The Spring Clean

‘You’re going to meet Catherine Dawes? Wow!’

Gary’s sharp intake of breath showed his friend Dave what he thought of the idea. Dave had been accepted for Catherine’s programme, the Spring Clean where, to put it crudely, slobs who lived in squalor were taught the virtues of being clean and house proud. Catherine Dawes was a star of cable television and an object of fantasy for men like Gary.

‘The thing is’ said Dave, ’I used to hate being nagged by Janet  but since she left the place has become such a tip. I need a woman to tell me what to do.’

‘Catherine Dawes is hot. Those skirt suits, the way she wears her hair on screen, all scraped back with the pony tail. Dominatrix chic I call it. Do as you’re told or else!’

They both laughed and Dave said

‘I’ll get the beers in. What are you having?’

Catherine Dawes and her film crew arrived at Dave’s house at ten o’clock the following morning. She was dressed in a grey skirt suit and black patent courts, just as Dave had expected. Her hair was scraped back from her face with its high cheek bones and minimalist make–up, and gathered into a pony tail. She looked both classy and intimidating. Dave felt a chill of anxiety as he looked at her. She was brisk and businesslike, not smiling as she offered her hand,

‘Catherine Dawes. Pleased to meet you. You’ve seen the programme? Then you’ll know that you call me Miss Dawes on camera.’

She went on a tour of inspection on the house followed by Dave who was squirming with embarrassment and by the cameraman.

‘The place is filthy. I will write out a task list and you will have four hours to get the place clean to my standards. Then I’ll do my tour of inspection.’

Dave set to work with the list and the rather inadequate supply of cleaning materials he kept under the sink. He found the cameraman’s presence a little distracting but the four hours passed quickly. As Catherine entered the house he felt himself shaking.

‘I’ll start with the bathroom.’

Dave followed her up the stairs gazing with awe at her legs, the seams of her stockings, the gleaming shoes. Was there no end to the perfection of Catherine Dawes?

He followed her into the bathroom where she lifted the kid on the toilet and sniffed, before pulling a face.

‘Is this clean? Well, is it?’

Dave hesitated and mumbled

‘Well it could be better I suppose.’

‘You’re going to clean this toilet again.’

‘Yes Miss Dawes.’

‘Take your clothes off and place them in a neat pile in the corner.’

Dave was so surprised that he complied without question. He watched as Catherine picked up his underpants and inspected them with a look of distaste. He grabbed the toilet brush and began to clean.

‘Did I say use a brush?’

‘No Miss Dawes but I thought’

‘You’re not here to think you’re here to do as I tell you. Use your tongue.’

Dave kneeled and placed his head inside the stinking bowl. He pretended to lick at first but suddenly felt the close presence of Catherine Dawes. She grabbed his head and pushed it deep into the bowl where he felt the water against his nose. He dipped his tongue in the water and began to lick the porcelain.

‘Do it properly’ ordered Catherine and when he had worked his way back up to the top of the bowl she pushed his head back down and pressed the button to flush it. He lifted his head top see Catherine offering him a towel and the cameraman smirking at his humiliation.

‘Now to the bedroom.’

Dave stood naked with damp hair and watched anxiously as Catherine pulled back the duvet to reveal a pile of used tissues. She picked one up, sniffed it and said

‘I can smell that you have been playing with yourself. Masturbating.’

She said the word slowly and deliberately, to emphasise her disgust.

‘Masturbation is a loathsome and disgusting practice. I’m going to punish you. Lie face down on the bed.’

Dave complied and heard Catherine put on a latex glove. She began to finger his back passage.

‘Not very clean are you?

‘No Miss Dawes.’

‘Didn’t Mummy teach you how to wipe your bottom?’

‘No Miss Dawes.’

‘Then I’m going to teach you. On camera. Your friends will enjoy seeing that won’t they?’

Dave said nothing but felt himself going red with shame.

Catherine took out a tawse from her bag and said

‘One hundred strokes. You will count and thank me after each stroke. Is that clear?’

‘Yes Miss Dawes.’

Dave winced as the first stroke landed and said

‘One, thank you Miss Dawes’

He thought he could take the strokes but as they accumulated he began to feel agonise he had never imagined possible. By the fiftieth stroke he had had enough.

‘Fifty thank you Miss Dawes’ he cried out and began to sob

‘Please stop, please have mercy.’

‘No mercy for dirty little wankers. No mercy….’

Catherine Dawes began to laugh a long, contemptuous laugh.’

