Friday, August 4
This first entry in My diary comes two days before a week-long vacation abroad at an exotic resort hotel.
As usual, there’s the dreaded packing, but this time with a difference.
Aside from My normal resort clothing, I’ll need some special attire you won’t find women flaunting at a hotel in Cancun.
For instance: a pair of leather domina corsets and My newest knee-high, stiletto-heel boots.
And picture the commotion at customs when the inspector unzips My airline carryon and discovers a bullwhip, two paddles, a carcass beater, hood, ball gag, penis whip and a riding crop.
In contrast, hubby bob’s tiny traveling bag will be as empty as the crotch front of his underpants.
All bob needs at this hotel is his black leather thong plus a dog-collar and leash.
The collar is critical.
This hotel requires “Male Creatures” to wear collars 24 hours a day to signify their slave status.
I’m dragging off My reluctant subby hubby to The Other World Kingdom, whose motto is “Women Over Men”.
OWK is an exclusive Feminine monarchy located two hours north of Prague, in the Czech Republic. Queen Patricia rules supreme, commanding a court of fem dom Palace Guards and serf-like male slaves.
That's right: “Women Over Men”.
Punishment over Pleasure.
By week’s end, I suspect, bob may need ass-replacement surgery.
Monday, August 7
I arrived in Prague after a tiring 22 hour journey across seven time zones.
The trip was a nightmare of Inedible airline food, tedious airport security inspections, bullying stewardesses and botched ticketing arrangements courtesy of My (former) travel agent.
Compounding the usual air travel harassments, hubby bob had managed to strain a major muscle in his leg yesterday. The untimely injury left him hobbled and even more useless than usual for his role as my personal slave at The Other World Kingdom.
Exiting Czech customs. I left gimpy bob with the luggage and went in search of our driver. I found him brandishing an OWK sign, alongside another OWK passenger. This “male creature” turned out to be an Englishman making his first visit to The OWK. He had signed on for the week as a State Slave and had paid a princely sum for the privilege.
It was raining and chilly as we drove about two hours north of Prague, through a mountainous region, then down into a valley, then countryside that became more bucolic with each passing kilometer.
Inside the Skoda station wagon, conversation was at a minimum.
The Czech driver spoke no English.
And the Englishman, as OWK etiquette requires, could only speak after I had spoken to him first.
Finally we pulled up at an imposing white wall that seemed to stretch forever, with a massive wooden door.
I put on hubby bob’s dog collar; all “male creatures” must wear collars around their necks 24 hours a day.
The driver rang a clanging bell. Moments later the door creaked on its ancient hinges. With the driver dragging My luggage (and slave bob dragging his bad leg), I entered the mysterious and magical Other World Kingdom.
The reception area, a few steps inside the wall, served double duty, both as a front desk for incoming guests and as a bdsm store, offering hundreds of dvds featuring OWK Mistresses tormenting their slaves plus a dizzying assortment of tools for punishment and male humiliation. The first thing I did was purchase a stack of “Doms,” the official currency of The OWK and conveniently worth about one U.S. dollar. Then, while David, the manager, processed my credit card, I picked up a handbill titled “rules of behavior in The OWK.”
Among the rules were:
”All armchairs, chairs and benches are for Women only;
*Only Women may walk along the tiles in the courtyard;
“No feeding other Ladies’ slaves;
“No hard punishment of other Ladies’ slaves without their permission.”
But one item immediately caught my eye.
“If you are going to torture your slaves in your room after midnight, please limit their cries.”
This was definitely not your local Holiday Inn.
Despite the gloomy rain and chill, My mood brightened.Monday (continued)
Due to bob’s lameness, I ordered a State Slave to carry My luggage to My lodgings in the Long House, built in the 17th century as part of the complex surrounding the Queen’s Palace.
In the pouring rain, I walked along the tiles that led through a broad quadrangular courtyard.
bob and the State Slave had to slop through the muddy sand path that bordered the walkway.
