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REAL FEMALE DOMINATION

Cruel female domination in real life at  OWK

  

  

  

  

  

MY STAY IN THE OWK AS A WORKING MALE SLAVE 

 

 

This is the real story of a fantasy land that embodies the secret desire of so many men to be dominated by women and enslaved for their purposes. It is a topsy-turvy world where the normal balance of power has been shifted from male to female, where to be a man is to be automatically a creature owned and enslaved by women.
Of course, it is really just a play. Everyone is acting, - no one gets permanently damaged, and no one is killed or executed. But all the same, when the curtain comes up and the lights go down, one is enraptured…..

I lay in total blackness, shivering. I was in a cell underground that was too narrow to turn in, too short to lie down properly, and too low to stand up in.  
I was naked, wet, my feet were in ankle irons and my wrists cuffed and shackled behind me. I was bleeding. My whole back was beaten to pulp. I hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. I was in bad shape, and I knew it. Nothing had prepared me for the reality I was experiencing. Most extraordinary of all, I was in love with the person who was doing it to me..

Although I had been granted serfdom under Her majesty a few months earlier, my decision to undertake long-term slavery as a working slave (or serf) was sudden. Without the monetary instrument to secure confirmation, I travelled to Prague on spec. I stayed in a crowded hostel full of young American girls, and the next morning was up bright and early for the bus to Brno (Cesky Narodni Express from bus stop no 10, Florenc bus terminus) The trick here is, as you are boarding the bus, to persuade the driver to stop at exit 134 and let you off.

 
So I found myself in the long grass beside the slip road, and started walking the 4 km towards Cerna, a small village dominated by the imposing seat of Queen Patricia I, the Queen of the Other World Kingdom. The roads were empty as I yomped my small bag along country lanes as quiet and as lush as England. A deer jumped out from nowhere and headed off. After some time I cut across a field and, finding myself in corn above my head, I climbed into a little tree, and spotted the characteristic stern tower that is the Queen’s Palace. I jumped down and, crossing a stream reached the lane again and in a few minutes was stood tremulously in front of the gates. The Czechs are big on castles and dungeons. The whole of Bohemia and Moravia is dotted with examples of their ancient addiction to complete social inequality. The peasants wandering up the avenue ignored me, as I pressed the doorbell and rapped on the gate. After a wait of several minutes the peep-hatch slid open. A red-headed girl in a peaked cap eyed me for a moment, then demanded something in Czech. My stammered response in English (for I was a bag of nerves at this point) was met by a stream of excited and high pitched hectoring at warp speed. I had upset my first Guardess. It hadn’t been difficult. Finally a guy with cropped hair and a studded collar came and started to soothingly translate. I handed over money, passport, and my written application and papers (in my case, a blood donor card to prove I wasn’t an Aids carrier and a letter from my doctor).

 
I was admitted by Madame Christine. She was dressed in riding gear – jodpurs, boots, and a ferocious looking forked samjok. After I had knelt and kissed her toecaps, she led me across a courtyard to the palace itself. This is an impressive and intimidating building. I was led into an office.
“Kneel!!” She snapped, sending me on my way the samjok came down with a
‘whwhump’ over my left shoulder.
“Strip!”

 
By now I was getting the picture, and hurrying to obey every command. She issued me with some shabby workgear. Everything else was taken from me. I knelt humbly as this georgeous blonde valkyrie processed me like so much human detritus. She gave me my slave number. This was what I would be called from now on – just slave number so and so.

M. Christine showed me to a dark shed at the end of the riding barn and allotted me a bunk. I then followed her to work in the kitchen. She promptly ordered me outside to start raking the grass in the large arena area. A stadium adorned by flags over looks a large area of grass with ponds and trees. Most important is the dirt track for the pony races that are held ( human ponies of course).

 
As I raked, Garry mowed. Garry was an American from Texas who had been there over two weeks as the Queens Gardener. To look at him strimming the grass in cap, pipe in his mouth, you’d have thought he was a local. And indeed he was – his grandparents were from a small town nearby! We weren’t officially allowed to talk to each other but we chatted quietly at odd moments. Every few minutes Christine would do a circuit in her pony trap, idly flicking her whip and telling me to rake more quickly.

