Category: story

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.

 

 

But there’s no sense crying over every mistake

So… a few years back I wrote two parts of a Serena and Alice story based on Portal, the truly wonderful game about jumping through transdimensional hoopy things.  And always intended to write a third part, maybe about using portals inside slaves’ bodies to make them into more effective human furniture, or something, I dunno.  But it never quite happened and so the story was left hanging, in a frustrating manner (and not ‘frustrating’ in a good way).

And last week someone left a comment on the second part, all the way back in 2018, asking where the third part is.  And that kind of shamed me (also not in a good way, although I do very much enjoy being shamed, in certain contexts) and inspired me finally to write Part 3.  So here we are, Serena and Alice, Thinking with Portals Part 3. 

Anyone not familiar with Serena and Alice might want to go and check out some of the previous ones.  Or just run away.  What follows contains scenes of extreme violence, non-consensual torture and murder, along with a lot of lesbian innuendo.  It’s a Serena and Alice story for goddess’ sake!  That’s what they do and they’re very good at it.  If you don’t like that sort of thing, don’t read it. And if you do like that sort of thing, you’re a despicable human being and probably a danger to society, just like me.

Here we go.


It’s hard to overstate my satisfaction

Thinking with Portals part 3 – a Serena and Alice story

 
The blonde schoolgirl stared down at the two figures before
her.  “What are you doing?”

A tall, dark-haired girl looked back up at her.  She was notionally dressed in the same school
uniform, but where the blonde somehow managed to fill out the costume in a traditional
– if cutely sexy – manner, she instead seemed to take an alternative slant on
every item, from the skirt slashed diagonally, via the tie being used as a
belt, to the asymmetrically-buttoned blouse. 
And where the blonde’s hair cascaded into golden curls, the dark hair
before her was slashed in random places – as if by a razor, which indeed it had
been.  She said nothing.

“You’re that weird goth-girl aren’t you?” the blonde
added.  “Why are you sitting on that
boy?”

The other girl’s purple-highlighted eyes narrowed slightly.
“And you’re that blonde airhead.  One of
the ‘popular’ girls.”

She glanced down. 
Below her, occasionally wriggling slightly, was a figure in the male
version of that same uniform. He was lying flat on his front, the girl’s weight
pressing into the small of his back, his face smooshed onto the muddy gravel by the
ankle of one of her heavily booted feet resting on the back of his head. 

“I’m sitting on him because it’s more comfortable than
sitting on the ground.”

“Does he like it?”

The other one shrugged, causing the boy to yelp as her
weight must have pressed some bony part of his anatomy to the ground.

“Don’t think so.  A
few do – or they think they do until it gets serious.  But this one’s just scared of me.  Aren’t you, maggot!”

The ‘maggot’ sobbed a few indistinct words of
acknowledgement.

“I can make him do anything” she added,  “Anything at all.  Look.”

And she lifted her boot, extended her leg out, then scraped the heel back along the ground, building up  a mass of mud and gravel pieces, and continued scraping until the filthy mess was in contact with the boy’s lips.

“Eat!”

Trembling lips closed around the slick, muddy mess and a
mouth frantically worked to remove it from the leather. 

“That’s bullying!” the blonde declared firmly.  “The school has a policy on bullying, you
know.”

“So do I” smiled the other. 
“This is it.”

The blonde smiled back uncertainly, not used to seeing a
happy expression on the face of the weird goth-girl that she and all her
‘popular’ friends had always avoided.

“Oh come on” the goth-girl said.  “Haven’t you ever thought about what you
would do if you had someone helpless – completely helpless?  And you could do anything you want to them?
Anything at all…?”

The blonde tossed her head proudly.  “I can get boys to do just about anything I
want anyway.” She said.  “Waiting for me,
falling in love… presents.” 

“I really like presents”, she continued, thoughtfully.

“This one never buys me presents” the seated girl
remarked.  “Because he never has any
money, because he gives his pocket money to me on the day he gets it.  Don’t you, maggot?”

Her seat gurgled his assent, apparently trying to swallow a
particularly troublesome lump of gravel.

“So… so, OK.” the blonde nodded.  She could see the point of that. “And you
don’t even have to have sex with them?”

“I don’t really like sex with boys” the other replied.  She looked up, again.

“Not with boys” she repeated.

The blonde wasn’t paying much attention, her gaze fixed on
the brutalised boy, who was now frantically licking the seam of the boot before
him, trying to restore it to the pristine condition it had been in before it
had been used to scrape up his indigestible meal.

“I suppose you could… could make them do sex the way you
wanted it, instead of the way they like it” she murmured thoughtfully.  “Using their tongues more, for instance.  For longer.”

“I mean, not this one obviously” she added, wrinkling her
shapely nose in disgust at the blackened tongue.  “Not after where that’s been.”

“Plenty more of them.” the other replied disdainfully.  “Honestly, there’s no shortage of males in
this world – nasty brutish things.  But
you know, girls have tongues too.  And
they taste nicer.  How about letting me
show you?”

She shuffled back slightly on the boy’s back, to make enough
space for a second person.  They boy,
realising what was about to happen, started taking deep breaths as if
oxygenating his bloodstream for a deep dive under the ocean.

“Well, I’m not sure” the blonde replied, but, rather
uncertainly, she stepped over the prostrate form, took the other girl’s
proffered hand and lowered herself onto the waiting back.

“Whoops” she cried out, toppling sideways, but an arm reached
out quickly to grab her waist, steadying her and bringing her back
upright.  And then remained around her
waist.

“I’m not a lesbian, you know” she remarked, primly.

“How do you know? 
Have you ever had sex with a girl?”

“Well… no.”

“That’s probably why, then. 
I wasn’t a lesbian either, before I had a sex with a girl.  That’s how you become one – let me show you.”

“Well… maybe just a kiss. 
Erm…. Look, sorry but I don’t actually know your real name.  I just think of you as ‘weird goth girl’.”

“Serena.” smiled the other, pulling her closer.  “And I think I know your name, little blonde
airhead, but I’d love to hear you say it as I kiss those lips.”

“Alice.  I’m – oh! –
I’m Alice.”

…

As they leaned into their embrace, and the male below
struggled helplessly to breathe, two shadowy figures vanished in an orange flash behind the nearest bike stand, with an eerie whooshing noise, leaving behind a sharp smell of ozone.
But, engrossed in one another, neither girl noticed any of these things.

…

“That was amazing!” shrieked Alice happily, tumbling
out of the blue-edged time portal in Serena’s laboratory.  “How do you turn portals into a time
machine?”

Serena smiled indulgently. 
She thought about quantum entanglement, about paired sets of particles
separated through proximity to the event horizon of a minuscule artificial
black hole she had held stable, for the microseconds before it dwindled to nothing from the Hawking
radiation into which its mass had to turn; she thought about the particle accelerator extending out
for miles around the underground facility, in which one of each pair of
particles, accelerated to near the speed of light, found itself separated in
time and space from its stationary counterpart, while still in a deeper sense
remaining adjacent to it in all these dimensions. About manipulation of matter
at the subatomic level, using techniques far in advance of any other
nanotechnology, to seed the paired particles into the matter of a pair of
transdimensional portals…

She thought about these things and also thought about Alice,
about her sparkling blue eyes and her cascading blonde curls.

