Yes, Madam Prime Minister

A sequel to this.

Subject: Re: New publication: Your Government – Working for Women

 Security classification: confidential election nomales

Hi Tilly

Thanks for the draft of the comprehensive Policy Evaluation. It’s a great document: what a fantastic record of policy achievement (no false modesty here at Number 10!). It’s amazing what can be achieved without men around to screw things up.

The PM will love it. One of her pet hates is ‘department-itis’, when each Minister implies she’s the only one really promoting women-oriented policies. From the Minister of Education banging on about the re-introduction of caning in boys’ schools (btw, do you think maybe she’s a leeeetle too obsessive about schoolboys being caned…? I mean…😬), via the Minister of Employment’s ‘Re-training and Skill Development’ centres for unemployed males (to be honest, I didn’t know we had that many quarries in this country), to the Minister of Defence claiming credit for the successes of the rebels in Saudi Arabia (sure, our weapons help but to hear her speak, it’s almost as if she were there with those brave girls in the desert, you know? But we all love her and she did look simply stunning driving that tank.) Anyway, great to see all our initiatives related to crushing the patriarchy (sorry: ‘Women’s liberation’ !!) all in one document.

Just a few suggestions.

1. The section on Science and Technology? I’ll admit I haven’t been keeping a close eye on this policy area, but I’m a bit worried if the account here of what goes on in the new Research Centres is accurate. The Medical Interventions for Rape Prevention study for instance. OK, so I understand that the scientific method requires a control group and randomised treatments but… we’re castrating hundreds of men at random? I mean, I’m not opposed as such… just didn’t know. And it could be off-putting to moderate voters, so… might want to tone down that section a bit? More emphasis on what happened to the test subjects who were rapists, rather than those who weren’t (and never will be, now 😊)

2. Same section. The publication record from the new University Departments of Female Superiority is very impressive – I had no idea! Looks like we’re leading the world in demonstrating that males are stupid, lazy and annoying. Which – obviously – we all knew, but it’s nice to see that peer reviewed studies support it with statistically-significant findings. Maybe some kind of table summarising the scientific evidence on just how fucking useless males are? Just the highlights, obviously as there are far too many ways to list them all in a publication like this.

3. Same section, quick point: in the section on medical research, the programme’s called ‘Nurturing Amenable Natures through Neurological Implants’ (NANNI – cute, huh?), not ‘brain clamps’ – that was just an internal, informal name for it and the PM thinks it might send the wrong signals.

4. Employment statistics – brilliant. Overall employment up, female managerial positions increased by a factor of five, Board representation of women now at 95% (why not 100? Are we keeping a few places for subs, to make it look like men have a say? Seems a bit last-year, no?). All at the same time as male employment has jumped to 100% and stayed there! Although I do wonder whether we can actually export all that stuff they’re quarrying out in the places-we-dont-call-labour-camps. What do they dig out anyway? I mean, rocks, obviously but any particular kind? Do you know? Does anyone?

5. Civil Rights. Very important section. Just the other day, the Leader of the Opposition was claiming that it’s illegal for her to speak out against our policies. Which is so offensive – she’s female, so she can say what she likes, this isn’t North Fucking Korea! If her right to free speech is so restricted, how come she’s on TV all the time banging on about oppressive mistreatment of men? (OK, the PM is also often on TV talking about the oppressive mistreatment of men, but in a positive way, obviously). Anyway, maybe add a few words about how free speech for women is actually being protected by our policies – e.g. the ‘Don’t you Dare Interrupt Her!’ campaign?

6. Photos of males. Again, can we tweak the balance – maybe a few more pictures of men looking a bit happier? There are some of those already: the husband doing the laundry on page 8, the young guy making coffee in a business meeting on page 13 – oh, and definitely the young couple out for a walk with their dog on page 5! I love the way the photographer has caught the exact same expression and pose for the young male and the dog! I mean, the guy’s not actually on a leash but it subconsciously suggests… well, anyway: it’s brilliant. More like that. Not to say there should be no pictures of sexists looking thoroughly miserable too, of course: obviously, we need to appeal to our young activists who want to see the bastards suffering! But I counted 17 pictures of men looking unhappy, 11 of which had them actually in pain or chains/cages etc and maybe that’s a bit much for the more ‘middle-of-the-road’ femsuprem voter, bless her kindly heart, you know?

Fantastic work, anyway! Your Policy Evaluation will be a great springboard for the next election. The PM wants to make sure everyone understands how our Party has benefitted all women: sure we are going to crush the ‘Equality Party’ but she’s worried some of the radical fem-suprem parties might be taking the youth vote. The opinion pollsters tell us that those parties’ extremist image doesn’t play well with the ordinary voter: all whips and chains and cattle-prods, you know? (I’m all in favour of those things but best kept in the bedroom, I say 😉). Still, the PM wants some messaging to voters that they can rely on us to continue ratcheting up the oppression of males, so they don’t turn to some jack-booted young firebrand (did you see the pictures of Janice Alicesdaughter speaking at that RadFem rally – in those boots and leather cape? It may not be good political imagery but it was fucking hot! I think we lost 10% of the lesbian vote that day).

So the ladies who spin have come up with a mock campaign: ‘There’s a reason for that’. Killer stats on stuff that works better now we’re in charge: where the word ‘reason’ is supposed to imply sensible moderation instead of the whippy-chainy thing. A few examples below – don’t worry about the exact look, this is an off-the-whiteboard tiger teaming brain dump. Any thoughts?

And finally, on a matter of policy substance (crazy, I know, but we do occasionally think about things other than image and social media), we’re kicking around some policy proposals for the next election. Thoughts?

– Introduce mixed sixth forms at boys’ schools. Sounds like a step backwards, right? But hear me out, as they say. We’d allow older girls to transfer in to the sixth form at every male school. Why? In an old-fashioned word: fagging. That’s nothing to do with gay male sex (well, only indirectly), it means giving school prefects disciplinary rights over other pupils. Which was abolished years ago, because of its potential for sadistic abuse but obviously it’s a completely different ballgame if girls are the only ones in charge. We quietly carried out a pilot study and the girls’ response was amazingly enthusiastic. I feel so proud of this young generation… they’ll do so much, with their new-found freedoms. Anyway, looks like an effective programme but the PM’s worried about the optics? I mean, does it sound too, well, pervy? It is an initiative of the Minister of Education, after all – see comments above re her ‘interest’ in school punishments 🫤! I mean, she actually wanted the girls to wear gym-slips, can you believe that? And possibly the boys too…

– Streamline the transfer of responsibility for males. So, right now, if a woman wants to become the Responsible Female for a male, she has to register her interest and then the Office of Responsibility needs to approve and process the transfer – either from another RF or a State facility. It seems like a lot of fuss. Why not simply let RFs come to a private arrangement? Of course, if there’s a lot of interest from RFs in a male for some reason, it would be reasonable to expect a financial consideration in return. Responsibility rights could even be auctioned in public… perhaps several males could be displayed, made to show off their talents, and women willing to take on the burden of looking after them could bid for them. Seems quite novel, but I’m assured there are historical parallels.

