A study in contrasts

 Vive la différence!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The very lazy OWKerpillar

 In a cold prison cell, an OWK slave shivered on the floor.

One Sunday morning, the Ladies arrived slap! - out of his cell he went to be dressed as a very lazy caterpillar.

They started to give him orders.

 

On Monday, they made him crawl the length the corridor from one end of the Queen's Castle to the other ten times, kicking him to help him along.  But he was still lazy.

 

 

On Tuesday they beat him to make him wriggle to the top of the hill twenty times.  But he was still lazy.

On Wednesday, they made him flop his way around the mud on the edge of the pond thirty times, pushing his head down into the mud beneath their boots each time he came past.  But he was still lazy.

 

On Thursday, they held a contest in which he had to compete against other human caterpillars in races, boot-licking contests, testicle-tug-of-wars and 'most pitiful begging' competitions.  The losers each got forty strokes of the cane.  The winner also got forty strokes of the cane.  But he was still lazy.

 

 

On Friday, they suspended him from a tree, with weights clipped to his nipples and genitals and swung him around and around with punches and kicks, until he had come up with fifty amusingly shameful names for a human caterpillar.  But he was still lazy.

On Saturday, they just lost it.  They strung him up by his ankles, whipped away what was left of his caterpillar costume with a cat o'nine tales then each took a bullwhip and went for him, flogging methodically up and down his body while he screamed for mercy, then they used a cattle prod on his genitals, kicked him in the face, pushed pins through his foreskin and scrotum, then dragged him back to his cell, pissed on him and left him there, weeping and moaning in pain.  That evening, he regretted coming to OWK more than he had ever regretted anything in his life.

 

On Sunday, he lay alone, cold and hungry in his cell.

Now he remembered he wasn't a human caterpillar but a successful businessman called Christoph.  Outside, he had money, houses and cars - he dressed in fine clothes, not rags and tatters; he ate at Michelin-starred restaurants, rather than gulping slops off a concrete floor and no one hit him, put clamps on his flesh or trod on his face.  He resolved to tell these crazy Czech Ladies he had had enough and he would rather cancel the second week of his 'punishment stay'.  They could keep the fucking money - he wanted out.

So later that day, when they came to open his cell, he looked up, smiled confidently, started to speak and...

They hit him in the face, shoved a ball-gag into his gaping mouth, pulled a leash tight around his bollocks and dragged him off to the Courtyard, to carry bricks from one side to the other in the rain.

He was a stupid, useless male object.

I thought we should finish with a happy picture: well done Madame Christine!

Celebrating difference

First in what might be an occasional series.

 

 

Sooo... just on this one above. In case there is anyone out there who is considering visiting a pro-domme for the first time and takes this image to reflect the reality that awaits him and is put off as a result... well, sorry, I don't mean to be rude but are you completely out of your fucking mind?  Seriously.  Do you really take this blog as a guide to the reality of femdom?  I mean, it obviously isn't, right?  Quite apart from the fact that it says it isn't, some of the material here breaks physical laws of the universe let alone the bounds of 'realism' or even 'sanity'.  Get a grip.

Sorry, where was I?  Right, anyway: the first domme you visit will be lovely, OK?  And she'll do everything she can to put you at your ease (except for the 'good' nervousness, if you know what I mean) - and she'll be good at that, because she's done it before, yeah?  And she knows what she's doing and - oh just book it and go, you'll have a wonderful time.

Everyone clear about that?  Good. Moving on.

Another World

Trigger warning: this story features descriptions of activities that are quite extreme even by the standards of this site.  Readers are warned that some of the behaviour here reaches heights of perversion that even I find unsettling, although fortunately the more graphic elements are presented at one remove so to speak (on a television programme) rather than directly.  Also, I have taken the decision to intersperse the text with unrelated images of more wholesome, healthy activities, so that readers can be reassured and reminded that the disgusting things being described are no more than a twisted sex game, acted out in a fantasy setting in a far-off country of which we know little.

You have been warned.

Not that that has ever stopped you, right?

 

 

 

“Hi Vanessa”, Sylvie called over her shoulder, hearing the door slam. 

Her wife appeared in the doorway, shrugging off her heavy coat for a slave to dive for - he managed to catch it just before it reached the floor.  “Hey babe!  Busy?”

