Where it all began…
… Rome! 
The following two letters are reproduced from the, now sadly defunct, English Femdom magazine – ‘Madame in a World of Fantasy’. They were amongst my earliest, published works.
Dear Madame Candida,
Life in Ancient Rome
I am a big fan of your Spanish artist Puyal. His drawings always seem to capture the true essence of the relationship between a mistress and her slave. I would be truly delighted if he felt able to illustrate any or all of the following scenes from slave life in ancient Rome:
1) A male slave is on the auction block in the slave market, surrounded by beautiful Roman women who are bidding for him. The slave is looking nervously at the female bidders, wondering who will be the new ruler of his life. He is also humble, because he knows that his only purpose in life is to serve his beautiful Roman Mistresses, of whom he has had several before. For their part, the ladies are relaxed and confident, knowing that the fate of this humble male is in their delicate, feminine hands.
2) The slave is washing the feet of his Mistress’s guests before they settle down for their evening meal. He is kneeling humbly at the feet of a young woman, carefully removing one of her sandals. A basin of water and a towel are by his side and soon he will perform the slavish task of washing the street dust off her pretty foot. He does so under the watchful eye of his own Mistress, although the young woman concerned appears indifferent to his humble ministrations as she chats happily to the other guests.
3) It is a hot, sunny day and the Mistress is out for a stroll in one of the central squares in Rome. Her male slave follows behind her, holding a parasol in order to protect his female owner’s delicate skin from the worst ravages of the sun. Needless to say, nobody is in the least bit concerned that the slave is sunburnt and thirsty from his own exposure to the midday sun.
4) The Mistress is reclining on a couch, semi naked and fresh from her evening bath. At her feet, her slave is giving her a pedicure, applying varnish to her delicate toenails, as she admires her beautiful face in a hand mirror. She pays little or no attention to the slave whilst he performs his task, but she will inspect his finished work carefully to ensure that everything is to her complete satisfaction. The merest flaw in the condition of her feet will result in severe punishment for the slave.
5) The Mistress’s guests are enjoying an afternoon glass of the finest Roman wine in the courtyard of the Mistress’s villa. Most of them are reclining lazily on soft couches in the comfortable shade. In the middle of the courtyard, however, the slave is down on his knees brushing the dust off the stone floor. He is hot and tired and in great discomfort, in complete contrast to the Mistress and her guests. Some of the latter are laughing, and appear to be enjoying the contrast between their own position and that of the humble slave. The slave, for his part, knows that he must not slack in front of his Mistress, and continues with his back breaking chore uncomplainingly – as befits a slave.
6) The Mistress is standing with her hands on her hips and one foot pointed forward. There is a look of fury on her face, and in her right hand she is holding a coiled up whip. The slave is on his hands and knees in front of her, desperately kissing the sandal of his Mistress’s outstretched foot. In the background lies a broken vase, which the slave has inadvertently knocked over whilst giving the room a dusting. He is a clumsy slave and he is therefore about to be punished. The whip will soon be cracking in this Roman household.
Madame Candida, all of the above scenes would look wonderful if they were illustrated by your talented Spanish artist, but even if he is unable to do so I hope that you have enjoyed my literary descriptions of the life of a slave in ancient Rome.
Your humble servant.
PATHETICUS
Addendum: Puyal did indeed illustrate the sixth scene:
Dear Madame Candida,
A Previous Life
In a previous life I was a household slave in ancient Rome, and I thought it might interest your readers if I listed some of my slave duties at that time.
1) I was often obliged to wash the dirty feet of my Mistress – the Lady Copernica, and her guests (be they male or female). In order to do this I would have to kneel in front of the master or mistress concerned, unstrap their sandals, and then gently place their dirty feet into a bowl of clean lukewarm water. I would then bathe their feet until all the dust and grime, especially that which had accumulated under the toe nails, had been completely removed. I would then dry the feet and put the master’s or mistress’s sandals back on for them. Needless to say, I was almost completely ignored by the assembled guests as I performed this humiliating task. They would continue happily with their conversations as if I wasn’t there and I always sensed that the young women in particular despised me as I removed their sandals and cleaned their delicate, silky smooth Roman feet.
2) I had to ensure that my Mistress’s clothing and footwear were kept clean and in good repair. As a rich Roman lady my Mistress’s wardrobe was quite large and woe betide me if the particular outfit and shoes that she had chosen to wear on any given day were not in pristine condition.
3) I had to accompany my Mistress on her shopping trips to the market, sometimes pulling her chariot as if I were a horse. I must admit that I always found it particularly humiliating to be tethered along with the other real horses at the entrance to the market as this provided me with no end of teasing and taunting from some of the more immature citizens of Rome.
