A decade of decadence

This blog started on January 26 2011.  So it has been almost ten years… and here’s me, with so much ironing still to do.

Nonetheless, it’s true: this blog has been wasting everyone’s time (well… the time of an infinitesimal fraction of the human race) since that long-ago date, with a post titled “Why are we here?”, the answer to which remains obscure 1318 posts later.

I hadn’t originally expected to focus on captioned images.  A couple of years before, I had visited a domme for the first time; a lady who was to be the only domme I visited for the next three years.  She has now retired and has a vanilla profession so I will say nothing to identify her.  At the end of my first – wonderful, life-changing – session she instructed me to write an account of the session, for her web site, which I did and I was immensely proud when she published it.  It became a habit, and after a while I also started writing short fiction stories to send her.  I think she did genuinely like most of them.

Anyway, I set up the web site to publish those stories, along with any random wittering that might occur to me.  I did put up most of them – if you are interested, the easiest way to see them is to download the pdf collections using the ‘Servitor’s femdom stories’ links to the right, there.  My wonderful Lady and her lesbian partner feature in them too, under the pseudonyms of Valerie and Sandra.  This one perhaps gives the most lifelike impression of her: Take me to your Mistress.  But this is my favourite, because of the way it shows the relationship between the two of them: The elves and the dominatrices.    

I very soon started producing captioned images as well as stories and… now I’ve published just over 5000 such images, horrifyingly enough.  I do occasionally still write stories, but more often when something appears as a story on this blog it’s just a caption that became unfeasibly long.  I have over 2000 unpublished captioned images and I produce anything up to another 100 each month, so it’s not stopping any time soon.

So… a great deal of drivel has been produced – and more of it to come.  I’m going to put up some of my favourite drivel over the next few days.  

We’ll begin with some of the silliest.  I get the impression that the silly ones that make me giggle aren’t the most popular.  I don’t mind.  I like silly.  I love to behave in a foolish manner in session and get slapped for it.  Let’s get the silliest over with, then it’ll get more sensible as we move towards the actual deciversary (deci-anniversary?).



I love this one.  Not just because of the latex-clad lovelies, although they help a lot, it’s true.



Lovely Lexi Sindel.

kind of writing is obviously inspired by the Far Side.  I do that a
lot.  I realise it’s nothing like as funny as the Far Side – and incomparably more
perverted – but inspired from there nonetheless.

See? Again: like Gary Larson but with added obscenity and subtracted wit.

I’ve always liked this one.  Sadly, neither of the UK’s two new aircraft carriers will be called HMS Cindy, although I did hear that former President Trump frantically tried to name one of the new US super-carriers the USS Svetlana, for reasons presumably known only to him and the Russian intelligence services.

Very Far Side.  Plus testicles.

What a lovely smile.  Two lovely smiles.

Sorry about that…couldn’t resist.

‘Oops’ has to be right up there near the top of the list of ‘words you don’t want to hear in session’ . ‘Tarantula’ would be above it, for me anyway.

Would probably have been included in Rule 18 if I’d been doing that back when I made this.

Ooh… edgy.  Self-referential and self-loathing too!

I quite like mocking session conventions (see Advice to a Novice etc…). 
This caption might have run away from me a bit, but I just love the
idea that a bit of strict schoolmistress play has turned into a
discussion of the annealing process for glass, because of some random
stuff she wrote on the blackboard.

Grrr!  Picture from the heyday of Cruella, there.  More of those to come.

Could have been any of them.

And, of course…


The Princess and the penis

Once upon a time there was a Prince who was handsome, witty,
kind and clever. He was heir to a prosperous Kingdom, where the people were
happy and peaceful.  The King and Queen
owned many palaces, all of them gleaming with marble, with cellars full
of gold and silver, with jewels beyond count. Truly, the Prince was the
luckiest man alive except for one thing: he had a laughably small penis.
When he was born, the court physician had
noticed how tiny the royal todger appeared to be even for a baby.  But he reassured the King and Queen that all
would be well, when the Prince hit puberty. 
Yet puberty came and went, and by the time he was 20, the Prince still
had a cock little larger than he had when he was a baby, although now it stood
up stiffly like a drawing pin whenever the Prince got excited – which was often.
The heir to a Kingdom needs an heir of his own, so the King
and Queen were anxious to marry their only son off as early as possible.  Beautiful princesses came from lands far and
near, but all had heard about the Prince’s little problem and all wanted to see
it before becoming betrothed.  Soon
enough, peals of girlish royal laughter would ring out through the palace, and
the courtiers would hang their heads in despair, as yet another royal carriage
rattled hastily away out of the palace gates, bearing a still-giggly princess
in the back.

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

What were they to do? 
As word spread of the Prince’s embarrassing condition, the Kingdom
became known as ‘the Kingdom of the Prince with the laughably small penis’.  From the lowliest beggar to the mightiest
baron, all of the real men in the Kingdom, sporting perfectly adequate tackle,
found that they were thought by foreigners to have nothing worth speaking of
between their legs – and the women of the Kingdom had to fend off foreign men
eager to give them the pork stuffing that they were assumed to be lacking.
But the years went by, and the King and Queen despaired of
ever finding a beautiful Princess to whom they could wed their darling son,
with his dainty dangling ding-dong.
Then one day, a carriage drew up in the courtyard with a
clattering and a rattling that roused the whole palace. This was unusual in
itself, since it had been years since any princesses visited.  More unusual still, the driver and footmen –
footpeople – on the carriage were all women. 
Usually, princesses were accompanied by handsome young men, who would
sit making gestures towards their ample, bulging trouser treasure, while the Princess
was inside trying to control her laughter. Yet this carriage was accompanied
only by tall, rather serious-looking women.

