My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images,
and sketches written for the amusement of and offered as tribute 
to my Liege and Lady.  A few selections follow.  They are generally 
cruel and nonconsensual and of interest only to sickphuxs, so please 
read no further if such doesn't appeal to you.

The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and
should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be 
imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward 
of the state.

Steven S. Davis

A story idea that will have to wait till next year (12/31/94)

It wasn't until much too late that I began to consider an idea for
a New Year's Eve post (it was also much too late when I got "A Visit
from St. Nicholas to a Kink Household" done, but at least that was
posted the day before Christmas Eve).

I don't have much more than the bare bones (but I've got a year to
worry about that; maybe telling a bunch of people about it will push
me to be sure it gets written), but it will involve a New Year's Eve
party at which a lot of kinky play goes on.  One special party favor:
a number of people either submitted their names (or their slave's names)
into the pool to announce the New Year.  This was done with much bravado
the year before, but not everyone who was so brave then is brave enough
to show up tonight.

Since it's nearly a year away, I too can be brave and can be ambitious
about the story, which I hope will start with a lot of unspecified tension
among, and unexplained attention towards, some of the female guests and
their escorts, making the first couple hours of the party somewhat
unfestive (of course, the fact the party begins so early, at 6:00 PM,
contributes to people not being ready to play yet).  Then, after the
drawing, everyone (well, almost everyone) will be feeling relief and
the partying can begin. The drawing will come about 8:00; that allows
about an hour to get the subject in place.  It would be so gauche to
rush her - but people will be guarding the locked doors and windows
against any attempt to leave. Everyone is of course very sympathetic,
but a promise is a promise, and if one couldn't handle the consequences
one shouldn't have made the promise.

So by 9:00 they should be ready.  The physical situation mandates the
timing.  The ballroom of the private home in which the party is taking
place is 30 feet high.  The table, slightly adjustable to allow for
variations among those who are in the pool, will be 4 feet high, and
the apparatus requires eight feet.  It will also need six seconds
for a complete lap, 172 minutes and 48 seconds to cover the necessary
distance. This gives the selected one 7 minutes and 12 seconds to wait
in place for the procedure to begin.

At 9:07:12 local time, a lever is pushed, and the countdown towards
the New Year begins.  The chosen one is unmoved.  Not surprising,
given the elaborate restraints tightly crisscrossing her spreadeagled
and nearly nude form (a stiff corset pushing up and holding her breasts
is her only covering) to assure that she doesn't move a fraction of an
inch, lest the timing be ruined. Her head is free and while gags are at
the ready, should they be required, everyone hopes that they won't be
needed, and they aren't.  She knows that nothing she can say will alter
anything, and her dignity matters to her.

The partying begins in earnest now, but as engrossed as people become
in their scenes, no one can forget, at least not for long, the main
scene being enacted tonight.  The rules allow light play with the
selected one up until 11:59, but no one wants to approach her.  Her
escort is nowhere to be seen, although word spreads he's in a room
getting drunk; everyone understands, but everyone's opinion of him
plummets, as she lays alone on the table.  She'd like someone to
talk to, even an enemy to taunt her, anything to pierce the solitude
that engulfs her, but it's as if an invisible barrier surrounds the
table, keeping everyone away from it.  She might ask someone to
bring her a drink, just to get someone close to her for a moment,
but she remembers that all those in the pool were instructed to
take no food or drink after 7:00 and to take an enema that afternoon.
The others are eating and drinking now - some took several drinks just
after 7:00 - but nothing is permitted her.

The hours pass, both painfully slowly and much too quickly, as the
party goes on around her, loud and raucous and rowdy, though no one
seems to be having fun.  Lot's of people are choosing to be flogged
long and hard, and some of them actually do manage to forget for
awhile.  As midnight approaches, the play tapers off, though some
people by the bar continue to party hard.  Most of those who can
still see are watching her, though only a couple do so openly.
She asks, in a calm voice barely betraying her tension, for her
escort.  A few people go to look for him, but no one wants to
tell her that he's passed out drunk, and her requests for him
become calls for him that take on a rising urgency and in the
last minutes of the year the dignity she'd struggled so long and
well to mantain begins to crack as she cries out his name as the
tears begin running down her face, and for the first time she
struggles against the bonds that have held her all night.  She
knows the futility of the effort, but it's just too much to be
so brave when she's so alone.  A few people's eyes rise at her
struggles, other's drop.

