Books and bookwomen

Naturally, as a high-profile influencer, I get sent all manner of free materials, although regrettably few outright bribes. Most of this stuff goes straight in the bin, or is pulped and force-fed to me, depending on my SO’s mood, but I thought some of the upcoming book titles publishers are pushing might be of interest to those few of my readers who do more than look at the pictures and flick the ‘page down’ key with their spare hand. So, without further ado (what is ‘ado’ anyway?), here are some of those publishers’ blurbs.

I don’t have any information on the likely publication dates for these titles, but they should be available in all disreputable bookshops, so just keep an eye out.

Nonsensical sex

More of these.

Aren’t you just the perfect host? Sorry, I meant pervert. The pervert host.
I always get so excited on Pervemas morning, waiting to be unwrapped.
I don’t know what they pay those sweatboys for. Oh, don’t they? Oh, OK. Even so, there’s no excuse for not doing a professional job.
I don’t know what it is about the phrase “Purely routine anal probe” but I feel (deep inside me) it’s not used enough in our own world.
Although everyone says that no one carries coins these days, public shining posts like this one (like the many coin-operated public lavatories you can still find chained up with gaping mouths in Pervworld) often end the day with a rectum uncomfortably full of change.
It’s a lot greener than most other forms of transport, especially since a lot of their fodder is recycled.

The very lazy OWKerpillar

 In a cold prison cell, an OWK slave shivered on the floor.

One Sunday morning, the Ladies arrived slap! – out of his cell he went to be dressed as a very lazy caterpillar.

They started to give him orders.


On Monday, they made him crawl the length the corridor from one end of the Queen’s Castle to the other ten times, kicking him to help him along.  But he was still lazy.



On Tuesday they beat him to make him wriggle to the top of the hill twenty times.  But he was still lazy.

On Wednesday, they made him flop his way around the mud on the edge of the pond thirty times, pushing his head down into the mud beneath their boots each time he came past.  But he was still lazy.


On Thursday, they held a contest in which he had to compete against other human caterpillars in races, boot-licking contests, testicle-tug-of-wars and ‘most pitiful begging’ competitions.  The losers each got forty strokes of the cane.  The winner also got forty strokes of the cane.  But he was still lazy.



On Friday, they suspended him from a tree, with weights clipped to his nipples and genitals and swung him around and around with punches and kicks, until he had come up with fifty amusingly shameful names for a human caterpillar.  But he was still lazy.

On Saturday, they just lost it.  They strung him up by his ankles, whipped away what was left of his caterpillar costume with a cat o’nine tales then each took a bullwhip and went for him, flogging methodically up and down his body while he screamed for mercy, then they used a cattle prod on his genitals, kicked him in the face, pushed pins through his foreskin and scrotum, then dragged him back to his cell, pissed on him and left him there, weeping and moaning in pain.  That evening, he regretted coming to OWK more than he had ever regretted anything in his life.


On Sunday, he lay alone, cold and hungry in his cell.

Now he remembered he wasn’t a human caterpillar but a successful businessman called Christoph.  Outside, he had money, houses and cars – he dressed in fine clothes, not rags and tatters; he ate at Michelin-starred restaurants, rather than gulping slops off a concrete floor and no one hit him, put clamps on his flesh or trod on his face.  He resolved to tell these crazy Czech Ladies he had had enough and he would rather cancel the second week of his ‘punishment stay’.  They could keep the fucking money – he wanted out.

So later that day, when they came to open his cell, he looked up, smiled confidently, started to speak and…

They hit him in the face, shoved a ball-gag into his gaping mouth, pulled a leash tight around his bollocks and dragged him off to the Courtyard, to carry bricks from one side to the other in the rain.

He was a stupid, useless male object.

I thought we should finish with a happy picture: well done Madame Christine!

Celebrating difference

First in what might be an occasional series.



just on this one above. In case there is anyone out there who is
considering visiting a pro-domme for the first time and takes this image
to reflect the reality that awaits him and is put off as a result…
well, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but are you completely out of your
fucking mind?  Seriously.  Do you really take this blog as a guide to
the reality of femdom?  I mean, it obviously isn’t, right?  Quite apart
from the fact that it says it isn’t, some of the material here
breaks physical laws of the universe let alone the bounds of ‘realism’
or even ‘sanity’.  Get a grip.

