Shamed to tears...

On my last visit to HH he took me to new levels of shame in a scene, that almost rivalled the depths I plummet to when I'm being punished. I had written to him in advance with my idea; a slave who had disappointed her master. Unusually for me I was very detailed in my description:

'Although strict, he is, in general, a fair and generous master, as long as she is obedient in fulfilling all of his needs. When he is pleased with her she is permitted many privileges. She sleeps in his bed, eats at his table, chooses her clothing (from those that he has provided) and when guests are present, although she serves and entertains, is permitted to socialise under his watchful eye.

On the last occasion he had a visitor she failed him. Too busy enjoying herself to attend to her duties, over indulged in his wine and became belligerent, resisting the advances of a guest at who's disposal she was put.

She's already been severely whipped for her behaviour and all her privileges have been removed. She now sleeps on the floor in a separate room, wears what he orders, sometimes nothing but her collar. She must prove her worth to him again and although the whipping made her cry, the shame at failing him is worse and she is trying very hard to regain his trust. He is not making it easy, with little encouragement and chastising her for the most minor faults...'

And after further discussion, and consultation with close friends, the scene was planned as an evening of entertaining master's friend and his personal slave. One who was impeccably behaved and whom master held up as a shining light of servitude.

An hour before our friends were due to arrive HH put me in role as Claudia, standing me on a low stool and caning me harshly as he reminded me how angry he was with me, how I had embarrassed him. Then gave me a torn singlet to wear. We had agreed in advance that he would choose the outfit and it would be best to give it to me in role. I was worried I couldn't bring myself to wear it and how right I was!

The singlet was so low cut it just about covered my nipples, and it didn't actually cover my bottom or my crotch at all. If I pulled it down I got an inch more protection down below but then exposed my breasts completely.

Already I was feeling headspacey, ashamed to have let him down. I was also struggling with how cold and distant he was with me, how there were no words of encouragement or praise at all. This proved to be particularly difficult to adjust to, and yet it's what made the scene work so well. But I realised later that in all the scenes I'd ever done previously, HH would always encourage in some way. Even if it was a dark, abusive scene there would be words of praise of my eventual acquiescence. It was therefore very hard that no matter how I tried to show obedience, willingness to accept my punishments and desperation to please he was constantly dismissive of me.

Whilst waiting for our guests to arrive I was made to kneel up against the wall, hands on head, ankles neatly together. Just as the position would become unbearable (I was too afraid to flinch) he would call me over to him to remind me of how I had failed him. Then I was strapped or caned: he wanted my bottom to show his displeasure as much as his tone did. In between I waited nervously, dreading the arrival of the guests but almost wishing them to come so afraid of being alone with him was I becoming.

When I finally opened the door to them I wished the ground would swallow me up. I was mortifyingly conscious of how little I wore, and that it highlighted my private places more than if I had actually been naked. Even worse, Elspeth was wearing the most sumptuous corset and bustle skirt with delicate high heels. Mr Hawthorne barely looked me over, I wasn't worth his notice!

My first task was to serve drinks, wine to Mr Hawthorne and water for his slave. I was berated for not bringing the drinks on a tray. When I returned to my position against the wall hearing him coldly describing my disgrace to our guests, brought the first tears to my eyes.

In contrast Elspeth sat at her master's feet, her long, silky hair fanning out over her corset. When the gentlemen praised her beauty and her obedience I wanted to die. I was ignored until my next punishment was due and tried to take the strapping as gratefully as I could, but I was not acknowledged. Yet when Elspeth was brought forward for a strapping of her own she earned praise for her beautiful posture and manners in thanking each gentleman for her punishment.

At one point I was stood on a low stool facing our visitors, as the men objectified me completely. Discussed if I could ever become anything useful again, wondered if I was worth breaking? And the full weight of my shame made the tears fall openly as I hid behind my hair. I was very deep in role and distraught to be held so low in regard.

The evening continued in this vein, with me being talked about dismissively or ignored. Made to kneel in the corner or be beaten. And at one stage suffered a humiliating and detailed inspection at the hands of Mr Hawthorne. Whilst Elspeth was petted and praised and played with.

