Mistress Tia and Mistress Wanda squirmed with delight in each other’s arms. The bed shook backwards and forwards, such was the energy of their passion. Mistress Tia clanked the hefty chain which reached under the bed, and tugged upon it. The male slave who had been cringing below, was quickly dragged out from under his cover.
“Pleasure,” gasped Mistress Tia. “Give us both pleasure.”

Mistress Vixen trampled through the Cruellan woodlands, enjoying the peace and tranquillity. The day was warm and she was coolly dressed in bikini top, miniskirt and boots. Although she was merely taking a pleasurable stroll, she was also checking the traps which she had set around the woods. There had been trouble recently with runaway slaves and there was still one on the loose.
As she walked, she noticed that several twigs were broken along the path and there were marks in the soil to indicate that a large animal, or slave, had passed by. Mistress Vixen was an expert tracker and she stealthily followed the animal’s tracks. If it was a wild boar, or a deer, she would shoot it and have it collected and taken back to her house for its meat. If it was a slave, then she would capture it and take it in alive.
Looking carefully at the ground, Mistress Vixen came across some small lumps of excreta. She recognized them immediately as slave dung and knew that a man must be in the vicinity.

Mistress Fenella pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator pedal. She could see the slave running across the field ahead. It pleased her to see him running so hard. She had warned him that if he got caught then he would live to regret it. But whenever Mistress Fenella had gone on a slave chase, the slave had never got away. In reality, it was an impossibility that a slave could outrun a 4x4 across the fields.
Spinning the car around, she circled him. He was like a rat in a trap, unable to escape in any direction. She swerved and wheel-spun, laughing out loud. Then, pulling away from him, she would let him run again. He darted across the field, like a frightened hare. In the distance, he could see an escape route where her car could not follow. His lungs pounded as he tried to make good his escape.

I'm Mistress Tiffany. While I sit upon the straining back of this whimpering, just- whipped slave of mine, I'd like to dispel a few
inappropriate ideas that two of my stable-males were caught passing-about to one another. In fact, it was this very beast that I overheard speaking such heresy, and, once I vanquish the archaic ideas he was exploring, I shall let you 'sit-in' on what I did to him for it. But first, a bit of common-sense:

As I sat comfortably across the foyer from Traci, I could only stare blankly at her. I hadn't seen her in over half a decade. I
couldn't believe what I was seeing. And, being a respected interviewer for a nationally-read, young- women's magazine, I thought I'd seen and heard it all.
Traci and I went back a long way. We'd been best- mates (and more) since we were seven, and, owing to the frequency of our visits and stays at each other's houses, were practically reared as sisters. We'd been nearly inseparable since we'd met on that cold January morning so many years ago. My family had just moved into the house next door to hers, and we'd become instant mates.
Growing into stunning, young beauties during our secondary-school years, neither of us had any trouble getting male attention. We'd always had dates at the ready and queued up for a chance at a night out with a pair of beautiful, popular girls. Together, we'd broken many a boy's heart.
I'd always known that Traci harboured a peculiar perception of men. Most of the hearts we'd broken had left me feeling a bit sympathetic for the boys. But Traci seemed to revel in the fact that her leggy allure could cause even the most cock-sure of them to take a gasoline shower and leap through a flaming hoop to amuse her. She'd always told me that men secretly needed to be treated like a pretty girl's possession, and that any girl in her right mind should be more than happy to oblige them.

Kayla strode purposefully into the living room, scantily-clad and crop in-hand. It was one of her favourite times of the weekday. She
smiled down at her boyfriend, who had, over the course of their three-year relationship, been transformed by her into nothing more than a slave. She saw him now as merely a piece of her personal property; a sex-toy and plaything.; a target for her volatile temper. She dealt with him according to her moods and whims, and would brutally discipline him for the slightest infraction of her many rules for his behaviour and domestic responsibilities. He called her 'Mistress', as that was what she fully viewed herself as, and, although she had renamed him 'jeff to please herself, she called him whatever demeaning name or word she thought of at the moment. Her words were his constantly-rewritten laws, and her desires, pleasures and comforts were always to come before his. She would even, whenever the mood struck her, shackle him to the foot of her bed and enjoy another submissive male right in front of him. She knew that he would gladly submit to anything she chose to do to him, and this was why she would never let him go. Nor would she have it any other way. Her domineering nature wouldn't stand for it.

