Introduction
To add to the treats in my last post. First, below are two real life accounts from Workplace Dommes. As I wrote in my last post, as regular readers know, I adore accounts of real life Domme/sub relationships, especially long-term relationships.
BUT, I truly adore real life accounts of other types of real life Domme/sub relationships. Accounts of real life female domination, where there is no ‘romantic’ relationship; such as a workplace initiated domination and submission arrangement.
So having trawled though my collection of real life accounts from my collection of Madame magazines of the 1970s and 1980s, below are two accounts of workplace initiated Domme/sub predicaments. Long term predicaments for the sub. I am spoiling you, because under the menu tab option above left, DOMMES LETTERS, as well as the two accounts below, there is one other work based account. When you hover on that DOMMES LETTERS tab, there is a drop-down option of Workplace Initiated Predicaments.
And in due course, There will be another drop down option, Workplace Dommes.
Formatting these accounts has taken hours of time for poor bitch-boy. Not that I feel any pity for him. He is my slave after all. Drudgery work is one of the things he is for, as well as suffering in many other ways for my pleasure.
Please let me know if these new features are worth me spending bitch-boy’s time on. I obviously can fill his days in other ways that please me!
Account 1
Dear Ms. Candida,
I expect you will think I am a bit too young to know very much about male domination and that sort of thing. I am nineteen next birthday. My ambition is to become really expert so I read your magazine from cover to cover every month. I even learn some parts off by heart! I get lots of magazines on the subjects of spanking, punishment and domination bought for me by this bloke I’m going out with. Your magazine is my special favourite. I first met this bloke about six months ago when I was working as a “temp” in Portsmouth. He is miles older than me — 54 to be precise — but we get on really well. I got the feeling that he was a bit “kinky” after I had been working at his office for a week or so. He seemed to have a thing about stockings and suspenders. He kept asking me if I wore them rather than tights. When i said that I did he said he thought I was fibbing. He bet me five pounds that I couldn’t prove it. It was the easiest fiver I have ever made. All I had to do was hitch up my skirt and give him a quick flash. A couple of days later I won another bet over frilly knickers. After a week after that I arrived into work to find a little gift on my desk. I opened the package and to my surprise I found what I can only describe as a “G-string”. It was a little leather triangle to cover the cunny with three tie-things. There was a note with it:
“I bet you would not wear this!” Well, I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge so I was off to the toilet to change without hesitation. Later on when I went into his office to take dictation I detected a definite glint in the naughty boy’s eye.
“Well?” he said. “Is it a bet?” “Not for five quid!” I said, firmly. I had no intention of flashing my bare bum for a fiver! “I was thinking of ten,” he said hesitantly. “Make it twenty-five and you’re on!” I replied.
He agreed. I knew he would. He was almost dribbling at the mouth by this time. Besides, he’s stinking rich and twenty-five quid means nothing to him. Mind you. I think I would have done it for a tenner. I’m not proud where money is concerned. But he didn’t know that, did he? I made quite a show for him. I lifted the back of my skirt ever so slowly and gave my bum a nice little wiggle. I’m quite pleased with the shape of my bottom, by the way. Some people might think it’s a bit on the plump side but I’ve found blokes seem to like it that way. He certainly did. He was panting like a stallion and his words of praise were music to my young ears. Suddenly, I let my skirt drop back into place and I noted his sigh of disappointment with great satisfaction.
“Twenty-five quid, please!” I snapped.
“I’ll double it if you’ll let me touch!” he blurted out. “Just once! Pleeese . . Pleeeeeeese . . . !!!”
FIFTY QUID! Wow! For one touch! What girl in her right mind would refuse? His hands were really gentle so I let him stroke and fondle me for about five minutes. Ten quid per minute — not bad, eh? I would have let him have longer but the buzzer on his desk sounded off. He had a visitor waiting to see him. Poor thing! His trousers were bulging fit to burst. “You’ll have to do something with that”, I said playfully. “What do you suggest?” he asked. “There’s a loo down the hall,” I replied, “you can do what all naughty boys do at times like this”. “But, if I do that I’ll have to be punished afterwards,” he said, pouting like a disobedient fourth-former.
