it alerted my mother-in-law to my unfortunate misconceptions and thus provided her and my divine wife with the opportunity to correct them, for which I am profoundly grateful. I now realise how lucky I am not only to be married to a woman who is both willing and able to help keep me on the straight and narrow but also to benefit from the wisdom and strong right arm of her mother, under whose guidance my late father-in-law led a life of perfect fidelity and servitude.
I have many times reread the shockingly ungrateful sentiments I expressed in my previous letter and have found tears welling up in my eyes each time. No doubt I will again but I hope that with this follow-up letter, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I can at least reassure you and your readers that no man is entirely incorrigible, with enough determination.
In abject apology.
damien
You are not forgiven. No particular reason for that: although I often require males to apologise, profusely, I make it a policy never to accept those apologies. Nonetheless, I was pleased to read this account of your comeuppance; please convey to your wife and her mother my request that they place this page where you can read it while they each administer a 24-stroke caning on my behalf. I would greatly appreciate that kindness, if they would be so good. G-L. L.
Most sublime Goddess-Lady
Do you accept stories written by readers? I have some good ideas that I would love to send you.
Respectfully
Budding author
‘Accept’? Rarely. ‘Tolerate’ would be a better word. And I doubt you have ‘good’ ideas, being (I presume) male: ‘adequate’ is the best you can aspire to. All submitted material must conform to the Empress Submission Rules (not ‘Guidelines’: Rules) reproduced below. Most probably I will never even see your witless scrawlings: sub-editor slaves vet each submission and reject most of them as unworthy of my attention. However, I do encourage readers to submit stories: your lives are empty of meaning or purpose, so why not at least try to amuse me?
(Except ‘slave keith’, if you are reading this: your stories are entirely worthless, lacking originality or style, no doubt reflecting your personality, you tedious little man. Stop writing them, or at least just put them in your own rubbish bin rather than sending them to be thrown unread into mine, and save yourself the price of a postage stamp.)
G-L. L.
Empress magazine written submission Rules
- Empress magazine is a female domination publication; only material featuring female dominants and male slaves/submissives will be considered.
- The following themes are unacceptable: characters below the age of 18, female submission to males (mild lesbian D/S may be permitted as a minor element in a story featuring harsher treatment of males), male dominants (male ‘alpha’ characters may play a minor role in stories involving cuckoldry or forced homosexuality at the behest of a female dominant), fellatio (except as a forced homosexuality theme as noted above), males ‘winning’ in any way, mistreatment of cats, females engaged in housework (except very briefly, before turning the tables).
- The following themes are permitted but should be dealt with unexplicitly for compliance with UK obscenity laws: torture, murder, castration or other mutilation, consumption of faeces, bestiality (all applying to males, obviously no female character should experience any of these).
- Submissions must be typed, double-spaced on A4-sized paper. Stories featuring ‘schoolboy’ scenes must be accompanied by an identical hand-written copy.
- Check your work carefully for misprints and grammatical erors. Then check it again, you incompetent fool: you missed some the first time. Don’t just cross them out: write it out again.
- No correspondence or acknowledgement of submissions will be made. If you do not see your story printed in the magazine, it was rejected as being inadequate dross. Do not send follow-up letters asking for reasons for rejection: your story went in the bin, probably after reading the first few lines, no one remembers why or cares.
- Stories printed in the magazine will not be credited to the authors and the copyright rests with Empress magazine. Obviously there is no question of paying you.
- The Editrix reserves the right to edit stories freely, changing characters, plot or any other elements that particularly annoy her.
- Do not capitalise dominants’ pronouns, or print ‘I’ in lower case. If you are not sure what a pronoun is, or are unclear about the grammatical rules regarding capitalisation in English, do not write stories for submission to this (or any other) magazine.
- Do not enclose gifts or any other items in letters to the magazine. Goddess-Lady Lucia is prepared to accept gifts of cheques, only, made out to Leatherlust Publications Netherlands Ltd.
- On rare occasions, successful authors will be instructed, in a note below the printed story, to submit a follow-up or sequel. If so instructed, you will submit the required article within three months of the magazine publication date, adhering to the specific instructions given. Do not submit a different story when you have been given a direct order in this manner: if you do not see your sequel printed, write a new version and try to do it right this time.
