As I got up that morning and showered and put on my make-up I was really excited. I had been invited to spend a day with the legendary Lady Victoria. Shimmying into the sexy, shiny minidress which Lady Victoria's staff had sent to me wear, I felt fantastic. My upbringing had, I suppose, been quite privileged and carefree. Mummy had sent me to one of the country's leading schools where I had been pampered and taught the responsibilities of being a Lady. But girls will be girls and I had spent my school years having fun and generally getting up to all sorts of mischief. Ever since I was a young girl I had learnt the lessons of female supremacy and was aware that Mummy owned a large number of male servants. During school holidays I was waited on hand and foot and enjoyed exercising my power over the inferior army of workers. Now Mummy had decided that I was old enough to have my own personal servants. But typical of Mater, she wanted every-thing to be ticketyboo and Bristol fashion and decided that I should at least learn the basics of staff management before taking on my own charges.

Many of you snivelling curs who are reading this now will remember me from some of the earlier issues of Cruella, Goddess and Victoria magazines. If you do not, then I suggest that you buy them and familiarise yourself with my good works in the past. For all you impudent scum who do not know me, I am supremely strict and totally superior. And if you dare to doubt my word, then read on!
The little slaveboy in his short, tatty tunic scurried on his hands and knees to the telephone and picked up the receiver. After a few words, he passed the handset to me, his head bowed in due reverence to my superiority. A deep, male voice on the end of the telephone was begging me for training and discipline.

This is a story told to me by a man called John who used to live in a village in Leicestershire in the midlands of England. The village was small and picturesque and, as was the case in so many English villages, it was home to many riding schools and equestrian establishments. John was not a particular fan of horseriding and, quite frankly, considered most of the females who took part in equestrian pursuits to be somewhat overweight and unattractive. In fact, he used to joke with his mates that he thought the horses should be riding the girls as they were so ugly!
But his views were to change one fateful day, in an instant. On an evening in the local pub, as he carefully aimed his dart at the board, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a figure dressed in white. Distracted, he let loose the projectile and missed the target completely, much to the annoyance of his team-mates. Apologising for his lack of concentration, he sipped his pint of beer and glanced around to get a good look at the figure in white. And there, to his astonishment, was a magnificent, statuesque blonde, dressed from head to toe in riding gear.

"Who'll give me ten dollars?" called out the auctioneer, sweeping a wisp of long blonde hair from her face. "Come along, ladies...? Who'll give me five dollars? If I'm not bid five then he'll go to the processing plant."
Miss Chambers sighed and thought for a moment. She already owned vast quantities of slaves; thousands of them in fact. Normally she would only attend auctions to bid for either job lots of say 100 slaves at a time, or if there was a particular, special slave which she wanted to get her hands on.
This one odd slave looked vaguely familiar to her. She wasn't sure why. The ladies in the hall, in their exclusive designer dresses with their matching gloves and handbags resting on their well manicured knees, coughed softly, impatient to hurry proceedings up. It was of no concern that the slave would be put through the crusher and end up as pig swill or chicken feed. It was no concern of Miss Chambers. But she had, for some strange reason, the notion that she might buy the wretch.
"No bids?" questioned the auctioneer, holding her gavel aloft. Miss Chambers nodded.
"Is that five dollars?" the auctioneer asked.
Miss Chamber nodded. A hundred female faces turned to where Miss Chambers was standing at the back of the hall. There were looks of disapproval and puzzlement from mothers and daughters alike. Miss Chambers did not fit in well with the high society circle who spent their days lunching or at auctions or being preened. She preferred to wear leather outfits and punish and castrate her own slaves rather than delegate these basic chores to her workers. Hence she was looked down upon. Needless to say, she had plenty of willing employees, but she was definitely a hands on owner.
As Miss Chambers walked towards her car, the slave trotted along obediently on all fours by her side. There was no need for a collar or a lead or any kind of restraint; there was nowhere to run. And if he dared to even think about laying a finger on her, she was more than capable of looking after herself.

