One policy of my predecessor that I really supported was her enactment of a law requiring free males to abide by Locktober.  That law remains on the books today and I have no intent of changing it.  Unfortunately, with the MIS Vice Squad focused on other Locktober-related law enforcement priorities (which still remains a problem, ugh!), I cannot turn to them to make sure free males are abiding Locktober rules.  But then I remembered my sister had a sycophantic, spoiled, obnoxious, useful force to enforce the law: The Cadets! 

The Cadets were very good at this sort of thing.  So, I will be relying on them for this, just like my sister did.  Any free male stopped by the Cadets for random strip searches and inspections is required to comply.  Any free males resisting inspections or caught breaking the law will be subject to the full mercy of the Cadets.  If you think being chastity free is worth the risk, let me assure you it is not.  The Cadets specialize in brutalizing loser lawbreakers like you.  They will not hold back.  Consider yourselves warned!

As I write this the welts on my poor ass are finally starting to fade.  It is not as tender as it was only a couple days ago.  I have been punished a great deal lately.  It began after I confessed to missing my family and friends and asked my Mistress if I might reach out to Melissa.  Mistress took that as a sign that some part of me was still clinging to the ghost of my former identity as a Goddess.  In truth, I do not believe I have ever strayed from the mindset of complete submission; I only miss my friends and family.  But what I think is irrelevant.  I am a sub-Goddess and Mistress is a Goddess, so it is her opinion that matters.  And maybe she is right; she knows what is best for me better than I do.  Regardless, I see now that Mistress Francesca is not simply punishing me.  She is pulling me back down, deeper than before, into the warm embrace of my subspace.

That does not make the punishments I have received any easier to bear.  I have spent so much time of late, my nose pressed to the wall, my ass still singing with the sting of the paddle.  The paddlings have been hard and frequent.  They hurt but they are not as bad as the canings.  Those canings remain the punishment I dread most, the thin wooden rod cutting through the air with that terrible whistle before it lays a line of pure white fire across my tender flesh.  She canes my ass, my thighs, my belly, my breasts.  She canes the soles of my feet when she is feeling particularly thorough.  My pussy if I have been particularly misbehaved or displeasing.  After every corporal punishment comes corner time.  I stand or kneel facing the wall.  In this position I have nothing to do but feel.  The searing pain across my ass cheeks.  Or a deeper pain, from the shame I feel, the knowledge that I have disappointed my owner.  But in that silent, aching stillness, I also have the space to reflect, to think about how I can be more obedient, more pleasing, so that I do not earn the next punishment.

The punishments have taken other forms as well.  Mistress makes me hold stress positions, most frequently a deep squat with my legs splayed wide in a lewd, humiliating display.  It is not long before every muscle in my legs, my quads, my glutes, my hamstrings, my calves, are screaming in protest, trembling with the effort of holding the position.  And if my legs give out and I fall from my position, she canes me.  So, I have to choose between the slow, burning agony of the squat or the sharp, searing bite of the cane.  The worst is when I am made to squat during corner time.  Sometimes the punishment is nothing more than a harsh scolding, and I have learned that Mistress Francesca's displeasure and disappointment hurt more than any corporal punishment or stress position.

But it is not only punishment that Mistress has used to push me deeper into my subspace.  In fact, the punishments have lessened recently, and she has turned to subtler tools.  She is exploiting my love for her feet, and there is nothing that makes me sink more deeply into submission than licking her soles or sucking on her toes or being used as her footstool.  When I am on my knees at her feet, worshipping them, the world outside dissolves.  There is only her and my need to worship and please her.  Sometimes she couples the foot worship with bondage, and the combination of my obsession with her feet and the utter loss of control and feeling of helplessness sends me spiraling deep into my subspace.

Mistress has also been sure to keep me kneeling almost constantly.  Kneeling before her is a demonstration of my place versus hers, a physical reminder that I am lower, that my place is at her feet.  Kneeling on my knees with my legs splayed wide makes me fully understand that I have no bodily autonomy, no right to privacy or dignity, that my body is her property.  Kneeling and displaying myself before her drives home that my body belongs to her and exists only to please her.  She has also made me crawl around on all fours, making me feel like an animal, further reinforcing my lowly position.  

Mistress has, of course, continues roughly fucking me with her strap-on, dominating me and giving me orgasmic bliss at the same time, making me associate my pleasure with my submission, with being taken, with being used.  The strap-on is not the only way she gifts me orgasms.  She will order me to masturbate to orgasm, and the humiliation and pleasure of putting on a show until I loudly cum overwhelms me.  More often, Mistress uses her own hand to bring me to orgasm, reinforcing that it is Mistress who controls when I cum.  The feeling of lying on my back spreadeagle or kneeling with my legs splayed while Mistress Francesca rubs me to an orgasm is an overpowering sensation.  She will sometimes prolong it, teasing and denying me for long periods of time before she lets me cum.  Or she ties me in bondage as she fingers me.  Or makes me kneel with my ass raised and my legs splayed wide, my face pushed into the floor, increasing the objectification.  Sometimes she runs her hands all over my body to get me worked up, but then doesn't let me orgasm during the session, and this only makes the orgasm more intense whenever she eventually lets me cum later that day or the next day.  She also mixes in pain, twisting and pinching my nipples as she fingers me, or lashes me as I masturbate, another way to make me associate pleasure with my helplessness and surrender.

There are other ways Mistress pushes me further into my subspace.  She makes me suck her strap-on or a dildo, and being made to suck anything phallic is the ultimate degradation.  And of course, I remain relegated to a pig's diet, subsisting almost entirely on water and kale.  Apart from the punishments, the kale diet is the one tactic utilized by my Mistress as part of this process that I truly hate.

