I get new clients all the time, but not often ones that ask for hard play right from the start. That is unusual, at least when they are serious. I usually advise them to start more gently – hard play is very hard in my book, and not everyone can handle it.

But this guy was different. He wanted a kidnap scene. He also wanted it to be as realistic as possible. And he was prepared to pay.

I explained what a realistic kidnap scene might entail, mostly in an attempt to test his resolve, perhaps even to make him think again. But nothing I said persuaded him to change his mind. He wanted a hard kidnap scene.

Fine. Some like it hot.

I took some details and said that I would be in touch to talk through what I could offer after a week or so – I’m a busy woman, and I can’t just drop everything for a real time session that takes me away from the usual places I work. He seemed to understand and we left it at that.

I love kidnaps. I could feel myself tingling with anticipation, thinking of all the ways a serious scene could go.

The most important thing about a kidnap is that it is fundamentally a mindfuck. People assume it is about captivity or pain or fear, and all those things are important., but it is really about the mind. Without a mindfuck, a kidnap would just be a simple roleplay scene – interesting, but nothing really heart stopping. So they key to this would be to really twist his mind until he is begging for mercy, then twist some more. I’d forgotten how much fun a good mindfuck could be.

So what would I need?

Firstly, I would need Mistress Serena. A kidnap could get rough, and another pair of hands always helps. Besides, her deliciously evil imagination is always a pleasure to work with.

Secondly, forcing a male to do things is a lot easier if you can scare the shit out of him, and that is so much easier if you wave a gun in his face. A hard kidnap is much safer with gunplay, ironically, because the victim does not fight. And although the pistols I have are just replicas, there is no need to mention that to the victim. No one messes with a woman holding a gun.

Thirdly, a hard mindfuck needs sensitive information. Family, work, circumstances, anything that I can use to put pressure on the victim, to make them believe whatever I want them to believe. To put me in control of what goes through their tortured little mind.

A quick internet search with what I already knew about him got me where the guy lived, and a few more searches later I had his home phone number. Calling during the day, and pretending to be from the local council, I had a very pleasant conversation with the guy’s wife…

“Hello, I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Caroline Jenkins from Bedford County Council. We are planning new services and shops in the area and we are interested in the needs of our residents. Would you have five minutes to talk about which local services would be really important to you?”

Of course she would. And she was happy to tell me her name, all about where she went, where she and her husband worked, what they did in their spare time, even the name of their dog. Such a lovely woman. And for me, a mine of useful information. I could feel a plot forming in my wickedly twisted mind.

Serena was, of course, always up for a good mindfuck. We talked over my ideas… the angry wife, the exposed and shamed husband who pays for sex, the wife’s revenge, to have him kidnapped, tortured and killed. Implausible? You might think so, but when two angry women have you naked at gunpoint, it’s surprising what a man will believe. Serena would play the scary crazy bitch who wanted to kill him as quickly as possible, while I would play the cold considered one, who pretends to chat to his wife as we torture him. The perfect mindfuck.

The takedown was easy.

I invited him to talk about the scene that he wanted. A quiet place, just a disused carpark I know, with no cameras. I was the only car there. Serena was hiding in the back seat, gun in hand.

He parked next to us, looking nervous. I smiled and waved him over to my car, opening the passenger door. He got in gingerly and closed the door behind him.

Right on cue, Serena popped up suddenly from the back seat and pressed the gun into his face. “Time to die fucker!” she shouted. His reaction was exactly what you would expect, pulling away from the gun in terror, squeezing against the side of the car, his face twisted in surprise and fear.

“Please! No, what… what are you? … Please!!” The colour literally drained out of his face.

Both of us laughed coldly. “This isn’t a game,” I said calmly. “If you piss her off, she will kill you.”

Serena cocked the trigger of the gun, pressing it hard against his sweating skin. “Let’s just waste him now and get it over with.”

He recoiled again in fear, “No! Please! I’ll do what you want!”

“Oh we don’t want anything, honey. We’re just here to do a job,” I explained casually.

“J… job? What job?” He squirmed as Serena kept the gun pressed hard into his face.

“For Kate, your wife,” I said watching him stare in disbelief. “Once she found out about you paying for sex thrills, she was really very angry. I’ve never seen her like that before.”

“You… you told her?” he asked, trembling.

“I know, I’m sorry. But I had to. You see Kate’s an old friend. I used to work with her at the library. I was at Gill’s wedding a few weeks back – didn’t you notice me?” I smiled sweetly, as though a conversation at gunpoint was the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh fuck,” he said to himself.

“Yes, oh fuck indeed. You’re really pretty fucking stupid. And your wife… well, she just wants you to pay.”

“Yeah, PAY LOSER!”, Serena shouted, twisting the barrel against his face, making him wince in pain and fear. “I wanna waste him now!”

“Shhh,” I said softly. “You can kill him later. But first we have a job to do, remember?”

“No, please, don’t kill me. Please, I’ll do what you want. Just don’t… please.” He was starting to panic, which was understandable given the look on Serena’s face – her crazy bitch look is just divine!

“Well, you can help us a little,” I said politely. “It would be very helpful if  you can start undressing.”

His breath was heavy and terrified, and he stared at me for a second. “Undress? What?” he said confused.

“Remove your clothes,” I said plainly.

“Yeah, STRIP FUCKER!” Serena shouted. She really was the perfect crazy bitch.

His hands trembled as he reached up and started to unbutton his shirt. Both of us just grinned and watched him, Serena keeping the gun on his face all the time. He paused when he was topless, but I just looked down at his trousers and nodded, “Everything.”

