story – Page 4 – Contemplating the divine

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?

Special delivery

Yes, it’s from Harold. Listen to this, Marion:

My dearest Bess. I write these words in haste. I hope you are well and have not been too worried
by my unexpected absence. If you are reading this missive then I have the joy to announce that our enforced separation can at last be ended.

You see, my love, there has been the most monstrous misunderstanding. The uncle of yours, to whom you suggested I apply for a position, appears to have been under the impression that I was a potential pupil for a school of which he acts as governor. I am not aware of the precise location, but somewhere on a bleak moor in Derbyshire, I am enrolled in a boys’ boarding school!

In vain, I have pointed out that I am no schoolboy, but an independent gentleman of 25 years, recently contracted in the blissful state of wedlock with a beautiful young lady. Yet the school , it seems, caters to delinquent young men and the headmaster appears to assume that I am one such. I have ceased to protest for fear of his cane, which he and the staff use viciously to deal with any minor infraction or even annoyance. Most of my ‘class’ appear to be well into the age of majority, and have advised me to ‘buckle down and take it’, so beaten into submission are their poor spirits.

My own spirit is flagging somewhat, I will admit, under the oppression I suffer daily. As you know, dearest Bess,
since I recall you remarking on it with a smile when I mentioned the fact, my own school had a more progressive outlook and so the canings, cold showers and country runs are taking a terrible toll on my physique, not to mention my mental state, which alternates between terror of a forthcoming thrashing and tedium as I complete the mindless rote-learning tasks that pass for instruction in this benighted institution. I have been here not more than three weeks, yet already I have written over five thousand lines! Yes, my dearest, lines: it apears modern educational theories have yet to reach whatever godforsaken corner of Northern England holds me captive.

Furthermore, several of the tutors take… liberties with the ‘boys’ that I will not commit to paper for fear of being prosecuted for penning an obscene publication – and are in so sense fit to mention to a young lady, even one with
such enlightened ideas as I was pleased if somewhat shocked to experience on our wedding night.

I am handing this missive to a groundsman, to whom I have entrusted the last of my secreted funds. I can only
hope and pray you see it and intervene with your uncle before the end of the week, when I have been promised the thrashing of a lifetime.

I kiss the air and pray for your well-being, my love, my only dearest.

Your ever-faithful

Harold.

Goodness. Marion, my darling, will you bring me paper and pen? I need to write to my uncle. Is the boy who delivered this still waiting downstairs?

Excellent. Give him some supper. Tell him I want him personally to deliver my letter to Uncle Frederick, will you? I’m sure Uncle Fred will enjoy dealing with him himself. Honestly: taking money from pupils to deliver letters. You can’t trust anyone these days.

Oh – and that reminds me: we need to pay Harold’s school-fees for the rest of the year. Apparently after this first year, we can set up a trust which pays the fees in perpetuity, so we don’t need to be bothered with it again.

But we can sort that out tomorrow. Run my bath, will you Marion dearest? And get in: I’ll join you there when I’m done with this.

Financial liabilities

Oh hi, Mr Travers. Do come in. This is Emilie Haskins – one of my colleagues
who works in fixed-income products.

Thanks for dropping by.
Look: I’ve been thinking about our last consultation. I’d like to apologise for…maybe over-reacting to some of the little jokes you made. As you said: you’re from
an older generation and I expect ‘in your day’ it was perfectly normal to
compliment a woman on her legs. Not your fault if you’re a ‘leg man’ is it? As you said. And as you also so rightly said, it was partly my own fault for wearing quite such a short skirt.

Just so as long as you remember that I’m your independent
financial advisor, not a ‘lovely bit of skirt’ as you so… amusingly
described me, I don’t see why we shouldn’t continue to have a business
relationship.

All right then, Mr Travers, if you want to put it that way! As well as a lovely bit of skirt. Goodness, the jokes never stop with you, do they? Such fun. Anyway: to be a bit more serious, we’ve identified a customised financial product that
we think is just right for you! Haven’t we, Em?

If you’d like to come and sit down – I’m afraid there’s only one chair, but Emilie here can perch on the desk. As long as you don’t mind her looming over you like that? No? Didn’t think you would. Right then.

