Category: toilet

Yet another post in which I lovingly, pointlessly, artlessly recreate a letters section from the magazines of my mis-spent late youth, such as Vixen and Mistress. I find it strangely satisfying… perhaps one day I will produce an actual fully faked mag, as a pdf. Or not. The stories were a little samey… then Cruella came along with better production values and wilder stories and blew my head away for the second time. Then OWK came along and did it all over again.

The title of course refers to the way the mags were wrapped after being taken to the counter in my shaking hand. Not plain brown paper, oddly enough, it was usually some kind of pastel shade or even flowery paper. I wonder if those bags had any use other than wrapping porn?

Anyway, I’m not here to witter on. Over to the Editrix herself, Goddess-Lady Lucia, back in the saddle (and digging her spurs in) after the one-off edition guest-edited by her mum.

Editorial

Male filth. Some of the less moronic of you, reading the last issue rather than merely ogling the pictures while engaged in revolting masturbation, might have spotted that the third page of the story Lady Ursula’s Riding School made little sense, in that Lady Ursula and her young trainee Rita leapt straight from racing carriages around a track, into bed with one another, then seemingly back to the race track again, all in the space of three columns.

It was, of course an error; and like all errors, the cause was an incompetent and lazy male. Empress is produced using a modern ‘linotype’ system (combined with an old-fashoned system of slavery), in which text is ‘typeset’ in a machine which then spools out each story as one long column on photographic paper. The column is then cut to length with a scalpel and then ‘pasted up’, together with the photographs, using hot wax. All of this, obviously, is done by slaves. Magazine slave 7 pasted the columns in the wrong order, the moron, and Magazine slave 2 who was supposed to check it, failed to do so. Because of this male incompetence, the error was left uncorrected by the time of printing.

But it was vigorously corrected afterwards, believe me! The hot wax used in ‘pasting up’ gave me an idea (actually, the scalpels gave me an idea first, but I did not want any trouble with the law). Magazine slave 7 is rather hairy…. well, he was. Now he is smooth (actually rather pimpled), and very red, all over. I took particular pleasure in pouring unusually hot wax all over his groin, then pulling his pubic hair out in big, satisfying, agonising handfuls. Magazine slave 2 is already hairless, being something of a sissy, so instead he wrote a 2000-word essay on ‘What a fucking useless piece of shit I am’, type-set it, spooled it out and then proceeded to eat the entire article, with a side-order of hairy wax from 7. They were then both caned and permitted to beg piteously to keep their (unpaid) jobs.

If any reader spots the slightest flaw in what should be a perfect magazine, he is commanded to write to me. I shall not be so lenient next time. G-L. L.

Letters

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

You have published several articles and letters from dommes describing their strangest clients; allow me to add my ‘Boot Boy’ to the collection.

Of course, boot and shoe worshippers are ten a penny (although they pay a lot more) but Boot Boy takes it to its purest essentials. He is a very easy client, although a certain amount of pre-session preparation is required, as I will explain. As the name suggests, I wear boots, sometimes of the stiletto-heeled fetish variety, but more usually ‘ordinary’ riding boots, for good reason as I shall explain! Our sessions are in his own house, as an ‘outcall’ (for which he pays extra) and either on the way there or earlier in the day, I make sure to get the boots good and muddy by walking through a muddy field – the squelchier the better.  On arrival, he greets me wordlessly, I sweep into the house trailing muddy footprints and once he has removed my coat, I head for the living room.  There, he serves me a drink then gets down on his hands and knees and carefully removes my boots.  This done, I tie his hands behind his back.

He must now take the boots off away the hall, just outside the living room, and get the mud off. Obviously, with hands unavailable he has to carry the boots and then clean then with his mouth. It is actually quite difficult to clean anything just by licking and swallowing, if you think about it, as mostly the tongue just moves the dirt around. So, they are not by any means perfect when he has finished, but the large masses of mud should have been removed and swallowed (as should any bits that fell on the hall floor), leaving only a light sheen of muddy saliva.  When he says he is done, usually after about an hour, he brings them in his mouth for inspection and if I am not satisfied, I slap his face (just once, but hard) and send him back to continue.

After a slap or two I am usually ready for him to move on to the next stage, in which I untie his hands, he goes off into a corner and applies himself to the boots using a more conventional kit of brushes, cloths and polishes. He generally does a pretty good job of that, to be honest, although I sometimes slap him and make him do it again even so.  I try to be reasonably fair: if he knew that I was always going to reject his first attempt with a slap, it would become routine. All this time, I have a drink and some snacks that he left out and I usually have a book or magazine with me. So it is a very easy afternoon – but he pays for every minute!