“Just watching TV” Sylvie replied, nodding towards the screen.  “Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yeah, more or less”, Vanessa replied absently.  “They didn’t have all the branding iron shapes I wanted, but they had those sigmoid curves I really need for this weekend and they’ve ordered the rest.  Oh – and I finally remembered to get new batteries for the cattle prod.  So you can stop nagging me about that.”

Sylvie smiled, at the implied compliment - both ladies knew that she would never dream of nagging her wife.  She was proud to be married to an artist and loved to watch her at work in her studio.  With seemingly random touches of a glowing brand here and there, the burns on a screaming slave’s flesh could suddenly turn into a pastoral scene, a wicked caricature of  a public figure or just a complex and intriguing abstract design.  Vanessa's current project – a huge canvas which had been prepared using a high calorie diet over several months, was currently hanging by its ankles in her studio.  She had been working on it for a week already and had at least another three weeks to go - after which, she would exhibit it in one of the top galleries on Bond St where it would undoubtedly sell for an astronomical price.

“Anything good on?” Vanessa asked.

“It’s that programme about weird, kitsch stuff” Sylvie replied.  “EuroTrish.”

“Oh yeah – yodelling nuns and suchlike, right?” her lover replied.  “I quite like that – shove up.”

Sylvie wriggled along the couch, in her tight leather shorts: a sight that caused Vanessa to consider proposing heading for the bedroom instead, but her attention was caught by the scene on the TV, so instead she sat down in the space vacated by her wife, put her feet up on the naked slave cowering in front and shouted “Cigarette” to the room in general.

“So what’s that” she asked, nodding towards the screen, as a slave scurried to kneel by her side, cigarette in one hand and lighter in the other.

“Oh this is really strange” Sylvie replied. “It’s a place called The Other World Kingdom – in the Czech Republic I think.  It’s, like, this place where males and females are equal.”

“What – you mean there’s only one slave per citizen?” her wife replied in puzzlement.  “That must be difficult for them.”

“No, no” Sylvie replied.  “Look – I’ll rewind.  Back five!”

A slave hurried forward and pressed buttons on the TV, reverting the programme to five minutes before, then returned to his waiting position.

On screen was a low-quality image of a woman standing by the gateway of some kind of manor house.  It was blurry and slightly jerky, reminiscent of videotape technology from the 1980s.  She was speaking but her lip movements were thoroughly out of sync with the sounds from the TV, which were obviously badly dubbed into English.  But it was the words themselves that caused Vanessa to draw hard on her cigarette in shock, before resting it in the open mouth of the ashtray slave at her side.

“Here in the Other World Kingdom, women and men live in a state of perfect equality with each other.  Men are citizens, nothing less, to be treated by women with the respect and kindness that they deserve.  And they themselves desire nothing less than to spend each waking moment in full command of their own lives and destiny, unenslaved and free.”

“Good Goddess!” she exclaimed.  “Why would anyone want to live somewhere like that?”

“I don’t think it’s really serious.” her companion replied.  “Just a place people can visit, to act out weird sex fantasies.  'BDSM', you know? ‘Benevolence Decency Sympathy and Mercy’ – it’s a kink in which women get off on not hurting men, treating them with respect and so on.  I was reading an article about it – there are some girls who get turned on by that sort of thing.”

“It’s just sick!” Vanessa replied, in horror.  She took a few more puffs of her cigarette, then laid it aside on the shaking palm of the slave kneeling beside her.  “And what on earth is she wearing?”

“Clothes made out of cloth, as far as I can see”, Sylvie replied.  “Cotton, mainly.  Nothing made of leather or latex at all.”

“You mean like underwear?  I don’t think I’d like to walk around like that.  Look – those jodhpurs she’s wearing are so loose you can hardly see the shape of her arse, let alone her thighs.  It's not decent.”

“They’re called trousers, apparently. Even though they're not made of leather like normal trousers” Sylvie said.  “And some of the women wear skirts too, but they’re shockingly long - most finish well below the upper thigh.  It's all part of the fetish.  I suppose it's OK in the bedroom, if that's what they're into, but imagine walking around outside wearing something like that; I'd just die of embarrassment.”

“Has she got her boots tucked inside these, 'trousers'?” Vanessa asked.

Her wife shook her head.  “She's not wearing boots - just shoes,"

Vanessa looked confused.  "Then I suppose her legs must be awfully short."

"No, it's nothing to do with her legs.  Her shoes don't have high heels - they're flat." Sylvie replied, quietly. 

