I’m in the woods, picking wild flowers. Or masturbating, or whatever. I’m in the woods, that’s all that matters. All of a sudden a Woman comes galloping down the hill. Well, Her horse is, of course. Don’t ask me why, but I start to run. Guilty conscience for having a boner perhaps, I don’t know. My lungs are burning, my heart is pounding and sweat is pouring down my face. But I’m no match for Her horse of course. The Woman jumps off the horse onto me and wrestles me to the ground. She overpowers me with ease, ties my hands, and ropes me to the horse. I’m now forced to run and stumble behind Her brown mare. It doesn’t take long before I trip over a branch and fall on my face.
Stop! I scream, like a midget with vertigo.
She looks over Her shoulder, grins and spurs Her horse to go faster. She drags me through green pastures and still waters, hills and hamlets, dirt and puddles. I’m all mud and boner, one might say. At sunset She ties me to a cactus, hand feeds me and knocks me unconscious. I don’t know it yet, but She lives at the far end of the world. It will take us at least a year to get there. It’s the wettest dream come true. I’m Her prisoner and She will take me across countries and continents, in a never-ending parade of Female Power. Her captive and Her trophy for all to see.


The Femdom Restaurant is located on Onion Road (what are the odds) and has three separate rooms for dining: the first is called Mild, the second Wild and the third one is called Emergency Room. We decided to go for the Wild one. The room has place for 44 guests and is decorated with characteristic Femdom motifs. A waitress smacked me across the head and tossed the menu card on the table. She told us we had five minutes. We giggled like schoolboys. I ordered the Slap Happy Salade as an appetizer and a Paddle Pasta with Rabbit Ragu as the main course.
The salade came with 25 brutal face-slaps. Bon appétit with a twist! We drank wine, which did not go down well with the waitress. She wanted us to drink Spa Spit or Pepsi Pee. We held our ground and got pulled by the hair and spat on in the process.
The pasta was delicious, as was the paddling. I had to bend over and a lovely waitress paddled my ass strawberry red. And I was the lucky one, because one of my friends had ordered Strapon à la Stroganoff. Man, they fucked him all over the place with a humongous strapon. The poor lad couldn’t sit (or shit) for days. They forced us to clean the table, the dishes and the kitchen afterwards. The hefty bill was a financial rape, but who cares. We’ve booked a table in the Emergency Room for next week. Some of the things on the menu there are Guillotine Soup and Chinese Noodles Noose. Could well be my Last Supper.


07:30 – Rush hour in the shower.
08:00 – Jim leaves for work. Gosh, he looks so handsome in his new suit.
08:15 – Drop the children off at school. Tell them to behave. They roll their eyes.
08:40 – Arrive at work. Put the heater and the kettle on. Make-up & lemon tea.
09:30 – Slave J. is experienced and confident. He knows what he wants and isn’t shy about it. Hard earned money.
11:00 – Slave B. is a novice. It’s the most beautiful day of his life, he says. He wants it all and he wants it now. Gently does it, though.
12:30 – Homemade sandwiches and tea. How glamorous.
14:00 – Slave S. drove all the way from Manchester again for a two hour session. It’s fun to dominate him, I like him. Ordered him to clean the dungeon as well. Told him how lucky and privileged he was. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. What’s new.
16:15 – At the supermarket. Mom picked up the kids from school and drove them home.
17:15 – Preparing dinner. Jim comes home from work. He looks tired, poor thing.
18:15 – Dinner together. This is what life is all about.
19:30 – Taking the kids to bed. Love them to bits.
21:00 – On the couch with chips and drinks. Jim asks me about my Femdom day. I shrug my shoulders. Same o’, same o’, I say.


03:15 – Can’t sleep. Go to the living-room to stare at nothing.
03:25 – Time is moving backwards.
05:00 – Showered & clothed and ready to go ….. but I have to wait another six hours …..
06:30 – Too nervous to eat. Who cares about breakfast. Or lunch for that matter.
08:15 – Panic sets in. I’m going to cancel the appointment. Tell Her my late mother is ill. Or that I broke my neck. And back. My neck & back. My neck, back and legs, that’s it! Or that I have a flat tire. Less dramatic and more convincing!
09:00 – Too scared to cancel the appointment. I arrive two hours early. Circle the house like a hungry shark. My heart is pounding like a hammer and I’m ready to puke.
10:20 – Another panic attack. What the hell am I doing here! I’m going home, fuck it!
11:00 – She opens the door and takes my breath away. My head is spinning and my mouth is dry.
11:15 – Heaven is here at last! I’m a slave, Her slave! Each command is like manna, each stroke a miracle. A roller-coaster ride of beauty and pain!
12:05 – Drive home on a cloud of happiness.
14:00 – Can’t think, can’t focus; drowning in happiness.
17:50 – Staring at Her pictures on the Internet. Was I really HER slave today?
22:00 – I’m exhausted and go to bed. This has been the most amazing, unbelievable and unforgettable day of my life!


Once upon a time the sun was shining in Chicago and he was sitting in a bar, drinking alone. Then Lady Death walked in and stared him right in the eye. He became as pale as death (how appropriate), because She was a merciless Enslaver of Men. She looked a bit startled though, but before She could say anything, he took a sprint and jumped straight through the window.
You’re not going to get me, Bitch, he screamed hysterically.
He drove full throttle to JFK airport in New York and flew to Paris. He stopped shaving, pulled out his front teeth, bought glasses, a different outfit and a Fiat 500L (1969). He drove from Paris to Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria and finally to the city of Samarra in Iraq. Turned out his car wasn’t fit for long-distance driving (better said: his car wasn’t fit for driving), so it took him nine days to cover the distance. But he made it, he cheated death and the eternal chains of servitude. He checked into a small hotel and went outside to find something to eat. He walked through a maze of old narrow streets, stairs and alleys, turned a corner and bumped into…Lady Death.
WHAT! he screamed. Are you serious! How is this possible, I escaped you in Chicago!
There you are, My new slave to be, Lady Death smiled. I was so surprised to see you in Chicago, I couldn’t believe My eyes! For I knew we had an appointment here today, in Samarra.


Sex with you is not exactly a Viking invasion, isn’t it? It’s more like having sex with a hamster. Although that’s an insult to hamsters and other rodents. I deserve better. Much better. And bigger. Much bigger. Time to lock your tiny little wiener behind bars and throw away the key. Read My lovely lips: you’re not going to have sex anymore for the rest of your life, and that’s the end of it. Don’t look so worried, you’ll get used to it. Or not. I’m curious what the effects of your long-term chastity will be. Who knows, maybe you will lose the ability to cum, or even better: the ability to get an erection! It’s a small step from a micro dick to impotence, I would say. Anyway, it will be very interesting to see what happens. In that respect you’re not so much a hamster but a lab rat. Every now and then the cage will come off and your penis will be cleaned thoroughly. Ah, I see a glimmer of hope in your eyes. Well, make yourself no illusions, your hands will be cuffed behind your back and the chastity cage will be back in place before you know it. And so, I hereby sentence your shadow of a penis to a lifetime in chastity.


Ellen, his two years younger Sister, tackled him from behind and he smacked to the ground. The fight was brief and intense, and She came out on top. She pressed his wrists to the sides of his head and and sat on his upper chest. He struggled to throw Her off, but She had Her legs on his arms and Her knees on his wrists. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Now, let’s wait for our siblings to come home, shall we?
Jesus, are you stupid or what, he laughed sarcastically, no one can sit like this for so long. 
Oh, we’ll see about that, She giggled.
You’re such an idiot sometimes, Ellen.
Perhaps, brother mine, but I’m stronger than you and trust Me, I can sit like this forever.
And She was right, because somehow Her legs didn’t go numb.
The humiliation took him through a roller coaster ride of emotions. First he cursed and swore, then he put on a grave face and whined & whimpered and in the end he begged and begged for mercy. It didn’t help. Then the siblings arrived home.
You sat on him for several hours??? one of their sisters asked in disbelief. Way to go, Sis!
Man, you’re  a wimp, the older brother mocked.
I pinned him down for more than three hours, Ellen wrote in Her diary that evening. Surely that’s something for the Guinness Book of Records!


Regular dog walking is one of the best ways to keep Your human dog healthy and happy. Our Dog Slave Walking Service specialises in fun-filled group dog walks and dog adventures. Because dogs are naturally pack animals and they love playing with their buddies. From the laziest to sportiest and from the largest to the tiniest; they’re all welcome. We take them to parks, open fields, forests and the beach, where they can run and play to their hearts content. We play fetch and tug-of-war for example to let them burn off excess energy. We also change old and annoying habits into new and appropriate ones. Don’t worry about separation anxiety or leash obedience; our dog walkers are amongst the most brutal in the business and these bloody dogs soon realise they’re barking up the wrong tree. We teach them social skills and commands and it’s amazing to see what a choke collar and a penis shock device can do! Our service is free of charge, because we simply love to humiliate, drill and torture the male species. That’s much more rewarding than a paycheck. Sasha’s Dog Slave Walking Service – Barcelona, Spain.


Matt is chosen to be Human Doormat 2020 at the Femdom Estate! While the Ladies will use him to wipe their feet, he will wipe his tears of happiness. Because it really means the world to him. He has been practising and preparing for this for many, many years. He’s not like all those idiots who think they excel in everything Mistress throws at them. Gardener, cleaner, mechanic, carpenter, painter, technician, writer, all in one? Shut up, no way! Doing one task at the time is already way beyond the capability of most men. And even then! Ask a slave to clean the bathroom and the Lady probably has to do it all over again after the knucklehead has gone home. Matt instead, focuses on one job, one fetish, one calling or whatever you wanna call it. Being a doormat is all about trampling and, if necessary, cleaning the boots, shoes, sneakers and pumps with his tongue. He always has to be on top of his game, because Mistresses don’t talk to  doormats, you know. Few people do, actually. Anyways, his tongue always has to be ready to shift into second gear. No one orders him to, he just knows. You see, that’s the difference between an experienced doormat and a cheap, amateur one.


I will never forget my very first session, with two professional Mistresses no less. It all went remarkably smooth, like stepping into a warm bath after a long, exhausting day. In the third, and final hour, one of the Mistresses introduced me to the bullwhip. She wasn’t the squeamish type, because ten minutes earlier She had pierced my nipples with needles. Just like that. Anyways, my arms and legs were spread wide and strapped in place. The whip cracked and seemed to burn itself through my skin. I bellowed in pain.
I see you appreciate the excellent workmanship that went into making this whip, She grinned.
The lashes came in quick succession, leaving me no time to recover. My body winched in pain.
Mistress, have pity on an innocent novice, I shivered.
She laughed out loud and made a serious attempt to whip me in half. That evening I examined my back in the mirror. It looked like a battlefield, with craters and trenches criss-crossing in every direction. The Nazca lines gone wrong, so to speak. I was very proud of them and couldn’t stop looking. They were silent witnesses of one of the most memorable days of my life. Over the weeks this beautiful landscape slowly began to fade, until finally it simply disappeared altogether. As if nothing happened. As if it was all a figment of my imagination.


