Mistress Valkyrie is a beautiful and sexy dominatrix from the Czech Republic. We interviewed her and she had many interesting and sadistic tales to tell!

She says. I was brought up in the countryside and have a love of all the usual country pursuits: hiking, fishing, shooting, hunting and horse riding. In a strange way I find all of these pastimes something of a turn-on and quite often strange and exciting things happen to me. For instance, fishing. I went out one sunny morning and set up my tackle on the bank of a small river. It was shallow water and I wasn't really sure what kind of fishes I might catch.

After not too long I got a bite and pulled out a dear little tiddler. Naturally I was very disappointed to land such a small and insignificant fish, and so I decided that its only purpose would be to use as bait to hook a larger fish. It squirmed and wriggled on the bank next to me. Holding it firmly in my fingers I used my knife to slice it open, so that it would be fresh with blood and more appetizing to my intended prey.

The poor little creature struggled and gasped. I stuck my hook through its silver belly and cast out my line. I could see the little tiddler sploshing about in the water, wriggling to get free. But I had hooked him properly and there was no chance of escape. The thrashing about had the desired effect and soon a larger fish was nibbling at it. I struck and hauled in a very nice perch.

Do you believe in ghosts? If you had asked me this same question a few hours ago I would have laughingly told you, no way — unless you were one of the gullible mugs I've been fleecing for the last twelve months, of course. But now... I'm not so sure.
It was on the first stroke of midnight that she appeared. Well, perhaps "appeared" isn't quite the right word. Let's just say that that was when I first set eyes on Catherine. Or Josephine. Or Charlotte. Or Mary. Or whatever her name is. Or was.
Maybe I didn't set eyes on her at all. Maybe I just imagined her; a vivid, feverish dream. I pray to God that's the case. But the welts, bruises and scratches covering my body, not to mention the terrible pain I'm in, tell a different story. Let me tell you my story...

`I want a slave, mummy,' stated Penelope in so calm and matter-of-fact a way that it left her mother, Barbara, completely nonplussed. What could she say? After all, she had asked her daughter what she wanted for her twentieth birthday. And besides, what do you give to the girl who has everything?
This wasn't all that much of an exaggeration. How many other nineteen year old girls owned a top of the range Porsche and an Aston Martin Vanquish? Or had so many clothes that two entire rooms had had to be converted into walk-in wardrobes for her?
Lady Barbara Cartwright (the title acquired by default when her late husband, Sir Donald, was given his knighthood for services to industry — or, if one were feeling cynical, for the size of his donations to Conservative party funds, when they were last in power) stood before her wilful offspring wondering how she should answer her daughter's bizarre request.
Penny was a spoiled brat. Barbara should know — she was the one who spoiled her. She always had and probably always would. It wasn't just out of maternal devotion. Or because, as a woman with over fifty million pounds in the bank, she could easily afford to. If she was honest, it was also because she feared Penny's terrifying temper tantrums if she didn't get exactly what she wanted.

Cold. Aloof. Unapproachable.Ice maiden.
These and other such terms are sometimes used warily and in hushed tones behind her back to describe Mistress Melana. Nobody would ever dare say them to her face.
Mistress Melana is a very private person. She craves solitude.
She enjoys her own company. And, like Greta Garbo, she wants to be alone. But being left alone is not an easy thing when you're a beautiful woman. There are always stupid male animals buzzing around you like bees round a honey pot.
The ugly ones are the worst, she thought sullenly as she sat on the riverbank wearily watching Dennis Bryant disturbing her peace for the third and most definitely final time. For one aspect of the American judicial system (as well as the death penalty, of course) that Mistress Melana truly admires is the notion of "Three strikes and you're out."
Why couldn't the moron take a hint? Read her blatant body language? Why, she wondered for about the millionth time in her life, were men so dumb?

