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 has.  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…


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.


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!


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…


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.


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


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.



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

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

“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.


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

“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

“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

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

“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

“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

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

 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

“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.



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!



*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?”


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!’.


“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. 




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.


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.


The woodsman and the findomme



In one of the comments in the last few days, someone was kind enough to say that my little captions sometimes manage to be both witty and erotic.  I mention this, not to show off (but it was a very kind thing to say, as this is usually exactly the combination I aim at) but merely as a segue to allow me to note that the tale below is neither witty nor erotic.  

On the contrary, it is a thoroughly unpleasant story (and not in a ‘good’ way).   Femdom-themed in parts, but not sexy.  Sorry.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.


Once upon a time there was a poor woodsman.  Every day he would rise with the sun and haul his axe off into the forest to chop trees and branches to sell for a few coppers in town.  It was hard work but he loved being outdoors, whether in the warm sunshine of the summer or even the fresh morning frost of the autumn.  In winter, he holed up in his snug cabin, a fire always burning merrily in the hearth, and rested and dreamed.  He was well-liked in the town for he was known for his bravery and had several times wielded his axe to help clear fallen trees, to rescue townspeople from collapsed buildings and even on one occasion to save a child from her burning home, delivering her safely to her crying, grateful mother.  Yes, although poor, the woodsman was contented with his life.

There was only one shadow over his happiness, one yearning he could not fulfill: the woodsman craved to be humiliated and ruined by a findomme.  Yes, when finally resting exhausted after a day chopping wood, or when snuggled down in his warm winter quarters, the woodsman’s hand would move down to his hardening cock and he would dream of spiteful, vicious young ladies taking everything he owned, on nothing more than a whim, and laughing their golden tinkling laughs at his humiliation and shame.  But the woodsman knew that no findomme would ever be interested in raping his meagre coin-purse for the few coppers it contained, or in demanding nine-tenths of his monthly income to spend on fripperies, as even with the last tenth added, few fripperies indeed can be bought for the proceeds of a woodsman’s labour.  And so the woodsman could only dream, but his dreams at least were rich – with humiliation, cruelty, beauty and disdain in equal measure.

Now, one fine spring morning the woodsman was far from home, seeking out an oak of great girth for a special commission from a rich merchant in town, who wanted a table made from a single tree-trunk.  (How the woodsman envied the merchant the wealth he could glimpse through the gateway of his grand house; how he would have loved to lay the titles to that fine house and all its rich furnishings at the feet of a beautiful and contemptuous young lady, to be picked up and taken without a word of thanks or even acknowledgement!).  After three hours, he came across a clearing, where stood the greatest oak he had seen in all his years of toil: seven yards around at least.  He took his axe from his backpack, took position next to the gnarled wood and prepared for the first of what he knew would be hundreds of hard, biting strokes, when an ethereal voice rang out across the clearing.

‘Woodsman spare my home!’ it called and a shimmering green shape appeared somehow formed from the change movements of the leaves of the tree.  A beautiful young lady, fine featured and elegant, yet with a face formed into a cry of horror and fear.

He knew of such things, although had never before seen one.  A spirit of the tree – a dryad – was here and if he chopped down the oak, she would live the rest of her days stunted and deformed, trapped in the bare and chastened tree trunk that would remain after the glory of the living tree had been lost.  Some woodsmen believed dryads to be evil spirits, others held that they were noble princesses imprisoned by some magic from the deep times, but all respected their power.  Our woodsman simply had no desire to deprive any creature of her home, no matter how humble or exalted, so he put down his axe.

‘Ah, and now you claim your reward! A wish, that I must grant to clear my debt to you.’ the dryad sang out.  But he merely smiled, shook his head and prepared to resume his search for an oak of the size he needed.  He wanted no part of a magical bargain, having read too many fairy tales to believe that any good would come of it.

‘Oh?  Is there nothing you yearn for?  No deepest wish, no secret heart’s desire?’

The woodsman paused, a vision of a shapely foot, clad in a delicate jewel-encrusted shoe that would have cost more than ten generations of woodmen could ever earn, had forced its way to the forefront of his mind.

‘Ah – I see there is!  Tell me, tell all!  By the nine sacred branches of Father Oak, I command it.’

And the woodsman poured out his heart to her – at first reluctantly but then with increasing enthusiasm as the images tumbled one atop the other in his mind’s eye.  He spoke of feminine radiance and contempt, of pay-piggies crushed beneath elegant heels, of priceless gifts spurned, of bodies and souls broken on the wheel of girlish cruelty and indifference.  In short, there in the otherwise empty clearing, he spoke of his dreams of financial domination and sang of the findomme princess of his dreams.

When he had finished the dryad was silent for a moment.

‘I see’ she said at last.  ‘Not quite what I am used to, I have to say.  But I suppose it’s doable.’

‘You can bring a findomme princess here, to ruin me now?’ he asked eagerly.

The dryad laughed and her laughter was like the breeze moving through autumn leaves.

‘What would be the point in that?  You’re not rich.’

‘Well, you could… make me rich.’ The woodsman replied.  ‘And I could give it to her.’

‘Perhaps’ the dryad remarked.  ‘But there is little humiliation in simply handing over a pile of gold that I magic up here.  In any case, that would be two wishes, technically.  No: leave it to me.’

And she disappeared, leaving only a tree – more massive than any other in the forest but still only a tree – and a very bewildered woodsman.  He waited for an hour to see if she would return, then went off to seek another oak to cut.  He was lucky and soon found one, worked all day, dragged the heavy cut trunk into town and received a small silver coin for his efforts.  Still fired up by his visions from earlier, he immediately went to hand this to one of the town prostitutes hanging around behind the main square who, knowing his desires, slapped his face and threw it down to the ground for him to pick up and offer to her more humbly.  Then she took the coin, kicked him in the face as she knew he liked and walked off, wishing she were young and pretty enough to make a career of this, rather than the blow-jobs and late-night knee-tremblers in the nearby alleys that were her stock in trade.  And the woodsman went home.

Two days later there was a knock on the door of his forest hovel.  On opening it, the woodsman was amazed to see three men dressed in the livery of the local lord.  He was still more amazed when they explained that he was the distant heir of a minor branch of the local nobility and that all the land around – the forest, which covered three valleys and innumerable hills – belonged to him.  One of the men was a ‘financial counselor’ and promised to help the woodsman decide what was best, to manage his newfound estate.

It was all very complicated.  More complicated than chopping wood, the woodsman decided, with bewilderment.  The land itself was valuable enough, worth a greater sum than the woodsman had imagined, but the annual returns were low, since few of the farmers or woodsmen who paid tithes had much income, although their numbers were many.  Better by far – the financial counselor explained – to sell or lease it for ‘development’.  This was a word the woodsman was unfamiliar with, but it seemed to mean bringing in machines and many people to extract the riches that lay beneath the ground.

‘Gold?’ the woodsman asked, eagerly, thinking of grovelling before an indifferent goddess and offering her gleaming jewellery from shaking hands.

But the counselor laughed and shook his head.  Better than that, he explained: there was oil in great profusion, albeit locked inside shale beds that needed fracking to break open, and perhaps veins of heavy metals that could be leached from their deposits with the correct application of the right chemicals, in sufficient quantity.  The woodsman understood little of this, but the counselor mentioned some financial figures ‘Just as a minimum, ball-park estimate’ and the woodsman realised that he could become one of the richest men in the kingdom.  With wealth like that at his disposal, all of the most beautiful women in the kingdom would be queuing up to spurn him and treat him with the contempt he so craved.  He barely paused, before grabbing the proffered pen and signing up to become a 50 % joint venture partner in a company called ‘Deposit Resource Yields – Advancing Development’, which would carry out these exciting plans.

Whoever owned the other 50% seemed not to need the woodsman to do anything, because later that same day a convoy of yellow vehicles and machinery arrived, all emblazoned with ‘DRYAD’ on the side and they began their work.  Great bulldozers cleared trees at a thousand times the rate even an army of woodcutters could have managed.  The lumber was machine-cut and ground into sawdust to make chipboard for cheap furniture, while steamrollers flattened the land for mighty roads laid down by hot, towering asphalt-burners, which lit the sky with their flames while pouring out the sticky black tar that coagulated to form the surface of the roads.  Along these roads came more machines, to construct buildings for the many workers whose shouts and obscene jokes filled the air as they too laboured, to install drilling and injection machines, across the three valleys and the surrounding hills.  The sky darkened with the fumes from their activities.

Then the drilling began, with a roar like ten thousand shrieking banshees, and great vats of chemicals were positioned to be pumped in to the ground, to lubricate the drills, to crack open the seams of slate to liberate the precious oil within and to leach heavy metals from their deep veins, to be collected by mighty open-cast mining rigs.

The trees that had not been turned to sawdust lost their leaves within days, birds died in their hundreds or fled, the streams and rivers first bloomed with sickly algae, which then itself died back leaving nothing but black water stinking of corruption and decay.  After a couple of weeks, the air stank of smoke, of choking chemical fumes, of electrical discharges and of death.

Looking sadly out over the blackened, blasted hillside one day, the woodsman remembered the townspeople, in shock.  He put on the protective rubber boots and respiration mask that the workman respectfully offered to him and hurried down into town.  He walked down the main street, seeing no one.  Most of the houses were boarded up, and when he knocked on those that were not, he was greeted only with cries of hatred and rejection, when the inhabitant realised who it was.  The townspeople knew of his inheritance and how he had delivered their land and their livelihoods over to destruction, for personal gain. 