Eventually he was sat bollock naked in the passenger seat, his clothes tossed on the back seat with Serena. “Hands behind the seat, please,” I said with icy politeness. He took his hands away from his crotch, passing them behind the seat, and I heard Serena close handcuffs around them.

“Wha.. what are you going to do with me?” he asked quietly, terrified.

“Whatever your wife wants,” I replied simply. “And one thing she doesn’t want is to hear any excuses,” I added, taking a roll of duct tape from Serena and tearing off a strip. “So that means no more chit chat.” I leant over and pressed the tape over his mouth, watching his eyes light up with more fear. “And because you are going to be taken to a very secret location for your… final moments, I’m afraid…” I said, tearing off another strip of tape, “we can’t have you seeing anything either.” I pressed the second strip firmly across his eyes, listening to his breathing becoming more and more panicked through his nose.

“So now we go on a little trip,” I said, starting the car.

“Yeah! And we can play a little game while we’re driving,” Serena said from the back seat, putting the gun back to his head. “She reached round with her other hand, and pulled his head back against the headrest, pinching his nose. “The game is called ‘quick or slow’,” she said sadistically into his ear. “You decide whether you want to die quick, with a bullet through the head, or slow, of suffocation.” He started to squirm on the seat, desperate to breathe and Serena piled on the pressure. “Just nod your head if you want to die quick,” she said loudly. The guy was terrified, shaking his head from side to side madly after a few seconds. “No? Decided to die slow?” Eventually he was thrashing about in desperation and she let him take a few breaths. “So what was that FUCKER? Quick or slow!?” She twisted the gun against his head again, and then grabbed his nose, laughing maniacally.

The torture continued for the whole journey, which must have taken 20 minutes or so. I was actually afraid the guy was going to piss himself in the seat, but Serena knew how to take a man to the edge and then drag him back, over and over again. It was one of the many skills I admired in her.

Our destination was a barn I use for various games.. It makes a nice change from a dungeon, and many people enjoy the idea of playing in a dirty barn rather than a nice clean dungeon. Mind you, as barns go, this one is unusually well equipped with chains, whips and restraints.

I parked outside and Serena finally let go of the guy’s nose. It looked like he was actually crying, based on the noises from his nose, but it’s hard to tell when the eyes and nose are taped. Let’s just say he was nicely softened up.

Lifting his arms up over the back of the chair, and grabbing him by the hair, I dragged him out of the car onto the floor, then across the floor on his knees into the barn itself. When we were in the middle of the space, I shoved him face down into the dirt and planted a spiked heel on his back.

“SPREAD THEM,” I shouted, and he nervously parted his legs. Serena had taken a very long spreader bar and was standing at his feet ready to attach it. “WIDER!” I yelled, until Serena could attach the cuffs, spreading him wide and vulnerable.

Then I lowered a chain from a thick wooden beam that ran across from one wall to the other. Attaching the hook to the centre of the spreader, I pulled on the loop of chain attached to the pulleys that let me hoist him with minimal effort. After a minute or so he was hanging upside down, his head just pressing against the floor, legs wide apart, hands still cuffed behind his back.

Neither of us said anything, we just grinning at each other. His breathing was still panicked. We walked around him slowly, deliberately, knowing he was listening desperately for any clue to what was coming next.

Suddenly I span round. “What was that?”

We both pretended to listen for a second or two. “Probably a rat,” Serena said. “There are some fucking enormous ones round here.”

“There! In the corner! Shit it’s massive – quick, shoot the fucker!!” Of course there was nothing there.

Grinning, Serena took a firecracker from her pocket and put it into the barrel of the replica pistol, lighting the touchpaper. She pointed the gun vaguely away from herself, smiling. The cracker went of with a surprisingly loud BANG, leaving a trail of blue smoke drifting out of the barrel.

“Fuck, missed the bastard,” she spat. Then she crouched down to the guy, poking the gun barrel into his face again, letting him smell the smoke. “Don’t worry loser, when I waste you I won’t miss,” she said coldly. If he had any earlier doubts about whether the guns were real, he didn’t now.

Taking out my phone, I pumped up the volume, crouched down and took a picture. The loud sound of the “click-click” that the camera app made caused him to jump and try to look towards me.

“Not a bad shot,” I said. “Let’s see whether Kate approves.”

I heard his breathing change again as I made a few beeps on the keypad, evidently sending someone a message. His wife, he guessed. Strange how that simple thought was so stressful for him. Actually I was sending a note to Serena, whose phone was muted. She grinned at me as she continued to pace around our naked victim. Then after a minute or so she just sent a message back to me, causing my phone to “bee-boop” loudly.

“Ah, she likes it!” I said loudly. “Obviously a woman who appreciates our talents,” I said to Serena who laughed loudly in response. “So let’s see what she wants, shall we?” I let him hear me keying another message and send it. After a few seconds, Serena messages me back. “Hmmm,” I said. “It looks like she wants us to be creative.”

Serena came over, “What did she say?”

She just says, “Make him suffer. Show me what you can do.”

“Hmmm. What on earth can we possibly do?” Serena asked, amused. “I’ve never made a man suffer before.” We both laughed loudly and watched him struggle and twist, dangling helpless.

“Start with this,” I said, passing her a particularly vicious spiked ball clamp. “That should get a reaction. I’ll video  it and see what she thinks.”