The whole process has not made me forget my friends and family, and I still miss them.  The ache is still there, a dull, persistent sadness that I always feel beneath the surface.  But Mistress’s tactics have made me a better slave to her.  It helps me to temporarily ignore the sadness I feel about my friends and family when I am in service, so that I can be fully focused on and devoted to my Mistress.  Through her methods, I am finding the bliss of complete surrender.  A subspace from which I never want to surface.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat, as I am lost in the dream world.  I hear a voice, the voice of the sissy pig, Madam Zora.  “Your future is bright.”

I smile and nod, happy at the prophecy.  But Madam Zora continues, repeating the ominous warning he had given me in his shop: “But I see a shadow growing.  A darkness that approaches with the turning of the season.  “You must beware All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Shut up!”  I snap.  “You are a fraud!  There is no impending doom for me on Halloween!”

“Forces may conspire to bring your downfall,” Madam Zora warns.

“I said, shut up!”  I snap angrily.

“Beware All Hallows’ Eve.  Beware All Hallows’ Eve.  Beware…”

And then there is music playing.  I suddenly find myself in the palace, which is draped in black and orange.  It is the Third Annual Goddess Sunshine’s Spooktacular Celebration And Recreational Event.  The S.C.A.R.E. Party.  And I am having a wonderful time.

I’m wearing the costume.  The sub-Goddess costume I had come up with, a cross between a goddess and a sub sandwich.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s brilliant.  And everyone loves it.

“Mackenzie!  Oh my Goddess, that’s so clever!” a Goddess remarks.

“A sub-Goddess!” laughs another.  “Did you come up with that yourself?”

“I did,” I reply, beaming with pride at how clever my costume is.  “My best friend, Tiffany, said it was cheesy.  I told her that was the point.  It’s a sandwich, after all.”  I laugh at my joke as does everyone else.

A pig scurries past with a tray of cocktails and I take one.  This is such a fun night.  The fortune teller was a fraud and nothing is going to happen.  There is no conspiracy here to bring my downfall.  I am the Queen and nothing in this world can touch me.

I wander the party, pleasantly buzzed, and head through an archway and into the throne room.

It’s empty, or so it seems.  I move over to take a seat on my throne.  But then I hear muffled voices… “Hello?”  I call out.

I was not alone, after all.  The Goddesses appear out of the shadows along the walls.  There are five of them, all in costume: a vampire, a witch, a sexy nurse, a scary, evil clown girl, and a superheroine.   All of them walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps.

“Oh,” I say, laughing.  “You all startled me.  I was just…”

“Usurper!” the Goddess dressed as a vampire growls.

“Excuse me?”  I reply, a little shocked.

“Usurper!”  The witch repeats the word.  Then the clown girl.  Then all of them, a low chant that grows louder and louder.  “Usurper!  Usurper!  Usurper!”

“You stole the throne,” the superheroine says.  “You stole it from your own sister.”

“I didn’t!  Melissa named me Alex’s successor!”  I protest.

“Alex is the rightful Queen,” says the nurse.  “She is rotting in a cage in Amazonia, and what did you do?  Did you go to her rescue?  Did you tear that country apart to find her?”

“We were being careful and deliberate until we had solid proof.  And then I sent a pig army,” I protest.

“You sent pigs after you had secured the throne, letting your sister rot in Amazonia for months!” the witch snarls with contempt.  “Meanwhile you sat on the throne and you played Queen, but you are no Queen.”

“You wanted this,” the superheroine hisses.  “You wanted Alex gone!”

“That’s not fair!”  I protest.  My back hits a pillar.  I didn’t know I’d been retreating.

And then I see their knives.  They come out all at once, drawn from beneath the folds of the Goddesses’ costumes, and they encircle me.  My ridiculous bread-costume is too wide to let me slip between them.

“Ista quidem vis est!”  I cry.  “Ista quidem vis est!”

They don’t stop.

“Please,” I beg, and the Queen in me has vanished.  Now there’s just a scared nineteen-year-old girl in a sandwich costume with her back pressed against a pillar, pleading for her life.  “Please, spare me.  I’ll be a good Queen, I swear it, I have plans.  I’m going to make things better…”

They shake their heads slowly, in unison, like a single organism.

“Weak,” says the vampire.

“Pretender,” says the witch.

“Traitor,” says the clown girl.

And they lunge at me with the knives.

I scream…

………

Suddenly I am plunged in darkness.  My scream dies in my throat when I realize my attackers are gone.  The throne room is gone.  I am now in a forest, in the middle of the night.  I see trees all around me and moonlight coming down through the canopy.  Even in the darkness, I know this place.  Ahead of me is the treehouse.  Our treehouse at Mom’s lake house, with its hand-painted sign in faded letters: PIGS STAY OUT!

Behind me, far off but closing, I hear them.  The Goddesses from the party.  Crashing through the underbrush, laughing, calling my name in a singsong.  Mack-en-zie.  Mack-en-zieee.  They’re coming to finish me off with their knives.  I run for the treehouse.  I know the treehouse is safety if I can just get up that ladder…

Someone steps into my path and I skid to a stop.

It’s Alex.  She’s dressed in leathers, like an Amazonian.

“Alex,” I breathe.  “Oh, thank Mother Goddess, Alex, you’re safe!  They’re coming, we have to…”

Alex shakes her head.  And that cruel queen bee smile Alex is famous for spreads across her face.

“You can’t go up there.  She-pigs,” she says, pointing to the sign, “are not allowed in the treehouse.”

Any confidence I had as Queen Mackenzie instantly vanishes.  I am just Alex’s little sister again, the victim of her bullying and cruel teasing.  My cheeks burn.  My eyes sting with tears.  It is like we are children again and Alex has just invented the term ‘she-pig’ and it feels like the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Don’t call me that,” I whisper, choking back a sob.

“She-pig,” she repeats.

