If you are one of those guys who scour
the web for F/m artwork you’ve probably run across
a sequence of illustrations featuring an woman with
an improbably narrow waist and breasts so aggressive
you think they might punch you. In each she’s dominating
a timid looking blond young man.
The artist signs himself Gregor. In Venus
in Furs Gregor is the name Severin adopts when he
becomes Wanda’s slave.
Until Tamehorse told me I’d not known that
that Gregor’s drawings are part of a sequence that
illustrates a story. It is a tale of a woman who
enslaves her husband.
Tamehorse also transcribed the story. My
thanks to him for that very kind service.
Dominant woman with slave husband.
By Wanda and Gregor
[The story opens with a couple arriving
at a hotel just after their marriage. That the man
is a masochist is left in no doubt by the following
early passage:]
“Husband,” her liquid, throaty voice commanded,
“Read this to me again.” She leaned over and her
electric, full-bosomed assertive beauty dazzled
his adoring senses as he read his own hand-written
words:
“I, Malcolm Masoque-Laverge (once Malcolm
Masoque) this day unconditionally and devotedly
yield myself to the complete authority of Madame
Cressada Laverge, my wife and absolute Mistress.
I vow that: I am to accept her decisions in all
matters as final. I am to comply with her every
wish, to obey her every command and to always be
faithful in heart and deferential in manner to my
beloved Mistress. I am to submit my body, mind and
soul to her strictest discipline, and expect severe
punishment for the slightest disregard of her authority.
Said punishment will be administered to me in whatever
form my Mistress feels best befits her mood and
the occasion.
(Signed) Malcolm Masoque-Laverge
His voice weakened towards the end, and
he was conscious of the arch-browed, haughty face
over him, her finely carved aristocratic nostrils
flaring delicately as a superior smile and sneer
touched her moist red lips. Having deferred to this
superbly regal Venus from the first, he had written
the submission contract in a love-mist of enthralled
enchantment, thinking it meant no more than continued
courtesy on his part.
“Well read, husband,” the sensuous lips
murmured. “Memorize it word for word, so that you
can recite it whenever I wish.”
“Yes, Sada, I will,” he answered humbly,
not needing the sharp pinch on his ear, or the sparkling,
tingling sting on his cheek from the slap of her
palm to prove her power over him. He watched her
move sinuously to the couch, especially attracted
to her glittery black six-inch stiletto heels, and
then resumed unpacking as her icy stare met his
abject eyes.
Cressada Laverge lowered her lids and gloated
over the ease with which she was subjugating Malcolm
to her complete domination and imposing her firm
will upon his rambling family estate, and the two
teenaged nephews he supported. She had long yearned
to punish them all, and her friend, Mrs Truella
Murdstone would be a wonderful ally in her plans.
Cressada’s fully rounded hips and magnificent bosom
writhed in anticipation, surging from within at
the thought of Malcolm’s place in her schemes. Little
did that love-dazed man realise what was to come
[Little indeed, one might say! The new bridegroom
finds he has to wear a dog collar and is then set
to work scouring the hotel bathroom while his wife
and Mistress goes out on a shopping trip. He then
discovers a whip is his bride’s suitcase, and this
is soon put to work when she returns. Malcolm is
ordered to clean her shoes]
Emotion squirmed within Malcolm’s loins,
half love and half grinding fear, as he saw Sada’s
strong, tapering gem-laden fingers grasping the
handle of the whip. She fondled the lash, dangling
the flexible tip before his panic-widened eyes,
and pulling the whole supple length of it through
caressing, dagger-nailed fingers, while Malcolm,
breathing hard from he feared to know what feelings
inside himself, at her feet, his spotless handkerchief
ready in his hands.
“Put that damned rag away.” Cressada struck
the arm of the chair with the doubled whip. “When
you wipe your Mistress’s shoes you will do it reverently,
with your tongue!” Malcolm looked up, gulping with
awe at the derisive smile and her threatening flourish
of the whip as he hesitated. Sada’s eyes narrowed.
“So…my pet is not full of the proper respect and
reverence - yet!”
“Yes, Sada,” he stammered, throwing himself
belly-prone before the glittering black-shod feet.
Street dirt clouded the brilliance of the patent
leather at the heel tips and just above the soles.
