The natural position, for those we look up to.
Talking down to you
Category: slavery
The Eternal Blacksmith
Some years ago I wrote a story called The Lovelorn Blacksmith, which quite a few people seem to think is the best thing I’ve ever written. A low bar, but there is no bar so low I can’t try to slither under it, so, like Hollywood, I decided it would be easier to write a sequel than bother to come up with a new idea.
If you liked The Lovelorn Blacksmith you… well, you might like this or you might not. It’s rather different in tone even though it continues the story directly from where ‘Blacksmith 1’ left off. That story was a pure love story, with anything vicious, violent and sadistic happening off-screen, so to speak, and merely hinted at. That’s lovely – same vibe as Turning Points, in some ways – but you can’t maintain that kind of Niles-and-Daphne ambiguity for ever. I can’t anyway. So this one is much more explicit and many times nastier. It is still about the pure flame of true love, very much so, but it also features a lot of other uses for flame, many of them extremely painful. In fact, it’s not at all far off a Serena and Alice story.
Contains images of torture, death and over-uses the word ‘agony’ extensively. If you don’t like that, well…. quite possibly you might not want to spend so much time on this blog that so often features fantasies of extreme non-consensual BDSM? I mean, there are blogs that don’t – some are about golf, for instance, or flower-arranging. I’ve heard there may even be blogs devoted solely to amusing videos of cats, though I can’t say I’ve ever found one. Anyway, just think about it, yeah?
It really is a direct sequel so do go and read the first, if you haven’t.
The blacksmith soon adjusted to his new life. Melissa and Harriet’s cottage turned out to have an extensive cellar where he was helped into the heavy shackles he had brought and allowed to use his tools to hammer flat the fastenings, rendering them permanent. The young ladies’ lifestyle was unusual, to say the least, involving as it did the enslavement of young males (the blacksmith was pleased to see that the ladies had rescued the missing young lads from the wild beasts of the forest) and frequent use of whips or other implements of chastisement to make them work. The blacksmith felt he needed no such stimulus to work himself to the bone for the divine Melissa, but the ladies – Harriet especially – seemed to believe strongly that males needed frequent beating, which he accepted as stoically as he could at the hands of the vicious Harriet and with joy and pride on the very rare occasions when she was unavailable to apply the lash and Melissa reluctantly took on the task.
The ladies shared a bedroom to which they would happily retire at almost any hour of the day. Harriet often seemed to feel the need to grab the hand of her housemate and drag her away to bed, especially after administering one or more particularly brutal whippings. Despite the hours spent in the bedroom, the two ladies did not seem to get a lot of sleep, giggling and shrieking happily together all through the night, while the chained-up males eyed one another nervously and grunted pointlessly through the gags they habitually wore.
Soon enough the ladies started to put the blacksmith’s skills to use, setting up a miniature forge and anvil for him to create in metal. Their first request was for branding irons, which caused the blacksmith to quail. In his profession he had too often encountered the momentary agony of an accidental burn: the initial, breathtaking searing shock and then afterwards the long burning pain of the injured flesh, seeming to burn on no matter how much water or cream might be applied – sometimes for days. The thought of being subjected to that deliberately – of the hot iron being held against the skin with no possibility of jerking away – was unbearable. He had always been reluctant to construct such things even for farmyard animals but he was in no doubt who would be the recipient of these irons of torture. But Melissa explained to him how much she wanted their marks put on the men they were so proud to possess and this was enough in itself to change his mind – and just to make sure, Harriet applied her own form of persuasion, until he screamed out his acquiescence to his owners’ wishes.
He created a beautiful, curling, intertwined M&H brand to the ladies’ design, well aware that every curliqueue and flourish would further multiply the agony. His fears were fully realised when the brand was first applied to one of the rescued lads, who had been secured very tightly over a bench near the forge where the brand glowed red hot. There was a sizzle and a horrible smell followed almost instantly by a scream that the blacksmith thought must pierce the very heavens (but in fact was confined to the cosy moss-covered cellar, as the ladies had intended when they constructed it), followed by such animal-like howling as almost to justify the abusive treatment of this flesh as belonging to something less than human.
