She

High powered business woman made me wear uniform

2009-02-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

"You don't say no to my boss," writes Jules, from Manchester, "she rents out male escorts to rich powerful women. If she says I have to wear shorts, I say: how high?"

It seems Jules was ordered by his boss to dress up in uniform, and visit a woman in the Penthouse suite of the Hilton.

I was incredibly nervous, writes Jules. I find these mega successful women a bit intimidating. My boss runs her agency with a rod of iron, but even she seemed in awe of this alpha woman I was about to see.

My instructions were that the client wanted a 'mail escort' and she wanted a uniform. So I went down the fancy dress shop, and dutifully handed in the order form. They've fitted me out before, so I trust them.

I must say, I had my doubts about the uniform they chose for me, but I know never to question a woman's judgement.

Still, I wasn't 100 percent confident when I rapped on the door of the Penthouse suite.

A young Uber Femme opened the door. You know the type. Smart suit. Short skirt. She was either a basketball player or she was wearing six inch heels. Either way, the effect was the same. I was on lower ground, looking up at her. My eyes were level with her cleavage, and I couldn't stop them from zooming in.

She wordlessly beckoned me in with a curl ofher magnificently painted forefinger.

"She's not ready yet," said Uber Girl. Oh, so this wasn't the boss.

"Sit," she commanded. She looked me up and down andshook her head. "Are you sure about that uniform," she asked.

"Dress as a mail escort. The lady likes uniforms," I was told.

Yes love, she said. But I don't think she meant a Postman's Uniform.

We'll see, I said.

Moments later, my ear drum was shattered, as my date for the night loudly went through extremes of emotions in a matter of seconds.

She startd with Denial. That's always a good choice. "I do not fucking believe this," she said, emphasising each word with a ferocious slap of her hairbrush across my buttocks.

As she took my trousers down, I suspected she was moving to the acceptance stage.

No such luck. "I. Do. Not. Fucking. Believe. This." she said again, this time slapping home the message on my unprotected buns.

After a short period of contemplation. She repeated the punishing routine again. Only this time, she'd positioned me to get a better swing with her strong arm.

"Ooh, I enjoyed that," she said. Then took a quick sip of her champagne, and returned to her theme.

She was still greving. Still angry. But at least she'd moved on to the acceptance stage.

And thank goodness for that. I was practically in tears.

PROBLEM LADY WRITES

Dear Jules,

You'll have to give me more information. I want to hear how this story ends.

She sounds perfectly reasonable so far.

Smoulderin! Why are smoking women so irresistable?

2009-02-05T00:27:00.000-08:00

Why are women smokers so damn sexy? asks Friday.

"I can take or leave nicotine, but I'm addicted to women who smoke," he confesses. "If she breathes smoke out her nostrils, and gives me that look, I'm rendered helpless. Like a rabbit trapped in her headlights. And I find myself obeying her every wish.

I don't mind clearing up her ash trays. Or washing her clothes. Or shampooing her hair. I love serving her. It's just this whole slavery thing becomes a bit much after a while.

Can you help?"

She tied me up and ransacked my flat. But I still love her!

2009-01-27T23:46:00.000-08:00

My superior half is going through a difficult patch, writes Dutiful, from Kettering.

She's under a lot of pressure at work. And she's just given up smoking. And she just found out that the recession has wiped half the value off her Porsche.

I tried to explain to her she shouldn't worry. She's still mega rich and successful. "You've got loads of cars," I say, "sometimes I wish you'd trust me to drive one."

She just says, "Shut up and do my ironing, hun."

She treats me like her domestic slave! I shouldn't stand for it, but then again, her power gives me such a rush! And when she hugs me, or affectionately slaps my bottom, I just melt.

Still, tying me up and ransacking my flat was going a bit far.

Well, OK, her apartment. She owns it. She just installed me in it.

She burst in, late at night, on a mission.

"OK honey," she said, "I want you to get them out now. Now!"

Oh god. I knew exactly what she was after. She'd left a pack of cigarettes with me. And strict instructions never to give them to her, no matter what she said. Or did.

"Well now I'm telling you to give them to me, OK? Am I going to have to spank you?"

She was indeed. Previously, she instructed me never to give up the fags to her, no matter how many slappings I took. Now I was going to have to prove myself to her.

As I lay across her knees, while she blushed my bottom, I tried to console myself I'd be rewarded later. With every jolt of pain I took from her, I was earning her respect and sympathy. Maybe she'd buy me something nice.

Finally, it dawned on her. She could smoke me, but I'd never let her ruin her magnficent body. I would sacrifice myself to save her.

"Hmm, I can see I trained you too well," she said. She began tying me up.

