Category: story

Twelve honest women

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Direct. Disobedience. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Two minutes later)

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

Jury forewoman: We have, Your Ladyship.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However.

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

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

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

Good. Anything else?

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

All rise!

 

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

 

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.’

‘Beg.’

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. 
Andrew. 
Andrewandrewandrewandrewandrew.

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
them.  

 

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.

Better.

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! 
Busy?”

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

“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
other.

“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
position.


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
that?”

“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
respect’.  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
hers.”

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
kicks?”

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
lain. 

“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‘…. ?

Making the claimant whole

 


 

Ohh…kay.  I’ve heard
enough and I’m ready to render summary judgment here?

So, first off, obviously the claimant has suffered a loss
and associated trauma.  This court – and
I think all parties to this case – acknowledge his suffering and I am sure I speak for everyone in this room when I say we sympathise
deeply.  It was a terrible, terrible
thing to happen.

Equally, terrible things happen.  That’s life.  The medical profession makes mistakes, as do we all.  The apology the hospital issued was
short, admittedly, but “Sorry we castrated you by mistake.” is at least simple
and clear.  Brevity is a virtue: I see no reason to doubt the
sincerity of the apology offered.  The
hospital administrator has assured me that the additional comments added to
that email, referring contemptuously to the size of the material removed, were
never intended for publication and they do not know which of the nurses or
doctors – if indeed it was a member of the hospital personnel – was responsible
for that, or for the subsequent wide dissemination of the comments on social
media.  And also of course the photographs, which the claimant understandably found acutely embarrassing, not least because the
women’s undergarments and the ‘humorous’ positioning of the sex toy seem to have been placed on him after
the administration of general anaesthetic. 
Should the perpetrators ever be identified, they should suffer
consequences – a significant financial penalty at least – as this was a serious
breach of medical ethics.  As was the
medically unnecessary and inappropriate use of the enema.  These things should never have happened.

However, the hospital administrator has made strenuous
efforts to discover the perpetrator – or perpetrators – and failed. 
All three of the medical personnel who had the opportunity to have carried out these hurtful acts have testified in this
courtroom it wasn’t them. I have considered but here reject the claimant’s
lawyers interpretation of Nurse Taylor’s repeated giggling on the witness
stand.  Her subsequent comments on
Twitter, while hurtful in the extreme, do not in any way constitute evidence of
guilt.  Similarly, the fact that the bought the underwear in which claimant was so wrongly dressed up, while unconscious, and that the photographs were found on her phone, both constitute circumstantial evidence at best.  Another nurse on duty testified that Nurse Taylor is conscientious to a fault and I found the claimant’s counsel’s suggestion that this witness’s long-standing lesbian relationship with Nurse Taylor – and indeed her participation in a lesbian dating ring’ with the other two hospital staff who might have been involved – might in some way have influenced her opinion… well, I just find that suggestion to be offensive beyond belief.  I will note at this point that I myself am a lesbian, counsel, as it happens and I hope that you would not dream of suggesting that my opinion in a case in which three lesbians are alleged to have unnecessarily castrated a male and then exposed him to ridicule on social could in any way affect my judgement.  My comments complimenting Nurse Taylor on her appearance were simple courtesy, nothing more.  I shall be pursuing this matter further, counsel, believe me.

 


 

Where was I?  Oh yes.

Anyway, I think we just have to conclude we’ll never know. I am satisfied the
hospital administration was not at fault and the apology is there, so that’s
that.  Just one of those things: claimant
needs to move on, as Nurse Taylor so fetchingly put it.

Turning to the matter of compensation, of course some
financial settlement is due.  Claimant
has suffered a loss and deserves compensation just as would someone – say – whose car
had been unnecessarily crushed.  To pursue the analogy, however,
it would obviously not be just to award someone compensation as if they had
lost – say – a brand new Ferrari, when the vehicle of which they had been deprived was in fact an old two-door hatchback that won’t start without being given a push.  Or a rusty
bicycle with wonky wheels.  The compensation has to be commensurate with the value of what was lost – in this case, claimant’s genitalia.  Can we even put a monetary value on such a loss?  Many would find that distasteful, but the law requires us to try.