 
After about 6 hours of raking grass into big piles, I was already very tired. My ankles ached. I was done. M. Christine called us in for a meal – little more than bread and water. She gave me one slice of bread, while she sat down to a hearty cooked meal that a servant had brought her. I felt like some kind of slavering pet Alsatian as I sat hungrily as my stomach rumbled, watching her eat. When she had finished she tossed me the scraps (two half-eaten morsels of chicken). These I devoured hungrily. She reclined on her seat, lit a cigarette and bade me kneel in front of her. She made me take of her boots and socks and massage her feet with eucalyptus oils. She had the feet of a young girl. I realised I was old enough to be her father. After a while, after each of her heavenly young ankles were reshod, she ordered me with a twinkle of amusement to return to my labours. And so I laboured on, for a further four hours. And then, I was ordered to sleep, and sleep I did soundly and restfully, until the next morning.

The work of mowing and raking continued the whole of the next day, and nothing much exciting happened. M. Christine’s human horse left (after a month as her mount), and at the end of a long hot day it was all change. M Christine was suddenly gone, and in her place came M Nicole and M Sarka. And so we found ourselves under the rule of Sarka, a rule not disimilar to that other “Sharka” – the ancient Zulu warlord. Sarka is a highly strung girl, with long black hair and fantastic legs. She could easily be a model – and so for that matter could M Nicole. The pair dominated in tandem – Sarka with her strident voice and flashes of temper, Nicole following through with a languid frostiness. Sarka would give you a hiding, while Nicole examined her fingernails. One lunchtime after a good five hours hard labour on the riding track and arena, I was sat as usual eating my crust. My mistresses were sunning themselves on the verandah. I exchanged small talk with two other slaves. Suddenly an enraged Sarka appeared, her skin tight leggings hugging her divine legs over fishnet stockings and heels.

 
“Who spoke” she screeched, her face was quite pale with anger.
“Who spoke?!” again, the pitch higher, her arms beginning to shake, her hands clenching and unclenching.

 
Sarka was going critical, I could see. I popped my finger up.
She was so beside herself I couldn’t help laughing, which made things worse.
“Kneel!” “Trouser down!! Clothes off!!!” The staccatto broken English struggled out of her interrupted by streams of Czech invective.
“Yes m’Lady..”

 
I was on my knees, ass up and bare in the exposed position. I felt a sharp pain as the first blow came, but it was nothing to the second and the third. She was running now across the hard tiled floors for a better instrument. More blows – my arse was really stinging. I could tell she really meant business this time. The beating continued out in the hall. She shackled me hand and foot – my legs were in ankle irons, with a separation bar. Red and purple weals were wrapping themselves round my midriff, and pain exploded into my brain.

 
“You!! You trouble!!…” She was shouting and screaming for her man (David, the gatekeeper) to come to help her with various padlocks.
I was totally naked, waddling clumsily in my leg-bar and irons, hands cuffed behind, as I was driven out into the yard, like a head of cattle. Sarka swore as she lashed me onwards, inaccurate blows forming bloody weals on my wrists. Near a hose pipe there were some concrete slabs.

 
“On knees!” she snarled – I crumpled onto the slabs. She ran to the standpipe. She had the figure of a ballerina, I couldn’t help thinking. Now the hose was on me and I was sucking for breath as she played it all over my wounds, soaking me in ice cold water. Then I was being shackled again, this time to the huge tree stump in the yard near the public pillory. I was almost suspended by my cuffed wrists. My shackled feet could just touch the ground. Another hosing. It was becoming like something out of Ben Hur or Gladiator. She set about me again with a whip. The blows sometimes on my back, sometimes on my genitalia. She was yelling still like a banshee. I began to get really worried, every impact with that terrible whip was agony. I started to yelp myself. Eventually, of course I begged for mercy. Everyone does.

