5.30am. It had been an early start. Not only that, of course, but today was Saturday, supposedly a day off, which made the early morning seem worse than usual. James had donned his work overalls, jumped into his rusting, mile-worn car and followed the vague directions that he had procured over the interne to today's destination. It would all be worth it, he had ruminated, as his old car had bumped and jolted it's way down traffic-free country lanes, heading deep into the green heart of `merrie olde' England. These days, however, it wasn't quite so quaint or merry, thought James, as he scanned across amber fields of wheat and barley, interspersed with muddied plots where crops had already been harvested. He passed a tractor coming the opposite way down a country lane, waving his thanks as the towering farm vehicle pulled onto the grassy verge to let him pass. "Wanker," laughed James to himself. He felt like a spy in enemy territory that had just avoided the first of many obstacles. James liked the allusion. It was pretty close to how he saw himself. A spy, fighting for freedom and truth, against the combined might of big business and government.
A few more miles down the road James pulled the car off the road onto a flat piece of the verge. He tumed the rough, idling engine off, tuning his ears instead to the musical chatterings of birdsong and the countryside. He checked his map again, making sure that this was the right place. There were a couple of fields to traverse, but this was as close as he could get with the car. He stepped out into the warming, late summer sun and stretched, flexing his muscles for the next stage of the operation. He folded the map into his pocket, then, looking both ways down the road to make sure that there was no one else around, ducked through the hedge and stepped onto enemy territory.
James' senses were now on red alert. He was now in his element as he threaded his way through the flickering shadows of a small copse, ears and eyes straining for any sign that his presence had been spotted. He stepped out of the other side of the copse, back into the sunlight, onto a small brown plain, recently harvested. He glanced around, making sure again that he was still alone. James extracted the map from his pocket and checked his whereabouts.
He was still on the right track. His target was just another field or so away. He had clearly marked it on his own map. It was a reported site of genetically modified crops, supposedly secret, (is anything secret these days, thanks to the net? thought James) and it was his job to see if those rumours were right. Not only that, but it was too close for comfort to a nearby organic farm. They would be pleased for the information, too, he ruminated as he scurried around the perimeter of the clear field, closing in on his target. All he needed was a few samples to take back to the environmental group and it would be another cause well fought.
Reaching the other side of the field, James crouched low behind the huge hedge, inspecting the map again. Through this hedge should be the first of the GM fields, he decided. Gritting his face, he plunged into the thick hawthorn hedge.
The woman had been out since the early hours, enjoying the fresh breath of the morning land, using the quiet time as shooting practice. She had been out for over an hour now, though, and the crossbow was beginning to wear heavy in her hands. She was strolling back down the lane towards the farmhouse when the heavy rustling of the hedge by the side of the road stopped her in her tracks. She waited silently, while whatever was clambering through the bush made itself known.

I was but a spotty youth at the time this incident took place. I lived in the South East of England, in what was commonly called the "Commuter Belt."
It was quite posh and there were beautiful leafy, sunny lanes and an abundance of horses in the area. I would spend many a happy hour peering through a pair of binoculars from an upstairs window at jodhpur-clad young ladies as they trotted down our lane. How those splendidly rounded buttocks would bob up and down and rub backwards and forwards along a smooth, shiny, leather saddle. And, on occasions, if I was lucky, a car would pass by and disturb the horse and make it fret or shy. Inevitably the young ladies would deal with this problem with a sharp slash of the crop to the horse's rump and a prod with their shiny, steel spurs into the animal's flanks.
What ecstasy to see a sexy young woman gain total control of a large, mettlesome beast.
Such was my excitement at observing the spectacle, that not for a minute did I ever consider the pain or suffering caused to the horse. Until one day on a hot summer afternoon when I was ambling along with my best chum, chatting and picking blades of grass to suck, when a set of events occurred that would change my life forever. As we walked, every few minutes we would be forced onto the verge by a passing horsebox. My friend showed no interest in this, but merely complained at being forced to step off the road into prickly grass and stinging nettles. For my own part, I became quite excited as I studied any young woman who was travelling in a horsebox and who happened to glance back at us as we endured the pain of having our legs stung.
Many were, of course, quite haughty, even though they were young and beautiful.
In fact, I am certain that many smiled upon observing us rubbing our legs as they sped by. Like everything else, life was just one big game to them. They had money, they had power and they had horses.