One got down and opened the door, shouting out “Her Highness
the Crown Princess of Femlandia!”.  And
down from the carriage emerged a young lady of rare beauty and still rarer
richness of garment, whose countenance was sterner still than those of her
minionettes.  She looked around her, with
a bored and faintly contemptuous expression.
“Where’s little dick, then?” she enquired of no one in
“Erm… our son prefers to go by his given name of Richard”
puffed the King, who had come running out of the palace to greet his guest.
“Where’s little dick Richard, then?” the Princess asked,
fixing his watery blue eyes with a level stare from her pools of steel grey.
“Er… well, there…” the King began, pointing feebly towards
the South Eastern tower of the palace, but the Princess and several of her
entourage had already swept off and were entering the building.
In his room, Prince Richard was sitting quietly in the
gloom, feeling sad and useless, as he often did.  Had it been 700 years later, he would
probably have been wanking around to no purpose on the Internet, but in those
benighted days there was nothing better to do when wasting time than watch the
dust-motes dancing in sunbeams, so this was what he was doing.
There was a peremptory knock and the Princess swept in,
accompanied by two tall blonde courtiers, dressed in military regalia and
sporting swords.
“Who… who are you?” stammered Prince Richard, which was odd
because he had not previously had a speech impediment of any kind.
“Princess Valerie of Femlandia” came the curt response.
“Here to inspect the goods.  Trousers
“Er… Princess, you realise… of course… that I don’t really
have much to – “ began Richard, wondering where on earth that stammer had come
“Not something that really bothers me, to be honest”, the Princess
replied, smiling slightly at one of the female soldiers at her side, who
blushed and returned the smile more fully.
“But it’s as well to see what I’m getting. Trousers down –
or my guards here will take them down for you.”
The Prince reluctantly did as he was bidden, and stood
there, his legs illuminated by a sunbeam. There was silence in the room, which
was eventually broken by the Princess.
“And the pants”, she snapped.  “Obviously. 
The Prince hurriedly lowered his pants as well.
As it was dark in the room all three women leant forward for
a closer look and at almost exactly the same time, both of the female soldiers
burst out laughing.
“Oh shush!” the Princess tutted, but smiled herself and was
obviously not really cross with the two blonde warriors, who stifled their
giggles and brought themselves to a semblance of attention.
“Better” nodded the Princess, patting one of them gently on
the bottom, and stepped forward, bringing out a magnifying glass that she had
thoughtfully provided for herself, and examined the matter at hand more
“Hmmm” she said, then spoke no more for several
She reached out and roughly grabbed the Prince’s hair, jerking
his head forward so that he was staring directly at her milky and ample (but
not excessive) bosom.  Then she let go,
and continued her magnified examination. 
The Princely prick had become erect and had doubled in size to almost
nothing at all.
“Hmmm” she said again and then sighed.
“Pretty much as expected, I suppose.”
“But… but you’re not laughing?” prompted the Prince.
Princess Valerie shook her head decisively.
“Don’t have much of a sense of humour, really.  Everyone says so.  Especially where men are concerned” and an
expression of contempt came over her face, and her hand involuntarily jerked
slightly, as if flicking a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a riding whip.
She clasped both hands behind her back and stared straight
into the Prince’s face.
“Would you like it to be… bigger?  To feel like there’s more down there?”
“Oh… oh yes, Princess”, stammered the Prince wondering if he
had somehow been cursed to repeat the first word of every sentence he spoke for
the rest of his life.
The Princess smiled a mirthless smile. 
“I can fix things so you have more down there than you even
want. That you’ll be wishing for it to be smaller… would you like me to do that?”
“Oh, oh yes please Princess Valerie”, the Prince replied.  “I’d like that more than anything in the
world. I’d do anything.”
“Good” the Princess, said. 
“Marry me.”
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia, obviously”
she added.
“The, erm.. traditional customs of Femlandia?” the Prince
quavered. “I’ve heard those are, well, that they’re… rather strict.  To men, anyway.”
“Strict enough.” nodded the Princess.  “Men deserve it, I find.  Look: do you want an inconveniently large
cock or not?  Also – and I might not have
mentioned this – when we rule here together, your penis will be the largest in
the palace.  Would you like that, too?”
“Yes – oh yes, Princess, please” implored the Prince.  “Are you going to going to perform a magic
“It’s more in the nature of a magical ring” replied the Princess,
holding her hand out for a shiny metal object that one of her guards handed
“Legs apart”
She busied herself with the device, while the Prince gasped
at the touch of cold metal and instantly felt his prick soften back to its
previous (almost microscopic) size.
“Is it a magical ring from your own country of Femlandia?”,
he enquired, trying not to wince as he felt sharp pains and a weight as from a
thick band of iron tugging at his nonentity.
“Not exactly”, the Princess replied, working away with an
allen key (she was a well-equipped Princess, as befitted someone who was the
tyrannical honorary leader of the boy scouts movement of Femlandia). “You might
say it’s from the far-off fabled land of Hind. 
It’s called a Kali’s Teeth bracelet. 
There – it’s done.”
She stood back up and gazed down at her handiwork. The Prince’s
little disappointment was almost entirely invisible for real this time, swathed
as it was in a thick band of iron, studded with… well, studs.  The weight of it pulled down uncomfortably,
but it was not as uncomfortable as the sharp pins digging into the tender
“Errr” the price started, but his hair was grabbed roughly
once more and his face jerked forwards, this time actually being pressed down
into the Princess’s own warm, soft bosom. 
One of the guards looked slightly offended, but stared straight ahead.
Inevitably things started to grow as the Prince felt a surge
of excitement and then – a sharp, stabbing pain in his tenderest parts!  And another! 
And another! As the Princess rubbed his face across her bosom, his nose
pressing down deep into her cleavage, the Prince felt as if every nerve in his
stiffening member was screaming the same song of agony.
A shriek came out of his mouth and he collapsed to the
“Make it stop!  Oh
please, please make it stop!” he gasped,
The Princess kneeled down beside him.
“It’ll stop when you’re smaller again” she murmured.
“Oh!” moaned the Prince, in torment “Oh how I wish my penis
were smaller””
“It will be,” nodded the Princess, standing back up.