When I have finally approved the boots, I indicate that he should put them back on my feet, which he does reverentially. I take one last, careful, quizzical look at both, turning my foot and leg to inspect his work. Then I either say “Very well: you may” or I slap him one last time and say “Not this time” and I get up and leave. If it is the former, his hand goes straight into his trousers and he masturbates.  It is very quick; I can usually hear him finishing before I have my coat on and am out of the door. But I do not look back. If my final opinion is the negative one, he does not masturbate but just remains kneeling and still, while I go (no doubt he masturbates later).

And that’s it!  I speak four or five times, deliver two or three hard slaps and have a pleasant afternoon catching up on some reading over a nice glass of wine! As I said, if there is any work involved, it’s in the muddy walk on the way, but that’s easy enough. There was an occasion one August when everything was too dry for mud and I had to ask a rather startled gardener if he would mind watering a mound of earth for me!  But he is one of my favourite clients (I do hope he does not read your magazine!): no trouble to anyone and weird but harmless!

Yours muddily

Mistress Severe

Thank you for that fascinating account, Mistress Severe. I know that a lot of men enjoy licking boots, but even so it gives me great pleasure to watch the filthy pigs abasing themselves and performing this demeaning activity. Males are smelly, dirty, disgusting animals but some of them occasionally forget how they appear to us, the superior sex, so it is a good idea to remind them of their true nature. Even if your boot boy is getting perverted pleasure from the experience, he is at least paying for it. Can you imagine how your teenage self would have felt, at the thought that in a few years’ time men would be paying to lick the mud from your boots? They say that if you love what you do, you’ll never have to work a day in your life, and that has certainly been my experience and I hope it is yours too. G-L. L.

Most superior Goddess-Lady

Like many submissive men, I am abjectly grateful for your wonderful magazine. Like most of your readers, I suppose, I am obsessed with being controlled, punished and abused by a woman. I believe I can trace the development of this obsession to my early childhood.

When I was just five and six, we spent two summers in Scotland with relatives and it was there I met my distant cousin Elspeth. A fiery redhead one year older than me, she was in charge from the start and I loved it. There was obviously nothing sexual in our games. Nor, I think, can they be considered ‘bullying’ but they usually ended with her sitting on me, or even with me tied to a tree (playing cowboys and Indians, or spies… or almost anything really – we were on a farm and there was plenty of rope around). 

Then after two glorious summers (as I remember them through the rose-tinted spectacles of nostalgia but it was Scotland so there was probably a lot of rain) we started holidaying elsewhere and I did not see Elspeth for twelve years although I often thought of her. Then, when I had just turned eighteen, there was a family gathering to pay respects to my great-aunt, who had reached her eighties, and I was startled to hear a Scottish lilt behind me saying my name, turned around, and there was Elspeth.  I suppose she was nineteen and she was stunning.

We escaped the elderly throng and walked off through some nearby woods. My heart was pounding, but we talked of inconsequential things and reminisced. At one point she said “I’m afraid I was pretty cruel to you when we played as kids.” To which, without thinking, I blurted out “Oh no – I liked it!”.

After a very brief moment, she gripped my hand tightly and led me off the path into the woods, until she found a patch of grass in a secluded spot. There, she pushed me to the ground and laughingly lowered herself onto my heaving chest.

“Did you like it when I did this? I’m heavier now, mind.”

I could hardly breathe, but I gasped out my assent. She giggled, and shuffled back until her weight was supported by my groin. Crushed as it was, my penis responded forcefully – I was sure she must be able to feel it and I was horrified by the thought that I might even ‘go off’. It was hard to imagine anything more embarrassing.  She giggled again, drew up her legs (somehow further focusing her weight on my straining groin) and took off her shoes. Then she stood up and started to wriggle out of her woollen tights,

“I don’t think we should do that here” I said, for some reason that for now completely escapes me. Possibly fear: I was still a virgin.

And would remain one for the moment, as it turned out, because she just laughed and said “Filthy-minded boy!”. She pulled at the tights between her hands, testing their strength and their give, and murmured “No rope here, is there?”

