Serena and Alice vignettes

As long-term ‘readers’ will know, I’ve written quite a few stories about Serena and Alice. These are among the most violent and twisted stories I’ve ever managed, featuring almost non-stop torture, murder and the non-consensual breaking of the laws of physics. If you don’t like that sort of thing, then you’re a sick weirdo, don’t read them. That said, the castrating and branding and suffocating and boiling alive and murdering and crushing and drowning and drilling and electrocuting and all the rest of it is really just the background for what is always – at heart – a simple love story.

Cast of characters:

  • Serena: a sadistic, murdering mad scientist genius. Serena is in love with:
  • Alice: a sweet little blonde nymphomaniac, who loves animals and environmental causes, as well as sadism and murder. Alice is not a genius but she loves Serena and also enjoys torturing and killing:
  • various males: not worth introducing in detail as they never last long.

So anyway, here are some Serena and Alice vignettes – little things not much more than a caption. The first two are a bit Easter-themed, which is what reminded me to post this.

Bunny girl

“So, knowing how much you dislike cruelty to animals, I thought you’d like to be the first person to see my display of top executives from the cosmetics industry!” Serena concluded triumphantly.

Alice gazed through the glass at the row of heads held tightly in medical-looking braces, with wide staring eyes gazing back at her in panic. Above each eyeball was the tip of a glass pipette, each apparently filled with a different liquid.  “How do you keep their eyes open like that?” she asked, wonderingly.

“If you look closely, you’ll see the eyelids are held back with little wire hooks” Selena replied, happily.  “Now come on – press the button to start the chemicals.”

And she indicated a large red button, to which Alice uncertainly extended the manicured tip of her finger.

“Nasty men… hurting all those poor little bunnies” she murmured, and pursed her lips in disapproval as she pressed.

Easter eggs

“I mean, it’s almost as if we’ve forgotten the true spirit of Easter”, Serena complained.  “It’s all just chocolate eggs these days!  So I wanted to try to bring back some of the solemnity and deeper meaning of the occasion.”

Alice nodded, gazing down at the terrified naked man strapped tightly to the hard wooden cross in front of them.  “So can we start, then?” she asked, hefting her hammer as if to try out the weight.

Serena handed her a nail.

Medical play

“Actually, when I was young, I wanted to be a nurse” Alice said.  “I had the outfit and a kit and everything.”

Serena nodded.  The thought of her young blonde friend in a tight white nursing uniform was a very pleasing one. 

“I got into a bit of trouble once, actually” Alice went on.  “I bound up a boy’s broken arm, and all the grown-ups were upset because they said I should have called them straight away. It did set a bit crooked when it finally got better – they were so cross.”

“Did they stop you playing nurse after that, then?”, Serena asked.

“No, not just then.” Alice replied.  “But a few months later I broke it again to see if I could get it a bit straighter, and that’s when they took the kit away from me.”

“Grown-ups can be such killjoys” Serena agreed. “Umm… if I were to fix up some kind of medical theatre and got a few patients for you to play with, do you think you might…”

Her voice trailed off, as she found herself feeling oddly shy.

“Dress up as a nurse for you?” Alice asked, arching an eyebrow. “That’s a bit kinky.”

She grinned at the sight of her friend blushing.

“Oh, you sweet, dear thing – of course I would! Now, do you think we could get some of those medical saws, and do amputations? Oh, and a little electric circular one for drilling into a head – I’ve always wanted to try that!”

“Whatever you like” smiled Serena, hugging her friend and thinking – not for the first time – how lucky she was to have such an angel as her girlfriend.

Obviously this is a picture of Margot Robbie (actually two Margot Robbies but you can only see the second one’s hands), not Serena or Alice. But the medical procedure they are attempting is one our two medical heroines pioneered, so I thought I’d include the picture.

My Little Pony

“So what was the kinkiest thing you did as a teenager?” Alice asked Serena, as the two lovers lay naked and exhausted together on the bed.

Serena thought a moment.  “Oh – pony play, I suppose.  There was a boy who asked for that, and I thought why not?”

Alice giggled.  “I expect you gave him a few more with the crop than he’d bargained for!”

Serena pursed her lips and frowned slightly.  “Oh – I only gave him a few strokes, really.  Just so he’d know what he’d be in for if he ever complained to anyone about being gelded.”

A stitch in time

“You’re awfully good that that” Serena said, admiringly.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Alice replied, working efficiently away with her needle. “It’s functional enough, but it’s not supposed to be artistic – it’s surgical stitching, not embroidery.”

“Are you going to stitch his other arm to his side, when you’ve finished that one?” Serena asked, trying to keep her mind on the task in front of her and not on the sight of her young blonde friend so delightfully filling out a nurse’s uniform.

“Hmm… I dunno. Maybe. It’s just practice really: you’re not supposed to sew all over the place, like this. But I’d already done his nasty boy bits into a neatly sewn-up package, so I thought I’d attach his arm permanently to his body, that’s all. Oh – and I sewed his mouth up to stop him talking.”

“That’s a neat job too” said Serena, leaning over to inspect the surgical thread holding the patient’s lips together. She stroked the stitching gently, enjoying the muffled shrieks of pain and terror. “Maybe you could do his eyes, next?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Alice replied. “But it would be nice to work on stitching some actual wounds together, like a proper nurse.”

“Well that’s no problem! Where would you like him wounded first?”

Also not Alice, although I believe this image is similar to how she looks in her uniform. I tried checking with some of boys who had acted as patients for her, but I couldn’t find any that survived.

Brainiac

“Eugh – is that a human brain?” Alica asked with horrified fascination, as she peered into the glass tank.

Serena nodded.

“Near as males can get to one anyway. It belongs to that ginger lad you brought in a few months ago – I hope you weren’t too attached to him?”

“No, no…” Alice replied, distractedly.  She paused. “Although he did have a lovely cock. I don’t suppose you might have kept…?” Her voice tailed off as she saw her friend slowly shake her head.

“No, there’s nothing left but this. I have this mildly acidic solution that dissolves away everything except nerve tissue.  It takes a few weeks but believe me, his lovely cock will have been eaten away with the rest of him. Slowly and extraordinarily painfully.”

“Ah well” Alice replied. “I suppose there are plenty of others.”

She tapped on the glass.

“So now he’s just a brain?”

“Not quite” smiled Serena.  She reached out and clasped Alice’s fingers in hers.  “See all those little filaments in the water?  Those are nerves.”

“Oh right. So he’s still got his whole nervous system?”

“No, just the pain receptors. Several thousand of them, providing the only input to his consciousness.So what you see here is a boy reduced to his most important essential characteristic: the ability to feel pain. He can literally do nothing else. ”

“Ooh” giggled Alice. “So how do we – ?”

Serena pressed a button.  A light blue glow suffused the water.

“Like that” she said.  “Right now, all his pain receptors are firing at maximum. From having experienced nothing but black, deadly stillness and silence for days, he’s now experiencing a total pain overload – a universe of agony.”

“Gosh” said Alice and she gazed intently at the brain, floating in front of her, lit gently by the blue glow. As she moved in position, the little filaments briefly caught the light and sparkled, like a spider web.

“That’s um…”

“Well, I mean, it’s…”

She paused.

“Actually… it’s a bit boring, to be honest.”

Serena sighed.

“I know. It’s disappointing, isn’t it? I mean, it’s lovely to think of him screaming silently in unimaginable agony in there, but it’s not a very impressive spectacle.”

She brightened up.

“Oh – but I have something in the next room I think you’ll like better.”

“I can think of several things we’d both like better” smiled Alice happily, squeezing her friend’s hand as she was led off.

“Oh!” she said, struck by a sudden thought. “Did you switch the pain off, on the brain thing? Wouldn’t want to waste electricity, what with the climate crisis and all.”

Serena frowned. “I can’t remember.” she replied.  “But don’t worry about it – really, it takes almost no electricity to stimulate a pain receptor. That electric field you saw making the tank glow uses less power than a low energy lightbulb.”

“Oh, OK then” Alice replied. “As long as it’s as little as that, it doesn’t matter at all, does it?  Now: what was the other thing you wanted to show me?”

…and finally, although this blog does not feature identifiable images of Serena and Alice, respecting as I do the ladies’ privacy (and their capacity to inflict terrifying levels of violence and pain on those who annoy them), I am finally responding to the numerous requests for a picture of our two heroines, naked in bed together, below. Enjoy – but not too much, if you know what’s good for you.

More Serena and Alice here (and use the links within those to earlier ones as they’re not all categorised properly). I’m sorry if the justification in these stories seems a bit odd. I don’t mean the justification for all the torture and murder – that’s inherent in the character development – I mean the typesetting. These are old so they were imported using a tool from the old Blogger blog and the line justification is a mess.

Incidentally, as I may have mentioned before, some years after starting this series, by remarkable coincidence (unless it’s that synchronicity thing the Police sang about), my two consecutive ‘serious, long-term’ dommes were the magnificent Serena and the delightful Alice. They were even statuesque brunette and petite blonde, respectively. Just goes to show, eh? Unless it doesn’t, I suppose.

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.

This isn’t actually a picture of Melissa and Harriet, but it’s very like them. The Harriet-like lady on the right looks dressed for hunting, so those fierce beasts had better watch out!

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.

Another successful rescue operation – a pile of boys all safe and sound beneath Melissa and Harriet’s cottage in the woods. Just as well – there are some dangerous things living in those woods. Very dangerous indeed… as we shall see.

***

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!”

This isn’t Harriet of course but the lady in the picture is modelling one of Harriet’s favourite dresses. As you can tell, she went through a bit of a ‘Goth’ phase in her youth and still likes the style. Unlike witches, which everyone knows don’t exist, there is such a thing as goths.

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

Just thought you might like to see a picture of the cobbler. This is a special place the ladies dug for him (well… made the males dig for him) because the sight of him disturbs the other slaves. In this picture he’s well over a hundred years old! Looking good for his age and still screaming every day with all the vigour of a young man experiencing extreme torture.