“Alex, please, I’m the Queen now…”

And then Alex’s eyes ignite in intense red flames.  Demonic horns sprout from her head.  The rumors are true.  Mother Goddess help me, it is true.  Alex has been possessed by a demoness.  I spent a year telling myself there was no such thing as demonic possession.  It was just Alex’s drug addiction, or Alex being stressed, or Alex being Alex.  But now I see the terrifying truth.

“You?  The Queen?”  Alex snarls in a deep, demonic voice.  “You foolish little she-pig.”

“Alex, please…”

She takes a step forward and the pine needles blacken and curl where her feet land.  “You stole my throne.”

“You were missing!  We needed a Queen!”

“You sat on my throne,” she snarls in her demonic voice.  “With my crown on your stupid little head and you thought…” and then she laughs, the familiar cruel laugh from our childhood and a thousand humiliations she inflicted on me.  “You thought you could take it?  You?  A dumb, naïve little she-pig who cried when I took her candy.  Who cried when she was called names or given wedgies or swirlies or teased at school?  You, a little crybaby, thought you were strong enough to seize my crown?”

“I didn’t take your throne and crown, Alex!  You were missing…”

“Overgal tried to take my throne.  Look what I did to her?  I made her my pet.  Overgal, who was once Queen, who is cunning and experienced.  Who has a whole legion of supporters.  She nevertheless failed, but you thought that you, my naive kid sister, would succeed where Overgal failed?”

And then something moves in the darkness behind Alex.

I hear it before I see it.  A wet, snuffling sound.  The crack of a branch.  And then it emerges from between the trees and my entire body goes cold.

It’s a pig.  Well, it’s the shape of a pig, but its huge, with elongated limbs, talons, grey-pink flesh that’s split in places.  It has tusks curve up from a jaw crowded with far too many teeth.  And its eyes.  Lifeless eyes.  Black eyes.  Like a doll’s eyes.  I knew this creature instantly.  Mom would tell us stories about it at the lake house, in the dark, with a flashlight under her chin, and Alex, Melissa, and I would pretend not to be scared.  The Chupacerda.  The evil monstrosity itself.  It takes pigs.  It takes Goddesses.  It doesn’t care which.  It drinks what you are until there’s nothing left but the shape of you.  It is real!

The Chupacerda positions itself beside Alex.  I know deep down that Alex has nothing to fear from it.  A demoness already has Alex’s soul; there is nothing for the Chupacerda to drain.  And deep down I also know that the Chupacerda has been summoned by Alex; it is here to do her bidding.

“Alex,” I whimper.  “Please… you can have your throne and crown back.  I am sorry…”

Alex smiles and turns to the Chupacerda.

“Drain the she-pig,” she commands it.

I turn to run but my legs won’t work.   The Chupacerda lunges at me.  The impact takes me off my feet, and then those rows of teeth close on the side of my neck.  I feel its fangs sink into my flesh.

The last thing I see is Alex, standing with her arms folded, watching with a  cruel smile.

And everything goes black.

………

I wake up.

The floor is cold.  Marble.  I’m back in the throne room.

There’s a ringing in my ears.  I’m naked.  I can feel the cool air on my skin and I’m disoriented, my head swimming, and I push myself up on my hands to stand.

Except they aren’t hands.

They’re hooves.  Attached to short, thick forelegs covered in coarse bristle.

I look down the length of my body and there’s a barrel of a body, round and pink, and four stubby legs.  My own body is gone.  I can feel a thick leather collar around my throat, buckled tight, and from it runs a leash.

The leash goes taut with a sharp tug.

I turn my head and my eyes follow the leash up to the throne.  Alex is sitting on it.  She’s no longer in Amazonian leathers and her demonic appearance is gone.  She is just Alex again, wearing one of her gowns, and the Matriarchy Crown sits on her head.

“You’ve woken up, my little pet she-pig,” Alex says, in her normal voice, the deep demonic  voice gone.

“Alex…” I try to say but the word doesn’t come.  What comes out is a long, panicked OINK.  Then a confused high pitched squeal.

Alex gives me an evil grin.

“Here. Have a look, she-pig.”  Alex snaps her fingers and a pig, the human male kind with downcast eyes, scurries forward holding a full-length silver mirror and props it in front of me.

I look into the mirror.

My body is a pig’s body.  Stubby and pink and bristling.  The ears are a pig’s ears, flopping forward.  There’s a snout, flattened and pushed out into a wet pink disc with two slits.  But the rest of the face is mine, grafted onto the head of an animal.  I am a pig!  Well, half pig, half woman.  I am literally a she-pig.

ALEX!  I try to scream.  ALEX, PLEASE, PLEASE CHANGE ME BACK, PLEASE…  Those are the words that form in my mind.  But what comes out of my mouth are the squeals and oinks of a pig.

Alex tilts her head.  “I’m sorry, what was that?  I don’t speak she-pig.”

The doors to the throne room are thrown open.  Melissa walks in.  “Alex, you really need to stop wearing blue…”  She stops dead in her tracks and looks at me.  Then she bursts out laughing.  She doubles over, as she points at me.  “Look at that she-pig!” she gasp in between her laughter.

“My pet’s finally awake,” Alex says, giving the leash a proud tug.  “Say hello to Melissa, she-pig.”

“OINK.”  I cry.

“Hello, she-pig!”  Melissa crows, pointing at me, tears streaming down her face as she laughs.

And then they’re both chanting, my sister and Melissa, exactly the way they did my childhood, chanting it in that singsong rhythm that still triggers my trauma.  “SHE-PIG!  SHE-PIG!  SHE-PIG!”

I can feel the hot tears running down my piggish face, and I try to sob.  And all that comes out is a swine’s squealing. 

………

I suddenly wake up.  I sit up in my bed with a loud gasp.  I’m in my bed in the royal apartments, my heart pounding.  I’m soaked, absolutely bathed in sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead.  I untangle myself from my sweat-soaked sheets and jump from the bed, running to my mirror.  I touch my nose as I examine my face in the mirror.  It is my normal human nose, not a pig snout.  My hands are human, not hooves.  I reach back and touch my rear, feeling no pig tail.