Sorry, where was I?  Right, anyway: the first domme you visit will be lovely,
OK?  And she’ll do everything she can to put you at your ease (except
for the ‘good’ nervousness, if you know what I mean) – and she’ll be good at that, because she’s done it before, yeah?  And she knows what she’s doing and – oh just book it and go, you’ll have a wonderful time.

Everyone clear about that?  Good. Moving on.

Another World

Trigger warning: this story features descriptions of activities that are quite extreme even by the standards of this site.  Readers are warned that some of the behaviour here reaches heights of perversion that even I find unsettling, although fortunately the more graphic elements are presented at one remove so to speak (on a television programme) rather than directly.  Also, I have taken the decision to intersperse the text with unrelated images of more wholesome, healthy activities, so that readers can be reassured and reminded that the disgusting things being described are no more than a twisted sex game, acted out in a fantasy setting in a far-off country of which we know little.

You have been warned.

Not that that has ever stopped you, right?




“Hi Vanessa”, Sylvie called over her shoulder, hearing the
door slam. 

Her wife appeared in the doorway, shrugging off her heavy
coat for a slave to dive for – he managed to catch it just before it reached the floor.  “Hey babe! 

“Just watching TV” Sylvie replied, nodding towards the
screen.  “Did you get everything you

“Yeah, more or less”, Vanessa replied absently.  “They didn’t have all the branding iron shapes I
wanted, but they had those sigmoid curves I really need for this weekend and
they’ve ordered the rest.  Oh – and I finally remembered to get new batteries for the cattle prod.  So you can stop nagging me about that.”

Sylvie smiled, at the implied compliment – both ladies knew that she would never dream of nagging her wife.  She
was proud to be married to an artist and loved to watch her at work in her studio.  With
seemingly random touches of a glowing brand here and there, the burns on a
screaming slave’s flesh could suddenly turn into a pastoral scene, a wicked
caricature of  a public figure or just a
complex and intriguing abstract design.  Vanessa’s current project – a huge canvas which had been prepared using a high
calorie diet over several months, was currently hanging by its ankles in her studio.  She had been working on it for a week already
and had at least another three weeks to go – after which, she would exhibit it in one of the top galleries on Bond
St where it would undoubtedly sell for an astronomical price.

“Anything good on?” Vanessa asked.

“It’s that programme about weird, kitsch stuff” Sylvie replied.  “EuroTrish.”

“Oh yeah – yodelling nuns and suchlike, right?” her lover replied.  “I quite like that – shove up.”

Sylvie wriggled along the couch, in her tight leather
shorts: a sight that caused
Vanessa to consider proposing heading for the
bedroom instead, but her attention was caught by the scene on the TV, so
instead she sat down in the space vacated by her wife, put her feet up on the
naked slave cowering in front and shouted “Cigarette” to the room in general.

“So what’s that” she asked, nodding towards the screen, as a
slave scurried to kneel by her side, cigarette in one hand and lighter in the

“Oh this is really strange” Sylvie replied. “It’s a place
called The Other World Kingdom – in the Czech Republic I think.  It’s, like, this place where males and
females are equal.”

“What – you mean there’s only one slave per citizen?” her
wife replied in puzzlement.  “That must
be difficult for them.”

“No, no” Sylvie replied. 
“Look – I’ll rewind.  Back five!”

A slave hurried forward and pressed buttons on the TV,
reverting the programme to five minutes before, then returned to his waiting

On screen was a low-quality image of a woman standing by the
gateway of some kind of manor house.  It
was blurry and slightly jerky, reminiscent of videotape technology from the
1980s.  She was speaking but her lip
movements were thoroughly out of sync with the sounds from the TV, which were
obviously badly dubbed into English.  But
it was the words themselves that caused Vanessa to draw hard on her cigarette in
shock, before resting it in the open mouth of the ashtray slave at her side.