Serena grinned and walked over to the guy, whose balls were at a conveniently accessible height. She grabbed his sack, twisting and shoving the balls into the jaws of the clamp. He jumped i surprise and tried to get away, but of course it was hopeless. Serena quickly tightened the clamp until she heard him moan, then she stopped. “Time to start filming,” she said.

“Rolling,” I laughed back.

She gave the screw on the clamp two whole turns. The guy screamed into his gag, doubling up with pain and swinging and thrashing about, hanging from the spreader. Serena stepped back a little to let him dance with pain while I was, supposedly, filming the whole thing. I was actually just watching and laughing sadistically.

It took several minutes before the pain levelled off and he could hang without jerking around like a madman. When he settled into his hell, I calmly said, “That made a good clip, I’ll send it to Kate and see whether she likes it.” A few more beeps and I had supposedly sent her a message. Serena replied quickly.

“She likes it,” I said proudly. “But she wants more.” The guy growled loudly in helpless objection.

“More of what?” Serena asked innocently.

“Dunno. Hold on,” I said, sending another message. Serena replied quickly. “Fuck me, the woman is a sadist,” I laugh. “She just says, ‘I want another twist of that clamp'”. Down on the floor, the guy was shaking his head frantically, no, no, no.

“Sure, whatever she wants,” Serena said darkly, standing next to the guy again and caressing his tortured balls. “Are you filming?” I said I was. “This is probably going to be quite painful,” she said sweetly. “I do hope you enjoy it.” She stroked his tortured balls gently in the jaws of the clamp, listening to her victim snort and puff from the pain he was already enduring, terrified at what was about to happen.

Suddenly she twisted the clamp. He made a hellish scream, even louder than before, smashing his head against the floor and causing himself to swing violently around on the chain from above. Serena just grinned and laughed at him. “I’m really enjoying this,” she said. “I’m so glad we didn’t waste him earlier. We could torture him for days like this!”

Slowly the swinging stopped and I pretended to stop filming. “Just got to send that to Kate. I bet she loves it,” I said. We exchanged fake messages and my phone beeped with Kate’s reply. I laughed out loud. “Just remember he deserves it, she says. And she wants to talk.”

“Sure, give her a call,” Serena said.

I actually phone my own number at the office and hear the recorded message, but of course the guy had no idea.

“Kate? Paris. Hi. Yeah. So what do you think of the show so far?” I laughed.

“Thanks. Yeah that’s him still groaning in the background. Annoying isn’t it? I’ll get my friend to sooth him.”

I gave Serena a look. She kicked the guy in the back of the head, shouting, “Shut the fuck up, loser!”

“Yes, it’s gotta be absolute agony. The clamp just keeps chewing on the balls until it’s removed, and well, you didn’t mention removing it.” I laughed again.

“Sure, happy to leave him for a couple of hours. No, that won’t be a problem. I mean it’s not like he’s going to need his balls ever again,” I burst out laughing. “Yes sure. Well, look, there’s a pub round the corner. We can go there and relax for a while, and talk over how you want us to finish him. Yes sure. So about ten minutes I guess? I’ll call you when we get there. Yes. Bye.”

I squatted down close to his head. “That looks very painful,” I said with mock sympathy. “I imagine you’re regretting betraying your wife now, aren’t you?” He just continued to moan and snort into his gag, his body now covered in sweat.

“So anyway, we’re going to let you hang there for a while.” That made him grunt and shake his head. “Just an hour or two. I’m sure you won’t mind waiting.” Again he shook his head and moaned into the gag. “We just want to discuss how to finish things off with Kate. She has some ideas. You never know, maybe she will just want it quick – a bullet to the head? Though she may want things to be a little slower. Some women do.” I tried to sound unconcerned about his obvious horror. “But anyway, we’ll be back soon and tell you all about it.”

We left him hanging and moaning, getting into the car and driving away.

There really was a pub just down the road, and we had several glasses of wine, chatting about all sorts of things, all the time aware that our victim was suffering and waiting for our return with dread. There is a particular pleasure in relaxing while someone else is suffering, at your mercy.

We stayed for about an hour and a half, finally driving back to the barn. He was still hanging there. Quieter now, perhaps exhaustion or maybe he was just resigned to his impending doom?

“Did you miss us, fucker?” Serena shouted. “Can’t wait to end all that pain?” She kicked him in the head again. “So we’ve got some instructions from your lovely wife.” He reacted, breathing more desperately. “And there’s good news and bad news.” She laughed with her crazy bitch laugh and squatted down close to his head. “So the good news is that we do get to waste you – nothing I hate more than catching a man and then not being able to kill the fucker.” She banged the side of his head with the pistol. “Hey, you paying attention?” Of course he was – he was panicking, you could tell, with a mixture of tears and snot being sucked in and out of his nose. “Unfortunately,” she said loudly, “the bad news is that she wants us to make it quick.”

“But at least it means we can go back to the pub?” I suggested, amused.

“I’d rather waste him slow. That house wine was shit. Can’t I just shoot his dick off first?” Standing up, she pushed the barrel of the gun into his clamped ball sack. The pain must have been searing, and he bucked and whined into his gag, trying to beg her not to.

“No you can’t”, I said firmly.

“Awww… why not?” she said, in a girly voice.

“Because I’m filming it, and we said we’d finish him quickly as she wants.”

“But you don’t have to film when I blow his dick apart. Oh come on Paris, it’ll be fun.” She twisted the gun barrel against his tortured balls and you could hear him screaming with pain and fear.

“Sorry. No.”