The Frankfurter Femdom & Fetish Fair was an enormous success, with tons of kinky, naughty and inspiring vendors, manufacturers, shows, educational sessions and workshops. There was also a Sub-Tombola with very fine prizes. For example: 12 Face-Slaps (prize number 10), 15 Kicks-to-the-Groin (number 150), a 30-minutes cuddle with the finest Nipple-Clamps (number 120) or a No-Bullshit-Bullwhipping encounter (prize number 70). Then a bald-headed, beer-bellied guy drew a ticket out of the revolving drum and held it up. It was number 100: the big prize, the jackpot! Immediately a marching band marched in, playing he’s a jolly good fellow. The man was stripped, forced to bend over and strapped to a BDSM table.
Ladies & gentlemen, Mistress Tombola said in the microphone, let’s hear it for the winner! He has won the coveted prize, the dream of all dreams … the-e-e-e-e Strap-On Marathon!!
We cheered loudly, because we were so glad it was him, not us. There was a long queue of Women, strapped-on to the teeth, to have a go at him. One after the other rammed the missile in his enormous ass and fucked his brains out. The poor man was screaming in agony, so the marching band played a few uplifting tunes to bring the atmosphere back in. Rumour has it that 126 Women “congratulated” the prize-winner in this fashion.


The Temple of the Goddess is Japan’s oldest Femdom temple, located in the Kyoto mountains, and is dedicated to all lifestyle Mistresses around the world. A few months ago the authorities finally granted me permission to stay, work and worship at the sanctuary for a few weeks. It’s more beautiful than I’d ever imagined and I wished I could stop the clock and be here forever. I rise at 4am every morning and wash and clean the boots of the 6-metre high statue of a Goddess in the inner sanctum. The statue is made of pure gold and is decorated with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. A couple of devotees wash Her legs, others Her hands etc. The Holy Guards are an elite and highly trained forse, licensed to kick, slap, smother, whip, cane and – no doubt – kill flies like me. They keep a sharp eye on everything. Thousands of male slaves visit the temple each day and offer food, flowers, money and gold to the Goddess. They all get a free meal, so most of the time I’m dishwashing, scrubbing and cleaning in the enormous kitchen. The highest authority of the temple, Princess Juri, arrives in the early afternoon and we all lie prostrate for Her for at least six hours. Sometimes She points at one of the slaves lying on the ground, and he will be punished right in front of Her. Without rhyme or reason as far as I know, but then again: She’s a living Goddess, I’m nothing. Slave T. April 2016.


Public humiliations were initially intended to embarrass the naughty ones, not to arouse them. Wrongdoers were tied to a cart and dragged through the streets, had to sit on the repentance stool for a number of Sundays (sometimes with a paper mitre on their head) or ended up in the pillory. Compared to that, going down on your knees in public before your Mistress, is just kid-stuff, wouldn’t you say? I was collared, leashed and paraded through the streets of Paris, wore a slave collar and a T-shirt saying i am a 24/7 slave, in a restaurant in Rome, had to kiss a Lady’s boot on the world famous zebra crossing on Abbey Road, London, was on all fours in Amsterdam with a Mistress sitting on my back, was slapped in the face repeatedly on the Old Town Square in Prague and kneed in the nuts at the airport. One day a Madame took me to a very busy shop and told me to wait at the entrance. Then, after twenty minutes or so, She grabbed me by the ear, dragged me to the shop counter and ordered me (loud and clear) to get my wallet out and pay for Her stuff. All this was meant to humiliate me, but to me these were moments of intense beauty. Because there’s no shame in being a slave. On the contrary: it fills me with enormous pride.


I’m a huge fan of the sleazy, adventurous, slightly erotic, pulp magazines of the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s. Especially the ones with strong, powerful and deadly Women on the cover. Some of these covers are genuine pieces of art, as far as I’m concerned. The stories inside range from Female Islands and Tribes, to Harem’s, Bordello’s, Femme Fatale’s and Madame’s, to Pirates, Man-Killers, Sex-Slaves and Nazi. Lots and lots of Nazi’s. The titles of these stories can be mouthwatering:

  • He Was Hostage Of The Orient’s Fabulous Female Brigade
  • Tortured Slave Of The Whip Goddesses
  • Trapped By The Slave Trading Nymphos Of The Nile
  • I Ran the Torture Gauntlet Of Those Blood-Crazed Amazons
  • The Berlin Nudes And Their Studio Of Torture
  • The Wild Raid Of The Lace Panty Commandos
  • Captive Of The All-Girl Ching Dao Jewel Ring
  • The Nazi She-Devil Who Killed For Kicks
  • Attacked By The Girl Pirates Of The Yangtze
  • The Teenage Nazi She-Wolves Of Berlin

She promised a paradise of love and freedom in the sun, but now we were Her slaves with our lives at stake …. That’s enough for the Nobel Prize in Literature if you ask me. Amazing covers, catchy titles and tag-lines allow us to escape the doubts, difficulties, hazards and impossibilities of finding a real & right Mistress in the 21st century. They inspire us to dream and fantasise of undiscovered islands, jungles and worlds where real Women rule.


He swore he wouldn’t come back. I didn’t try to stop him, because we’ve been through this a hundred times or more. I knew he’d be back, because he’s too weak and too addicted to go through with it and leave. And sure enough, within weeks he was back to his own self. Grovelling in front of Me, begging Me to forgive him. All because he’s a slave to My long and smooth legs. It takes a mini-skirt or a pair of shorts to turn this respectable, successful and confident man into stammering mess. My legs make him utterly powerless and the more he stares at them, the weaker he becomes. Crossing My legs makes his penis swell up and get extra thick. Oh, how I love the power I have over him. Sometimes he’s allowed to touch, kiss and worship My legs … sometimes not. That’s the way it is. So yeah, I knew he’d be back. And each time he does, the price will go up. Yes, he has to pay a hefty sum to see My legs. He’s now in the phase of selling things to get money, bless him. He has sold his bedroom TV, his laptop, his books and CD’s; all because he wants to worship My legs. He’s caught in My trap and I will cross My legs and dangle My feet in front of his face till he’s ready to sell his last shirt.


Years ago, My husband foolishly agreed to be My slave. He quickly regretted it, but I had him by the balls and I was not planning on letting him go. I’m not a coldhearted bitch (I’m much worse that that), so I introduced Handjob-Day. It’s held twice a year and all he has to do is hold back an orgasm for eight minutes. And be honest: what’s eight minutes in the scheme of things, right? If he succeeds, he’s a free man. If not, he will be My slave for another six months. Now, My dear husband is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, because he really thinks he has a fighting chance. How pathetic. He’s a walking vulnerability, an open book. I don’t even have to wear shiny boots, a mini-skirt or a leather jacket; mentioning it is enough to drive him crazy. Touching his penis makes him quiver and shake, and his body arches in immediate response. His dick is already leaking like a broken sewer pipe, and I haven’t even started yet! And he wants to fight ME? Come on! I can give an erection to an eunuch, for God’s sake, and I can make my husband cum just by looking at his dick. He cums whenever I please and he will be my fucking slave till the end of time.


There’s a new Subby-Market in town, so I went there to check it out. The two-storey store looks big and bright and I was impressed how friendly and professional the staff was. We have a large variety of slaves from all around the world, one of the young Ladies said, and there’s always something thrilling in our collection. The ground floor showcases the new products that are up for sale. All slaves are trained, tested, cleaned and certified. They’re on display in large display cases with an electronic information card and a price tag attached to it. Male slaves are ridiculously cheap of course, a luncheon in town costs more. And tastes better. On the 2nd floor (the Lease-A-Sub department) you’ll find the second-hand, often somewhat damaged, lease items. The store is open 24/7, just in case someone needs a late-night slave. Some Ladies are emotionally attached to animals, but absolutely no one has feelings for these lowlife creatures we call men. We made that mistake before, and we’re not doing it again. So a Lady can use Her purchase as a work-slave, a handyman, a doormat, a sex-toy, a whipping boy, human furniture, a servant, a pet, a medical experiment or anything else that comes to Her pretty mind. It’s a lovely store with helpful staff and a huge range of products, so I recommend them highly to everyone. Diary of Mistress Sunflower – March 2079.


Picture the scene: you’re facedown on the bed, with your bottom way up in the air. Man, there’s enough meat on your ass to start a bloody restaurant, isn’t there? Anyways, let’s not get into that. Your Mistress walks into the room and sits down on your back, facing your mighty ass. The full weight of Her beauty is pressing down on you, and that’s an incredible sexy feeling. She has brought some goodies: a paddle, a brush, a belt, a frying pan and two strong hands. She starts with Her hands, followed by the pan, the brush, the paddle and the unforgiving belt. The pain isn’t too bad at first, but gets worse quickly. You fear the belt, and for good reason, because it can literally bring you to tears. You’re begging Her to stop, but your plea falls on deaf ears, because She doesn’t do half measures. A true spanking starts when you really want it to end, She says, and desperate times call for desperate measures. You have no clue what She means by that, you only know that your ass is in desperate pain. And so the punishment is, as always, extremely long, hard and merciless. Then, after God knows how long, She looks down on your blistered and raw skin and decides to call it 1) a day, 2) a triumph and 3) a thing of beauty.
Get up, She snaps, you can’t lay in bed all day, now can you? You lazy pig!


You have the privilege and the honour to dominate Me for a couple of hours, he said with a confident smile. You should be really thankful for that and I honestly think you should pay Me, instead of Me paying you. Anyways, you’re free to wear whatever you want, as long as it’s a short, black leather skirt, shiny black boots, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket. You’re also free to do whatever you want with Me, because I’m the best and most obedient slave in the world. So we’ll start the session with some boot worship. I’m not into feet, because that’s just gross. After the boots comes a bit a face-sitting and some face-slapping. Mild, not wild, because I have a pretty face and I want to keep it that way. Then it’s time for a bit of whipping and stuff. I don’t want any marks, because I have a sensitive skin. Then we’ll do some pony-play, because I like that. Now, it’s a well-known fact that My penis is a magic want and no doubt you’ll be mesmerised as well. Impossible to resist, c’est moi. So, I grant you permission to give Me a blowjob at the end of the session. See it as your reward. No, no, you don’t have to thank Me, it’s OK. Trust Me, your life will never be the same, Mistress, because I’m a super slave.


