Getting through it

 


How you doing there?  You OK? Breathe.  No, really, come on: normal breaths. You need not to hyperventilate.   And just relax on the bench there, let yourself go limp in the restraints. You’ve been pulling away at those straps almost since the start – bruised yourself almost as much as the whip did, I should think!  Well… not really. But you’ll certainly have bruises around those wrists after all that writhing around.

Wow… you lost it a few times during that
session, didn’t you?  I’m glad I had soundproofing
installed last summer – you were shrieking and begging so hard, someone would
have called the police on us, I reckon.

So! 
So… No-safeword
session – pretty brave!  Any
regrets?  I reckon you had quite a few,
at times there, didn’t you? But you must be getting an amazing endorphin rush,
now, right? I can only imagine…. I don’t think I could ever take that much pain.  But I hope it’s worth it for you.

You know, obviously I take consent
really seriously but this sort of no-holds-barred, no mercy, no-safeword
session has to be my favourite style of play. 
I’ve got very few clients who’ve ever dared but … to take someone to
their limit… and then just carry on. 
It’s an incredible rush: nothing like it.  I mean, there’s a lot of stuff written in BDSM porn about ‘breaking’ slaves but until you’ve had someone desperately stuggling against the straps like that, begging hysterically, promising you anything, anything at all to make the pain stop… and I just keep whipping, criss-crossing the welts, enjoying the way the screams and gasps cut off each frantic babbled plea to stop…  

Nothing like it.  Nothing in the world. It’s not sexual, for me, I’ll admit – it’s more like the greatest rollercoaster ride ever, you know?  I enjoy inflicting the pain, I enjoy the power even if I don’t get off on it, sexually.  It’s actually better than sex: I’ll say that. Yeah: better than sex.

Do you know what my favourite bit
is? See: I like to start talking to them as if the session’s over.  About how they feel, as if they’ve got
nothing more to worry about.  When in
fact I’m less than halfway through. It’s a bit cruel, I suppose.  But then, I’m a very cruel person, I suppose.  And as they’re all strapped down, with no safeword
there’s nothing they can do about it anyway. 
Except moan in fear, when they realise, obviously.

Yeah… just like that moan
there.  Dawning terror.  That’s the best rush of all.

Heathers

 It’s a photostory!  I don’t do many of these… though there was that thing with the divine Anne, more years ago than I care to remember.

But this is another divine person: the wonderful, sexy, glamorous and creative Divine Mistress Heather, in fact (or, more specifically, in fiction).






Obviously, needless to say, this is a silly made-up story, produced solely as a perverse sexual fantasy, that in no way reflects the professional or personal attitudes, opinions, proclivities or political views of Divine Mistress Heather.  

In reality, of course, Mistress Heather is actually a very nice person and, erm…

 


Oh. OK, maybe she isn’t.  But I’m sure that just makes her even more wonderful still.

We do what we must

 …because we can.

Part 2 in the exciting Portal ripoff featuring Serena and Alice.  Read the first part here!  Read the ladies’ previous adventures here!  But don’t blame me if they haunt your nightmares, OK?

Warning: contains scenes of torture, mutilation, coprophagia, death and almost all the possible permutations of those things.  Or to put it bluntly: contains Serena and Alice.  If you don’t like reading such unpleasant tales, you’re probably a normal, well-adjusted ethical human being. And we don’t really cater for those around here.

 

 

Of course, this isn’t a picture of Serena and Alice, it’s just something I found on the Internet. But it looks remarkably like them, don’t you think?

 

Some hours later, a sparkling flash around the oval rim of
the orange portal on Serena’s wall, along with the happy laugh that so often
betokened Alice’s arrival, announced the ladies’ return.  The seven males within earshot – some engaged
in tasks, others simply secured or stored awaiting future use – flinched
visibly, their eyes cast down to the floor. Those two still free to use their
mouths whispered silently as if in prayer. 
Serena was nearby and that was never good news.  Admittedly, Alice was with her which
sometimes led to their Mistress being distracted by thoughts and pleasures
unrelated to inflicting agony on males, but those thoughts were never far away
and in any case, Alice’s presence often inspired still greater creative
cruelties in Serena’s dark and savage soul.

To be fair, Alice herself was also capable of immense
cruelty but in a more playful, carefree manner. 
Where Serena tortured hungrily, methodically, Alice simply dabbled:
turning dials, attaching weights or applying probes as if for the first time,
laughing in startled pleasure at the screams and desperate pleas that resulted,
as if it was her first experience of having a man strapped into whatever device
she was fiddling with.  Her childish
enthusiasm was oddly effective: many men went to their deaths experiencing
agonising pain at her delicate finger tips, yet still their last thoughts as
the red tide of pain finally overcame their senses, was often what a sweet
little thing she seemed to be.  Even
those who had seen the horrific results of her playful exuberance at close hand
managed to find her adorable, while also of course utterly terrifying.

This was the Alice who had finally allowed herself to be led
giggling from her bedroom at home, through a pair of portals connected by
dimensionless space, back to Serena’s underground laboratory.  For, dear reader, if you have neglected to
click back on the link above to read the first part of this tale (and why not
haven’t you?), you should know that Serena’s latest passion is portals:
teleportation gates, each blue and orange pair linked inseparably, no matter
how far the distance between them, much like Alice and Serena themselves who
loved one another deeply, united by a bond far stronger than merely sexual
desire for one another and for the suffering of men, although that was the root
from which their romance had grown. 

Portals can be small: 
small enough for a man’s genitals to poke through (as we saw in Part 1),
leaving those unpleasant organs In Serena’s hands to do with as she wished,
even though the male physically still attached to them was miles away (and
also, of course, in Serena’s hands, even if not physically, to do with as she
wished). They can also be large enough to travel through.  That was a slightly alarming concept to
Serena, whose life’s work and favourite leisure activities all depended on
males being unable to escape from the places she confined them, so she had
taken precautionary measures, including a ‘dead-switch’ that she could flick to
deactivate all portals under her control. Any male attempting escape through
one when she did so would find himself merely dashing himself against the
concrete walls of his cell. Of course, the dead-switch would also remove the
connection between the various sets of genitalia and the remote males who
wrongly considered those genitals ‘theirs’, resulting in instantaneous
castration.   

You might guess that Serena
would be unbothered by this thought but there, dear reader, you misjudge her,
as Serena regarded any castration that was ‘instantaneous’ as being a waste, as
well as somewhat unartistic. 
Nonetheless, if she recoiled at the thought of any male’s castration
being quick and near-painless, still more did she hate the thought of any of
them escaping her control and so avoiding the retribution they so richly
deserved for whatever wrongs they might have committed against women (she
rarely bothered to try to learn specifics these days, as in her experience all
men had), so the dead-switch never left her belt.

At the sight of the cabinet full of living male junk (an
appropriate name, Serena had always thought), Alice cooed with pleasure again,
especially at the sight of the dark purple flesh that had once been “Peter the
lawyer’s” pride and joy.  She flicked at
the bruised flesh hard with a finger, giggling delightedly at the thought of
how sensitive to pain it must be, after its earlier treatment.  She pinched hard, digging her nails in and
drawing blood. “Of course, if you’d rather we went back to my bedroom, it’s only
a few steps away’ she began slyly, but Serena shook her head.  “I’ve something else I want to show you” she
smiled, taking her wrist and leading her to a table in the corner of the room,
leaving Peter the lawyer’s bits to fall to the ground (much like Peter the
lawyer himself, who was presently writhing in agony on the floor of his
well-appointed office near St Pauls, desperately trying not to alert any of his
co-workers to his condition, as he knew full well that it was only the income
from his high-paying job, transferred each month into Serena’s account, that
explained why the 98% of his body that was not his genitalia was able to move,
free of burn marks and largely intact).

“Take your panties off” Serena instructed her lovely blonde
companion.

“Well, I wish you’d make your mind up” grumbled Alice.  “I mean, I’ve only just suggested that we go
back to the bedroom but you – “

Her friend shushed her. 
“And put this pair on” she said.

 

Alice gets ready to take part in an experiment exploring the physics of trans-dimensional space.

 

She was holding a pair of delicate cream silk panties from
one finger.  Looking closely, Alice could
see they seemed to have a reinforced gusset, as might be the case in a pair adapted
to take a thin sanitary towel.  Both
ladies were familiar with such garments, of course, both for their own use and
(in a rather coarser format) because the design was ideally suited to dealing
neatly with the mild bleeding and occasional oozing that often followed a
castration, particularly if carried out with blunt cutting instruments, or even
blunt instruments that did not cut at all.  
However, this pair was different, because nestled in the soft material
that would be going between Alice’s legs was a small dull oval, which Alice now
recognised as an inactive portal.

“Where’s the other end?” she asked, but Serena merely smiled
and dialled up a code on her phone.

The miniature portal flashed orange then, almost
immediately, a tongue appeared.  It took
up about half the area of the oval, the other half affording a glimpse into a
dark, living space behind.  Alice could
feel breath, as the tongue quested around for anything it should work on, and
then subsided, part drawing back. 
Clearly, the other portal was just inside some male’s mouth.

Alice grabbed the panties and pulled them on,
enthusiastically.  Then she pulled them
up tight, brushed her skirt down smooth and stood there, beaming up into her
lover’s eyes.

“So what do we do?  Do
we need to give him a signal to – ooh!” 
She giggled.

