Lydia, his Mistress strode out the door, and onto the patio. She stopped before him, her tall, black. platform sandals inches from his face. Without warning, she delivered a bruising kick to the left side of his face. His cheekbone burned, but, locked in the floorbox as he was, he was unable to soothe it by rubbing it.
"What's this, then, floorface?!" She asked down at him angrily.
He craned his neck back, looking up at her, his lovely, young Goddess and owner, to see her glaring down at him, her fists resting on her hips. "Wh... What, Mistress?!" he asked, terrified of her obvious foul mood.
"What? What?!" she trilled, rolling her eyes. "Dinner, that's what. You've ruined dinner! You've managed to turn the roast I bought into a right-dog's meal, you idiot! I'll have you know that roast cost me a tenner!" She then kicked him again, hard enough to make him see stars this time.
His heart leapt into his throat. He'd been told to prepare the roast for his Mistress' cute sister and two of her best girlfriends, who were due at seven.

Christine, a new nurse at the regional medical clinic, clipped purposefully down the hallway, on her way to her first visit to the administrator, Dr. Alesia Frost.
She was to meet the doctor in examination room six. This seemed a bit odd to her, not meeting her new supervisor in her office, but apparantly, the heavy caseload of the small clinic left the doctor little time for office-dwelling, so, thus it would be, as it was where she had been told to meet her. She was a bit nervous, as she had heard the other nurse's hushed whispers of what an 'iron bitch' the doctor was, yet Christine was, by her nature, not easily intimidated.
'I'll set this cow straight on a few things, I will.' she promised herself as she approached the windowless door of examination room six. Stopping before the door, she straightened her short, tight uniform, and, taking a deep breath, knocked.
"Enter." came the authoritative, muffled voice from within the office. She grasped the handle, turned it, and entered, closing the door behind her. Immediately, she was struck by the appearance of the administrator. Despite herself, Christine felt a familiar tingle behind her knickers.
"Lock it, nurse, and remove that uniform." the doctor said evenly. This too, seemed odd, but, nonetheless, Christine reached back and locked the door, as told. Her nerves tingling, she figured it best to set things straight right-off.
"And why, exactly, am I to strip, doctor?" she asked, her brows arched. She wasn't sure that she liked the direction that this was taking, but, despite herself, she found the doctor to be lovely in the extreme, and wouldn't actually mind showing off her perfectly-toned body to her. Who knows? Perhaps, if the doctor liked her enough, things might even become VERY good for her here.

Crushed beneath the wheels of her Range Rover....
As Cassandra turned down the lane that led to her country manor, she glanced into the small box on the passenger seat. Lighting a cigarette, she smiled as he two terrified mini-men looked up at her, from within the box.
She pressed her foot onto the brake and brought the large vehicle to a halt. She
leaned over and blew her cigarette smoke at the cringing mini-men.
She drew on the cigarette again until the tip glowed brightly and then moved it towards her little victims. They attempted to avoid the searing heat as she playfully jabbed it at them. She smiled each time the tip touched one of them, causing a hiss as it made contact. They could not scream because their lips had been carefully sewn together, earlier that day. Since this was to be their last day alive, they would not need to be fed again.
Cassandra had simply decided to kill them on a whim, purely for her personal amusement.
"Time to die, number one." she laughed.
Reaching into the box, she extracted the first victim. With a tight grip around his body, she turned him upside-down.
"I can't have you making a run for it, can I" she stated. Then she drew on her cigarette and proceeded to bum his bare feet, particularly the soles. It was quite obvious that he was in terrible pain and his contained screams were like deep guttural roars of agony. Cassandra laughed at the frantic struggles and increased the pressure of her grip. She took another draw on her cigarette and proceeded to burn the other foot.

The lovely Lady, dressed in a flattering,
feminine, black skirt and vest outfit, swept
into the outer office, where Josh sat, prioritizing his Mistress' to-do list for her. So engrossed was he, that he didn't even see her enter, and was still unaware of her presence, as he stepped to the front of his small, basically- appointed reception desk.
"I want to see your mistress... now, slut... NOW!" She added angrily.
Startled, he looked up, and swallowed dryly. Quickly, he averted his eyes from hers. There was 'something vaguely familiar about her voice, but he just couldn't place it.
"YES, m'Lady! Instantly, m'Lady!" he quickly acquiesced, poising his finger over the intercom button on his phone.
"...Whom shall I say is calling, m'Lady?" he asked sheepishly, careful to keep his eyes from hers.
"Just get her! NOW, slave! Obey me this instant!" she demanded, giving him a sharp slap across the face for effect.
"Yes, m'Lady!" he blurted, pressing the small red button. There was a muffled, buzzing noise. For several moments, there was no answer. The moments seemed very long to him, as he could actually feel the anger of this pretty Goddess. He began to perspire, knowing that he knew Her voice, from... well... from somewhere.
"...Are you Tiffany's office slut then?" she inquired in an even tone.
"Yes, m'Lady. I am also her personal, as well, m'Lady." he answered with a quiet, respectful tone. Something about her told him that he did not want to provoke this lovely woman in the least. He kept his eyes down. "I see." she allotted, adding, "Then you are the one responsible for passing on her messages, slave?"