Suddenly with a curse and a final slash across my midriff she strode off to finish her lunch, leaving me strung up like a side of beef in a butcher’s shop. Edgily I tried to sneak a look at my backside. The entire area of my buttocks was one black mass of suppurating bruises and weals. This was completely over the top, I thought to myself. Quite literally the whole of my backside was wrecked – beaten to pulp. Blood oozed from the broken skin in several places and dribbled down from deep cuts and weals all over my torso. Several horseflies quickly settled and began taking a hearty meal. I tried in vain to shake them off. The hot sun came and seared down on me there. I was glad of the soakings I had received. At least they were cool. I hung there like some sort of Roman crucifixion for about half an hour – it seemed like three hours. Eventually Sarka reappeared to give me another ice-cold soaking. Some time later I was unshackled from the tree. I needed no encouragement to hobble obediently after Sarka and Nicole, across the yard to the Palace. I was thrown into the darkest hole in the furthest dankest cellar in the dungeon, and left there, softly moaning to myself, cuffed and shackled.
I shivered in the blackness, and tried not to wonder how long I would be there……

It was late evening when I was released, because the sun was setting. I kissed their feet for joy and gratitude, at being allowed to see the light of day again, and again start work on the arena track. It was surprising how my backside could be so damaged and yet – recovery seemed quick. I couldn’t sit comfortably for several days though.

Life under Sarka was always eventful. One of the first things was the arrival of another longterm working serf, who arrived in the evening and was kneeling taking his “bread and spread” out of his doggie bowl. All of a sudden he began to retch violently. We gathered round what appeared to be a rather thin emaciated man in the throes of a serious illness. Getting him to speak after a while, I recognised his New Zealand accent instantly.

 
“You’re a Kiwi then?” I inquired
“Yeah – flew in from Auckland today……retch…”
I was ordered to take the new boy under my wing, and bring him hot soup in the barn. It was just about the only kindness that our two mistresses ever extended – I think they were just worried he might actually die.

 
It transpired that Steve had never been to Europe, had lived in New Zealand and Australia all his life, but that two days ago at the age of 38 had boarded a jumbo jet and flown to Los Angeles, then on to Hamburg and Prague. He had been met at the airport and brought straight here. It would have been enough to upset the strongest of stomachs. I laughed heartily at his typically Kiwi sense of adventure and extreme living. However it was later evident that Steve would have to leave for a suspected burst appendix (!!) – but meanwhile he struggled gamely on under Sarka’s iron rule. Our second evening, after we had been ordered to bed for the night, Steve and I strolled a couple of times around the arena, just talking companionably. There was plenty to share, and as the sun set we sat on the stairs of the stadium, swapping jokes and above all endlessly discussing our two Mistresses Nicole and Sarka. All of a sudden I looked up and saw to my amazement an extraordinary coincidence: Madame Sarka was stood at her window in full view. She was naked from the waist up. It was pure chance that I was sat in perhaps the only spot in the whole of the OWK that gives a direct line-of-sight view into the Guardesses quarters – and happened to look up at exactly the right time. I darted further up the steps, initially fearful that she had seen me – my backside was still a wreck, and I didn’t want another hiding.

Nevertheless there followed a period, for a few days, of balmy OWK magic. Just me and Steve, Brit and Kiwi, serving these two lovely girls. Their fingers snapped, we snapped to attention. Their riding crops tapped on our shoulder, we jumped to their bidding. It was great to see Sarka up in the morning before 9.30 am and smiling. She seemed to throw off a shroud of misery. Because Sarka is basically fucked up. She is continually walking a tightrope. She is one of the few Guardesses who are not wholly lesbian.

 
Steve and I cleaned every room in the place. We grafted hard. Polishing and dusting, vacuuming and cleaning every corner of every room in the Ladies quarters. Sometimes we were caged. Sometimes scourged with canes or crops in the pillory. And sometimes simply humiliated. But our Brit-Kiwi axis held everything together under Sarka and Nicole. I started to cook: first I cooked a barbecue, then I produced a lamb casserole. It was an achievement to see these two borderline anorexics eating a square meal. Everything was going swimmingly. The lovely girls were happy. They even started to treat us as human beings. They took advantage of my offer of free drinks at the bar. Evenings were spent paying court to the Guardesses, listening to their choice of music and gently soothing their egos – much to their amusement. It was becoming a kind of heaven that couldn’t last.