“I think he got the – ooh! 
Oh that’s very nice.  He’s very
well-trained, this one, isn’t he? 
Because, I – oh!  Oh yes, this is…
this is…”

Serena broke into a broad smile, overjoyed to see her having
such a good time.  She put her arms
around her waist and hugged her tightly to her own body.

“You see, it’s just you and me here.” she murmured.  “We can have a perfect cuddle, undisturbed by
any unsightly males, while still enjoying the benefit of one of the few things
they can do to please a women.”  And she
crushed Alice’s lips beneath her own.

The two stayed locked in the embrace for a while.  When they drew back to breathe, Alice gasped
“Hey – I know!  How about if you wear one
too!”

Serena smiled and kissed her innocent companion on the nose.
“Already wearing one” she confided.  “I
put it on when we got dressed and activated it at the same time as yours.  I just don’t make… Alice noises when I’m
being served that’s all.”

“I don’t make – “ Alice began crossly, but proceeded to
betray her own stifled protestations, by gasping desperately.

Serena just chuckled and kissed her again and for a while
the two simply writhed in an embrace, the only sound being the ever louder
urgent gasps and cries as Alice reached her fifth orgasm of the day (Serena
herself was generally much quieter and in any event, the sounds of her own
climax were usually hard to discern above the loud screams or the grinding,
drilling and sizzling noises that often accompanied them).

 

No, none of these people are Serena or Alice either.  It’s a quiz!  Five lovely ladies above, all looking quite happy but only two of them are wearing Serena’s patented portal panties.  Can you pick the right two?  To make it easier, both ladies activated their portals about ten minutes before their pictures were taken so have been enjoying the attentions of some of Serena’s most skillful ’employees’ for a while. 

 

Eventually Alice flopped in Serena’s arms, smiling up at her
goofily.  “That was… oooh, that was
lovely!” she sighed contentedly. Then she frowned “Oops!  Need the little girls’ room – like I always
do, afterwards.” And she made to pull the panties down, physics-defying insert
and all.  But Serena just reached out to
stop her, shaking her head slowly.

Alice looked confused (it is a tradition in Serena and Alice
stories that Alice has to be far behind the curve and look sweetly confused at
least once).  Then realisation dawned (well
done, Alice, we knew you’d get there).

“Oh” she said.

“You mean, I can just…?”

Serena nodded.  “Right
here. Go ahead.”

The two ladies stood in silence for a moment, gazing at each
other.  Alice looked excited at first, then
her eyes took on an increasingly far-away look. 
Eventually she burst out giggling. 
“Look: I can’t do it if you’re watching!

Serena sighed and turned around.  “Better?” she asked.

“Or if you talk.” replied Alice, primly.  There was silence for a while.

“Oh, here we go” Alice remarked, after what seemed an age to
Serena. “Oh yes.  Oh this is nice.  Mm… I needed that, I really did.  Oh.”

Then she burst out in surprised laughter. “Oh – he’s licking
me clean!  What a well-trained boy!”

“One of my best” Serena nodded.  “He was already quite good when I recruited him and he was a volunteer too – fell in love with me, actually.  Those are often easier to train than abductees.  Plus, he has a low pain threshold which helps. One of the lowest I’ve ever encountered, actually”.  She smiled to herself, as if recalling a happy memory.

“Where is this one, then” Alice asked with interest. “Whose
mouth did I just pee in?  Government
Minister sitting quietly in his office? 
Respectable family man in his ‘den’ at home?  Ooh – or a priest or bishop or something,
pretending to pray by himself?  I’d love
to piss in the mouth of a bishop – don’t know why, but I’ve always wanted to.  They’re so… pompous.”

“Not a bishop” laughed Serena, making a mental note because
Alice’s birthday was just a few weeks away and she’d been unable to think of a
special treat for her.  “In fact, this
one’s strictly in-house. Very strictly, actually – come and see.”

She led Alice down a flight of steps into one of the many
dark sublevels below the laboratory.  She
flicked a light switch to reveal an empty room, with bare concrete walls.  The wall facing them was mottled in various –
but not as many as fifty – shades of grey.

“Oh, I recognise this place.” Alice said, after a while.
“You used to keep a lot of boys here. It was cages all over, you must have had
at least fifteen in here.  But the room
seems… smaller. Funny, because normally when you take the stuff out of a room
it looks bigger.”

“I still store males here.” Serena replied.  “More than ever, actually.  I think there’s now” – she quickly checked
her phone – “twenty-two.”

“But where?” wailed the reliably slow Alice.

“In the walls” smiled Serena.  “Look, I’ll show you.”

She pulled out an ominous, coffin-shaped box made of wood.
Inside were some rough cardboard shapes, of the sort that oddly-shaped packages
are often wrapped in for shipping.  She
picked one up: it looked like the crudest possible face-mask.

Alice looked adorably puzzled, once again.  “But where are the boys?”

“The male goes in the box” Serena explained.  “I put these things on him – like a cardboard
suit of armour, you see?  That’s to give
him just a little bit of wiggle room when I pour the concrete.  The cardboard soon decays so it’s just him in
the concrete space after that. It’s good to have a bit of an air pocket, so I
don’t lose them all if there’s a power outage, or something.  Plus, they seem to die very quickly if you
just pour wet concrete on them.  This
way, they can stay alive in their little male-shaped bubble inside the concrete
forever, as far as I can see. Haven’t lost one yet – not by accident, anyway.”

(Fear not reader: Alice is supposed to be delightfully slow
on the uptake but not an utter moron. 
She is not about to ask how the males can breathe or eat and drink
entombed in concrete.  Given the context
of the story, even Alice has worked that out. 
If there are any readers who haven’t, I suggest you try simpler femdom
sites that are more suited to your mental capacities, such as those with pictures of models with their
tits out over impractical latex garments, pretending to be dominatrices by
gritting their teeth at the camera and vaguely waving bullwhips.*)

“So all the stuff goes in and out…” Alice said wonderingly…

“Precisely” Serena beamed. 
“Or round and round, for that matter. 
Come and see.”

This lucky lad is just about to be fitted out with portals and cardboard protectors, before being boxed and placed in a hole in the wall just to the left of this picture. Then the concrete will be poured.  He is actually looking towards the wall where his brother has been placed, while his father is about six inches inside the concrete just behind his feet.  Serena managed to capture the full set, on a family fishing trip that went wrong (for them – for Serena it went quite well, as – obviously – it also did for the fish).  Serena disapproves of fishing for sport, considering it cruel.

 

She led Alice back upstairs, down a corridor and threw open
some double doors to reveal a complicated machine.  Clear plastic pipes snaked around in convoluted
fashion, all connected up to a triple row of shimmering orange portals, each of
similar size to the ones sewn into the ladies’ adapted panties.  On the far right, a large plastic tank
labelled ‘food’ contained a greasy greeny-brown mush.  As Alice watched, a pipe suddenly started gushing
a lumpy reddish broth that raised the level of the mixture in the tank by about
two inches and turned it appreciably darker.

“Comes from various waste disposal points in the lab” Serena
explained.  “Obviously, there’s a
standard food waste shredder to make sure that nothing goes in that’s too wide
for the portals or might clog them up.  We
flush all the recipents through with high pressure water once a week or so, just to make
sure.”

“What do you feed them?” Alice asked.

“Oh, it’s mostly food waste.” Serena replied
dismissively.  “I try not to let non-food
ordinary household waste in too much – at least 75% of what’s in there is what
might be considered edible, at a pinch, in normal circumstances.  It seems to keep them alive, anyway.”

“And the outflow pipes…?” Alice asked, with a keen interest.

“Don’t always outflow straight away, obviously.” Serena nodded.  “They can loop back so the same male eats or
drinks his own excreta, or one another’s of course.  It’s easy enough to set up quite complicated
routes and loops, actually.  If you time
it right, the same food can pass through as many males as you like. One day I’m
going to try putting a radioactive tag in the food to see how many
of them I can get it through before flushing it away.”

“Oh: we tried that before, didn’t we?” Alice said enthusiastically. “You remember: when you were teaching me about the science of radioactivity!  You put a boy in a big metal box and dropped this special stuff in, and all his hair fell out!  It was funny.”

“Yes, but that was plutonium.**” began Serena “I’m talking about trace elements of – “

“And he said ‘Oh my skin feels itchy’ and then it turned black and started peeling off!” giggled Alice, remembering the salient parts of her science lesson.  “He looked so surprised!”

Serena smiled, indulgently.  “Anyway”, she said “it’ll be fun to see how many times I can get the same piece of food to pass through them all.    Of course, I could just close the loop and
they’ll just eat each other’s shit for ever.”

“Can we try?” Alice asked eagerly.

Serena looked serious. “No, that would kill them, so we can’t do that. Not yet.  I don’t know how long it would take or what specifically they’d die
of.  I’d keep the food going, so they
wouldn’t starve but I suppose in some way they’d just clog up or burst under the
pressure.  So… it’s going to be the grand
finale to this little experiment, but I’m not ready yet – lots more I want to
try first.”

Seeing the look of disappointment on her friend’s face, she added “Don’t worry.  I’ll let you know when I’m ready to do it.  Maybe over Christmas, OK?”

Alice cheered up, but was then struck by a rather horrible thought.  “So the mouth that just licked me out has
been…”

Again, the response was a shaking head.  “There’s a little warning that pops up if I’m
about to spray shit into the mouth of one of the ones I’ve flagged for oral
service.  So I don’t do that – not hygienic.
In fact, that reminds me…”

She checked her phone, frowning, then selected a few
options.