“Science” she replied. 

 

Readers interested in trying to reproduce Serena’s time machine might want to make use of some of the sciencey maths sums on the board behind this lovely lady.  I’m not saying it will work, but it can’t hurt your chances.  No idea who the delightful auburn-haired lady is… maybe one of Serena and Alice’s friends?  They do have friends, after all; they don’t spend their whole time torturing males and fucking each other, you know.  No more than 95% of their time in fact… 97, tops.


 

“And you really were such a goth girl!” Alice
giggled.  “I’d forgotten.  Purple eye-shadow, Doc Marten
boots… the works.”

“Just a phase” Serena replied, slightly put out.  “Anyway, I met a little blonde airhead who
made me happy.  And you can’t really keep
doing the goth thing if you’re happy – doesn’t work.  I still like The Cure, though.”

“And wasn’t I cute!” Alice gasped.  “Oh my god… I could so have fucked
myself.”

“So could I – and I did, just two days later, remember? –
but, you know, I actually prefer the slightly curvier look of you now…” began
Serena, but Alice wasn’t listening.

Instead, she seemed to be thinking hard, her pretty brow
furrowed as it always did when she carried out this out-of-character task.

“Hey” she said slowly. 
“We could go and visit me.  Or
you!  I could fuck two of you at the same
time.  I’d like that!”

“But I’d really, really like to fuck myself.” she added,
wistfully.  “Can we?  Please?”

Serena had been thinking too, as soon as she saw where her
friend’s mind was going.  Serena could
think a lot faster than Alice and in any event, had thought of all of this long
before and had even tried it out.  So she had
thought a lot more things in the same time, before Alice had formulated her question. Disturbing
things*.

“Multiple us-es” she smiled. 
“Maybe not quite such a good idea. Imagine if there were two Serenas and
one had to watch the other kissing you. 
You know how jealous I get and when I get jealous I become. – “

“Homicidally violent” Alice nodded.  She didn’t know much about science but she
understood Serena and although she loved
her more than anyone or anything in the world, she felt certain that one Serena
was quite dangerous enough, for the world and everyone in it except Alice
herself.  Two or even more was a
terrifying prospect.

“But multiple Alices would be OK, though” she pleaded.  “We’d just have sex,  Lots and lots and lots of sex.  Come on – wouldn’t you like to watch me
kissing myself?  Wouldn’t you like to be
kissed by two of me – we could kiss you in different places at the same time.”

Serena tried to suppress thoughts of how much she would like
that.  She remembered a bedroom, the
flash of orange light as a portal appeared, a delighted cry as one Alice
recognised herself in the other.  The
wild, passionate sex, the extraordinary things that Alice could do to her being
done to her twice, multiple times… she remembered all of that and found herself
breathing heavily.

But she also remembered the demands for more Alices.  That if sex with two Alices was amazing,
imagine how sex with four would be.  Or
more… please?  Pleeease?

And she remembered two pairs of blue eyes gazing pleadingly
at her, and how much harder it was to resist than when only one pair did that.  And realised – just before pressing the
button to bring another pair of Alices into this universe – how much harder still
it would be to resist four pairs of pleading eyes.

And she remembered envisaging the exponential curves, as
four delighted, squealing orgasming Alices became eight, then sixteen, then
thirty-two and how Serena’s capacity for rational thought – normally superlative but liable to turn to goo when confronted with those dancing
blonde curls – would collapse and the button would be pressed and pressed
again, and the pile of writhing, gasping Alices would grow and grow until the
mass of sexually insatiable Alices began to generate its own gravity field and
the Earth itself crumbled into the event horizon created by a near-infinite replication
of her pretty girlfriend – and she remembered staying her hand and not pressing
the button.

Because, vicious, vindictive and mass-murdering though she
was, Serena did not actually want the world to end. As long as it still had
males in it to torture to death – and as long as it still had Alice, of course
– she rather liked the world.  So with a
supreme effort, she had said no, even when both golden-curled heads tossed so
very fetchingly in annoyance and disappointment.  Serena, she who could watch acid burning off
the entirety of a man’s flesh, layer by layer, while sipping tea and taking
notes, had to suppress that memory rapidly, with a shudder.  Strong as she was, there were things even she
could not bear.

“Not possible” I’m afraid., she replied brightly.  “It would create a paradox.  Two Alices, occupying the same position, in
time and space…”

“Well, not exactly the same position” Alice said, coyly.  “See, I was thinking that I could
go between your legs, while the other Alice…”

 “…in time and space”
continued Serena, loudly, “that would break the laws of causality.  What you do to the other Alice would be done
to you – in a sense – and –“

“I know: that’s the point.”

“…and if you’ve done something to yourself before the other
one remembers doing it to you, then how can your other self not remember doing
it, when she comes to do it?  When she’s
you?  A paradox, you see?”

Alice was staring at her blankly. 

“Paradox” said Serena, again.  She briefly wondered whether Alice knew what
a paradox was. 

“I mean it’s against the laws of physics.” she added.

“But I don’t care about the laws of physics!”
retorted Alice, near tears.  “I just want
to fuck myself.  It’s not as if we care
about other laws, is it?  I mean,
kidnapping and torturing and murdering men must be against a whole bunch of
laws, too, right?  I mean, I haven’t checked
but it must be.  And that’s never stopped
us.  Please?”

“The laws of physics are different” began Serena,
weakly.  And then she had a brainwave.

“Plus, obviously, if there were two Alices each would
only get half the number of presents” she added, casually.  “I mean, that’s just arithmetic: more Alices, fewer presents per Alice.  If two Alices were given a pair
of gold ear-rings, for example, oh… say with inlaid rubies, they could each only have one. 
Although, I suppose
they could share them… take turns…”

“No, no you’re right.” Alice said, quickly.  “Quite right. 
That would be awful… imagine having to share presents.  I mean, even with myself.”  She shuddered.

“And there’s those laws of physics to consider.” she
added.  “Mustn’t break those. And all
the paradoxes, the nasty things.”

“Exactly” sighed Serena, making a mental note to compel
someone to buy a very expensive pair of ear-rings. Gold, with rubies.  “And you know… I’m very happy with just the
Alice I’ve got.  She’s perfect.  Now – how about I show you a few tricks with
time-portals?”

And the two friends spent a happy afternoon discovering
ever-new ways of using time travel to inflict pain and suffering on males,
perhaps because the author realised that readers of Contemplating the Divine
might actually want a bit of femdom content, for goddess’ sake, in what has otherwise been
essentially a lesbian love story,* with some slightly ropey science attached.


 

Aliceworld (in this image Alice is played by an actress who looks a bit like her).  OK, I’ll admit there are worse possible fates for the planet but it’s probably still better not to risk it.