* Absent for now but Andy who owns and runs Cruella is scanning the old issues of Cruella and Goddess, right back to issue 1. Yes – this is what I have been waiting for for years! Wonderful. He just needs to get the payment system sorted out… hope he does so soon. Yes, I know they were 1990s not 1980s but so what – it’s Cruella, not pop music! PS – if anyone actually succeeds in finding a way to pay Andy and downloading them, let me know and I’ll go and shower him with gold… or an online credit card payment anyway, which is better in many ways.
** Now those have already been scanned and made available, you just need to go here and email the guy. He charges less in 2024 £s than they cost in £s at the time, which is pretty good.
Spare the rod and spoil the marriage
Don’t worry: these ladies won’t.
… and as an extra, here’s a sweet little femdom video if you like that sort of thing.
Makes me shiver
Benevolent brutality
Classic Cruella, of course, featuring the stunning Lady Sonia and the lovely Lynda Leigh. And some bloke, probably with an ugly moustache, but who cares, eh?
Far and wide of the mark
Regular ‘readers’ of this blog who actually bother to look at the words, instead of just beating off to the pictures of pretty ladies looking stern, will realise that much of its ‘humour’ is inspired by the style of Gary Larson’s cartoon The Far Side.
Where ‘inspired’ in this context means “a pathetic and embarassing attempt to publish femdom porn in a manner that is spuriously justified”
This week’s ‘special’ (no, not your monthly ‘special’, you have to ask Mistress for that) is a collection of captions that are particularly blatant rip-offs of close homages to that style. Without, obviously, either (a) infringing anyone’s intellectual property rights or (b) being funny.
Enjoy. Or don’t. I get paid just as much either way.
Of a certain age
Once again, Servitor has spent an absurd and disproportionate* amount of time engaged in the pointless task of creating the letters section from a fictional version of those very British femdom magazines with which he mis-spent his young adulthood: Vixen and Mistress**. No, not Cruella. This was before Cruella. Yes: I am that old.
* But then I am an absurd person, with many body parts comically disproportionately sized and generally funny-looking.
** Available as pdfs at an absurdly low price from Swish Publications.
So, once again, from an alternative universe in about 1988 or so, I present: Empress magazine.
This one is a special edition, as I will grovellingly now beseech the Glorious Editrix, Goddess-Lady Lucia herself, to explain.
Right, male scum, pay attention! As promised in the last edition, this is a special ‘maternal domination’ issue of Empress (‘Dowager Empress’, perhaps?), for all you immature little mummy’s boys who crave the firm smack of domestic discipline. Infantilisation is not quite my thing – I find men to be quite infantile enough already – and any male who thinks I’m going to change his wet nappy is going to find himself running a half-marathon through the streets with the stinky thing glued over his head and his back a mess of whip-marks. However, Empress celebrates all forms of male subjugation, so I am handing the reins (and the whip) over to the most wonderful and inspirational woman in the world: my Mum, Lady Amelia. Goddess-Lady Lucia.
Thank you, Lu! Amy here, delighted to have this opportunity to contribute to my daughter’s wonderful magazine. I am so proud of what she has achieved: with no assistance from anyone else, she blackmailed the startup funding out of a businessman, enslaved several copy-editors then set up a weekly detention session for writers to produce what is now surely Britain’s leading magazine celebrating female dominance. She has always been a go-getter… I think she takes after her father in that regard. I’ll admit I’m not sure, as I barely knew him and mainly remember his cock and his remarkable sexual stamina. She certainly doesn’t take after my actual husband who I suppose was technically her step-father when she was growing up, the useless whining little wimp. But Lu was always special, why I remember when she brought her first boyfriend home. He was already sniffling in fear when dragged through the doorway on a leash, but then she took him upstairs and –
MUM?! You’re not here to embarrass me! Letters section? G-L. L.
Oh, very well, my dear. I expect you’re right. You usually are. Lady Amelia.
I’m always right, Mum. Ask any of my slaves. G-L. L.
Of course you are! Now then…. letters, was it? Let’s have some letters. L.A.
Dear Madame Editrix
I was delighted to see that you propose to devote an edition of your wonderful publication to maternal discipline. Some may regard this as ‘the softer side’ of female domination. I do not and nor – I can state with confidence – does my thoroughly subjugated husband. He has no one but himself to blame for his condition (and no one to thank for it but me – and he does thank me, daily) because soon after we were married he asked if we could incorporate some ‘sexy spanking’ into our lovemaking. Well, how could I say no? I hauled him across my lap and spent a thoroughly enjoyable ten minutes exercising my right arm.