A few minutes later the Prince stood before her again,
panting slightly and brushing the tears from his cheeks.
“See?” the Princess enquired, brightly.  “You wished for it to be smaller.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking” the Prince grumbled, feeling
that something was not quite right.
“So now you marry me” added the Princess.
The Prince drew himself up to his full height and spoke with
as much dignity as is possible, with a tear-stained face and a heavy spiked
ring fastened to your genitals.
“Certainly not.” he sniffed. “It was a trick.”
The Princess sighed and nodded to one of her guards, who
saluted and left the chamber, closing the door behind her.  The tall blonde soldier stood outside for
fifteen minutes, as various strange sounds – thuds, and cracks and moans and
cries – emanated from within, but stood fast, preventing any of the curious
courtiers from gaining access to find out what was going on.
Eventually the door was flung open and the second guard
announced “Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia and her Prince
Out strode Princess Valerie, accompanied by a shuffling,
shambling Prince Richard.
The King and Queen looked up in shock from the bottom of the
“Betrothed.” Princess Valerie informed them, smugly.
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia”
“I can see that” muttered the King, as the Prince raised his
head slightly to expose a heavy iron collar, with a chain sneaking off towards
the Princess’s left hand. “I’ve heard about those traditions of yours.”
“Richard!” the Queen called up sharply.  “Do you consent to this?”
The Prince consort-to-be glanced at his fiancée, who nodded
“Yes mama”, he replied, dejectedly.  “I made a deal.  She… did something that made me, well, made
me uncomfortably large. You know.  Down there.
“I can see that,
too!” exclaimed the King, as a heavy cylindrical object distorted the line of
the Prince’s trousers. “Wow!”
“Well, my boy, we must begin the celebrations
immediately!  Let the word go out to all
four quarters of the Kingdom that the lovely Princess, er… the lovely Princess..?”
But the lovely Princess and her followers – a word that now
includes young Richard – were heading to her coach.  The Princess climbed straight in, leaving
Richard to be secured to the side by his collar.
“Goodbye dearest mother-to-be!” she called out. “And you,
too”, she added with a look of disgust at the King.
“But, but… you will return, will you not?” the King gasped.
“Of course!” she called out, drawing her head back inside
the coach and giving the signal to move off. 
The horses started to turn the carriage around, and Richard jogged
around with it.
“But when?” both
parents wailed, at exactly the same time.
“When you’re DEAD, obviously!” came the cry from within, and
the whips cracked over the horses (accidentally catching Richard a nasty cut
across the shoulder) and the carriage lurched out of the courtyard, the heir to
the Kingdom desperately galloping alongside.

Several years passed. The King and Queen grew old before their
time, worn down by the cares their inadequately-equipped son had brought
them.  Rich men, well aware of what
Femlandian rule would bring, paid for the finest medical experts to come and
treat them, but in a few years the Queen had died of sorrow and the King was on
his deathbed.
Some attempts had been made to prepare the Kingdom for
Femlandian rule. There was a woman prime minister (but she wasn’t very good,
being neither strong nor stable) and many businesses had been made over to
female ownership. In schools, girls were educated in sciences and business,
while boys were taught needlework, cooking and how to simper attractively. 
Nonetheless, all men knew that the rule of Empress Valerie
the Vicious and Cruel of Femlandia would bring an end to the fair and happy
land they had known all their lives.  The
stories coming out of the Empire were too alarming not to take seriously, and
after all, men told one another, any empress who chose for herself the moniker ‘the vicious and cruel’ was probably no
But despite the best efforts of his physicians, the King
wasted and died. And a few days later, the armies of Femlandia invaded,
receiving the surrender of the local militia forces with little mercy, much
brutality and a moderate amount of violent sexual abuse.
The same carriage swept back into the same courtyard, now
decorated with the brutal red, white and black symbol of Her Imperial Highness,
Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel, Oppressor of the Western Isles, Scourge
of the Northern Wastes and Terror of the Eastern Deserts, to give her her full
title.  And trotting along at the side of
the carriage, the Prince Consort: older, considerably more scarred and with Her Imperial sigil burned proudly into his flesh – but still recognisably Prince

Branding can be tricky but even an Empress will always prefer to do it herself, for that personal touch.
The Empress descended again and gazed around her with fierce
“I made you one other promise, maggot!” she called to her
long-suffering (oh, but she’d barely started) husband.  “Do you recall?”
He looked confused, and shook his head sorrowfully.
Empress Valerie laughed.
Do you recall her
promise, reader? Not merely that he would have a penis that was uncomfortably
large. That he acquired the very day he met his wife-to-be, and had
still, as the bracelet of the Goddess Kali had not left his flesh since that
fateful day.
No, the Princess had
also promised that when she and her blushing bridegroom finally reigned
together (in a manner of speaking) that he would have the largest penis in the
palace.  Do you remember that now,
dear reader? Because there will be a test. 
And consequences.
And the Empress, as she now was, always kept her
promises.  When she wanted to, anyway.
“Lock the palace gates” the Empress called.  “And summon the Imperial Gelding Squadron”.
She looked around the courtyard, at the men standing, or kneeling… mute, anxious, frightened.  She smiled, in satisfaction.
“They have work to do.”
And they all lived happi… well, not all of them, obviously,
but some of them were happy, I
suppose, some of the women anyway, and, look, She certainly lived very, very Happily Ever After, OK?  And that is what matters.
The End.

It’s ages since I wrote a story this long.  I don’t know if it’s just age or the Internet destroying attention span but I used to write lots of stories.  I find that I can only sustain interest for bite-sized captions and vignettes, these days.  Where was I… attention span… oh yes!  So anyway, writing stories is actually how I started.  My very first ever visit to a domme (was wonderful, utterly wonderful) and at the end of it, She commanded me to write up my session to publish on Her web site.  I did and She did and it’s still there, and I took to writing more things for her and Her friend.  Usually stories about them.
 Some of these old stories can be found by clicking on ‘Mistress Valerie’ in the word cloud there (although the first one that comes up, abput Christmas, doesn’t really work, I think).  They concern Mistress ‘Valerie’ and Her friend ‘Sandra’ , which are not quite their real names.  But Mistress Herself has now semi-retired, or at any rate developed a vanilla business so She wants a low web profile.

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

Bah, humbug

Mistress Valerie stars in a Christmas Movie

We begin by meeting Edmund Scrooge, a brash,
charmless, sexist 30-something yuppie in charge of a team of female office
workers.  We see him throwing his weight
around, making sexist comments and denying them any time off at Christmas
(“Unless you want to come round and cook my turkey, girls!”). 
Off he goes, bragging loudly on his mobile
about (quite imaginary) sexual conquests at work, before going down the pub
with his equally obnoxious mates to try out cheesy chat-up lines on
uninterested women.  He returns
(unsuccessful, of course, and drunk) to his bachelor pad, watches a porn video
and has a wank, before crashing out on the couch.

But this Christmas is different.  The ghost of his old drinking partner Joseph
Marley appears in the bachelor pad in the middle of the night, and what a
change from when Scrooge knew him!  He
clanks as he moves; heavy steel chains connecting shackles around his wrists
to the heavy steel collar around his neck, and trailing down from a heavy belt
around his waist to steel shackles around his ankles.  As he shambles forward we see a chastity belt
clamped firmly on his genitals and above his well-striped buttocks we see a
tattoo reading “Property of Mistress Valerie. 
Not to be removed without 
Marley has learnt
from Mistress Valerie the errors of his male chauvinist past – and he is here
with an awful warning for Scrooge to mend his ways!  Three spirits will help him in this task.