Harriet, who had applied the brand, went white and whispered “Oh my…”. The blacksmith thought for a second that she had finally encountered a cruelty against which even she could find a conscience in opposition, but instead she merely dropped the brand on the stone floor, grabbed Melissa by the wrist and dragged her soundlessly and urgently towards the bedroom.
The others received their marks over the next few weeks. Melissa wanted the branding completed quickly but gave in to her friend’s pleas to “spread it out a bit – pace ourselves.”
When it came to his turn, the blacksmith was surprised to hear a shrieking wail of despair as the letters burned his flesh and still more surprised to realise it was his own. Then he spent several hours bellowing like a bull, and struggling pointlessly against the restraints, at the agony he could not escape, while the ladies busied themselves in the neighbouring bedroom. It had been as bad – worse – than his fears. But a few days later, when the pain had dulled to a bearable throb, he caught sight of his backside in a mirror and experienced a surge of pride at seeing the ‘M’ so prominently emblazoned there (he would have preferred it without the H, but had had little choice in the matter).
He also fashioned intricate and ingenious cages for each of the captive males’ penises, to a design by Melissa, as Harriet preferred not to think about such male organs, except as opportunities to inflict pain. He had initially been sceptical, as these steel creations were considerably smaller than the leather restraints which the ladies had been using, but with some skill and much determination, each of the lads’ members was finally forced into its rigid container. His own such device was heavy, wrought of thick crude iron, as the ladies considered it more appropriate for his (admittedly impressive) organ. It weighed down his every move and constantly pulled, but the blacksmith simply told himself that this was the aching tug of his love Melissa and came to accept this, too, with pride.
***
Now, one night when the ladies were sleeping peacefully in their bed and the slaves were sleeping less comfortably shackled to the stone floor of their pen, there came a terrible shouting and smashing sound from outside the cottage. The ladies quickly pulled on gowns and hurried upstairs and looked out, to see flames lighting the sky and agricultural implements being waved by a mob of townsfolk outside.
“Witches! Burn the witches!” they heard, across of a cacophony of yells and cries. Three burly men from the village were busy pounding on the cottage door with hammers, while all around the ladies could see faces distorted with yells of hatred and fear, as flaming torches dimly illuminated placards demanding the deaths of the foul witches of the forest.
There was no time to resist, as almost before the ladies could think about what to do, the cottage door burst open with a splintering crash and the mob were inside – and held Harriet and Melissa, vainly protesting that they were not witches, fast. They had left the hatch down to the cellar open, so very soon some intrepid villagers ventured down, then returned to report grimly on their enslaved compatriots and the torture chamber (not to mention a bedchamber of thoroughly perverted female lust) that they had seen. The lads were joyously freed but when it came to the blacksmith’s turn, he roared in rage, smiting the village-folk around him with his dangling chains and his burly arms felled strong men to left and to right as he tried to force his way through the yelling, stampeding crowd to where Melissa was being carried off. But eventually sheer weight of numbers subdued even this mighty warrior and he full unconscious beneath the blows of the crowd, as they shouted that he must have been bewitched by the foul sorceresses.
He awoke in tighter restraints than ever, standing but unable to move his wrists, arms, ankles or legs, so firmly had the villagers wrapped leather cords around him, to keep him from harming them under the spell by which they so firmly believed he had been enraptured. To his horror, in front of him Melissa was staggering as she was pulled to and fro by angry villagers, her white cotton shift torn and her face streaked with tears as she frantically proclaimed their innocence.
“I’m not a witch – we’re not witches! There’s no such thing as witches, that’s all just a folk tale used by the patriarchy to oppress independent and creative women!”
She paused, gulped back tears, and her pure blue eyes shone as she stared straight into the face of the ringleader – whom the blacksmith recognised as the village cobbler – and asked plaintively “Do I look like a witch?”
The cobbler stared back at her golden locks and angelic visage.
“No, mayhap not.” He growled.
Then he cast his gaze over to the raven-haired Harriet, dressed all in black and standing upright in silence, glaring malevolently around her. She seemed somehow to chill the air and the villagers holding her did so at a distance, as if handling a poisonous snake.
“But she does. Burn her!”