"Stay there while I search the flat."

I hadn't anticipated my flat being ransacked by an angry alpha woman. So she soon discovered my feeble hiding place. And off she went, without even untying me.

Luckily, she came round the next morning and let me go.

I thought she might be grateful for resisting her. Well trying. But oh no.

"Now, didn't I tell you not to let me find those cigarettes," she said, arching her eyebrow, and swishing a leather belt. "I think I'm going to have to punish you...."

What should I do, Problem Solver?

Answer:

Dear Dutiful.

I think she sounds magnificent. You're very lucky.

He felt threatened by women with more money than him

2009-01-05T07:40:00.000-08:00

Tommy was a bit old fashioned. So he probably shouldn't have got a job in a female dominated office.

If that wasn't bad enough, he felt a bit threatened by confident women who earned good money.

His boss, Ms Angel, sent him off to make her a cup of tea. Dutifully, he trotted off.

To get to the kitchen, he had to walk past one lady, Ms Darcy, who he found particularly frightening.

As he walked past her desk, her caught her gaze, and her eyes seemed to be saying something.

"Don't come too close to my desk, or you'll take a spanking," she seemed to be saying. "Do you want some, pal? Eh? Do you think you're not too big to go over my knee?" he imagined her saying.

He ran into the kitchen, slammed the door behind him and leaned back on it. (He'd seen heroines do that in the movies)

He found hmself asking the same question."Why am threatened by successful, confident women?" he quivered.

Suddenly, he found the other kitchen door opening. He heard a familiar voice, "Well a well a well, a look who we got here," she tormented him. It was Ms Darcy. Her mouth was pursed in a mean scowl, so she let her tattoos do the talking. "looks like you got yourelf a penis as a fountain pen there, boy," she said, in her unmistakeable mid western drawl. He didn't know what that meant, but didn't dare question her.

She began to unburden herslf of her unhappiness.

And boy, could she talk.

[to be continued]

Will Ms Darcy be as mean as she looks?
Why is Tom threatened by successful confident women?
And can Ms Darcy be all that clever anyway if she gets upset so easily?

Keep tuning in to this web site.

She slapped my bottom - in front of all the other women in the kitchen showroom

2008-12-30T13:35:00.000-08:00

Here's a letter from Bruised, of Tooting Bec

"Dear Problem Lady,

I love my wife, and do everything I can to honour and obey her.

But sometimes she treats me like dirt. The other day, she dragged me to a kitchen showroom. What do I know about kitchens? It's not as if my opinion matters anyway. She wears the trousers, especially on matters of kitchen designs. I couldn't stand up to her if I knew how to.

Anyway, we're in this showroom, and the sales lady is talking designs to She WHo Must be Obeyed. When Alpha Saleswoman does talk to me, it's some patronising remark like "ooh, you'll be able to cook her breakfast, won't you" followed by "he can cook, can't he? Oh, you have got him well trained."

Anyway, I needed to rebel, so I made out my shoe-laces needed tying, and while I was down there, I tickled Her foot.

When I got up, she had a spatula in her hand. I couldn't believe what she did next.

She told me to stretch over the counter. While I was obeying her command, she gave me a mighty slap on the bottom.

"Behave yourself darling," she said. To further my embarrassment, all the other women in the showroom spontaneously applauded.

Has feminism gone too far?

Dear Bruised,

Feminism hasn't gone far enough, as far as I'm concerned.

You took a vow to love, honour and obey. Now get on with it.

Never criticise a woman until you've walked a mile in her shoes

2008-12-28T00:30:00.000-08:00

Ambitious, of Fenchurch, asks "Can I do a woman's job as well as her?"

You know the old Chinese saying? Never criticise anyone until you've walked a mile in their shoes?

I know what that means now.

Isabella, our marketing director, is going on maternity leave.

Having spent my life taking orders from her, I was convinced I could do her job.

So I went to see Debbie, the HR lady, to make discrete enquiries. To my horror, she got straight onto her friend on the phone.

"Hi, Isabella," she says, "I've got someone here who wants to step into your shoes."

When they'd both stopped laughing, they seemed to be cooking up some scheme, where I'd have to "shadow" my boss, watching what she does, and emulating it.

Apparently, being a marketing goddess isn't just about "talking crap in meetings" as I'd put it. Ninety per cent of the job is the preparation. How you look, what you wear, how you present yourself. I fear I may have to pay for my lack of respect.

"Are you prepared to spend a week in my shadow?" She asked, when I was summoned to her office. "Could you literally step into my shoes tomorrow?"

Well, I'm about to find out.

Does anyone have any tips?

African godess got my goat

2008-12-27T23:56:00.000-08:00

One reader tells how he came to worship African women

Last Christmas, I bought a goat for an African village.