“Jees, you’re no fucking fun.”

“You can shoot him through the eyeball if you want, though.”

“Hey! Deal. Let’s do it. Get him down!”

By now he was absolutely shitting himself.. I ran the chain hoist down until his upper body lay on the floor face up, with his legs still chained up in the air.

“That should be enough,” I said, walking ominously over to his head. “So this is the end,” I said down at him, kicking the side of his head gently. Predictably he started shaking his head and screaming insanely into the gag. “Anything final you’d like to say to your wife?” I said. “Go ahead, she’ll be watching this video later tonight.” Of course all he could do was cry pathetically and dribble through his nose.

“Awww, ain’t that sweet,” Serena said sarcastically. “I think he’s begging for mercy. Well TOO LATE FUCKER,” she screamed.

“Hold him,” she said, and I pinned his face to the floor with a spiked shoe across his mouth. She lit another firecracker and placed it on the floor just above his head. Then she took the gun and pressed the barrel hard against one of his taped eyeballs. I could hear him screaming and begging into the sole of my shoe as we both waited for the cracker to explode, grinning at each other.


He jerked with the shock of the noise and at the same moment a stream of piss dribbled down his stomach. I took my shoe off his face and watched him, his mind obviously screaming with confusion. Neither Serena nor I said a word, just watching him for a minute, maybe two.

When I thought he was finally capable of paying attention, I crouched down to speak.

“And THAT is how you do a hard kidnap scene,” I said softly. I let that sink in for a while. “And next time you visit a professional and she advises you to think again about a scene, take it seriously. GOT THAT?”

He didn’t move for a while, his breathing slowing now. Finally he nodded.

“Good. Your clothes are in the corner. These are the keys to your cuffs. You’re in the middle of nowhere, and you’re walking home. Your wife knows nothing.”

I dropped the keys on his chest. It would be a struggle, but he could release himself.

Serena and I then walked to the car, laughing.

A mindfuck is just awesome when done properly.



Confession, Obsession. (part 1)

Here’s a story by my friend Brainsex – I think you might like it. Tell us what you think? ( this is not one of my session )

Prisoner X90 was like any other who had been thrown into the
interrogation cell. No one at the Truth Facility knew his real name,
no one cared. What the female interrogators in the former port
warehouse knew was that X90 had something to tell, that he was an enemy
of the state, that he would break. The well-trained women officers
were legendary in the hidden, closed and narrow world of torture. That
old saying that the female of the species was more brutal than the
male had never been truer in this dark, cold and isolated building.

X90 was soon to discover the truth of this old maxim. He would break,
he would squawk, he would pour out his secrets – above all, he would
suffer for his knowledge; the women of the Truth Facility was see to
it. X90, dressed in prison garb – loose fitting trousers and button-less
shirt – was thrown into the interrogation chamber – known by the
guards as ‘The Pain’. It was a small room – about 4 m square with bare
brick walls, wooden floor, high ceiling whose lines were broken by a
thick supporting beam into which were fixed a series of metal hooks
and pulleys.

The room was lit in a way favoured by the Nazi and Soviet
torture cells – a bare and rather dim bulb. In the middle of the room
was a strong metal chair, on the walls a series of shelves containing
black metal boxes. One wall had a pair of manacle cuffs attached to it
and there were some ominous looking tools – hammers, nails, knives and
rubber truncheons contained in a crate on the floor.

It was into this cold and menacing space that X90 was pushed. He was
shoved into The Pain by one of the Truth Facility’s most experienced
interrogators, Lady Wolverine. There was something ironic in the names
that the sorority of torturers gave themselves: Old Mother, Miss
Piggie, Helga the Welder, Mac the Knife. But of all these well trained
ladies, Lady Wolverine was one of the most experienced. She had broken
more men than she could remember. Her name suggested a
wolf-like nature; she enjoyed stalking and surrounding her victims,
she revelled in making them howl like a wounded creature in the
forest, she had strong and very sharp teeth.

There was something canine about her love of the scent and sight of blood. Blood letting – the very smell and colour of it, the way it would flow from the wounds she had created on the body of a prisoner, nothing was more exciting
to Lady Wolverine . The old canard of ‘the bitch on heat’ came nowhere
near to how she felt as she bloodied, bruised and mangled her
‘subjects’. X90 was about to enter the world of Lady Wolverine- he would be in that world for several days, he would be beaten, savaged, whipped and
tormented. His time with Lady Wolverine would begin without ceremony – it
would begin with her putting on a pair of neat, black leather gloves,
it would begin with a punch in the face. It would continue with a
shower of punches – each harder than the last. It would continue with
the arrival of a second interrogatrix – Mac the Knife. His suffering
was only just beginning.
X90 was about to enter the world of Lady Wolverine- he would be in that
world for several days, he would be beaten, savaged, whipped and
tormented. His time with Lady Wolverine would begin without ceremony – it
would begin with her putting on a pair of neat, black leather gloves,
it would begin with a punch in the face. It would continue with a
shower of punches – each harder than the last. It would continue with
the arrival of a second interrogatrix – Mac the Knife. His suffering
was only just beginning.

X90’s introduction to the world of Wolverine ended as he was kicked to the
floor with a powerful boot in his groin. Covered in purple bruises,
his lips swollen and bleeding, his eyes puffy and already darkening,
ribs tender and balls ballooning with pain; he fell into a deep sleep.
It was the final moments of Day One, what the interrogation experts
called ‘the softening’. He had not been asked anything, not questioned
about his spying activities, not even asked his name and number. Wolverine
had in fact said not a word; she let her fists and boot ends make it
clear who was in charge of his body – perhaps not yet his mind but
that would doubtless come later.