“Only if you get caught in the act!” I quipped.
The buzzer went again. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have time anyway!” “You’ll have to wait until lunchtime,” I smirked. “But be careful! It will only be us two here and I might pop in to see what you’re up to!” At lunchtime I waited until the other girls had been gone for about ten minutes. Then I locked the office and sneaked along the hall to the loo. It was occupied. I knocked firmly on the door.
“Who’s in there?” “It’s me,” he replied as if in panic. “What are you doing?” “N-nothing . . .”, he stammered. “Liar!” I hissed. “Open this door at once!”
He slipped the catch and the door opened. Quite frankly, I cannot hope to describe what I saw. He looked too ridiculous for words. Try to imagine, if you can, this middle-aged, balding, tubby man with his trousers and underpants at half mast with his right hand clamped firmly around his tool and his left hand cupped beneath the swollen head to catch the come. I could hardly stand up for laughing. It really killed me to see him like that. Caught bare-bummed with his prick in his hand!
“Don’t tell! Please, don’t tell!” he begged. “I’ll give you anything you want! Pleeeese . . . .!!”
At this I calmed down. Obviously, there was profit to be made. “Sorry!” I said with great piety — all false of course. “I must tell! I shall telephone your wife.”
“No! No! Please! Don’t do that. . .!!”
Well, I thought he was going to have a heart attack on the spot so I reassured him that I had only been joking. However, I also let him know that I would be expecting a few favours and surprises as a reward for my discretion.
“You’re a very bad boy! We shall have to find a way to punish you,” I added.
At this his attitude changed from one of panic to obedient submission. “I’m very sorry. Miss,” he mumbled. “I promise to be good from now on.”I liked this new attitude.
“Promises!” I snapped. “Promises are like pie-crust. Easily broken! You need something to remind you. I’ve got just the thing for you, my lad. Go to your office . . . and don’t bother to pull your pants up. You will only have to take them down again for what I have in mind!” He shuffled off holding his trousers at half-mast. His bum wobbled beautifully. It was a pinkish white colour and smooth like a baby’s bottom. I would soon change that!
I have always preferred the old- fashioned, wooden hairbrushes to the modern plastic things. I had one in my bag on that day. It was a real beauty. Nice and heavy with a wide, flat back — perfect for the job at hand. I took it with me into his office where he waited, trembling like a leaf. His tool was still up like a rod.
“I see you are still in the same state,” I said. “We shall see what a little taste of the hairbrush can do. Bend over the desk!”
He obeyed and presented my brush with a pair of quivering targets which were impossible to miss. Folding back the tail of his shirt, I took a position close to his left and placed my free hand in the small of his back. His whole body shuddered as I laid the brush lightly upon his right bottom- cheek in order to take aim. It’s not so long ago that I was on the receiving end of a spanking myself — my mum used to warm my bum quite often when I lived at home — so I know just how the poor man felt as he waited for the first smack. A mixture of fear, excitement, panic and anticipation which races through the entire nervous system makes it impossible to relax.
Time seems to be suspended. You feel weak and very, very vulnerable. You are aware of how ridiculous you look — especially from the rear where you have everything on display. And you wait. . . and wait. . . and wait…. I kept the trembling wretch in suspense for almost five minutes during which time he was reduced to a slobbering wreck. The power I felt was beyond belief and by the time I laid the first smack my cunny was gushing with sizzling juices.
