The boys were falling like an avalanche

Ya ya baby.

I think she has a choice… maybe she should assert herself more? Take control of her own life (as well as yours, obviously).
Actually, the photo was taken just before this shoot went horribly wrong. She slipped and broke a heel, poor thing. And it wasn’t just a clean break at the base where it joins the sole, either: it splintered at a narrow part of the stem so the pair was a complete write off – one of her favourites too. Oh, and as she slipped, all her weight fell onto the saw for a moment, so there was blood all over that bench and… well, the whole day is not one of her happier memories, let’s just put it like that. She had other pairs of shoes, obviously, but that’s not really the point, is it? They were special.

You know where this wonderful image originated, don’t you? Of course you do.

It’s weird how bulls won’t fold and neatly stack their sex partners’ underwear, like a normal person.
No cup of tea for me? Oh well.
I hope they don’t fall out over the inheritance. Of course, it depends which husband dies first.
Dommes work hard. Mine locked me in a box the other day and gave me an entire 24 hour ignoring session, when I’d only expected three hours, and she didn’t charge me any premium over her usual hourly rates! They’re not as cruel and heartless as the image they mostly like to project, dommes, you know.

Those uncomfortable conversations

Try not to pity her boyfriend too much, abject slave to his desires though he is: he doesn’t know any better, poor soul.
How reassuring.
Don’t worry: she’s not really going to change her name to Mrs Pencildick. As a matter of fact, her husband’s the one who’s going to be legally changing his surname. To hers, obviously, although she is considering making him change his first name officially to Pencildick, or some such, at the same time.
It’s the same algorithm that sends you all those dick enlargement emails. Oh… you thought they were just spam? No, they’re very carefully targetted. Most other guys don’t get them.
When setting up a session with a new domme I usually ask her to treat me with utter contempt and disdain and I have to say, my experience has been that they’re all startlingly good at it. Sometimes I don’t even ask and they still get it right… I guess experienced dommes develop a kind of sixth sense for what their clients are looking for.
He obviously survived to a ripe old age… imagine him keeping the book all those decades, turning the pages occasionally to reminisce over his days under Miss Rathbone’s loving tyranny, only for the book to be sold to a second-hand shop after his death. Still: looks like it’s found an appreciative home.

…and just a little bit of found femdom to finish (do hurry up and finish, won’t you? Your wife will be back soon and you don’t want her to find you like this). More divine Joy. who has done this many, many times before and she totally, totally knows

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling

With grovelling apologies to anyone with even the slightest taste, it’s a special OWK poetry day! You see, I – no, come back! Really, it’s not that bad, and anyway at least there are pictures of –

Hello?

Anyone still here?

Oh well, just you and me, then. OWK poetry, anyway, all based on the kind of traditional British canon I learnt (but perhaps suprisingly given my interests did not actually have beaten into me) at school. More difficult than it looks, even done this badly, especially as there is essentially no one-word rhyme in English for ‘kingdom’, or for that matter ‘Owk’.

Just in case any of you are interested, puzzled or just entirely short of better things to do sitting there, as you are, in front of a computer with your trousers down around your ankles, the actual poems these are mangled from are, in order:

  1. How do I love thee?
  2. Jabberwocky
  3. The Tyger
  4. The Waste Land
  5. Elegy written in a country churchyard
  6. To his coy Mistress

Of a certain age

Once again, Servitor has spent an absurd and disproportionate* amount of time engaged in the pointless task of creating the letters section from a fictional version of those very British femdom magazines with which he mis-spent his young adulthood: Vixen and Mistress**. No, not Cruella. This was before Cruella. Yes: I am that old.

* But then I am an absurd person, with many body parts comically disproportionately sized and generally funny-looking.

** Available as pdfs at an absurdly low price from Swish Publications.

So, once again, from an alternative universe in about 1988 or so, I present: Empress magazine.

This one is a special edition, as I will grovellingly now beseech the Glorious Editrix, Goddess-Lady Lucia herself, to explain.

Right, male scum, pay attention! As promised in the last edition, this is a special ‘maternal domination’ issue of Empress (‘Dowager Empress’, perhaps?), for all you immature little mummy’s boys who crave the firm smack of domestic discipline. Infantilisation is not quite my thing – I find men to be quite infantile enough already – and any male who thinks I’m going to change his wet nappy is going to find himself running a half-marathon through the streets with the stinky thing glued over his head and his back a mess of whip-marks. However, Empress celebrates all forms of male subjugation, so I am handing the reins (and the whip) over to the most wonderful and inspirational woman in the world: my Mum, Lady Amelia.  Goddess-Lady Lucia.

Thank you, Lu!  Amy here, delighted to have this opportunity to contribute to my daughter’s wonderful magazine. I am so proud of what she has achieved: with no assistance from anyone else, she blackmailed the startup funding out of a businessman, enslaved several copy-editors then set up a weekly detention session for writers to produce what is now surely Britain’s leading magazine celebrating female dominance. She has always been a go-getter… I think she takes after her father in that regard. I’ll admit I’m not sure, as I barely knew him and mainly remember his cock and his remarkable sexual stamina. She certainly doesn’t take after my actual husband who I suppose was technically her step-father when she was growing up, the useless whining little wimp.  But Lu was always special, why I remember when she brought her first boyfriend home.  He was already sniffling in fear when dragged through the doorway on a leash, but then she took him upstairs and –

MUM?!  You’re not here to embarrass me!  Letters section? G-L. L.

Oh, very well, my dear. I expect you’re right.  You usually are. Lady Amelia.

I’m always right, Mum. Ask any of my slaves. G-L. L.

Of course you are!  Now then…. letters, was it?  Let’s have some letters. L.A.

Dear Madame Editrix

I was delighted to see that you propose to devote an edition of your wonderful publication to maternal discipline. Some may regard this as ‘the softer side’ of female domination. I do not and nor – I can state with confidence – does my thoroughly subjugated husband. He has no one but himself to blame for his condition (and no one to thank for it but me – and he does thank me, daily) because soon after we were married he asked if we could incorporate some ‘sexy spanking’ into our lovemaking. Well, how could I say no?  I hauled him across my lap and spent a thoroughly enjoyable ten minutes exercising my right arm.

