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Women With The Whip Hand - ebook

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Women with the Whip Hand By Lindsay Ross

Lindsay Ross, author of Mortification of Isabel and other titillating tales of erotica, created a masterful collection of Femdom short stories with Women with the Whiphand.

In The Merciless Nurse, highly paid soccer star, Steve Wilson, breaks his leg in a match and is confined to his apartment. His misery is increased by the fact that his estranged girlfriend, Cheryl, wants nothing to do with him; in essence, he has no one to coddle him. Steve hires a foreign nurse, Zusa, and contemplates her performing intimate acts of care and attention. He thinks his life is starting to look up. When he lets it slip he is thinking of her this way, Zusa is greatly offended. She takes revenge by giving him repeated enemas and forces him to make a confessional video which she threatens to send to the media if he does not surrender to her.

Forced Into Petticoats introduces us to Tom Lawson while he is trespassing nude on Lady Brentford’s estate. He is caught by her ladyship’s two daughters of about the same age as he. Tom is whipped on his bare buttocks by both girls, Caroline and Vicky, before spending a night in the stocks, still naked, where he is beaten and sexually abused.

This alluring album of stories sends us on a wild trip of humiliation, cunnilingus, foot worshipping, flogging, masturbation, spanking, birching and much, much more!

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When I first saw Zusa I couldn’t decide if she was attractive or not. Certainly she wasn’t like any of the girls I dated, quite a bit older for a start. She said she was from somewhere in Europe but I was never clear whether she was Russian or Hungarian or Polish.

When she came to my apartment for the first time she was dressed in crisp white nurse’s uniform, white shoes, black tights, and a little cap set back in her mousy colored hair like the ones worn by waitresses. She wore a badge carrying the name of the organization she worked for and the name Zusa. She explained the English equivalent was Susan.

I was surprised when she told me she knew who I was. Apparently her brother back home watched all the Premiership matches broadcast from England and was a fan of my team and of me personally.

‘He won’t believe it when I tell him that I’m nursing you.’

‘Well, I don’t need nursing exactly,’ I said. ‘I just need a little TLC.’

‘What is TLC?’

‘Tender loving care.’


‘It’s just an expression.’

‘I’m here to nurse you. That’s what I am, a nurse! It was hard to qualify.’

She sounded insistent. She was standing in front of me with her arms folded adopting that no-nonsense stance and expression nurses often show. They can so easily make you feel like a little boy.

‘You must be a good patient,’ she said.

‘Why must I?’

‘Because my brother will be so disappointed if you’re not.’

‘What is being a good patient?’

‘Doing as you’re told.’

‘I see. You’re going to boss me about?’

‘If necessary,’ she said with a half-smile.

She towered over me somewhat as I sat in my wheelchair. Zusa was tall for a woman and those arms folded under her bosom looked strong. She was wearing short-sleeves and her skin looked very pale. Her bosom was matronly. I usually like nubile girls in their early twenties but there was something compelling about Zusa who I reckoned was probably closer to forty.

‘It is important that we get on well,’ she said.

‘I agree.’

‘I will have to do some quite…what do you say…private things.’

‘Intimate things. What time will you start in the morning?’

‘I will arrive at seven o’clock to make your breakfast and get you started.’


When she arrived at precisely the time she’d promised I was still in my pajamas and she began by discussing how she could get me clean.

‘A bath is out of the question I think.’

‘You couldn’t lift me in and out,’ I agreed.

‘A shower would be difficult too. I would be frightened you would lose your balance.’

‘You could come in with me,’ I said with a mock leer.

‘I think I’ll have to give you an all over bath with a sponge.’

‘Where do you want me?’

I was looking forward to getting rid of the smell of stale sweat and smartening myself up a bit as I had a two-day growth of beard and my hair was like a particularly unruly and rebellious mop.

‘Can you sit on that chair in the bathroom?’

‘Yes if I can take your arm.’

‘Don’t worry Mr. Wilson, I’m very strong.’

‘You can call me Steve.’

‘I prefer to call you Mr. Wilson as you are a client.’

‘As you wish. You allow me to call you Zusa.’

‘That’s different.’

We were in the bathroom by now and I was ensconced in the chair watching Zusa fill the sink and equip herself with sponge and face cloth.

She spread a large fluffy bath towel under my feet.

‘Take off your pajamas, please,’ she said. It sounded more like ‘pleazze.’ Her accent was quick thick and occasionally it was difficult to decipher what she was saying.

She stood back and watched me unbutton my top and hand it to her. She folded the garment neatly.

I shouldn’t have hesitated before untying the white cord of my pajama bottoms because it only gave her a chance to say what all nurses say. ‘Don’t worry I’ve seen it all before.’

