The Firm's Publications

Ishmael writes nice books, and is using this space to shamelessly publicise the fact.

Free Wealin' cover photo

Free Wealin'

Ishmael has written a lovely book called Free Wealin' (the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Scene) this may be purchased from PO Box 10937, London, N15 6PE at a cost of £7.50 plus 50 pence P&P (cheques payable to Ishmael Skyes). If it doesn't tell you all you need to know about kinky sex we suggest you offer yourself to your local department of psychiatric medicine as an interesting case for the students to look at.

Free Wealin': extract 1

For neat clean lines nothing tops a school cane. Most canes have crook handles, though some companies sell canes with straight leather grips. Most slaves dread the cane most of all but your right to punish includes your right to cane. Helping your sub to overcome their fear is most rewarding. The most important thing for them to realise is that it is not the cane that hurts. You are the one who hurts. A cane is only as nasty as the person holding it. Try tying them firmly and then bouncing the cane off their springy bottom very quickly without putting much force behind it. Before long that bottom will be pushing up to get more of the sting. Gradually let it bounce with more weight, after a few minutes it will hurt like anything. Shortly afterwards the pain will stop and they will purr like a pusscat. Keep it up long enough and they may even come. Now, hopefully you have a slave who won't be such a baby when the cane slides into view. You will then be able to train them to accept six of the best far more easily, then a dozen, then two dozen. For pain try two hard strokes in quick succession, or four, or six. Cat o'nine tails come in all shapes and sizes. Some look perfectly innocuous but are lethal. Others seem to contravene SALT 2 but don't do much more than make a loud noise. To use a cat accurately takes practice. If you want to avoid nicking ears in the early days, cover your slave's head.

Twirling a cat so that the tips connect with you slave's body lots and lots of times is a good technique. Bullwhips take so much practice that my knowledge of them is almost nil. But if you want a decent one go to somewhere like Arizona where somebody probably still makes proper ones, or talk to Alex of ‘Cobra Whips'. Bullwhips bought at the seaside are total crap. If you can get a real one you'll discover just how good they really are. They crack beautifully but targeting is more of a problem. A gay SM manual I read recommends practising on a teddy bear. A teddy bear SM manual I subsequently read recommends practising on a homosexual. It only goes to show that even unto teddy bears consent is essential.

Free Wealin': extract 2

Fetish Clubs are very good places for male masochists to get beaten. The vast majority of Dominatrixes love to show off by thrashing men. Only when the ratio of subs to Mistresses gets about 5 to 1 do they really start to grumble of overwork. Even the toughest of masochists can't cope with being thrashed all night. They need a break, so it's just as likely to hear grumbles of "Not enough men, I want to whip somebody." If our lonely sad man went wrong it was probably in one of the following ways;

  1. He didn't observe the rules of being very polite. Being stupid, boorish or pushy is a great way to be told to piss-off. Approach very respectfully and do exactly what you are told.

  2. He approached too late. He who hesitates is lunch. Hanging around the edges of the playroom and watching for the best opportunity with the busiest Dominatrix is a waste of time. Keep your options open and approach well before 1 am.

  3. Looking or smelling like a bag of washing is a bad strategy. A Mistress may reduce you to the level of a cowering frightened animal but she would much prefer you to look very sexy to start with. Seeming wet or boring is a similar turn-off.

  4. Looking weird. OK. We all look a bit strange but one sub I saw once had dressed up like Old Mother Riley. I didn't like to ask why but the idea of beating something that looked like a victim of Alzheimer's Disease didn't generally appeal. Mistresses only like being cruel to cute victims and the opportunity of engaging in gentrophillia of this kind was rejected. (Actually Mother Riley did get thrashed, by the most anti-social and maladjusted lady in the place, who went on to punch me in the jaw for wishing her a good evening. It only goes to show. We get what we deserve!) If you are a pensioner, make sure you look after your appearance and presentation. Younger men will do no better than you do, for what you might lack in endurance and energy, you will make up for in reliability. A good Dominatrix will realise this, if you find one who doesn't, you've probably also found one who isn't.

  5. Being deliberately dumb, disobedient or demanding in order to get beaten won't work. You will be sent away.

  6. Groping people without it being made plain first that this is OK is unacceptable and a great way to be chucked out altogether.

  7. He could've been openly masturbating. (Which is more obvious than most people think.) Thereby wearing an hypothetical (but no less legible) neon sign on his head saying, “Don't play with me, I'm shit.”.