– Remove voting rights for men. Too soon?

Oh and do you have any suggestions for how to counter this RadFem shock-collar proposal? Focus groups suggest it’s got almost 30% approval among women, as much as 55% for younger voters. We thought about saying it’s a waste of electricity, but apparently even if the entire male population of the country were all shocked at the same time, writhing in the ground for a full hour (lovely image!), it would add less than 1% to overall energy demand. Who knew that overthrowing the patriarchy was such an environmentally-friendly thing? Of course we could just steal the idea 🤭🤭

It would be nice to see a printed, glossy version, by the way. Could you print a few up and send them across? Maybe that new intern could bring them over – you know, the blond lad you sent last time. With the blue eyes. You wouldn’t need him back immediately, right?

kiss kiss


Special Political Advisor to the Prime Minister

Rt. Hon. Linda Harcourt, GCMG

Prime Minister’s Office

10 Dworkin St, Whitehall, SW 1

The more cruelly she treats him

“…and the more faithless she is, the worse she uses him, the more wantonly she plays with him, the less pity she shows him, by so much the more will she increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him.” The Founder himself said that, in Venus in Furs. He was right, although I don’t suppose Wanda thought any more of him as a result.

She’s trying her best to make this chastity regime work but you at least have to meet her halfway.
Good thing he warned her, or this could turn out to be a lot more painful than he’d expected.
He may be dying a virgin but he can be happy that he’s provided a woman with sexual fulfillment, even if only in his agonised dying moments. So there’s that.
If you think an affectionate little peck on her shoe is embarassing in public, try being slapped in public. Just not doing the kiss should be enough to bring it on.
I’m one of those people who can’t be hypnotised. Some say it’s a willpower thing, but as a sub it’s hard for me to believe that. A few people are just immune and that’s that. Back when I was a smoker, my girlfriend at the time persuaded me to go to a hypnotherapist she knew and the smoking craving was just as strong after the session as before. As it happens I did give up smoking soon after, but that was because I couldn’t really afford it, because I suddenly realised, that very evening, that I wanted to start handing over 75% of my income to my girlfriend. So it was just coincidence that it was right after the session with the hypnotist. It was difficult, but I managed to give up the cigarettes, entirely on my own, even though I decided I should be buying a pack daily for her new boyfriend, soon after. Maybe it is willpower, after all.
Pro tip: arguing that you weren’t, in this situation, is a losing proposition.


Oh dear, I thought she might have forgotten about that little accident. Still, I expect she isn’t one to hold a grudge. It wasn’t her very best skirt.
She doesn’t like to hurt you any more than she has to.
Well, that doesn’t sound like much of a challenge for her. I hope she doesn’t get bored, poor thing.
I missed out on the era of corporal punishment in schools, but I guess we’re living through a golden age of corporal punishment outside them, so I’ve not done so badly.
Um… yeah. Listen, don’t take what she said to heart, OK? It’s barely noticeable. Really.

…and one I’ll call a bonus as there isn’t necessarily anything femdom about it:

Forty years on

Once again, it is time for the nichest of niche postings: the third in a series I am calling ‘The 1980s called’. Regular readers (those of them who haven’t already turned away in frustration, knowing there will be no colour images of sexy young ladies captioned to say cruel things), will recall this as the series in which Servitor self-indulgently reminisces about British femdom mags that few if any of you ever read, then proceeds to try to reproduce sections of his own, made-up version of something that has been superseded first by magazines with higher production values, then by digital media and the Internet. Oddly, most people don’t seem to regret that, so just possibly, Servitor, nobody wants this crap, hmm?

But it’s no use. I’m nothing if not stubborn: just ask my SO who frequently has to go to the trouble of clicking her fingers twice, or raising an eyebrow more than a milimetre to get me to do her bidding.

So, as is now traditional in this series, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines. I’ll remind you again you can buy complete scans of these from Swish Publications and it’s an incredibly good deal: you actually pay fewer £s per mag than you would have paid in 1985. Inflation? Not in our femdom.

Those were real, from here on it isn’t.

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Isn’t that just about the most pointless thing ever? But I don’t care.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 6. Letters to The Editrix

Most superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have long admired your publication, but I felt compelled to write to you after reading Twenty rules for David in the last issue. I myself am lucky enough to live under speech rules imposed by my wise and beautiful wife, for which I give daily thanks.

Recently, my brilliantly creative wife extended these rules to include ‘codewords’ to be used when we can be overheard in public. She might, for example, say “Are you sure, darling?” which is a way of indicating that I have said something wrong and need to correct myself. If her response is “Are you quite sure, darling?”, then I have said something quite offensive and impertinent and proper correction is sure to be applied later, in private!

I wonder whether other couples have a similar system. Perhaps there are more of us than some people think! When next, at any dinner party, you hear a wife smilingly remark to her husband “We should go home soon, darling: so we can sort out those things in the attic”, just look closely to see if he goes pale! I would, as the only thing to be sorted out in the attic is my attitude. If she adds that we ought to be sorting out “Those things Aunt Susan gave us” I might even have to suppress a shudder, as ‘Aunt Susan’ is about three feet long and made of whippy rattan.

Anyway, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I must dash because it’s almost time to “do the weekly household accounts” and I fear this week those accounts might take a lot of balancing!


A devoted husband

Your ruler’s system sounds quite practical, devoted husband, although a little over-complicated for me. I hide nothing about my relationships and any male given the privilege of accompanying me in public can expect his status to be made perfectly clear to anyone in earshot, as the sound of a good hard slap to the face can carry a long way. I do approve of warning slaves well in advance of particularly severe punishments, however, as I enjoy watching them squirm. It would be delicious if your generous wife were to inform you early in the evening about a later encounter with Aunt Susan, to give you a few hours of dread while trying to keep up appearances in company. G-L. L.

