It seems a large number of you enjoyed the Cave’s great value Editor’s Choice selection for April and we hope the three books comprising the theme for May hit the spot with you also.
Those women of the East with a passion for the American and European male.
A passion, that is, for the complete domestic and sexual control of them.
Control that is as mental as it is physical and leads to the complete surrender of the white and Western males to the women of the middle-east, the subcontinent, and beyond, who have set their hearts on the owning of them.
First up of the three is Rafael Menton’s “Adhira Khatri” and the tale of an Indian widow who takes advantage of a handsome neighbour’s domestic problems and subsequent prison-term to begin fashioning him into the lifelong bond-servant and male slave of whom she has long dreamed.
Weak and terrified after an eye-opening spell in prison for all but killing the former partner and friend who had stolen his wife, a betrayed husband is finally freed after serving his sentence but realises, despite his fear, that his desire for retribution on the former friend who stole his life still burns brightly.
A retribution the offer made him by the Indian widow formerly his neighbour makes possible.
The only snag being her need for him to become what, in effect, will be her indentured servant.
Rafael Menton is a UK-based Professor of English Literature with a retro passion for the early to mid-twentieth-century fiction of mystery, crime, suspense, and horror & romance with erotic female-led undertones. Mr Menton’s literary tastes range from Doyle and Blackwood and on to Rohmer – as well as sometimes indulging in a more contemporary take of his own on the work of those masters that enables the reader to bring his/her own imagination to the story being read.
If you enjoy stories which, without being unnecessarily explicit, trigger those more stygian and erotic areas of the imagination while invoking the spirit of assertive women, and are as believable as they are dark, it’s more than probable you’ll delight in Mr Menton’s stories from a female-led perspective on the subject of crime, horror, the occult and the erotic, domestic and sexual bondage of man to woman.
A snippet from “Adhira Khatri”:
After the events of the day, I was in a condition of some feverish sexual anticipation when I finally made it my bed and the toys and choice reading material I had locked in a secure bedside cabinet.
It would not do, after all, to have my prospective English chattel come across them as he went about his domestic chores.
With images of my handsome thrall and his lips upon my toes, I sought out some well-thumbed passages that would prove a match with the sexual mood provoked by what I saw as the placing of the first real brick in the wall that would be his subjugation to me.
Certainly, he had tried to pass off the service he provided my feet as nothing more than him living up to our agreement.
But I knew better.
A chord had been struck in his soul.
A submissive chord he had probably been unaware of.
And now it had been struck I would make sure there could be but one outcome of its seeing the light.
With an apposite toy to hand I began the process of satisfying the delayed gratification that I had allowed to build through the whole of the afternoon and the early evening until I could stand it no longer and took myself to bed early…
…Behind the desk in her study; she sat wearing a severely cut two-piece suit in black she knew appealed to him, skirt drifting to her calves as he entered.
“You… You wanted me, hmm, Malkin?” he asked having great difficulty forcing the word out, his whole face aflame with shame and self-disgust.
“Good boy,” she praised for him remembering to show proper respect. “You are becoming used to your new position.”
The second of this month’s editor’s choice selections is Shruti Jalav’s “A Very English Chattel”.
This is Ms Jalav’s (translated from the Hindi) tale of a young Hyderabadi woman from a poor background who takes on the position as live-in housekeeper to a visiting lecturer from overseas teaching at the Salar Jung University nearby.
Though no beauty, the girl soon suspects her English employer is attracted to her large and hourglass body and – more tellingly – her… feet!
It is a suspicion that becomes a realisation when she gains access to his computer and the journal he keeps upon it.
A journal that will reveal to her his innermost thoughts and, in the process, deliver the older man into her sexual and domestic clutches.
A snippet from “A Very English Chattel”:
My name is Dayamai Chabra a forename in my tongue that means ‘compassionate’.
You may take my word for the fact that compassion is the last thing I feel for the smug, egotistic and entitled Englishman whose pulsing white cock throbs imprisoned in my hand and the last word the man himself would use to describe me.
An Englishman whose need for me ensures his obedience to a person he despises.
You can believe me when I tell you that his hatred of me is not only something I find amusing but welcome.
Especially when he is so far gone in his sexual and domestic subservience to me that he would never dare become too obvious in his… distaste.
And especially at times such as these.
It really is too delicious and I ask you to picture, if you will, the angry lacerations crisscrossing the taut skin of his foreskin from thrusting unsuccessfully against the metal cage in which it had been locked up until a few minutes ago.
