New occasional theme that’ll be included in regular posts from time to time, but I thought I’d introduce it in a themed post. Brutal, non-consensual – if you don’t like those things… well, you’re probably reading the wrong blog to begin with, quite frankly.
War. They say war changes nothing. But sometimes if nothing changes, war is the only way. These girls didn’t seek the war they fought in but it found them. Then they fought and some of them died. Then they won and some of them came back. Did they come back as heroines? They came back. Plenty didn’t. Those who made it said the war changed them – for good, for bad, who knows? It changed a lot of guys too, mostly for the better. Sure: war changes nothing. But war changes everything, too.
Etc. That stuff’s surprisingly easy to write.
World War M, anyway. When the war between the sexes went hot.
And introducing a new series. World War M: Origins.
|Don’t worry, even without last words it’ll be a very memorable experience for her.
|I expect she’ll get used to the situation, although she might request a few changes to be made.
|A few nights shivering on a cold concrete floor are surely worth spending, to save her from any discomfort from the peer pressure.
|I’m told the most useful piece of advice for any young teacher is always to remember who’s in charge.
|I hope she doesn’t have to wrestle with her conscience too long, poor thing.
|There’s really no need for males to learn mathematical techniques beyond basic counting and thanking. I often even get that wrong, to be honest.
|If its something you’re already good at, then maybe you should try that 10,000 hours technique, you know? That’s all you need to become really expert.
|It’ll be good practice for when he’s released to forage for himself.
|Aitor might make a bit of a mess later too, so thank goodness you’re around.
… there is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over. General Sherman said that. Smart boy.
Yes… it’s another World War M post. It’s been a while. But war is eternal.
These girls know all about that. They’ve stared war in the face and slapped it more times than they like to remember. Was it worth it? That’s one for the history girls to decide. But each of these soldiers has made her own peace with the goddesses of war.
|Some might say it’s too late for that but every little helps.
|“Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.”|
OK, so it seems I’ve used this one before. Extra captioned image now posted below, with thanks to an anonymous commenter who isn’t femsup for spotting it. If it’s any consolation, seven of the forty-three clauses in that contract do have that exact same text – just to make sure.
|Makes a change from the more traditional British party games, like ‘Musical gimp’.’Spin the gimp’ or (my personal least favourite) ‘Pin the tail on the gimp.’|
|Sometimes the wisest thing for our forces of law and order to do is to hold back and watch the males truly fuck things up, as only a male can. Teachable moment, here.
|Another teachable moment. What an educational post it’s been today. See you next time.
Or see you right now for that extra image I promised!
|Apparently it works better than caffeine.|
Rather uniquely for me, this is a lesbian BDSM tale. No really: it’s not going to be another one of those where it seems to start off with some kind of femsub vibe but then has a (entirely foreseeable) plot twist in which the tables are turned and a male ends up being punished. There are simply no males in the story to end up in that position. So if scenes of the superior sex being spanked distress you, even when the spanker is another member of the same superior sex, don’t read this.
It’s a schoolgirl scene. Obviously, the two schoolgirl characters have both just passed their eighteenth birthdays, conveniently enough. They should be understood to be at the sort of posh British girls’ boarding school that features in old fashioned British school stories. The girls there are all jolly good sports, of course, but occasionally… just occasionally one of them might do something to offend another and be accused (in a cut-glass British accent) of being ‘an absolute beast!’.
“Oh I say” Harriet said to her friend admiringly. “You’ve put on your school prefect’s tie! It looks awfully smart on you.”
“Thanks” Angela smiled, fingering the garment around her neck, whose thin yellow stripe superimposed on the normal school colours symbolised her newfound rank. “Miss Gorman put up the list of new school prefects today, so it’s official.” I’ve got this room too, all to myself.
“Well I hope your new importance won’t turn you into one of those stuck-up prigs!” Harriet replied, smiling back. “You’re still Ange to me and we’re still chums, I hope.”
Angela’s expression turned serious. “Well, I hardly think it’s conducive to maintaining good discipline if I let you call me Ange, I’m afraid. ‘Angela’ from now on I think. Or even ‘Williamson’”
She burst out laughing at her friend’s crestfallen face. “I’m joking, silly! Of course I’m Ange!”