 
Sarka was both a hard mistress- and a mischeivous girl. Steve was a sick man, it transpired. He had a serious heart problem, and a mysterious disorder of the stomach. Unable to hold down food, he got weaker. And as he got weaker, Sarka’s pleasure from his suffering went up on the Richter scale. When I declared that what Steve needed was fruitjuice, namely from the (locked) bar fridge, she proscribed more bread and water. Not just this. She made Steve watch while she indulged me by hitching up her legs , making me put on her little panthose anklets and boots. She was teasing him by making him watch her tease me.

 
Eventually Steve had to leave for hospital (in the U.K) I was left alone to cope with the two Guardesses on my own (it should be mentioned that both Nicole and Sarka were supposed to be training their own slaves at this point – but both the slaves in question left about a week early, leaving me, as it were, a totally dominated man) They piled work upon work on my back. Nicole particularly seemed to enjoy sloping around with little on except a thong bikini – boy, is she built for it – her whip always in her hand. I was taken on an entire outdoor walk, with Nicole pointing out this tree or shrub to receive x buckets of water every morning. They laughed because it would mean me having to start work at 5 am. One morning I was up with the lark as usual, watering and gardening, when Nicole appeared at the door of the barn. She had little on except a see-through nightie over a thong. She carried her whip, as usual. “Slave!” “Come here !!..” I dropped everything and ran to her.

 
“The Queen is coming. Quick slave!” She gave me a thump with the whip to instil urgency into my sleepy mind, and led me into the Palace.
Along the red carpet no slave is allowed to touch, I was led into the left hand chambers. Here I beheld a most magnificent bathroom suite, with a huge jacuzzi-style bath. The floor was soaking wet, scattered over with broken wineglasses.

 
“Quick slave!! You clean here everything” The whip thumped down on me again. I fell to my knees and started picking up broken glass and mopping up spilt water. Nicole watched me work with cold eyes. Someone had been having a party here – the Queen maybe? But she didn’t seem the party type…..
I cleaned the toilet – it needed it.

 
The Queen came, and no harm was done. She inspected everything. I was so terrified of her I never looked her in the face. But apparently she was well satisfied with my labours.

One night I was sat on my little slave stool, paying court as usual to my two mistresses. They drank wine at my expense, listening to MP3 music tracks downloaded off the internet. As a joke I produced a glass thimble as my own glass. Everything seemed to be O.K. David ( the “gatekeeper” who ran the place under Sarka’s orders) seemed happy. But it was not to be.

Suddenly Sarka jumped up and took the flagon of wine. She took another bottle out of the fridge. She announced that I was to go to bed. They were obviously going to have a party without me. Though I had no right to be, I was hurt. I had a real thing going for Sarka. She had teased me mercilessly. She had so much spark. Did she have a thing about me? I’ll never know. All I know is she made a massive pass at me once, by fondling my upper leg. And just for that moment, she “inverted”. She became a little girl craving affection from her Daddy.

So wearily I got up and followed the two Guardesses up the path. We said our goodnights outside the palace. They disappeared inside, leaving me alone with the full moon and the night. I returned to my pallet at the end of the long barn. It was pitch black as I lay thinking under the blanket. Suddenly I knew exactly what was going on. Sarka and Nicole were making whooppee again, now the Queen had left – in her bath, and possibly David in attendance. Drinking the wine I had bought them. I did not resent it – loved the idea.
I went out into the arena. The full moon was blazing in the night sky. Not a good night to carry out any surveillance operations. I got a ladder and climbed over the perimeter wall, pulled up the ladder and lowered it the other side. Down the ladder I went. I hid the ladder and walked along the lane the other side. Luckily the locals seemed to be abed. It was beautiful, just me and the summer night. I walked right out of ther village, and up the lane between deep corn. Owls and foxes were about, I could hear. As I walked, I pondered…

 
It was obvious that Sarka had wanted me to know what was happening. It was her big tease – or cry for help? Sarka was a bright button. But Nicole, with the body most men would give their right arm for, was slow and with her doe-eyed grins betrayed a basic lack of empathy. What was it? Yes – she was a dyke, pure and simple. But Sarka was different. Sarka was just a little girl being exploited. Fucked up. I started to get angry. I knew what to do.