At midnight, just as the chimes begin to ring, exactly on time.
She screams as the blade touchs her nipples. For a time, she
screams every three seconds, as the blade passes again, a tiny
bit lower each time, cutting a bit deeper into her large breasts.
After a few passes she's screaming continually; some of the guests
are wet or hard, some are desperately wishing she'd pass out, and
some are both.  As it cuts deeper, blood and flesh are hurled
onto the plastic panels erected to catch them; everything is occuring
like clockwork.  The blade begins to slow as it cracks and cuts her
ribs, and the mess gets worse, but if the visuals are worse the audio
is better, as the last scream passes her bloody lips, and at last
the blade of the pendulum stops, a fraction of an inch short of the
valuable oak of the table.  All had worked exactly as it had been

Plans work to perfection so very rarely, one would think that so
special an event working so exactly as it was designed would be an
occasion for celebration.  Yet as the pall of silence descends on
the room, those minds not yet too numb to think ponder the old saw
about being careful for what one wishes.
Assorted Images, mainly Femdom, 

A man sits tied to a tubular chair, it's steel cold against his
bare flesh, but he barely notices the cold of the tubes.  Uppermost
in his mind is the cold of his bare feet, which rest buried by ice
cubes in a small tub.  From his bound ankles a cord runs through a
small hole in the tub and through a pulley to his testicles, and
any attempt to raise his feet pulls cruelly on them.


A naked man lays on a hard floor, his hands tied behind him,
his ankles bound and raised and a cord running from them to his
penis, to which it is tightly and tautly attached.  A woman strikes
him rapidly and repeatedly across the upper back with a cane.  When
he starts to cry, she kneels by his head and says "You poor dear,
would you like me to try something else ?"   The gagged man nods
his head in relief, only to look up in horror as she lights a blowtorch
and begins moving the flame about near the soles of this feet.  "Is
this better, dear ?", she asks with a broad smile and a wicked gleam
in her eyes, as the heat on his feet makes him try to move them away
from the torch, cruelly pulling on his already stretched cock.


A naked man hangs by his handcuffed wrists.  He holds his hobbled
hindlimbs off the ground, letting the pressure rest on his wrists
and shoulders for as long as possible, then lowers his feet to
press his toes to the ground, but to raise himself enough to take
the weight off his arms, he must stretch his already painfully
stretched scrotal sac, tightly wrapped in thin cord pulled taut
and tied to an "O" ring on the floor.  When the pain in his balls
becomes too great to bear, he raises his tied legs and hangs by
his aching arms for a while.

The woman has been watching in amusement.  "Decisions, decisions",
she says in a taunting voice. "Do you want to put pressure on your
wrists, and risk not being able to use your hands again, *if* I
ever let you out of here, or stretch your little balls some more,
and risk losing them.  Such hard decisions.  I'll be kind and spare
you the agony of making decisions", she said, and she took the short
chain between his ankles and attached another chain to it, then
pulled his feet well of the floor before yanking his head back
and attaching the new chain to the ring of the leather training
harness locked on his head.  "Isn't that better ?  Now you don't
have to make any decisions.  But you also aren't getting that
delightful genitorture, are you ?  I don't won't you to feel
deprived", she said, "but I surely enjoy being depraved", she
added with a smile as she started turning his body as it hung in
it's chains, turning it around and around and twisting and tightening
the cord to his balls, pulling them further and further out as he
groaned and squealed into his gag.  "No more ?  OK", she said, pushing
him in the opposite direction from the one she had been, and watching
him spin back to his original position.  "Wasn't that fun ?  Well, it
was for me.  Let's do it again", she said as she started turning him
about again.  "I wouldn't worry too much about what condition you'll
be in when I let you go, love, cause I'm *never* going to let you go.
Or, maybe I should say", she said as she set him to spinning again,
"that I'm never going to let you leave."