He began removing the dirt, his tongue polishing
the leather and gathering the debris which he swallowed.
In his haze of adoration and awe he knew that this
was the only true way to keep his wonderful Mistress’s
shoes clean. With whimsical amusement in her eyes,
Cressada toyed with the whip, watching his willing
debasement. The pungent taste of patent leather
filled Malcolm’s mouth, flavoured by the admixture
of dust and offal from the street. His lips laved
the pointed contours of the gleaming shoes and felt
the dainty garlands of pearls at the slipper throats
and sucked the terrible thin spikes of the nearing
six inch heels.
“Husband, be respectful with that tongue.”
Cressada’s lips smirked at his abject humiliation.
“Slobber just once on my stocking and you’ll feel
this whip.” She raised the foot he was licking,
toe up, on the skewer heel. “And a good husband
knows that his wife’s soles get dirtiest of all.”
Cheek against the floor, Malcolm tongue-washed the
slipper bottoms, first one and then the other, and
sucked the extravagant heels into his mouth until
he gagged. All the time he was conscious of the
lash dangling over him, ready to strike. Amused,
she pressed his face beneath her foot. “Does this
little toy frighten you, Pet?” The lash hissed wickedly
past his ear. With one foot riding his neck, Malcolm
tongues and retongued the glowing shoes in abject
humiliation.
In this fashion the “honeymoon” continued,
with Malcolm being subjected to increasing discipline.
Meanwhile Cressada warns him that when they return
to his house, which is being suitably refurnished,
things will be worse rather than better. There Mrs
Truella Murdstone, the governess, would be installed;
also one Sheila Collins, a personal cook, to whom
Malcolm would have to “show every consideration.”
Finally, there would be Malcolm’s two nephews, as
well as his niece, Margery. Things do get worse
for Malcolm, but he gets his first real taste of
punishment before leaving the hotel.
On the final day she was out alone till
after six and when she returned, a pink-sheathed
vision of high voltage glamour, Malcolm was panting
at the door to take her hat, gloves, furs and packages.
Her eyes had tigerish, predatory glow as he prostrated
himself and faithfully tongued her lance-heeled,
sharp-toed kidskin boots of lavender. He could feel
the tinge of iron when she spoke. “Husband, it’s
time you faced the facts of life under me. Tonight
you’ll get a true taste of the kind of punishment
I’ll be laying on. On your knees and open that parcel.”
Obeying her steely voice and pointing finger, Malcolm
nearly fainted at the sight of what the package
revealed - a murderous strap of belting leather,
half an inch thick, two inches wide, and over a
yard long, with a stiff leather handle and slim
wrist loop. Writhing sensually on the couch, Sada
laughed throatily at his reactions. “Just one of
my special disciplinary instruments, Pet - specially
for you - tonight.”
After dinner Sada regally sway-strutted
the floor, her back arched, nostrils flaring in
anticipation, beautiful breasts stretching the blush
rose gown which fitted like a second skin. Finally
she spoke the fatal words. “Go to my bedroom, Husband,
and prepare for punishment!” Malcolm saw no mercy
in that haughty, glacier-eyed face, and disrobed,
sobbing inwardly. He was standing humbly nude when
Sada strode majestically into the bedroom, the heavy
strap held in one elbow-high lavender kid-gloved
hand. She tossed him some cotton drawers.. “Get
into these.”
“W-what are they?” he stammered. “What
are they for?”
She gripped his hair, jerking his head
back to stare disdainfully into his eyes. “Those
are your whipping drawers. You’ll soon find what
for.” The thin fabric was skin tight and stretchless
from his waist down his thighs and he struggled
to get them on. Eyes glittering, Sada pointed to
an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “Bring
that here.” Malcolm obeyed, deadened by dread, watching
her remove her dress to reveal a tight-laced pink
leather corset hourglassing her voluptuousness.
“Get over that bench - crosswise.” She ordered.
The drawers tightened even more when he
jack-knifed and he glanced up to see breath-taking
sheer-nyloned legs made shapelier by uplifting minaret
heels. Sada stepped back, dropping the strap gently
across his bottom to gauge her stance as he squirmed,
begging for mercy. Then she swooped the flail up
as high as her arm could reach and whirled it around
to gain speed. As Malcolm quailed in terror, she
smashed it down full sweep, flush across his buttocks.