It was hard, however to sustain the momentum and after an hour or so I began to disengage, to pull back from feeling so hurt and worthless. Noticing this HH called time on the scene and I buried myself in his arms, too embarrassed to turn around and face our guests! It was a really great scene and fabulous to play with Marlow and Lily in that way for the first time. He was the perfect visiting master and Lily was far too good at being the hated 'perfect' slave. Afterwards we giggled about what a role reversal it was for her to play such a good girl, and how hard she had to work at it!

Our evening turned to more pleasant pursuits and Claudia was retired, but only briefly.

We resurrected her the next day, with the scene starting with the bailiff whipping her before locking her into the hole to sleep for the night. (The 'hole' being a very confined place beneath the floorboards where HH incarcerates deserving girls!) It was dark and cold and dirty and the singlet gave little protection. Although I'm not very tall I had to curl up in a ball to lie down as ordered. HH went off and left me there for 10/15 minutes. I'm not really sure how long it was, being too busy trying to channel Claudia's headspace from the night before, as much so I wouldn't start freaking about spiders or being in the dark.

When he returned he let me out, now being Claudia's master. I was pathetically grateful to see him. But again the dismissive tone was hard to bear. He dragged me out of the hole, complaining that I was dirty and needed cleaning. Then forced me under a cold shower and scrubbed my skin with a rough brush.

As horrible as it was, I tried to accept his ministrations bravely but the tears soon fell. And I cried all the more feeling his strap as I lay cold and wet on the bench. I tried not to make any sound to show him I was repentant, yet could not help crying out.

But he seemed pleased by my cries. Intensified his torture; whipping my breasts, twisting my nipples, slapping my thighs. Told me I was now his pain slave, that he would take his pleasure in causing me pain. Finally gave me a crumb of praise, that he was enjoying hurting me...

Dark fantasies and landmines

A while back I wrote about how difficult I find it to articulate or communicate my dark fantasies to other people. There was one fantasy I was struggling with at the time that prompted that post. In the end I did manage to write a context for it through a short story and I followed that up with random facts and examples of the violations that person would commit. For his part HH did his own research and between us we came up with the scene. On my last visit we attempted to play it.

It's a scene I've wanted to play for a long time. And one of the first we discussed in our initial emails. Back then I spoke a lot about authority figures as below:

"For me any authority figure works well, especially a male authority figure. To some extent I naturally believe in authority, rules and legitimate power: headmasters, prefects, policemen, master of the house, rugby coach, tutor, father, guardian etc. And because of that I'll try to behave, respect their rules and accept punishment if I fall short."

Eventually I admitted that Catholic priests came under that umbrella too. One that fell into the abuse of power category, which was even more appealing as a fantasy. It was difficult to admit that I had such fantasies, both from the point of view of being an Irish Catholic myself, and also because of the stories of abuse that have shocked our country.

Each of us in our roleplay takes parts of real life happenings as inspiration, through what we've read or heard. Our fantasises feed (consciously or unconsciously) on such material. But it doesn't mean we condone what happened, or that we would wish for such things to happen to us, without our consent. Just as consensual 'rape', i.e. the illusion of being raped bears no relation to the real horror of actual rape. I no more approve of the children beaten at school under the guise of discipline than I do of the priest who abused the children in his care. Yet a school girl caning scene is probably more palatable than a priest abusing the same girl. But our fantasies are OK, aren't they? Each to their own and all that, right?

I'm actually trying to convince myself, as much as any of you here. Because I do struggle with it. And despite wanting to play a priest scene  it's taken this long for me to attempt it. The publication of the Ryan report made me hate myself for having such fantasies in the first place and it's taken almost two years for me to consider it again.

In advance I was worried about my ability to go through with it, but wanted to try. HH was supportive, leaving the decision up to me. He had his cassock, I my 1960's short dress and brogues. As the housekeeper's daughter I was caught reading an inappropriate book from his shelves and we took it from there. From the start I found it hard to let go. HH was scarily convincing as a priest and although I went through the right motions of fear and shame, I was very conscious of my every move.