Now: this financial product. It does
take some active management, so you’d need to come and see me and Emilie about
it… ooh at least once a month. Or we could even visit you at home, if that’s easier for you? Would
that be OK? Great.

Do you want to hear more about it…? I’ve got a 37 page brochure
here, just erm… excuse me Em, would you mind shifting your legs? Yes: here it is. So, you could take it away if you like and…? No? You OK with just going ahead and signing?

Mr Travers? Goodness, you were miles away there! I was saying: shall we just sign? Great.

Right: sign there.
And there. Sorry, I’ll make some space here on the desk next to Emily’s legs so you can sign. Just there. No: there, Mr
Travers. You won’t sign in the right
place unless you look at it, will you? That’s it. This one’s for the bank: initial every page
and sign at the bottom. Super. That’s
right, just leave the bit saying ‘Beneficiary’ blank: we’ll fill that in.

And there’s another… oh, Emilie’s sitting on
it! Mind out Em! There we are – if you could just…?

Yes, I suppose you had better sign it while it’s
still warm! I warned you he was a joker, didn’t I, Em? Goodness, Em… you look like you’re about to burst with laughter right now – but you have to keep that under control, OK? Like we discussed. Until the business is all settled.

Don’t mind her, Mr Travers. She’s just got a very lively sense of humour – just like you! Anyway: you sign there, look: below where it says ‘Waiver’. And again, under where it says: ‘Power of attorney’. Brilliant.

Great. Well… I think
we’re done. Unless you have any more
savings you haven’t told me about? Right
then. Well, I think you’re all set for
the financial future you most certainly deserve, Mr Travers.

Oh – that’s Em bursting out in giggles again! You’ve certainly put her in a good mood, Mr Travers! And I’ve enjoyed our chat too: it’ll be an absolute pleasure to take care of all your money.

We’ll call you in a few days, to
explain a thing or two, once all the funds have been transferred, OK?

Bye now!

Reunion

Oh my god. Oh my god
– little Bobby Jenkins, as I live and breathe!
“Sinatra55” is Bobby Jenkins! Wow. Who’d have guessed!

Well, “Sinatra55”,as you can see: “Sultry Suzie” from Elegant Escorts is
none other than Clarice Hoskins. From class of 2012. Surprise! How about that, huh?

Wow. Just wow. After all these years.

Hey, I guess I
haven’t seen you since that night I met you outside the cinema, huh? And listen, I’ve thought about that night a
lot, OK? That letter you pressed into my hand?
I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I did read it. I read it a few times, actually, and I tried
to write a reply – oh, must have been 15… 20 times? But I just couldn’t find
the words – you were the first boy who ever told me he loved me, you know? And there’ve only been one or two since –
none of them wrote me a letter like that.
Beautiful. And I wanted to tell
you how good it made me feel but also somehow tell you you just weren’t my
type, not in that way, and when I thought about how you’d feel when you read that
I’d just start crying, so… I could never finish the reply. You know how teenagers are.

Yeah. I guess we all have to grow up, huh?

The escort thing? Oh
yeah, been doing that a few years now. I
mostly just keep it to oral, you know, like you booked? But once you’re with a
client, you pretty much have to do what they want, so I’ve done a few
things. But I don’t mind.

Look, I’ve got to keep 20% back for the agency, OK? But I
can just refund the rest of your fee. No
problem. It happens from time to
time. Maybe we could just go for a drink
– I mean, we’ve got a couple of hours.

What do you mean why do you get a refund? You get a refund because we’re not going
to fuck, Bobby, yeah? If I know one thing,
it’s that the Bobby Jenkins who wrote Clarice that beautiful letter wouldn’t
want to pay her to kneel down in front of him for a meaningless, anonymous blow
job. So – no problem. The agency will
just credit your card. They won’t ask any questions.

No, really. It’s sweet of you, but I don’t really need the money just now. I’ve had a busy week already – I only toook this on because one of the other girls had to go visit her Mom. You keep your money – buy yourself something special, OK?

No. I wouldn’t hear of it. There – I’ve texted the agency to do the refund. End of discussion.