I am sure that by your standards the spanking that I gave him was a pretty feeble effort. However, I did get a nice rhythm going and the brush popped and bounced from cheek to cheek quite merrily. Crumbs! You ought to have heard him squeal. He’s such a cry-baby! You would have thought I was burning his bottom with hot irons instead of giving him a well-deserved but really quite mild dose of the hairbrush. Do you think ten smacks on each cheek is excessive? I don’t! I’ve had twice that for leaving my room untidy at home. The silly boy didn’t know how lucky he was. Mind you, he does now! Since that time I’ve had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate what a real bum-punishment can be like. Twenty little smacks with a hair brush is pure pitty pat compared to the sort of chastisement I dish out to him these days. Still, for a beginner I didn’t do a bad job. His bum was like two rosy apples and really quite hot to touch.
When I released him he scurried back to the loo to “tidy himself up”. The fibber! I knew he was in there wanking himself off. But then so was I! Right beside him in the “Ladies”.
After that first time it all went a bit quiet though I did get rather nice presents: chocs, make-up and stuff like that. Then one afternoon he said that he was going to Birmingham for a few days and would I like to go along with him? Of course, I agreed. On the way he told me about his home life. Poor old soul! His wife is a proper ice-maiden. No real sex at all. The best he gets at home is permission to rub himself off on her bum through her nightie! While he does it she lays on her side reading a book. How about that? And to get this from her he has to beg her on his hands and knees, lick her toes and all that stuff. He does all the washing and cleaning around the house as well. And here’s a weird bit. She’s got a thing about underwear.
Every time she goes to the loo she changes her knickers. The poor old twit has to wash and iron about fifty pairs of pants every week on top of everything else. She’s got a private toilet too. He has to clean that three times a day — mornings, evenings. last thing at night — more at weekends. I’ve never met her but the girls in the office say she’s a fantastic looker. She’s younger than him —about thirty-five and the girls think she might be a lesbian because one of them saw her walking arm-in-arm with a girl in Navy uniform a short while ago. I don’t know if tt. -;’s true but one thing is for sure — she treats her men pretty badly!
I felt quite sorry for the poor bloke by the time we got to Birmingham and when he gave me £250 spending money I felt even more sympathetic. I had a free afternoon so I thought I might buy him something to cheer him up a bit. As luck would have it I came across a super sex shop quite near to where we were to stay. I think the bloke who served me was surprised to see what I bought but it didn’t stop him from taking the money. When my bloke got back from his business meeting I had all my new things laid out on the bed. He went bonkers with joy.
There was a leather sheath-like thing with a little padlock and key for him to wear when he was out on his own, a little clamp that fitted over the balls with a brass screw that could be tightened, a pair of leather pants with a false penis inside which went up your bum when you wore the pants, a thing called a tawse for spanking and three brand new canes in different thicknesses.
“Well?” I said. “Have you been a good boy today? Let’s have a look”. He offered no objection and like a good little boy he unzipped his fly and lowered his trousers. Examination of his underpants disclosed no telltale signs but that meant nothing. I turned my attention to the root of the matter. There was no doubt. He had washed himself well but the redness around the knob end and under the drawn-back foreskin proved that he had indulged himself at least once that day and probably more. Faced with the evidence he confessed. With trembling hands he obeyed my command to undress down to his undervest. I laid the three canes out in a line and made him make a choice by the one-potato, two-potato method. He selected the medium implement. By this time his “root” had started to trouble him again. I was going to have none of that. Two sharp cuts with the cane across the shaft took the swelling down quite quickly.
“The devil makes work for idle hands.” I said. “I think we’ll put those naughty hands of yours to good use. I think six of the best on each is the usual number. Right hand up, please!”
The cane cut him square across his open palm. It must have stung like mad because he screwed his face up tight at the sudden burn.
“Left hand. please!”
He winced again and tucked both hands beneath the opposite arm pits. “Right hand!” I snapped coldly. He raised his hand and there was real fear in his eyes. He was not enjoying this one little bit! I was!!! The first stroke had left a deep scarlet stripe across his palm. The second cut in nicely beside it. This time he squealed for the remaining strokes. By the last cut he was crying quite bitterly. I set down the cane and lay back on the bed.
“Fetch me some tea!” I said wickedly.