Suddenly I saw a slave pulling a covered pony cart with a Lady inside.
For the first time since I ‘d left home I grinned with pleasure.
My first-floor room, which I’d reserved months in advance, was equipped with a double bed, cd/dvd player and a bathroom with stall shower.
On one wall, below wooden hanging beams, was a St. John’s Cross, with looped chains for manacles.
Below the cross was a padded spanking bench.
In one corner there was a studded stool, upon which bob would sit for hours meditating over the inconvenience he’d caused me by spraining his leg.
In the other corner was a steel cage, with a roughly-textured blanket on top. That’s where bob was going to spend his nights, while I luxuriated in the comfy double bed.
Women Over Men!
After freshening up with showers, that afternoon we left our room to lunch at “U Chomouta”, on the first floor of the left wing of the Long House. The pub takes its name from the horse collar hanging on a wall. The horse collar is a traditional Czech symbol of man’s subservience to Women.
I introduced Myself to Madame Loreen, an official Lady Of The Other World Kingdom. When each State Slave arrives, he deposits his belongings in a special room and is issued his State-Slave uniform. Then Madame Loreen takes over and gives him a “Welcome” whipping. Each morning throughout the week-long August “vacation” the State Slaves assembled promptly at 9 a.m. to begin their workday with a beating by Madame Loreen.
Monday (continued)
Madame Loreen was eating lunch. The Englishman who’d accompanied us on our trip from Prague crouched on a low stool beside her, wearing his slave uniform. At one point, Madame Loreen pointed at an ashtray on the bar top and told the Engish slave to bring it to Her. He went to the bar and asked the bartender for an ashtray. Madame Loreen said, “No” and pointed at the bar top. “I told you to get that ashtray.”
The English slave ate chicken soup from a dog dish. At the end of Madame Loreen’s meal, She asked the slave if he wanted water.
He said yes. Madame Loreen told him to go to the kitchen, fetch another dog dish and drink his water from it.
At night, about 9 p.m., we climbed the Long House stairs to Club Wanda, a dimly-lit, cavernous nightclub. The place was a play-space, with lounge chairs and couches for the Ladies and low ottomans for their slaves. There were hanging cages, crosses, stretchers, spanking benches and a menacing, massive Catherine Wheel.
I met and chatted with the charming Mistress Minka and her slave Sasha, both from Slovenia. But jet lag ended My evening early. I went off to my comfortable bed, after first locking bob overnight in his steel slave cage.Tuesday, August 8
I awoke early and unlocked bob’s cage. He crawled out gingerly; his leg had stiffened over night. He was in considerable pain until his over-the-counter anti-inflammatory pills kicked in.
That would be the pattern throughout our stay. bob would be hobbled every morning. By lunchtime the muscles in his leg would loosen and, with a steady diet of anti-inflammatory pills, his leg would be manageable until the next morning.
Out of pity for My poor slave husband, one night during the week I even allowed him to share My bed. That was a mistake. Ironically, lying in a fully prone position made the pain in his leg even worse. The next night, feeling like a leather-corseted Florence Nightingale, for his own good I ordered bob back to his slave cell.
bob’s complaints about the pain in his leg were understandable.
But this morning, after only one night in the slave cage, he started whining about the unfairness of having to sleep in a cold steel cell while I luxuriated in My comfortable double bed.
I decided to put a stop to that immediately.
Before breakfast, as soon as bob could stand upright, I ordered him to strip naked and manacled him to the St.John’s cross on the wall. Then I painted his ass purple and red using the paddle and carcass beater I’d packed in My suitcase.
Fortunately for bob, at the pub U Chomouta--and only there--with permission from its Mistress a “male creature” was permitted to sit on a cushioned dining chair instead of a low hard slave stool. At breakfast, I granted bob that special privilege, more for his bruised butt than his bad leg.