To the exalted Editor-in-Chief

Another magnificent edition, thank you Goddess-Lady Lucia.

I particularly enjoyed the story entitled Adult Education as the ‘classroom’ scene has always fascinated me. With the greatest respect, however, I wondered whether something had gone wrong in the editing process, as on the second page of the story our protagonist receives the cane for mistakes in his algebra test – a test he only takes on the third page! Was this intentional; implying that Headmistress Burroughs could simply anticipate his hopeless performance and apply correction ‘in advance’ so to speak?

Yours in confusion

Jenkins minor, Guildford.

Your first suggestion was the correct one, Jenkins minuscule. Something did indeed go wrong – or rather someone did – and the columns of that particular story were ‘pasted up’ in the wrong order. Believe me, ‘the mistake is regretted’ as they say – regretted profoundly. ‘Pasting up’ involves taking columns of text printed on photographic paper by a Linotype machine and applying warm wax to them so they can be placed, along with photographs, on the page ready for printing. The wax is applied warm, not hot, so it sticks the items in place while allowing small adjustments to their positions. However, wax can be made hotter. Much, much hotter. And then it can be applied to other places, such as the more sensitive parts of some incompetent sub-editor (emphasis on the ‘sub’) who messed up the order of that story. I do like to make the punishment fit the crime. Equally, though, if a fitting punishment is not enough, I like to add more, so after the hot wax treatment I thrashed him with a riding crop. Then I fired him – banished from my divine presence forever. He will not make that mistake again… nor walk, for a few days I imagine. G-L. L.

To my esteemed sister in dominance

I am greatly enjoying the series Maid to Command as I have always taken particular pleasure in imposing the arduous lifestyle of a Victorian housemaid upon arrogant males. My husband inadvertently – and I suspect to his regret – introduced me to this hobby, through his sexual interest in frilly, lacey and submissive feminine dress. Such foolishness can and should be exploited and after a brief period of indulging his desires, I briskly moved things on. Today he wears a simple and practical uniform, as do two younger males whom I have also taken into service. Quite a few males have an interest in occasionally flouncing around in a frilly or rubber simulacrum of a French maid outfit but I find few who are prepared to suffer the real thing – or rather, enough of the real thing for them to be beyond the point of turning back. For that to happen, I find they need to be subjected to three important disciplines: if I can impose those, complete control is assured.

The first is submission to proper, painful chastisement. When assessing a potential recruit, I sooner or later put him across my lap for a firm hand-spanking. No implement is required: I am a large and powerful lady, with hard hands, and by God I can spank any man to tears. Held firmly in place with one hand in the small of his back, a male over my lap expecting a sexy foreplay spanking will be sorely – very sorely – disappointed. I do use other implements, but I pride myself on being able to inflict intolerable pain with my hands alone. Any male who submits to that twice, knowing what he is in for, is surely mine to do with as I please.

So the second discipline is rapidly imposed after the first proper spanking: chastity, of course. I control the pain, I control the pleasure. After perhaps an initial period to accustom the maid to the device, I quickly tighten up, limiting orgasms to a thoroughly impersonal three-monthly release, all the maids together to add to the humiliation. I never ‘reward’ with release. My husband will be 60 in two years’ time, at which point – I have informed him – that will be that as far as this particular aspect of his life is concerned.

Finally the third discipline, which I regret has not thus far appeared in Maid to Command, Madame Editrix: tight corseting. If there is one enduring symbol of the centuries of male domination over women it is the way our bodies were forced uncomfortably to conform to an ‘idealised’ female shape. Well, no more. I am a large lady, as I said, and I see no reason to constrain my natural girth. For my maids, however, it is different: their lives are shaped by my wishes and, thus, so will be their bodies. If in history females were corseted primarily for looks, with the discomfort as a side-effect, for my subjugated males it is the opposite: discomfort is the objective.

I particularly look forward to a new maid’s first corseting. The garment I use looks reasonably feminine, in white with black laces and even some floral decoration. But it conceals ribs of steel, those white laces when pulled can, through their actions across multiple eye-holes, exert a tremendous constraining pressure and the ensemble is topped off with a buckle, fastened with a small padlock ensures no loosening. This latter is probably superfluous – the corseted maid cannot really reach behind to loosen the firmly-tied bow and his fellow maids would never dare to help him do so! But the ‘click’ of the lock removes any lingering hope of relief from the pressure and is thus effective in bringing home the difficulty of the situation.

Difficult it is. I pull the laces with all of my strength, working them over several times to create the maximum pressure. This finishes with my foot or knee in the small of the panicking maid’s back, extracting the last tenth of an inch of tightness. And by God it is tight. “Mistress, I can’t breathe!” they will squeak in panic. And they’re right: they can’t. Not until they learn the technique: shallow, frequent breaths from the chest, no expansion at all at the waist. But fast shallow breathing merely adds to the sense of panic – and panic they do. Most will pass out, some several times. It does them no harm. When unconscious, their panic will cease and they will take in enough oxygen to recover. When fully tightened they will be perpetually short of breath, which is an important element of the corseting. The maids’ stays are loosened just a little at night, then each day they initially have a few hours of merely uncomfortably tight rather than painfully tight corseting, before once again my strong arm and my boot in the small of their backs restores them to doll-like weakness. It involves considerable effort on my part, of course, but I love it.

So constrained, my maids cannot undertake any activity involving great exertion. They can still serve and undertake certain household tasks but anything involving heavy lifting must take place in the hours between to start of their day at 5.30 and my rising, typically around 10. After that, work is slow. Even before their corsets are tightened, short lengths of chain between their ankles and between their wrists create some inefficiency. You might wonder how the housework ever gets done? The answer is simple: each housemaid works a fourteen-hour shift and I have three of them. Even in the absence of any labour-saving devices (I haven’t the slightest interest in saving labour: the more of it there is for me to enjoy, the better), there is plenty of time for everything to be done in the most, repetitive tedious manner possible. So what if it takes a maid half an hour to iron one of my blouses and carry it carefully up to my wardrobe on the third floor, stopping every few steps carefully to recover her breath? To do six such blouses takes only three hours, leaving eleven hours left in the working day. I read somewhere that the unions in France are striking for a forty-hour week. My maids each work a ninety-eight hour week and they don’t get paid for it, the incentive being provided by my hand rather than my purse.