Well this Xmas, I'm not doing so well financially. It's pretty obvious they want to get rid of me at work. When they ask you to spend a week at the Zimbabwe branch, to "see how you like working in Harare", it's obvious your number's up.

While I was out there, I thought I'd check on my little goat.

So I found my way to the village my little life saving goat had been despatched to.

I was a bit nervous, to be honest. If my goat really could 'feed a village for a year', I was expecting to be mobbed by grateful villagers when I got there.

So I had a few drinks on the way.

But when I arrived at the village, there was no welcoming party, no grateful women offering themselves to me. Not even a statue in my honour.

I don't know if it was the drink affecting me, but I had a mood swing. If they can't show any gratitude to me, I thought, I'm having my goat back.

I'm wrestling this goat out of a paddock when suddenly this gorgeous african women appears.

At last I thought, she's going to offer herself to me.

But no. To my surprise, she started slapping me.

Now, I'm usually handy in a fight, but I must admit, she got the better of me on the day. I'm not making excuses, but I was tired, and maybe she wanted it more than me.

Otherwise, I'd never have been over powered so quickly. Or pinned down helplessly. Or taken such a prolonged spanking from her.

Out of respect, I spent the next seven days helping her out. You know the routine, kneeling at her feet, kissing her bottom when required, being used by the other women.

But I wasn't their slave, no matter what that policewoman said, when she came and collected me.

Anyway, having seen how they live, I really admire those African women now. I would have done anything for them anyway. Being over-powered, and taking a spanking, had no bearing either way.

How I ruined a perfect moment

2008-08-12T15:36:00.000-07:00

A reader asks

"OK, She had been at work all day.

But I was hard at it too, washing the floor, wiping down the kitchen surfaces (to her impossibly high standards!) and hoovering.

Even when I had a telly break, I was doing the ironing at the same time.

Anyway, when She came in from work, She was in a foul mood, and talked to me as if I was some kind of minion.

I wouldn't mind, but I'd already cracked one off. Well more than one.

Has anyone else ever ruined a perfect moment by jumping the gun?"

I'm indebted to a lady who saved me from my terrible temper

2008-07-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

Like many men, I am fairly emotionally, er, what's the word? Inarticulate. (Thanks to my wife for that)

In today's perplexing world, being good at football, or boxing, seems to count for nothing. So i'm often totally out of my depth in social situations.

Take a scary incident that happened at the cinema yesterday. They were showing Taxi Driver, which I've only seen 29 times. So I still haven't memorised every line of dialogue. It's every hard at the start of the film, when your mind isn't tuned in to the Noo Yoik ear-ksent. (That's accent, you goddamn schmuck!)

So, you have to listen very hard. But luckily, I had the cinema to myself. Well, I did. Suddenly, this behemoth burst through the doors. She had a bucket of pop corn in one hand, and a bucket of coke and ice in the other. Over her shoulder, she had a gargantuan handbag, which seemed to contain a bag of sand.

My heart sank as she chose the row behind me. But when she plonked herself noisily behind me, I was forced to speak up.

"Tut", I said.

It didn't even affect her. My remark bounced off her, like a bullet on an alien spacecraft. She obviously had the hide of a rhinocerous. And the arse to match.

I made my excuses to myself, and settled down to swallow my self loathing and enjoy the film.

Before Robert De Niro had even walked into the garage, she'd come to the end of her bucket of coke. I know this, because it made a gurgling nose, like a bath emptying, which completely drowned out the first line of dialogue. "Harry answer that"

The next significant line "So, what is it Travis?!" was inaudible too. This time it was the noice of her rumaging around the pop corn bucket.

By the time we reached the stage where Travis meets Betsy, she was onto the sweets. Travis was writing his diary: "She appeared like an angle, in all this mess, they cannot touch her.. They....... cannot..........touch........" and I didn't hear the rest, because there appeared to be a firework display going on behind me. I turned round, and this terrifying monstress was unwrapping a firecracker. The fireworks went on for hours. I counted forty sweets were noisily unwrapped, following a period of noisy searches. She seemed to have to eat the sweets in a particular order.

Next comes the poignant scene where the socially clumsy Travis has a disastrous date with Betsy. Only I didn't hear it, because the fiend in female form was on her mobile, to Darren.

"This film's rabbish Darren," she said, "When's the action going to start?"

That was it. I'm sorry, but I lost my temper completely. I thumped up the stairs, crashed the doors into the lobby, and stormed up to Carla, who I assume was the manageress. i waited until she got off the phone, and finished her crossword, then gave her a piece of my mind.

"Oh," she laughed. "it sounds like you've met Marge. Sorry, there's not much we can do," she said.