Tuesday (continued)
The pub was a rectangular room with a bar bordering one side and long tables perpendicular to it. The etiquette was casual. I’d simply pick out a promising table and ask any Mistresses already seated if I could join them. Inevitably, the answer was yes.
Many more Mistresses had arrived with their personal slaves overnight and this morning. The chatter was lively, with personal slaves (peering upwards from their stubby-legged stools) welcome to participate, as long as they remained respectful of the Ladies.
Breakfast (served buffet style and included in the price of My lodgings) was excellent: a variety of cereals, tasty Czech breads and rolls, with local ham, cheeses and eggs on offer, plus coffee and juices.
On My way out of the pub, I passed the room where the Englishman who had accompanied us from Prague was staying. The door was open. I could see the room was empty so I peeked in. In one corner was a steel cage. The bed was an elevated plank of wood covered by a paper thin foam matress.
Spartan, to say the least. Especially considering that this room was a comparitive presidential suite of slave accomodations. Other slaves stayed in a cold, gloomy communal barracks. Whatever their status in The OWK hierarchy, all State Slaves (as opposed to personal slaves, who were at the mercy of their Mistresses) had a midnight curfew.
By now bob’s leg was limber, so I took him off to the OWK store to buy some suitable attire. A black T-shirt, with a white circle in front and back trumeting the word “Slave”.
To my surprise, I found the Englishman sitting in the shop, glumly waiting for a taxi to the Prague airport. He had paid for a week, but one night of slavery at The OWK had sufficed. And The OWK offers no refunds for early departures.
Tuesday (continued)
In the afternoon I left bob behind to nurse both his bruised ass and ego. I joined a tour of The OWK’s facilities, starting at My lodgings in the Longhouse. The building dated from the 17th century. The Soviets had confiscated the property in 1949 and--with typical Stalinist obtuseness--turned the former fortress into a mushroom farm. From there Madame Loreen guided our group of Mistresses and their personal slaves around the estate.
Highlights included Europe’s last fully-functional outdoor pillory, featuring a pole for whipping offenders, a whipping horse and several other torture devices.
Thoughtfully, Ladies could (and did, throughout the week) sit in comfort under a covered pergola, sipping champagne and watching some hapless male creature suffer.
The OWK flag pole was another unique contrivance.
Below the fluttering OWK flag, at the base of the pole, there was a mini slave-powered electrical generator. By turning a horizontal wooden wheel, slaves create electrical energy that heated the water in Queen Patricia’s private bath.
Next was the Riding Hall, housing a variety of man-drawn vehicles ranging from simple sulkies to an ornate ancient carriage. Beyond the Riding Hall was the Sports Park, with its human-pony racing track circling a pretty pond.
Our tour concluded at the Queen’s Palace, an ornately-furnished former fortress constructed in the year 1580. Her Majesty Queen Patricia de Gifford, who purchased The OWK property in 1995, currently was not in residence.
Beneath the palace was a warren of grim, dirt-floor dungeons where, throughout the week, Mistresses imprisoned rebellious slaves.
I returned to My room amazed by what I had seen. Clearly, there was no other place on earth quite like The OWk.
That afternoon I dragged bob off to the OWK’s bdsm store again, this time to replenish my portable armory of punishment tools. After much deliberation, I finally selected a new riding crop and flogger, I also purchased a double ass slapper. It stings like hell (as bob soon learned) and its nasty, leathery noise is as lovely as the welts it leaves.
I intended to test My new toys tonight at an event I’d long anticipated: the Slave Auction.
Tuesday (continued)
The auction was scheduled to start at 10 p.m. but Club Wanda was crowded a half hour before. A bubbly, infectious party atmosphere prevailed. The Ladies had laced on their most elaborate leather or latex corsets. Each Mistress carried several punishment tools.
Most of the Mistresses’ personal slaves wore only thongs or binding bondage harnesses.
