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.

Miss Franny strolled around the shop with its rows of little pets in cages. She was tall, sophisticated and American. As one of the world's most famous models she could afford almost anything that money can buy.
The shop was very exclusive and situated in fashionable Beverly Hills. Negress assistants in short white uniforms were keen to point out and demonstrate the various pets in stock. Franny seemed annoyed that in the corner of one of the cages which contained about twenty little men, a pair were snoozing soundly amongst the shredded paper bedding. Poking her finger into the cage, she prodded the little chaps and woke them with a start.
"Please, if you'd mind not putting your fingers in the cages," requested an assistant.
To be told off in this way annoyed Franny. "The little shits were sleeping," she complained, noting the name tag on the assistant's jacket. "Well, Miss Campbell, how in the hell am I supposed to choose if I can't see 'em?"
"Sorry. But we don't like ladies handling the goods before they're paid for," explained Miss Campbell.
Without a second thought, Miss Franny pulled a fifty dollar bill from her purse. "Keep the change," she sniffed.
Miss Campbell's slim fingers gently reached into the cage and gently encircled one of the males. She passed it to Miss Franny, who took it with somewhat less care. The second pet was passed to her and she held it awkwardly by the leg.
"Oh, we don't recommend you hold 'em that way, Miss. Their joints are pretty fragile. They could lose a limb."
"They're paid for, ain't they?" Franny pointed out. "I can do anything I damned well like with 'em. Now, I wanna a coupla leads."

As Lady Victoria left the house to make her way to the stables, she paused for thought, noticing that her four-wheel-drive had been left ungaraged in the driveway. She would find the oaf responsible for this error and suitably punish
him. However, as the car was there, she jumped in and drove off, wheels spinning frantically on the gravel. Dialling on the earphone, she called through to the stables and asked Mistress Vanessa to identify the person responsible for leaving her vehicle out.
With a screech of tyres, the car sped into the stable yard. Slowing to a crawl, Lady Victoria drove across the square, the tryes squelching in deep puddles of horse manure which splashed up the sides of the vehicle. She observed with satisfatcion as a posse of ladies was tossing buckets of water over a slave as he lay semi-conscious in the dirt. Opening the door of the vehicle, Lady Victoria picked up a heavy leather bullwhip which had been left on the passenger's seat. This annoyed her greatly as the slaves and stable girls had been instructed to ensure that all whips were cleaned, polished, oiled and hung up at the end of each day. Someone would suffer for this lapse. She sat in the car and watched as the slave was revived. He moaned and groaned infuriatingly.
Mistress Vanessa approached and Lady Victoria asked, "Who failed to garage my car last evening?"
"Him," came the instant reply with an accusing finger pointed directly at the soaking slave.
"And who failed to clean and polish this whip?" Lady Victoria continued. "Him," repeated Mistress Vanessa, keen not to be blamed for the errors. "Make him crawl over here," barked Lady Victoria.
The stable girls kicked at the slave and made him grovel on his belly through the muck. He stopped by the car and looked up pathetically. The heel of his owner's boot caught him in the side of the head. The slave cringed and squirmed beneath the car. Poking her boot into the dirt, Lady Victoria scooped up a meaty lump and yelled at the cur, "Lick it off."
As speedily as was able, the slave picked the object off with his mouth and rolled his tongue around her soiled boots, until every last drop of sludge had been removed. Climbing from the vehicle, Lady Victoria noticed a snail.
Without thought, she simply crushed it beneath her boot, creating a new mess smeared on the sole. The slave was made to lick off all the remains and thank her for his meal. Then she pointed at the brown spatters across her vehicle.
"Lick it clean," she snarled.
Mistress Vanessa and the stable lasses revelled in the sight of seeing the impudent mongrel's tongue lapping energetically at the car's bodywork.
"Get those tyres clean," ordered lady Victoria.
It took a long time to bring the four-wheel-drive's coachwork up to scratch. And when he had finished, the tyres were flawlessly black and shiny.
"I'm going to skin you alive," promised Lady Victoria, dangling the tip of her bullwhip across the slave's back. "Hose him down again and get him in the barn. I want him to be wide awake for what I've got in mind," she announced.