He made no outcry but his midsection convulsed upwards
from the force of the blow and then slumped back
to the bench. Ass the initial numbness warmed into
pain, Malcolm could see in the closet-door mirror,
his own head-down, butt-up figure with the dynamic,
imposing, corseted woman towering over him, preparing
the administer the next stroke. He tensed, watching
with fear and admiration as she whirled it around
her high-swept coiffure, and the leonine grace of
the downdrive.
Seven power-packed full-swing agonizing
strokes fell, making hollow whacking sounds on Malcolm’s
upthrust backside, before he cried out in protest.
His sobs came with the eighth stroke, when the whipping
drawers began to torment him. The broad welts from
the heavy strap were unable to swell within the
skin-tight, unstretchable fabric of the garment
so his flesh ridged up, unable to escape and agonisedly
compressed. Under the relentless, expert, measured
blows, Malcolm howled in anguish but made no effort
to protect himself or free himself from his Mistress.
He squirmed and writhed under the torture while
Sada savoured to the utmost his song and dance under
the strap, whaling his podex with regal dexterity
and aplomb. Cressada thrashed him from each side,
and then imprisoned his head between her firm round
thighs to flog him vertically. Malcolm clutched
her skewer heels as the curling strap snapped excruciatingly
down his cheek curves. His cries went unheard in
the soundproof penthouse. He could only see Sada’s
taut-full hips weaving above him in the mirror with
each cracking blow. As his body became a throbbing
reservoir of agony, he visioned Sada as a heartless
goddess to be glorified for her brutal prowess.
At last a bench leg shattered under his pounding
and Malcolm slid to the floor, moaning low, his
head still pinioned in his Mistress’s shapely limbs.
As had been promised, things did not improve
for Malcolm upon their return to his home, now called
Masoque Manor. The nephews have not yet arrived,
but meanwhile there is no letup in discipline, either
by word or deed.
Returned to the boudoir, the statuesque
beauty’s eyes chilled haughtily, her strong chin
hardened. “Fun and games are over, husband.” Her
tall heel crashed. “Open that cabinet.” Malcolm’s
knees weakened on seeing the ominous arsenal of
straps, lashes, birch-rods, whips, cats, canes,
crops and switches that hung within. “You see, lover,”
Sada smirked, “I have the means to flog you unconscious
- or just make you sparkle. There’ll be disciplining
here, without letup, and you’ll learn that chastisement
is the heart and soul of it.. You’ll be put to the
most debasing drudgery; you’ll slave in any way
that might amuse me…without word of protest. I begin
your training as a lady’s maid in earnest now. Get
me out of this dress - at once!” Her grey-gowned,
scarlet-belted luscious figure undulated. Apprehension
and servile closeness to the overbearing goddess
made Malcolm fumble…and he took several training
cuffs before Sada stood forth in the magnificence
of black-corsetted deshabille.
Bedazzled by such Junoesque voluptuousness,
he moaned “Oh… oh Lord, Sada, h-how can you be so
beautiful…” and then winced when her fingers took
his ear.
“This is the last time you will address
me as an equal,” her thumb-nail dug in, “I am The
Mistress - The Mistress Sada - and as an inferior,
you low creature, that is how you will address me.
Any neglect in this respect spells punishment. Does
that sink in?” Malcolm squirmed when she twisted
his ear cruelly.
“Y-Yes…the M-Mistress…is most explicit…I
will…”
“Quiet, fool, get to the closet…fetch those
high black boots and lace ‘em on me.”
Malcolm found a new closetful of awesome,
high-heeled femininely masterful boots - of myriad
heights, styles and colours. The thigh-high 7 inch-heeled
splendour of the first black laced ones he saw sent
tingles through his loins.
“I demand skin-tight lacing of m’boots,
Husband,” said Sada, watching her kneeling husband;
“lace ‘em sloppy and you’ll feel leather!”
Nevertheless, Malcolm is fascinated by ‘this new,
entrancing for of servitude’ and, even though he
does ‘feel leather’ because one of the lacings is
fractionally loose, he is subserviently uncomplaining.
