The stunning brunette strode across the wooden floorboards, her spiked heels clicking like castanets with every step she took.
Her beautiful silver-grey fur hung loosely across her bare shoulders.

She loved the soft, luxurious feel of real animal fur. On hundreds of occasions she had hunted for both the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of taking a pelt to add to her collection of coats and stoles, gloves and hats. How pretty and fashionable they looked.

"He's along here," announced Lucy as she led Tiffany along the hallway. "He would've been kept in jail if Miss Sophia hadn't taken him in to do his probation here."

"She's got a big heart," Tiffany grinned.

"Quick march!" bawled Mistress Hunter.
And half a dozen males in ragged, baggy sackcloth suits moved forwards in perfect file. I had been invited by Mistress Hunter to come and watch her at work at her famous training establishment.
"Basically," she informed me, "it's a training and rehabilitation camp where girlfriends, wives, mothers, aunties or whoever can send their men. We normally do them six at a time."
On the day I visited, the selection of males seemed quite diverse. Three of them looked like laddish youngsters, two were middle-aged and the last one was quite aged. I can only surmise that the latter was not a fast learner! The men marched up and down the parade ground, turning to order and standing to attention as Mistress Hunter commanded. It was, by now, evening time, and Mistress Hunter told me that this was the most difficult time, especially as it was summer. Having been up since half past four in the morning, the men were tired and becoming very lax in their duties. For about half and hour I sat sunning myself and watched them marching up and down, up and down, up and down. The boredom was almost killing me, but I didn't want to seem ungrateful for Mistress Hunter's invite and smiled politely whenever she caught my eye. Then, just as I was dozing off, thinking that perhaps I should have gone down to the pub for the evening, I was startled by Mistress Hunter's booming voice, calling out the men's numbers.

As keen horsewomen, it was probably inevitable that Mistress Hunter and myself would hit if off.
At university we had many recreational clubs and one which I am proud to say that I helped to set up was the Horseriding Club. I suppose riding a horse is much like riding a motorcycle.
In both cases you get to enjoy a hot, throbbing beast between your legs!
I've always loved riding and the power which I felt it gave me.
It was only as I developed that I realised that power over horses was much the same as power over men. I can tell you, at uni, when we had a riding club days and us girls turned up in the cafeteria in our jodhpurs and boots, and armed with whips and spurs, the lads could hardly control themselves! Of course, we all knew that and would play on the fact, and would make a special point of bending over the food counter to collect a banana or whatever.
It was great to see the guys drool. And it was amazing that if you sat and toyed with your riding crop, how many blokes would tease you about having a bit of hanky-spanky. I was always one for a bit of a giggle and on many occasions would take them up and challenge them to let me use the crop on their arse.

Charlotte wasn't originally part of any group at university - much like myself - and this attracted her to me. She was
- and still is - very much an individual. But even though I could relate to her, we definitely came from very different sides of the track so to speak. I was always known as a rebel - "the slinky rock-siren" - because I was into motorbikes and raunchy living. Charlotte? How would I describe the delectable Charlotte? As a spoilt brat, I suppose. She was brought up on a huge farm. Her widowed mother also had a ranch in Texas, a beach house in Malibu, a chateau in the Dordogne, a skiing chalet in Klosters, and goodness how many other houses scattered about. But even though she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, when you got to know her you realised that this was one hell of ballsy babe. To Charlotte, rules were invented to be broken. She has no respect for authority and would argue with the President of the U.S. if she thought he was out of order. Anyone who winds Charlotte up the wrong way would be well advised to stay clear of her. She never - and I mean never - forgets anyone who has rubbed her up the wrong way.
Charlotte has her say... Thank you for the introduction, Cassandra. I suppose I broadly agree with what she said, although I don't agree that I'm a spoilt brat. I just think that some people in life enjoy advantages which others do not. And quite rightly so. I've been to a football match and eaten in a motorway transport cafe, and I can see that these places suit a particular type of lowly-classed person - the plebeian as the Romans used to call them. Oiks, rabble, scum, yobs, ragamuffins, vermin, cattle, as I would refer to them. I believe that the proletariat have a useful place in society. We do need the likes of dustmen, farm labourers, shopworkers, roadsweepers and such. But - and this is a big but - I will not tolerate them encroaching on my life or my property. They all look fit and fat enough, sponging off the state or whatever it is they do, living in their scruffy little council dwellings.