When I finally released him, and after he had dried his tears and got his breath back, he explained that he preferred a light, playful spanking. So I grabbed him by the ear, dragged him over to the bed where I once more positioned him across my lap, took hold of a hairbrush from the bedside table (the palm of my hand feeling somewhat warm by then) and proceeded to turn his rosy arse purple, while explaining that I very strongly preferred it this way.

He asked the next day whether we could ‘discuss it’. So discuss it we did, in the same position and with the same hairbrush.  That was, I think, the last time he challenged my right to spank him however I see fit and we have been married for over twenty years now.

I do not ‘baby’ him or provide maternal comfort. But I certainly treat him like the little boy he truly is. Quite apart for the spankings, which I mainly deliver by hand, my palms having hardened over the years, I employ corner time, written line punishments, early bedtimes and even occasionally castor oil to keep him fully conscious of his status within the family hierarchy. As time went on, I started to get more and more sexual satisfaction from the discipline too, so a hard spanking almost invariably finishes with his wet, tear-streaked face, pressed between my thighs as his tongue ‘finishes me off’. So in a way he got his ‘sexy spanking’ after all, didn’t he?

In sisterhood

Joanna

What a well-ordered family life, Joanna! Like you, I discovered that the ‘softer’ side of femdom can develop into something deliciously ‘hard’, even if my style of domination does not involve whips, leather boots, pony-carts and the like. Corner time, early bedtimes and written punishments make up an important part of his life, if ‘life’ is really the right word for such a miserable existence. Of course, he has much useful work to do as well, but when all the housework is done to my complete satisfaction, he sometimes has a few hours still available and I make sure to fill them with tedious and uncomfortable activity. If he’d wanted any ‘free time’ he shouldn’t have married me, after all. But he did, so that’s that. Amy, Lu’s Mum.

‘Lady Amelia’, Mum! You don’t want the absurd wankers who read this magazine getting too familiar!  G-L. L.

Sorry darling! Lady Amelia.

Most Superior Editrix

I thought your readers might be interested in the account of a rather bizarre encounter I had recently. Having seen a card in a phone box promoting the services of ‘Matron Stern’, I nervously called, made an appointment and, a few days later, turned up in great trepidation at a nondescript house in a London suburb.

To my surprise and relief, the door was opened by a petite and pretty young brunette, who smilingly took my coat along with the envelope stuffed with fivers, while I removed my shoes. She asked me to confirm that I wanted ‘strict treatment’ from ‘Matron Stern’, as I had requested when I called and I readily agreed, betting that this young nymph’s idea of strictness was probably quite light.  ‘This way’ she said and led me upstairs.  ‘Mum’s in here’ she said, knocking on a door.

‘Mum’?  But it was too late. The door was opened from inside the room and I beheld… Matron Stern. I could see something of the family resemblance, with the addition of at least one hundred pounds, powerful and course looking arms and an expression that indeed matched her professional name. Admittedly this was approximately what I had expected when I made the booking, if somewhat more fearsome, and I had no thought of trying to back out but I might perhaps have taken an involuntary step backward… before my ear was grabbed between a powerful thumb and forefinger and I was dragged, stopping, into the room.  I heard a cheerful ‘Let me know if you need me, Mum’, as the door closed behind me… I certainly felt the need of some support!

After a remarkably painful spanking ‘to establish who was boss’ (although I had been in no doubt of that the moment I saw her), the medical ‘treatment’ began. I won’t describe all of the details but the enemas were particularly noteworthy, so I will concentrate on those.

I had noticed during the painful preliminaries the rubbery bags of different pastel shades, each with its tube hanging down, arranged neatly in a rack. Some of the bags were alarmingly large, so it was a relief when Matron Stern selected one of the smaller ones. Nonetheless, it was a startling experience. I had once been given an enema as a child, by a nurse at the local clinic, when I had a particularly bad bout of constipation. I remembered it as feeling weird but not necessarily unpleasant, as the warm water gently flowed into me.  This was somewhat different. For one thing, the tube had a bulb at its head, which felt uncomfortably tight as she shoved it in – yet shoved it was.  Second, the water was cold, stone cold and I gasped as it started to flow. Third, she lifted the bag high above me and furthermore, gave it a good squeeze, both of which caused the water to rush inside me much faster than the gently rising tide I recall from childhood. I cried out involuntarily at the feeling of immense and sudden fullness… followed by the simply impossible feeling of the water continuing to flow and fill me, when I would have sworn that my insides were full to bursting.

Eventually it stopped, the tube was jerked out and she curtly indicated a toilet in the corner of the examination room.  I rushed to it gratefully and had just sat sown when I heard “Don’t you dare release without permission, or you’ll be for it!”

I could only gape in astonishment, as the foul brown liquid spurted out of me into the waiting bowl. I could no more have held it than I could hold back a waterfall! The smell was thoroughly unpleasant but not as unpleasant as the bath brush applied repeatedly to my thighs, for disobedience, once the nasty mess had been flushed away.

I was given the opportunity (or rather, I was compelled) to try again.  Again, the cold water rushed in, again it seemed to continue far beyond my capacity and yet again all of the water went in… and this time I managed to ‘hold’ for perhaps two seconds after getting onto the toilet, before once again a splashing rush betrayed my blatant disobedience. At least this time there was hardly any smell… but the spanking was worse, this time extended to the insides as well as the reddened backs of my thighs.

‘Would you like some help holding it in next time?’ she asked, curtly? Looking at the bath brush in her powerful hand, I could only nod yes, although I’ll confess to being dismayed by the ‘next time’. However, help was welcome as I clearly had no chance of obeying a command to hold it in – especially when, for the third attempt, she selected a rather larger bag than before. However, despite the larger volume this time did not feel quite so bad – whether because I was psychologically getting used to it or because my insides were stretching!  I caught sight of myself in the mirror: on her examination table on knees and elbows, smacked arse and red-raw thighs held up high and a tube snaking up to where the bad was discharging its contents.  It seemed impossible to imagine that less than an hour before, I had been an ordinary man in a suit, ordering a coffee in a local café while waiting to present myself for this bizarre appointment.

