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Like the 1980s called but, ummm… well, you can work it out.

The 1980s departed in a haze of big hair, phones and shoulder-pads to give way to… the 1990s! Woo! Out with Thatcher’s handbag, in with Major’s underpants (if you don’t know, don’t ask). And then Blair’s umm… whatever Blair had.

More importantly, for furtive habitués of Soho ‘bookshops’, the initially wonderful Mistress and Vixen magazines degenerated into rather derivative lower-quality colour versions (all of which can be bought from here, and I have obviously rebought even the later ones) but then…

No, not OWK, not yet, that came a little bit later, although still within the 1990s admittedly. No, I am speaking of course of Cruella and Goddess, from the magnificent Rogue-Hagen.

OK, technically I think Cruella started in the 1980s and Vixen continued into the 1990s. Femdom publication runs don’t conform precisely to decades, who knew? But I’m trying to convey the vibes here. 1990s… Cruellan vibes. Yay!

Colour photos! High production values (comparatively speaking). Actual dominatrices, sometimes! Really incredibly violent stories, often involving castration and death and other yummy things like that. Colour photos! Of beautiful dommes in very exciting (sometimes delightfully tacky) outfits! In colour! Here are some of the covers:

Cruella solely featured tales from a fantasy world of an outrageously vicious slave-owning femdom society. Goddess featured… well, outrageously vicious fantasy tales in a slightly more realistic setting. Victoria featured… Victoria, the lady above, what more need be said? And there were a couple of other titles.

All of these can be bought in downloadable PDF form from the originator himself, so why wouldn’t you? The price, you say? See that £10 on the covers above? £10 in 1995 is… £25, I reckon. And Andy’s selling them for about £20 apiece. Which, to help out any males struggling to think, faced with these images of awesome goddesses, is less… Find any other beloved item of cultural history of which that can be said.

So, right, anyway, any of you familiar with my ‘1980s called’ series of blatant rip-offs loving parodic homages to earlier femdom magazines, will know what’s coming now. I have taken the liberty of having a go at my own magazine, featuring tales set in a fantasy slave-owning femdom society, which with startling and un-sueable originality I have called ‘Tyrannia’. And then tried to find some more photos that are sort-of in the style of Cruella to go with them – but not actually photos from Cruella, obviously, or what would be the point of that?

Anyway, that’s what I did. Off we go, then.

EDITORIAL

Male filth!  You are holding in your sweaty, shaky hands the latest edition of Tyrannia, the magazine providing glimpses of the fate that awaits you when women take power!  The remaining patriarchal nations such as the United Kingdom censor all mention of the expanding realm of Tyrannia, where women live in the true freedom that only slave-holding can provide. However, although the ‘mainstream media’ pretend this paradise does not exist, aided and abetted by the false feminism that seeks a demeaning ‘equality’ between men and women, the authorities – being male – are too stupid to stop this magazine, masquerading as a fetish publication, from publishing the truth.

By all means, scum, treat this magazine as just another wank-mag, if you like.  But know that your days of liberty to masturbate – indeed, your liberty of any sort – are numbered. Tyrannian agents are quietly working everywhere in the so-called United Kingdom and other patriarchal pig-sties to bring this benighted country under proper matriarchal control. The secret drugs in your water that suppress healthy female ferocity and their natural desire to rule over males are being counteracted – have you not noticed women are more assertive than before? Do you imagine that will end with ‘equality’? Have you observed – and, doubtless, gained furtive sexual pleasure from – the increasing use of ‘fetishistic’ imagery in advertisements and music videos?  All of these signs should serve as a warning, or a promise, of what is to come.

Our superior technology allows the Tyrannian state to compile a database, recording male infractions and assigning a score to every male in the country. A woman phones one of her friends and complains about her overbearing boss: his record is updated. You buy a magazine that objectifies women, or go to a strip club – it is all noted and retribution will be extracted, believe me! You are watched, male and you will be judged. Everything you say and do carries the risk of one day being read back to you by a female with a cattle-prod in her hand and a whip at her belt, as you dangle from shackles in a Male Re-education Centre, desperately pleading for a mercy that will never be granted. Or as you are wheeled into the operating theatre, ankles fastened high and wide apart, to be ‘improved’.  Do not wait for the terror to arrive, male: feel it now.

You bought this magazine, so I imagine you find the thought of such treatment sexually exciting, you repulsive creature. But as you begin to think about the reality, perhaps you will start to feel terror… and even wonder whether there is anything you can do to avoid, or at least mitigate, this treatment? There can be no guarantees, of course. Even the most obedient, least-dislikable male could end up the property of a Tyrannian female whose favourite pastime is torture, in which case you cannot avoid the honour of spending your remaining life in agony for her pleasure.  But there are a few things you can do, even at this late hour, to be recorded in our computers as ‘harmless’ or even ‘subservient’. You will not avoid the whip, but you may be whipped less – a goal which, you will come to learn, is worth pursuing. Indeed, for males in the Tyrannian state it is a constant preoccupation.