It was part fashion show, part serious bdsm play, spiced with the cosmopolitan flavor of a Fem Dom United Nations. The countries represented at The OWK this week included: Austria, Belgium, the Czech Republic, England, France, Germany, Greece, Japan, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Scotland, Slovenia, the U.S., Sweden and Switzerland.
I gave bob a handful of Doms and sent him scurrying to the bar to buy Me a vodka-tonic. In an excess of enthusiasm, I permitted him to purchase a glass of wine for himself.
In truth, I was excited--and anxious.
I planned to participate in Friday’s ponyboys race. The problem was I didn’t have a pony. My aged hubby-nag had pulled up lame days ago; despite some minor improvement, his bum leg still made him an excellent candidate for the glue factory.
My mission tonight was to acquire at auction a male creature who could pull My sulky around the race track. I wasn’t looking for a winner. I just craved the thrill of competing.
Shortly after 10 p.m., Madame Loreen led a group of naked slaves onto the stage. They appeared to range in age from their mid-thirties to early seventies. I immediately locked on the tallest, most athletically-built, youngest-looking slave. No matter how steep the price, he was going to be My pony.
The overhead lights dimmed. A glaring spotlight bathed the naked State Slaves on the stage.
The bidding began.
Tuesday (continued)
After good-natured questioning from Ladies in the audience, several slaves were quickly bid for and bought.
I was surprised that none of the winning bids exceeded 2 Doms (roughly U.S. $2).
Next up on the auction block was the slave I’d selected.
A lady asked him if he could dance.
He replied he could do the salsa, and proved it with some hip-shaking twirls.
I asked him if I could ride him in the ponyboys race.
He said yes.
I definitely wanted him, but it was soon apparent I had a serious rival.
Lady Amber, from the United Kingdom, opened the bidding with a stunning offer of $20 Doms--10 times the purchase price of any slave auctioned that night.
On sheer impulse, I immediately doubled her bid to 40 Doms.
There were no other bidders.
My new property for the remainder of the August vacation period sat naked on the floor by My boots. He was a German named rainer.
Immediately I told Lady Amber, My rival in the bidding, that She could use rainer right now in any way she wanted.
rainer quashed that offer immediately, whispering: “I’ve been auctioned solely for the purpose of pulling Your sulky in the ponyboys race.”
Then he added, “But there’s a problem.”
He held up his knee, marred by a nasty red scar.
“I recently had surgery on my knee. I don’t think I’ll be much use as a pony.”
I was dumbfounded.
Tuesday (continued)
I had successfully bid an outrageous (for The OWK) 40 Doms for a pony nearly as useless as My ready-for-the-glue-factory subby hubby.
I decided to make the best of it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It doesn’t matter how far behind you finish. I simply want the fun of competing.”
Then, as soon as the auction finished, I escorted him back on stage and positioned him over a spanking bench. I tested My three new toys--riding crop, flogger and leather double slapper--on his bare ass.
Another problem.
As a professional dominatrix I had learned to be instantly sensitive to a client’s particular likes and dislikes.
I realized that rainer didn’t like being whipped or spanked.
If I sense that My slave isn’t enjoying his punishment, at least at some subliminal level, I can’t enjoy the session either. And I don’t do what I don’t enjoy.
Terrific!
I had purchased a pony who couldn’t run and disliked being punished.
What on earth was I going to do with him for the next five days?
I arranged to meet him at the Riding Hall on Thursday morning for a practice run around the ponyboys track.
Then he told Me why he’d come to The OWK.
rainer was a professional physiologist. Nothing would make him happier than giving the Ladies massages.
What a relief. I felt a weight slide off My shoulders. Immediately I corraled a couple of Mistresses eager to spend a pampered 45 minutes with My new masseuse. Wednesday, August 9
This morning at breakfast I sat with Dominatrix Dinah, a pro domme based in Amsterdam. Her slave, rabbit willem, crouched on a low wooden stool by her side.
rabbit willem had driven from the Netherlands in his roomy recreational vehicle. He explained that he ‘d used his RV instead of a car in order to carry 200 kilos (about 440 pouunds) of his personal bondage equipment.