It had been a long day, what with all the preparations and organizing the delivery of the slaves from the farm. It would, however, be worth it. This was the night they had all been looking forward to so eagerly. The Bootress, the Mistress of the house, was being made ready by her queens as the first of her special guests arrived. The door slave pulled back the heavy door and was greeted to a very fast and accurate kick to his genitalia. He immediately fell to the ground, squirming in agony. Mistress Julia looked down at the worthless wretch and laughed as she plunged her boot into his stomach.
The Bootress appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "I see you have warmed up already?"
"The worthless scum took his time in answering the door, so I made him pay for it!" Replied Julia.
Meanwhile, Mistress Jacki had entered and was busy working one of her beautiful white shoes into one of the licker slaves (these are slaves provided to lick all the muck and grime off visiting Mistress's footwear). "Let me feel your tongue in all of the creases," she yelled at the ticker.
In fact, he was making a very good job of it as his tongue was still fresh. Mistress Jacki became annoyed at his eagerness. "Take the heel," she commanded. The licker immediately obeyed. As soon as she could, Jacki drove the spike down his throat as far as it would go. As she began twisting and stabbing it, he writhed in pain. "Now that's much better," she said, smiling at his discomfort.
A glass of champagne was presented to the stunning women by a suitably dressed waiter. Mistress Julia couldn't help but catch a glimpse of his highly toned physique.
"Do follow me," the Bootress remarked as she led Julia and Jacki into the drawing room. As the two guests followed their hostess, they could see that the Bootress had exceeded herself this time. The room was filled with the finest class 1 slaves, all having been prepared to supply them with total personal pleasure. "Well, what do you think of them?" Asked the Bootress.
The women smiled, full of high spirits. "Absolutely fabulous, Darling! And with such fine gathered stock, I feel this is going to be a night I will never forget" replied Mistress Julia. "Well, I'm going to make sure it's a night they'll never forget!" added Jacki, pointing at the somewhat bemused slaves. She made her way towards one of the shackled vermin and stamped down hard onto his bare feet, twisting her heel in. It had the desired effect. The slaves huddled together in fear. It seemed as if they now knew their imminent future. The doorbell rang again and moments later the screams of yet more tickers rang out as they were ground into the dust.
"If you will excuse me?" asked the Bootress. "I would like to welcome my other guests. Please warm up if you want to on any of these specimens."
Jackie and Julia were excited at the prospect of giving these worms a hard time.
They strode amongst the tethered scum, kicking and prodding them. One slave earned particular interest from the ladies for squawking when dished a dose of heel to the stomach.
Mistress Jacki selected a pair of whips from the rack above the fireplace and handed one to her companion.
"Up you get," snapped Mistress Julia as she released the worm from his shackles.
"It's practice time. And you're the target."
She dragged the wretch by the hair across the room to the roaring fire, pushing his face towards the flames. Then, as Julia sat astride his neck and clamped him around the ears with her powerful thighs, Mistress Jacki strode forwards to take the first shot. It was an abosulte cracker, catching the slave's right buttock full force and the left with the very tip of her whip.

The recaptured prisoner sat cold and alone in a darkened room, bound securely to a chair. He dreaded the opening of the door which would herald his impending interrogation at the hands of
the beautiful, yet brutal, Guard Avril. How could he ever have believed that the fleeting thrill of escape and freedom from his harsh prison treatment could be worth it, when weighed against the enormous risk of capture and the unthinkable consequences?
What would follow, tormented his thoughts. But it was too late for regrets now. His brief spell outside the prison walls seemed to be a lifetime away as he fearfully contemplated his fate. He had only been returned to the prison a few hours beforehand and the guards who had brought him in had been remarkably restrained in their treatement of him. But he soon realised that this was only to ensure that Gaurd Avril had a healthy and uninjured victim to apply her fiendishly effective methods of corrective therapy upon.
His thoughts suddenly froze as his ears instinctively strained to listen for the faint sound of metal-tipped stiletto heels striding purposefully along the flagstone corridor, leading to the specially equipped torture chamber in which he was incarcerated. As the staccato clicking of steel on stone grew progressively louder, his mouth became dry and he began to sweat with fear. An uncontrollable shiver ran through his body. In his imagination he saw the menacing figure of Guard Avril appearing at the door directly in front of him. She was intent on inflicting unspeakable and prolonged pain on him as punishment for his audacious escape.
The sound of the approaching torturess's steps ceased as she reached the door. An overwhelming panic gripped him, causing him to gulp in a lungful of air and hold his breath, irrationally hoping that that somehow the cruel domina outside the door wouldn't hear him breathing and think that the room was unoccupied. For what seemed like an eternity his gaze was transfixed on the motionless doorhandle.