The mob yelled in righteous fury and seized the grimly unresisting Harriet and dragged her over to what the blacksmith realised was a pile of dry wood with a small wooden platform atop, not two yards from where he himself stood bound. Melissa’s shrieks of horror as her unresisting friend was bound to the stake by her wrists were like a dagger in his heart.
“No – no let her go! She’s done nothing! What proof do you have – you have no proof, you cannot have proof because there’s no such thing as witches!” Melissa was pleading, as her delicate body struggled helplessly in the grip of three strong villagers.
Soon enough, the horrible spectacle was ready and torches were thrust forward, causing flames to spring up from the dry wood. Through the crackling flames and smoke the blacksmith could see that Harriet had somehow worked her wrists free, but she was surrounded by a curtain of flame, with no hope of escape. Tears welled up in his eyes as he heard Melissa’s frantic and exhausted cries for help for her dear friend… and he made a decision.
He could not move his arms and legs, but he could shake himself free of the post to which he was loosely tied, to topple over. And he could not do much directly to help poor Harriet but he could at least provide… a bridge across the flames. Leaving himself no time at all to think of the consequences of what he was doing, he lurched his great form in the direction of the now furiously-burning pyre and fell sideways, the flaming embers of the glowing and burning wood rushing up to meet him as he threw the only thing he had – himself – over the flames to provide Harriet with a means of escape.
In these same few split seconds, when the blacksmith’s attention was focused solely on his imminent self-immolation, many other things happened. Had he been able to hear, over the shouting of the mob and the crackling of the terrible flames, he would have heard his beloved Melissa say “Right then” quietly and he might have seen her calmly raise her head.
If he had, he might have noticed that her cool blue eyes had become a fiery red, outshining the flames themselves in crimson fury. He might have observed her flesh start to glow with an eerie golden light and he certainly would have noticed the fifty-foot high phantom in Melissa’s own image that appeared in the sky above them.
The possessed fury that Melissa had become began to chant and around her flashes of lightning sparked. The three men who had lit the fire with their torches seemed transfixed and then found themselves slowly rising into the air, before descending onto their own pitchforks, skewered from anus to mouth and yet somehow – and obviously agonisingly – still alive.
The rest of the villagers ran, with the exception of the cobbler, whose boots, which he himself had made, were suddenly transfixed with large iron nails, literally nailing his feet into the ground. In the sky, the phantom Melissa turned in the direction of the village, which seemed to be undergoing a bombardment of flaming rocks, and cast a wispy arm in the direction of the fleeing mob, each of whom gradually stopped, unable to move first his feet, then his legs, then his torso, as a gradual, creeping petrification turned their twisted, horrified forms to immobile stone. Melissa’s chanting, although quiet, somehow seemed also to be the loudest thing in the universe, as the power she channelled electrified and froze the world for miles around.
The blacksmith perceived none of this; he was feeling nothing but an agony which made the branding he had so unwillingly received some months before seem as nothing. His body lay fully stretched out on the furiously-burning pyre, his head lying above a crackling white-hot log just next to the platform where stood Harriet. Despite the overwhelming assault on his senses from the pain, he could smell the same acrid odour of charring flesh that he had during the brandings: he knew he was being cooked alive. Then he felt Harriet’s bare foot daintily feeling out his head, as she tested this bridge across the flames that had so unexpectedly appeared. Satisfied, she put all her weight onto it, pressing his head firmly down onto the burning log and blinding him instantly in a right eye that was forced against the red-hot embers with a terrible squelching hissing sound. Then her other foot stepped on his back, impelling his rapidly-blackening chest deeper into the nest of flames, and so on down his body as she walked deliberately, without panic, across her human bridge, then ran over to where Melissa was standing in the centre of a swirling mist of occult matter, lit by unearthly flashes of arcane power, her eyes still burning crimson.
Harriet took Melissa’s glowing hands in her own and whispered. “Come back now, Melissa, my love. It’s OK. I’m all right. Everything’s all right now. Please don’t leave me.”
The figure that had been her lover stared back at her through opaque flaming eyes. Harriet tried again, gazing anxiously into the pools of liquid fire that had been the eyes of her lover. “Come back” she murmured again, “Come back to me.” And she squeezed her friend’s hands tighter.
Suddenly, the occult swirling began to dissipate and a moment later, Melissa shook her head and looked straight back into her friend’s eyes, her own eyes their normal shade of blue.