‘How, oh Supreme Tyrannical Lady?’ you might respectfully ask, burying your face into the gravel before my boot as you do so.  There are many little acts of submission you can perform in your day-to-day life. Always leave a queue and move to the back if there is a woman behind you. Tip waitresses at least 100%.  Offer to do some of your female colleagues’ work and gradually build up until you are doing all of their work.  If a member of the superior sex deigns to notice these little courtesies, her approval may end up on your record.  But the most direct way of demonstrating your acceptance of your inferiority is to contribute financially by buying Tyrannian products.  Take out a subscription to this magazine – or five subscriptions, or ten. Buy the videos advertised on the inside back page. Send off for photosets, providing many more images of the awe-inspiring ladies featured here than we could fit into the magazine. In each case, you can merely pay the advertised price, but good boys will understand that it is more respectful to pay double or even ten times the asking price. Remember: good boys will probably be whipped less after the Tyrannian coup and it’s not as if ‘your’ money will belong to you then, in any event.

You bought this magazine and we know who you are.  I have graciously taken the trouble to inform you of a way in which you can be useful to me. Don’t be more of an idiot than your genitals already make you. Do not make the mistake of declining this chance.

Supreme Lady Davinia

Preparing for the Hunt

“Now, everyone gather round!” Huntmistress Suzanne called out.

The four ladies straightened up and moved into a rough circle around the lather-clad instructress.

“You’ve all done very well” she smiled.  “Let’s just practice each of the four moves – and this time you can use full force, don’t worry about damaging the practice dummies.”

She beckoned for one of the ‘dummies’ – actually a cowering, shivering male, blindfolded and with his flesh marked with multiple welts – to stand in front of the group and he shuffled nervously into position.

“Harriet, Lydia, left and right driving positions, please, Julia and Charlotte over there ready to capture.”

Two of the ladies took up position near the trembling slave, the others walked twenty yards across the courtyard.

The Huntmistress nodded. “Drive him towards position one, please.”

Harriet’s whip flicked out first and the dummy cringed away, then scrambled to the side., It was plain he had no idea which way he was supposed to go – which was exactly as it should be.  The whips alone should determine his direction.

Harriet flicked again harder and the dummy lurched away in panic, to be met with a savage swipe to the wide from Lydia, forcing him to change direction.  A few lashes later and the idiot was finally headed in the right direction, a fact confirmed by the near-simultaneous lashes was receiving from both drivers.  Finally he crashed into the wall and fell to the ground.

“Good” the Huntmistress called.  “Now, over to the capture zone.”

A single crack of the tip of Lydia’s whip between his legs was enough to send the dummy scrambling to his feet and after a few guiding lashes, he was stumbling towards the other two trainees. Their driving whips were coiled on their belts, instead they each held long, thin single-tails with lead shot embedded in the tips.

“Charlotte take the neck, please, then Julia on the ankles.”

Charlotte’s whip snaked out and whirred around the dummy’s neck, the lead shot snapping tightly into the flesh and forcing a choked-off-gasp from the dummy.  She pulled tight and he was caught.  Then Julia’s whip whirred out too, but her aim was a little off and the lash flailed madly around the dummy’s lower legs, finishing with the lead shot cracking hard against his shin.  The dummy tried to scream but the whip clasping his neck prevented it and he began to turn purple.  Julia cursed, tugged to disentangle her whip and was about to lash straight out again, when the Huntmistress cautioned her.

“Don’t rush into it… take your time to prepare the stroke .”

Blushing in anger and humiliation, the angry trainee forced herself to check her grip, her stance and her angle to the target, before lashing out again and this time bringing the dummy down, his welted ankles firmly grasped in the whip’s leathern embrace.

“Good.” The Huntmistress pronounced. “Free whip play, everyone, as long as you like – and you can take the blindfold off if you prefer.”  The two capturers dropped their whips, the ends of which remained coiled around the helpless dummy’s neck and ankles, and unhooked their driver whips, as Harriet leaned over to jerk off the blindfold.

The dummy’s tear-filled eyes and cheeks were exposed to the bright light of the training ground and he blurrily saw, for the first time, the faces of his four tormentors. There was little mercy to be seen in them: Lydia was smiling in cold amusement, Julia’s jaw was clenched in cold fury and the other two were seemingly intent only on their technique, as they measured their whips between their hands and adjusted their stance.  Soon four whips were raining lashes on the helpless, bound form, whose sobs and pleading became fainter as his flesh became a mass of bloody welts. Soon only Julia was still thrashing away, at the almost unconscious form, until she was stopped by the Huntmistress.

“Enough, my dear.”

“Are we leaving him alive, then?”, Julia asked, confused.

“One more thing to show you before we head out to feral country.” The Huntmistress replied.  She produced a small remote control from her belt.  “You’ll each have one of these – for defence in case any of those ferals gets ideas about making it a fair fight.  It’s a kill switch. You see?  Orange for incapacitating, red for emergency.  Would you like to try, dear?”

She handed it to Julia, and gestured for the others to stand back.

“Now, my dear, in your own time – “ she began, but Julia had already put a booted foot out onto the slave’s neck to gain his attention. Woozily he looked up and met her eyes.  She smiled and pressed the orange button.

There was a rather unimpressive and squelchy ‘pop’, accompanied by an almost immediate scream from the slave.  Julia looked down in confusion, to see a mass of bloodied flesh between his legs where his genitals had been.  Her boots were splattered and she tutted in annoyance.