After breakfast I rounded up more Mistresses interested in free massages.
I gave each Lady permission to make arrangements directly with slave rainer. When I encountered him later, he had a full schedule of massage appointments. rainer was ecstatic.
The only official event today was a barbecue at the outdoor patio/fireplace near the pillory, at 6:30 p.m. The rest of the day was free for personal play and relaxation.
For starters, back in My room I stripped hubby bob naked and handcuffed him. Then I slipped on his blinding leather mask (no eye holes), zipped its mouth opening and left My slave hubby in his locked steel cage.
He’d resumed his infernal chain smoking, having stowed away a carton of cigarettes without my knowledge. A morning spent in splendid physical isolation would help curb his smelly habit.
Outside My window, I noticed that suddenly a large, leafy tree had borne a strange fruit.
A slave in a tight, immobilizing onion sack was hanging from a pulley flung over a thick branch. His Mistress was whipping his naked butt blood red.
Wednesday (continued)
That’s how it is at The OWK.
Everywhere you look, without fuss or fanfare, you see serious, consensual bdsm play. It’s hard to miss. For instance, consider the vestibule of the Long House. Enter through the main doors from the courtyard (where Ladies wait for their slave-drawn rickshaw rides) and you step into a massive hall.
But don’t be fooled by a pool table in the center.
The real action, day and night, occurs at the cages, crates, spanking bench and pillory bordering the room.
Left your own training aids at home?
No problem.
Behind the doors beside the fireplace you’ll find plenty of torture devices.
Typically, today as I passed through the vestibule there was a Mistress punishing Her slave on the pillory. A couple of other slaves were locked in cages, bound head to toes in sensory-deprivation gear.
It was common to encounter a male slave one day, then meet him morphed into a sissy maid the next.
I made a mental note to make sure that the next time I visited The OWK I’d bring along both My humiliated hubby robert and his reluctant alter ego ms. roberta.
The lunch menu was limited that afternoon, so I was famished by the time the outdoor barbecue began.
But dinner proved worth the wait.
First each Mistress received a small bottle of champagne, for her consumption only. Then: all-you-could-eat pork and chicken grilled over an open hearth, plus salad; every item, of course, served to each Lady by her humbled personal slave.
I mentioned to Mistress Rene, of Austria, that I was taking rainer for a practice ponyboy run in the morning. She said she’d like to try out her ponyboy, too. We agreed to meet at the Riding Hall. Mistress Rene generously offered to lend me one of her ponyboy bits. She was a veteran of The OWK event.
The evening ended for Me around midnight in Club Wanda, after chatting with My new Fem Dom friends and drinking and watching Mistresses humiliate in public their hapless male creatures.Thursday, August 10
I awoke this morning at 9:30 a.m. By nature I’m an early riser, up and about no later than six in the morning. But breakfast at The OWK didn’t begin until 9. Not even a cup of coffee till then. So I was learning to lazily adapt.
I unlocked bob’s cage. He crawled out, naked except for the blanket he’d wrapped himself in.
It had been chilly last night. I felt a twinge of pity for My humiliated hubby. From tonight on, I decided, I’d offer him a Hobson’s choice: Slave bob could choose to shiver all night in his icy steel cage or he could partake of the comforts of My quilt-covered double bed.
Of course bob would have to pay a price for the privilege of sharing My bed.
On his knees, nude, he’d have to beg me to beat him.
I’d wait for bedtime to tell My hubby the good news.
I ate breakfast then headed for the Riding Hall to meet Mistress René.
The morning was sunny, with a brittle chill. Invigorating.
As I approached the Sports Park, with its ponyboy track around the pastoral pond, I recalled an amusing story I’d heard.