Invisibility. Now there's a thought.
What would you do if you were invisible? Where could you go and get your kicks? Anywhere.
That's the only answer.
You could go anywhere you wanted. But there are a few places that we would all want to go, aren't there?
Especially those males offered such a prize.
What male could resist the temptations of the myriad of Eves around us? Every door could be opened.
In every scenario.
The shopping mall? Think of the changing rooms in the women's clothing shops.
How long could you spend in there before you got bored?
All those hours watching those nubile ladies trying those sexy dresses, lingerie, short skirts...
The local bar? Show me a man that does not get any sexual charge from a woman pulling down her knickers and opening her bladder and I'll show you a liar.
The street where you live?
The neighbours?
The sexy wife next door?
The assertive businesswoman down the street?
What would you give to be able to root around in their bedrooms without being seen?

For this issue of Slave World magazine, we were lucky to be invited along to interview the legendary Slave Trainer, Lady Chambers. It seemed a long drive from the magazine headquarters in Derby to the wilds of windswept Yorkshire, but it is a journey that Lady Chambers makes almost daily as she commutes around the country. We interviewed her in the lounge of a gorgeous 17th Century mansion.

Well, Lady Chambers, it certainly seemed to be a lengthy drive up here. How often do you make a similar journey for your role as a Mistress?

To be honest, the journey to Derbyshire isn't very long at all. In my work I often travel as far as London, and even travel further northwards, to Scotland. The main problem is finding quality males. They are quite rare in this part of Yorkshire, so travelling is a necessity. However, travelling to me is not a chore. There is always some anticipation regarding what I will find at the end of my journey.

Why London? It seems an awfully long way to go to from Yorkshire to find slaves. Is there nowhere nearer?

No, unfortunately. London offers a greater arena to pick from, so the chances of finding something decent are greatly improved. Like I said, Yorkshire tends to offer rather poor quality material. There is a great choice if you do not mind looking at something rather under-exercised and past their best, but I must admit, I do like aesthetics, and if I have semi-naked slaves pandering to me daily, they must not be too obscene to look at. Having said that, all my slaves are genuine working creatures. I have nothing that I use for show purposes. At the end of the day, a slave is only worth the work they can carry out.

I am reminded, today, of the first day at school, in what seems like years ago. Memories sometimes come flooding back like this, and this morning they are a spring tide surge through my mind. All it takes is the equivalent of a little dam-burst.
The dam certainly burst for sure this morning. The early morning ringing of the alarm, the last few luxurious seconds under the warm covers before the realisation that it is get­ting late, the rush to get ready in the cold of the house, the endless rope of knots in the stomach, the long walk in the bitter morning air. I am filled with that unknowing appre­hension that always accompanies that first day at anything. A hundred years ago, it was that long, lonely walk to a new school, new friends, new enemies. Today, it is to an interview for my first job in over a year.
As I walk along the nearly-deserted streets in the early morning, the cold wind blows blustering leaves around my feet, and the damp sheen of the previous night lies heavy on the paths and roads.
I huddle further under my thin coat, trying hard to keep the searching fingers of the cold at bay. However, it seems to be one of those mornings when the cold reaches through the smallest of the gaps and holes in any layers of clothing to run its shivering fingers over the goose bumps on the skin. After walking, as I have, for twenty minutes in this biting cold, my feet, hands and face have turned numb. I can feel the creases in my face freezing in situ and hope that I will not be too much of a sight when I get to my destination.
Finally, I turn into the street where, hopefully, I am to start my new career. As I walk along, I can see the houses are all very exclusive, the cars standing outside all very expensive. This is obviously beyond my own monetary means.
I finally find the correct address. It is an imposing house, at least a couple of hundred years old and set in large, secluded grounds. I walk up the long drive to the heavy front door and rap nervously on the dark oak wood. Nothing happens for a few moments, and I look around for a bell.

