It was a perfect winter's day. Crisp with bright sunshine, blue skies and a fabulous session of hunting to look forward to. One of the domestic slaves poured Lady Victoria a large tot of whisky. It warmed her through. Uncoiling her whip, she cracked it across the pack of "hounds" which snuffled about on the dirt below her. Of course, being Victoria, this was no ordinary pack of hounds. Twenty or thirty selected men slaves had been specially trained to run around on all fours. This might not sound so strange. However, Victoria had their legs shortened, cut off just above the knee so that their arm and leg length was more suit­ably matched. Victoria casually described the operation as "docking", as one might do to a dog's tail. Scampering on all fours was a neces­sity for these creatures. Post amputation their stumps had been cauterised and had grown a thick, crusty pad. An added touch of design upon which Lady Victoria prided herself was the addition of a tailpiece, inserted on a plug into the dog's rectum. Generally the hounds were well fed and well groomed, so they were actually very well off by Cruellan standards. Victoria loved to hunt from the saddle of a horse, although several of the ladies would be following the hounds on foot. Should the hounds not pick up on the prey, they could expect, at best, a fierce whipping from Lady Victoria, other hunt members and the kennel girls.

John and Jenny had been married for eight years. There was nothing remarkable about their relationship or their life. They were just plain, boring old Mr and Mrs Suburbia. That was, until John succumbed to temptation…

John’s sister-in-law, Caroline, was gorgeous. John had always fancied her, but had never expressed such an opinion. He had fancied hundreds of women over the years, but had never gone further than flirting with them. Then, after eight years, he got an insatiable urge to have sex with Caroline. She didn’t lead him on, although she was always flirtatious and very sexy.

The incident which sparked the whole affair started late one evening when John, Jenny and Caroline had been out for a few drinks and a meal. As usual, John’s wife had insisted that he stay sober and take care of all the driving. Having dropped Jenny off at home, he then went to run Caroline back to her flat.

When they arrived, the sister-in-law suggested that he might like to come in for a coffee. John eagerly accepted and the pair found themselves alone in Caroline’s cosy apartment. Having changed into “something more comfortable” she sat next to him on the couch.

She was tipsy, her blouse was half undone and she kept leaning down every time she wanted to pick up or put down her coffee cup. Then, after a few minutes, she stared into his eyes and they kissed.

When I answered the call from Mistress Vixen I had no hesitation in visiting her wonderful realm. The invite was to a photo session in the afternoon and a party in the evening. I arrived at Cruella headquarters and was immediately greeted by a pair of sturdy looking slaves dressed only in very brief briefs.

They approached me with their heads bowed and collected my luggage from the trunk of the car. Immediately they ushered me towards the house and I was let in by a third slave who spent all his time scurrying about on his hands and knees.

I was shown to a bedroom and dressing room, where the slaves unpacked my clothes and laid them carefully out on the bed. I had brought with me a selection of PVC, rubber and leather gear.

The slaves waited, carefully averting their eyes as I selected a soft, black, leather leotard and a pair of thigh length, leather boots. They immediately stepped forwards and indicated that they wished to help me dress.

I had no problem undressing and dressing in front of male slaves, but I chose a long, painful whip from my collection and waved it in their faces by way of warning that I would not put up with any lechery. Very gently, and careful not to touch my skin, the males undid my clothes and stripped me naked.

Then, with great attention to detail, they fastened me into my leotard and slipped my boots on.

Mistress Sin dressed in her finest, tight, white jodhpurs, black leather thigh boots, cute leather top and smart leather wristbands. She strode out into the sunshine and looked at the magnificent landscape. All she surveyed was hers. Her successful modelling career had brought her wealth and power. Now, still only a young woman, she enjoyed the fruits of her labours. Since an early age she had possessed a natural air of superiority.

Hanging out in the fashionable haunts of Paris, Milan, London and New York, she had been introduced to the fetish scene and had enjoyed what she had seen. Over the years, as boyfriends had come and cheated and gone, she had built up a hardness and coldness towards the male of the species. And as time went on, she embraced the fetish scene and had become more and more engrossed in the domination of men.

