Despicable

Despicable: capable of being despised.

Capable?  I pay for the privilege.  Hi – I’m Servitor!

Captioned images of female domination (what else?) follow.




Strict teacher silence
Ah, now, you can say what you like about Miss Taylor, but – oh, hang on.  No you can’t.
 




OWK prison stay caption hello Google
The phrases “thank you mistress” and “piss off you evil cow” can sound very similar to the untrained ear, too, so do be careful.  Well worth studying before your visit, although if like me you do find yourself accidentally in for seven months hard labour, you’ll probably pick a few words up.

 



Femdom wife wants politeness
Doesn’t she look sweet?  I’m sure she hates having to do all those horrible things to you.
 




Consent in BDSM
I’m still quite sore from the last discussion we had to be honest.
 




Female supremacy politics
Oh no.  I hate political chat.  They’re just going to sit around all night, discussing supremacist theory, local council elections, castration methods for rapists – that kind of thing. I’d go out and leave them to it, but I’m grounded for the next month. 

You can’t always get what you want

But if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.

Tight fit even with lube
It’s silly to worry about whether you’ll stretch enough.  Look – that thing’s made of solid plastic, and it’ll have all her strength behind it.  Something’s going to give, so just relax.
 

Well smacked bottom
Sometimes it’s good to go out with your co-workers for a real heart-to-heart.  And sometimes it isn’t.
 

Keira led relationship
Don’t worry – she’ll explain why at great length.
 

Schoolboy session
Schoolboy sessions!  My favourite.  We’re going to be covering irregular verbs of the fourth declension over the next seven sessions, apparently.  Pretty exciting, huh?
 

Annes dominant implant
Or if you stray outside the permitted boundaries, of course.

Inconsequential

Mostly, that’s me.  But occasionally, my behaviour has consequences, and sometimes I just have to sit quietly and reflect upon that.




Take your mind off enforced chastity
Just talk about whatever comes to mind.


Top dominatrix
Actually, several of her classmates still fear her, but they pay for the privilege now.


Penile presents
His and hers – something for everyone. But always check it fits before leaving the shop.





Caned teacher no less
I expect she’ll be terribly embarassed when she discovers her mistake.


The myth of the male orgasm
No really.  You’ll be screaming too.  You’ll see.

Reasons to be cheerful

Part 3.

Anne illustrates the party escort submission position.
Ah, the divine Miss Hathaway.  Think of her when you’re being pumped from both ends, and it won’t seem so bad.


Obedience is recommended
You could try disobeying, if it’s something really horrible that she wants.  I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen if you do?


The cane awaits
Miss Woods.  She’s got plenty of time.  And there are still another nine questions to go.


Femdom wife does not want to know
Maybe she’ll let you explain afterwards, if you’re capable of coherent speech.


Bondage means not worrying about whether he'll leave you alone
Did you notice it’s Christmas?  I expect she’ll enjoy unwrapping him in the morning.  Or the afternoon.,  Whenever she gets round to it, anyway.

Divine images and childish scribbles

My grovelling apologies to the extraordinary women in each of these pictures, for adding my dirty little thoughts to their beautiful images.



But I’m incorrigible.  Here we go:








Captioned image of CFNM schoolgirls
The blonde on the right doesn’t look happy.  Do you think Sophie’s just out-done her, with this initiative and she’s annoyed?  Alpha females – fear them!












Captioned image of gloriously disdainful domme
Ahhh.












Captioned image of ridiculous and humiliated male maid serve him right.
I hope he’s enjoying his session.  Doesn’t look it.












Ladies from OWK throw one back.
This is a great photo-sequence, I recommend it.  Sometimes OWK breaks through the cliches and does something really original (and cruel!).  Human fish.  Brilliant, just brilliant.












Pet names for submissiv e guys part 1
Well you’re just going to have to look it up, aren’t you?  Try the link below.


Here are some pictures of тараканы.

Give us this day…

…our daily captions.  You know, this rate of posting is going to have to slow down at some point.  But for now it’s OK, so here we go again:

Femdom captioned image with beautiful woman and ugly old man
Doesn’t he look pleased?