“Very good!  And step all the way back before you – “ called out the Huntmistress but Julia had been wishing this slave’s death ever since she had been humiliated by failing to lasso his ankles, and she savagely mashed the red button down while still standing next to the writhing, screaming form.  There was a much louder squishy explosion and Julia was splattered from top to bottom in dead slave.

The others hooted with laughter as the Huntmistress bit off her advice.  Julia was quite a sight, her riding breeches ruined as various unidentifiable pieces of meat fell off the material, leaving rich, bloody red stains.  Far from being humiliated she smiled viciously and took a long, happy lick at her sleeve.

“Yes, well… kill switch, as I said.” the Huntmistress continued.  “All the ferals are fitted with genital and full-body explosives, so we’ll be in no danger of anything except a… “ she gestured vaguely at Julia.

“Unexpected course of steak tartare?” Julia grinned back.  “I love my meat raw.”

The Huntmistress smiled and nodded.  “I think you’re all ready.  Enjoy your evening – we ride out at dawn.”

“You!” she gestured to a collared and shackled male, cowering by the wall. “Clean this mess up.”

So the four trainees and their instructress strode off, leaving the slave to gather up the bloodied bits of pieces. Despite what Julia had said, the bucket of bloody slops he steadily filled up was not destined for the kitchens – the camp had a rule that only hunted ferals could be roasted and eaten – but rather for the hunting dogs, who had smelt the fresh meat and were baying excitedly.  By chance, the slave gathering shredded body parts knew them to be the remains of his brother, a fact of which the Huntmistress had been quite ignorant when she ordered him to clean up the mess, but the misery he was suffering as he gathered the disgusting scraps for the dogs to fight over would have brought joy to her sadistic heart had she known.

And so night fell over the camp. In the woods beyond, shivering male ferals heard the baying of the hounds and the music from the budding huntresses gathered around the camp-fire. Hungry, the males dared not stray too far from the camp, waiting for the food they knew would be put out for them an hour before the dawn. The hunt would be on the next day; they knew that too. Each made his plan: some to run through difficult terrain, others to try to conceal their scent from the hounds in water then hide, still others to watch the hunting party from as close as they dared, to try to work their way around it.  But each knew deep in his heart that his only hope lay in the huntresses’ blood-lust being satisfied by capturing another male, so there was no camaraderie in the face of the Tyrannian terror that awaited them in the morning.

Cages Do Furnish a Room

Tyrannian homes are furnished with comfort in mind, rather than ostentation. Specifically, the comfort of the lady or ladies of the house and the discomfort of any male property.  Cages have a special role to play in making a Tyrannian house a real home and most have several. Sure, a male’s movements can be effectively constrained with a chain and a well-attached ring, and almost all Tyrannian rooms are fitted with several to ensure males can be positioned wherever they are most useful, but there is something appropriately dehumanising about being shut in a cage with no means of escape, exposed to the view of the outside world.

Tyrannians have devised many keyless methods for locking cages, of which the simplest is a latch behind a solid steel panel or fine mesh, sized to prevent questing fingers from inside reaching it.  Some citizens prefer keys, however, as there is something quite pleasurable about the finality of the locking sound, especially with multiple locks. A Tyrannian lady of our acquaintance takes this to some extremes, securing any male due for torture in a triple-locked cage, in a locked box, in a room with a lockable grill and solid steel door. The succession of slow, clunky unlocking sounds as she comes to take the unfortunate creature to its place of agony adds delightfully to its terror, she claims.

Cages come in many shapes and sizes.  Any decent furniture shop will happily take the measurements of your slave to advise on the perfect minimum size into which he can just squeeze, although some possibility of ‘give’ is recommended for cage time beyond six hours, if the mistress needs her slave to retain the ability to walk and use its arms after release.  There are some fanciful shapes as well, such as bird-cage complete with little perch, on which the slave can be secured to sing sweetly for the amusement of ladies in the vicinity. The ‘hamster wheel’ is also popular, whether in its unpowered version in which the slave must trot merrily along to keep it in motion, or the version with an electric motor in which the slave can relax and let the engine do the work, either running frantically to keep up or simply being tumbled and bashed against the endlessly-turning bars for hours at a time. The smaller model of this latter device is sometimes called the tumble dryer, although mistresses keen to have their slaves experience life as a load of laundry would be better advised to invest in an industrial-sized washer with spin settings.

Cages can be located anywhere in the house, from a discreet cage concealed at the back of a drinks cabinet, through to entire floors designed as prisons, with cells and isolation cages of different kinds throughout. Most ladies, except the stricter lesbians, will have one or more cages in their bedrooms and indeed many Tyrannian beds come with cages underneath, often combined with a layer of spikes on the lower surface of the mattress, for the caged occupant to appreciate better any activities taking place above him.  Below-ground cages also have their uses, especially the ‘oubliette’ kind, which are often installed by more environmentally-conscious citizens for garbage disposal, or plumbed in beneath toilets.