Lady Jasmine has just acquired the Penbrook Riding Academy. An institution with a distinguished past, which has recently fall-en on hard times. Lady Jasmine's first task is to whip the place into shape. And whip it into shape she does both literally and metaphorically. Luckily for her there's a huge glut in the slave market presently. Meaning the price of males is at an all time low. The Lady, not one to miss a fortuitous business opportunity, purchases a hundred slaves for a song. Slaves she intends to ruthlessly work to exhaustion in her quest to make Penbrook the envy of all other riding schools in the land.

My name is Mistress Lucinda. As you will see from the photographs, I am young and beautiful, and also privileged. The lifestyle of a Cruellan Lady is simply the best fun! Everything (and I mean everything) is possible for a Lady in this fantastic world. I have slaves to do anything which I command. I even have slaves to lick my bum clean! How's that fot opulence? If I click my fingers a slave will come running. And the great thing is, that if a slave isn't there at my beck and call within a second, I can despatch my own justice. I am, as it were. judge, jury and Chief Executioner!
The power of having male slaves serving under me does give me a buzz. A headache or a grazed finger can quite easily cost some idiotic slave fifty lashes - or worse! I'm not known for my tolerance if I'm feeling aggrieved or ill. In the bad old days when males ruled, I expect I would have been called a bitch or a bossy-boots. But in our society I am just a Lady who wants to have fun. We all want to have fun.

Mistress Lucinda surveyed the scene and smiled smugly as she observed the sweating males who were tending her garden. The Cruellan lifestyle suited her well. She had slaves toiling to make her pretty flowers grow and rip out any weeds by the roots.
"Keep going, my fine beauties," she called out with a grin.
There was a unanimous, subdued moan. In an instant, Mistress Lucinda's mood turned from being glad to being mad. She marched up behind one of the impertinent workers and slashed her quirt viciously across his sweaty back. A thin red line instantly appeared and the male winced and gasped. The beautiful blonde sent her whip flying through the air a second time and overlaid the first lash mark precisely. The split in the slave's flesh was cut twice as deep. She stood back and smiled at the accuracy of her efforts.
"Right!" she bellowed. "No water for the rest of the day. And if any you ever has the desire to groan in my presence again, I'll cut your damned tongue out. Now get on with it!"
The whip hissed through the air once more and culminated in a resounding thwack which echoed off the trees. With a sneer and a look of disdain, Mistress Lucinda turned on her heel and stomped off towards the house, her expression betraying her displeasure. Some of the more daring slaves surreptitiously turned their eyes in her direction, just to catch a glimpse of her long, spiky heels as they sank into the earth.
One the house slaves stood with head bowed as Mistress Lucinda looked in the mirror and smiled at her the curves of her magnificent body.
Pushing up her breasts with her hands and sliding her fingers over her splendid nipples, she asked the slave, "Aren't they fantastic?"
"Yes, Mistress, indeed they are," answered the slave with an air of confidence mixed with reverence."

Jam Alexis. I work in the blo-chemical division at the C.E.D.L., the Cruellan Experimentation and Development Labs, here on Artimaar, the place which Cruellan males refer to (quietly and among themselves) as the `Island of Cruelty'.
My work is in the development of various chemicals and agents of use to the Sisterhood. Much of what I do, of course, is concerned with the ongoing advancement of the mind and body of the Cruellan female.
However, I am also sometimes called upon by duty or personal whim to develop various serums, balms and food/drink-additives specifically formulated to be used upon the inferior male physiology. Obviously, these are, for the most part, usually detrimental in nature, designed, for example, to increase pain sensitivity, docility, anti-cognitives such as Canine 308, (although that little jewel, I must admit, was Athena's creation), blackout-inhibitors, and the like. This, I have to say, is the favourite part of the job for me. For, although I take great pride in my abilities and services to my alluring sisters of our glorious Realm, like any native Cruellan woman, I stand behind the natural superiority of the female over the male. So I welcome any and every opportunity to indulge myself in exercising my Goddess-given power over these primitive, small-minded creatures. You see, as a Scientrix, I view a male as nothing more than a lab-specimen.
Of course, I enjoy all of the simple pleasures inherent to a Cruellan female, such as grinding a slave's balls beneath a spiked heel until they burst, or working off a nice meal with an hour-long session of slicing the hide from its back with one of my favourite whips. But my personal slaves spend much of their time strapped down onto the cold, stainless-steel table in my home laboratory.
But more on my personal indulgences in a while. For a few moments, let us concentrate on my work at the C.E.D.L.