I wondered how she was planning to ‘help’ when, for the third time, the tube was jerked away – but this time, almost immediately, something else was shoved in. Another bulbous object, about the same diameter as the tube-head. At first. Then I saw her making pumping actions with her hand and to my horror I felt it expanding inexorably inside my anus.  I realised there was another bulb just outside my exit and that was inflating too. Just when it seemed I might burst inside, she stopped and something was detached, leaving me firmly plugged, inside and out.

I expect most readers have experienced a desperate need for the toilet. This felt ten times worse. The plug, although physically preventing any evacuation, did nothing to diminish the urge.  Bent forwards there on the table, I was just beginning to wonder whether I should beg her to remove it when I was commanded to stand up and I discovered that the pressure feels even worse when the blocked exit is facing down, with all the weight of that liquid pressing down on it. For some reason, I couldn’t stand straight, I crouched before her with legs bent, gasping.

‘Please, please Matron Stern…’ I stammered, to be cut off with a hard slap to the face. ‘It’s not me you have to ask’, she informed me. ‘Go and ask Natalie’.

It is an indication of how hopelessly befuddled I was that I had no idea who she meant. But she indicated the door with a finger and I understood that – humiliatingly – I was going to have to ask the pretty young lady downstairs for permission to evacuate my distended bowels. I was fitted with a nappy – because, as she said Natalie was ‘not going to want to see that nasty little thing’ and also to prevent leaks, then the door was opened and I staggered slowly downstairs, feeling like I had a ten gallon sack sloshing around inside me.  She was reading a book, on a couch in the living room, and did not even look up as I made my way painfully over to her.

‘Please, Natalie, I’m to ask you…’ I began.

‘Miss Natalie’ she said off-handedly, not even looking up.

‘Please Miss Natalie’ I tried again, ‘could I please have your permission to go to the toilet?’

‘Number one or number two?’

‘Er… number 2, Miss.  I’ve been given an enema.’

She finally looked up, took in the shambolic sight in front of her apparently without the least surprise and frowned (she was pretty even when frowning).

‘Can’t you just fill your nappy?’.

I explained about the plug and she just nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. She pursed her lips, and I found myself praying desperately that this young lady who had so much power over me would exercise it mercifully.

‘Well… I don’t see why not’ she said after an agonisingly long wait. ‘But make me and Mum a cup of tea, first’ – and she indicated the kitchen I had passed when entering (when I was still an adult human being, with a modicum of self respect).

Making the teas was a torture, especially when I realised I had not yet asked how they each took it and had to stagger back to ask (both milky, sweeteners for Miss Natalie, one sugar for her Matron Mum). Once Natalie had received and doubtfully approved the tea, she asked, innocently ‘Now… what was it you wanted, again?’

Unable at this point to stop the tears, I gushingly pleased with her for permission to use the toilet and, with a dainty sigh, this request was granted. ‘But make sure you tell Mum that you didn’t call me Miss’.  I staggered back upstairs and delivered this news, along with the welcome permission to defecate.

There were no more delays, thank God (or rather, thank Matron Stern). I was soon sitting on the toilet, atop a jet of liquid… I would not have been surprised if I had been propelled upwards like a rocket, so powerful was the blast. Then it was time to discover that not calling her daughter ‘Miss’ (only once!) was the worst sin I had committed so far, deserving of a caning.  Thankfully, we must have been out of time, as after ten hard strokes, I was allowed to drag myself into the shower, then get dressed again and my medical examination was over.

Downstairs, Natalie was waiting with my coat and – once again – her lovely smile. She offered to call a taxi, but I simply needed to stagger out back into the real world.  I don’t know whether I was still supposed to call her ‘Miss’ or not, but it seemed prudent to do so, so I was very polite.

After all, I might go back for another dose, some day.

Yours sincerely

The English Patient

I have always been vaguely intrigued by weirdos like you who will pay to be mistreated. I have occasionally considered trying it, but I suspect the reality involves pandering to male fantasy, rather than simply indulging my more vicious instincts and also being paid for it. Also, I don’t own any ridiculous rubber clothing and have no desire to promote my services on the insides of telephone boxes. Fortunately, my husband has always provided very well for me and darling Lu, financially, if in no other way at all – indeed, he would hardly dare do otherwise. It is regrettable that you retain a choice as to whether to return to the tender mercies of ‘Matron Stern’ and her daughter, but I trust that if you do so you will pay them well. L. A.

Most Superior Lady

The Lady whose house I live in, whose husband I am, has instructed me to write to You as She thought You and Your readers might find an aspect of my subjugation amusing.

She was always the dominant partner in our relationship and soon after we got married, I was put most firmly in my place. Today I am Hers to command or ignore in all respects, having long ago had any insubordination beaten out of me and self-respect removed. There are many rules that must be followed in Her household but one is very simple: everything belongs to Her and must be referred to that way.

Thus, I clean Her floors, in Her house. I take Her clothes, to Her utility room, where I put some in Her washing machine, while handwashing the delicates on my knees on Her floor. In the evenings, after I put Her dinner on Her table and draw Her curtains over Her windows, I might put Her television on, if so instructed, or perhaps play some music on Her record player.

Although I am properly to consider myself Her property, however, She does not like me to refer to parts of my body or anything I wear as being Hers. She considers that demeaning. Thus it is my penis that is firmly locked inside my chastity belt, my knees and hands that hurt as I enter the third hour removing moss from between the flagstones of her garden path and of course my bottom that is soundly thrashed with one of her many implements of punition, with my skirt raised and my panties down.

There is of course one other area where ownership is entirely my own: faults. My mistakes, my laziness, my incompetence and my stupidity. These things are all my very own, as is the pain, discomfort and pleadings that inevitably follows.

My life, as the phrase has it – and welcome to it.

