Not much going on, I’m afraid, for those of you that are looking for more tales. I’ve been bouncing a few ideas around but nothing is really moving forward at the moment.
One bit of fun I’ve had has been to try out some AI based image generation in an attempt to come up with some character inspiration for an office-based tale. These were done on the web site Mage.Space.
This was posted as a commment on another thread but I thought it ought to have its own post…
You can find more of Leanna’s tales here.
In 1980, the two Ronnies, a British comedy duo ran a weekly mini series in their show. It was about England being run by women. Men had to wear dresses, even though they had short hair and breards and still looked like men. Men looked after the home and women went to work. It sounded like paradise to me. This story is set in that universe. You can see the show on Youtube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GcMd1F1acSo (link is external)
~o~O~o~
“Mr. Jones! Doctor Roberts is ready for you now. If you would like to go through please.”
The receptionist smiled at me. He was a fresh-faced young man probably straight out of school doing his first job. He wore a knee-length black skirt and a white blouse. As I walked passed, I noticed the 3-inch heels. Silly boy I thought. His legs would be killing him by tonight.
My wife David. That still rankled me, she took my name after the change in 1998, and gave me hers, Brenda. David insisted I wore high heels about the house. As I was at the doctor’s and she was not due in from work until 6pm, I was wearing some 1-inch wedge court shoes.
As I went through to the doctor’s office I saw her give the nurse a slap on his backside. He giggled and blushed when he realized I had witnessed the act. He was wearing a white nylon nurse’s uniform with a little white cap and black stockings. I noticed the uniform skirt was a little too short and he was also wearing heels. I think the doctor must be a leg woman.
“Ahh, Mr Jones. You’re here for your monthly prostate exam, aren’t you? Pop up on the table, all fours. There’s a good boy.”
In my opinion, doctor Roberts was an old pervert. I hated these exams, but as I was in state-mandated chastity I was told it was necessary to make sure my reproductive system was in good health.
When the change happened in 1998, the government sold off its fishing rights, north sea oil as well as all its former colonies. Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales were all sold their independence too. The government knew that what they were planning to do meant men would be banned from doing traditionally male jobs, so they needed money to retrain women to take over.
In those early times, so many men fled abroad, or to Scotland and Wales. Now there were 2 women for every man. Men were milked once a month by their wives and the semen was collected by what was jokingly called the milkwoman.
I slipped off my shoes and climbed onto the table. I hated this part.
“Do you want the nurse to stay? Would you feel more comfortable with another man around?” Said the grinning pervert.
I was 48. I remembered how things were before all this women-ruling nonsense. I knew this was a sort of revenge for the smear tests women used to hate having. The nurse was around 25. He would have been put into dresses at such an early age it would all seem normal to him.
“No thank you doctor I’m fine.”
“Off you pop and make me a coffee. Two sugars, I like it sweet like you Debbie.” The doctor swatted the nurse’s behind as he trotted out of the office.
“I’m just going to lift your dress Mr Jones. Please relax.”
Relax, I thought, no chance. I knew what was coming next.
“Oh, Mr Jones. What pretty knickers you have on. Are they silk or nylon?”
I felt her hand caress my cheeks through the lace and smooth nylon. These were the least sexy pair I owned. David insisted I wore pretty knickers always. It was partly my fault. When we were first married and men ran the country, I used to insist that she did.
“They’re nylon doctor, please get on with it.”
“Oh, no need to rush. You’re in safe hands.”
Yes, it was those hands I was worried about. I felt my knickers being tugged down to just below my stocking tops.
“I’m glad you had the good sense to wear stockings. Some men wear tights and it makes my job so fiddley.”
I bet you love to fiddle. I thought. I heard her snap on a pair of rubber gloves.
“This may feel a little cold. I’m just lubricating you so I can check your prostate.”
Cold? It was bloody freezing. She kept the lube in the fridge. She wanted it cold. I shivered involuntarily.
“Now, now Mr Jones. This is a serious medical exam. Not for your pleasure.”
Your bloody pleasure is more like it.. I thought.
She slowly worked the lube into my hole. Her finger getting deeper with each prod. She put more lube on her finger and started to slide it in and out. Then she hooked her finger and probed around. I groaned in pain and embarrassment. Then I felt a second finger enter me. She continued to violate me. If I complained I knew no one would take me seriously. She was a doctor doing a prostate exam. Where else would her fingers be? They would say. No one would believe me. I was just a man.
I heard her breathing heavily. She was getting turned on by this. I closed my eyes. Tears were forming. I won’t let that cow see me cry I thought. I wanted nothing more than to jump off the table and punch her in the face. I knew where that would lead though. I would be castrated and imprisoned. I would end up working down a mine or doing one of the few heavy, dirty jobs women were not physically capable of doing. I had seen them in their brown jumpsuits sweeping the streets and being stood guard over by the armed state police.
There was a knock on the door. The nurse announced he had the doctor’s coffee.
“Give me 3 minutes Debbie,” she said.
Immediately she stopped finger fucking me and felt around for my prostate.
“That seems fine Mrs. Jones. Now just a quick check of your mini ovaries.”
That was another thing women did. They had renamed some of our body parts. Bollocks or our balls were now mini ovaries. They had real ones, whereas ours were “mini”. She played with my balls and rolled them around for a few seconds.
