My name is Andrew; Andrew Gracehart. I am- or rather, I was, a Record Promoter, attached to large corporation of such prominence that if I were to disclose it you would immediately recognise the firm. Needless to say, I will not reveal it s true identity in these pages. That then, was my profession, and amongst my peers I was regarded as a high-achiever, destined for the top. Indeed, by the time I was in my mid-twenties, I had risen to the elevation of Assistant Producer, one of the youngest in the industry!
A year ago I achieved my ultimate ambition, and gained a plush office and a handsome salary with my appointment to the supreme post. I m afraid that it may have gone straight to my head, and certainly my conceit was the sole catalyst for the events that led me so far down the scale of natural things that only now, barely a twelve-month later, I can say with pride that my new position is that of toilet slave to Mistress Katerina.

It was with an alarming degree of trepidation that Slave Gary walked the few hundred yards to the Cattle shed. Of all the play areas on Mistress Clara s estate, he dreaded this one most of all. He walked slowly, nervously, and was reluctant to hurry to the appointment. It would make little difference whether he was late for the rendezvous or not; Mistress Veronica would have her sadistic way with him whatever, so he did not hurry as he would for his own Mistress. Rather, he dallied in the evening sun, preferring even the crisp Spring wind that raised goosepimples over his nearly-naked form to the dark deviations that Veronica loved so much to show him.
Of all the friends whom his Mistress let abuse him, Veronica was the girl who most frequently took him to the very brink of hospitalisation. She simply did not care, and he dreaded the crunch of gravel beneath the enormous wheels of her American-style Rancher s truck as she ascended the long sloping driveway to Clara s mansion. When he received the summons; as usual, just a terse note slipped beneath the front door of the little gatehouse where Clara had billeted him, he had trembled at the monogrammed V that was this lady s distinctive calling card, He was trembling now, as he approached the entrance to the shed; the interior was all cinder blocks and a packed-dirt floor that oozed slime between his bare feet.
He hoped that Clara had left instructions that she go easy on him; he was still recuperating from the injuries sustained during Clara s birthday stint on the motorcycle.
He blinked as he entered, and shuddered at the frigid stillness of the air, the dankness of decay. At first, he had hopes that Veronica had not been able to make the appointment, but as his eyes grew used to the dimness, he could make out her profile in the far corner; long dark hair that curled below her shoulders, and a firm imposing body packed tight into a revealing PVC outfit. Sheer black stockings enclosed her long worshipful legs, and black high heels completed the look. She glowered at him without speaking, as he approached, and he was careful to keep his head to the ground and avoid the searing scrutiny of her ice-cold eyes.
When she did speak, her throaty Bostonian accent confirmed her

Slave Gary shuffled forward nervously into the garage, a knot of tension building in his stomach at the thought of what was to follow.
The hard cement floor was cold on his bare feet, and he could barely keep his knees from knocking as he approached the motorbike. It stood in the far corner, gleaming and freshly polished.
Gary knew this for certain, because he had done it himself, with his tongue.
Is it ready for us?
Gary straightened to attention as he heard his Mistress at his shoulde

Kayla strode purposefully into the living room, scantily-clad and crop in-hand. It was one of her favourite times of the weekday. She
smiled down at her boyfriend, who had, over the course of their three-year relationship, been transformed by her into nothing more than a slave. She saw him now as merely a piece of her personal property; a sex-toy and plaything.; a target for her volatile temper. She dealt with him according to her moods and whims, and would brutally discipline him for the slightest infraction of her many rules for his behaviour and domestic responsibilities. He called her 'Mistress', as that was what she fully viewed herself as, and, although she had renamed him 'jeff to please herself, she called him whatever demeaning name or word she thought of at the moment. Her words were his constantly-rewritten laws, and her desires, pleasures and comforts were always to come before his. She would even, whenever the mood struck her, shackle him to the foot of her bed and enjoy another submissive male right in front of him. She knew that he would gladly submit to anything she chose to do to him, and this was why she would never let him go. Nor would she have it any other way. Her domineering nature wouldn't stand for it.