Sincerely Hers

Ladysboy

Nonsense, I don’t believe a word of it. Is this the sort of rubbish you are accustomed to receiving from the nasty little perverts who buy your magazine, Lu? Dear me. Still, I suppose it helps fill up the pages and they’ll buy it anyway, if it has pictures of ladies looking stern to help them get their little peepees hard. Try to write more coherently next time, ‘Ladysboy’ and perhaps drop the ridiculous capitalisation (you will have noticed that although I allowed the capitalisation of She and Her to be printed as you had written them, on this occasion, I could not bring myself to allow ‘i’ to be published). Oh – and should your name not contain an apostrophe? Better yet: don’t write at all. L.A.

Most respected Lady

I am writing to express my humble and deep admiration for the photo-story Traditional Values. This has been by far my favourite item you have ever published, as the account of poor young Alasdair’s fate at the hands of his strict aunts was so utterly unrelieved by images of sexy young ladies to compensate for his suffering with pleasurable thoughts. Instead, Alasdair must fetch and carry, scrub and scour, wash and iron – oh, and spend hours in the schoolroom as well – all under the eyes of two such pitiless old battleaxes.

Such relentless supervision! How I felt for poor Alasdair as he staggered downstairs to the laundry room with yet another double armful of incomprehensibly complicated old ladies’ undergarments! And when his big plans for his monthly Sunday afternoon ‘off’ were scuppered with an extra detention. It was not specified what the line was that the poor lad had to write but I like to imagine it was something like “Had I behaved better over this past month, I would be enjoying an afternoon off but instead I must sit here writing this line.” Or perhaps “I am most grateful to my aunts for the opportunity to learn self-control and discipline, rather than wasting an afternoon gadding about in the sunshine.”

I have little doubt that I myself would very quickly find a life under such domestic tyranny to be unbearable, but as a fantasy it exerts a strange fascination on my soul. I very much hope we will be able to read more about Alasdair’s travails and perhaps other accounts of young men being brought to book by stern, older females.

Boy, 47

You seem thoroughly confused, ‘boy’, which is no doubt a consequence of a thorough lack of the discipline you half-heartedly crave. Your letter speaks of humility and respect for females but you obviously regard ‘images of sexy young ladies’ as an opportunity for pleasure while describing their older kin as ‘battleaxes’. Well, boy, as a ‘battleaxe’ myself I can assure you that neither sexiness nor the act of sex itself ceases at any arbitrary threshold of age. I still enjoy a very active sex life with my husband, albeit one entirely focused on my sexual needs. I take a little longer than I used to, but with him tightly restrained on his knees between my legs, there is no hurry and I make use of a whip to ensure he maintains a steady pace with his tongue for as long as is required. So much better a use for that body part than speaking, a privilege he is rarely accorded these days. As for the difference between fantasy and reality, you are probably correct that you would find such an arrangement unbearable, but I have little doubt that you could easily enough be forced to ‘bear it’ nonetheless.

Should you ever send another letter to this magazine, it must be accompanied by 300 hand-written lines reading “I apologise profusely to the Editrices and readers of Empress magazine for my first letter, which I recognise was published only to make me ashamed to see my witless drivel in print. There is little to no chance this follow-up will be published, so in writing it and these lines I am merely wasting my time and making myself ridiculous.” L.A.

Most severe and magnificent Mistress

I am humbly writing to inform you of the ritual I follow when paying due obeisance to Your divine image, each time a new edition of Empress is published. I make sure I have an evening with no distractions, prepare myself with a tub of Vaseline and then I –

Oh no, I don’t think so. That’s quite enough from you, ‘acolyte’. Some things are best kept private, don’t you think? Or abandoned altogether in favour of healthier pursuits. L. A.

Dear Madame Editrix

Maternal domination may be the softer side of female domination but for my husband it is anything but! Having inherited a comfortable fortune, my husband Geoff was something of a playboy when we married. Alas for him, I soon got wind of his ‘playing away’ and, rather than divorce him, concocted a scheme with my mother to keep him from straying or indeed bothering me at all. He lives in an attic in her secluded house, thoroughly babified and without any contact with the outside world except occasionally to receive cheques or sign authorisations relating to the finances. We put it about that he is ill, poor dear.

He has had a rather dull life. Mum thinks that young men should not be over-stimulated, so with his hands permanently fastened in soft pink mittens, his arms and legs restrained, his mouth gagged with a tube that permits feeding him liquids and mush and of course, thick nappies, he can do little more than wriggle, and look around his room, which is almost entirely pink and features images of ducklings, bunnies and the like for his sole intellectual stimulation.

He made a bit of ineffectual fuss at first, as you might imagine, but Mum is strong and very determined and she put a stop to that. He is spanked once a week and gets the cane once a month, to keep him aware of who is boss, plus of course additional punishment if he ever manages to do anything naughty, although frankly he has very little opportunity to do so.

However much Geoff may have disliked his new life, however, it recently took a turn for the much, much worse. Mum occasionally goes out and, if she is planning to be out for a whole evening, Geoff needs a babysitter. Of course, he is safe enough upstairs and is often left trussed up for days with a nice big nappy firmly sealed inside tightly stretched rubber pants, a feeding tube and absolutely nothing to do except regret his miserable existence. Nonetheless, someone really ought to be around in case something happens, so I used to pop around and sit downstairs watching TV with a glass of wine, while Mum was out enjoying herself and Geoff was upstairs being miserable.

I say ‘used to’ because Mum found another babysitter when I was recently on holiday for a few weeks (sun, sea, sand and Sangria – and no question of taking Geoff, of course!). I returned to discover that Mum had found a nineteen year-old name of Rachel and was very happy with her. Of course, I panicked and immediately started quizzing her about whether Rachel could really be trusted to keep Geoff under strict control – what is she loosened his gag and was somehow persuaded to release him? Mum just laughed and said that should be the least of our worries – and that Rachel was coming around that evening and I’d see for myself.

Rachel turned out to be a slight and rather shy little thing with a blonde bob cut. I have to say, on meeting her, I felt that my fears were justified.  However, when we all went upstairs to where my dear husband was (of necessity) waiting, something happened to make me change my mind. Mum and I walked in first and as usual were greeted with the half pleading half apprehensive look from the neatly-bound package in the cot. But when Rachel walked in behind us, he began thrashing violently (if completely ineffectually) in his bonds and squealing plaintively into his gag.  His eyes were wide open in what I can only describe as terror and he was sweating and shaking in fear.