Dave looked at the clock. It was seven o’clock. He had woken up with a huge erection. He took the TV listings magazine with the feature on Catherine Dawes and found a picture of her in action, with the famed white gloves with which she tested the dusting. He began to wank, he imagined Catherine Dawes scolding him, Catherine Dawes humiliating him, Catherine Dawes, cold and commanding, Catherine Dawes the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He worked his huge shaft hard with his left hand, holding the magazine in the right, then, raching his back, he cried out

‘Catherine, Catherine’

and came, sending his thick creamy come spilling out over his hand. He took a tissue and cleaned himself up.

‘Put it in the bin’ he told himself. Catherine Dawes was coming to see him in just three hours time. He must not disappoint her.


In Mary’s Month

In the Catholic tradition May is Mary’s month, a month of devotions to the Blessed Virgin. Events I read about this week reminded me about a short story by the Polish writer Marek Hłasko.  Hłasko (1934-1969) was the enfant terrible of post-war Polish literature, not so much attacking sacred cows but rolling them in the dirt and making his relish clear.  He revelled in the seamy side of life and spared his readers nothing. In 1957 he was forced to leave Poland and spent the rest of his short life in Israel and West Germany where he died of an overdose of sleeping pills aged just 35.

The story ‘Mary’s Month’ is set in wartime Warsaw, during the brutal Nazi occupation.  Two men walk into the courtyard of a tenement block where  many of the residents are kneeling in prayer before a statue of Mary, reciting the May Devotions. They walk up the stairs and knock on the door of a flat. An elderly woman answers the door and is ordered out. The men have come to see her daughter, specifically to punish her for allegedly sleeping with German soldiers. One of the men holds her down on the bed while the other forces a vodka bottle into her vagina before using the butt of his pistol to smash it. They leave quickly ignoring their bleeding and traumatised victim.

The story is short and nasty. On one hand it can be argued that  Hłasko is attacking both what he sees as the irrelevance of Catholic piety in a brutal world and also the idea that the Polish Resistance was always heroic and noble. On the other hand this story can be seen as nothing more than a pornographic fantasy. I have always found it deeply uncomfortable reading.

Fantasies like this are not confined to Poland. This week I read about a case in a Northern European country where a young woman was assaulted at a party by having a bottle forced into her. What was truly shocking were the comments of the judge who, if he was reported accurately, said that she had contributed to her injuries by being modest, that is by resisting the violation.

What country was this you may ask? The surprising answer is Sweden, a country that a number of well known feminist commentators seem to regard as some kind of paradise for women, a model for our country to follow.

I am not saying this to attack Sweden. I have visited that country on several occasions and found much to like there. My point is that Sweden itself has a long way to go to achieve equality and should not be seen uncritically as a model for us to follow. We have our own struggles, our own problems, and need to find our own answers. And British feminists going to Sweden need to take their critical faculties with them.

For My Entertainment

I always keep a surprise up my sleeve. All good Mistresses keep their subs in a state of nervous apprehension. Paul had carried out his domestic chores diligently, he had worshipped my legs and thighs, he had received the mild caning I thought appropriate for a first session. He was beginning to relax as the session entered its final twenty minutes. He had to learn that subs never ever relax in the presence of their Mistress. There will always be a new challenge and the bar of their suffering will be raised a notch every time. I ordered Paul to lie spread-eagled on the bed and secured his wrists and ankles. I lifted up the maid dress to expose his cock which rose as if in salute and began to dribble.

I frowned and reminded him that he must never ever come without permission.

‘Yes Mistress’ he said simply, resolved to obey.

I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, gave his prick a slow deliberate rub and said

‘You are completely in my power. I can do anything I like but you……..if you come without permission, I will send you away and you will never see me again. Is that clear?’

‘Yes Mistress.’

I took a vibrator out of the drawer and held it against Paul’s cock. As I turned it up and moved it around the tip of his penis he began to writhe, fighting the inevitability of the forbidden ejaculation. He arched his back and tensed his body. He was soon nearing the limit of his endurance.

‘Please Mistress, please.’

‘Shut up’ I said holding my free hand over his mouth. ‘You’ll speak when I permit you’.

He writhed again pulling his mouth free of my gloved hand and said again

’Please please I beg you.’

A tear began to roll down his cheek.’

I continued. His prick was huge, but he was fighting to obey. He thrashed again, pulling at the restraints. He was helpless and he knew it. When he began to sob and beg for mercy I decided he had had enough. He was exhausted. He has been so good, so obedient. I decided he deserved his reward, although I wouldn’t tell him that yet.

I freed him from the restraints and ordered him to stand up. I hitched up his skirt to expose his cock. I fondled it gently and saw it rise as if to order.

‘Play with yourself for my entertainment’ I ordered.

I sat down on my throne, crossed one booted leg over the other and watched as he began to move his right hand up and down the shaft. I lit a cigarette and drew on it, blowing clouds of smoke in Paul’s direction. I put on my practised poker face not letting him guess whether or not I was satisfied with his efforts. As he slowed I barked

‘That’s not good enough. Wank that cock for Mistress.’