She strode past her stables, patting her favourite mounts as she went, and plucked a short hunting whip from a hook on the wall. With pinpoint accuracy, she snapped the whip and flicked the head clean off a daisy. She was not in the best of moods and she was ready for an encounter with any male worker who crossed her path. The males who attended to her every desire and the needs of her estate were handpicked submissives from the fetish clubs.

Over a period of years she had gathered dozens of willing slaves and she did not even know how many she owned. All of them had signed a pledge of obedience and had turned their lives over to her.

Having been bought by Lady Joanna a few years back (see Goddess 4) Ravenmoor Prison has continued to flourish financially and as a penal correction centre for male offenders. The
intake of males has risen rapidly and the institution now houses eight thousand inmates. However, on the other hand, overheads have been cut to just 2.5% of what they were when Joanna bought the establishment, at a time when there were a mere one thousand or so prisoners. So, excellent news all round. Unless of course you happen to be sentenced for a crime and unfortunate enough to be sent to Ravenmoor.
Conditions for prisoners have deteriorated for the better since privatisation. Prisoners now live twelve or fifteen to a cell, there is no heating or lighting in the cells, no recreation, and the resident chef serves up a good line in stale bread and water and splodge. In fact, many of the men have been seen by the bevy of beautiful warders fighting over such delicacies as earwigs, moths and cockroaches. And I believe that some of the guards occasionally pee and spit in the food troughs. Very nourishing!

Ivana was a Major in the KGB. She had been trained to kill and trained to torture! Although she had killed many men, by many different methods, her missions often involved trapping her victims
and extracting their secrets by whatever means she could. Wherever possible, Ivana would stalk her prey and then simply seduce them. She was an expert lover with much experience in the pleasures of the flesh. Having made love just once to Ivana, men would beg to sleep with her a second time. Her ploy would normally be to agree to this, but only after she had got to know the man a little better. Only when the man had divulged secrets about his work, would she bed him again. Of course, no man could resist the opportunity to fuck Ivana a second time. Her system worked ninety per cent of the time, with men only too keen to spout details of their job to her.
The ten per cent who were, for reasons not clear to her, unseducible, she had to work on in a very different manner. There was one such man, renamed for the purposes of this article, as John. He was an electronics expert with a large British defence contractor. The KGB wished to know about the progress which the West had made on some long- range weapons and guidance systems. Ivana had followed John on several occasions when he had left his office, and followed him to his small South London flat.
On a couple of occasions she had managed to accidentally bump into him and get chatting. But John was a little wimp of a man who had always been frightened of girls. He would always escape from her as quickly as he could.

What turns three perfectly pleasant, cheerful young ladies into cruel, ball-busting domatrixes? Answer...men!
Paul was the kind of guy who would definitely describe himself as a "stud". He and Alison had only been going out together for about three weeks when she noticed that his eyes were wandering whenever they were out of the house. It didn't matter whether the woman was short, tall, fat, thin, fair or dark, Paul's eyes would be riveted.
Alison used to tease him and please him in the bedroom - and everywhere else inside and outside the house - and wear the stockings and suspenders which she knew he loved so much. She would spend pounds and pounds of her hard-earned cash to make him happy. But in return she used to enjoy the mad, passionate love-making sessions which would follow. The very sight of her stripping down to her underwear used to send Paul's cock absolutely crazy. She would watch him in blissful anticipation as his long, thick cock, with it's pur ple veins pulsating and its beautiful bulbous crown bulging, would to her beauty.
Unfortunately, whatever Alison did for him, putting on masturbation shows, sucking his cock and swallowing his thick, tasty semen, or letting him penetrate her in her every orifice, Paul's eyes would not stop wandering. Alison's friends from the local fitness centre had also noticed his roving eyes. But when the chat-up patter began, Alison could stand it no more. Of course, both Sam and Sarah had turned down his suggestion of going out with him on a date. But they could not believe the audacity of the guy. He was going out with their mate, for goodness sake!