Regrettably, thoughts of hygiene cannot be avoided in cage choice and placement, since males are filthy creatures who somehow always manage to start smelling even in a perfectly sterile environment, with no one shitting on their faces. Oubliettes intended purely for garbage disposal can simply be positioned far from the house, but usually any cage which will accommodate a male for anything more than a few hours needs to be equipped with a drain, so an adjacent high-pressure hose can be used to blast any dirt off the cage floor and off the filthy creature shivering inside it.  Water coolers, similar to those used for male cold showers, are quite cheap these days, and most cage manufacturers recommend hosing down at high pressure with water at no more than a degree or two above freezing every day. Long-stay cages can be fitted with automatic systems for this, going off either on a regular cycle, or at random times.

Finally, the centrepiece of any Tyrannian house, the punishment room, will almost always contain one or more cages affording a view of the contents. Punishment for Tyrannians is not merely a matter of household management or sexual pleasure but an art form and most citizens put great thought into designing the room in which they will express their artistry in the form of pain.  Often soundproofed – no one minds the sound of a male screaming but there is something intimate in the slave knowing that there is no one other than the lady present inflicting his tortures who knows or cares about his agony – the room usually contains a couch or bed but is otherwise furnished solely with means of torturing males or holding them in the perfect positions in which to do so. A cage there will often afford a three hundred and sixty degree view, so the occupant can spend his time gazing out at all the implements and devices awaiting him.  He will know that everything – every single item he can see, as well as those he cannot – was made, bought and placed here for one purpose only: to hurt him as much as possible.

After hours – or days or weeks – of waiting, his mistress will finally come and might busy herself laying out the straps and buckles on the whipping block over which he will be secured, perhaps choosing a few favoured implements to have immediately to hand and checking the charges on any battery-powered toys she plans to use. One Tyrannian lady of my acquaintance likes to set out nothing but a single cattle prod but then make sure her victim watches her set two batteries charging. She leaves at that point and switches the light off, so the slave can see nothing except the steady progress of two little sets of blinking lights, gradually coming on over about four hours until both show the full five bars of charge.  He can guess that by the time she is finished, both will be fully drained again! Terrified, he will doubtless shrink back into his cage when finally she returns and opens its door – as if he might escape his fate!

Ladies beginning to explore the Tyrannian lifestyle in patriarchal countries should consider investing in a good strong cage. A few hours a day of cage time can provide the perfect easy introduction to the male lifestyle under Tyrannian rule. Males growing up under patriarchy will have developed all sorts of inappropriate habits, such as wandering around without permission, choosing what and when to eat and expecting some privacy at times.  Daily cage time can help him get used to a life without such amenities, especially if it builds steadily up and reaches the point at which the cage becomes the norm. Then it is no longer a matter of telling your male why he is going into the cage, as of letting him out only for specific reasons. This is an excellent preparation for his life under Tyrannian rule, in which nothing will ever be allowed him except by the express generosity of his superior. Of course, most well-trained males in Tyrannia do not need to be enclosed in iron bars in order to stay perfectly still, shivering in terror. Iron bars do not a prison make as the saying has it and it is fun to construct a brutal prison in a slave’s own mind. But a caged male is a delight: a vulnerable victim, to be dragged out for torture, abandoned to starve to death or simply kept for purposes yet to be decided. Cage him, you won’t regret it but he certainly will.

Holiday For a Lifetime

The stewardess came back and handed Sophie a menu.

“I can recommend the smoked salmon” she smiled. 

“Yes… yes I’ll have that.” Sophie replied, after casting her eyes over the page. “And do you also do food for – ?“

“The male menu is on the back page” the stewardess replied, as Sophie turned to it and studied it intently. Martin could just make out some of the text out of the corner of his eye: it began with “Pleasant male food” and finished with “Foul male food.”

“Hmmm” Sophie tapped her fingers on the menu.  “I think he’ll just have the Tasteless Male Food – vegetarian. Probably best not to overtax his stomach, as he’s feeling a little anxious.”

In fact, no food was brought for Martin for a long time, as the custom was evidently for a male to be fed only after his Responsible Female. Eventually Sophie had finished sipping her coffee and enjoying the chocolates, and she nodded when the stewardess asked if she was ready for her male to be fed.

A thick plastic tube, labelled “Tasteless Male Food – vegetarian” was produced and with an expert twist of her wrist, the stewardess inserted it into Martin’s gag and clicked it into place.

“May I?” she asked.

“Be my guest” giggled Sophie, eager to watch the procedure.

The stewardess leaned over and firmly pressed her thumb into the bottom of the tube.  Immediately, a bland, tasteless mush of some kind of stewed vegetables began extruding into Martin’s mouth. The stewardess maintained a steady pressure and Martin had to gulp to avoid choking but eventually he managed to get it all down and the stewardess deftly unclipped the tube, quickly cleaned around his mouth with a stinging antiseptic cloth and Martin’s meal was over. It had taken less than a minute.

Later, a male on the other side of the aisle, eyes bulging, was fed some of the ‘Foul’ variety. His face took on an expression of the most appalled disgust as the same firm thumb-pressure ensured the presumably noxious contents were forced into his mouth. He gagged several times but eventually succeeded in getting it down. After unclipping the tube, though the stewardess was taking no chances and quickly threw a large, transparent plastic hood over his head, sealing it tightly around his neck.

“In case he’s sick” she explained to the amused Sophie. “The hood contains enough air to see him safely into the terminal building, where our ground slaves will clean him up.”