In that context, I am therefore going to admit the evidence
adduced by the defendants.  Although I
recognise that the claimant’s existing embarrassment has unfortunately been
enhanced by the sequence of witnesses who have been former sex partners – mainly paid sex workers – testifying
to his sexual prowess, or rather the lack of it, I am convinced that this is
relevant evidence. Indeed, from their testimony it is hard to see that the
claimant’s ability to engage in what he considers sexual activity has been
harmed in any way by his loss – after all, he still possesses a tongue and the
streetwalkers downtown still have shoes and toilets. Certainly, there seems to be no likelihood at all that the claimant has been deprived of anything that a normal person would describe as ‘sexual intercourse’ as – with all due apologies for any embarrassment this must undoubtedly cause him – he is thoroughly unattractive as he is and was probably still more so, when he had functional genitalia still attached.  Defendant’s counsel has suggested that ‘creepy’ is  the word that springs to mind on first meeting the claimant and I have to concur: that was precisely my thought on the very first day of trial.  This observation – undisputed by claimant’s own counsel who appears to avoid any close contact with him even here in court – seems highly relevant to the matter of compensation.

I am also aware that any financial compensation he receives could be used to further his disgusting pursuits, although obviously that consideration can play no role in my decision.

Nonetheless, claimant suffered a loss and I am therefore
here ordering that the hospital pay him the sum of two hundred and forty-five dollars and thirty-five cents in compensation.  Plus interest.  Let that stand as a statement of this court’s firm disapproval of the negligence the hospital showed in this case.  I don’t want to see you back here, so don’t do it again.

Right.

Now, turning to the question of costs, these have run into
many hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of this rather disturbing case. 
Claimant had every right to seek justice – but equally, the hospital has
a right to its defence.  Lawyers are
rightly not cheap, any more than the sex workers who had to be paid for their
time testifying – at length – about the claimant’s physique and practices.  Someone has to pay for all this.  The question I ask myself, is whether these
costs should be paid from the funds of a hospital, devoted to saving lives –
recognising that any such payment could directly impede their ability to
provide patient care – or, to quote one of claimant’s emails to a sex worker, a
“disgusting little worm” who pays women to humiliate and abuse his “revolting
micro-dicklette”.  Or did, before the
defendants did us all the service of removing it.

Not an easy decision, obviously.  Nonetheless…

 


Nurse Taylor’s the one on the left, in case you’re interested.  She’s giggling beneath her mask, but don’t worry: that’s just a nervous tic she has.  You’ll be fine.



NB: in case you were wondering how come the judge uses  lot of British language at times but the compensation is set in dollars, the explanation is, erm… it’s in Australia!  Or New Zealand.  Or somewhere like that, anyway, where all the legal terms are exactly as set out here.  I mean, it must be.  I don’t just make this stuff up, you know.

Three wishes for Sissy Jemima





One afternoon, Sissy Jemima was – as usual – on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was a thrice-daily task, because Mistress reasoned that it was a lot easier simply to have her sissy clean the floor than to waste too much time carefully wiping her feet. Just at the point when she was about half-way finished, there was a flash and a crack and she looked up to see a flustered, middle-aged lady floating in the air before her. Jemima – assuming this was one of Mistress’s friends and thinking nothing of the levitation except relief that her nice wet floor would not be sullied – bowed her head low and murmured a respectful greeting.

“No need to bow, James” the apparition said. “I’m your fairy godmother!”

Jemima wondered who she was speaking to. Then she remembered.

“Erm, it’s Jemima these days, Ma’am. Hasn’t been James for a very long time.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “And I’m Fairy Godmother, not ‘Ma’am’”

“Yes, Fairy Godmother” Jemima replied dutifully, happy that she was being given clear instructions.

“And I’m here to grant magical wishes!” the Fairy Godmother continued, brightly. “I was supposed to appear on your twenty-first birthday but… well, it’s been a bit busy, and anyway, better late than never, and here I am!”

“You get three wishes – your heart’s desire, anything you want!”

She looked around, then down at the figure in the pink maid’s dress outfit beneath her hovering feet. She noticed the short chain connecting the ankles.  Using her fairy senses she could discern too the tightly-laced corset, as well as the steel tube nestling between whip-marked thighs beneath her god-sissy’s skirt.  Looking around, she saw a piece of paper attached to the fridge door, with a table headed “Sissy Jemima’s chores.”  It was a long list.

“You know…in case there’s anything in your life you’d like to change?” she suggested.

Sissy Jemima looked up. “Can I give my wishes to Mistress?”, she asked, eagerly.

“What? No – non-transferable” the Fairy Godmother replied, slightly taken aback.

“Oh…” the sissy said, looking worried. “Oh dear. Can I at least ask Mistress what I should choose?”

“Certainly not” the Fairy Godmother replied, more firmly. “You need to decide now – and time has stopped for your wife Sarah and everything in the world except you and me, here and now.”