The woman jerked her left foot away as the electric prod touched the
bare toes that her high-heeled sandals exposed, the action being
transfered to a spiked paddle that that swat her bare ass again, it's
many sharp needles leaving small bleeding punctures, and she screamed,
to the delight of the children.  The little boy touched his cattleprod
to the toes of her right foot, emulating his sister's action, and the
foot jerked away.  The action was involuntary, she knew all to well
the pain that would result, but she couldn't stop moving in reaction
to the touch of the cattleprods, and the action of her foot's movement
caused a spiked paddle to swat her bare breasts, adding to the
already considerable number of small holes in then.

The children's mother watched with amusement as the kids played with
their new toy.  They always broke them so quickly, she thought, but
she enjoyed indulging them.  Besides, she went through a lot of toys
herself, she thought, glancing at the naked man who stood facing the
pole, his hands chained to the top of it, his belt of chain attached
to the pole, and his feet outstretched and fastened to rings in the
platform.  He was looking at the children's play with the busty slut,
and despite himself he was becoming erect.  He was resisting the
desire, as he knew that the upward path of his penis was blocked by
a set of very sharp needles, and if he became fully erect his arousal
would be quickly deflated.  Worse than that, the woman who had captured
him (it had been so easy, but how could he have said no to anything
that such a lovely creature asked ?  Could anyone have resisted such a
demigoddess ?) had shown him the device that would be used to cauterize
the wounds and keep him alive a bit longer.  The crocodile shaped
pincers rested in the brazier where he could see it, the elongated
snout made to fit around a penis of his width (even when cold, having
the various pincers settle around his cock (while she looked for the
right size) was quite unsettling; he could scarcely imagine how horrible
it would feel hot.  But he knew the woman's screams and the bouncing
of her bloodied breasts would eventually overcome his will and turn
his penis into a pincushion.  Glancing at his blonde captor, her long
hair glimmering in the light thrown by the hot coals, he saw her coolly
studying him, and patiently waiting for him to impale himself.  The
children wouldn't break their toy before she broke his resistance,
and there was no need to rush or hurry.


The man stood spreadeagle, arms and legs chained to rings in the wall
he faced, a wall lightly coated in wet clay through which a sharp
electric current flowed.  He had tried to keep away from it, but the
floggings he'd received had either driven him into it was thud or
made him jump into it with sting, and each time he had screamed and
quickly jumped as far from the wall (a few inches) as his chains
allowed, his captress had laughed.

She'd been out of the dungeon for some time, though he couldn't judge
the passage of time well.  Long enough for him to recover some of his
strength.  Probably long enough for her arm to recover, he thought.
But when she returned, she didn't pick up any of the whips.  She strode
slowly up to him, the sound of her heels on the cold stone floor
echoing off the bare stone walls of the dungeon.  "So much pain. Time
for some pleasure", she whispered in his ear before nippling on it,
and her fingers sought out his nipples and skillfully manipulated them.
Her lips and toungue were very skilled, whether they were gliding over
his face and neck or speaking aloud the images of his dreams or just
making animal sounds of lustful desire, and he despite his fear his
passion, and other things rose, and...his penis touched the clay and
he screamed and spasmed and slumped twitching and whimpering in his
chains, as she laughed again.

"That was easy.  Now that you know what's going to happen, it will be
a little hard... a little more difficult.  But trust me, dear, you
will arise again, and again, and again, until I get bored with your
screams and whimpers, and that will take a long time, love", she said
as she gently stroked his hair.  "And when I do get bored with you,
I'll raise the current, and bring you up one last time.  And there's
absolutely nothing you can do about it".


A possible ending for "Diane" [FWIW, *not* the one I plan
to use if I ever finish the story]

Diane sits in a straight backed metal chair, tight straps on her
wrists and elbows, another around her slender waist, and a thick
padded strap around her neck holding her head in place.  Her skirt
has been removed so more of her long, slender legs are visible; her
pantyhose and black high heels are still on.  Her left ankle is cuffed
to the center bar of the chair; her right leg is crossed over her left
leg, and her right ankle is cuffed to the left leg of the chair*.  Her
tongue has been coaxed out of her mouth and placed in a tight clamp
so she can't form any words.  Across the room from her a large mirror
shows her a slender, pretty blonde, her pretty legs crossed, sitting
helplessly as she waits for an unknown fate.