Quest cover artwork


The sequel to Freewealin' – What Chairman Mao Thought Next! A semi- autobiographical exploration of The Scene, on the Journey to The Dungeon at the End of the Universe. Published @ £7.50

Quest: extract 1

Once Upon a Time there was a beautiful Princess who lived in a castle. The Castle was huge with granite walls, high battlements, pointed towers and cavernous dungeons. It's approaches were protected by portcullis, bastion, drawbridge and boiling oil, by thick dark woods stretching all the way down the precipitous mountain, and by patrols of soldiers clad in black leather armour. These were the almost insurmountable hazards that the young men who sought The Princess's hand had to overcome. They were all strong and brave and honest, but even then few of them failed to fall prey to the wolves and guards and traps; few of them were fortunate enough to beg The Princess for her hand. And they found out that it was not a hand of marriage, but of punishment; each young man who was accepted became The Princess's slave, not her prince. Their days became filled with service and cruelty and punishment, and they served The Princess and her beautiful companions and suffered for their amusement for the rest of their days.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“That was a lovely story”, said the Young Man. “Is it true?”

“I don't know”, the Storyteller replied, “It's a very old story, but as to the truth of it ....”

“Do you mean it isn't really true?”, the Young Man pressed.

The story teller answered rather sadly, “I don't think it's true. I thought there might be a castle like that once, but I looked for it for years myself. I never found it”. He smiled wistfully, “That's not to say I regret one step of the search. I met some fascinating people. Some beautiful, cruel women. I've had a good life, but my search is over. Now I'm just a very happy old man with my stories. With my ...”
And more softly than a breath the Storyteller died. The Young Man stood up and gently pressed two coins on the Storyteller's eyes.
“I'll take your spirit with me”, he murmured, “There is a castle and a cruel Princess. I know there is. I know. We're going to find it”.

Quest: extract 2

Erotica – Sunday 30th November OK. So you can sleep under a table in Olympia, if you're tired enough. I surface around midday. Set up the stall; lots of Freewealin’ surrounded by lots of magazines which appear to be vanilla in PVC if you know what I mean - I'm mentioning no names, there's such a thing as libel. There's a note on the table. 'Sable St Lucien 0171 nnn nnnn wants to buy the banner. Rachel'. Bizarre. People want to buy odd things. I ask Rachel when she gets in: It is not a joke! 12.30 All the stallholders are in. This is massive. The whole of the Sex Industry is here - in Olympia. Ten years ago, anyone suggesting that this was possible would have been banned by Der Putsch. Music starts; You Sexy Thing from The Full Monty. They were playing this on Friday - over and over again. Conan, at the stall next door has been up all night making new stock: demand for inexpensive and stylish leatherware has surpassed all previous demand. His partner, Iona is an artist. I ask what I should charge for the banner. She says £200! People come. Lots and lots of people. The whole of humanity seems to want to be a sex maniac. Nich is keen that I get rid of as many of his magazines as possible. So Brick Lane Costerspeak, "We gotcha Rubber, we gotcha PVC, we gotcha Readers' Wives" 10/10 for projection, -10M for content.

Philippa has been exploring. She says the Dream Boys have been on stage, they are very muscley but do not undress enough for her liking. There are many stalls with big pink vibrators, naff pornography, and crap whips. There is some good art. Somewhere in all this is art. And film crews. People have been taking her picture all over the place, especially Babewatch TV. At the grand old age of 35 she has at last, she declares, achieved babehood. Some are born babes, some achieve babeness and some have babehood thrust upon them. At 34 I have a babe girlfriend. Nich continues to fret. His pornography is not selling as he thinks it should, but Freewealin’ is walking off the stall with the agility of the Gingerbread Man - the original hot cake. Conan has gone home to make even more stock. Iona explains this with the kind of shiny-eyed admiration that dares anybody to suggest that either of them have gone completely mad.
It is always busy. Sometimes so many people in this section that it takes 20 minutes to get to the loo and back. A very charming and well-spoken man brings me a beer – after reading Freewealin’. I’m very pleased and ask The Man Who Knows who the fellow is. "Special Branch", says Man Who Knows. Perhaps brown trousers would have been better.

PS. Ms St Lucien is in the Seychelles when I try to call her, but eventually we co-ordinate. She sends a taxi to the Hackney Empire to collect the banner with £200 in an envelope. I have never seen this woman and do not know what she looks like. Should have asked for £500.

