Dear Readers,
I welcome you to take a peep into my personal diaries, which I hope will serve as an insight into my interesting and luxurious lifestyle. However, I would suggest that any faint-hearted males out there should seriously consider whether they really wish to know how a truly superior lady occupies her time. For you ladies reading this, I hope that you will perhaps learn something about male domination techniques.
To give you a brief background, I am thirty years old and an ex-fashion model. In order not to excite any of you disgusting males still reading I will not give you my vital statistics, but suffice to say that I do possess a splendid, hourglass figure. After a successful career in modelling I turned my talents to setting up a model agency, a fashion business, a fitness centre, a lingerie company, a holiday outlet and a perfume manufacturers. Needless to say, I do make an awful lot of money.
Well, to start my diary, we go to an airfield in the south of England, from where I shall be flying to a beautiful island in the Mediterranean, some forty miles off the southern coast of Turkey. It is owned by a dear friend, called Una, a stunning raven haired Turkish millionaires.
No sooner had the small aircraft landed than a band of Turkish porters shuffled over to collect the luggage. They were all safely chained together and shuffled under the watchful gaze of their overseer, a formidable girl wearing harness leather around her crotch and large breasts. Her high-heeled boots were calf-length and the cap on her long black hair gave her a military look. The riding crop that she slashed freely across the male backs emphasised her authority.
She shouted her commands at the slovenly bunch who picked up my heavy trunks and hoisted them onto their backs. When each one had a piece of luggage perched precariously on his back, the young woman yelled an order and set them running off in the direction of the large, colonial style, mansion house. I smiled at the oafs, bent in two, backsides sticking out, still shackled together, received encouraging blows from their overseer's eager whips.
Gabriella, one of Una's assistants, was at the landing strip to meet me. We had met on many occasions and I had a great liking for her. She is a very energetic and efficient worker who, despite the great heat on the island, always dressed in a businesslike fashion. Today she wore a black hobble-skirt and starched, white blouse, carefully buttoned so as not to expose her cleavage.
However, I wondered if, as she stood waiting for me, she was aware that her large breasts were fully visible against the bright sunlight, with her large, brown nipples poking through the white cotton. Perhaps she was.
As Gabriella and I greeted one another and shook hands, there was an almighty kerfuffle from the pathway to the mansion. We quickly looked across to see three of my trunks lying upside down on the ground, and three of the bearers lying in a heap next to them, still chained to the gang. The overseer looked absolutely livid. She shouted at them furiously, and lashed them as they lay kicking and struggling against their chains in the dust. With the crop flaying their hides, the idiots managed to get to their feet and recover my luggage.

Glenhurn was one of those places which seemed like heaven on earth during the summer months, but transformed into hell itself in the winter months.
It was in the summer, at the height of the war, when our headmaster, Mister Dickinson, received his call-up papers. Although renowned for his firm guidance, Mister Dickinson was much liked amongst the boys, and was perceived as a great loss. His wife was immediately appointed Headmistress. This was the first major change. The second was when the local girl's school was bombed and it's female pupils arrived to continue their education at Glenhurn. We were moved from the most comfortable dorms, and our beds taken by the girl's. As all but a few of our masters had been sent away to war, it was seen as a stroke of good fortune that along with our new female pupils came a multitude of female staff. Those masters who remained were quite old and decrepit, and Mrs Dickinson banished them to their cottages to pursue academic trivia.
Mrs Dickinson was a Scot. She was tall and not of small build. However, that is not to say she was fat. On the contrary, we boys had often espied her in the early morning dew, running ten laps of the field, dressed in tight white gym shirt and brief shorts. Countless times we boys had knelt in a row, peeking over the window sill to observe Mrs Dickinson's large breasts wobbling up and down in alternation. Our necks had twisted through a hundred and eighty degrees, goggle-eyed and gawking at her firm round bum as it passed by. Sometimes she would stop below our window and touch her toes, twenty or thirty times. Those of us who dared would poke our heads up for a glimpse of her breasts as they swung forward towards us, or her backside thrusting up into the air, depending upon which way she faced. In those days, it was usual for ladies to pin their hair up, but when exercising she never did, running round the field with a thick mass of red hair flowing behind her. As one can imagine, we boys spent a great deal of time spying on Mrs Dickinson.