Lady Corrine and Mistress Sara forced me out onto the back porch of Lady Corrine's country house. I crawled,
naked except for my collar and leash.
The mother and daughter forced me to kneel on the hard wood, my legs spread and my hands grasping my ankles. Quickly, the luscious Mistress Sara knelt behind me, running her fingers over my naked ass. Her nails scratched my skin, causing me to shiver with apprehension.
Tall, sweetly-built Mistress Sara shackled me, chaining each wrist to the corresponding ankle. The cheerful girl rubbed her full, 35D breasts on my naked back, the thin silk of her shirt sliding over me. As her mother watched, the giggling girl reached between my open thighs and wrapped her hand around my balls. As she bit me on the cheek, Mistress
squeezed my nuts. Her clenched fist crushed my sack, ripping a scream from my throat. Laughing, the cruel blonde stood over my trembling body. She unhooked my leash, jerking my collar so that I gazed up at her. The beautiful girl parted her soft lips and let a dollop of spit drip down onto my face. Her warm, glistening saliva struck my forehead and rolled down my face, producing a line of moist humiliation.
The beauty stepped back from my kneeling, naked body. I heard the unmistakable whistle of Lady Corrine's 4-foot-long, leather whip cutting through the air. The force of the blow threw me from the porch. I fell face first into the dirt in the little fenced in yard behind the house. Lady Conine stepped down onto my back, her weight forcing the air from
my lungs. I gasped beneath the older woman's thigh-high leather boots. Her spikes cut into my flesh as she stood on my helpless body.
"You will stay here, in this exact position, until given permission to move," the chesty vixen commanded. "Move a single millimetre and you might as well just get up and leave. Do you understand, Bootlicker?"
"Yes Lady Corrine," I gasped. As the Lady's new bootlicker, I had learned my place. During my short time in her household, I had learned to obey the Lady without question. In return, the Lady allowed me the honour of keeping her boots polished, as well as those of her lovely daughters.

Welcome to Victoria's World of Ultimate Female Domination. I thought that I'd start volume 2 by demonstrating the position of males - that is firmly crushed beneath my feet. Featured in the next few pages are more total male crushings.
There's nothing more satisfying to me than the sound and feel of a slave's bones shifting beneath my boots. Well, except perhaps for the moans of anguish it brings from him as they float up to me. In fact, if I were able to set the world to my whims, every sidewalk on earth would be inset with a squirming male about every ten feet or so. Why so much space inbetween, you ask? Simple: We ladies would want time to laugh and joke about the last worm we'd trodden upon before getting to the next one in line. Ummm...! Just the thought itself is enough to make me good and hot!
The male exists only to submit to the superior female. He has no other valid purpose or use. And we know that all males feel the same truth. Some of the worms may not freely admit it, but in the deepest part of themselves, they know that it is a woman's world, and that they are only fit to cringe beneath our whips, to groan beneath our soles and heels, and to toil endlessly to increase our material and sensual pleasures. Oh sure; they might whimper and fuss about being sent to their Mistress' feet for a good trampling, but, when all is said and done, they end up feeling waves of gratitude wash through them as the cool, gritty soles of our riding-boots bruise them and crush the breath from them, or as the sharp heels of our shoes mar and gouge their hairy hides.
This being the case, one might also wonder why they even bother to put up a fuss in the first place. Again, the answer is a simple one: Because they know that fussing or begging will get them a good thrashing, as well. A punished slave is a slave that's fully in touch with himself. He is at oneness with his deepest desires and needs. If there's one thing that males crave more than the bottom of Mistress' footwear, it's the back of her hand or the bite of her whip.

Victoria shows you the wilder side of life.
Ladies, are you bored with the usual run of-the-mill pets? Are you tired of having to clean up after your animals? Well
here is a suggestion for you. Why not try one of a new range of domestic companions? For your delectation we have photographed a couple of examples of what we mean. Firstly there's the realistic horse-type creature. Simply find yourself a man, a husband or boyfriend will do, and train him to be your obedient servant. Not only will he do his own mucking out and require little feeding and maintenance, you will also save on veterinary and blacksmiths bills.
As you can see from our photograph, a hubby-horse can also be trained to supply free transport for you and your friends. So if you want to go for a quiet amble down to the pub on a summer's afternoon, or you fancy a gallop around the garden, or you find yourself late for work, just wake up your old man, stick him between the shafts of a buggy and hi-ho Silver, you're off!
A small pony cart like the one shown will only cost you around two hundred pounds, there are no fuel or servicing costs and you don't have to buy a road fund licence or go to the expense of buying an insurance policy. It is cheaper than going by taxi and makes waiting in bus queues for hours and hours a thing of the past. It is also very unlikely that you will ever get a parking ticket. Our Ladies test drove this prime example of manhood and found him to be quite strong and manageable.
No driving licence is required and the controls are very basic: Pull the reins to the right to go right; to the left to go left; straight back to stop; and in place of an accelerator pedal you have a whip instead. What could be simpler? On the minus side our Ladies complained about being cut up by bus drivers and bibbed by impatient van drivers. However, women drivers were found to be particularly courteous, and several wanted to know where they could acquire a hubby-horse of their own. Naturally our Ladies were keen to be of assistance and suggested the supermarket checkout queues or any reputable dating agency.