Mistress Caroline is a very well respected Domina who I met at a party whilst I was still in my first year at university. She is an expert in her field and does not tolerate fools gladly - as I was to observe. The party
was a pretty wild affair, held at Mistress Caroline's country house. I was invited by my friend Ingrid - Mistress Ingrid - who was a very promising history student in my year. She had advised me to wear "something titillating and kinky" and to bring a camera. As a keen photographer I duly popped my Nikon into my bag, got dressed to kill, and set out in the direction of the Kent countryside.
The first surprise which was in store for me was the scale of Mistress Caroline's property. It was not the kind of house which I was used to frequenting. My second surprise was to ring the doorbell and be greeted by a man on his knees, wearing nothing but a chain around his neck. It was slightly unusual, I thought, but Ingrid knew that I was game for anything. After tip-toeing carefully over some male bodies which lay lifeless on the floor, I spotted Ingrid.

All morning long, Lady Julia had rushed about her modest estate, impatiently using the whip and the heel to direct her domestic males in the last-minute preparations. It was her birthday, and she was to receive a very special guest; High- Lady Jenna, herself. In fact, she had cleared her calendar of all other events and visitors, so as to ensure that the High- Lady would be the centre of her attention, as well she should be. For, although it was Julia's birthday, and indeed the visit by High-Lady Jenna was to help her celebrate it, the attendance itself caused any other consideration to pale into insignificance.
Julia's team of pretty handlers buzzed about her also, coming and going like drone bees around their queen, rushing off to attend to those things that Julia decided needed checking, returning when they had been sorted out to Julia's side for any new assignments.
The stable-males had been urged along brutally in their individual labours by the stable-handlers, so that all work for the day would be finished quickly, and their Mistress would have no embarrassing surprises when giving her eminent guest a tour of the livery. At mid-morning, they had been driven, en masse, into the showering stalls, and hosed-down by a three-girl team of handlers.
Clean slave-smocks had been issued to all of the chattel (except, of course, for Julia's seven dog-males), and the slender, black-iron stock-collars were quickly replaced with the more aesthetically-pleasing, studded, black-leather 'formal' collars. After this, all of the labour-slaves, including garden- males, stable males and all but two domestics, were fed and penned for the evening. This done, all but a few of the most necessary girls had been dismissed for the day (with wages), in order to give the estate a more relaxed, quiet environment for the visit.
Julia, having dressed in a black-leather bra and g-string, watched from the veranda, as her pleasure-male lapped and kissed adoringly at her damp pussy. She had suddenly decided, moments before, to enjoy a quick come to relieve a bit of pressure before Lady Jenna's arrival

Maria

Academic success had always come easy to me, I excelled at every subject in school and achieved the highest
grade in every exam I took. Everyone assumed I'd choose either Oxford or Cambridge but neither appealed to me greatly. I wanted a more liberal atmosphere, where I'd be under no great pressure to over-exert myself. In particular, I wanted a campus full of young females, my sexuality was well established by then.
Consequently, and in the face of enormous opposition from many quarters, I chose to attend a 'redbrick' university a hundred miles from home.
It turned out to be the best decision I ever made (and believe me I've made a lot of good decisions!).
As unlikely as it may seem, the adventure began on the very day of my arrival. I had completed the bulk of my unpacking and lay relaxing on the bed of my small but cheerful new room. I scanned the wardrobe packed with high fashion clothes, gifts from my devoted Father. Heaven knows where he found the money but he always insisted his darling daughter deserved the best of everything. I never felt inclined to argue!
I lit a slim cigar and contentedly blew smoke rings towards the ceiling.
I was contemplating my new freedom.