“Here in the Other World Kingdom, women and men live in a
state of perfect equality with each other. 
Men are citizens, nothing less, to be treated by women with the respect
and kindness that they deserve.  And they
themselves desire nothing less than to spend each waking moment in full command
of their own lives and destiny, unenslaved and free.”

“Good Goddess!” she exclaimed.  “Why would anyone want to live somewhere like

“I don’t think it’s really serious.” her companion
replied.  “Just a place people can visit, to act out weird sex
fantasies.  ‘BDSM’, you
know? ‘Benevolence Decency Sympathy and Mercy’ – it’s a kink in which women get
off on not hurting men, treating them with respect and so on.  I was reading an article about it – there are
some girls who get turned on by that sort of thing.”

“It’s just sick!” Vanessa replied, in horror.  She took a few more puffs of her cigarette,
then laid it aside on the shaking palm of the slave kneeling beside her.  “And what on earth is she wearing?”

“Clothes made out of cloth, as far as I can see”, Sylvie
replied.  “Cotton, mainly.  Nothing made of leather or latex at all.”

“You mean like underwear? 
I don’t think I’d like to walk around like that.  Look – those jodhpurs she’s wearing are so
loose you can hardly see the shape of her arse, let alone her thighs.  It’s not decent.”

“They’re called trousers, apparently. Even though they’re not made of leather like normal trousers” Sylvie said.  “And some of the women wear skirts too, but they’re
shockingly long – most finish well below the upper thigh.  It’s all part of the fetish.  I suppose it’s OK in the bedroom, if that’s what they’re into, but imagine walking around outside wearing something like that; I’d just die of embarrassment.”

“Has she got her boots tucked inside these, ‘trousers’?” Vanessa asked.

Her wife shook her head. 
“She’s not wearing boots – just shoes,”

Vanessa looked confused.  “Then I suppose her legs must be awfully short.”

“No, it’s nothing to do with her legs.  Her shoes don’t have high heels – they’re flat.” Sylvie replied, quietly. 

“No… no high heels at all?  But without boots or high heels… I mean, how does she stride?”

“She doesn’t” Sylvie replied.  “Just walks along on the flats of her
feet.  She must have to practice for ages not to fall backwards, but again, I think it’s all part of the kink.  You know: not wearing towering high heels is a way of artificially making
herself not taller than the men?  So it’s
easier not to dominate them, I suppose.  And I suppose her shoes don’t make a menacing sound when she walks across a wooden floor – that’s pretty creepy, isn’t it?”

“But that’s not
the kinkiest thing about it, though: just watch.”

The screen showed in low resolution the presenter walking
(in her flat footed way) along a path leading to a grand doorway, while the
dubbed commentator burbled something about ‘an atmosphere of mutual
’.  By the doorway, waiting to
greet her, was –

Vanessa’s jaw dropped open. 
“Is he wearing…?”

“Clothes” Sylvie nodded. 
“It’s a big part of the kink – dressing men up as if they were
human.  Look – his clothes are similar to

It was true.  The
‘trousers’ were a little tighter, the jacket a more sombre colour than that
worn by the woman, but the screen undeniably showed a man and a woman, both
dressed similarly, apparently greeting one another as friends.

Vanessa felt slightly sick, but couldn’t take her eyes of
the screen, as the camera drew closer in on the man.

“No collar… not even any restraints or fetters” she remarked
in puzzlement.  “But how is he secured
when he needs to be whipped?”

“Oh my sweet, innocent girl.” giggled Sylvie, clasping her
hand and squeezing it affectionately. 
“He’s not going to be whipped. 
Not in this place.  Watch.”

The two watched the grainy video with rapt attention for a
few minutes.  They saw women greeting
men, chatting to them, smiling and nodding as they – and this made both ladies
gasp in shock – listened to them as the men themselves spoke.  Fortunately, only the dubbed commentary could
be heard, so no actual male speech emerged from the television, but the men in
the video were clearly speaking, not merely to acknowledge orders or plead, but
speaking and laughing with the women as if they were proper human beings.

