Monthly Archives: October 2021

DEADLY FEMMEPIRES

The Halloween theme was “Deadly Femmepires” and the party took place in an abandoned underground military facility. Jim decided to go as vampire hunter Van Helsing, complete with hat, boots and duster coat. The party was really nice; spooky atmosphere, great music, lovely people, lively dance floor. At one point a Lady came up to him, leaned over and sniffed.
Mmmm, She whispered approvingly, blood type AB … My favorite.
You guessed it right, he grinned. Awesome fangs by the way, couldn’t tell that they were fake.
She hissed and walked away.
The music abruptly stopped at midnight. One of the Ladies jumped on the man standing next to Jim and forced him to the floor. What a great performance, Jim thought, and started to applaud. Then a Woman flew at the throat of the guy standing right in front of him. His body twitched and shook and blood splattered everywhere. Men went down like flies and suddenly reality sank in.
Jim screamed and ran in fear. The bunker was enormous and he ran through a maze of corridors, down narrow staircases, through rooms, halls and offices until he reached a dead-end. The lights in the corridor were dim and flickering. He was panting, his heart was racing and he was sweating profusely. God, what a nightmare. He turned around and there She was, the AB-Blood-Type-Bitch, standing right behind him.
Where are you going? She smiled. The party has just begun.
Please, he begged, I wanna go home.
One more drink, She said, licking Her fangs. You have My word.

SHIRLEY HOLMES

I met Shirley Holmes (Sherlock’s younger sister) in the spring of 1891 at the Eccentric Club in Soho, London. She had long dark hair, a gorgeous face and an amazing smile. I bowed and kissed Her hand while Her blue green eyes took a walk all over me.
That you are gullible, ignorant and not particular intelligent is of course obvious, She said.
I beg your par-
She slapped me twice. Not hard, but twice.
Do NOT interrupt Me! She paused a moment. Now then. You were born in a shed with two cows, one of which was lame …  you broke your arm when you were five years old … mother a seamstress, father an accountant. You like kippers, not sprats. Beans, not carrots. Sherry, not port.
I stood there with my mouth open wide, because She was bang-bang-bang-bang on.
How on eart-
She punched me hard on the mouth. My head was spining, my teeth falling. But before I could say anything She grabbed my hand, turned it over and stared at the palm.
Ah! The calloused hand shows signs of lifelong manual labor. Masturbation, I presume. You are the possessor of a fine dick, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a matchstick and smaller than a flagpole.
How dare Y-
She kicked me in the shins and I howled.
Take him to My dungeon in Baker Street, She said to a big man standing in the corner. There’s something fishy about him. Mackerel perhaps. Cod maybe.
I was never to be heard from again.

DON’T LOOK, DON’T TOUCH

What is it with you and your obsession with boots? My colleague Sakia laughed.
Your boots, I added.
Charmer, She mocked. So, tell Me then, what’s the deal?
Well … You look absolutely stunning in boots, Saskia, You really do. And the sound! God … the sound of Your boots on the floor is the most beautiful music ever written. Mozart, Beethoven and Bach are just scribblers compared to that magnificent sound. It’s a heavenly duet, a stunning serenade, a thrilling symphony.
Is it now … She slowly said. Be that as it may, John, but from now you will pay a € 20 fine each time I catch you staring at My boots.
Saskia! That’s stupid!
Nope. It’s fair.
I said things like “absurd”, “not in your wildest dreams” and “never”, but yielded in the end. Needless to say.
Thank God She a) worked only three days a week b) worked on a different floor c) didn’t wear boots all the time. It saved me from bankruptcy, because I couldn’t stop staring.
After a while She lost interest and it slowly petered out. Years later I convinced myself it was just a bit of harmless fun. But was it really? I paid every fine, and I was fined a lot. Never argued, never hesitated, never refused. And She took it, She took it all, and never gave it back. Not one euro cent. Thank God for that! Because- between you and me- I found it all extremely exciting.

THE MORE THE MERRIER?