The woodsman came to the place where the prostitute had plied her trade, but there was nothing but a bare stretch of ground, worn and marked by the high heels of generations of prostitutes but now unoccupied. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a haggard shopkeeper, grimly winding down his store-front blind, eying him with contempt.

‘Wait!’ the woodsman called.  ‘Did she… I mean where has…?’ and he gestured helplessly at the empty pavement.

The shopkeeper shook his head, slowly.  ‘Syphilis’  he replied, hoarsely.  ‘The workers who came with the machines… soon enough all the working girls got it.  Not a pretty death.  But then – what death is?’

And he resumed winding down the blind, keeping eye contact until he disappeared from view behind the blank screen that left the woodsman feeling utterly alone.

He wandered back towards his home, meeting on the way a cart piled with the meagre possessions of what must have been at least three families: the children and infirm grandparents clinging grimly to it, while adults walked and took turns to push, alongside.

‘Hey’ he called out desperately.  ‘Hey there!’

The sad little procession paused, and all turned to look at him.  One of the women lifted her chin slightly, staring straight at him as if to appoint herself spokeswoman for them all.  But none said a word.

‘I… I can help!’ he cried out.  ‘See – see I have money!  I can help.’  And he drew out a soft kid leather bag of thick gold coins and started to untie the cord, with shaking hands.

The woman stepped forward, lowered her head and spat, once, at his feet.  Then she turned away and the group resumed their trudging, all without speaking or even looking back.

Back at his hut the woodsman looked out at the blackened, poisoned hillside where once had been trees and flowers, butterflies and birdsong, life and laughter.  Beyond it, in the valley, huge machines rumbled and roared, shaking the ground and blackening the sky.

‘What have I done?’ the woodsman cried out in horror at the ugliness of the outside and his sudden realisation of the ugliness of the soul inside him that had created it. ‘Oh, what have I done?’

And he collapsed to the ground, sobbing helplessly in his shame and his chagrin.  His tears fell from his hot, quivering cheeks and splashed onto…

…a shapely foot of greenish but flawless complexion, girt with an ankle strap of golden twine.

He looked up in shock, at the beautiful face of the dryad, gazing down on him with an indecipherable expression on her face.

‘I… I only wanted to be rich!’ he gasped.  ‘So I could… you know, be ruined by a callous female.’

‘But you were rich’ smiled the dryad.  ‘You were rich in the forests that surrounded you with beauty; you were rich in the gratitude of the people whom you had helped; and, above all, you were rich in the contentment you enjoyed, in a life that you knew to be worth living.  You were rich beyond the dreams of kings and emperors.’

‘And now…’ the woodsman groaned, slowly, the dawning realisation in his reddened eyes…‘Now I have…’

‘Nothing.’ replied the dryad.  ‘You have nothing.’

‘Nothing’ he acknowledged, hollowly.

There was silence for a moment.

‘Would you like me to put things back how they were?’ the dryad asked, sweetly.  ‘Before you visited my clearing, before you made your wish, before you destroyed everything in your desire for a findomme princess?’

‘Yes – yes, put it back how it was!’ the woodsman cried desperately.

‘Hmm’ the dryad replied.  ‘Maybe.’


The woodsman kissed the ground before her feet frantically, piteously begging with all the humility and desperation that filled his otherwise empty existence.  He pleaded and beseeched with all his soul, shaking with the guilt and the helpless self-loathing that was all he felt inside.

‘Hmm’ she said again.

He paused, the despair within him somehow burning still more painfully now there was a tiny flicker of hope in his aching chest.

‘I don’t think so’ he heard, and then felt an explosion of pain that blotted out his vision.  She had kicked him in the face, harder than anyone had ever kicked him before.

And when he came to, she was gone and the woodsman lay alone, spots of blood from his nose and tears from his eyes discolouring the ground beneath him, surrounded by the blackened hell that was the world he had chosen for himself. The flicker of hope in him had died, leaving nothing but darkness and despair.

He was ruined.



I did warn you. Unpleasant, not ‘unpleasant in a good way, full of vicious but exciting femdom torture like Serena and Alice‘.  Just nasty and mean-spirited – and predictable too, right?  

 Here’s another very unpleasant story that my readers hated, if you want something else to dislike.


When I write nicer stories I try to illustrate them with pictures of pretty ladies that are at least somewhat relevant to the plot but for this one… well, I only found this and I think we can all agree this is not how the dryad looks:

Once you pop you just can’t…

I thought I’d try a mini-man story, very loosely inspired by the magnificent art of NKS Volkov from whom (with permission) the illustrations come.



Mini-men?  Oh dear, are you from one of those awful countries where popping hasn’t yet
been legalised?  There’s really nothing wrong with it, nothing to worry about.  Not for us women, anyway.  Just settle back, my dear, while I explain.  If you want a drink or anything else to make you comfortable just announce your wishes loudly – there are plenty of little helpers around who will be only to pleased to scurry off to satisfy your every whim.

So…where to begin?

First of all, obviously, no actual ‘shrinking’ is
involved.  That would contravene the laws
of physics.  When a guy goes into the
chamber and a mini-man pops out, the remaining matter can’t just disappear (or
be converted into energy – no matter how useful that would be).  No: if a six foot tall man goes in and a four-inch
mini-man comes out, then there’s a lot of matter left.  How much? 
Well, the mini-man is only a third of a foot, so he’s 1/18th
of the height of the original guy.  But
that’s not the right answer.  The volume
(and the mass – that is, the weight) of a man – or any other object – is
proportional to the cube of its length. 
So, the mini-man is 1/18th the height of the original man, he
has 1/324 of the area of the original and he has 1/5832 of the volume and also
1/5832 of the mass.  Of course, the
actual ratios will vary – anything between about 5500 and 6500 is possible, but
6000 is usually the working assumption. 
That’s a lot of little people.  

So: your newly-popped mini-man is not unique.  You can pop about 6000 mini-men out of one
original.  Not all at once, thank
goodness – imagine them all swarming all over the floor, squeaking away! – but
once a man has been processed, you can keep popping up to that limit.  The rest of his body will be held in a sort
of stasis.  There’s no going back.  You might think you could just pull him back
out having lost only 1/6000th of his body mass but it just doesn’t
work like that.  Something to do with
quantum entanglement states, the scientists say.  Whatever. 
For the rest of us it’s just one of the mysteries of the process – like
why it only works for men, not for women. 
There was a lot of scientific interest in that, at first, but they never
really worked it out and no one cares much any more.  It’s just one of those things.

No going back.  In
fact, one of the advertising slogans for the first commercially-available
devices was “Once you pop, you just can’t stop!”.  Which was intended partly to warn users about
the irreversibility of the process, of course, but nowadays just reminds us how
much easier, wealthier and just plain fun the whole mini-man process has
made all our lives.  Who could imagine
going back?

Easier?  Of
course.  I’m sitting here dictating this
article to the very latest MM-autowriter. 
Like an old-fashioned computer keyboard but with extra-large keys, with a
mini-man straddling each group of five.  Ankles, wrists and nose each attached to a key, by a tiny metal chain
I could snap with a near-effortless tug, each has to push down with all his
might – and in precise harmony with the others – when I say a word containing
one of his five letters.  Every sentence
produces a frantic ripple of activity.  I
have the keyboard laid out so that D, W, E, A, R and N are worked with their
heads.  So when I say “Andrew” they all have
to bash down hard with their little faces. 
‘Andrew’ of course, being the name of my dear sweet husband, from whom
all these little treasures popped. 

And down by my feet, a little line of mini-men – more Andrews,
so many Andrews (oh yes, that’s right my dears, faces smacking down on those keys!) – are wearily
scrubbing the floor.  So much more
precise and effective than a big silly mop – and so what if it takes a bit
longer?  If I really wanted it done
quickly I suppose I could pop a few more out, but why bother when it can be
polished to perfection in just a few hours by these little toilers?  Twelve’s plenty and in fact, now I think
about it, I suspect that if the number were quickly reduced to eleven, those remaining
eleven would work so extra hard, they could do it just as well.  Even having to clean up the mess that used to
be number twelve – isn’t that right, my dears? 
I wonder which of you will be number twelve?  We’ll see – keep scrubbing.

And on the rug, there, four of them with baskets on their
backs, wearily picking up every item of fluff. 
Of course a vacuum cleaner could do it better but where would be the fun
in that?

Shoe-cleaning is a particular pleasure to watch, of
course.  It can’t be so much fun for
them.  I live in a green, leafy suburb
where many of the paths are quite muddy, I’m afraid.  And when I do walk on the pavement, there’s
all manner of grime and filth my shoes can pick up.  I even trod in some chewing gum, a few days
ago!  Quite disgusting – some people have
no consideration for others!  Thank
goodness for mini-men – I gave four of them little nails to use as scrapers and
after just a couple of hours the sole was spotless again!  I also love to put them into the shoes and
have them sponge the damp inner soles for an hour or two, when I come in after
a long day.  I don’t know if it does much
good, but the sponges and the mini-men certainly give off quite a pong when I
shake them out again, so it must be better having that out of my shoes rather
than in!  A foot-fetishist’s dream, I
suppose – what a pity for Andrew he’s not at all that way inclined.  In fact, one evening soon after we were
married he complained about how he could smell my shoes just after I’d taken
them off and put my feet up for the first time, after a long day! So
inconsiderate!  I like to remind of of
that, as I pick him up and attach sponges to his tiny wrists and ankles, before
dangling him over the gaping black hole that is the top of one of my well-worn
boots.  Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tactless,
I wouldn’t make him do this.  I wonder if
he thinks about that, down there.