We begin with Mistress Valerie of Christmas past.  We see Scrooge, as the adult he is today but
in his childhood clothes, opening his presents on Christmas morning.  He has many but is dissatisfied and complains,
as each gift fails to meet his expectations. 
But then his weary parents fade from view, and Governess Valerie
appears: to show him what might have been had his upbringing been
stricter.  Each present is wrapped again,
and the tawse applied to his hands each time. 
He unwraps each again in turn,, with appropriately polite cries of
delight – and rewrapping each again for a dose of the tawse if  Governess Valerie deems his response too
churlish.  So it goes through the
day.  He gets the strap for not eating up
his sprouts, his knuckles are repeatedly rapped for cheating at Monopoly and
eventually Governess Valerie has had enough and administers a vigorous caning
before the boy is sent to bed.  Back in
the present day …Scrooge wakes up howling on the couch, his hands feel his bottom
incredulously, and he makes his way painfully to work.

The next night, it is the turn of Mistress Valerie of
Christmas present.  Here we see Scrooge
in the only place he is fit to encounter a lady: tied to the cross in Mistress Valerie’s
dungeon.  She enters, a classic
dominatrix, dressed in PVC.  She
introduces him to all of the modern techniques of punishment: electro play,
bondage and suspension, nipple clamps and flogging.  He is forced to lick clean Her boots, is tied
to act as an ashtray and is fed dog food. 
His genitals are tied, clamped, whipped and then shocked repeatedly with
an insect zapper.  Finally, he is wired
up to Mistress Valerie’s motion-sensitive e-stim and flogged with a long
leather whip, the motion detector clamped firmly between his teeth.  …Back in the present day, Scrooge at work has
his head down, not making eye contact with any of his staff, and he
involuntarily cringes as his secretary leans over the printer and innocently
asks “Shall I switch it on?”


On the third night, we meet Mistress Valerie of Christmas
yet to come.  Scrooge is an old man now,
gaunt and tired.  We see him in an apron
and nothing else, doing dishes and other chores around a kitchen.  We see his buttocks, striped and ridged after
what must have been decades of punishment. 
From the steel chastity belt around his waist, hangs a slightly rusty
padlock.  A handbell tinkles and he
hurries as well as his old bones can carry him to the living room, where
Mistress Valerie, eternally youthful, indicates his duties with a languid
finger.  It is obvious that his servitude
has been so long and so repetitive that no words need any longer be
spoken.  Mistress Valerie’s friends are
around for Christmas day, and we see them opening presents and laughing.  Some slaves are present, young fit and
obviously happy to be fulfilling their fantasies.  But Scrooge moves around silently performing
his chores, his face blank.  He carries
out his chores efficiently, obviously well schooled in his tasks and is at no
stage acknowledged by any of the party. 
Finally Mistress Valerie beckons him over, says “50” and hands him a
whip, without looking up.  We see him
retreat to a bare room and, alone, begin to lash his buttocks.  Fade out.

We fade back in again to see Mistress Valerie of Christmas
yet to come alone, surrounded by post-Christmas mess.  She is on the phone and saying “Yes, I’m
going to need a new slave.  I had that
last one for thirty-two years, but I suppose nothing lasts for ever“, and the
camera pulls back to reveal a pile of stuffed rubbish bags outside the front
door waiting to be collected.  One is in
the shape of a kneeling human form…

Back in the present, Scrooge wakes up in a cold sweat.  We see him heading out the door in a frantic
rush, and stopping off at a little shop in Soho on his way in to work.  In the office, to the ladies’ puzzlement,
there are presents for all: each receives a pair of new shoes and an implement:
paddles, canes, straps and whips. 
Scrooge explains that he has seen the error of his ways, and begs them
for some ‘performance management’.  The
ladies tuck into mince pies and chat delightedly, as, one by one, they recall
their boss’s most unpleasant habits, and exact a much-needed revenge. 

The camera pulls back from this scene of
Christmas cheer, the giggles and howls fading out, and we see Mistress Valerie,
watching approvingly from afar, a smile on Her face and a whip in Her hand…



This is one of the very first femdom stories I ever wrote.  I started because the first domme I ever had the pleasure of visiting – a lovely lady, thinly disguised as Mistress Valerie in these early tales – commanded me to write first of all an account of my sessions and then (when that became tedious and repetitive) stories.  I think my writing style has changed… not necessarily for the better.  Anyway, an icy blast from the past, there so wrap up warm.
Oh – and here’s an unrelated photo, too.  And a Merry Christmas to one and all!
She knows if you’ve been bad or good…

Story: the elves and the dominatrices

A story starring Mistress Valerie and her friend Sandra.

Once upon a time, there lived two ladies, and their names were Mistress Valerie and Sandra.  They were very poor.  Mistress Valerie worked all day, whipping and torturing men in the town prison.  But no matter how many backs she lashed, no matter how many thumbs she crushed, it never seemed to bring in enough money.  Poor Sandra sat at home, doing the accounts, and dreamed of having enough money to buy a new pair of shoes every day.  But they were so poor, that Sandra got only one new pair a year – a present from Mistress Valerie for her birthday.  And Mistress Valerie never drank Champagne, which she loved with a passion exceeded only by her love for Sandra.


Mistress Valerie loved her job at the prison.  But it tired her out.  Bastinado sessions, for example, rarely lasted less than two hours and her arm would ache terribly afterwards.