It got worse.  The
lady guide provided brief tours of the cellars, where dank concrete spaces that
in happier days had presumably been prison cells had been converted to store
wine; the club ‘Nas Styl’ where women and men sat at tables and conversed over
food and drink as if it were the most normal thing in the world (revoltingly,
the men were eating proper, cooked food, from plates); a bedroom in which the
narrator pointed out how men and women shared the tasks of folding and tidying
away clothes; and finally, the stables.

“Oh no” Vanessa said. 
“Is that really…?”

It was.  Blurry as it
was, the screen undeniably showed a carriage being pulled along by… a
horse.  While behind, in a carriage, sat
a man and a woman (fully clothed – by this stage, incredibly, this no longer
seemed so shocking).

“The poor thing” breathed Vanessa.  “Look, it’s really pulling the carriage.  They’ve adapted the bridle and reins and
things to fit it.”

Sylvie nodded uncertainly. 
“I don’t think they can really treat them as carriage slaves, though”
she said.  “I mean, not using whips or
spurs and so on.  Not on an animal – that can’t be legal.  Even in the
Czech Republic.”

Indeed, the horse had slowed to a gentle amble and nothing
the man and woman could do with encouraging words and gestures seemed able to
make it go any faster.  It looked to be a
very dull ride, slowly plodding around the sandy track at whatever speed the
horse chose, a sad and sick parody of a country ride at a brisk canter, whips
cracking, spurs flashing and male lungs heaving with the effort of obtaining
the oxygen needed for their charmingly exhausted, aching muscles.  Another World indeed.


“But of course” the narrator (or rather her
English-speaking overdubber) continued, speaking directly to camera, “even
in the paradise of equality that is the Other World Kingdom, men and women do
not always agree with one another. 
Sometimes a man might say something that annoys or upsets a woman.  Of course, this must be dealt with
immediately, to preserve the harmony that is the OWK’s watchword.  So for such cases, there are special chambers
available so that any woman upset by something a man has said or done can…”

“Oh thank goodness.” Vanessa sighed.  “I was beginning to think they – “

“…talk it out.” continued the narrator,
cheerfully.  The television showed a room
with comfortable chairs and a sofa, decorated in gentle pastel colours.

“Yes, here in the Other World Kingdom, arguments rarely
happen – and they never last long before they are resolved with a vigorous
discussion, conducted in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.  This room has been specifically furnished to
create an atmosphere of kindness and forgiveness.  Here, men and women can listen to one another’s their concerns and try to resolve them with empathy and understanding.  If a woman in the Other World Kingdom turns out to be in the wrong, she apologises – freely and without reservation – to everyone concerned, men included.”

“That’s…” Vanessa began, dumbfounded.  “That’s so fucked-up!  And women actually visit this place – for

Sylvie nodded, sadly. 
“They pay for the privilege, apparently. 
What lonely lives they must lead, having to keep their perverted desires
hidden from everyone.  Imagine being so screwed-up that you can only get off sexually if a male is happy and
unhurt.  I wonder what can have happened
in their childhood to make them fantasise about something so twisted.”


The ladies’ ruminations were interrupted by a sharp gasp
from the slave kneeling at Vanessa’s side. 
She glanced over in irritation, to see her long-forgotten cigarette
still smouldering on the seared flesh of his now-shaking palm.

“Idiot” she said, curtly, picking the cigarette up, and flicking
the long tail of ash that had built up into his open mouth.  She tried a quick drag, but the embers had gone
out and all she could taste was the acrid and familiar tang of charred male
flesh.  Despite her annoyance at being
deprived of her nicotine hit, it reminded her of the beauty of her branding
art.  Smell is the most evocative of the
senses and – together with the barely suppressed whimpers of a male in agony,
it brought her back to the colours and beauty of the real world – a place where
women could love and be loved, in the healthy shared joy of despising,
oppressing and torturing males.

She glanced at her wife, whose eyes met hers with amused
affection.  “This idiot let my cigarette
go out” she drawled.  “And he’s ruined
his hand for housework – look!”  And she
grabbed the slave’s shaking wrist and held his hand up so Sylvie could see the puffy
white flesh, already forming blisters, where Vanessa’s forgotten cigarette had

“Whatever are we going to do about that?”