But as it started to slowly turn he exhaled with a soft whimpering sound, and struggled hopelessly against the straps which were securing him firmly to the chair. The door was then thrust open and his eyes were met with the sight of the supreme sadistic Guard Avril, silhouetted in the doorway against the light from the corridor.
He couldn't see her facial features or the evil in her cold eyes, but as she stood with her hands on her hips, looking into the darkness at him, he could see the athletic power in her shapely physique. Even if he were not restricted by his bonds he would be no match for her renowned strength and skill in dealing with unruly prisoners. Guard Avril reached into the room and flicked on a switch. The prisoner blinked involuntarily with the sudden change from near blackness to bright light.
He stared in awe at the gorgeous female who held him firmly in her gaze.
He could not help himself from dwelling momentarily on her dark bobbed hair that surrounded her beautiful, but almost expressionless face. As he slowly lowered his eyes he noticed that her ruby red lips were set in a slight sneer, which hinted at the lack of pity he could expect from the voluptuous vixen.
He took stock of her superb breasts which were proudly thrust out and pushed together by her skimpy jacket. They were emphasised by her ample and enticing cleavage.
Her tight shiny shorts were perfectly tailored over her hips to show off her powerfully muscled thighs, and exposed a glimpse of full and firmly rounded bottom.
Her boots hugged her sensational legs and he flinched in fear as he noticed a leather riding whip hanging from a belt around her slender waist. With a few strides, this vision of beauty and terror was standing over his pathetically cowering form as she looked down into his pleading eyes with sheer contempt.
Having registered his helpless fear with some satisfaction, she spoke in a slow, mockingly polite manner. "Please let me introduce myself." Smack! His head whiplashed to the left as a stinging slap from her hand set his right cheek on fire. Smack! His head was thrown back again by a vicious slap to his left cheek. Before he could focus his blurred vision, his head was spinning again as her open palm connected with a reddening cheek. Such was the power and speed of the repeated blows that his head felt as though it was going to explode, and he squealed vainly for mercy. The flurry of slaps sent his head jerking fiercely from side to side as she struck up a rhythm using his face as a boxer would use a spring-loaded punch ball.
He was treated to the fleeting sight of her delectable cleavage as his face was beaten back and forth in front of her ample breasts. Then his sight became dim and his screams faded to pitiful whimpers. She realised that he was slipping towards the release of unconsciousness and, with a contemptuous snarl, she stepped back and delicately placed the sole of her supple leather boot onto her subject's chest. She leanded forward and with a sadistic sneer, flexed her muscular thigh, pushing him backwards. The chair teetered on its rear legs and he desperately struggled against the straps. Guard Avril threw her head back and laughed at her victim's comical efforts to save himself. Looking into his frightened eyes she applied just enough pressure to send the chair off balance.

Mistress Jocelyn strode in the sunshine across the prison yard and observed the scrawny inmates as they toiled under their overseers' whips.
She had secured a pleasant job at Mistress Ulrika's Specialist Institute of Correction. It was a truly commercial concern which advertised widely with the slogan: "MUSIC for the unruly."
Although Mistress Ulrika owned the business, it was infrequent to see her in attendance, preferring to spend her days relaxing on exotic holidays.
Mistress Jocelyn had applied for the position of prison surgeon and had beaten off stiff opposition to achieve the post. Now, as a professional person, she earned a higher salary and even higher respect from all on the site. Often she was entrusted with overall charge of the business whilst the Governess was away. She enjoyed her role immensely in the top job and certainly knew how to wield her power to the full. It had been noted by several of her subordinates that she enjoyed nothing better than dressing in skimpy costumes and deliberatley flaunting herself in front of her charges.
A chain gang of inmates shuffled quickly past her, each carrying a large boulder for the new rockery above his head. Their irons jangled loudly as they ran past, and Mistress Jocelyn delighted in catching them with sharp slaps of her whip. She smiled to herself as the party disappeared into the distance in the direction of the giant shrub garden some half a mile away.
It had been her personal choice to select rocks from the far side of the quarry with which to construct the new garden. These rocks she considered to be of superior colour and quality to those found at the other end of the quarry, not thirty yards from the edge of the proposed new garden site.