The prisoner fell into a deep but uncomfortable sleep – he was after
all simply prostrate on the cold, concrete floor of the torture
chamber. A single bulb flooded the cell with strong, white light but
there was not a chink of daylight to be enjoyed. His slumbers were
disturbed by the sound of the strong metal door of the oubliette
opening suddenly. As his bulging eyes tried to open (the sticky goo of
blood had glued them shut) he barely discerned, he caught his first
glimpse of two bodies framing the opened door. One he had seen before,
knew only too well: Lady Wolverine looked beautiful but full of menace;
she wore a crisp white blouse see-through enough to see her naked
breasts behind. Her rounded nipples seemed erect and pumped up – her
body was taut and ready for action – torture action. She wore a
military cap and a pair of loose-fitting trousers short enough to see a menacing pair of army boots.

The second figure was new to X90 – a slim, rather fragile-looking
young woman, a gamine with short red hair, a plain, grey teeshirt,
black shorts held up by a thick, brown leather belt. There was some
relief in X90’s mind that this second interrogatrix was a gentler soul
than the brutal Wolverine; a standard pair of trainers and white socks
gave the impression of a normal young woman – very pretty, nice dark
eyes and even a hint of lipstick. Was she going to be the ‘good cop’
to ’ bad (very bad) cop? His glimmer of hope was soon dashed when his half-closed eyes caught a glimpse of something reflecting the
light, some kind of mirror perhaps? As his eyes focused on the new
woman’s belt he suddenly realised what it was –the gleaming and
shining steel of a short-handled knife – serated like a vegetable
peeler. He had made his first acquaintance with Mac the Knife.

‘Prisoner X90 is to stand’, barked out Lady Wolverine . This curious form
of words was one that would become familiar to the spy. It was a house
rule that superior women would not address ‘subjects’ directly. The
passive tense was used to emphasise the distance between torturer and
victim. Thus Wolverine would say, ‘X90 will reveal the name of his
masters’ or ‘X90 will stop crying’…X90 stood as he was bid.

‘Prisoner X90 – will be asked to stand erect and to attention. That
will be the stance that this spy will take whenever his questioners
enter the room.’ This voice was softer and gentler than the Wolverine
strain. The slim young woman with the knife in her belt, Mac the
Knife, was the speaker. Yes, she was going to be the ‘good cop’. Wolverine
stayed in the doorway while Mac approached her standing subject. She
looked caring and even sympathetic: ‘Prisoner X90 has many marks on
his face, they look painful. X90 has had a nasty accidental fall?’ A
faint but warm smile came over the face of the lady with the knife.
X90 smiled back and nodded. This was a mistaken move.

Without warning the petite young woman slapped X90’s bruised face with
the back of her hand – her bony knuckles seared into the man’s soft
cheek making him double up in pain.

‘X90 will stand erect’ – the order barked by Wolverine was to be obeyed.
As he stood up again he saw the young woman, again looking at him with
apparent sympathy but this time holding out her small knife.

‘X90 shall not smile at his questioners, nor shall he look them in the
eyes. Rule 23B of the Interrogation Code. The punishment for this
transgression shall be a light cut. X90 shall put out his arm, his
left arm.’ The prisoner didn’t quite understand what he was being
asked to do. Hesitation was not an accepted response.

‘Very well – the prisoner has railed to conform with Rule 23B. I shall
now provide a remedy for his disobedience under Article 15 of the
Torture Codes’. Though none of this made any sense to X90, the next
action of the young woman spoke clear volumes; she took her knife and
in a lightening move made a cut across his already sore face. As the
blood began to ooze, the prisoner went to cover his face with his
hands. A mistake.

‘X90 has no permission to touch his face. Hands down!’ This order was
said with cold firmness by the young knife artist.

‘X90 shall put his hands out in front of him’. This command was
bellowed by Lady Wolverine – her first words that morning.. He did as he
was told. Wolverine approached, looked him in the eye, bared her teeth and snarled. She took an outstretched hand and delivered a savage bite to his forefinger. ‘X90 shall put his hands down!’

Bleeding now from the face and the new wound on his hand, X90’s
raddled mind reassessed the situation: he was at the mercy of bad cop – much worse cop!

Lights, Camera, Agony!

The Oubliette is an ideal place to make a powerful mistress/slave
movie as I discovered recently.

The filming began in the Oubliette’s ante-chamber – a room equipped
with full-height cage and torture bed.My cameraman (another slave) was
at the ready and it was really exciting to think that soon I’d be
watching a genuine torture session in my favourite play space.

Before the camera started rolling, I commanded the slave to
undress. He was nervous being somewhat inexperienced in the art of
masochistic delight – but he did as he was bid.. Suitably stripped, he
was placed in what interrogators call a ‘stress position’. One leg was
manacled in such as way that it was bent backwards, his heel locked
against upper thigh. He was strapped into a leather harness that
trapped his arms behind his back. He looked for all the world like a
stark naked one-legged Long John Silver. He was bound and ball-gagged
and slightly shaking perhaps with anticipation or was it fear?
I laughed (couldn’t help it) anticipating more fun to come with this
pathetic pirate.

