Editor’s Choice Blog – September 2022


Three books of steely, irresistible and warped female supremacy over the male constitute this month’s Editor’s Choice selection…

And at a fraction of their original retail price!


Those men who find themselves betrayed by their wives into domestic and sexual service.

And not only to the service of the wife herself!

Our first adventure in the world of marital domination is Elise Marriott’s description of one man’s fall to servitude and sexual slavery, “From Husband to Manservant”.

Read on as a wife and the Indian woman who is her office boss as well as her husband’s conspire to place his employment to them both on a far less… manly …footing…


A snippet of text contained in: “From Husband to Manservant”:

FROM:          [email protected]

TO:                [email protected]

SUBJECT:    Progress

My Darling Girl!

It is shortly after breakfast and guess where your husband is right now.

Or, more to the point, try and guess what it is he is doing.


Then allow me to help.

Your once high-and-mighty husband is, at this very moment, on his knees in the cellar that is now both his quarters and his place of work when not required above stairs.

Why so, I hear you ask?

He is on his knees, my darling because it is the best way to set about the chore his Indian employer has set him.

And the nature of that chore?

Why, the ferrying to the cellar of my considerable collection of boots and shoes that he may lay them on a plastic covering prior to polishing each pair until he can see his own handsome, and increasingly abject, reflection in them.


I know.

It is beyond incredible that I/we could have achieved so much with him in so short a space of time.

Your husband, the man for whom you worked, both at the office and in the home, polishing the footwear of a woman he despises.

Would any of his colleagues now recognise him for the man they once took him for?

Perhaps physically.

It is a turnabout, I confess, difficult to believe without actually seeing it in the flesh, but I promise you he is polishing my shoes at this very moment and knows that, when I have finished this email, I will visit the cellar to inspect his work.

And had better pronounce myself satisfied.

Such progress have I made with him in the two short weeks since he took up his new… position… with me and, between us, we must congratulate ourselves on our manipulation of him. Between your insistence that your marriage will be over if he does not prove worthy of my decision to give him a job and my promise that I will throw him out on his ear if does not prove as loyal and obedient as the most efficient and respectful of Indian servants, he finds himself in a constant state of agitation and fear at the prospects of what awaits him as both a jobless and divorced man.

And yes, you read my words correctly. I did say: the most efficient and respectful of “Indian servants”.

His response?

Why, he insulted me, of course. I had deliberately provoked his temper and it finally snapped. All the names he had stored for me in his head found a voice and, for a few moments anyway, I even thought he was about to strike me – something you tell me he had not, at least, seen fit to do throughout your marriage. This did not happen and I could see a cooling in his anger when I calmly told him to go and pack his belongings and that I would be informing you of my decision to ask him to leave later that evening after your return to the penthouse from the office.

After telling him this I took myself off to my study and waited, killing the time before he came to his senses by watching a – ridiculous, I confess – Bollywood musical on YouTube. Though, even had it not been ridiculous, I am not sure I could have concentrated upon it. For, and to be completely truthful, my darling girl, I had the most awful feeling that I had finally pushed too far and that even his weakness and virtually non-existent pride would not accept such an indignity.

You may be sure that the next hour or so was the longest in my life… Until, that is, there came the most abject and sheep-like knocking upon my door.


With “The Alpha Wife”, Ilse Becker-Taylor takes us into one embezzling husband’s world that is soon to be made a nightmarish landscape of service to both the wife he loves and finds he never really knew and a much detested subcontinent neighbour he is about to be forced to know better.

As her slave!

His world is about to be stripped from him and this once-proud man’s humiliation is going to be made worse by the realisation he had neither the strength of will or the desire to prevent it.

A snippet from “The Alpha Wife”:

The very next morning after April’s meeting in her office with Udaramati, it was one very chastened and highly embarrassed older husband who slouched his way a few doors down to the home of an Indian woman for whom he had always expressed a dislike.

If not to the woman herself, than at least to the wife who was now insisting he accept her offer of employment.

As he pressed the bell to her home, not quite believing he was about to go through with it, William Wharton’s stomach gave a lurch as he realised how low and demeaning his fall was becoming.

Not only was his wife taking the opportunity of his economic helplessness to exorcise some demons from his time as the main breadwinner – demons he had not even suspected existed – but he was about to become a full-time flunkey and dogsbody for an Indian woman whose kind and generous offer” had been accepted for him by his wife.

And with the threat hanging over his head of removing him from the home should he refuse it…

“Her full-time housekeeper has returned to the Uttar Pradesh,” April had told him, “and, rather than replace her with another she thought it would be a good opportunity for you.”

“Opportunity?” he had blazed. “To be a cleaner for an Indian woman you know I’ve never liked? Why don’t you just kick me out of the house now and have done with it?”

