Welcome To Lorrett's Goodie Gallery

Look here for stories and other goodies that I especially like, contributions from past Fantasy Makers, even some goodies by (or about) me!


You're wrong. I DO have a CLUE. Mrs. Peacock dunnit, with the Candlestick, in the Photographer's Studio. So there!

Photo Credit: glenwrightphotography.com


We just had a visit from Cosmic Photog, our Grand Prize winner. He brought us some other images he's taken of us...impressive! But the real surprise was some shots he took of me...at Folsom 2006! He's already won a Grand Prize, and I think the statute of limitations for contest entries is shorter than seven years, but at least I want to share these luscious images with you...enjoy!


Here's another goodie from down Memory Lane. Master Robin sent me these shots he took somewhere back in the late '70s, I think... Hey, I useta' be a babe, huh?


Folsom 2009 -- what fun! This year, I was caught, well, not exactly "red-handed"... impersonating the world's sexiest head of broccoli. Warm up the cheese sauce, here's the evidence!

First, thanks to Blood Elf Mohawk. How did you get these yummy shots: -- bilocation???


Finally, thanks to the Traveler, who caught me hamming it up with a total stranger whose costume idea blew me away! And thanks to the cat in the Hat -- love your eyes!


Just when I thought the entire literary community had abandoned me, this story came in the mail, with a 41-cent stamp and without a name on it. Thank you, Mr. Sneaky, you get a silver gift card! Your syntax, as always, is impeccable, but you owe me a penny.

WORLD-RENOWNED DIPLOMAT KIDNAPED! FILM AT 11!

Headline: Diplomat Disappears From U. N. Reception
Interpol is searching for clues in the bizarre abduction of Ambassador William Harbecht, who vanished the day before he was slated to address the U. N. Social and Economic Council. Harbecht was an outspoken critic of the increasing powers of women in the modern world, going so far as to suggest a return to a patriarchal social model.

Sources say Harbecht left a reception for outgoing Secretary-General Si-yu Sun in the company of a lady who said she couldn’t find her limousine or contact her driver. He has not been seen since. New York Police were called the following afternoon when Harbecht failed to appear to deliver his address. His wife said she hadn’t been alarmed at his disappearance from the party; it wasn’t the first time he’d been led astray by a pretty face. Police questioned his chauffeur, but learned nothing.

***
Late at night, a limousine pulls up to a hangar at the Executive Airport, where a small plane stands ready for a dawn flight. Two masked ladies in evening dress emerge cautiously, followed by a burly man in a tuxedo, with a black hood over his head and face. Together they drag a large, heavy bundle almost six feet long and wrapped completely in bright silk scarves out of the trunk. Could that package be squirming a little as they carry it to the plane? But no one is there to see. The plane takes off at first light, exactly as planned.

***
Headline: Terrorist Organization Claims Credit For Kidnap of Diplomat The International Grrilla Army, a radical feminist organization, named itself responsible for the kidnap of diplomat William Harbecht, in an audiotape delivered anonymously to the New York Times at ten this morning. The message accused the Ambassador of being an ideologue posing as a diplomat, with the reactionary agenda of returning western culture to the repression of the early twentieth century. Harbecht was said to be alive and well. He would deliver his address to a different tribunal, and his future would be determined by it. His whereabouts are still unknown.

***
The plane landed a few hours later at a secluded airstrip. The package was dragged into a shed by the burly chauffeur; the two women followed. The women emerged in smart business dress, the chauffeur in black slacks, a leather jacket and a cap. The erstwhile package’s wrappings had been loosened enough to allow him to walk, or at least be frog-marched, to a waiting van.

“I suppose you’re holding me for ransom,” Harbecht challenged the women.

One of the ladies laughed. “Oh, no, sir, no such thing! We have all the money we need!”

“Then, what? Trying to silence me? It will do you no good, no good at all.”

“Silence you? Oh no, that would be uncivilized. And besides, your own words will do more to convict you than anything we could say!”

“Convict me? And before what court would that be?” A note of contempt sharpened the Ambassador’s measured speech. There was no reply. Harbecht fell silent.

The journey ended in front of an elegantly refurbished sixteenth-century chateau. Two uniformed women greeted the ladies politely, ignoring their prisoner. The group was ushered into a sumptuous apartment, and their belongings were brought to them.

The two kidnapers stripped Harbecht unceremoniously and dressed him in his now-rumpled formal clothing. One of them handed him the briefcase he had brought to the party.