“Although… she went on. “In all seriousness, I have now taken a vow to uphold the school rules, you know, Hat. And I do intend to do my best to do that.”
“Of course” her friend replied. “Rah rah and up the jolly old school, what!”
Angela smiled, more thinly this time.
“No. But I do have an obligation to report any rule-breaking I hear about, Hat. If I were to learn that anyone had been… for instance… sneaking out to buy chocolate without a pass and storing it at the back of her locker.”
Harriet’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of shock.
“You wouldn’t! Would you, Ange? Anyway, I gave some of it to you – just yesterday, for instance. You’d get in trouble too!”
Angela shook her head slowly.
“Nothing in the rules to stop a girl accepting a present from a friend, Hat. I didn’t sneak out, did I? No… I’m afraid…”
“Surely there’s something I can do…” stammered Harriet. “You can, you can have all of the rest of the chocolate, if you – “
“Attempting to bribe a prefect in the performance of her duties” tutted Angela, still slowly shaking her head. “No, Harriet, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. However, I am prepared to resolve this without taking it to any of the teaching staff, as a special favour to you, given our long friendship.”
And she reached over to a table, to where her gym kit lay strewn and picked up a plimsoll* and eyed, it thoughtfully.
Now it was Harriet’s eyes that formed perfect ‘O’s as she stared at her friend gently tapping the thin rubber shoe against the palm of her hand.
“Surely… surely you don’t mean…” she stammered.
“One of the more unpleasant duties my prefectorial responsibilities require of me, I’m afraid.” sighed Angela. “Of course, if you’d rather I took it to Miss Rathbone…”
“No…no” Harriet burst out desperately. “Please don’t tell on me Ange. I’ll let you – “
“I think we will make it ‘Angela’ now, just for this” her friend interrupted. “And it’s not about letting me. Confess your crimes and ask. Politely.”
And she went to sit down on a small armless chair and stared up at the other girl expectantly.
“Ange… ela I, erm, I broke school rules by sneaking out to the shop without a pass, to buy sweets.” Harriet said, in a low, hesitant tone.
“Dear me.” Angela replied. “Whatever shall we do about that, Harriet?”
“I’d like you to punish me, please Angela”, Harriet replied, her face turning crimson with shame. “To… to smack me with that plimsoll.”
And, trembling slightly, she held her left hand out, palm up.
“Don’t be ridiculous, kiddo” Angela said curtly. “You’re going over here”.
And she indicated her lap, where her knees and lower thighs lay bare, beyond the length of her pleated school skirt.
“You’re going to… going to…” Harrier stammered.
“Smack your bottom.” nodded the prefect. “And don’t think you’re keeping your knickers on, either.”
“You want me to take my knickers off?” Harriet replied in horror.
“Or I can do it” shrugged Angela, reaching up.
“No, no, I’ll do it” shrieked her friend, hurriedly hooking her thumbs into the elastic and pushing down.
Before the shapeless blue cotton knickers had reached her ankles, she found herself being pulled across her friend – former’s friend’s – lap.
“Oh you beast, Ange” she said bitterly.
“Now now” Angela replied, briskly folding Harriet’s skirt up across her back. “Less backtalk.”
“Ange, please, I – OWWW! Ow, that hurt, Ange you – OWWW!”
And so it began.
Forty minutes later. Two piles of schoolgirl uniform lie untidily beside the bed. The plimsoll sits abandoned on the equally abandoned chair. The bed, designed for just one person, is clearly full beyond capacity, though, as what seems a single shapeless mass gently moves under the covering blanket. A nearby listener (there are none) would hear soft murmuring.
Oh, you deserved it. Anyway, you asked me to do it.
Only because you said you’d tell on me if I didn’t! My bottom’s going to be sore for a week! Beast.
Didn’t I kiss it better enough, then?
And that’s another thing! I’m not a lesbian, you know!
Really? You gave a very good impression of one. Twice.