“No... no high heels at all?  But without boots or high heels... I mean, how does she stride?”

“She doesn’t” Sylvie replied.  “Just walks along on the flats of her feet.  She must have to practice for ages not to fall backwards, but again, I think it’s all part of the kink.  You know: not wearing towering high heels is a way of artificially making herself not taller than the men?  So it’s easier not to dominate them, I suppose.  And I suppose her shoes don't make a menacing sound when she walks across a wooden floor - that's pretty creepy, isn't it?"

"But that’s not the kinkiest thing about it, though: just watch.”

The screen showed in low resolution the presenter walking (in her flat footed way) along a path leading to a grand doorway, while the dubbed commentator burbled something about ‘an atmosphere of mutual respect’.  By the doorway, waiting to greet her, was –

Vanessa’s jaw dropped open.  “Is he wearing…?”

“Clothes” Sylvie nodded.  “It’s a big part of the kink – dressing men up as if they were human.  Look – his clothes are similar to hers.”

It was true.  The ‘trousers’ were a little tighter, the jacket a more sombre colour than that worn by the woman, but the screen undeniably showed a man and a woman, both dressed similarly, apparently greeting one another as friends.

Vanessa felt slightly sick, but couldn’t take her eyes of the screen, as the camera drew closer in on the man.

“No collar… not even any restraints or fetters” she remarked in puzzlement.  “But how is he secured when he needs to be whipped?”

“Oh my sweet, innocent girl.” giggled Sylvie, clasping her hand and squeezing it affectionately.  “He’s not going to be whipped.  Not in this place.  Watch.”

The two watched the grainy video with rapt attention for a few minutes.  They saw women greeting men, chatting to them, smiling and nodding as they – and this made both ladies gasp in shock – listened to them as the men themselves spoke.  Fortunately, only the dubbed commentary could be heard, so no actual male speech emerged from the television, but the men in the video were clearly speaking, not merely to acknowledge orders or plead, but speaking and laughing with the women as if they were proper human beings.

It got worse.  The lady guide provided brief tours of the cellars, where dank concrete spaces that in happier days had presumably been prison cells had been converted to store wine; the club ‘Nas Styl’ where women and men sat at tables and conversed over food and drink as if it were the most normal thing in the world (revoltingly, the men were eating proper, cooked food, from plates); a bedroom in which the narrator pointed out how men and women shared the tasks of folding and tidying away clothes; and finally, the stables.

“Oh no” Vanessa said.  “Is that really…?”

It was.  Blurry as it was, the screen undeniably showed a carriage being pulled along by… a horse.  While behind, in a carriage, sat a man and a woman (fully clothed – by this stage, incredibly, this no longer seemed so shocking).

“The poor thing” breathed Vanessa.  “Look, it’s really pulling the carriage.  They’ve adapted the bridle and reins and things to fit it.”

Sylvie nodded uncertainly.  “I don’t think they can really treat them as carriage slaves, though” she said.  “I mean, not using whips or spurs and so on.  Not on an animal – that can’t be legal.  Even in the Czech Republic.”

Indeed, the horse had slowed to a gentle amble and nothing the man and woman could do with encouraging words and gestures seemed able to make it go any faster.  It looked to be a very dull ride, slowly plodding around the sandy track at whatever speed the horse chose, a sad and sick parody of a country ride at a brisk canter, whips cracking, spurs flashing and male lungs heaving with the effort of obtaining the oxygen needed for their charmingly exhausted, aching muscles.  Another World indeed.

 

“But of course” the narrator (or rather her English-speaking overdubber) continued, speaking directly to camera, “even in the paradise of equality that is the Other World Kingdom, men and women do not always agree with one another.  Sometimes a man might say something that annoys or upsets a woman.  Of course, this must be dealt with immediately, to preserve the harmony that is the OWK’s watchword.  So for such cases, there are special chambers available so that any woman upset by something a man has said or done can…”

“Oh thank goodness.” Vanessa sighed.  “I was beginning to think they – “

“…talk it out.” continued the narrator, cheerfully.  The television showed a room with comfortable chairs and a sofa, decorated in gentle pastel colours.

“Yes, here in the Other World Kingdom, arguments rarely happen – and they never last long before they are resolved with a vigorous discussion, conducted in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.  This room has been specifically furnished to create an atmosphere of kindness and forgiveness.  Here, men and women can listen to one another's their concerns and try to resolve them with empathy and understanding.  If a woman in the Other World Kingdom turns out to be in the wrong, she apologises - freely and without reservation - to everyone concerned, men included.”