It was time to ‘roll ‘em’ and get started in earnest.  I was dressed
in a striking outfit of leather jerkin, black hotpants, patterned
tights and heels and looked ready for action. I didn’t need a
clapperboard to start torturing the wretch before me.
Well, I was angry.  – the slave had been seeing other mistresses. That
is why he had been locked in the cage for – long enough to make him
look very sorry for
himself. Still, flirting with other mistresses was against all the
rules and wishes of his supreme goddess. I chided him severely as he
tried to apologise for his actions through a muffled mouth held tight
by the gag.

His Mistress then abused him for disobeying her orders by
attaching a pair of vicious nipple clamps and then giving the exposed
sole of his foot a firm slap. He did his best to howl in pain but it
came out more like a whimper.

Suitably chided, the slave was released from the cage and the painful
contortions of this leg position. His Mistress led him by the collar into
the main chamber of the Oubliette – the dungeon proper. I then  told the
slave to stand between two metal uprights. He looked nervous..the
correct response as I then got some lengths of rope and tied one
around his left testicle with its other end to the upright. I then
repeated this with his other ball and made sure that both ropes were
pulled tight so that his bollocks separated. His
legs were manacled and his hands tied. He was trussed in a painful and
oddly bizarre way. He was all mine!
Again his nipples were clamped and I giggled as I pulled hard on the chains. He
winced and let out another gurgle of pain through the rubber ball gag
in his mouth.

It was now that the real action began. I started to whip his body with
a flogger – all over his naked trunk and legs. Some of the blows fell
on his clamped nipples which must have really hurt: just what the
unfaithful slave deserved. But there was more pain to come.

All the time, I kept telling him that seeing other mistresses without
permission was a grave error, Mistress continued to abuse the naked
numptey with an electro-wand and next a vicious taser. This last
torture device was offered slowly but with menace. I insisted that the
slave ask for, no beg for, the taser on his cock and removed the gag
so that he could be heard begging. He could also be heard crying out
in pain as the buzzing volts went into
the  soft tissue of his penis. It’s all on film.

P(ee) for Pleasure, P for Pain

‘Water, water everywhere, but ne’er a drop to drink’. My mind went
back over that old poem when I led a very intense session involving a
slave’s very full bladder. In the process I think I may have invented
a new form of BDSM – not so much ‘watersports’ as ‘water torture’.
This slave, let’s call him ‘PeeNis’, loves to see his mistress in
shiny, smooth latex. I duly obliged by and greeted him in my tightest,
figure-hugging cat suit, high heels and accompanying whip. Before
PeeNis could see his goddess, he had a task to fulfil – I ordered him
to put on his own latex suit and then drink two pints of water just
before he left his house. I know that he is two hours’ drive from my
dungeon. I also commanded him to stop half way, and buy another two
bottles of water, drink it down, get back in the car but absolutely
NOT to have a pee. I wanted video proof on his phone that he had done
what he was bid – drink and drink but not piss.
As you can imagine with so much water in him, by the time he got to
the Oubliette, he was bursting to go. But go he would not. Instead I
thrust a pint rubber suit into his shaking hands and ordered him to
put it on over his own latex body hugger. The sissy pink suit bear my
own initials ‘PF’ for Paris France (but could also mean Pissing
Bladder full already, and aching to go, literally aching, I tied him
to the St. Andrew’s Cross in my wicked dungeon and asked him if he was
thirsty. His reply was not good enough, ‘No mistress’, he whimpered.
Wrong answer. I took his cock out of the double suit and gave it a
good hard slap. Then I repeated my question. ‘Are you thirsty?’ The
message had got home and he nodded. If only he could pee, if only he
could cross his legs! A few more harsh slaps on the cock end,
encouraged him to beg for more water. And so he drank another bottle.
I could see from his face that by now the pressure to piss was
intense. ‘What’s up, have you forgotten how to piss? Maybe Mistress
can show you’, I said laughing into his face. And so I release the
gimp from the cross, took him outside into the garden slave pit, push
him into it and proceeded to urinate all over his rubber-enclosed
body. I laughed again as my own fountain covered his worthless face.
‘Look at you, dirty boy’, I said and then took my hose and gave him a
dousing with freezing cold water. Time now I thought for milking that
shrivelled cock doing its very best not to let go its own Hoover Dam
of piss. I could see he was more than bursting to go but allow him I
would not. Instead I attached my Venus Milking Machine to PeeNis’
aching penis. It is, as you can imagine, very hard for a man’s cock to
get very hard when all he thinks about is urinating. But with the
machine fixed firmly round his bell end, pumping away powered by
electricity, he had no choice but to reach climax. I guess that when
it comes to a choice of orgasm or peeing, the body goes for the
former, well it did in the case of PeeNis slave. He shuddered in
ecstasy as his sticky load erupted into the Venus. Then I told him, he
could finally relieve himself the other way, but pissing out the water
in his bladder but not until he begged me for permission. I
reluctantly gave it after a couple of minutes of hearing his pleas,
and on my say-so, the piss gushed out of him like a fountain of Rome.
A double eruption, a Vesuvius of cum and then pee. After this his
whole body went limp with satisfaction. But his experience was not
over yet. Again I hosed him down with cold water then lead him back
to the oubliette, I then hog tied him and grabbed his hair pulling his head
right back so i had access to his mouth forcing him to drink two more litres
of water before i sent him on his way.