So – how about you, huh? What are you doing with
yourself? Guess you must be doing pretty
well to afford someone like me, huh?
What is it – hedge fund? You were always good at math.

Street vendor

Just a quickie…

You want what, sweetheart? ‘Humiliation’?

Yeah… look, I don’t really do the freak
stuff, you know? I mean… I’m still young
and attractive… got lovely big tits, arse, yeah? I generally go with men who actually get
turned on by an attractive female body: I take my clothes off, they get hard,
we fuck and that’s it.

Trouble with a humiliation scene, is I
never know when I take my bra off whether you’re going to want to kiss my tits
or put it on yourself, you know? And if I take my
knickers off you’d probably rather handwash them than fuck me, wouldn’t you?

There was a girl round here used to cater to perves like you, you know. She didn’t like them either, but she had these… like, cold sores? So normal blokes didn’t much want to fuck her. She used to make her customers kiss her sores – said they couldn’t get enough of it. Horrible.

I mean, you must get diseases, right? I expect you like kissing and licking shoes, yeah? You’d like to get down on your knees and lick away at the lovely red leather on these, wouldn’t you? Even though I’m out here on the street wearing them all evening. There’s probably not an inch of this pavement that hasn’t been pissed on by some beered-up bloke going home from the pub: you know that, right? It’s not like I step in puddles of the stuff but would you really lick the soles of these? Even if they, like, stank of piss? Fucking hell, you would, wouldn’t you?

Look, darling, you know, two blocks down is where the
really old tarts hang out. You go down
there and they’ll humiliate you all right – you can empty your wallet for some
sixty year-old alcoholic with severe halitosis, you know? Cos I’m not going to get any real customers who want an actual woman to fuck, while you’re standing here touching yourself like that.

Yeah – don’t think I didn’t notice.

Oh god – you’ve got a stiffie,
haven’t you? Is that just from talking to me like this, you pathetic loser? Jesus fucking Christ that’s sad. How do blokes like you get so
fucked up anyway? Did you, like, get
caught masturbating in your mum’s knickers or something? And then get hard when
she spanked you over her lap? Or maybe it’s some sort of repressed homosexual thing.

Do you know what street girls like me
call sad old gits like you? We –

Oh? Oh fuck! Are you coming in your
trousers? Oh, you filthy fucking… is that just from talking to me? That has got to be the saddest thing I’ve ever
seen… I think I’m going to have to offer a free fuck to the next real man who
goes past, just to get that out of my mind.

Yeah…

All done?
Great.

Do you want a tissue? No? Sure – cos there’s a bit of a stain? So if you’re going back to work, I’d… No? Done for the week? Oh – lucky you! Weekend starts here, eh?

All right, sweetheart.

Take care now, OK? See you next week.

In the morning…

…when the madness has faded.

Oh, yeah, it was good, thanks. Well, it was kind-of good, but it was kind-of
weird, too.

See, I picked up these two German guys – at Anaconda, you
know, that new bar by the river? Anyway,
Kurt and Walter, they were and we got talking and one thing led to another, and
I asked them if they wanted a fuck and so off we went.

And I thought they’d take turns, but they wanted to do me
together – one at the front, one at the back, you know? And they both had lovely big cocks, and they
were quite tall, so I’m actually impaled there, really, with my feet off the
ground with all my weight pushing them all the way into me, so that was great.
But I couldn’t really move, so I’m thinking ‘now what?’ and then they both just
start thrusting, using their knees to jiggle me up and down. They both had really strong thighs –
cyclists, I think.

Anyway, I’m just gasping away as all this is going on, and
then I realise they’re talking away to one another while they fuck. I don’t know what they were saying but they
were just looking straight at each other and chatting away, and when I tried to
kiss one of them he kind of brushed me away so he could keep on talking to his
friend.

And that’s when I realised, they weren’t really fucking me –
they were fucking each other! A bit like
when I realised on our wedding night that you were more interested in my panties
than in what was inside them. Remember?
Well… more fun than that, obviously. But
it was a bit humiliating actually – I guess they couldn’t admit to themselves
that they were gay, so they just had to use a girl like a… like a plug adaptor
or something.