Soon I was tied to a tree by my wrists, just as in our childhood games. Unlike those games, she then proceeded to undo and pull down my trousers and – over my plaintive objections – my pants.

“Filthy, filthy little boy!” she said again, as my engorged member bobbed free. As I stammered out apologies, she reached out and detached a thin green shoot from the tree.

“Where you beaten much in school?” she asked, her eyes trained on the branch from which she was stripping the leaves and twigs,

“No, never” I replied. “The school didn’t really believe in it. Two boys got the cane once for being caught in town out of hours but…”

She was now flexing the switch and when she saw me looking, smiled and swished it through the air with a whirring sound.

“What are you going to do with that?” I asked stupidly,

“Whip you, of course” she replied. “Whip your naughty bottom.  You know you need it. I expect you play with yourself, don’t you?”

“No!” I gasped.

“No, you don’t play with yourself or no, don’t whip me?” she asked, coolly.

“Don’t whip me!” I gasped.

“Ohhh… so you do play with yourself?” she laughed in that delightful Scottish lilt. “Well, then, you certainly deserve a good thrashing. But if you really don’t want me to whip you, just say so, I’ll untie you and we can go back to the house.”

I said nothing, my mind a whirr.

“All you have to do” she said “Is say, I don’t want to be whipped, please Elspeth, let’s just go back to the house.”

I said nothing again, accepting my fate.

“Right then” she said, grinning with delight. “Turn around and face the tree!”

“No!” I shouted.

“Fine, don’t turn around then” she shrugged and raised the switch as if to deliver a cut right across my waving member. I hastily turned around, just in time to receive the first slash across my buttocks. I cried out.

“Shh!” she said, sounding really concerned. Not for me, but for fear of being discovered, I imagine. “If you can’t keep quiet, I’ll need to gag you.”

“OK Elspeth, I’ll try” I mumbled and was rewarded with another slash which made me scream all the harder.

“Wimp” she said in disgust. “Right…. what can I gag you with… oh, of course”

The cotton knickers stuffed into my mouth were wet – and I didn’t understand the significance of that at the time. But they did the job and I was able to ‘take’ the rest of the thrashing with my teeth clenched, emitting muffled groans as she cracked the branch across my poor buttocks.

Eventually it was over (possibly because her makeshift implement was disintegrating, rather than any sense of mercy on her part) and I soon found myself once again lying face up on the ground, she first towering over me, then settling down again on my groin. The difference this time being that neither of us was wearing underwear.

Obviously, I came almost immediately, to my shame, and I was still stammering out my apologies when her skirt enclosed my head and I was given a lengthy opportunity to make amends. When that was done, I was erect again and she shifted back and this time it went better. Except that when I was fully in, she leaned forward and started steadily slapping my face, back and forth, hard, until I came. Then my face disappeared under the darkness of her skirt again and this time she turned around, so she could face my lower half – to slap at my thighs and – horrifically in that post-orgasmic state – occasionally my cock and balls.  With Elspeth pain – my pain – and pleasure were obviously intimately connected.

Soon after that, we had to finish and we made our way back to the house. I offered her her knickers back, but she wrinkled her nose at the saliva sodden mass of cotton and let me keep them. She put her woollen tights back on, though, for appearances’ sake, which must have been a bit uncomfortable, without the cotton underwear. But not as uncomfortable as my stinging bum and aching genitals!

She and her family left that night and to my horror I learnt that they had only been there as a good-bye before moving to Australia, where she was to attend university. I cried for months. I won’t say exactly what I did with the knickers… but I kept them, of course. I still have them today.

And that’s… really it. I am now in my late forties and I have never again met a girl – or woman – who enjoyed these games the way Elspeth did. So I visit ladies whom I pay to act these scenes out and that’s… OK.

I met her just once again.  It was another family event – perhaps even the funeral of the same great-aunt, who had lived to a ripe old age (strong female genes in our family). Elspeth was there but I only got to speak to her in a circle of nattering relatives. She recognised me and smiled that smile that had haunted my dreams and then, just when I was about to suggest we go somewhere to talk, she said “You must meet my husband, Paul.”

Paul was a pleasant, unassuming man. He was a little like me, I later thought. I didn’t really have the chance to get to know him, though, as they had to leave early.

“Come along, Paul. Get the bags and we’d better head off” she remarked without looking at him.  He hurried over to the corner and picked up a couple of bags, then somehow got engaged in conversation with an elderly relative.