You see, sweet little Rachel turned out to be something of a sadist. Now, I am perfectly happy to see my husband in pain when need be and I think Mum rather enjoys whacking him… but Rachel’s interest in pain goes well beyond that. Let loose on my husband during my holiday, she had with Mum’s blessing amused herself with Mum’s cane, she applied bulldog clips to his ears, nipples and armpits (she had apparently been reluctant to open his nappy for access to his genitals) and she rubbed chilli powder up his nose and into his eyes. I suppose Geoff had assumed that the hours of agony he had spent with her had been a one off, so his horrified reaction was understandable. Assuring her that this time all was clean and dry inside his nappy, so she could play down there as well, Mum and I went back downstairs, to the accompaniment of stifled but obviously agonised shrieks.

And so I hope Geoff has come to appreciate his treatment by Mum and me. After all, for about 28 days most months, he is not under Rachel’s tender care, which must make him very happy, because the times she is there are hell on earth for him.  It is lovely to see his reaction when an evening with sweet Rachel is in store. Just this morning, I had a call from a friend suggesting a ‘girls’ night out’ next Thursday, which is Mum’s regular bridge night with her sister. I had to say I’d need to check I could get a babysitter, but alas Rachel wasn’t answering her phone so he spent the whole day not knowing whether he’ll be spending Thursday evening screaming or not. Fortunately, when I finally got through to her, she said she’d be delighted, so that’s settled. Such a relief to have a reliable babysitter!

In blissful supremacy

Irene

Dear me, it does sound as if young Rachel is going through a bit of a ‘phase’, as young ladies will. I remember being thoroughly worried when I found a cigarette lighter in my darling Lu’s room and confronted her about the evils of smoking – only to be laughingly shown the homemade branding irons she had cunningly fashioned out of paper clips stuck into corks, the clever thing. Just in case I had any lingering suspicions (which I did not, as I raised an honest girl), she showed me the little squirls she’d burnt into the flesh of whatever useless rag of a male she was seeing at the time. She was never a babysitter, though, which is just as well, as I think it wouldn’t have suited her. But in any case, she had plenty of money because she was blackmailing her head teacher. I remember this one time, she

Thanks Mum, that was brilliant! Let’s just leave it there! G-L. L.

Oh, is that enough, dear? It felt like I’d hardly got started. I was just about to tell the readers how you used to –

No, no: quite enough, thanks Mum. The filthy little perverts who buy the magazine don’t deserve any more of our attention. Now they have to wait another month. G-L. L.

Very well dear. Thank you so much for letting me contribute, I’d often wondered what you get up to here. And to you filthy perverts: no masturbating, now! I will know. We always do. L. A.

Sorely mistaken

She enjoys a good laugh – and a good ballbusting, too. Sometimes she likes to enjoy them both together but today she seems to be in a more serious frame of mind.
If you don’t even have to pay for Option B, then I reckon it’s the deal of the century. I pay hundreds of pounds an hour for that.
It’s a dilemma. I’m sure they’ll do the right thing, in the end.
Aren’t males disgusting? No wonder he’s not allowed in the house.
You should be brave and go first, even if it is a bit dark and eerie. Don’t worry: she’ll be right behind you.

With apologies to those readers who aren’t really cellar fans.

She has to deal with so much nonsense…. you can’t imagine.There are some very sick websites out there that will just make up all kinds of hurtful stuff with no basis in reality, especially about a big star like Ann(i)e.

Idol thoughts

Think of what a relief it must be, not to be in any danger of suffering one of those unwanted and embarassing erections during the shoot. It just helps keep things professional, as they should be (although not ‘professional’ in the sense she’s actually paying you, obviously).
Everyone laughed at me when I bet on him, but I think I could be making a lot of money here!
My SO says gags really suit me and I can’t argue with that.
I expect you never imagined a woman like that would ever take an interest in you, did you? But she is – very – and so are all her friends.
Of course, they vary it a bit. Today he had a nice big empty bowl of cereal for breakfast, nothing soup for lunch and he has a big juicy nothingburger to look forward to for dinner.
Some men think that women who dress provocatively are just asking for it – you can easily spot them, these days, as they’re the ones walking around in t-shirts reading “Please kick me in the balls.”

Prank-mags

Some more very bad attempts to create magazine covers. Just ignore me and I’ll probably stop doing this, out of embarassment, sooner or later.

AFM has already been mentioned in several captions in the blog, so I thought I’d give ‘readers’ a glimpse of what it looks like. Frankly, once you’ve seen one issue you’ve pretty much seen them all, I think, although remarkably it’s now in its seventeenth year of publication. It just goes to show, as I always like to say (when I can’t think of any other way of finishing a comment off).
They always have a celebrity interview but, like the divine Ms Kidman’s in this issue, it’s usually disappointingly short.
It’s a top-shelf magazine, of course, mainly so that laughably short sissies have to blushingly ask a big tall man (or, if they’re very lucky: woman) to reach it down for them.

Darling, it was positively savage!

To provide welcome relief from the brutal vulgarity of much of today’s femdom, here are some more Downton Domination captions, recalling a more elegant age when brutality was not so vulgar.

Taking on a governess just on the offchance that at some point you might have children might have seemed an unnecessary expenditure at the time, but actually it’s been the best decision she ever took.
Not yet, no.
If you can’t, I’m sure she can. Or you could ask Reynolds what she thinks, although her approach might be less refined, as she’s from a rough background.
Much more civilised.
A perfect place to engage in traditional country pursuits.
Of course she knows she’ll have to give him back eventually, but there’s no rush, is there? Anyway, they started it.*

* Yes they did, they invaded Poland.