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

A picture created by one of the villagers. It’s not particularly good and the few other surviving villagers who witnessed the apparition say that it fails to capture the scale, the power and the sheer malevolence of the figure but it’s the only picture we have. The creator titled it Definitely Not a Witch and it hangs in the village art gallery, along with works such as Distant view of the cottage of those nice ladies who live in the forest, Strange but entirely natural meteorological phenomena that seem to prevent all our crops from growing nowadays and of course No cobbler: no new shoes!

City ways

A silly little tale set when Victoria was on the throne, beautifully illustrated by (previously used) images of The Hunteress as precisely the right sort of governess…

“And as you can see, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady continued nervously “I have a full dossier of references, all of them quite satisfactory, I believe.”

The portly gentleman seated opposite her sighed and took off his glasses to polish them.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, Miss Marlowe, indeed I imagine many of them will be excellent.  However, I have made extensive enquiries and I simply have not been able to locate any vacant situations for a governess of your experience.  My understanding is that many of the more well-to-do families formerly based in London have relocated to the country, given the increasingly caliginous conditions in our great capital.”

He paused, fingering the unopened leather dossier on the table before him.

“And of course, there are the recent increases in tax occasioned by the war in Crimea to consider”, he continued. “Even our landed gentry find themselves compelled to tighten their belts. As an old family friend of your dear, departed father, of course I would do anything in my power to help you find a situation, anything at all, but as you see…”

The young lady nodded slightly forlornly, at his gesture of hopelessness.

“Of course I understand, Mr Bartholomew.  You have been most generous with your time and I am already in your debt, even if your efforts have not borne fruit.  I will – “

“Tell me Miss Marlowe” the gentleman interjected, as if struck by a thought and not hearing her words of thanks.

“Did you ever employ… techniques of physical discipline on your young charges? Corporal punishment, I mean to say?”

The young lady nodded in response.

“Of course, Mr Bartholomew. Of course, one prefers to use more positive methods of encouragement but when called-for, I believe that a sharp dose of the cane is an essential tool of a governess’s art. Particularly for older boys, as I find that girls and younger children respond better to verbal warnings. Boys of 16 or over in particular seem to need to challenge authority and authority, by its nature, must be maintained – by force, if need be.”

“Oh, I quite agree, Miss Marlowe.  Authority without discipline is but an empty threat. But as a young lady of such refined sentiments, do you not find yourself overcome by compassion for your charges and thus unable to wield the rod with the required, umm… severity?”

“Certainly not, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady replied, slightly sharply. “When a lad deserves a severe thrashing, I can assure you I do not spare the rod – no matter what tears or excuses the miscreant deploys. If a flogging is not painful – ideally, unbearably so – it will have little effect. Was that not your experience, as a youth, Mr Bartholomew? I cannot imagine that a successful businessman such as yourself did not learn his self control under the rod of a sufficiently severe governess?”

“Oh, indeed Miss Marlowe, indeed.” Mr Bartholomew replied, shifting slightly in his chair, with a far-away look in his eye. “I am sure that most – if not all – gentlemen who have found success in all professional walks of life in London would say the same.  And it is this that brings me to the proposition I thought to put to you, Miss Marlowe, which I beg you to take in good part even if it is not to your liking: have you ever disciplined an adult – a man, that is?”

“Disciplined a grown man, Mr Bartholomew?” Miss Marlowe replied in astonishment. “You mean with a cane?”

“Mmmm… with a cane. Or tawse, strap, birch… as well as milder forms of correction such as corner time or writing lines.”

The young governess appeared dumbfounded by this unexpected suggestion.

“Well… I’ll confess that no one has ever asked me for such treatment and of course I could hardly inflict it on anyone without such consent, Mr Bartholomew, so I have indeed not had that experience.”

“Oh quite, quite” the gentleman hurriedly agreed. “Consent is most important. However, if you had such consent, do you think you might be able to…?”

The young lady drew herself up in her chair.

“Certainly, Mr Bartholomew. But I do not believe I could do so merely playfully, to help act out some nostalgia for happy childhood days. If a man consents to be beaten then beaten he should be, I believe. Vigorously and without undeserved mercy. The cane should be respected for its power, as should I as its wielder.”

“A most commendable attitude, Ms Marlowe, and one that would strike fear into the heart of any man approaching you with such an offer.  Yet many such men also seek out such fearful tests of their courage, especially if they believe themselves to harbour feelings of guilt. I myself… that is to say, well… I myself…” he trailed off.

“Feelings of guilt, Mr Bartholomew?  Do you mean you have been naughty and need to be punished?”

“Yes… yes very naughty” he admitted, hanging his head.

The young governess’s pretty forehead wrinkled, as she struggled to understand the bizarre turn the conversation had taken.

“So… you are telling me you need to be beaten? Caned? How very extraordinary. And do many men experience this same… compulsion?”

“Quite a few, I believe, Miss Marlowe.  There are… special houses, known to the cognoscenti, where such treatment is administered.  The remuneration for the ladies involved is, I believe, somewhat greater than that available to one in a… a traditional governess position, so to speak. And the hours considerably shorter.”

“I had no idea” Miss Marlowe admitted. “However, as I have no experience of such activities outside a more conventional setting, I hardly think they would consider me a suitable candidate for such a…” and she tailed off, puzzled to see Mr Bartholomew rise from his chair and draw out a long thin item from an umbrella stand in the corner. He handed it to her.

“The cane, you see Miss Marlowe. For a naughty boy.”

The governess examined the cane carefully, testing its weight by tapping one end lightly against her hand.

“Rather a light item, I am afraid to say, Mr Bartholomew. Suitable for a lenient and mild punishment only.  However…” and she stood up to swish the cane through the air, making a whirring sound at which Mr Bartholomew vigorously trembled

“… however, if applied sufficiently firmly and vigorously, I believe it could have a salutary effect. As long as no trousers impede its impact on the target item, of course.”

Now it was Mr Bartholomew’s turn to look dumbfounded.

“My… my… you want me to remove my trousers?” he stammered.

“I do, Sir, and I believe that you understood my instruction quite clearly and are not simply hoping to defer the inevitable. And I believe I heard you use the words ‘very naughty’ earlier, so there should be little doubt in your mind as to what is about to occur.  So… you will remove your trousers and assume the position, Sir. I will not tell you again.”

“Of course, Miss Marlowe” he replied, hurrying to loosen his clothing. “Erm… MISS AULDNEY? I am in a most important meeting. No callers for the next half hour, if you please!”

“Perhaps an hour would be more appropriate” Miss Marlowe added, calmly and professionally appraising the flabby white hindquarters that had obediently been displayed in front of her, and placing herself in precisely the right position behind them. She raised the cane.

***

Later that afternoon

Mr Bartholomew winced as he shifted slightly in his chair.  The additional cushion that Miss Auldney had brought (along with a much needed cup of tea into which he had poured a stiff dose of brandy) was doing little to alleviate the furious burning he was experiencing.  He wondered whether his domestic staff could perhaps obtain a bucket of ice, in which he could spend the evening. And perhaps much of the next day…

He ruefully admitted to himself that Miss Marlowe had spoken nothing but the truth when she denied being impeded by feelings of compassion or tenderness when wielding the rod. Indeed, he wondered whether her vigour and harshness might not be altogether too much for most of the gentlemen who sought out such diversions. She would hardly do, even as a correction specialist, at a house offering a wide range of services but perhaps at a more specialised establishment, for the true devotees of the ‘art’…

He picked up a quill and began to write, taking care to shift in his chair as little as possible as he did so.

“For the Attention of the Honourable Mrs Arbuthnot, Mayfair House of Correction and c.  Dear and most respected lady. You might recall me as ‘Wicked William”, as I have had the pleasure and privilege of visiting your establishment on three thoroughly enjoyable but excrutiatingly painful occasions.  I am writing to introduce a young protegée…”

***

Still later that day, in the early evening

“A governess to adults, Harriet?” Louise asked in puzzlement, as her friend hung up her umbrella and began to remove her mantle. Outside, the carriage that had brought her from the station clattered away into the still night in the quiet country town in which they lived.

“And men pay for such treatment? I never heard of such a thing.”

“It seems that a lot of things we country mice might find find shocking are in uncommon demand in London, my dear” Harriet replied, as she paused for her boots to be unlaced and removed. “And in the absence of regular, that is to say more… educational employment, I believe I must take up Mr Bartholomew’s kind offer.”

“Most peculiar” her friend shuddered. “I hope that you do not become corrupted by the decadent ways of the big city, Harriet, or I would not know what to do with myself.”

Harriet smiled warmly, embracing her friend and planting a warm, loving kiss on her lips. “There is little fear of that, my sweet love.  It would take more than a few London gentlemen with an unhealthy appetite for the lash to move my heart from its resting place, here among simple country folk and our traditional ways.”

She looked down on the gleaming rubber surface of the tightly-clad male who had just removed her boots.  “All the mud removed and the uppers thoroughly polished by morning, gimp! For each speck of dirt, I’ll add an extra week before your next release.”

Their gimp nodded wordlessly and frantically applied his tongue to the mud-splattered items, as Harriet hooked his chain to the ring on the side of the boot-rack.

“Sissy Maid Tina has prepared shepherd’s pie for supper, if you are hungry?” her friend enquired.

Harriet shook her head. “I had a bite at Fenchurch Street station, while awaiting my train.  I simply desire to take myself off to bed, perhaps equipped with a strap-on to ream that new lad’s arse, if you wouldn’t mind tying him down and greasing his anus?”

“Already done”, Louise giggled. “And I thought perhaps we could take him from both ends before fucking each other into oblivion?” And she raised her skirt and petticoat to show a huge polished wooden phallus, waving slightly in Harriet’s direction.

