Stories and pictures themed around female domination and male subjugation and servitude. Unsuitable for children, for alpha males, for hard-core practitioners with an interest in the politics of bdsm and the mechanics of complicated rope work. Of interest to perverts like me, basically.
The title, obviously, indicating that it’s a special dedicated to that wholesome British country pastime, The Hunt. Vicious, brutal and non-consensual with no scantily clad ladies but lots of words. Those last two may well put male readers off, I know, but no one here cares what males think, so that’s fine.
PS, I understand there’s some kind of election taking place today, in one or other of Britain’s former colonies. As a non-American, obviously I cannot advise anyone who does have that status on how to vote (although I’m happy to provide tips on how to spell words like ‘neighbour”, to point out that the phrase ‘I could care less’ actually makes no sense at all and to explain the difference between jelly and jam). The important thing is to vote, regardless of which candidate you… you… what am I saying? He’s a deranged idiot, everyone who has ever worked with him says so, how could anybody even be thinking of… oh, just do what you’re going to do. I suppose anyone whose vote might be swayed by what they read on a pornographic blog like this probably shouldn’t be voting at all, on general principles, right? But… I mean to say. Really. Again? Fucking hell.
Sorry the blog’s been a bit Joyless lately, but that’s fixable.
The wonderful Lady Sophia Black. I don’t know what she’s doing now she’s retired from professional domination, but I’ll bet she’s amazingly good at that, too.
Cruella, of course – even the Editrix herself (yes she was, who else do you imagine wrote the editorials?), Lady Victoria, on the right there. She inspired Goddess-Lady Lucia, you know.
More glimpses of life (if you can call it that for the inmates) from The Facility, a very occasional and thoroughly unpleasant and non-consenual series.
With grovelling apologies to anyone with even the slightest taste, it’s a special OWK poetry day! You see, I – no, come back! Really, it’s not that bad, and anyway at least there are pictures of –
Hello?
Anyone still here?
Oh well, just you and me, then. OWK poetry, anyway, all based on the kind of traditional British canon I learnt (but perhaps suprisingly given my interests did not actually have beaten into me) at school. More difficult than it looks, even done this badly, especially as there is essentially no one-word rhyme in English for ‘kingdom’, or for that matter ‘Owk’.
Just in case any of you are interested, puzzled or just entirely short of better things to do sitting there, as you are, in front of a computer with your trousers down around your ankles, the actual poems these are mangled from are, in order:
The OWK ladies once more reminisce to a fictional (but enviable) interviewer, about the best of the best of days. In fact, they reminisce at great length, at least in comparison to the space available for an ordinary caption…
Perhaps one day I’ll post the transcript of the whole interview here, if I ever get round to making it up.