In conclusion, my dear, I encourage the author of Maid to Command to embrace corseting. A male placed in rigid physical control appreciates all the more the inflexible moral regime under which he serves. Generations of women forced into these appalling devices will applaud – and laugh, as you will laugh, at the sight of the corseted male in his perpetual discomfort.

Yours in sisterhood

Lady Maud

I suppose as Editrix I should add a note of caution at this point, for readers tempted to try corseting a male so tightly as to restrict his breathing. However, Lady Maud’s description of the suffering this causes is so appealing that I cannot bring myself to do so. Have at it, ladies: tug away. G-L. L.

Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

I just had to write to express my appreciation for the Birchwood Detention Centre series. Too often, the personalities and backgrounds of the ladies in disciplinary literature are barely sketched, if mentioned at all. Here, we appreciate the three young heroines as fully rounded characters from the very opening of the first instalment, with them as raw young cadets on the train to their assignment at Birchwood. As I child I read and loved the ‘jolly hockey sticks’ style of girls’ school story – how lovely to see it transposed into such a setting… ‘jolly rattan cane’ perhaps? But not so jolly for the male inmates!

How I felt Angela’s embarrassment at being greeted in such an over-familiar fashion by an inmate who had briefly been her boyfriend, and how we all cheered when she was given an opportunity alone with him in the punishment room to teach him about their new ‘relationship’ at the Centre! How very wise of Senior Section Officer Wallace to give her that opportunity even if a Trainee Junior Disciplinary Officer is not really supposed to be left alone with an inmate – a true leader knows when to bend the rules and when to enforce them rigidly. Oh – and poor Rosie, accidentally setting off the shock collars of every inmate on the block when she was learning how to use her remote punishment device! No real harm done, of course, but how we felt for her when she realised her mistake, face burning with embarrassment, after SDO Morris stormed in to find out why her work detail were all writhing on the floor in agony instead of carrying their loads of bricks! It was a sweet and tender scene when Julie comforted her afterwards in her quarters… I wondered whether perhaps it became later even more sweet and tender? There seems to be to be a strong undercurrent of lesbianism in several of the girls’ relationships but only hinted at, at least in the first two instalments. Will romances perhaps blossom?

Finally, I am sure all your readers are enthralled by little Clara’s storyline. At present, I have to say she seems rather a fish out of water, being so easily upset at the sight and sound of boys in pain. Will she be able to overcome her squeamishness, or might we say goodbye to her, perhaps last seeing her sitting sadly alone on the train, contemplating an uncertain future? I do so hope not, as she is such a determined little thing, even if she lacks innate brutality. Disappointed too, I imagine, would be SSO Ryder, whose interest in her seems rather ‘closer’ shall we say, than is strictly required for her training role. Again, without necessarily wishing to see an explicitly lesbian sex scene as such, it would be lovely if these ambiguities could be resolved with a loving embrace or even a full kiss…?

Yours agog

Slave to schoolgirls

I am pleased to receive such appreciation of the narrative elements of these stories; so many male readers’ missives essentially saying little other than ‘Whoa, nice tits!’. Indeed, character development is central to the Birchwood series and the author assures me that new characters will be introduced over time, along with new dilemmas bringing triumphs and disappointments for our three heroines, in true ‘school story’ style. I believe that in so implying Clara’s continued presence, I am not giving away too much, since, as you will read in this issue, an encounter with a rather unpleasant trio of lads when on an out-of-uniform visit to the nearby town awakens something inside her and she – well, I’ll write no more here, in case any readers have turned to this letters page before reading the latest instalment. Let’s just say that it was a life-changing experience both for her and – once the process of the law had worked its course – the three boys, who are likely to have the dubious pleasure of meeting her again, in a subsequent instalment.

I recognise in Clara a lot of women I have known, who came late to the realisation of how much they truly enjoy hurting males. I believe that at least half of all females have that potential inside them, whether the pleasure they will find is sexual or has a different aspect. But in our woefully male-led society, few develop it. I myself have been an enthusiastic persecutor of the male sex since childhood bullying days, but in so many others it is latent. I have a friend who horrified me by her lovey-dovey, indulgent attitude to the young man she eventually married, but I am so glad I did not cut all ties because one day something simply snapped and ‘hubby’ painfully learnt the consequences of presuming on a lady’s good nature. I visited them recently and observed with approval his nervous attention to her every casual word, the cane hanging so brazenly on a hook in the hallway leaving very little doubt as to what he feared!

As for the lesbianism, StS, it’s really none of your business. I know men fantasise about this, but the reality of female-only romances is far too complex for the brute emotions of males to comprehend, so any description of such a relationship in a magazine that out of commercial necessity is aimed mainly at a male readership, could only ever present the surface, obvious elements of a lesbian tryst. Lesbianism is not for provoking sexual arousal in males, only sexual frustration at the realisation that we can do quite nicely without male sexual activity (of which none is therefore required nor permitted).

Hmm. I have bestowed on you rather a longer reply than you deserve, StS. I order you to write another letter about Birchwood. This time, provide a long paragraph on each of the principal characters, avoid speculating about lesbian affairs that are not explicitly present (you may, therefore, refer to Rosie’s visit to SSO Ryder’s quarters, from the instalment in this issue of the magazine) and try to use proper punctuation. I had to edit the letter above, to make it readable and my time is incomparably more valuable than yours. G-L. L.

In the light of your insistence on males in your presence being naked, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I wonder if you have a view on the ideal length of the male penis? I have heard that some ladies do not like them too large?

Too much effort to add a line of respectful greeting or sign off your ‘letter’, boy? You don’t really deserve a reply, but I will just note that opinion is divided on the topic. Many ladies of my acquaintance – especially those of a lesbian persuasion – believe that the ideal size is ‘zero’ and some have devoted themselves to reducing the average towards that. Me, I like a man to have plenty of flesh there, as larger penises have more pain receptors in proportion. But if I decide a man would serve me better with less down there, I am quite prepared to follow the example of my sapphic sisters! G-L. L.

To the supreme Goddess-Lady Lucia

I am a submissive male who has the privilege occasionally of serving a superior lady in person. However, I cannot visit her as often as I would like, so she has taken to setting me time-consuming menial tasks, so I will think of her in the long gaps between visits.

