Monthly Archives: June 2019

A PERFECT REMEDY

The mucus, doctor Angela said, is stuck in your upper chest.
His mouth fell open.
Snot, She explained, mucus is snot. Anyway, let’s move on. Pants down!
He was too intimidated to talk back, so he pulled down his pants. His rock hard boner sprang out into the open. Doctor Angela shook Her head and put on a strapon.
Wait a minute, he said, that’s a dick!
She slapped him hard in the face.
W.what …
Hush! Or you’ll get another one. I have brains, you don’t! That’s why I’m a doctor and you’re a moron.
He giggled, shrugged his shoulders and admitted She was right.
It’s not a dick. It’s a plunger and it works miracles.
She strapped him to a table. The dildo entered his ass like a freight-train enters a tunnel. He tried to take it like a man, but failed miserably. He begged an begged Her to stop, but She didn’t. Instead She fucked him mercilessly for almost an hour. Tears rolled down his face and his ass felt like an old abandoned mine shaft.
How’s the chest?
My CHEST??? Are You seri…. Not good, thank You very much, it didn’t help.
Then I expect you to be here tomorrow morning at 11:00. Don’t you worry, I’ll fuc … oops, I mean: I’ll fix you up in no time.

BIRCHING

Foreigners in the past were amazed by the English addiction to flagellation. Mrs. Colet ran a famous whipping establishment (established about 1766) in Convent Garden for example and Mrs. Berkely (died in 1836) had one in Charlotte Street. The latter even designed the Berkley Horse (in 1828), an apparatus to flog gentlemen upon. [.] Her instruments of torture were more numerous than those of any other Governess. Her supply of birch was extensive, and kept in water, so that it was always green and pliant: she had shafts with a dozen whip thongs on each of them; a dozen different sizes of cat-o’-nine-tails, some with needle points worked into them; various kinds of thin bending canes; leather straps like coach traces; battledoors, made of thick sole-leather, with inch nails run through to docket, and currycomb tough hides rendered callous by many years flagellation. Holly brushes, furze brushes; a prickly evergreen, called butcher’s bush; and during the summer, a glass and China vases, filled with a constant supply of green nettles, with which she often restored the dead to life. Thus, at her shop, whoever went with plenty of money, could be birched, whipped, fustigated, scourged, needle-pricked, half-hung, holly-brushed, furze-brushed, butcher-brushed, stinging-nettled, curry-combed, phlebotomized, and tortured.

THE MAN FROM SEATTLE

True story: once upon a time a man flew from Seattle to Prague (8.400 kilometres, via Frankfurt in 14 hours time). He rented a car at the airport and drove through the countryside and small villages. It took him more than two and a half hours to cover the 167 kilometres. He parked the car outside the weathered white walls and the entrance gate to the feared and famed Other World Kingdom (aka OWK). One of the Ladies of the OWK was waiting for him inside, just fifty meters away as the crow flies. She would be his Mistress and train him for the next five days. He’d been waiting for this day for what seemed like forever, and now it was finally here! He sat there in his car, staring at the entrance gate. His heart was racing, he was breathing heavily and waves of panic rushed over him. Nothing moved, no birds, no dogs, no people, not even a breeze. As if the world was holding its breath. Then, after half an hour of fear and suffering, he started the car, drove back to Prague and returned to Seattle that same evening. Dreams can get you somewhere, but fear will get you nowhere. Don’t be the man from Seattle.

THREE AMIGOS

The three of us turned a corner and bumped into a blonde Girl in jeans.
Well, well, She said, looking at Frank, there you are. Are you hiding from Me, you piece o-
Frank ran like a chicken, but She was much faster. She grabbed his fingers and twisted them like a wet towel. She pushed him down on the ground and put Her foot on his neck.
Don’t fucking move!
Harry ran at Her, like an amateur knight without a horse. Or sword. She grabbed his hair and brought him down to his knees in one fell swoop. I stood frozen to the ground, trying to take it all in. Frank lay motionless on his belly and Harry was on his knees, begging Her to spare his scalp. She looked at me.
Do you want some as well?
I shook my head.
Alright then. Go over there and stand with your nose against the wall. 
I could have made a run for it, but the gravitational pull of Her power was stronger than my fear. So I obeyed. Minutes later Frank and Harry’s noses joined me.
Look at you, She chuckled, so pathetic. Huey, Dewey and Louie! Stay there and don’t turn around. I warn you! 
I don’t know how long we stood there, but at least half an hour. When I finally had the nerve to look, She was long gone. So I couldn’t ask Her to marry me.

LEG FETISH

Legs are legs and feet are feet, thank you very much. In other words: I love feet, but I’m obsessed with legs. You see the difference? Gorgeous legs make me vulnerable, desperate, gullible, speechless and sky-high submissive. It’s pathetic, I know, and I often tell myself to stop being such a wimp, but I won’t listen. Because legs  are so wonderful, so powerful and so mesmerising. I’ve studied them as long as I can remember (did a lotta legwork, so the speak), studied them as if they were fragments of the lost tomb of Cleopatra. Take the shape of the knee for example. A knee can fuck up or lift up the beauty of a leg entirely. And don’t get me started on ankles, mate! I could write a book on that alone! A beautiful leg is a delicate balance between the upper- en lower leg, the knee, ankle, the muscles and the smoothness of the skin. The loser’s truth is that I find it impossible not to stare and even more impossible to control my dick. That thing rises in my pants like a volcano that’s ready to rumble. In short; legs are my Glory-Glory-Hallelujah fetish, my Winner-Takes-It-All desire, my All-Time-Greatest-Hits longing.

BIG MAC

It was a small party, with only five Mistresses and five slaves invited. One by one we went up the stairs (a stairway to Heaven, so to speak), kneeled down in front of the Ladies and introduced ourselves. Nerve-racking, to say the least. The last to come up was Mac (aka Big Mac), a corpulent, florid man from Great Yarmouth. He had years of experience under his belt and he had even served as a 24/7 lifestyle slave.
I’m sure you did all kinds of things for your Mistress and fulfilled many tasks, one of the Ladies said. Can you name something you’re particularly proud of?
Big Mac looked bewildered, like a rabbit in the headlights. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. I always get very nervous in situations like this, so I began to sweat all over.
Come on, slave, the Lady said encouragingly, just name one thing you’re proud of.
The words came from deep inside him: ……my…..dick?
Silence fell like a ton of bricks. And then a nervous giggle escaped me; it flew from my lips like a tweeting bird. All eyes turned to me and my giggle died a sudden death. If looks could kill, I would be living in an urn right now. They said nothing, but boy, I dearly paid for it later that evening. So whatever happens, do not, I repeat do NOT giggle.