Back to the top.

Six of the Best

Six stories of The Muir Academy set in 1951. “Funny, well-written and contains enough spankings to satisfy even the most ardent CP enthusiast” – Fetish Times.

“At any moment you expect to find Enid Blyton being spanked by Tom Sharpe” – JB Strangetrousers, Emeritus Professor of CP fiction, St Bethesda's Col., Univ Stoke on Trent.

Six of the Best: extract 1

Between them, they frog-marched Jane Kerr to the gym, and across the parquet floor to the wall bars. John pulled off his tie with one hand. "Need yours too, Paul."

As Paul removed his tie, John used his own to pinion one of Jane Kerr’s wrists to the wall bars, then he used Paul’s tie to fix her other hand.

"You’d better let me go," Jane Kerr said, fighting down the panic. "You won’t get away with this."

"So what?" John said shortly. "If you ‘an your mates do what you planned, there won’t be no school no more. So wot we gotta lose?" He strolled off towards the storeroom.

Jane Kerr said more levelly. "Just think what you’re a part of, Paul Andrews. You can’t win you know. You really can’t."

Paul said nothing. He did not move.

John Smith returned from the storeroom, casually holding a cane. "I’ve always bin told it took rakes o’ practice to use one o’ these," he remarked as he got near. Then he swished the cane across Jane Kerr’s bottom, bringing a loud yell. "It don’t take no practice," John said, happily. "Dead easy!" He re-applied the cane.

"Ow!" Jane Kerr cried. "Stop that, for Christ’s sake!"

"Not been caned before?" John asked lightly. "Nah. I s’pose not. Goody-goody like you. Where’s Wendy?" He brought the cane down in another hard line. "I’m getting the ’ang of it now."

Jane Kerr’s yell ended, and she breathed in. "You have got to stop this."

"Eh?" John said. "It’s a good crack."

"Because..." said Jane Kerr with authority, "None of this is real. This is not a real school - it’s all pretend! You know it’s pretend. Miss Prim isn’t a real teacher. You aren’t real schoolboys!"

"What do you say to that, Paul?" John asked.

"Seems real to me," Paul replied, uncertainly.

"I’m not a real schoolgirl!" Jane Kerr shouted. "Look in my pocket if you like. My ID card’s in there - I’m a reporter on the Sunday Herald - and you, John Smith, are a carpenter, and you, Paul Andrews, are an electrician. You’re all here playing a silly game of ‘school’. Its a kid’s game. And we are all adults. So just let me go, and no more will be said. It’s just got out of hand, that’s all."

John turned away. Paul put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again, "What do we do, John?"

John Smith shook his head as he turned round. Jane Kerr said quietly, "Untie me."

"Well," John said slowly. "You may be right, Jane Kerr. There may be a world out there where I’m just a carpenter, and Paul’s just an electrician. Maybe there is. Maybe this school is all pretend, and one day we will all go back to the real world, where there’s no Miss Prim, and no detention, an’ no whackings. Yeah. Say you are right, we are just babies playin’ a game..."

Jane Kerr nodded. "It’s just a game."

"But the way it seems to me," John continued thoughtfully. "If your real world is a place where you go sneakin’ an’ spyin’ just ’cause you don’t like people havin’ fun: a place where everyone’s so scared o’ the Sunday papers that they can’t ’old up their ’eads no more, well it must be a pretty poor one. An’ as I see it, a whole lot o’ babies playin’ a game can make a play world that licks your real world hollow. So as it comes to that, I’m for this school, an’ Miss Prim, an’ whackings’ - an’ speakin’ o’ which," he swished the cane, "I ain’t finished yours, yet."

Six of the Best: extract 2

Saddler stared at Suzie Blake. "What’s happening?" he asked.

Suzie Blake stood up, and picked up a chair. She turned it with its back to Saddler and said, "Bend over." She picked up a supple leather tawse. It had four strands.

Saddler looked at her, then at the tawse. "But that’s -"

"A senior tawse, yes," Suzie smiled. "Reserved for Fifth and Sixth-formers with more than two hundred entries in the punishment book. And with reason," she added. "It’s exquisitely painful."

"You can’t," Saddler began.

"I can," Suzie said. "What’s it to be? Ten from me now, or ten from all the prefects while we hold you down?"