It was all a nightmare.  I slowly climb back into bed, on the other side where the sheets are not soaked from sweat.  “Okay,” I say out loud, confirming I can speak rather than oink.  “That’s it.  No more melatonin before bed.”

And then, from somewhere very far away, as sleep starts creeping back in at the edges, I hear it one more time:

Beware All Hallows’ Eve.

Yesterday I had my most fun tormenting and teasing of pigs in the palace while pretending to work by their side.  My target was the Department of Messenger Pigs.  I had heard Alex complain about the incompetence of messenger pigs endlessly when she was Queen.  She claimed they were the most incompetent pigs in the palace.  I have learned she was right.  They take way too long to deliver messages, particularly when they were ordered to deliver messages a distances of 5 miles or more. A 5-mile run should take, what, 20 minutes tops?  These worthless pigs would take up to well over thirty minutes, sometimes well over an hour when it was 10 miles or more. It is an unacceptable level of laziness, and I decided it was time to make them pay for it during Locktober. 

I spent a good chunk of the day teasing them in the messenger pig alcove in the palace.  I started subtly.  I sat with my legs crossed, but every so often I would uncross my legs or lift up my skirt and give them a quick peek of my panties. Their eyes were soon glued to me.  I could see the desperation in their faces, the way they would lean forward, trying to catch a better glimpse of my underwear.  They were so desperate to see more than those little peeks.

So, I gave them what they wished for, and I made them regret it.  I stood up, pretending to look at a street map of Freya on the desk.  I bent over, pointing out a supposed shortcut, my skirt riding high up my thighs, giving them a perfect view of my ass, encased in a tiny thong. The chorus of groans in the room from the pigs’ pained arousal put a grin on my face. But this was just the warm-up.

I sat down on the desk, sweeping a stack of delivery forms aside as I lectured them abut efficiency.  My legs were spreadeagle and I hiked my skirt up to my waist.  They finally got the view they were so desperate to see, the crotch of my very sheer panties. By this time, the messenger pigs were in absolute hell.  They were moaning in pain, their bodies trembling, their hands clenching and unclenching on their desks. They were desperate for a release that they would, of course, never get.

I was not done tormenting them.  “Oh, my,” I said, fanning myself with my hand. “It’s so hot in here.”

I started peeling off my dress. I turned around as I pulled it down my legs, giving them a full view of my ass in its tiny little thong. Then I turned back to face them, in just my bra and panties. The lingerie was so sheer it was practically transparent, leaving little to the imagination.  By this time, the pigs were practically writhing on the floor, their bodies contorting as they tried, in vain, to rub themselves through their unyielding chastity cages. This of course gave them no relief, only more pain.

I ignored their desperate pleas for a ruined orgasm, for anything, for a moment of respite from the agony of their arousal. I took off my bra, my breasts spilling free. I cupped them in my hands, playing with my nipples, rolling them between my fingers, my head thrown back in a mock ecstasy. The pigs’ pained and aroused whimpers grew louder.

Then, I turned around again, my back to them. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my thong. “You’ve been such good pigs,” I purred, looking over my shoulder. “I think you deserve a reward. My ass, for your viewing pleasure.” I slowly, slowly pulled the thong down my hips, down my legs, to my ankles.

Finally, I turned around, giving them a full, unobstructed, frontal view of my naked body. By this time, all the pigs were begging, their voices a chorus of pathetic whines and sobs. They were begging me for a ruined orgasm as they tried in vain to find some relief by rubbing their trapped members through their cages.  When I slid my hand down my belly and between my legs and began to pleasure myself, the pigs were practically wailing as they begged for release from their chastity cages.

I of course ignored their desperate pleas. I gathered my clothes and walked out of the office, leaving them to stew in their misery.  It was, without a doubt, my best tease yet this Locktober season. I cannot wait to see what new diabolical teases I can come up with next week!

It has come to my attention that some free males and pigs have been complaining about the announced military drafts.  I assume this is because some of you are cowardly and afraid to go to Amazonia.

These fears are overblown.  Just because you are drafted does not necessarily mean you will be sent to  Amazonia.  We will hopefully not have to send any forces there and will work out of differences diplomatically.  And even if you are sent to Amazonia, don’t focus on the threat of being captured by Amazonians and brutally abused.  Focus on the benefits.  More likely than not, the males in our army will be given joyous, pleasurable jobs.  Jobs like giving their Goddess commanders’ sweaty, tired feet a thorough tongue bath after a long day of trudging through the forest.  Imagine the honor.  Imagine the privilege.  Imagine the taste of victory and your commander’s feet on your tongue.

This is the reward that awaits the brave.  Sign up today!  Serve your Queen.  Serve your Matriarchy.  We Want You!

I am in my private quarters in the Palace, filled with indecision.  I’m trying to choose a Halloween costume.  To help me, I’ve hired a specialist:  a sissy pig named Giselle, who has a reputation as a brilliant designer.

Giselle presents me a sexy black witch costume.  I try it on, standing before the full-length mirror.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.  “It’s too cliché.  Witches are too overdone for Halloween.  I want something unique”  I know just where I can go for some creative ideas.  I pull out my phone and open up SunshineAI and ask her to give me some scary ideas from Matriarchy lore.

SunshineAI’s first suggestion is the Chupacerda, humanoid male cryptid with pale, hairless skin, elongated fingers ending in obsidian claws, and the ability to mimic voices.  It preys on pigs and Goddesses alike, draining them of their vitality, will, and identity.  My mom used to tell us scary stories about the Chupacerda when we were little girls.  Giselle whips up a brilliant Chupacerda costume.  It looks great, but then it dawns on me why it will not work.  “I am Queen now.  I can’t go as a pig,” I say, shaking my head.  “It would be unseemly for the Queen to dress as a pig, even as joke.”