It was one of those hotels where you can make your own tea and coffee. Well, you can just imagine the mess the silly boy got into. He could hardly hold a cup in those throbbing, freshly caned hands let alone make and serve tea. He was all fingers and thumbs. It wasn’t made any easier by my goading either:
“Come on, you stupid lout! Am I suppose to wait all night? Perhaps you need a stroke or two more to spur you along!”
Finally, he managed to serve me a cup of tea. Taking a huge mouthful I spat it back into his face.
“Muck!” I exclaimed. “Right hand!” He shook his head violently — not in disobedience but in desperation.
“Right hand!” I said quietly. Slowly the hand was raised into position. I took up the cane. His eyes pleaded more longingly than words. Slowly I measured the instrument against the raw, swollen surface of his outstretched palm. A shiwer of excitement ran through my body as he winced in anticipation of impending pain. He waited transfixed as I raised the cane. Then, suddenly … I placed my cup and saucer upon his hand. “Try again!” I said. “And this time get it right … or else!”
As it happens I had no intention of caning his hands again so quickly after the previous six-of-the-best on both palms. Hands, unlike bottoms, are delicate and they have little in the way of natural padding. I have no qualms about inflicting pain. Quite the opposite. However, I have no desire to cause anyone lasting damage. His hands were already in a bad condition. More punishment administered at that time might have crippled the poor chap. I hope you approve of my action — or was I over-cautious?
The second cup of tea he managed to serve was a good deal better than the first though he still found the work very difficult. He served it very prettily too so I rewarded him by letting him hold his hands under cold running water for a while. You ought to have seen them — all shades of scarlet, blue and purple with sharp, straight ridges where the cane had striped the flesh. He moaned with relief as the water cascaded over his throbbing palms. What a kind mistress I could be. How generous. How sweet . . . But not for long! His night of punishment was only just beginning. Enjoy your moment of respite, my lad. It won’t last long.
Next I turned my attentions to an area which was a hundred times more sensitive than the palms of the hands. I made him lie on his back on the bed with his legs spread a little to give me access. The little clamp fitted remark- ably well and when I took up tension on the screw his ball-bag began to strain very nicely. At first it was just uncomfortable for him but after a couple more turns discomfort became pain. His balls became more defined within the bag and the skin grew taut and took on a shiny look. Another half-turn and he was sweating. I began to turn the screw in fractions. Each squeeze increased the pain level. His balls stood out like a pawn-broker’s sign — less one. His fingers clawed at the bedclothes and he thrashed his head from side to side. Actually, the pain wasn’t all that bad.
The man in the shop told me that the decive had a special release spring which prevented any serious injury. It was in my bloke’s mind more than his balls. Still it was nice to see him chucking himself about and quaking in terror. When the device was firmly fixed in place I made him get up and walk about the room. Having his balls caught like that made him bow legged and he could only get about slowly. However, I found that I could make him move a bit faster by flicking the bottom of his tightly- stretched ball-bag with the tip of the cane. Not too hard of course. Just enough to make him jump. He looked really funny from the back with his fat bum-cheeks wobbling like pink jellies and his balls hanging down like a pair of ripe tomatoes.
By this time it was getting on for eight thirty and I was feeling a bit peckish. No din-din’s for the naughty boy of course but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t treat myself to a slap-up meal. He would have to wait in the room. But if I left him he would be up to something. I knew that. Well, I also knew how to put the block on any ideas he might get!
The leather sheath was a tight fit over his partly erected tool but I finally managed to get it firmly in place. The thongs were a wee bit short — especially when I put them around his paunch — but after a lot of tugging with my spiked heel rammed into his back for extra leverage I got them to snap together. As luck would have it the third thong, which was designed to go under his crotch and up between his bottom-cheeks, was just the right thickness to go through a small hole in the ball-clamping device so I killed two birds with one stone. By the way. Here’s a tip worth knowing. Leather stretches when it is wet and contact as it dries. If you soak a leather restrainer before putting it on the longer you leave it the tighter it becomes. The little padlock snapped shut with a little click and my naughty boy was safe from harm. Now all I had to do was give him something to occupy him for the couple of hours that I would be away. I remembered my detentions from school. I must have written thousands of lines in my time. He had a note pad and pens in his briefcase. It was perfect.