4) Whenever the Master of the house, a Centurion, was away to war the Mistress would often unlock my male chastity belt and use me to pleasure her sexually. (This was never allowed, however, when the Master was at home!). Sometimes, however, the belt would stay on and she would simply have me pleasure her with my tongue.
5) Assisting my Mistress with her bath, and generally ensuring that her bathroom and toilet were kept clean and hygienic – not an easy task in the days before chemical bathroom cleaners.
6) Massaging my Mistress’s feet at the end of each evening whilst she relaxed on a couch. On such occasions I was always under strict instructions not to allow my slave hands to stray above her shapely ankles.
Needless to say I did not find my life as a Roman slave completely onerous, but there was one major drawback – the frequent application of corporal punishment. My Mistress was a great believer in the whip and the rod, and my back and buttocks were rarely without stripes beneath my slave tunic. Nevertheless I deeply respected my Mistress, and her total power over me, and I am convinced that this is why I have remained submissive to all women to this day.
Finally, Madame, I thought it might amuse you and your readers if I were to translate for you a short poem that I remember from my slave days in ancient Rome. It is rather quaint, and I never did know who the author was. But I do remember that it was all the rage for a time amongst the aristocracy, and it was passed on to us slaves by our owners, presumably as a kind of warning and an incentive to good behaviour. I hope you enjoy it.
Flagellum puer tua, o filia Romae.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum!
Pro sua inobedientia.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Proterviae suae.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Nam pulverem pedum tuorum.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Pro amos vobiscum.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Flagellum puer tua, o filia Romae,
Dum maritum domum revertitur.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Whip your slaveboy, oh daughter of Rome.
Whip, whip whip!
For his disobedience.
Whip, whip whip.
For his insolence.
Whip, whip whip.
For the dust on your shoe.
Whip, whip whip.
For his dalliances with you.
Whip, whip whip.
Whip your slaveboy, oh daughter of Rome,
Until your husband returneth home.
Whip, whip whip.
As you will note, Madame Candida, the ending of the poem is somewhat ambiguous as it implies that the husband may himself be in for a whipping! However, as to whether my Mistress Copernica ever beat my Master I cannot say. If she did I certainly was not permitted to be a witness.
Your humble servant,
PATHETICUS.
Addendum: Again, Puyal was kind enough to illustrate scenario no. 3 above (the human chariot!):
Two More Ancient Roman Femdom Scenes For Your Slavish Delectation
Ancient Roman Whip-Workout
It’s a swelteringly hot day in the rich suburbs of Ancient Rome.
But sultry, Roman slavemistress, 27 year old lady Julia, looks cool; cool – and fit, in every Roman sense of the term:
fit, as in beautiful;
fit, as in athletic;
fit, as in fit to whip.
For the black leather, single-tailed whip in her fair, feminine hand moves in perfect symmetry with the rest of her lithesome, Roman body in her short, white tunic, cutting effortlessly both through the summery Roman air, and the elderly, prostrate, spreadeagled-on-the-ground, male slave’s naked backflesh. He cries and screams forlornly into the dust whipped up by his Roman mistress’s brown leather, strappy sandals as she mercilessly wields the female-whip upon him, purely for the entertainment of her likeminded Roman friends.
As soon as she has finished whipping him, she steps up to the marks, and places her aristocratic, sandalled foot onto the sore small of his back, creating an imperious, triumphal arch between her shapely, Roman legs – to the applause of her mates.
Look at the slave meanwhile – the wrinkly, old, whipped manservant, chewing the dust in his increased agony. I expect it’s only a matter of time before he actually bites the dust, and that when he does so it will be under the same sensations he has had to endure throughout his miserable slave-life – namely the biting sting of the leather whip. I expect, also, that the last things he will ever see are his young mistress Julia’s pretty, pedicured toes in her dusty, brown leather, whipping sandals.
She should bury him in the Roman ground with her whip and her sandals, since he has spent so much time with them in later life!
But, for now, he lives to be whipped another day. The lady Julia and her friends abandon him to his lonely pain, leaving the equally unforgiving Roman sun to dry his wounds as he lies sobbing into the Roman dust, whilst they retire into the comforting shade of her opulent villa for some well-earned refreshments.
He focusses on the treadmarks left in the dust of the courtyard by his mistress Julia’s sandals, and internally worships the ground on which she has whipped. For she is his owner and better, and fully entitled to a Roman whip-workout on his back!
The Branding Exercise
Twenty year old, young lady Livilla was having her new slave branded with a hot iron.