She had simply stayed silent and stared him down as he paced the carpet before her to flash looks of recrimination at her as he passed.

“Tantrum over now?” she asked after a minute or so, looking and acting more and more authoritatively, both to him and towards him, with every passing day; the two of them both aware that his dare to her to make him leave had no teeth and was the very last thing he wanted to happen – so terrified was he of finding himself on the street at his age; without means to support himself or the support network of either family and friends.

The fact both of them also knew by this time that he hadn’t the guts to simply do what a man worthy of the description would do and take his chances – this after telling her to ‘get fucked’, of course – was yet another reason for his self-loathing and her absence of concern as he paced before her.

“You’ve been saying how desperate you are to find employment and now you have it,” she told him.


“No!” she barked, actually raising an imperious hand to his face as if he were some pup she were schooling. “You wanted a job for your own self-respect and now your wife has found you one. I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking or you consider it below your dignity, but that, as they say, is tough-luck.”

Again he tried to argue his position, still stunned to find himself in the position he was in and hoping the reality of consciousness would shake him from this most disturbing and long-winded of dreams.

To no avail.

Either he “manned-up”, as she described it, or he could pack his clothes and other belongings and leave.

She was utterly unbending and he could hear in her words and see in her body language, that there would be but one outcome if he didn’t at least pretend to consider this… “offer”.

“All right!” he almost screamed, frustration and a sense of his own vulnerability leaving him barely able to think clearly. “I’ll speak to her and see if I can live with what she’s offering. But no promises.”


The final book in this month’s triad is Gudrun Lindstrom’s “Free Man to White Slave”, as a bisexual Scandinavian wife arranges for a young Arab woman, much taken with her handsome husband, to purchase him as if they were no longer in 21st Century England but had travelled back in time to the Barbary Coast and a slave-block operated by Corsairs specialising in selling European slaves to would-be Arab masters.

Except, in this instance, his “Master” would not be a man at all but a young and sexually-warped woman with a longing born of fantasy to own and totally possess an older white male.

A snippet from “Free Man to White Slave”:

My wife is astride me, staring down into my eyes hungrily as if this is the last time we will get to fuck for a while and she wants to imprint the experience of it onto the hard drive of her memory.

Imprint made for those cold nights of my absence when the need for her to ride my thrusting cock is greatest.


My Nordic goddess of a wife, unmistakably Scandinavian without the necessity to speak.

So Norwegian, in fact, she is almost a stereotype.

But what a stereotype!

The body that rises above me as we make love in the only position in which she says she feels comfortable is as powerful as it is perfect and as shapely as it is exquisite. Short and French-cropped blonde-hair frames her features and the slight overbite of her teeth that imparts both a schoolgirl quality and a sense of wilfulness contradicts the womanly breasts below that are so full, conical and firm, as to need no support from the bra she insists upon wearing anyway.

A bra that is absent now and allows me an unobstructed view of nipples that rejoice in having her husband below her and his cock buried deep inside her.

“Do you like being fucked by your dominant young wife, Howard?” she said, taking me by surprise as I concentrated on holding back my eruption until I was sure she had reached her own crisis. It was the first time I had heard her speak during our lovemaking and it seemed, somehow… shocking. She was the last person I would have taken to be into game or role-playing but a small part of me that was not surprised welcomed the introduction.

“Is this what you would like from now on? To be under no illusions? To know that you are being ridden like the animal you are, powerless beneath your Norwegian goddess?”

I had never been into BDSM or anything like that – and certainly not from the receiving end – but her words and out-of-character aggression towards me triggered a need to be…


Used by her?

“It is what my little Howard has always wanted, I think,” she continued, giving my cheek what I took to be a playful slap.

Her accent giving words and actions and the intent behind them an extra edge as my heated thoughts pondered the ‘little’ crack.

“To have your wonderful Hedvig take control. To be her obedient little husband.”

This was new ground for me and I was not at all sure if I liked the feel of it underfoot – or back, as it were.

So why was my cock harder than I could ever recall it as my wonderful – and now playful – wife squirmed upon it in ways that made holding my orgasm for her more difficult than I had ever found it to be previously.

And, believe me, I had never found it easy.

“I have read that some men take pleasure from having their wives serviced and satisfied by men with larger cocks,” she said, staring down at me without a trace of self-consciousness for having dared say such a thing to me.

Despite feeling appalled at the prospect, my cock twitched.

“Yes. I thought it would be so,” she smirked, taking the action of my cock for confirmation of these supposed suspicions.

“No!” I began, only to receive another, not so playful, slap across the cheek.

“Bad boy!” she scolded me, making my already engorged cock twitch a second time. “Do not interrupt your goddess when she is educating you to know your true self.”


Three adventures in wifely and interracial female control and psycho/sexual-domination for a fraction 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..




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