Mistress Tia and Mistress Wanda squirmed with delight in each other’s arms. The bed shook backwards and forwards, such was the energy of their passion. Mistress Tia clanked the hefty chain which reached under the bed, and tugged upon it. The male slave who had been cringing below, was quickly dragged out from under his cover.
“Pleasure,” gasped Mistress Tia. “Give us both pleasure.”

Mistress Vixen trampled through the Cruellan woodlands, enjoying the peace and tranquillity. The day was warm and she was coolly dressed in bikini top, miniskirt and boots. Although she was merely taking a pleasurable stroll, she was also checking the traps which she had set around the woods. There had been trouble recently with runaway slaves and there was still one on the loose.
As she walked, she noticed that several twigs were broken along the path and there were marks in the soil to indicate that a large animal, or slave, had passed by. Mistress Vixen was an expert tracker and she stealthily followed the animal’s tracks. If it was a wild boar, or a deer, she would shoot it and have it collected and taken back to her house for its meat. If it was a slave, then she would capture it and take it in alive.
Looking carefully at the ground, Mistress Vixen came across some small lumps of excreta. She recognized them immediately as slave dung and knew that a man must be in the vicinity.

Mistress Fenella pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator pedal. She could see the slave running across the field ahead. It pleased her to see him running so hard. She had warned him that if he got caught then he would live to regret it. But whenever Mistress Fenella had gone on a slave chase, the slave had never got away. In reality, it was an impossibility that a slave could outrun a 4x4 across the fields.
Spinning the car around, she circled him. He was like a rat in a trap, unable to escape in any direction. She swerved and wheel-spun, laughing out loud. Then, pulling away from him, she would let him run again. He darted across the field, like a frightened hare. In the distance, he could see an escape route where her car could not follow. His lungs pounded as he tried to make good his escape.

I'm Mistress Tiffany. While I sit upon the straining back of this whimpering, just- whipped slave of mine, I'd like to dispel a few
inappropriate ideas that two of my stable-males were caught passing-about to one another. In fact, it was this very beast that I overheard speaking such heresy, and, once I vanquish the archaic ideas he was exploring, I shall let you 'sit-in' on what I did to him for it. But first, a bit of common-sense:

As I sat comfortably across the foyer from Traci, I could only stare blankly at her. I hadn't seen her in over half a decade. I
couldn't believe what I was seeing. And, being a respected interviewer for a nationally-read, young- women's magazine, I thought I'd seen and heard it all.
Traci and I went back a long way. We'd been best- mates (and more) since we were seven, and, owing to the frequency of our visits and stays at each other's houses, were practically reared as sisters. We'd been nearly inseparable since we'd met on that cold January morning so many years ago. My family had just moved into the house next door to hers, and we'd become instant mates.
Growing into stunning, young beauties during our secondary-school years, neither of us had any trouble getting male attention. We'd always had dates at the ready and queued up for a chance at a night out with a pair of beautiful, popular girls. Together, we'd broken many a boy's heart.
I'd always known that Traci harboured a peculiar perception of men. Most of the hearts we'd broken had left me feeling a bit sympathetic for the boys. But Traci seemed to revel in the fact that her leggy allure could cause even the most cock-sure of them to take a gasoline shower and leap through a flaming hoop to amuse her. She'd always told me that men secretly needed to be treated like a pretty girl's possession, and that any girl in her right mind should be more than happy to oblige them.

I stood in the secluded meadow, feet planted solidly apart, hands-on-hips, glaring at them from behind my designer sunglasses. The four, naked slaves, kneeling-back in the grass side by side some twenty paces before me, were all visibly trembling, sniffling and whimpering quietly. This, of course, caused a slight, momentarily smile to cross my red lips. Their wrists had been strictly manacled at the small of their backs, and their ankles burned with the severe tightness of the leg-irons that my sexy, strict handlers had applied before crowding them into the claustrophobic space of the boot of my sports car. They would have all been trying to out-volume each other for appeals for my leniency, would it have done them any good. They each, though, knew me well, and realised that they should, instead, try to breathe deeply each of their few, remaining breaths.