Editor’s Choice for June 2022
Once again a large number of you enjoyed the Cave’s great value Editor’s Choice selection for May and it appears to be growing in popularity, so here are another three books we hope will provide enjoyment as they also trigger your imagination.
And the Theme for June…?
Those women who take and maintain control of their men by use of the occult, the supernatural, or out-and-out erotic mind control.
Domination and submission that is no less real and lasting for being achieved by the power of the female mind rather than the persuasion of physical shackles and chains.
First up of the three is Rafael Menton’s “A Woman of Haiti” and the tale of a smug English professor whose dismissal of a visiting mesmerist from the Caribbean turns out very badly for him when she reveals herself to be so much more than she appears.
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 Sadistic Haitian Priestess…
A snippet from “A Woman of Haiti”:
“You are implying that I have lost my own will power to you then?”
Her head shook almost as if insulted.
“I imply nothing. I state a fact. My will be stronger than yours and has made itself your master.”
I cringed but steeled myself to continue.
At least I had her talking.
She smiled then, as if she had again read my thoughts and was telling me:
“It will do you no good.”
“Is your own will so strong, then?” I asked, fighting back the thought that she really didn’t require words from me to be sure of what I wanted to say.
“Have you forgotten yesterday, here in this same room, so quickly?”
This time it was a question but not of a kind I wished to answer.
“Can you ever believe yourself a real man after what you did for Fabienne and me?” she asked as my cheeks coloured. “Do you think you ever forget the taste of our black vagen and de scent of our bourik on your greedy white tongue?”
And it was to get worse:
“And serving us like de lowest dog be no more than you wanted deep down in your slave soul.”
“No…! I began to protest even as I acknowledged a truth in her assertion.
“Be quiet for your mistress now, Clement,” she ordered in a voice that was normal and low; addressing me by my first-name for the first time; though without anything approaching affection. “I prefer it if you ask my permission or Fabienne’s before you speak from now on.”
I looked at her with utter horror.
She could not mean it.
For me to ask her – or worse, the abomination that was Fabienne – for permission before using my educated and learned tongue in her presence.
And use it to speak!
But when I tried to question her on the subject I found – as it they had with the Inspector the day before – that my vocal chords refused to obey me.
“Permission to speak, M-Miss Germaine,” I heard myself say, addressing her with the respectful formality with which a servant might address a mistress; rather than in the familiar way one might aim towards someone in one’s employ.
A Mesmeric Malkin…
The second of this month’s editor’s choice selections is Kurt Steiner’s classic of female-led mind control, “Serving Sreelatha.” His tale of a happy and successful businessman whose life is torn from him by the widow of his late-Indian partner and her equally dominant housekeeper.
Not to mention his formerly loving wife and, eventually, his teenage daughter.
Kurt Steiner is a former expat, born-and-bred on the Indian subcontinent, who is also the author of the classic tale of interracial and psychological femdom, “The Inferior”
A snippet from “Serving Sreelatha”:
“So,” she had begun; “here you are at last. My husband’s former partner. The great man himself. Standing before me in nothing but the cage restraining his pitiful little cock.”
I continued to stare at the carpet, unsure if her words required a response.
“Is there something you’ve forgotten to do?” she asked.
Like the craven cur I’d become and she intended I remain, I immediately dropped to all fours and crawled towards the feet of the woman –little more than a girl- who now ruled my life. When I reached them I lowered my head and began to lick the salty brown skin of her instep as if my life depended upon it; seeing myself as the dog my daughter had insisted I become for her.
“Very good,” her voice came down to me. “No more silly arguments.”
Silence reigned for a few moments then as I licked at her foot and she observed me doing so.
“Vera and Melanie told me you had begun to accept your diminished status,” she said finally, “and I see they spoke truthfully. Now Abhaya and I will teach you to be a model servant for both us and your wife and daughter.”
I paused to work some saliva over my hard put to it tongue and she took it as an intention on my part to stop.
“You may continue to lick my foot until give you permission to stop.”
Doing as she asked, it occurred to me for the first time that I was exactly where I should be – where I deserved to be: on all fours before a woman. Having always been of the opinion that we make our own fate I now saw the reverse as true. Why would I be in the position I was in if I wasn’t the weak man I had been told I was? Perhaps, I told myself, I was in the very place destiny had always had in mind for me.
