Greetings, sister dominants. My name is Lady Sonia. When my dear friend, Mistress Adelina phoned to ask me if I would honour her publication with a recollection of something concerning one of my cars, I was thrilled. Instantly, one particular incident sprang to memory. After I'd assured her that the honour would be mine, we'd chatted for a bit, (during which time she had to pause for several moments to beat bloody-hell out of the foot-slave beneath her desk for some minor transgression), we'd set up a future, get-together date, then said our very temporary goodbyes.
I'd then rung for my dicta-boy (as I call him), and set about having him take down the following incident, which occurred after a defeat at a local auto-show. I still say the competition was fixed. The Rolls that won my adversary her top-honours award was not nearly as pristine as my Jaguar. The way that the young, male judge' lowered his eyes for her, and the smug little look she gave him as she took the (submissively-offered) ribbon, left no doubt to me that he was obviously her personal plaything. I've seen that look on a male before, and have certainly used the look she gave him. Both many times.
In any event, I was furious all the way back home. Every one of my slaves had. in all fairness, worked very hard to prep my beloved, expensive car for the competition.
But males, tome, are merely slaves. Regardless of how hard they work, they're still slaves. I'd made up my mind that the first one I got my hands on was in for it. He would cringe beneath the brunt of my anger over my wronging. I was so angry that I figured I'd need several slaves' worth of venting, in fact. But that first one was going to be oh-so-sweet.

Let me introduce myself. I'm Mistress Alison. Like many dominant women, my lovely possessions are my pride and joy. Now; don't get me wrong; I'm definitely not talking about the hairy, two-legged, thick-headed, scrotum-brained variety. There's nothing 'lovely' about them, save perhaps for the sounds of their pathetic screams that my ladyfriends and I rip from their throats beneath our whips and heels. No, I'm referring to my many material possessions; cars, jewellery, high-heels and the like.
A very special place in my otherwise dark, Cruellan heart is reserved specifically for my expensive, luxurious Sierra. Woe be unto the male who damages her, or even so much as insults her! Though, I can really see no reason why anyone would ever think to insult her. After all, she's so very pretty, and cost me more than I'd ever pay for ten males.
Let me share with you something that happened recently.

During nights out with my many ladyfriends, I've heard several of them chuckle something like 'My car is my life!'. I too, have an ongoing love-affair with my fast, pristine MR2. But as a Cruellan-to-the-soul, my words are always
more to the tune of 'My car is my grease-slave's life'. For it is this loathsome beast that is charged with the ever-important tasks of its upkeep, servicing and cleaning.
I have many males that grovel at my boots, and they all have their individual life-purposes which I alone have set them to. But it's my grease-slave who's life I've decided to give meaning by hurling him to the asphalt at the wheels of my quick, lovely, burgundy-coloured baby.
He knows that she's to be immaculately-kept, from the tip of her fibreglass nose to the ends of her twin, gleaming, chrome exhaust pipes. And he knows from bitter experience just what will befall him, should I happen to notice even the tiniest dull-spot in her glossy paint, the slightest smudge of tar or oil on her brushed-magnesium rims, or the most insignificant dent or mar.
Besides severe beatings and nights of shackled exposure to the elements should his efforts not please me, I've devised an additional impetus for making him need my car's appearance and operation to always be perfect for me, his living Goddess and absolute queen.

"Who's a handsome lad, then?" I asked as I straightened my tic in the mirror.
The job specified, "smart clothing".
As a successful candidate I was expected to wear a suit with a collar and tie. Although the suit wasn't exactly the latest style, it was barely used and in excellent condition. The shirt and tie had seen better days, but I figured that the clients were hardly going to notice my clothes. Besides, I smiled to myself, I doubted if they would be staying on long enough for the ladies to notice.
After two rotten years on the dole I had, at last, found my true vocation.
It had to be the best job in the world. How my mates down the pub envied me. Miss Courtney had interviewed me. And she certainly was a tidy piece of crackling.
"The work," Miss Courtney advised, "necessitates visiting ladies and acting as their escort. You will be expected to facilitate their every need. Understand?"

It is three years now since the sell-off the country's penal institutions. Three long years since Joanna and Laura bought the notorious Ravenmoor Prison. On first glance, it had probably not seemed like much of a buy at all. It was a huge, old place, isolated in the middle of a bleak moor. Not the sort of place which one would expect a pair of ex- models, turned business ladies, to be interested in. But they had foresight. They could see the potential of the venture.
The government bill which had allowed the privatisation of the prison service, stated quite clearly that any company or individual buying a "Category A" prison would have complete control to run the establishment as they wished. This is what had appealed to the two businesswomen in the first place. It seemed to them that conditions in prisons were actually quite luxurious. With appropriate downgrading and downsizing, they believed that the establishment could actually make a handsome profit. And so the reason for their purchase.

