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The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair

Alice And Anna
On The Beach
The Bisley Boy
Silk Stockings On A Ladder
A Merry Ferry Christmas
Stella and Fanny

The Story Of T

Arrival At The Institute

The Dominafuhrer

The New Recruit

The Sacred Feminine

The Sacred Feminine


An Introduction

VO Stories

Miss Malcahy's Detention
Nine and a Half Hours

The Weight Loss

I Sign A Contract

The Convict

The Convict/My Prison Folder


A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Kevin's Poem
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
My Visit
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters

The Bossy Bank Women

A Judicial Punishment

The Valkyrie

Episode 1


The Vision
The Agreement
First Blood



Webb Encounters

A Chronicle of Hair Raising Encounters With A Spiteful Angel


I am Angela Webb - I was discharged from my previous job as a school teacher for caning the head boy and being caught rubbing baby oil onto his bare backside – cannot think why!! – and here I am working as a nurse in the local hospital trying to avoid being spotted shoving a catheter up a bloke’s erect penis. How do I get myself into these delicate situations?

More to the point, how can I use my talents to become rich and famous and in a manner that satisfies my baser instincts which, to put it quite bluntly, are to totally dominate the opposite sex.

Well; I decided to become a Dominatrix and set-out to achieve world-wide fame by getting a mention in the Guinness book of records. But how would my new career qualify me for an entry into that record of extreme accomplishments? It came to me in a flash – I would set out to make the largest mattress ever constructed, stuffed entirely with pubic hair. Wow – what a prospect? – How many pubic thatches will I have to remove? – How long will it take? - What a tantalising prospect!

The question then was – how would I lure an unending stream of unsuspecting men into my lair, and how to get them into a position where they could do nothing about the removal of their foliage.

Another flash of sheer genius – I would pop a series of adverts in the national high quality newspapers offering short courses in whatever subjects I thought macho and egotistical males would respond to and cause those fools to enter where wise men should fear to tread.

The Encounters chronicled

The scenarios I have come up are many and varied, and of course I will add to my list of scenarios over time. They are listed below, and all have one thing in common being that the topic is irrelevant. All I have in mind is snaring and overpowering the men that turn up, and having my way wicked way with them in whatever way I feel like at the time, before adding his pubes to my stock pile:

God help anyone foolish enough to visit me already shaved!! – I will fly into a PMT (Purple Mist Tantrum) and really make him suffer. I will give him ‘cane my cock’ as the safe word! – then stretch and squeeze his balls so much that he will have to use the ‘safe-word’. I will then use my spiteful little whippy canes to turn every single inch of his cock a deep purple and stretch his balls so much they dangle down to his knees.

Webb Encounters

Each encounter will be reported on in three parts – what was in my mind when I wrote the advertisement, what the applicant said he expected when he arrived, and what actually transpired.

1    A short course at Angela’s Spy School

-     In which he has to learn to withhold his name – whilst I do anything to make him talk

2    An introduction to fly fishing

-     In which I catch him by his tackle at the front door, reel him in and ……..

To come

3    A short course in Weight lifting training

-         In which we will find out how many weights I can hang from his balls before he surrenders

4    An introduction to Hang Gliding

-         In which he will he will soar like a bird, spread-eagled and naked

5    Parachute jumping tuition

-         In which he will find himself in a sling and at my mercy, the rip cord tied to his balls

6    Life drawing practice

-         In which he will find himself as the model instead of the artist, and mustn’t move a muscle

7    Escapology training

-         In which I tie him up and we see if he can escape my clutches – which of course he cannot

8    Training in deportment for male models

-     Where I load his genitals with ‘jewellery’ of all sorts for display on the dog walk

9    Embroidery for men

-         in which I turn his glans into a pin cushion

1   A short course at Angela’s Spy School

My first encounter in this series is scheduled for this coming Wednesday when David is coming to learn modern espionage techniques. He has been stupid enough to want to arrive two hours earlier than originally scheduled because he wants to get back home in time to watch the football. Huh!! – I will give him a choice to make – to let him leave in time to watch, but with all his pubes missing – or to have his balls stretched more until he gives in and pleads for a short front and sides. We shall see.

What did I have in mind?

Nothing more than an opportunity to torture him every which way until I end up getting my handful of pubes to start me off on my way to fame and fortune.

What did David have in mind?

I recently joined a company that produces long distance night glasses and bugs for eavesdropping conversations covertly. I thought I might learn about what new ideas the competition was coming up with in that area.

What actually happened?

As soon as I arrived, I thought I might have come to the wrong place. Angela introduced herself as the ‘Spiteful Angel’ which I thought was a bit odd, and simply told me the objective of her spy school is to train people to withhold secrets, and that she was extremely strict and that she made sure she had her way and that I would obey her at all times. She asked me to agree to those terms, which I did – and which was my second mistake.