“OS23B?” she said, in a quiet speaking voice. “Oral service
slave formally known as Lee Taylor?  You’ve
been quite slack using your tongue lately, so now you’re going to taste
something different.  You have a couple
of seconds to say thank you Mistress, before your mouth fills with shit.”

A faint sound came from one of the tube-covered portals,
before being cut off by a squelching, gurgling sound.

“All of you other oral service slaves?  I hope you’re paying attention.” she added.

“They can hear us?” Alice asked.

“Oh yes” Serena replied. 
“Sorry, I suppose I should have told you. 
There’s a mic here – I sometimes like to tell them what’s about to
happen.  Or just talk to them about
stuff.  It must be very isolating, being entombed
in concrete, so I think it’s probably something they look forward to.”

“So… they heard our conversation just now?  They know they’re all destined to die choking on each other’s
shit when you’ve finished playing with them?” Alice asked.

“When I’ve finished conducting my scientific experiments
Serena corrected.  “Yes.”

“Well: they do
now, anyway.” she added.

“That must be quite demotivating” Alice remarked.

“Plenty of motivational devices here” Serena laughed and she
showed her friend the controls for the electric shock treatments.  Individual males could be shocked in various
places and at various intensities, so Alice had fun at first pressing individual buttons, while trying to guess
above which name a little light would go on indicating that electricity was
being applied.  Most also screamed (those that didn’t were probably in the process of being fed, or at least receiving some kind of solid matter through their feeding tubes). The screams
could only be heard faintly, as of course they emerged inside the plastic feeding tubes. Alice thought the effect was rather lovely – soothing, like church bells heard in the distance would be to someone without Alice’s fanatical sadism (or indeed to many people with it: it is an offensive caricature to believe that people like Alice and Serena who so love torturing, maiming or murdering cannot also apreciate the gentler pleasures in life).  

 Then Serena showed
her how to set up multiple and timed shock patterns, and how to run pre-programmed
sequences and Alice stood in wonder before the displays of flashing lights and
accompanying muffled screams.

“So pretty” she smiled. 
“I could watch all day.”

“Oh, but there’s more I want to show you” Serena smiled.  “Things you can do with portal-fitted males,
here on the outside.”

“The lucky ones” nodded Alice, only half-listening to her
friend as she continued to enjoy the son-et-lumi
ère show.

“Not really” Serena replied.

This attracted Alice’s interest.  “Worse than being entombed in concrete being
tortured with electric shocks – and nothing to look forward to but a slow death from being force-fed shit?” she asked, disbelievingly.

“Well, OK.” Serena conceded. 
“Not strictly worse, necessarily.  But just as bad.  Come and see.”

And she led Alice away towards part 3.  At the door, Alice cast one last admiring
look back at the lights flashing so prettily on the board and then the ladies
were gone, and the muffled (but frantic and urgent) screams had no one but the empty
room for audience. 


As I’ve said, I’m afraid I don’t have any actual photographs of Serena or Alice.  However, I’m told by people who have met Serena and survived that this picture is extraordinarily similar to how they remember her, when they awake in the cold sweat of terror in the middle of the night.


It took a few years but Part 3 is finally here… 


* Actually, we feature those images here sometimes too.  But ironically, you know? 

** You might think Serena having access to Plutonium is a terrifying idea.  But actually, when you think about it, it’s only marginally more terrifying than Serena not having access to Plutonium.  It’s just one more thing, is all I’m saying.  If you want to read more about Alice’s science lessons read Love among the test tubes.  It is the Serena and Alice story: so much so, that I didn’t write another for years afterwards, because it all seemed to have been said.

Now you’re thinking with portals

A Serena and Alice story


Ages since I wrote a story about these two lovely ladies.  Serena is smart as a whip but hurts a lot more.  Alice is sweet and playful and kind… OK, not always particularly kind, to be honest.  But definitely playful.  Anyway, they make a lovely couple. 

Fans of sweet and affectionate lesbian relationships, especially those spiced up with a delicious sprinkling of brutal torture of males, might enjoy the following and even find themselves drawn to check out a few more, here.

Readers of a nervous disposition, in contrast, should instead contact Serena in person.  She’d love to get to know you better.

Finally, anyone who is completely cool with castration, torture and murder for sexual kicks but has no idea what the whole ‘portal’ thing is about should watch this.  I believe that GladOS is actually based on Serena, although obviously the game designers made her a much nicer person, for a mainstream audience.

What adventures await on the other side of this mysterious orange portal?  Step through and find out.



Now you’re thinking with portals


“Whee!” Alice laughed delightedly as she tumbled through the
orange-rimmed oval into the waiting arms of her beloved Serena.  The two kissed passionately several times.

“That was my first time!” Alice gasped.  “It’s weird, isn’t it?  One minute I was there, the next I’m here…
with you.” And she smiled, shyly.

“Faster than light” Serena nodded.

Alice’s pretty brow furrowed in puzzlement, as it
occasionally does when the dialogue requires some explication.

“But – I thought faster-than-light travel wasn’t possible?  I thought scientists had proven that.”

“Male scientists” replied Serena.

“Oh I see” Alice replied. 
“Yes, that would explain it.  My husband David has all sorts of funny ideas about speed and time. Just the other day I
told him I needed the kitchen cleaned, the laundry done and dinner cooked all
by 7 o’clock and he said it wasn’t possible! 
I had to explain to him for almost twenty minutes that I wanted it
done.”   

“And did he manage it all?” Serena smiled.

“Oh yes” Alice replied. 
“In fact, he got it all done with five minutes to spare, even after I’d
taken that extra time explaining.  In fact, he
was begging to be allowed to get on with it less than halfway through my explanation.  He worked very hard after that – he’s a good
boy, really.”

“But he lied to you – when he said it couldn’t be done?”
Serena prompted.

Alice frowned again.  “Yes,
I suppose he did, didn’t he… the lying little toad!  I’ll have to talk to him about that.”

Serena felt a warm glow of satisfaction.  Although she felt no jealously towards David, she
always liked to hear about him suffering. 
As she did with all men, but David’s relationship with Alice gave her a
special interest in his welfare, one she hoped would one day lead to his taking
on a new role: as one of her experimental subjects*.  In the meantime, though, she enjoyed finding fault
with him from a distance.  For his part,
David had learnt to dread conversations with his beloved wife that began with “I
was talking to Serena, and…”

“Anyway, obviously they got the maths wrong” Serena began.

“David does a lot of that, too” nodded Alice. “When we first
got together, he used to use maths to try to get out of buying things for
me.  Things I needed.”  She looked upset again.

“And now we have these amazing portals everywhere” Serena
went on quickly, suddenly worried that her lover might have such a powerful
urge to go and ‘explain’ things to David that she might step back home through
the portal. “It’s astonishing how many uses there are for them.”

Alice took her hand and smiled up at her.  “Maybe.  But I don’t think I’m ever going to need another one, now I’ve got the link between my bedroom and here.”

The two embraced again, at length. 

Serena and Alice.  I believe this might not actually a picture of the two ladies, but David confirmed to me that this is very much how he sees them.  He told me that the one on the left is his beloved Alice and when I asked about the one on the right, he curled into a little ball and started gibbering about finding a happy place, so I guess that must be Serena.


“I mean, my bedroom’s just a few steps away…” Alice murmured,
through her smooshed lips.

“And I’d love to step through with you” smiled Serena. “But
I want to show you a few things first.  I’ve
been thinking with portals!”

“Am I about to have a science lesson?” giggled Alice. Although
not inclined towards intellectual pursuits, she had a keen curiosity about applied
science, as long as it was being applied to males as painfully as possible –
which, fortuitously, happened to be Serena’s main research interest too.

“What have you been doing with them… sending men to
unpleasant places?”

“Oh, portals aren’t just transportation devices.” Serena
replied.  “There are so many uses: they’re
going to transform the world.  You can
break the laws of thermodynamics with a well-positioned pair of portals, so you
can have unlimited free energy, for example. 
Imagine how that could liberate the world from toil and drudgery.”

Down the corridor, a naked male on hands and knees who had
been scrubbing the floorboards with a small brush looked up.  Unluckily, he happened to meet Serena’s gaze
and instantly dropped his head down again, applying himself still more
vigorously to the task. A light sheen of sweat appeared, as he trembled in
fear.

“Yes, well, I mean that toil and drudgery will become
optional, anyway” Serena added, staring coolly at the labouring man. “Only
available to a lucky few.”

“Who had better hope for a lifetime of toil and
drudgery.” she continued, in a quiet voice that seemed nonetheless to carry
effortlessly over to the male’s location. 
“Because there are plenty of alternatives and believe me, they are all so much
worse.”

She watched for a moment more, observing the brush which
itself seemed close to breaking the lightspeed barrier, so quickly was it
flashing back and forth.  A few tears
splashed down and were vigorously rubbed into the wooden boards.  Serena didn’t mind that.  In fact she thought it
provided a pleasant and delicate patina to a wooden surface.  When she’d had a new wooden floor put into
her bedroom, she had worked most of the morning to acquire a bucket brimming
full of male tears, to allow the whole surface to be thoroughly doused with
this most enriching substance.

Serena took out a leather-covered box, of the sort an
expensive ring would come in.  Which is
exactly what it had been, when originally purchased to present Serena with one of
the eleven engagement rings she had received in her life.  None of the men in question had ever actually become her husband, of course, but nine had succeeded in their ambition to
spend the rest of their lives with her, and the surviving two were still
working on it, deep in the cellars beneath her mansion house.