One year, for Sandra’s birthday, Mistress Valerie could not even afford to buy her one pair of shoes.  So instead, she bought the finest red leather her scant pennies could afford, determined to make a pair of shoes as best she could.  She took the leather home and got needle and thread all ready, then sat down with a cup of tea, before starting her night’s work.
But Mistress Valerie had dealt with too many stubborn men that day, and her arms were tired and her eyelids were heavy.  So as she sat there in front of the warming fire, she closed her eyes with the intention of snatching no more than five minutes rest before starting to sew.  But soon her head lolled to one side, and she was fast asleep.
She woke with a start to the sight of early-morning sunlight streaming in through the window, and the sound of birdsong.  She jumped to her feet, horrified that Sandra’s birthday had come and she had slept all the way through the night she had set aside for making a present.  Sandra came dancing into the room, and Mistress Valerie felt she couldn’t meet her eyes to tell her that there was no present this year.
So she looked down instead and there – to her amazement – on Sandra’s feet were the most wonderful shoes.  Obviously new, the shoes were of the same bright red leather as Mistress Valerie had bought the day before.  But where had they come from?  She looked up at her friend in surprise.
“They’re the best birthday present ever!” Sandra pronounced, twirling and admiring her feet.  And very dainty they looked too, the arches set off beautifully with small flowers artfully carved from the leather itself.  Mistress Valerie looked over to the table where she had laid out the things the night before.  They were gone – except for one small item, apparently made of the same material as Sandra’s new shoes.
“Not sure about that thing, though.” Sandra said, looking puzzled.  “Does it go with the shoes?”
“No” Mistress Valerie replied, looking at it carefully.  “It’s something for a boy.”
Sandra looked blank.  She had very little to do with boys, except for occasionally helping out at the prison when things were exceptionally busy.
“It…errr…came with the shoes.  Don’t worry about it.” Mistress Valerie said firmly, and swept it off the table into her handbag.
After celebrating a birthday breakfast with her friend, Mistress Valerie headed into town.  Once out of sight of the cottage, she opened her handbag and took out the red leather object.  She turned it over and over in her hands, studying it carefully.  Like the shoes, it was beautifully made.  And like the shoes, too, it used no materials except the thinnest scraps of red leather and the thread that Mistress Valerie had laid out.  It had been made from the same material sure enough.  She had recognized it immediately.  It was a cock-harness, but like none she had ever seen before.  Despite the shortage of materials, it looked strong, its straps coming together neatly in a loop allowing it to be secured in a position in which artfully contrived little leather spikes would dig gently but firmly into soft male flesh.
Mistress Valerie had a brainwave.  She headed for the richest house in the village, and knocked confidently on the door.  A servant appeared and tried to shoo her away but Mistress Valerie calmly gave her the device and instructed her to show it to her Mistress.  It wasn’t long before the lady of the house appeared, delighted and welcoming.  Clever Mistress Valerie knew very well that this lady had a teenage son, and she also knew that she was too soft-hearted to whip him enough to stop him playing with himself.  The foolish rich lady was in a quandary, on the one hand not wanting her son to engage in such vile practices, but on the other too tender-hearted to apply the daily beatings necessary to ensure that he learnt not to do so.  The cock restraint was the answer to her prayers, and she asked Mistress Valerie excitedly where she had got it.  Mistress Valerie would not say, so pressing three gold coins into her hand, the kind-hearted lady bade her farewell, and disappeared to place the cock restraint on her spoiled son.
Mistress Valerie chuckled as she walked along, jingling the coins in her hand.  She was about to go to the wine merchant and buy the biggest bottle of Champagne she could carry when, passing the leather stall from which she had bought the red leather the day before, she had an idea.  Firmly putting away dreams of Champagne, she bought twice as much of the very finest black leather, as she had bought of red leather the day before, and some tassels and spikes of shiny chrome with the money left over.
That night Mistress Valerie set out the materials on the table, and settled down in the same armchair to see what would happen.  But the day’s celebration with Sandra had tired her out, and quickly she nodded off again and was soon sleeping deeply.
When she awoke she was disappointed to see that once again she had slept right through to dawn.  But her disappointment turned to joy when, in the morning sunlight, she saw what was on the kitchen table.  A pair of the finest high-heeled boots stood there, along with a smaller pair of black patent shoes, and a soft leather strap.  When Sandra saw the shoes, she could not keep her hands off them and was soon coo-ing delightedly over the fine stitching and graceful design.  But she stopped when she saw the boots and the leather strap.
“Not…really my thing” she began, but Mistress Valerie simply whisked them away.  “Just samples” she said brightly, and headed off towards town again.
That evening, one of the Lady Mayor’s daughters was strutting round delightedly in leather boots, while the assistant boy in the grocery store was stacking shelves faster than he had ever done in his life, as his boss stood approvingly nearby, the leather strap dangling elegantly from her hand.  And Mistress Valerie was sipping Champagne, while gazing happily at an expanse of purple leather, shiny metal eyeholes and diamante studs on the table.
And so it went on.  Each day, Mistress Valerie would buy leather and other materials for shoes, and each morning there would be a pair of shoes for Sandra and several other pairs or other valuable items for sale.  Sandra was soon let into the secret and she delighted in trying to catch out the mysterious shoemakers by buying odd materials or pieces of inconvenient shape.  But the secret people who made the shoes each night could always conjure up something stunning for her to wear on her feet, and every day seemed to bring shoes that were more thrilling, more stylish and more gorgeous than the last.  The ladies had never been happier.
The townspeople were happy too.  The ladies of the town strutted round in the finest fetishwear, while the men found themselves excited by their partners’ clothing but increasingly restricted, controlled and tortured by the magic shoemakers’ creations.  Even the King and Queen had heard about the amazing leatherwork from this little town.  Mistress Valerie had proudly presented the royal household with a stunning green leather harness, which the King would wear when pulling the royal carriage around, to the accompaniment of merry cracks from a whip Mistress Valerie had presented to the Queen in person.