…

Alice giggled as her friend turned a dial and the genitals
of the restrained male before them turned old and wizened, trapped as they were
by a thin band of time portal in an era when this body had become 90 years old**.  Then she turned the dial the other way and
after a brief spell as a healthy adult male organ, the penis shrank back into a
twig-like state and the balls lifted up into the helpless male’s crotch.”

“Aww… like a liddle boy” mocked Alice and blew the man the
sort of kiss that could usually raise at least a twitch in the adult male organ
– but of course could do nothing for the pee-pee of a six year-old.

…

They spent a few hours watching the Spanish Inquisition at
work, Serena taking careful notes about the operation of the rack, before
returning to their present with the inquisitors themselves.

“I suppose they’d be interested to see how torture
technology has progressed in the last few centuries” Alice remarked, as she
watched the last of them being lowered automatically into his holding cell,
shrieking in terror and fury in a mixture of Spanish and Latin, about devils,
witches and (she-) demons.

“We could give them a thorough demonstration this Saturday.”
nodded Serena.  “I expect they’ll be
quite impressed.  Still… they knew how to
make a rack back then.  Did you hear when
the tendons around his knee snapped?”

“Pop!” shouted Alice, delightedly.  “I love it when that happens. And the
screaming of course. What’s next?”

…

What was next turned out to be two naked males, in a largely
bare room.  One was strapped to a table
and had obviously been the recipient of Serena’s attention for some
time already.  What remained of his body was
covered in small bloodied cuts and, more importantly, what remained of his body
was not that much. Many of his extremities were missing or had large chunks chopped
out of them.  The other male appeared to
be unharmed, seated in a high chair affording him an excellent view of the
torture victim, a view that he could not avoid because his neck and head were
strapped into a steel contraption that forced him to gaze in a prescribed
direction and his eyes, behind transparent plastic lenses of saline solution,
were clipped open.  Alice had seen this
before: it was the set-up Serena used when she thought it was important that a
boy should see something that he might otherwise be too terrified to look at.

Serena went over to the quivering bloodied torso and held up
a small steel object with pride.

“All done with just one pair of pliers!” she declared,
flexing her palm to show the blades – which cannot have been longer than one
and half centimetres – opening and closing.

“I thought it would be fun to limit myself just to these,
you see.  Like an artist – another
artist, I mean, a different kind of artist from me – limiting herself to
just one brush or some such.  And it was
really interesting.  Obviously, working
steadily up the joints of each finger was straightforward  – that’s what these are really for, after all
– but then for example the larger limb parts presented quite a challenge.  It took ages to do this knee for instance”
she said, gesturing casually to the bloodied stump of one leg, where splinters
of twisted and crudely cut bone stuck out of raggedly-abused flesh in which, indeed, each
zig and each zag was no longer than the blades of the pair of pliers.

Alive clapped politely.

“And what about him, then?” she asked, gesturing to the
uninjured male in the chair.

“Is he next?”

Serena chuckled.

“In a way, yes.  Look
closely at this one’s face.”

Alice leaned over the savaged bloody mess that had once been
a face, and looked with interest, then glanced back at the figure in the chair.

Reader, if at this point you expect Alice to say something
like “Oh, they’re very similar, are they brothers?” then I must disappoint you.  Alice is a little ignorant of certain
scientific, historical, geographical, astronomical, literary and other matters (although she
has unparalleled expertise in certain specific aspects of biology) but she is
not stupid.  She got it immediately.

“Ooh! This – “ and she indicated the bloodied mess – “ is
the future him.” and pointed to the immobile figure high in his
chair.   

 Serena smiled.  “That’s right.  He’s seeing his future.  I’ve been working on him on and off for a few
weeks now; there’s probably a few weeks to go. 
He gets videos to review on days when his future self isn’t being
tortured too, so when I send him back to his own time he’ll have a really
excellent knowledge of exactly what will happen.  Then from time to time I visit his cell and
bring him here and strap him down.  And
on one of those times – it might be the first, it might be the hundredth –
it’ll start.” 

“So he’ll see his own death?” Alice asked.  “That would be spooky, wouldn’t it?  I don’t think I’d like that.”

To her surprise her friend shook her head.  “I don’t want to give him the comfort of
knowing when he’ll die.  You might
not want to know when you’ll die, but it’s different for them, on the torture
bench, because it’s the one thing they have to look forward to; the thing they
long for more than anything else in the world.”

“No.  When he’s not
much more than a cube of living, hurting flesh, I’ll stop and it’ll be for his
former self to imagine how long he has to endure in that state until his body
grants him the privilege of non-existence.”

This was all a bit philosophical for Alice, who was looking
again at the face of the moaning torture victim.

“You haven’t done the eyes yet.  Can we do an eye?  It must be tricky with the pliers… they’re so
small. I mean, I suppose we could just stab and gouge it out with the blades
together, but it seems a bit too easy for him.” 
She paused.

“Hey!  How about if we
snipped around his eyeball?  Instead of
gouging the eyeball out, we could snip away all the bony bits holding it in,
one at a time.  Would that work?”

“Clever you!” Serena said. “I’d been wondering how to do the
eyes.  How about you do the cutting too –
I’ll hold his eyelids out to start with, while you snip them off.”

And she handed her friend the pliers and the two happily
went to work, accompanied by the screams of the victim, whose tongue had long
since been too lacerated to allow human speech but whose vocal chords were in
perfect condition for the screaming they so often had to do.  Perhaps through the agony he dimly
remembered, too, seeing the same scene from outside, from high up in the chair
where his former self watched, every snip, every twisted off bone, every gouge
cut in quivering flesh adding to his stock of dread for his inevitable fate.

…

“You’d think someone who gave his name to the practice of ‘masochism’ would be better at it.” complained Alice, as they entered the orange portal to return to the 21st century. “And a bit more grateful when someone takes the trouble to show him how femdom techniques developed after his time.”

“Those who can, do, those who can’t, tech” shrugged Serena.  “Have you tried this Sachertorte?”

…

A memory (with Alice once again played by an actress – a different one this time) from the ladies’ trip to meet William Tell. I didn’t write this one up, because Alice was embarrassed about her poor archery skills, although I think she didn’t do too badly.  Most of her shots were fairly close and she did manage squarely to hit the apple on her 23rd go.



Later, in bed, the two reflected on their day.

“You know”, Alice said, “I don’t really see the point in
time travel.  I mean, it was fun but
there are lots of other ways to torture boys. 
And those history trips were OK, but you can watch a movie instead, and that’s
often … I dunno… more exciting.  Except
maybe when we went to that sunny country, where they were nailing guys to those
wooden things… that was nice, and they don’t show those bits in movies, not
properly.”

“You mean, when we witnessed the crucifixion of Christ?”
Serena replied, quietly.

“Yeah, that.” Alice replied. 
“Like that Mel Gibson thing.  That
was all right, I suppose.  But what I
mean, is that I don’t see the point of trying to change the past.  Why would we want to do that, when it’s all
been so good?”

“I suppose some people might have regrets… might want to go
back and change things so their lives worked out better.” Serena replied.  “Try to warn their former selves about
mistakes they will make.”