She opened it, to show Alice the ovals glowing orange and
blue against the black velvet cushioning, one in the base and one in the lid of the unclasped box.

“But what’s the point when they’re so small?” Alice asked,
supremely oblivious of the almost intolerable temptation she was placing on the author to make an obvious and very bad joke. 

“I’ll show you” smiled Serena, and she led her lover by the
hand, to a well-furnished room, one side of which was occupied by a large
glass-fronted cupboard that could serve well as a trophy cabinet.  Inside were the trophies: row after row of
male genitalia, most of them with penises encased in a chastity device, some
with permanent-looking piercings apparently achieving the same end.  Some were bruised or showed other signs of violent
treatment; all had a gentle glow of orange or blue behind them, showing the
presence of science’s latest triumph.

Serena opened the door and reached in, for a large, pallid
and relatively undamaged example hanging under a sign reading “Peter the lawyer”.



Here’s
a picture of Peter the lawyer, in case you were wondering what he looks
like.  This photo was taken the day he met Serena, I believe, which
explains why he is still looking so calm and unbruised.  What’s that? 
You don’t want to see pictures of Peter, you want pictures of the
ladies?  Well, that’s typical of the dismissive attitude to males in
femdom porn, frankly.  He’s central to the story too, you know.  He’s
the canvas on which the work of art will be created, after all.

She flicked open the chastity tube, which had been secured
but not locked, removed it and handed the pallid pile of flesh to her
companion.

After at first simply goggling at it lying helplessly in her
hands, Alice turned it over in wonder. 
She had held men’s genitals in her hands before, of course.  Sometimes living and attached to men,
sometimes detached and floppy – more often the latter, since she had become
Serena’s lover.  But never had she held a
set of genitals that were both separated from their owner yet also, somehow,
still attached.  For around the base of the
penis and balls, where the arrangement would normally fuse seamlessly with the rest
of a man’s body, glowed the orange light of a miniature portal some two inches
in diameter, just like the ones Serena had shown her before.

Alice had little doubt that, wherever Peter the lawyer happened
to be, there was a blue glowing ring between his legs, of just the same size as
this one.  When she turned the genitals
over to look closely into the ring, she could see how it cut across the
still-living tissue.  Blood vessels pulsed
gently, showing that vital fluid was circulating still in the penis that,
although still very much attached to its owner’s body, was also in the extraordinarily perilous position of being in Serena’s trophy cabinet and indeed, in Alice’s
hands.  For Serena, as a lesbian, genital
torture was merely another way to inflict pain, but Alice – to her lover’s mild
disapproval – was bisexual and her continuing heterosexual leanings provided
her with a frisson of interest in a shapely cock. Of course, the end result of
the two ladies’ interest in male genitalia was much the same, as Alice’s
sexuality was firmly oriented towards the sadistic end of the spectrum.  But holding a living cock for her still provided
some of the same thrill she had first experienced at school when she had felt a
boy becoming hard in his trousers as he pressed against her in the school diner
queue.  On that occasion, the boy in
question had merely been expelled when she reported him, but the pleasure of
punishing an errant penis had remained with her.

Soon there was no need to observe cross-sectioned vessels pulsing
in order to deduce that blood was flowing into the spongy tissues of the penis,
as Peter the lawyer, his penis liberated from the tight embrace of his steel
tube, was responding naturally to the soft touch of Alice’s hands.  It was unconscious, simply an automatic
sexual response – as was Alice’s desire to inflict unspeakable pain on him, when she saw
what was happening.

“He’s being naughty” she remarked, handing the growing item
back to Serena.  Serena smiled and grasped
the end of the penis, firmly tweaking the end three times to the right.  “That’s a signal” she explained.  “In case he’s out in public: it’s to tell him
to go somewhere private.  Let’s give him sixty
seconds.”

She took a heavy bulldog clip and trapped a generous pinch
of foreskin between its tight jaws then hung the ensemble from a hook in the
wall.  From a small drawer she took a
foot-long metal ruler and a tiny vicious-looking whip with eight thin leather
strands, each terminating in a tight little knot.  She offered both soundlessly to Alice who
dithered pleasurably for a few moments before selecting the whip. 

They waited a moment longer, then Serena said “That’ll do”
and the two ladies went vigorously to work.

Alice had whipped men’s genitals before, of course.  But there was something delightfully different
about flicking the thin leather strands across a pair of balls that dangled at
the end of an object itself hanging from a clipped foreskin.  They moved more than she was used to, the
punished testicles acting as the weight of a pendulum that swang back and forth
as Alice rhythmically struck from one side to the other.  Serena got into the game too, cracking her
ruler to accelerate the battered testicles as they swung back, at one point
cracking so hard that they described a complete circle.

“We could try hooking them up to one of those… what do you
call them – tennis things” gasped Alice, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Swingball!” Serena called back joyously, sending Peter the
lawyer’s testicles hurtling around another full circle.  She grinned at her lover, delighted by her
creativity.  It was Serena who usually
came up with the most unpleasant ideas between the two of them, but she herself
would be the first to admit she would not have invented half the things she
had, without someone to show them off to. 

They batted back and forth for a few minutes more, then
stopped to admire their handiwork.  Peter’s
balls (or, technically, Serena’s balls that happened to be attached to Serena’s
male body often designated ‘Peter’) were swollen and purple.  In
places, burst blood vessels added a still darker patch to the abused
flesh.  Serena took out her phone with
satisfaction, dialled two digits and held it out on speaker.

“Th… thank you Mistress Serena” sobbed the man at the other
end.

“And?” snapped Serena.

“And… and…. I deserved it, and I need the punis – “

“I mean, Miss Alice, you ungrateful little sod!” shouted
Serena and clicked the phone off, in the middle of a gasped “Oh – thank you Miss
A-“.  Then she grasped the abused scrotum
hanging so forlornly on the wall and began twisting it around and around, swapping
hands to maintain the tension as she did so. After six turns, the penis reminded
Alice of a wet towel twisted around to administer a beating (another image that
recalled fond memories of school days, when she had made boys beat one another to
win her favour) but this time it was the rolled-up sausage itself that took the
beating, as Serena expertly cracked the steel ruler across it, working her way
around and down to ensure no nerve endings were left untreated.

Finally, she stopped, allowed the bruised, battered mass to
unravel itself, and hung it back inside the cabinet, beneath the sign proclaiming
the lucky recipient of the desperate nerve signals shrieking their agony out through
the dimensionless portal, to be ‘Peter the lawyer’.

“Aren’t you going to put the chastity tube back on?” asked
Alice, always alert to the danger that a male might obtain some enjoyment in what
was intended to be the eternal misery of his life.  Serena cast an expert eye over the dark
purple mounds that held the future of Peter’s genetic line.

“Probably no need” she murmured.  “Still: best to make sure” and she reached
out and tugged the testicles smartly in a half-circle and down, in a single
sharp motion.  “There” she said.

Serena had more things to show her dear sweet Alice, but
Alice insisted on leading her back through her own portal, the one leading to
her bedroom where, dear reader, whatever the laws of physics might say, you and
I cannot follow.

[End of Part 1. Will there be a Part 2?  Who knows.  I certainly don’t.  Update: now I do and here it is.  And even a Part 3]



It’s OK, they’ve finished now.  You’re allowed in to bring them breakfast when summoned.  It’ll make a nice change for Alice, not to have to wait until that lazy bastard Dave finally gets around to thinking of someone other than himself… **

**(Actually this isn’t a picture of them either.  I was asked not to use real pictures of either lady and when I asked why, Serena muttered something about needing to keep her anonymity so she can track down and ‘collect’ readers of this blog, whatever that means.  Anyway, she’s a very private person.)


 *  Attentive readers might be aware that in an earlier story, that is exactly what happened.  But what is ‘earlier’ and what ‘later’ when we are dealing with concepts such as faster-than-light travel, which can break the laws of causality?  And, for that matter, with Serena and Alice, who have never yet encountered a law they did not feel they could break if they really, really wanted to?  Life is not linear.  It’s more like a wibbly-wobbly ball of timey-wimey…stuff, anyway.

PS – It has just this second occured to me that although I created this series in 2011, the only professional dominatrices I have seen on any kind of a regular basis  in the last five years have been… Serena and Alice.  Both are utterly, utterly wonderful, neither is really much like the characters here***, but I just wonder… is this a subconscious thing?  Or might there be something to this time travel malarky after all?  Cue spooky music…

 *** Except, come to think of it, in hair colour.  Spooky ooky…

The lovelorn blacksmith

Once, in a small town surrounded by thick forests, there lived a young blacksmith.  All day long he laboured, turning out horseshoes, railings and all manner of metal goods for the people of the town. He loved his work and could think of no better way to spend his time than beating hot metal into useful things.

One day, hard at work in his smithy, he looked up and saw a young woman standing by the door.  When she smiled, he recognised her as one of the two young women who had moved into a house in the forest just outside town earlier in the year. The townspeople kept away from them believing them to be witches or – worse – lesbians, but the blacksmith was an easy-going soul and always had a kind word for everyone.

“Good day, Miss!”, he said cheerfully. “Were you looking for something?”

The young lady was fingering some of the chains hanging in skeins by the doorway.

“These are very good” she said admiringly.  “Did you make them?”