“And we can worry about those Londoners and their strange big-city ways in the morning” she added, taking her friend’s hand in one of hers and leading her into the bedroom, where the dancing candle-light fitfully illuminated the quivering flesh of the youth spread-eagled on the four-poster bed, surrounded by the racks of whips, dildoes and spiked steel restraints that festooned the walls.

THE END

Harriet’s boots. Not as modelled by the Hunteress, I believe, although if she’d like to try them on for me, I’d be happy to sell my house and tribute her the proceeds.

Yes, Madam Prime Minister

A sequel to this.

To: tjl@mmc.gov.fem
From: lhh@pmo.gov.fem
Subject: Re: New publication: Your Government – Working for Women

 Security classification: confidential election nomales

Hi Tilly

Thanks for the draft of the comprehensive Policy Evaluation. It’s a great document: what a fantastic record of policy achievement (no false modesty here at Number 10!). It’s amazing what can be achieved without men around to screw things up.

The PM will love it. One of her pet hates is ‘department-itis’, when each Minister implies she’s the only one really promoting women-oriented policies. From the Minister of Education banging on about the re-introduction of caning in boys’ schools (btw, do you think maybe she’s a leeeetle too obsessive about schoolboys being caned…? I mean…😬), via the Minister of Employment’s ‘Re-training and Skill Development’ centres for unemployed males (to be honest, I didn’t know we had that many quarries in this country), to the Minister of Defence claiming credit for the successes of the rebels in Saudi Arabia (sure, our weapons help but to hear her speak, it’s almost as if she were there with those brave girls in the desert, you know? But we all love her and she did look simply stunning driving that tank.) Anyway, great to see all our initiatives related to crushing the patriarchy (sorry: ‘Women’s liberation’ !!) all in one document.

Just a few suggestions.

1. The section on Science and Technology? I’ll admit I haven’t been keeping a close eye on this policy area, but I’m a bit worried if the account here of what goes on in the new Research Centres is accurate. The Medical Interventions for Rape Prevention study for instance. OK, so I understand that the scientific method requires a control group and randomised treatments but… we’re castrating hundreds of men at random? I mean, I’m not opposed as such… just didn’t know. And it could be off-putting to moderate voters, so… might want to tone down that section a bit? More emphasis on what happened to the test subjects who were rapists, rather than those who weren’t (and never will be, now 😊)

2. Same section. The publication record from the new University Departments of Female Superiority is very impressive – I had no idea! Looks like we’re leading the world in demonstrating that males are stupid, lazy and annoying. Which – obviously – we all knew, but it’s nice to see that peer reviewed studies support it with statistically-significant findings. Maybe some kind of table summarising the scientific evidence on just how fucking useless males are? Just the highlights, obviously as there are far too many ways to list them all in a publication like this.

3. Same section, quick point: in the section on medical research, the programme’s called ‘Nurturing Amenable Natures through Neurological Implants’ (NANNI – cute, huh?), not ‘brain clamps’ – that was just an internal, informal name for it and the PM thinks it might send the wrong signals.

4. Employment statistics – brilliant. Overall employment up, female managerial positions increased by a factor of five, Board representation of women now at 95% (why not 100? Are we keeping a few places for subs, to make it look like men have a say? Seems a bit last-year, no?). All at the same time as male employment has jumped to 100% and stayed there! Although I do wonder whether we can actually export all that stuff they’re quarrying out in the places-we-dont-call-labour-camps. What do they dig out anyway? I mean, rocks, obviously but any particular kind? Do you know? Does anyone?

5. Civil Rights. Very important section. Just the other day, the Leader of the Opposition was claiming that it’s illegal for her to speak out against our policies. Which is so offensive – she’s female, so she can say what she likes, this isn’t North Fucking Korea! If her right to free speech is so restricted, how come she’s on TV all the time banging on about oppressive mistreatment of men? (OK, the PM is also often on TV talking about the oppressive mistreatment of men, but in a positive way, obviously). Anyway, maybe add a few words about how free speech for women is actually being protected by our policies – e.g. the ‘Don’t you Dare Interrupt Her!’ campaign?

6. Photos of males. Again, can we tweak the balance – maybe a few more pictures of men looking a bit happier? There are some of those already: the husband doing the laundry on page 8, the young guy making coffee in a business meeting on page 13 – oh, and definitely the young couple out for a walk with their dog on page 5! I love the way the photographer has caught the exact same expression and pose for the young male and the dog! I mean, the guy’s not actually on a leash but it subconsciously suggests… well, anyway: it’s brilliant. More like that. Not to say there should be no pictures of sexists looking thoroughly miserable too, of course: obviously, we need to appeal to our young activists who want to see the bastards suffering! But I counted 17 pictures of men looking unhappy, 11 of which had them actually in pain or chains/cages etc and maybe that’s a bit much for the more ‘middle-of-the-road’ femsuprem voter, bless her kindly heart, you know?

Fantastic work, anyway! Your Policy Evaluation will be a great springboard for the next election. The PM wants to make sure everyone understands how our Party has benefitted all women: sure we are going to crush the ‘Equality Party’ but she’s worried some of the radical fem-suprem parties might be taking the youth vote. The opinion pollsters tell us that those parties’ extremist image doesn’t play well with the ordinary voter: all whips and chains and cattle-prods, you know? (I’m all in favour of those things but best kept in the bedroom, I say 😉). Still, the PM wants some messaging to voters that they can rely on us to continue ratcheting up the oppression of males, so they don’t turn to some jack-booted young firebrand (did you see the pictures of Janice Alicesdaughter speaking at that RadFem rally – in those boots and leather cape? It may not be good political imagery but it was fucking hot! I think we lost 10% of the lesbian vote that day).

So the ladies who spin have come up with a mock campaign: ‘There’s a reason for that’. Killer stats on stuff that works better now we’re in charge: where the word ‘reason’ is supposed to imply sensible moderation instead of the whippy-chainy thing. A few examples below – don’t worry about the exact look, this is an off-the-whiteboard tiger teaming brain dump. Any thoughts?

And finally, on a matter of policy substance (crazy, I know, but we do occasionally think about things other than image and social media), we’re kicking around some policy proposals for the next election. Thoughts?

– Introduce mixed sixth forms at boys’ schools. Sounds like a step backwards, right? But hear me out, as they say. We’d allow older girls to transfer in to the sixth form at every male school. Why? In an old-fashioned word: fagging. That’s nothing to do with gay male sex (well, only indirectly), it means giving school prefects disciplinary rights over other pupils. Which was abolished years ago, because of its potential for sadistic abuse but obviously it’s a completely different ballgame if girls are the only ones in charge. We quietly carried out a pilot study and the girls’ response was amazingly enthusiastic. I feel so proud of this young generation… they’ll do so much, with their new-found freedoms. Anyway, looks like an effective programme but the PM’s worried about the optics? I mean, does it sound too, well, pervy? It is an initiative of the Minister of Education, after all – see comments above re her ‘interest’ in school punishments 🫤! I mean, she actually wanted the girls to wear gym-slips, can you believe that? And possibly the boys too…

– Streamline the transfer of responsibility for males. So, right now, if a woman wants to become the Responsible Female for a male, she has to register her interest and then the Office of Responsibility needs to approve and process the transfer – either from another RF or a State facility. It seems like a lot of fuss. Why not simply let RFs come to a private arrangement? Of course, if there’s a lot of interest from RFs in a male for some reason, it would be reasonable to expect a financial consideration in return. Responsibility rights could even be auctioned in public… perhaps several males could be displayed, made to show off their talents, and women willing to take on the burden of looking after them could bid for them. Seems quite novel, but I’m assured there are historical parallels.

– Remove voting rights for men. Too soon?

Oh and do you have any suggestions for how to counter this RadFem shock-collar proposal? Focus groups suggest it’s got almost 30% approval among women, as much as 55% for younger voters. We thought about saying it’s a waste of electricity, but apparently even if the entire male population of the country were all shocked at the same time, writhing in the ground for a full hour (lovely image!), it would add less than 1% to overall energy demand. Who knew that overthrowing the patriarchy was such an environmentally-friendly thing? Of course we could just steal the idea 🤭🤭

It would be nice to see a printed, glossy version, by the way. Could you print a few up and send them across? Maybe that new intern could bring them over – you know, the blond lad you sent last time. With the blue eyes. You wouldn’t need him back immediately, right?

kiss kiss

Lindy

Special Political Advisor to the Prime Minister

Rt. Hon. Linda Harcourt, GCMG

Prime Minister’s Office

10 Dworkin St, Whitehall, SW 1

Fulfilment

I did a few of these, back at the old site. Here’s another.

Hel-lo?  FDS Fulfilment Solutions. I’m Katie, how can I help you today?

Hmm?  Yeah, FDS Fulfilment Solutions? If you’re calling this number, probably you ordered a package from some business that uses our services. Hang on, the system will automatically show me your last order, if this is the phone number you registered when buying on-line, so… no, don’t hang up! It’ll only take a moment.

Right, so are you Mr Malcolm Curtis, 23 Acacia Drive, Solihull? OK, great.  Thank you for waiting, Mr Curtis.

Now the only entry I can see for you is an order from… Bitch Princess Lydia’s Loser Store, is that right?  One… used tampon.

Right.

So, er… what’s the problem Mr Curtis? Did it not arrive?

A bit embarrassing?  OK, yeah, I can imagine it would be – but go on, you might as well tell me? We get occasional embarrassing situations here, as you can imagine – just this morning, I had a client who’d ordered a dining table and he’d forgotten to check the size, so it didn’t fit through his door.  Which is… y’know, a bit embarrassing… even if it’s not quite the same, obviously.

It wasn’t what, sorry?

Used. Right. Wasn’t used. Yeah, I can see how that would be frustrating for you.

Well, look, I can send a note to… to Bitch Princess Lydia noting that the order as fulfilled didn’t match the description on the web site. Generally, our suppliers respond quite fast when we do that, as obviously they don’t want to be delisted, and FDS doesn’t want to be associated with a company that… that…

Actually, it looks like Bitch Princess Lydia’s Store has already been delisted. Doesn’t say why. Sorry. So I don’t think there’s anything I can… erm…

Mmm….