So…life is easy.  And
I think I mentioned ‘wealthy’ too? 
Why?  Oh, simple enough.  Lots of people think that a mini-man must
produce less than his full-size equivalent. 
But so little of our modern economy depends on physical strength these
days!  That’s why women were increasingly
economically dominant even before the mini-man technology came along but
now…  Why train 100 software developers,
when you can train one and pop out six thousand?  Or engineers, machinery operators, remote
vehicle drivers… it’s been estimated that 60% of all jobs can be done by
mini-men.  And of the remaining 40%, at
least half are highly-skilled positions best carried out by women, so really
only 20% or so of all jobs need to be done by the remaining full-size men.  Simple, manual tasks requiring nothing more
than brute strength and close supervision. 
Of course, the recent changes in our political arrangements have helped
ensure that the right jobs go to the right people, so to speak.

The politics?  Oh,
that’s simple enough.  Males have no
rights, obviously.  That was an
unexpected side-effect of the minimising process, actually.  Initially, there were these wild notions that
mini-men would be treated as fully competent human beings – but that was
obviously unworkable.  I mean, can you
imagine?  Any male could be popped to
produce 6000 extra voters!  As women
couldn’t follow suit, that was obviously going to lead to male domination of
our political society very quickly! 
Fortunately, in most countries where mini-man technology was legal, the
danger was recognised quickly.  Women
voted in a coherent bloc, while the male vote was largely split because many
men were sympathetic to our feminist arguments that it wasn’t fair for women to
be outvoted  – the sweet, trusting little
dears – and mini-men lost the right to vote. 
There was a brief suggestion that they should each get 1/6000th
of a vote but as the leader of the Female First party so rightly said “Oh come
on – why bother?”.  And then with such a
large proportion of the male population being converted as business clamoured
for mini-workers… well, it was straightforward enough to complete the great
work started by our suffragette sisters at the start of the last century and
remove all civil rights from males. 
About time too.

Not all countries managed to see the danger in time to take
such bold political steps, of course. 
Some left it too late – and had to suffer a period of domination by the
swarming numbers of mini-men. 
Fortunately, it was precisely the more patriarchal males who had
themselves converted – if even mini-men can vote, then any ambitious politician
is quickly going to pop out 6000 of himself, just before election day.  They hadn’t really thought through the
consequences of how to actually enforce their democratically-achieved mandate
on the numerically tiny but physically massive remaining female
population.  Most such mini-men
governments fell rather quickly to domestic rebellions… those that didn’t were
helped along by invasion from more enlightened regimes.  Most military equipment, after all, is rather
more suited to being wielded by full-sized soldiers than by squeaky little
imps.  Although, as General Sally Curtis
remarked, after the ‘Two day war’ that put an end to the last of these nasty
little nests of male privilege: “The most effective weapon a soldier can deploy
against an army of mini-men is her pair of tough leather boots.”

Ah – I suppose that brings me on to the topic of ‘smooshing’
doesn’t it?  Yes… smooshing.  ‘Squishing’ some people call it.  I suppose it is a bit cruel, really, but it
does help keep the remaining little dears focused on their work.  And it is such fun!



I suppose we’ve all become accustomed to it now.  It was a little shocking at first, I suppose,
when women began to realise that with all those silly civil rights taken away
from mini-men, there was no longer anything to stop them.  The first mini-man I smooshed was a complete
stranger, oddly enough!  I remember it
well – I was at a party at a friend’s house. 
I can’t have popped more than fifteen or twenty Andrews at that point
and I was still treating them almost as if they were people – I had a couple
with me, in my pockets you know.  Anyway,
my friend had her mini-husband running around pulling carts with drinks on and
that sort of thing – I remember feeling quite excited about how powerful it
made us all seem, ironically enough.  I
say ‘ironically’ because my idea of exerting power over a mini-man at the time
was to put him up on a shelf for some quiet time and similar (Andrew squeaked
huis little head off the first time I did it, too, but I left him up there all
night).  And then, my friend Yvonne,
who’d been getting more and more cross with them all, just got up from her
chair, strode across the room and – STOMP! 
Well, the room just fell absolutely silent… then one of the girls
giggled.  I couldn’t laugh I was… not
horrified, exactly, but I was quite shocked. 
And excited – but it wasn’t obviously excitement in a good way, you
know?  My heart just started
thudding.  And I remember noticing what a
mess it made – she’d stamped hard, so he’d burst and there was blood all
around, you know.  Not like a slow crush,
when you steadily break the bones from the feet up.  And all these little mini-men scurrying to
clean it all up… as if their lives depended on it.  For good reason.

Well, later that night I was walking home.  I’d decided to walk rather than take a taxi,
because my mind was still buzzing about what I’d seen.  And we were still just getting used to the
almost total absence of crime, so like a lot of women I loved walking alone
after dark, feeling totally safe as I did. 
I was walking up a quiet side-street, no one around, and this mini-man
just ran out in front of me, coming out from behind some bins.  I don’t know whose he was and what he was
doing there but I just reacted instinctively. 
I shrieked “Ohh – horrid thing!” (such a feminine stereotype, rather
like a  1950s TV housewife seeing a
mouse, I’m afraid!) and I just stamped on it, almost without thinking.  I remember afterwards puzzling over whether
I’d realised it was a mini-man, or whether I’d thought it was a cockroach.  I thought it odd that I couldn’t remember,
until I had the revelation: it didn’t matter.

One of the Andrews had been watching out of the edge of my
pocket.  I picked him up and stared at
him… he was white and shaking with terror. 
I blew him a kiss and put him back and we all went home.  I smooshed my first Andrew the very next day.

It’s funny how you get used to things.  Smooshing used to be something you did
secretly, for the most part – that’s why seeing Yvonne squishing her husband so
brazenly was a shock.  But we women like
to gossip and we pretty soon realised everyone was doing it.  And nowadays… have you ever watched Rapist
Release?  They’ve got all the males who
were convicted of sexual offences stored up, and they have these special
enclosed courtyards where they’re all popped at once.  I often go and watch and I’ve been lucky
enough to win a ticket to take part three times!  You all assemble in the courtyard – about
eighty women, typically?  Mostly quite
young, but I’ve seen old aged pensioners there, all booted and waiting for the
release.  Then you get a short film about
the prisoner and what he did – they don’t usually dwell on the awful details,
it’s supposed to be a fun evening out after all, but they tell you enough to
get everyone fired up and ready for the action. 
At this point, the prisoner himself doesn’t know what’s going to happen
– he’ll have been in stasis since the days before the female take-over, after
all.  I’ve heard they even tell them
they’re going to be ‘released’ which is true, of course, but not in the way
they think it is.  And then they pop all six
thousand, all at the same time, and they come scurrying out of these little
passageways.  There are passageways over
the other side of the court signed ‘Exit’, so once they’ve got their bearings,
they usually go pelting off towards those. 
It’s not quite the ‘exit’ that they might hope for either, as the few
that make it discover, but I suppose it’s nice for them to have something to
try for, in the last moments of their miserable lives.

It must be quite a shock for them, especially those who were
put into storage before the whole mini-men thing happened, suddenly to run out
with a bunch of other men who look just like you, into a gigantic cavernous
space full of these huge, towering women…. And then when you realise what those
towering women are doing – when you see first one, then another of your
doppelgangers converted into a patch of red mush on the bottom of a boot, and
then when you look up to see that same boot – with perhaps some of the mush
just starting to peel away and drop off it – raised above you, and beyond it an
excited, grinning young pretty face!

It’s a lot of fun to take part – and it’s quite a lot of fun
to watch, too!  I was at a special the
other night, when they did three men in succession.  Oh – when the third was popped, it was crazy!  The floor was so slippery from the twelve
thousand smooshed predecessors, so the girls were slipping and sliding around,
and clinging onto each other while they shrieked with laughter, trying to get
the third batch.  Quite a lot of the
participants ended up on the messy wet floor, often in each others’ arms – and
some of them quite lost interest in smooshing the mini-men at that point, if
you get my drift!  As did some of us in
the audience: I found myself in a tight embrace with this complete stranger,
and we ended up going home together. 
There was something about the shrieks of horror from the third batch,
even higher-pitched than usual, if you can imagine such a thing.


I suppose that brings us on to the topic of sex.  To be honest, despite a few wild lesbian
episodes like that one, I do still enjoy a full-sized penis from time to time.  But there are plenty of full-sized male sex
workers for hire and they’re not expensive – it’s one of the few jobs they can
do, after all.  But the sexual
possibilities that mini-men provide… well, there’s a lot more to them than the
microscopic penis that remains to them, after all.  I’ve got one of those dildo holders – you
know?  Like an old-style vibrator, only
with a open-ended hollow base.  You put a
mini-man into a tight rubber tube – you just roll it down – to keep him fairly
rigid, then up he goes, head-first.  OK,
four inches isn’t much but that’s why there’s the base of the dildo behind him.  Most of the best toys on the market have a
vibrate function and an electric shock option to make him squirm around by
himself.  They’re quite safe – the
electrodes go up inside the rubber tube so you can’t shock yourself.  Of course, he can’t breathe up there but be a
stroke of luck, they don’t need to very often. 
Something to do with surface area to body mass ratios – I don’t really
understand the science to be honest, but I know that a mini-man can last ten to
twelve minutes without taking a breath. 
Which is usually long enough for me, especially as he is squirming
around frantically for the last two or three as he suffocates.  Anyway, if I’m not quite there I can usually
get off on what’s left of him – or I have another ready, if I’m feeling like
I’m likely to be slow.  Half the time,
though, I come so quickly that he’s still alive when I’m done!  I’ve got one who’s managed it six times!  I call him my ‘champion stud’ and keep him in
the dildo draw.  I swear he gets better
every time, so who knows how long he’ll last?