Lady Jenna smiled down into the pit.
Below her, three of her slaves, tears of terror rolling down their rugged faces, looked back up at her.
Also looking up at her were four other possessions of hers, though these particular possessions meant much more to her than did the cowering, shuddering males: her prized tigresses; Sarana', `Tarsha', Alizee' and 'Ishtar'.
They each, at their individual whims, cast their black eyes back and forth between the terrified, shackled slaves in the pit and their' mistress, occasionally licking noisily and wetly at their chops in hopeful anticipation.
Three of the cats had taken the leashes of the slaves into their wet, crushing jaws.
This was a trick taught to them by their mistress' handlers.
The males, trembling with dread, also cast their wide-eyed gazes quickly and repeatedly back and forth between the ferocious beasts in who's midst they had been placed, and their Mistress, on the balcony three-metres above them.
Random, frequent whimpers of stark fear could be heard squeaking from the males' throats.
Absolute dread gripped their stomachs, and puddles could be seen beneath each of them upon the burgundy stained, bone-strewn floor of the pit.
"Well, well then, my nervous little worms;" Lady Jenna taunted, after a moment, "what's the matter? Don't you lazy wankers like my lovely kittens?"
Only one of the males were apparently able to speak, although his broken, shuddering voice belied the fact that this was, indeed, barely the case.
"...G... Goddess!" he whispered raggedly, his tearful, pleading eyes begging up at her "...Oh, Ple... PLEASE, Goddess! Please let me out! PLEASE?! These beasts will rend me apart, Mistress!! PLEASE! I... I PROMISE that I'll be..."
"Silence, slut!" Lady Jenna snapped, causing the tigers to stir threateningly, one of them even shooting an inquiring gaze up to its mistress for several moments.

"Go on then, you thick, wanking grubs! Bend your useless backs before I shred them with my whip!" Lady Karla shouted into the throng of males struggling around her horse, swinging her longwhip down as hard as she could, wrapping it hotly around and across the backs and shoulders of the males nearest her mount. "I said MOVE, you lazy sluts!!" Over and over, she cursed and spat down at them, kicking-out brutally at their ribs and doling out the lash freely and, of course, not caring which of the slaves were struck, or where. The men yelped- out in pain, wincing beneath the fiery bite of Karla's feminine impatience.
It wasn't that they weren't putting every ounce of their effort into their task; they were. Being Cruellan males, they knew far better than to even THINK of slacking-off in their assignments. A slow death beneath unspeakable agony awaits the slave that's thought-of as shirking or slacking. Each knew that the only thing a Cruellan female despised more than a male, was a lazy or scheming male. They also knew, of course, that despite their best, most heartfelt efforts, the lash would continue to sear their flesh, the pretty palms of their Mistress' would always be ready to slap their faces. Men are slaves, and nothing more, and the women of the Cruellan Sisterhood revelled in treating them as such. These males accepted fully that they would live and die beneath the capricious whims of the beautiful, intolerant women to whom they so fully and legally belonged.

I'd been frantically circling the six-block area, cutting-in a block each time. I'd nearly killed two pedestrians, a couple, the guy flipping me off and yelling me to 'Watch where you're going, dickhead!' I flipped him off right
back, and continued looking. I was nervous as hell, and was just about ready to pack it in. But I HAD to find her place. .
She was the dispatcher at my company, and she was drop-dead-gorgeous. She always wore clothes that would likely get any other girl sacked from a job. All the girls hated her, and all the guys, including the company president, was so stunned by her looks that we could hardly even form a sentence whenever she passed by. It was a warm, perfect, Saturday morning.
When I'd finally spotted the place, I'd felt like an idiot, realising that I'd actually passed it twice. I pulled into the drive, and parked. I took a deep breath. I still couldn't believe that she actually told me to come by for a day's visit. If I bagged this one, I'd be a fucking legend at work. Hell; I'd be a legend to every guy I knew, including myself
I cut the engine, swung the door open, and walked up the four front steps. Another deep breath. I rang the bell. I suddenly wanted to turn and run for the car. I figured that somehow I'd have to pay for time with a knockout like Rachel. A vision of me suffering a massive coronary just as I was climbing into the sack with her almost made me laugh aloud, but instead, the door clicked and opened. My jaw went slack, and I blinked several times.
"You're late..." she informed me, her voice like angel-song, despite the irritated edge it carried behind it.
"Only a minute or two, I couldn't find your house. Sorry." I explained, trying to play it cool, but very concerned that we were getting off on the wrong foot. "Can't follow directions, then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Point against." she quipped, giving me a quick once-over. "Oh, well; perhaps you're worth a second chance, but you'll have the opportunity to prove it, I suppose. Come on in, then, and grab a seat on the sofa." She offered smoothly, adding "Ill be right back."
I stepped past her, and she closed the door, locking it. She clipped past me as if I were a ghost, and disappeared into the kitchen. After that little 'can't follow directions' remark, I'd have told any other girl to enlist in 'Cunts Anonymous'. But not this one. No way. Anything she might've said was fine by me.