When I finally released him, and after he had dried his tears and got his breath back, he explained that he preferred a light, playful spanking. So I grabbed him by the ear, dragged him over to the bed where I once more positioned him across my lap, took hold of a hairbrush from the bedside table (the palm of my hand feeling somewhat warm by then) and proceeded to turn his rosy arse purple, while explaining that I very strongly preferred it this way.
He asked the next day whether we could ‘discuss it’. So discuss it we did, in the same position and with the same hairbrush. That was, I think, the last time he challenged my right to spank him however I see fit and we have been married for over twenty years now.
I do not ‘baby’ him or provide maternal comfort. But I certainly treat him like the little boy he truly is. Quite apart for the spankings, which I mainly deliver by hand, my palms having hardened over the years, I employ corner time, written line punishments, early bedtimes and even occasionally castor oil to keep him fully conscious of his status within the family hierarchy. As time went on, I started to get more and more sexual satisfaction from the discipline too, so a hard spanking almost invariably finishes with his wet, tear-streaked face, pressed between my thighs as his tongue ‘finishes me off’. So in a way he got his ‘sexy spanking’ after all, didn’t he?
In sisterhood
Joanna
What a well-ordered family life, Joanna! Like you, I discovered that the ‘softer’ side of femdom can develop into something deliciously ‘hard’, even if my style of domination does not involve whips, leather boots, pony-carts and the like. Corner time, early bedtimes and written punishments make up an important part of his life, if ‘life’ is really the right word for such a miserable existence. Of course, he has much useful work to do as well, but when all the housework is done to my complete satisfaction, he sometimes has a few hours still available and I make sure to fill them with tedious and uncomfortable activity. If he’d wanted any ‘free time’ he shouldn’t have married me, after all. But he did, so that’s that. Amy, Lu’s Mum.
‘Lady Amelia’, Mum! You don’t want the absurd wankers who read this magazine getting too familiar! G-L. L.
Sorry darling! Lady Amelia.
Most Superior Editrix
I thought your readers might be interested in the account of a rather bizarre encounter I had recently. Having seen a card in a phone box promoting the services of ‘Matron Stern’, I nervously called, made an appointment and, a few days later, turned up in great trepidation at a nondescript house in a London suburb.
To my surprise and relief, the door was opened by a petite and pretty young brunette, who smilingly took my coat along with the envelope stuffed with fivers, while I removed my shoes. She asked me to confirm that I wanted ‘strict treatment’ from ‘Matron Stern’, as I had requested when I called and I readily agreed, betting that this young nymph’s idea of strictness was probably quite light. ‘This way’ she said and led me upstairs. ‘Mum’s in here’ she said, knocking on a door.
‘Mum’? But it was too late. The door was opened from inside the room and I beheld… Matron Stern. I could see something of the family resemblance, with the addition of at least one hundred pounds, powerful and course looking arms and an expression that indeed matched her professional name. Admittedly this was approximately what I had expected when I made the booking, if somewhat more fearsome, and I had no thought of trying to back out but I might perhaps have taken an involuntary step backward… before my ear was grabbed between a powerful thumb and forefinger and I was dragged, stopping, into the room. I heard a cheerful ‘Let me know if you need me, Mum’, as the door closed behind me… I certainly felt the need of some support!
After a remarkably painful spanking ‘to establish who was boss’ (although I had been in no doubt of that the moment I saw her), the medical ‘treatment’ began. I won’t describe all of the details but the enemas were particularly noteworthy, so I will concentrate on those.
I had noticed during the painful preliminaries the rubbery bags of different pastel shades, each with its tube hanging down, arranged neatly in a rack. Some of the bags were alarmingly large, so it was a relief when Matron Stern selected one of the smaller ones. Nonetheless, it was a startling experience. I had once been given an enema as a child, by a nurse at the local clinic, when I had a particularly bad bout of constipation. I remembered it as feeling weird but not necessarily unpleasant, as the warm water gently flowed into me. This was somewhat different. For one thing, the tube had a bulb at its head, which felt uncomfortably tight as she shoved it in – yet shoved it was. Second, the water was cold, stone cold and I gasped as it started to flow. Third, she lifted the bag high above me and furthermore, gave it a good squeeze, both of which caused the water to rush inside me much faster than the gently rising tide I recall from childhood. I cried out involuntarily at the feeling of immense and sudden fullness… followed by the simply impossible feeling of the water continuing to flow and fill me, when I would have sworn that my insides were full to bursting.