John walked through the front door, put his briefcase under the table and hung up his coat. Joanne stood behind the bedroom
door and mouthed the words, "I'm home. What's for tea? I'm starving."
A second later John called out, "I'm home. What's for tea? I'm starving."
"Bastard!" Joanne cursed under her breath. "So bloody predictable!"
John walked through the lounge and called, "Joanne...?" He went into the kitchen and looked at the stove; there were no bubbling pots, no joint of roast beef sizzling in the oven. "Joanne...?" he called again, slightly puzzled that preparations for his tea weren't in full swing.
John pushed open the bedroom door and peered inside. Joanne was nowhere to be seen. He looked at his watch and sighed.
"Where the fuck's she got to?" he complained.
He stomped off downstairs, most put out that she wasn't awaiting his rival with a hot meal on the table and a sexy negligee under her apron. As she listened she could hear him grumbling all the way down to the lounge. She heard the television turn on. He flicked through the channels, then stood up and went to the window to look out. He sighed again as he peered up and down the street. Where is she? he thought, more angry than concerned. The television news came and went.
John started complaining loudly, "Not even a cup of tea!"
Joanne's voice rang out from just outside the door of the lounge, "You know how to work the bloody kettle, don't you?"
John glanced round but couldn't see his wife lurking outside the door.
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. He paused for a reply but there wasn't one. "What are you doing? Where have you been? Be a good girl and get the kettle on will you?" Joanne stood by the door, seething. "What's for tea? I'm starving."
As John leaned forwards in his armchair towards the television and pressed a button on the remote control, a young, pretty weathergirl popped up on the screen. He leered at her, rubbed his crutch an groaned, "Phwoar!"
Joanne could stand it no more. She walked up behind him and placed her arms gently around his neck.

Gary prowled the small hallway of his tiny house. He was proud of what he had done with it since Mistress Clara had informed him that he was no longer fit to inhabit the main house, but must
move into the little gatehouse. He had personally spent time and money getting the place exactly how he wanted it, and was looking forward to a relaxing hour or two on his own, before his Mistress came home again. Although he was in his own domain, he nevertheless walked with caution. Mistress Clara was out entertaining tonight, but this was no guarantee of safety, as her friends had the run of her estate and could drop in to abuse him whenever they pleased.
He had just finished preparing his mistress supper for when she got back, and had gone to great pains not to burn it or mar it in anyway. He was fully aware that even with a perfectly cooked supper, Clara would find fault with it somehow and instigate a punishment if the mood took her, so it was really a damage-limitation exercise at best. He left the dish in the oven to keep it warm for her return, and was looking forward to the opportunity to catch up on his sleep, but first he had to straighten the rugs n the living room and check the carpet for any stray bits of fluff that had escaped his teeth the previous evening. Then, at last, his daily tasks completed, he could look forward to a whole hours uninterrupted sleep if he were lucky
His train of thought was rudely interrupted by a fist that appeared seemingly from nowhere and crashed into his mouth, rocking him back on his heels and splitting his lip open. Before he had time to protect himself, a knee to his stomach paralysed him and tore the air from his lungs, and a black leather knee boot skewered into his testicles with deadly efficiency. He crumpled to the floor, writhing in a soundless mime of pure agony.

No- you stay on your hands and knees, this isn t a rest for you, it s just to give my arm a chance to relax. Everyday I thrash a hundred whining little shits like you; it s hard work. Pleasurable, of course, but wearing on the arms.
I think I'll have a cigarette- don t look up at me like that, you little bitch: you re not getting one, what the hell makes you think you deserve a cigarette, huh? You might get it when I ye finished with it- I might stub it out on your arse.
What? Are you shivering or shuddering? I don t really mind whether you re frozen cold or terrified. So long as it makes you miserable, it makes me happy.