Sophie yawned and stretched. She could feel the heat of the sun on her skin and see it through her closed eyelids. It wasn't too hot just yet so it must be fairly early in the morning, she figured. She tentatively opened one eye... and instantly shut it again as the shaft of sunlight seemed to shoot right through her retina and into the back of her skull.
Shading her eyes from the worst of the solar rays with an elegantly manicured hand, she opened them only as far as narrow slits. She gradually opened them fully and was momentarily confused. This wasn't her bedroom. There wasn't a Madonna poster in sight. Her bottle strewn dressing table was nowhere to be seen either. Where the hell was she?
As she gave a distinctly unladylike belch and tasted the aftermath of too many Bacardi's and way too much vodka, everything fell into place. The party at Sarah's house the night before! Of course, that's where she was.
The sofa creaked beneath her as she propped herself up on one elbow and glanced around Sarah's living room. Well, Sarah's parents living room to be precise. What a mess! There were half empty glasses and upended wine bottles strewn across the no doubt very expensive carpet. And the ornate dining table was awash with plates and screwed up paper napkins. A solitary smoked salmon sandwich, its edges beginning to curl, looked to be the sole survivor of the rather excellent buffet.
And there was Sarah herself, curled up fast asleep in an armchair, her fiancé, Steven, on the floor beside her, dead to the world. Sophie craned her neck to see Selina, Roger, Emma, Jessica and a handful of others in an equal state of unconsciousness.
She could vaguely remember enjoying herself. It had been Sarah and Steven's engagement party and even though she lived less than a mile away, Sophie had been in no fit state to make the journey down quiet, unlit country lanes - let alone face her disapproving parents.
Sophie's 360 degree look around the room finished at the bottom end of the sofa she was lying on. She gasped as she saw who she was sharing the sofa with. It was that ignorant, annoying pig, Kevin. He was sitting upright, his head back and his mouth open, snoring loudly.
Sophie's eyes widened in disgust and anger as she saw that her bare feet were in his lap. She quickly snatched them away and tucked her knees up to her chest. She had had the sofa all to herself when she settled down to get some sleep - she was sure of it. Kevin must have lifted her feet while she slept, slipped in under them and laid them down in his lap.
She shuddered with revulsion at the thought of that pervert fondling her feet. Or, worse still, rubbing the seemingly permanent bulge in his jeans against them. The notion made her feel sick ........

`Cheeky bugger!' exclaimed Sarah indignantly. 'Here, budge up. Let me have a look,' said Suzy excitedly, throwing herself down beside Sarah on the bed and snatching the binoculars from her hand.
`Mind your manners,' admonished Sarah with mock severity, giving her girlfriend a playful swat on her shapely rump. Suzy responded with a brief yelp that turned into a saucy chuckle. 'I can't believe his audacity,' said Suzy incredulously as she followed the intruder's movements with the powerful Zeiss binoculars.
Sarah rolled over onto her side and looked Suzy up and down as she lay splayed face down on the bed that they had manoeuvred over to the window so they could keep tabs on their uninvited guest. Sarah licked her lips at the sight of her lover's gorgeous body clad only in a black satin brassiere and matching panties.
She felt a familiar stirring in her loins. Good God, thought Sarah with a smile, I'm turning into a nymphomaniac. It was barely an hour since they had shared a particularly torrid shower together and already she was horny again. Luckily, Suzy shared her insatiable enthusiasm for sex.
Sarah's smile broadened as she recalled the delicious feeling as their entwined lather covered bodies had slipped and slithered over one another beneath the hissing spray in the shower cubicle.
`He's got a bloody nerve!' said Suzy crossly as she peered through the rubber eyepieces, interrupting Sarah's thoughts. Sarah licked her lips again, undid the belt around her waist and slid off the towelling bathrobe she was wearing. She knelt upright on the bed and straddled Suzy's back, sitting down on her friend's bottom.
Suzy gave an involuntary `Oof!' as Sarah brought her full weight down on the girl but carried on looking through the binoculars.

Jim had replied to the advert in the local newspaper.
It read simply: "handyman wanted." He had spoken to Miss Sharp on the phone and she had outlined the work which needed doing on her house,
adding quite forcefully, "I do expect a very high standard of work. And I expect my workers to be punctual, courteous and respectful."
The way she had said "my workers" annoyed Jim. Also her references to "punctual, courteous and respectful" made him smile. "Silly cow!" he muttered under his breath.
Miss Sharp was reclining on a sofa when she heard the knock at the door.
Ivan, her attendant, ran to answer it.
She heard a brief, muttered conversation take place in the hallway. The door of the drawing room silently opened and Ivan slumped to his knees.
The middle-aged man shuffled quickly across the highly-polished floorboards and stopped at her feet. He slumped his head and waited for his Mistress to look at him before addressing her.