“I expect most of the males who’ve ever met me would very
much like to do that, actually.” she reflected.

“Yes, but that’s not us, is it?  That’s them, and they don’t matter.  Except as slaves and pain-toys. But I mean,
even people who don’t end up being enslaved and tortured might want to
go back and change things… give them some information that might make their
former selves money, for instance, which – “

“Which would reverse the principle of causation and thus
endanger the integrity of the universe.” Serena reminded her.

“Yeah, right.  But
even if we could, we wouldn’t want to, would we?  I mean, you don’t need any money; you haven’t
since the day that mysterious woman appeared and gave you those winning lottery
numbers, and you used the jackpot to buy your first lab and invent stuff and become
a billionaire, right?  So why would we go
back? Life’s perfect and it has been ever since we met.”

“That’s right” Serena replied, thinking it might be best not
to dwell too long on the mysterious stranger she had met soon after leaving
school.  “Best not to mess with causative
reality, anyway.”

“Cos of the platypuses” Alice murmured, resting her head
against Serena’s chest and closing her eyes.

“Paradoxes” smiled Serena, kissing her friend’s golden locks and wondering whether her girlfriend had been imagining the world being over-run by scurrying Australian beaver-like animals throughout the earlier discussion of temporal causal loops.

She gazed down at her fondly.  Alice was no intellectual, but she had a deep
reserve of common sense that Serena knew she could rely on.  Her friend was right, of course.  She, Serena, was wealthier than any human in
history, had hundreds of men locked away trembling in terror at the very
thought of her and she could do anything she wanted – anything at all, just as
she had dreamed of, when bullying boys at school. Few people in history had ever
experienced sadistic desires to match hers, but surely none even of those had
ever had the opportunity to put their every vicious desire into practice on such an
endless number and variety of unwilling victims. 
Truly, she was blessed,  And above
all, she had Alice: beautiful, wise and sexually insatiable. 

Why travel into the past, when your life today is perfect?

“Light off” she commanded quietly, and in a neighbouring
room two sweating slaves on stationary bicycles came to an exhausted halt and
the lights in the bedroom dimmed to darkness. 
And Serena settled back, her lover’s head heavy on her chest, and fell
into a contented, deep sleep.

 

Epilogue

In the middle of the night, Serena stirred into
consciousness, awoken by an insistent prodding at her shoulder.

“But hang on!  If we
can duplicate Alices by bringing them from another time or universe, why can’t
we do the same with presents?  Then
there’d be enough to go around no matter how many of me there are!”

 

END


*Remember this is Serena we are talking about.  Anything she finds ‘disturbing’ can safely be
assumed to be very, very bad indeed.

**But that of course is the secret of the Serena and Alice
tales.  Each one, though it may include
graphic descriptions of the most stomach-turning torture, twisted and vicious
illustrations of the extremes of woman’s utter inhumanity to man culminating in
the agonies of multiple lonely meaningless deaths, is at its heart a love
story.  A rom-com, if you like, but one
featuring charred flesh, splintered bones, gouged eyes, and the desperate echoing screams of the lover’s doomed victims. 
Notting Hill, eat your heart out.

*** Another paradox, if you will, as there is obviously
no way that any male under Serena’s control would make it to a ripe old age
like that – unless being subjected to some very long-running torture (she is
proud of having used her time machine to set up a “slow drip” experiment in which a hot beaker of tar drips onto
awaiting male flesh no more often than once two or three years.  It has been running for over thirty years already).



… oh and a little vignette of an extra tale, for those who have read down this far.  Since we’re on the theme of parallel universes…


“I’m not sure, Mistress”, W said, nervously eyeing the futuristic headset.  “I’ve tried a couple of VR things before and they’re just mainstream porn – pounding away at a gasping naked girl just isn’t my thing, you know?”

“Oh just relax, W” Mistress Valerie tutted.  “Honestly, it’s bad enough you shrieking like a little girl every time I tap you with a paddle… just try this, OK?  Even though you’ll feel everything, it can’t do you any real harm, you know that.  And I promise it’ll be kinky enough – in fact, I guarantee it.  You’ll see.”

So W lay back and let his Mistress fit the complicated apparatus over his head, then watched her attach the various tubes and cables to the control equipment.  She pressed a few buttons and W flinched in fear as he felt the nanotubes snake into his flesh, to bury themselves deep inside his brain, but – coward though he was – he trusted his long-standing Mistress and had let her secure his wrists before she started.  She patted his hand reassuringly.

“Now… you’ve got an exit, like a safeword.  Your wrists are secured but if you get worried, you can just tap the index and middle finger of your right hand together three times and you’ll come straight back, OK?  Now… are you ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.  Erm… if I may, what’s the theme of the fantasy you’ve chosen for me?”

“But that’s the point, W.  I don’t choose.  It just looks inside your mind, finds a fantasy that you find exciting and makes it real for you.  So it’s bound to be something you like, you see?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so Mistress” W said, as the real world started to fade, to be replaced with the inputs from his new neural connections.

“Only…” he had a sudden thought.  “Mistress, no!  Wait!  Please!  Some of my fantasies are a bit – “

But it was too late.  W found himself in a clinical white space, still apparently secured to a couch.  He saw a young woman seated in front of him, blonde curls cascading around her perfect face, her big blue eyes staring right at him.  She was the most beautiful girl W had ever seen.  But something about her expression alarmed him.

Then he became aware of another woman standing by his side, dark-haired this time, wearing a lab coat.  She seemed to be fixing something onto the fingers of his right hand, holding his index and middle fingers in a rigid V-shape, unable to move.  W felt a stab of dread in his stomach.

“Hello ‘Servitor'”, smiled Serena, looking down at him.  “We’ve both been so looking forward to meeting you, after all this time and all those things you wrote about us.  Haven’t we, Alice?”


Beast

Rather uniquely for me, this is a lesbian BDSM tale. No really: it’s not going to be another one of those where it seems to start off with some kind of femsub vibe but then has a (entirely foreseeable) plot twist in which the tables are turned and a male ends up being punished. There are simply no males in the story to end up in that position. So if scenes of the superior sex being spanked distress you, even when the spanker is another member of the same superior sex, don’t read this.

It’s a schoolgirl scene. Obviously, the two schoolgirl characters have both just passed their eighteenth birthdays, conveniently enough. They should be understood to be at the sort of posh British girls’ boarding school that features in old fashioned British school stories. The girls there are all jolly good sports, of course, but occasionally… just occasionally one of them might do something to offend another and be accused (in a cut-glass British accent) of being ‘an absolute beast!’.

Beast


“Oh I say” Harriet said to her friend admiringly. “You’ve put on your school prefect’s tie! It looks awfully smart on you.”

“Thanks” Angela smiled, fingering the garment around her neck, whose thin yellow stripe superimposed on the normal school colours symbolised her newfound rank. “Miss Gorman put up the list of new school prefects today, so it’s official.” I’ve got this room too, all to myself.