“What happened… did I… did She…?”
Harriet nodded and embraced her friend. “Yes, but it’s all right now. It’s all all right.” She glanced up. The monstrous apparition had gone and a few brave birds were beginning to venture their song.
“Oh” screamed Melissa, at the sight of the blacksmith’s charring, twitching body atop the still-burning pyre.
“Oh yes.” Harriet said. “ That happened too. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.”
“You and you!” she pointed to the formerly enslaved, then freed, now re-enslaved lads who had been cowering against the wall while all this was happening. “Pull him out!”
Not without difficulty, the blacksmith’s smoking form was dragged from the flames and turned to face upwards. Much of his ragged remnants of clothing was on fire, but when those had been torn off or stamped out, Melissa leaned over him and gazed into what remained of his face, her eyes brimming with tears.
The blacksmith was, remarkably, still conscious. The pain had grown so great as almost to separate his mind from reality, and yet he had held on. He knew he was dying. He welcomed it, as release from his agony and as a triumph of his love for Melissa, as he had so willingly given his life to save her friend. Yes, he thought, as his beloved mistress’s tearful face was swallowed up by the encroaching blackness of eternity… death in this moment of ecstasy is a sweet, sweet release from this unbearable pain… it is all that I desire…
Then he sensed a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth. Some liquid was being poured in, from a little vial. “This won’t ease his pain, but it will at least save his life” he heard Melissa say.
“That’s good” he heard Harriet reply and that was the last thing the blacksmith heard for a while, as the pain returned, washing over his body like a flood and drowning him in agony.
***
The ladies were busy in the weeks that followed. Firstly, there were the skewered villagers who had lit Harriet’s pyre to be dealt with. Harriet set up a turning spit above a bed of embers, and roasted them each very slowly, occasionally paring off a delicate body part too. Each took about three days, before succumbing to blissful death, to Harriet’s annoyance. Three days of roasting, screaming and pleading – and of course three days during which an increasingly giggly Melissa was led off to the bedroom by a wildly excited Harriet. Harriet tried to pace herself, as she put it, but could only hold out a few days before hoisting the next culprit up onto the spit and beginning the process again.
Then it was the cobbler’s turn. Harriet was more careful with him. He had, undoubtedly, been the instigator of the whole thing, so his culpability was much greater than that of his accomplices – and his punishment should be correspondingly more severe. Harriet used every trick she knew to exact the maximum in agony, while keeping her subject alive as long as possible – if the state of pleading, shrieking horror in which the cobbler spent his days could be called ‘living’. But after about three weeks, the blackened, bruised scraps of remaining flesh and exposed bone finally gave the cobbler’s spirit its longed-for release.
Harriet was disconsolate for a day or two. The blacksmith, through his one partially-functioning ear, could hear her occasionally wheedling to her (and his) beloved Melissa. “Please ? Pleasepleaseplease…?”
Eventually, Melissa must have relented, because she curled her fingers slightly, her eyes very briefly took on the merest hint of crimson, and the cobbler was back, healthy and hale, chained naked to the wall. He glanced down at his unmarked, unharmed body in shock, then looked up, saw Harriet smiling at him and began to scream in uncontrollable terror.
And so it went on. Harriet had never been able to work on a victim over multiple lives before and gradually learnt everything there was to know about the cobbler’s body and how it experienced pain. Over hundreds, then thousands of resurrections (because, once the villainous man had expired a second time, Melissa knew better than to try to resist her lover’s pleading looks) the cobbler discovered not only that the dread of known, repeated, expected tortures was almost as bad as the pain itself, he also discovered that clever Harriet’s capacity for inventing entirely new ways to make him suffer seemed inexhaustible.
And what of the blacksmith? His body had been ruined beyond all repair by his noble act. Of course, once he had seen the first resurrection of the doomed cobbler, he had wanted to know whether the same could be done for him (without the ensuing torture, of course) and once his parched, shrivelled vocal chords had managed to croak that out enough to be understood, his beloved Melissa had had to explain that to make him whole would cheapen what was for her the most cherished memory of his sacrifice to save her friend. She could not bring herself to change what was, for her, the most inspiring possession she owned: his blackened, twisted and ruined form that so perfectly embodied his noble sacrifice. To have restored him would have removed a symbol of the two people in this world she loved, she explained tearfully.