It took me quite a time to dream up a good line for him to write. At last I came up with : “I must not play wankies with willikins.” I did not give him a set number of lines to write but told him that I expected to see four lines for every minute that I was gone. For example, if I was away for one hour forty-one and one half minutes I would demand to be presented with no less than 406 perfectly written lines. Not an impossible target but one that would be very difficult to attain. There would be no time for slacking.
As it happened I was away for a little over two hours. I met some girls in the bar, got chatting and time simply flew by. When I returned he was still slaving away. He didn’t make his target though. I can’t remember the exact number he should have written — about 560. I think. He actually did just over 400 — and with his hand all caned and throbbing too. Not bad really. Of course I didn’t tell him that. I acted very severe and told him that he was to get up early next morning and do three more hours of line writing before he left the room. He thanked me for being such a kind and considerate Mistress. Not in words, of course. He was still gagged. He just fell at my feet moaning and shaking his silly head. I read that to
mean:
“Oh, thank you. Mistress! You are so kind. I love writing lines for you to tear up before my eyes. All that work torn to shreds in seconds. Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
Now. I could well have been wrong. He might have been saying:
“Oh, no! Please, Mistress! No more lines. My hands hurt me so much! Please have mercy! Pleeeeeeese . .pleeeeeese …..!!!”
I plumped for the first interpretation. and since he was so pleased I told him that he could do three more hours when he came in the next night making six hours in all. I added that if he kept on thanking me in the way that he was I would probably double the dose to twelve hours. This piece of information had a strange effect. He stopped moaning and remained stock still at my feet. Perhaps he thought twelve hours might be too much of a good thing.
When I released him from his restraints both his tool and his ball-bag were red and burning hot. His tool in particular was very swollen but there was nothing unusual in this. I gave him a drink of water which he slurped doggie-fashion from a big ashtray — next, I gave him one minute to have a wee-wee and wash himself down in preparation for stage two of his punishment. Within a few moments after that he was returned to his restraints. I examined his hands. They were still sore and swollen. Quite obviously I would have to turn my attentions to an alternative portion of the naughty boy’s anatomy. You won’t need three guesses to name what I had in mind. I am sure . . . Where else but that feature of the human frame which seems to have been designed specifically for the purpose of punishment — THE BOTTIE!!! Oooooh! My bloke does have such a lovely bum, too! So plump and round and spankable. Who could resist such temptation? Certainly not me! He had quite a bit of trouble getting over my lap. As I have said he’s quite a roly-poly and having his root and his balls under restraint didn’t help much either.
Nevertheless, after much wriggling and whining I finally got him settled with his bare bum-cheeks nicely hoisted for my attentions. The “tawse” was made of a piece of heavy leather strap with a grip cut into one end and split into two tongues at the other. It was quite light and not designed for severe punishment. A “warmer” more than anything else and that is just what I used it for. I wanted his bottom to be tingling fresh and glowing all over so that when I switched to one of the canes he would feel the smart of each cut to the full. His bottom bounced beautifully under the tawse and I found the instrument remarkably easy to use. I also liked the flap-slap sound it made as it smacked down onto the softness of his bum. He, of course, made a great fuss. He always does. The big baby!
Well. little did he know it but I planned to give him something to fuss about when I had finished playing pit-pat. I can’t remember how many smacks I gave him. About ten or twelve on each cheek as before — but much lighter than the hairbrush spanks he got at the office. His bum was hardly smarting at all. He really is a cowardly-custard. Honestly, he is! Well, I’d just about had enough of his antics. He needed a lesson and by heaven he was going to get one! Without further ado I liberally shoved him off my lap and he landed with a bump on the floor. Then I gathered up every pillow and cushion in the room and piled them on the bed. Finally, I stripped for action down to my pants stockings and suspenders. I kept my high-heeled shoes on to give me the height I would need.