ln 1911, several years before the Russian Revolution, the country was totally controlled by a number of family dynasties. Each of the
families enjoyed total power over the serfs who inhabited their region. They were bound to pay taxes to the family and serve them in any way they were commanded. Life was cheap and slavery was still rife. It was therefore accepted that a certain number of peasants would go missing each year, and not a question would be raised. No one would dare raise a question for fear of ruthless reprisals. So what did happen to these lost souls? One answer is that a number of them were taken for Madame Suzette's Piano School.
Madame Suzette was the only child of a very powerful East Russian family. Her father and mother travelled extensively and took little notice of the young Suzette. However, she was afforded the luxury of anything which she requested. In her teens, Suzette fell in love with a young man from a lowly family. They enjoyed walks in the woods and listening to music together. Suzette was besotted by the young man, whom everyone in his local village knew as an insatiable womaniser. Finally, after months of waiting to explore Suzette's intimate charms, the young man finally cracked and forcibly deflowered the virgin.
Not wishing to bring disgrace upon herself, Suzette was too scared to tell her parents what had happened, even though her word was a thousand times more powerful than that of the young man's. Instead, she devised a plan which would entail regular visits of the young man to their castle. A servant was sent to the young man's humble abode, whereupon an invitation was delivered to his parents which requested him to be instructed in the art of playing the piano.

Tiffany and Lisa stood in the corner of the room, sipping their drinks and watching the mass of people excitedly dancing in the middle of the floor. Geoff
was making a total idiot of himself, smooching with a redhead and whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
"Always the same," sighed Tiffany. "He just can't keep his hands to himself."
Lisa tossed back her mane of blonde hair and drew deeply on a cigarette. She looked all around for her husband but he was nowhere to be seen. "I don't suppose you've seen Nigel?" she asked.
"In the kitchen the last time I saw him," Tiffany replied. The pair strolled through to the kitchen to investigate. Both were stunningly attractive and looked fetching in their elegant ball gowns. They had gone to much effort to be the belles of the ball. But did their husbands appreciate it? Nigel was making an attempt to chat up a woman who looked old enough

to be his mother.
"If you've quite finished..." said Lisa sternly to the woman.
"That happens to be my husband.-
As the woman left, Nigel grinned and explained to his wife, "Look, it was just a bit of harmless fun. She was old enough to be my mother for god's sake! It was a joke."
"I'm not laughing," said Lisa, before turning on her heel and walking out of the room.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Lisa and Tiffany collected their coats in preparation to leave the party.
"What's the matter?" asked Joanne, entering the room to see her two great friends on the verge of departing. "Don't tell me, Geoff and Nigel?"
"We're sick to death of them, Jo." Tiffany moaned. "They come out to a party and suddenly we're invisible. It's the same old story every time."

As the train from Paris whistled through the countryside of south east England, I stared out of the window at the sprawling orchards, wondering what might lay ahead for me. Although I had visited London many times before, this was the first time that I had left my native France to actually try and live abroad. The train jerked and jolted as it came to a halt on the international platform. As I struggled to lift my two heavy suitcases down from the train, people pushed and bustled past me. Nobody came to my assis­tance. Not even a smile to a man in a scruffy railway uniform rendered me any help. There were no porters, no luggage trollies, and a total lack of chivalry.
"Having trouble?" inquired a friendly female voice from behind me. "People here are so rude!" I exclaimed.
"Quite," replied the well-dressed young lady.
Her accent was pure English. Like the recordings we had listened to in my school English lessons. She outstretched her hand: "Helena Titmarsh," as she introduced herself with a smile. "You find my name amusing?"
"Sorry," I replied, coyly suppressing a giggle.
"You are a giggly little thing, aren't you," she commented.
Shouting at a spotty youth in a yellow blazer to take my suitcases, we strode along the platform towards the terminal exit.
"Don't worry about him," Helena said as I glanced round and saw the lad struggling to carry my cases.
"Where are you staying? Are you a tourist? Do you have friends in London? Are you here to look for work?"
She fired these questions at me with such speed that I only had the opportu­nity to answer in single syllables. Before I even knew what was happening, she announced, "That's settled then. You may stay with me. You can help out around the house."