They took me from both ends after that, with me down on all
fours, and then I really felt like a piece of meat. Hi guys – I’m Julie, I’ll be the tube
connecting your cocks tonight! Enjoy.

Anyway, they’re leaving for Germany this afternoon, so I
suppose that’s that.

It’s a bit sad,
really, don’t you think? That they fancy
each other so much but they have to fuck girls all the time to express it? It is a bit like you and the panties, isn’t
it? Only less pathetic.

Oh, that reminds me, actually – can we move your unlocked night to Wednesday next week?

Reality show

What am I wearing?
You want to know what I’m wearing you fucking pervert?

OK, I’m wearing a check shirt and a pair of loose
jeans. What? No, I’m not going to tell you what underwear,
asswipe. But it’s functional: cotton,
you know.

What, you thought I’d put on something sexy just to do this
phone sex call? Fuck you!

Oh, I see, you want me to lie? You want me to tell you I’m just lounging
here in some kind of fetish fantasy garb, hmm…?
Leather bra… big thigh-high boots for you to lick, maybe? You’d like that, huh?

Not going to happen, loser.
You’re paying to jerk off, you’re gonna jerk off to me just as I
am. Jeans, check shirt… no make-up. And I’m sitting on a bus, I’m going grocery
shopping. I need to stock up on tampons, cos it’s my period and I’m almost out? And you have… oh I dunno, like
two minutes before it’s my stop and I end the call, so if you’re gonna jerk off
do it now, asshole.

Hmm? Yeah, the bus is
pretty crowded. You tugging? Up-down-up-down-updownupodownup…

Hurry up, just pulling out from the stop before the mall.

Updownupdowntugtugtugtugtugtugtugtugtug? Oh.

There. Was that
special for you, hun? Hope so, cos it’s
all you’re ever going to get.

Oh, and tribute’s going up by another 40% next month,
creep. And tell that fucking bank of
yours if they’re a day late again, you’re gonna have to go three months without
hearing your Goddess’s voice, yeah?

Yeah, I know you worship me, creep. That’s because I’m female and talk to you
occasionally. Don’t forget – 40%.

Now fuck off.

“Hmm? Yeah, sure I’m wearing gloves and boots. It’s cold here in Buffalo, moron.”

The lovely lady featured in this story is Goddess Rodea, of the American Mean Girls (they seem to have branched out beyond Miami and might even have rebranded again), who really do just sit around in sexy lingerie all day, doing unpleasant things to males. But this caller doesn’t need to know that and I won’t tell him if you don’t, OK?

Safer space

OK, so Ken’s question actually gives me a good opportunity
to show you how the new anti-sexist speech code will work in practice. See, Ken’s worried that his free speech
rights will be infringed by our new policies against sexist speech.
And he’s wrong about that, obviously, but it’s OK for him to express
those concerns.

But what about the way he expressed those concerns,
hmm? Was he in breach of the policy? Well, yes, he was. In several ways. So how could he have expressed his concerns in a way that doesn’t involve any kind of sexist behaviour, hmm? Anyone?

No David – women speak first – remember? I know I said ‘anyone’ but you need to wait
at least 30 seconds before attempting to speak to see if any of the women want
to say something first, yeah? We
practiced that before. So… Ken’s
question. What should have have done differently?

Phoebe? That’s right! He didn’t put his hand up, did he? He just started speaking without female
permission. So that’s a violation right
there. Very good.

What about the opinion he expressed? What did he do there that could have been
better?

That’s right, Kate. He disagreed with me. It’s a very common male habit, isn’t it? I guess all the women here could tell stories of men just straight-up disagreeing with them like that. Exactly what the speech code is supposed to stop. But it’s so easy to avoid! There are just so many ways Ken could have expressed his concerns, there,
without disagreeing with something a woman just said.

He could have thanked me and said how much he
agreed with the policy of ending sexist speech, and could I explain a bit more
clearly how this does not infringe his constitutional rights. Or… he could have asked for more advice on how he should express himself, or he could have sought to discover some boundaries, hmmm? Could have asked me what I would like the limits of his free speech to be, yeah? Any of those would have been OK.

Anything else?

How did he address me? Was it respectful?