Maintaining standards

HM SCHOOLS INSPECTORATE

Provisional report – provided for information, HMG circulation only

School inspected: Mrs Thwackbottom’s Boarding School for Naughty Boys

Date of inspection: 3 March 2024

Categorisation:

  • Type: private, unregistered
  • Age range: 34 – 78
  • Fee band: Highest (NB, fees paid daily)
  • Single sex / co-educational: Unclear (see notes below)

Summary scores:

  • Educational excellence: 2/10
  • Quality of facilities: 4/10
  • Pastoral care 4/10
  • Discipline: 10+/10

Background

The Inspectorate was made aware of the existence of Mrs Thwackbottom’s Boarding School for Naughty Boys (hereafter BSNB) only late last year. The legal status of the school is unclear, as is therefore the Inspectorate’s responsibility for the establishment. This report should therefore be considered provisional.

The school is based in a large nineteenth century house, in the London suburb of Streatham. Unusually, it caters only to adult pupils, most of whom are occasional visitors rather than enrolled full-time. The youngest pupil of whom we are aware is 34 years old, the oldest 78. Although advertised as a boarding school, in fact pupils rarely stay for longer than one night, although ocasional ‘long weekends’ are organised, as well as an annual week-long ‘summer school’ for the most eager learners.

The establishment’s single sex status is equally ambiguous. All the pupils our inspectors encountered were male, although about one third of them were considered ‘special girls’ by the school and dressed accordingly. Mrs Smackbottom, the headmistress (who prefers that gender-specific term to our standard ‘Head’) told us that female pupils would be very welcome, but that few women seemed to experience a need for the specific educational services she and her staff provide. One of the younger teachers (female, like all of the teaching staff) does appear to be registered as an occasional pupil, confusingly, but only in one-to-one classes with the Headmistress and only outside regular school hours. This activity features in a part of the school’s web site that can only be accessed by paying a subscription. Other young women do occasionally arrive as pupils but only in a prefectorial capacity – acting, in effect, as classroom assistants – and it was unclear to us what learning goals they themselves were set, if any.

Overall, the school applies a mixed learning environment, in which classes of different abilities and different ages are often taught multiple subjects within a single lesson. Expectations of pupils are relentlessly high, in that approximately 90% of the written work, oral answers in class and test scores appeared to be considered to fall far short of the required standard, resulting in pupils being disciplined for unacceptable work. Similarly, school behavioural rules are exceptionally complicated and it is rare for a pupil to complete a day’s attendance without finding himself in breach of at least one rule. Furthermore, some rules are ‘unwritten’.

Despite this challengingly low level of compliance, student discipline is very high at BSNB, perhaps as a result of the Headmistress’s vigorous emphasis on this aspect of the educational experience. Although some pupils arrive at school seemingly determined to break rules or ‘cheek’ the teachers, the thoroughly strict application of the school’s unusual disciplinary regime seems to instill an increasing desire to avoid further punishment as the school day progresses. The approach to discipline is old-fashioned and can best be described as ‘brutal’. We note that most of the techniques used are not only obsolete in every other school the Inspectorate has evaluated but would be clearly illegal if applied to children. However, all of the pupils are over 18 and have consented in writing to (indeed, typically requested) this harsh regime.

Lesson observation

Our inspectors observed a lesson conducted by ‘Miss Taylor’ (real name: Stacey Lewis, aged 23, with no apparent teaching qualifications, whose normal occupation was later discovered to be ‘glamour model’). There were seven pupils in the class, including three ‘special girls’. The class began with roll-call and a unform inspection, which exemplified the extreme complexity of the school rules mentioned above and the punctiliousness with which the school staff apply them. No fewer than four of the pupils were found to have committed the infractions of the uniform code and although these seemed to our inspectors to be minor (one boy with a tie knot fractionally too wide, a ‘special girl’ wearing the wrong shade of knickers etc), they nonethless resulted in a punishment tawse being applied to the miscreants’ palms. One other pupil received a similar punishment for ‘looking at Miss Taylor funny’ during this procedure. This seemingly arbitrary and brutal start set the tone for the rest of the lesson.

The subject was initially mathematics, but bizarrely shifted to geography halfway through (before concluding with a multi-disciplinary written exercise). Our inspectors have serious concerns about Miss Taylor’s expertise in either subject. Several ‘sums’ written up on the board (a traditional chalk blackboard – the whiteboard revolution, let alone modern AV techniques, not having reached Mrs Thwackbottom’s establishment) were incorrect as, later, were some of the city locations, spellings and pronounciations when Miss Taylor switched to geography. Our inspectors also found that Miss Taylor could benefit from refreshing her class engagement techniques as, far from seeking to develop and encourage a questionning and self-learning environment, her approach was based almost entirely on rote learning and a binary ‘right or wrong’ attitude: for example putting up a ‘sum’, challenging a pupil instantly to solve it, then applying the leather tawse, a wooden classroom ruler or simply the palm of her hand in violent retribution, should the response not be satisfactory. This approach was rendered particularly inappropriate in light of her own errors: on several occasions, pupils were beaten for having given what were clearly the correct answers.

This did not go unnoticed by the pupils themselves. Any sceptical or doubting look was usually met with a slap to the face, Miss Taylor emphasising that she was the teacher, usually accompanying the slap with coarse swear words. One pupil made the grave mistake of taking her to task for her errors in mathematics. He (or she – this was a ‘special girl’ in a gymslip) did so very politely, indeed his demeanour could be described as ‘cringing’ and ‘servile’. It did him no good. Miss Taylor, perhaps due to her lack of training as a teacher, did not attempt to maintain her composure but instead assaulted the poor pupil violently with slaps and even kicks (he was kneeling before her), then dispatched him to the Headmistress’s office for a caning. When he returned he was made to kiss her shoes in apology, which our Inspectors considered a questionnable practice.

In the meantime, perhaps taking the criticism more to heart than she had been prepared to admit, Miss Taylor switched the lesson to geography. Alas, her competence in this discipline was still less. The pupils were forced to memorise lists of cities and their associated countries, in which Vienna was held to be in Germany, Damascus in ‘Damaria’ and Cape Town in ‘Argentina or that long thin one next to it – Chilly’. Perhaps wisely, none of the pupils raised any objections to this. Eventually, Miss Taylor appeared to tire of the class and set them written work, which consisted of copying out pages from a textbook – or rather, different textbooks, as the pupils were all given different books on entirely different subjects. During this time, Miss Taylor either sat at her desk staring at her phone, or ocasionally wandered the classroom, administering blows with various implements for bad handwriting, apparent ‘smiling’ or just ‘having a stupid haircut’. When the bell rang for the end of class, Miss Taylor collected the written work, tore it all up and threw the pieces on the floor, instructing one of the pupils to remain behind and tidy them up. The educational value of this written exercise was therefore not apparent.