“Well I hope your new importance won’t turn you into one of those stuck-up prigs!” Harriet replied, smiling back. “You’re still Ange to me and we’re still chums, I hope.”

Angela’s expression turned serious. “Well, I hardly think it’s conducive to maintaining good discipline if I let you call me Ange, I’m afraid. ‘Angela’ from now on I think. Or even ‘Williamson’”

She burst out laughing at her friend’s crestfallen face. “I’m joking, silly! Of course I’m Ange!”

“Although… she went on. “In all seriousness, I have now taken a vow to uphold the school rules, you know, Hat. And I do intend to do my best to do that.”

“Of course” her friend replied. “Rah rah and up the jolly old school, what!”

Angela smiled, more thinly this time.

“No. But I do have an obligation to report any rule-breaking I hear about, Hat. If I were to learn that anyone had been… for instance… sneaking out to buy chocolate without a pass and storing it at the back of her locker.”

Harriet’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of shock.

“You wouldn’t! Would you, Ange? Anyway, I gave some of it to you – just yesterday, for instance. You’d get in trouble too!”

Angela shook her head slowly.

“Nothing in the rules to stop a girl accepting a present from a friend, Hat. I didn’t sneak out, did I? No… I’m afraid…”

“Surely there’s something I can do…” stammered Harriet. “You can, you can have all of the rest of the chocolate, if you – “

“Attempting to bribe a prefect in the performance of her duties” tutted Angela, still slowly shaking her head. “No, Harriet, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. However, I am prepared to resolve this without taking it to any of the teaching staff, as a special favour to you, given our long friendship.”

And she reached over to a table, to where her gym kit lay strewn and picked up a plimsoll* and eyed, it thoughtfully.

Now it was Harriet’s eyes that formed perfect ‘O’s as she stared at her friend gently tapping the thin rubber shoe against the palm of her hand.

“Surely… surely you don’t mean…” she stammered.

“One of the more unpleasant duties my prefectorial responsibilities require of me, I’m afraid.” sighed Angela. “Of course, if you’d rather I took it to Miss Rathbone…”

“No…no” Harriet burst out desperately. “Please don’t tell on me Ange. I’ll let you – “

“I think we will make it ‘Angela’ now, just for this” her friend interrupted. “And it’s not about letting me. Confess your crimes and ask. Politely.”

And she went to sit down on a small armless chair and stared up at the other girl expectantly.

“Ange… ela I, erm, I broke school rules by sneaking out to the shop without a pass, to buy sweets.” Harriet said, in a low, hesitant tone.

“Dear me.” Angela replied. “Whatever shall we do about that, Harriet?”

“I’d like you to punish me, please Angela”, Harriet replied, her face turning crimson with shame. “To… to smack me with that plimsoll.”

And, trembling slightly, she held her left hand out, palm up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, kiddo” Angela said curtly. “You’re going over here”.

And she indicated her lap, where her knees and lower thighs lay bare, beyond the length of her pleated school skirt.

“You’re going to… going to…” Harrier stammered.

“Smack your bottom.” nodded the prefect. “And don’t think you’re keeping your knickers on, either.”

“You want me to take my knickers off?” Harriet replied in horror.

“Or I can do it” shrugged Angela, reaching up.

“No, no, I’ll do it” shrieked her friend, hurriedly hooking her thumbs into the elastic and pushing down.

Before the shapeless blue cotton knickers had reached her ankles, she found herself being pulled across her friend – former’s friend’s – lap.

“Oh you beast, Ange” she said bitterly.

“Now now” Angela replied, briskly folding Harriet’s skirt up across her back. “Less backtalk.”

“Ange, please, I – OWWW! Ow, that hurt, Ange you – OWWW!”

And so it began.

 

Forty minutes later. Two piles of schoolgirl uniform lie untidily beside the bed. The plimsoll sits abandoned on the equally abandoned chair. The bed, designed for just one person, is clearly full beyond capacity, though, as what seems a single shapeless mass gently moves under the covering blanket. A nearby listener (there are none) would hear soft murmuring.

 

Beast. Beast!

Oh, you deserved it. Anyway, you asked me to do it.


Only because you said you’d tell on me if I didn’t! My bottom’s going to be sore for a week! Beast.

Didn’t I kiss it better enough, then?


And that’s another thing! I’m not a lesbian, you know!

Really? You gave a very good impression of one. Twice.


I hardly had the choice, did I? It was… it was rape is what it was. I can’t believe you did that, you beastly thing. After we’ve been chums all these years without ever… ever… well, you know. I should tell Miss Rathbone you raped me. Twice.

Oh…well, I suppose if you’re going to do that, you might as well tell her it happened three times.  At least… C’mere, kiddo.

Oh!  Oh, Ange, you… you b… b… – Oh.  Oh, yes, there!    Oh Ange!

The next day

“Oh, Harriet! Would you mind taking Angela Williamson this book” Miss Lavery said brightly, as the girls filed out of her class. She held out a book. “She’s in your dorm, isn’t she?”

“Happy to, Miss Lavery” Harriet replied. “But of course she’s got her own room next to the dorm, now. She’s a prefect, you know.”

“Oh yes, of course” the grey-haired teacher replied. “Well done her. How’s she taking to it?”

Oh, erm… all right I suppose, Miss” Harriet replied, her hand fluttering back as if to pat her skirted bottom for reassurance, before being firmly stopped in an effort of the will. “I suppose it’s quite a lot of responsibility… for enforcing the school rules and suchlike. It’s a bit weird, for those of us who are friends with her too.”

“A lot easier than it was when I was at school” Miss Lavery laughed. “You know, back then prefects were allowed to discipline the students directly. With corporal punishment. At least you don’t have that to worry about!”

“Aren’t prefects allowed to discipline the other girls any more then?” Harriet asked, forgetting the customary ‘Miss’ in her confusion. “I thought…”

“Good lord, Harriet, of course not. This isn’t the 1960s you know!”

“No… no of course it isn’t” replied Harriet thoughtfully. Then she brightened up.

“Thanks Miss!” she said cheerfully, and rushed out of the classroom, holding the book.

 

Later on

“What are you doing in my room? Very serious business entering a prefect’s room without permission, Hat! I hope I don’t have to… to…”

And Angela’s voice trailed off in confusion, as she stared at her friend, who was seated in the chair in the middle of the small room, holding the plimsoll in her right hand and tapping it gently against the palm of her left.

“As serious as violently assaulting a fellow pupil with something like this?” Harriet replied coolly. “And then forcing her into lesbian sex – repeated lesbian sex – all on the pretext of prefectorial powers that were abolished forty years ago? That sounds pretty serious to me… probably would to Miss Rathbone, too.”

Angela stood in silence. Harriet sighed.

“Whatever shall we do about that, Angela? Hmm?”

She did not wait for a reply, instead simply pointing to the other girl’s waist and flicking her finger downwards in an unmistakable gesture of command.

“Oh…” gasped Angela, as with bottom bared and with hot tears of shame welling up in her eyes, she found herself slipping over her friend’s lap. “Oh you beast, I – OWWW!”