She said the first thing I had to do was run up the stairs, and strip naked and to stand with my hands behind my back outside the door at the top of the stairs. This I had to do before she reached the top of the stairs which she said would take about 5 seconds.

I rushed upstairs, managed to strip and take the pose before she reached me – but she said I had taken more than 5 seconds, so she slapped a pair of wrist cuffs on me, blind-folded and gagged me and dragged me inside her school room. As if in a blur, my ankles were spread, my wrists tied, a rope threaded over a  pulley in the ceiling and back down to be tied to my balls with my head bent forward and my backside open to abuse.

She asked my to divulge my name, which of course I could not as I was gagged, so she caned my backside and every time I recoiled in pain, the rope around my balls tugged them away from my backside. I hate to think how long that went on.

Then she put some sort of mask over my head which seemed to restrict my breathing, and also seemed to make me feel somewhat overcome as if by some sort of drug. I was then thrown on the floor and told to stay there. I did as I was told now with absolutely no argument.

Wrists and balls were untied for a fleeting second before I found myself seated on the floor, hands tied behind my back and my feet brought towards my crutch and tied together. For the next few minutes she tied the ropes tighter and tighter and it became impossible for me to move a muscle. Then there was a pause as more Amyl was introduced and I fell backwards onto my back with my genitals open and vulnerable. Silence – no movement – total suspense! Then I felt a cool liquid being massaged gently onto my cock and balls – fondling my shaft and circling my glans. It felt rather nice I have to say for a second or two, then the sensations began to build and before long the whole world seemed to be focussed on a small area of utter sensitivity. I pleaded with her to stop, but she laughed and asked me why I thought she was called ‘spiteful’. I think I almost passed out.

Eventually she rolled me onto my shoulders and re-attached my ankles to a leg spreader and hoisted my feet into the air. She then continued to ask my name, but however hard I tried to get the word out, the gag and mask prevented me from doing so. The punishment she meted out for that was a sound anus whipping and cock caning.

She decided it would be good to be able to hear me pleading for mercy. She said it was getting quite late and that I would not be back in time to watch the football which made me renew my pleading to be released. She laughed and carried on with the anus whipping and coated my glans with chilli peppers which must be the most agonising thing I had ever experienced.

After an eternity she said she would release me if I agreed to have all my pubes shaved off. No way I said, and continued to say no until I could not figure out which was hotter, my glans or my anus.

Eventually I gave in and gave her permission. But she said she had to do the shaving in a ritualistic manner – with my shoulders strapped to a bench, my legs drawn up to be hooked to a wall bracket so my cock and balls hung down and my pubes became the focus of attention. She popped an amyl mask on, she said with a view to enabling me to take my mind off proceedings, as indeed was the case. Gently caressing and stretching my balls, she expertly shaved away between my legs, my sack and up my cock. Just as I thought she had finished, I felt the razor move stealthily up to the hairs in my groin – both sides. Then, as if in slow motion I felt her starting to scrape away the hairs just above my cock and up onto my tummy, and continued to invade and exfoliate all within my bikini line. If I complained, which I did all the time, all I got for my troubles was a thorough ball slapping and tugging.

I came to, totally exhausted and strangely exhilarated.  I came away with a certificate, testifying to the fact that I had not divulged my name, but without my pubes which I suddenly realised would be incredibly embarrassing as I had a company medical scheduled for the next day. What on earth would the doctor say? 

2       An introduction to fly fishing

This is the second encounter in this series in my pursuit of an entry into the Guinness Book of Records with my massive mattress full of pubic hair.

I cannot really believe that anyone would be stupid enough to respond to my advertisement and expect to find a suitable stretch for fly fishing in the depths of Woolwich!! However, you never know. Come to think of it, I hate fishermen; the way they reel-in unsuspecting little fish and hang them up on a line is in my view abhorrent and certainly not sporting, so I will have no compunction about totally abusing anyone silly enough to be caught. It will serve him right.

What did I have in mind?

Again, nothing more that capturing a mere male for my enjoyment and to have my wicked way with before torturing him so much that he will beg me to remove all his pubes. I think I will attack almost as soon as he arrives so he cannot make his escape.

What did David have in mind?

I was playing golf the other day in glorious sunshine and passed a lake where people were sitting with rods in hand, seemingly doing nothing and waiting no doubt to feed from their lunch boxes whilst contemplating goodness knows what. I really could not figure out what on earth attracted people to such a pursuit – surely not a sport and seemingly a total waste of time. By coincidence I came across an advertisement in the local press offering an introduction to fly fishing in Woolwich of all places. Probably just a meeting point for a group of like minded souls intent on going somewhere to fish. I thought it might be and opportunity to find out what the attraction was, so I answered the Ad and turned-up as directed, keen to see what I had been missing all these years.

What actually happened.