“Mr. Harbecht, you went to New York to address an international tribunal. Your goal was to return women to the oppressions of the past century. You will make that speech – here, tonight, to a different court than you planned. If you make your case you will be returned to your home unharmed. If you do not, the Queen’s Court will determine the best course for dealing with you.”

“I refuse to do any such thing. I will not carry out your charade,” he snapped.

“We have obtained a copy of your speech from your secretary. If you do not choose to deliver it, she will present it to the tribunal.”

“My...what?”

There was a knock at the door. A tall redheaded lady entered and looked Harbecht up and down. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Harbecht,” she purred. Harbecht’s face froze.

He was led to a massive circular stone hall. In its center was a lectern, lit from above with brilliant lights that threw the encircling galleries into deep shadow. A loud voice proclaimed, “Kneel to the Queen”; this was followed by a rustling in the galleries. One of Harbecht’s captors kicked his feet out from under him, the other pressed his face to the floor.

A female voice said, “You have come to instruct us. Rise, then, and do so.”

Harbecht rose to his feet and began to deliver his speech. He spoke of the history of humanity. He spoke of hunters and warriors, all male, securing their domains and making their laws. He spoke of women’s place in the home, tending the children, cooking, cleaning, serving. There was a murmuring in the audience.

“You speak of this history,” the female voice intoned. “but the women you speak of defined civilized life for their people, and taught its precepts to the young. They were the keepers of art, of music, of medicine, while males rampaged about killing everything in sight and stealing from their neighbors. Who, then, were the rightful rulers, and who usurped their power and deposed them?

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “Go on,” the female voice snapped.

Harbecht went on. He spoke of science and mathematics, engineering and exploration, frontiers rolled back by innovators of every kind, all male.

“You speak of discovery,” the female voice responded. But none of these wonders was conceived in a vacuum. Each was built from basic skills of reading and counting, knowledge taught carefully, mother to child, over the ages. Discovery is to you like the infant, planted in its mother’s womb, nourished and nurtured by her, delivered by her into the world with labor and pain, so you can say, “Behold, I created that!” Is the creation truly yours?

Harbecht turned very red. He turned to walk away and was detained by his guards. “I have nothing more to say. You have the power, do what you will.”

“But is that not exactly what you males, by your own admission, have done throughout the history you say is so noble?” There was another long silence, followed by a period of murmuring female voices. At last, a voice said, “We have reached our decision.”

“Mr. Ambassador, you are not an explorer. You are not a scientist. You are not a teacher. You are not a healer. You create nothing but empty words. You demonstrate no art, no music, no wisdom, no spirit. You stand here full of equivocations and deceptions. How do you justify yourself? What are you, that gives you the audacity to address this court?

Harbecht remained silent. The voice went on.

“You are here because you seek power over your kind. You do nothing to earn that power. Were it given to you, you would abuse it, just as your forefathers did. You create nothing and disrupt much. Your argument is dismissed.

“You have wasted the time of this tribunal, and you must repay it. For a year and a day you will serve the women of our community. Laziness will not be tolerated, nor disrespect. We have many means of ensuring your compliance. Your training will begin today.”

Under the glaring lights in sight of all, Harbecht’s handlers pushed him to the floor. With little knives they cut the clothes from his body, till he was naked, and shaved him, roughly, from head to toe. His protests were stifled by a gag improvised from a silk scarf; his hands were bound with another. The tall redheaded lady walked up to him and looked him up and down. “For three years you have treated me as your servant. I have done your work while you have claimed the credit. Now you will serve me. Defy me, and you will regret it.” She reached into her elegant little bag with gloved hands, and took out a spiked metal cage. This she affixed to Harbecht’s genitals with leather straps, pulling them painfully tight. She produced a bright-red lipstick and wrote on his back the word “worm”. On his chest she wrote the word “slave”. On his face she wrote the word “pig”. Around his neck she affixed a jeweled poodle collar. She connected a leash to the collar, another to the cock cage, and handed the leashes to his handlers. “Take him below,” she instructed, and watched as he crawled clumsily away.


A HOLIDAY GIFT FOR MY FRIENDS!

I just received a gift from a long-lost friend. Paul Johnson, photographer extraordinaire of strippers, models, and adult actresses way back into the 60s, presented me with some naughty photos he took of me back when I was a babe...and was kind enough to let me share them with you! Without further introduction...


Fantasy from Lonewolf


In case you think I ALWAYS let somebody else have the fun, let this little story I wrote reassure you, it ain't necessarily so! Dedicated to my Master, of course, with thanks to Him for permission to print some of my favorite pictures as well...

Task Assignment


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