The sense of self-satisfaction I feel for having debased this pompous man to such a degree truly is overwhelming and is matched only by my anticipation of how far I have still to lower him.
Many of you reading this will not be thinking too highly of me at this point and, should you reach my story’s end, are unlikely to feel any warmer towards either me or my actions at the conclusion of what remains a still enduring true-life slice of auto-biography. That said, however, I am equally convinced that a number of you – men and women both – find a certain erotic, maybe even shockingly and disturbingly so, charge to the events I am about to describe.
This in spite of the fact I am not a professional writer. so urgently against the metal bars containing it not minutes before, adding yet another visual element to the meeting of East and West.
As well as confirming the triumph of the former.
The striking looking man had been a self-entitled snob and racist when I met him and was no different now I felt sure. At least in his unspoken thoughts. |So, to find himself in thrall to the Indian woman he had initially hired to skivvy for him was a humiliation almost physical to him.
So why, kneeling on the floor as I manipulated his erect and finally free cock, did he allow himself to suffer under it, you ask?
We will come to that…
Completing this month’s editor-s choice is “Property of Ms Zaynab”; Vera Carlisle’s second work on the subject of the male as human-pet of a female owner.
In this case, a female owner who has not only purchased her prospective pet from his English wife, but fully intends to have him modified until he is as close as he can be to becoming her utterly trained and obedient human canine.
A snippet from “Property of Ms Zaynab”:
An observer looking in on the sight would have taken the naked white man for either one of the mentally unhinged or a pervert so dyed-in-the-wool it made no difference.
Why else would a man remain in such a position in the light and airy hallway of a family home as sunlight filled its interior to reveal him alone, eyes fixed upon the double-doorway leading to the secure and gated gravel drive beyond and the sea in the near distance?
After all, there were no chains or other tangible signs of restraint keeping him in such an abject position.
Surely, it could only be a mental imbalance of some kind, medical or sexual, that kept him in place?
So would the ignorance of a chance observer lead them to think.
They would have been wrong.
For what kept the man once known as Michael Renton in place, was not visible.
Even if it was equally binding.
Thankfully, the physical pain had left him now and would not, said the surgeon responsible for it in the first place, be returning.
Which did not mean that other, fresher, pains would not take its place.
Pains inflicted upon him by the human hand he was unable to prevent and proved a nice counterpoint to the mental anguish that was always with him.
A nice counterpoint for his sadistic owners, that is.
For despite his knowledge that he had once been a free man in civilised Western society, he could now do more than concede that he was as much a piece of family property to the hateful Arab couple and their two female retainers as the Jack Russel he had once owned himself at that time when he headed up the family also containing his wife and three girls.
A concession that ensured the paltry palliation provided by memories of better times was no longer anywhere near the consolation it had first been since his life had been torn from him in the most barbaric and unimaginable of ways.
Ways far removed from the loving way his own family had cared for their own pet-dog.
The mental pain of his transformation was as fresh and constant to his thoughts as its physical counterpart had been until the wounds confirming his transformation had healed.
Mental pain that he knew would never leave him – no matter how much his memories of his former life… dulled.
Beaten eyes watered as the memory of what he had once been and was no longer stabbed him to the heart of where his manhood once resided yet again.
Just the same, as he waited in subdued silence, knees tender against the cool ceramic patio floor tiles and all but useless hands held out before him with fingers stretched and lowered towards the tiles in the way expected of him, it was to this ever-diminishing consolation of “what had once been” that he returned in order to take his mind from the living nightmare to which he had been consigned.
And from which deliverance was no longer an option.
He was a forty-year-old Englishman who should have been at the peak of his physical and mental powers and enjoying the family life for which he and his slightly younger wife had worked so hard to make a reality.
Yet here he was, on his knees and naked, apart from a collar and the accursed contraption securing his genitals, in the hallway of an expensive home resting slightly back from the Bay of Hormuz and just outside the harbour city of Bandar-e Lengeh in an affluent enclave of Iran.
And not in such a position through choice.
For Michael Renton, as he had once been known, was no longer capable of standing upon his two legs and moving in the normal way of the human biped.
Even if such an eventuality, and one that billions of men the world over took for granted, now numbered amongst his fondest fantasies.
And even if he knew he would never be a real man again…
If you have suggestions for the themes to be used going ahead with the monthly “Editor’s Choice” feel free to add a blog of your own highlighting what you would like to see by way of a compilation and I’ll do my best to oblige..
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