Reading Notes:
1. Two recent events in the U.K. gave me the inspiration for this story.* (*See end of story for disclaimer.)
2. It is a work of fiction, which takes place in a parallel universe where Women rule and men serve. Breeding is controlled and regulated by Women.
3. All characters and their individual interests and fetishes are products of the author's imagination, and bear no resemblance to anyone, living or dead.
4. All sex takes place between adults aged 18 or older.
When the news broke, the country was already in the midst of a crisis. It was a matter of record that during the nationwide lockdown, imposed to try and stem the rise of a new and deadly virus, the Prime Minister had been involved in several wild orgies in her official residence, Number Sixty Nine Upping Street. She had been summoned to Fuckingham Palace and dismissed on the spot by the Supreme Leader And Guardian, Elspeth the Second.
The fact that Doris Janesdaughter had spent lockdown fucking didn't bother the country that much. Women ruled and all women had their needs. What upset everybody was that she had been fucking a man. Several men, in fact. And the crucial and damning part was that during all of these orgies, Doris had been submissive and allowed men, yes! mere men, to take her in every position they wanted, in any hole they wanted and it was rumoured that there were photographs of her tied up over the Prime Minister's chair in the Cabinet Office, whilst a queue of several men waited patiently in line to take their turn to fuck her. Worse still, Doris had committed the unpardonable offence of having sex with men who were unauthorised, and not registered in the Tomb of Official Lovers (Book of Necessary Childbirth) also known affectionately as the TOOL BONC.
So the premiership of Doris Janesdaughter came to a premature end, and in the six weeks of jostling for her job that followed, a new leader of the Cuntservative Party emerged from the group of hopefuls. All women were required by law to cast a vote in any election that was called, but in this instance, only women who were members of the Cuntservative Party were eligible to participate.
And so Lesley ("Call me Les") Struts emerged as the winner, and next political leader of the nation. As soon as she had taken the Oath of Office, it was traditional for the Prime Minister to go to Fuckingham Palace to be asked to form a government by the Supreme Leader And Guardian. This offer was always accepted and formally sealed by the age-old ceremony of 'kissing the cunt.' It was televised and always attracted a huge audience.
Viewers were stunned therefore when the pictures of the Prime Minister-to-be's car suddenly disappeared from their screens to be replaced with a still photograph of Elspeth the Second. A sombre voice informed the nation, "The SLAG is dead. Long live the SLAG."
In the village of Tribbing-on-the-Clit, on the south west coast of England, Olive Simpson was enjoying her usual afternoon distraction, pegging one of her stable of fuck boys. It was taking place in the Mistress bedroom of her sixteenth century manor house, and Olwen's victim was in agony.
Bound in the spread eagle fashion to her huge four poster bed, the tanned and muscled young man wondered how much longer he could endure the pegging he was being given by his Owner. His arsehole was being ripped to shreds by the studded metal strap-on cock Olwen was wearing. His nipples were on fire, thanks to the clamps that had been screwed on tight, flattening the sensitive buds, sending waves of pain through his chest every time Olwen tugged on the reins attached to the clamps.
Even if protest had been allowed, Jason twenty two (for that was the unfortunate male's name and number) would not have been able to talk. His mouth was filled with a rubber horse bit, complete with another set of reins, which allowed Olwen to ride her lover as if she were riding one of the magnificent steeds that she owned, and who were stabled in much better conditions than the fuck boys who tended to the pampered beasts, under the supervision of stable mistress Sadie, when they were not required to be on house duty.
Olwen thrust in and out of Jason's arse. Sweat ran freely down between her large tits, and she was breathing heavily. She wasn't getting any younger, and her lifestyle could hardly be said to be ideal for maintaining fitness. Olwen was a heavy smoker, she enjoyed most forms of alcohol and anyone who mentioned exercise in her hearing was sure to be taken to the whipping post in the courtyard and given a severe thrashing.
Olwen felt her orgasm building and she continued to fuck Jason as the sensation grew and grew. She was right on the edge when there was a frantic knocking on her bedroom door. Before she had a chance to call out to allow whoever was outside to enter, the door burst open and Cumilla, Olwen's wife burst into the bedroom. She was accompanied by Mary, Olwen's body maid, Tina, who held the same position to Cumilla, and bringing up the rear were Well-hung Willy and Eric Eight Inch, who were Olwen and Cumilla's authorised, registered male breeding cocks.
Olwen stopped her pegging.
"What the fuck?" she snarled. Then she registered that Cumilla and the two body maids were all wearing strap-on dildos. She opened her mouth to resume speaking, but before she could utter another syllable, all five intruders dropped to one knee. They all spoke with one voice.
"Goddess Bless the SLAG. Hail Slag Olwen the First, Supreme Leader and Guardian," they chanted three times in unison.
Olwen tugged viciously on both sets of reins and slammed her dildo deep into Jason twenty two's arse. She howled in ecstasy as her orgasm washed over her. Still trembling, she pulled out of her fuck boy, who collapsed, unconscious and face down on the huge bed.
She turned and stood in front of the still kneeling group, her studded metal dildo glistening with a mixture of arse juice, blood and the odd smear of shit.
"Is it true?" she asked breathlessly. "Is my birth mother dead?"
"Yes, darling. She passed not an hour ago whilst preparing to meet that lying, deceitful bitch who has been elected to the head of the Cuntservative Party," Cumilla replied, getting up from her kneeling position, and moving closer to her wife.
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," she continued softly, kissing Olwen tenderly and slipping her tongue into her wife's mouth as she knew she loved. She broke off the kiss and spoke again.
"I am reliably informed that she died doing what she loved," Cumilla said with a sad smile. "Les Struts was on her way to Fuck House (she used the term by which Fuckingham Palace was known affectionately by everyone in the nation) to kiss the cunt."
"Your mother was being fucked so that Struts would have a mixture of cum and cunt cream when she took her oath of allegiance. Elspeth had no choice but to ask that horrible, right-wing cunt to lead her Government, but she had enough about her to let Stuts know that she wasn't happy to have to do so."
Olwen smiled sadly and pulled Cumilla closer. She returned her wife's kiss and tugged gently on one of the nipple hoops that Cumilla had been fitted with on the day of their wedding. Both women were deeply in love, but everyone in the household knew that Cumilla was totally submissive to Olwen. The sounds of her moans as she was being caned were a regular occurrence in the manor house.
Everyone looked up as there was another knock on the bedroom door. The new arrival, Betsy, who as Mrs. Butler, ran the day-to-day goings-on of the manor as Housekeeper, stood in the doorway.
As Olwen made eye contact, Betsy dropped a deep curtsey.
"Goddess Bless the SLAG. Hail SLAG Olwen the First, Supreme Leader and Guardian," she intoned sincerely before standing up straight again.
"I am sorry to disturb you, my SLAG," she began in her beautifully subtle Lowland Scots accent. She was speaking to a point about four inches to the left of Olwen.