As noted in the summary section, what Miss Taylor’s class lacked in subject matter or educational technique, it more than made up for in discipline. Indeed, our Inspectors estimated that no less than about 40% of the class time was taken up with disciplinary action against one pupil or another. Furthermore, while the tirades, scolding and inevitable beatings handed out by Miss Taylor were being conducted, all of the other pupils stopped work and wateched intently. Thus, there was little time available actually for learning, except the learning – of which Miss Taylor several times declared herself a firm devotee – that can be imparted with a tawse or other punishment implement. However, given the inaccurate information Miss Taylor provided in the more conventionally educational sections of the lesson, perhaps this was no loss.

Catering

The food available for pupils at lunch can best be desribed as ‘traditional’. A rather fatty and gristly stew, accompanied by lumpy mashed potatos and boiled cabbage. Regretably, the meal had been prepared too far ahead of time, despite the lunch break beginning precisely on schedule, so it had gone cold by the time the pupils (in some cases gingerly) sat down on the hard wooden bench at the dining table. However, all managed to eat up everything on their plate, as this is apparently a school rule, and one that was supervised quite closely by Mrs Thwackbottom herself.

One of our inspectors pointed out that the vegetables in the meal had been boiled almost to oblivion and questioned whether a cold salad or some such would be healthier, as it would retain vitamins. Mrs Thwackbottom laughed and assured her that pupils regularly ate uncooked food – raw vegetables and suchlike – so possibly lunch on the day we observed was atypical.

The teaching staff took a pizza delivery order for their own lunch.

Physical Education

In the afternoon, another young (female) teacher, Miss Rylands (whose qualifications the Inspectorate were unable later to verify, not least because each one of her online ventures requires a subscription to view and she states that even ‘direct messages’ over social media will not receive a response unless accompanied by gift cards), took a physical education lesson. Like so many educational facilities in these straitened times, the school lacks a dedicated gym but furniture in the main classroom was pushed to the sides, and a mat laid down, providing adequate space for some simple exercises.

The pupils then changed into ‘gym kit’ of various kinds, closely supervised by Miss Rylands, who seemed not to be familiar with D of E guidance on promoting self esteem in pupils’ bodily image, as her comments both on the unfitness of the bodies revealed during the changing (and afterwards, as most gym outfits were distinctly skimpy), as well as more general comments on physical appearance seemed ill-judged, if her intention was to promote body-positivity feelings. Miss Rylands seemed particularly to hold the view that a small penis is to be disparaged, frequently making comparisons to her apparently well-endowed boyfriend. We believe this does not confirm to best practice. We would also like to take this opportunity to express our regrets on behalf of the female inspector who laughed apparently in response to one of Miss Rylands’ comments: she has assured an internal investigation that she was merely thinking about a funny cat video she had viewed the evening before.

The PE itself consisted mainly of simple in-place exercises: press-ups, star jumps and the like. Unsuprisingly, given the vast age range of the pupils, the requirements were tailored to each individual pupil’s needs, which is commendable, although in every case, our inspectors felt that the targets being set were perhaps a little too stretching, leading pupils to fail with the inevitable consequence – this time from a traditional and flexible rubber gym shoe (or ‘plimsole’, as one of the older inspectors affectionately called it) wielded by Ms Rylands. Ms Rylands did occasionally seek to employ her disciplinary techniques in a positive manner, for example by applying an upward stroke to the thighs to assist a pupil doing star-jumps. However, on other occasions she deliberately hindered the pupils in their task. For example, she often placed her foot on the back of pupils doing press-ups (or stood in such a position that they could not avoid their faces coming into contact with her shoes on the down-stroke) and casually kicked, slapped and tickled the entire row of pupils attempting to stand on one leg, until all failed. While we regard this approach as commendably challenging, one of our inspectors felt that it was unduly discouraging and attempted gently to remonstrate with Miss Rylands, to which she responded with a phrase that we will not reprint here and must record as being thoroughly inappropriate in a classroom environment.

We also have to note that Miss Rylands smoked several cigarettes during this session, obviously against Departmental guidelines (albeit arguably legal, as the the school may count as a private facility) and particularly inappropriate in a physical education lesson. Despite apparently being a habitual smoker, Miss Rylands had neglected to bring an ashtray with her and once again, it was the pupils who had to deal with the consequences of this lapse.

After about 45 minutes, Miss Rylands started to dismiss the pupils, oldest first. Each was instructed to stand with hands on head and nose touching the wall, while the younger (or rather, less elderly) pupils continued the P.E. lesson. Finally, all the pupils were in this position and Miss Rylands simply left the room abruptly. It was not obvious to our inspectors whether the class was at an end or not (and they did not believe it fair to ask any of the pupils for advice, given the likely consequences for the latter of breaking silence), so after a few embarassed minutes they quietly left too, to rejoin the staff in the staffroom, where Ms Rylands appeared to be drinking a can of beer and smoking yet another cigarette – thankfully, this time flicking her ash into a proper receptacle.

Rather than disturb her – as she had taken such vigorous exception to the earlier advice she had been offered – our inspectors quietly tidied their notes, while (presumably) the pupils stood in silence, noses against the wall, for about a half hour, before being dismissed for showers (cold, supervised) and to change back into their uniforms.

We would recommend that Miss Ryland’s teaching qualifications be revoked, should she possess any. We discussed her case briefly with Mrs Thwackbottom, who merely described her as a ‘mean girl’ and a ‘Class A bitch’ (we regret having to reproduce this sexist slur) – but noted that she made quite a lot of money out of it, several of the school’s pupils apparently seeking her guidance on financial and other matters outside school hours. We did not press the matter further.

Pastoral care

The last item on the timetable for the day turned out to be another classroom exercise, but this time in social skills and sexual health. Mrs Thwackbottom conducted the class with the two other teachers and was able to unite these two apparently unrelated topics, by expounding her view that ‘respect for women’ was being undermined by excessive self-abuse (masturbation) by males in society.