Every morning Madame Loreen assembled the State Slaves for their daily punishment. One day this week she’d made them strip and plunge into the pond. The first slave to catch a frog was declared the winner and spared further humiliation. The losers had to hop around like frogs, croaking loudly.
Mistress René and rainer, the slave I ‘d won at auction, were waiting for me at the Riding Hall. Mistress René was alone. Due to a business emergency, her personal slave had departed that morning.
rainer pulled the sulky out to the racing track. Mistress René expertly put on his ponyboy bit.
I had never been in a sulky before. I climbed in gingerly, sat down and immediately went into fight-or-flight mode. The damn thing seemed so unstable. Mistress René tried to reassure me, telling me I’d feel secure once rainer put the pony cart in motion.
But I’d already opted for flight.
I clambered off the sulky and handed the reins to Mistress René. She could ride rainer in the ponyboys race. Mistress René took rainer for a brisk trot around the track. I was happy to be a spectator.
Unfortunately, later that day Mistress René was called away on business, too.
rainer didn’t have to be anyone’s pony, a result that made him very happy.
All he really wanted to do was massage the Ladies.
And according to the feedback, rainer was not only an eager masseuse, but an expert one.
Thursday (continued)
The hilarious highlight of the day was the Slave Hunt.
Everyone assembled at the Sports Park at 4 p.m. for one of the week’s most anticipated events.
Under the watchful eye of Madame Loreen, participating slaves huddled outside the Riding Hall. They were completely naked, with hands cuffed front to back between their legs, forcing them to bend forward and shuffle like clumsy apes.
Thus hobbled, they were sent limping off to hide in the brush and bushes that bordered the park.
Five minutes later the first assault team of Lady huntresses sped off in search of prey.
Each Mistress was armed with a supply of raw eggs.
A lady would locate a slave and chase him until she was close enough to splatter him with an egg. Then She would drag him by his ear back to the Riding Hall, where Her “kill” was registered. Then the Slave Hunt Commissar (Madame Loreen) whacked the unlucky slave’s ass with her cruel cane, sending him off to be captured by another Mistress.
The object was to catch and register as many slaves as possible within the time limit of 25 minutes.
The winner, Madame Fado of France, was awarded a large bottle of champagne and a certificate. Then all the slaves dropped to their knees before her and crooned a worshipful song.
The slave who’d been caught most often received three blows with a cane from each of the Ladies. Another slave, who'd failed to come out of hiding at Madame Loreen's command, had to clean up every scrap of egg slop from the Sports Park.
Thursday ((continued)
I ended the evening partying at Club Wanda with My new-found Lady friends. The Mistresses were dressed in their trendiest bondage gear. Everyone carried at least a pair of punishment tools. Every so often a Lady would drag off her slave to the spinning Catherine Wheel or wall cross or spanking bench.
bob’s leg was improving; I considered delivering his first public punishment of the week. But I decided to save his sorry ass for bedtime.
About 1 a.m. I led slave bob back to the room. I ordered him to undress, grab his woolly blanket and crawl into his humble steel cage.
Glumly, bob started toward the cage.
“Slave,” I said. “I’ve changed My mind. I’m going to let you share My bed for the rest of the week.”
bob was elated.
“But only, “I added, “if you beg me to beat you beforehand.”
bob dropped to his knees immediately, licking My boots and pleading with me to whip him, to torture him--anything to avoid one more night in that cold cell.
I kept a straight face, but was hardly able to swallow My laughter.
Women Over Men!
I let the wimp grovel for a while then I gagged him and dragged him by the ear to the wall cross. I whipped his useless butt with My brutal single-tail bullwhip.
The marks the whip left were a thing of beauty.
Afterwards I locked bob’s little cock and balls in his CB-2000 chastity device, which I always carry in case he needs to share My bed.
Safe from any surprise attack, I slept blissfully until 10 a.m..Friday, August 11
Friday’s main even was the ponyboys race, scheduled for 4 p.m.
With Mistress Dinah’s permission, I had arranged to meet her slave, rabbit willem, at the Sports Park that morning.