“They seem to be fine too. You’re not getting any pain from them at all?”
“They get a little sore from the cage doctor.”
“Oh, yes. What a pretty cage it is too. Pink with little bows on. It is too tight though. I will write you a note to give to your wife. Can’t have your little semen factory damaged now can we?”
I had been telling David it was too tight for weeks. She just told me to stop being a whiney bitch and put up with it. At least now she would have to do something about it.
She took the gloves off and wrote me a note as I rearranged my underwear and dress. I was glad that was done with for another month.
~o~O~o~
As I walked home I thought about how nice it would be to escape to Wales. Ah, Wales. Where the men are men and women are glad of it, and the sheep are afraid. I chuckled as a remembered the old joke.
My revelry was disturbed by a wolf whistle. There was a group of women drinking beer outside of a pub. The pub used to be the Bricklayer’s arms. Now the sign above the door showed a plate with a sausage in the middle of two Brussels sprouts. It was called the Meat and two veg. It was clear what that meant. Disgusting place. They had men pole dancing on Saturdays. Women would grope them and stuff money in their knickers.
“Fancy a drink darling.” Shouted one of the women.
“No sorry. I have to cook my wife’s dinner. She’ll be home soon.”
I crossed the road and hurried home.
Well, what ever it was that was confusing Google has gone away and they have decided to believe that I am who I say I am after all.
Either of these emails will reach me now…
freddieclegg16@gmail.com
freddieclegg@tutanota.com
I’ll mainly use tutanota from here on out but at least I’ll still have folk’s email adresses and the like from previous correspondence when I need it.
Cheers.
Freddie
Still having trouble with my google email but I have an alternative contact address for folks.
You can try me on: freddieclegg@tutanota.com from now on.
Hmmm, it seems like google has locked me put of my Gmail account, so freddieclegg16@gmail.com won’t reach me at present. I’ll update here when I manage to fix it.
There will be some more Amelia along shortly but in the mean time here’s some help with New Year Resolutions as a small New Year’s present to all my readers. Have a great 2023, whatever your resolutions are.
Download your New Year Beetle book here…..New Year Resolutions
And you can find other Beetle Books here.
100 years ago, on the 4th November 1922, Howard Carter’s team discovered the entrance to what would become recognised as one of the greatest archaeological discoveries of all time, the tomb of Pharaoh Tutankhamun.
To celebrate this centenary, I’d just like to remind readers of my story “Shabtis” which features characters based (loosely) on some of those around at the time of the discovery (as well as those from long beforehand and from the present day).
You can read the whole story here: Shabtis
Or for those wanting a picture of a woman beating a crouching captive, here is a picture of Nefertiti (I guess you would say she was Tut’s step-mother) in a classic “smiting” pose used to demonstrate the power of the pharaoh.
I’m probably alone in this but Nefertiti must be a candidate for the woman in history having the best example of a resting bitch face known to archaeology…
I know some followers lost touch with me when my previous site disappeared.
Just in case anything happens to this one, it’s worth knowing the other places you can find my stuff are:-
Stories On Line (search for “Freddie Clegg”. also has the Phil Lane stories under his name)
Deviant Art (mainly comics and visual stuff)
Those of you that check out the comments on my story posts may have noticed my reply to a Phil Lane comment on More from Amelia to the effect that “I’ve still got my usual problem of a story without a clear destination yet”. This is worrying – especially when you’ve already written about 30,000 words – but its not an uncommon problem for me and I hope readers agree that generally I get around to fixing it.
Well, the good news is I have discovered where Amelia’s story is going. This should (will) offer readers the hope of a satisfying conclusion in the future.
The bad news is that I need to go back and review what I have already written to make sure I don’t post stuff now that will need to be unwound later on. As a result there will be a bit of a pause on Amelia’s correspondence.
By way of compensation, I’ve finally got around to creating another Beetle Book.
I thought it was only right that we should celebrate the heroines of New Order and put them out as role models for women everywhere so here is the contribution of the Beetle publishing company to highlighting the role of those that have done so much to make New Order a success…..
Here’s a few thoughts on the next thing I’m working on (albeit VERY slowly – writer’s block is seriously well established in the Clegg office, I fear).
While I was researching detail (oh yes, this stuff isn’t just thrown together, you know!) for the story Shabtis, I came across Lucie Duff-Gordon’s Letters from Egypt. During the second half of the nineteenth century, Lucie spent time in Egypt and wrote to her husband in England. The letters give a unique view of life there at the time.
It seemed to me that the format of just having the letters of one writer would be an interesting way to explore telling a story. I thought the one person’s viewpoint of the diary worked well in “Year One” and this seemed to be another way to explore the same perspective.
Using this, I’ve been working on something that tries this using as a backdrop, a slightly altered “steam punk” vision of an Edwardian Britain with a female-led society.
I quite like the idea of using one person’s letters but I’m not sure how well it really works, and I’m also not sure where it is going. I think readers must be getting tired of stories that don’t really do much more than describe characters in a landscape.
Anyway, I’m going to keep plugging on at it and maybe it will turn into something worth posting. We’ll see. (now sorted: see the tale as it is being posted)
Read on here: Amelia’s Letter from a Femdom Britain
Freddie's Tales 