Eventually it stopped, the tube was jerked out and she curtly indicated a toilet in the corner of the examination room. I rushed to it gratefully and had just sat sown when I heard “Don’t you dare release without permission, or you’ll be for it!”
I could only gape in astonishment, as the foul brown liquid spurted out of me into the waiting bowl. I could no more have held it than I could hold back a waterfall! The smell was thoroughly unpleasant but not as unpleasant as the bath brush applied repeatedly to my thighs, for disobedience, once the nasty mess had been flushed away.
I was given the opportunity (or rather, I was compelled) to try again. Again, the cold water rushed in, again it seemed to continue far beyond my capacity and yet again all of the water went in… and this time I managed to ‘hold’ for perhaps two seconds after getting onto the toilet, before once again a splashing rush betrayed my blatant disobedience. At least this time there was hardly any smell… but the spanking was worse, this time extended to the insides as well as the reddened backs of my thighs.
‘Would you like some help holding it in next time?’ she asked, curtly? Looking at the bath brush in her powerful hand, I could only nod yes, although I’ll confess to being dismayed by the ‘next time’. However, help was welcome as I clearly had no chance of obeying a command to hold it in – especially when, for the third attempt, she selected a rather larger bag than before. However, despite the larger volume this time did not feel quite so bad – whether because I was psychologically getting used to it or because my insides were stretching! I caught sight of myself in the mirror: on her examination table on knees and elbows, smacked arse and red-raw thighs held up high and a tube snaking up to where the bad was discharging its contents. It seemed impossible to imagine that less than an hour before, I had been an ordinary man in a suit, ordering a coffee in a local café while waiting to present myself for this bizarre appointment.
I wondered how she was planning to ‘help’ when, for the third time, the tube was jerked away – but this time, almost immediately, something else was shoved in. Another bulbous object, about the same diameter as the tube-head. At first. Then I saw her making pumping actions with her hand and to my horror I felt it expanding inexorably inside my anus. I realised there was another bulb just outside my exit and that was inflating too. Just when it seemed I might burst inside, she stopped and something was detached, leaving me firmly plugged, inside and out.
I expect most readers have experienced a desperate need for the toilet. This felt ten times worse. The plug, although physically preventing any evacuation, did nothing to diminish the urge. Bent forwards there on the table, I was just beginning to wonder whether I should beg her to remove it when I was commanded to stand up and I discovered that the pressure feels even worse when the blocked exit is facing down, with all the weight of that liquid pressing down on it. For some reason, I couldn’t stand straight, I crouched before her with legs bent, gasping.
‘Please, please Matron Stern…’ I stammered, to be cut off with a hard slap to the face. ‘It’s not me you have to ask’, she informed me. ‘Go and ask Natalie’.
It is an indication of how hopelessly befuddled I was that I had no idea who she meant. But she indicated the door with a finger and I understood that – humiliatingly – I was going to have to ask the pretty young lady downstairs for permission to evacuate my distended bowels. I was fitted with a nappy – because, as she said Natalie was ‘not going to want to see that nasty little thing’ and also to prevent leaks, then the door was opened and I staggered slowly downstairs, feeling like I had a ten gallon sack sloshing around inside me. She was reading a book, on a couch in the living room, and did not even look up as I made my way painfully over to her.
‘Please, Natalie, I’m to ask you…’ I began.
‘Miss Natalie’ she said off-handedly, not even looking up.
‘Please Miss Natalie’ I tried again, ‘could I please have your permission to go to the toilet?’
‘Number one or number two?’
‘Er… number 2, Miss. I’ve been given an enema.’
She finally looked up, took in the shambolic sight in front of her apparently without the least surprise and frowned (she was pretty even when frowning).
‘Can’t you just fill your nappy?’.
I explained about the plug and she just nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. She pursed her lips, and I found myself praying desperately that this young lady who had so much power over me would exercise it mercifully.
‘Well… I don’t see why not’ she said after an agonisingly long wait. ‘But make me and Mum a cup of tea, first’ – and she indicated the kitchen I had passed when entering (when I was still an adult human being, with a modicum of self respect).