This is the account of what happened to me during my poor days as a student in the South East of England. I should say that this is the richest part of the country and, of course, where there's money there are always horsy girls.
The allowance for my education was only a paltry sum and there was no way that any self-respecting student could party on it. At university it was normal for students to use two methods in which to make extra cash: a) sell anything of value (hi-fi, musical instruments, clothes, cameras, watches, jewellery, etc.); Or b) get a job. The preferred method was always the former (working being an alien concept to idle students). The problem always arose when one had sold every commodity of any worth and was then faced with living off rice and baked beans for the foreseeable future, without any prospect of being able to get any booze.
And so, with this dire situation looming, I decided that I would try to find some part time work.
The university campus was out of the city, which was obviously to stop the students from running amok and molesting the daughters of the local citizens.
We were surrounded by green fields and on many a sunny day we would see horsy girls ride past, naturally looking down upon us, presumably considering us students to be inferior beings.
By chance, one morning, I was thumbing a lift back from a night out in the city, whereupon a young lady stopped to pick me up in a sports car. The girl I'd been screwing the previous night was nice, but this one was really horny. As she accelerated away, spinning the wheels, I glanced down and saw that she was wearing a skintight pair of riding jodhpurs. Her legs worked up and down on the pedals, stretching the material tightly around her crotch.

Daniella dug her spurs into her horse's belly and kicked him on, and went flying over the high hedge and the wide ditch on the other side. It was the kind of obstacle which horses seemed to remember - and often wanted to refuse to jump. But Daniella would have none of it. She had been riding since an early age and was most proficient at controlling the huge beasts.
A flick of her crop across the horse's flank and it galloped across the field with Daniella keeping a tight rein on the athletic animal. As she pulled the horse down to a walk and then put him into trot, her boobs bounced up and down and swung to and fro. Her shapely buttocks rose up and down in the saddle and her pussy rubbed along the shiny leather. She enjoyed making a horse gallop at full pelt, but the most sexually gratifying pace for her was the trot.
Ashley peered through the bushes and watched as Daniella trotted the horse round and round in circles. He loved the way in which her spurs were constantly digging away at the horse's belly, and the way she kept slapping her crop across its arse. The horse was covered in sweat, and his mouth was white and frothy. Ashley could see that the horse was exhausted and really didn't want to be there. But Daniella wouldn't let up. If the horse faltered even a tiny bit then she would shout at it and slash her crop across its dark, shiny body.
As Ashley enjoyed the display, his hand moved up and down more and more quickly on his bulging cock. He loved to watch girls ride. And of all the girls he spied on, Daniella was the best, even if he didn't know her name. Daniella's crop lashed the horse and her spurs could be heard banging into its sides.

Serving as a groom for some years, I have seen and heard many things. But nothing equals an experience I had last year...
The advert read: "Groom Required. Male. Up to to 30 Years. Excellent physique. Hard working. Fitness, strength, stamina and willingness more important than training."
I replied in the usual way to the box number provided and received a reply from a lady simply signing herself "Miss Jenna". She had given a phone number, but no address. However, that was her prerogative. Perhaps she feared prowlers. Our telephone conversation was brief, and I was a little bewildered as to why she seemed more interested in my height, build and state of health, rather than my qualifications and work record. The pay and conditions seemed generous and I accepted on the strength of what she told me.
As I drove towards Dorset (in the South of England) with all my gear on the back seat of the car, I made up little fantasies about the mysterious Miss Jenna. Maybe she would young, beautiful, incredibly rich, and looking for a husband? Maybe she had given up on the "chinless wonders" who belonged to the horsy and hunting set? Maybe she was seeking a more rough and ready type? Maybe...? As I turned into the lane as per the instructions which she had given me, I pulled myself together. One thing I must do was lose the erection which was, by now, almost breaking out of my jodhpurs. My first sight of Miss Jenna set my pulse racing and my underpants bulging once more. She was absolutely stunning, and I was determined to make a good impression.
After settling in for a couple of weeks, I decided that I would try and make a make a move on my new employer. An old, wizened man who was only ever referred to as "Willy", and who lived in a derelict caravan in the yard, advised me earnestly, "Don't never look at the Mistress. Leave while you've still got the chance."
Overcome by lust and longing, I naturally ignored the old fool, assuming that he was jealous of my youth. Miss Jenna and her friends had been hunting all day and, I observed through the dining room window, had just finished supper. Straightening myself up and buttoning my smart jacket, I knocked confidently on the front door. The porch light went on and Miss Jenna appeared in her riding kit, her feet bare and her blouse half undone.