Her oldest son (eleven years old) is wheeled in, and left where Diane
has a clear view of him.  He's strapped to a table, gagged, both
arms immobilized.  Both arms have catherters in them, which have been
clamped off.  The right arm has a needle extracting blood, the left a
needle attached to a saline supply that will be used to maintain the
blood pressure as the child's blood is drained away.  The clamp on
the right arm is released, and the blood begins to flow from him into
a small pump, which pumps it into a bag about ten feet over Diane's
immobilized blonde head.  Seeing her child's blood being drained Diane
struggles mightily with her restraints, but to no effect.  She makes
pleading sounds and her wide eyes implore us, but neither I nor more
assistants are moved (well, it's not really accurate to say that the
sight of a lovely woman struggling futilely in her bonds, screaming
inarticulately, with big, desperate eyes pleading for mercy, doesn't
move me.  It does - a part of me, anyway.  But mercy is the last thing
it inspires in me).  After enough blood gets in the bag, it's opened
so that it drips, slowly on Diane's blonde head.  The drops of blood
form, fall from their height to strike the top of Diane's head with
unmistakable impact, and then the blood slowly spreads through the
blonde hair, her hair becoming more and more red, until her hair is
covered in blood and the blood drips down onto her white blouse and
rolls like sweated blood off her brow and mingles with her tears as
it rolls down her cheeks.  An attendant sits alongside her and wipes
the blood away from her eyes so she sees all that happens.  As it
drips onto her tongue, she knows the salty taste of blood and the
bitter taste of despair.

Eventually saline begins draining out the boy's arm.  He's been dead
for a short time.  When the last of his blood is in the bag, three
nooses are hung, and his limp corpse is hung by it as the table is
rolled away, but his blood keeps falling onto Diane's head and rolling
down her face.

The table returns, with Diane's second child strapped to it.  The
process is repeated, with one change: since Diane is quite red-faced
enough, the blood is dripped into a large steel pan, it's echoes as
it strikes the pan quite loud, and Diane can clearly hear each drop
over her own moans and her son's muffled but unmistakable calls for his
mother.  Her own wrists are bleeding now, as her constant but futile
struggles against the leather straps have worn the skin away, but she
doesn't notice this, any more than she noticed that her right shoe has
fallen off and been replaced several times since her ordeal began.
The boy's cries weaken and finally cease, and after an eternity the
dripping sound ends, and Diane screams and struggles madly, the sturdy
wood chair creaking loudly in response to her awesome efforts to break
free, but her bounds are stronger than her bones, and when at last the
last of her energy is spent, she has gained nothing but broken bones
in both wrists and her right ankle.

Her struggles suspended for the time, Diane's eyes are dried and her
eyelids held open as a second pale, bloodless shell of what had her
child is hung alongside the first.  Clamps on her eyelids force her
to keep looking at the small corpses.  Usually when these clamps are
used, efforts must be made to keep the subject's eyeballs moistened;
tonight, Diane will be moistening them herself.

"One more to go, Diane", I say.  It's hard to believe her eyes could
get any more piteous, but somehow she managed.  She made some more
noises, "lssss illl duhh nnnthn" it sounded like.  I just smiled at
her.  "I can't even begin to imagine how you must be suffering now.
It must be so dreadful to lose a child.  To lose all your children
is more than anyone could bear.  And how can you possibly endure
knowing that you caused this ?  If you'd just worn pants that day
I wouldn't have caught sight of these lovely legs", I say while
running a hand over her calf, "and you never would have been brought
here.  A pity you're 37, if you were younger maybe you'd have been
more trainable.  A slave has to obey, even one as sexy as you.  But
you just couldn't learn to obey, immediately and totally, and so your
children are paying for your failure".