If you only knew the date, you could count the days until her return.
Took me ages to get this the way I want it.  But an image from behind the bars of a cage just had to be captioned.  There aren’t enough of them.



Beautiful and clever schoolmistress with a cane - what's not to like?
I soooo love schoolboy sessions.



Captioned image of Madame Sarka and several goats
Must get a bit messy in the goat pen.  Lucky there are bootlicker slaves waiting back at the castle.

Fiction: Well deserving of the cane

Elizabeth Aldrige, known today as Miss Wackham, put down the piece of paper, sighed and looked up at the ‘boy’ standing before her.
“Well, it’s not really good enough, is it?” she asked, mildly.
“No, Miss” the ‘boy’ replied, looking down in shame.  Like most of the ‘boys’ at Miss Flogswell’s Academy, he was in his late forties, greying and balding on top.  Also like most of the ‘boys’, he looked quite ridiculous in his school uniform.  But not as ridiculous as the ‘girls’, ‘Miss Wackham’ reflected.
“I hope you don’t think I’ll be going easy on you just because it is your first time” she said, sternly, wondering whether in fact she should do exactly that.  Did this idiot realise what he’d let himself in for?
“No, Miss Wackham” the ‘boy’ said, earnestly.
“As you know, we at the Flogswell Academy have strict standards for our pupils’ academic attainment, and enforce them on a weekly basis.  Enforce them with corporal discipline, boy. Cor-por-al discipline.”
“Yes, Miss Wackham” he replied, breathing rather harder and going red.  Elizabeth caught sight of his shorts, bulging right at her eye level and hurriedly looked back down at the report.  It was all so complicated, she reflected. She much preferred her regular job in her dungeon.  She would talk to the ‘slaves’ beforehand, find their limits, push them occasionally until stopped by a warning safeword and then let them beg to come.  Here, the rule was that the school fantasy was maintained at all times: no safewords, no out-of-character behaviour…and strict school rules about appropriate punishment.
Which, if followed to the letter, would probably constitute criminal assault in this case, she thought.
“It’s really very simple” she said, tiredly.  “Rote learning, boy, that’s our system.”
“Yes, Miss Wackham” he said.
“The teacher tells you what to learn, you learn it, you repeat it in the test.  Is that too complicated for you?”
“I…I found some of the lessons very hard, Miss Wackham”, the ‘boy’ replied, sweating copiously and quite unpleasantly through his shirt.  “I didn’t know it would be this difficult.”
“Difficult!” Elizabeth snorted.  “Let’s go through and you can tell me how difficult it all was.  History!  You got a D-.  Well that’s just dates and things. How difficult is that?  The comment says that you were told to learn the dates of sixteen of the Kings and Queens of England and you knew almost none of them.  Didn’t you bother to revise?”
“I got the right years, Miss Wackham”, the unhappy ‘boy’ replied.  “I didn’t realise they wanted the month and day, too.”
“Pathetic” snorted Miss Wackham.  “And what about this – maths.  D! Slow on your times tables!  Which ones?”
“The fourteen thousand, three hundred and fourteen times table, Miss Wackham.  And the nine elevenths times table.”
Miss Wackham peered at him over her glasses.  “Not very good at sums then, boy?”
“No, Miss” he replied.
Thinking of sums, she briefly reflected on the sums she needed to accumulate in order to retire from all this.  She’d hoped to have given it all up by now, and moved to that long dreamed-of little cottage in Bournemouth.  Maybe open a pet supplies shop.  She’d been saving away her hard-won ‘tribute’ for a few years, and had quite a little nest egg put aside.  Until the financial crisis had come along, swept up the nest , eggs and all, and smashed everything to little pieces. So here she was – still whacking the bottoms of aging perverts for a living, and likely to be doing so for quite a few years to come.
“What about this, then – modern languages?  E-.  Dreadful! Was that with Madame Sarka?  She says here you didn’t learn any of the poetry she set.  Not a single line without a mistake in it!”
“Yes Miss” he said, seeming close to tears.  “But I don’t speak any Czech.”