Sissy Jemima glanced up at the clock and saw its second hand wasn’t moving. So there was no danger of her chore being finished late, which was a relief. Still, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of having to make a decision – three decisions! And she wasn’t even allowed to ask Mistress.  It had been a long time since she had made any decisions… she still vaguely recalled the big decision to sign the agreement with Mistress Sarah, but after that everything in her life had been fairly clear and straightforward, albeit not always easy.

“I wish that Mistress can have three wishes – a hundred wishes!” she ventured, but the Fairy Godmother shook her head.

“Doesn’t work like that – just wishes for yourself. You know: like Cinderella.”

The Fairy Godmother instantly regretted mentioning Cinderella, as she feared this simpering thing that James had become might wish to be swept off in a coach to dance with a handsome prince. Princes of any sort were in short supply in 21st-century London and the only one who could be described as even slightly handsome was already married and had renounced his position and decamped to Canada.

But Sissy Jemima was thinking along different lines. “Could I… do you think I might have a new scrubbing brush?” she asked, shyly.

“Really? Just that? Do you want… I don’t know, a magic scrubbing brush, maybe, that does the floor by itself? I can do that.”

Sissy Jemima shook her head. “Just the same as this one” she replied, indicating the battered and bleached wooden implement she had been using. “But new.  See: the bristles are all bent.”

“Not that I’m complaining!” she added quickly. “I’m very lucky that Mistress lets me use this wonderful brush.”

The Fairy Godmother sighed, then waved her wand in the tiniest imaginable circle in the air. Shifting patterns of green and purple swirled in the air around the brush for a moment, then vanished. A brand-new wooden scrubbing brush, bristles standing tall and ready for use, lay before them on the half-cleaned floor.

“Thank you Ma’am” said Sissy Jemima automatically. “I mean, Fairy Godmother”.

There was silence for a moment, as both contemplated the new brush. Sissy Jemima began to feel uneasy.

“It’s very different, isn’t it” she remarked. “I hadn’t realised quite how much the bristles had bent. And it’s a different colour too – darker and varnished.”

“Exactly the same type of brush”, the Fairy Godmother replied. “£4.99 from any hardware shop… even cheaper at Tesco’s. Supernatural power to reshape the universe to your desires was in your hands, and you chose a new scrubbing brush. Can you try to be a little more ambitious with the remaining wishes? Riches, fame, love…?”

But Sissy Jemima wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the brand-new brush with increasing disquiet.

“What if she notices?” she murmured. “I mean, she might not, but what if she does? And I hadn’t told her. Perhaps I ought to tell her? But then she’d be cross… I’m not allowed to ask for things.”

She shifted uneasily on her aching knees, feeling the cane marks on her bottom and thighs from last Friday’s ‘reminder’.

“I shouldn’t have done that” she whispered, sadly. “I’m a bad, wicked sissy, ungrateful for the lovely brush Mistress gave me.”

“Oh get on with it.” the Fairy Godmother sighed. “Second wish – come on. The readers will be wondering whether this story’s worth persisting with.”

Jemima had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Could I – have the old brush back?” she asked, eagerly.

“Really?” the Fairy Godmother replied, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to have spent two of your three wishes that way?”

The sissy nodded vigorously. “Then I wouldn’t have done anything Mistress might not like, would I? Because I’d still have the same brush she gave me… so I wouldn’t have been a bad sissy at all!”

“Well…” she went on. “I suppose I would still have had the bad thoughts. But she might never find out about that.”

“Oh for god’s sake” the Fairy Godmother muttered, twiddled her wand back around in the opposite direction, and the rough unvarnished wood of the old brush lay before them once more.

“Third wish” she said, thinking she would never again object to over-extravagant wishes, or those that sought to reshape the fundamentals of the universe. “Come on. Something you really want. Something that would make you happy – you’re supposed to live happily ever after, you know?  This is your one chance – don’t waste it.”

Jemima shut her eyes tight and thought and thought. This wasn’t something she was used to and it gave her a bit of a headache. But just at the point when the Fairy Godmother was about to start making suggestions, she opened them again and looked up again, beaming with pleasure.

“I have it!” she said, and explained what she wanted.

“Are you sure?” the Fairy Godmother replied doubtfully. “Just that?”

“Oh yes” Sissy Jemima sighed. “That would make me happier than anything in the world.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “At least it’s not another fucking brush. Here we go.”

And she raised her wand.

*******************************************************************


In case you were wondering what Mistress Sarah looks like: she looks like this.