“Aye Miss”, the blacksmith replied, puffing out his (considerable) chest in pride, as making chain was a time-consuming task in those days without machinery and the hanging chains represented several weeks of work.

“I think I’d like to buy some”, she said with a smile.  “Always useful to have chains – especially in the forest with so many wild beasts about.”

“Aye, Miss” the blacksmith replied again, and they took to haggling and soon the young lady was the proud possessor of several lengths of chain of different sizes.

“Can you make anything, from iron?” she asked.

The blacksmith paused.  “Almost anything, Miss” he replied, cautiously, for he was an honest fellow.

“Could you make…say… a collar? An iron collar, with attachments for chains, and thick flanges for a padlock?  And shackles too, the same but already connected to one another with chains?”

“Aye Miss” the blacksmith replied uncertainly. “But a dog’s better off with a leather collar, you know?  Iron collar’d be powerful heavy.”

“Oh, this isn’t for a dog.” the young lady replied hurriedly.  “It’s for a… a beast. A big, fierce beast that we trapped.  A good heavy iron collar is just what it needs.  And shackles, like I said.”

“Aye, very well Miss” nodded the blacksmith, secretly rather uncomfortable as he did not believe in cruelty even to big fierce beasts.  “But you don’t need flanges and padlocks: I can do you a catch that no beast’ll ever be able to work.”

“No, padlocks are best.” the young lady replied earnestly.  “Can’t be too careful.”

So the blacksmith agreed to make collar and shackles, and lengths of chain between them. He tried to make them as light as he could, but iron working in those days was a crude business and the collar with its great thick flanges weighed many pounds.

Nonetheless, the young lady professed herself delighted with them, and struggled off along the path into the forest carrying her heavy load, the blacksmith standing watching her outside his smithy, thinking her a winsome creature and desperately wishing he had offered to carry the heavy restraints himself.

These look rather unpleasant.  Poor beast.

Several weeks passed, until one day the blacksmith heard a soft knock on his door and opened it to see the young lady again.

“Good day, Miss!” he greeted her.  Not a problem with the ironmongery, I hope?”

“No, no!” she replied brightly.  “No, the beast is thoroughly under control.  They’re just right for him.  And actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about.  You see, we were thinking of going hunting.  To catch a few more beasts… just as big and fierce. And we were wondering if you could make…. Oooh, shall we say three more sets?  Like those?  Maybe a little heavier, if you can…”

“Hunting fierce beasts, Miss?” he replied, his brow furrowed with concern.  “That doesn’t sound very safe, for a pair of young – “

“We’ll be fine” she said, decisively cutting him off.  “It’s what we do.  But we need the chains and shackles and things.  Can you make them?”

“Of course, Miss” he replied, proudly. “It will be an honour and a pleasure.”

When the work was completed, it filled a large sack that the blacksmith could barely lift.  So with much clanking and clashing, he heaved it onto the back of his cart and set off for the young ladies’ house.  Along the winding path his horse trotted, before pulling up in front of the cottage. As he dismounted, he fancied he could hear some muffled cries, but when he paused and listened more intently, they stopped, so he decided it must have been only the wind.

He hauled the sack down and dragged it across to the door, knocking gently.

The young lady opened the door with a startled look.

“Oh, hello!” she said.

“Who is it, Melissa?” came a voice from inside.  The blacksmith peeked around the door and saw a dark-haired woman, hurriedly closing a trapdoor in the floor.

“Just the blacksmith, Harriet” the young lady – Melissa – replied.  “I think he’s brought the things I ordered – for the beasts, you know”.

Harriet came to the door and looked at the sack. “In there? What things?”

“Oh, you remember!” Melissa replied brightly.  “You know: chains and stuff. For the hunt.  When we go and hunt beasts?”

“Oh yes of course, the beast hunt” Harriet muttered and with a curt nod, she went back into the house.  With a certain amount of effort, and still more awkwardness, the blacksmith managed to get the sack into the house, took his payment and departed, kicking himself for not finding some excuse to be invited in by the lovely Melissa.

Back at his smithy, all through the afternoon, he found himself working metal into the shape of a capital ‘M’, with increasingly curly and ornate serifs.  He was in love.

Harriet and Melissa.  I don’t know why they’re wearing nighties… it’s ages until bedtime.

Four days later, in the forest, Melissa again opened the door to see the blacksmith standing there.

“Oh, it’s you” she said, immediately thinking it an extraordinarily stupid thing to say.  “Is everything all right?”

“Well, yes and no, Miss”, said the blacksmith wringing his leather cap in his hands.  “See, I don’t know if you heard the news in the town but… three young men went missing two nights back.  They were on their way back home from the inn and they just vanished.  Everyone’s in a terrible state about it.”

“Yes, we heard about that.” Melissa replied cautiously.  “Very sad.  I hope they’ll turn up… boys do run off from time to time, though, don’t they?  Headstrong things.”

“But not these three, Miss!” the blacksmith responded, earnestly. “One of ‘em was due to be married today – and another his best man!  Makes no sense they’d go a-running away before the wedding.”

“But what’s it got to do with us?” Melissa asked.

“Well Miss”, the blacksmith said, wringing his leather cap more than ever.  “I was just thinking-like.  With those three lads missing… missing in the forest like as not, this forest where the two of you live…”

“Go on…” Melissa said, narrowing her eyes.  Harriet appeared, standing silently behind her.  She seemed to be clutching something behind her back, but the blacksmith didn’t notice.

“And… and then I got to thinking of all those shackles and chains and things that I made you.  Well, I thought…”

“Yes…?” Melissa said.

“Well, I just thought perhaps you could help look for them, Miss.  Being such good hunters and that.”

“Oh!” Melissa replied in surprise.  “Oh, I see.  Because we… because we hunt things.  We could help look for them.  Yes, that makes sense.  Perhaps we could… what do you think Harriet?”

Her friend looked equally surprised.  “Yes, we’ll erm… we’ll certainly keep an eye out.  When we’re hunting beasts.”

“Yes, we’ll keep an eye out!” Melissa confirmed.  “If we see any clues, we’ll be sure to let the town know, all right?  Good day, now!”

And she shut the door in the poor lovelorn blacksmith’s face.

***

A week later, the blacksmith was overjoyed to see Melissa  walk into his smithy yet again.

“Any news, Miss?” he enquired, eagerly.

“News… about?” she replied, somewhat perplexed.

“The missing lads, Miss.  I suppose you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them.”

“Hide nor hair” she giggled, as if at a private joke.  “No, I’m afraid not.  No: I came with another job for you actually.  Another set of shackles and chains… to collar one more beast.”

“My pleasure, Miss” the blacksmith replied.  “Same as before, then?”

“Maybe these ones… we thought…a little bigger?” Melissa  replied, looking up at the brawny young blacksmith.  “Three more inches for the collar, I’d say.”

She glanced down at his hands.  “And maybe an inch or two extra for the wrists – forelegs.  For the forelegs.  And good and strong and heavy, please: this beast is the strongest of all.”

“Aye Miss” said the blacksmith, and when her lovely form was no longer lighting up the darkened workshop, he set to work.

This time, he didn’t even try to make the devices lighter. His kindliness towards animals had been quite forgotten, in his desire to please the lovely Melissa.  So he heated iron and beat and pulled, and quenched and bashed and filed, until he had a set of the most fearsome iron restraints imaginable. The collar alone weighed 15 pounds and when the ensemble was put together, he could barely lift it.

He put out the furnace, left the smithy and carefully locked it all up, as if going on a long journey, without even knowing he was doing it.  He was about to load the restraints onto the back of the cart when he thought better of it, patted his horse on the nose and set off staggering under the weight of the heavy irons, all the way along the winding path to the cottage in the woods.

He paused to recover his breath once he’d reached the clearing where the cottage stood. He gazed at the cottage, then took a long look around as if taking in the fresh air, the trees, the sky and all of the smells and sounds of the forest. Then picking up his sack once more, he strode over to the door.

Melissa opened it, before he could even knock and stood there smiling at him.  A shaft of sunlight through the forest canopy caught her hair and it seemed made of the finest spun gold, burning in the sunshine.

“Who is it, Mel?” came Harriet’s voice.

“It’s the blacksmith.” Melissa smiled, delightedly.  “He’s brought his collar and chains.”

Harriet came to the door and hugged her friend around the waist.  “So he has.  Isn’t that sweet?”

“Isn’t it just?” Melissa murmured.

“You’d better come inside.”

THE END

In the years that followed, the blacksmith got to put his expertise at forming iron into the letter ‘M’ to good use, although he usually had to add an ‘H’ to it as well.

The fairy and the fisherman

Once, a young fisherman found a magic shell from which a
lovely fairy appeared to offer him a wish.
“Not three?” he asked in disappointment.
The fairy’s pretty brow furrowed crossly.  “If you don’t want the wish” she began
but of course he did, so he shushed her and fell to wondering what to wish
for.  He could have had wealth, he could
have found love, but deep down he knew he wanted none of those things and after
a few minutes of indecision he blurted out.
“I’d like to be a pair of boots.”
“Boots?” the fairy asked in puzzlement. “You could have
wealth unlimited, then you could buy thousands of pairs of boots.”
“No”, he replied.  “I
don’t want to have a pair of boots. 
I want to be a pair of boots. I want to still be alive and
conscious and I want to be a pair of leather boots.”
 “Ladies’ boots that
is”, he added suddenly.  “That’s very
important.”
“Perhaps you’d better be more specific, then.” the fairy sighed, taking out a notepad.  “Wouldn’t
want this to turn out badly for you in an ironic manner, like in the stories,
would we?”
So the fisherman described the boots of his fantasy.  They were tall: thigh length rendered taller
by heels four inches long. They had leather laces, tightly wound through bright
shiny eyelets all the way up the back, culminating in little leather tassels.
They gleamed with a mirror shine. They were, in short, the boots of almost
every male submissive’s fantasy.  And he
wanted to be them.
“Got it” said the fairy when he’d finished his long and
rather creepy description. She looked anywhere except the bulge in his trousers
as she took out her magic wand, waved it a little and then the world exploded
in a shower of stars.
 

