"Who's a handsome lad, then?" I asked as I straightened my tic in the mirror.
The job specified, "smart clothing".
As a successful candidate I was expected to wear a suit with a collar and tie. Although the suit wasn't exactly the latest style, it was barely used and in excellent condition. The shirt and tie had seen better days, but I figured that the clients were hardly going to notice my clothes. Besides, I smiled to myself, I doubted if they would be staying on long enough for the ladies to notice.
After two rotten years on the dole I had, at last, found my true vocation.
It had to be the best job in the world. How my mates down the pub envied me. Miss Courtney had interviewed me. And she certainly was a tidy piece of crackling.
"The work," Miss Courtney advised, "necessitates visiting ladies and acting as their escort. You will be expected to facilitate their every need. Understand?"

It is three years now since the sell-off the country's penal institutions. Three long years since Joanna and Laura bought the notorious Ravenmoor Prison. On first glance, it had probably not seemed like much of a buy at all. It was a huge, old place, isolated in the middle of a bleak moor. Not the sort of place which one would expect a pair of ex- models, turned business ladies, to be interested in. But they had foresight. They could see the potential of the venture.
The government bill which had allowed the privatisation of the prison service, stated quite clearly that any company or individual buying a "Category A" prison would have complete control to run the establishment as they wished. This is what had appealed to the two businesswomen in the first place. It seemed to them that conditions in prisons were actually quite luxurious. With appropriate downgrading and downsizing, they believed that the establishment could actually make a handsome profit. And so the reason for their purchase.

At the beginning of the Seventies (at the time of ultra-short miniskirts) there was a dog- trainer in Austria who provoked two totally
contrary opinions about herself. Interestingly enough, the two parties were divided according to sex: The first group, the women, condemned her as a heartless criminal, and fiendish dog driver, which she undoubtedly was, and they kept bringing cruelty charges against her. They called her all sorts of names and desperately hoped that she would, for once, get to feel the whip herself.
The second group consisted of the men, who adored this energetic girl; there were never so many men with their dogs at dog-training classes as when she was giving lessons. The men vehemently defended her methods of training, clearly because of her divine beauty and charms. She very quickly realised that they would do anything for her.
A second young lady joined the training classes. She was equally as beautiful and even more provocative and cruel. Then, as the wives of the men who attended the classes became more and more angry at their husbands' support of the two ladies' methods, they hatched a plan.

Mistress Aliria lit another cigarette and spoke: "I have some good news for you, slave." She spoke with much less severely than normal, though the sensuous lilt in her voice contained something peculiarly mocking in it.
The man lying naked at her feet gave no reply. looking up at her, with his hands shielding his face, he remained as motionless as his mounting apprehension would allow.
"Aren't you interested, Paul?" she teased. "Yes, Mistress, of course."
His nervous reply sounded reserved to the woman as she tilted back her head to emit a languid cloud of soft grey smoke through pursed lips. With a casual gesture she then flicked some ash onto his stomach.
"You may kneel," she ordered.
Paul scrambled to his knees with alacrity. He knew full well that any refractoriness on his part would only result in his brutal punishment later on.
If he had learnt one thing, it was that his Mistress's moods were never to be trusted. Once kneeling, he still kept his head bowed, not daring to look up without permission.
"That thing," she pointed to his limp cock with her cigarette. "I think it might be a good idea to get it out of the way. It's such a repulsive looking thing, is it not?"
"Yes, Mistress."
Her lip curled into a wicked smile. Paul felt instinctively that his Mistress was up to something.
"So see about that prick of yours, okay slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Now for your good news. Do you wish to hear it?" she cooed.
"Oh yes, please, Mistress."
"Well, you know how much you've always hankered after getting married. Your dream is about to come true!"

Her spiked heel playfully strokes his chest, softly parting the curly mat of hair as it hovers over his taut, white flesh. She bends her knee and brings her foot up.
The sole of her dainty shoe floats
above him, swaying slightly, like a fluffy, windswept cloud.
Thwack! She jabs her sharp heel hard into his ribs. He gasps and wriggles as she gouges the flesh between his bony ribs. One inch higher, or one inch lower, and the deadly stiletto would have smashed through a bone, snapping it like a dry twig.
His pitiful moans are annoying to her delicate ears. The tip of her heel ploughs a neat, red furrow up his middle. He chokes as she presses the cusp into his larynx.
The pressure on his throat increases. One slip on her part, or one ounce of excessive pressure and his voice-box will be punctured. Skewered like a piece of gristly kebab meat. His remaining days would be instantly transformed into a world of breathy hisses.
Never again would he be able to complain or beg for his Mistress's favour.
A smile spreads across her tender lips. Perhaps another day she would have deprived him of speech. But not today.

A Session with Ms. Natasha
I called her about 10am and asked if I could meet her this evening for a session.
I had planned to get away from the job in time to arrive at her dungeon at about 8:30 in the evening.
However, things got screwed up and I couldn't get away until 5:30 or so. I immediately high-tailed it south on I75. I called Mistress from my earphone and explained what had happened.
She didn't sound upset, but implied I would suffer for making her wait.
This was the first time I had ever met her, and I was somewhat apprehensive about seeing her. She made it clear she was a "lifestyle dominant" and she expected me to obey her every desire. She also made it clear she didn't plan on catering to my views on female domination, but would carry out a session based on what she decided I needed.