Impressively, the slave managed not to threw up any of his revolting meal, but condensation inside the hood obscured his face by the time the plane was landing, and his breathing was evidently becoming difficult. 

At the passport control booth, the severely-uniformed young woman was not interested in Martin’s passport.

“He can enter on yours, Ma’am, as his Responsible Female. You can bring up to twelve males into the country without any kind of paperwork.”

She stamped the passport, then indicated an oval hole on her perspex screen.

“Just put his face there, please.”

Sophie pushed Martin’s gagged face forward until it nestled against the edges of the hole and the passport officer took up a big rubber stamp and pressed it firmly against his forehead, wiggling it slightly to ensure a solid print.

“The ink lasts about six weeks; if he stays longer than that he’ll need a tattoo.” She said.  “Enjoy your stay in The Tyrannian Dominion, Ma’am. Hope he hates every moment. Next!”

They only had a short wait in the baggage hall for their checked luggage.  The system was essentially the same as any airport, except that males pulling little carts around and around replaced the usual conveyor belts.  Martin, realising that any manual labour was his department, now and for the remainder of the holiday, quickly identified their bags, loaded them onto a trolley and – after a little confusion, as the trolley had a harness at the front instead of the usual handle at the back, trotted off through customs, where Martin was relieved not to be selected for one of the internal searches in which the rubber glove-clad customs officers seemed to specialise.

They were met by a smiling hotel representative, accompanied by two burly males wearing steel collars with discretely flashing LED lights.  She led the party out to a waiting minivan, where one of the males loaded the luggage into the back, and the other – in a swift movement that took Martin by surprise, picked him up, flipped him over, and secured him hanging from his ankles in the luggage space. The door slammed shut and Martin was left hanging in darkness, just one more piece of Sophie’s property to be transported.

He was relieved when, after what must have been a fifteen minute drive, the door opened and hairy male arms reached in for the luggage.

“Is this going as well?” he heard a female voice ask.

“No” replied another. “It’s booked in the Holiday Camp. Take it over to Male Reception.”

“Have I time for a coffee first?  I’ve been working almost two hours straight.”

“Sure. He’s not going anywhere is he?”

And with that, the hatch slammed shut leaving Martin in darkness once again.

Some time later, the van started up and another five minutes’ swaying and bumping took Martin to what he presumed to be the ‘holiday camp’.  To his surprise, instead of being unhooked, the entire rack from which he had been hanging simply slid out of the van and he was trundled across a muddy space, then left hanging by a concrete wall.  Eventually a pair of boots appeared in front of his face, and he craned his face up to see a jodhpur-clad figure busying herself with a clipboard.

“Err… I’m sorry, Miss, but where’s my wife?”

The figure looked down and he felt a stab or terror but she seemed more amused than angered by this impertinence.

“Well, she’s not here, is she? We wouldn’t want to greet our guests in this shithole.”

There was indeed a slight smell of manure, or worse.

“You’re booked in for fourteen days hard labour, no guest contact.  I suppose she might be able to see you from her hotel window, in the distance.”  She started attaching shackles to Martin’s ankles.

“But… but there must be some mistake.”

This time the lady did look annoyed and she frowned, as she clicked a steel device tightly around Martin’s cock and balls.  He noticed a small light flashing, just like those on the luggage slaves.

“Mistake?  No… no males were involved in any of the decisions, so there’s no chance of a mistake.”

She leaned down and clipped a similar device around his neck.

“Unless you’re suggesting… a female made a mistake?”

“Oh, no, no” Martin gibbered, suddenly realising the danger he was in. I’m sorry, I – “

“You will be” she said casually, pressing a button on a device dangling from her waist.  And Martin’s world exploded in pain, with rapid sequences of violent shocks ascending then descending then ascending again, in both his genitals and his neck. She kicked him, hard, in the face.

“Mistake indeed” he heard her mutter over his screams, as she walked away from the frantically-writhing, bucking body.

Later – much later – she returned, the pain magically, blissfully ceased, and Martin’s ankles were released, leaving him to collapse on the muddy ground. He was picked up by another slave and roughly dumped into a concrete cell, whose only amenities were a thin mattress and a small hole at the bottom of a gently-sloping floor. Martin shivered all night, before his shock devices went off just before dawn, to start the first full day of his holiday.

Three days later

Martin had half expected fourteen days of field labour on a chain gang but instead to his surprise, his days were filled with what could be described as holiday-themed activities – albeit with an Tyrannian twist.  He supposed Sophie must have selected that – as no one spoke to him except to provide curt orders and he asked no questions, he did not find out. 

Each night, collapsing exhausted onto his thin mattress, Martin would see a list headed “Tomorrow’s Activities”. He quickly learned that even the most pleasant-sounding were anything but. ‘Building sandcastles’, for example, involved backbreaking work with short-handled spades and buckets yoked around male necks, as five Tyrannian ‘Holiday Camp Supervisors’ competed for who could build the most impressive construction on the beach. After five backbreaking hours under the afternoon sun, the five monuments to female power that had been erected on the beach were quite impressive, even before the addition of the little Tyrannia Dominion flags atop each one.  It was heartbreaking, in the bar at sunset, to watch the hours of labour being washed away by the sea, although the ladies – their feet up on sunburnt backs – seemed to find it rather pretty.

