too small to satisfy anyone – Page 6 – Contemplating the divine

Fragile masculinity

…and that’s a precious thing, because – oops! Dropped it. Oh well. I never really used it anyway. I’ll fetch a dustpan and brush, shall I, Ma’am?

Now that sounds like a man who’s strong enough to say sorry.

We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created feral.

Perhaps if you save up, you could buy her time for an evening or something. On your wedding anniversary, for example. That would be a nice gesture.

Divorce in haste, repent at leisure. The positive thing is that he’s actually still seeing quite a lot of his wife, which I think is very healthy.

It’s called ‘I dare you even to think about not telling the truth, you devious little brat.’

What is femininism anyway?

Philomena Cunk has the answer. Men are just like women really, they’ve got their own little personalities.

Not femdom – I just adore Diane Morgan.

This that follows is femdom, obviously.

A romantic moment. Treasure it.

Hmmm. Now if only I could unlock this collar, to get the word out to the other men… Oh well.

She sounds even Mina than the lovely ladies in the picture.

Nothing to be embarrassed about. Unless you enjoy that sort of thing.

Or why the world’s hair is such a weird colour.

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 meby 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!)

Pretty brutal

Falling. In love.

That’s right. If you think about it, what could be more sexually empowering than paying another man to undertake the work of actually carrying out the fucking?

Time you got a watch.

Well… as long as there’s nothing perverted involved I suppose it’ll be OK.

I’ve always had this extraordinary talent for perceiving what women are thinking, when they look at me. A knack, you might say.

Callous talk

…doesn’t cost lives, in my experience, rather a few hundred pounds stuffed into an envelope and left closed but not sealed within the bag containing a gift.

Oh, he’s got nothing else to do down there in the basement. Might as well have some fun with him.

Large vagina humiliation. It’s the latest thing in the female submission world. I’d be really good at it, but sadly I have no dominant instincts.

I don’t think the verbal reasoning test should have much weight. The job mostly involves responding to simple, clear instructions.

I think it’s outrageous that convicted rapists receive free medical treatment anyway, actually. They should stop mollycoddling them like that – it’s supposed to be a pumishment, after all.

She’d take some of the other men with her too – the ones who know that no one will be coming for them within the three days – but Angie would object. She says one man around the home is enough, possibly even more than enough.

She’s often inclined to borrow somebody’s dreams till tomorrow

You’ll lose your mind and play.

Obviously, I don’t approve for one moment of non-consensual BDSM play. I’ve made that very clear to my SO, and She in turn has explained that she doesn’t give a fuck what I think. So we have an understanding.

It’s not going to be like having actual sex, of course. There won’t be all that “What the fuck? Already? Is that it?” business at the end, for one thing.

I’m very suggestive.

What’s the vibrator got that I haven’t, I’d like to know?

He’s probably feeling very relaxed already, knowing he’s in such safe hands.

Confidently supreme

She doesn’t like ‘torturess’ either. It’s sexist. Like a woman can’t torture people just as well as a man, you know? Better, even. So don’t call her that. Call her… oh I don’t know. Something respectful, I’d suggest. Very respectful.

‘You’re a taxi!’ It’s an old joke, but I like to make my date laugh. Often, the evening together ends with her leaving my apartment almost hysterical with laughter. In fact, I bumped into an old flame the other day and she started giggling as soon as she saw me.

No problem. That’s what Kenny is here for. He pays handsomely for the privilege, after all.

I wouldn’t mind, but I read that book before, counting ‘the’ for another Mistress.

This is the wonderful Lady Sophia Black, who is if anything even more wonderful in person than Her online persona (which is very, very wonderful indeed).

Hmmm. She seems to have mostly disapppeared from the Internet. Now that is a loss.

Choking on someone else’s vomit? Unpleasant but, well, you know, Her kink is not your kink. Or anyone’s.

Mistress Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress, who seems not to have retired after all. So that’s a bit better.

Shameful display!

20 minutes? Women, eh? I can get there in 20 seconds, usually before I’ve even got my trousers off.

,,,and footboys are sworn to the code of secrecy. Also, rarely if ever allowed to go out or communicate with anyone except Mistress.