The fairy

The fisherman woke up in some discomfort.  He was standing tied against a wooden frame
with arms splayed out above him and his wrists fastened so he could not break
free.  His ankles too were restrained, his
legs apart.
 
The fairy was sitting nearby, watching.  When she saw that he was awake, she nodded
and got up clutching a cloth bag.
“But – I wanted to be a pair of boots!” he protested.
The fairy nodded.  “And
you will be” she said, pulling a long, curved steel blade.
“Alive!” he shrieked, desperately.
“Yes, that too” she smiled. 
“All taken care of.” And she nicked his flesh deeply with the hooked end
of her blade and she began to cut.
Making a pair of leather boots takes time and skill.  First, the animal must be skinned, of
course.  The resulting hide will have
flesh on it, so this must be removed, first by cutting off the thicker layers,
then by scraping.  The resulting skin is
salted, folded and left for 24 hours or longer. 
Then, after soaking, the outer side of the hide must be scraped to remove
any hair and the epidermis.  The material
is then tanned, soaking in a vat with chemicals, before being tightly stretched
across a frame and left to dry as taut as can be.  True to the fairy’s word, the fisherman
remained alive and fully conscious throughout this process.  Although most of his nervous system was gradually
cut and scraped away, the diligent fairy ensured that he continued to have all
the sensations that an unskinned human would experience.  She even fancied she could hear his silent
screams, throughout, and she smiled a secret fairy smile as she worked.
Finally, the leather was ready. The fairy settled down with
her tools and she cut with strong shears and she sewed with a thick needle and she trimmed and
edged to make the boots of the fisherman’s dreams. The laces she made by
nicking the end of a thinned sheet and steadily pulling back, to make a thin
but strong strip of cured leather.  She drove
the metal eyelets through with a punching tool, she vigorously polished the
boots to the required mirror shine, then when she had pulled the laces through, she was
finally able to lean back and contemplate the boots she had made.
They were somewhat tacky, she had to admit, but she was quite pleased with how they had turned out.  Not her sort of thing, but
someone might want them. She left them on the doorstep of the town shoemaker at
midnight and disappeared into the night.
The boots were sold eventually, to a young, spoiled daughter
of a local nobleman. She wore them once, but found they pinched, and the
business with lacing up at the back was far too much trouble, so threw them
into her shoe cupboard and never thought of them again.  And there they remain to this day.

Moral: don’t ask a powerful supernatural being to skin you
alive. It bloody hurts.
…and the fisherman.

Now and then we wonder who the real men are






Oh yes, a proper little sissy, that one.  Has been for years.  Hard to imagine him not in his frillies or
little maid’s dress, to be honest.
You want to know if he’s ever been out in public dressed that way?  Funny how many visitors want to
know that…
Well… he has, from time to time.  But that’s not the most humiliating public
display he’s experienced – is it sissy? Oh, sure, it would be embarassing to appear in public in a little girl’s dress, but the very worst public humiliation he has
experienced was a time when he went out pretending to be a normal man.  Because it’s so ridiculous an idea!  Simply ridiculous, isn’t it, sissy?  That’s right, it is.  And so are you, aren’t you?  
I said: aren’t you ridiculous, sissy?

That’s better.
I’ll tell you the story. 
It was when our ‘relationship’ had just started and it was still a
rather playful, sexual thing, not the 24/7 servitude it is now. Maybe he could
see the direction things were taking, I don’t know, but I found that more and
more often he was asking whether we could just have an evening out ‘as normal
people’.  A guy and his girlfriend, not a
sissy-maid and mistress.  After all,
despite all the games, he was a man, he would say.
Why not?  So we went on a ‘date’. 
 On went a smart jacket and tie…  frilly knickers below them, admittedly, and a
remote-controlled shock device below those, but he looked ‘normal’ enough on the
surface – a bit dweeby, maybe – and out we went, to a trendy bar.
He was nervous about the zapper, but I told him it was just
a mind-game (oh how naïve he was about my intentions towards him back then) and
I was true to my word and zapped not once, no matter how tempted.  We had been in the bar for about half an hour
and he was beginning to relax, when I made my move.
“Look at those two at the bar” I remarked, smiling.  “Don’t they look lovely?”  And I nodded towards two young women laughing
and joking together.  They were indeed
rather glamorous.  I imagined they were
having a couple of drinks together before going on to meet their dates – they certainly
looked dolled up for someone and I was not getting a lesbian vibe from them.
Sissy looked rather alarmed and started wittering about how
they were not as lovely as me, but I shushed him and told him it was fine: I
just meant they looked good, that was all. 
“It’s OK for you to find other women sexy, you know” I smiled. “After
all, I do have the key – and not just to your heart.” He laughed too – more out
of nervousness than the feeble pun, I expect, and admitted that the two ladies
were indeed attractive.
Image result for liqueur"
These are not actually the two ladies from the story.  But the vibe is similar and so is the barman’s beard, which was just like that.
“Right” I said, quietly. 
“Off you go, then.”
“Erm… off I go? Go where?”
I nodded towards the attractive pair.  “Go chat them up.  That’s what real men do.  See if you can get off with one of them.  Give them your best pick-up lines.”
“But I… I…”
I took the remote for his ball-shocker out of my bag and very
deliberately clicked it up to 16 out of 20, holding it so he could see.  His previous record was 14 and he had nearly
screamed the house down.  
“We’ll start at 16.” I said. 
“And we’ll go up to 20.  The
battery’s fully charged.”  I picked the
remote up and rested my thumb on the button.
“Or…” I said, indicating the two at the bar with the remote
itself.  He looked desperately around.
I yawned.  “You can
show me your pulling skills, or you can scream. 
Five, four, three…”
He shot to his feet and barrelled over to the two ladies,
knocking violently against a stool as he went. The disturbance made them both look up, and one smiled in a puzzled, friendly
way.
What sissy used for chat-up lines, I shall never know.  I doubt the two young ladies do either, because
he was stuttering and shaking with embarrassment as he tried to engage them in
conversation, so I doubt he made much sense even close up.  Almost immediately, it became clear that it
was not going well.  The friendly puzzled
smile faded, and she spoke quietly but firmly to him, while her companion just
pursed her lips in disapproval and called the barman for another drink.  Obviously, he had not “pulled” (I’ll confess now
that I had no Plan B for what to do if he had… but it had not seemed very
likely).
With a palpable sigh of relief, he turned away from them, towards
me and started coming back.  I met his
eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head and then gestured back towards
the bar.  He knew what I meant.  Real men don’t give up that easily, sissy. Be
forceful. Keep at it.
He looked horrified so I gently slid my thumb across the
button again, and as if by magic he turned back, to play the real man once
more.  His face was white – almost greenish.
His attempts to appear masculine were not helped by the fact that his sweating had
made translucent spots on his shirt, so the shadow of the bra underneath was
very visible, although I don’t know if either of the two ladies noticed.  Again, he spoke to them and this time there
was the reaction I’d hoped for.
No – not a face-slap! 
He’d have enjoyed a face-slap, but that was never going to happen, not
in the vanilla world, only in BDSM sessions and in movies. No: the one who hadn’t
spoken to him so far just lost it, basically. 
She stood up, in his face (slightly taller, in her high heels) and told
him what she thought of creeps like him. 
She spoke loudly and angrily – not quite shouting, but everyone in the
bar could hear her give my poor sissy a piece of her mind about how she was
sick of being unable to sit in a bar and have a quiet drink with her friend
without sad little bastards like him coming up and ogling them and trying on
his lame pick-up lines…. She went on for a while.  It looked rather cathartic.  I smiled myself and quietly left the place,
as a couple of other people went up to the bar to help. 
Only in movies, I’m afraid.  And femdom sessions.  And femdom movies, for that matter.
I hadn’t abandoned him. 
I had just sidled into a nearby doorway to see what happened. Don’t
worry: he wasn’t beaten up or anything – they just marched him out of the bar
and shouted quite a bit more.  Poor sissy.  He does not deal well with conflict.  Perhaps that is why he has allowed himself to
be sucked into his present lifestyle – there is no possibility of conflict in
his life now, just obedience.
He was still shaking when we got home.  He took off his ridiculous male outer clothes
with revulsion and popped on a maid’s outfit to serve me a drink.  I allowed him to calm down, kneeling at my
feet, for quite a while before making sure the lesson had sunk in.
“Any time you feel you want to behave like a real man again,
sissy…” I started, but he shook his head violently.  A shame. 
I was going to suggest going to a football match and getting into a
fight with the other side’s supporters. 
Or paying some streetwalker several decades past her prime for an
encounter in a bleak concrete lay-by smelling of piss and diesel fumes (I don’t
think he’d even need his tube locked on: I have several times forced him to
tell me honest accounts of his fumbling attempts at sexual liaisons in early
adulthood and I can confidently predict that in that circumstance, little peter
would not be rising to the occasion).  Real
man stuff.   
If he ever asks again, I have
quite a few things he might try.
But somehow, he never has. 
 