She clipped a leash onto the unresisting slave’s neck, then
stood up.

“I was thinking we could take him off to the bedroom and…
talk it out.  Talk it out thoroughly.” And
she gave the leash a sharp tug.

“What a good idea!” giggled Sylvie.  She reached for a whip.  “We could listen to his concerns and resolve
them in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.”

“Not forgetting the ‘kindness and forgiveness’” Vanessa
added, rootling in her shopping bag for the batteries she had bought for the
cattle prod.  “For which we’ll need these
– I’m feeling particularly kind and forgiving today.”

And so the two ladies strode out of the room, their high
heels clacking with delicious menace on the floorboards, their shapely buttocks superbly outlined in
leather shorts and jodhpurs respectively, their leashed pain-toy dragged
carelessly behind.

The television burbled on. 
The blurry, badly-dubbed lady was explaining the uses of something called
a ‘doormat’ which appeared to involve removing mud from shoes in a most
peculiar way.  Sylvie and Vanessa’s TV remote control
slave knelt motionless, in an agony of indecision as to whether or not to
turn it off.  If he did and the ladies still
wanted to watch it, they would be furious with him.  On the other hand, if he did not, he might be
beaten for wasting electricity.

He did briefly reflect on some of the scenes that he had
witnessed on the television he was responsible for working.  Something about Mistresses in some far-off
country who had presumably invented some new and complex method of torturing
males that he had not quite been able to follow.  He had not understood much of what he had
seen, to be honest.  He briefly wondered
what a ‘kingdom’ was, for example.  Or ‘kindness’,
for that matter.

A sudden agonised scream from the bedroom brought him back
to reality.  That seemed to indicate that
his Mistresses had moved on to other things but still… he had not received a
specific order to turn the television off. 
What to do, what to do.

As he dithered, the item from the Czech Republic ended and the
presenters – two ladies with almost parodically strong French accents, seated for
comic effect on slaves who were, respectively, massively overweight and skeletally
thin – briefly bantered about it, before introducing the next item.  This featured an elderly couple in Sweden who
had set out to paint all of the trees in their local forest pink – just the two
of them. 

With only twelve slaves, it had taken them several weeks,
but the results were impressive.





‘Eurotrash’ was a British series that ran in the 1990s that for one deliriously-wonderful episode, during Servitor’s young adulthood (I’m now on my second childhood, or possibly third), included a brief feature on the OWK using footage from OWK introductory videos ( possibly this one – but I warn you it could be a slightly dodgy site).  However, their more normal fare is best seen in this item, for example, in which a former topless model interviews the then Prime Minister’s brother about his garden gnome obsession.


Oh, and as it was Bastille Day this week, what about those ‘almost parodically strong French accents‘…. ?


Even a highly professional operation like Contemplating the Divine gets it wrong
sometimes.  As this blog is more than ten years old, I thought it
might be fun to open the vaults and find a few of the captions and images that
ended up on the cutting room floor – when things didn’t go according to plan!

Creating a captioned image involves bringing together lots of different things:
the photo, the characters, the situation, the witty plot twist and, of course,
the grammar to keep Tom Allen at bay.  It’s a difficult balancing act,
requiring great skill to produce a polished finished product, so it’s no surprise
an incompetent little twerp like me never succeeds in that. Even churning out the tired,
derivative and shoddy captioned images that usually adorn these posts, though, there’s
much that can go wrong…  as we shall see. 



But the director didn’t say cut…

Now, our first example today shows how even the most professional performers can get it
wrong. A castration shoot, obviously.  I can’t recall the planned caption,
maybe it was something to do with him asking for all those weights to be removed
as quickly as possible.  Anyway, a professional submissive model down
there, coping manfully (i.e. squealing his little head off) with the weights on his genitals, self-same genitals
feeling the razor-sharp edge of a pair of professional bolt-cutters, wielded by
a beautiful lady from Cruella.  Proper bolt-cutters, mind – beautifully
made so that a smooth and easy pressure on the handles translates through the
power of physics and leverage ito an unstoppable pressure as the blades
remorselessly close… just the thing to give our readers a little thrill, in
the safety of their darkened bedrooms.  