It all happened as I was finally blossoming in my life. Just as I thought that I was achieving my goal, getting where I wanted to be, my life was turned around.
It had seemed that for all my life I was not one of the lucky few, the chosen ones. I had to work hard through school, then college, all the time holding down a couple of part-time jobs to pay my rent, having been kicked out of the family home for indulging once too often in that well-known relaxant, marijuana. Once too often because that was the time I was caught by my Army-sergeant father. As he bodily threw me into the street he told me I was one of life's losers, a no-hoper who would amount to nothing. Bastard.
I hated him anyway, and despised having to live under the same roof as him. Nevertheless, it did make my college days that little bit more difficult. Unlike my rich friends, who spent weekends partying and lounging around, I spent them working. Hard. Cleaning the bars around the col­lege at three in a morning and working part-time in a local supermarket paid the bills in winter. In summer I was lucky enough to find some spare work on a building site, transforming a desolate wasteland into a giant shopping mall. It was strange going through the mall doors once it had opened. I tried to remember what parts I had helped create, but could recall nothing. There was no sense of achievement either. I had looked back at the huge, ugly building when leaving and decided the wasteland was the better option. Anyway, such was my life at college.

On September 17th I was listed to assess two new recruits to the Ministry. Elizabeth, (Operative number 4529) and Carol (4211) had both been recruited from one of the Ministry's favourite 'talent' pools - the State Police Academy, and
I duly dispatched orders for them to attend one of my own interrogation centres on their assessment day. The unit that I had chosen as an interrogation subject was lifted from one of the Internment camps, and was suspected as being one of a small ring of peddlers in ille­gal papers that were found circulating the camp. This material was of a highly subversive nature, featuring, as it did, various images of females in differing states of nudity. I, myself, have much material like this in my collection of antique, late 20th Century eroti­ca, but these images are banned to the eyes of the subservients. The unit was not a partic­ularly useful one, whose main work detail was cleaning the over-flowing latrines, and he could certainly be spared.
At 1030hrs. the girls arrived at the Processing Station. I took them to the changing rooms and informed them to remove their smart work suits. It can very hot and sweaty in the interrogation room while working with a difficult case. When the two officers entered the Interrogation Studio, they were both suitably attired. Elizabeth's slender frame was enveloped in a smart black waspie and matching bra, Carol in a black rubber undergarment set comprising of bra, panties, and stockings. I gave them brief orders, and told them that I would be their Assessing Officer.
They both looked slightly nervous at this news. My reputation seems to have preceded me once again. However, I did inform them that I was very fair in my assessments, and told them to do the best that they could. I then sent orders down to have the subject brought up the studio. I settled down in an adjacent room, com­plete with a two-way mirror, to assess the session.
The subject was duly brought up and thrown into the room. He was already frightened and nearly sobbing. There were enough rumours around the camp about my own studios to frighten anyone. He was thrown into the middle of the room, and the door was locked behind him. He would already be wondering if he would see beyond that door again. I briefly had a thought about ancient history, where people had been thrown to lions, before the officers began the session. Carol walked over to where the subject was kneeling, beg­ging for mercy. She grabbed his short hair and half threw, half dragged him across the floor to where Elizabeth was waiting.
He fell on the floor before her, grovelling at her high-heeled feet. She stamped down on his head, pushing it to the floor. Even through the wall I could hear him cry out, not with pain, but fear.