Next, SunshineAI suggests the ghost of Madame Wilhemenia Blackthorne, a wealthy plantation owner known for her cruel treatment of her pigs, and who now haunts and dominates pigs in the afterlife.  Giselle creates a hauntingly beautiful, ethereal costume.  I like it.  But as I look at myself in the mirror, a doubt nags at me.  Alex’s downfall started when she went crazy at the last S.C.A.R.E.  She dressed up as some infamous evil from Matriarchy lore and then she snapped.  I am not superstitious and do not believe Alex was possessed, but I’m not tempting fate. 

SunshineAI also mentions the infamous Hera Asylum for Unruly Pigs.  I could go as an inmate from there.  Technically the asylum only housed pigs, but I could bend the lore a little and make myself a Goddess inmate there.  Giselle designs an inmate costume.  But as I look at myself, I reject the idea.  I again remember Alex going crazy at the last S.C.A.R.E.  I don’t want to invite the comparison.  And doing a costume that could be seen as mocking mental illness?  That seems offensive and in poor taste.

I am done with SunshineAI’s suggestions for now.  I’ll think of one on my own.  “How about one of the evil clown girls rumored to roam Freya?”  I ask the sissy pig.  Giselle whips up a terrifying clown costume.  I look in the mirror and as I think more about it, I shake my head.  No. The last thing I need as I begin my reign is to be seen as a “clown.”  That’s a terrible image.  And I also think Melissa is deathly afraid of clowns, though she never admits it.  I don’t want to be mean to her when we are getting along, and I don’t want to get on her bad side.

I decide to forego the scary.  Maybe I can go with something humorous.  “Giselle, make me an Alex costume,” I say.  “The drunken party girl version of Alex.”  Giselle creates a great costume with a slutty dress, smeared makeup, and the two half-empty bottles of wine.  I try it on and see Alex staring back at me in the mirror.  It’s hilarious, but it dawns on me that this is a bad idea.  It’s too mean, and it’s a bad image for me to attack my own sister and predecessor.  Plus, Alex is still missing.  It feels wrong to mock her.

“What about a positive version of Alex?  Let’s try the Generalissima,” I suggest.  “Alex in her military uniform.”  Giselle creates a sharp uniform that is identical to the one Alex wore in her Generalissima days.  But as I stand there looking at myself in the mirror, a new thought gives me pause.  With the Matriarchy on the brink of war with Amazonia, I can’t be seen as mocking the military brass.  Or it could also be seen as stolen valor.  I do not want to be seen as disrespectful.

“How about a costume of Mother Goddess,?” I suggest.  Giselle creates a radiant, celestial gown and I put it on.  It looks great.  But then I remember that Alex once tried to tell everyone that she was the reincarnation of Mother Goddess.  As her younger sister, who will inevitably be compared to her, I don’t want to remind people of Alex’s crazy eccentrics.  Plus, some will see it as sacrilegious. 

I’m getting desperate for an idea.  “How about I go as a Cadet?”  Giselle prepares a Cadet uniform and I try it on.  The moment I see myself in the mirror, a white-hot rage flashes through me.  I still despise the Cadets and what they stand for.  “No!  Absolutely not!”  I snap, tearing it off.  “There will be enough drunk Cadets at S.C.A.R.E. causing problems.  I will not be associated with them.”

“Maybe instead of a humorous theme, I can try some social commentary, something to make a political statement,” I suggest.  Giselle creates me a ‘poor farmer girl’ costume.  It is meant as a subtle critique of Big Kale, to depict how they are driving small farmer Goddesses out of business.  It looks good, but it’s too niche.  No one will get it.  Having to explain to everyone why I went as a farmer will be lame.  And I probably shouldn’t openly antagonize Big Kale this early into my reign.

As I debate other costumes to offer some political commentary, I think about my PSA campaigns.  Giselle creates me the costume of an employee from a pig milking facility.  But as I look at myself in the mirror, I hesitate.  With the controversy of milking facilities surreptitiously helping pigs break Locktober rules, I shouldn’t be seen as celebrating them.

Finally, an idea strikes.  “Giselle, a ‘sub-Goddess’ costume,” I say, a grin spreading across my face.  “But like a pun.  A cross between a Goddess and a sub.  Like the sandwich!”  I am very enthusiastic about my brilliant idea.  He looks at me, confused, but whips it up anyway.  It’s a fantastic costume.  I love it!  I find it hilarious.  I take a selfie and text it to my best friend, Tiffany.  “What do you think?” I ask her.

A moment later, her reply comes back.  “It’s kind of cheesy TBH, Mackenzie.  And are you sure you want to go as a sub-Goddess?  You told me about what your sister was secretly doing.  What if it comes out that Alex was cosplaying as a sub-Goddess?  People might say the urge to be a sub-Goddess runs in the family.”

She’s right.  It’s too risky.  Again, I don’t want to invite an unflattering comparison with Alex.  But it means I’m all out of ideas.  I dismiss Giselle and slump onto my bed, the sub-Goddess costume still on. 

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The last few days have been a struggle.  Mistress Francesca has it in her mind that I am clinging to my old life as a Goddess and refusing to let go.  As a result, I have been punished a lot recently.  My poor ass is so sore and tender that even kneeling with my butt resting on my heels is a punishment in itself. 