Among the items rabbit willem had brought from Holland in his RV was his own private sulky.
This was no ordinary pony cart.
The vehicle was aerodynamically shaped, like a one-seater projectile, constructed of lightweight aluminum. The seat was from a racing car; the wheels were from a bicycle.
rabbit willem couldn’t use his high-tech sulky in the ponyboys race, but he’d offered to take me around the track in it.
rabbit willem showed up carrying a huge suitcase. he opened the bag and pulled out a leather straitjacket, a pair of pony ears and a pony bit. He put on the pony ears and bit. Then, to My amazement, he picked up a leather strap attached to the sulky and snapped its tip around his cock and balls.
I laced him into the leather straightjacket to immobilize his arms.
Incredible!
rabbit willem was going to pull the sulky around the race track by sheer cock-and-ball power!
Strapped into the rig, he suggested I whip his cock and balls in order to “motivate” him to run faster.
I obliged happily.
Then I climbed into the sulky and we were off around the dirt track.
What a bizarre sight: Me in a strange contraption right out of a Jules Verne novel; My pony-eared, straightjacketed “male creature” dragging the sulky by his cock and balls.
I had to guide him. If I pulled the reins to the left, rabbit willem went left. If I tugged to the right, he veered right. Otherwise, with the reins slack, My ponyboy moved straight ahead.
rabbit willem took that first trip around the track at a slow trot, so I could adjust to the motion of the sulky.
But he ran the second lap at a thrilling full gallop
Afterwards, I climbed out of the sulky and whipped his cock and balls again, to show My appreciation for an exhilarating ride. rabbit willem dropped to his knees and kissed my shoes.
Then I ordered him to give My friend Madame Pascal a ride.
I asked Her to whip rabbit willem’s overworked cock and balls before and after.
Friday (continued)
That afternoon around 4 p.m. everyone assembled by the wooden pavilion for the ponyboys race.
Slaves had set up chairs and tables. Mistresses were sipping wine and champagne.
The preliminary races would be solo runs against the clock.
Then the Ladies with the two top times would race each other. The winner would collect a bottle of champagne and a certificate.
To keep the competition fair, up until the final round all the Ladies would use the same sulky.
Some Ladies wore riding outfits, while others were dressed in corsets.
Of course, all carried whips or riding crops, which they cracked liberally across their panting ponies’ backs throughout the time trials.
Madame Loreen sat at a table in front of the pavilion, with a list of the Ladies registered for the race in front of her and a stop watch in her hand.
Each Lady attached the bit and halter to her slave who then backed the sulky up to the starting line.
Madame Loreen called “Go”--and the sulky lumbered off around the bumpy track, with the crowd of jovial spectators cheering and shouting, “Faster, faster!”
Some slaves quit running halfway round the track and walked their sulkies to the finish line. Others completed the lap at a mad gallop. One slave tripped at the finish line, falling flat on his face but without injury.
No matter how fast or slow the run, the spectators awarded every participant with a clamorous round of applause.
Adding to the amusement, midway through the event some Ladies noticed, beyond the rear wall of The OWK, a pair of men dressed like housepainters. Pretending to scrape the wall of a house, they stood on tall ladders, gaping slack-jawed at the spectacle.
Mistress Amber, of the United Kingdom, was the eventual winner, earning the coveted bottle of champagne.Saturday, August 12
Today was “Spanking Day With Madame Loreen.”
Ladies led their personal slaves to the outdoor pillory for a public beating by the blonde, bountifully-endowed star of numerous OWK dvds.
A delightful morning, I thought, sipping My morning coffee in the patio area outside the pub, U Chomouta.
Birds chirping, the sun shining.
And for background music, the relentless thwack of Madame Loreen’s whip biting into bare male flesh.
Women Over men!
Hubby bob was still in the room, nursing his bad leg and his bruised ass.