The third child, six years old, is rolled into the room, sending
Diane into another furious fit of futile struggling.  She seems
quite oblivious to the pain.  I let her struggle for a time, the tell
her "Your baby isn't going to die now, Diane".  She stops, and I see
a tiny ghost of a hope deep in those agonized eyes.  Perfect.  Now
to rip that last hope away.  "No, that would be much too easy for you.
I want you to suffer longer.  Your little boy here will die tomorrow
morning, and you will die - well, you will start to die - shortly
afterwards.  But you and he get to wait the rest of the night for the
final act", I say as the little boy, bound and gagged, is stood on a
stool alongside his brothers, and the noose placed loosely over his
head.  "Tommorrow, at 6:00", I say as a chiming clock is positioned
where Diane can't help but see it, "the rope will be elevated, and
your son will be lifted of his feet.  He's so light, and this noose
isn't tied well, so it will take a long time for it to constrict around
his neck tightly enough to cause his death.  He should squirm at the end
of this rope for a nice long time.  When his little heart has stopped,
we'll start your death.  I know you don't think you'll care, but we've
come up with something so slow and horrible and painful that it should
strike terror even in your numbed consciousness.  But I don't want to
ruin the surprise, you'll have to wait until tomorrow.  I know I can
barely stand the suspense", I say as I push one of the corpses so it
swings back and forth slightly.

"Well, 6:00 will come pretty soon, so I'd better get some work done
and turn in early.  I certainly don't want to oversleep and miss
any of tomorrow's event.  Good night, Diane", I say as I leave
the helpless and hopeless woman.


Adding spice

A very bland (but sweet and loving) vanilla couple has had their
house invaded by deviants.  They are stripped and bound and taken
to seperate rooms where the pale bride sits blushing a deep crimson.
Poor thing, only one man has seen her naked, and him only in dim
light, before today, and now she sits stark naked in a brightly lit
room, her legs spread and tied to the legs of the chair, her wrists
bound and her elbows cinched behind her, forcing her to present her
breasts to a group of total strangers in a way she never could to her
dear sweet husband.  And how they're all looking at her !  Especially
the women !  For the first time she's embarassed at being looked at
by women.  Usually it's sort of nice, knowing that she's the object of
attention and envy from other women, but these woman aren't looking
at her and thinking how much they'd like to have a body like hers.
Or maybe - oh, dear - that's exactly what they're thinking.

The visitors thought it would be interesting to interrogate the couple
about their sexual histories.  They, of course, were adamant that such
things were not to be discussed with ruffians.  They, of course, had
no idea how much a properly used pair of pliers could hurt.  They soon
began answering the questions put to them; the pliers continued to be
used, as the questions were sometimes put several times before the
visitors were satisfied with the answers.  The answers were all the same,
as this upright couple would never lie, but the guests couldn't believe
what they were hearing until the piteous wails of the subjects confirmed
their words.

After the interrogation, it became clear that what the intruders had
found was probably *the* most bland couple in the world.  Whatever to
do with such people ("bury them" was rejected).  It occured to someone
that bland sex needed spicing.  There was, naturally, nothing appropriate
in the house, so someone was sent to get the hottest peppers available.
Then a very fine (very fine pieces and a very nasty taste) hot sauce was
made, while the vanilla's waited and worried about what would happen to
them - and imagined what really awful things were probably happening to
their partners at that very moment.

When the sauce was ready, our lady of the crossed legs was bound
spreadeagle on her bed, and the sauce liberally applied to her nether
regions, then her husband was brought in, to see his wife, flushed
and sweaty, moaning into her gag, squirming madly and obviously wet
between the legs, a sight he'd never seen outside his dreams.  They
pushed the husband on the bed and shoved his head her legs, and said
"Eat her.  She's ready, and she *really* needs you.  And we'll kill
you both if you don't."  Well, purely for his poor wife's sake, he
had no choice, as anyone could see, so he stuck out his tongue and
began licking her, and his eyes bulged and his tongue burned and
he started gasping and sweating, and the guests said, "First taste
of pussy ?  Good, isn't it ?", and made him keep licking.

Later that year, the couple quit their jobs, and opened a boutique
selling imported peppers and domestic toys.