“PAUL!” she snapped, from the doorway and his head jerked upwards in shock, his eyes wide in what I can only describe as fear.

“Coming dear, sorry dear” he stuttered, and hurried over to the door and off they went. There was some amused discussion and I distinctly heard the word “henpecked” from several quarters.

Fools: how could they fail to see that Paul was the luckiest man alive?

Yours longingly

Gerald

That was actually rather sweet, Gerald. Good boy. I hope one day you find a woman who treats you the way you deserve. Oh dear me, am I going soft? Better go and find a slaveboy to beat. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Editrix

What is the most important quality you look for in a slave?

Respectfully

Humbled

Slaves don’t have important qualities, idiot! G-L. L.

Dear Empress

I run a tattooing business in London. Lately, I have begun to specialise in the femdom ‘scene’, despite that not being my own ‘thing’, so I bought a few issues of your magazine in order better to understand my clients and their interests. I thought it might be of interest how femdom couples use tattoos, in my experience. [And, no doubt, you hope to drum up trade for your sordid little business. But this is interesting, so I will allow it. G-L. L.]

When I was first asked to tattoo a ‘slave’, accompanied or not by his ‘mistress’, I had some concerns about consent. Although sometimes the man would be arranging his own tattoo as a gift to his dominant, some were clearly carrying out her wishes (and in some cases were not even aware of the precise content of the pattern they were due to receive). However, it became clear to me that they had all ‘consented’ in a sense, a deeper sense, and so they are asked to sign the form like any other client and that is that.

I would say there are three ‘levels’ of tattoo a submissive male might receive. Level 1 is a ‘normal’ tattoo as might be worn as a sign of commitment by any vanilla client: the lady’s name, perhaps surrounded by flowers or within a heart, messages such as ‘Devotedly yours’ and so on.  Although such motifs are outwardly innocuous, I have no doubt that it is of very deep submissive significance for the man I am inking to bear the name of his dominant in this way.

The second level is a discrete but unambiguous statement of the man’s role in the lifestyle. There is no simple dividing line: a snaking whip or pairs of handcuffs might replace the flowers and hearts, for instance, as a very light-touch signifier of status. More usually, however, I consider it a level two femdom tattoo if it includes the word ‘slave’ or ‘property’ or similar. It is obvious that getting such a tattoo is a powerful symbol and statement of a man’s submission, and my male clients often seem to be in a state of rapture as it is applied and on first seeing the end result. Accompanying ladies usually also seem to regard it as a significant occasion and there is usually some touching scene involving kneeling, boot-kissing and suchlike. In general, I try to gently indicate that a tattoo shop may not be the best place for that.  However, on one occasion I was asked to apply several ‘level twos’ in a club as part of a ‘collaring ceremony’, along with other parts of a ritual such as vows, the collar itself of course and – finally – a whipping.  Not for me, any of it (especially the last part) but I’ll confess I found the ceremony oddly moving.

Examples of such second-level tattoos might be simple statements such as “Slave X, property of Mistress Y” or “House Slave No. 3 in Lady Y’s domain” to the more ornate “Slave X, formerly [Name], freely and wholly offered to Mistress Y on [date]” this last being the inscription on the ‘collared’ slave I described earlier. Such motifs are usually placed high on the buttocks or on the chest above a nipple, or both. Another common place is the lower buttock, just above the thigh – and I always ask whether this is intended to be viewed with the male standing up, or bent forward (as the skin stretches in the latter position, so it is important to know). Thus far, I can report 100% responses indicating the latter, although I still always ask! Many dominants like to sign their slaves’ tattoos, although this is usually best done on a piece of paper for me to ink in, the tattooing pen being a little tricky to use smoothly without practice.

A level 3 is much the same but usually a larger and more blatant declaration of slavery. By far the most common place for such a statement is the lower back, typically right across the width of the two buttocks below. Generally, the lettering is large and somewhat brutal… no one changing at the swimming pool could miss the letters SLAVE blazoned across the lower back with the typical level 3.  One lady has had three of her disciples tattooed with the rather officious “Property of Mistress X, not to be used for sexual or any other purposes without the explicit permission of the owner. Please report any misbehaviour to “– and it provided her phone number. Many use numbers and letters as slave designations, or insulting names such as “Bootlicker”, “Moron” or “Cockroach”.