He literally crawled into position over the cushion. It was the first time in my life I had ever had a man before me beneath the cane. Quite honestly, I was trembling almost as much as he was and I’m ashamed to say that in the heat of the moment I lost control. Without any stimulation I came in my pants. After that I was even more determined. To think that this male worm could have been partly responsible for such humiliation. His bottom would have to pay and pay dearly! I measured each stroke slowly and savoured every groan he made and twist of his body. I caned from both sides of his bottom to ensure that both cheeks were evenly covered by the tip of the stick.
“You can get up!” I snapped coldly. “It’s over”.
With that I dispatched him to a corner where he was made to kneel with his hands clasped upon his head under pain of further punishment if he moved a muscle. I went back to the bar where the girls I had met earlier was still having a high old time. I finally returned to the room and released him from his restraints at about two-thirty. I was feeling quite randy so I made him suck me off a few times before I retired. I slept the sleep of the pure at heart. He slept on the floor!
The following morning he did his three hours line-writing without complaint. I then dressed him in his new knickers with the false prick, patted him on the B.T.M. and sent him off to work. For my part, I had a pleasant breakfast and took a casual stroll down to the sex shop. I got back to the room around three-thirty with a whole new bundle of “goodies”. I could hardly wait for five o’clock. But it was worth waiting for … I would love to tell you about it and get your views on my progress to date but this letter is already much longer than intended. With your permission, maybe I might write to you again?
Account 2
I have thoroughly enjoyed reading all the letters you have published concerning petticoat punishments, and I have myself put it to use with devastating success. Our office manager at my work was in his forties, an unmarried, well-off ex-public school boy who still lived with his mother, and was an arrogant pain in the neck, always laying down the law to the girls in the office.
My chance to turn the tables on him came about when, at the office party, he made the fatal mistake of fondling me as we met in a corridor, and trying to unbutton my blouse. Realising this was a heaven-sent opportunity, I pretended to be extremely upset and in tears, and after a quick huddle with a couple of my office girl friends got them to play their part in his downfall by going back into the party and telling him they were having to take me home as I was very distressed.
I phoned in sick the following day, and could imagine how the bully felt, not knowing what was going on. Sure enough, just before lunch he phoned me to find out how I was, and I told him, managing to sound very upset again, that I was emotionally upset and felt I had no option but to report the incident to the directors, as I felt he could behave like that again. He was aghast at this and asked if he could come and see me right away to sort the matter out. This was even better than I had planned, and I readily agreed.
When he arrived I made it clear that I had every intention of reporting the matter, and the arrogant bully started to crumble before my eyes, offering all sorts of inducements to change my mind. I was adamant though, and I let him suffer for several minutes until I felt he was desperate enough to agree to what I had in mind. When I felt the moment was right I introduced my planned suggestion that I might be prepared to drop the matter if he would agree to reverse our roles away from the office and see what it was like to be powerless and to suffer indignities at my command, as I was required to do by him all day.
Not really knowing what he was agreeing to, but desperate enough for anything, he looked confused but quickly agreed. I told him to phone the office to say that he would be late back, informing him that first of all he would be “interviewed” for his new position. My intention was to find out more about him, to see how far I thought I could go with my plan. What I found out delighted me! It appeared he was, underneath, not really a bully at all, but really rather submissive. It appeared he had always been under his divorced mother’s thumb, and had been bullied at school himself.
Being Scottish, living in Scotland, and a firm believer in Scottish traditions, she had insisted on him wearing a kilt at certain times, which had lead to remorseless ragging by his English public school classmates. It seemed that his arrogance was really rather a defensive front, and one which I intended to cure! A submissive who had been forced by a dominant woman to wear a skirt – my mind boggled at the possibilities this opened up.