Other activities were less predictable. ‘Paddle Boarding’ for instance, meant lying across a board and being hit with a paddle, while ‘Poolercise’ involved hours of physical activity in a swimming pool base without water.  For ‘Quiz night’, males were strapped across whipping benches and questioned about details of their Supervisors and their attire.  When Martin was asked how many eyeholes there were in Supreme Goddess Eleanor’s favourite white boots, he guessed fourteen on each boot – which by pure chance turned out to be right.  So furious was his questioner at this unjustified luck, that she gave him a furious beating for ‘bloody cheek!’.

Martin had assumed that he and his fellow males would be the ponies for ‘pony trekking’ but instead they were chained in groups of three behind a proper horse, for a day’s stumbling and staggering over the hot hills, with only the task of occasionally pausing to scoop up a horse’s shit and place it in a bucket around one’s neck, to break the monotony. One afternoon was designated as ‘free time’ but Martin had been there too long by that stage to imagine that any break was involved, and ended up quite relieved merely to be tightly hog-tied and left for the afternoon in the sun; his supervisor departing with a cheery ‘Do whatever you like!’.

The end of the holiday

At the end of two weeks, Martin – fitter, leaner and more fearful than he had ever been in his life – was desperately praying he had not miscounted the days.  His holiday stay had convinced him, once and for all, that his fantasies and real life were best not mixed. All his life he had dreamt of meeting a cruel, sadistic lady; having spent two weeks constantly aware of being in range of the remote shock controllers wielded by such people (and often within range of their whips or kicks), he had decided that this was a life that should stay firmly between the pages of porn magazines. Thank God it was nearly over.

Meanwhile, checking out of her luxurious hotel, Sophie was chatting to a lawyer, on a comfortable chair in the lobby as the hotel staff supervised the loading of her luggage. The lawyer’s secretary, kneeling on the floor beside them, was taking frantic notes as he tried to keep up with the conversation.

“… and we can transfer some of the value from the sale of your house, but I’m afraid there are a lot of restrictions on exchanging patriarchal currency for Tyrannian femcoins” the lawyer was explaining.  “So when your citizen application goes through, you’ll initially have little access to liquid funds, although of course the government will provide you with free housing, food and an allowance, as a female immigrant. It would help if you already owned some assets here in Tyrannia.”

“I don’t think I have any…” Sophie replied.  “Just my luggage here, really – we only came for a holiday, we didn’t expect to stay.”

“We?” queried the lawyer. “I thought you were on your own.”

“My husband. He’s in the Male Camp.”

“Oh, well there you, then. A young male, fully functional… you can just put him up for auction and you’ll have some ready funds for your arrival. As an import from a patriarchal country, he should command a premium. Sadistic citizens particularly enjoy them, as they struggle and plead so much more than domestic livestock.  I can arrange the sale… unless he’s of some kind of sentimental importance to you?”

“Mmm… no, not really.” Sophie replied, taking the pen the lawyer’s assistant was humbly offering her. The assistant then scooted around and presented his back to her, barely gasping as the lawyer stapled a document to it.

“I just sign here, do I?”

“That’s right.” The lawyer replied. “We’ll aim for a quick sale and the funds should be in your account within a week.  Do you, erm… want to see him one last time? Just to explain what’s about to happen?”

Sophie paused. It did seem a little unfair not to even give him the courtesy of saying goodbye. But then, she reflected, unfairness was one of the founding principles of the Tyrannian state, to which she would shortly be pledging allegiance. She suspected the lawyer was testing her. What would a true Tyrannian say?

“No, I expect the idiot will work it out for himself eventually” she replied, casually. “But I hope they can pretend he’s going back home as long as possible, to ramp up the disappointment and terror he feels when he learns the truth? I’d hate for him not to suffer.”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to” beamed the lawyer.  “Sign here as well, please.”

Collaborator!

“Now you have to promise not to interrupt, OK? This is very important – matters of state.”

“Oh, I know you’re a big, important girl in the occupation forces.” Anna giggled, giving her friend a hug.  “What’s the matter – are you afraid I might object to the brutality you’re going to inflict on this patriarchal scumbag?”

“Not at all – quite the reverse, actually.” Iris replied, mysteriously.  “Look… Tyrannian forces have been in full control of this country for only four months, right?  The female citizens are still getting used to their newfound freedom to oppress their former fellow-citizens – some of them even still believe in male equality.”

Neither lady could escape blanching at this nauseating thought.

“And there are feral male guerillas in the mountains, as well males at large who may pretend to follow orders but still don’t accept their place and its permanence… so we’ve started a little hearts and minds operation.”

“Hearts and minds?” Anna replied, confused. “I thought the idea is to grab them by the bollocks and their hearts and minds will follow.”

“We do that too.  And we won’t be nice forever. But just for now, we’re encouraging a little male submissive political movement, to explain to their fellow-countrymen that they have nothing to fear from their new overladies.”

This time Anna snorted out loud. “Nothing to fear? Are even males stupid enough to believe that?”

“A few. Enough to make it worthwhile. And the longer they can believe that, the better.  So if you want to see what we do in here, you need to make nice, like me, OK?”

Make nice.  With males.  Anna did not really believe her friend capable of it, but she nodded.