And so once again it began. And there, dear reader, we will depart the scene and leave the two chums to it. Whatever ‘it’ might be and whatever other ‘its’ might follow.

 

Epilogue – ten years later.

Angela is a lawyer in one of the smartest City firms of solicitors; Harriet a journalist writing features for a trendy magazine. They share a flat near Edgware Rd in London and although both lead busy professional lives, they make sure that at least twice a week they return to it in time to spend a full evening together. One or other will cook, usually something quick and simple, and they eat quite hurriedly. Hanging up in the cupboard in their bedroom are two school uniforms: the same school uniforms, into which they both still just about fit . Harriet now finds her blouse rather tight, but Angela says she prefers her like that, so Harriet squeezes herself in.
 

But the two ties are different, so a choice must be made. One of the ties bears simply their old school colours, while the other displays the striking addition of a thin yellow stripe, betokening higher status. Sometimes, they have already agreed who will wear the prefect’s tie. If one of them, for instance, forgets that it is her turn to take out the rubbish on dustbin day, she might lay the prefect tie out for the other to possess, in a gesture of apology. If neither has any particular reason to accept to wear the ordinary tie, they might discuss over dinner whose turn it is. But they can rarely agree, so it often turns into a sudden rush for the cupboard and to the victor who grabs it first, the prefectorial spoils. Of course, having been the beneficiary of an expensive education, the loser always puts on her less colourful tie without argument… but sometimes, just sometimes, if she feels the tactics by which the other had seized the prefect’s tie were a little… underhand, she might hiss out a resentful “Beast!”

And then it begins. 

 

[THE END]

 

Is this a picture of Harriet and Angela during their school days (before Angela got her prefect’s tie but after, just to reiterate, their eighteenth birthdays)?  Hard to say… it certainly looks like them.  But those skirts aren’t regulation length, they’re both wearing blazers that are clearly several sizes too small for them and those shoes!  I mean quite apart from not conforming to the school’s heel length policy, they’re thoroughly impractical.  How would the girls join in a jolly lunch-break game of British Bulldog (Angela especially used to love being one of the bulldogs: grabbing other girls as they tried to run past and holding them tight), wearing those monstrosities? So I think it must be two adult porn models who just look a bit like them.


 

 

* A ‘plimsoll’ is, or was, a British sports shoe: a simple canvas upper over a rubber sole.  Like a trainer (or even a ‘sneaker’)  but thinner, much less complicated and never, ever fashionable.  But they had their uses…

 

Something like this… although these don’t look very clean.  I’m sure well brought-up English schoolgirls would never spank one another’s bottoms with a plimsoll that had seen outdoor use.  After all, there’s always the hairbrush…


 

Twelve honest women

 

 

All rise for her Ladyship!   This court is now in session.

Members of the jury.  You have now heard all of the evidence in this case, as well as the summing-up arguments of the defense, so eloquently put to us by defending counsel Ms Ingrams there,whom I would like to compliment once more on her cogent arguments.  And the stuff that prosecuting counsel said too, of course. Ms… erm, Langham I think?  No, don’t get up, Ms Langham. You’ve said all you need to say, I think.  Don’t worry: you did quite well, too.

As you know, members of the jury, the prisoner – Ms Rebecca Frances Davenport – stands accused of various crimes of violence which are, in descending order of severity: grievous bodily harm, actual bodily harm and assault.  It is your job to decide whether she is guilty of any crime and if you do so decide, which of those it should be.

The fact of this particular case are not substantially in doubt or disputed by either party.  We are concerned with the injuries sustained by Ms Davenport’s husband, Tom, when she beat him, first with a cane and then with a riding whip, after he served her coffee that was too milky.

Now, members of the jury, you may well wonder what there is in this that requires the involvement of the law?  Surely in this day and age a woman has a right to beat her husband as she sees fit and for whatever reason she chooses – or indeed no reason?  I am sure we have all inflicted painful punishments on males from time to time, no doubt all richly deserved – should we therefore fear the heavy hand of the local police, following some healthy domestic corrective action?

Obviously not, members of the jury. The law, thankfully, recognises the needs of males for physical chastisement and the rights of responsible females to provide it.  Yet it also specifies that only ‘reasonable force’ can be used. You may feel that a wife’s rights over her husband should have no such limitation and so might I, so might any of us, but we do not make the law, ladies of the jury, and even after twelve years of Femsuprem government, this restriction remains in the law, albeit rarely tested in court.

What does it mean, this word ‘reasonable’, members of the jury? That will be for you to decide on the facts of this case, but I can give you some guidance.

First, ‘reasonableness’ refers to the severity of the beating sustained. You will have seen the detailed photographs of the buttocks and thighs of Ms Davenport’s Tom, following the beating. Or beatings.  You will have noticed the many criss-crossed welts from cane and whip, the extensive bruising in all shades of purples, browns and even black. I hope it is not inappropriate for me to note that Tom Davenport has a rather attractive, muscular pair of buttocks so no doubt – like me – you examined those photographs closely and with great interest.

In fact, Clerk to the court, do you think we might be shown the photographs again?

Splendid.  Mmm.  Yes, there we are, members of the jury.  Study the evidence carefully, so you can recall every detail when you come to deliberate.  Observe for example the cross-hatching on the right thigh, where Ms Davenport – clearly a most skillful wielder of the disciplinary rod – has first laid down a ladder of horizontal stripes with the cane, at near mathematically precise intervals, then some half an hour later, after devoting herself to abusing some other area of his flesh, returned and positioned herself in front of her secured husband and completed this grid pattern we see here with an exactly equivalent set of vertical strokes from her whip.

You will no doubt recall, members of the jury, how Tom sobbed with pain and fear even at the recollection of this part of his beating, as he described it stroke by stroke, with these fine photographs arranged to provide the colour, so to speak, to his shaking, tearful description.  Indeed, members of the jury, one of you at least will recall that testimony very well, as we all heard that you were unable to contain your excitement.  No cause for embarrassment, madam, still less – as counsel for the prosecution suggested – a reason to consider you biased and thus unfit to serve. It is perfectly normal, healthy and proper for a female to become sexually excited when contemplating a male being punished.  You merely articulated what many of us, I dare say, were feeling, but with fewer inhibitions.  And perhaps a little more loudly.

These bruises – whips and cane strokes, members of the jury – are the injuries at issue in this case.  The prosecution withdrew the allegation that the injuries to ankles and wrists were in any way Ms Davenport’s fault, as those were inflicted by her male upon himself, as he struggled under the lashes of her discipline.  A fine pickle we would all be in, members of the jury, if any husband could escape the consequences of wifely retribution merely by jerking his arms so much when secured across the family whipping block, so as to dislocate his wrist or elbow!