I hardly had the choice, did I? It was… it was rape is what it was. I can’t believe you did that, you beastly thing. After we’ve been chums all these years without ever… ever… well, you know. I should tell Miss Rathbone you raped me. Twice.
Oh…well, I suppose if you’re going to do that, you might as well tell her it happened three times. At least… C’mere, kiddo.
Oh! Oh, Ange, you… you b… b… – Oh. Oh, yes, there! Oh Ange!
The next day
“Oh, Harriet! Would you mind taking Angela Williamson this book” Miss Lavery said brightly, as the girls filed out of her class. She held out a book. “She’s in your dorm, isn’t she?”
“Happy to, Miss Lavery” Harriet replied. “But of course she’s got her own room next to the dorm, now. She’s a prefect, you know.”
“Oh yes, of course” the grey-haired teacher replied. “Well done her. How’s she taking to it?”
Oh, erm… all right I suppose, Miss” Harriet replied, her hand fluttering back as if to pat her skirted bottom for reassurance, before being firmly stopped in an effort of the will. “I suppose it’s quite a lot of responsibility… for enforcing the school rules and suchlike. It’s a bit weird, for those of us who are friends with her too.”
“A lot easier than it was when I was at school” Miss Lavery laughed. “You know, back then prefects were allowed to discipline the students directly. With corporal punishment. At least you don’t have that to worry about!”
“Aren’t prefects allowed to discipline the other girls any more then?” Harriet asked, forgetting the customary ‘Miss’ in her confusion. “I thought…”
“Good lord, Harriet, of course not. This isn’t the 1960s you know!”
“No… no of course it isn’t” replied Harriet thoughtfully. Then she brightened up.
“Thanks Miss!” she said cheerfully, and rushed out of the classroom, holding the book.
“What are you doing in my room? Very serious business entering a prefect’s room without permission, Hat! I hope I don’t have to… to…”
And Angela’s voice trailed off in confusion, as she stared at her friend, who was seated in the chair in the middle of the small room, holding the plimsoll in her right hand and tapping it gently against the palm of her left.
“As serious as violently assaulting a fellow pupil with something like this?” Harriet replied coolly. “And then forcing her into lesbian sex – repeated lesbian sex – all on the pretext of prefectorial powers that were abolished forty years ago? That sounds pretty serious to me… probably would to Miss Rathbone, too.”
Angela stood in silence. Harriet sighed.
“Whatever shall we do about that, Angela? Hmm?”
She did not wait for a reply, instead simply pointing to the other girl’s waist and flicking her finger downwards in an unmistakable gesture of command.
“Oh…” gasped Angela, as with bottom bared and with hot tears of shame welling up in her eyes, she found herself slipping over her friend’s lap. “Oh you beast, I – OWWW!”
And so once again it began. And there, dear reader, we will depart the scene and leave the two chums to it. Whatever ‘it’ might be and whatever other ‘its’ might follow.
Epilogue – ten years later.
Angela is a lawyer in one of the smartest City firms of solicitors; Harriet a journalist writing features for a trendy magazine. They share a flat near Edgware Rd in London and although both lead busy professional lives, they make sure that at least twice a week they return to it in time to spend a full evening together. One or other will cook, usually something quick and simple, and they eat quite hurriedly. Hanging up in the cupboard in their bedroom are two school uniforms: the same school uniforms, into which they both still just about fit . Harriet now finds her blouse rather tight, but Angela says she prefers her like that, so Harriet squeezes herself in.
But the two ties are different, so a choice must be made. One of the ties bears simply their old school colours, while the other displays the striking addition of a thin yellow stripe, betokening higher status. Sometimes, they have already agreed who will wear the prefect’s tie. If one of them, for instance, forgets that it is her turn to take out the rubbish on dustbin day, she might lay the prefect tie out for the other to possess, in a gesture of apology. If neither has any particular reason to accept to wear the ordinary tie, they might discuss over dinner whose turn it is. But they can rarely agree, so it often turns into a sudden rush for the cupboard and to the victor who grabs it first, the prefectorial spoils. Of course, having been the beneficiary of an expensive education, the loser always puts on her less colourful tie without argument… but sometimes, just sometimes, if she feels the tactics by which the other had seized the prefect’s tie were a little… underhand, she might hiss out a resentful “Beast!”