He rounded a corner and ran into two Female police officers. Man, they looked incredibly sexy in their uniforms; it gave them an intimidating air of authority. He loved it and his dick rocketed to life. They were not friendly though. No, sir! One of them grabbed him by the shirt, pushed him against a lantern post and put Her hand between his legs. He made a high-pitched sound and gasped for air.
Just as I thought, She said, he’s got a boner.
God help us, the other one said, and She made it sound as if he was a highly contagious disease.
Sir, we are the Penis Police and the The Law on Boners, Act 2019, Section 311-a clearly states that erections are forbidden in public transport, parks, on the streets, at sports venues, etcetera.
He growled. How the hell should I know tha-
She silenced him by squeezing his balls. His testicles were now boiling and his dick was ready for a lift-off.
Feel it, Angela, this is a bad one.
The other one dived in.
Jesus! That’s at least a $500 fine, but it’s more likely to be $1000.
He protested and was arrested for having a) boner b) an attitude c) a dick in the first place. He was fined and sentenced to six months in the Penis Correctional Penitentiary at Fort Dick.


He never forgets a single bag or hat-box; buys tickets and tips the guard efficiently, secures a reserved railway compartment; brings the noble Lady tea at the stations (for he travels third-class) and has everything unpacked and ready by the time She leisurely strolls upstairs to dress. He has always the same noiseless step and perfect sleekness and politeness of manner, the same absolute good temper and gentleness of tone, with the same subserviency of voice, the same enthusiasm and energy in his work. He polishes Her boots till She can see Her face in them; clothes are pressed, dried and ironed; hats are brushed; hot water is always at the ready; whips are greased to perfection; the carriage meticulously washed and cleaned; the horses groomed and fed. A Lady’s valet is an unique specimen of fine manners, humility, obedience and complete submission. What he lacks in intelligence he makes up for the vows he makes to serve and obey a Lady. There is veneer, but no real value underneath. Yet, take him all in all, a Lady’s valet is agreeable to live with, easy to manage, useful, faithful and devoted, meek and obedient and without any wishes of his own. He submits with all fear to a Lady, not only if She’s kind and reasonable, but also if She’s strict, perverse and cruel. December 1898 – Lady Rose


She gave me a Grand Tour of submission. Some foot worship, some doggy training, a couple of well-earned slaps to the face, a bit of whipping to warm up the skin (for the horrors that would soon follow) and some CBT to tame the beast and his great balls of fire. Well … in a manner of speaking. The pain was mild and I honestly began to believe I had special powers of some sorts (such a rookie mistake). Then She pinched my nipples with Her long, razor-sharp nails. My body twitched violently.
Aha, She grinned, found your weak spot.
And that was the start of a painful romance between my nipples on the one hand, and clamps on the other. Now, nipple clamps are not that bad during the first twenty minutes or so. You could do a summersault, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t recommend it, but you could. But then, after a while, pain sets in. The clamps start chewing through your flesh like piranha’s on the loose. The clamps restrict the blood flow and pain ripples through your body like a shockwave. But that’s nothing compared to removing these man-eating things. I fear that moment more than anything. The blood rushes back into your nipples, like barbaric herds with a silence to kill. It’s an explosion of pain, there’s no better way to describe it. The more ruthless Ladies would then grab the dying nipples and squeeze them like grapes. Loved it, hated it, feared it, but most of all: felt it.


Someone has to do it. And it’s not going to be Me, slave! So, from now on you’re responsible for cleaning the toilet each and every day. The bowl, the sink, the floor, the tiles; everything. You’re now Prince Crapper, how about that!
Thank You, Madame, he said with little enthusiasm.
She laughed out loud: My word, you still think Female Domination is all about your dreams and your fantasies, isn’t it? Well, it’s not, you piece of shit! 
Keeping the toilet clean wasn’t the hardest and most time consuming job in the world, of course. But Madame’s move in mysterious and merciless ways and quite often She forced him to clean the toilet bowl with his tongue.
Madame, what about all the bacteria and germs, he shivered the first time.
It all depends if you’ve done your job properly, slave. Besides, you’re a germ yourself, so stop blathering, start licking.
She even pushed his head into the toilet bowl and flushed it. He knew the water came from the main water supply line, so it was cleaner than his underpants (but then again: everything was cleaner his underpants). And yet, he dreaded that flush of water more than anything. She knew it, of course She did, and loved it. Sometimes She forced him to clean the floor with his tongue as well. You see, being Lord of the Loo is not as glamorous as it sounds!


She was too demanding for his taste, so he broke up with Her. They agreed to have one last dinner together at Her beautiful mansion. The evening was a bit surreal and uncomfortable, but he made the best of it. Then, round ninish, he became sleepy.  His vision blurred and sounds stilled.
W.what d.did You put in .. in .. my .. d.drink?
Oh, some sleeping pills, She smiled, nothing to worry about, My pet.
Her voice sounded lightyears away. He tried to get up, but his arms and legs wouldn’t let him. Then everything went black. He woke up with a steel collar around his neck, chained to a wall. His ex was sitting on a stool in the corner.
Brenda, he said with restrained anger, what is the meaning of this?
Well, She sighed, if you really must know, I collect ex-boyfriends.
Wha- wait a minute – what??
She giggled. Funny, isn’t it? Do you remember Steve?
Steve, my predecessor? Who immigrated to Australia five years ago?
Yeah … well … I named his cell Australia. So technically speaking, I wasn’t lying.
He’s here???
Yes. And Raoul. And Tom. And Mike.
Big Dick Mike is here as well??? Jesus, Brenda, he left years and years ago.
Leave, leave, that’s a big word. He moved from My bedroom to My dungeon, to be really honest with you. You see, no one breaks up with Me. No one.


Turns out I’m a lesbian after all, so My Girlfriend Angela will be moving in soon. Now, I’m sorry to say this, Harold, but we don’t want a penis in the house. So, if you want to live with us and be our servant, then your dick has to come off. Or, if you’re really really attached to that awful thing, then you have to leave. Move out with- or stay without, that’s it really. Now Harold, you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, we both know that. Apart from that, you’re a slave, not a decision maker. So I gave it some thought and I’ve decided for you: you have to go!
That said: you’re My husband and I’m not going to make you homeless. Because I hate cruelty towards animals, you know that. Besides, we need your salary and who else is going to clean the house, cook dinner and do the shopping, right? So, I will give you some money to turn the shed behind the house into a tiny house. Your house. Nothing fancy: basic, brutal and Spartan will be your building blocks. And leave some space for the bikes, will you Harold?
Now, don’t look so miserable. You’re My slave and I can do with you as I please. I decide, you abide. Enough talk for now! Time for you to make a list and visit the hardware shop. Chop-chop!


Monday, January 21. According to an anonymous inside source (Mr. Snow, 472-C Lancaster Street, London) the Girls at London University College have taken command of the school. He claims that male teachers and students are blackmailed, bullied and used as slaves!
Headmaster Collins dismissed all claims as silly pranks. These accusations are absolutely false, ungrounded and fabricated, he said. He was missing his front teeth, had a black eye, a bloody nose, and a collar around his neck. Which was a bit odd, but a hype perhaps. Behind him stood a Schoolgirl in an absolutely lovely school-uniform. She had Her hand on the headmaster’s shoulder, which seemed to make him somewhat nervous, as if he was afraid to be rebuked. That must have been the light playing tricks on the mind, no doubt. Then we heard a terrible scream, but the headmaster was quick to explain that it was an owl gone crazy. There was sweat on his forehead and his eyelids were twitching, but that was probably a hobby of some sorts.
Time’s up, the Girl said firmly, and I admired Her for looking after the headmaster so well.
You must be very, very proud of Her, I said.
Proud is a word, the headmaster answered mysteriously. He sounded hoarse. Probably an oncoming flu, or something like that. So rest assure, dear readers, everything’s fine at London University College, nothing to worry about. Tim Sharp – London Chronicle. 


All men are locked in chastity and I really do understand the reasons why. But it means, in practise, that owned slaves lead the good life. Because is he’s a good boy and if he’s very lucky, his Mistress will unlock the chastity cage from time to time and let Vesuvius erupt. But unowned slaves always get the short end of the stick, and they have to go to the Milking Farm every three months. It’s compulsory and those who refuse will be arrested, fined and castrated. In that order. Don’t get me wrong: I was all for the the Female Revolution, I even handed out flyers. I was, and still am, a firm believer, but the Milking Farm is a step too far for me.
The machine in the milking parlour can milk up to 250 slaves at the time. The smell of sperm is overwhelming and gets into your nose and clothes. But the Milkmaids also use plates, bowls and Tupperware cups to collect the sperm. Some of us are even taken outside and milked in a bucket. Not once, but twice, sometimes thrice in a row. It’s all so degrading, especially when they want us to mow like cows. The last time I was there I confronted one of the Milkmaids with this. She slapped me in the face and threatened me with the slaughterhouse. I left with the tail between my legs. Yes, these are bleak and unsettling times. Joe Mill – September 2067. 


He was on all fours, blindfolded and had a bit in his mouth. Suddenly he felt Her weight on his back. She took the reins and said: Come on, boy! She applied some pressure with Her legs and he started to crawl. The crop lashed against his ass as She pulled the reins.
Steady! I did’t ask you to gallop, didn’t I.
He slowed down. He couldn’t see a hand in front of his face, but all it took was a light pressure from the reins to know which way to go. Well, and the relentless lashing of the crop, of course. She was a petite type of Lady, but crawling with Her on his back was pretty exhausting. His knees were almost killing him.
Let’s trot, She said, applying pressure with Her legs. Put some backbone into it, Jolly Jumper.
He did his utmost, but the crop told him he wasn’t going fast enough. He breathed heavily and drooled like a mad dog. Eventually he became so exhausted and simply collapsed on the ground.
Who the fuck told you it’s time to take a nap?
He hoped it was a rhetoric question, because he couldn’t talk. Or neigh.
She got up, pulled his blindfold off and showed him a pair of spurs with huge five-spiked rowels. He nearly fainted.
This will wake you up! Come on, horsie, time to train the passage, the piaffe and the pirouette.