Our new headmistress was, we guessed, about thirty five. It was only when, feeling the loss of her husband at the eastern front, and she sent for her daughters to come and live at Glenhurn that we realised she must be a little older, probably in her early forties. There was much speculation about the two new arrivals, Vanessa who was nineteen, and Vicky who was eighteen. Most of us had joked that they would be fat, or extraordinarily tall, or covered in acne, or would walk with a limp. It came as a great surprise to us when two tall, slim, girls were delivered by taxi one fine spring day. That night every bed in every boy's dorm squeaked and shuddered with ecstasy. I vividly remember dreaming about Vanessa and Vicky stripping me off in the hay and letting me suck their beautiful tits and rub their hairy slits. Unfortunately, I was rudely woken at seven am. for a laundry inspection!.
As we settled into our stride, acclimatising to the female staff and pupils, life seemed very good at Glenhurn. Vicky joined in lessons with the other pupils, whilst Vanessa's mother put her in charge of running the school stables. Every morning, the three Dickinson ladies could be seen riding away across the glen, bouncing excitedly up and down in their saddles. So much did I enjoy this spectacle that I used to make a point of going to the bathroom, standing on the toilet seat and looking out of the window in the direction of the glen so that I might catch a glimpse of them.
As I looked, my cock would grow and grow, and I would proceed to rub myself to orgasm. Imagine my surprise when one morning a female voice behind me said, "What do you think your doing".
I turned and fell off the toilet seat, and sprawled at the feet of Miss Appleby, the senior English Mistress. She looked at me, my pyjamas were open and my willie was sticking out like a rampant stallion. Stepping over me, she craned to look out of the window. Turning back and looking down at me, she was puzzled at what it was that I was so desperate to catch sight of. Then it seemed to dawn on her. "My office - NOW!" she snapped. And with that, she grabbed me by the ear and lifted me to my feet as I struggled to replace my dwindling cock into my pyjamas.

Jeff crept along the wall that separated his garden from that next door. He looked gingerly over it in several places, but his view was obscured by small bushes and trees.
Damn, he thought, if only his house was angled around a little more he would have had a superb view into the garden next door.
As it was, though, he had to creep about until he could find a suitable viewing position.
He peered over the wall again and he saw her. Great stuff, her tits were out, she always sun-bathed like that.
He slid down the zip of his jeans and began to masturbate his penis, already erect with anticipation. Suddenly, Sandra got up and moved her deck-chair to another spot, her breasts swaying as she maneuvered into position.
The sun had shifted and she wanted to ensure an even tan.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Just another ten seconds, that's all I needed. Jeff cursed.
He moved along the wall to find another view point, but in vain. A good view of her was not possible from that side of the wall.
He decided that there was only one little hiding place that he could spy on her from, but that meant creeping through the gate right behind her.
He would have to risk it. After all his engorged penis was dying for release after coming so close. As he crept through the gate behind her, Sandra casually turned her head and said "Jeffrey, what on earth are you up to?"
He froze in his tracks, "I erm...er.."
"What" she snapped.
"Er, I was wondering if you needed any work doing...erm, you know in your garden."
"That's very kind of you, Jeffrey" she replied. "As a matter of fact there is".
He breathed an inward sigh of relief, convinced that he'd caused no suspicion on her part as to his real motive.
"Jeffrey", she enquired, "what is that sticking out at the top of your jeans?"
He glanced down and was met with a most embarrassing sight. In his rush to find a new viewing place, he'd not bothered to fasten his zip properly, and poking out through the gap was one semi-erect penis.
He went bright red and was absolutely dumbstruck for words.
"Oh Jeffrey" she teased, "I thought that you would have grown out of that by now; peeping over the fence at my breasts for a cheap thrill. Why don't you just go out and buy a magazine?"