Look, I probably shouldn’t do this but as it happens it’s that time of month for me, and I can… I mean, if you really want a, erm…

No, really. No problem. I’ve got your address, so I can just pop into the loo here on my next break and erm…

No, don’t worry about the postage, I can put it through the system.

In a plastic bag? Yeah, sure. To keep it, to keep it… fresh, right? Makes sense. Yeah.

No, really, no trouble at all.  “Fulfilling our customers’ needs is our business and our pleasure”, as it says on our web site.

I know, I know.  But it’s the only job I could get.

Tell you what, though, after this call you’ll get an email, asking you to rate your experience? A big smiley green face for every category would be nice.

Thanks!  Yeah, you too.

Er… no, I’d rather not meet up outside work, if you don’t mind. It’s against company policy.  Plus… y’know, the used tampon thing.

Yeah, sure.  Don’t forget the smiley face, now!  Remember, I’ve got your address.

Sure.  Anything else I can do for you today? OK, well, I will action that for you now, Mr Curtis. Thank you for calling FDS Fulfilment Solutions. Fulfilling our customers’ needs is our business and  – oh, you’ve gone. Bye, then.

Shanaya!  Just going on a break!

THE END

They say that jobs like Katie’s are likely to be among the first to succumb to the AI revolution, but surely this little tale illustrates some of the downsides to that? Sure, AIs can do amazing things but could an AI have sent poor Mr Curtis a used tampon for him to masturbate over? OK, not all the customers need that kind of attention for their enquiries, but isn’t it worth keeping that option open, FDS Fulfilment Solutions? There’s more to life than profit, you know: the human touch matters too.

As it happens, though, Katie doesn’t work there any more. Despite being named ‘Employee of the Month’ soon after the events of this story, she decided on a career change and is apparently making more than ten times as much money as she used to. Isn’t that great? I asked her what the new job was and she just giggled and said that fulfilling her customers’ needs is now her business – and her pleasure. Make of that what you will.

The 1980s called back

Cast your minds back, British readers over a certain age, to a time when dominatrices advertised on little cards in phone boxes rather than OnlyFans, when femdom images were to be found only on furtive trips to specialised shops in Soho and when those same images came wrapped not in endless entreaties to subscribe to one or other specialised service but in plain paper bags, usually a pastel shade rather than brown, for some reason.

Yes, I am talking about last July, 2023, when this blog featured a post called ‘The 1980s called‘, devoted in part to rhapsodising about the magazines of Servitor’s mis-spent youth and in part to a rip-off of homage to those magazines, in the form of a ‘letters’ section written in his mis-spent late adulthood.

I warned you then this might become a series and so it has. OK, I recognise that the number of this blog’s readers who ever came across such magazines can probably be counted on the fingers of the one hand that is not presently in your trousers. But I don’t care: this blog has never sought the easy route of popularity, and it has been consistently successful in avoiding it.

So, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines.

So, so lovely…

These are from the web page of the helpful guy at Swish Publications. He’s scanned them all and is happy to sell them to you for a remarkably modest price (fewer £s than the originals cost way back then) so why you are still here reading my shabby imitation I have no idea. And I must also mention in a kind of Wayne’s World ‘we’re not worthy’ manner that the creator of the slightly later generation of femdom mag that was Cruella and Goddess is still going strong too, at https://cruella.com. Go on, Andy, Mr Rogue-Hagen, scan the old stuff and sell them as pdf mags… you won’t regret it. And we’d love to see ‘Victoria’ and co again.

Right…

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Why? Oh, who knows. But with the world in such a terrible state, I guess we all just have to do what we can.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 2. Letters to The Editrix

Most sublime Goddess-Lady Lucia

The article entitled A dog’s life for Steven in the June 1986 edition of your wonderful magazine reminded me of something your readers might enjoy hearing about. My wife is firmly in charge in our marriage: in all important respects I am no more than her slave. I long since learnt that any failures on my part – let alone attempts at asserting my independence – will be met with swift and painful corrective measures.

Just over a year ago, my wife came back from the shops with a small package. It turned out she had been to the pet shop and bought what I understand is called a ‘shock collar’ for dogs. It looked like a regular thin leather dog collar, with a kind of plastic box attached to it, from the inside edge of which protruded two rounded metal studs. It came without batteries (why don’t manufacturers simply include them?), so I was sent out to the newsagent – it took one of those little 9 volt rectangular ones, and I bought one and a spare.

With battery installed, it was fastened around my neck and my wife fiddled a bit with the remote control that came with it and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that made me gasp. It’s hard to describe, Goddess-Lady Lucia, even though I have since experienced it hundreds of times. It is not a hot, searing kind of pain on the skin of the neck… in an odd way it’s not really pain at all, it’s a kind of wrench right inside one’s body. As I said, it’s not exactly pain but the sense that someone has reached inside your chest and tugged at everything inside there at the same time is deeply unpleasant. Of course, I begged and whined to be released – and she did take it off, but this turned out just to be to drill an extra hole through the leather collar, to fit a small padlock. And on it went again.

I now wear it whenever I am in the house, and quite often outside. I have never particularly liked roll-neck pullovers but now I have several of them because they are just what is needed to cover it up. We don’t play at my being her dog, you understand – it is just another way or punishing me for my faults and reminding me of my place whenever she deems that necessary. I am responsible for ensuring that it always has a working battery and that there is always a spare battery in the house.

As I am not a dog, of course, I can touch it with my fingers. So I soon realised that a small piece of paper, slid carefully down between my neck and the prongs, could insulate me from any shocks. I tried that once – just once. I jumped and squawked, whenever I saw her pressing the button, but of course sooner or later she gave it a press when I was not looking. The paper was found, the husband was caned mercilessly, every one of the shocks I had so deceitfully avoided (or her estimation of that total) were applied in triplicate and believe me I have never dared repeat the attempt.

I now give generously whenever I pass one of those collection boxes for the RSPCA. I have never been much of a dog lover, but I can definitely say they have my full sympathy!

In collared submission

Mrs Henshaw’s husband.

Well, Mrs Henshaw sounds like a lady after my own heart! I strongly disapprove of these devices being used to hurt our four-legged friends, so I hope that every one of the vile devices is bought up by wives to put to the excellent use you describe. There is, after all, no Society (Royal or other) for the prevention of cruelty to husbands and nor should there be! G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your publication is simply wonderful, easily the best of its kind on the market. I particularly like the school-themed stories, as my own fantasies typically involve my sitting with head bowed at a plain wooden school desk, often frantically scribbling punishment lines, while a stern lady teacher taps her cane thoughtfully against her palm, planning the next phase of my detention.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, you are so beautiful and commanding and wise. I would love to spend my evenings in pointless drudgery, writing punishment lines at your command. If I could write lines in your honour, Goddess-Lady Lucia, what should I write and how many would you require me to do?

Yours in scholastic supplication

Dayboy

How ridiculous you men all are! Fine – why not? Take an edition of Empress, roll two dice to pick a page, then close your eyes and point at a sentence. If it’s less than fifteen words, close your eyes and point again until you find one. Then write it out for me, oh… shall we say a million times? Don’t write again until that’s done. If you manage to finish before you die, you can send the completed library-full to the address for letters – or better yet, don’t. If you die first, just make sure your will makes clear I do NOT want to see the stupid things. G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have been an avid reader of your wonderful magazine since the first issue, having always fantasised about being under the command of a beatiful young lady like yourself. Recently, I got married to a sweet but very inexperienced girl and after a few weeks I plucked up the courage to ask her for a spanking. She looked shocked and confused and said she wanted to talk to her Mum about it.

Although embarassed she’d be talking to her Mum (a lady I’d always suspected did not approve of me – any more than I did of her), it was perhaps not that unreasonable, as she was so inexperienced in matters sexual. I was just relieved she hadn’t immediately said no, or laughed or something like that.  But a few days later, I came home and she announced she was ready to give it a go. Delighted, I took off my trousers but then to my horror she shouted ‘Mum!’ and my mother-in-law came into the room, put me firmly across her ample lap and whalloped the bejasus out of me! My God, she had a firm hand – and a bloody strong right arm, too. When she finally let me up, my face was red and wet with tears and my buttocks were black and blue – I could hardly walk! Needless to say, my cock had shrivelled to almost nothing, it was the most unsexy experience of my life.

I thought maybe that would be that, she’d leave and I could talk to my lovely young wife and explain that this was not what I had in mind. But the old harridan had come to stay with us! The next day, after a night on the couch, I found myself alone with my wife and tried to speak about it but… ‘Mum!’. And you can guess what happened then.

Since then, they have found my stash of Empress magazines and I fear that has given them ideas. I do the housework in a little apron, I clean shoes with my tongue and handwash underwear – some very large and horribly stained underwear too – and they have bought a cane. All of my fantasies have come true – and I hate every moment. But the worst horror was to be threatened with ‘facesitting’ after my ‘Mother Superior’ read the story titled Lydia’s living cushion in one of the recent issues. I don’t think I’d survive – she must weigh 200 lbs at least!

Please, please Goddess-Lady Lucia, help me. You understand this is a sex fetish. Can you help me explain to my lovely young wife and her evil old cow of a mother that I just want an occasional sexy spanking, not to be the slave of some brutal old tyrant?  I was thinking maybe an article about how to balance sex fantasies with reality?  Obviously, please don’t print this letter.