Nothing odd about that – this was Ancient Rome, after all; and there were so many fair-skinned, blonde-haired, male slaves running around the capital these days; and they all looked alike to her; it was only right and proper that she should mark out her new, personal footslave ( or ‘servus provolvo’) as her own, with a capital letter ‘L’ on his inner, right thigh, like she did with all her husband’s household slaves (luckily his name was ‘Lucius’, so she could use the same, red-hot iron!)
What was somewhat odd, however – in a rich, Roman young-lady – was her insistence on applying the branding iron herself! Most young ladies would delegate that to their burly slave overseer. But then, the lady Livilla was a bit odd – with a reputation for being inordinately cruel towards her slaves, even by Ancient Roman, young-womanly standards.
She also had a well-deserved reputation for being inordinately beautiful; in her Roman-girl prime; and she knew it, and revelled in it!
As she hovered over the comparatively ugly and old, about-to-be-branded, thirty-five year old, male slave who was secured on his back on the dusty ground of her opulent villa’s courtyard – his right thigh bared and exposed, ready for the heat – she hitched up the hem of her long, white, aristocratic, flowing stola and stretched forth the dusty sole of her dainty, brown leather, Roman sandal for him to kiss, and blubber over, and beg for mercy into.
Not that it would do him any good! As we have already explained, the pathetic slave had to be marked out as her property; and the branding iron was the simplest, quickest way to do so. A tattoo on his inner thigh would take too long; and, in the lady Livilla’s, admittedly somewhat limited, experience, so-called ‘indelible’ paint always wore off after time (or could eventually become whipped off!)
No – the branding iron it is; and judging by the red-hot glow on the end of the iron resting in the nearby furnace, it is just about ready for action.
She tarries somewhat, however; partly to increase the hapless, male slave’s fear and apprehension; partly because she just loves having her dusty sandal-soles kissed. She looks down at the blubbering, whimpering slave past the thin, brown leather, sandal-straps which criss-cross her soft and shapely, ankle and calf muscles, and revels in her absolute, young female-imperial power over him. She even twists her brunette locks coquettishly around her pretty, Roman face as she smiles cruelly down at him; a forerunner of the many sink-estate girls of the Gynarchy that will follow her in history!
Then, it is time. The hem of her stola is once again lowered to cover her shapely, olive-skinned, leather criss-crossed anklebone; her dusty, but now wet-with-saliva, sandal sole moves away from his lips, and the young lady Livilla languorously moves over to extract the iron from the fire.
She’s in no hurry; a tattoo would take too long; but a branding never seems to take long enough!
She ostentatiously spits on the ‘L’ shaped, hot end of the iron in front of and above the slave; not to cool it down a little for him; but so that he can hear it sizzle, and gauge its heat (as if the near white-hot glow wasn’t indication enough of its power to burn cruelly into prone and vulnerable, maleslave flesh). Her spit also ably demonstrates her contempt for him, as a few globules deliberately miss the iron and fall down onto his face; she is showering him in contemptuous, female spit, just as she sometimes showers her manly, young husband with loving, sweet feminine kisses.
She studiously maintains eye contact with the terrified slave as she then slowly, and deliberately, lowers the iron towards his waiting thigh. She then holds it just millimetres from his skin for a few, tantalising, and potentially agonizing, seconds – before suddenly withdrawing the iron and laughingly placing it back into the fire.
This had just been a practice run; a branding exercise, so to speak – designed to demonstrate her power to effortlessly hurt the newly acquired slave, should he ever displease her!
As we said, the lady Livilla is a somewhat odd character; cruel, and yet prone to uncharacteristic moments of unexpected, youthful compassion!
She had the slave tattooed on his thigh instead the very next day. And he never did need to be punished with the branding iron. The threat of it was always enough!
And finally, a trip (for me) down memory lane…
The Collector
It’s a dank and drizzly Saturday in winter; circa 1987.
But I’m not about to mope around the house! I’m in my mid twenties, and in my prime; and I have a magazine to buy!
‘Madame in a World of Fantasy’ – a rather grand title for a modest little, black and white publication. But hard to get! Or, at least, hard to get on the open market. You really have to go to the Swish Publications Sex Shop to buy it – unless you have the balls to buy it from the top shelf of your local newsagents!
And I don’t!
Because this magazine says a lot about me – that I am a fetishist; a submissive male; a ‘deviant’, even, in some people’s eyes.
But it is legal – just! And so I’m damn well going to buy it, and add it to my collection. I’ve been looking forward to getting it all week. I’m convinced it will be out today, for it is a regular, monthly publication, and I had miscalculated thinking it was due out last week. What a disappointment that was – but a disappointment that will only make today’s success all the more sweet!
I can hardly wait for the 09:30 train to Victoria. It’s actually much too early! I should really catch a later train. The Swish Publications shop doesn’t, I believe, even open until about 10:00? I run the risk of getting there too early. Many’s the time I’ve had to walk around the block in Soho, waiting for the shutters to go up!