Newly rich from sale of the fine fetish gear, Mistress Valerie bought herself a beautiful fur coat.  But she was careful to keep it hidden from Sandra, who disapproved of fur because she thought it cruel.
Yet still, neither lady had ever seen the mysterious creators of the amazing leather products.  They had each tried to sit up all night, but each had been defeated by drowsiness, and the end result was always the same: daylight streaming through the kitchen window, illuminating a pile of elegant fetishwear, dainty shoes and ingenious bondage devices.  Yet the makers were nowhere to be seen.
One day Mistress Valerie came home with a large bucket and a brush.
“What’s that?” Sandra asked, looking at the creamy liquid in the bucket and wondering – not for the first time – what exactly her friend got up to with the prisoners.  
“Bird-catcher” Mistress Valerie replied, curtly.  “Like quicklime, it makes birds’ feet stick to the branch.  But it’s stickier than quicklime.  Plus  “ – and she painted a line on the table, which merely glistened faintly in the light – “ it’s almost invisible.”
“Are you expecting them to get their fingers stuck?” Sandra asked in confusion, but her friend just shook her head, muttering something about having a theory, and proceeded to paint all over the table top.  The two ladies went to bed, wondering if this night the longstanding mystery would finally be solved.
When they came down the next morning, for the first time in months the sight that greeted their eyes was not a neat pile of fetish items and a pair of stunning shoes.  Instead, the materials sat there untouched.  But just in from the edge of the table stood two tiny naked men, each no higher than a pepperpot.  They made little squeaking sounds, as the two ladies approached.  Their feet were obviously stuck.
“Goodness” Mistress Valerie said, wondering, as she leaned down to take a close look at one of the little men.  “Are they elves, would you say?”
“Or pixies?” Sandra agreed, reaching out a finger and gently flicking at one of the small figures. It made another squeaking sound, more urgently this time.
Both ladies giggled.  “Oh how sweet!” Mistress Valerie declared, and drew her index finger firmly back before flicking it hard with a release of the thumb, to catch her little man right between the legs.  This time the squeaking and screeching hit a pitch almost too high to hear, before cutting off abruptly as Mistress Valerie gently folded her thumb and finger over the little man’s face.
“So you are the boys who have been making all this stuff?” Mistress Valerie said, half to herself in wonderment.
The other boy – who was not being smothered – nodded urgently.
“And made all those fabulous shoes.” smiled Sandra.
At this, the little man smiled too, and gave a small and graceful bow, although he nearly toppled when coming back up as his feet were still firmly stuck to the table.
Mistress Valerie released her grip on the other, who swayed wildly, breathing frantically.
“Well.” she said.  “From now on, you’re both going to work a lot harder.”
And they did.  Under Mistress Valerie’s firm direction, the two little men no longer simply worked through the eight hours of the night, but instead worked fourteen hours a day, in two shifts each.  Their first task was to fashion a more delicate set of items than even they had ever produced before as – to Mistress Valerie’s exacting specifications – they turned out sets of harnesses, straps, whips and collars all just one-thirtieth of normal size.  By applying these, Mistress Valerie found that not only could the little men be made to work longer hours, they would work so much harder that production was three times what it had been before.  And they made such sweet little squeaking noises whenever they were whipped, too!
And so Mistress Valerie and Sandra became very rich.  Sandra had a new pair of shoes every day and Mistress Valerie had daily deliveries of Champagne.  They lived in a fine town-house in the smartest quarter of town, with its own wine cellars and dungeons and were driven around everywhere in a coach pulled by six fine young gelded men.  But they never forgot that they had once been poor, and they never forgot the source of the fortune that had brought them these pleasures.


The ladies had everything they wanted – and more boys than they knew what to do with!


So once a year, on Sandra’s birthday, they would buy none of the material on which their tiny slaves usually labored the long day through.  Instead they would paint the table with bird-catching glue, stick their two tiny workers in convenient positions and ready some needles on the fire until they glowed red-hot.  And the night air would fill with high pitched screams and gasps, as the little men were reminded, once more, who their boss was and why it was so important – so very, very important – to keep her happy.
And they all lived happily ever after.  Except the boys, of course.  And the elves (unless they were, in fact, pixies). 


Did you make your quota this week?  No?



Rewards and penalties

A silly humiliation story, written to amuse my Significant Other.  Names have been changed to protect…well, me.

reached out eagerly for the steaming coffee.
“That’ll be one forty-nine”, the young ‘barrista’ behind the counter
said, brightly.  “Do you have a loyalty

looked straight back into her eyes as he handed her the money.

“No, I don’t have
a loyalty card but I do have a ridiculously small penis that I like to stroke
until it squirts into my pants.”

girl froze in the act of taking his money, carefully transferred it to the till
and turned her whole body to face the next customer, without a word.

grabbed the coffee and almost ran from the coffee shop in horror, feeling the
shocked and amused stares drilling into the back of his neck, his down-turned
face burning with humiliation.  He walked
rapidly down the street, slowing to a normal pace only when he was almost half
a mile away from the scene of the catastrophe.

had he said?  How was that possible?  He felt sick and shaky.  If he were still a drinker, he told himself,
this would be a double vodka moment.  As
it was, he gratefully saw a Boots Chemists sign ahead and went in to buy some

you have a Boots advantage card?” the middle-aged lady at the check-out asked

he heard himself say, with growing horror. 
“But I do like to take advantage of my little cock by wanking until it’s

time he didn’t even pick up his purchase: as soon as the words were out of Servitor’s
mouth, he was pushing past the stunned customers and heading straight for the

on the street, Servitor panicked. 
Loyalty card?  As he thought that,
the words “sweaty little cock” jumped into his brain.  Loyalty card. (‘tiny prick’).  Something about those words, about saying
loy-…the L word.  Or anything like it,
remembering the Boots experience. 
(“Frequent flyer”? “Frequently wank myself silly”).  He mustn’t even think it.

could he shop?  He had to go places where
they didn’t have a loya- a – a programme for rewarding customers.  There was a corner shop just ahead, and
steeling his nerves, he went in and bought bread and a few tins of food.  He marched up to the counter, heart thumping.

the man behind the counter said, not looking at him.  Servitor held out a fiver with shaking hands
and clenched his teeth tight shut.  The
shopkeeper pulled at the note, and looked up in confusion as Servitor’s fingers
held it tight.

“Sorry” Servitor said,
and released it.

walked out in triumph.  No mention
of…rebate programmes…and no problem. 
Well, he wouldn’t starve.

couldn’t face the Tube, so he took a cab home, thinking furiously of all the
things he normally bought and whether the shops selling them had…discount
schemes.  It should be do-able, maybe it
would wear off soon anyway, he thought wearily.

cab pulled up outside his house and the driver drew the little window
back.  “Do you need a receipt mate?” he
called cheerily.

I don’t need a receipt.” Servitor heard himself saying.
“But I do need my naughty bottom spanked very
hard for not buying Ms Sandra a Christmas present.”


In a different town, in a different county, Mistress Valerie was tidying her toy cupboard.  She picked up a box, rifled inside it and

haven’t been fiddling with my hypnotic suggestion tapes, have you?” She

Sandra leaned round the door.  “Me?” She
replied, innocently.  “Why would I do

Fiction: If at first you don’t succeed

The heavy paddle swept down and forward in a smooth movement and – CRACK – impacted the bright red bottom bent tightly over the desk.
“Twenty-three” Mistress Valerie intoned firmly, over the shrieks of the firmly-tied target.  He himself had long since stopped counting and thanking, and with a faint muffle caused by the thin panties covering his face, had passed through begging for mercy and was now capable only of crying hysterically and continuously.
Mistress Valerie drew the paddle back again and – WHACK!  “That’s twenty-four!” she pronounced above the sobs.  She strode around to the pantied head, noting the small puddle of tears on the floor with some disgust.
“Now let that be a lesson to you, Servitor!” she intoned, and stood frozen in silent triumph over her victim for a while.
“And…CUT” came a voice.
Mistress Valerie relaxed her pose and grimaced.  “How was that?” she asked worriedly.  “Was the lighting all right?”
“Yeee-es” Sandra said slowly, an elegant finger working the touchpad on a laptop wired up to all the video equipment.  “But I’m a bit worried about that siren that went past four minutes in…hang on.”
As Sandra listened intently to Her earpiece, Mistress Valerie leant back against the wall, arms crossed.  She gazed at the shaking, sweating Servitor with revulsion, and tried not to think that this sort of moment was just what cigarettes had been invented for.  She had given up just six weeks earlier.
“No” Sandra said resignedly, shaking her head.  “It just messes up the whole of strokes thirteen and fourteen.  We’d better take it again from the top.”
Mistress Valerie swore under her breath and stepped forward to pick up the paddle again.  There was a moan from below.  She glanced down in irritation.
“Oh do be quiet Servitor.  You wanted to be in a video and now you are.  I take my work very seriously; the least you can do is try to behave reasonably professionally.”
She composed her features, hefted the paddle, then nodded at her friend.
Twenty-four strokes with the paddle, Take Nine.” called Sandra.