So, members of the jury, have a last look at these photographs before I must ask the clerk to take them away again.  Consider the welts and bruises inflicted – consider them carefully. They are certainly skillful, and I think it is clear that they were most effective in bringing home to Tom the errors of his ways and thus ensuring a more harmonious domestic environment. You might consider them, although severe, well within the boundaries that are – and should be – allowed for domestic discipline in our society.  Bearing in mind the importance of suppressing all or any glimmers of male rebellion, after we finally threw off centuries of male oppression.  You might feel that Ms Davenport should be praised for her skill and her firmness in how she dealt with her husband and wish to reward rather than penalise her for that. However, your task is a simpler one: was this firm, effective – and no doubt for Ms Davenport thoroughly enjoyable – thrashing a reasonable way for her to discipline her husband, just as reasonable as any beating any of us might inflict on our partners, any night of the week? You may well think so, members of the jury, you might well think so.  

However, you might also choose to decide for whatever reason seems proper to you, that this action was unreasonably painful for Tom. The question, for the avoidance of doubt, being whether you consider the pain inflicted  unreasonably severe. You are not being asked to decide whether Ms Davenport was unreasonably lenient on Tom.  You might decide she was unreasonably severe… perhaps because you believe, in effect, that males even in firmly loving disciplinary relationships should be able to count on the law to protect them, should they – the males, members of the jury – themselves decide that the pain is too much for them.  Perhaps you might think that you would be entirely content if your own husband were to turn around and warn you not to hurt him too much, threatening you with prosecution. You might think any of those things, members of the jury, and if you do then you might decide that the level of pain inflicted in this case, as shown in these splendid photographs, was unreasonable.  You might decide that; you have that right and duty.  Or you might decide that there’s nothing wrong with a woman beating her man to the best of her ability and that the pain will do him nothing but good.  It is up to you.

Clerk of the court, with regret I must ask you to take the photographs away again.

Now, members of the jury, there is a second element to ‘reasonableness’ and that relates to the severity of the punishment in relation to the fault Tom committed.  As you will recall: he served his wife coffee that was too milky.

Now, counsel for the prosecution devoted considerable efforts to paint this act of Tom’s as somehow undeserving of the thrashing that he received. You may have found the prosecution’s arguments a little hard to follow there, members of the jury. I am not sure I myself can help you much in understanding them, but I will do my best.  I believe young Ms Langham’s point was that milky coffee is not such a bad thing.  That – in effect – Ms Davenport should simply have put up with the milky coffee.  Perhaps, members of the jury, the prosecution would like you to think she should have drunk coffee that was milkier than she enjoys, to avoid hurting the feelings of – or in other ways hurting – her husband.  She could, in short, have taken some discomfort upon herself, privileging the feelings and desires of a male, above her own.  As women did for so many centuries under the patriarchy.  Perhaps the prosecution also believes she should have taken on some of the housework, to give poor Tom a break, put on an apron and cooked him a meal – or even gone down on her knees before him, unlocked his belt and given him a blow-job? Perhaps.  We don’t know.  All the prosecution said was that Ms Davenport should have simply forced down the unpleasantly milky coffee without complaining. That this would have been more ‘reasonable’ then the actions she in fact took. Perhaps you agree with that idea, members of the jury.  Or perhaps you do not.

Let me nonetheless remind you of a few relevant facts to consider.  First: Ms Davenport has been Tom’s wife for over four years and was his Responsible Female for some eight months prior to that. She is not – and I believe this is undisputed – new to coffee drinking, members of the jury. Tom has been making her cups of coffee for all of that time. Every day, usually more than once. Tom knew how she liked her coffee, members of the jury.  A crucial point, so I shall emphasise it again: Tom knew how she liked her coffee.  Yet he made it too milky. She likes her coffee quite dark… Tom knew that but made it milky. An act of rebellion, perhaps, members of the jury?  Or merely the act of an unthinking male, characteristically concerned only with his own convenience and thinking nothing of the needs and wants of the woman whom he promised to love, serve and obey when they married? Either way, I am sure you will want to consider very carefully whether you wish to characterise a corrective beating in response to such behaviour as ‘unreasonable’, members of the jury. But of course that is a matter for your judgement.

Second, we have heard Ms Davenport’s evidence – corroborated by Tom when he was strapped across the witness block – that this was the third time in the last year that he had served her coffee that was too milky.  The third time, members of the jury! He repeatedly served her coffee he knew she would not like! Is that the act of an obedient husband? Should she allow it to pass unrebuked? Is it really that unreasonable for a husband to spend a few hours screaming and struggling under a relentless beating when he has willfully ignored his wife’s wishes time and time again? Indeed, how ‘reasonable’ would it be for Ms Davenport – for any woman – to suffer such a repeated gesture of contempt and not inflict a thorough beating, I ask you?  I can merely ask: it is of course for you to decide that, not for me.

Finally, we come to the conflicting evidence relating to Ms Davenport’s instructions to Tom, when she dispatched him to the kitchen to prepare the coffee.  She has testified that she clearly said “And don’t put too much milk in it, maggot!”, ‘maggot’ of course being the affectionate nick-name she uses at home to refer to Tom.  The maggot himself – Tom, that is – denies that she made any such remark, and maintained that position even under vigorous cross-examination over the witness block.  Rather a crucial piece of evidence, members of the jury, as even those of you who might for some reason feel well-disposed towards Tom and inclined to be lenient towards his apparent total lack of interest in his wife’s comfort might feel that serving milky coffee following such an instruction is tantamount to direct disobedience. Direct disobedience, members of the jury. 

Direct. Disobedience. 

Something none of us would tolerate in our own relationships, I venture to say. But that is of course for you to decide, not for me. Perhaps you are of a different opinion.  That is your right.

But many of us would no doubt feel that if such an instruction were given, Ms Davenport has no case to answer.

Yet was such an instruction given?  Here we have two witnesses offering conflicting evidence on this point, members of the jury!  Ms Davenport says she gave such an instruction, Tom says she did not. She says she did.  He says she did not.  How can we resolve this conundrum?  Fortunately, I can be of service to you on that point, as the law is quite clear in this regard: when a female witness and male witness provide conflicting accounts like this, the female’s evidence is to be accepted and the male’s disregarded. That is now established case-law, with numerous precedents dating back to soon after the Liberation. It is in any event only common sense: females being generally trustworthy while males, as we all know, are duplicitous, lying little weasels.  So you can put your minds at rest: Tom lied in the witness box and his evidence is to be disregarded.  He was instructed to ensure the coffee was not too milky: the evidence on that is uncontested.  Uncontested by any female, anyway, and legally that amounts to the same thing.

So: members of the jury, that is the case in a nutshell.  It is now for you to decide whether Ms Davenport is guilty or not guilty.

You will of course be well aware of the intense media interest in this case. Cases brought by husbands against their wives are thankfully rare and I believe this is the first time for several years that a male has sought to bring such serious charges against any Responsible Female, let alone his wife.  Public opinion in some quarters is running  understandably hot but I must advise you not to be influenced by anything you may have seen or read.  You must put such headlines as “Drink that, you bitch or I’ll have the law on you!” and “Criminal waste of police time and public money” or other such over-simplified characterisations of this matter entirely from your minds.  Similarly, you may or may not be aware that certain underground – and illegal – ‘men’s lib’ publications are following the case with keen, if rather furtive, interest. One such – a squalid publication absurdly named Equal rights for men now! – even sees the decision I shall shortly ask you to retire to consider to be, as with some distaste I quote, “the first step in rolling back the oppressive and brutal Femsuprem state.” 