 
I strode back, nipped back over the wall, and headed for the area of the Palace. The arxc lights were on all around – obviously a security measure. I extinguished them and, not really bothering to crouch or crawl, I walked across the courtyard and round to the back of the palace. I could see the relevant windows, lights on, curtained. I could here the splash of bathwater. Sarka’s shrill laughter rang out, with Nicole’s deeper Slav snickering. And another deeper tone. It was David’s. So that’s it. All three of them. I have to admit here to a basic downright sexual jealousy. That this guy should be sharing MY two babes in the Queen’s bath got to me. I didn’t hang around long, and was in bed again within minutes.

 
The next day I started work at 5am to complete the watering tasks I had been assigned before breakfast. I worked for five hours until 10 am, when a very angry looking Sarka and Nicole wandered into the arena. I was sweating away as usual on weeding the track. The sun was high in the sky, and I was naked from the waist up. It was always a bad sign when the girls were up late. If they had had a rough night the night before, it was usually offloaded the next morning onto the slaves.

 
“Jak se mate, Madame Sarka?” – I had been practising my latest Czech phrase.
Immediately both mistresses started to demand where I had been the night before.
My face fell. This wasn’t going to be a picnic. Nicole came close, tapping me on the head with her riding crop. She stood taller than me in her high heels.
“I saw you! You!! Beside the tower last night!”
The fury and hurt in her face said it all.
I fell to my knees, kissing her manicured toenails in the usual way, but trying to sounfd heartfelt as I said simply “I’m sorry….”
“Sorry!”
“Pah! – sorry – not good enough!!”
I could see I was in a fairly invidious position. My credit with these girls had suddenly expired.

 
I tried to shift the discussion away from where Nicole had seen me, and pointed to the ladder claiming that most of the previous night I had been outside the OWK altogether. At this Sarka chipped in and suddenly became animated.
“Outside OWK, that is offence punishable….”I noticed that Sarka was more worked up about my going over the wall than catching the two of them together in the bath. It all fitted.

For morning exercise (a daily OWK ritual) I was made to run extra laps of the track and more press-ups. But I could see that a lot more punishment was on its way. Breakfast was water and a slice of black bread. Then I was pilloried for an hour. This meant standing in the pillory with your neck and head held horizontally – very uncomfortable after a while. I knew a hell of a beating was on its way. And it came from the hands of Nicole.

 
My backside, wrecked initially by Sarka, had begun to heal, going from mostly black to mostly purple. Nicole was going to reverse all that. Using canes, paddles, whips and crops, she systematically belted and thrashed me black and blue again. I was surprised how much I could take before flinching, my hands gripping the pillory bar fiercely. How many times pain exploded from my spine into my head before I started to whimper for mercy. One final blow sliced across my back, wrapping itself around my right tit causing a bloody weal.
“Madame!” I begged. Nicole came close to me, sergeant-major fashion, and hissed in my face “You will not leave the OWK again. You will perform your work and then sleep..” I nodded my agreement, thankful for her omission of the sin of spying on my mistresses cavorting in the Queen’s bath. Somehow I wanted to forget that – to wipe out my memory. I was incarcerated again in the dungeon, for God knows how long. To be led out into the sunshine and told to work was a release indeed.But there was to be no release that day. I was either working, being punished or locked in the dungeon. There was no let up. And all day long Nicole and Sarka sunbathed or lounged about in thong bikinis, whips in hand and swept back shades, occasionally strutting by where I worked furiously, eyes down. I didn’t want another thrashing – my whole back was a mess now.