I write lines, of course, hunched over my desk at home like a schoolboy, copying out endlessly some uplifting moral message, such as “My heart and soul belong to Mistress [X], at whose whim I am writing out this line five hundred times and who delights in setting a long sentence for this tedious task, regardless of whether the resulting absurd pile of words makes sense, the point merely being to ensure I spend my time in this repetitive task so befitting of my status.”

However, she has lately hit upon what she calls the ‘lottery game’. This was inspired by a game she invented for playing during our sessions, when she would scatter a pack of cards around a room and I would crawl around picking them up (sometimes with hands restrained). On one occasion, she told me that one card had been removed and that it was my task to identify it. Of course, a missing card cannot be identified until all the cards have been gathered, so I had to carefully sort them in to order once all had been gathered up.

When I was leaving her house after a later session, she handed me a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a mass of lottery tickets, of the sort sold in tear-off books for use at summer fete raffles and the like. They had indeed been torn off and simply filled the bag higgledy-piggledy, like waist paper. She informed me that they were from a book of 500 tickets and that at my next session I should report the number of the one she had removed.

Perhaps your readers can imagine what a tedious task this turned out to be. The 500 (or rather, 499) tickets had to be sorted into order, which took me several hours. The beauty of the system, of course, is that the dominant can perfectly accurately verify the amount of work her submissive put in with almost no effort – she simply had to take a ticket at random and note the number.

Since then she has varied the task occasionally. She almost always uses books of 1000 tickets, after I made the mistake of truthfully reporting how long it had taken me (she looked disappointed). She no longer tells me how many tickets she has taken – it could be two, three or four, or – and this caused me the most immense anxiety – none. Sometimes I am at ‘liberty’ to carry out my tedious task at any time in the interval between my visits to her (I usually try to deal with it fairly early, as it is horrible having the task hanging over me), on other occasions she might require an answer by telephone within 24 hours. On one occasion when I had done that, I was surprised and delighted to receive a package in the post a couple of days later – out of which fell, of course, another batch of lottery tickets.

All of this, of course, merely serves to remind me that my time is hers to command, and so I will take this opportunity to record my gratitude to my creative and thoughtful Mistress, for giving me so many hours of opportunity to spend my time in her service.

Her obedient servant


P.S.: My Mistress has just ordered me to copy out this letter several times. She has not yet informed me how many copies I will write, but I am to begin now and she will tell me when I have reached – or exceeded – the target she has decided upon. How silly of me to have written so much but that is my own fault for being such a tedious little man. This postscript was written under dictation.

I did indeed receive 30 copies of the letter above.

If Timewaster’s Mistress is reading this, she might care to note that there was a spelling mistake – regrettably repeated in each copy – that I have reproduced in the printed version above. Once he has found it for you, you might decide it is appropriate for him to write out a corrected version, or several. For my part, if I receive a written punishment that contains an error, I usually quadruple the required length or number of copies, but of course that is up to you, my dear. You might also have spotted that he describes telling you the truth as a ‘mistake’, which I found infuriating and I do not even know the wretched little man!

Nonetheless, the contemptible Timewaster’s letter has inspired my generous nature to provide a task to the absurd male creatures who make up the mindless majority of this magazine’s readership. How many times does the word ‘cane’ appear in this edition? Include all instances, whether in the main text, letters or advertisements but do not count any variants such as ‘canes’ or ‘caned’. The sub-editors have counted very carefully (they came to different totals the first time, so they did it again). Once you have counted, send your answer on a postcard clearly marked ‘I wasted my time at Goddess-Lady Lucia’s direction’ to the usual address. There are no prizes, of course, the opportunity to engage in a completely pointless task I commanded from you should be reward enough, along with the thrill you will get thinking of the contempt for you I will feel in the unlikely event that I bother to look at any of the postcards. Get on with it, scum. G-L. L.


Oh no, it isn’t

(Oh yes – it is!).

Not – you’ll be relieved to hear – the full British panto experience rendered in femdom. I only go to see the principal boy strutting around in tights for the topical humour anyway. But there’s usually a fairy speaking in bad rhyming couplets and this is what we have.

I’m Tinkerbell, by magic bound

To grant three wishes, when I’m found

So wish away, don’t take your time

And I’ll reply, in magic rhyme!

You wish for wealth beyond compare?

Check on your app – the money’s there!

Twelve zeroes end your balance sum

Be sure to spend it wisely, chum!

Your second wish – more altruistic?

That’s my hope, if unrealistic.

The choice is yours, good human, make a

Wish for peace, don’t be a ‘taker’!

You want a bigger cock – that’s all?

Not peace on earth, nor food for all?

All right, I’ll grant what you’re proposing

One large penis: quite imposing.

Now your third wish, say it quickly

Tinkerbell is feeling sickly

Something selfish, I don’t doubt it

State your wish – and quick about it!

A woman sexy, always young?

Who’ll love and worship with her – eugh! – tongue?

Fear not, my magic’s pretty good!

A girl who’ll treat you as she should!

A woman conjured from afar

Who’ll love you just for what you are!

A selfish beast, a greedy fool

With cash galore and massive tool.

Now who could love a pig like that?

Of course!  A findomme!  Savage brat

She’ll drain your savings, keep you frantic

Lock away that cock gigantic!

Yes: a findomme, brutal, bitchy

Now my magic’s getting witchy!

Casting spells for evil wishers

Here’s your findomme – blonde and vicious!

Princess Spoilt – I’m Tinkerbell.

I brought you here and wish you well.

This human’s yours; do as you please

But make him suffer – on his knees.

He’s rich and well-endowed, I’d say

So what a shame I made you gay!

But when you’re bored with mere temptation

Feel free to move on to –

Hmm. What rhymes with temptation? I’m usually so good with rhymes.  Well, my dear Princess Spoilt, I’ll leave you to fill in that last one, OK? 

And so I’ll say goodbye, Princess

Although your lips, I’ll here confess

Are tempting, full and ruby red…

Oh fuck it, let’s just go to bed.

Happy ever after.

Queen for ever, ceasing never

Following yonder star.

…and best to put the bowl outside in the garden when it’s getting towards the end of the week, as you wouldn’t want that smell in the house.
Sometimes an enthusiastic amateur can be better than a pro.
Don’t worry: they don’t mean you.
When the ceremony’s over, and they’re leaving the church, it’s traditional to have him thrown from the steeple – and any bridesmaids who want to catch him can keep him.
Many people are opposed to the idea of arbitary power being exercised by unelected young ladies, but I really find it hard to understand why.
Live for the moment, as they say.