I suppose we have all become more callous about, well…
killing them, I suppose, although most of us don’t like using that word.  But it just sneaks up on you.  Take my friend Amy, for instance.  Such a sweet little thing.  She married a guy called Leo, quite a few
years before everything changed.  She
must have been very young at the time she married – nineteen at most?  And I think Leo was a few years older and the
only bread-winner, so I think he was very much in charge in their marriage, you
know?  He was a young lawyer and doing
quite well, but then mini-men came along and all of a sudden there were hordes
of fully-qualified mini-lawyers chasing the work that one used to do.  So although they didn’t want to, they agreed
to have him processed and pop out ten or twenty Leos, however many were needed
to bring in as much money as before.

That went OK for a few years, I think: she treated her Leos
as if they were still proper people – seems quite creepy now, but a lot of that
went on in the early years.  She even
bought one of those devices that brings the pitch of their voices down so you
can understand what they have to say. 
But of course, she’s surrounded by images of mini-men being smooshed,
and punished and enslaved and all that… it must have been hard to come home and
try to treat these squeaky little things with respect.  I’m proud to say that I had a part in her
eventual conversion, though.  We were
shopping together and we saw a pair of Asphyxiknicks – you know?  Pairs of rubber panties with a thick but
stretchy gusset, lined with a very strong rubber hem around the tops of the
legs.  They were all the rage a few years
ago.  I have a pair somewhere but I
generally prefer the dildo – I like to feel something inside me.  But I use them from time to time.  Anyway, Amy saw them and she couldn’t tear
her gaze away – she seemed fascinated – so I explained how they’re used.

She looked so confused – the dear, innocent thing!  I remember her asking me “But how does he
breathe?” and then looking horrified when I explained that not only can’t he
breathe, the frantic writhing when he realises that he can’t breathe is the whole point of


It took a bit of persuading, but we walked out with a pair
of Asphyxiknicks in Amy’s shopping bag. 
She told me later how she’d dithered for days… she’d take them out of
the drawer where they were hidden, feel the rubber, think about what it might
feel like to have a little body pressed against her, writhing inside it, then
quickly shove them back in the drawer with a guilty flush.  Apparently, it was Leo himself who helped her
overt the hurdle, silly little thing.  He
made his way into her panty drawer – and I wonder why he did that, the little
pervert – and found them and asked her about them.  Of course she didn’t give all the details –
and she certainly didn’t tell him they were called ‘Asphyxiknicks’ which might have been a
bit alarming for him – so he agreed to have a go.  She pulled him out after just a few minutes,
as she’d promised, his chest heaving.   I
understand that when he’d breathed heavily for at least five minutes solid, he
told her he was OK with it.  She, on the
other hand, had stopped just at the point when it was getting interesting, so
she went to bed feeling frustrated, her nerves jangling.  Typical selfish male.

I won’t give you all the details, but let’s just say that
Amy has learnt to use the Asphyxiknicks in the manner for which they were
designed and Leo’s wishes on the subject don’t get much of a look in.  It turns out that she can only really reach
sexual fulfillment when the wriggling stops – when little Leo, down there,
departs this mortal coil.  The first time
she got there was by accident – she’d forgotten to set the timer on her phone –
but after that, she was hooked.  She was
conflicted, poor thing, because she did still have tender feelings for Leo, but
she had her own happiness to think of too. 
She kept the little secret hidden from her existing Leos at first, the
dear sweet angel that she is.

Of course, every mini-man that’s popped out remembers
nothing later than when his original body was processed.  So Leo – the latest mini-Leo – pops out
feeling as if he is the only Leo in existence, having last seen his loving wife
bravely smiling at him through the tears as the lid closes on him in the
processing unit.  Expecting to emerge –
small but still respected by his wife and society – into a world in which he
will work as a lawyer, enjoy high-quality but microscopic quantities of the
finest food and drink and generally live as before, if rather smaller. Instead
of which, this Amy plucks his naked body out the delivery tray and plonks him
down into a high-sided glass container by her bed, then goes around the room
lighting scented candles.  Soft music
plays and there is a glass of full-bodied red wine standing next to the glass
container, which must look odd to the newly-diminished Leo, as it is almost
exactly his height.  While lying on the
bed… a pair of black rubber knickers. 

Does Leo feel an ominous sense of trouble when he sees
those?  Does he think about what that
rounded gusset might be built to contain and does he work out the meaning of
the thicker hems that hold the leg-holes tight – airtight in fact – when the
legs are worn?  If he does, I expect he
starts squeaking in concern, then panic. 
He probably scrabbles at the high glass of the container, perhaps bangs
on it as hard as his little fists can bang. 
It will do him no good.  Soon Amy
removes her clothes, climbs up onto the bed and pulls the rubber knickers
halfway up.  She reaches over to the
bedside table and Leo shrieks in hysterical fear – then subsides when he sees
her fingers close around the stem of her wineglass.  Then has hardly time to scream again when 20
seconds later, the hand that replaces the wine glass on the table reaches in,
grabs him and lifts his desperately struggling body into the air.  He has just time for a quick glimpse of her
giant face, lips pursed in anticipation, before he is shoved firmly into the
welcoming rubber and finds himself swiftly jerked up as she lifts her buttocks
and pulls up from the waist – affording Leo a last glimpse of light before the
hem seals the boundary between rubber and flesh and with it seals Leo’s fate.

Ours is the luckiest generation, I often think.  Not only do we have the mini-men to enjoy;
they are first generation of mini-men and they are often comically – blissfully
– unaware of their positions.  Later
generations will only have mini-men who know full well what awaits them and
will perhaps be resigned to lives that are unpleasant, painful and – like them
– short.  The ladies of that far-off day
will still have fun and live lives of ease, of course, but they will never know
the joy of watching a little face screw up in terror or disbelief at what is in
front of him.  Successful men, confident
in their citizenship and their positions when they went into the processor
emerge to find themselves… what?  In a
plastic box, equipped only with miniaturised computer terminal, exercise wheel,
feeding tray and a sawdust-strewn floor: one of 50,000 workers in a
purpose-built facility powering the service-based economy?  Gasping in exhaustion on a miniaturised
bicycle, to power a fan blowing cool air over their lady, on a hot day?  Chained together, as a novelty bra, limb
joints stretching and cracking under the weight of the flesh it’s their job to
support?  Or just alone inside an
otherwise empty cardboard box, jolting as they’re carried along to the sound of
excited girlish laughter, to whatever might await.

They do say it’s the little things that make life worth
living.  They’re right.



 Illustrations, once again, courtesy of NKS Volkov




The disciplinarian and the huntress

Once upon a time, in a small town in the forest-covered mountains, there lived a pretty blonde disciplinarian.  She was young to hold such a responsible position in the community, her mother having retired early after fracturing her wrist in an ill-judged slash of the cane across a miscreant’s kicking calves, but she took her job seriously and had become skilled in the art of chastising males.  From all over town – and from the outlying villages and isolated forest cottages around – disobedient husbands, inattentive boyfriends and elderly men needing reminders of their status were brought to be secured across her whipping bench and vigorously flogged.

All day long and into the evening, the tree-covered slope on the edge of town where she plied her trade would ring out to the merry cries of males in pain.  In summer, she would move the whipping bench outside and her clients would experience their floggings in the fresh mountain air, their cries mingling with the birdsong and the buzzing of insects, their frantic and fruitless wriggling against the restraining straps mirrored in the eddies and splashes of the mountain stream that tumbled down the rocks beside the disciplinarian’s hut.  Often the stripes on their soft, sensitive flesh would be produced by freshly-cut birch rods or switches, cut from the verdant stands that grew in that area, their whippy quality prized by disciplinarians far and wide, who could only dream of the perfection of agonies that could be inflicted by one of their number able to use implements freshly-cut that morning from the trees. In winter, all except the most aged of her ‘clients’ were forced to stand shivering in a line inside, wishing for warmth yet knowing all too well the fiery form in which it would come to them, when inside the hut the welts on their flesh would be lit by the cheery dancing flames and the hot tears rolling down their cheeks would fall softly onto the rich mahogany-dark patch of wooden flooring, to which so many men had contributed their tears before.

Here’s a picture of the disci – oh hang on, that’s Divine Mistress Heather.  I mean, she’s blonde and – obviously – lovely but she’s not the disciplinarian of the story so I’m not sure what she’s doing here.  Sorry – we have a new photo-slave and it’s his first day on the blog.  Won’t happen again.

The fame of the disciplinarian had spread throughout the kingdom and she had even had an offer to come to the Queen’s Palace to work in the torture chambers.  But after many days contemplating the temptation of this offer to work at the peak of her profession , she regretfully put aside the thoughts of red-hot branding irons, mechanical testicle presses and other such exotic delights, for the simple pleasures of small-town life.  Unlike so many people, she had discovered early in life what made her happiest and although she loved inflicting pain, she loved still more the thought that she could walk down the main street of her town knowing that all recognised and respected her and that her appearance struck terror into the pits of the stomachs of every man in the town and for many miles around.