Jeff wished that the earth would just swallow him up. She knew. How often had she been aware? All those summers, when he would come out to 'play' in the garden.
"Well, are you going to stand there like an anaemic gnome or what? You suggested some work for me."
"Er..yes!" he replied, snapping out of his trance, "what would you like me to do?"
"You can cut the lawn for a start."
"Fine" he said, feeling a little more relieved now that the swelling between his legs had subsided.
"I'll have to fetch you some gardening implements" she said as she stood up. "I'll also get changed. After all we wouldn't want your hard-on getting in the way of your work, would we?"
She laughed, and then disappeared into the house.

Paul often wondered how much of Madam Seymoor's sadism was intentional. Sending him to the barn for a length of rough cord with which to bind him, and then making him carry it, could be unconscious laziness, or it could be sly and effective humiliation. Either way it was shaming.
Paul shrugged resignedly. The name of the game was shame! The alternative slogan fit. He toyed with the alternative, using the word pain instead of shame. They were equally applicable.
It could have been pleasant in the woods had the errand been other than it was. Madam Seymoor did not belong here. Her passage had an air of complaint, of being put upon. Madam was dressed in her daily working outfit of jodhpurs, riding boots, white cotton blouse and leather waistcoat, all topped off with a wide rimmed hat neatly tied under her chin. She panted easily, more used to riding than walking.
Her short forays into the woods on foot were Madams way of justifying his punishment. Her efforts held a forbidding menace for Paul. If he could have carried her he would should it lessen his torment, but this was not an option. She sweated easily, and her discomfort was punishable.
"Think you'll ever learn, boy?" Madam Seymoor's voice was affable without warmth.
"It doesn't matter, Madam," Paul said listlessly. He hated the 'madam', but it was obligatory. Madam Seymoor didn't rate a title like Mistress or Your Lady, the southern farm gal shone through, a trait of character Paul decided had fixed her status socially
"You're a damn sensible lad," Madam conceded. "Surprising you don't bellyache more, You ain't got no bed o'roses."
"Would it do me any good, madam!" The boy's voice was only faintly bitter.
"Yup! a wise young scamp. I told Mistress last time she was down. I said: "that little ass o'his'n 'ull take a lot of whupping." She looked sideways with a bright eye. "Think you'll last it out, boy?"
Paul allowed himself a wry smile. "I have to don't I? If I don't make it, the fault will be more yours than mine, Madam."
"Ain't dicing for an extra lickin', boy?"
"No, Madam. But I want to last it out. I want to so much." 'My skin too', but this thought remained silent, fate rarely favoured whipping-boy's.
Madam Seymoor's coarse laugh was pleased. "I'll help you, boy. Ain't killing no goose with golden eggs. Take him just so far, I says to Mistress, I ain't aiming to kill the lad. Mistress, she don't want no corpses hanging around come election time."
"How...how am I doing, Madam?" The question was shy, diffident and absurd, but the lad with the cord had to ask it.
"Ain't never had a lad o'your breeding. Silly bugger's most of 'em; not that I didn't enjoy giving'em a bad time. But you're different. You and me got a long way to go, Boy." Madam Seymoor stopped and looked around. "This ought to do. Been here before ain't you?"
Paul had been here before! He stood now in the same hesitancy that still afflicted him at such times, the pathetic last minute hope of reprieve or easement.
"Well, shuck it! don't just stand."
His hesitancy abruptly dealt with, Paul slipped out of the single sheath. Beneath it be was naked. He no longer cared about Madam's devouring eyes. Stripped, be knew what he must do. The sapling had been used before.
He pressed his back against it and crossed his wrists behind the slender trunk.
Madam Seymoor tied him. Slight panting breaths again heaved their protest against effort. But the shrewd fingers were strong and deft.
The crossed wrists of the passive boy were criss-crossed by the cord and tightly joined. There was no final knot. The wrists secure, the remaining cord was passed twice round the trunk and knotted where no searching finger could find it.
"Don't want you sitting down boy." Madam Seymoor laughed as though at a witticism.