Cyril gulped and bent over the chair, placing his hands on the seat. Blake stood back and took aim.

Thwa-whack went the tawse, in a sudden explosion of pain. Saddler yelled. "Oww! One. Please let me get up!"

Blake drew back the leather "If you only want ten, you’ll stay just where you are." She flicked out her arm and sl-lap! It cracked loudly across his bottom.

"Two," Saddler wailed. "Stop it!"

Again the leather bit through his shorts. "Ow! Three! Please don’t do any more, I don’t deserve it!"

"You failed Mr Gorman," Blake said. "You do," and down came the tawse again, with even more power behind it. "Ooww! Four. But I didn’t..."

She gave him no time to get his breath. Sl-lap-p! "Ahh! Five - know it was going to..."

Th-whack-k! "Be like this." He fell to his knees, sobbing, "S-six – please Suzie, don’t –"

"Quiet!" Suzie smiled down at him. "I am going to continue, otherwise it is ten from all of us, but first-"

"Anything," Saddler whimpered.

"You’re going to pull your pants down."

"But," Saddler sobbed, "prefects can’t give it on the bare, it’s not allowed."

"It is now," Suzie said. "Now do as I ask."

Saddler got to his feet and slowly undid his buttons. His big shorts and underpants fell around his ankles as, trembling, he bent over.

The leather fell again with a sharp, smart slap. Saddler wailed.

"Naaooow! Seven! Where’s Wheelwright?"

"None of your business," Suzie sneered. "No good crying for her." Slap-p! went the tawse. It hurt like anything. After the caning the tawse – that tawse especially, and very hard on the bare bottom - was murderous. "Ah - Owww! Eight. Please, please don’t do any more!"

Blake swung again, and Saddler jumped. "Oooow! Oww! Nine," Saddler sobbed. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Orders are orders." Suzie Blake swung back the tawse. "And its such fun." Sl-lap-pp!

"Yow, Aaaw! Ten! It’s not fair," he sobbed, sliding again to his knees.

"Stand up," Suzie ordered. "I don’t think I’ve finished". As Saddler raised his eyes, he saw the title of the book on Mr Gorman’s desk: Mein Kampf.


Six of the Best: extract 3

Two girls, in black shorts and singlets, faced each other in the middle of the rope square. One was slim and dark-haired wearing black boxing gloves. The other was sturdier and blonde; her name was Trisha, and her gloves, which had taught many painful lessons, were bright red. "Box on," ordered Frank Grey.

"More boerewors, Miester Heyser?" said Gorman hospitably. He was entertaining a special visitor in the shade of the officers’ tent.

"There’s more? Yis I will," replied the Boer, glancing salaciously at the girls as they began to jab and circle. He was lean and muscular, grey-haired and bull-headed with small eyes.

Trisha’s guard was held high and the dark girl crouched low; her elbows pulled in tight to her body. Trisha threw a right and the dark girl’s gloves exploded into the waistband of her shorts forcing the air out of her in a great gush. Trisha was driven back to the rope and the lithe brunette, head down, elbows tucked in, pressed her attack, black leather fists hunting for a clear shot.

"And no more, Meister Heyser, eh?" the Boer went on, as Isabel helped him to more sausage. "It’s Frikki now, all right Erasmus?"

"Thank you, Frikki," said Mr Gorman proudly. "The girls do terribly well, don’t they?" He nodded to the boxers. "I’d wager a fiver on the blonde."

"All right but I think you’ll lose it," Mr Heyser remarked. "I’m all in favour of healthy competition between the youth of our movement. Survival of the fittest. Damn!"

Suddenly the red gloves seemed to come to life. As if taking her prey, Trisha executed a series of sharp, fast punches to the dark girl’s body, followed by a single right cross into her face. The dark girl hit the ground hard. "One," Frank cried. "Two…" She sat up breathing hard and rubbing a glove across her forehead. "Three…" Trisha bounced from one foot to the other in her corner, smacking her red gloves together tauntingly. "Four…"

"We’ve done our best for the cause," Mr Gorman replied. "Let it never be said that English Fascists are less dedicated than our brothers in South Africa… My fiver I think… Good Lord"

The dark girl stood up, raising her fists. Trisha skipped confidently forward, the red gloves up and ready. Her opponent jabbed twice,fast and light into Trisha’s face. Trisha dodged and stepped inside her guard, and the red gloves went to work on her body.