Various other forms of humiliation follow. He is
leashed like a dog, forced to kneel behind his Mistress,
bootlicking as he goes and, ‘when not in use’ as
Cressada puts it, he is locked into a windowless
cubicle closet. In due time, the nephews and the
niece, Margery, as well as Mrs Truella Murdstone
arrive. Under the threat of losing their inheritance,
the nephews knuckle under to the discipline of the
Manor, though with considerable reluctance and,
at first, resistance - for they do not have the
same masochistic traits as their Uncle Malcolm.
The niece, Margery, changes her allegiance, and
is soon trained into becoming as much a martinet
as the other women. The nephews are thrashed into
obedience and abject servitude, and become as submissive
as Malcolm. The extent of this is emphasised in
a final chapter (though it is indicated that there
will be a continuation in a further book.
First he takes his ‘lunch’ on all fours,
eating from a dogbowl ‘canned dog food watered down
to mush.’ After this unpleasant repast he dresses
his Mistress in one of her usual bizarre costumes.
I’ll wear my blonde mink stole, Husband,”
said Sada, “furs are most appropriate on a punishing
woman.” She selected a longish, sinuous rawhide,
and gave it a gunshot snap. Malcolm swathed her
wide, alabaster shoulders in the opulent furs. “Down,
pup…” Sada jerked his leash. “To heel. You are for
punishment for overt delinquence…and an improvement
of your appreciation of the spick and span.”
Imagined consequences tortured Malcolm
as he dogged the flashing knitting-needle heels
downstairs, forth into the balmy afternoon and thence
to an unkempt terrace behind the old manor house.
Cressada strutted upon the balustraded enclosure,
her heel tips smiting sparks from the flagstones.
“You…” she leashed him to a suds-filled pail, “will
now scrub these flagstones… to the bone. At any
sign of a let-up, there’ll be th’ whuppin’. Pick
up that brush.” Malcolm groped for the heavy scrub
brush, blinded by the sunlight reflected from her
patent leather boots. He vaguely noticed that two
straps were a-dangle from the hand grip. “You’ll
scrub in the meanest way,” smirked Sada, “so the
lesson sinks in. Open that mouth.” She wrenched
his head back roughly by the hair, jammed the brush
handled between his teeth and buckled the straps
around his head until his skull creaked.
“There…” The cowhide curled, cracking across
his buttocks. “Douse that brush proper and get scrubbing.”
Malcolm splashed it - and his face - into the strong,
hot suds and lowered his head to the ground. The
dirt on the long untended flagstones turned to mud
under his nose as he scrubbed with lunging shoulders,
biting the brush handle which made a lip-stretching
bit in his mouth. Sada kept the thong end of her
lash draped over his back, and, from time to time,
laid it with a stinging crack across his upended
rump. “You’ll scrub harder, you lout!” she bawled
in her most intimidating growl. “Lets see you put
some back and jawbone grease into that.” Malcolm,
eyes streaming from the harsh suds and the brush
wobbling in his teeth, felt her bootfoot on his
neck jammed the brush on the flagging and the handle,
chokingly, up into his mouth. The tiny, sharp-edged
steel heeltip dug into his flesh and he shuddered
as it pricked through his skin. Sada exerted rhythmic
pressure with her long gorgeous leg, thrusting his
head down and forward, giving helpful, albeit punitive,
momentum to his scrubbing.
Cressada slid her bootfoot off Malcolm’s
back when young Margery came sauntering on to the
terrace. “Lawdy me!” caroled Malcolm’s pretty niece.
“You’re surely making this clean-up day around the
old homestead, Aunt. I’ve just come from the stable
- your Governess has dear Langdon there now, and
hard at it on all fours. Seeing him sweat - after
that caning job you did on him this morning - was
so delicious I could scarcely tear myself away.
Y’know,” she chortled, “I had to resist an urge
to get astride the big goof…so’s see what kind of
horse he’d make me.”
Amused, Cressada flicked Malcolm’s rump,
saying, “I’m pleased you’[re so in tune with - ah…
petticoat rule and wearin’ the boots, child, but
why single out Langdon for your kind attentions?”