I handed him the pen and pad I had ready and told him to write an account of what he had done at the office party in full detail, and sign and date it. At first, he refused point blank, immediately realising the devastating use such an account could be put to. I simply grabbed my phone and began dialling. He looked very frightened and asked who I was calling and when I responded with one of the directors’ names, he looked close to tears, but agreed to write out his statement. The first attempt had insufficient detail, but the second attempt was adequate. I took the finished article and locked it in my car. When I came back I could see I had broken him.
I informed him that we had some shopping to do. When he queried this, I told him that the first thing we were going to do was to get him what I felt was appropriate clothing for his new role, just as he always insisted we office girls were “correctly dressed for the office”. I then told him that when subordinate to me he would be known as Nancy Pansy, and that he should address me as Miss Allison. This established, (with a reminder as to the consequences of non co-operation), and first ensuring that he had his cheque book and credit card with him, we headed for the shops.
First of all we purchased a lovely short kilt, not really a kilt of course, but a skirt that would remind him of his previous shame as a schoolboy. Then we went to the local shop that stocked uniforms for the nearby girls’ private school, where, to the great amusement of the rather stuffy shop staff, we purchased the largest sizes of gym-slip, blouses, blazer, hat, and, of course, regulation school knickers. It was a revelation to find that the largest sizes were a fine fit for a small man. Next we visited a charity shop, which provided a lovely pink satin party dress, which I could easily take up to make it nice and short on my nancy-pansy boy. Finally, and even more humiliatingly for him, we went to a specialist dance shop the proprietor of which was an old friend of mine, and where he was forced into a leotard, tights and some very nice bouffant petticoats – by this time he was clearly stunned into a dream like state of submission, and I knew he was mine to do with as I wished.
Nancy Pansy appeared at my house two evenings a week and when required at weekends, where I taught to be useful around the house, to learn various “girly” skills whilst wearing his school uniform, and, what he seemed to find most humiliating, learn a few short song and dance routines whilst wearing his dance outfit. If he failed to please in any way he was over my knee, skirts and petticoats up, for a very sound spanking with a hair brush which was adequate to reduce him to tears when need be. After spanking, he had to curtsey sweetly and thank me for taking such trouble with him. It was lovely to have all my housework and ironing done by my little skivvy. His behaviour to the ladies in the office improved considerably, and after about four months, when this improvement was being discussed in the “Ladies” one day, I took the plunge and invited three of them to come to my house that Saturday to see why.
Nancy Pansy arrived and I immediately took him upstairs and started dressing him in his school uniform. As I was doing this I dropped the bombshell that some friends were coming to tea and that he was to serve them. He was mortified, but was far too far in my power by now to do anything about it. He was so close to tears as I kept reminding him of his forthcoming encounter. He begged and begged and I just laughed in his face.
I thought he would die with shame when he opened the door to curtsey to the three girls from the office, who could scarcely believe their eyes! As he served tea from a trolley they kept asking him to get things from the bottom shelf so that his gym slip rode up exposing his stocking-tops and knickers. They were laughing so much they were almost in tears (so was he, but not tears of laughter). Having been primed by me whilst he was out of the room, the girls then asked when they were going to see him dance – I saw by the look on his face that he wasn’t going to enjoy this at all. He was undergoing a living nightmare that just kept getting worse.
I took Pansy upstairs and as he removed his gym slip I laid out his dancing outfit which almost brought him to tears when he saw the frilly satin knickers and petticoats. “You will wear these under your kilt so that the girls will see your frilly undies as you dance”, I laughingly told him. With a frilly blouse, and a very large ribbon in his hair, he looked a real sissy for the girls, and of course his petticoats made his little kilt stick out a treat. The girls roared with laughter again as he performed a little dance with his kilt and petticoat bobbing up and down to reveal his frilly satin panties.
This was all some time ago, and I am now leaving the area for a new job, and I believe Nancy Pansy thinks his torment will end. But one of the other girls has taken a real interest in taking over my role and making the most of the power over him. She is a real bitch and I think his humiliation and housework will be continuing for some time to come!
A.P. Edinburgh
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