Madam backed away and surveyed the boy she had made helpless. She nodded in satisfaction as at a job well done.
"I'm going in to town. If I ain't back, one of the young gals'll be along to let you loose in time for you to make supper. Use the rest o' that ham and them greens I readied."
"Yes, Madam."
Madam Seymoor chuckled. "Think you can get loose, boy?"
Paul made the futile struggle required of him. "No, Madam, I'm quite sure I can't get loose."
Madam lashed out with a sharp stinger across his groin. Paul didn't even see her take the crop from her belt and he tried a lot harder.

Clad in an outfit of chains and leather, wrapped beneath a fine, fox fur coat, Madame Sadia clasped her whip and set her
black, shiny boots wide apart in a commanding stance. She waited by the double doors of the room, looking out as the delivery truck pulled through the electronic gates, her dark mask of incomparable beauty and cruelty falling away momentarily as she brightened at the thought.
Sadia's was a working-class background. True, the menial tasks were performed by males and mini- men, but Sadia was still not satisfied that throughout girlhood she had been unable to afford her own slave.
Purchase of one was easy, as they sold very cheaply. However, upkeep such as food cost a good deal of money, unless one disposed of the male once done with, hence avoiding expensive upkeep; in the latter instance, though, one had to go and purchase a new male regularly, and thus it was an expensive prospect either way.
So Sadia had to take her pleasures at the various torture houses, facilities set up for women who could not afford their own males, but who wanted the enjoyment and satisfaction of putting a male through its paces.
Sadia had tried hard to crack into the upper echelons so she might command males of her own. Her phenomenal beauty (far exceeding average, even by Cruellan standards), predatory aggression in every endeavour, and particularly her quite natural cruelty, heightend by her fury when aroused, marked Sadia as up-and-coming. But lacking the proper background of a landed family, or a girl with political connections, Sadia was unable to secure a position as a Mistress, and in her bid to become a Guard, she had failed the tests by being too harsh (she argued that the three males which had met their ends, and the other two which were maimed, had all received their just desserts).
There was a Cruellan Old Girls' Network in action, excluding her and others like her, in favour of those who walked about with crops from all the "right" schools. More than ever, Sadia was determined to break through the glass ceiling that the gentry and the businesswomen had established. Perhaps it was the frustration of her setbacks, but after a time Sadia had developed a reputation among the torture houses. The males she tortured were not her property, and so she was especially brutal in her attentions. After a few too many incidents of "property damage" at these businesses, she had been barred from them for a year. Instead of her daily "exercise sessions", Sadia was forced to travel to the southern torture houses once a week. This, as it happened, was quite a kind fate, for it was here that Sadia was "discovered" and signed to a contract with a small independent studio. She was now a celebrity throughout the Cruellan world, and the little studio was now a major player in the entertainment industry.
Madame Sadia's face beamed again as she thought how much the landed families of high society must look down upon her, how the businesswomen must so resent the intrusion of this "entertainer" into their well-guarded strata.
As the delivery truck pulled up, she went out to sign the delivery form, and the driver asked, "Where do you want it?"
"Just dump it," Madame Sadia stated, indicating with a flick of her head the gravel driveway.
The driver unlocked the rear doors and reached inside, pulling forth a plastic-wrapped bundle; it was a male wrapped completely in cellophane, head to foot, with holes cut open around its mouth and nose. Pulling the male out of the van, letting him fall to the ground, the driver tipped her cap and said, "Look forward to next month's show, Madame Sadia."
"Thank you," Madame Sadia said, her cool tone betraying a hint of joyful pleasure. Pleased not that the driver was a fan, but that she had addressed her as "Madame".
The male had been bound up in a kneeling position, and it lay flat on its stomach with its feet sticking up in the air, just like an insect. With a lick of her lips, the beautiful brunette predator bent over, grasped both of the male's shoulders and hauled it to its knees.

Mistress Sybilla, who had a great sense of humour, overheard Slave 22 whisper to Slave 14 "She's a bitch".
"Which one of you called me a bitch?" she asked, knowing full well that it was Slave 22.