But I can’t wait! I’m aiming to get there about 10:30, but I’ve been ready to leave since I woke up at 07:00 A.M!
From Victoria, I take the tube to Tottenham Court Road. It’s only a short walk to Greek Street from there. My heart races as I nip down the side street off Charing Cross Road which leads to the dingy backstreets of Soho, and Greek Street in particular!
The Swish shop frontage is a bit like the products inside – black and white; with blacked out windows. But it proudly displays its status ‘Licensed Sex Shop’. Licensed. Legal. I won’t get ripped off – not like in some unlicensed shops dotted around the area.
Mind you, I love Soho; the sleaziness of it; but it’s nice to know that Swish Publications pay their license fee. They are here to stay. And this little shop is my precious treasure trove!
It’s located right next to a pub – but there are no drinkers hanging around outside at this time of the morning. It’s another reason why I like to get there early – before lunch. For entering a sex shop, in full public view, is still a bit risqué. At least, for me it is! For I’m quite shy really; it goes with my submissiveness.
I wonder, as I turn the corner into Greek Street right next to the pub, will I have a ‘good’ entrance and exit this time? Or an embarrassing one? I have, previously, walked out of the shop into the path of a passing vicar; or a group of tourists; even two patrolling police officers! Of course, it shouldn’t matter – I’m not doing anything illegal!
But naughty?
Today it’s all quiet – there’s hardly anybody about, and those that there are, are holding brollies; so they’re not focussed on me!
From the corner of my eye I can see that the door is ajar; the shop is open! Hurrah! No need to walk nonchalantly on past, as if I had never intended to go in!
The door creaks as I step inside.
‘Warning. Persons passing beyond this point will encounter material of an adult nature which they may find objectionable’ – or words to that effect! It’s like a website warning, only in the days before anyone had even heard of a ‘website’! A legal requirement of the license, perhaps?
Whatever, it only adds to my frisson of excitement. I am an adult, after all. I have every right to be here!
Inside the shop I see a beautiful, blonde lady behind the counter. Wow! Usually, on a Saturday, it’s a man serving behind the counter. A middle-aged man – very friendly and courteous. But having to buy a ‘Femdom’ magazine from an attractive, young woman will only add to my sense of excitement. I shall have to avoid eye contact, as befits a slave!
As usual, the shop is empty of other customers. I sometimes wonder how Swish Publications can survive? Perhaps, hopefully, this is just their quiet period – before the Saturday afternoon rush? On the other hand, I quite like having the shop all to myself!
I head straight to the rows of black and white magazines on the left hand side of the shop. I glance furtively, and expectantly, up at the top left hand corner. IT’S THERE! A BRAND NEW EDITION OF MADAME! You can tell it’s new, not just from the fact that there are several copies all stacked in front of one another, but by the new cover. A photo of a new mistress (usually a professional dominatrix), or a sexy drawing by Puyal the Spanish artist. And the cover, whatever it is, speaks to me – I’m here! I’m ready and waiting! Buy me!
I grab my copy straight away – like I’m in danger of being killed in the crush of other customers! I always choose the second one down, as the top one may have been leafed through by somebody else’s grubby fingers. For the newest edition is never cellophane wrapped (unlike back copies), and I want a pristine copy!
That’s it! That’s enough! I could just pay up and leave – for I’ve got my long-awaited, new edition of Madame magazine – hot off the press! But I don’t want to leave yet. This is my special place; my special shop! And so I linger, and look around the rest of the shelves – even in the bargain buckets. I’ve obtained some good bargains in here before; large packs of back-copies of Madame magazine which were published well before my time. Some of the very early editions even show submissive males smoking pipes (before they are gently humbled by their 1950’s mistresses!). But I can’t believe the magazine is that old!
If I do spot anything else, it’ll be a bonus. The main thing is that I’ve got my copy of the latest magazine! I could, of course, have it posted to me every month. A subscription would work out cheaper. But then, I wouldn’t have the thrill of travelling into town, and visiting my favourite shop, and then anticipating the read after my journey home on the train again!
The blonde lady puts my magazine in a brown, paper bag. I don’t particularly need it, because I have my own carrier bag. But I like watching, and hearing, my purchase being wrapped. In 1980’s Britain, a ‘brown paper bag’ is a euphemism for anything naughty. I am a dirty, young man about to exit a sex shop with my hot purchase all safely wrapped up!
Will it be a good exit – or straight into the passing vicar again?
No – the street appears empty. A quick dash around the corner of the pub, and nobody knows where I’ve just been.
Which was to heaven!