Making the teas was a torture, especially when I realised I had not yet asked how they each took it and had to stagger back to ask (both milky, sweeteners for Miss Natalie, one sugar for her Matron Mum). Once Natalie had received and doubtfully approved the tea, she asked, innocently ‘Now… what was it you wanted, again?’
Unable at this point to stop the tears, I gushingly pleased with her for permission to use the toilet and, with a dainty sigh, this request was granted. ‘But make sure you tell Mum that you didn’t call me Miss’. I staggered back upstairs and delivered this news, along with the welcome permission to defecate.
There were no more delays, thank God (or rather, thank Matron Stern). I was soon sitting on the toilet, atop a jet of liquid… I would not have been surprised if I had been propelled upwards like a rocket, so powerful was the blast. Then it was time to discover that not calling her daughter ‘Miss’ (only once!) was the worst sin I had committed so far, deserving of a caning. Thankfully, we must have been out of time, as after ten hard strokes, I was allowed to drag myself into the shower, then get dressed again and my medical examination was over.
Downstairs, Natalie was waiting with my coat and – once again – her lovely smile. She offered to call a taxi, but I simply needed to stagger out back into the real world. I don’t know whether I was still supposed to call her ‘Miss’ or not, but it seemed prudent to do so, so I was very polite.
After all, I might go back for another dose, some day.
Yours sincerely
The English Patient
I have always been vaguely intrigued by weirdos like you who will pay to be mistreated. I have occasionally considered trying it, but I suspect the reality involves pandering to male fantasy, rather than simply indulging my more vicious instincts and also being paid for it. Also, I don’t own any ridiculous rubber clothing and have no desire to promote my services on the insides of telephone boxes. Fortunately, my husband has always provided very well for me and darling Lu, financially, if in no other way at all – indeed, he would hardly dare do otherwise. It is regrettable that you retain a choice as to whether to return to the tender mercies of ‘Matron Stern’ and her daughter, but I trust that if you do so you will pay them well. L. A.
Most Superior Lady
The Lady whose house I live in, whose husband I am, has instructed me to write to You as She thought You and Your readers might find an aspect of my subjugation amusing.
She was always the dominant partner in our relationship and soon after we got married, I was put most firmly in my place. Today I am Hers to command or ignore in all respects, having long ago had any insubordination beaten out of me and self-respect removed. There are many rules that must be followed in Her household but one is very simple: everything belongs to Her and must be referred to that way.
Thus, I clean Her floors, in Her house. I take Her clothes, to Her utility room, where I put some in Her washing machine, while handwashing the delicates on my knees on Her floor. In the evenings, after I put Her dinner on Her table and draw Her curtains over Her windows, I might put Her television on, if so instructed, or perhaps play some music on Her record player.
Although I am properly to consider myself Her property, however, She does not like me to refer to parts of my body or anything I wear as being Hers. She considers that demeaning. Thus it is my penis that is firmly locked inside my chastity belt, my knees and hands that hurt as I enter the third hour removing moss from between the flagstones of her garden path and of course my bottom that is soundly thrashed with one of her many implements of punition, with my skirt raised and my panties down.
There is of course one other area where ownership is entirely my own: faults. My mistakes, my laziness, my incompetence and my stupidity. These things are all my very own, as is the pain, discomfort and pleadings that inevitably follows.
My life, as the phrase has it – and welcome to it.
Sincerely Hers
Ladysboy
Nonsense, I don’t believe a word of it. Is this the sort of rubbish you are accustomed to receiving from the nasty little perverts who buy your magazine, Lu? Dear me. Still, I suppose it helps fill up the pages and they’ll buy it anyway, if it has pictures of ladies looking stern to help them get their little peepees hard. Try to write more coherently next time, ‘Ladysboy’ and perhaps drop the ridiculous capitalisation (you will have noticed that although I allowed the capitalisation of She and Her to be printed as you had written them, on this occasion, I could not bring myself to allow ‘i’ to be published). Oh – and should your name not contain an apostrophe? Better yet: don’t write at all. L.A.