The two slaves, surprised that she had heard the whisper, remained silent.
"Right," she continued, "I need a new entertainment video for my party, and you two can provide it.-
Ellen, a senior officer at the Cruellan Prison Department, was given the job of putting the question to the two slaves. She was allocated the job because she was inventive and full of good humour. She decided to deal first with Slave 14 - the witness to the crime and a party to the criminal attempt to cover it up.
He was stripped naked and left standing to attention for an hour-and-a-half in the centre of the bleak, windswept yard. As Mistress Ellen approached, he saw that she was wearing heavy leather boots and a skin-tight, lace-up mini-dress with no top. She was carrying a wicked looking crop and was walking jauntily, grinning at him.
"Did you, or slave 22 use the word 'bitch'?" she asked him.
"No, Mistress," he answered, his head bowed. "Follow me," she chirped.
14's attention was focused on the back of her leather boots, especially on the tall, sharp savage heels. The interrogation room was small. Apart from a solid steel rack, the only other items were a pair of comfortable armchairs, a small table with drinks, and a cupboard. The rack could be raised or lowered by an electric motor, the traction being set by ropes rather than chains. Slave 14 shivered upon seeing that there were spotlights in the ceiling and a number of strategically placed video cameras.
The door opened and a young lady dressed in a shiny maid's outfit entered. "I am Rosina, Mistress Sybilla's personal assistant," she announced with a foreign accent.
She had a cute lisp, which turned number 14 on. "Mistress Sybilla wishes that I help you to make him talk," she continued.
"Welcome aboard," greeted Mistress Ellen, kissing her full on the lips.
Smiling, Ellen gestured with her crop for the slave to stretch out. She began by fitting a sharp, leather body harness to him.
"Miss..?" said 14.
He wanted to say something, perhaps confess. "Open your mouth," she invited.
He did, and was about to speak when she inserted a heavy metal pear-shaped gag. She turned a screw and forced his mouth open wider, preventing any possibility of speech.
She sighed with pleasure and grinned at Rosina, "Don't want any possibility of a confession interrupting the proceedings," she grinned. Then, turning to the slave, "We are going to have some fun. Won't that be nice'?"
Rosina looked on approvingly as Mistress Ellen pulled a thick, black mask over the prisoner's head, and tightened it fast.
"There," said Ellen, "that should keep him quiet."
She attached a lead to his neck, then brought her arm well back and thrashed the meaty crop across the sole of his left foot. Her crop had a flexible, but heavy, steel core in it, as he discovered from the weight of the blow. His scream was muted, but his contortions and movements expressed a message perfectly well.
As Rosina stepped forwards, Ellen smiled and nodded. Rosina thrashed her whip hard on his right foot. He seemed to dance - his whole body, not just his feet. Ellen too danced, with joy, her nimble boots leaving the ground as she leapt about with delight.

The room is very dim. Only a couple of candles flicker on the wall. About a dozen or so scantily clad prisoners huddle around the corners of the cold room. Some are completely naked but all are in
varying degrees of bondage. In the centre of the west wall is a huge wooden door that is supported by thick, black cast-iron hinges. Suddenly the dead bolt begins to turn. By the time the door has opened, most of the men are lying prostrate on the floor. In the brightness are three silhouettes: two guards standing over a shackled prisoner. As he is dragged into the room by his long blond hair, it is apparent that he has been badly beaten. His entire back and arms are covered by cane and whip marks. His face is red from being slapped and his chest is spotted with welts, presumably from cigarette ash. After he is thrown to the ground, he receives a final kick from the woman who appears to be the boss. Then the two guards walk out of the room, talking and laughing gaily. All of the prisoners remain flat on the ground after the guards leave. All except one. An old man who has had an extremely hard life. Men over fifty are rare in Cruella, and especially here in the prison. The grey-headed man makes his way towards the freshly disciplined young male. After briefly inspecting his almost skinless back, he sits down next to the victim.
"Looks like the new guard really did a job on you," he says sympathetically.