Two hours later, Sissy Jemima was standing slightly to the right of the back of her Mistress’s armchair, feet neatly together, her hands clasped before her. Mistress Sarah reached out for the cup of tea at the table to her right and took a sip.

There was a pause, during which Sissy Jemima hoped that her thudding heart was not audible.

“Very good, sissy!” Mistress Sarah remarked, with some surprise. “You actually managed not to stew the tea for once – and you haven’t made it too strong or too weak either.”

She took another sip.

“And just about the right amount of milk, too.” she added. “Now if only you could make every cup like that, sissy.”

“Perhaps I will, from now on Mistress.” Jemima replied, her voice quavering slightly as her heart tried to burst with unaccustomed pride.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” her Mistress said, not sounding too optimistic. “But well done for this one, sissy. Footstool!”

So Sissy Jemima got down on all fours and crawled in front of her, to receive the welcome weight of her Mistress’s legs across her pink-clad back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, as Mistress continued to sip the tea with satisfaction.

And she lived happily – except, obviously, during weekly ‘reminders’, additional punishments and the occasional visits by Mistress Sarah’s sister – ever after. 

 
THE END
 
 

Mistress Sarah’s sister – pictured here on the left – likes tea, too.  Sissy Jemima hoped that it would help mellow her attitude towards lazy, incompetent sissies a bit, but it turns out she doesn’t like tea that much.

 

 
 
 
 
 
Addendum
 

This is not a picture of Sissy Jemima.  This is Sissy Peggy and unlike Sissy Jemima, Sissy Peggy used her wishes unwisely.  In particular, she used one wish to get the frilliest, froo-froo-est maid’s dress ever – but neglected to use another wish to ensure Mistress did not react badly when she came home and saw her sissy husband wearing this monstrosity.

 

Losing touch with reality

 

 

OK, Mr Jones, so you’re saying that rather than seeing me – a
middle-aged medical professional – you’re seeing a young lady dressed like a
strippagram nurse, wearing red thigh-high boots? And instead of being about to
lie down on my couch for a series of ocular function tests, you’re going to be
tightly strapped down to a hospital bed and masturbated to a series of forced
orgasms?

Goodness. 

How about now, if I stand up and move away from the couch –
can you see me now?  Dark blue suit,
short grey hair…?  What do you see?

 

Really?  Oh dear.  Well, I might have looked a little like that
thirty years ago… but only a  little.  And I don’t think I’ve ever worn a latex dress.

Things are worse than I thought, I’m afraid.  This is perhaps the most sustained and
coherent set of hallucinations I’ve ever encountered from someone in your
condition.  I’m sorry to have to tell you that without
effective treatment, this is only going to get worse.  I’ll be completely honest with you:
you could end up losing touch with reality completely… these hallucinations
would become your world.  You’d obviously
have to stay in a care facility… you’d be well fed and perfectly comfortable,
but you’d have no interactions with the real world at all; everything you see
and experience would be translated into these bizarre, fetishistic BDSM
experiences.

Let’s delay the ocular tests for now – I want to tell you
about an experimental treatment we can try. 
It hasn’t completed all of its clinical trials yet, but initial
indications are promising so it is available for use, if the patient requests
it.  I’m not saying you should or that
you shouldn’t.  But unless you want to
spend the rest of your life like this, I think it’s the only option.  If it works, these hallucinations will end at
once – for good.  That has to be worth a
try, I’d have thought.  But it’ll be your
choice. 

Tell you what: I’m going to refer you to one of my
colleagues, Dr Stevens. She is the specialist on this and she can give you some
literature about it and answer any questions you might have.

Oh – here she is now, actually.  Dr Stevens?


 

Poor chap.  I do hope they can cure him.

Master Malcolm’s dreams come true

A maledom story!  Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.

Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures.  Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission.  Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides.  But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.

For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet.  In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock.  On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all.  Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again.  But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.

“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces.  “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.

One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object.  He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat.  Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.

As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home.  The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.

After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.

Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp?  Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed.  The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave.  As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.

Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough.  I often do.

Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness).  He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”

“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.

“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”

“Yes, Master” murmured the genie.  “Three wishes.  It shall be – “

“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly.  “Three hundred slavegirls… no!  More!  One for every day of the year!  All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces!  None of them fat.  And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…”  He was getting carried away.

“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him.  “Don’t you mean consensual?  I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “

Malcolm glared at her.  “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so.  “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not!  I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place.  To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”

The genie looked confused.  “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded?  “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.

Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.

The genie blinked once, very deliberately.  “I do now, Master.” she replied.  “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “

“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.

“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.

She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage.  Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound.  Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.

After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse.  Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.