The six of us stood there, naked to the dick, waiting for our name to be called. Five veterans and one nervous breakdown. Yeap, that was me alright. I was still such a novice and I had no idea what to expect. Then my name tumbled down the stairs and my heart skipped a beat. I trembled myself up the stairs and kneeled down in front of a whole bunch of Mistresses. Man, it was so intimidating and I desperately tried to hide behind my dick. They asked me about my limits and what my experience level was.
No limits and no experience whatsoever, I answered with a slight tremor in my voice.
They laughed with an appetite and before I knew what was happening, I got swept away in a flood of contracting orders.
Come here, novice, one of them ordered, and kiss My feet.
Where the hell are you going, a second Mistress said, come here so I can have a good look at you.
On your back slave, a third one barked, I’m going to sit on your face.
They played me like the cheapest banjo in the business. Getting angrier with every minute that passed, because in my eagerness to please, I disobeyed them all.
This is certainly not a good start, an Asian Mistress said with a wicked smile, and you’re going to pay dearly for this.
My longest night was about to begin.

SELF-FLAGELLATION

My name is Flint and I’m the founder of the Sydney Self-Flagellation Society. Because, you know, the Internet is choc-a-bloc with brats nowadays. Girls in their twenties who talk, act and think like five year olds: it’s bonkers and definitely not my cup of pee (aka tea). So yeah, it’s hard to find a decent Mistress nowadays, mate. And we have needs too, you know. I personally don’t give a toss about cuddles, comforting arms or listening ears. I do, however, love a fine whipping from time to time. Which is easier said than done without a skilled Mistress to do the honours. So I came up with the idea of self-flagellation. It’s cheap, you don’t have to wait in line and you’re not dependent on others to make you happy. Makes your dick tick like a rocket on a launchpad, doesn’t it, fella? Sure thing! Now, our Self-Flagellation season runs from April to October, when the members (more than 200) meet each Friday evening here in the main hall. We offer talks, demonstrations, games and what not. The highlight of the evening is, of course, when everyone whips himself into a frenzy. I know, without Women it’s all a bit higgledy-piggledy perhaps, but it’s better than nothing, right? So join us if you live in the area, mate. You’re more than welcome!

THE PROBLEM SOLVER

More often than not, submissive men are stuck in their old habits, despite trying to be a good slave. They call Me for help, because I’m a Problem Solver, also known as The Mad Motivator from Manchester. I don’t care if they’re inexperienced, selfish, ignorant or stupid: you name it, I cane it. No, I do not negotiate with creatures who think (occasionally) and talk (continuously). To Me a male slave is just a big lump of meat and the road to true obedience starts with a bruised ass. I will discipline and punish regardless if they like it or not. Push them to their limits and beyond. That’s when the moaning, groaning and begging starts. It’s such a wonderful feeling to turn a big, strong man into a sobbing little bitch. Sometimes tears, genuine tears, run down their face. I’m not aiming for it, but I love it when it happens. The creature is now willing to do whatever I demand him to do. God, that’s such a thrill. Tears are wonderful, but they do not signal the end of the session though. He’s on the path to redemption, the painful path of becoming a better slave and it’s My job to beat him in the right direction. His training, ordeal, punishment, living hell or whatever you want to call it, stops when I want it to stop.
Madame More.

BEGGING

Listen! You’re a barren and exposed landscape; a lowlife piece of tundra without a defence line. She can squash you like a bug, no question about it. Fighting Her is like battling the storm of the century with an umbrella. But! But you have a trump card up your sleeve, my friend, only to be used in desperate situations. Yes, I’m talking about begging. Use it wisely though and don’t overdue it. Don’t go begging for whips and canes, for feet and bums, for slaps and kicks, for skirts and boots. It’s not a bloody mantra, you know! If you beg all the time and for everything, it loses its meaning and your pleas for mercy are just as silly as peeing against the wind. Begging is an art, waiting for that rare moment to shine. It’s a small bottle filled with a magic potion. And no refill! Do you know what I’m saying? So you have to choose your moments very carefully, because once the potion is gone, it’s gone. Begging, and I mean truly begging for mercy, is one of the most wonderful and unforgettable moments in a slave’s life. Suddenly it’s no longer a game, no longer a choreographed dance between your limits and Her wishes. No sir! You have now come face to face with the raw and real power She has over you. Beggars believe, doesn’t it?