Yours in supplication

Desperate Dan

Ha ha ha!  My favourite letter of the month… oh I hope it is true.  And if the lady you describe as an ‘evil old cow’ is reading this then I hope she both takes note of how you described her and also reads carefully through the story titled ‘The queue for the Ladies”, because I think the scenario described there is another that you would probably enjoy less in reality than in fantasy. But I’ve tried it and it’s perfectly practical: all she’ll need is a plastic funnel and a suitably contemptuous attitude. Ladies of a certain age often need to pee quite frequently, so having someone ready (if not truly willing) wherever she is, at a moment’s notice, would be a great comfort. Try eating asparagus first too, my dear, to give him an even more revolting time!  G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have noticed that many of the stories in your magazine feature lesbians. The beautiful girls who seem to indulge in this practice are often accompanied by pasty-fleshed, unattractive middle-aged males. Do you think perhaps they might take more of an interest in men if they had more impressive specimens to play with? I myself am fit, young and particularly well-endowed and I would be happy to teach any of these girls about the joys of being on the business end of a real man’s tool.

Rifleman James

I assume this is a joke. You certainly are, small-bore Jimmy. I myself am bisexual as although I prefer to date women (the conversation, sex, hygiene and manners are all infinitely better), I do love the male penis. I have a special box full of small braided whips, clamps, spiked wheels and rough sandpaper and will happily spend an hour or two playing with a firmly secured fine male appendage, to get into the mood before sinking into the arms of my blonde beloved later. Your own penis sounds so lovely, I think I would probably want to keep it. In a box by the bed. Now go and wank off to a different magazine, as this one is obviously too difficult for you to understand. G-L L.

Esteemed Lady Lucia

I so admire the ladies in the stories in this magazine. I myself was ‘introduced’ to female domination as fantasy play by the man who become my husband and then, soon after our wedding, it was my turn to introduce him to what a real disciplinary relationship can be like. This came as quite a shock for him… I think he had expected me to prance around in leather and occasionally gently tap his bottom with the end of a riding whip, the silly thing. Needless to say, as soon as I had grasped the basic concept and with the help of lesser magazines than yours, I decided that a cane was my preferred instrument. Although ‘bondage’ hadn’t featured in his fantasies, I also soon discovered that a good caning could only be administered if his wrists and ankles were secured. And the combination of a firmly secured man and a cane wielded with determination and entirely without mercy has provided me with a thoroughly satisfactory domestic arrangement ever since.

He said the funniest thing the other day, while strapped down over an armchair in our sitting room, awaiting the second dozen of a twenty-four stroke caning. Amidst all the tears and pleading, he blurted out “You don’t know how much it hurts!”. And of course, he’s entirely right. I have never allowed anyone to hit me with a vicious implement like that and I never will. Why on earth would I? In this world, there are those who cane and there are those who are caned – and I have no doubt which side of that divide I prefer to be on! It is truly better to give than receive, as my dear mother used to say. Don’t you agree, Lady Lucia?

A generous wife

No doubt you make sure that your husband appreciates the gifts you so generously bestow on him. As for the great divide, I quite agree about which side it is best to be on. I know there are some females who prefer the submissive role, but I have never felt the slightest desire to experiment with that! Unlike you, though, I have tried out the cane – I once asked a dear lady friend to give me just one stroke on the thigh, just to see what it was like. Bloody murder it was – and I am sure she did not lay it on hard. It almost made me sympathise the next time I had to dish out a proper caning to one of my slaves. Almost, but not quite. My own mother used to say ‘Life’s not fair’ and it has been a delight for me, discovering just how unfair it can be made to be. G-L. L.

To Our Lady Lucia of the Boots

Oh, Mistress Lucia, what a delight to see so many pictures of you in lace-up boots in the March edition of your perfect magazine. I found myself consumed with jealousy at the sight of your two office slaves, permitted to lick the divine leather after their well-deserved thrashings.

My fantasy is to be nothing but a boot cleaner. Chained in a steel compartment, I wait for a passing lady to deposit a pair in the chute leading down to my box. I get to work, first carefully unlacing them, then licking all the mud off, before commencing the brushing and polishing and relacing the boots. A suitably dirty pair will take anything up to 12 hours. I place the cleaned boots on my back and lean forward into a floor-level pillory that automatically snaps into place. This displays a sign outside my box that the boots are ready and some time later that day or the day after, the front of the box will be lifted up, the lady customer will pick up and inspect her boots, award me a rating out of ten and administer any additional strokes of the handy crop she deems appropriate. Every few days the overseers come around and thrash us, at a rate of ten strokes for each rating short of a perfect ten we have received for each pair of boots serviced.

Goddess-Lady Lucia I know of course that my fantasy is unrealisable but while there are booted and demanding Ladies like yourself out there, the dream remains alive.

Bootcleaner #23

Well, #23, your fantasy, while ridiculous, is amusing enough and shows a proper appreciation of your place in this world. Licking boots, however, is a privilege not a valuable service: the tongue applied to a truly muddy boot will merely smear the mess around and excessive saliva does the leather no good. I insist instead on vigorous brushwork – but I do make the slave eat up the pile of dirt left on the newspaper when it is done. The boots you saw being licked are a special pair I wear when a slave deserves the reward of using his tongue – and I make sure he knows full well that the leather is impregnated with the saliva of many males before him. Yet still they beg for the privilege – what absurd and easily-enslaved creatures you all are! G-L. L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia is presently overseeing the production of the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

  • The continuing Trials of Steven: released from the Training Centre back into Ms Judy’s care, Steven learns that he is now just one of a stable of slaves who must compete for her favour!
  • Re-educating the chauvinist. Malcolm mocks a women’s lib demonstration and is taught the error of his ways.
  • Office Politics Part 2: the typists’ revolt continues.
  • Return of the Gymslip Gumshoes. Our schoolgirl detectives are back, this time investigating a series of underwear thefts.
  • Nursing a Grudge: with his legs and arms in plaster, Ian can do nothing when the ward nurses decide to give him a series of enemas.
  • .And of course Empress Editorial, Readers’ Letters and the ‘winners’ of Goddess-Lady Lucia’s Stupidest Slave Haircut competition.

Male creatures are instructed to ensure they have sufficient funds to buy it, then give the rest of their money anonymously to a woman.

 

If it please the court

Your Honour, I appear for the hospital in this unfortunate matter.  And let me say at the very start that the hospital takes full responsibility for its actions and deeply regrets the error that led to Mr Harcourt’s loss. We have offered a full and generous compensation settlement but that has regrettably been declined to date. We have great sympathy with Mr Harcourt, but we respectfully submit that the quantum of damages he is claiming is absurd and excessive.

We will be presenting extensive evidence in that regard, if it please the Court. To begin with, Mr Harcourt’s loss was, shall we say… less than might have been expected, for an average adult male.  Considerably less. With apologies for any discomfort it might unavoidably cause the Claimant, we will present pictures of the item in question, alongside illustrations of healthier, more robust and, well, larger male members for comparison.  We will also hear from several eminent sexologists who will dispel myths about size not being important and comment on the degree of sexual stimulation – if any – likely to afforded to any females in the unlucky and unlikely position of having sexual intercourse with Mr Harcourt.

I say unfortunate and unlikely because it is central to our case that Mr Harcourt has not for many years had any kind of sexual relationship – at least with another person – and would not have been likely to, even had the unfortunate mishap not occurred. We will hear from one witness who many years ago found herself in bed with the Claimant and she will describe what occurred, which we say in no way constituted ‘sexual intercourse’ as such.  We have then lined up a succession of female witnesses of various ages and backgrounds, each of whom has had a chance to meet Mr Harcourt and will testify under oath as to his attractiveness: his physical appearance, personality, sexual chemistry – or lack thereof – and so on.  The Court will hear how – without exception – each considers him to be an entirely unattractive mate, so Mr Harcourt’s penis would not have any value to him in that regard, even had it not been sent to an incinerator as hospital waste.

Of course, none of this will be necessary were the Claimant to accept our generous settlement offer, which still stand.  I am looking at my learned friend, counsel for the Claimant…?

It seems we are to proceed. So having dealt – I hope the Court will agree, comprehensively – with the utter implausibility of Mr Harcourt’s penis ever encountering another human being, we will turn to the final matter in question: its value to him as a masturbation aid.

I am conscious that this must be very disagreeable for Mr Harcourt and I can only regret the necessity that finds us here. I am aware this case has attracted considerable media interest and even though I am opposing Mr Harcourt’s side in this case, I can only plead with media organisations to act responsibly and if they feel they have to report this matter, to do so without undue sensationalism. It would be quite unnecessary, for instance, were Mr Harcourt have to suffer headlines such as How Much for a Wank? or Todgerless Tosser seeks Relief, while even a more understanding and factual headline such as Masturbation Compensation for Castration could easily cause him distress. It is so, so easy to mock – indeed, my team and I have thought up many more such headlines and we would be happy to brief any journalists keen to avoid humiliating Mr Harcourt’s feelings in any number of ways.

And of course much of the four days we have scheduled for cross-examination of Mr Harcourt himself will be taken up with a rigorous – although I hope always sensitive and respectful – exploration of his former masturbatory habits.  I will lead that cross-examination, although I am grateful to be assisted by my juniors Ms Elliott and Ms Lyons, in that regard. We will regrettably be requiring Mr Harcourt to take us through several of the masturbatory magazines that were found in his apartment, as well as some of the material disclosed from his computer, and he will be explaining – for the benefit of those of us not sharing his rather unusual tastes – just why these images of items of clothing, unpleasant activities and even – somewhat ironically, it might be said – images of ladies dressed in rubber simulacra of nurses’ uniform, wielding implements of castration – sexually excite him and what he would do, while looking at them.  It is important, we feel, to give Mr Harcourt an opportunity to explain what it is he has actually lost by being denied any further opportunity to rub one out, so to speak, while watching videos of naked men with dildoes up their rectums and dirty socks in their mouths being peed upon.  He will be in the witness box, on oath, describing his feelings on watching one such video, which we will play simultaneously, and many other items of pornography in his possession.  Many, many others. 

Unless he accepts the generous settlement my clients proposed.  As I said. A choice which remains his and his alone, my clients having gone as far in that respect as they can.

Losergroup

GODDESS ONLINE

Hey there!  Welcome to Yvonne’s Losergroup’s weekly remote control session – you know, this is the only cam session I do each week where the guys mostly don’t want me to take my top off?  ‘Cos it hurts your little dicks when you try to get hard, right? Aww… poor little losers.

