I knelt in the hallway, in front of my wife's shoe rack, and held one of her shoes lovingly as I polished it.
I glanced at the clock, it said five-thirty. With anticipation I waited to hear the familiar sound of her stiletto heels as she walked up the garden path.
As instructed, I had completed the housework and had nearly finished the cleaning of all of her shoes. I just had one pair left to do, and I was deliberately taking a long time over them.
I held them close and kissed them as I reflected upon my new status in life.
Six months ago, I had been working for an advertising agency and my wife of three years was -the personal secretary to the managing director of a large computer firm. Our combined salary ensured that we had a very comfortable life. We each had top of the range cars, went on holiday at least twice a year and could comfortably afford our hobbies. I was a keen golfer and thought nothing of spending large amounts on equipment and membership to the best clubs.
My wife, keen on horse riding, owned two and spent a great deal of money and time on them. In fact, she spent more time with her horses than she did with me.
Then one day my whole world was turned upside down. The agency that I had worked for had been taken over by a much bigger agency. The first thing they did was to cut down on the number of employees, all of which were shed from the company I worked for.
I was made redundant with a pay offer of just £20,000. I was devastated. What would my wife say? I was petrified of losing her; she meant everything to me and I worshipped the ground that she walked on.
I knew that she didn't quite feel the same way about me, but I blamed myself for that. I wasn't good enough for her, and as our income had been reduced I felt sure that she'd leave me.
Also at that time, I was very worried about our sex life.
Though she always said that she loved me, and we made love fairly regularly, I could never seem to get her aroused.
She never even had an orgasm, but seemed happy enough to 'go through the motions' until I had come.
Surely that, and the loss of earnings would mean her leaving me.
That night we had an almighty argument. She seemed so different, like another person altogether.
She screamed and shouted at me, regardless of the fact that it wasn't my fault. She thought otherwise, because if I was good enough at my job then I wouldn't have lost it.
She made it quite clear that the money had meant so much to her. I tried to calm her down by promising that I would soon get another job, and that in the meantime she could have my redundancy to do with as she pleased.
We argued for a little while longer before she finally screeched at me to get out of her sight.
It was very late by then, and I decided to go to bed, hoping and praying that she would be a little more understanding in the morning.
Unable to sleep, I must have been lying in bed for about an hour before I heard the bedroom door being pushed open.
The sheets were quickly torn away from me and a sudden pain streaked like red-hot fire across my back, accompanied by a loud cracking sound.
I jerked in pain and before I had chance to move it came again. I rolled over, throwing my arm up in defence. A third streak of pain cracked along my side and then a fourth vicious cut slashed across my face.
As I rolled off the bed in an attempt to escape the raining blows, I saw my wife as she laid into me with one of her thick leather belts.

Marc Davies was celebrating his victory in the Red Lion, his local in the small village where he lived.
He laughed and joked with a group of his 'associates' in a corner of the pub as he finished off his ninth pint.
"Your round, Jim" he said, "and don't forget to put the vodka in it. I'm just going for a piss."
He got up and staggered across the room making his way to the toilets near the pub entrance.
A young lady followed him out of the bar closely behind. As they approached the pub entrance she pushed him hard into the door and it swung open as he lurched through. With a yell, he stumbled and fell face first into the gravel after flying down three steps. Before he could rise, a riding boot stamped down onto the back of his head and kept him pinned there, forcing his face deeper into the rough stones. Another pair of riding boots appeared before his blurred vision and one was raised before pressing down onto his cheek. He spluttered as the boots crushed down harder.
Then he felt his hands being yanked painfully behind his back, and heard the click as the steel hand-cuffs were fastened.
The boots were raised from his head and a sack cloth was roughly pulled over it and then tied at the neck.
He tried vainly to struggle, but was far too weak, having consumed so much alcohol. He tried to shout for help, but a rope was tied around the sack and forced into his mouth.
He found himself being raised from the ground, felt himself being hurled through the air and cried in agony as he hit solid objects.
Four of his assailants climbed into the back of the Range Rover with him and the other two took their positions at the front.
Throughout the bumpy journey, in his dark little world, Marc let out muffled cries as the four sets of riding boots were constantly kicked into him.
"That's right, make the pig suffer" came a voice from the front. "He's ruined our fun, the bastard. Now he's going to pay."
She smiled and was joined by laughter from the others as they continued their assault on his writhing body.
Arriving at their destination, four of the girls took a limb each and carried him into an empty stable.
They attached his hand-cuffs to a small length of chain that was fastened to a bolt in the far corner.
Presently, he heard a clip-clop sound as one of the girls returned with a horse and led it into the stable with them.
"Hello darling" said a blonde girl, stroking the animal lovingly.
"You don't like strangers in your stable, do you baby?"
She looked at Marc and said spitefully "If you remain perfectly still all night, you may avoid being kicked.
But one wrong move and you may not live to regret it."
They all laughed and as they left the stable, the blonde turned to add "Get used to the feeling of being stepped on because we fully intend to trample you into the ground tomorrow and crush your pathetic male ego."

David Moore was the accountant for an electrical product company called Jefferson Electrics.
A family owned company, it had survived and grown through three generations.
David slammed the door shut on his red Porsche, pressed his alarm activation button and strolled towards the large Jefferson building.
He entered the reception and took the lift to the fourth floor. Even though his office was on the fifth floor, he often stopped off there to detour through the typing pool where more than just the odd girl had taken his fancy.
Full of birds, he thought to himself, all ripe for the taking. He adjusted his tie, flicked back his hair and smiled to himself before entering the typing pool. What a sight. Girls everywhere, there must be at least a dozen worth a good screw, he thought.
He'd made a special point of going in on that particular occasion as the rumours in the offices above were about the new 'hot chick' down there.
Quickly he found her, standing at the other end of the office searching through the filing cabinet.
Wow, he thought to himself as he stared at her. From behind she looked gorgeous.
About 5'10" tall in her high heels. She wore a white blouse and a tight black pencil skirt reaching just below her knees.
David made a bee-line straight over to her. As he passed a group of girls he attracted the usual comments. "There he goes, smarmy git, homing straight in on the new girl." "Yeah, watch him flash his Porsche keys." "How the hell can he afford that on his accountant's salary?"
How indeed, David laughed to himself as he approached the new girl.
"Well, hello" he said, "my name's Dave, from accounts." The girl turned to face him and smiled. She was beautiful, he thought, no, incredibly gorgeous. A perfect face with a superb bone structure and features, deep blue eyes and such sexy lips painted crimson red. Her wavy blonde, semi-spiked hair flowed down to just below her shoulders.
"Hi" she said, "I'm Jenny and I've heard a lot about you."
"All good, I hope" he laughed.
"Oh, very good" she said. "Will you do me a big favour?"
"Of course, anything."
She pointed to the bottom drawer and said,"my skirt's just a shade too tight to bend right down there. Can you get me all the files for the Wessex Company?"
"Sure" he replied.
David went down on his hands and knees and slid open the bottom door. Deliberately, he placed his right hand onto the floor to steady himself,brushing himself against her nylon clad leg. With his hand palm down on the floor he kept his arm in that position, touching her calves. Even though it was through his shirt, he still felt excited to touch her in such a way. He felt a slight swelling between his legs; she was so beautiful and smelt so good, even from down there.
With his left hand, he thumbed his way very slowly through the file; after all he was in no rush. So engrossed, he didn't notice her open the third drawer.
Then she stepped sideways. Her ultra- sharp five inch stiletto heel came down onto the back of his hand and she followed through by placing all of her weight onto that leg.

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.