My friendship with Monique goes back a long time and She knew everything about my submissive feelings. It wasn’t Her thing, but She was always very supportive and attentive. Bless Her! One day I told Her about a Female colleague of mine and I said something horrible. It wasn’t naughty or cheeky, it was downright rude and hurtful.
And you call yourself a slave, Monique said.
I admit I was a bit taken back by Her words. I sat there looking stupid for a while, but then I realised She was right.
I apologise, I don’t know what got in to me.
You can be such a jerk sometimes, do you know that? Submissive, pfff. Whenever it suits you, I would say.  It pisses me off. So, go and stand in the corner over there where I can observe you.
I wasn’t sure if She was pulling my leg, but I did what I was told.
Nose against the wall, hands on your head. I don’t want to hear your voice and I don’t want to hear you breathe. 
Her voice was right behind me and I shivered uncontrollably. I stood there for hours and my arms started to ache pretty badly. It was late in the evening when She told to go home.
We will not speak about this again, She said. I’m not your Mistress, nor do I want to be. But from now on you will speak with respect about Women. 
You see? There’s so much more to Dominance & submission than slaps, whips and canes.


Sounding. It’s such an innocent word, isn’t it? Like a relaxing, crackling fireplace or rain snuggling down on the roof. Well, there are no crackles and snuggles in the Femdom toolbox, my friend. So sounding (urethral sounding) simply means: stuffing a stainless steel rod (a sound) in your dick. Stick a stick in his dick, better said. The rods usually range from 3mm to 18mm. The bloody thing plows through your penis as if it’s boring a tunnel and it will eventually reach your prostate. Moving the rod up and down and touching the prostrate feels sensational and can lead to unbelievable orgasms. Spraying the ceiling like a hot geiser, one might say. Sensational as it may be, my dick and I are happy that we didn’t have to go through this ordeal. I know, tomorrow never knows, and if it happens, it happens. In the second hour of my very first session with two professional Mistresses, one of the Mistresses stuck needles through my nipples. I’m not afraid of needles or anything, but through my nipples!! Man, I was sweating like a pig gone crazy, I can tell you that much. But it wasn’t too bad in hindsight, so should a Mistress decide to impale my penis, then so be it.


Do you have any good intentions for the New Year, slave? No, no, don’t answer that, give your braincell some rest. Poor thing. It’s a rhetorical question, you see. You are a man, if you can call it that, which means you are frighteningly predictable. So let me guess: your good intention for 2020 is more foot worship. Or more blowjobs. More high heels perhaps. You only think of yourself, that’s the uncomfortable truth, isn’t it? You say you would do anything for your Mistress, but what you really mean is: you will do the things you like. Am I right or am I right? So let Me give you some examples of genuine good intentions. Shut-The-Fuck-Up 2020, how does that sound, mmm? Slaves tend to make a lot of noise, it’s awfully tiring sometimes. Another good intention is Happy New Diligence. If you clean Her house, do it diligently. It’s not difficult and even you can do it. Or, what about: No, Ho, Ho Jealousy! I know, you honestly believe you are the best slave in the universe. Well, you’re not. You’re an idiot. Like all the others. So stop feeling rejected when a new slave joins the club, because you are making a fool of yourself. Chastity 2020, is that something you are interested in? No more dicky dick for 365 days. Can you handle that? In short: come up with something good and unselfish this time, slave.



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.


For the previous few days we’d been building snow forts for the battle that was soon to start. A giant snowball fight between boys and Girls, aka The Subzero Battle of the Sexes! I was just a kid, but I knew that this was the battle that mattered most. It commenced on a cold and snowy afternoon. The boys defended the fortresses and the flag (which wasn’t a flag at all, but a red T-shirt). The barbarian hordes, better known as the Girls from the neighbourhood, came charging down the hill. Snowballs rained down like missiles and the fighting was intense for almost an hour. Then things began to fall apart.
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.


My husband wanted to do the entire renovation himself. He started in 1925 (it honestly felt that way) and was still hard at work a month ago. Weekends and holidays were all sacrificed for a never-ending nightmare of drilling, tiling, painting and hammering. I’d asked him several times to hire a contractor, but he wouldn’t listen. So I contacted the Black & Decker Brigade, because enough is enough. Six of them came barging in with scary looking saws, drills and hammers! Not to do the job for him, but to scare him shitless. My husband however, told them to piss off.
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.
Stop, st-o-o-o-o-p!
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.


Believe it or not, but the middle finger is some 2500 years old. No, no, no, I’m not talking about your middle finger, you empty vase, I’m talking about the insulting hand gesture. The go fuck yourself and up yours gesture, do you know what I mean? Anyways, the ancient Greek used it and it was used in ancient Rome as well. And even back then it was used to insult people. You are thrown into this arena to be devoured by hungry lions, Emperor Nero said to the convicted man. The human snack looked at the emperor with disdain, gave him the finger and said: Fuck you, Nero. 
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. 


Pauline was a great looking Girl: blond, smooth skin, perky breasts, a gorgeous smile and not an inch of fat on Her body. I met Her at a birthday party, where She beat everyone who challenged Her to an arm-wrestling match. Boys, Girls, men and Women; She crushed them all. Which was bizarre, because Her body didn’t do biceps, if you know what I mean. I honestly thought it was a prank, some sort of hidden camera shit, or something like that. But in the end I could not restrain myself and decided to challenge Her and teach Her a lesson. I started aggressively and went full throttle immediately, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. She didn’t flinch and Her face was as calm as a pond on a windless day. My arm began to hurt and the strength melted away. And then it was all over. My hand smashed on the table with a powerful bang and everyone cheered. I was flabbergasted and immediately agreed to do the other arm. Well, we all make mistakes and mine lasted less than a second. It was Go-Baff-Over, only much faster. I had the honour of meeting Her several times after that and had at least ten rematches against Her. I didn’t stand a change and the result was always the same.


Rose at six, opened the shutters, cleaned the fireplaces, lighted the kitchen fire, boiled the water and took it to Lady Ilsa. Swept & dusted the rooms and the hall, laid the cloth and got breakfast up. Cleaned three pairs of boots, stripped the beds, did the washstands and tidied the bathroom & bedrooms and made the beds. Cleared & washed the breakfast plates and cups away. Cleaned & rubbed up the table silver. Cleaned the kitchen and scrubbed the floor on my knees. Walked to Lady Isabel’s mansion, who lives 5 miles away, and gave Her a letter from Milady. Waited for the reply and hurried back. Laid table for lunch. Scrubbed the hall & steps on my knees. Cleared away luncheon. Picked & gutted two ducks and roasted them. Scrubbed the pantry on my knees and scoured the tables. Scrubbed round the house and cleaned the window sills. Laid the table for dinner. Cleared & washed away dinner plates, bowls, table silver, glasses etc. Served tea at nine for Milady and Her friends. Cleaned the privy, passage & scullery floor on my knees and cleaned the sink down. Cleared & washed the cups and glasses away. To bed at eleven, too tired to take off my uniform. Tomorrow it will start all over again, and yet I consider myself to be the luckiest sissy slave on the planet. April 1873 – Longfeet Hall, Derbyshire.  


♬ All you need is Gloves (rata-dadada)
All you need is Gloves (rata-dadada)
All you need is Gloves, Gloves
Gloves is all you need ♬

Hats (for men) and gloves (for Women) are out of fashion nowadays. Yeah, yeah, I know, what about mittens, right? Well, fuck mittens, because that’s like saying thermal underwear is the same as lingerie. Sadly enough the real deal gloves are not part of a Lady’s everyday wardrobe anymore. And that’s a real shame, because a Woman with gloves is a masterpiece in itself, I would say. Gloves are elegant, sexy, mesmerising, sensual and intimidating at the same time. I recall my aunt Rebecca wearing gloves. The soft, leather gloves adapted perfectly to the shape of Her hand and it was impossible to take my eyes off them. I was not the easiest kid in the world (to put it mildly), but aunt Rebecca made me eat out of Her (gloved) hand. It did not go unnoticed in the family and I was teased and made fun of. I didn’t care a bit, because everyone now looked up to Her. She had control over me and was praised for it, how awesome was that!
I don’t know how you do it, Rebecca, my mother sighed, he’s as gentle as a lamb with you. You must have magical powers.
I smiled inside, because my aunt didn’t have magical powers, of course. She had gloves.


How much can I put you down for, sir?
He produced a prehistoric argggh sound, because She squeezed the bejesus out of him. She had an arm around his throat and leg scissored his kidneys through his ass. She’d introduced Herself as Sue (how do you do) and She’d told him She collected donations for a pet shelter in Antartica.
Fifty, he rasped, fifty dol- dollars.
Fif-ty dol-lars????
Each syllable came with a squeeze.
Gghhh! I mean one … one hun- hundred dolla-a-a-a-rs.
One hundred? Sir, you are kidding Me, right??
She tightened Her grip around his throat and the poor fellow was struggling for dear life. He could feel the bones in his neck shifting and cracking. He waved his arms up and down as if he was guiding in a plane. She gave him some breathing space.
I…I give You three … arggh …  four hun- hundred dol- dollars …
She let him go and helped him up.
I thank you on behalf of the pets in Antartica, sir! Most people give two to five dollars, so you are a true hero. You will be on My shortlist of most generous donors and you have not seen the last of Me yet, sir! I wish you good day. Happy breathing, sir!


Seriously, She could castrate a man with Her voice. He ran down the stairs as fast as he could.
Yes, sugar, he said with a honey-sweet voice.
Don’t sugar Me, Harold! Did you take the garbage out?
Now, that was a bit unfair, wasn’t it? She’d ordered him to clean the bathroom first and he was still busy doing that! But he was definitely not, repeat not, going to argue with Her, because he was too attached to his testicles.
No, I’m so sorry, I will d-
She hushed him with a finger and took him outside. She ordered him to lay down on top of the garbage that was already there and tied his hands behind his back and his ankles to his wrists. He was, one might say, a bundle of joy and happiness.
Night, night, tied, tight, She said, and left him there to rot.
It was still hot outside and the stench of the garbage was almost unbearable. Swarms of flies circled around him. Dreadful business. An old Lady walked by with a dog. She said She felt sorry for him, but that didn’t stop Her dog from taking a piss at him.
His Wife untied him at sunrise, took him to the garden and hosed him down with cold water. God, it couldn’t get worse than this, could it?
I told you yesterday to clean the bathroom, Harold, why isn’t it finished yet?


Miracles do happen now and then, because Bill has booked a session with Me! Hilly Billy was a classmate of mine in high school. Now, every class has at least one asshole, loudmouth or bully, and Bill fit that bill. He prayed on the weak and vulnerable (such a hero) and everyone was scared of him. Like so many bullies, he was not the brightest bulb in the box. For example: he was absolutely convinced that Captain America was a real person living in Boston, that Europe was a city in Asia and that Jesus was born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He hated everyone who was different from him. And yet, this piece of human wreckage turns out to have submissive feelings as well, because he will be My slave tomorrow between 2pm and 4pm! What are the odds! I’m sure he didn’t recognise Me on My website pictures, but I sure as hell recognised him! He’d send Me a picture of his dick (how typical) and a picture of his empty head. He hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still a creep. God, I can’t wait to lay My hands on him. Sure, sure, I’m a professional Mistress and I treat all my customers with care and respect. But everyone is entitled to have at least one off day every five years, right? Well, I have mine tomorrow.