Oh bloody hell this is DM Heather again!  I’m really, really sorry about this, I don’t know how – what’s that, readers?  You don’t mind seeing pictures of her?  Even though you know they’re not really in keeping with the story?  I mean, that latex outfit is just way ahead of the technology in the story and – oh really?  You’re sure you don’t mind at all?  Oh, OK.  Fine.

Now there also lived in that region – in a small hut just over the ridge beyond the outskirts of town – a huntress.  She was poor but hardworking and honest.  She made her living hunting the birds and animals in the forest, mostly living off the forest itself – feeding and clothing herself from her catch – but occasionally selling meat or hides to the villagers, especially to the leather-maker whose fine products were much in demand in those parts.  With the few coins she earned, she was able to furnish her cottage simply but with well-made furnishings, and she was able to keep a boy for housework, errands and occasionally helping fetch the game she shot with her supple bow or retrieve the rare arrow that missed its target.  Sometimes, she would put her skills to other uses, when she assisted the townsfolk in tracking down and returning escaped males, but she never asked for money for such help, seeing it as her duty to her community and although she would occasionally receive presents from a grateful wife or aunt of some returned reprobate more usually a word of thanks was her only compensation and that was enough for her.

She was happy in her life, most times, most days, but there was one aching hole inside her that she could never fill, except occasionally in her dreams.  The huntress was in love.  Madly, passionately, deeply in love, with a blonde lady a year or two below her in age with a whippy cane and a look that could strike terror into the heart of any male like a shard of ice thrust into his chest.  Yes: the huntress loved the disciplinarian and could spend entire days walking in the forest, ignoring birds or small game right under her feet, as she thought of nothing but gently-curled golden locks, the elegance of a pair of bared shoulders flexing the cane or the silver bell of a laugh ringing out over a male’s sobbing and pleas for mercy.  Yet she had never spoken to her.  The huntress would rehearse a hundred different speeches of introduction, but each time would bite her lip in embarrassment at what she knew to be her uncultivated words.  Unlike the disciplinarian, whose softly-spoken reprimands could reduce a waiting male to a quivering heap of fearful jelly, the huntress had little call for fine speeches in her profession and it showed.  As well as fearing the awkwardness of any clumsy attempt to tell the disciplinarian of her feelings, she was also ashamed of the home-made skins she wore or the clean but simple furnishings of her humble cottage.  So her love was hidden and unspoken – but no less intense for that.

Huntress!  Not Hunteress!  God’s sake… why do I have to work with such amateurs?

So on days when she was not hunting, she would sit behind a rock by the mountain stream, from where she could watch her heart’s desire plying her trade without herself being observed and as the shrieks and cries rang out from below, she would dream of leaning over the quivering, abused flesh of a well-beaten back and finding a willing pair of soft lips to meet hers in silent, shared joy.


Now, one fine summer day the huntress was perched in her usual spot, thinking hopeless thoughts of the months and years that were passing in lovelorn loneliness, when she saw a strange couple approaching the door of the disciplinarian’s cottage.  No one else was there – the previous week, the town had hosted a football match and so many over-excited boys and men had needed firm correction after that excitement, that the male population of the town was mainly in that much-desired state of best behaviour that follows a really severe flogging.  So the disciplinarian was sitting outside her cottage, alone (as she thought, being unaware of the pair of besotted eyes fixed upon her from further up the slope) when the couple approached.

Both the disciplinarian and the huntress, separately, thought the two people to be the oddest pair they had ever seen.  An old woman – the ugliest woman either had ever seen – was leading the largest male either had ever seen, on a thin leather leash.  The male was colossal – eight feet tall, shambling and lurching on legs like tree trunks.  He had a heavy forehead that concealed his eyes in dark pits, a neck that had more muscle in it and greater girth than the muscled abs of an athlete and thick, curly hair coming from his ears, his hands, his feet… almost every part of his body except his smooth bald head, which gleamed in the early morning sunshine.  The old woman held a small white riding crop, barely ten inches long, which was surely entirely inadequate to dealing with this behemoth, who nonetheless seemed quite docile, responding to the smallest jerks of his leash.

The disciplinarian stood up politely to greet her guests, wondering whether they were clients too.  She felt excited at the thought of chastising and subduing such a beast – a lesser soul might have been daunted, but she was a spirited girl and her heart rose at the thought of such a challenge.

“Good morning, Lady Citizen” she remarked, formally, as the older generation often preferred such courtesies.  “May I be of service?”

The old crone merely grunted and jerked a thumb at the giant behind her.

“Needs beating.  Hard.  Reckon you can manage it?”

“Of course” replied the disciplinarian.  “How much does he need?”

The crone’s discoloured, watery eyes rose to reach hers. Then looked her slowly up and down.

“A lot, dearie.  More than you can manage, from the look of it.  Perhaps I’ll go elsewhere.”

“I’m afraid there’s no other disciplinarian in town” the disciplinarian replied, without thinking.  Then, realising this sounded rather feeble she added “But I’m sure I could manage him.  I’m stronger than I look.”

“Hmmm.” grumbled the crone.  “He’s a big bastard. From your reputation I’d expected someone… older.  Some fifty-year-old aunt with arms like a wrestler, thighs like tree trunks and a face that could stop traffic.  That’s what I was after.  Sorry girlie, but I think I’ll walk on to the next town.  No offence, but he’s not a job for a pretty little thing like you.”

“Oh please” the disciplinarian said.  “Let me try – I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

The crone’s eyes narrowed.

“How sure?”

Taken aback, the disciplinarian was lost for words.

“Well, I mean… I’ve never had a – “

“Sure enough to… stake a little something on it?” interrupted the crone.  “A little wager, perhaps?”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of money…” the disciplinarian began.

“I wasn’t thinking of money” snorted the old woman. “Something a bit more… personal.”

She reached out a withered hand and stroked the disciplinarian’s soft cheek with the backs of her gnarled fingers.  There was a sudden gasping cry from behind a rock further up the slope, where the huntress’s hand had just tightened around her bow in an involuntary spasm of shock and anger – but the sound was masked by the running, falling water and neither of the two females below noticed, intent as they were ontheir negotiations.

“Yes, more personal” she smiled.  “You’re a pretty little thing, like I said.  How about: if you can’t make him cry after – 12 strokes, shall we say? – I stay the night here?  Hmm?  In your bed.”

“With you” she added, just in case her meaning had not been taken.

Yet it had.  By the disciplinarian at least, who was thrown into turmoil by the request.  She was not one for romantic engagements, although she had kissed a few girls at the town’s weekly dance.  In fact, she was a virgin, more experienced in the joys of covering male flesh with stripes of burning pain than covering a lover’s upturned face with soft kisses… although she had often thought about that, as girls will, and wondered when the right young lady would come along.  Those dreams had certainly not involved bedding a creature such as the wizened old woman who now stood stooping before her and she did not know what to think.

Behind her rock, the huntress watched in puzzlement.  Even her sharp hunter’s hearing could not make out the crone’s words, which was just as well, as she might not have been able to restrain herself had she heard and the conversation might have been cut short by the buzz of a jealously-released arrow and the snick of its razor-sharp head piercing a bony, lecherous old head.

“Oh, but of course if you don’t think you can do it” sighed the old woman, painfully turning around and making to hobble away.  “Come on, Bonehead, we’ll have to go elsewhere.”

“No, no!” the disciplinarian protested.  “I’ll do it – I accept the wager.  Twelve strokes to make him cry or…or… what you said.”

“All right then” the crone replied, with a toothless smile.  “Bonehead!  Over the block.”

The mountain of muscle shambled over to the awaiting whipping block and bent over, like a tree bending in a high wind.  The disciplinarian struggled to close the ankle straps, which finally grasped his thick bare legs, while straining at the last possible hole.  Similarly, his ankles at the front.  The mighty curve of his back arched high above the surface of the block – clearly the usual back-strap the disciplinarian used to hold her clients firmly in place would be useless.

‘Bonehead’ was wearing a simple one-piece shift so there was no reason to lower any trousers or pants.  His vast buttocks seemed to the disciplinarian like the empty map of a territory waiting to be explored: at once tempting and daunting.  She went into the cottage, opened a cupboard with a quick gesture (normally she would open it slowly, the loud resulting creak striking terror into those who had heard it before but she guessed that no such noise would have the slightest effect on the placidly-awaiting Bonehead).

She paused awhile, contemplating her choice.  The trade-off, as ever, was between weight and suppleness; strength and whippiness; the force and the speed of the impact.  She chose a dark, rattan cane that she knew well would produce plenty of both.  It had soaked for almost three weeks in linseed oil when first purchased, then hung to dry.  Straight, just over a metre in length from ribboned grip to the varnish-sealed tip, it was about a centimetre in width but much heavier than might be expected, because of the soaked-in oil.  A novice disciplinarian would struggle to control the wrap-around from such a long instrument but in the hands of an expert, it could flex on the downstroke so that the whole last 30cm was moving much faster than the impulse provided by the arm and wrist alone, the lower third of the cane hanging back at the start of the stroke, high behind the wielder’s shoulder, but then racing forward to impart the maximum momentum to the recipient flesh, at the point of impact.  Such was the science of it but there was art too: poetry.  The cane seemed to quiver with creative potential as she lifted it by its red-ribboned handle and to sing of delights and agonies to come, as she swished it through the air.  Yes: this one.

Yeah, close enough.