My Little Pony (boys)


It’s every little girl’s dream to own a pony. It was certainly mine.
Well now I own at least two but with only four legs between them! They
are human pony boys and last week I took them both out to my secret
location in the woods for a spot of carriage driving. Imagine being
driven in a pony and trap pulled by a naked boy eager to pull along
his mistress and fearful of the horse whip. I, of course, was only too
happy to crack the whip. Well, a pony has to learn who’s boss. My aim
was to train the perfect little pony – one that did exactly what it
was told and obeys his mistress’ instructions to the letter. When I
say ‘giddy up’ I mean it’ when I order, ‘trot’, they trot – or else.

Well, pony boy was waiting for me in the woodland glade and little
known to him, there was a fellow slave also stark naked in the forest.
The two boys had a further surprise – the presence of the stately
domina, Mistress Serena, looking especially gorgeous in her riding
jacket and boots. She also wielded a swishy horsewhip in case either
pony misbehaved, which of course they did.

My first instruction to my pony was to put on his leather harness.
This was then attached by Mistress Serena to the ornate two-wheeled
carriage – like Boudica’s chariot. We then chained the second naked
boy to the back of the cart. Then we were ready for my ride.

I took my seat and with a sharp crack of the whip against the pony’s
back, we were off. At first pony boy was a little too slow – lots of
puffing and panting as he laboured and sweated to transport his owner.
Feeling a little let down, I barked the order to go into a trot – or
else. A few swishes of my cruel whip did the trick and pony boy got
the message written as a red welt on his shoulders. I also made it
very clear that I expected him to lift his legs and to place his arms
in a horsey position. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride which was made
even more fun by the naked boy being pulled along behind. Words and
whips of encouragement were also given by Serena whose cruel streaks
never fail to amaze even me. I had even more fun by urging my pony to
do some dressage steps. His pathetic attempts at clip-clopping his
legs made his two mistresses laugh out loud at the pathetic pony
antics. After a while, pony boy got exhausted and so we swapped
horses. Rear boy became front boy. He was a little slow at getting his
harness fixed to the cart, so we gave him a few good whacks.

Mistress Serena decided she wanted to be in the driver’s seat. The
imperious madame ordered the new pony to go into a gallop. He
constantly let her down. That really angered me. I can’t stand ponies
who won’t learn. So when the drive was over, I tied the wayward pony
(more of an ass) to a tree. I also clamped his useless nipples and
gave him a sound thrashing with a riding crop. I had the great idea to
tie his clamped nipples to the tree so that each time he flinched at
the stroke of the crop, the chains pulled ever harder on his nipples.
He cried in pain – only to elicit more laughter from his two
mistresses. We then left him tied to the tree for at least an hour
while we two mistresses had a picnic, a pitcher and a wee pee in the

We felt that the ponies had been properly trained by now – more like
family pets. It’s amazing what a little horsing around can achieve.

A Grave Issue

Though burying alive is a great fear for many, for some of my slaves
it is a dream come true. Being buried under the earth is the stuff of
nightmares for many – all that darkness, the suffocating earth piling
up over your body, the air being slowly squeezed out of your lungs
until all that remains is….well you know the rest.

Recently a slave boy put himself in the cruel hands of myself and
Mistress Serena; we were both in the mood for a spot of dirty fun –
involving dirt!

Our victim was firstly humiliated verbally and physically. He was made
to wear some nicely sheer black stockings and lacey panties. He looked
very girly but his expanding cock left no room for doubt as to his
true gender – the miserable male.

Before we got on to the scary (for him) art of burial, we fancied
subjecting him to some serious torture. We marched the wretch into our
dungeon and strapped him firmly to the torture bed. Unable to move,
blindfolded into a world of blackness, gagged and tightly bound, we
placed one our evil little electro-shockers within a nail’s width of
his balls (which of course had been tied in a way to make them utterly
vulnerable to the attentions of his mistresses). Being blindfold, he
couldn’t appreciate the visual treats just out of reach: I was in a
sexy basque, black seamed stockings and black shoes with killer heels.
Mistress Serena, always savagely beautiful with her long hair swept
back over her face, donned a black shift and powerful pvc boots which
reached up to her sexy thighs.

Once we had done with our electro-tortures, we released the slave boy
from the bed and pushed him outside the dungeon into our fully
enclosed garden.

Cut off from prying eyes, the garden has the dual function of
relaxation and torment. I have recently installed something newly
wicked – a deep stone pit around the depth and length of a grave. That
of course was intentional. Maybe it’s because I’ve always wanted to be
an undertaker that I fancy burying men alive.

Before giving him an experience that is the pits! we had another treat
in store. We laid a plastic mat on the lawn and ordered him to kneel
facing us. We two mistresses tucked into a plate of food which like
good girls we chewed with great care. But instead of swallowing the
meal, we spat it out over the waiting body of the slave. His face and
body was soon covered in our masticated morsels. We sneered at the
pathetic sight below our booted feet – ‘dirty boy’ ‘filthy bastard’
‘shit on shit’ – that sort of things. We always enjoy the verbal side
of domming and we are good at it (actually Mistress Serena is pretty
damn brilliant at it – what a tongue!)

Then it was time for the burial ceremony. He was made to lie in
mistress’ special garden pit. Still blindfolded, he could only imagine
what was going to come next. Or could he? The next stage of our
pleasure was to get a spade and start covering the filthy boy with
soil. We laughed as each spadeful – over his legs, his chest, his face
– began to bury the squirming body below. His cries for mercy of
course simply encouraged us to do more digging and filling. It must
have been an amazing experience for him to be blindfold but knowing
that his gorgeous mistresses were gaining pleasure from turning him
into a living corpse. We called him all sort of names including
‘maggot’. That reference to insect larvae gave me an idea. Mistress
Serena and I foraged in the garden for some nice juicy insect, some
creepy crawlies that would crawl over the slave’s body. How we laughed
as we tipped the wriggling creatures all over his naked skin. He
whimpered and shuddered as quickly he realised what was happening. His
slave body had become an insect house. Well we all return to the worms
only he’s got there sooner than expected. I added some fun by uttering
lines from the burial service as I shovelled dirt over his prostrate
body. Ashes to ashes…dust to ..well, you know the rest!