Fiction: Take me to your Mistress

An extremely silly science fiction story, for those who like that sort of thing.

“Where’s Servitor?” Mistress Valerie asked.
Sandra looked up from the picnic table where she was heating water for some tea.  “I sent him over the ridge to the stream to wash up the dishes” she replied, nodding towards a rise in the ground just beyond the field where they had eaten lunch.
Just as she spoke, there was an eerie wail and a whoosh, and the far side of the ridge lit up with a blue flash, accompanied by green beams of light stabbing up into the sky.
Mistress Valerie looked worried.  “That sounds like an unusually severe fuck-up even by Servitor’s standards” She said.  “I’d better go and take a look.”  She took a riding crop, in case Servitor needed some help getting on with his work, and set off towards the disturbance.
As she scrambled over the top of the ridge, an extraordinary sight met her eyes.  Instead of seeing Servitor diligently scrubbing plates and forks in the little brook at the bottom, she saw what could only be described as a flying saucer.  Green, about 20 metres across and pulsing with energy, it had a ramp extended down to the ground.  Near the bottom of this ramp lay Servitor, stark naked (as he had been before, to be fair) and writhing helplessly (which on this occasion he had not been, at least not yet).
Standing over him was the strangest sight of all – a grey humanoid creature, with a huge bulbous head from which tentacles emerged curling over and down from its mouth.  It had two pairs of dark, intelligent, human-looking eyes above a gill-like arrangement on its cheeks.  It was looking down at Servitor, and prodding him with its tail.
Mistress Valerie strode down towards it.  “Oi!  Leave that alone – it’s mine.” she ordered, riding crop at the ready.
The creature looked up at the new arrival and made a strange whiffling noise.  “Ah, another puny human creature!”  it boomed.  “Have you come to challenge me, earthling?  You cannot harm me, a telepathic immortal of superior intellect and power of which you cannot conceive!  Surrender now.”
“I don’t think so” Mistress Valerie replied, casually.  “Now I told you – that’s mine and I want you to leave it alone.”  She flexed the riding crop menacingly.
The creature whiffled its laugh again.  “My technology is so far beyond your silly little stick-weapon as to be beyond your comprehension, earthling!” it declared contemptuously.  “See how I inflict agony on this ally of yours with just the power of my mind!”
And its forehead wrinkled, light enveloped the struggling Servitor and he instantly flung his limbs out in all directions, threw back his head and screamed in agony.  The creature watched approvingly for a few seconds, then nodded and the light faded to nothing, leaving Servitor to collapse in a shuddering heap.
“Yeah – but he loves it really.” Mistress Valerie said calmly, gazing down at the sobbing form.  “I’ve seen it before – hamming it up.  He gets all turned on thinking about it afterwards.”
“Does he?” the alien replied, uncertainly, suddenly no longer quite so confident.  It looked down at Servitor carefully.  “So he does.  How very unusual.  Are there many like him on your planet?”
“Oh, not that many.” Mistress Valerie smiled.  “But enough to pay the mortgage, you know?”
The creature looked confused.  Then it seemed to rally itself, and straightened up decisively. “Still – “ it boomed, louder than ever “ – the time has come, earthling, for you and all your kind to surrender to the power of – “
“Did you say ‘telepathic’?” Mistress Valerie inquired, casually.
The alien looked back at Her.  “Errr…yes, telepathic.” it said.
“You can look into people’s minds and read their thoughts?” Mistress Valerie prompted.
“I can” it said proudly, drawing itself up a little higher.
Mistress Valerie took a step forward, almost touching the frontal fronds of the strange creature.  She fixed its eyes with a level stare.  Look into mine!”, She whispered.
The creature stared back into her amber eyes, its forehead wrinkled and its own eyes assumed a slightly faraway look.  It seemed a little puzzled at first, then a look of pure terror swept across its face.  Its eyes snapped back to reality, and met Mistress Valerie’s cool stare again for half a second more.  Then with a high-pitched whimper of fear and a flurry of tentacles, it disappeared up into the spaceship, which lurched off the ground with a whine of engines, and hurled itself into the sky with indecent haste.
Mistress Valerie gazed up at the fast-disappearing dot.  “I think I just saved the world” she mused.  “They should put up a statue to me.”
She looked down to the ground, where Servitor was burbling something grovelly about always wanting to put up a statue to her, and was also trying to kiss her boot.  She moved away with distaste and kicked him gently in the face.
“Come on Servitor – can’t just laze around there all day.” She announced.  “Get on with your work, or you’ll be getting a taste of my crop.”
And she cracked it down across his naked flesh, just for emphasis.  She looked with approval at the angry red welt that instantly appeared.
“Silly little stick-weapon indeed!” She snorted.  “Some creatures just don’t appreciate good old-fashioned craftsmanship.”
And as Servitor limped slowly back towards the washing up, she set off back up the ridge to see if the tea was ready.
My apologies for the way the picture does not in any way match the story, except being a dominant woman in a SF setting.  But I just had to include it…fondly remembering when as a teenager, I was delightfully surprised when the divine Rachel Welch transformed an episode (actually two episodes) of Mork and Mindy into…a formative experience for this young pervert.