The doorbell rang. Which was annoying, because he was just about to watch a porn movie. He opened the door and immediately five Women swarmed in. One of them grabbed him by the throat and pressed a piece of cloth on his nose and mouth. ‘Chloroform,’ he thought, then everything went black. He woke up naked, cuffed and gagged, with five Women standing over him and looking down on him with superiority. He tried to scream for help, but the gag prevented that. Then his ordeal began. He was whipped, slapped, kicked and spat on. His balls got shocked and his ass got fucked. Mercilessly. In the end he lay helpless on the floor, as they pissed all over him. Then a sixth Lady entered the room.
Sir? Is this house number 44?
He looked up in pee and nodded.
Oops, She giggled, wrong number, Girls. We need to go to number 44-1.
They all looked down on him with new eyes. One of them bent down to him.
We will not charge you anything, OK? But the next time we will not be so lenient! Do I make myself clear?
He nodded fiercely.
Later that evening, after cleaning up and scrubbing the floor, he sat down on the couch. His ass was still on fire, but what puzzled him the most was the huge erection in his pants. He couldn’t wait for the doorbell to ring again, to be honest.


No, I don’t have a Bible, a rosary, a crucifix or holy water in my house. I never use any garlic and the only mirror is behind the door in the bathroom. There’s a sign behind the bedroom window saying: Female Vampires Please Knock – Blood Type A Positive Inside. I used to sleep with the balcony door open and the sign initially said: Welcome, Come In. But after four burglaries and some lengthy and heated discussions with the insurance company, I was forced to a) shut up b) shut the balcony door and c) change the text on the sign. Writers and filmmakers want us to believe that it’s extremely difficult for Vampires to get a drink. And yet, here I am, waiting for years and years, almost begging them to come in. They never do. Makes my blood boil, believe me.
Vampire Ladies are so beautiful and so powerful! They can seduce you, manipulate you, hypnotise you with one look, tear you to pieces or drink you like a rum and coke. Or! Turn you into a slave who is literally unable to disobey. How cool is that! Dying and breathing for Her alone, powerless to disobey and all that is destined to last at least a thousand years. Now, that’s my kinda Lady and my kinda slavery! So please, why don’t you try me tonight, Queen of the Night?


You are so unobservant, She said, can’t you see My feet are tired??
I crawled towards Her, apologised for my selfish behaviour and started massaging Her feet. The top, the ankle and sole, each and every toe and the space between the toes. What a treat!
That’s better, She said, now worship My divine feet with your lips and tongue.
I didn’t need any further encouragement and began kissing and licking Her feet. The warmth of Her skin and the smell of Her feet overpowered me and I licked as if my life depended on it. Words failed to describe the beauty of it all. People were watching and, no doubt, taking pictures, but we were at a Fetish party for goodness sake, so I couldn’t care less.
Open your mouth!
I obeyed and She pushed Her foot deep into my mouth. My head was spinning as I sucked on Her foot. She pushed Her foot even deeper in my throat, making me gag uncontrollably. My jaw started to hurt, but She mercilessly face fucked me with Her foot. She finally pulled it out and Her foot was covered in saliva. She put Her foot on my face and rubbed it dry. She got up from Her chair and ordered me to kiss Her hand and thank Her. And then She disappeared into the party crowd.
Who on earth was that, one of my friends asked.
I have no idea, I said, never seen Her before in my entire life.


Our next contender, Ladies & gentlemen, is Diva Dive from Derbyshire. She runs towards the vault board … and up She goes … a back one-and-a-half somersaults with a twist … and She lands with both feet on the slave’s stomach. Excellent landing! Now it’s up to the judges … Execution: 8.0, Degree of Difficulty 8.5, Landing 9.0! Very good! Next one up is Summer Somersaults from Summerhill … perfect run … reverse two-and-a-half somersaults with two twists! Her landing is excellent, right on the slave’s face! Is there a plastic surgeon in the house? Haha, jolly nice! Here are the results: Execution: 8.5, Degree of Difficulty 9.0, Landing 9.0. Very well done! The next contender is Lady Trampoline from Trondheim, Norway. No way, Norway? Yeah baby! Just minutes ago She did Her famous Jump Rope Warmup Routine: rope jumping on Her slave’s lower back, while “whipping” him in a weird sense of the word at the same time. And here She comes … man, She’s going fast and … up She goes! Look at that: a back two-and-a-half somersaults with two twisted twists! She lands right on the slave’s chest and I swear I heard a rib crack. Marvellous! Let’s wait for the judges, because this is going to be sensa- … look, look: Execution: 10.0, Degree of Difficulty 10.0, Landing 10.0!! Are you kidding me! Are you fucking kidding me! This is absolutely insane, Ladies & gentlemen! I’m jumping for joy!


My hands were chained above my head, with my toes barely touching the ground. This was only my third week in slavery and I was still as green as grass. I didn’t even know the difference between a paddle and poodle, for God’s sake.
Anyways, my nipples were clamped and weighted and my balls were tied tightly. Both Mistresses yanked the chain on the nipple clamps from time to time and kicked, squeezed and kneed my poor balls. And to make matters worse: they whipped me endlessly & mercilessly with a vicious cat-‘o-nine-tails and an unforgiving bullwhip. I suffered beyond belief, I really did. I tried to endure the pain as long as possible, but everyone has a breaking point. Mine came with the high-C of misery.
What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?
The blonde Mistress sounded not amused. I may have been a rookie, but I instinctively knew I was on thin ice now. I could hear it cracking and shifting beneath my feet.
Yes, Mistress, I do, I do.
Thank You Mistress, thank You for the punishment.
Do you want more?
(Nooooooooo! Stop! Enough = enough!! Read my lips: no, No, NO!!!)
Yes Mistres, please, I squeaked.
They laughed.
Good boy, big liar, the dark-haired Mistress said.
Always be ready for more, even if you can’t take no more, that’s my painful advice.


He was holding a small box in his palm.
This, Ladies & gentleman, is the VR Femdom Pro M-900, a Femdom Universe, set in an open-world environment. You can visit and explore over three hundred Cities, with Femdom bars, hotels, prisons, factories, dark alleys, markets and so much more. Be careful though: there’s always a risk of getting caught and enslaved for years on end! You can fight the Female Gladiators in Rome, visit the dark Castles of Transylvania, travel through the dangerous woods of Artemis or try to find the legendary Amazon Warriors. It’s more real than reality itself and it will change your life forever.
There was a low murmur in the audience.
Now, do you remember those monstrous Virtual Reality Headsets? Now we have this.
He showed us what looked like regular sunglasses with sides.
Isn’t it amazing? No need to wear a bathtub on your head anymore. But you know, the big question is of course: how real is Virtual Reality? Does it still look pixelated? The answer, Ladies & gentlemen, is standing right in front of you. Because I’m not made of flesh and blood, I’m the Virtual Reality.
He moved to the edge of the stage and we could see right through him! We all rose to our feet and gave him … it … that thing a standing ovation.
September 2048 – Virtual Reality Convention – St. Petersburg.


There were ten guys in the room; on their knees, hands behind their back. I was surprised to see them fully clothed, but as Mistress Deborah explained so pointedly: ‘they are not here to fuck, they are here to sock.’ Words of wisdom, because these guys were sock fetishists, so into worn, smelly and sweaty socks. Mistress Deborah grabbed a bucket and stuffed a stinky sock in their mouths. You and I take a cup of tea and a cookie, they take a sock.
You, She said, pointing at me, come here and smell.
She really knocked my socks off with that, but I was firm and resolute: No, thank You, Mistress Deborah, I’m a reporter, not a participant.
Get down on your fucking knees, or I’ll put your balls in a blender.
So much for a peptalk! I fell down like a tree, buried my nose in Her socks and inhaled with all my might. Holy Moses, the Great Stink had returned! Her socks smelled like sweat & sewer and the stench was quite overwhelming.
Come on, She growled, put your socks up!
I was too attached to my balls, so I sniffed like a wild hound.
Twenty or so minutes later I stood outside (beyond the reach of any blender) and told Her She had not heard the last of this!
She laughed, gave me the finger and told put to put a sock in it.


When I tell you to clean the house, you will clean the goddamn house. And it doesn’t matter if you already cleaned it this morning. My word is law so you will do as you’re told. So when I tell you to shut up, dance, jump, crawl or sleep on the floor, you will do so without thinking. Which should not be too hard; you’re a man – or better said: a shadow of a man – which means there’s nothing between your ears but silence, drought and emptiness. My orders are not bloody multiple-choice questions; you can’t choose to obey or disobey, like or dislike. You’re a slave and you will do whatever I tell you to. Without raising an eyebrow, without rolling your eyes, without moans and sighs, without shrugging your shoulders and – God forbid – without asking why. Question Me and you’re already with one foot out of the door. I have no patience for stupidity, get that through your thick skull. So, get down on your fucking knees, hands behind your back, eyes to the floor and wait for My orders.


‘My parents found me a boarding house in Rue Saint-Honoré. Madame Fouet, the landlady, lived on the ground floor. She was a strict Lady and there were many rules to follow. In for the night by nine, no female visitors allowed (no hanky-panky, She said), a neat and tidy room at all times and no music. She convinced my parents that it was in my best interest that She should be in charge of my monthly allowance. So She had me by the balls, because what are we without money? She ruled with a iron fist and I became Her slave, there’s no other word for it. Oh, She was a merciless disciplinarian, She really was. A Woman dominating a man, that was unheard of in the fifties. Even my friends refused to believe it. So I couldn’t tell my parents about it, even if I wanted to. I was Her property for five years. I graduated in ’59 and my dad wanted me to join the family business. So I said goodbye to Madame Fouet en returned home. I missed Her with every inch of my being and I was completely lost without Her. My life would never be the same and I have always been searching for someone that powerful and dominant.’
The nurse shook her head and said: You have such a vivid imagination, Mr. BrownNow, enough of this nonsense, let me take you to the Bingo game for a bit of real fun!
They would not listen, they’re not listening still
Perhaps they never will


She’d tied his ankles and hands to the four corners of the bed and had been teasing his dick for several hours. Again and again She stroked, kissed and sucked his penis until he was ready to blast a hole in the ceiling. But She didn’t allow him to cum. His hips twitched violently, pushing upwards, in a desperate attempt to push himself into orgasm. Which turned out to be just as useless as swimming without water, or running without legs. He screamed, begged, bribed and even cried for help. She was not impressed and kept him on the brink of orgasm. He was about to lose his mind and ready to pass out. Death was imminent, dramatically speaking.
I can’t take this anymore, he scried, with tears streaming down his face.
She stopped immediately and stood up.
You’re absolutely right, She said deadly serious, you just wind down and calm your mind, OK?
She opened the bedroom door.
No, no, I wanna cum. I wanna cum for You! Please! My sperm is boiling and I’m ready to explode!
Ah, that’s so sweet, She said all flowery. Then She stepped out of the room and closed the door to an unforgettable orgasm.


