Mr. Jones had been a shoe salesman at Lawson’s Ladies Shoes & Boots for more than fifteen years. It suited him well, because he didn’t have the brains or the bravado to open his own shop. There are leaders and there are followers, he used to say, and he followed the leader. His place was on the fitting stool or, more preferable, on his knees in front of the customers. Nowadays customers were more outspoken, impatient and demanding than ever. Even physical sometimes. He remembered a long blonde Lady who grabbed him by the ear and slapped him in the face for being clumsy. Or the brunette who tried on a pair of boots, ordered him to lick them, as She watched Herself in the mirror to see how it looked. She tried six pair of boots before She found the most lick-able ones. Not to mention the Asian Lady who kicked him in the balls to see which boots were the most kickable. After forty-seven kicks She decided on a pair of knee-high lack boots with silver heels. The silver metal gave the heels a unique glow, and the combination with the deep black gave it a magical effect. Mr. Jones was smitten by Her. So much so, that he knelt before Her and begged Her to be his Mistress. She gave him the boot.
Hold the line, I screamed. But there was a serious thaw in the line because the boys were fleeing. So I did, what real men do: I ran. For five metres, then someone jumped on my back and I fell down in the snow. I tried to fight my way out, but Lisa (who lived opposite the greengrocer) was too strong. She sat on my chest with Her knees on my arms. She had me pinned down and I was going nowhere. She laughed triumphantly and started rubbing snow all over my face.
Ho, ho, ho, I shivered, let me go!
She did … and Ingrid (number 77, end of the street) took Her place and pinned be down with force. She showed little mercy and stuffed snow in my ears, nose and mouth.
Stuff snow in his pants! She commanded.
No-o-o-, I snow mouthed, but the Christmas spirit was nowhere to be found that day.
It’s not Her clothes that make Her dominant; it’s Her personality, the tone of Her voice and Her demanding eyes. In other words: a Mistress in rags is still a Mistress. She’s a Woman and She must be obeyed at all times. On the other hand, as Princess Beverly so rightly put it in one of Her clips: sometimes guys will buy a Financial Domination clip, just based on something you’re wearing. She’s 100% right, as far as I’m concerned, because I’m always on the lookout for something shiny. Just a glimpse of a satin blouse, a PVC skirt, nylon shorts, leather gloves or a wet-look jacket are enough to brighten up the day. Once upon a time one of my colleagues came to work wearing a short, leather skirt. Man, I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day. And night. She had tried it on in a shop somewhere, had looked at Herself in the mirror and bought it. Sadly enough She wore it only once, and yet it changed everything. Because I would never be able to look at Her again with the same eyes. She would always be The Girl With The Leather Skirt. I was willing to walk through a brick wall for Her, I really was. So to quote Princess Beverly one more time: I can make you do anything, based on My outfit. So very, very, very true.
Alright, the Chainsaw Girl said, let’s cut off his penis. The noise of the chainsaw was deafening and rattled the fillings in my teeth. My husband pissed his pants. So sad. Because these were brand new pants, you know.
She turned off the chainsaw. Come on, man, be a sport, let me cut it off.
I will hire a contractor, OK? Happy now?
They looked at each other, grabbed him and tore down his pants.
Let’s dig a tunnel, Circular Saw laughed.
They attached a dildo to the hammer drill and invaded his ass with pinpoint precision. The dildo was spinning round and round and my husband begged for mercy. He was a changed man with a changed ass after that.
Call us if he shows any signs of recidivism, Demolition Hammer said, and we will be right at your door. Oh well, you know the drill.
Anyone with even the slightest brain activity knows it’s rude to give someone the finger, and most people will be offended by it. Not male slaves though, because men and brains don’t go well together. And as far as he’s concerned You don’t even have to say anything; this non-verbal gesture says it all. It says he’s worthless to You, just another piece of shit with a tiny little dick, a big-time loser and a complete waste of time, space and energy. He loves all that and gets a boner. Your middle finger, one might say, is his early Christmas present.
So don’t overdue it, don’t hand out fingers as if You’re Robina Hood. Because your spoiling him rotten. Use Your finger wisely, that’s all I’m saying.
The cell is 7 feet by 13, with a barred window of thick, muffled glass at one end and a black painted door at the other. The cell is damp, unlit and cold, there’s no ventilation system, no running water and only a bucket to be used as a bathroom. There’s some straw on the floor to sleep on and a thin blanket to keep me warm. Meals are given through a trapdoor, about 8 inches square. Tea and bread in the morning, a watery soup at noun and a couple of pints of stirabout as dinner. Then there are the dreadful punishments and humiliations. They say you get used to anything in life, but I’m not there yet. Because there’s no predicting how often or how intense these beatings will be. Sometimes thrice a day, sometimes not at all, sometimes before and after a meal, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes mild, sometimes unbearable, sometimes in my cell, sometimes in front of all the other inmates. It’s the insecurity that is so awful and gets to you. The Female Guards mock and humiliate me. They spit in my face, force me to lick their boots and order me to eat of the floor. All because I made a harmless joke about the Female Government. February 2056 – Slave 1422-927, Femdom Gaol.