Fiction: ‘Scenes’

Eight out of ten Mistresses say their slaves prefer it…

“We’ll have to try that again some time!” Mistress Valerie chuckled to her friend Sandra, watching through the window as Servitor’s taxi headed off towards the station.
“Even Servitor’s not dopey enough to fall for it twice.” her friend smiled.  “He got so stressed though!  I thought he was going to have a heart attack at one point – he went purple.  It was like he wanted it, but he didn’t want it.”
“Subs are like that” Mistress Valerie said absently.  “Especially humiliation sluts like Servitor.  Fantasizes about being made to eat cat food, but then he can’t really do it.”
“He did try to open his mouth for it” Sandra said.  Though I’m not sure you could have got it in, he was quivering so much.”
“I should have just gone for it and shoved the spoonful in ” Mistress Valerie mused.  “But I was savouring the moment and that gave him too much time to think and all of a sudden it was ‘oh Mistress, amber, no red Mistress!’  Bloody safewords, always spoiling the fun.”
“It was pretty horrible stuff.” her friend pointed out.  “Even later on, after you’d admitted it was ordinary mince with a Kittycat label put on it, it still took him a while to get it all down.”
“Yes – it was really nasty wasn’t it?” Mistress Valerie agreed, wrinkling Her pretty nose.  “I don’t see how they can get away with selling it.  All fat and gristle…and the smell!  It’s a good job you didn’t buy that ‘value range’ stuff they sell – that must be fucking disgusting.”
“We should try it on other slaves” Sandra giggled.  “It was brilliant.  And you made it look so convincing – how did you manage to get the label on so firmly and neatly?”
“I didn’t.  I thought you were going to swap the labels?” Mistress Valerie replied in puzzlement.
The two Ladies looked at one another for a moment in surprise, and then burst out laughing and went into the living room to watch TV.

Medical donation

“You look ever so good in that nurse’s uniform” Sandra said admiringly.
Mistress Valerie smiled modestly.  “Well, it’s practical as well as shapely” She giggled.  “After all, there’s bound to be rather a lot of blood and stuff when we get started, and that’s just what this is designed for.”
Her friend looked at her in surprise.  “We’re not really going to do it, are we?  I thought it was just a scare-Servitor fantasy.”
“Oh come on” Mistress Valerie grumbled.  “I’ve always wanted to try this.  I bought the scalpels and things specially.”
Sandra still looked dubious. 
“It’s only Servitor!” Mistress Valerie declared, in exasperation.  “What’s the problem?”
“Well it’s just…” Her friend replied, looking worried.  “Just a bit…non-consensual.”
“Ah – no!  No, it’s not!” Mistress Valerie replied excitedly.  “Look – I found that during his last session, while I was taking all the money out of his wallet.  See?”
With a sense of triumph She handed Sandra a small, slightly grubby rectangle of cardboard.
“An organ donation card.” Sandra said slowly, reading it.  “Well, perhaps…”
“No perhaps about it.  Servitor wants to donate his organs, and we want to remove some of them, so it’s all perfectly consensual!” Mistress Valerie declared decisively.
“Come on – help me strap him down before he regains consciousness.”

Tangible assets

“It’s the tax inspectors” Sandra explained, looking worried.
Mistress Valerie eyed the phone grimly.  “Can you handle it?” She whispered.
Sandra rolled her eyes and spoke into the receiver.  “I’m afraid the proprietor isn’t here right now.  I’m the company secretary for DommeValerie Ltd.  Can I help?”
Mistress Valerie fidgeted nervously, as her friend talked to the taxman on the phone, while calling up copies of their company accounts on the screen in front of her.
“Yes, that’s right, it’s the first time we’ve filed returns.  Oh thank, you.  Well you know, we just read all the leaflets and tried to do it as best we could.  Your web site’s quite helpful.  OK…OK…is it?  Yes, OK.  Well, let me check that and get back to you.”  She put the phone down.
“Are they saying that ‘female domination services’ isn’t a legitimate business activity?” Mistress Valerie exploded angrily.  “Because you can tell them, I checked the law and – “
But her friend cut her off, shushing her gently.
“Well did we leave something out?” Mistress Valerie asked grumpily.
“Not at all” Sandra replied.  “In fact, he was quite complimentary about how complete our filing was.  It’s just an item in this table that he doesn’t understand.”
She pointed up at her screen.  “Company assets: fixed and movable property owned wholly or partially by the designated enterprise” it read, at the top of a large table of items with valuations attached.
Mistress Valerie peered at the screen.  “Well I just tried to list everything we own that gets used in the business.  The more you put in, the more tax relief you can claim.  What’s he challenging?  Is it all the dungeon equipment?  It does say in the forms that you have to put down the function the assets play in the running of the business, and if those little creeps can’t handle an honest description of the uses to which I – ”
Once again her friend cut her off, shaking her head and pointing, with an elegant finger, to an item about halfway down the table.
‘Item: Servitor.’  Mistress Valerie read out.  ‘Wholly owned by DommeValerie Ltd.  Purpose: cleaning services for business premises.  Valuation: £50”
Mistress Valerie smiled.  “Well, maybe that is going a bit far.” She agreed.  “All right, I’m not going to get into an argument with them. We’ll take him out.”
Sandra nodded and reached for the phone.
Mistress Valerie headed back out onto the landing, where without breaking step she delivered a sudden kick to the figure in maid’s uniform who was polishing the banister, before heading downstairs.
“Not even tax-deductable, you useless little bastard!” she snapped, without looking back.


“Well he should choose his words with more care, then, shouldn’t he?” Mistress Valerie complained.  “What did he think I’d do, when he said he would crawl across broken glass for me?”
“I’ll get a mop” sighed Sandra.

Fiction: At the third stroke

(As there has been discussion of ‘Daylight Saving Time’ on other blogs lately, I thought I would offer this little twiddle.  Pedants might like to notice that it actually refers to the last equinox, of course, not this one.  Spring forward, fall back and all that.)

Mistress Valerie strode out of Her dungeon carrying a cane, and knocked gently on the door of the next room.  “Are You going to be ready to go soon?”
Her friend Sandra stuck a puzzled-looking head around the door.  “We’re not going to leave for an hour yet, surely?  It doesn’t start until eight.”
“But it’s nearly seven already” Mistress Valerie said.
“No it isn’t” Sandra replied.  “It’s not even six o’clock yet.”  She thought for a moment.  “You do know the clocks went back last night, don’t you?”
“I…” Mistress Valerie began, then stopped. “Oh.  No, I forgot.”  She said.  “So We’ve got plenty of time.”
“That’s right” Sandra replied cheerfully, closing the door again.
“And servitor wasn’t an hour late…” Mistress Valerie mused to Herself , looking down at the cane in Her hand.  She swished it back and forth a few times, thoughtfully.
“Oh well”, She said, to no one in particular.  “I don’t suppose it did him any long term harm.  I’ve started so I might as well finish.”
And, cane at the ready, She strode back into the dungeon.
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