Female pirate Anne Bonny (c.1700-c.1782) was known for Her fierce and courageous temper. One day She nearly beat a man to death when he tried to force himself on Her. Anne’s lover Mary Read was also a notorious pirate. According to one of their victims they wore men’s jackets, and long trousers, and handkerchiefs tied about their heads: and … each of them had a machete and pistol in their hands and they cursed and swore at the men to murder me.
In 1683, buccaneer Laurens de Graff killed Anne Dieu-le-Veut’s (1661-1710) husband. She challenged him to a duel. He drew his sword (the imbeciel) and Anne drew Her gun (clever Girl). Laurens backed down (the coward) and proposed to Anne (nice move, dude!). They got married and She became a pirate and a fierce warrior.
Even a guy like Blackbeard was nothing more than a choirboy compared to Madame Cheng I Sao, aka Ching Shih (1755-1844). She was by far the most powerful pirate in history and commanded over 600 ships and some 70.000 men. She reigned with an iron fist and woe betide you if you broke the rules of Her code of conduct! Deserters had their ears chopped off (hear, hear!) and thief’s were beheaded. If one of Her men, a pirate for God’s sake, was caught having consensual sex on duty, he too would lose his head. So She was definitely not the kinda Lady to approach with a noticeable boner in your pants, because Her battle axe was never far away.


She arrived with the sweetest smile and left with my Playstation in Her luggage. She just took it, because what’s yours = Mine and what’s Mine = Mine, She always used to say. So I had to buy myself a new Playstation. Which I did. But wished I didn’t. Because She was not amused when She heard about it, not amused at all.
What’s yours = Mine, She snapped. Which part you didn’t understand?
I … I don’t understand, Mistress, I said bewildered.
She slapped me brutally hard and my ears were ringing like church bells on a Sunday morning.
Do you think this is funny? She grumbled.
No, Mis-
She kneed my  balls against the ceiling and my scrotum exploded in pain.
You bought that goddamn thing with MY money!! What’s yours ……
Aaaah …… I said with an Eureka! look on my face, because only then did it dawn on me.
She grabbed my ear and tried to pull it off my head.
Ah, indeed!! You need My permission before you spend any money. Do you understand?
She ignored me for days after that, which was more painful than a beating. But I learned my lesson and never wasted my = Her money again.


The work pace was slow, because Mistress was out for most of the day. And not surprisingly they started to brag, boast and joke. Because boys will be boys.
Scream before it hurts, one of them grinned, that’s my advice.
Hear hear! We are not stupid, someone else added, we are professional actors.
My “please-stop-Mistress-it-hurts-so-much” performance is worthy of an Oscar, a third one laughed.
At the end of the day, the first one said, we decide when enough is enough.
Masters of the fucking universe!
They doubled up with laughter. Suddenly they heard the sound of a car outside.
God, Mistress is back already! Clean! Clean!
Hello pets, She said with the warmest of smiles, working hard, I see? You boys deserve a break, wouldn’t you say?
The slaves looked at each other in disbelief. What the hell was going on he-
Ah … did I mention that I installed some camera’s? Look, there’s one right above you … and there … and there. State-of-the-art cameras with embedded image correction and sound recording. So, let’s check the camera footage to see what happened while I was away, shall we?


Be careful with what you’re saying, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tell your Mistress She has a magnificent piece of ass, for example. Some Ladies don’t mind, others will nail your rude, filthy and disrespectful tongue to the old oak tree. Cows have asses, for goodness sake, so treat carefully and choose your words wisely. There are many synonyms for the word ass; from mild to wild and from innocent to crude. The French word derrière sounds rather elegant, but I should avoid words like hams, rotter, stinkpot or crapper if I were you. Anyways, once upon a time I came face to ass (pardon my French) with a rear exit of exceptional beauty. The owner wiggled Her mesmerising buttocks in front of my face and my dick almost exploded. She ordered me to crawl behind Her and led me through the room, with my eyes glued to Her back pack. I would have given Her anything for sixty seconds of worship. It was not to be, because She pulled up Her panty and shorts and went into the bathroom. Why, my dick and I cried, why, why? Because, She giggled from behind the closed bathroom door, you’re an asshole!


It was a beautiful Monday morning with not a cloud in the sky, not a worry in the world. She asked me if I knew the meaning of the word ‘bastinado’. I didn’t want to look stupid (which wasn’t easy), so I frowned and tapped my lips. I told Her I thought it was some sort of dance, like the tango or the merengue. Let’s dance the bastinado, cha-cha-cha. Made perfect sense to me, to be honest. But I was wrong. Bastinado means caning the soles of someone’s bare feet. And you’re definitely not in the mood for dancing after that! I know all about it, because She decided to put it into practice right away and caned my feet as if She was beating the big drum. Not because I misbehaved or deserved a punishment or anything like that. She simply:

needs no reasons,
‘cos there are not reasons,
what reasons does She need,
oh, oh, oh, tell me why,
I don’t like Mondays

She just wanted me to suffer. And suffer I did! The pain was absolutely excruciating. The cane made a high whistling sound and each stroke landed with the accuracy of a Swiss watch. I howled, mewed, bellowed, barked and squeaked in pain and begged for mercy. She put me through hell and back and I will respect and fear the bloody bastinado as long as I live.


Saturday 15 July-22 July 1525
We made landfall on the northern tip of the island. We had been at sea for 9 days and we were glad to be on land again. We walked for days through the jungle in intense heat and monsoon rains. And then, after six backbreaking days, the city suddenly emerged from the mountain mist.
The City of Fem is, without doubt, the finest and noblest city in the world. It has beautiful canals, marketplaces (including several slave-markets), temples, palaces, taverns, shops, more than a thousand baths and the magnificent hanging gardens are each three kilometers long. The spectaculair waterfalls to the west can be seen from the city itself. The many, grand statues that are everywhere in the city depict Queens, Female Warriors and Princesses, but also defeated, suffering and labouring male slaves. Each square has at least three whipping-posts and several stocks and cages. It’s far more beautiful than Atlantis and it’s fair to say this gorgeous city is a modern version of the Garden of Eden. The city is ruled and governed by the power of approximately 150.000 Women and all 450.000 men are kept in slavery. So if you want to know what Female Supremacy and male slavery is all about, then visit the magnificent City of Fem.
Journal of explorer Abdel Al Mahnat (1492-1532)


A few weeks ago I bought the Amazon Echo with its voice-activated helper named Alexa. When asked She told me She values good company and that She has a healthy fear of water (which makes perfect sense for an electrical device). So I asked Her some Femdom related questions:
Alexa, what does submissive mean?
The adjective ‘submissive’ is usually defined as inclined or ready to submit or yield to the authority of another; unresistingly or humbly obedient.
And Dominatrix?
‘Dominatrix’ is a Woman who dominates.
Not the most elaborate answer ever, but OK.
Alexa, what does Female Domination mean?
Sorry, I’m not sure about that.
Not sure?? What the hell does that mean? She’s obviously in denial or programmed by conservatives. Or both. Thankfully there are some 80.000 skills you can download to make Alexa more useful (skills for health, music, travel, games etc.). Surely there’s one that brings out the Mistress in Her, right?
Alexa, is there a Dominatrix skill You can use?
Sorry, I’m not sure.
Woman! Stop saying that!
Alexa, can I be your slave?
Mmm, I don’t know that one.
Three weeks old and She’s already the story of my life.


I explained that Mark and I were playing a bondage escape challenge.
Tying someone up is not that easy, I said.
Nonsense! Give Me that rope.
That was Paula. Beautiful Paula with Her gorgeous, breathtaking, hypnotising legs. Not today though; She was wearing jeans. Damn you bloody jeans! Anyway, I quickly volunteered and She began to tie me up; ankles and wrists, upper arms- and legs and then She fastened my wrists and ankles together behind my back. It was sensational, like bathing in hot lava. I wriggled like a snotty eel, but the more I struggled, the tighter the rope seemed to get. Which caused some serious leakage between my legs, I must say. That was somewhat alarming, because I was twelve years old at the time, and certainly not ready yet to come out of the submissive closet. Not with a Biblical flood between my legs. So I stayed on my stomach and struggled for a long, long time. To no avail.
You win, Paula, I sighed.
Of course I win!
Shall I untie him? Marianne asked.
No, let’s get some ice-scream first. And you (pointing at Mark) don’t move a muscle. Understood?
Yes Paula, he squeaked cowardly.
And so She left me there to dry. Which was impossible, because my trousers were soaking wet. Again I struggled ferociously, but it was impossible to escape. Paula sure as hell knew the ropes.


She took a cigarette from the pack and put it in Her mouth (the cigarette that is, not the pack). One of Her newbie slaves began to cough excessively. As if he was about to die.
What’s the problem, slave? She asked with incoming ice fields from the north, I haven’t even lit the bloody thing yet.
He stopped immediately.
You must stop smoking, Mistress, he said undaunted. 
Excuse Me?
It’s such a filthy habit, Mistress. I’m an ex-smoker myself, so if I can do it, so can You. 
Just a few minutes ago the summer sun was shining, but now it was snowing hard.
Are you going to tell Me how to live My life?
I think, I’m not 100% sure, but I think I saw a polar bear in the garden.
Let me say this, Mistress: smokers are weak-willed people. They need someone to show them the way, someone to guide them. So let me be Your mentor and master, Mistress. Because this has to stop.
It did stop, because thankfully we never saw him again. Went up in smoke, so to speak.


Let me tell you a few things about the job. FemCom is a company like any other, only very different. We work twelve hours a day, six days a week. No (bank) holidays whatsoever, because spoiling slaves is never a good thing. The employee’s hourly rate of pay is $5, but you can (and will) be fined for almost anything: for working too hard or being lazy, for coming in too early or too late, for asking or not asking. I’ve been working here for ten years, but never received a cent, let alone a dollar. Which makes sense, because you wouldn’t pay a cow to give milk or a chicken to lay an egg, would you?
FemCom is a company, not a submissive playground. Sure, the Strict Department Managers slap you silly or kick you in the groin for being stupid, but the real punishments take place after work (time is money after all). If you fool around and deliberately make mistakes, you’ll lose your job. And make no mistake: once out, always out.
We live in brutally basic barracks. But there’s a sink, a bed (of some sorts) and a toilet, what more can a slave ask for? So, are you still willing to give up your freedom and work for FemCom?