Although some of the overseers had raised objections about the massive amount of extra work involved, Ulrika showed no concern and insisted that the new rockery be built within the original time scale. Mistress Jocelyn advised the overseers that in her opinion as a medic there was no physical reason why the work schedules could not be increased to accommodate the task. Despite the fact that overseers' shifts totalled only three hours per day, some had felt hard done by. In fact many ladies believed that overseers were overworked and underpaid at the institute. But to Mistress Jocelyn it was an endorsement of her position and the power she enjoyed as the resident doctor. As a young student at the Cruellan Academy of Slave Husbandry, she herself had worked away the long hot, summer vacation months as an overseer.
She paused as she was about to enter one of the slave recovery blocks. A shipment of new inmates arrived on the back of a lorry. As was customary, the wretches were tied up inside dark brown sacks and lay in a mass heap, six or seven deep. Mistress Jocelyn observed as the driver pulled a lever and tipped the screaming sacks off the back of the vehicle. A young redheaded custody officer in a neat blue mini-skirted suit and white boots counted off the consignment and signed the docket. Intrigued to see what had arrived, Mistress Jocelyn strode across the yard to where the wriggling packages lay. She took the packing note from the envelope on one of the sacks and untied it. A grimy male which she estimated to be around thrity years old crawled from the bag, shedding it like a snakeskin. It wore grubby grey briefs and looked as though it had mange.
"Lie still," bellowed the pretty doctor as she unfolded the inmate's paperwork. "So, you've been sent here by Mistress Alicia of the Pleasureland Theme Park?"

My new owner looks me up and down, her eyes piercing my trembling flesh. I am not sure why I have been picked out and brought in from my work in the fields, but here I am, standing chained, hobbled and tethered in the great hall of my Mistress's grand palace. Her soft hands are warm against my cold skin as she rubs my chest and the flat of my stomach. Mistress Katie, officer first class from the much acclaimed, and feared, Cruellan Academy of Neoteric Exercise (CANE), prods. pokes and slaps me, pointing out to the supreme Mistress the inadequacy of my muscles and the frailty of my bone structure. There is much discussion regrading my physique and mental suitability as Mistress Katie's fingers gently fondle my genitals. My arising erection provokes no particular comment or reaction from the Mistresses, except that I am a very lightly hung specimen.
Apart from wishing to humiliate and degrade me by examining me and describing me in such unflattering terms, I still have no inkling as to why I have been plucked from the throng. However, as privileged as I now feel to stand in this place, within the Mistress's sanctum, I have a terrible foreboding.
The discussion ends and Mistress Katie snatches on the leash of my collar and frogmarches me quickly from the room. As I follow this wonderful, blonde Goddess, I seem unable to control the direction of my gaze. I know, as all slaves know, that Cruellan law strictly forbids male eyes to focus on the form of any female, be it owner, breeder, or trainer. However, in these unusual circumstances, I find my attention captivated by the curvaceous womanly hips and buttocks which gently strain and wiggle before me.
Obediently following Mistress Katie down a long, stone, spiral staircase, I find myself in a position to observe her magnificent breasts from above. If only circumstances were different I would -
"How dare you!" she yells, suddenly turning and catching me in this lascivious act. My eyes fall instantly. "A bit late now, isn't?" she adds.
My head is thrust forwards and my neck is red raw and chafed. I follow her along a winding, rugged brick corridor with rows of sturdy oak cell doors. She commands me to unlatch one of the heavy doors and pushes me inside. With legs hobbled at the knees, I am unable to keep my balance and sprawl headlong across the uneven, cobbled floor. Scraping my knees, I pull myself up and turn to face her as she begins to address me.
"You're a worm! A worthless piece of shit! This is why you've been chosen. I'm going to prove to your owner that even a pathetic creature like you can be trained. You'd better get some rest. You're going to need it."
There is no bed, no food, no water, no toilet and no heat in this dismal dungeon. I shiver as I curl up into a ball and lie naked on the frozen cobbles, wishing that maybe I can sleep and never awaken. To be a Cruellan slave is proof enough that a man is ill-fated, and as such it comes as no surprise to me that I have not expired in my sleep, but have stirred this icy morning to face the Mistress Katie. My skin is blue with cold and my bones ache with damp. A scorching sting on the leg makes me jump. Through bleary I eyes I begin to focus on the pointed toecaps of a pair of stiletto-heeled boots. With arms and legs still painfully bound, I wriggle. Another sting burns my leg.