The following two letters are reproduced from the, now sadly defunct, English Femdom magazine – ‘Madame in a World of Fantasy’. They were amongst my earliest, published works.
Dear Madame Candida,
Life in Ancient RomeI am a big fan of your Spanish artist Puyal. His drawings always seem to capture the true essence of the relationship between a mistress and her slave. I would be truly delighted if he felt able to illustrate any or all of the following scenes from slave life in ancient Rome:
1) A male slave is on the auction block in the slave market, surrounded by beautiful Roman women who are bidding for him. The slave is looking nervously at the female bidders, wondering who will be the new ruler of his life. He is also humble, because he knows that his only purpose in life is to serve his beautiful Roman Mistresses, of whom he has had several before. For their part, the ladies are relaxed and confident, knowing that the fate of this humble male is in their delicate, feminine hands.
2) The slave is washing the feet of his Mistress’s guests before they settle down for their evening meal. He is kneeling humbly at the feet of a young woman, carefully removing one of her sandals. A basin of water and a towel are by his side and soon he will perform the slavish task of washing the street dust off her pretty foot. He does so under the watchful eye of his own Mistress, although the young woman concerned appears indifferent to his humble ministrations as she chats happily to the other guests.
3) It is a hot, sunny day and the Mistress is out for a stroll in one of the central squares in Rome. Her male slave follows behind her, holding a parasol in order to protect his female owner’s delicate skin from the worst ravages of the sun. Needless to say, nobody is in the least bit concerned that the slave is sunburnt and thirsty from his own exposure to the midday sun.
4) The Mistress is reclining on a couch, semi naked and fresh from her evening bath. At her feet, her slave is giving her a pedicure, applying varnish to her delicate toenails, as she admires her beautiful face in a hand mirror. She pays little or no attention to the slave whilst he performs his task, but she will inspect his finished work carefully to ensure that everything is to her complete satisfaction. The merest flaw in the condition of her feet will result in severe punishment for the slave.
5) The Mistress’s guests are enjoying an afternoon glass of the finest Roman wine in the courtyard of the Mistress’s villa. Most of them are reclining lazily on soft couches in the comfortable shade. In the middle of the courtyard, however, the slave is down on his knees brushing the dust off the stone floor. He is hot and tired and in great discomfort, in complete contrast to the Mistress and her guests. Some of the latter are laughing, and appear to be enjoying the contrast between their own position and that of the humble slave. The slave, for his part, knows that he must not slack in front of his Mistress, and continues with his back breaking chore uncomplainingly – as befits a slave.
6) The Mistress is standing with her hands on her hips and one foot pointed forward. There is a look of fury on her face, and in her right hand she is holding a coiled up whip. The slave is on his hands and knees in front of her, desperately kissing the sandal of his Mistress’s outstretched foot. In the background lies a broken vase, which the slave has inadvertently knocked over whilst giving the room a dusting. He is a clumsy slave and he is therefore about to be punished. The whip will soon be cracking in this Roman household.
Madame Candida, all of the above scenes would look wonderful if they were illustrated by your talented Spanish artist, but even if he is unable to do so I hope that you have enjoyed my literary descriptions of the life of a slave in ancient Rome.
Your humble servant.
PATHETICUS
Addendum: Puyal did indeed illustrate the sixth scene:
Dear Madame Candida,
A Previous LifeIn a previous life I was a household slave in ancient Rome, and I thought it might interest your readers if I listed some of my slave duties at that time.
1) I was often obliged to wash the dirty feet of my Mistress – the Lady Copernica, and her guests (be they male or female). In order to do this I would have to kneel in front of the master or mistress concerned, unstrap their sandals, and then gently place their dirty feet into a bowl of clean lukewarm water. I would then bathe their feet until all the dust and grime, especially that which had accumulated under the toe nails, had been completely removed. I would then dry the feet and put the master’s or mistress’s sandals back on for them. Needless to say, I was almost completely ignored by the assembled guests as I performed this humiliating task. They would continue happily with their conversations as if I wasn’t there and I always sensed that the young women in particular despised me as I removed their sandals and cleaned their delicate, silky smooth Roman feet.
2) I had to ensure that my Mistress’s clothing and footwear were kept clean and in good repair. As a rich Roman lady my Mistress’s wardrobe was quite large and woe betide me if the particular outfit and shoes that she had chosen to wear on any given day were not in pristine condition.
3) I had to accompany my Mistress on her shopping trips to the market, sometimes pulling her chariot as if I were a horse. I must admit that I always found it particularly humiliating to be tethered along with the other real horses at the entrance to the market as this provided me with no end of teasing and taunting from some of the more immature citizens of Rome.