They proved it scientifically, using double-blind tests. 125 blindfolded men were slapped across the face repeatedly, over a period of three years (while others received equivalent amounts of pain in other ways, as a control). On average, memory retention increased by 2.3%, on a statistically significant basis. The effect wasn’t uniform, though. Some subjects benefitted a lot, but fully 17% of the men receiving the slapping treatment were unable to remember anything at all from their lives before the programme started. There’s obviously a lot still to learn, but the Institute just received a €8 million grant, so research continues.

He likes her to be pristine for when he comes on her breasts.


Just what I always say. It’s all very well to say that men and women should be equal in status and respect, but naughty bottoms don’t spank themselves, do they, so there has to be some differentiation of roles in marriage. That’s a nice-looking corner, just behind them, by the way, don’t you think? I expect they make good use of that.

Multidisciplinary

Men and their gadgets. You can give him just as unpleasant a night with some good old-fashioned rope, a cold dripping shower and some nipple clamps. Why does everything have to be so hi tech?

Regular readers will have gathered by now that this is a very, very hard limit for me. I’m careful never to tell my SO, though, so it’s just a secret between you, dear Internet, and me.

Sounds like their sex life is about to improve. Well, hers is. His doesn’t sound like it’s worth keeping, really.

That is a lot simpler. Like her approach to marital arguments: also very simple indeed.

I am actually very sensitive to gender issues in the workplace. Painfully sensitive, even. When women are treated disrespectfully I feel physically bruised: sometimes immediately, sometimes a while later.

The Princess and the penis

Once upon a time there was a Prince who was handsome, witty,
kind and clever. He was heir to a prosperous Kingdom, where the people were
happy and peaceful. The King and Queen
owned many palaces, all of them gleaming with marble, with cellars full
of gold and silver, with jewels beyond count. Truly, the Prince was the
luckiest man alive except for one thing: he had a laughably small penis.

When he was born, the court physician had
noticed how tiny the royal todger appeared to be even for a baby. But he reassured the King and Queen that all
would be well, when the Prince hit puberty.
Yet puberty came and went, and by the time he was 20, the Prince still
had a cock little larger than he had when he was a baby, although now it stood
up stiffly like a drawing pin whenever the Prince got excited – which was often.

The heir to a Kingdom needs an heir of his own, so the King
and Queen were anxious to marry their only son off as early as possible. Beautiful princesses came from lands far and
near, but all had heard about the Prince’s little problem and all wanted to see
it before becoming betrothed. Soon
enough, peals of girlish royal laughter would ring out through the palace, and
the courtiers would hang their heads in despair, as yet another royal carriage
rattled hastily away out of the palace gates, bearing a still-giggly princess
in the back.

They say it is a rare man who can always make a woman laugh. The Prince was such a man.

What were they to do?
As word spread of the Prince’s embarrassing condition, the Kingdom
became known as ‘the Kingdom of the Prince with the laughably small penis’. From the lowliest beggar to the mightiest
baron, all of the real men in the Kingdom, sporting perfectly adequate tackle,
found that they were thought by foreigners to have nothing worth speaking of
between their legs – and the women of the Kingdom had to fend off foreign men
eager to give them the pork stuffing that they were assumed to be lacking.

But the years went by, and the King and Queen despaired of
ever finding a beautiful Princess to whom they could wed their darling son,
with his dainty dangling ding-dong.

Then one day, a carriage drew up in the courtyard with a
clattering and a rattling that roused the whole palace. This was unusual in
itself, since it had been years since any princesses visited. More unusual still, the driver and footmen –
footpeople – on the carriage were all women.
Usually, princesses were accompanied by handsome young men, who would
sit making gestures towards their ample, bulging trouser treasure, while the Princess
was inside trying to control her laughter. Yet this carriage was accompanied
only by tall, rather serious-looking women.

One got down and opened the door, shouting out “Her Highness
the Crown Princess of Femlandia!”. And
down from the carriage emerged a young lady of rare beauty and still rarer
richness of garment, whose countenance was sterner still than those of her
minionettes. She looked around her, with
a bored and faintly contemptuous expression.

“Where’s little dick, then?” she enquired of no one in
particular.