Oh-kay… let’s see, we have twelve logged-in losers right now. So… object443 told me he can’t make it this week, so he paid the fine and he’s not here, that’s OK, but that should still leave thirteen… so who’s missing…?

Right, dicklessjerk hasn’t logged on.  Sending him a punishment buzz… level 5.

And level 6…  Oh, hey there he is.  And you thanked Mistress in the chat, dickless, well done.  One more level 6, though, for being late.

You’re welcome, dickless.

Yay!  Full stable of thirteen losers, all with cocks wired up to the Internet and controlled from here. Hey, yvonnestoy, your device is on, like 30% charge?  That should get you through the call but recharge afterwards, or it’ll go into low charge punishment mode, yeah?  Here’s a level 5 buzz to remind you.

Yeah, you’re welcome yvonnestoy.  OK, losers.  So this week we have… four punishment buzzes to hand out.  Three eights and – wow- a nine! Wonder who’s getting that!  Well, I know of course.  OK, and one… wait for it… release!  Who’s going to be the lucky guy who gets the sexy wanking fun, huh? Just have to wait and see.

OK, so we’ll start with financial contributions. Nobody gave zero this week, but you already all guessed that, because I didn’t announce a level 10 this week.  But someone among you thirteen losers was less generous than the others, wasn’t he?  And Yvonne doesn’t like it when her boys are mean like that, does she?  So she gets to be mean back.

OK, so… level 8.  I’ll give you a clue… if you gave more than £200 this week, you can relax, for now.  OK.  But that still leaves five of you who didn’t!  Five mean guys!  But who was meanest and is going to be screaming in a moment, hmm?  I’m gonna give those five a little level 2 buzz, just so they know who they are, in case any of them forgot that they gave me less than a measly two hundred.  Hi guys.

Now for the level 8. And it’s…. ladysman!  Welcome to hell, ladysman.  I can see him screaming and writhing around there… yeah, not gonna lift my finger off the button yet, ladysman.  Take it all.  There it’s finished… ooh, no it hasn’t, I lied!  You gonna be less of a skinflint next week, ladysman?  I hope so.  OK, you’re done.

You’re welcome, ladysman.  OK, next two level 8s are both going to be for the poems you all wrote me.  Fuck, they were bad.  All of you deserve to spend the rest of the session just getting nothing but electric shocks for bad poetry, OK?  If any of you losers ever, ever have a chance for, like, an ordinary relationship – which you never, ever will because I’ve got you and because there just aren’t enough women that crazy – do not write her a love poem, OK, because you are seriously shit at it.  Each and every single one of you.

Oh – and another tip just in case you ever do get into a relationship with a woman: don’t let her lock electrodes onto your genitals that she can remotely activate whenever she pleases, either!  Oh – but you did, didn’t you?  ‘Cos you’re fucking losers.  Here’s a level 6 for everyone.  That’s not for the bad poetry, just for being losers.

OK and here’s a level seven for everyone’s bad poetry.  Wow… look at you all, pathetic. Like your poems. I mean it, I’m not doing the usual mean girl domme thing – even if this was a completely vanilla session, I would still say that every single one of those poems was painful to read. Maybe not quite as painful as getting electric shocks to the genitals – although I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tried it, amazingly enough because I’m not stupid enough to let anyone do that to me – but really, really bad.

Yeah, yeah, you’re all very welcome.  Not thanking me, slapface, yvonnestoy?  There a reason for that?  Not enough electricity for you maybe? Oh no, slapface, too late now. Try this.

That’s better.  You’re both welcome.

Right.  But two of the poems were worse than all the others. Tough bar to beat but they managed it. So, each of those two is going to type his poem into the chat and I’ll read it out – trying not to puke – and at the end of each line he’ll get a level 8, OK?

OK. So… all of you are horrible, terrible poets… but who was worst? Was it you, socksniffer? Yeah, you should look terrified. Because your poem was bad, socksniffer, really bad… but not as bad as…

irishmike’s!

That was a level 8, irishmike, just to remind you what it feels like. OK, start typing the poem in the chat.

Yvonne the goddess of my dreams – no, stop, I’m gonna zap you, remember. There we are.

You’re welcome. Just this once, you don’t need to thank me in the chat after the zap – just write the next line.

OK, She smiles so prettily at the screams. That actually doesn’t scan, irishmike, you’re lucky to be only getting level 8.

Her slaves devoted, far and near. Yeah, yeah. Scream, scumbag.

Her all obey, through love and fear. Hmm. Do I allow you losers to say you ‘love’ me? I thought we made a rule about that… lockedtinycock you look it up in the rulebook after the session and post it in on the LoserBoard. Anyway, only two lines to go, thank God.

Our minds and hearts she firmly locks. Zap. Zapzapzap. Don’t forget to breathe, irishmike.

And rules our cocks with painful shocks. She fucking does, irishmike, you said it. In astonishingly bad poetry. So now you’re feeling it.

OK, you’re done irishmike. But we’re going to have to change your name, I mean it’s much too ‘normal’ anyway. From now on you’re ‘shitpoet’, OK? I’ll sort it out in the system after the session.

Right… that was pretty bad, huh guys? The poetry, I mean. Probably the electric shocks too, but what did we think of the poetry?

Not a rhetorical question: answer. Level 4.

That’s right, it was. Oh – and you all thanked me for the shock too – you’re learning! Nothing like pain to teach a meathead how to behave.

So… who else wrote a poem as bad as that? I’ll give a clue: if you thought writing a limerick – a fucking limerick – was going to be good enough, then your cock and balls just might be about to get fried.

That’s right, pigface4, it’s you. Welcome to level 8.

You’re welcome. Now type this fucking limerick so we can all see what a total jerk you are.

The beautiful Mistress Yvonne. And that’s a zap.

Found one day that her money was gone I wish the rest of you guys could see pigface4 when I zap him, he sort of gets off the chair and jumps around. So funny… almost makes up for the poem. Not quite though.

But relief it came swift. Let’s try a little sequence of zaps. One two three four five. One two three four five.

With the generous gift. And this time a lonnnnng slowwww hold. Holding… holding… there.

C’mon pigface. Your hands can’t be shaking too much to type. I mean, if they are then obviously you won’t be able to complete Yvonne’s instructions, and what do we do to –

Oh, apparently you can still type. Yay.

From her pig-faced old sub-slave named Jon. Die, jon, die. Plenty of charge in your battery, so let’s really make some good use of it.

While pigface4 – whose real name is Jon, obviously, but don’t worry I won’t give away any more, this isn’t a blackmail gig – while Jon is gasping in agony, I’ll just explain that he gave easily the most money this week. Which was nice, pigface4, but trying to remind me of it with a fucking limerick – no don’t try typing an apology, pigface, just take the punishment, my finger’s not lifting up off this button until I’m done talking – was not only boorish (oh, that’s a bit funny, ‘boorish’, like a boar, right?) but disrespectful after I’d asked for a love, fucking poem. Fuck it, 5 seconds of level 9 to finish you off.

There.

You’re welcome, pigface Jon.

Oh… kay. Now, we come to the grand finale. Someone’s getting an orrrrrr-gasm! Who’s it going to be? And someone else is getting level 9! Who’s that going to be? So, this week I thought we might try something different…. First of all I’m going to remotely unlock the lucky lucky boy. Then when he starts jerking off, that’s when the level 9 shocks will start for the other, much more unlucky boy. Who I say is unlucky, but in fact deeply deserves what’s coming to him. I’ve set it up for a random sequence of level 9s – fast and slow – and it’ll go on until the semen’s all out. Or a bit longer if that’s too quick, we’ll see.

OK, so the lucky lucky boy is… is…

Hmmm. Who’s been without longest, hmm? Let’s have a look here. Ooh, herslave2, that’s been a while, hasn’t it? And irishmike – sorry ‘shitpoet’ – too. I’m not counting ‘dontpissyvonneoff’ because he’s obviously still working through his punishment year, so for him it’s been almost eight months.

Well, his poetry is shit but his financial gift was acceptable so it’s… pigface4! Sending the unlock command now, pigface, hope your cock still works after all that zapping. Keep your hands off it for now.

So the rest of you know you’re not squirting today. Aww… poor frustrated things! maybe next time, huh? Except you, obviously, dontpissyvonneoff. But there’s still something to look forward too: most of you won’t be on the floor screaming in level 9 agony, while pigface here fumbles away at his rancid sweaty cock… I can see it actually and it’s a hairy, nasty little thing. Getting a bit bigger, though, isn’t it pigface? Hey – wouldn’t it be funny if I was fooling you and you had to go and have an icebath and go straight back in and get the level 9 treatment?

Don’t worry… I was about to say I’m not that mean, but I am, aren’t I? So maybe I’ll do that some time. But not today. No, today I’ve already decided on someone else as our special, special victim and it’s not you, pigface.

In fact, rather than announce it, I think I’ll just let the shock announce itself and then explain why while pigface here wanks (Hands off, pigface! Level 7. You’re welcome). So in just a moment, basically, if you’re not experiencing level 9 pain, you’ll know it’s not you, OK!

Now!

Fooled you! I haven’t started yet! Oh you all looked so relieved! But you still each have a one in twelve chance… don’t imagine that just because you were one of the level 8s, you’re not in the frame for this. You are, because I’m nasty like that. Pigface isn’t obviously… can’t have a wank while being shocked. can you? I wouldn’t have thought so, maybe we should try it some time. No, the level 9 shocks start…

Now.

No – another false alarm. See, I want it to be unexpected so

Right, start wanking pigface, while I explain why crybaby is currently experiencing unbearable pain. You see, it’s getting almost to be a bit of a chore for me, thinking up all of these punishments. And you’re all so fucking scared of me, you’re frankly all a bunch of obedient little wimps who try to do everything right and it’s only the fact that you’re all a bunch of complete morons that really gives me a chance. Slowly, pigface, I don’t want you going off just yet. Well, anyone can tell you’re morons, right? No one with even half average intelligence would let someone do this to them. So, yeah, anyway, I thought who’s going to get tortured on the call today and it struck me – I can just pick any of you fuckers at random.