4) Whenever the Master of the house, a Centurion, was away to war the Mistress would often unlock my male chastity belt and use me to pleasure her sexually. (This was never allowed, however, when the Master was at home!). Sometimes, however, the belt would stay on and she would simply have me pleasure her with my tongue.
5) Assisting my Mistress with her bath, and generally ensuring that her bathroom and toilet were kept clean and hygienic – not an easy task in the days before chemical bathroom cleaners.
6) Massaging my Mistress’s feet at the end of each evening whilst she relaxed on a couch. On such occasions I was always under strict instructions not to allow my slave hands to stray above her shapely ankles.
Needless to say I did not find my life as a Roman slave completely onerous, but there was one major drawback – the frequent application of corporal punishment. My Mistress was a great believer in the whip and the rod, and my back and buttocks were rarely without stripes beneath my slave tunic. Nevertheless I deeply respected my Mistress, and her total power over me, and I am convinced that this is why I have remained submissive to all women to this day.
Finally, Madame, I thought it might amuse you and your readers if I were to translate for you a short poem that I remember from my slave days in ancient Rome. It is rather quaint, and I never did know who the author was. But I do remember that it was all the rage for a time amongst the aristocracy, and it was passed on to us slaves by our owners, presumably as a kind of warning and an incentive to good behaviour. I hope you enjoy it.
Flagellum puer tua, o filia Romae.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum!
Pro sua inobedientia.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Proterviae suae.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Nam pulverem pedum tuorum.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Pro amos vobiscum.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Flagellum puer tua, o filia Romae,
Dum maritum domum revertitur.
Verberaque, flagellum verberum.
Whip your slaveboy, oh daughter of Rome.
Whip, whip whip!
For his disobedience.
Whip, whip whip.
For his insolence.
Whip, whip whip.
For the dust on your shoe.
Whip, whip whip.
For his dalliances with you.
Whip, whip whip.
Whip your slaveboy, oh daughter of Rome,
Until your husband returneth home.
Whip, whip whip.
As you will note, Madame Candida, the ending of the poem is somewhat ambiguous as it implies that the husband may himself be in for a whipping! However, as to whether my Mistress Copernica ever beat my Master I cannot say. If she did I certainly was not permitted to be a witness.
Your humble servant,
PATHETICUS.
Addendum: Again, Puyal was kind enough to illustrate scenario no. 3 above (the human chariot!):
Two More Ancient Roman Femdom Scenes For Your Slavish Delectation
Ancient Roman Whip-WorkoutIt’s a swelteringly hot day in the rich suburbs of Ancient Rome.
But sultry, Roman slavemistress, 27 year old lady Julia, looks cool; cool – and fit, in every Roman sense of the term:
fit, as in beautiful;
fit, as in athletic;
fit, as in fit to whip.
For the black leather, single-tailed whip in her fair, feminine hand moves in perfect symmetry with the rest of her lithesome, Roman body in her short, white tunic, cutting effortlessly both through the summery Roman air, and the elderly, prostrate, spreadeagled-on-the-ground, male slave’s naked backflesh. He cries and screams forlornly into the dust whipped up by his Roman mistress’s brown leather, strappy sandals as she mercilessly wields the female-whip upon him, purely for the entertainment of her likeminded Roman friends.
As soon as she has finished whipping him, she steps up to the marks, and places her aristocratic, sandalled foot onto the sore small of his back, creating an imperious, triumphal arch between her shapely, Roman legs – to the applause of her mates.
Look at the slave meanwhile – the wrinkly, old, whipped manservant, chewing the dust in his increased agony. I expect it’s only a matter of time before he actually bites the dust, and that when he does so it will be under the same sensations he has had to endure throughout his miserable slave-life – namely the biting sting of the leather whip. I expect, also, that the last things he will ever see are his young mistress Julia’s pretty, pedicured toes in her dusty, brown leather, whipping sandals.
She should bury him in the Roman ground with her whip and her sandals, since he has spent so much time with them in later life!
But, for now, he lives to be whipped another day. The lady Julia and her friends abandon him to his lonely pain, leaving the equally unforgiving Roman sun to dry his wounds as he lies sobbing into the Roman dust, whilst they retire into the comforting shade of her opulent villa for some well-earned refreshments.
He focusses on the treadmarks left in the dust of the courtyard by his mistress Julia’s sandals, and internally worships the ground on which she has whipped. For she is his owner and better, and fully entitled to a Roman whip-workout on his back!
The Branding ExerciseTwenty year old, young lady Livilla was having her new slave branded with a hot iron.