Feminine ferocity

Why spoil the surprise? It’s good for boys to be terrified. Anyway, it won’t be for long.
Together they can stand tall to fight oppression. Or not.
It doesn’t matter on so many different levels, that it’s a little odd she’s asking. If she really needed my opinion, she could beat it out of me, after all.
Makes you long for those long summer days, when she used to pick up tanned guys on the beach.
Remarkably, for both husbands it is the one thing they could reasonably claim to be good at, so it’s a real clash of titans.
You will report any staring violations, won’t you? Yes: thought you would.

The lovely and sadly retired Lady Sophia Black.


Happy Hathaday! Yes, regular ‘readers’ of this blog may be aware that Servitor has several soft spots for the greatest actress of her generation and future first Female Supremacist president of the United Matriarchy of America, the divine Ann(i)e.

Today marks the day we celebrate an additional year in which we have been blessed with her presence, to set against that dark period of 13,700,000,000 years or so over which we did not. And what better way to honour her than by putting up some captioned images utterly misrepresenting her personality and even speech patterns, for sad weirdos like you and me to perve over? I certainly can’t think of one. So here they are.

The 1980s called back

Cast your minds back, British readers over a certain age, to a time when dominatrices advertised on little cards in phone boxes rather than OnlyFans, when femdom images were to be found only on furtive trips to specialised shops in Soho and when those same images came wrapped not in endless entreaties to subscribe to one or other specialised service but in plain paper bags, usually a pastel shade rather than brown, for some reason.

Yes, I am talking about last July, 2023, when this blog featured a post called ‘The 1980s called‘, devoted in part to rhapsodising about the magazines of Servitor’s mis-spent youth and in part to a rip-off of homage to those magazines, in the form of a ‘letters’ section written in his mis-spent late adulthood.

I warned you then this might become a series and so it has. OK, I recognise that the number of this blog’s readers who ever came across such magazines can probably be counted on the fingers of the one hand that is not presently in your trousers. But I don’t care: this blog has never sought the easy route of popularity, and it has been consistently successful in avoiding it.

So, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines.

So, so lovely…

These are from the web page of the helpful guy at Swish Publications. He’s scanned them all and is happy to sell them to you for a remarkably modest price (fewer £s than the originals cost way back then) so why you are still here reading my shabby imitation I have no idea. And I must also mention in a kind of Wayne’s World ‘we’re not worthy’ manner that the creator of the slightly later generation of femdom mag that was Cruella and Goddess is still going strong too, at Go on, Andy, Mr Rogue-Hagen, scan the old stuff and sell them as pdf mags… you won’t regret it. And we’d love to see ‘Victoria’ and co again.


As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Why? Oh, who knows. But with the world in such a terrible state, I guess we all just have to do what we can.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 2. Letters to The Editrix

Most sublime Goddess-Lady Lucia

The article entitled A dog’s life for Steven in the June 1986 edition of your wonderful magazine reminded me of something your readers might enjoy hearing about. My wife is firmly in charge in our marriage: in all important respects I am no more than her slave. I long since learnt that any failures on my part – let alone attempts at asserting my independence – will be met with swift and painful corrective measures.

Just over a year ago, my wife came back from the shops with a small package. It turned out she had been to the pet shop and bought what I understand is called a ‘shock collar’ for dogs. It looked like a regular thin leather dog collar, with a kind of plastic box attached to it, from the inside edge of which protruded two rounded metal studs. It came without batteries (why don’t manufacturers simply include them?), so I was sent out to the newsagent – it took one of those little 9 volt rectangular ones, and I bought one and a spare.

With battery installed, it was fastened around my neck and my wife fiddled a bit with the remote control that came with it and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that made me gasp. It’s hard to describe, Goddess-Lady Lucia, even though I have since experienced it hundreds of times. It is not a hot, searing kind of pain on the skin of the neck… in an odd way it’s not really pain at all, it’s a kind of wrench right inside one’s body. As I said, it’s not exactly pain but the sense that someone has reached inside your chest and tugged at everything inside there at the same time is deeply unpleasant. Of course, I begged and whined to be released – and she did take it off, but this turned out just to be to drill an extra hole through the leather collar, to fit a small padlock. And on it went again.

I now wear it whenever I am in the house, and quite often outside. I have never particularly liked roll-neck pullovers but now I have several of them because they are just what is needed to cover it up. We don’t play at my being her dog, you understand – it is just another way or punishing me for my faults and reminding me of my place whenever she deems that necessary. I am responsible for ensuring that it always has a working battery and that there is always a spare battery in the house.

As I am not a dog, of course, I can touch it with my fingers. So I soon realised that a small piece of paper, slid carefully down between my neck and the prongs, could insulate me from any shocks. I tried that once – just once. I jumped and squawked, whenever I saw her pressing the button, but of course sooner or later she gave it a press when I was not looking. The paper was found, the husband was caned mercilessly, every one of the shocks I had so deceitfully avoided (or her estimation of that total) were applied in triplicate and believe me I have never dared repeat the attempt.

I now give generously whenever I pass one of those collection boxes for the RSPCA. I have never been much of a dog lover, but I can definitely say they have my full sympathy!

In collared submission

Mrs Henshaw’s husband.

Well, Mrs Henshaw sounds like a lady after my own heart! I strongly disapprove of these devices being used to hurt our four-legged friends, so I hope that every one of the vile devices is bought up by wives to put to the excellent use you describe. There is, after all, no Society (Royal or other) for the prevention of cruelty to husbands and nor should there be! G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your publication is simply wonderful, easily the best of its kind on the market. I particularly like the school-themed stories, as my own fantasies typically involve my sitting with head bowed at a plain wooden school desk, often frantically scribbling punishment lines, while a stern lady teacher taps her cane thoughtfully against her palm, planning the next phase of my detention.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, you are so beautiful and commanding and wise. I would love to spend my evenings in pointless drudgery, writing punishment lines at your command. If I could write lines in your honour, Goddess-Lady Lucia, what should I write and how many would you require me to do?