"Lit me tell you, Erasmus," declared the Boer between mouthfuls. "I shall be giving a viry good report to the Special Council. You’ll soon git rid of all your kaffirs, eh?"

"Definitely," said Mr Gorman. "Chinese and Jews must go too."

Dominating the centre of the ring, Trisha picked up the pace left-right-left to the dark girl’s face. She was clearly playing out the match and inflicting the maximum hurt and humiliation before Frank stopped it. She smiled, beckoning her opponent forward with one red glove, while the other waited to punch. The dark girl edged forward, her left glove jabbing tentatively. Trisha blocked with her right, dealing her lethal left hook in reply.

It never landed. A black glove took her under the chin and she landed sprawling on the grass.

"Ye sid there’s bin some trouble with this other kimp," Mr Heyser said. "What’s all thit about?"

"It’s a good school," Mr Gorman replied. "Very many good English pupils. With its Liberal ideas excised, it will be an excellent teaching base for us."

Frank had given Trisha an eight count, though she was up at five, drawing breath grimly, and raising her gloves for revenge. The dark girl was standing ready, and for the first time she smiled. A black leather paw snapped into Trisha’s face. Trisha hooked again, the red glove connecting hard, but the dark girl barely paused. The black gloves tore in.

Mr Heyser glanced up at the guard, a tough-looking boy, with his cap pulled down. "Bring me the box from the back seat of my car."

"Sah!" barked the boy and, executing a perfect about-turn, marched across the field to the black Volkswagen.

"Come on, Trisha!" Frank urged "You can do it." But the red gloves were dropping as Trisha tried to ease her hurting stomach. A black glove jabbed into her face.

"Yes, come on," the dark girl purred. "You don’t need to be this gentle with me."

The guard opened the rear door, eyeing the ignition cable with a view to clipping it in the near future. Collecting the box of cigars, he returned to the tent.

‘I ought to be on stage,’ thought John Smith. He glanced towards the ring, as Wendy’s black boxing glove kissed Trisha on the side of the head, and lost Mr Gorman five pounds.


Back to the top.

Quest cover artwork

Penny Dreadful

This is a story about Benjamin Sophocles Wagg, newspaper columnist, slumming toff, and inveterate coward. Too cowardly to tell Nettie Puncher that she is the last girl on earth he wants to marry, much too cowardly to admit to her his masochism. Eventually, of course, she is sure to find both out – a man named Humble is threatening to tell her, and Wagg is not Humble’s only victim, the blackmailer has his claws into most of the various operators in Bethnal Green. Before long, Humble is found horribly – and inexplicably – murdered. But by whom? Setting out to rescue their friends from the deathly grip of the malevolent Lady Swandle, Wagg and his comrades swiftly discover that they may have badly over-reached themselves.
A spine-chilling SM adventure story, set in the East End of Victorian London.

Penny Dreadful is not yet published. Interested publishers and/or financiers should send me an e-mail

Penny Dreadful: extract 1

Hortense Vinse did not work at the weekends. Five days of beating men was quite enough to keep her genteel. Today being Saturday, she would visit the opening of the Whitechapel Mission for Fallen Women just to show her former friends that she was no longer a fallen woman, but a respectable correctress of monstrous male behaviour.

She stepped out of her door onto Maiden Lane, and was reaching for the key to lock up when a shadow fell across her. Hortense looked up into a pitiless face. "Miss Vinse?"

"Might be."

"Good.", without another word, the grand lady reached across Hortense and pushed the door open, pushing Hortense inside. "Get off me!" Hortense stumbled back into her sitting-room. "Who are you? What do you want?" The lady followed her inside. She was tall and slim, and very pale-skinned, nontheless she had bundled Hortense inside with very little effort, and there was a blank determination in her eyes which told of a will of adamant.

"I am Lady Swandle", she replied coldly. "I own this property. Where is my money?"

"I ain"t got your money!" Hortense retorted.

The contempt in Lady Swandle"s face stung Hortense like vitriol. "I was assured that all those engaged here were ladies", was the icy reply. "Yet you speak little better than a common shopgirl". Lady Swandle held out her walking cane and delicately unscrewed the top, drawing out a long swishing rod, black as jet. "I want to see your work room."