“Erm… our son prefers to go by his given name of Richard”
puffed the King, who had come running out of the palace to greet his guest.

“Where’s little dick Richard, then?” the Princess asked,
fixing his watery blue eyes with a level stare from her pools of steel grey.

“Er… well, there…” the King began, pointing feebly towards
the South Eastern tower of the palace, but the Princess and several of her
entourage had already swept off and were entering the building.

In his room, Prince Richard was sitting quietly in the
gloom, feeling sad and useless, as he often did. Had it been 700 years later, he would
probably have been wanking around to no purpose on the Internet, but in those
benighted days there was nothing better to do when wasting time than watch the
dust-motes dancing in sunbeams, so this was what he was doing.

There was a peremptory knock and the Princess swept in,
accompanied by two tall blonde courtiers, dressed in military regalia and
sporting swords.

“Who… who are you?” stammered Prince Richard, which was odd
because he had not previously had a speech impediment of any kind.

“Princess Valerie of Femlandia” came the curt response.
“Here to inspect the goods. Trousers
down.”

“Er… Princess, you realise… of course… that I don’t really
have much to – “ began Richard, wondering where on earth that stammer had come
from.

“Not something that really bothers me, to be honest”, the Princess
replied, smiling slightly at one of the female soldiers at her side, who
blushed and returned the smile more fully.

“But it’s as well to see what I’m getting. Trousers down –
or my guards here will take them down for you.”

The Prince reluctantly did as he was bidden, and stood
there, his legs illuminated by a sunbeam. There was silence in the room, which
was eventually broken by the Princess.

“And the pants”, she snapped. “Obviously.
Moron.”

The Prince hurriedly lowered his pants as well.

As it was dark in the room all three women leant forward for
a closer look and at almost exactly the same time, both of the female soldiers
burst out laughing.

“Oh shush!” the Princess tutted, but smiled herself and was
obviously not really cross with the two blonde warriors, who stifled their
giggles and brought themselves to a semblance of attention.

“Better” nodded the Princess, patting one of them gently on
the bottom, and stepped forward, bringing out a magnifying glass that she had
thoughtfully provided for herself, and examined the matter at hand more
closely.

“Hmmm” she said, then spoke no more for several
minutes.

She reached out and roughly grabbed the Prince’s hair, jerking
his head forward so that he was staring directly at her milky and ample (but
not excessive) bosom. Then she let go,
and continued her magnified examination.
The Princely prick had become erect and had doubled in size to almost
nothing at all.

“Hmmm” she said again and then sighed.

“Pretty much as expected, I suppose.”

“But… but you’re not laughing?” prompted the Prince.

Princess Valerie shook her head decisively.

“Don’t have much of a sense of humour, really. Everyone says so. Especially where men are concerned” and an
expression of contempt came over her face, and her hand involuntarily jerked
slightly, as if flicking a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a riding whip.

She clasped both hands behind her back and stared straight
into the Prince’s face.

“Would you like it to be… bigger? To feel like there’s more down there?”

“Oh… oh yes, Princess”, stammered the Prince wondering if he
had somehow been cursed to repeat the first word of every sentence he spoke for
the rest of his life.

The Princess smiled a mirthless smile.

“I can fix things so you have more down there than you even
want. That you’ll be wishing for it to be smaller… would you like me to do that?”

“Oh, oh yes please Princess Valerie”, the Prince replied. “I’d like that more than anything in the
world. I’d do anything.”

“Good” the Princess, said.
“Marry me.”

“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia, obviously”
she added.

“The, erm.. traditional customs of Femlandia?” the Prince
quavered. “I’ve heard those are, well, that they’re… rather strict. To men, anyway.”

“Strict enough.” nodded the Princess. “Men deserve it, I find. Look: do you want an inconveniently large
cock or not? Also – and I might not have
mentioned this – when we rule here together, your penis will be the largest in
the palace. Would you like that, too?”

“Yes – oh yes, Princess, please” implored the Prince. “Are you going to going to perform a magic
spell?”

“It’s more in the nature of a magical ring” replied the Princess,
holding her hand out for a shiny metal object that one of her guards handed
her.

“Legs apart”

She busied herself with the device, while the Prince gasped
at the touch of cold metal and instantly felt his prick soften back to its
previous (almost microscopic) size.