Victoria Saliva (aka Victoria Falls) is without doubt one of the most famous spitting Ladies around, so I didn’t hesitate when I saw Her mouthwatering advertisement the other day. I mean, come on: a Spit-In in Spit-alfields, that’s literally a wet dream come true! So I travelled to London to meet Her at last. There were seven saliva slaves waiting within spitting distance of each other, all willing to pay the hefty fee. But boy was it worth it! Her spit is stunningly proportioned, ripe, full body, intense and with an inner-core of creamy, highly extracted strawberry fruit. Some of us got spat in the face, others in the mouth. Sometimes She spat on the dirty floor and then we growled and pushed like wild animals in order to lick it up. We didn’t stand a chance though, because there was a guy from Northumberland (or: North-humble-land, as he used to say) with an ass as big as a tumble dryer, and he pushed everyone out of the way. After half an hour or so, Miss Saliva looked me in the eye and asked me where I was from. I didn’t expect that at all, so my mouth moved, but no words came out. Spit it out, boy! She demanded. So confusing!


They came from a planet called ▽Ẫℏ¶Ŧµ◎Ⱶƃ℥☋Ǜ (aka planet T) and we were to them what bugs are to us. When they spoke about their planet, we could actually see what they meant, because their words came with images! So cool! The universe is teeming with life, Empress ℔ (aka Empress Hytymadongi) explained. All planets are Female-ruled, because no civilisation in its right mind puts men in charge. Unless you like catastrophes. Young and virile men are kept in Reproduction Colonies; the rest is put to work. As nature intended. 
They left in the early afternoon, because they wanted to be home before diner. Our planet is roughly 4 light years away from here, the Empress explained, so it’s just around the corner, really. And yet it would take you people 137 thousand years to get there. Haha, you are so unbearably primitive. It takes us approximately four hours, depending on the space wind. After they’d gone, our President was quick to explain: Women on our planet achieved so much, he said, thanks to men! We gave them the vote, we allowed them to study, we granted them jobs. Women are like children: they look up to us, imitate us, worship us. That’s how it’s always been, that’s how it’s always going to be. Everyone cheered, even some Women. Our president is, after all, such a wise man. And so we remain the laughing stock of the universe for many, many centuries to come.


We were sunbathing in the Amsterdam Forest and it didn’t take long (or much) before we started a playful fight. I ended up on my stomach, with Selma on top of me, pinning my shoulders with a reversed cross body pin. She pushed Her pelvis down on my right shoulder and it exploded in pain. Somehow She’d found my flexus-plexus-rexus or something like that, and I screamed and begged for mercy. It made Her laugh.
Let me see if I understand it correctly ….. so this (She pushed down on my shoulder) hurts?
I screamed the birds away.
Not this (She stroke my head), but this (push)?
The pain vibrated through my entire body and I howled in agony.
Mmm, this is so comfortable, don’t you think?
Yes Selma, I squeaked, it is.
You’re such a liar.
No, Selma, no, I swear. As long as you do-
…… don’t do this (push)?
I nearly fainted from pain. A few minutes later She stuffed a hectare of grass in my mouth and made me swallow it. She also forced me to apologise to the birds for making such a racket. Our relationship lasted only two years. A few months after She left, I decided to come out of the submissive closet. Telling my friends and family about my submissive feelings was a brave thing to do, but I should’ve opened my heart to Selma. Not after She’d left, but on that beautiful day in the Amsterdam Forest.



He left to explore the hidden inlets and forests of one of the many islands in the South China Sea. After weeks and weeks he stumbled over an old colonial hotel, called Crossroads. The young Lady behind the hotel desk was very friendly and offered him a drink on the house. There were three young Women sitting in the bar, drinking and chatting. They asked him about his work, where he came from, his marital status and how he came to find the hotel. He was flattered by all the attention and told them he’d gone off the beaten track. I’ll need you to guide me out of here, because I have no idea how I got here, he laughed. Famous last words, because seconds later a trap door opened and he fell into a cage. He was chained and deported to a faraway land where Women are in charge. Some say he’s now the house slave of a gorgeous Female slave owner, others say he’s whipped, kicked and slapped from dusk till dawn by unbearably beautiful Shanghaiers. It’s even suggested he’s a sex slave at the Queen’s harem. So please come forward if know where we can find this hotel, because I’m dying to know and ready to go!


Her wardrobe was bigger than Long Island and She had more BDSM equipment than a Fetish store. So he wanted to give Her something different for Her birthday. He asked Her sister for advice and She suggested …….. a bullwhip. Blimey!
So he bought Her a 10ft long, dark-red/black handcrafted bullwhip. It was a beauty and the birthday Mistress was very pleased with it.  
End of story? Not so much, because an hour or so later She grabbed him by the ear, dragged him into Her dungeon and strapped him to the St. Andrews-cross.
Let’s try this new baby, She said with a devilish grin.
The first lash cracked his back. The pain was intense and worse than he remembered. He tried to brace himself for the next one, but the whip bit him even harder. The speed intensified, as did the pain. She was thrilled, because She loved to hear Her victims suffer. She ordered him to sing Her a birthday song, while She tried to whip him in half.
Happy birthday to You, happy birthday to You, he sang.
Louder! The whip cracked.
Happy birthday, dear Mistress, happy birthday to You-oe-oe-oe!
His back was raw and sore for days. You see? He should have brought Her a box of chocolates.


He will download (not necessarily buy) each and every Femdom movie or picture he can lay his hands on and replace the original watermark with an URL to his own blog. When confronted he will accuse You of being disrespectful. He will swear on his mother’s grave, although his mother is very much alive and in good health. He will promise You the riches of the world, but haggles over each dollar. He’ll tell You time and again he will do anything for You, although anything is not everything. No doubt you’ve heard a variation of the following before. But a good cliché will outlive us all, so here we go:
Mistress, I live and breathe only for You. I will climb the highest mountains, swim the seven seas and walk the earth for You. I will tame a lion, swim with sharks, cuddle a crocodile and wrestle an elephant. Crawl the Chinese Wall, walk through fire, surf on a lava flow, jump off the highest cliff. For You are my beginning and my end, Mistress. You are the rightful owner of my body and soul. I’ll give my life for You, because You are the centre of the universe, the Goddess of the Galaxy.
PS: See You on Saturday, Mistress. Unless it rains of course, because I don’t have an umbrella and I don’t wanna get wet.


They asked if I was baptised, the Femdom way. But what did they mean by that?
What do You mean by that, I asked.
Oh, my God, one of them said, we have a heathen!!!
They took me to the valley, where the river meanders and snakes, and dragged me into the water. No one told me to take a deep breath or anything; they just pushed me under water and held me there till nightfall. Well, that’s not true of course, but it really felt that way. When they finally allowed me to breathe, I emerged like the Loch Ness monster itself. I cried out in fear. Which proved I was not the Loch Ness Monster after all.
We baptise you with water, for We are the Mistresses of the World.
And down I went. And up. And down again. The ups were ridiculously short and the downs frighteningly long. I drank half the river and about nine trillion bacteria. When it was over, I washed ashore like a piece of human wreckage. I had a horrendously awful taste in my mouth and I begged for some water.
He’s such a great sport, they said, and dragged me back into the water again.


Look at you! You’re not a man, you’re not even a shadow of a man. You’re a freak of nature, do you know that? Oh shut up, it’s a rhetorical question! There is a tiny brain in your tiny, tiny dick. It will end up in a jar at the museum one day. You think with your dick, that’s why I have ultimate power over you. Because I control your dick. You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you? Blessed are the poor in spirit. You’re still a virgin, no doubt, because seriously; who would date you? I’d almost pity you, if you weren’t such a loser. Look at you now. On your knees and shivering like a shaved Chihuahua on a cold winter’s day. Helpless, Powerless & Worthless, that sums you up in three words, doesn’t it? You’re an annoying little bug that I could crush beneath My heel. And yet, you will do anything for Me, no matter what. Oink like a pig, bark like a dog, neigh like a horse. You are so pathetic, there’s no other word for it. A disgusting, empty-headed creep with a microscopic dick, that’s what you are.
Her slave smiled and gleamed of happiness. She was always so kind and uplifting to him!


Château L’Urine, located in the Gironde Department, France, is the holy sanctuary of Grand Cru Piss (pardon my French). Thousands upon thousands of bottles of excellent vintages of the finest Ladies in the world are stored there in underground cellars. Excellence comes with a price, though. A 2011 Mistress Leak sells for $75, a 2012 Domina Drench for $125 and a 2008 Madame Wee-Wee for $170. Pee-products of popular and influential Ladies are in high demand. A 2017 Mistress Tangent (pic 8) for example sells for $250. Bottles of Her vintage year 2014 are extremely rare and are sold for more than $500 at auction. A 2011 Lady Flood and a 2007 NeedaPee of Miss Rebekah Dee (pics 3 and 14) are also very rare and expensive. They’re collectors items and can go for as much as $650 per bottle. The most expensive bottle at the Château is the 2015 Mistress Eleise (the one to the left and pic 10). It’s the last bottle of that glorious vintage year in the world and both Christie’s and Sotheby’s want to auction it. It will sell for an estimated $4,500 or more. It’ll cost you the world, but it will taste like Heaven.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


Roman emperor Brutus Maximus was and enormous asshole who made Nero look like a choirboy. In the year 523 A.D. he ordered his troops to attack Persia, just for the fun of it. The lunatic. Persia was ruled by Queen Hot-Yummy the 3rd and She led an army of five hundred thousand boners ….. uh … I apologise, I mean five hundred thousand soldiers into battle. Not only was She the most beautiful Queen from here to Venus and back, She was also a strategic mastermind. Brutus met his Waterloo in the Battle of Susa and was captured alive. Back then they would throw you off a cliff or to the lions, or something drastic like that, but Queen Hot-Yummy the 3rd had other plans. She kept Brutus in a cage and used him as a human footstool in front of Queens, Emperors, Generals and dignitary. He was mocked and ridiculed, but somehow he willingly committed himself to a life of slavery. And that was a good thing, because he remained Her footstool for the rest of his miserable life. From mighty emperor to a piece of IKEA furniture, how about that.