“Bah!” Margery snorted, “He’s always burned
my little Frances… thinking he’s so all-fired smart,,,
and he’s twice too big for his britches. The kicks
I’m getting seeing him cut down to size… Bob now,
is a nice inoffensive laddie… but this one…” she
swaggered so close to Malcolm’s scrubbing head that
he had to veer it aside, “this treatment is exactly
what he deserves. Any bootlicking mouse that lets
a woman thrash him and make a damfool of him gets
no sympathy from me.”
“You’re sweet,” Sada swayed aside. “Let’s
be comfortable, girl. I can oversee the husb. from
over there. And he asks for no one’s sympathy. He
crawled under my heel with his eyes open. And he
begged for his punishment, my dear, simply crushed
by his inability to defy me.” The blonde, lissome
maiden and the dark strapping beauty reclined on
a lawn chaise. Fingering the ugly rawhide, she accounted
for every move of her toiling groom with chilled-steel
grey eyes. A deep surge of despotism swelled her
momentous bosom, thrusting the sumptuous furs apart.
Margery watched Malcolm’s degration snootily. “One
time I respect that man,” she said, “but now he’s
just a disgusting worm.”
“Don’t say that,” Sada reproached her,
“he’s a perfect dear of a worm who worships me and
its no discredit to him if I show my affections
by whippings and humiliation as well as the lovey-dovey.
He’s a very happy man under me.” Margery appeared
skeptical, particularly when Sada stiffened, head
upflung, eyes wide and glacial, nostrils arching
in her fine-ridged nose, her full red lips brutally
down-drawn. Then rising to her commanding height,
the furred and booted woman strode to her man with
all the overbearance of a slave-driving Juno.
“I told you to lean on that brush!” Furs
billowed and rawhide snapped over his thrusting
head. “Take longer strokes, you sluggard, bear down
till your neck cracks!” The lash seared his rear
and her tone made his flesh crawl. “SCRUB, damn
you. You’ll clean this terrace, you loafing muckworm,
if you have to slave until you drop.!” Malcolm scrubbed
wildly with his mouth-clenched brush, acutely suffering
the rawhide consequences of disobedience, dazzled
by the patent leather brilliance of pink and lavender
boots. Getting into the swing of things, Margery
strolled to the happy pair. “Look,” she pointed,
he’s left a mess right here.” Sada lowered her whip
arm and looked around herself. :Yes… and here’s
another mess he’s left behind, HUSBAND!” she bawled,
“get to them, you whelp!”
“Here first,” Margery ordered.
Then Cressada bellowed, “You get to THIS
one first, confound you!”
Malcolm poised ready to plunge the brush
(and his face) into the bucket, looked up, bedeviled
and bewildered, at the hectoring females. Suds spewed
from the brush with the frantic switching of his
head from side to side. Then the rawhide began cracking
again… and he scrabbled, yammering against the brush
handle to remedy his errors. When his oppressoresses
again took their ease he was weak and a-jitter.
But under the compulsion of his beloved’s gaze he
scrubbed till his mouth was raw, his jaw ached,
the sun was setting and the terrace was washed down
to her Ladyship’s satisfaction.
Later, en boudoir, Malcolm lay at her feet
exhausted, his backside raw, swollen and throbbing
remorselessly. Moans bubbled from his tortured lips
as he mouthed her terrific boots. “Don’t carry on
like that, my pet,” purred Sada casually amused,
“I’m hardly through punishing you. Tell me, do you
like these pretty bootsies?” His reply was a distracted
gargle against a shining marlin-spike heel. “You’ll
be oh so familiar with them before I’m done with
you.” She rose. “Now, back into your corner until
I’m ready for you again. You’ll go hungry this time,
sweet… that will do its little bit to teach you
to respect my little whims.”
It is at this point that The Whiphand ends,
but further instalments are promised. Instalments
that will surely be as ornately written as they
are illustrated. All of it is, of course, the purest
way-out fantasy, utterly impossible. Yet, nevertheless,
quite satisfyingly enjoyable to those with masochistic
leanings. Also enjoyable, one might add, to those
with leanings of the opposite kind for it is simple
for such people, be they male or female, to transfer
themselves in their imagination, into the position
of Cressada the all-powerful, all-dominating Mistress
who has a half-willing, half-unwilling victim constantly
crawling and groveling at her feet, for ever at
her beck and call, one whom she can humiliate and
degrade to the limit, one whom she can thrash and
flog to her heart’s content.
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