Hortense stood up. "Just don’t think of touching me with that, alright? It’s through here"

She walked to the corner of the room and opened the door. Inside was a room with a scrubbed floor and whitewashed walls. Countless canes and tawses hung on chapel pegs and a horse covered in faded brown leather occupied the centre of the floor. Lady Swandle gripped Hortense by the scruff of her neck and pushed her firmly across the horse. "You bleeding well get off me!" Hortense yelled.

"Girl, I have no intention of leaving until certain matters have been addressed. You will lie still and take what I feel you deserve, or you will be tied down and take far more."

Hortense did not move. Lady Swandle reached down and pulled up her shirts, then pulled apart the back of her drawers. The cold air on her bottom made Hortense suddenly aware of her vulnerability. She made men feel like this. There was a rustle at Lady Swandle stepped back, then Hortense felt a blow, as from the wickedest cane ever grown, slice across her buttocks. She screamed. In an instant, her hands were furiously rubbing the burning weal in a way that Hortense would never have allowed in one of her victims.

She heard Lady Swandle’s voice. "That is a disgraceful display. I am doubling your punishment; you will receive twelve strokes. Then you will thank me, making your best attempt to speak like a lady." The rod swished down again. Whee-wap! Hortense could only wail. It was an excellent cane, but she hated its touch. Lady Swandle swished it down again. The next three strokes fell on the more resilient areas of her bottom, and Hortense took them through gritted teeth. She knew that once her bottom was hurting all over in those places, the remaining strokes could only fall on the sensitive spots which she herself had been taught to reserve.

There was much worse to come. The rod sliced in under the left crown, and almost immediately under the right. Hortense choked back a sob. Lady Swandle paused. "Do you think you are learning your lesson, Miss Vinse?"

"Yes, Ma'am" she murmured.

"Do you still think it wise to speak like some sailor’s trull?"

"No, Ma'am." The cane whistled. For as Hortense had answered, Lady Swandle had selected her next targets - the upper crowns. The rod swished down twice, hard and spiteful. The ninth stroke cut across the abused territory of both buttocks together. Hortense jerked. "Ah - o - ow!"

"It’s for your own good" Lady Swandle placed two quick hard strokes across the diagonals, making Hortense gasp and yell. Lady Swandle tapped Hortense's bottom, pulled the cane back, and swished it in. Hortense screamed and slumped forward across the horse. "Now you will thank me."

Wincing with the pain, Hortense stood up and turned round. She forced herself to courtsey. "Thank you for my punishment, Ma'am."

"And now that you have learned how foolish it is to displease me," Lady Swandle hissed with a smile, "- the matter of my money."

"I pay the rent every week, promptly," Hortense replied. "I never fail, you can see my book."

"Very well". Lady Swandle slid the rod back into the centre of the walking cane. "I see you can learn. Is something the matter, Miss Vinse?"

Hortense fought down the lump in her throat. That cane had given her the most painful hiding of her life, but she wanted it again.

Penny Dreadful: extract 2

"Then repent of your sin", urged Mr Washing. "And God will forgive you."

"I always used to," Elsie replied. "But after last Saturday, I think I’ve changed."

"A brazen sinner", said Mr Washing, mournfully. "Repent - or you go to infinite eternal torment. What did you do?"

Elsie stood up, moving closer to him. "This geezer said as he wanted a good hiding," she explained. "With this whip he’d got. So that’s what I done: attended to him good and proper – I surprised myself that night. It did us both a power of good." Mr Washing’s mouth hung open. Elsie undid her bonnet and continued. " Wrong has to be punished, don’t it, Mister? So if I do the punishing, that sort-of makes all the other stuff I do with gentlemen all right."

"Well", said the curate breathlessly. "I can see a certain logic, but-"

Elsie leaned forward. "Gussie’s right. You are proper handsome, Mister. She’ d give her eye teeth to be where I am right now, and to be doing what I’m about to do". Her mouth closed over his. He struggled for a second, but her arms were twining around his neck, and her bottom pressing upon his lap. And her kiss, though it might be that of the evil one, was sweet. She stopped kissing him and looked into his eyes. "There. How bad did that feel?"

"It’s not how it feels now", he whispered. "But how we will suffer for it in time."

"Someone will", Elsie replied, kissing him again. "I’ll make sure of that. But it won’t be us."

She nuzzled against his cheek and trailed her pointed tongue along the edge of his ear. "Do you like me, Mr?"

"Yes", Mr Washing gulped. "But you must not do this – I am a clergyman."