Outside, she stood before the wall of flesh that was her target.  She lifted the cane high and swished it down through the air: once, twice, three times.  Each time she increased the force of her practice stroke and the swish of the first movement gave way to an ominous whirr as even the air found itself shrieking to escape the implement’s dreadful descent.  The disciplinarian had often reduced men to gibbering wrecks of terror just from these warm-up flourishes but today not a quiver of flesh disturbed the serenity with which the tied Bonehead awaited his lesson.

So be it.  She drew the cane back.  Sometimes she would continue the psychological torment at this point (new clients sometimes felt this to be the worst part of the caning, although they usually realised their mistake once the real thing began), with further swishes, or gentle ‘aiming shots’ (which she did not need – her aim was perfect from the start), in which she would merely tap the buttocks as if for practice.  Clearly, Bonehead was impervious to psychological torment, as perhaps she might have guessed from his name.  But presumably he felt pain like any other human male, even if he was built on a near superhuman scale.

Her arm drove forward, her wrist flicking at just the right moment so that the cane tip whipped around and forward, her stance such that it was precisely parallel to the target just at the point of impact.  The dark implement met the flesh with a ‘crack’ like a rock breaking in two, burying itself into the flesh, the end wrapping around to deliver a furiously-enhanced sting to the top of Bonehead’s right thigh.  As ever, the ‘crack’ of impact rang out across the hillside and the world seemed to stop, as if in horror, as if holding its breath for that split second, awaiting the inevitable gasp and scream.

There was nothing.  A faint pink line appeared across Bonehead’s white flesh, slightly redder on the right-hand side.  He himself did not move or even seem to have noticed the dreadful stroke.

From above, the huntress looked on in confusion.  She knew full well how a stroke of that power should be received and this was not it.  There had been something odd in the background as well, she thought, drawing upon her subconscious hunter instincts.  Something had moved or flickered in a way it should not.  She frowned and focused all of her attention on the scene below.

‘Confusion’ was a wholly inadequate word to describe the disciplinarian’s feelings at that moment.  She had not, obviously, expected crying from the first stroke.  Clearly, the old woman would not have made her bet (and it only occurred to her now in irritation that there seemed to be nothing on offer in return except the vindication of victory) had she not known that Bonehead was tough.  Crying is a result not of mere pain but of the relentlessness, the inevitability of pain.  Generally, it occurs some way into the beating, at the point when the recipient finds even the thought of further strokes unbearable, when they have ‘had enough’.  At that point, their irresistible conviction that they can take no more comes up against the immovable will of their disciplinarian that more will be given – and also up against the physical reality of the constraints.  Unable to reconcile the impossibility of any more pain, with the inevitability of its occurring, the male mind simply collapses into infantile helplessness and sobs unstoppably.  An instinct: crying for Mummy to help.  Yet Mummy will not or cannot come or help – indeed Mummy is sometimes the one standing over the sobbing, crushed figure with an implement and a grim smile.

So the disciplinarian was fully prepared for an absence of tears at this point.  They would come, but later.  She had even admitted to herself it was possible Bonehead would be strong enough not even to cry out.  But this… no gasp, no flinch, not even a detectable change in his breathing.  Indeed, now she came to think of it, she could neither hear nor see any breathing at all.  Bonehead’s massive form was inert, unmoving, only the pink line betraying any change since he had creakily bent down over the whipping block.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, breathed deeply, then drew back the cane and let fly again.  Another pink line appeared, precisely three quarters of a centimetre below the previous one and perfectly parallel to it along all its length.  Had circumstances been different she might have felt pride in the precision of such a hard follow-on stroke, but in the absence of any reaction from Bonehead, she felt nothing but disappointment.  A third stroke produced no more result.  The disciplinarian changed tactics.  Normally, she would wait until at least five strokes were present before applying any crosshatching, in the classic ‘five plus one’ farm gate pattern, creating five overlaps of the most hellish agony.  However, this time, so desperate was she to achieve an effect – any effect – that she angled her fourth stroke to slash across the first three, finishing with a deep impact in Bonehead’s right thigh.

“Is this the actual beating or are you still warming up?” remarked the crone, who had been watching with amusement.  “It’s punishment I brought him for, girlie, not tickling.  How’m I going to make him work if he only gets a little pat when he’s been lazy?”

By the stream, behind her rock, the huntress was notching an arrow onto her bow.  Her intent was not murderous, but she had seen something she didn’t understand and she was determined to resolve the puzzle.  Each time the disciplinarian slashed with the cane, the old woman twitched her own, tiny riding whip and flashes appeared.  At first, the huntress had thought they were merely gleams from the white of the puny whip’s ivory shaft, but after watching several times she was sure they appeared in the air around the whip and they were certainly nothing natural.

And so the three awaited the next stroke, each with clutching their chosen instrument.  The disciplinarian drew back her cane in near-hopeless determination, the crone almost imperceptibly gripped her whip a little more tightly and, far above, the huntress drew back her bow and sighted along the arrow towards the scene outside the cottage.


OK.  That might be a little too hi-tech but… I’m not saying I’m complaining.

No longer expecting any reaction, the disciplinarian let fly with stroke number five, this time a brutal slash across the junction of buttock and thigh.  Yet this time, there was a reaction.  An extraordinary one.

Just as the length of rattan whirred busily through the air, a higher-pitched whirr surprised both ladies, and the crone’s little white riding whip was snatched from her hand to appear just a fraction of an instant later, pinned to the side of the cottage by an arrow, purple and orange sparks flickering around it.  At almost exactly the same time, the cane cracked against its target but not with the satisfying thwack of wood against flesh, but instead the soulless click of two rigid objects in collision.  Not noticing the drama of arrow and riding whip behind her, the disciplinarian could only gasp in confusion as she noticed that Bonehead’s buttocks had gone grey and the little pink lines had disappeared.  And they were – like the rest of him, which was also greyish – if anything even larger than before.  And for once, Bonehead was making a sound – but not the longed-for scream let alone a sob, but instead a deep angry roar.

He reared up, the ankle restraints snapping away as if they were cotton.  His body twisted around, leaving the remnants of the ankle straps flapping free as if they had been made of tissue and the disciplinarian looked up in horror into the one-eyed snarling face of a mountain troll.

No wonder her cane had had so little effect: it simply was not designed to work on stone.

It is sometimes said that someone in mortal danger sees their life flash before them, in their last instants.  Had this happened to the disciplinarian, it would have been a pleasant sequence of flogged males, some of them accompanied by images of her beloved mother wielding the cane, while the young disciplinarian watched, hugging herself in happy childish confidence of her mother’s love.  Alas, there was no time for such reminiscence but the disciplinarian did feel the curious peace that comes to those who have devoted themselves to good causes.  She had beaten a great many boys and men already in her short life – enough to know she was leaving the world a better place than she found it.  She closed her eyes and waited for the death that was coming from furious troll and from the claws reaching towards her – then wondered at the sound of a now somewhat familiar whir, and opened her eyes again wide with astonishment to see the troll, an arrow buried deep in the socket of his own one eye – the vulnerable spot all hunters in the mountains were taught to aim for – toppling backward and collapsing, dead, on the ground before her.

She turned in confusion to the old woman who, in a surprising turn of speed for one of her age, was lurching towards the wooden logs making up the cottage wall, obviously determined to recapture her wand (for a wand it was, the feeble leather loop disguising it as an innocent whip having been knocked off when the arrow carried it out of the old crone’s hands).  But another person was heading towards the same destination, a figure in hunter’s green running full-tilt at the speed that can only come from hurtling downhill without regard for self-preservation and it was this figure which collided with the wall first, not slowing down until thrown against the logs but – after this unconventional halt – grabbing and holding the wand in triumph.

Looks nothing like the huntress… but, OK, I suppose it captures the essence of the situation.

The disciplinarian stared in shock at the sight of this panting, triumphant figure who had appeared like a guardian angel.  Unlike conventional images of angels, though, she was muscular, dark haired and had the healthy glow of one of spends much of their life outdoors, in fair weather and foul.  The crone reacted with a screech of rage and leapt towards her, reaching out in fury for her wand which –

– was bending across the new arrival’s muscular thigh to be –

snapped in two by a pair of strong hands, leaving a brief shower of sparks and two, very ordinary-looking, broken ends of what seemed now merely to have been a white stick.

The crone halted and screamed in disappointment and rage.  But her voice changed as she screamed, becoming less crackly, deeper and more full-throated.  As the disciplinarian and the huntress watched, her appearance began to change too.  Her wrinkles softened and vanished, her hair lost its wiry character and became rich and glossy, a deep and rich auburn suffusing it and driving out the grey.  Her shapeless rags took shape and they too acquired a richness – of velvet and of inlaid jewels, all shaped by finest tailoring.  The old crone was transformed into…

A handsome prince.

The disciplinarian fell back in uncontrollable revulsion. She had committed to a wager to go to bed with… a male!  She desperately tried to keep her gorge down as the full horror of the situation hit her.  She barely noticed the prince’s attempt to flee, or the ease with which her rescuer overpowered him.  A male.  She nearly had sex with a male, a bestial subhuman sporting between his legs his… his…

“Help me tie him over!” the huntress called, her business like demand breaking into the disciplinarian’s sickened thoughts.  “Here – we can use these thongs” and she produced some short strips of leather from a pouch on her waist.  Mechanically, the disciplinarian skilfully secured ankles and wrists, then pulled the heavy restraining strap (which remained undamaged as it had not been used on the troll) across the prince’s bucking back.