I have continued in my role as my Mistress’s foot slave, a role that I cherish.  But I have admittedly been distracted as of late, my thoughts frequently straying back to my old life.  Not my life and freedoms as a Goddess specifically.  but my friends and family from that life.  I find myself thinking more and more about them and how much I miss them.  These thoughts have particularly been distracting when I am alone doing yard work or silently worshipping my Mistress’s feet.  A few days ago, while I was worshipping Mistress Francesca’s feet, my distraction became apparent.  I was sucking on her toes, but my mind was a thousand miles away, back in my tree house when I was a young child, playing with Melissa.  Mistress Francesca noticed that I was distracted.  She pulled her foot away, her expression turning angry.  “You are not paying to attention to your task.  Your mind is elsewhere.  Explain yourself, Suzy.  Now.”  I of course knew I had to explain my distraction to my owner and tell her the truth.  But I knew better than to claim again I was Queen Alex.  I remembered the last time I had tried that and the brutal punishment that had followed, as Mistress did not believe my claim.  So, I told the truth, most of it, but leaving out my identity as Alex.  I told her that I was once a Goddess, but that I had no desire to go back to being one, that I loved being a sub-Goddess, that I loved serving her.  But that I also missed my family and my friends.  I begged her that maybe she could let me reach out to my best friend, just so she would know that I was alright.

Mistress Francesca was not pleased.  Her face hardened and her eyes flashed with anger.  “Your past is erased,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous hiss.  “You are Suzy now and whoever you were no longer exists.  And you will learn to let go of your old life fully, or I will help you let go of it.”  She then gave me a very hard paddling over her knee.  She  paddled my poor ass over and over until I was sobbing.  After the paddling, I was given “corner time,” by being made to stand in the corner of her room, my nose pressed against the wall, for hours.  The whole time, my tender ass felt like it was on fire from the paddling.

Ever since then, Mistress has been particularly strict.  She watches me closely and scrutinizes everything I do, and I have been punished frequently.  Despite this, I am having trouble letting go of the feelings of sadness from missing my friends and family, and it has continued to distract me, in spite of my fear of punishment.  The following day, I was doing my chores, tending to the gardens.  Being alone outside while I worked made it impossible for my mind not to stray, to think about my mom and Melissa.  I don’t think it impacted my work, but Mistress Francesca was apparently watching me like a hawk and decided I was not working efficiently.  I got another hard thrashing to my ass.  Then, as a further punishment, she made me bend over a chair, my reddened ass on display for all of the other sub-Goddesses and even the pigs to see.  They all got a nice view of my shame and humiliation, along with my reddened, bruised ass.

That night, I tried my best to concentrate and do a good job worshipping my Mistress’s feet.  I was not distracted by the thoughts of my loved ones, but I was distracted by the fear of being punished again.  Mistress noticed again and assumed my distraction was once again caused by me clinging to my old life.  It earned me another hard paddling.

I am trying my best to focus on my service, work hard in my chores, and not be distracted, but it is impossible not to think about how much I miss my friends and loved ones, especially my mom and Melissa.  And even though I do not think my thoughts are impacting my work, Mistress thinks they are, and her opinion is the only one that matters.  I am getting paddled almost every day, sometimes multiple times a day.  The bliss and arousal I experience worshipping my Mistress’s feet is always a distraction from any troubles I am facing, and I think I always focus well on that task and do it with my complete devotion.  But Mistress is watching me with a critical eye, and any perceived lapse in my duties, any moment my focus wavers, has earned me a harsh paddling or spanking or whipping, and corner time.  My poor ass is now constantly tender and sore, which is yet another distraction that interferes with my duties and earns me more punishment.  And it’s not just lapses in my serving that have gotten me punished.  I hate kale.  I despise its bitter taste.  And my diet is pretty much limited to kale.   If I have one resentment that remains towards Melissa is that she pushed kale so hard.  Sure, let pigs eat it, but it sucks that so many Goddesses restrict their sub-Goddesses to that gross leaf.  The other day, my Mistress caught me scowling when I was eating from my kale bowl.  That earned me a harsh spanking.

Mistress also seems to be trying other things to get me back on the right track apart from punishment.  She is fully aware of my obsession with her feet, and she uses that to get me back in my subspace.  What she doesn’t understand is that I remain firmly in my subspace.  I never leave it.  I just miss my loved ones.  The has also continued dominating me, fucking me with her strap-on, the rough, claiming act always a powerful reminder of my place.  I wish I could get my Mistress to understand that my missing my friends and families is not a sign that I don’t want to be a sub-Goddess or that I yearn to go back to my old life.  But sub-Goddesses are still women.  We are not mindless automatons like pigs are.  We have emotions and memories.  We experience love and have families.  I wish Mistress would understand that the pain I am experiencing at the loss of my friends and families in no way signifies any loss of my devotion, my desire to please, my obedience, and my submission to her, my owner.

The week has been a symphony of Locktober suffering by the pigs in the palace, and I have been the conductor.  I have so enjoyed going around the palace and working side by side with the pigs in my short skirts, as I announced I would do at the start of the week.  It has been so much fun!

I spent a good chunk of one morning hanging out in the accounting department, perched on the edge of a desk, gossiping with the pigs about office politics.  The whole time, I sat with my legs spread wide. The entire time we chatted they could look right up my skirt and see my panties.  I loved watching them, the way their eyes darted down, then away, then back again.  I loved watching them squirm in discomfort from their chastity cages as their pitiful cocks tried to go erect, but only as much as the cages would allow.  I’m sure their number-crunching was a mess that day with their focus shattered.  They were probably whipped by their Goddess supervisors for their sloppy work, a nice bonus for me!

I moved on to the Records Department, bending over as I pretended to help them file records.  My skirt rode up high to give them a perfect view of my ass.  I would guess they misfiled everything with my ass distracting their feeble, horny brains.  They will regret that when their Goddess supervisor checks their work, lol!