Yours in scholastic supplication


How ridiculous you men all are! Fine – why not? Take an edition of Empress, roll two dice to pick a page, then close your eyes and point at a sentence. If it’s less than fifteen words, close your eyes and point again until you find one. Then write it out for me, oh… shall we say a million times? Don’t write again until that’s done. If you manage to finish before you die, you can send the completed library-full to the address for letters – or better yet, don’t. If you die first, just make sure your will makes clear I do NOT want to see the stupid things. G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have been an avid reader of your wonderful magazine since the first issue, having always fantasised about being under the command of a beatiful young lady like yourself. Recently, I got married to a sweet but very inexperienced girl and after a few weeks I plucked up the courage to ask her for a spanking. She looked shocked and confused and said she wanted to talk to her Mum about it.

Although embarassed she’d be talking to her Mum (a lady I’d always suspected did not approve of me – any more than I did of her), it was perhaps not that unreasonable, as she was so inexperienced in matters sexual. I was just relieved she hadn’t immediately said no, or laughed or something like that.  But a few days later, I came home and she announced she was ready to give it a go. Delighted, I took off my trousers but then to my horror she shouted ‘Mum!’ and my mother-in-law came into the room, put me firmly across her ample lap and whalloped the bejasus out of me! My God, she had a firm hand – and a bloody strong right arm, too. When she finally let me up, my face was red and wet with tears and my buttocks were black and blue – I could hardly walk! Needless to say, my cock had shrivelled to almost nothing, it was the most unsexy experience of my life.

I thought maybe that would be that, she’d leave and I could talk to my lovely young wife and explain that this was not what I had in mind. But the old harridan had come to stay with us! The next day, after a night on the couch, I found myself alone with my wife and tried to speak about it but… ‘Mum!’. And you can guess what happened then.

Since then, they have found my stash of Empress magazines and I fear that has given them ideas. I do the housework in a little apron, I clean shoes with my tongue and handwash underwear – some very large and horribly stained underwear too – and they have bought a cane. All of my fantasies have come true – and I hate every moment. But the worst horror was to be threatened with ‘facesitting’ after my ‘Mother Superior’ read the story titled Lydia’s living cushion in one of the recent issues. I don’t think I’d survive – she must weigh 200 lbs at least!

Please, please Goddess-Lady Lucia, help me. You understand this is a sex fetish. Can you help me explain to my lovely young wife and her evil old cow of a mother that I just want an occasional sexy spanking, not to be the slave of some brutal old tyrant?  I was thinking maybe an article about how to balance sex fantasies with reality?  Obviously, please don’t print this letter.

Yours in supplication

Desperate Dan

Ha ha ha!  My favourite letter of the month… oh I hope it is true.  And if the lady you describe as an ‘evil old cow’ is reading this then I hope she both takes note of how you described her and also reads carefully through the story titled ‘The queue for the Ladies”, because I think the scenario described there is another that you would probably enjoy less in reality than in fantasy. But I’ve tried it and it’s perfectly practical: all she’ll need is a plastic funnel and a suitably contemptuous attitude. Ladies of a certain age often need to pee quite frequently, so having someone ready (if not truly willing) wherever she is, at a moment’s notice, would be a great comfort. Try eating asparagus first too, my dear, to give him an even more revolting time!  G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have noticed that many of the stories in your magazine feature lesbians. The beautiful girls who seem to indulge in this practice are often accompanied by pasty-fleshed, unattractive middle-aged males. Do you think perhaps they might take more of an interest in men if they had more impressive specimens to play with? I myself am fit, young and particularly well-endowed and I would be happy to teach any of these girls about the joys of being on the business end of a real man’s tool.

Rifleman James

I assume this is a joke. You certainly are, small-bore Jimmy. I myself am bisexual as although I prefer to date women (the conversation, sex, hygiene and manners are all infinitely better), I do love the male penis. I have a special box full of small braided whips, clamps, spiked wheels and rough sandpaper and will happily spend an hour or two playing with a firmly secured fine male appendage, to get into the mood before sinking into the arms of my blonde beloved later. Your own penis sounds so lovely, I think I would probably want to keep it. In a box by the bed. Now go and wank off to a different magazine, as this one is obviously too difficult for you to understand. G-L L.

Esteemed Lady Lucia

I so admire the ladies in the stories in this magazine. I myself was ‘introduced’ to female domination as fantasy play by the man who become my husband and then, soon after our wedding, it was my turn to introduce him to what a real disciplinary relationship can be like. This came as quite a shock for him… I think he had expected me to prance around in leather and occasionally gently tap his bottom with the end of a riding whip, the silly thing. Needless to say, as soon as I had grasped the basic concept and with the help of lesser magazines than yours, I decided that a cane was my preferred instrument. Although ‘bondage’ hadn’t featured in his fantasies, I also soon discovered that a good caning could only be administered if his wrists and ankles were secured. And the combination of a firmly secured man and a cane wielded with determination and entirely without mercy has provided me with a thoroughly satisfactory domestic arrangement ever since.

He said the funniest thing the other day, while strapped down over an armchair in our sitting room, awaiting the second dozen of a twenty-four stroke caning. Amidst all the tears and pleading, he blurted out “You don’t know how much it hurts!”. And of course, he’s entirely right. I have never allowed anyone to hit me with a vicious implement like that and I never will. Why on earth would I? In this world, there are those who cane and there are those who are caned – and I have no doubt which side of that divide I prefer to be on! It is truly better to give than receive, as my dear mother used to say. Don’t you agree, Lady Lucia?

A generous wife

No doubt you make sure that your husband appreciates the gifts you so generously bestow on him. As for the great divide, I quite agree about which side it is best to be on. I know there are some females who prefer the submissive role, but I have never felt the slightest desire to experiment with that! Unlike you, though, I have tried out the cane – I once asked a dear lady friend to give me just one stroke on the thigh, just to see what it was like. Bloody murder it was – and I am sure she did not lay it on hard. It almost made me sympathise the next time I had to dish out a proper caning to one of my slaves. Almost, but not quite. My own mother used to say ‘Life’s not fair’ and it has been a delight for me, discovering just how unfair it can be made to be. G-L. L.

To Our Lady Lucia of the Boots

Oh, Mistress Lucia, what a delight to see so many pictures of you in lace-up boots in the March edition of your perfect magazine. I found myself consumed with jealousy at the sight of your two office slaves, permitted to lick the divine leather after their well-deserved thrashings.