And if I wasn’t then why was my cock giving me such discomfort as it thrust against its bonds?
“Right about now,” she went on, raising her free foot to rest the sole upon my bare back, “your wife is dining with the owner of a man wishing to do business with our company.”
I continued to lick; unable to get enough of the foot that seemed to symbolise my submission to her and willing to endure the pain of a restricted erection.
“He is a large man, Vera tells me. Very large and very black.”
The intensity of my foot worship increased; busying myself to keep unwanted imagery at bay.
“She knows he is large because she was barely able to take the meat he offered up to her in your former office in her mouth.”
I inserted my tongue between her toes.
“Pathetic!” she tutted. “I tell you your wife has taken the penis of another in her mouth and will soon allow it to penetrate her womanhood and all you can do is lick the grime from between my toes.”
Tears were falling from my eyes to her instep and, far from halting my ministrations; I lapped them up as a way of moistening my servile mouth.
“Sunil was right. He said you were not much of a man.”
My eyes came up at this. “Sunil? My friend and partner? The man who’d worked at my side to build a business from nothing and regarded me as a brother? Said I was not much of a…?
“I will not lie to you, Timothy,” she began, holding my gaze with complete confidence in my subjugation and knowing I would not be able to meet her stare for long. Sunil was very fond of you and had nothing but praise for the way you allowed him to make decisions for the business without interfering.”
Dropping my eyes back to her foot, I was confused: had that been how it had been? Had all the shrewd moves that had pushed our business on been made at the instigation of Sunil?
“I do not believe I told you to stop licking my foot.” Her voice, suddenly cold and inflexible, carried down to me and -Pavlov’s favourite test subject- I took my cue from her tone and began to slather at her foot once more.
A Chattel for his Parisian Landlady…
Completing this month’s editor-s choice is “The Horla Revisited”; Sandrine Bessancort’s work on the subject of the male as the sentient and obedient property of a female owner.
In this case, a female owner whose proof of purchase is no more than the supplanting of her man’s will with that of her own.
A female will and mind of a most warped persuasion.
A snippet from “The Horla Revisited”:
Totally naked, cheeks burning with shame, I stand before my female owner and she-devil and wait for her to divulge what she expects of me next as her appreciative eyes take in the body she insists I keep to the shape that first attracted her to it.
It is a wait made with no great eagerness.
A finger points to a spot at her feet and, knowing refusal is futile, I do not hesitate to kneel before her.
With a small chuckle of satisfaction for the position I occupy and the effortless way in which she can force me to occupy it, she takes the hemline of her dress in her hands and raises it to reveal a pair of black lace-up boots with a spike-heel – boots I am familiar with, only having just finished polishing them that same morning.
As the breath catches in my throat and the reluctant arousal she has instilled in me for her form surfaces, she slides the dress further upwards to bring her strong and shapely, stocking-clad, calf-muscles into play.
Blood rushes down from the higher altitudes, much in the way of our descending balloon after the lowering of the gas making it rise – though without the subsequent… puissance – and arrows the evidence of my unnatural desire towards her.
On my knees as she gazes down upon me, all the joys of unholy ownership playing about her severe and unforgiving face, I await her evil pleasure with a dread of the humiliation in store.
For it will be humiliating. For when it comes to men and the place they occupy in her sordid and distasteful life, Madame Colette Durand knows no other way.
Sure enough, her gift for the finding of ways to take my spirit and male pride lower than I previously believed possible from the already subterranean levels to which she had reduced them is about to be utilized once more.
The dress is raised above her hips to reveal her powerful thighs, half-covered by the stockings and suspenders that contrast so shockingly with the alabaster white skin leading up to her… exposed… womanhood.
Conditioned as I am, and oblivious to any coming degradation, I actually salivate.
Knowing without looking that the eyes hungry for my humiliation are upon me, I can do no more than fixate upon the cultivated strip of foliage standing between full exposure and ongoing anticipation.
The sight is removed from me as she turns to the side and presents me with a column of stockinged leg as the order that leaves her lips exceeds the fear I anticipated.
“You may kneel up and hump my leg like the dog I intend you to become.”
Three works of occult mind control and female-domination for half of their retail price.
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..