“That’s…” Vanessa began, dumbfounded.  “That’s so fucked-up!  And women actually visit this place – for kicks?”

Sylvie nodded, sadly.  “They pay for the privilege, apparently.  What lonely lives they must lead, having to keep their perverted desires hidden from everyone.  Imagine being so screwed-up that you can only get off sexually if a male is happy and unhurt.  I wonder what can have happened in their childhood to make them fantasise about something so twisted.”

 

The ladies’ ruminations were interrupted by a sharp gasp from the slave kneeling at Vanessa’s side.  She glanced over in irritation, to see her long-forgotten cigarette still smouldering on the seared flesh of his now-shaking palm.

“Idiot” she said, curtly, picking the cigarette up, and flicking the long tail of ash that had built up into his open mouth.  She tried a quick drag, but the embers had gone out and all she could taste was the acrid and familiar tang of charred male flesh.  Despite her annoyance at being deprived of her nicotine hit, it reminded her of the beauty of her branding art.  Smell is the most evocative of the senses and – together with the barely suppressed whimpers of a male in agony, it brought her back to the colours and beauty of the real world – a place where women could love and be loved, in the healthy shared joy of despising, oppressing and torturing males.

She glanced at her wife, whose eyes met hers with amused affection.  “This idiot let my cigarette go out” she drawled.  “And he’s ruined his hand for housework – look!”  And she grabbed the slave’s shaking wrist and held his hand up so Sylvie could see the puffy white flesh, already forming blisters, where Vanessa’s forgotten cigarette had lain. 

“Whatever are we going to do about that?”

She clipped a leash onto the unresisting slave’s neck, then stood up.

“I was thinking we could take him off to the bedroom and… talk it out.  Talk it out thoroughly.” And she gave the leash a sharp tug.

“What a good idea!” giggled Sylvie.  She reached for a whip.  “We could listen to his concerns and resolve them in a spirit of mutual respect and cooperation.”

“Not forgetting the ‘kindness and forgiveness’” Vanessa added, rootling in her shopping bag for the batteries she had bought for the cattle prod.  “For which we’ll need these – I’m feeling particularly kind and forgiving today.”

And so the two ladies strode out of the room, their high heels clacking with delicious menace on the floorboards, their shapely buttocks superbly outlined in leather shorts and jodhpurs respectively, their leashed pain-toy dragged carelessly behind.

The television burbled on.  The blurry, badly-dubbed lady was explaining the uses of something called a ‘doormat’ which appeared to involve removing mud from shoes in a most peculiar way.  Sylvie and Vanessa's TV remote control slave knelt motionless, in an agony of indecision as to whether or not to turn it off.  If he did and the ladies still wanted to watch it, they would be furious with him.  On the other hand, if he did not, he might be beaten for wasting electricity.

He did briefly reflect on some of the scenes that he had witnessed on the television he was responsible for working.  Something about Mistresses in some far-off country who had presumably invented some new and complex method of torturing males that he had not quite been able to follow.  He had not understood much of what he had seen, to be honest.  He briefly wondered what a ‘kingdom’ was, for example.  Or ‘kindness’, for that matter.

A sudden agonised scream from the bedroom brought him back to reality.  That seemed to indicate that his Mistresses had moved on to other things but still… he had not received a specific order to turn the television off.  What to do, what to do.

As he dithered, the item from the Czech Republic ended and the presenters – two ladies with almost parodically strong French accents, seated for comic effect on slaves who were, respectively, massively overweight and skeletally thin – briefly bantered about it, before introducing the next item.  This featured an elderly couple in Sweden who had set out to paint all of the trees in their local forest pink – just the two of them. 

With only twelve slaves, it had taken them several weeks, but the results were impressive.

 

 

 

 

'Eurotrash' was a British series that ran in the 1990s that for one deliriously-wonderful episode, during Servitor's young adulthood (I'm now on my second childhood, or possibly third), included a brief feature on the OWK using footage from OWK introductory videos ( possibly this one - but I warn you it could be a slightly dodgy site).  However, their more normal fare is best seen in this item, for example, in which a former topless model interviews the then Prime Minister's brother about his garden gnome obsession.

 

Oh, and as it was Bastille Day this week, what about those 'almost parodically strong French accents'.... ?