Incidentally, having mentioned buttocks I have to remark that many of those in front of me seem to be in a pretty bad condition! Reddened, bruised, whipped, flogged with a cane… even if I do see something in the devotional aspects of the relationship I cannot myself understand the appeal of subjecting oneself to this. But each to his own. Sometimes it matters for the tattoo: on one occasion the man in front of me removed his pants to reveal a criss-cross of raised fresh weals from a cane, right where I was supposed to be recording his love for the lady who had presumably inflicted them. I had to explain that I could not reliably tattoo over such ridged flesh, as the tattoo would distort when the skin healed and returned to normal. I could also have added that the buzz of the tattooing pen on what must have been a painfully sore area would be pure agony – but judging by the lady’s demeanour, I doubt she would have seen that as a reason not to go ahead!

Of course, there are other places a submissive can be tattooed… especially in the groin area. As a heterosexual male I am never comfortable working in such close proximity to the male sexual organs… especially as so many of these clients clearly get very excited during the process. However, the clients presented to me for work in this area often raise (ha ha) no such concerns, as their penises are usually locked neatly away in a device. Such clients are often quite effeminate ‘sissies’ with perfectly shaven pubic areas. Little pretty hearts, fairies or stars are usually the order of the day here, although quite often I am commissioned to write short insulting pieces of text concerning the properties of the organ below, or its unavailability. One memorable tattoo involved a large, colourful image of an erect penis, in glorious reds and purples, emerging from the plastic ring securing the tube in which the real thing was locked, extending about nine inches up the ‘sissy’s’ front and labelled “So much better!” Assuming the poor chap is occasionally unlocked for some kind of sexual relief, he can presumably see his actual organ standing up as far as it might in some kind of direct comparison.  I doubt it is a flattering one.

There are things I will not do. No tattoos to the face (no reputable shop will do that), no ‘explicit’ tattoos to any part of the body that is generally visible outside day-to-day clothing. [Almost the entirety of my slaves’ bodies is generally visible outside their ‘day-to-day clothing’. G-L. L.]  I do not carry out ‘piercings’ although obviously many other places do and some of the requests for that are pretty wild [Oh don’t be coy. Are we talking about a permanent chastity fitting? G-L. L.]. And perhaps I could take this opportunity to state for the record: no, I will not ‘brand’ your slave with red-hot iron! It’s not a common request, thank goodness, but I have had several couples arriving with long metal rods whose ends are worked into letters or simple designs. On one occasion, the lady had brought her own blowtorch and seemed most disappointed that I was not comfortable with the idea of using it to heat her “LS” brand to flesh-searing temperatures, then inflicting third-degree burns on her slave. [Oh, I would be. Very comfortable. G-L. L.] I have to say, on every single occasion, the accompanying male has looked mightily relieved at my refusal to carry out such activities, although one swiftly changed that to a thoroughly unconvincing expression of disappointment under the angry glare of his dominant. I don’t envy his lot.

So, there you have it! I hope you will not object to this slightly self-promoting letter. [If you were one of my slaves it would be classed as ‘permitted but punishable’, G-L. L] It is important to choose a reputable and safe tattooist and while there are many of those, few are experienced in meeting the… particular needs of your readership. I hope to see many of them in future.

Yours sincerely

Robin Attwood, Inkerman Tattoos, Little Compton St, London W1.

All of my slaves are tattooed and pierced and your letter reminds me that it is really about time I had them branded. Typesetting this response and getting this edition ready for printing is the first notice they are getting of this, so I hope their hands are trembling in fear!Mistresses and slaves with experience of branding are particularly encouraged to write in.  As for you, currently unowned male Robin, pay for an ad next time. G-L. L.

Dear GL

Do you think your magazine could please, please feature more lesbian discipline?

Sapphic admirer

If, as I suspect, you mean women punishing women for your viewing pleasure, the short answer is no. I cannot really give you the long answer, because you are not chained to a whipping post in my dungeon.  The magazine features lesbians enjoying each other, features lesbians disciplining males, features males being disciplined by lesbians, and in my exalted opinion (which is the only one that counts – in this magazine as in life) those seem to me to cover the only relevant topics. G-L. L.

Dear sister

I have seen several accounts in your excellent magazine of ‘toilet training’, ‘golden rain’; and the like from males but none from the female perspective. As the dominant partner in our marriage, I thought you might be interested in how my husband Simon and I became involved in this activity.