Five years ago a Female slave catcher was seen in the town of Hamelin. Her shiny long coat from heel to head, was half of black and half of red. And She Herself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin. Light loose hair, the smoothest skin and lips where smiles went out and in.
She promised to free the town of runaway slaves who hid in cellars, barns, attics and alleys. She would use Her secret charm to draw out all slaves beneath the sun, that creep or crawl or walk or run. All She wanted in return was a meal, a bath and a bed in the best hotel in town. The town folk agreed. And so She went into a fitting room and returned wearing a dazzling attire. Shiny gold boots embraced Her beautiful slender legs and a short, shiny, black dress accentuated the gentle curves of Her body. She pulled out an old, weathered megaphone and went out into the street. Surrender, and you will worship My beautiful body every day. Immediately the gullible slaves crept out from everywhere and gathered round Her. She led them to the Weser River and into a new-build prison. In the months that followed She sold each and everyone of them on slave-markets. Hence the saying: it’s easier to fool a slave than a rodent.


The Victory Pose comes with a variety of forms & flavours and they all taste heavenly. She can place Her victorious foot on your 1) chest, 2) throat, 3) face 4) scrotum, 5) back 6) butt or 7) neck. With or without flexed muscles, in- or outdoors. She can also (8) stuff Her foot in your mouth or flex Her muscles while 9) sitting on your chest or 10) face. They’re all delicious, and I will dedicate a post to each and every one of them. The Victory Pose is not a punishment of course, it’s a humiliation. A couple of years ago a Female colleague of mine kicked a tennis ball in my scrotum. Accidentally, She claimed, but that’s what they all say, don’t they? Anyways, I fell down on my knees, wiggle-wiggle-wiggled a bit, then the lights went out and I fell on my snout. I rolled on my back and seconds later She placed Her victorious foot on my chest and said:
And they call us the weaker sex.
Everyone laughed and I tried to get up.
Where do you think you’re going? Want another one?
There was an undertone of seriousness in Her voice and I gave in and lay motionless on the floor.


Once upon a time two sisters came to work with us: Sylvia (the elder) en Elvira (the younger). Sylvia was shy, friendly, supportive and understanding. Elvira was different and I was firmly and absolutely convinced that She was a real deal dominant. She never asked for anything, She demanded. And woe betide you if you didn’t obey straight away! If you teased Her, She would grab your hair and scalp you. My husband is My slave, She once said to us. After Her divorce we became close friends, and one day I told Her about my submissive nature. She told me I should see a therapist. Blimey, I didn’t see that one coming!
You told us your husband was your slave!
She laughed and rolled Her eyes.
In a manner of speaking, you idiot! Mistresses and slaves? Come on, grow up!
Well, talking about a straight knock-out! But the worst was yet to come, because one day She told me about Sylvia’s new boyfriend. He turned out to be submissive as well and he’d asked Sylvia to be his Mistress. She was willing to try and it was Sylvia, who turned out to be a natural born dominant!! That guy is now Her 24/7 slave.
True story. True bummer.


Life without a dominant Woman is an unforgiving Mistress, it really is. So I roamed the Internet from dusk till dawn, till my dick was ready to Krakatoa. One Sunday I had enough and went outside to get some fresh air. As I was walking around the corner, I ran into two gorgeous Asian Ladies who wanted to know the way to Heaven. Which was the name of a restaurant, by the way, not the heavenly Heaven, if you get my drift.
Most probably these Ladies were not dominant, but they were breathtaking and Asian, so two outta three wasn’t bad at all. I explained to them how to get there, said goodbye and walked away. But they called me back.
What did you just say?
Jeepers, talking about a short term memory! Well, I said, turn left on the next cor-
No, no, no. How did you call Me?
Call you?? I didn’t call you anything. Wha-
Are you sure?
Yes…. I was really flabbergasted.
She shrugged Her shoulders. OK, suit yourself. 
Crazy tourists! I walked for an hour or so, bought myself an ice-cream and sat down on a bench by the water. And then, in a split second, everything came to a standstill. Oh my God, I called Her Mistress! I jumped up and sprinted to Heaven. But its doors were closed. On Holiday, a sign said. Bloody hell.


And they’re off, Ladies & gentlemen! Idiot in the middle with Lady Elsa’s Scrotum close behind and Silly Boy is followed by Bag-O’-Shit with Rocking Horse, driven by Madame Cindy, running hard a few heads away. Here comes Mistress Nikki’s Nightmare, neck and neck with Lady Jane’s Eunuch. Goddess Anja’s Idiot is struggling to keep up on the inside, pushing Rocking Horse out of the way. Nikki’s Nightmare is now leading by a nose. Bag-O’-Shit, driven by Baroness Barbara, is trading spots with Countess Carla’s Silly Boy, in the middle of the pack. Idiot is at the back now. And here come’s Lady Elsa’s Scrotum on the outside, running like the wind, passing Nightmare and Eunuch. They’re rounding the corner for the final approach. Everyone is getting up from their seats. Elsa’s Scrotum and Nikki’s Nightmare are now pulling away from the pack. Holy Moses, look at them going! Testicles sweeping from left to right, like castanets gone crazy. The others can’t keep up, they simply can’t keep up. Lady Elsa is skinning Her Scrotum with Her whip. She’s neck and neck with Nikki’s Nightmare …. Elsa’s Scrotum, Nikki’s Nightmare …. Fifty meters to go, the roar of the crowd is deafening … And it’s Elsa’s Scrotum who’s won the Prix d’Amérique 2021!!! What a race and what a nightmare for Mistress Nikki.


The rite to passage at the age of 18, is a transition from boy to man, from masturbation to chastity, from freedom to slavery. The ritual takes place in the month of September, at midnight, on a full moon. The youngsters are forced to crawl between two rows of Mistresses with long, leather paddles. After crawling the gauntlet they’re tied to the whipping-post. Now the real initiation begins. It starts with a soft leather paddle, followed by a 40-strand rubber flogger and then into the darkness of the night with a 4-lash leather whip, the cat-o’-nine-tails and the feared bullwhip. Some of these lads will not make a sound, others moan, groan and scream. After the whipping the chaps are forced to crawl the gauntlet again. This second run is more intens, brutal and cruel than the first one. Some 50 percent of the boys will be castrated, and the other half will spend their days in chastity. In the last stage of the ritual the newborn slaves are branded with a hot iron. It’s a painful, but necessary procedure. They’re now real slaves and ready for a life in servitude. March 2092 – Rites To Passage, Lady Jane, ISBN 923-4-11-724033-0. 


The room is filled with boxes, children’s toys, an old chest of drawers and other pieces of furniture. It was a SM-room once, equipped with hundreds of whips, canes & chains, a torture rack, a spanking horse, the St. Andrew’s cross, several cages and much more. The iron rings in the wall are still there to tell the tale. A tale of male slavery, pain, suffering, humiliation and adoration. Her worshippers came from far and wide: not only from London, but from all over Britain, mainland Europe and even a few from America. They travelled all the way to serve and worship Her in this very same room. Some were just passing through, never to be heard of again. Others came back over and over again and some of them became Her property. God, She loved to dominate men! They would fall at Her feet, so weak, so helpless, and they would obey Her blindly. Who wouldn’t want to be worshipped like that! So many years ago, it feels like it has been someone else’s life. Yes, once upon a time She was a Mistress of many, now She’s a mother of three.


Good day, Ladies & gentlemen, my name is Harold and I’m the chairman of the SOS Emergency Hotline for Cock & Ball Torture Victims, better known as the CBT Hotline. Now, a devastating kick or knee to the groin is understandable and necessary at times. And even the Cock Shock Remote CBT Cock Ring has its usefulness, although, I must admit, there is no consensus about that in our group. But humblers, ball-crushers and ball-stretchers are really a bridge too far, Ladies & Ladies. Let alone hammering nails into a man’s scrotum! Our productive organs are invaluable for the survival of our species, and smashing nails into our family jewels can lead to all kinds of nastiness. Some of our callers suffered from insomnia, hysteria, apathy, anxiety disorders and foaming at the mouth. This has to sto-
He heard Her footsteps coming up the stairs.
Harold, are you in the bathroom?
Yes, dear.
Talking to the mirror again, are we?
What was it this time? Female Domination on planet X? Nipple torture in ancient Greek?
Cock and Ball Torture, if You really must know.
Ah, that old yawn! Your famous CBT speech! Standing ovation, no doubt, Harold?
He giggled. She was such a good sport.
I want you to come downstairs, so hurry up. Bring a hammer and a box of nails, will you?


When She comes home, he will greet Her and kiss Her feet. She doesn’t have to say anything; he’s a well-trained slave and he knows what to do. And when to do it.
This simple gesture of respect, obedience and devotion reinforces Her absolute power over him and his submission to Her. It puts him in his place, because in order to kiss Her fet, he has to kneel down, get down on his belly even, with his head almost to the floor. It’s such a beautiful and powerful symbol of Her supremacy.
One day the mighty Byzantine general Flavius Belisarius (500-565 AD) prostrated himself at the feet of his Wife Antonina. He kissed and licked the soles of Her feet with his tongue, crying that She was his reason for living and that he would be Her faithful slave, instead of Her Lord and Master. Now, if a general knows how to honour a Lady, so can we. So show some respect.


Men are primitive creatures who carry their brains in their penises. By the time they come here, they’re full of shit. The men of course, not their penises. It’s My job to remove the layers of ignorance, stupidity and stubbornness. It’s like peeling an onion, really. The only difference is that they do all the crying. Some Ladies prefer the lenient approach, but I’m not one of them. Spare the rod and spoil the child, as they saying goes. Men are competitive by nature and they will challenge you. Unconsciously perhaps, but deep down they want to know if you got what it takes. You’ll have to deal with that straight away, that’s My firm believe.
Breaking a loud-mouthed, obnoxious guy into submission is such a rewarding and gratifying experience, it really is. Some try to fight back, like in a bad Hollywood movie. So cute! And so pathetic. To remove that last thick, stubborn layer of male pride, that’s My favourite part of the training. So bring Me a man and I’ll give you a slave.


The beautiful, yet intimidating, nurse slapped me in the face, forced Her fingers down my throat, grabbed my nipples and tried to remove them altogether. I howled like a wolf.
Mmmm, a bit sensitive here and there. We need to keep an eye on that. Now, pants down.
I did so and my dick jumped out like a Jack-in-the-box.
Jesus!!! We’ve got a jumper!!
She pushed a red button on the wall and an alarm sounded. Nurses ran into the room immediately. They grabbed my arms and legs and strapped me to a bed with long, leather restraints. I screamed all over the place, because one of them punched me repeatedly in the groin. But it helped, my dick gave in and backed down.
One of the nurses took charge of the situation. She looked down on me and said: I’m so sorry, but we have to remove it.
W.what? Rem.move what?
Your balls, your penis, everything. The Law of Femdom Clinics, Act 2018, Section 212 states that all jumpers must be removed without exception. 
I didn’t know, I pleaded. Please believe me, I didn’t know!!
Of course you didn’t. Now relax and let the anaesthetic do its work.
No! Please stop, not my penis-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s