As soon as I arrived I was asked if I had brought my lunch box and tackle with me. I said that I had not. Angela seemed to go ballistic at that point and said she hated liars and for that matter anyone who goes fishing. She told me to turn around to face the door. She suddenly tied my wrists together and stuffed a gag in my mouth before turning me around to face her. She pushed my head back against the door with one hand and with the other she unzipped me and fished-out my tackle. There she said – I knew you were lying – there you are – you do have a lunch box and tackle – of sorts! You will be severely punished for trying to deceive me. Without further ado, she undid what I thought was a rope belt around her waist and put a fisherman’s loop knot around my balls and started reeling me in – dragging my up the stairs to her studio. At the top of the stairs she put a blindfold on and pushed me inside. Before I knew what was going on, I heard the sound of a pulley and then the rope around my balls tightened as it was pulled upwards until I was almost on my tip-toes.

There she said – that’s how a poor little fish must feel, hung from a hook for the angler’s pleasure before being de-scaled and put in a holding net. See how it feels – huh!! 

She untied my wrists, but I couldn’t escape as there I was strung up by the balls. Strip she ordered and started to Amyl me whilst slapping my balls, saying she would not stop until I was fully undressed. Boy, I did my best but it seemed to take ages by which time I was well and truly sedated and my balls were on fire and frankly totally incapable of any form of resistance.

After that, things I have to admit everything became a bit of a blur. She shoved me across the room to a St Andrew’s cross and to my surprise spread-eagled me facing the wall. Several thwacks to my backside later, I understood why. She released my ankles and tied them to a leg spreader and without a pause tethered by balls to the leg spreader and tugged down so hard I felt they had reached down to my knees. She said ‘ahh, that’s better, and gave my slightly reddened and certainly more available backside another dose of whatever weapon she was wielding. The amyl came as a blessed relief.

I thought my punishment was over when she removed the rope attached to my balls from the leg spreader and released my wrists. She had other plans however and re-attached me to the cross facing away from the wall this time, spread-eagled and vulnerable, and reattached the leg spreader. She then marched across the room and attached the other end of the rope that was still around my balls to a hoop in the wall and started to tug on it. Soon I found my balls being stretched so much that my body was totally bowed outwards. That turned out to be nowhere near as extreme as what happened next. She came to stand in front of me and started to fondle my cock and said she was going to tug a hand full of my pubes, so hard that I would beg her to shave them all off.

Suddenly a piercing scream cut through my Amyl induced daze. It was my extremely spiteful fishing teacher who had just noticed that I was minus any pubic hair. She yelled at me saying that I had come under false pretences as she only wants to see members of the male species with fully developed pubic thatches. How was I to know that was a house rule? and that the absence of any pubes would cause her to fly into a Purple Mist Tantrum – something to be avoided at all cost I can now tell you. She told me that I needed to know what the ‘safe’ word was, and to use it if I found I could not cope with the treatment she was about to administer. The safe word was ‘cane-my-cock’ which I was trying to get to grips with when I felt the cord around my balls tug me even further forward, and to such an extent I really felt I was on the verge of being unceremoniously castrated. No more than five seconds later I heard myself plead ‘cane-my cock’.

Without any further ado, I felt her tie a noose around the tip of my cock, just around my glans and marched back over to the other side of the room to attach the other end of the rope to another ring in the wall, this time a little higher than the one to which my balls were attached. She then produced a clutch of light whippy canes and proceeded in a very precise manner to cane my outstretched cock all the way from my pubic bone to my glans and back again, and again and again, all the while making me watch as my rod turned a deep purple colour and so very, very sore. Thank God for the occasional dose of anaesthetic!

Eventually she seemed to calm down a bit and took a look at her handiwork. Good she said – so far so good. That side is done to a ‘T’ – now for the other side! With that she released me from the cross and shoved me onto some sort of bench or table and attached my wrists to something attached to the wall, and without pause hoisted the spreader around my ankles up so that it clicked into place at the top of a frame. So, there I was, more or less hanging upside down with my balls and cock hanging down. The respite, if in fact that could be called a respite was short lived as she tied my balls up again and to the leg spreader and started tugging so that I found myself being hoisted up by the balls. I did it again – couldn’t help it – I screamed ‘cane my cock’ and there we have it. She proceeded to cane my dangling cock against my shaven tummy, turning every inch of the soft and tender underside the same vivid purple as the other side had become. Every time I used the safe word, she just whipped me even harder. I really didn’t know if it would ever stop. Well, she finally and thankfully, changed tack. She realised she had not applied any electrics until now and set my cock and scrotum on fire while she vented her spleen by caning my anus and turning my glans into a pin cushion.

I must have passed out, which come to think of it is hardly surprising. I was exhausted and totally drained. I had been caught hook line and sinker and had no fisherman’s tales to tell anyone other than of course the one about the one that got away. But I was the one that got away!! – and who on earth would believe my story?


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