“I… thank you.  Oh, thank you – whoever you are!” the disciplinarian gasped.  “I owe you my life”

The huntress looked up, into her eyes.  Her blonde curls framed that perfect face, her blue eyes seemed to stare into the huntress’s soul and her questioning, quivering lips seemed to demand answers.

The huntress flushed pink with shyness.

“Oh well, I’m umm…. I mean, I’m just…”.

She stopped, realising in horror that she actually could not recall her own name, so bewildered was she to find herself so close to the object of her greatest desires.

“Erm…” and she looked down, at the earth that she hoped would swallow her up, so ashamed was she to be so tongue-tied and awkward.  But her chin was stopped by a soft but firm finger, which led her face back up to the waiting lips which pressed against hers.  The huntress leaned – or perhaps floated, it seemed to her – forward and took her beloved in her arms, returning her kiss passionately, bravely, decisively.  Below them, the restrained prince moaned softly and wriggled in his bonds.  His turn would come.  But this moment belonged to the two lovers.


Someday their prince will come.  Actually he won’t.  Not ever – they made sure.

And they lived… well, happily ever after, obviously.  But I’m sure you’d like a few more details. Let’s take a look.

The disciplinarian and the huntress (who did eventually recover sufficiently to tell her lover her name but there’s no need to introduce it this late in the story) got married and lived blissfully together in the disciplinarian’s cottage.  The disciplinarian learnt the ways of the forest from her wife, although she was always too tender-hearted actually to hunt anything, and for her part the huntress eagerly learnt new ways of hurting boys.  They are neither rich nor poor but enjoy all the simple pleasures that make life worth living: the beauty of nature, the screaming of men in pain, the delights of good food and above all their love for one another.  Even the huntress’s male helper has learnt to raise his game, after a few encounters with the disciplinarian taught him to buck up and make more of an effort.

And as for the prince, they decided to keep him.  His days are spent in suspension or other stress positions and life for him is a merry dance of whipping, tawsing, flogging, beating, caning and – when the stalks are at their freshest and whippiest – the most agonising birchings ever inflicted.  The disciplinarian has developed her skills well beyond anything she had imagined possible, let loose on a subject without an owner or any other reason to limit his pain.  She has even got over her squeamishness about male genitalia and now takes a keen interest in them, often several times a day.

Eager to play her part too, the huntress sometimes takes him into the forest, where she stakes him out as bait for some of the giant cave-spiders that infest the parts, or sometimes for bears when the house needs a new bed-covering.  Of course, she always shoots spiders, bears and (on one memorable occasion) fire-lizards dead with an arrow through the brain before they reach him, but despite this perfect record the prince still shrieks and screams in terror every time as each fanged, clawed or tentacled monstrosity scuttles, lopes or charges towards his helpless, naked form.  The disciplinarian secured from her lover a promise that his life would never be endangered, as neither lady has the slightest intention of allowing him release from the living hell that his life has become.

The disciplinarian even placed enough faith in her lover’s skills to agree several times to the prince’s being allowed to ‘escape’ only to be tracked down and dragged back, screaming and sobbing, to the lover’s cottage.  If there is one thing harder to bear than despair, it is hope, so the ladies ensure that he is never completely deprived of that virtue, so the misery of his life is occasionally refreshed and renewed.

Oh yeah: the huntress got a horse.  Didn’t I mention that in the story? All part of the happy ever after thing.  She’d always wanted one.  So… yeah, she totally got a horse.  Not something I’m just inventing now to ret-con this lovely picture into the post.

So, at the end of another long golden summer day: the last boy has been beaten, the pheasants have been hung up on the porch, the prince has been tightly clamped by some of the softest parts of his flesh to the wall of the bedroom and the two lovers cuddle together, glancing up occasionally at the day’s bruises and welts and sharing little happy whispers as the prince moans through his gag and slowly shifts position in his constant, hopeless search for a position with less pain.  And their eyes meet and disciplinarian kisses huntress, or perhaps huntress, giggling, pushes disciplinarian down and they cuddle and whisper and stroke and lick as if a single entity, neither disciplinarian nor huntress but merely girl, lover, wife, saviour in a blissful embrace of love.

And that is how they lived happily ever after.



If you enjoyed this story, you may also enjoy The Lovelorn Blacksmith.   If, conversely, you didn’t enjoy it, you probably won’t enjoy that one either so here’s an idea: don’t go off and read it, then pop up in the comments telling me how much you hated it, OK?  

That is, actually, the secret of eternal happiness on the Internet (of a mild variety – not the happiness that the two lovers above are experiencing, obviously).  If you don’t like something, don’t read more of it.  So much better than reading stuff you don’t like, then having  to go to all that trouble of writing about how much you didn’t like it and why, isn’t it?  I think this idea might be the solution to a lot of the troubles of the world, it’s a wonder no one has ever thought of it before.

And if you’re thinking you don’t like any of this either, here’s another picture of Heather.  See?  Better already.

Another World

Trigger warning: this story features descriptions of activities that are quite extreme even by the standards of this site.  Readers are warned that some of the behaviour here reaches heights of perversion that even I find unsettling, although fortunately the more graphic elements are presented at one remove so to speak (on a television programme) rather than directly.  Also, I have taken the decision to intersperse the text with unrelated images of more wholesome, healthy activities, so that readers can be reassured and reminded that the disgusting things being described are no more than a twisted sex game, acted out in a fantasy setting in a far-off country of which we know little.

You have been warned.

Not that that has ever stopped you, right?




“Hi Vanessa”, Sylvie called over her shoulder, hearing the
door slam. 

Her wife appeared in the doorway, shrugging off her heavy
coat for a slave to dive for – he managed to catch it just before it reached the floor.  “Hey babe! 

“Just watching TV” Sylvie replied, nodding towards the
screen.  “Did you get everything you

“Yeah, more or less”, Vanessa replied absently.  “They didn’t have all the branding iron shapes I
wanted, but they had those sigmoid curves I really need for this weekend and
they’ve ordered the rest.  Oh – and I finally remembered to get new batteries for the cattle prod.  So you can stop nagging me about that.”

Sylvie smiled, at the implied compliment – both ladies knew that she would never dream of nagging her wife.  She
was proud to be married to an artist and loved to watch her at work in her studio.  With
seemingly random touches of a glowing brand here and there, the burns on a
screaming slave’s flesh could suddenly turn into a pastoral scene, a wicked
caricature of  a public figure or just a
complex and intriguing abstract design.  Vanessa’s current project – a huge canvas which had been prepared using a high
calorie diet over several months, was currently hanging by its ankles in her studio.  She had been working on it for a week already
and had at least another three weeks to go – after which, she would exhibit it in one of the top galleries on Bond
St where it would undoubtedly sell for an astronomical price.

“Anything good on?” Vanessa asked.

“It’s that programme about weird, kitsch stuff” Sylvie replied.  “EuroTrish.”

“Oh yeah – yodelling nuns and suchlike, right?” her lover replied.  “I quite like that – shove up.”

Sylvie wriggled along the couch, in her tight leather
shorts: a sight that caused
Vanessa to consider proposing heading for the
bedroom instead, but her attention was caught by the scene on the TV, so
instead she sat down in the space vacated by her wife, put her feet up on the
naked slave cowering in front and shouted “Cigarette” to the room in general.

“So what’s that” she asked, nodding towards the screen, as a
slave scurried to kneel by her side, cigarette in one hand and lighter in the

“Oh this is really strange” Sylvie replied. “It’s a place
called The Other World Kingdom – in the Czech Republic I think.  It’s, like, this place where males and
females are equal.”

“What – you mean there’s only one slave per citizen?” her
wife replied in puzzlement.  “That must
be difficult for them.”

“No, no” Sylvie replied. 
“Look – I’ll rewind.  Back five!”

A slave hurried forward and pressed buttons on the TV,
reverting the programme to five minutes before, then returned to his waiting

On screen was a low-quality image of a woman standing by the
gateway of some kind of manor house.  It
was blurry and slightly jerky, reminiscent of videotape technology from the
1980s.  She was speaking but her lip
movements were thoroughly out of sync with the sounds from the TV, which were
obviously badly dubbed into English.  But
it was the words themselves that caused Vanessa to draw hard on her cigarette in
shock, before resting it in the open mouth of the ashtray slave at her side.

“Here in the Other World Kingdom, women and men live in a
state of perfect equality with each other. 
Men are citizens, nothing less, to be treated by women with the respect
and kindness that they deserve.  And they
themselves desire nothing less than to spend each waking moment in full command
of their own lives and destiny, unenslaved and free.”

“Good Goddess!” she exclaimed.  “Why would anyone want to live somewhere like

“I don’t think it’s really serious.” her companion
replied.  “Just a place people can visit, to act out weird sex
fantasies.  ‘BDSM’, you
know? ‘Benevolence Decency Sympathy and Mercy’ – it’s a kink in which women get
off on not hurting men, treating them with respect and so on.  I was reading an article about it – there are
some girls who get turned on by that sort of thing.”

“It’s just sick!” Vanessa replied, in horror.  She took a few more puffs of her cigarette,
then laid it aside on the shaking palm of the slave kneeling beside her.  “And what on earth is she wearing?”

“Clothes made out of cloth, as far as I can see”, Sylvie
replied.  “Cotton, mainly.  Nothing made of leather or latex at all.”

“You mean like underwear? 
I don’t think I’d like to walk around like that.  Look – those jodhpurs she’s wearing are so
loose you can hardly see the shape of her arse, let alone her thighs.  It’s not decent.”