Then another. And another. I writhe in agony to avoid Mistress Katie's relentless whip.

MILKING THE SYSTEM - Dominique Pleasant spends a day with busy businesswoman Lady Katerina Stern, Chief Laboratory & Industrial President of Seminal Inc.

I had been warned that my visit to the facilities of Seminal Inc, a wholly owned subsidiary of Male Byproducts Inc, would be a stimulating
experience, but nothing had prepared me for what I am about to describe. A reporter for Cruellan Woman's Lifestyle magazine, I had asked for a tour of the factory as part of my research for a series of articles on the technology of male subjugation. Seminal is a company in the business of producing seminal fluid for industrial uses, and so has developed some of the world's most sophisticated techniques for engendering and sustaining male sexual arousal. Its Chief Laboratory & Industrial President, Lady Katerina, had been kind enough to extend me an invitation.
"Come in," she said warmly, as I passed through the stainless steel doors of the building into an antechamber, at the other end of which was a door with her name on it. On my right were three desks manned by secretaries, all discretely attired and all typing busily, men or former men dressed as women, no doubt, since no menial work was any longer performed by born women. Running the length of the wall to my left were a series of stainless steel blinds, closed. Katerina herself was dressed much as I was, in the fashion of the day for business, a tight spandex mini-dress with a plunging neckline and matching high-heeled boots.
I introduced myself as Dominique Pleasant, and we passed a few words about the events of the day, most notably a visitation to a young slave, tag branded GDQ, who had been castrated following an unsuccessful artificial genital growth experiment.
As we passed down a series of long, dank corridors, Katerina recounted how, the previous evening, she had injected the male with a hormone which she was refining. The desired effect of the drug was to enlarge the penis in breeders and stimulate growth and durability in the scrotal sacs of labourers, the latter for the purposes of manufacturing large handbags which were popular amongst fashion-conscious young ladies. Although such bags were already available - I owned three - I could see the good business sense of mass-producing bigger, cheaper and stronger reticules as style accessories, in an array of brightly dyed colours.
As we entered a small, grubby experimentation chamber in the Labcell block, Katerina warned me about the possible stench. Indeed, there was a smell of spirits and chemicals mixed with a stale, musky odour. Strung up facing us on the cell bars, the slave GDQ was hanging limp and lifeless. Which was certainly not true of his penis, a huge, erect affair which sprouted from his body like the branch of a tree. Inbetween his legs there was a conspicuous gap. And on the floor beneath him, I noticed a squishy red and pink pile of what looked like offal.
"That was the result of last night's little - or should I say enormous - experimental cock-up." commented Katerina as she took a pair of thin. plaited malehide whips from a hook on the wall. and handed me one.
"See if we can't revive him," she commented, stepping briskly towards the window. "Please..." she continued, indicating for me to have first crack at the specimen.
Keen to create a good impression, I drew back my arm and let rip a real stinger of a whack. A neat, hairline split appeared across his thighs. With her thumbnails, Katerina prized the skin apart and opened the wound. The slave didn't stir and Katerina shrugged at me as if to say, "Is he still with us, or not?" Katerina now let loose her lash across his belly. Nothing. We continued stroking the lad alternately for several minutes, but there was no sign of revival. "Pity," said Katerina, "I wanted to show you an experiment concerning these."
She went to a small desk which was strewn with a variety of surgical instruments, and picked up a pair of what looked like decorative Xmas tree balls. As 1 rolled the gleaming, metallic spheres in my hand, I could hear them gently buzzing. "They're nuclo-thermal," I was advised. "Pop them down on the floor."
Katerina went to an instrument panel and began clicking switches and pressing buttons. As the orbs began to buzz louder and louder, I could see them lightening in colour until, as they rattled and shuddered vibrantly, they started to glow red, then white, and finally became translucent. Just at that moment, a weak groan came from the direction of the window.
"Excellent!" enthused Katerina. "He's still with us. Pop some of this in his welts, would you'?" she asked, handing me a bottle of clear lotion. "It usually wakes them up."
As I gingerly tipped a little of the liquid onto my finger and rubbed into GDQ's lashes, he strained violently against his bonds and looked as if he was screaming. However, he emitted no sound. "A result of the hormone drug," Katerina said. Within seconds of applying the ointment to the slave, he was wriggling and writhing and fully conscious. We undid his bonds and he fell to the floor at our feet.