“Oh and one more thing” Iris added. “We have to wear special clothing.”

“Clothing?”

But Iris was already leading her through a door marked ‘changing rooms’.  There, Anna was presented with some little black latex shorts, a strappy top, stockings and unfeasibly high-heeled boots.

The clothing was not entirely different from traditional Tyrannian attire, at least in summer, but the shorts were clammily tight, rather than the comfortable soft leather Anna usually wore, the boots were just a little too high-heeled, too pointy and they had to be laced so far up that she took five minutes just getting into them… and everything seemed strangely tacky, designed for show rather than for comfort.

“You’re lucky” Iris said, as she watched her friend take some uncomfortable steps in her new outfit, teetering as she got used to the high heels.  “Sometimes we wear corsets. Horrible things.”

“I can still have my riding crop?”

“Yes, but take this as well”, Iris said holding out a coiled bullwhip for Anna to attach to her belt.

Anna took it in silence. She enjoyed bullwhipping but she was surprised that these low buildings contained a space large enough to use it. She wondered if there was an outside whipping-yard.

“Just for show” Iris added. “Don’t you dare use it – or your crop, unless I tell you.  And then only like me.”

She led the way out of the changing room, down a corridor lined with posters with phrases such as “A living submissive is a useful submissive”, “Respect limits” and, most mystifying of all “Remember: loving female domination”.  Anna did love female domination, but she sensed that this was not what the slogan meant.

Iris stopped in front of a door labelled “Co-operative author 16A – billy bootlicker”.

“Follow my lead” she hissed and opened the door.

Inside was a reasonably comfortable-looking room.  A male, wearing nothing but shorts and a collar, Anna noticed (relieved that he was at least not decked out in illegal patriarchal trousers), was busy tapping away on a typewriter. When he saw the two ladies enter, he immediately got up, walked towards them in none too servile a fashion, then dropped to his knees, his face to the floor just before Iris’s boot.

“Uh uh… wait for the command, bootlicker!” Iris snapped.  The male remained in position, breathing heavily.  His eyes were darting about, observing the two pairs of shiny boots on the wooden floor of his room.

“Very well, maggot, you may greet me properly.”

“Thank you, Goddess Iris!” the male gasped and lunged forward to cover the tip of one of her boots with kisses.

“Harder” said Iris. “I want to feel those kisses of adoration through the leather.” The man pressed his lips more firmly, making loud smacking sounds as he did so.

“And the other one, filth” Iris murmured, steering him towards her other boot with the tip of her crop pressing firmly against his ear.

“This is Lady Anna” she went on, as the male went through this same kissing and lip-smacking routine on her other boot.  “Would you like this piece of shit to show you respect, Lady Anna?” And as she said this, she quietly shook her head ‘No!’

“No, I don’t think so” Anna replied dutifully.

“Quite right.  That’s a privilege that needs to be earned – isn’t it, bootlicker?”

“Yes, Goddess Iris, oh yes.” The man agreed. “I hope I will have the honour to be of service to Lady Anna, too.”

“Maybe…  But you’ll have to work hard for that particular privilege.”

“Oh, thank you, Goddess Iris, I’ve been working ever so hard” the man gabbled.

“Show me”

The man got up from the floor – without, Anna noted, any order or permission to do so (but although her grip tightened reflexively on her crop, she did nothing about it).  He went over to a tray full of stapled, typed manuscripts and started to pull them out.

“This one is an explanation of the delights of household service, Goddess, all about how much less stressful it is to be a kept house-husband, than to have to go out to work.  And here’s a newspaper article about how male arrogance damaged the environment before Tyrannian science began to put things right.”

Anna approved of that. She had been horrified to see so many petrol vehicles in the streets of the newly-conquered capital, even though most these days stood idle as naked males pulled citizens along in more environmentally-friendly carriages and carts .

“And some short stories… mainly science fiction.  All featuring female dominant heroines, of course, Goddess.”

“Hmm…” Iris said, picking up[ one of these.  “Respectful and positive in tone throughout, I hope?  These are to be published in ‘femdom’ wank mags in the unconquered territories, after all.  Kept it all sexy, I hope?”

“Oh yes, Goddess, very sexy” Billy agreed.  He stole a longing glance at Anna’s boots, which were beginning to pinch her feet horribly.

“Rather a lot about boots in this one, slave” Iris said, her eyes narrowing as she read.  “I thought I’d told you to have less of that – not everyone shares your pathetic obsession, you know.”

“Actually Goddess, I think quite a lot of submissive males are into boots, so – ” began the slave.

Anna raised her crop and strode forward, catching herself just in time to avoid delivering a savage blow right across this slave’s stupid face.  This male had contradicted a female! She remembered herself just in time to avoid delivering a disfiguring, cheek-splitting blow.

“Quite right, Lady Anna” Iris remarked, glancing at her.  “Writing this ridiculous piece of… boot-fetishist wankery goes directly against my explicit orders!  How dare you! Bend over that bench: at once!”

“Of course, Goddess Iris” the male muttered, and shuffled into position, thrusting his arse out towards them.

“You’re lucky I’m not giving you this on the bare!” snarled Iris and… tapped the leather-clad backside with her crop, just hard enough to make a cracking sound.

“Ouch! One thank you, Goddess Iris.”