Isn’t that better, sissy?  Much more your thing.

Goldilocks and the three dominatrices

Once upon a time there were three dominatrices who lived
together in a large BDSM facility in the woods. 
There was a Daddy Dominatrix: a butch lesbian with cropped hair and
copious tattoos who loved wearing biker gear. 
There was a Mummy Dominatrix: a large lady with a deceptively sweet
smile, a firm attitude and a strong right arm. 
And there was Baby Dominatrix: a blonde blue-eyed innocent with an angelic smile and
very expensive tastes – along with a wide repertoire to ensure that men paid
for them.

Flickriver: Most interesting photos from Cottage in the ...
Not everyone’s idea of what a BDSM facility should look like, I suppose, but stereotypes are there to be challenged.

One day the dominatrices were preparing for the sessions
each had booked for the day.  Daddy Dominatrix was going to burn the BDSM symbol into one of her client’s buttocks
– she had just started the furnace to get the brand to the necessary red heat,
but it would take an half hour to warm up. 
Mummy Dominatrix had a mouth-soaping session planned but she needed the
bar of astringent ivory soap to melt in a bowl of warm water into a gooey mass,
and that would take half an hour too. Baby Dominatrix had nothing to prepare,
but she never started a session on time, believing her pay-pigs deserved to
wait before being allowed into her presence, so she had half an hour – if not
longer – as well.  

 So Daddy Dominatrix
attached some heavy clamps to the testicles of her client and left him chained
to her branding table, Mummy Dominatrix secured her client tightly away with
strict instructions not to release his enema into his big squashy nappy before
she returned, Baby Dominatrix strode past her kneeling client without a look or
a word and the three dominatrices went out for a walk.

While they were out walking, who should happen upon their
house but Goldilocks.  Now Goldilocks was
a sissy: all golden curls, frills and lacy underwear and he came mincing along
the path, where he had been out picking flowers.  Seeing the door ajar, he pushed at it and
entered.

The first thing he saw was a row of boots and shoes.  Goldilocks looked at the first set of
boots.  They were Daddy Dominatrix’s
heavy ‘Dr. Martens’ boots, hobnailed and made for stomping and kicking – of which over time, they had done so much they were rather scuffed.  Goldilocks took a quick lick but the leather
felt rough on his tongue so he moved along. 
The next pair of shoes were Mummy Dominatrix’s sensible court shoes that she wore for governess scenes.  A
one inch heel gave just enough of a clickity-clack when Mummy Dominatrix walked
in them for her clients to thrill to the approaching no-nonsense
discipline.  These were much more to
Goldilocks’s taste, so he started licking avidly, before he noticed the
footwear next to them.  It was a pair
of little pink leather boots, high-heeled with glistening eyelets, red leather
laces and little hearts picked out in sparking crystal on the uppers.  Goldilocks took one of them in his hands and
sniffed rapturously.  The delicate smell
of female sweat wafted from the interior and Goldilocks hurriedly bent down to
plant a flurry of kisses and licks across the second boot, while lifting his
skirt so that his insistently erect penis could come into contact with the soft
pink leather of the first.  In less than a minute one
of the boots was covered with spittle, while on the other a thick splattering
of semen showed where Goldilocks had reached his temporary heaven.

You want a picture of the boots?  Sure.  Enjoy.  Oh, sorry – were you hoping for one of the other pairs?



Feeling exhausted after coming so hard, Goldilocks went
upstairs looking for a bed in which to lie down.  The first bedroom he visited was Daddy
Dominatrix’s (although Baby Dominatrix often joined her there): decked out in
black, with occult symbols and heavy metal album covers tacked to the wall, it
terrified Goldilocks even before he saw the shackles attached to each heavily
carved post of the bed, so he slammed the door and moved on.  The second bedroom he visited belonged to Mummy
Dominatrix, although she herself did not actually sleep there.  In this bedroom, pink was the dominant theme,
with fluffy rabbits decorating the walls and a large teddy bear in the
corner.  Only a rack on the wall on which
tawses, paddle and canes hung, beneath a sign reading “Mummy knows best”,
detracted from the soft cuddly atmosphere. 
The ‘bed’ was a giant cot, with rubber sheets and bars that not only
formed the sides bout could also fold over to make a fully enclosed space.
Goldilocks loved it and was just about to climb into the cot and snuggle down
when he heard a groan.  Looking around,
he saw the teddy bear shaking slightly and making incoherent pleading sounds.  Not stopping to investigate (which was just
as well because inside the bear the enema was about to be released after all, despite Mummy Dominatrix’s strict instructions,) he fled this strange room as well.   

Giant Teddy Bear | Large Teddy Bear | Huge Teddy Bear
This is Trevor. He’s a forty-eight year-old procurement manager for a large engineering firm, from Swansea.  He’s not actually named in the story but he’s an interesting guy: enjoys snowboarding, collects original turn of the century newspaper prints and volunteers as a local fireman. But today he’s just this.  And a bit stinky.

The third room, though, took his breath
away.  In a room fit for a princess, decked
out in the finest silks, the large circular bed in the centre could have
accommodated seven people (and occasionally did, but not to sleep – only one
person ever slept there, as she preferred her sexual partners to
distribute themselves on the floor around the bed when they had served their
purpose).  A rack of shoes contained what
must have been a hundred pairs: Manolos, Jimmy Choos, Blahniks, Louboutins… many of
them seemingly never worn.  Then Goldilocks
pulled at a handle on the wall and swooned as a clothes rack glided silently
out, offering to Goldilocks’s delighted eyes more dresses than he could count,
all from the world’s top designers.  A
second rack contained nothing but fur coats of the richest sable and mink – and
there were three more handles betokening couturial delights to come.

Can a girl have too many shoes?  Baby Dominatrix might graciously permit you to help her find out, if you ask very respectfully and demonstrate your worth to her.


Goldilocks was tempted to play dress-up but decided he’d
enjoy it more after a nap, so he stroked a hand across the flawless satin of
the bed and prepared to rest.  However,
he felt the first stirrings of another erection and decided he’d sleep even
better after another good hard wank. He remembered seeing a laundry basked at
the head of the stairs and – being a nasty, perverted little creature – went to
see what he could find.

The first pair of underwear he drew out belonged to Daddy
Dominatrix.  Undecorated – except for the
stains from a particularly heavy period – they had little to attract Goldilocks
so he threw them straight to the ground. 
The second was a pair of Mummy Dominatrix’s bloomers, which were rather
more to Goldilocks’s taste, but alarmingly large and anyway by now he was
getting the idea, so he dropped those too and rummaged around in the hope that
the lucky dip would once again come up trumps on the third attempt.  And it did. 
The delicate silk panties that Goldilocks found himself holding in a
shaking hand were finer than he had ever seen. 
His own tastes tending towards the lacy, he generally bought tacky
over-the-top sissy stuff from a catalogue aimed at perverts like himself.  But these were the real deal. As lacy as
anything Goldilocks owned yet also impossibly tasteful, the panties represented
a new peak in Goldilocks’s sexual experience. They belonged, of course, to Baby
Dominatrix, who had tossed them into the basket after an auction among an increasing
frantic group of bidders had failed to produce enough revenue for her to feel
that the winning bidder deserved actually to receive the panties, although of
course he was still permitted the honour of paying for the privilege of being
denied them.

Large Victorian Antique Wicker Laundry Basket. | 260568 ...
I’ve heard from quite a few readers that you would really, really like to see a picture of the laundry basket full of the ladies’ used underwear.  So here it is. Enjoy… perverts.

Goldilocks took barely an instant to crack one out into Baby
Dominatrix’s used panties, then sighed happily and let them too drop to the floor. Then he headed,
exhausted but content, back to the bedroom.  He drew the curtains so it would be dark (thus raising and instantly dashing
the hopes of the line of kneeling men below, each clutching his envelope
stuffed with cash and gazing hopefully up at the window), lay down and
stretched out luxuriously on the satin sheets, then almost immediately fell into a blissful slumber.

Soon enough the three dominatrices returned from their walk,
eager to begin their delayed sessions (except for Baby Dominatrix, who had
decided she did not feel like working today, so was going to send her clients
away with an imperious gesture).  The
first thing that caught their eyes was the messed-up row of footwear by the
kitchen wall.  “Someone’s been licking my
boots” growled Daddy Dominatrix suspiciously. 
“Goodness – someone’s been licking my governess shoes!” tsked Mummy
Dominatrix and reached instinctively for her hairbrush.  “And somebody’s been licking my eleventh-best pair of pink boots – and they’ve jizzed all over them!” wailed
Baby Dominatrix.

The three dominatrices stormed upstairs, barely believing
that any of their clients would have dared to commit such a sacrilege but
determined nonetheless to find and deal with the culprit.  At the top of the stairs, though, they
stopped in their tracks at the sight of three pairs of underwear strewn on the
floor.  Daddy Dominatrix frowned.
“Someone’s been sniffing my panties” she grumbled, and slapped a fist
menacingly into the palm of her hand. 
“Oh how dreadful – some naughty little so-and-so has been sniffing my
bloomers” Mummy Dominatrix gasped “What a dreadful little boy!” Baby
Dominatrix extended an elegant finger to point at a scrunched up pink shape on the floor, in which the folds
were gently hardening. “Look!  Someone’s been sniffing mine and decided to jerk
off in them too – and he didn’t even pay!” she gasped in horror.