Whilst reading your letters and writing the editorial for this issue, Mistress Julia and Mistress Mirabelle tested the services of a volunteer slave. We asked all parties concerned for their comments.
MISTRESS JULIA: Rubbish! The stupid wanker was next to useless. When I was trying to work and I was using him as a footstool he kept moving. It was very tiresome to have keep repeating myself, yelling "keep still" at him. I expect a slave not to have to be told more than once.
CHERRY: Did you try punishing him as well as shouting at him?
MISTRESS JULIA: I gave him a dozen across the bare arse the first time. Shouldn't that have been enough to teach him not to disobey me.
CHERRY: Perhaps as there were two of you with your feet up on his back, the weight was too much for him.
MISTRESS JULIA: Balls! What's that got to do with anything? If I tell a slave to stay still, then that's what I expect. It's bloody annoying while you're trying to read, to keep feeling this shuffling under your feet.
CHERRY: Point taken. Any other complaints?

Having suffered a spate of rustling from their farm in the midwest, Tia and her housemates were especially vigilant. They put up clear notices "Trespassers Will Be Shot" to warn off would be thieves. But even that was not always enough to deter people from straying onto their land.

Tia had heard voices and had come out of the house and hidden in the bushes. Sure enough, two men were snooping around and observing the stock. Tia watched them for a couple of minutes and then made herself known.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" she asked, her shotgun pointing directly at them.

"We was just looking at your birds," replied one of the men.

"Fine specimens," said the other.

"Didn't you see the signs?" Tia asked. "Can't you cretins read?"

The men laughed, amused that she had used an abusive tone towards them. Tia removed the safety catch of her gun and they stopped laughing.

I was on holiday in Ibiza with my mates. It was the normal sort of lads vacation - mainly drinking and fucking! We were having a real laugh and really enjoying ourselves with all the fit chicks. As usual we had a competition on the go to see who could get the most out of the birds. We had points for snogging, hand jobs, blow jobs and, of course, the full monty scoring a full ten marks. I'd done pretty well in the first few days and had got my end away with three girls, plus various sucks and fumbles to make me up a few more points.
One afternoon we went into this little bar and knocked back a few pints and a few shorts.
This blonde bird called Julie behind the bar was well fit and me and all the others were trying our best to chat her up. In the end she told me that she quite fancied me. I was well chuffed, especially when she said she wanted to come over to our apartment that afternoon for a bit of fun.
After a lot of ribbing, the other guys went out and left me and her to get down to it. Then, just as things were going wicked, she asked me about the chart on the kitchen wall.
"It's nothing," I told her.
She asked, "What's all this? Johno forty seven points? What does it mean?"
BJ? Is that blow job?" she asked. "It is isn't it? SH is shag isn't it? You've been giving yourself points haven't you? Well how many points were you going to give me?"

She looked carefully at the chart and the other guys' scores. Then she looked at the abbreviations, "SN", "BJ", "HJ", "SH", and stared to guess what they meant.

I told her not to be so touchy, but she kept on and on until I fessed up to what we were doing. I told her that it was just a laugh, a bit of harmless fun for the lads. I thought she was going to go crazy but she didn't. She gave me a snog and grabbed my cock.

"That's just for starters," she said. "You come into my bar after closing time and let's see how many marks you can chalk up."

`Not guilty.' There were several audible gasps around the court as the foreman of the jury read out the verdict — but few quite as unmistakably outraged as that uttered by the arresting officer in the case, Detective Constable Maggie Fordham.
Maggie had been far more than just the arresting officer, though. She had built the case up from scratch over the course of six months; interviewing witnesses; painstakingly gathering evidence; working endless unpaid overtime to bring this scumbag to justice — only to watch the case crumble before her very eyes.
`Ronald Anthony Vernon,' announced Judge Hargreaves, 'You have been found not guilty of the charges brought against you.' There was clear reluctance in his voice as he added, 'Therefore, you are free to go.' Maggie Fordham literally shook with fury as Vernon looked in her direction, a smug grin on his face, and blew her a kiss. She glared back at him with such burning hatred that if looks truly could kill she herself would have been up before the judge charged with murder.
Instead, Vernon's slimy barrister, Maurice Matthews, put an arm around his client's shoulders and led him out of the courtroom. 'I'll get you yet, you son of a bitch,' muttered Maggie under her breath to Vernon's back as he disappeared from view.
As she walked across the courtroom heading for the exit, the prosecuting counsel, whose incompetence Maggie blamed very much for Vernon being acquitted, gave her a lame smile and a weary shrug. Maggie just glowered back at him. He turned bright red and suddenly found something terribly interesting in the contents of his briefcase.
Maggie, her voluptuous figure and long, shapely legs accentuated by the tight fitting light grey business suit, strode along the corridor outside court number two and down the steps to the entrance hall; the four inch heels of her stylish black patent leather court shoes clacking noisily on the wooden floor.