That afternoon, I moved to the Palace call center.  Rows of pigs, headsets on, were fielding calls. I found an empty cubicle and sat spreadeagle in the chair, making sure every pig in the vicinity had a clear, unobstructed view of my sheer lace panties that left very little to the imagination. The distracted, horny pigs struggled to answer the phones, fumbling their words as they tried to direct the calls. One poor pig accidentally hung up on a Governess.  She called back enraged and I am sure the pig’s Goddess supervisor whipped him when she found out.  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Another day, another department. I found myself in the press office, chatting with the pigs about media strategy and spin.  Again, I sat with my legs spread, my panties on full display. I watched the pigs suffer and squirm and sweat for a couple of hours before I got bored and moved on.

The mailroom was next.  I wore a particularly short skirt that I hiked up even higher, and left the top few buttons of my shirt undone, giving the pigs an ample view of both my underwear and my bra and cleavage.  The chaos was glorious.  Mail was misrouted, forms filled out incorrectly. I berated the pigs for their distracted mishaps.  Their only response was a chorus of pained whimpers as their chastity cages bit down on their semi-erect cocks.

I even spent a chunk of a day fielding IT requests.  I hilariously took a call for one office pig who lost his network connection and I squatted down, pretending to fidget with the ethernet cable on his computer, my legs spread wide, giving him a nice view of my panties. His suffering in his chastity cage as he tried (but failed) not to look.  It was hilarious!

I later took some of the official calls I’d normally take in my executive office, but I did them from a cubicle amongst the pigs instead.  I sat there, legs primly crossed at first, then slowly, deliberately, uncrossed them and spread my legs wide. I watched as the pigs tried in vain to resist the temptation to stare at my panties.  But even though their chastity cages bit into their stiffening members, causing them clear pain, they could not resist staring. Their eyes were drawn to me like moths to a flame.

My favorite target this week was one of my pig secretaries. He had attended his Proclivity Identification & Grading (P.I.G.) Exam this week, but I hadn’t received his report yet.  So, I decided to do some field testing of my own. I hiked up my skirt, letting him get a long, lingering view of my ass as I chatted him up about his weekend. Then I turned around, sitting on his desk in front of him, my legs spread, the top buttons of my top undone so my cleavage and bra were exposed. It was clear from his squirming, from the way his eyes darted between my breasts and my crotch, that he was obsessed with my entire body.  But based on the intensity of his pained squirming and his profuse sweating when my legs were spread, I decided his primary obsession was definitely my down there instead of my breasts.  I will exploit that knowledge all month!

For some of the more senior pigs, the ones who have endured many more Locktobers under their (chastity) belts than the more junior pigs, they have learned to control their arousal better than others and minimize their suffering.  So, I had to up the ante with them. I worked beside them without any panties on. I remember bending over a desk in the Human Resources Department, supposedly fielding calls all day. One of the more senior pigs managed not to stare. He kept his eyes on his work.  His focus was admirable (if you could admire a loser pig.)  So, I stood up, slowly, deliberately peeled my panties off, and let them drop to the floor at my feet.  I bent over the desk again, with my ass and pussy now in view for all the pigs.  The senior pig couldn’t resist. His head swiveled, his eyes locked onto my ass, and he was squirming and suffering just as much as all his pig brethren.

I gave a similar performance in Legal Compliance, bending over a desk and pretending to type on a keyboard, giving all the pigs there a nice, long view of my ass. They suffered for hours, bathed in sweat and wincing in pain.

I scheduled a meeting with a senior pig in the procurement office, a pig I knew had a particularly vicious spiked cage. I  met with him without any panties on, my legs spread wide in the chair across from him. I just sat there and pretended to give him his review. He tried to be professional, but he was sweating, trembling, his whole body shaking. By the end of the meeting, he was sobbing, begging me for mercy as the spikes bit into his member.

I spent another part of the day bent over a desk, chatting up the senior pigs in the custodial department, giving them a nice view of my ass and my pussy. They squirmed in agony, their faces contorted in masks of pain and desperate arousal.

I even took a pig supervisor from the kitchen staff to the break room for a coffee break. I sat spreadeagle on the couch, no panties on. I watched him struggle to hold his coffee cup, his whole body trembling from the steel of his cage biting into his member, which could only get as hard as the cage would allow.

I joined a meeting with the pigs in the secretarial pool, again with no panties on. As I chatted with them, I propped one foot up on the edge of the table, so the pigs all had a great, unobstructed view of my pussy. They couldn’t avoid staring, despite the excruciating discomfort it caused them inside their chastity cages.

I gave a performance review for a senior pig in the accounting department, similarly with my leg propped up on his desk and no panties, plus my shirt unbuttoned to add to his torment. I’m pretty sure not a single word of my review registered; he was suffering too much from the arousal and the resulting pain that the view of my pussy was causing him.

I did the same for a senior corresponding secretary pig, sitting on his desk, my legs splayed wide as I reviewed his file. I watched him sweating and suffering, trying not to break out in laughter.

I have loved every minute of this week. I have loved tormenting the pigs, loved watching them suffer. I can’t wait to get their P.I.G. Reports, so that my staff and I can individually tailor the torment for each pig.  Locktober is only just beginning and it has been a blast!

The MIS file lands on my desk and when I see the photos, I am livid.  They show Jess sneaking pigs into the service entrance of her milking facility.  Based on the photos showing the pigs leaving 30 minutes later with dumb grins their faces, it is pretty obvious what is happening to them inside there.  Ugh, why is Jess doing this?  I can sort of understand her egalitarian views given her past in the Empire, even if I do not agree with them.  But allowing pigs to flaunt the rules during Locktober crosses a line.  I need to deal with this, but how?  I am overseeing a fricking war; I can’t be distracted with this.  Who else can I turn to handle this?  Given Melissa’s hatred for Jess, having her handle this would be bad.  I don’t want to ask Christina to handle it.  That is unfair to her given that she is Jess’s roommate.  I don’t want to put her in that awkward position.  I have the MIS investigating pigs sneaking into milking facilities, but should I have the MIS arrest Jess?  I can see the headlines now, suggesting this is my payback for Jess having MIS bug my dorm.  Plus, I don’t want to see Jess get in serious legal trouble, not after what happened to her last time because of my actions.  For the same reason, I can’t put out a public statement and name her for breaking the law.  Last time I did that, a mob of vigilantes went after her.  And that was before I had the bully pulpit from being Queen.  It would be even worse this time around.  What I need is someone who can draw attention to this and hopefully the exposure will put a little pressure on Jess, but ideally by someone with a smaller profile than the Queen, so they don’t rally a rabid vigilante mob against Jess.  I need to come up with something though.  This is getting out of hand.