“They’re called trousers, apparently. Even though they’re not made of leather like normal trousers” Sylvie said.  “And some of the women wear skirts too, but they’re
shockingly long – most finish well below the upper thigh.  It’s all part of the fetish.  I suppose it’s OK in the bedroom, if that’s what they’re into, but imagine walking around outside wearing something like that; I’d just die of embarrassment.”

“Has she got her boots tucked inside these, ‘trousers’?” Vanessa asked.

Her wife shook her head. 
“She’s not wearing boots – just shoes,”

Vanessa looked confused.  “Then I suppose her legs must be awfully short.”

“No, it’s nothing to do with her legs.  Her shoes don’t have high heels – they’re flat.” Sylvie replied, quietly. 

“No… no high heels at all?  But without boots or high heels… I mean, how does she stride?”

“She doesn’t” Sylvie replied.  “Just walks along on the flats of her
feet.  She must have to practice for ages not to fall backwards, but again, I think it’s all part of the kink.  You know: not wearing towering high heels is a way of artificially making
herself not taller than the men?  So it’s
easier not to dominate them, I suppose.  And I suppose her shoes don’t make a menacing sound when she walks across a wooden floor – that’s pretty creepy, isn’t it?”

“But that’s not
the kinkiest thing about it, though: just watch.”

The screen showed in low resolution the presenter walking
(in her flat footed way) along a path leading to a grand doorway, while the
dubbed commentator burbled something about ‘an atmosphere of mutual
’.  By the doorway, waiting to
greet her, was –

Vanessa’s jaw dropped open. 
“Is he wearing…?”

“Clothes” Sylvie nodded. 
“It’s a big part of the kink – dressing men up as if they were
human.  Look – his clothes are similar to

It was true.  The
‘trousers’ were a little tighter, the jacket a more sombre colour than that
worn by the woman, but the screen undeniably showed a man and a woman, both
dressed similarly, apparently greeting one another as friends.

Vanessa felt slightly sick, but couldn’t take her eyes of
the screen, as the camera drew closer in on the man.

“No collar… not even any restraints or fetters” she remarked
in puzzlement.  “But how is he secured
when he needs to be whipped?”

“Oh my sweet, innocent girl.” giggled Sylvie, clasping her
hand and squeezing it affectionately. 
“He’s not going to be whipped. 
Not in this place.  Watch.”

The two watched the grainy video with rapt attention for a
few minutes.  They saw women greeting
men, chatting to them, smiling and nodding as they – and this made both ladies
gasp in shock – listened to them as the men themselves spoke.  Fortunately, only the dubbed commentary could
be heard, so no actual male speech emerged from the television, but the men in
the video were clearly speaking, not merely to acknowledge orders or plead, but
speaking and laughing with the women as if they were proper human beings.

It got worse.  The
lady guide provided brief tours of the cellars, where dank concrete spaces that
in happier days had presumably been prison cells had been converted to store
wine; the club ‘Nas Styl’ where women and men sat at tables and conversed over
food and drink as if it were the most normal thing in the world (revoltingly,
the men were eating proper, cooked food, from plates); a bedroom in which the
narrator pointed out how men and women shared the tasks of folding and tidying
away clothes; and finally, the stables.

“Oh no” Vanessa said. 
“Is that really…?”

It was.  Blurry as it
was, the screen undeniably showed a carriage being pulled along by… a
horse.  While behind, in a carriage, sat
a man and a woman (fully clothed – by this stage, incredibly, this no longer
seemed so shocking).

“The poor thing” breathed Vanessa.  “Look, it’s really pulling the carriage.  They’ve adapted the bridle and reins and
things to fit it.”

Sylvie nodded uncertainly. 
“I don’t think they can really treat them as carriage slaves, though”
she said.  “I mean, not using whips or
spurs and so on.  Not on an animal – that can’t be legal.  Even in the
Czech Republic.”

Indeed, the horse had slowed to a gentle amble and nothing
the man and woman could do with encouraging words and gestures seemed able to
make it go any faster.  It looked to be a
very dull ride, slowly plodding around the sandy track at whatever speed the
horse chose, a sad and sick parody of a country ride at a brisk canter, whips
cracking, spurs flashing and male lungs heaving with the effort of obtaining
the oxygen needed for their charmingly exhausted, aching muscles.  Another World indeed.


“But of course” the narrator (or rather her
English-speaking overdubber) continued, speaking directly to camera, “even
in the paradise of equality that is the Other World Kingdom, men and women do
not always agree with one another. 
Sometimes a man might say something that annoys or upsets a woman.  Of course, this must be dealt with
immediately, to preserve the harmony that is the OWK’s watchword.  So for such cases, there are special chambers
available so that any woman upset by something a man has said or done can…”

“Oh thank goodness.” Vanessa sighed.  “I was beginning to think they – “

“…talk it out.” continued the narrator,
cheerfully.  The television showed a room
with comfortable chairs and a sofa, decorated in gentle pastel colours.

“Yes, here in the Other World Kingdom, arguments rarely
happen – and they never last long before they are resolved with a vigorous
discussion, conducted in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.  This room has been specifically furnished to
create an atmosphere of kindness and forgiveness.  Here, men and women can listen to one another’s their concerns and try to resolve them with empathy and understanding.  If a woman in the Other World Kingdom turns out to be in the wrong, she apologises – freely and without reservation – to everyone concerned, men included.”

“That’s…” Vanessa began, dumbfounded.  “That’s so fucked-up!  And women actually visit this place – for

Sylvie nodded, sadly. 
“They pay for the privilege, apparently. 
What lonely lives they must lead, having to keep their perverted desires
hidden from everyone.  Imagine being so screwed-up that you can only get off sexually if a male is happy and
unhurt.  I wonder what can have happened
in their childhood to make them fantasise about something so twisted.”


The ladies’ ruminations were interrupted by a sharp gasp
from the slave kneeling at Vanessa’s side. 
She glanced over in irritation, to see her long-forgotten cigarette
still smouldering on the seared flesh of his now-shaking palm.

“Idiot” she said, curtly, picking the cigarette up, and flicking
the long tail of ash that had built up into his open mouth.  She tried a quick drag, but the embers had gone
out and all she could taste was the acrid and familiar tang of charred male
flesh.  Despite her annoyance at being
deprived of her nicotine hit, it reminded her of the beauty of her branding
art.  Smell is the most evocative of the
senses and – together with the barely suppressed whimpers of a male in agony,
it brought her back to the colours and beauty of the real world – a place where
women could love and be loved, in the healthy shared joy of despising,
oppressing and torturing males.

She glanced at her wife, whose eyes met hers with amused
affection.  “This idiot let my cigarette
go out” she drawled.  “And he’s ruined
his hand for housework – look!”  And she
grabbed the slave’s shaking wrist and held his hand up so Sylvie could see the puffy
white flesh, already forming blisters, where Vanessa’s forgotten cigarette had

“Whatever are we going to do about that?”

She clipped a leash onto the unresisting slave’s neck, then
stood up.

“I was thinking we could take him off to the bedroom and…
talk it out.  Talk it out thoroughly.” And
she gave the leash a sharp tug.

“What a good idea!” giggled Sylvie.  She reached for a whip.  “We could listen to his concerns and resolve
them in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.”

“Not forgetting the ‘kindness and forgiveness’” Vanessa
added, rootling in her shopping bag for the batteries she had bought for the
cattle prod.  “For which we’ll need these
– I’m feeling particularly kind and forgiving today.”

And so the two ladies strode out of the room, their high
heels clacking with delicious menace on the floorboards, their shapely buttocks superbly outlined in
leather shorts and jodhpurs respectively, their leashed pain-toy dragged
carelessly behind.

The television burbled on. 
The blurry, badly-dubbed lady was explaining the uses of something called
a ‘doormat’ which appeared to involve removing mud from shoes in a most
peculiar way.  Sylvie and Vanessa’s TV remote control
slave knelt motionless, in an agony of indecision as to whether or not to
turn it off.  If he did and the ladies still
wanted to watch it, they would be furious with him.  On the other hand, if he did not, he might be
beaten for wasting electricity.

He did briefly reflect on some of the scenes that he had
witnessed on the television he was responsible for working.  Something about Mistresses in some far-off
country who had presumably invented some new and complex method of torturing
males that he had not quite been able to follow.  He had not understood much of what he had
seen, to be honest.  He briefly wondered
what a ‘kingdom’ was, for example.  Or ‘kindness’,
for that matter.

A sudden agonised scream from the bedroom brought him back
to reality.  That seemed to indicate that
his Mistresses had moved on to other things but still… he had not received a
specific order to turn the television off. 
What to do, what to do.

As he dithered, the item from the Czech Republic ended and the
presenters – two ladies with almost parodically strong French accents, seated for
comic effect on slaves who were, respectively, massively overweight and skeletally
thin – briefly bantered about it, before introducing the next item.  This featured an elderly couple in Sweden who
had set out to paint all of the trees in their local forest pink – just the two
of them. 

With only twelve slaves, it had taken them several weeks,
but the results were impressive.





‘Eurotrash’ was a British series that ran in the 1990s that for one deliriously-wonderful episode, during Servitor’s young adulthood (I’m now on my second childhood, or possibly third), included a brief feature on the OWK using footage from OWK introductory videos ( possibly this one – but I warn you it could be a slightly dodgy site).  However, their more normal fare is best seen in this item, for example, in which a former topless model interviews the then Prime Minister’s brother about his garden gnome obsession.


Oh, and as it was Bastille Day this week, what about those ‘almost parodically strong French accents‘…. ?

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