It was a couple of hours later that Cathy finished for the night. Laura had not yet reappeared from her evening out, and as there were still some pots left over in the sink I decide to do them myself. After all, what excuse could I give Laura for Cathy not having the time to do them? My thoughts drifted away to our recent session. Cathy had been wild, clawing at my back, despite my protests. How could I explain scratch marks to Laura? It had been worth it, though. Cathy really was something else this time. In the past she had followed my lead perfectly. This time, though, she had been in control from the start. She had scratched, clawed, bit, and stabbed me with her heels while we fucked, spurring me on the drive into her harder and faster. I cer­tainly couldn't keep up with that every night. She had said one thing that had completely thrown me, too. She said that she intended to fuck both Laura and me at the same time. Thoughts of the two women in bed, kissing and fucking each other, had raced through my mind, powering my ejaculation. Afterwards I had asked her again about that statement. Did she really want to fuck us both? Cathy had laughed, and said that she was definitely going to fuck us both, good and proper. I had a niggling feeling that there were other things going on in Cathy's head that she wasn't telling me. I asked her if she wanted me to go about setting up a threesome with Laura. She had declined that offer, saying that it was all in hand, then laughed again at some private joke.
Whatever, it was some tale to tell the guys at the building site tomorrow. They were as jealous as hell anyway, what with me living with a sexy looking woman like Laura, then having another on the side. I was always careful to keep such information from Laura, of course. Once or twice in the past I had felt that she had strayed from the marital bed, but as she had a lot more money than I did, I had always turned a blind eye. I didn't want to test the strength of our marriage from the other direction, though. I was sure that Laura would erupt like a volcano if she caught me playing around - especially with the cleaner.
I sunk my hands into the hot washing-up water, like Pilate washing his hands at the sentencing of Jesus. The guilt on my soul about the affair was as hard to wash off as Pilate's must have been, I concluded. As I started on the pots I heard the door open and close as Laura came home. She tramped immediate­ly upstairs, shouting a brief 'I'm home.' I heard her banging around upstairs for a while, then a long silence. I mentally thought back to how Cathy and I had left the bed. Yes, tidy and as Laura had left it that morning. I was con­vinced my guilt would show on my face, but I was getting better at hiding it. I heard Laura come back downstairs after a little while. "Have a nice night?" I asked her, my back to her as I finished the pots, hoping she wouldn't ask me why they hadn't been done earlier. "I've had a great night," she replied, "have you?" Before I could turn to answer I heard the sound of her movements, then a blinding pain exploded in my head as something heavy and metal crashed into my skull...

By six o clock that evening things had quietened down somewhat. Laura had disappeared to her room to get ready for an evening out. Earlier I had made a small evening meal in silence, and James had tip­toed around the house like there were hidden mines lying under the carpet. He was clearly worried about something blowing up in his face. The incident in the dining room had not been mentioned by anyone, yet feeling that there were things unsaid laid heavy on the whole household. Over the evening meal I had caught James watching me intently, yet he always looked away if Laura looked up from her plate. It was obvious who wore the trousers in this house. He was still at a loss to explain what had happened earlier, and neither Laura nor myself were particularly willing to let him in on the full story. Laura left the house with a stern glance in my direction while I was cleaning the pots from the :evening meal. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders as I watched her walk off to her car, then drive away. I was still struggling with different emotions that were 'swimming about in my head and heart regarding the day's events. I finished in the kitchen and wandered out into the conservatory. Once I had done in here I was finished for the night. I was busy brushing down the cane sofa in the glass room when I heard footsteps behind me.

Pride is an expensive luxury when money gets tight. I had discovered this before my divorce became complete. It seemed that I had fallen a long way since I discovered about my dear husband's affair with some tart that he met at work. I was struggling to make ends meet. Even the rather run-down flat that I was renting was costing more than I could afford, and on top of that there was food to buy, and electric and heating bills to pay for. My car, another sad and sorry tale, was desperately in need of some major work to make it roadworthy again. At the moment it was sat forlornly in a friend's garage, awaiting its internal operations. It would be better on the NHS waiting list at this rate...
It was for these reasons that I decided to swallow the last lumps of pride that I had and apply for a part time job. I had a mixture of achievement and sadness when I was offered the placement. It was, after all, only as a domestic helper in the home of a busy, professional couple. Nevertheless, I set to my new job with vigour, knowing that it was slowly paying my way out of debt. Not that it was a particularly easy job, though. The woman, Laura, was a real bitch to work for. She was demanding and very particular about my work. She was fastidious about the state that the house was in, and minutely inspected my work after each day. To be honest, she was a complete pain in the arse. Nevertheless, I had to bite my lip and listen to her constant criticisms, knowing that her money was keeping the bank manager at bay.