“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm.  “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick.  And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock.  And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied.   I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.

The genie looked over at him and smiled.  “Your wish is my command, Master!  And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway.  Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself!  You shall have it all!”

And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…

Bewitched Nose Twitch GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing.  Isn’t it?

 

A vast ornate room.  Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs.  Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.

Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams.  Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.

On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within.  Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.

Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before.  He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins.  He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.

Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.

“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped.  “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here!  Where are the rest!”

The genie abased herself before him.  “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said.  “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection.  Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots.  And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”

Malcolm grunted in satisfaction.  “Adequate, I suppose.  So there’s 365 in total?”

“366 Master” replied the genie.  “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”

“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.

“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily.  “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”

“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.


Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy.  He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion.  He looked around the room.

Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back.  One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him.  Others merely craned their necks to get a better view.  Of him.  All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone.  They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.

He felt a sudden pang of fear.  He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour.  Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.

Malcolm turned and ran for the door.  Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not.  Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room.  They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.

He made it almost halfway.

Epilogue

And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised.  Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.

Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers.  His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.

Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.

Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop.  Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point.  There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.

But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler.  He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts.  Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.

Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock.  Especially his cock.

You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock.  His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond.  And it is indeed huge.  No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time.  It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue.  It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.

Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.

366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys.  Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded.  Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him.  It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done.    Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body.  The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.

Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities.  They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.

One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky.  Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day.  The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability.  She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances.  Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.

How many more will there be?  Who knows?  That depends upon the kindness of strangers.  You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm.  She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now.  She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself.  She asks whether the woman would like to release him.

So far, none has.

THE END

 I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist.  There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there?  Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.


 

 What’s that?  You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too?  I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert.  All right – but only one picture.  There’s rather a lovely story, actually.   Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were.  But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway.  Isn’t that sweet?

 

 

 

A domme’s a domme for a’ that

 


Hmm?  You want to know what? 
The ‘most domme thing I’ve ever done’?

Oh, I dunno.  The
usual stuff, you know?  Whipping,
ball-busting… humiliation scenes.  I
mean, the first time you piss on a guy, for instance, you think, like ‘this is
radical’ but then a bit later you just find yourself putting the kettle
on an hour before a piss session without even really thinking about it.  It’s just an extra cup of tea.

Or the first time you stub a cigarette out on someone – like
I’m going to with this one.  He wasn’t expecting that, actually – just watch him shit himself now!  But it’s just the job, really.

Oh – there was this one time!  I got some guy’s name wrong when setting up a
session – it was one of those that can be spelt different ways, like ‘John’
with and without an ‘h’ right?  And he
wrote this creepy email in sub-speak, you know the sort of thing: “Most
imperious and perfect Mistress, although it is not the place of a mere slave to disagree with You, this worthless worm would humbly note’ – and all that. 
Irregular capitalisation, even – I hate that.  So I just snapped off this dommy reply:
“I am never wrong, so change your name by deed poll, slave!  I will not see you in session until I see proof you have
done so.” 


Anyway… he did! 
I’d forgotten all about it, but then a few weeks later he got in touch again and he’d uploaded these documents to prove it – you get an amendment to your birth certificate, apparently.  Showed some commitment, anyway – makes a change from slaves who want to
spend hours cleaning your flat then get bored after five minutes and start whining
to be spanked.  Changed his actual name,
just like that.  He must have had to sort
out bank accounts, passports, god knows what.

Funny thing, though: I never did session with him.  As it happens I was going through some
changes in my life just then, wanted to cut down the number of slaves I was
seeing, so I just started saying no to new ones.  He was quite persistent, now I come to think
of it.  Had to block the annoying little
bastard’s email address, in the end.

Hmm?  Oh I don’t
remember.  John or Stephen or something
like that.  You know – a name that can be
spelt different ways?  That’s the point
of the story, anyway – it doesn’t actually matter who he was, does it?

Right.  Time to put this cigarette
out.  If you want to see
something ‘domme’ watch this.  New experience for maggot here, though I’ve done it thousands of times.  He’s been lying there all this time, shitting himself wondering how much it’ll hurt.  Hurts like hell, actually – pretty hard-core stuff, but it’s about time he had his limits stretched.  Fucking wimp.

Don’t you dare drop my fag packet, maggot!  Or break it by biting too hard.

Here we go.


 

The part of the domme in this little tale was played by Lady Sophia Black, undoubtedly one of the dommiest dommes it has ever been my extraordinarily good fortune to encounter.   She is beautiful, haughty, creative and – tragically – retired.

 

 

 

 

 

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