He looked at once startled and afraid and redoubled his efforts.

‘But you are not to come until I give you permission. Is that clear?’

‘Yes Mistress’ he said quietly, reddening a little. But after his first two hours of submission he was beginning to understand, understand that submission is not to be entered into lightly, that the state of constant apprehension was a necessary part of his development. He rocked from side to side on the stilettos that still gave him difficulty, then he took his hand and began to knead the tip of the penis which was now huge and gorged with come. He longed for release but still didn’t know whether I would grant it. He bowed his head and worked away. He was so eager to please me. I felt my clit harden and begin to rub against my panties.  How I loved my job!

Then I said

‘On your knees and come to me.’

He moved gingerly forward on all fours,

‘Did I tell you to stop wanking?’

‘No Mistress I’m sorry.’

Supporting himself on his right hand he wanked with his left and came close. I pulled him towards me and placed his head in my lap. I stroked his head. He began to moan with pleasure as he felt the warmth and softness of my body. I stroked his hair and said softly.

‘Get down and worship my boots.’

He dropped to the floor and began to lick the soles of the left boot.

‘Continue to wank. And place the heel in your mouth. Suck it like you would a cock. You’re a slut and you’re going to learn to like sucking cock. Next time I’ll start you on my strapon and the time after that you can meet Tina, my little slave girl. She has nine inches and loves being sucked by whores like you. And you’ll love swallowing her come. Wont you?’

He mumbled something in reply. He now had the whole of my heel in his mouth.

‘Did I say stop wanking?’ I raised my voice to show my displeasure.

He muttered something that might have been sorry and his free hand moved quickly to his prick.

‘And now you may come.’

He intensified his efforts and kneaded away.

‘Come or you’ll get forty lashes.’

Then it happened. He dropped to the floor and groaned with pleasure as the creamy fluid came spilling out over his hands, matting his pubic hair. I looked at him lying there, tired but happy, his hands and crotch sticky, in his black maid’s dress, his wig,  his stilettos and I thought that he was in a place where he would come again and again, under my feet, dressed and humiliated, wanking to order. This was utter and total abasement and he had already learned to love it..

I stood up and towered over him, looking him full in the face.

‘Maid Lucy you are dismissed.’

I smiled at him and knew that he understood. This wasn’t humiliation for him. He had pleased his Mistress. He knew that being given permission to come was a privilege to be cherished. He knew that I would agree to see him again. Paul was in paradise.

I Place My Hand on Myself

In  the 1930s there was a musical called Young England. Inspired by the ideals of Baden Powell and Moral Rearmament it was a call to build a purer better Britain. UKIP would have approved, not least some of the party’s loopier elements. Intended to be stirring and patriotic it bombed and its unintended humour had the audience rolling in the aisles. It suffered the ignominy of being axed after the first night. The audience found the song ‘I place my hand on myself, what have I here?’ particularly amusing and there are, I think, no prizes for guessing what they were thinking of.

Masturbation has traditionally attracted mirth and disgust in equal measure. The Church has  disapproved of it ever since the days of St Jerome, who decided when translating the Scriptures into Latin  that Onan, in Genesis Chapter 38,  had been guilty of self abuse. Onan was, in fact guilty of a breach of customary law in an entirely different way. His brother had died leaving his wife Tamar a childless widow. Onan’s duty was to impregnate Tamar, an entirely reasonable expectation in a society where having children was essential to guarantee security in old age. He didn’t want to and withdrew before ejaculating. It was coitus interruptus and not masturbation that Onan was guilty of. But the sexual aspect was secondary to his failure to carry out his clear obligation to his brother’s widow. Nothing to do with wanking and poor Onan has had his name misused down the ages in many languages.

We had a book in my school library, a Home Doctor from the 1920s, which had an entry on masturbation. Symptoms apparently included shiftiness, untrustworthiness and an inability to look another man full in the face. It was assumed, you see, that only men played with themselves. Suggested cures included cold baths, feather pillows and lying on your front.

We all laughed at this but, on a more serious note, generations of teenagers have experienced unnecessary worry and trauma about their doing something that comes naturally and is good for them.  Dire consequences, from eternal torment to blindness awaited the self abuser. Yet masturbation is essential to our sexual self awareness, to our developing a satisfactory relationship with our own bodies. How can you tell your lover where and how to touch you if you haven’t explored your own body first? A friend of mine always says that the acid test for erotic fiction is the clit test. I show her drafts of my work and the first question I ask is ‘Did you….?’

This is Masturbation Month . Follow it here and enjoy yourselves! I certainly intend to as I place my hand on myself.