At the beginning of the Seventies (at the time of ultra-short miniskirts) there was a dog- trainer in Austria who provoked two totally
contrary opinions about herself. Interestingly enough, the two parties were divided according to sex: The first group, the women, condemned her as a heartless criminal, and fiendish dog driver, which she undoubtedly was, and they kept bringing cruelty charges against her. They called her all sorts of names and desperately hoped that she would, for once, get to feel the whip herself.
The second group consisted of the men, who adored this energetic girl; there were never so many men with their dogs at dog-training classes as when she was giving lessons. The men vehemently defended her methods of training, clearly because of her divine beauty and charms. She very quickly realised that they would do anything for her.
A second young lady joined the training classes. She was equally as beautiful and even more provocative and cruel. Then, as the wives of the men who attended the classes became more and more angry at their husbands' support of the two ladies' methods, they hatched a plan.

Mistress Aliria lit another cigarette and spoke: "I have some good news for you, slave." She spoke with much less severely than normal, though the sensuous lilt in her voice contained something peculiarly mocking in it.
The man lying naked at her feet gave no reply. looking up at her, with his hands shielding his face, he remained as motionless as his mounting apprehension would allow.
"Aren't you interested, Paul?" she teased. "Yes, Mistress, of course."
His nervous reply sounded reserved to the woman as she tilted back her head to emit a languid cloud of soft grey smoke through pursed lips. With a casual gesture she then flicked some ash onto his stomach.
"You may kneel," she ordered.
Paul scrambled to his knees with alacrity. He knew full well that any refractoriness on his part would only result in his brutal punishment later on.
If he had learnt one thing, it was that his Mistress's moods were never to be trusted. Once kneeling, he still kept his head bowed, not daring to look up without permission.
"That thing," she pointed to his limp cock with her cigarette. "I think it might be a good idea to get it out of the way. It's such a repulsive looking thing, is it not?"
"Yes, Mistress."
Her lip curled into a wicked smile. Paul felt instinctively that his Mistress was up to something.
"So see about that prick of yours, okay slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Now for your good news. Do you wish to hear it?" she cooed.
"Oh yes, please, Mistress."
"Well, you know how much you've always hankered after getting married. Your dream is about to come true!"

Her spiked heel playfully strokes his chest, softly parting the curly mat of hair as it hovers over his taut, white flesh. She bends her knee and brings her foot up.
The sole of her dainty shoe floats
above him, swaying slightly, like a fluffy, windswept cloud.
Thwack! She jabs her sharp heel hard into his ribs. He gasps and wriggles as she gouges the flesh between his bony ribs. One inch higher, or one inch lower, and the deadly stiletto would have smashed through a bone, snapping it like a dry twig.
His pitiful moans are annoying to her delicate ears. The tip of her heel ploughs a neat, red furrow up his middle. He chokes as she presses the cusp into his larynx.
The pressure on his throat increases. One slip on her part, or one ounce of excessive pressure and his voice-box will be punctured. Skewered like a piece of gristly kebab meat. His remaining days would be instantly transformed into a world of breathy hisses.
Never again would he be able to complain or beg for his Mistress's favour.
A smile spreads across her tender lips. Perhaps another day she would have deprived him of speech. But not today.

A Session with Ms. Natasha
I called her about 10am and asked if I could meet her this evening for a session.
I had planned to get away from the job in time to arrive at her dungeon at about 8:30 in the evening.
However, things got screwed up and I couldn't get away until 5:30 or so. I immediately high-tailed it south on I75. I called Mistress from my earphone and explained what had happened.
She didn't sound upset, but implied I would suffer for making her wait.
This was the first time I had ever met her, and I was somewhat apprehensive about seeing her. She made it clear she was a "lifestyle dominant" and she expected me to obey her every desire. She also made it clear she didn't plan on catering to my views on female domination, but would carry out a session based on what she decided I needed.

Whilst reading your letters and writing the editorial for this issue, Mistress Julia and Mistress Mirabelle tested the services of a volunteer slave. We asked all parties concerned for their comments.
MISTRESS JULIA: Rubbish! The stupid wanker was next to useless. When I was trying to work and I was using him as a footstool he kept moving. It was very tiresome to have keep repeating myself, yelling "keep still" at him. I expect a slave not to have to be told more than once.
CHERRY: Did you try punishing him as well as shouting at him?
MISTRESS JULIA: I gave him a dozen across the bare arse the first time. Shouldn't that have been enough to teach him not to disobey me.
CHERRY: Perhaps as there were two of you with your feet up on his back, the weight was too much for him.
MISTRESS JULIA: Balls! What's that got to do with anything? If I tell a slave to stay still, then that's what I expect. It's bloody annoying while you're trying to read, to keep feeling this shuffling under your feet.
CHERRY: Point taken. Any other complaints?