“Is it a magical ring from your own country of Femlandia?”,
he enquired, trying not to wince as he felt sharp pains and a weight as from a
thick band of iron tugging at his nonentity.

“Not exactly”, the Princess replied, working away with an
allen key (she was a well-equipped Princess, as befitted someone who was the
tyrannical honorary leader of the boy scouts movement of Femlandia). “You might
say it’s from the far-off fabled land of Hind.
It’s called a Kali’s Teeth bracelet.
There – it’s done.”

She stood back up and gazed down at her handiwork. The Prince’s
little disappointment was almost entirely invisible for real this time, swathed
as it was in a thick band of iron, studded with… well, studs. The weight of it pulled down uncomfortably,
but it was not as uncomfortable as the sharp pins digging into the tender
flesh.

“Errr” the price started, but his hair was grabbed roughly
once more and his face jerked forwards, this time actually being pressed down
into the Princess’s own warm, soft bosom.
One of the guards looked slightly offended, but stared straight ahead.

Inevitably things started to grow as the Prince felt a surge
of excitement and then – a sharp, stabbing pain in his tenderest parts! And another!
And another! As the Princess rubbed his face across her bosom, his nose
pressing down deep into her cleavage, the Prince felt as if every nerve in his
stiffening member was screaming the same song of agony.

A shriek came out of his mouth and he collapsed to the
floor.

“Make it stop! Oh
please, please make it stop!” he gasped,

The Princess kneeled down beside him.

“It’ll stop when you’re smaller again” she murmured.

“Oh!” moaned the Prince, in torment “Oh how I wish my penis
were smaller””

“It will be,” nodded the Princess, standing back up.

A few minutes later the Prince stood before her again,
panting slightly and brushing the tears from his cheeks.

“See?” the Princess enquired, brightly. “You wished for it to be smaller.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking” the Prince grumbled, feeling
that something was not quite right.

“So now you marry me” added the Princess.

The Prince drew himself up to his full height and spoke with
as much dignity as is possible, with a tear-stained face and a heavy spiked
ring fastened to your genitals.

“Certainly not.” he sniffed. “It was a trick.”

The Princess sighed and nodded to one of her guards, who
saluted and left the chamber, closing the door behind her. The tall blonde soldier stood outside for
fifteen minutes, as various strange sounds – thuds, and cracks and moans and
cries – emanated from within, but stood fast, preventing any of the curious
courtiers from gaining access to find out what was going on.

Eventually the door was flung open and the second guard
announced “Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia and her Prince
Consort-to-be”

Out strode Princess Valerie, accompanied by a shuffling,
shambling Prince Richard.

The King and Queen looked up in shock from the bottom of the
steps.

“Betrothed.” Princess Valerie informed them, smugly.
“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia”

“I can see that” muttered the King, as the Prince raised his
head slightly to expose a heavy iron collar, with a chain sneaking off towards
the Princess’s left hand. “I’ve heard about those traditions of yours.”

“Richard!” the Queen called up sharply. “Do you consent to this?”

The Prince consort-to-be glanced at his fiancée, who nodded
imperceptibly.

“Yes mama”, he replied, dejectedly. “I made a deal. She… did something that made me, well, made
me uncomfortably large. You know. Down there.”

“I can see that,
too!” exclaimed the King, as a heavy cylindrical object distorted the line of
the Prince’s trousers. “Wow!”

“Well, my boy, we must begin the celebrations
immediately! Let the word go out to all
four quarters of the Kingdom that the lovely Princess, er… the lovely Princess..?”

But the lovely Princess and her followers – a word that now
includes young Richard – were heading to her coach. The Princess climbed straight in, leaving
Richard to be secured to the side by his collar.

“Goodbye dearest mother-to-be!” she called out. “And you,
too”, she added with a look of disgust at the King.

“But, but… you will return, will you not?” the King gasped.

“Of course!” she called out, drawing her head back inside
the coach and giving the signal to move off.
The horses started to turn the carriage around, and Richard jogged
around with it.

“But when?” both
parents wailed, at exactly the same time.