Nothing odd about that – this was Ancient Rome, after all; and there were so many fair-skinned, blonde-haired, male slaves running around the capital these days; and they all looked alike to her; it was only right and proper that she should mark out her new, personal footslave ( or ‘servus provolvo’) as her own, with a capital letter ‘L’ on his inner, right thigh, like she did with all her husband’s household slaves (luckily his name was ‘Lucius’, so she could use the same, red-hot iron!)
What was somewhat odd, however – in a rich, Roman young-lady – was her insistence on applying the branding iron herself! Most young ladies would delegate that to their burly slave overseer. But then, the lady Livilla was a bit odd – with a reputation for being inordinately cruel towards her slaves, even by Ancient Roman, young-womanly standards.
She also had a well-deserved reputation for being inordinately beautiful; in her Roman-girl prime; and she knew it, and revelled in it!
As she hovered over the comparatively ugly and old, about-to-be-branded, thirty-five year old, male slave who was secured on his back on the dusty ground of her opulent villa’s courtyard – his right thigh bared and exposed, ready for the heat – she hitched up the hem of her long, white, aristocratic, flowing stola and stretched forth the dusty sole of her dainty, brown leather, Roman sandal for him to kiss, and blubber over, and beg for mercy into.
Not that it would do him any good! As we have already explained, the pathetic slave had to be marked out as her property; and the branding iron was the simplest, quickest way to do so. A tattoo on his inner thigh would take too long; and, in the lady Livilla’s, admittedly somewhat limited, experience, so-called ‘indelible’ paint always wore off after time (or could eventually become whipped off!)
No – the branding iron it is; and judging by the red-hot glow on the end of the iron resting in the nearby furnace, it is just about ready for action.
She tarries somewhat, however; partly to increase the hapless, male slave’s fear and apprehension; partly because she just loves having her dusty sandal-soles kissed. She looks down at the blubbering, whimpering slave past the thin, brown leather, sandal-straps which criss-cross her soft and shapely, ankle and calf muscles, and revels in her absolute, young female-imperial power over him. She even twists her brunette locks coquettishly around her pretty, Roman face as she smiles cruelly down at him; a forerunner of the many sink-estate girls of the Gynarchy that will follow her in history!
Then, it is time. The hem of her stola is once again lowered to cover her shapely, olive-skinned, leather criss-crossed anklebone; her dusty, but now wet-with-saliva, sandal sole moves away from his lips, and the young lady Livilla languorously moves over to extract the iron from the fire.
She’s in no hurry; a tattoo would take too long; but a branding never seems to take long enough!
She ostentatiously spits on the ‘L’ shaped, hot end of the iron in front of and above the slave; not to cool it down a little for him; but so that he can hear it sizzle, and gauge its heat (as if the near white-hot glow wasn’t indication enough of its power to burn cruelly into prone and vulnerable, maleslave flesh). Her spit also ably demonstrates her contempt for him, as a few globules deliberately miss the iron and fall down onto his face; she is showering him in contemptuous, female spit, just as she sometimes showers her manly, young husband with loving, sweet feminine kisses.
She studiously maintains eye contact with the terrified slave as she then slowly, and deliberately, lowers the iron towards his waiting thigh. She then holds it just millimetres from his skin for a few, tantalising, and potentially agonizing, seconds – before suddenly withdrawing the iron and laughingly placing it back into the fire.
This had just been a practice run; a branding exercise, so to speak – designed to demonstrate her power to effortlessly hurt the newly acquired slave, should he ever displease her!
As we said, the lady Livilla is a somewhat odd character; cruel, and yet prone to uncharacteristic moments of unexpected, youthful compassion!
She had the slave tattooed on his thigh instead the very next day. And he never did need to be punished with the branding iron. The threat of it was always enough!
And finally, a trip (for me) down memory lane…
The Collector
It’s a dank and drizzly Saturday in winter; circa 1987.
But I’m not about to mope around the house! I’m in my mid twenties, and in my prime; and I have a magazine to buy!
‘Madame in a World of Fantasy’ – a rather grand title for a modest little, black and white publication. But hard to get! Or, at least, hard to get on the open market. You really have to go to the Swish Publications Sex Shop to buy it – unless you have the balls to buy it from the top shelf of your local newsagents!
And I don’t!
Because this magazine says a lot about me – that I am a fetishist; a submissive male; a ‘deviant’, even, in some people’s eyes.
But it is legal – just! And so I’m damn well going to buy it, and add it to my collection. I’ve been looking forward to getting it all week. I’m convinced it will be out today, for it is a regular, monthly publication, and I had miscalculated thinking it was due out last week. What a disappointment that was – but a disappointment that will only make today’s success all the more sweet!
I can hardly wait for the 09:30 train to Victoria. It’s actually much too early! I should really catch a later train. The Swish Publications shop doesn’t, I believe, even open until about 10:00? I run the risk of getting there too early. Many’s the time I’ve had to walk around the block in Soho, waiting for the shutters to go up!