Daddy Dominatrix flung open her bedroom door.  “Well, at least no one’s been sleeping in my
bed” she said in relief, winking at Baby Dominatrix who just tossed her head
coquettishly.  Mummy Dominatrix opened
the nursery door, but quickly slammed it shut again, as a familiar smell wafted
out. “No one’s sleeping in the cot either” she reported, “but SOMEONE has made
a big mess in his nappy and Mummy is VERY CROSS INDEED!” A moan of fear came
from behind the nursery door but the three dominatrices paid no attention, because
heavy snoring was coming from Baby Dominatrix’s boudoir.  There, in the middle of the satin bed,
despoiling it with his very existence, lay a fat balding man, in a tacky sissy
dress.  A golden curly wig had slipped
from his head.  “Someone’s been sleeping
in my bed” whispered Baby Dominatrix with cold fury. “And when he wakes up,
he’ll wish he’d never been born!”

And she was right.

I expect you’re wondering how three dominatrices ended up in the rural idyll described here.  After all, professional domination does tend to be an urban pursuit.  In fact, the cottage doesn’t belong to them but instead to a rich local landowner, pictured above.  He arranged a session some years back with Mummy Dominatrix and she liked the place so much she decided to stay.  They let him keep his own room, of course – until Baby Dominatrix decided it would be better suited to being a walk-in shoe closet. But he still has use of the garden, as you can see.

The next night
“No – no please it’s much too large” Goldilocks shrieked,
tied to Daddy Dominatrix’s bed.  But
Daddy Dominatrix just laughed and slowly, remorselessly penetrated Goldilocks’s
desperately stretched anus with ever firmer pelvic thrusts of her giant black
dildo.

The night after that

“No – no please, it’s much too small” Goldilocks sobbed.  But Mummy Dominatrix just laughed, briskly
removed the ice water towel and firmly fastened the narrow steel tube around
Goldilocks’s frozen, shrivelled cock.

The night after that.



“Oh yes” laughed Baby Dominatrix.  “That’s just right” and she silently
handed Goldilocks the keyboard, so he could authorise her to drain every last
penny from his bank accounts.

And the rest of their lives
So the three dominatrices lived happily ever after.  And they never saw Goldilocks again.  In fact, no one ever did.  Clients visiting the BDSM facility
occasionally reported a bald, scared-looking house slave scurrying from one
menial task to another – but no curly golden-haired moppet.  Mummy Dominatrix even started allowing her
little boys to mess their nappies now she had a little helper, and Daddy
Dominatrix offered scat play for the same reason.  

And as for Baby Dominatrix? Ah, dear reader, to find out
about her life and doings you’ll have to subscribe to her premium service,
I am afraid.  And that is a whole other
story – and quite an expensive one!



I just thought that after reading so much about him, you’d like to see a picture of Goldilocks.  Here he is.

Bottom marks




Oh hello, Sir!  We
wanted to talk to you about our maths grades. 
We were wondering if maybe you’d miscounted?
I mean, it’s unlikely. You being a maths teacher and
all.  And we’re just schoolgirls.  Naughty schoolgirls, who are bad at sums.

You like teaching schoolgirls, don’t you, Mr Harris? We
know, ‘cos we looked through your things and you’ve got ever so many books and
magazines about it!  You must be really
devoted to your profession, to want to read about it all the time like that…
 
They’re ever so strict, though, aren’t they?  The teachers in your magazines, I mean. Those poor
girls and their sore bottoms!  Belinda
here was worried that maybe you’d smack our bottoms for being so naughty!  But I told her that was totally illegal and
you’d go to prison.
Annie wondered whether you could go to prison just for
having those magazines, but I don’t think you can, can you?  Not illegal to enjoy looking at pictures of
grown-up women dressed as schoolgirls having their bottoms smacked, is it?  Not even for a teacher at a girls’ school.  I’m sure the Head and the Board of Governors
wouldn’t mind. 
  
If we showed them.
Really?  You might
have miscounted our grades after all? 
Oh.  By how much?  ‘cos we think we got 20 every time.
No, really. Every single time.  Even when it was marked out of ten or fifteen.  You’re a maths teacher, I expect you can come up with some clever maths to do that.  Can’t you?

That reminds: there was a story in one of Mr Harris’s magazines about a girl who needed better grades in maths, wasn’t there, Annie? And she ended up with the teacher’s penis in her mouth – do you remember?  I shouldn’t think that tasted nice at all… I don’t suppose teachers are allowed to do that these days, either.
Do you remember that one, Sir? It looked like you’d read that one quite often. Belinda thought maybe you’d spilled something on the page.
Did we?  Ooh!  Twenty every time?  Well, that is good news, isn’t it, girls?
Still… it’s not very impressive is it? For a maths teacher to
have made a mistake in counting up like that! 
It should have been 20 every time, but you gave us four, five, six… That’s
a lot of mistakes in your arithmetic, isn’t it, Sir?
I wonder if there’s anything we could do to help you
improve?  I mean, obviously you need to learn to do sums a lot better, don’t you?  Sir?
What do you think would happen to one of the girls in your
magazines who made that many mistakes in maths? 
We were talking about that just now.  I think she’d at least get her hands tawsed, the poor thing, but Belinda here reckons
it’d probably be the cane across her bum.  And Annie thought it would be both.

But you’re the professional, Sir.  So what do you think?
Images, obviously, from St Mackenzies, comprising part of that tiny, tiny fraction of the photos they publish taken before everyone gets their kit off.

Advertising Spot


Thanks for coming in – listen, we’re really excited about
this campaign and it would be great to have you on board!  I don’t know how much you’ve been told?  The client’s a major supplier of household
products and they’ve got this premium dog food product, yeah?

So: the spot opens in the… well, the ‘dungeon’, I guess, of
a dominatrix.  And she’s got a slave on
the floor in front of her –that’s you! – and we see her grab a can of generic
dog-food and pour it into a bowl in front of him.  Really nasty stuff – you know?  Slops into the bowl and glistens
unappealingly. Slave takes a sniff and retches, refuses, so she pushes his head
into the bowl with her boot and starts whipping him – and she whips him harder
and harder, until he’s eaten the whole thing. 
We see him taking mouthfuls and swallowing with disgust – that’s important.
Then we see him dressed, thanking her for the session and he goes outside and
is violently sick on the street. With me so far?

OK, then we see him arrive for his next session, and he’s
casting nervous glances at the shelf where she keeps her dog food as he hands
over the tribute, see?  But this time
when he’s naked at her feet, she grabs a can of the Product, and tips it into
his bowl. Lovely chunks this time, with translucent jelly just catching the
coloured dungeon lights – mmm.  Slave
sniffs nervously, looks surprised, starts eating it and then begins wolfing it
down, you know? Can’t get enough!  And we
finish with him in doggy-begging mode below the shelf, barking excitedly up at
another can of the Product, as his mistress stares at the empty bowl in puzzled
disappointment.

We were originally going to use actors and beef stew, but it
wouldn’t be legal to show someone eating stuff that isn’t actually the Product, you know? That would be false advertising. 
So… we asked around if anyone knew
anyone and Lucy in accounts  – she’s in accounts but she really wants to join the creative team – Lucy said she knows a findomme with piggie slaves who’ll do
anything she tells them and… well, here you are!

There’s be quite a lot of money in it. The client sells in
over 30 countries, and the packaging is different in most of them so we’ll have
to re-shoot. You have to eat it again each time, too – pesky advertising laws,
I’m afraid.  And the nasty competitor
product. We were a bit worried about the whip marks, but Sophie thought we
could just completely cover your back with them to begin with – like you’d
already had a good thrashing, yeah? – so there wouldn’t be continuity problems
with that. Of course, we won’t make you do more than seven or eight spots in
any one day.  But you get paid for each
you see – well, or rather your findomme does, I suppose.

So – you up for it? Obviously, you can only sign the
contract of your own free will, but if you need a day or two for someone to
force you to agree, we don’t have to sign today?
THE END
Epilogue
Actually, this was just the start.  Lucky old Spot (yeah, the slave’s called Spot…bit of a coincidence, I know) went on to star in a wildly popular campaign for a well-known brand of toilet cleaner.  Again, a frustrated domme finds that when she’s used the Product, her toilet no longer tastes foul, so she ends up having to take him out to lick a public urinal clean.  Last I heard, he was getting so many offers his findomme had decided he should resign from his day job and do it full time – pretty great, huh?
Uncharacteristic boasting
Incidentally, if you’re ‘reading’ this far (and you shouldn’t, it’s unhealthy to edge for too long – go on, get it out.  There.  That’s right. Phew  – isn’t that better?), you  might want to know that January 2019 was the most popular month in this blog’s history.  More than seventeen pageviews from at least four separate people… no, actually, I’m pretty sure it was more than seventeen… ah yes, that’s right, over 100,000, that’s it. The pageview count went over 100,000 in the month for the first time ever. It’s almost exactly eight years since the blog started: 7.5 million page-views, over 1000 comments. Goodness me, if this keeps up, how ever will I be able to maintain my self-image as a worthless loser? 
Thank you all – keep on coming.*
OK, so some of it is probably people not using Tumblr so much.  Still…
*  Yes, I know.  Sorry.  But after all those page-views you are used to it by now, right?
Verified by MonsterInsights