My fantasy is to be nothing but a boot cleaner. Chained in a steel compartment, I wait for a passing lady to deposit a pair in the chute leading down to my box. I get to work, first carefully unlacing them, then licking all the mud off, before commencing the brushing and polishing and relacing the boots. A suitably dirty pair will take anything up to 12 hours. I place the cleaned boots on my back and lean forward into a floor-level pillory that automatically snaps into place. This displays a sign outside my box that the boots are ready and some time later that day or the day after, the front of the box will be lifted up, the lady customer will pick up and inspect her boots, award me a rating out of ten and administer any additional strokes of the handy crop she deems appropriate. Every few days the overseers come around and thrash us, at a rate of ten strokes for each rating short of a perfect ten we have received for each pair of boots serviced.

Goddess-Lady Lucia I know of course that my fantasy is unrealisable but while there are booted and demanding Ladies like yourself out there, the dream remains alive.

Bootcleaner #23

Well, #23, your fantasy, while ridiculous, is amusing enough and shows a proper appreciation of your place in this world. Licking boots, however, is a privilege not a valuable service: the tongue applied to a truly muddy boot will merely smear the mess around and excessive saliva does the leather no good. I insist instead on vigorous brushwork – but I do make the slave eat up the pile of dirt left on the newspaper when it is done. The boots you saw being licked are a special pair I wear when a slave deserves the reward of using his tongue – and I make sure he knows full well that the leather is impregnated with the saliva of many males before him. Yet still they beg for the privilege – what absurd and easily-enslaved creatures you all are! G-L. L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia is presently overseeing the production of the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

  • The continuing Trials of Steven: released from the Training Centre back into Ms Judy’s care, Steven learns that he is now just one of a stable of slaves who must compete for her favour!
  • Re-educating the chauvinist. Malcolm mocks a women’s lib demonstration and is taught the error of his ways.
  • Office Politics Part 2: the typists’ revolt continues.
  • Return of the Gymslip Gumshoes. Our schoolgirl detectives are back, this time investigating a series of underwear thefts.
  • Nursing a Grudge: with his legs and arms in plaster, Ian can do nothing when the ward nurses decide to give him a series of enemas.
  • .And of course Empress Editorial, Readers’ Letters and the ‘winners’ of Goddess-Lady Lucia’s Stupidest Slave Haircut competition.

Male creatures are instructed to ensure they have sufficient funds to buy it, then give the rest of their money anonymously to a woman.


If it please the court

Your Honour, I appear for the hospital in this unfortunate matter.  And let me say at the very start that the hospital takes full responsibility for its actions and deeply regrets the error that led to Mr Harcourt’s loss. We have offered a full and generous compensation settlement but that has regrettably been declined to date. We have great sympathy with Mr Harcourt, but we respectfully submit that the quantum of damages he is claiming is absurd and excessive.

We will be presenting extensive evidence in that regard, if it please the Court. To begin with, Mr Harcourt’s loss was, shall we say… less than might have been expected, for an average adult male.  Considerably less. With apologies for any discomfort it might unavoidably cause the Claimant, we will present pictures of the item in question, alongside illustrations of healthier, more robust and, well, larger male members for comparison.  We will also hear from several eminent sexologists who will dispel myths about size not being important and comment on the degree of sexual stimulation – if any – likely to afforded to any females in the unlucky and unlikely position of having sexual intercourse with Mr Harcourt.

I say unfortunate and unlikely because it is central to our case that Mr Harcourt has not for many years had any kind of sexual relationship – at least with another person – and would not have been likely to, even had the unfortunate mishap not occurred. We will hear from one witness who many years ago found herself in bed with the Claimant and she will describe what occurred, which we say in no way constituted ‘sexual intercourse’ as such.  We have then lined up a succession of female witnesses of various ages and backgrounds, each of whom has had a chance to meet Mr Harcourt and will testify under oath as to his attractiveness: his physical appearance, personality, sexual chemistry – or lack thereof – and so on.  The Court will hear how – without exception – each considers him to be an entirely unattractive mate, so Mr Harcourt’s penis would not have any value to him in that regard, even had it not been sent to an incinerator as hospital waste.

Of course, none of this will be necessary were the Claimant to accept our generous settlement offer, which still stand.  I am looking at my learned friend, counsel for the Claimant…?

It seems we are to proceed. So having dealt – I hope the Court will agree, comprehensively – with the utter implausibility of Mr Harcourt’s penis ever encountering another human being, we will turn to the final matter in question: its value to him as a masturbation aid.

I am conscious that this must be very disagreeable for Mr Harcourt and I can only regret the necessity that finds us here. I am aware this case has attracted considerable media interest and even though I am opposing Mr Harcourt’s side in this case, I can only plead with media organisations to act responsibly and if they feel they have to report this matter, to do so without undue sensationalism. It would be quite unnecessary, for instance, were Mr Harcourt have to suffer headlines such as How Much for a Wank? or Todgerless Tosser seeks Relief, while even a more understanding and factual headline such as Masturbation Compensation for Castration could easily cause him distress. It is so, so easy to mock – indeed, my team and I have thought up many more such headlines and we would be happy to brief any journalists keen to avoid humiliating Mr Harcourt’s feelings in any number of ways.

And of course much of the four days we have scheduled for cross-examination of Mr Harcourt himself will be taken up with a rigorous – although I hope always sensitive and respectful – exploration of his former masturbatory habits.  I will lead that cross-examination, although I am grateful to be assisted by my juniors Ms Elliott and Ms Lyons, in that regard. We will regrettably be requiring Mr Harcourt to take us through several of the masturbatory magazines that were found in his apartment, as well as some of the material disclosed from his computer, and he will be explaining – for the benefit of those of us not sharing his rather unusual tastes – just why these images of items of clothing, unpleasant activities and even – somewhat ironically, it might be said – images of ladies dressed in rubber simulacra of nurses’ uniform, wielding implements of castration – sexually excite him and what he would do, while looking at them.  It is important, we feel, to give Mr Harcourt an opportunity to explain what it is he has actually lost by being denied any further opportunity to rub one out, so to speak, while watching videos of naked men with dildoes up their rectums and dirty socks in their mouths being peed upon.  He will be in the witness box, on oath, describing his feelings on watching one such video, which we will play simultaneously, and many other items of pornography in his possession.  Many, many others. 

Unless he accepts the generous settlement my clients proposed.  As I said. A choice which remains his and his alone, my clients having gone as far in that respect as they can.

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