Once he was sufficiently covered, we decided that perhaps a spot of
mercy was in order. But mercy tempered by our ever-imaginative minds.
I went to get my water hose and started spraying the grubby guy with a
powerful jet of ice cold water. Hearing him squirm with cold was a
delight. But as I told him, we were doing him a huge favour by
cleaning the crap off him. He should be grateful.

He should also be grateful for letting his powerful mistresses allow
him to make a dream come true. Burial alive. What fun? Whose next for
this pleasure?

Ashes to Lashes

They say there’s no smoke without fire. I have another motto: ‘there’s no smoke without fear’. I love a good smoking fetish session especially when it’s combined with my favourite pastime: reducing a male slave to a quivering jelly of fear. Nice fear though – the kind a worthless slave has been put on this earth for. And they love it.

A recent session of mine involved some of these favourite ingredients – leather, pain and smoking. I’m not a natural smoker – too careful with my health for that – but if it’s for the greater good i.e. reducing a man to a human ashtray, then I say, smoking can be good for you.

My slave arrived on time at La Oubliette with a clear set of instructions. These entailed laying out his appropriate outfit: a full-face gimp mask, leather chaps and mittens. He was ordered to strip, put this uniform on and be ready with his back to the dungeon door. He was at no time to see his mistress but I told him, ‘be assured, though your sight be denied, your other senses will be fully stimulated, not least the sense of touch.’

He did as he was told. Well, did he have a choice? I had adorned my body in a tight-fitting, black catsuit and a pair of wicked leather boots whose high stiletto heels gave me a towering appearance – not that he could see me. Wordlessly, I tied his mask tight – there are no eyeholes and no nostril holes either. The mask  has a narrow slit around the mouth but this too can be closed shut. I decided not to do this as I was in the mood to torment that slavering slave’s mouth. Did I ever tell you that mouth and tongue torture is a growing favourite of mine?

I began by paying close attention to his cock, balls and nipples. I attached some wickedly sharp steel clamps to his waiting bollocks. They quickly became weighting bollocks as attached some heavy things which pulled his testicles ever close to mother earth. I then took a keen interest in his nipples by clamping on a pair of vicious biters. He moaned but it had no effect on me – well in a way that’s not true: a slave’s moaning is music to my ears. I love it.

I then put on my leather gloves and placed my hand tightly over his mouth thus sucking the air out of him. I giggled as I observed him wriggle and struggle for oxygen. Blinded, in pain, breathing in the last pockets of air which were filled with the animalistic whiff of cow’s leather – what a treat for the slave. As a very experienced breath taker, I knew exactly when to release the hand. He took in a huge gulp of air. I smiled.

Next he was ordered in no uncertain terms to hit the deck. Sitting on my mistress settee (red leather of course), I ordered him to lie on the floor. I placed my leather boots on his naked torso making sure my sharp heels found their way to the nipple clamps and the ball weights. I heard the moans again and felt that all was right in mistress’ world.

Feeling relaxed on my sofa, I decided it was time to light up his life – and I mean light up. I took out a cigarette (a long, stylishly thin French smoker). I saw his body quiver as he heard me clicking on the cigarette lighter. He knew what was coming.

I drew in some deep inhalations of smoke and bent down to exhale into his narrow mouth hole. Then I replaced my leather-clad hand over that opening and made him take in the smoky air. True, I held my hand there a little too long and he started shaking in breathless panic. Of course, I always know when to let go.

As the ash on the cig grew, I ordered him to stick out his tongue which I proceeded to use as an ashtray. I stubbed out the cigarette on is worthless tongue and ordered him to swallow the fag end. He did as he was told. That was sensible as the Oubliette is very well equipped with instruments of punishment. In fact he hadn’t done such a good job on the ashtray front so I ordered him to stick out his tongue. I gave it a few smacks with the back of my leather hand. He was lucky not to have it clamped.

I was ready for a second cigarette but first played my heels over his face. He knew what to do – took them into his mouth to suck on them in worship of his Mistress. I ordered him to go on to his knees and give my boots a sound licking. He largely did as was told but occasionally fell below expectations which earned some hefty slaps across his masked chops.

I don’t know what came over me but I felt like giving him a little reward. Actually a huge reward – the chance to use his tongue on Mistress’ leather crotch. He did this with plenty of vigour so there was no need to slap his tongue this time.

As my cigarette began to burn out I chose to use the hot embers on his cock but first putting the fag end nearer and nearer to its goal. Again he moaned as the hot cigarette ash got near to his bell end. I cruelly teased him before moving the cig up to his waiting nipples. He was certainly having a hot time in La Oubliette.

The session ended with another order to swallow the remains of Mistress’ cigarette. It was, I told him, a great honour to swallow something that had been in his Goddess’ mouth.

As the long session came to an end, he was relieved of the nipple and ball clamps and told to dress and leave. He never saw my face but must have felt my presence on his singed bits for a few more hours or days to come. Warning: smoking can damage your health!