Most respected Lady
I am writing to express my humble and deep admiration for the photo-story Traditional Values. This has been by far my favourite item you have ever published, as the account of poor young Alasdair’s fate at the hands of his strict aunts was so utterly unrelieved by images of sexy young ladies to compensate for his suffering with pleasurable thoughts. Instead, Alasdair must fetch and carry, scrub and scour, wash and iron – oh, and spend hours in the schoolroom as well – all under the eyes of two such pitiless old battleaxes.
Such relentless supervision! How I felt for poor Alasdair as he staggered downstairs to the laundry room with yet another double armful of incomprehensibly complicated old ladies’ undergarments! And when his big plans for his monthly Sunday afternoon ‘off’ were scuppered with an extra detention. It was not specified what the line was that the poor lad had to write but I like to imagine it was something like “Had I behaved better over this past month, I would be enjoying an afternoon off but instead I must sit here writing this line.” Or perhaps “I am most grateful to my aunts for the opportunity to learn self-control and discipline, rather than wasting an afternoon gadding about in the sunshine.”
I have little doubt that I myself would very quickly find a life under such domestic tyranny to be unbearable, but as a fantasy it exerts a strange fascination on my soul. I very much hope we will be able to read more about Alasdair’s travails and perhaps other accounts of young men being brought to book by stern, older females.
Boy, 47
You seem thoroughly confused, ‘boy’, which is no doubt a consequence of a thorough lack of the discipline you half-heartedly crave. Your letter speaks of humility and respect for females but you obviously regard ‘images of sexy young ladies’ as an opportunity for pleasure while describing their older kin as ‘battleaxes’. Well, boy, as a ‘battleaxe’ myself I can assure you that neither sexiness nor the act of sex itself ceases at any arbitrary threshold of age. I still enjoy a very active sex life with my husband, albeit one entirely focused on my sexual needs. I take a little longer than I used to, but with him tightly restrained on his knees between my legs, there is no hurry and I make use of a whip to ensure he maintains a steady pace with his tongue for as long as is required. So much better a use for that body part than speaking, a privilege he is rarely accorded these days. As for the difference between fantasy and reality, you are probably correct that you would find such an arrangement unbearable, but I have little doubt that you could easily enough be forced to ‘bear it’ nonetheless.
Should you ever send another letter to this magazine, it must be accompanied by 300 hand-written lines reading “I apologise profusely to the Editrices and readers of Empress magazine for my first letter, which I recognise was published only to make me ashamed to see my witless drivel in print. There is little to no chance this follow-up will be published, so in writing it and these lines I am merely wasting my time and making myself ridiculous.” L.A.
Most severe and magnificent Mistress
I am humbly writing to inform you of the ritual I follow when paying due obeisance to Your divine image, each time a new edition of Empress is published. I make sure I have an evening with no distractions, prepare myself with a tub of Vaseline and then I –
Oh no, I don’t think so. That’s quite enough from you, ‘acolyte’. Some things are best kept private, don’t you think? Or abandoned altogether in favour of healthier pursuits. L. A.
Dear Madame Editrix
Maternal domination may be the softer side of female domination but for my husband it is anything but! Having inherited a comfortable fortune, my husband Geoff was something of a playboy when we married. Alas for him, I soon got wind of his ‘playing away’ and, rather than divorce him, concocted a scheme with my mother to keep him from straying or indeed bothering me at all. He lives in an attic in her secluded house, thoroughly babified and without any contact with the outside world except occasionally to receive cheques or sign authorisations relating to the finances. We put it about that he is ill, poor dear.
He has had a rather dull life. Mum thinks that young men should not be over-stimulated, so with his hands permanently fastened in soft pink mittens, his arms and legs restrained, his mouth gagged with a tube that permits feeding him liquids and mush and of course, thick nappies, he can do little more than wriggle, and look around his room, which is almost entirely pink and features images of ducklings, bunnies and the like for his sole intellectual stimulation.
He made a bit of ineffectual fuss at first, as you might imagine, but Mum is strong and very determined and she put a stop to that. He is spanked once a week and gets the cane once a month, to keep him aware of who is boss, plus of course additional punishment if he ever manages to do anything naughty, although frankly he has very little opportunity to do so.
However much Geoff may have disliked his new life, however, it recently took a turn for the much, much worse. Mum occasionally goes out and, if she is planning to be out for a whole evening, Geoff needs a babysitter. Of course, he is safe enough upstairs and is often left trussed up for days with a nice big nappy firmly sealed inside tightly stretched rubber pants, a feeding tube and absolutely nothing to do except regret his miserable existence. Nonetheless, someone really ought to be around in case something happens, so I used to pop around and sit downstairs watching TV with a glass of wine, while Mum was out enjoying herself and Geoff was upstairs being miserable.