 
Nicole in her bikini was like some huge hungry tigress. The effect was breathtaking. Her thong merely emphasised her endless, suntanned legs, and her soft, lazy voluptuous buttocks with that fine bumfluff that young girls have. It was difficult to believe that such a stunning beauty could systematically beat a man to pulp. But I didn’t need any reminders.

 
And so I laboured on topless, while the sun burned strong and struck me dumb. The tattoo which I had playfully adorned on my right arm ( “SARKA” and “NICOLE” separated by a broken heart) was faded. It was no game anymore. Now real jealousies were involved. At the end of a long day I had had 14 hrs of continuous hard labour, and beatings. It was seven pm It was late. I had already made up my mind. The magic had been broken. Real feelings had been hurt. I couldn’t handle these hellcats anymore. It was while Sarka was throwing my supper (one piece of dry bread) into the ladies toilet and making me eat it, that I decided I had to go. Otherwise I could see that Nicole would not be satisfied. As she stamped another piece of bread into the kitchen floor and forced me to kneel handcuffed and eat the dirt off her shoes, that I suddenly rebelled. Those 14 hours had done it. I refused. I went against the will of my mistress. I declared that I wanted to leave. Sarka tried hard to hide her astonishment and hurt. But it was obvious. All of a sudden the slave had turned to master. It must have been a very disturbing experience for her.

 
As I packed my bags to go I told them all I was sorry. I hadn’t wanted it this way. It was my fault. I had broken the laws of the OWK. Before stepping through the gate I turned to look at the two mistresses across the courtyard. Nicole eyed me with her cruel, dykish stare. Sarka turned away. The hurt in her face went deep in to me.

 
The reason I felt so sad was because, cruel though Sarka had been to me, I had been crueller to her. She was like a kitten, constantly playing and displaying her claws. Yet at he end of the day, her heart was of gold. As I was leaving she asked me if I wanted a shower before I left. It was a question which startled me. My reply was hesitant. “Yeah.. O.K…” It was obvious what was going on. Sarka wasn’t worried that I would smell as I hit the road. She wanted one last look at her slave… and perhaps one last chance to change his mind from leaving. It was a brave gesture. I showered while she waited outside. I still had my slave collar on – there since M Christine had shackled it on when I arrived. I felt it, and the awkward padlock as the water streamed over me….
As I emerged from the shower, I saw Sarka sitting there, as if in a reverie. She had been waiting to see me. I walked over And held out my padlocked neck towards her. With a start she scrabbled for a key. This was the symbolic moment that I was freed. I had gone into the shower a slave, but emerged strengthened in my decision – and free.

 
And so I left the OWK – and never again will I set eyes on the stern tower, or knock tremulously at the gates. And - Oh the magic of those nights, laying out on the straw pallets, dreaming of my mistresses, or answering the call of the full moon to scale the Palace walls. All is gone, as in a dream. Did Sarka really exist? Who is the Queen? Like Narnia , the OWK really exists only in the imagination of man. For essentially it is a fantasy of men that they can be dominated and controlled by women. At the OWK discipline comes in reality from ones fellow slaves rather than from the mistresses. It is the submissive slaves who create the codes and the discipline. To break them brings a condemnation far more terrible than any punishment meted out by the women. The whole structure depends essentially on male fantasy. Left alone at the OWK as the sole slave, without censure from my fellow slaves these boundaries no longer existed. The outcome was inevitable.

 
And what of cultural, ethnic considerations? I submit that the Anglo Saxon/Celtic male is fundamentally more clannish and disobedient than the Hun or the Slav. I doubt whether it is possible for the Eastern European/ Germanic mindset to understand Englishness, its layered inconsistencies, or its dry public-school humour. In this century this had its archetype in the form of the behaviour of British POWs as against that of their German or Russian counterparts.

 
But there is no need to philosophise. Because the OWK is there for anyone to experience – a two week femdom/BDSM holiday for less than the price of a weekend in Blackpool.

By bootserf

 

  

  

  

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