 Like the rest of us, they must await your decision, ladies of the jury.  Whether you wish to encourage men’s libbers in their shrill and self-centred campaign, or not, I urge you to put any such considerations entirely aside and decide only the case in front of you: is Ms Davenport guilty, or not guilty?  And decide that on the facts. Let any political consequences fall as they may.

And that is the only decision in front of you: remember, Tom is not the accused and you are not here to decide what should happen to him, no matter how much you might like to be able to do so.  

No: the accused today is a woman, a female. As you are female.  As I am.  And I will leave you with just one more piece of legal advice and that – as counsel for the defense explained earlier so well – is something known as the golden thread that runs through English justice: the presumption of female innocence.  Every woman, no matter how severe a crime she is accused of, is innocent until proven guilty.  If there is any reasonable – that word again, madam jurors! – any reasonable doubt as to the guilt of the accused, then she must be set free. That is a cornerstone of female liberty, in this United Queendom.

So: members of the jury.  It is time for you to retire to consider your verdict.

(Two minutes later)

Madam Forewoman, welcome back.  have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?

Jury forewoman: We have, Your Ladyship.

And do you find the accused, Ms Rebecca Frances Davenport, guilty or not guilty?

Jury forewoman: Not guilty on all counts, Your Ladyship.

Thank you.  You have discharged your duty admirably, no doubt weighing up  –

Jury forewoman: And if I may say so, Your Ladyship, we think the little swine deserved everything he got and then some. I’d have given him a second full dose later the same day, if my husband had – 

Yes, erm.. thank you Madam Forewoman.  I’m sure we all share… anyway, you have been most helpful. You have carried out your duty in a case that… well, some might say should frankly never have been brought, but I am nonetheless grateful.  You may – 

Jury forewoman: And also, if any tosser of a man thinks he can – 

Yes, THANK YOU, Madam Forewoman, members of the jury. You may stand down.

Now.  First of all, it is my very pleasant duty, Ms Davenport, to declare you not guilty.  An innocent woman, entirely cleared of all charges and without a stain on your character. You may thrash males with the skill and vigour you displayed towards your Tom without the slightest concern that the law might seek to intervene to soften the blows, so to speak.

Rebecca Davenport: Thank you, Your Ladyship. I’m so pleased.

I’m sure all right-thinking citizens are, Ms Davenport.  Indeed, although in my supervision of these proceedings and my summing up I had to be scrupulously unbiased, to ensure an absolutely fair trial, now the jury has reached its well-justified decision, I will note for the record that I believe the Police and the Public Prosecution Service have some serious questions to ask themselves about their decision to intervene in this matter. What exactly they were thinking, to bring the full majesty of the law into a simple and wholesome domestic beating? That mystifies me as it has mystified so much of the press.  It may even be a resigning matter, in some quarters. 

I’ll confess I found it difficult at times to restrain my extreme scepticism about the case that has been brought before me and my irritation at the – frankly – rather sexist implications of the idea that a woman cannot beat her male as she sees fit. I had thought those dark days of male impunity were behind us.  Following the jury’s wise decision, perhaps at last they are.

I should note for the record, however, that my criticism does not extend to counsel for the prosecution, who really has done her best, I believe.  Barristers, especially junior barristers (and by her youthful appearance I believe Ms Langham to be very junior), must accept briefs that come to them and Ms Langham was doing her job and carrying out her duty, in making the best case she could on behalf of this wretched male.

Ms Langham (blushing): Thank you, Your Ladyship.

And your rather pretty blush reminds me, Ms Langham, of how I – and I think we all – felt the greatest sympathy for your embarrassment when you had to present some of the more absurd elements of the prosecution’s case.  At least you did it most fetchingly – you wear the barristers robe so well – and it was a pleasure to have you in my court. No, sit down, now Ms Langham!  You have carried out your disagreeable task very well and if we did not always agree with what you had to say, I for one thoroughly enjoyed listening to you say it.  I hope you are able to take on rather more wholesome work as your career develops.

Finally, more seriously, I turn to what should become of Tom Davenport.  As I explained to the jury, he is not on trial here.  Yet there is obviously now a serious question of whether charges should be brought for wasting police time and for perjury – which he obviously committed when he contradicted the evidence of a woman, while under oath. These are serious charges and if found guilty of both, Tom Davenport as he now is (but he would lose his name, of course) could face a sentence of up to thirty-five years in a Male Re-education Centre.  Even without going to the trouble of such a trial, I could here and now sentence him to eighteen months in an MRC for contempt of court.

I am minded to do so. The healthy outdoor air, the constant physical labour and of course the frequent attentions of skilled and qualified Male Re-education Officers, would clearly do Tom nothing but good.  He would emerge a changed man – changed much for the better.  I can consign him to such a camp only for up to eighteen months, as I said, but the Camp Commander or her deputies can extend his stay indefinitely in the case of, for example, disobedience, disrespect or repeated laziness. Given his behaviour in married life, such offences seem almost certain, so although I cannot directly impose the sentence of many years that he so richly deserves, without wasting still more time and money on trials, I am confident he would receive an appropriate ‘education’ and would be able to take the time needed to let the lessons sink in.

However.

There is another course of action. His wife, Ms Davenport, has by her actions already demonstrated her devotion to his improvement and her determination that he should mend his ways.  As well has her skill and vigour in encouraging him to do so. Rather than making him a burden on the State and having him take up a square metre or two of bare concrete in a cell block that could otherwise be used to house a male with no such loving alternative, I am inclined simply to release him back into her care.  However, she is of course entirely within her rights to reject the selfish little swine, in which case I will happily consign him to the care of the MRS. Ms Davenport, would you be willing to take this ungrateful male back?

Rebecca Davenport: Oh yes, Your Ladyship. Willing and quite ready, believe me.

Your commitment to his welfare makes you a role model for women everywhere, Ms Davenport.  Very well.  Clerk of the court, please record that the court instructs the MRS to restore Rebecca Davenport’s rights over the boy Tom, of the same name, as his Responsible Female.  Also, that the aforesaid Tom receives a suspended sentence of eighteen months re-educational labour at the discretion of his Responsible Female, that sentence to lapse after thirty years if no further offence is committed.  And finally, the aforesaid Tom is hereby sentenced to – I’m sorry, that’s the wrong word, please strike it from the record – released into the care of his wife and Responsible Female, the aforesaid Rebecca Davenport.

Good. Anything else?

Thank you, ladies. This court is no longer in session.  Ms Langham, I wonder if you would care to join me in my private chambers, for a quick glass of sherry?

All rise!

 

Miss Langham.  She really is very young, poor thing, to take on such a difficult brief.  But her senior colleagues (who had all skillfully avoided taking the case) advised her that if she did her best and smiled at the judge a lot, the judge would probably treat her kindly.  And they were right.

 

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