The young man whispers, "It wasn't her that really did me in. It was Mistress Ellen. She's trying to make a good impression on the new novice, Mistress Juliet." He pauses for a moment. "Yesterday, I was working in the kitchen.
She comes in and gives me some bullshit about my attitude not being subservient enough! I'd already dropped to my knees and offered my tongue to polish her shoes. I answered all of her questions, with my head bowed. I did nothing wrong!"
The old man listens with growing concern to his young friend becoming louder and more defiant.
"I won't stand for it!" the young slave suddenly screams. "I'm going to get even with that bitch if it's the last thing I do!"
Finally, the wise old prisoner can't bear to listen any more, and reminds the youngster, "You seem to forget where you are, young lad. We're in prison! And these women are paid to make our lives unbearable. Even though you go through all the motions of being submissive, these girls can see defiance in your eyes. So if Mistress Ellen says you needed punishment, then you did. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, but I still want to get even with her," says the disgruntled young prisoner.
Mistress Ellen and Mistress Juliet watch the closed circuit monitor in the guard's Ioungeroom and listen in on the ensuing conversation in the cell. Some other guards are also present, relaxing in plush, high-backed armchairs and drinking finest Cruellan brandy. Some of the more mishievous amongst them are enjoying "the show" and taking the micky, with comments like, "Who's the boyfriend, Ellen?" and "Should've whipped his tongue, Ellen, instead of his arse!" Ellen is upset, knowing that she has inflicted the full quota of punishment strokes upon the impudent prisoner. To exceed her limit could mean facing dismissal, or some other form of disciplinary action.

Lady Katerina explains the rudiments of training a genetically produced slave. For the purposes of this article I have selected a typical, genetically produced slave. He is a mediocre specimen with no particular redeeming qualities, and a height of around seventeen- hands, one inch. Many Cruellan ladies argue that naturally produced slaves make the best animals for training, but for general harness work I find that these mass produced beasts are perfectly adequate. Due to quick-grow hormone treatments developed by Mistress Venetia at her Discovery Institute of Experimentation, the animals can be bred to a workable size in just two years.
The animal photographed in my training session is in fact only a little over that age. This quick- grow process means that the cost of buying an animal such as the one shown is usually between twenty and thirty pounds, which makes them particularly appealing for youngsters looking for their first slave to train. However, it is argued by some, that the economy of a low purchase price is offset by the fact that their average lifespan is only around six years.
Myself, I reckon that if a slave is bought at two and puts in two years good, hard work, then it isn't bad value for money.
Naturally the more a beast is worked, the shorter its life. I've had to "retire" males after only six months work, but this normally only applies to those which are sent to work as pony slaves in public hire stables, or as taxi-cab mules. Upon "retirement" slaves are hobbled into long chain gangs and whipped along the streets to the fertilizer processing plant for conversion. It's a great trip out, as any schoolgirl will tell you, to go and watch the "retirees" stepping into the plough wheels and grinders, and get munched up into mulch, especially when the cutters get jammed with limbs, half-way through the process!
So, we've spent thirty pounds to buy our beast, two years old and seventeen-one tall, and now we're ready to start training. As you can see, my chosen attire for training sessions is traditional riding wear: jodhpurs; boots (with spurs); and a plain white blouse. If you don't own special riding clothes, then jeans and t-shirt, or bikini top and shorts will do.
The first thing that you will notice about your genetically produced slave is that it will have no concept of speech or language. Unlike traditionally bred slaves who catch on to simple sounds, these animals have known nothing but the darkened sheds of the production units. Feeding is carried out automatically and so it is likely that you will be only the second or third human that your new slave will have encountered. And probably its first recognition of you will be the production of a penile erection. At this early stage it is considered perfectly acceptable to ignore this display, but I shall deal with the topic in a later paragraph.

Our Lady Victoria is loving her break at a Cruellan country manor estate owned by the Sisterhood. It all seems quite different to the irrational superstition and witchery of the wild rumours she's heard. The modern witch has a disciplined mind and the sense to draw on the spiritual strengths of the older knowledge, using myths and mental concentration to her psychological advantage.