“When you’re DEAD, obviously!” came the cry from within, and
the whips cracked over the horses (accidentally catching Richard a nasty cut
across the shoulder) and the carriage lurched out of the courtyard, the heir to
the Kingdom desperately galloping alongside.

….

Several years passed. The King and Queen grew old before their
time, worn down by the cares their inadequately-equipped son had brought
them. Rich men, well aware of what
Femlandian rule would bring, paid for the finest medical experts to come and
treat them, but in a few years the Queen had died of sorrow and the King was on
his deathbed.

Some attempts had been made to prepare the Kingdom for
Femlandian rule. There was a woman prime minister (but she wasn’t very good,
being neither strong nor stable) and many businesses had been made over to
female ownership. In schools, girls were educated in sciences and business,
while boys were taught needlework, cooking and how to simper attractively.

Nonetheless, all men knew that the rule of Empress Valerie
the Vicious and Cruel of Femlandia would bring an end to the fair and happy
land they had known all their lives. The
stories coming out of the Empire were too alarming not to take seriously, and
after all, men told one another, any empress who chose for herself the moniker ‘the vicious and cruel’ was probably no
pussycat.

But despite the best efforts of his physicians, the King
wasted and died. And a few days later, the armies of Femlandia invaded,
receiving the surrender of the local militia forces with little mercy, much
brutality and a moderate amount of violent sexual abuse.

The same carriage swept back into the same courtyard, now
decorated with the brutal red, white and black symbol of Her Imperial Highness,
Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel, Oppressor of the Western Isles, Scourge
of the Northern Wastes and Terror of the Eastern Deserts, to give her her full
title. And trotting along at the side of
the carriage, the Prince Consort: older, considerably more scarred and with Her Imperial sigil burned proudly into his flesh – but still recognisably Prince
Richard.

Branding can be tricky but even an Empress will always prefer to do it herself, for that personal touch.

The Empress descended again and gazed around her with fierce
joy.

“I made you one other promise, maggot!” she called to her
long-suffering (oh, but she’d barely started) husband. “Do you recall?”

He looked confused, and shook his head sorrowfully.

Empress Valerie laughed.

Do you recall her
promise, reader? Not merely that he would have a penis that was uncomfortably
large. That he acquired the very day he met his wife-to-be, and had
still, as the bracelet of the Goddess Kali had not left his flesh since that
fateful day.

No, the Princess had
also promised that when she and her blushing bridegroom finally reigned
together (in a manner of speaking) that he would have the largest penis in the
palace. Do you remember that now,
dear reader? Because there will be a test.
And consequences.

And the Empress, as she now was, always kept her
promises. When she wanted to, anyway.

“Lock the palace gates” the Empress called. “And summon the Imperial Gelding Squadron”.

She looked around the courtyard, at the men standing, or kneeling… mute, anxious, frightened. She smiled, in satisfaction.

“They have work to do.”

And they all lived happi… well, not all of them, obviously,
but some of them were happy, I
suppose, some of the women anyway, and, look, She certainly lived very, very Happily Ever After, OK? And that is what matters.

The End.

It’s ages since I wrote a story this long. I don’t know if it’s just age or the Internet destroying attention span but I used to write lots of stories. I find that I can only sustain interest for bite-sized captions and vignettes, these days. Where was I… attention span… oh yes! So anyway, writing stories is actually how I started. My very first ever visit to a domme (was wonderful, utterly wonderful) and at the end of it, She commanded me to write up my session to publish on Her web site. I did and She did and it’s still there, and I took to writing more things for her and Her friend. Usually stories about them.

Some of these old stories can be found by clicking on ‘Mistress Valerie’ in the word cloud there (although the first one that comes up, abput Christmas, doesn’t really work, I think). They concern Mistress ‘Valerie’ and Her friend ‘Sandra’ , which are not quite their real names. But Mistress Herself has now semi-retired, or at any rate developed a vanilla business so She wants a low web profile.

This isn’t a Valerie and Sandra story, but the Empress’s personality has a bit of ‘Valerie’ so I gave Her that name for old-times sake. If you want to read another fairy tale, that is a much closer description of the two ladies, try this. That’s one of my all-time favourites, the others being this and this.

Category: too small to satisfy anyone