“But you don’t have to know any Czech!” she replied, exasperated.  “Madame Sarka set you some poetry to learn, and you learn it.  You learn it in Czech, you write it down in Czech in the test.  That’s what rote learning’s all about – we don’t care if you understand it or not!”
The ‘boy’ just hung his head in shame.
“Now by comparison, biology isn’t too bad” Miss Wackham said, judiciously. “ B-.  But then Miss Hardpalm has given you a black mark for” – she squinted at the report – “Refusal to take part in scientific experiments with the rest of the class.  What scientific experiments?”
“She was demonstrating the location of the body’s principal pain receptors, Miss”, he replied with a shudder.
“You do know disruptive behaviour in class merits an automatic use of the cane?” Miss Wackham inquired.  He hung his head still further.
“And this last one…home economics.  F.  F!  How could you get an F in home economics?  That’s just cookery, isn’t it?”
“Went to the wrong classroom, Miss” he muttered.  “One of the ‘girls’ told me it was in classroom 7.  Then when I finally got to the right classroom, I – ”
“…got angry and emptied the lasagne she’d been making all over her head.” read Miss Wackham, shaking her head over the report. 
“She had to go to matron to be cleaned up, Miss.”
Knowing the ‘girl’ in question, Miss Wackham privately thought that both the treatment in the cookery class, and matron’s likely cleansing techniques were probably the least that ‘she’ deserved.  Still, couldn’t have unruly behaviour.  Of course, ‘hazing’ new arrivals by getting them in trouble was a tradition.  Give them a taste of the cane.  The trouble was, this new arrival had already been due for a five-course banquet of the cane before being dropped in it so comprehensively by his cross-dressing classmate.
“So you spent the rest of the lesson in the corner, and got an F for home economics and a black mark – a second black mark – for disruptive behaviour.”
“And I had to clean up the mess over lunch break, Miss” the ‘boy’ added.  “Miss Birch said I could eat the uncooked lasagne for my lunch.”  He blenched slightly at the memory.
“Well.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a daily report like this.” she said, shaking her head sadly.  “The B- in Biology only merits the strap, but all the other grades mean the cane.  And each count of disruptive behaviour is twelve strokes.  Altogether, it’ll be…let me see.  Well, sixteen strokes with the strap, obviously.  But then that’ll be – ” she calculated silently for an instant – “ =fifty-eight strokes with the cane.”
“Oh Christ, please no – “ he burst out.
“Plus four for swearing takes us to sixty-two” she said quietly.
“Oh come on – for Chr- , I mean for mercy’s sake.  It’s only a game.”  Real tears were forming in his eyes.
“It most certainly is not a game.” She replied, primly.  Miss ‘Flogswell’ was quite clear that there would be no negotiations or slipping out of character where the subject of discipline was concerned.  This was what marked the establishment out, unlike those jolly japes schools in the North of England, where everyone was cheeking teacher all the time and laughing about jolly good whackings.  This was hard-core.  Very hard core.
Still…she thought about sixty-two strokes.  She knew very well what the cane could do, and to do it sixty-two times on the same area of the body was going to cause some serious damage.
“Oh please” he sobbed, the tears coming fast and furiously now.  “It’s my very first time.  Couldn’t you just go a little bit easy for my very first time?  I’ve got to go to work on Monday morning, you know?”
“Well…” Miss Wackham said, slowly, thinking hard.  She didn’t really want to flog this new client off the school books.  Maybe she could pretend to be using a triple-hard cane or something and only give him twenty… ?
“I’ve got to get in extra early on Monday, actually, while Tokyo is still open.” he added hurriedly, sensing some possible movement.
“Really?” Miss Wackham replied with interest.  “What job do you do?”
“I’m in finance” the ‘boy’ replied.  “Actually” – looking a little proud – “I manage a hedge fund.”
“Really.” Miss Wackham said again, grimly.  She thought of her little nest egg.  And of the cottage in Bournemouth.  Her hand tightened on the handle of the cane.
“Well, I’m sorry, boy, but I can tolerate no exceptions to the rules.  Sixty-two with the cane.  On the bare, I think.  Then I’ll finish you off with sixteen with the strap.  Shorts down and bend over that chair!”
“But I – ”
“NOW boy!”