Well… yes, Kate, he did say “Ma’am”. But he hesitated a bit, didn’t he? And that sounded just a little
disrespectful? So… maybe OK, to be a bit slow with the “Ma’am” in some circumstances,
sure. As long as it’s there. But given the context: he spoke without permission, he also disagreed with me… his hesitation before calling me “Ma’am” was almost like a direct challenge to my authority, wasn’t it? So, yeah,
that’s another violation.

So there’s three distinct violations of the code, which is actualy enough to raise some red flags for action. So I could just call up the app – any time up to three months from the date of the violation, so if you want time to think about it, that’s OK – then I’d double-click on Ken and put the report into the system for disciplinary measures to be taken.

He wouldn’t lose his job, of course, not for only three violations. But he’d lose pay and he’d be placed on the watch list, to undergo some more direct training. There’s an external weekend that he’d find very effective.

Ken? Oh – putting your
hand up, I see! So much better. But I don’t want to hear you just now. Does any other woman want to hear what Ken has to say? No? OK, so put
it down again. That’s right.

Now… we’re going to roleplay a typical office situation… You’re all a team discussing a new project, OK? You’ve each got envelopes describing your role and the team objectives. You’re going to need to plan the research and implentation phases, big marketing push to a female-oriented clientele, yeah? You’re going to need tech skills, marketing savvy and a LOT of cups of coffee, OK? Let’s see how you handle it – using the speech codes, the way we practiced.

Missives

Dear Miss Cavendish

As instructed, I am writing to
express my deepest gratitude for the beating you were kind enough to bestow on
me last Saturday. As you know, for some
time now I have been experiencing feelings of rebellion at our ‘little
arrangement’ and petulance at the constraints you so wisely impose on me.

The caning I received at your
hands opened my eyes to the ingratitude of this attitude on my part, compelling
me to re-examine my behaviour and see it for what it is: the result of my
undisciplined childhood, that you are now taking such effective measures to
remedy. I have been lucky indeed to
have made your acquaintance, even so late in life.
Had it not been for a chance encounter, I might never have experienced
the cane across my backside. It is hard to recall how it was not to know the pain of being thrashed with your cane, now that it looms so large in my life: constantly present in my thoughts as I try to follow your precepts in all that I do.

I hope that you were not
disturbed by my snivelling and pleading during the administration of this most
necessary exercise. I further hope, more
wholeheartedly than I can express in this short missive, that such floggings
will not be necessary in the future.
However, should the need arise, I am confident your strong right arm
will once again provide the correction I require and will undoubtedly richly deserve.

If (unlike my previous effort)
this thank-you letter meets with your approval, I very much hope that I will be
allowed the educative experience of copying it out a further 99 times. It has, as you will observe, met and indeed
exceeded the required length of 300 words and I believe there are no spelling
mistakes this time.

Your obedient and thankful pupil

Martin

———————————————————————————————-

Dear Sarah

You will perhaps not recall me
by name, but if I mention a disastrous dinner at the St George Hotel in 2011, followed
by a particularly cringeworthy experience back at your apartment, perhaps the
occasion we met will be called to mind.

In the years after our
catastrophic ‘date’ I have had the good fortune to meet a woman who knows
exactly how perverts like me should be treated.
On our wedding night, I made an attempt to be ‘a man’ and – you will be
unsurprised to hear from your own experience – failed utterly. That was the last time I attempted sexual
intercourse with a woman, as my wife decided that such activities should stop
then and there. The next morning – the
first of our married life – she purchased a steel tube and you will no doubt be
relieved to hear that my penis has penetrated nothing else since that
date. I will spare you the gory details,
but some minor piercings have now ensured that no lock or key is required to
keep the device in place, so the women of this world are finally safe.