I wanted to compete in tonight’s event, the Best-Whipped-male-Ass contest. But bob’s nightly beg-a-thons, when he’d plead for punishment so he could crawl into My bed, had left his butt looking like a slab of raw meat. Tonight’s competition put a premium on enduring pain: old bob would just be an embarrassment.
Besides, on Monday morning I’d begin a ten-day vacation at a hotel in central Prague. I needed My subby hubby to carry My luggage.
And how would I explain, at elegant restaurants, why My hubby--like a culinary Nat King Cole--preferred to eat standing up rather than risk his sore ass at the table?
bob and I spent a pleasant afternoon outdoors, sipping wine and cocktails at a picnic table with Madame Fado of France.
Madame Fado was the only Lady with two slaves.
One was her husband, the other a younger man they had met over the internet.
At one point, I noticed an Oriental male in a slave shirt come out of the pub. He walked around the grounds for a while. I hadn’t seen him before. He looked forlorn and lost.
I invited him to sit at our table.
It turned out he had arrived this morning, in time to receive his “Welcome
Beating” from Madame Loreen. He had paid to stay only one night--in one of the dank, dark dungeons below Queen Patricia’s palace.
I returned to My room about 6 p.m., to shower and rest for tonight’s entertainment.
Saturday (continued)
The Best-Whipped-male-Ass contest was not only a premiere event of the week, it was the final one. Tomorrow most Mistresses would pack up and head home.
So a festive air filled Club Wanda, with Ladies arriving early wearing their finest costumes and wielding their favorite punishment tools.
There were plenty of drinks, lots of chatter over the usual topics; for instance, how lazy the State Slaves had become and where were the menacing Queen’s Guards who used to grace the grounds during the week-long vacations?
Madame Loreen hushed the crowd around 10: 30 p.m..
Her first order of business was to recruit a trio of Ladies to judge the Best-Whipped-male-Ass contest. I volunteered, along with Madame Pascal and Mistress Regina. We joined Madame Loreen on chairs by a corner of the stage.
The rules of the contest were simple.
Each male creature had to bend over the spanking bench. its Mistress would have a two-minute time limit to tattoo its ass with the tools of Her choice. If the slave quit before two minutes, the Lady would be disqualified.
Slaves were either naked or wearing full leather body harnesses with O-rings for their penises.
Saturday (continued)
Mistress Minka of Slovenia volunteered to kick off the contest. Expertly, she beat her slave Sasha with three different punishment tools. After two minutes Madame Loreen directed Sasha to one side of the stage, where he was to remain on his knees, head touching the floor and ass in the air, until the contest ended.
The rest of the contestants followed, each Mistress with Her own style and instruments of pain. For instance, Madame Fado used the two slaves she had brought to The OWK. One slave went over the spanking bench. The other slave kneeled by Madame Fado’s feet holding Her punishment tools.
Finally the contest concluded.
The spotlight fell on the participating slaves, kneeling all in a row with their whipped asses hoisted in the air.
It was time to pick the winner.
Accompanied by Madame Loreen, We three judges approached the kneeling slaves. We examined each ass closely, looking for the butt that bore the most severe welts.
It was a close call. Both Mistress Minka of Slovenia and Mistress Didi of Belgium had branded their male-creatures’ asses with colorful bruises. Ultimately, We chose Mistress Didi, who was awarded the bottle of champagne and a certificate of victory.
I felt exhilarated at having participated, yet strangely unfulfilled.
I had wanted to participate, but had been thwarted by My wimp hubby.
Back in the room, after bob’s beg-a-thon, I had to gag him to keep his cries from disturbing the neighbors, before beating his ass into a pinkish pulp.
The first thing I did when I returned home was book reservations for the 2007 June Celebrations. I ‘ll have nine months to whip--literally--the worm into shape.
The second thing I did when I returned home was lay down the law to My humiliated hubby: Either I win that coveted bottle of champagne--or he'll definitely get that ass-replacement surgery!
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