I stood in the secluded meadow, feet planted solidly apart, hands-on-hips, glaring at them from behind my designer sunglasses. The four, naked slaves, kneeling-back in the grass side by side some twenty paces before me, were all visibly trembling, sniffling and whimpering quietly. This, of course, caused a slight, momentarily smile to cross my red lips. Their wrists had been strictly manacled at the small of their backs, and their ankles burned with the severe tightness of the leg-irons that my sexy, strict handlers had applied before crowding them into the claustrophobic space of the boot of my sports car. They would have all been trying to out-volume each other for appeals for my leniency, would it have done them any good. They each, though, knew me well, and realised that they should, instead, try to breathe deeply each of their few, remaining breaths.

Greetings, sister dominants. My name is Lady Sonia. When my dear friend, Mistress Adelina phoned to ask me if I would honour her publication with a recollection of something concerning one of my cars, I was thrilled. Instantly, one particular incident sprang to memory. After I'd assured her that the honour would be mine, we'd chatted for a bit, (during which time she had to pause for several moments to beat bloody-hell out of the foot-slave beneath her desk for some minor transgression), we'd set up a future, get-together date, then said our very temporary goodbyes.
I'd then rung for my dicta-boy (as I call him), and set about having him take down the following incident, which occurred after a defeat at a local auto-show. I still say the competition was fixed. The Rolls that won my adversary her top-honours award was not nearly as pristine as my Jaguar. The way that the young, male judge' lowered his eyes for her, and the smug little look she gave him as she took the (submissively-offered) ribbon, left no doubt to me that he was obviously her personal plaything. I've seen that look on a male before, and have certainly used the look she gave him. Both many times.
In any event, I was furious all the way back home. Every one of my slaves had. in all fairness, worked very hard to prep my beloved, expensive car for the competition.
But males, tome, are merely slaves. Regardless of how hard they work, they're still slaves. I'd made up my mind that the first one I got my hands on was in for it. He would cringe beneath the brunt of my anger over my wronging. I was so angry that I figured I'd need several slaves' worth of venting, in fact. But that first one was going to be oh-so-sweet.

Let me introduce myself. I'm Mistress Alison. Like many dominant women, my lovely possessions are my pride and joy. Now; don't get me wrong; I'm definitely not talking about the hairy, two-legged, thick-headed, scrotum-brained variety. There's nothing 'lovely' about them, save perhaps for the sounds of their pathetic screams that my ladyfriends and I rip from their throats beneath our whips and heels. No, I'm referring to my many material possessions; cars, jewellery, high-heels and the like.
A very special place in my otherwise dark, Cruellan heart is reserved specifically for my expensive, luxurious Sierra. Woe be unto the male who damages her, or even so much as insults her! Though, I can really see no reason why anyone would ever think to insult her. After all, she's so very pretty, and cost me more than I'd ever pay for ten males.
Let me share with you something that happened recently.

During nights out with my many ladyfriends, I've heard several of them chuckle something like 'My car is my life!'. I too, have an ongoing love-affair with my fast, pristine MR2. But as a Cruellan-to-the-soul, my words are always
more to the tune of 'My car is my grease-slave's life'. For it is this loathsome beast that is charged with the ever-important tasks of its upkeep, servicing and cleaning.
I have many males that grovel at my boots, and they all have their individual life-purposes which I alone have set them to. But it's my grease-slave who's life I've decided to give meaning by hurling him to the asphalt at the wheels of my quick, lovely, burgundy-coloured baby.
He knows that she's to be immaculately-kept, from the tip of her fibreglass nose to the ends of her twin, gleaming, chrome exhaust pipes. And he knows from bitter experience just what will befall him, should I happen to notice even the tiniest dull-spot in her glossy paint, the slightest smudge of tar or oil on her brushed-magnesium rims, or the most insignificant dent or mar.
Besides severe beatings and nights of shackled exposure to the elements should his efforts not please me, I've devised an additional impetus for making him need my car's appearance and operation to always be perfect for me, his living Goddess and absolute queen.