So, crybaby, if you can hear me through the screaming I can see you’re doing, and the blood pounding in your head, you didn’t do anything wrong. Matter of fact, I let my cat choose. I put all the list of names in front of her, and she put her paw on yours first. I think. I wasn’t checking too carefully. Anyway, doesn’t matter. The point is it was just capricious – that’s a good word, isn’t it? Capricious Yvonne. So that’s why you’re –

Oh! Well done pigface. Still working after all this time, is it? Now you have a sweaty, hairy cock that’s dribbling with come too. Makes a girl feel so special.

Yuk. Filthy beast. There it goes. Let’s just make sure it’s all out. Tug tug!

In case you’re wondering why you’re still getting electric shocks, crybaby, pigface’s cock is sort of hanging at halfmast and we’re just waiting to see if there’s any more to come out of – oh, there’s a little twitch and one more little droplet came out! Hope you enjoyed all that, pigface. And you too, crybaby. Let’s just switch off the sequence, won’t be a moment…

Oh, butterfingers, I pressed the wrong one! That’s level 10, isn’t it? Hang on. There.

Oh – disgusting! Are you vomiting? That is a repulsive sight, I’m switching off your camera. OK, you can have just a moment to crawl back to the keyboard, crybaby.

But I won’t wait forever.

You’re welcome.

OK, pigface you have ten minutes to clean up and get yourself locked away again. I’ve started the timer now – don’t try asking for more time if you’re too slow, as I won’t be online. It’s automatic.

And I’ve put next week’s instructions up in the shared Loserspace, OK? Normal week really. Level 7 to wake you up at 5.30 every morning and one hour online devotions. Two pieces of homework: 500 lines and a 2000-word essay on Yvonne’s eyebrows. Erm…new weight targets for those of you on a diet, obviously. Especially you, fatbastard, so I hope you’re not planning any dinners out, because anything other than a couple of pieces of lettuce will take you right over. Financial contribution counter’s reset to zero, there are two shopping trips to sponsor and a girls’ night out – and I’ve put some bills up for adoption too. Oh, and I’ve got a special shopping mission for each of you, too – an item of clothing, sort-of clothing anyway, that I want to see you all wearing on next week’s call. Who knows – you might even see someone else buying the same thing… you could have a little Yvonne’s losergroup bonding.

OK, losers. Quick level 8 double-tap to say goodbye.

You’re welcome. You’re all very welcome indeed.

GODDESS DISCONNECTED

The part of the lovely (but somewhat unpleasant) Yvonne in this little story was played by the no doubt equally lovely (but probably rather more pleasant) Ally Tate, who can be found online doing all sorts of things that male ‘readers’ of this blog really aren’t really allowed to watch. According to the various website identifiers in the screenshots above, she seems to do a lot of stuff involving sisters. Which sounds rather sweet, although does put in mind of the day my sister discovered that I’d damaged one of her dolls… a painful memory, although I expect the experience helped make me the man I am today.

Anyway, I’m sure Ally Tate is a very nice lady, so if you like nice ladies: go and watch her doing something unmentionable. If, instead you like vicious, brutal ladies more like Yvonne, just stick with this blog and you’ll be fine.

Suitable for a princess

Just another one of those captions that became so long it wasn’t really a caption any more so I’m calling it a story.

Your princess?  Really, am I?  Aww… that’s nice.

Maybe you’d like to hear your princess tell you a story, hmm?  Don’t worry: you can keep doing that. Right between the toes: there’s a good boy.

Once upon the time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in far-off Milton Keynes. She was so beautiful and so talented that men from far and wide fell in love with her.  Princes, knights, rich merchant bankers… even footslaves so ugly she had to make them wear latex masks, who loved to lick her sweaty toes. They all fell in love with her, but she really didn’t give a flying fuck, as long as they paid her and gave her presents on special occasions. 

Like her birthday: that was the specialest occasion of all.  The princess hated it if any of her ungrateful and moronic worshippers forgot her birthday.  No – don’t stop doing the foot thing, slave.  I’ve got something else planned in a moment, but you can keep doing that for now.

So, at the end of one birthday the princess made a little list of all the slaves who hadn’t fucking bothered to give her a present – who couldn’t even extend her the basic courtesy of an email or something.  You know: to take, like, one minute out of their day to wish a happy birthday to the lady they claim is the light of their sad little fucked-up lives. And she decided that the next time each of those nasty little ingrates sessioned with her, she’d give them a really hard pain session, that went way beyond their ‘limits’. Like, for example, her pathetic little footslave who was ‘really not into pain, Mistress’: she decided she was going to clamp his nipples and bollocks with tight, tight clamps and attach heavy weights to them, then whip him raw. Maybe finish off with some electric shocks or ball-busting. Or both.

Of course, the princess realized, it would have to be consensual.  But the self-centred bastards who’d forgotten her birthday would be given a choice: consent to the pain session the selfish little sods so richly deserved, or never see Mistress and her beautiful feet ever, ever, ever again. Either way, she thought, next birthday she’d have presents from all her slaves: any who didn’t consent would be living sad lonely lives without her and the remaining ones would be too fucking terrified to forget a second time, after the sheer hell she planned to deal out to them.

Now… I want you to help me write the end of the story, slave. Not the very end, that’s “And the princess lived happily ever after.”  It’s the bit just before that.  What do you think is going to happen?

No, you can stop licking my foot now – maybe that was for the last time, isn’t it exciting? – and I’ll go and get the bondage cross ready, while you have a think.

The part of the princess in this tale was played by the very lovely and delightful Tiffany Naylor, who does indeed hold court in the magical land of Milton Keynes*, where I once encountered her and very lovely and very delightful she was. Naturally, none of the actions of the fictional dominatrix depicted here should be attributed to the real Tiffany Naylor, although I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets cross if her regulars forget her birthday**, as that’s perfectly normal (and normally perfect) dominatrix behaviour.

* For Americans or other foreigners unfamiliar with this place, Milton Keynes is one of the most historic towns in England. You can easily spend several days there, just strolling around the medieval streets, drinking in the scenic beauty of the old town and swapping stories with its charming inhabitants. Wisely, the local authorities have avoided the excess tourism that has damaged the charm of some other historic English locations, like Stratford on Avon, by ensuring there is little to be found on the Internet about the rich history and architecture of this unspoilt gem, but those in the know regard it as being on the must-see list for any visitor seeking to explore England’s historic treasures.

** 3rd of August!

Everything that’s excellent

 Just a silly little tale…

 

“And so you claim you did not in fact pat the victim on the bottom?” the prosecuting counsel asked in a bored voice.

Her opponent leapt up from her seat at the other end of the leading counsels’ bench.  “The alleged victim, M’Lady” she corrected.

“Alleged victim then” said the prosecutor, waving her hand wearily as if to indicate the distinction was barely worth the least effort.

“Oh no, Ma’am – and Your Ladyship” the man in the witness box replied with a nervous glance towards the judge.  “I would never disrespect a female in that way.”

“M’Lady”, the prosecutor said, directly addressing the judge.  “I believe the accused is
lying and so in the interests of justice I request that he be fitted with a zapper.”

“A ‘zapper’, Ms Meadowes?” the judge replied, raising her eyebrows. “I am not sure I am familiar with the term.  Perhaps you mean an MMRS?  A Male Memory Recollection Stimulator?”

“I am indebted to Your Ladyship for the correction” the prosecutor murmured.  “An MMRS, indeed.”

“Well, I suppose if it helps us all get in with it” the judge grumbled.  “Clerk of the Court,
would you be so kind?”

The clerk, a heavyset woman, stepped up to the witness box.

”Hands on your head, boy” she said brusquely.  Unhappily, the accused complied.

The clerk loosened his trousers in a practised manner then busied herself with wires and clamps for a minute.  The accused man let out an occasional mild yelp, but knew better than to remove his hands from their position clasped tight atop his head.

The clerk inspected her work, nodded, then stepped back and handed a small black object to the prosecutor.

“Thank you, clerk.  With your Ladyship’s permission…?”

“Do get on with it, Ms Meadowes” sighed the judge, at which the prosecutor pressed a button and the courtroom was suddenly rent with an ear-piercing howl of anguish.  Her knuckle whitened as she kept the button pressed, while the man in the witness box thrashed frantically from side to side, screaming hysterically, all thought of maintaining his position abandoned in his agony.

Around the courtroom, pairs of female eyes watched this display intently, while the few males standing ready in the room to transport boxes of heavy files or serve tea mostly stared fixedly at the darkly varnished wooden floorboards .  A young stenographer, an intern intent on the heavy responsibility of taking the transcript for the first time in her career, paid particularly close attention, her eyes widening and shining and her breathing increasing in tempo as the screaming continued.  Nonetheless, her fingers continued to flicker over her machine, from which an accurate transcription of the courtroom sounds emerged, reading “OHHHHH!  OHHH GOD, PLEASE!  PLEEASE!!!  NO MORE, I can’t… AAARGHH!!!” and suchlike.

 

 

Ms Meadowes conducts a rigorous cross-examination.

 Eventually the prosecutor released her grip and the screaming ceased abruptly, the only noise in court being the hoarse breathing of the accused, forced down by pain onto his knees in the witness box.

“Now, Jason” she said calmly.  “I’ll ask the question again – and before answering this time, I want you to think very hard about what happens to boys who tell lies. Did you pat her bottom?”

Terrified, the man just shook his head mutely.

“Could you speak up for the record, prisoner?” the judge asked.  “Ms Meadowes, would you mind?”

The prosecutor nodded and gave the button a quick press eliciting another howl.