Haig heard his young Mistress' car pull into the drive, outside and above him. His empty stomach gripped. He prayed silently to his Mistress that she hadn't forgotten about him while on her way hack tonight from the male-branding party at Lady Katrina's estate, where she'd been since leaving the house this morning. He was famished, and she'd promised to try to remember to bring him something to eat back with her. Of course. a promise to a slave is just that, he'd reminded him-self with a sigh.
A sloppily-made bed had brought him a brutal caning, followed by three days in the cell, without food or water. Sleeping (actually dozing) on his knees had been nearly impossible. He was glad that today marked his final day in the tiny cell, and hoped desperately that her feminine, Cruellan whims wouldn't prompt her to extend his stay. Additionally, his Mistress had informed him that it would be 'too much trouble' for her to allow him out every day to empty a piss-bucket; explaining also that it would 'undermine the very ideal of the discipline'. He would simply have to wait.
The 'cell' wasn't actually a locked cage. It was merely a recess in one of the basement's walls, with a heavy, wooden shipping-skid leaned against its opening. Had he dared to do so, he could've shoved the skid aside, and walked out. But that, of course, would've been suicide. There were several video-earns mounted in the basement, one of them able to record in total darkness. And general-purpose, domestic males arc inexpensive, and easily replaced.
The unmistakable sounds of spiked heels on hard-wood echoed down from the basement ceiling, as his pretty owner moved about from room to room above him. He quickly worked himself to his knees in the cramped cell.
A few minutes later, she was on her way down the wooden stairs. His heart thudded in his chest. Glimpsing her slender ankles perched in six-inch stilettos, he quickly lowered his head to the lowest board of the skid, as she'd trained him to, and averted his eyes to the dusty, cement floor.
Within moments, one of those same stilettos were being pressed down firmly into the side of his face. "Hello, slut: and have you enjoyed your stay in my little slave-hotel here'?" Mistress Juliette teased.

mistress Helena stood, hands-on-hips, glaring angrily at the floor at her feet. "Right! Just look at this fucking floor, you stupid slut!" she exclaimed in apparent disbelief. From behind, she bent over troy, her slave of three years, pinning both his wrists painfully at the small of his back. At the same instant, she grabbed him by the hair and shoved his face close to the tiles. "Is this what you call 'clean' then'?! Well?? Is it?!"
Her slave shuddered and groaned miserably beneath his Mistress' rage. It seemed he could do nothing right these past few weeks, and lately, had begin to expect each moment on this woman-ruled world to be his last. She seemed to find fault in each and every task he was issued by her. He adored her, worshipped her; but something had changed. She seemed to have grown detached from hint, shunning him often, and this made his heart ache.
"Mistress! Please, Mistress! The slave did try so very hard to pl..."
"Shut your mouth, you useless worm!" she roared down at him, incensed. She then jerked him upright by the hair, and slapped his face hotly. After this, she picked up a scouring-pad, and, locking his eyes with hers, spat into it several times. "Here!" she snapped, tossing the dampened pad to the floor at the toes of her tall sandals. "Since you obviously can't be trusted to carry out my orders on your own, I suppose I'll just have to stand here with this flogger, wasting my own valuable time overseeing your duties, to be certain that you have some slight grasp of this very simple task! Now begin, fuckhead!"