I say ‘used to’ because Mum found another babysitter when I was recently on holiday for a few weeks (sun, sea, sand and Sangria – and no question of taking Geoff, of course!). I returned to discover that Mum had found a nineteen year-old name of Rachel and was very happy with her. Of course, I panicked and immediately started quizzing her about whether Rachel could really be trusted to keep Geoff under strict control – what is she loosened his gag and was somehow persuaded to release him? Mum just laughed and said that should be the least of our worries – and that Rachel was coming around that evening and I’d see for myself.
Rachel turned out to be a slight and rather shy little thing with a blonde bob cut. I have to say, on meeting her, I felt that my fears were justified. However, when we all went upstairs to where my dear husband was (of necessity) waiting, something happened to make me change my mind. Mum and I walked in first and as usual were greeted with the half pleading half apprehensive look from the neatly-bound package in the cot. But when Rachel walked in behind us, he began thrashing violently (if completely ineffectually) in his bonds and squealing plaintively into his gag. His eyes were wide open in what I can only describe as terror and he was sweating and shaking in fear.
You see, sweet little Rachel turned out to be something of a sadist. Now, I am perfectly happy to see my husband in pain when need be and I think Mum rather enjoys whacking him… but Rachel’s interest in pain goes well beyond that. Let loose on my husband during my holiday, she had with Mum’s blessing amused herself with Mum’s cane, she applied bulldog clips to his ears, nipples and armpits (she had apparently been reluctant to open his nappy for access to his genitals) and she rubbed chilli powder up his nose and into his eyes. I suppose Geoff had assumed that the hours of agony he had spent with her had been a one off, so his horrified reaction was understandable. Assuring her that this time all was clean and dry inside his nappy, so she could play down there as well, Mum and I went back downstairs, to the accompaniment of stifled but obviously agonised shrieks.
And so I hope Geoff has come to appreciate his treatment by Mum and me. After all, for about 28 days most months, he is not under Rachel’s tender care, which must make him very happy, because the times she is there are hell on earth for him. It is lovely to see his reaction when an evening with sweet Rachel is in store. Just this morning, I had a call from a friend suggesting a ‘girls’ night out’ next Thursday, which is Mum’s regular bridge night with her sister. I had to say I’d need to check I could get a babysitter, but alas Rachel wasn’t answering her phone so he spent the whole day not knowing whether he’ll be spending Thursday evening screaming or not. Fortunately, when I finally got through to her, she said she’d be delighted, so that’s settled. Such a relief to have a reliable babysitter!
In blissful supremacy
Irene
Dear me, it does sound as if young Rachel is going through a bit of a ‘phase’, as young ladies will. I remember being thoroughly worried when I found a cigarette lighter in my darling Lu’s room and confronted her about the evils of smoking – only to be laughingly shown the homemade branding irons she had cunningly fashioned out of paper clips stuck into corks, the clever thing. Just in case I had any lingering suspicions (which I did not, as I raised an honest girl), she showed me the little squirls she’d burnt into the flesh of whatever useless rag of a male she was seeing at the time. She was never a babysitter, though, which is just as well, as I think it wouldn’t have suited her. But in any case, she had plenty of money because she was blackmailing her head teacher. I remember this one time, she –
Thanks Mum, that was brilliant! Let’s just leave it there! G-L. L.
Oh, is that enough, dear? It felt like I’d hardly got started. I was just about to tell the readers how you used to –
No, no: quite enough, thanks Mum. The filthy little perverts who buy the magazine don’t deserve any more of our attention. Now they have to wait another month. G-L. L.
Very well dear. Thank you so much for letting me contribute, I’d often wondered what you get up to here. And to you filthy perverts: no masturbating, now! I will know. We always do. L. A.
Imperial leather
More captions from a bygone age. Several bygone ages. But all featuring enchanting unfairness from the fairer sex.
Soothing lullabies
Some nursery rhymes to help you relax and go to sleep. Everything will be fine.
Oh, you didn’t realise that I wrote poetry?
Serving her right
The divine Lexi Sindel there, along with some of her property.