She appeared to hold this view very strongly, along with some perhaps less justfiable concerns about the moral and physical harm potentially caused by excessive masturbation. She expounded very vigorously on these points both in general and with specific reference to the pupils in the class, each of whose sexual history, in turn, was exposed and mocked.

The inspectors therefore found it very surprising when, despite this clearly-expressed opposition to masturbation, Mrs Thwackbottom finished this lesson by insisting on the pupils masturbating to orgasm then and there. Furthermore, during this surprising turn of events, the two other teachers held and stroked one another in blatantly sexualised ways while mocking the masturbating pupils in front of them.

One positive result was that, for the first time in the entire school day, each of the pupils managed to achieve the objectives set for them, albeit after some time for the older members of class (and in one case considerable attention paid to Miss Rylands’ shoes). As each reached the stage of ejaculation, Mrs Thwackbottom and her colleagues expressed profound disgust and mockery but – again, uniquely in our observation of the school’s approach – failed then to take any consequential disciplinary action against what they appeared to consider a filthy sin (albeit one ordered my Mrs Thwackbottom herself). Indeed, it was against those pupils who were slower to reach orgasm that disciplinary measures were threatened, Mrs Thwackbottom repeatedly tapping her cane manacingly against her thigh, or flexing it as if in readiness to administer a beating – but, for once, not carrying out any such brutal action.

Regardless of any opinion they might hold about her view on masturbation itself, therefore, the inspectors felt that Mrs Thwackbottom could try to be more consistent in the way she expresses it in class. Numerous studies have shown the importance of consistency and clear messaging when it comes to communicating moral and social advice in particular, and although the pupils in Mrs Thwackbottom’s class may well have left it feeling satisfied, they must alkso surely have been left somewhat confused about her ambiguous attitude to self-stimulated sexual activity.

More generally, the class itself and the school day then broke up in somewhat ragged style and again the inspectors noticed an inconstency of approach. Despite her consistently rigorous and strict approach throughout the day, Mrs Thwackbottom took on a distinctly informal tone as the day ended, even hugging two of the pupils once they had changed out of uniform and were preparing to take their leave. At the same time, the two teachers who had been close to engaging in a lesbian tryst seemed to lose interest in one another and instead went around gathering up their belongings. Once the last pupil had left, Mrs Thwackbottom collated the fees (which, most unusually, seem to have been payable in cash on the day, each pupil handing over an envelope before registration) and handed some out to the other teachers who then departed. At this point, our inspectors, too, made their excuses and left.

Personal note: Chief Schools Inspector to Special Advisor to the Ministry of Education. Hi Julie. Bit of a strange one, as you can see! Legal seem fairly confident that this is not actually an ‘Educational Establishment’ within the meaning of the Act, so it need not fall within our purview and this report could simply be deleted and forgotten, along with all of the related files. On the other hand, one of our inspectors discovered that the Minister himself occasionally attends the establishment. I must confess myself surprised he can find the time in all his onerous public duties for such continuous education but Mrs Thwackbottom (apparently under the impression we were something to do with HM Tax Inspectorate) insisted he was a regular and we should discuss the matter with him. So we wondered if after all, it might be of interest to forward this to the Department and perhaps even circulate more widely?

What do you think? I really can’t decide, not least because of worries over the continuing uncertainty over our budget for the next two years and especially the crucial issue of senior staff salaries. I do hope a ministerial decision on that will be forthcoming soon… I’m afraid the Minister’s homework on this one is well and truly overdue. Mrs Thwackbottom would not approve, of that I’m quite sure!

All best wishes

Rachel

Mrs Thwackbottom. Although both she and – a fortiori – her more junior staff often sport distinctly atypical modes of dress on school premises, Mrs Thwackbottom does seem to have a sentimental attachment to academic gowns.
One of the many (and least explicit) photographs of daily school life, from BSNB’s own web site. A brief perusal of this site satisfied our inspectors that no propsective pupil could be in doubt about the disciplinary regime to which he would be subjected. Considerably more material is available on the site, but this requires a monthly subscription, which Management decided would be unlikely to pass annual audit. The teachers featured here were not present on the day of inspection; indeed the school seems to employ a large number of teachers at different times, some of whom are apparently also enrolled as students (‘school prefects’). We feel this could imperil the consistency of pupil’s learning experience, although many of the main themes of instruction seem to be common regardless of which teacher leads a class or indeed what the academic subject of that class might notionally be.
Remarkably, the school boasts a very well-equipped medical clinic, although the qualified professional normally staffing it (“Matron”) was not present the day of our inspection so we were unable to assess the quality of medical care provided.
A classroom scene. The meagre stationery available to the pupil is sadly typical of the school, despite daily fee rates that are higher than some establishments would charge for a month.

Spankable moments

She will drink dairy milk at a pinch, but it saddens her to think of the cruety to animals it involves.
More and more businesses are setting up dedicated DS service units, because the improvement in male worker productivity is so evident. Skilled practitioners like Julie are therefore much in demand, but businesses can keep their dommes’ salaries to a manageable level by turning a blind eye to a bit of findomming senior male executives on the side.
This was much more practical than the later craze for ‘add ten lashes and pass the challenge on’ which quickly got out of hand.
She’s willing to listen, at least to the first two… maybe two and half sentences?
Poor thing. That’s the third boy being whipped as a result of her actions that she’s had to witness this term. She must feel awful.

The wonderful lady playing the schoolmistress here goes by the name Lady Tamara Kenworthy in the material that’s appropriate for the likes of us sub males to view (Samantha Alexandra when not, but you didn’t hear that from me). Tragically, she no longer does sessions with clients (if she ever did), as far as I can see, or I would be scurrying to her door as fast as my hands and knees could carry me. I can’t blame her, though – I wouldn’t want to meet me in person either. But it would be so nice to be blamed by her… for anything really. Sigh…

Sounds like a sensible way to resolve this. Just imagine… a similar dispute between two males could easily have ended in violence. It’s because women have more empathy.
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