Or so the cult has it.
Victoria has always felt an amused attraction to the weird sect and it's nutty ideas, though it's clear now that the mumbo-jumbo is only for public consumption. The arcane rituals of the Sisterhood serve to bond members to one another and the higher cause. It's a secret society with all it's own hierarchy and allegiance codes, dedicated to personal enlightenment through ecstasy and the material advancement of womanhood.
When Victoria was invited into the sect for a period of profundity, she jumped at the chance to find out more about the cult and decide whether their beliefs held any validity in the real world. Commitment is balanced by assistance, as witches are pledged to mutual support and the principles of natural female domination. Apart from the more serious side of the Sisterhood, it is also a fine social club, offering good company, brilliant facilities and luxury service. With massive investments and substantial wealth, the organisation is a force to be reckoned with.
There, whilst enjoying the fine food and wine, the horse riding and the intimate pleasures the relaxed setting affords, Victoria has been assigned a counsellor, a beautiful research biochemist called Celeste. Unfortunately, Celeste doesn't approve of the "barbaric excesses" of the totalitarian state in it's handling of males. It is her opinion that cowed and pathetic slaves can only make poor servants. According to the Sisterhood's ideals, males need to be carefully conditioned to take pride in their service to the whip. Victoria is vaguely fascinated and amused by such notions.
The enlightened women of the coven see proper training as an investment to bring out the best of the male's qualities. It is the male's path to natural fulfilment. Such talk is bordering on heresay outside the inpenetrable walls of the manor house. But the Sisterhood continues to try and advance the cause for change, fearing slave revolts and a reversion to the male-led anarchy of previous centuries. The fanatical cabal of rich and powerful Cruellan ladies, whose wealth has pulled most of the strings for so long, is decadent and its members are at one other's throats; at least this is Celeste's opinion.
Listening to the bright, young biochemist, Victoria is left with a slightly nervous thrill, toying with the idea of the Sisterhood planning to seize power one day. However, the hard look in Celeste's face gives no secret away. Witches always cover their tracks well, and Victoria knows that she has to make the next move when she's thought things through.
Although Victoria has always felt disdain, rather than hatred, towards the male minions who do the drudge work, she has always derived much pleasure from inflicting pain and humiliation on them, like all red-blooded girls.
The Sisterhood's slaves are something else. Selected for their wit, looks and physique, they are "guided" by the whip, combined with a mind control programme to offer their total allegiance to their owners from the depths of their souls. It is an ethic that appeals to the more thoughtful woman.
Belonging to the coven allows members the right to select one of the males as a permanent, personal slave. And these slaves are a real asset to any woman! Strangely, Victoria has seen a male who quite appeals to her. Never before in her life can she remember a slave having such an effect on her. He is a perfect specimen who flushes with humble longing as he casts his eyes down in her presence. It's as if the spirit Goddesses have decreed a match, and Victoria can almost feel a spark of electricity between them. It is, she knows, totally irrational, but there is something almost different about this slave.

I met Marian at a party in one of the more artistic parts of London society. In conversation I discovered, to my delight, that she was a Dutch businesswoman involved in the sale of horses on the showjumping circuit, and also a part time fashion model. Having shown her round the city, Marian asked me if I would mind escorting her to the sale of a colt in the home counties.
The next day, Marian came out of her hotel. She was ready to ride, wearing black shiny boots to the knee, fitted with a pair of long, slim spurs, a pair of tight white jodhpurs clinging to her thighs, and a starched shirt which was stretched across her more than ample breasts.
I gulped when I saw her.
She was a picture of beauty and elegance. As soon as she caught sight of me she waved and smiled broadly.
I watched her as she walked towards the car, her full, round, womanly thigh muscles flexing, and her buttocks tightening with every step. I was somewhat embarrassed to find that I was still gazing at her crotch as she stood in front of me.
She seemed unabashed and slightly amused.
"Thanks for picking me up. It really is very kind of you," she said.
"No, really, it's my pleasure. Let me take your bag," I offered, noticing that her riding whip was protruding from it.