Tales from St Bathory’s – part 1

First in an occasional series of tales and snippets from St Bathory’s, an exclusive boys’ school run on traditional lines on a cold island off the coast of Northern Britain.

Smith was scared.  Very very scared, and with good reason.  In his back pocket was a note (he had been holding it in his hand, but hed noticed that the sweat from his clammy hands was beginning to stain it), with the simple words Miss Chalfont written across the cover.  He didnt know the precise details of what the note from his dormitory monitor contained, but he had a pretty good idea and it was not going to be anything good.

St Bathorys School was an odd mix of the traditional and the modern.  Located in the picturesque and remote Isle of Man, it was set traditionally enough in collection of Victorian red-brick buildings, secluded from the islands adult population behind a high wall.  But the small green dots of glowing LED lights also indicated a more hi-tech approach to ensuring that Balthorys young charges did not stray, as intranet-linked webcams allowed continuous monitoring of the grounds, and all of the rooms inside the accommodation and classroom buildings.  The school marketed itself on the UK mainland as providing a traditional education in a world of progressive liberal dogma, ensuring through rote learning that its boys received a firm grounding in the classics of literature, in geographical and historical facts and figures, as well as in moral behaviour, etiquette and manners.

To the disappointment of many parents of unruly young teenagers, however, Bathorys specialised in the difficult late childhood stage, only taking boys between the ages of 16 and 21.  Of course, even on the Isle of Man, boys of 18 or over are legally adult and therefore could not be required to complete the course.  On their 18th birthdays, therefore, Bathory boys were conducted into the Headmistresss office and asked whether, freely and of their own volition, they would sign up for the remaining three years of the course.

Some took a little while to make their minds up, but sooner or later the door to the Headmistresss office would open again, and the boy would emerge, resplendent in the purple-tinged tie that showed he had chosen to spend the first three years of his notionally adult life, completing his education at Bathorys.

Some were quite overcome with emotion at the prospect, with tears streaming down their cheeks, and a few could hardly even walk so thrilled were they at this transition in their young lives.  But all signed.

Indeed, one or two each year were admitted to the exclusive advanced scholarship programme, exchanging their caps and blazers for the garb of servants and gardeners, signed up for a further five years as apprentices to learn useful trades and be prepared for their adult life, usually at the request of a young lady intent on marriage to that fine catch: the Bathory boy, schooled in traditional gentlemanly arts and chivalrous towards ladies in all things.

In a startlingly progressive innovation, however, the Headmistress before the current one had declared that Bathorys would experiment with a mixed sixth form!  There had been great confusion at first, as Bathorys had always had a very clear set of rules about separation of the sexes.  All the pupils were boys, all the staff ladies and all the school servants were men.

As the school did not go in for holidays, half-holidays, days out or school trips, therefore, every female that a Bathory boy encountered from the tender age of 16 to his graduation at 21, would be in a position of authority over him, and authorised to ensure good behaviour and respectful demeanour at all times.  Indeed, so effective was the conditioning that this constant reiteration of gender roles created, that Bathory graduates were famed for being quite incapable of any attitude towards any female other than utter deference.

More than one business recruiting these otherwise excellent workers had run into trouble when a old Bathorian had found himself required to work in close proximity to a lady.  Directors investigating their new sales managers low performance would discover that much of his day was spend in running errands for girls from the typing pool, helping the young Eastern European night cleaners in scrubbing the toilets, or simply signing away much of the firms production to an attractive female buyer, for essentially no charge.  If the warning signs were spotted in time, the solution was obvious and many a Bathory boy became his companys star performer, reporting to a female manager all the way through a golden career.