It was my idea, not his. Indeed, he didn’t know it was coming. We had been married about two years and our relationship had developed well beyond the ‘playful spanking’ stage into a more serious exploration of subjugating the male. But I was well aware that it could be taken a lot further and I knew that my friend Janice and her slave husband Robert made use of this humiliating technique, so I arranged to go over to their place for dinner.

Simon was well aware that Janice’s disciplinary regime was rather stricter than ours and was on his very best behaviour. So when she peremptorily ordered him to accompany her to the bathroom with a snap of her fingers, he quickly glanced at me and on my nod of approval, scurried after her.  “You can use the one upstairs if you need it” she smiled at me on the way out.

Upstairs, I tried my first experience of using a male as a receptacle and I found is so odd that I couldn’t bring myself to produce more than a dribble. Robert of course had been perfectly attentive and tried his best to relax me but it just wasn’t going to happen.  I pulled my knickers back up and we headed back downstairs, Robert asking nervously whether I was going to tell Janice what had happened. I imagine he was terrified she might think it was his fault and I was about to reassure him but then remembered how much Janice liked to keep him on his toes, so I said nothing and let him fret. Neither Janice nor my husband were anywhere to be seen in the drawing room, so I went into the bathroom to be greeted by a sight I’ll never forget.

Janice was standing there, knickers off and leather skirt up, holding a riding whip.  Simon, on the other hand, was on his knees immobilised into some kind of frame that held his arms and legs and bent his back into a tight curve, leaving his face pointing nearly upwards. From that face protruded a large plastic funnel, its spout firmly jammed into his mouth by a strap buckled around his head.  On the floor near him were several puddles of what was clearly urine and one of his thighs was striped with savage crop-marks. These, Janice told me with mock severity (but clear enjoyment) were connected: the crop on the thighs being her standard remedy for ‘spillages’.

On seeing me, Simon began to gurgle and try to form words around the funnel, rocking slightly from side to side to the extent his restraints permitted, which was not much. Janice raised the crop menacingly and he went instantly silent, quivering slightly, his eyes gazing up at the two of us. Suddenly, I felt a terrific urge to ‘go’.

Is there a limit to how wide eyes can open? Simon’s had already been round and staring when I entered the tiny room, but they grew appreciably larger and rounder as I worked my panties down, then – impossibly – larger still as I manoeuvred myself into position and looked straight down at him. And then I peed into my husband’s mouth. It was… wonderful.

It was also a mess. He gurgled and shook and drops of urine flew about. The funnel was filling much faster than it was emptying, so it became rather full and, towards the end, his shaking movements caused a major spill.  When I had finished, Janice silently handed me the crop and I learned over to deliver a crack across his other, unmarked thigh. It was appreciably less red and angry-looking than the marks she had produced and although he yelped, I got a distinct sense that he was relieved it had not been worse. So I lifted the crop again, gave it my all and really thwacked the leather loop onto his soft inner thigh. This time there was a distinct scream – it was the hardest I had ever hit him at that time. Well, he was experiencing a lot of firsts that night. I gave him another three or four just the same way.

I did wonder whether, once released, he might rebel and tell me this was too much., After all, our relationship had only recently progressed beyond sexy games and if he had protested, I wasn’t really in a position to force him – we didn’t use the word ‘slave’ habitually back then. But he did not. He was very subdued on the way home and rather quiet the whole week. Neither of us mentioned the activity…  Then the weekend after, I left a funnel in the bathroom and ordered him in.  When I strode in, he was looking at it in dismay. I showed him the brand-new crop I had bought during the week and he hurriedly got on his knees and put the funnel into his mouth.

And we’ve never looked back!  Oh, the first few weeks were horribly messy. I never rigged up quite such a rigid frame to hold him as he had experienced that first night at Janice’s so we had a lot of spillages. But this just gave me an opportunity to use the crop frequently and hard, taking the disciplinary side of our relationship to a new level, which I think it had needed for some time. Eventually, Simon learned not to spill and even to do without the funnel. Indeed, these days I rarely pee into the toilet at home, instead simply clicking my fingers and settling forward in my chair for him to scurry over, get down on his knees, remove my knickers and get to work. Sometimes I pull my skirt up, so I can watch him gulping and swallowing, other times I like to let the skirt fall right over him, so his entire upper body is invisible: my handy receptacle. When I am finished, he licks me clean and I usually have an orgasm.