And then it begins.
* A ‘plimsoll’ is, or was, a British sports shoe: a simple canvas upper over a rubber sole. Like a trainer (or even a ‘sneaker’) but thinner, much less complicated and never, ever fashionable. But they had their uses…
|Something like this… although these don’t look very clean. I’m sure well brought-up English schoolgirls would never spank one another’s bottoms with a plimsoll that had seen outdoor use. After all, there’s always the hairbrush…|
Yay, it’s another science fiction special! Yay…?
|He does. He’s actually a very unpleasant human being. Believe me: I’ve known him for over 50 years.
Time for another corrupted song. No, wait – don’t go away, not Gilbert and Sullivan this time! More Andrews Sisters sort of thing. It is technically based on this (Bongo bongo bongo!), but readers with a low tolerance for old-fashioned racism might want to stay clear. Consider that a trigger warning.
The rest of today’s post contains no old-fashioned racism or anything upsetting – just good, healthy torture, non-consensual castration and enslavement. Enjoy.
Castration (clippy clippy clippy)
Every morning, my husband wakes up from his slumbers and sighs
He remembers how it used to be, all stiff with morning wood and he tries
To conjure up the feelings and the urgent sex desires once more
But he’s staying soft forever, cos his testicles are kept in my drawer.
So: clippy, clippy, clippy, time for Hubby’s little snippie, la da la da da-lack.
Looping, looping, looping with the cheese-wire round his drooping little tight ball-sack.
Don’t want no macho, hetero, man’s man hanging out with the boys.
Just a chastened little sissy, in a state of shock and mourning for his toys.
My nurse friends helped me trick him with an X-ray that they faked up one night
(They sound nice!)
So he lay down on the gurney, where they strapped him down and gagged him quite tight.
(Oh, is that so he can’t hurt himself?)
When they raised his legs apart and shaved the hair around his crotch, he caught on
(What did he do, darling?)
And he writhed in pain and terror as his scrotal sac then gonads were gone.
So: clippy, clippy, clippy, time for Hubby’s little snippie, la da la da la-lack.
Looping, looping, looping with the cheese-wire round his drooping little tight ball-sack.
Don’t want no hard-ons, stiffies, boners, gunk squirting out in a mess.
Just a sexless little gelding, in his panties and a cute little dress.
He brings me up my breakfast and he curtsies without spilling the tray
(How does he do that?)
Then he runs my bath and gets the clothes I’ve told him I’ll be wearing that day
‘Cos he’s meek and well-behaving now he’s not a man, he does as I say
And the hairbrush by my bedside is awaiting if he doesn’t obey.
So: clippy, clippy, clippy, time for Hubby’s little snippie, la da la da la-lack
Looping, looping, looping with the cheese-wire round his drooping little tight ball-sack
Don’t want no half-sized husband, thinking he has rights over me
I get fucked by guys with bigger cocks – and sometimes so does he.
Now, my hubbie’s little dickie’s still attached but it’s as soft as a worm
I can grab and pinch and twist it and I love to watch him whimper and squirm.
But one day I’ll get the scalpel out and slice it off in multiple cuts.
Then the bedside jar awaits and I’ll be adding his sliced pickle to his nuts.
Girls, they say that the world is man’s. But our future’s right in our hands.
Castration? Just come right here.
The beautiful and talented ladies illustrating this little ditty were the Beverly Belles. Goodness those polkadot dresses… don’t they just make you want to drape yourself across each of their laps in turn and confess your sins?
But what about that Christina Aguilera song, you ask? You know? That one? Oh, it’ll feature here too, don’t worry. Just need to think me up a few more rubbish lyrics.
But to tide you over until then… people who enjoy looking at modern-day lovely ladies wearing navy uniform and boogying to the accompaniment of the Andrews Sisters might enjoy this. Let’s face it, the Yiddish-language femdom scene is a bit short of content these days.