Her hand explored his crotch, caressing his growing cock. "See, you do like me! Just think of this as a show of my appreciation…" Deftly, she undid his trouser-buttons. "Are you going to sit still for me?" Releasing his neck, she sank to her knees before him. "I’ll be ever so vexed if you keep going on about sin."

Mr Washing watched in horror as she reached into his fly and worked his stiff cock free of his underpants. Worse still, she seemed quite unshocked by the sight - rather her eyes were widening in delight. " Elsie", he began, "I beg you to proceed no further-" She gave him one sharp look, then she put out her tongue and gently licked the tip of his glans. Mr Washing moaned; the sensation was exquisite, and there seemed no sign of the wicked girl desisting in her intentions. Her mouth enveloped the head of his manhood and slid slowly up and down the shaft, and her tongue was caressing its length all the time. Greater than his moral desperation, were the more immediate sensations of exquisite turmoil in his groin, and the fireworks that seemed to be exploding just behind his eyes. She looked up; her pale innocent eyes meeting his, as she drew back her mouth, placing a final delicate kiss on the head of his cock.

She stood up. "Look at the state I’ve got you into," she said quietly. "Better do something about that." Mr Washing was thinking the same thing, but his own remedy involved a cold flannel and the Book of Jeremiah. Elsie calmly raised her skirt and petticoat, and stepped forward straddling his legs, then she reached forward, opening the front of her drawers and grasping the root of this engorged organ, slid herself down. Mr Washing felt something hot and wet around the head of his cock. Like her hungry mouth, it worked its way down until the entire length was immersed in her. Her shirts fell about his lap, concealing the matter from his sight, but not at all from his awareness. She took hold of his shoulders and started to work herself back and forth, up and down the thick hard shaft of his cock.

Her face was that of a hungry succubus, desiring coitus with the devil - yet it was Mr Washing she had caught. He would be damned for this. "Push against me", she instructed. "That’s the way, use your legs, don’t be shy". She wrapped her arms around his neck. "It’s a nice present, isn’t it?"

He couldn’t lie. "Yes", he whispered. She ground herself into him, "No point in being a whore’s preacher if you don’t know what we do, is there?" And she reared back, riding him as if she were Joan of Arc, her face ecstatic, her hair flying as she tossed her head. Her fingernails were suddenly a sharp pain in his shoulders, and she was crying out. It was as if he had suddenly lost his footing and fallen a hundred fathoms.

A yawning empty sensation in the pit of his stomach and a rushing in his head – and sharp, fierce spasms in his groin. His breath came in short exhausted gasps. She stood up, steadying herself against the table. "After that I think I need another cup of Rosie."

"Oh", he murmured, "You are damned-"

"If I am you are", Elsie replied dreamily. "Damned good sport I have been called. So are you for that matter. If it really was wrong, I’d have never got away from Cold Kate that night."

He was starting to smile despite himself. She said, "I’ll put the kettle on meself, shall I? You men you’re all the same!"

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Queen image


Far away and long ago, in a world of castles, and swordsmen, and beautiful princesses – who usually lock their suitors in dungeons and beat them…

Israel, Ishia and Guillot, unscrupulous, sadomasochistic and dangerously attractive, fetch up in the mountain fortress of Skeld. There the villainous Prince Nozmul makes them a dreadful offer for the life of his neighbour, Queen Karenza of Antiopa…

Queen is not yet published. Interested publishers and/or financiers should send me an e-mail

QUEEN: extract 1

"And now the needle." At this, the woman’s dark, almond eyes darted back and forth in sudden fear. The thin faced, balding doctor unsheathed the metal. Slender as a breath, and glinting. "Such beauty", murmured the young Prince, licking his thin lips at the plump young breasts and wide hips, and the thick black hair – reaching her bottom. She stood, stripped to the waist, quivering like a frightened animal.

The doctor blinked a little, "Now, your Highness?".

"No", she said suddenly, "No – I don’t want this to happen. I’ve changed my mind."

The Prince nodded. "Do it." He smiled at her. "It won’t hurt you. He’s very careful." Thin nimble fingers were already coaxing her nipples - they were growing under the touch. She let out a long shuddering breath. "You promised yourself to me", the Prince insisted. "This is what I desire."