One funny thing is how quickly it changed our relationship. Up until then, we had behaved as near-equals when not actively engaged in BDSM. But I remember one day over breakfast, reading the paper, and he ventured a remark about the latest political scandal and I just burst out laughing. My toilet was expressing his political opinion!  It was simply too absurd. Men take themselves so seriously, but how can anyone be taken seriously after you have peed in him?

Yours in sisterhood

Gemma

Dear Gemma, I couldn’t agree more!  I’ll never go back to cold lavatory seats now. It is also a solution to the problem we ladies often encounter of inadequate public facilities for us (something that will be addressed – and retribution exacted – when we take over).  Men are ludicrously proud of the fact that they can pee in the nearest bush. Fine: we can pee in the nearest man. G-L.L.

Most exalted Editrix Lucia

I am writing to ask your advice, since I cannot mention my ‘lifestyle’ in any more conventional public forum. My wife and I have long made use of spanking and other disciplinary games in our sex lives. Gradually, these activities have extended more into our day-to-day lives too as she took control of the family finances and started occasionally giving me a ‘real’ punishment, unrelated to sex. On one of these occasions, she produced a cane and gave me a few strokes with it, which I found to be of a completely different nature from the pain produced by any of the implements she had used before: hairbrushes, belts and the like. I told her that the cane was too much for me and she (rather reluctantly) agreed never to use it on me again.

I have long been locked in chastity and she has occasionally brought men home for the night; a night I typically spend out of sight (but not, alas, out of range to hear what is going on) in an attic room. These have normally been one-night stands or occasional; short flings – nothing serious, merely physical, as she likes to say, knowing perfectly well how maddening it is that this merely physical pleasure is unavailable to me, except on the increasingly rare occasions when she decides to produce the key and I am ‘rewarded’.  However, recently she has taken a lover, Arthur, in a relationship that is more serious, and she has made him aware of our lifestyle.

Naturally, I find Arthur’s presence objectionable, but as I serve him and my wife their dinner before he leads her giggling upstairs, I am in no position to object. I do find it difficult to conceal my feelings, though, and my wife has had to speak sharply to me – and apply some firm discipline – on several occasions. We have an agreement that she does not punish me in front of other people, so this has always been after Arthur has left the house.

The other evening, however, everything changed. After dinner, my wife told me to fetch the cane from our ‘play cupboard’, where it had hung unused for some years. My head was in a whirl, but something in her voice told me it was better not to object. When I returned and handed her the horrible thing, though, I started to stammer out objections until I was struck dumb with horror when she handed the cane to Arthur, who proceeded to bend and swich it approvingly.

My wife coolly explained to me that she had been thinking and that although our agreement prohibited her from caning me, or in any way disciplining me in front of Arthur, there was nothing that said she could not ask him to cane me – and that was what was going to happen. I hardly had time to process what was going on, before I was bent over the table, my wife using her weight to hold me down – and a few seconds later I was screaming and begging frantically for mercy as the bamboo cracked hard across my trouser seat. I suppose I should be grateful I did not have to remove my trousers, but it was a horrific experience nonetheless.  After the traditional six, I was allowed to stand up (I staggered) and thanked him, before they went upstairs – my wife looking even more aroused than usual. I tidied up, my poor bottom finding each movement agony, then went to cry myself to sleep, face-down of course.

Although the next time Arthur came round, I was not caned, I was ominously warned as they went upstairs that my behaviour was acceptable ‘this time’. Clearly, my wife intends this to become a standard part of our disciplinary regime – which has turned from a sexy dream for me to a nightmare! In fact, just the other day I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping in terror, after a dream in which Arthur was methodically beating me with the cane, with my wife looking on and laughing.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, I need to say something to my wife, to Arthur, or to both of them, about this. I can see that our agreement does not explicitly cover this situation, but it seems utterly unfair of her to exploit this loophole, taking advantage of my trusting nature. But I thought I would ask a second opinion, and as I can hardly talk to colleagues at work, I am asking yours. Do you think this is fair?

Anxious, Yeovil.

No, Anxious, I don’t think that sounds fair at all. It is really horribly unfair, in fact. I love it! I hope Arthur beats you savagely, the next time you misbehave. I would so like to be there to watch! Then afterwards, perhaps you could plead with your wife to rescind all these ridiculous ‘agreements’ with their pettifogging restrictions on what she can do, and she will cane you herself. Don’t imagine she will be any easier on you than he is, though: my guess is that after all these years of treating you more leniently than you deserve, she will want to make up for lost time. I know I would. G-L. L.