Two people she loved, the blacksmith thought, in the depths of his damaged consciousness. Two. And he felt happier than he had felt in all his life.
They made use of him as a table, one of the other slaves rigging up a sort of wooden frame on which his broken body was fixed. It wasn’t a very good table, being knobbly rather than flat and prone to shuddering as the aches and pains from that long-ago self-sacrifice racked the blacksmith’s shattered nervous system. Yet Melissa loved to spend her evenings sitting before him, sewing and mending, while her lover tortured the cobbler on the other side of the room and he felt a sense of total fulfillment and contentment in supporting her thread, cloth and sewing instruments as she did so.
Once he felt Harriet sit before him and he heard her say “Oooh – pins!” delightedly. He steeled himself as he felt her fingers exploring some of his few remaining areas of unblackened flesh but then, to his surprise, he felt no sharp jabbing.
“Oh all right, I suppose you did save my life” he heard her grumble, and she patted him absent-mindedly then wandered off, gently rattling the box of pins. A few moments later, a series of shrieks from outside told him that she was trying out her needlework skills on one of the house slaves instead.
And so the happy trio – Harriet, Melissa and the table that used to be a blacksmith – endured. So too, did the unlucky cobbler. The months became years, the years decades… perhaps the decades even centuries. Yet all four of them stayed youthful as ever. The house slaves got older and occasionally Melissa and Harriet would set off with their hunting gear and rescue a few more lads from wild beasts to replenish the herd. But they all lived happily ever after – except the cobbler, obviously, who hated and regretted every second of his infinitely prolonged existence. The ladies stopped thinking of the blacksmith as a blacksmith, he was just Melissa’s favourite sewing table. But she never forgot why it was her favourite table, and would occasionally stroke the burnt stubs of his hair on his scorched scalp, while the blacksmith, for his part, rejoiced at his luck in being the happiest remnant of a man (still just about) alive.
THE END
Epilogue
What of the neighbouring village, you might ask? Well, having been subjected to a bombardment of flaming rocks and brimstone, and having had about half of its men turned to stone, it endured a few difficult years, it’s true. It had been cursed for eternity: the few children born were stunted and deformed, no crops would grow and all the animals… well, they did not die, since the author of the curse loved animals too much, but they wandered off to live happy lives elsewhere. Worst of all, every so often, one male inhabitant over the age of 16 – apparently selected at random – would wake up screaming as the words “There’s no such thing as witches” appeared on his back, burned into his flesh one slow and agonising letter at a time from an unseen, invisible brand. So the menfolk went to bed each night in perpetual terror. In all these ways, the remaining villagers had ample opportunity to regret their rallying to the cobbler’s cause. However, no recourse to the ladies of the forest was possible, as the village was surrounded by a shimmering dome of magical light, which prevented the villagers leaving, although anyone else could come and go.
However, the human spirit is resilient and the villagers soon found a way to profit from their self-induced misfortune. The towering mystical figure dispensing firebolts that night, as well as the continuing shimmering dome, had attracted considerable interest in the region, so the villagers established a tourism business. The stone villagers fleeing Melissa’s wrath, the impact craters and burnt-out dwellings all over the village and the male villagers showing off their scorched backs all became attractions in the ‘No Such Thing as Witches Experience’, for which visitors willingly paid.
And so the villagers, after a day spent recounting the horrors of the encounter in the forest to their rapt visitors, would retire to their vulnerable hovels and regard the skies warily. “There’s no such thing as witches” they told each other. “There’s no such thing as witches” they told their children. And each huddled up alone on their bed each night, whispering “There’s no such thing as witches” over and over again until they fell into an exhausted, nervous sleep.
For there is no such thing as witches, and it is very, very important to remember that.
REALLY THE END
Sexual inequality
Good boys always follow
As Ms Harry said, and I don’t think there’s any arguing with that.
Violence and philogyny
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.
Pitch black
A new theme. No resemblance to any actual products made by real companies with highly litigious legal departments is intended.
Divine interventions
Where no woman has gone before
Now, please, darling