She swallowed hard. "Yes", she said, biting her lip. "All right, do it." Candlelight flickered. With a swift and practised pass of his hands the doctor flashed the steel, fast as a blink, through the softly straining nipple. Sharp pain followed it and her cry was stifled in her throat. The pain glowed hot, but she knew the way of it, forcing it down through her belly and into her cunt so it burned there, and would until it burned itself out.

The Prince was smiling at her as she opened her eyes. "Now the worst is over, only the bar remains." She nodded, now greedy, despite the throbbing pain. He picked up the gold. "Now this is what you really want." His smile glittered. "Pure gold. Think for a moment of the men who toil in my mines to bring me this."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "I don’t care about them, and you care less. Seal our bargain."

He tossed the slim gold bar in his hand and smiled mildly, his gaze travelling away as though he were no longer interested.

"You gave your word!"

"So?" he glanced to the arrowslit window. "I am life and death in this city. If I throw this down the mountain, and indeed you after it, it matters nothing." He sneered faintly.

"Please", she murmured.


"Please, my Prince"

"That’s better." He handed the bar to the doctor. "Very well." Again the fingers were quick and practised. The bar fitted neatly on the needlepoint, and as the shaft slid back, the gold followed. With a deft spin of tiny pincers, he split the soft gold jaws and tied them back on themselves.

She winced a little, but the sight of the glistering metal with its intricate dog-head, swallowed up the pain. "I am pleased you like it", he said gently. And with the delicacy of a steel trap caught on the moment added, "Now the other" Her face hardened, protest was useless, but – "You do it", she said lightly. "Yourself, Prince Nozmul"

QUEEN: extract 2

Ishia jumped down and strutted up to him. Vinse tried to raise his head but dropped back, groaning. Ishia stood with one foot either side of his face, and then she thrust out her bottom, bent her legs and sat down. He struggled briefly but she reached forward and twisted his nipples, this made him arch in pain, and she applied more of her weight to hold him down.

As he stilled, she lifted a little, to improve his hearing. "I’ve not done with you by a long stretch", she told him. "This is your chance to get on the credit side of me." And she sat down hard. He was learning quickly, his tongue lapping at her cunt lips. She gyrated her bottom, grinding herself onto his face. His struggles were gone now and every line of his body strained in his desperation to please her.

Ignoring the massive bulge of his cock, Ishia reached for the nearest cup and took a swill of wine. He would do anything for faintest hint of relief. Already her head was starting to spin with the sensations in her cunt. She was breathing hoarsely and had to shut her eyes. "Keep going", she hissed, digging her nails into his chest. "Let me down and you’ll really suffer - oh!"

A fresh spasm of enjoyment had caught her unaware, making her dizzy. She leaned forward raking her nails along his body, and thrusting her cunt back into his face, pressing hard with the bud of her clit. Just a little further - "Aaa!" She arched back, grinding down hard as waves of almost unbearable euphoria surged up from her groin, and burst around her head. Now that was done.

She rolled off him and lay for a moment on the flagstones before getting to her knees, and looking with some revulsion at his panting body. "Tie that pathetic little prick to the grating while I get my wind back." Two men pulled Vinse upright and dragged him to the frame.

Garrod leered at Ishia. "That was a piece of work. Now, let’s see how you use this." He threw her a whip from his table. Ishia caught it, stood up, and uncoiled the leather. It was a bullwhip, twelve feet in length; as deftly plaited and vicious piece of craftsmanship as the occasion demanded. She flicked it out behind her head before throwing the tip toward the tethered Vinse. It cracked against his back making him scream and throw his weightagainst the bars.

The onlookers cheered. Smiling now, Ishia drew back the strand and sighted. That had been a truly lucky shot. She drew back her arm, gauging the weight, and allowed her body to snake behind the strike. "Noooo!" The tip, faster than an arrow, bit into his flesh drawing a livid mark. He jerked against his bonds, and Ishia snapped the whip back up the hall, drawing a crack like a breaking bone as it changed direction and returned faster than the eye could see, to Vinse.

It was not a scream, but a long, drawn-out wail.

"Next time don’t touch my tits!" Ishia shouted. "Assuming you get a next time!" She laughed; whipping, fighting, fucking - all the same. She let fly. A moan, low, desperate and sobbing. Ishia glanced at Israel, "Where’s Guillot?"

"In the Jakes", Israel grinned. "It was cold outside."

"I’m not cold", Ishia swung the whip. "Nor’s Vinse".

His body arched in agony. "Did that hurt?" shouted Ishia.

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