After six years of tolerating
me, my wife finally decided to divorce me and marry one of her many lovers, so
naturally a divorce settlement needed to be drawn up, which brings me finally
to my purpose in getting in touch again, after all these years. My wife – soon to be ex-wife – does not need
my earnings, because the man she will be marrying is far richer than I, as well
as being more manly, witty and attractive.
However, it has been some years since I had any real financial
independence, so new arrangements must be made to ensure I have no spare funds
to abuse. My wife has therefore decided
that I should write to all the women with whom I ever attempted sexual
relations of any kind: firstly, to apologise and secondly to offer some financial
compensation. There are, luckily, not
many. Apart from my wife herself, I have
attempted penetrative sex with just three women, and achieved a sexual climax
in the vicinity of a further five, one of whom is unknown to me as she was
merely a fellow-traveller on the bus one day.
The former – including yourself – are each to be offered 20% of my
post-tax income in perpetuity, the latter 5%.
The 5% owed to the untraceable lady will be donated instead to a charity
supporting female participation in politics.

Rest assured that no further
contact with me (even by correspondence) will be required on your part, should
you choose to take up the offer. My wife
has appointed a firm of (women) solicitors who will make all the arrangements
and will themselves receive a further 5%.
As my wife has pointed out, I am lucky indeed not to have experienced
more sexual encounters, or I would not retain even the 10% of my post-tax
income that I will keep under this arrangement.
Fortunately, my needs are very modest.
If, however, you would regard even receiving a monthly transfer from me
as being too unpleasant a reminder of my physical existence, then I would be
most grateful if you could nominate a charity to receive your 20% (or, if you
prefer, specify that the sum be burnt by me in cash each month, under the
solicitors’ supervision).

Please rest assured as well
that I have passed this letter to the solicitors to address and send. I do not
know your address. Furthermore, the solicitors can monitor my location using a chip implated under my skin and the geographical range of my movements is very tightly restricted.

Finally, whatever your decision
regarding restitution, please allow me to extend my deepest, deepest apologies
for my sexual advances towards you that night, and for the pathetic performance
when I attempted to follow through on them.
I hope that you have gone on to experience a rich and satisfying sex
life, as I now appreciate very well that most other men are vastly more
proficient in these matters, as well of course as being more personally
attractive. I hope you can at least take some comfort from the misery that I
have experienced in being forced to write this letter, and at the prospect I face so deservedly, of a
life of desperate poverty and toil without respite.

I am so very sorry.

Yours sincerely

Alan Harcourt (né Raeburn)

———————————————————————————————-

To the pretty nurses at St
Bathory hospital

Dear nurses. I hope you are all very well. If you are not, maybe a hospital is the best place to be! Because if you get sick in
hospital, you will get better quickly.

My Mummy, who is not really my
Mummy but I call her Mummy, has told me to write a thank-you note now I am
back from hospital, so here it is. You
were all very kind and nice to me after my operation, and the food was lovely
and I liked the way the bed went up and down when the buttons were pressed.

Mummy tells me I was very
grumpy before the operation but I don’t remember that. She said those straps on the bed were to hold my arms and legs still and stop me running away because I was so cross because I didn’t want the operation. She said I made a big fuss and shouted about
what an important and rich man I was, and how you couldn’t do this to me. Fortunately, there were no other patients on
my ward, but she says I was very rude to you nurses and called you rude names
and said lots of rude words. When I
asked her what words she laughed and would not tell me, so they must have been
very bad.

Mummy says that the reason I
was so cross was there was something wrong with my brain. There was too much ego and IQ in there. I asked her what those things are and she laughed
again and said it doesn’t matter, the important thing is that I have a lot less
of both of them now, because the doctors took out some bits of my brain.

I knew I must have done
something naughty, because you all spanked me before I left hospital. Nurses are strong, probably because you lift
heavy things all day. Mummy spanks hard
but you spank harder. The nurse with the
brown skin spanked me hardest of all.
Mummy says that’s because I said racist things to her before the
operation and I don’t know what that means but I hope it has been spanked out
of me and I am forgiven.

I hope the nurse with blonde
hair reads this. I liked her very much
but I want to say sorry for how my willy got all stiff whenever she tried to
help me do a wee-wee. Sorry. I don’t know why
it did that, but it does it whenever I think of her. Mummy says I might need another operation to
sort that out, so perhaps I will see you all in hospital again!

Mummy says my name is Sir James
Edmonton but that seems like too much name, so I am just Jimmy now.

Love from Jimmy, age 57

xxxx (and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx to
the nurse with blonde hair!)