I drew them down my hairy thighs to my ankles. I’m quite dark in terms of skin colour and have an abundance of body hair.

What would Zusa think? Some women like hirsute men and others like them smooth as girls. Dark hairs covered my chest and belly and merged with my wiry pubic hair which practically hid my cock. I was quite pleased for Zusa to see my body. As you know professional footballers have to keep pretty fit and my injury hadn’t had time to do any damage. I was still toned and athletic and I saw Zusa appraising me carefully.

She leaned over close enough for me to smell her perfume.

There seemed to be more buttons undone on her uniform than yesterday and she was presenting deep cleavage.

Zusa began by sponging round my face and neck and no sooner had she touched me than my cock began to stir and stiffen. I was so embarrassed I began making inane conversation.

‘So, you don’t mind nursing men?’

‘I find men easier to take care of men than women.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They are easier to manage.’

‘Good patients?’

‘Yes, good patients.’

‘I thought men were supposed to be worse than women, always whining about themselves, acting like drama queens…well kings.’

‘Not with me. I don’t find that.’

She was soaping my chest and round my nipples.

‘I gather some of your colleagues won’t nurse men.’

‘Perhaps they don’t need the money as much as I do.’

Zusa’s hand came down as far as my belly and I thought she must see my erection but she said nothing. When she started washing my genitals she took hold of my cock in her left hand and pulled it forward so she could clean my belly behind it, then let my cock spring back. She sponged my balls thoroughly and all this was done without a trace of embarrassment on her part.

‘You are as hairy like a spider,’ she said.

She put her sponge back in the sink and pulled some of the hairs on my belly.

‘Do you dislike hairy men?’

‘I don’t like or dislike,’ she said. ‘Men are just men.’

She was looking directly at my erection but still she made no comment.

She sponged the insides of my thighs, down my muscled leg, and finished with my feet.

‘Now, Mr. Wilson, how are we going to wash your back and your buttocks?’

‘With difficulty,’ I said.

‘Can you stand and lean against the towel rail?’

She was strong. She took most of my weight as I shuffled across the tiles into the position she’d suggested which left me leaning at an angle with my bottom sticking out.

Zusa spread more towels on the tiled floor, let the water drain from the sink, and replaced it with fresh warm water.

She reached for my shoulders and worked down my back with her sponge while I tried to hang on. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions as you can imagine with one leg encased in plaster.

But I was distracted by the pleasure of her touch as she sponged with little circular movements, firmly but caressingly. My dick stiffened still more when she began to soap my buttocks and ventured between my thighs, rubbing my balls with her sponge.

After dwelling there for what seemed like several minutes Zusa sponged the backs of my thighs and finished at my heels.

‘Tomorrow, I give you enema,’ she said.

‘Do I need it?’ I was less than enthusiastic at the thought.

‘When you are idle you do not digest your food as well as when you are active. Important to keep your bowels clear.’

She helped me to sit down again but this time on the toilet having lifted the lid.

‘See if you can go now,’ she said briskly.

‘But Zusa, I’m a little embarrassed…couldn’t I go later?’

‘I need to supervise your toilet. Make certain you go. It is very important. As I said Mr. Wilson there is no room for…how you say… false modesty.’

I strained a couple of times knowing my face was burning with shame. Then out of embarrassment I made one of the most stupid utterances of my life and I often wondered afterwards how things might have turned out if I hadn’t said it.

‘It was a lovely massage. I feel so much better. It would have cost me a fortune in Soho.’

Her expression froze and she met my eyes with an icy stare.

‘What do you mean, Mr. Wilson?’

‘Nothing…it was a silly thing to say…I’m sorry.’

Suddenly my face was stinging from a haymaker of a blow across my face, half slap and half punch.

‘Are you comparing me to a prostitute?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Whores operate in Soho, yes?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t mean…’

‘What didn’t you mean?’

‘I didn’t mean you were like them.’

‘I think you did. Is that how you see me? Do you think I’ve been sent here to provide you with sex? Is that why your dick is like that?’

‘Zusa I don’t think of you in that way. You are a qualified nurse and that’s why you’re here.’

‘Qualified, yes.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry.’

‘If I report what you said I will be withdrawn and you will have to have a man to look after you.’

‘I don’t want a man. I want you. Please Zusa…’

‘And if I tell your English tabloid newspapers that you made advances to me…’

‘I didn’t make advances…’

‘Well if you’re not even going to admit what you said…’

‘Ok. I admit what I said was out of order.’

‘You will write me an apology, yes…or better still make a video?’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I think it is.’

‘Ok, Zusa. I’ll make a video.’

All I got for breakfast that day was a bowl of cereal which Zusa pushed into my lap when I was back in my wheel chair dressed in t-shirt and shorts. My lunch consisted of a slice of toast smeared with peanut butter.

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