A perfect set-up, you’ll surely agree.  So what went wrong?  Well,
just at the moment this picture was taken, just when the caption was about to be
added to the finished product, a low-flying RAF training flight created a sonic
boom up and down the remote valley where the shoot was taking place, the poor
lady jumped out of her skin and… the rest was history. Or biology perhaps…
rather messy biology too.

It was no one’s fault.  Everyone was as sympathetic as they could be. 
The fighter jet pilot was horrified when she found out, the cameraman did his
best to help, the Cruellan lady was… OK, she wasn’t enormously sympathetic if
I’m being entirely honest, but she did mutter ‘Soz’ as he was taken off in the
ambulance.  The shoot wasn’t a complete write off: I actually managed to
get some rather gruesome captioned images done,
but so far my innate decency and a profound desire not to be arrested have
prevented me posting them.  And don’t worry: the guy is still a guy, you
know? Still very much a man.  Since the Gender Recognition Act was passed,
all he had to do was self-declare as a male and so he is treated as a fully
functional man for all legal purposes.  Almost all, anyway.  So…
just one of those things, I guess.

Thrills and spills

Ah, now this one was my fault, I am afraid. Very much my fault. I
apologised to the lady concerned and still do, on a regular basis. The skirt was
a write-off, the shoot was abandoned…  what can I say? Fortunately, my SO
has since come up with a solution to prevent this happening ever again.

Way around wrong

So… the shoot has gone off perfectly, the images of the lovely ladies and
slug-like men are all saved on the encrypted hidden drive and a caption has been
created.  Nothing left to go wrong, right? Well… you’ve still got to get
the caption onto the right image.  In the two pictures below, someone (with
a name beginning with S) didn’t manage to accomplish even that simple
task.  Two pictures, two captions, Servitor – and you had one job!

Well, this mix-up resulted in not one but two captioned images that fell
well below this blog’s normal standards of coherence and had to be
abandoned.  For which the management can only offer Servitor’s heartfelt

The Snitch, her Teacher, the Maitresse and her Lover

Now, the pair of photos below tell the sorry tale of a failed photoshoot that – for once – was most definitely the fault of the ladies and not the author of this blog.  Everything had been arranged very carefully for a photoshoot with the above title that would have cemented this blog’s place as the number one destination for anyone interested in strict schoolmistress femdom.  The script was elaborate, true, but you might expect that professionals would be able to cope with that.  I won’t go through it in detail, but it involved a schoolgirl whose complaint had led to my being brought in to see the Headmistress, a nymphomaniac lesbian French teacher, a class teacher and of course the Head herself, all involved in a complex sequence of humiliation and discipline that ended with my being forced – forced humiliatingly – to masturbate before them all, kneeling on the floor.  Yum.

What went wrong, you ask?  I might ask ‘what didn’t?’.  The schoolgirl turned out to be more of a lesbian nympho than the lesbian nympho character, they all got ‘interested’ in each other, someone found a very large bottle of gin and they all got quite interested in that and pretty soon everyone (everyone female, that is) was too drunk to be safely in charge of a cane, kit off and fucking like rabbits. 
So: nothing very femdom came of it unless you count my cleaning up the vomit afterwards, it and I seriously considered not paying them the full fee but sadly there are downsides to being a submissive when it comes to financial bargaining with four beautiful women, even when they are badly hung-over.  I present, for the historical record, the two photos that just about manage to reflect the theme of this blog, before the whole thing went sideways.

Hot cross bunny

Now this one was… oh, do you know, even after all these years I can’t really bring myself to talk about this one?  The memories are too painful.  I thought I was ready but… just move on, move on.  She was amazing, though: so professional.

Role reversal
Ah, now as you can tell from the picture, the lovely lady below turned up to the photoshoot having definitely not read the memo about what side of BDSM this blog celebrates!  The photo below is taken just when she, in her Gorean slave position, notices that I too am in a Gorean slave position and as we both think we’re supposed to be following Gorean speech rules, neither can do much about it!