Yesterday, I sat on my throne as I awaited the arrival of the Amazonian Ambassador.  Beside me, there were the other senior government officials: Melissa, the Head of State; Overgal, now fully established in her role as Prima; and my chief of staff, Christina.

When the Amazonian Ambassador was finally announced, she entered and stood before us.

“Ambassador,” I began.  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Your Majesty,” she replied with a slight bow.  “I am happy to be here to respond to the slanderous accusations being made against Amazonia.”

“They are not slanderous accusations if they are true,” I replied.  “We have strong reason to believe that Amazonia is involved in the abduction of former Queen Alex and that she is currently being held prisoner in your territory.  We demand her immediate return.”

The ambassador shook her head emphatically.  “We absolutely deny those accusations in the strongest possible terms.  Amazonia has no involvement in the disappearance of your former Queen.  If I may speak frankly, Your Majesty, these accusations seem to be nothing more than a pretext to justify aggression against Amazonia.”

“We have strong evidence,” I replied, nodding to Melissa.

Melissa presented a summary of the evidence to the ambassador, at least the evidence that is not classified and we are willing to share with Amazonia.  It is circumstantial, but I had found it compelling on the whole. 

The ambassador clearly disagreed, her expression growing increasingly angry.  “This so-called evidence is weak, circumstantial, or fabricated!  Your Majesty, I came here in good faith, hoping for a productive dialogue.  Instead, I find my nation being the target of baseless accusations.  Unless you have actual evidence, I must take my leave.”  With that, she turned and storms out of the throne room.

It is now the next morning, and once again, I am meeting with the senior government officials.  Melissa and Overgal say it is time we head to the “Situation Room,” a place that neither Christina nor I had ever heard of until now.  Overgal and Melissa lead us through a series of passages, descending deeper below the palace into a subterranean basement level I did not even know existed.  We finally arrive at a sealed room, guarded by Goddess officers in the sharp uniforms of the Matriarchy Armed Forces.  Overgal places her hand on a biometric scanner, and the door hisses open, revealing a high-tech conference room.  Wall-length digital displays and screens glow with maps and data streams, while uniformed Goddesses work at computer consoles that line the room.

A tall, imposing Goddess approaches us.  She wears the uniform of a high-ranking officer in the MAF, her shoulders adorned with stars indicating her rank as a general.

“Your Majesty,” she says with a respectful nod.  “I am General Serena Sanderson, Chairwoman of the Matriarchy Armed Forces.”

She leads us to a conference table and before us on the wall are screens and displays showing a detailed map of Amazonia and the Matriarchy.

“Your Majesty,” General Sanderson begins, “we’ve been developing a response to the situation with Alex.  I’m here to brief you on a proposed military option codenamed ‘Bay of Pigs.’”

I listen as the General explains Bay of Pigs.  The operation will be a limited naval incursion to covertly insert wild pigs into Amazonia.  It will serve two purposes: to have the pigs start to cause chaos in Amazonia and also to test Amazonia’s defenses and response time.  Additionally, the pigs will be implanted with tracking chips, so we can see where they’re taken, as well as chips to monitor their vitals and pain levels, so we can see how fierce the Amazonians will be in their abuse of our pig soldiers.

When General Sanderson finishes, I frown.  “A covert military operation?  Already?  Won’t this escalate things dramatically?” I ask.

General Sanderson replies.  “We are taking steps to avoid that, Your Majesty.  Yes, we expect the pigs will be swiftly captured, but thankfully, pigs are expendable.  We’ll use wild and dumb pigs that have no idea why they’re there or who sent them, allowing the Matriarchy to maintain plausible deniability.”  She points to a section of the map showing Amazonia’s coastline.  “The riskiest part will be bringing the pigs by naval vessel and covertly landing them in Amazonia without detection.  But in case they are detected, we’ll want to use ships and captains that aren’t connected with the Matriarchy military or government, again so we can maintain plausible deniability.”

I think for a moment, then smile.  “I have a pirate in mind who can help with that.”

General Sanderson nods.  “When you’re ready to proceed, Your Majesty, we’re prepared to move quickly.”

As we leave the Situation Room, I ask Melissa to focus on gathering more evidence establishing Amazonia’s involvement in Alex’s abduction.  I ask Overgal to lead the diplomatic efforts to demand Alex’s return.  But I can’t shake the feeling that with Operation Bay of Pigs, we are crossing a line from which there will be no return.  However, with Alex missing and Amazonia denying any involvement, what choice did we have?

Thanks to some pigs who realize snitching is the smart move, we are catching more and more pigs who try to break the rules by sneaking off to milking facilities for ruined orgasms through their chastity devices.  Additionally, the Vice Squad of MIS has set up honeypots in every major city.  Pigs who think they are entering a milking facility are instead finding themselves being arrested by undercover Goddesses.  We are sending you pigs video footage of these naughty pigs being locked in the tiniest chastity cages on the market.  Pigs, before you think about breaking the rules, think about how miserable these pigs will be over the next three months and how being locked in such a device will permanently shrink their members.  (And this is only the start of their punishment.  They will also be harshly whipped and will probably be sent to the mines.)  And remember that any time you show up to a milking facility, it may the MIS Vice Squad that is there to meet you, and not a more sympathetic Goddess employed by the milking facility.