Blimey, I thought, who trains these people, Hendon Police College?

"The problem is, Marge died ten years ago to this day," she said. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I noticed the nipples stiffened underneath Carla's blouse.

How. Did. She. Die? I heard myself stammering. As usual, a lady's delightful bouncing globes had completely mesmerised me.

"I shot her. Then turned the gun on myself."

These two ghostly women were polar opposites. They show the extremes of greatness, and evil, of which the superior sex is capable.

Carla, the cinema manageress, did not die in vain. She is a heroine. And I am building a shrine to her, to remind us all that women are sacred.

Warning! Not all women are kind. A salutary tale

2008-07-22T14:04:00.000-07:00

A CRUEL LADY MUGGER REDUCED ME TO TEARS!

OK, it's early days for my religion based on the XX Chromasome, er , community. (That intro needs a bit of work)

But I want to build this new church on solid foundations. So we have to go into Womanly Worship with our eyes open.

Not all women are Mother Theresa. Or Daisy McAndrew. Or Ruby Wax.

Let me tell you the story.

Like a lot of people, I'm feeling the pinch. So I've tried hitch-hiking at night, rather than get burnt by cab drivers. But I never get much luck. She (my domestic God) said I probably look too intimidating.

As I said, I'm quite big, have got a face that would frighten a horse, and I'm quite good at boxing.

She suggested I tone down my clothes style to look less aggressive. Then people might see I'm OK and give me a lift.

Her make-over on me worked a treat. Within minutes of standing by the curb, a young lady pulled over in a VW Beatle and told me to jump in! Rock and roll!

We soon got chatting, and got on like a house on fire. I complimented her on her dress, and she said she liked the way I'd matched by bag and dress.

Then, everything changed. The flash point was when I reached to fiddle with her cigarette lighter. Suddenly, she became very taciturn. Was it the issue of smoking? Or was it some female territorial instinct? Who knows? You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. She straight batted my attempts at conversation. Social skills aren't my forte (my wife has a much keener instinct) and I never suspected anything was wrong.

Momentarily, she came out of her mood. "Oh, Mandy," she said, "do be a love and have a look and see if the boot is locked properly." Suddenly we had pulled over and I was tottering on my heels to the boot - just as the bitch roared off, covering my dress in exhaust fumes.

I was furious.

What really upset me was that my bag was still in her car. Well I didn't mind, a bag's a bag. But what really upset me was that inside the bag was an axe that my grandma gave me, on her death bed.

You just can't replace those things!

Anyway, when I got to the police station, I must admit I let myself down. I sobbed my heart out to this kind policewoman, and she took down my details.

Policewoman Jobsworth said there's not much the police can do about this sort of thing. Apparently, these incidents have been happening to people all over the country!

So, you see, not every woman is a god. We must be careful that our idols don't have feet of clay!

I'm over it, but there are emotional scars. Every time someone says 'Matchee Matchee', a shiver runs down my spine!

Take my advice, never take a Louis Vuitton handbag with you when hitch-hiking, no matter how late for you are. And leave any family heirlooms at home.

How I invented an iconic ladies fashion.

2008-07-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

They didn't thank me, but I don't mind.

It wasn't as if I invented a whole new look. I merely accessorised a fashion classic, purely by chance. Women, in their wisdom, saw the possibilities, and made it what it is today. One of the most biggest selling fashion items in the world.

I'm talking about the BCJ. (To any fashion Don'ts that might be reading this. The BCJ is the bottom cleavage jean. I pioneered the look, although I must admit the thong was not my work)

It all dates back to an incident in Kensington in the 80s. I was putting up some scaffold and suddenly realised I needed the toilet.

It was right over the other side of the hall. And there were arty farty types all over the place. I felt a bit intimidated. I'm a big bloke, and have boxed at heavyweight, but ladies frighten me. As they do a lot of men. These terrifying arty ladies had all the channels covered.

But there was one clear gangway. So I stepped up and took that and, since my bladder was bursting out my trousers, loosened my belt.

Some camera flashes popped, so I covered my eyes, releasing my jeans to reveal acres of bottom cleavage.

There were gasps, followed by a period of stunned silence. I decided to brazen it out and sashayed down the aisle.

It clearly worked, because as I left the stage, there was a spontaneous outbreak of thunderous applause.

When I came out the toilet, this lady was all over me like rash. I told her "you have to give these things time to filter down to the high street" but she wouldn't listen.

Still, working for her got me out of the building sites.

Footnote: Daisy McAndrew would never wear BCJs. Not that there's anything wrong with them. But she has way too much style.

No, I haven't got a crush on her. Oh, shut up you!