After an hour or two the impasse was broken and we had a lovely talk.  I don’t know many female submissives (I find the whole concept a bit weird to be honest) but she was really nice.  She was very gentle and I could tell she didn’t really like the idea of hurting me, but we got to talking and she had an idea for a kind of ‘worm turns’ scene where I’m a male dom (let’s just skip over that bit: it was less than two minutes in the final photoshoot and I can only say I was no more convincing than you might imagine) and she’s playing the sub and she’s on her knees and just about to take me in her mouth when she suddenly decides to turn the tables, and then we get into nice healthy femdom play.  Just before we were about to start, she suddenly remembered something and asked if instead of being some generic dom being sucked off, could I be ‘Master Paul’ from Luton who wanted to come in her hair.  It seemed oddly specific but she insisted so I gave it a go and – boy!  For a subbie she certainly knew how to inflict pain!  I got one of the most brutal beatings I’ve ever experienced.  So it worked out OK in the end.

There’s a funny post-script actually.  Just two weeks after this photo-shoot, I read about this guy called Paul Evans who was found beaten to death in a lay-by on the Luton by-pass.  He had semen in his hair (his own, goodness only knows how he’d managed it).
Amazing coincidence, huh?  But it’s probably just another one of those things. Most things are.

And the Government shall be upon her shoulders

Sir Reginald Horner

Knelt in the corner

Worried about his career.

He feared he’d be late

For the Budget debate

But his Nanny was keeping him here.

In the House, with disdain

He’d rise up, to explain

That an increase in Health Service pay

While undoubtedly right,

Was not on, in the light

Of the fiscal position today.

Nanny Strict, with her feet up

Read, over her tea cup

Her paper: the politics page.

She was thinking of days

Lost in memory’s haze

 As a staff-nurse, on minimum wage.


So she picked up her tawse

To prepare for a course

In arithmetic: “Stretch out your arm!”

“Take a nurse’s base pay (thwack!)

Then take taxes away (thwack!)

And you’re left with a hot stinging palm!”

“Here’s another quick sum

Take one fat fleshy bum

Add twelve strokes from a long rattan cane

Then if feeling contrition

You can check your addition

And add up the budget again.”


All the MPs were stunned

By Sir Reggie’s new fund

To pay nurses twice what they now earn.

Then he winced as he sat

And they wondered at that

What had led to this sudden U-turn?

“I just felt nurses’ pain”

He explained, in the rain

Interviewed, by the TV and press.

“This award, you might call

It… a ‘tribute’, that’s all

I could not sit at ease giving less!”

The rest is just history:

Whatever the mystery

That changed his decision back then.

All the experts agree

 That this speech was the key

To his new house in Downing St: ten.


As PM he has access

To experts on taxes,

Defence, Home and Foreign Affairs.

But he likes to defer

For the last word, to… ‘her’:

To his ‘Special Adviser’ upstairs.

Now every decision’s

Thrashed out with precision:

The smack of firm government’s here.

Yet bad luck for the Right

(Who should cherish the sight):

It’s the Nanny State that they so fear.



Master Malcolm’s dreams come true

A maledom story!  Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.

Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures.  Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission.  Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides.  But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.

For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet.  In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock.  On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all.  Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again.  But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.

“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces.  “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.

One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object.  He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat.  Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.

As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home.  The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.

After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.

Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp?  Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed.  The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave.  As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.

Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough.  I often do.

Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness).  He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”

“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.

“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”

“Yes, Master” murmured the genie.  “Three wishes.  It shall be – “

“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly.  “Three hundred slavegirls… no!  More!  One for every day of the year!  All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces!  None of them fat.  And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…”  He was getting carried away.

“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him.  “Don’t you mean consensual?  I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “

Malcolm glared at her.  “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so.  “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not!  I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place.  To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”

The genie looked confused.  “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded?  “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.

Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.

The genie blinked once, very deliberately.  “I do now, Master.” she replied.  “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “

“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.

“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.

She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage.  Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound.  Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.

After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse.  Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.

“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm.  “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick.  And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock.  And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied.   I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.

The genie looked over at him and smiled.  “Your wish is my command, Master!  And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway.  Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself!  You shall have it all!”

And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…

Bewitched Nose Twitch GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing.  Isn’t it?