But I can’t wait! I’m aiming to get there about 10:30, but I’ve been ready to leave since I woke up at 07:00 A.M!
From Victoria, I take the tube to Tottenham Court Road. It’s only a short walk to Greek Street from there. My heart races as I nip down the side street off Charing Cross Road which leads to the dingy backstreets of Soho, and Greek Street in particular!
The Swish shop frontage is a bit like the products inside – black and white; with blacked out windows. But it proudly displays its status ‘Licensed Sex Shop’. Licensed. Legal. I won’t get ripped off – not like in some unlicensed shops dotted around the area.
Mind you, I love Soho; the sleaziness of it; but it’s nice to know that Swish Publications pay their license fee. They are here to stay. And this little shop is my precious treasure trove!
It’s located right next to a pub – but there are no drinkers hanging around outside at this time of the morning. It’s another reason why I like to get there early – before lunch. For entering a sex shop, in full public view, is still a bit risqué. At least, for me it is! For I’m quite shy really; it goes with my submissiveness.
I wonder, as I turn the corner into Greek Street right next to the pub, will I have a ‘good’ entrance and exit this time? Or an embarrassing one? I have, previously, walked out of the shop into the path of a passing vicar; or a group of tourists; even two patrolling police officers! Of course, it shouldn’t matter – I’m not doing anything illegal!
But naughty?
Today it’s all quiet – there’s hardly anybody about, and those that there are, are holding brollies; so they’re not focussed on me!
From the corner of my eye I can see that the door is ajar; the shop is open! Hurrah! No need to walk nonchalantly on past, as if I had never intended to go in!
The door creaks as I step inside.
‘Warning. Persons passing beyond this point will encounter material of an adult nature which they may find objectionable’ – or words to that effect! It’s like a website warning, only in the days before anyone had even heard of a ‘website’! A legal requirement of the license, perhaps?
Whatever, it only adds to my frisson of excitement. I am an adult, after all. I have every right to be here!
Inside the shop I see a beautiful, blonde lady behind the counter. Wow! Usually, on a Saturday, it’s a man serving behind the counter. A middle-aged man – very friendly and courteous. But having to buy a ‘Femdom’ magazine from an attractive, young woman will only add to my sense of excitement. I shall have to avoid eye contact, as befits a slave!
As usual, the shop is empty of other customers. I sometimes wonder how Swish Publications can survive? Perhaps, hopefully, this is just their quiet period – before the Saturday afternoon rush? On the other hand, I quite like having the shop all to myself!
I head straight to the rows of black and white magazines on the left hand side of the shop. I glance furtively, and expectantly, up at the top left hand corner. IT’S THERE! A BRAND NEW EDITION OF MADAME! You can tell it’s new, not just from the fact that there are several copies all stacked in front of one another, but by the new cover. A photo of a new mistress (usually a professional dominatrix), or a sexy drawing by Puyal the Spanish artist. And the cover, whatever it is, speaks to me – I’m here! I’m ready and waiting! Buy me!
I grab my copy straight away – like I’m in danger of being killed in the crush of other customers! I always choose the second one down, as the top one may have been leafed through by somebody else’s grubby fingers. For the newest edition is never cellophane wrapped (unlike back copies), and I want a pristine copy!
That’s it! That’s enough! I could just pay up and leave – for I’ve got my long-awaited, new edition of Madame magazine – hot off the press! But I don’t want to leave yet. This is my special place; my special shop! And so I linger, and look around the rest of the shelves – even in the bargain buckets. I’ve obtained some good bargains in here before; large packs of back-copies of Madame magazine which were published well before my time. Some of the very early editions even show submissive males smoking pipes (before they are gently humbled by their 1950’s mistresses!). But I can’t believe the magazine is that old!
If I do spot anything else, it’ll be a bonus. The main thing is that I’ve got my copy of the latest magazine! I could, of course, have it posted to me every month. A subscription would work out cheaper. But then, I wouldn’t have the thrill of travelling into town, and visiting my favourite shop, and then anticipating the read after my journey home on the train again!
The blonde lady puts my magazine in a brown, paper bag. I don’t particularly need it, because I have my own carrier bag. But I like watching, and hearing, my purchase being wrapped. In 1980’s Britain, a ‘brown paper bag’ is a euphemism for anything naughty. I am a dirty, young man about to exit a sex shop with my hot purchase all safely wrapped up!
Will it be a good exit – or straight into the passing vicar again?
No – the street appears empty. A quick dash around the corner of the pub, and nobody knows where I’ve just been.
Which was to heaven!