This, essentially, turned out to be close to what the Headmistress had in mind when introducing the mixed sixth form.  When the first co-eds (a term that rapidly made it into the list of forbidden words in the school rule-book) arrived, there were just seven of them.  All were over eighteen, all tall, athletic-looking young ladies with something of a sporting bent.  Several of them turned out to have been school team captains of hockey, or lacrosse, for example and even the dark-haired quiet girl who declared herself to have no interest in team sports turned out to be a champion golfer, with a swing that was the talk of the county. 

Their uniform seemed only vaguely similar to that sported by the boys, as for example in winter they were allowed think warm stockings under their gym-slips, and a warm jumper over the top, while the boys continued to shiver in bare legs, with at best a sleeveless pullover on a really cold day.  The girls bathrooms were rumoured to have water that was actually hot, as opposed to the luke-warm dribble in which the boys showered whenever they were not being subjected to the considerably more powerful jets of the dedicated cold shower room.

The girls did not, to the boys great surprise, even have to attend classes.

However, it should not be assumed that the girls at Bathorys had an easy life.  Far from it.  All were designated as prefects, from the day of their arrival, and their responsibilities started with getting the boys out of bed at 5.30 in the morning, and carried on throughout the day.

Several of the teachers declared that they couldnt imagine how they had managed before, without the help of the prefects, as the girls supervised break-time, sat at the head of each table in the dining hall; to ensure everything on the boys trays was eaten up, supervised homework and eventually, as dormitory monitors, made sure that all the boys were properly washed, and then tucked up soundly in bed by 9pm each night.  Of course, the same girl would not be expected both to get up at 5.30 and still be carrying out prefectorial duties at the boys bed-time, but even so, life was no picnic as a prefect at St Balthorys.

This makes it even more commendable, perhaps, that the prefects took night duty so seriously. Night-duty was an inspection of all the boys dormitories, and a task that the teachers had previously taken on by rota.  A prefect would be woken at a pre-set time in the middle of the night, would grumpily swing herself out of bed in the cold and darkness, and patrol the corridors and dormitories in slippers and dressing gown.  She would carry two torches: a small fairly dim one for finding Her way, and a larger brighter one for emergencies.

Sometimes the patrolling prefect would simply open a dormitory door a crack, and cast an eye over the half-lit slumbering forms inside.  At other times, She would gently approach a boys bed, silent in Her soft slippers, moving stealthily until suddenly grasping the bed-clothes and jerking them off, simultaneously illuminating the beds contents with the powerful torch.  This was, as the Headmistress had explained at a morning assembly soon after the girls arrival, an essential component of the  schools moral welfare regime.  Self-abuse was clearly forbidden, in the school rules, and active monitoring was necessary to ensure that the pupils complied.

Boys caught behaving suspiciously were not dealt with on the spot, but instead the patrolling prefect would firmly secure their hands to the bed-frame and leave a little note sellotaped to the miscreants forehead.  Sometimes the bed-clothes would be tossed back over the naked boys body, but more usually not, as the prefect continued Her rounds, looking forward to the return to Her own bed, or occasionally to slipping into another bed pre-warmed by one of Her fellow prefects who would greet Her with a sleepy cuddle to help Her warm up after so diligently performing Her duties.

To be continued…but probably not immediately

Today’s captioned images

I’m beginning to find that I enjoy captioning images so much, that I find it quite hard to sit down (there can be other reasons for finding it hard to sit down sometimes too) and write stories.  Still, go with the flow I suppose so here are some more.  I hope you like them.

femdom caption blonde dominant wife sitting waiting for explanation before punishment
Once again, the incomparable Mistress Valkyrie of London, who has, I have often thought, perfected “the look”

femdom caption schoolmistress with two-tailed tawse ready for handstrapping naughty pupil
I do so love the thought (and in moderation, the practice) of the strap across the hand… Not enough of it on the Internet.

femdom caption dominant wife with riding crop teasing and waiting

femdom caption cruel dominatrix smoking and about to use slave as ashtray
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