 “No, Ma’am, Your Ladyship” he sobbed.  “I didn’t, I really didn’t… I never – “

And he broke off, into further shrieks of pain as waves of agony tore through his body.  The
prosecutor was wiggling a dial on the control back and forth, while keeping the button pressed down, and it seemed to have a dramatic effect.

“Let me put the question in a different way” the prosecutor continued.  “Did you pat her bottom?”

Defending counsel jumped to her feet, waiting impatiently for a lull in the screaming in order to make herself heard.  The judge waved her hand in a downward motion at the prosecuting counsel and the button was released.

“M’Lady, that was exactly the same question as before!” she objected, indignantly.  “Surely the question has been put and answered – in the negative!  It is time to remove the MMRS and move on.”

The judge noticed a movement below her bench and glanced down to see the stenographer’s head turned around to look up at her, her eyes pleading mutely.

“I think we might allow Ms Meadowes to have a few minutes more” she smiled, indulgently.  “In the interests of justice”

In fact, it took less than three minutes for the accused, now writhing in agony at the bottom of the witness box, to admit freely and fully to the alleged crime. The prosecutor briskly set out, step by step, exactly how the crime had been committed, and the accused frantically agreed with her
characterisation of every particular.

“The prosecution rests” Ms Meadowes announced happily, sitting down and waving the remote in the direction of the clerk.

“Your Ladyship” began defending counsel, rising to her feet.  “This is a most unexpected turn of
events.  My client has changed his story while in the witness box and in order to defend his interests I believe I really must be allowed to press him on this topic.  I realise it is unusual for a
defending counsel to seek to cross-examine her own client, but I believe you will find there are ample precedents, so in the circumstances…?”

“Very well Ms Blaine” muttered the judge, apparently lost in admiration of the stenographer’s deft fingerwork as she tapped out the transcript.

“And if I may, er…?” defending counsel persisted, gesturing towards the object in her prosecuting counterpart’s hand.

“You want to zap your own client, Ms Blaine?” the judge asked in surprise.

“If I may make so bold, I imagine Your Ladyship intended to ask whether I wish to use the MMRS to assist him with his recollection? If so, then, yes, that is indeed my request, M’Lady. In the interests of justice.”

The judge’s eyes narrowed but she nodded curtly.  A barely-suppressed giggle of excitement seemed to emanate from the stenographer’s seat.

The next five minutes were a mirror image of the earlier cross-examination.  Ms Blaine initially
gave her client a few good hard jolts, then proceeded to demolish the veracity of the earlier confession, point by point. It finished with her client, curled up in foetal position in a pool of sweat and tears, having apparently retracted his confession and sworn to his absolute innocence.

“Well, this is all most unsatisfactory!” grumbled the judge. “The accused has at the very least committed perjury once, perhaps twice!  Do you understand the oath that you swore to
the tell the truth, young man?  That oath should be absolute… no matter what, erm… pressure you might feel yourself to be under.  I hope you realise I intend to deal most severely with this, most severely. I cannot abide lying males at the best of times, certainly not in my courtroom!”

“Ms Meadowes, your witness!  Again!” she snapped, as the shattered male tried to control his juddering jaw sufficiently to stammer out an apology.  The remote was passed between
the two lawyers and the screaming began again, more hoarsely this time.

Five minutes later, the judge was furious, the two barristers were almost physically tussling over who would next use the remote and the stenographer had a huge dreamy smile on her face, as she continued to tap out the transcript.

 

The stenographer – from a judge’s eye view, so to speak.  Sadly, as she is
not looking around, we cannot see her pretty eyes, but we can see her
skillful long fingers, the rapid and delicate movements of which seemed
to fascinate the judge.

The judge brought out her gavel and banged it repeatedly down in frustration.

“This is intolerable!  By my count the accused has now confessed and retracted his confession four times!  This court will not be made a mockery of – find a solution or I will declare a mistrial and we will all have to start again!”

“And I don’t mean by fighting over that thing like schoolgirls!” she added, as Ms Meadowes made a grab for the remote, which Ms Blaine foiled by whipping her hand high up into the air while hissing “Mine!”

“Sit down!  Both of you. And clerk to the court – please take possession of the zap… the recollection stimulator control.”

The two barristers subsided into their seats, Ms Blaine giving up the device with ill grace.

“Any suggestions?” the judge asked.

Ms Meadowes just sighed and blew her lips out with a  frustrated ppphhhh.

Ms Blaine looked thoughtful.  “We could… toss for it, Your Ladyship?”

“Toss a coin?” the judge replied in scorn.  “Allow the process of justice to be decided
by the random fall of a piece of metal?”

“At least we’d have an answer, Your Ladyship”.

“And we’d all go home early” chipped in her prosecuting counterpart, helpfully.

The judge glanced down, to see the stenographer’s dark eyes once again gazing up at her.  How odd she’d never noticed before how deep those dark pools were, the judge mused to herself.  She could almost be lost in the…

“Your Ladyship?”

She jerked herself awake again.  “Oh very well” she snapped.  “Clerk of the court, do you have a coin?”

Less than a minute later, the verdict was in.

“The prisoner will rise” the judge said. “Help him please, ushers”

Two large uniformed women strode over to the witness box, leaned down and hauled the sobbing, shattered remnant of the accused to his feet and held him there.

Ms Blaine, contemplating her eighth successive defeat in court.  If she wants to improve her record, she really needs to stop defending males, as they are almost invariably guilty, but such cases can provide opportunities for a young barrister to develop her skills before she is ready to take on important cases for full citizens.

“Prisoner, you have been found guilty by a properly constituted court of law and the toss of a fair – well, anyway, you have been found guilty of a Category Two sexual offence.  For which the maximum sentence, which I do not hesitate to impose, is 12 years in a male reformatory camp, with hard labour.”

“In addition you have committed” – she consulted her notes – “seven separate acts of perjury, each of which carries a sentence of up to fifteen years.  Again, in the view of the rapidity and apparent insouciance with which you changed your story, while under oath, I have no hesitation in imposing the maximum penalty for each.”

“I would remind you that the purpose of the male reformatory camp is re-education, not mere punishment. I can only hope you make use of this experience to think about your behaviour and learn something, so that at the end of your sentence, in erm… let me see…12 years for the sexual offence, then seven times…

Ms Meadowes rose.  “One hundred and seventeen years, Your Ladyship.” she said.  Defending counsel politely clapped this display of mental arithmetic.


“Is it really?  Goodness me. I’m grateful, Ms Meadowes.  Hmm.   Yes, well, as I said, prisoner, I hope you will be reformed by this generous allocation of the state’s resources to your rehabilitation.  If not, it is my duty to warn you that your custodial sentence may be extended at the state’s pleasure: consider yourself warned. And I do not want to see you in my court again.  Take him down!”

The prisoner sobbed quietly as he was dragged off to the waiting prison van.

***

(Later that evening)

Finding the day to have been tiresome, the judge had retired early to bed in her chambers behind the courtroom.  The stenographer lay beside her, dreaming of the brilliant legal career that lay ahead of her as the girlfriend of a judge.  The judge snored contently, dreaming of the stenographer.

***

Counsel for the prosecution and defence, when not in the courtroom, were Harriet and Suzie, and were enjoying a glass of wine at the home they shared.  “Sorry about that” Harriet smiled.  “But ‘win some lose some’, eh?”

“I suppose so” her counterpart recently for the defence sighed.  “I really thought this one was
innocent, though – he seemed quite convincing.”

“Men often do – lying little toads” remarked her friend, reaching for the bottle and in doing so knocking her document bundle off the sofa, strewing papers across the floor as the red ribbon bow gave way.

“Chump” remarked her friend, helping gather the scattered papers. “Hey, what’s this?”

“Probably nothing”, Harriet replied, making a quick grab for the document, but as with the zapper control in court, Suzie was too quick for her.

“Statement of Ms Yvonne Headly” Suzie read.  “Attesting to the presence of the accused,
Jason, in my bedroom at the time of the alleged – hey!  This is an alibi.”

“Arguably… very circumstantial.” grumbled Harriet.

“But… but….this is exculpatory evidence!” Suzie gasped.  “Proving my client’s innocence!  You should have disclosed this to the court!”

“Mmmm… s’pose,” shrugged Harriet, refilling her glass.

“Well, I’m sorry, Hattie” Suzie went on.  “But this is serious.  Very serious. You deliberately withheld evidence material to the proceedings.  That is a severe breach of professional ethics!”

“You don’t mean you’re going to…” her friend replied, her eyes widening in shock.

Suzie nodded primly.  “I think I have no choice, do I?  I can’t let this go – it’s not just the innocence of my client.  There must be consequences: as a fellow barrister I have to uphold the integrity of the profession.”

“Oh please, Sooze” Harriet replied.  “Surely you can – “

“My duty is clear and I won’t let you talk me out of it!” Suzie declared.  “Take off your knickers!  Now!”

“You mean you’re going to – “

“I’m going to spank your bare bottom, Hattie! Spank it until….”

“Until we both come?” asked Harriet eagerly, easing herself over her friend’s lap.

“I was going to say ‘until you’ve learnt your lesson’” giggled Suzie.  “But your idea’s good
too.”

*** 

I believe this stage of the legal process is called ‘oral pleadings’.

 

And far outside London, a locked van rattled down a dark country road.  Inside lay Jason, his genitals now pierced in multiple places with a permanent and more powerful version of the courtroom zapper, bouncing around naked on the bare metal floor with fourteen other moaning bound males.  He was trying very hard not to think of what his life would be like from now on – and failing miserably.

And with that, dear reader, we shall bring this little tale to an end.

 

(Epilogue) 

In the middle of the night, while all our other female protagonists were fast asleep in post-orgasmic bliss, the clerk to the court suddenly awoke with a jerk.  “Hey – I never got my fucking coin back!” she blurted out, to no one in particular, and turned over angrily to fall back to sleep.  Beside her, her husband froze in terror, and spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was that had annoyed his beloved so much and desperately, hopelessly praying that this time it was not his fault.

 

 

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