“You’ll get twelve” snapped Iris. She gave a ‘what can you do?’ shrug at her friend, feigned a yawn than tapped him again.

“Two thank you, Goddess Iris!” gasped the male.  He actually seemed to think he was in some pain.

At tap number seven, billy howled, grabbed his bum and – to Anna’s amazement – stood up from the bench and went hopping around the room.

“Back over the bench!” snapped Iris “You’ll get an extra two for that!”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Goddess Iris!  I couldn’t help it!”

”I hope you’re not expecting mercy, slave, because you don’t deserve any!” Iris replied, delivering tap number eight distinctly less vigorously than the previous one.

At ethe end of this pantomime, the slave was ordered to show his appreciation for the punishment.  This consisted of slobbering over Iris’s boots for about ten minutes.

“May I … err… Goddess Anna…“ began the slave, glancing again at Anna’s boots.

“Certainly not – and she’s Lady Anna to you and don’t you forget it!” snapped Iris.  “Kneel up: I expect Lady Anna wants to slap your face, don’t you Lady Anna?”

“Err.. yes” Anna replied uncertainty.  She found herself confronted by the unpleasant sight of the well-fed slave’s fat, sweaty face right before her.  She leaned forward and gently patted him on the cheek.

“You can slap him harder than that, Lady Anna” Iris said.  “He knows he deserves it.”

Anna drew her hand back, glancing at her friend, who nodded imperceptibly when it was about one foot away from the male’s horrible face.  Anna let fly from that position, hard enough to knock the slave off balance, but nothing like as hard as she wanted.

“Oh, ow, thank you Lady Anna, I’m so sorry for the impertinence.” cried the man, getting slowly back into position.

Anna slapped him from the other direction, was thanked again, and proceeded to give him a further four moderate slaps.  At the end of it, the slave was red-faced and breathing heavily.  Anna thought longingly of how she had once slapped a house-slave unconscious after it had neglected to lay out her clothes to her satisfaction.

“Will you permit this lazy little tyke to show you respect now, Lady Anna?” Iris remarked, nodding yes.

Anna felt a surge of rebellion.  “No… no I don’t believe he has earned that privilege.” she replied coolly.

The slave burst into floods of tears.

“Oh, please Lady Anna, oh please! “

“No” Anna said, feeling pleased with herself and observing her friend’s wry acquiescence.  “You’re going to have to work a lot harder! If Goddess Iris informs me that your writing has met our severely high standards then I might come here again. And if I do come here again and if – if – I choose to wear boots when I do so, perhaps then – perhaps – I might permit your disgusting lips the most fleeting contact with the leather of my boot!”

“Oh yes, Lady Anna, please Lady Anna, I’ll work night and day Lady Anna” agreed the slave.

“See that you do!” snapped Anna.  “Are we done Goddess Iris?”

“I believe we are” grinned her friend, clutching the papers. The two goddesses haughtily strode from the room, leaving the slave to his typing.

“You were brilliant!” Iris burst out, as they collapsed in giggles outside the door.

“Well, I don’t mind coming back and having some perfectly clean boots licked.” shrugged Anna. “Anything to advance the cause of female supremacy.”

“Probably no need. Billy bootlicker’s writing’s getting quite repetitive, according to the slave I’ve ordered to read his rubbish. And we’re winding the programme down, so he’ll probably be retired soon.”

“Retired for what?”

“Training, auctioned off… just ordinary male stuff.”

“Could I have him?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Just let me know when he’s available” smiled Anna, thinking deliciously of how she might introduce bootlicker to her favourite steel-capped boots.  She made a little note to have her carpenter slave rig up a little frame to keep his face still at the perfect height for his lips to experience fleeting contact with the toes of her boots, as he had been promised, for the briefest fraction of a second before the steel below the leather bruised and bloodied those lips, to say nothing of breaking the teeth and perhaps even the jawbone behind them. Many, many times.

The two leather-clad goddesses’ high heels clicked back down the corridor to the changing room, while in the comfortable cell behinds them, billy bootlicker’s hand shook with excitement as he feverishly applied himself to a new story, titled Pathetic boot slave for cruel Lady Anna.

Next Time

Out of scene now – we’re back in 2026 (alas)!

OK, so a few apologies and thank-yous. First of all, apologies to Andy at the magnificent Cruella. Nothing beats the real thing – go there and give him some of your money. He deserves it. It really was an affectionate homage, honestly.

The Supreme Lady Editrix was of course played by the long-retired Mistress Darla Kincaid, sometimes of the English Mansion where she seems to have become Mistress Daria. Hmm. The lovely cover-domme is, err… from a Russian site and the cover-domme for the next edition is Mistress Evelyn X. Various sites supplied the other pictures, particularly the utterly defunct Young Goddess, featuring the divine Irina Kozlova, a.k.a. Cofi Milan… and I do hope you all recognised and gasped in appreciation at the stunning Gynarchy Goddess Serena. Oh, and various males, mostly a lot more naked than the original Cruella would have featured on covers.

That’s it for now. Next one might be ‘the 1950s called’… might not, we’ll see. British, so think strict governesses and austerity, rather than Betty Page. Maybe there’ll be an OWK homage some time too…? And the 1980s isn’t going to stop calling either.