A vast ornate room.  Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs.  Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.

Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams.  Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.

On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within.  Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.

Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before.  He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins.  He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.

Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.

“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped.  “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here!  Where are the rest!”

The genie abased herself before him.  “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said.  “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection.  Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots.  And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”

Malcolm grunted in satisfaction.  “Adequate, I suppose.  So there’s 365 in total?”

“366 Master” replied the genie.  “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”

“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.

“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily.  “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”

“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.

Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy.  He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion.  He looked around the room.

Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back.  One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him.  Others merely craned their necks to get a better view.  Of him.  All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone.  They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.

He felt a sudden pang of fear.  He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour.  Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.

Malcolm turned and ran for the door.  Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not.  Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room.  They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.

He made it almost halfway.


And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised.  Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.

Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers.  His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.

Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.

Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop.  Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point.  There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.

But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler.  He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts.  Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.

Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock.  Especially his cock.

You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock.  His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond.  And it is indeed huge.  No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time.  It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue.  It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.

Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.

366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys.  Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded.  Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him.  It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done.    Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body.  The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.

Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities.  They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.

One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky.  Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day.  The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability.  She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances.  Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.

How many more will there be?  Who knows?  That depends upon the kindness of strangers.  You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm.  She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now.  She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself.  She asks whether the woman would like to release him.

So far, none has.


 I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist.  There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there?  Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.


 What’s that?  You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too?  I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert.  All right – but only one picture.  There’s rather a lovely story, actually.   Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were.  But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway.  Isn’t that sweet?




I did warn you I might do this

 Sorry, but it’s the dominatrix song from The Pirates of Penzance.   Original here. What can I say? For some people it’s drugs, others it’s death-defying thrills… for me, writing femdom lyrics to Gilbert & Sullivan.  Just ignore me.

A lot of pirates featuring this week…

I have brightened the otherwise dire post up with images of the lovely Mistress Tiffany Naylor, whom I once had occasion to visit and found to be clever, funny and wise as well, obviously, as being as wonderfully sexy as she looks.


I am the very model of a modern-day dominatrix
I’ve slaves chained up in cages, on my racks and on a crucifix
I stroll around my dungeon in a corset quite fantastical
Or grimly flex my cane and tawse in sessions more scholastical.

I am very well acquainted, too, with strap-ons recreational
To use on squealing sissies in a manner penetrational
I know just how to walk with grace and style in patent high heeled shoes
Then elegantly lift one so he’ll lick the fluff and residues. 

I am very good with tawses, paddles, crops and swishy riding whips
I know just how to tap them on my palm, while subbie quickly strips
In short, in matters corporal, you’ll feel it when the rattan flicks
I am the very model of a
modern-day dominatrix.

I make my clients dress in frilly pants all quite effeminate
A dress as well, then laugh at the pathetic sight of them in it.
I often make them flounce around and sing and dance all merrily
And smack their naughty bottoms till they sting and glow quite cherrily.




I am skilled in complex rope-work and tie knots with great dexterity
In bondage sessions you can be assured there’s no escape from me
And if you’re feeling bolder and want bondage with no give in it
My pillory is rigid, and I’ll sentence you to live in it.

Your soft and fleshy nipples will be clamped with cruel malevolence
The gift of pain is all you can expect from my benevolence
For I can judge precisely all the agony my skill inflicts
I am the very model of a modern-day dominatrix! 

For humiliating verbals I’m the best you’ll ever grovel to
You horrid little maggot, you’re the shit I scrape right off my shoe
And if you want some SPH, I’ll giggle at the sight of it
And get a little ruler out to measure the wee height of it.

In fact, when I have learnt to master OnlyFans and Clips4Sale
When I have worked out Bitcoin, CCBill and payment by email
In short when I’ve a smattering of technical capacity

…’pacity’? Hmm… fassity, gassity, hassitty – aha! I have it… 

 You’ll say a better domme has never once before face-sat on me.

For my domineering talents, though they’re sneery and pervertual
Are mostly better suited to the real life than the virtual
But still, within my dungeon I can thrill you with a lot of tricks
I am the very model of a modern-day dominatrix!

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