And then the landmine hit. HH asked me to say a certain prayer. As I struggled to remember it my Grandmother floated into my head. She had taught it to me. She was the last person I said it with. It's a prayer that she says for me regularly, a prayer to keep me safe. I went numb and HH spotted it immediately. End of scene.

He took me upstairs and consoled me as first I babbled incoherently and then sobbed loudly about how I was walking all over my Grandmother, one of the most important people in my life. How I felt like I was throwing everything she believed in back at her by making a mockery of her religion. I felt so distraught it shocked me. How could I not have seen this coming?

It took a long time (and much hugging from HH) for me to calm down about it. To forgive myself for treating my Grandmother so disrespectfully. And to accept it was OK that I couldn't do that scene, to come to terms with the fact some things run deeper than we can appreciate.

It doesn't mean I won't do any more dark fantasies though, just not this particular one. And although I'll be no more capable of preventing another landmine from hitting, at least I'll won't be as shocked by it.

A tale of two L's

The variety of roleplay characters I manage to play never ceases to amaze me. A new scene is proposed and I have to come up with an identity. What does the scene call for? Is she a quiet girl or a boisterous one? Is she nervous or confident? Fearless or timid?

A quick scan over all my personas often leads to to one being commissioned and I can slip into her like a soft kid glove. For situations or people that are new to me I often default to such a character. Bringing Caoilfhionn to Finishing School is one such example. Despite not knowing either of the teachers or many of the girls, I never felt out of my depth.

Let me digress here momentarily. Although bringing a fully formed character like her may have been difficult for the FS teachers, they never let it phase them. Even during one scene where I was so deep as Caoilfhionn I cried for half an hour! For her naughtiness in harming school property (jumping on the trampoline in the snow!) she was forbidden from wearing her pretty dress to the party for the gentlemen that evening, ordered to wear her uniform instead. Poor Caoilfhionn was so distraught at the shame of having disappointed Mrs Darling and Miss Hammond-Grant so much that she'd earned this horrendous punishment. In the end I had to come out of role and be assured Caoilfhionn wasn't a hated girl, but merely it was a punishment they always planned to give someone and as the naughtiest girl, and a lively character at that, she seemed a good choice. And that was exactly right, I, EJ would have coped with the punishment, but Caoilfhionn could not!

However, there are many times a scene demands a new persona and I must invent her. What will the scene entail? Is it light or dark? Does it require submission or fight?  Most importantly what do I want to feel from the scene. Empowered or abused? Loved or despised? The final step is to name her and give her background and context to my play partner. The more realistic I make her, the more I can believe in her. For example a girl who is a prefect and Captain of the Hockey team is not likely to have a poor academic record and little respect from the teachers. Or a reformatory inmate arrested for prostitution is not going to have much education.

Last week I was listening to Neil Jordan (Irish writer and directer) give an interview on a local radio show. The presenter made reference to the protagonist in his latest book and asked how easy was it to write the story down, to tell the character what to do. Jordan's reply was that it was not a matter of him dictating to the character, but rather he was following where the character demanded to go.

And thus it is with my characters and why I love roleplay so much. This ability to throw on a slightly different skin at will and let the character loose.To get lost in an alter ego and follow where she wanders.

So let me introduce you to Lily and Lucy. Two more different characters I could not invent. Lily was an orphan at the Sailors' Orphans Institute. The institute relied heavily on the generosity of an old Colonel, who made substantial donations to the orphange as well as larger personal gifts to the warden. In return he would often request the company of one of the oldest girls. What he wanted the girl for was not talked of, but they were required to do everything he asked of them and the girls lived in fear of getting a bad report on their return. The last girl to visit him had got just that, a poor report and a refusal to have her visit again. The poor girl was birched until she screamed, every day for a week for this failure to please him. And all the older girls were made to watch, to understand their fate if he was disappointed again.

When it's Lily's turn to visit she is petrified. She takes the train alone, nervously watching for her stop. When she finally arrives she needs the bathroom and spends a few minutes tidying her clothes and trying to calm her nerves. (We decided to play the scene in role from the minute I arrive off the train and I fall into character so quickly, become so terrified, that the station master asks me am I OK!)

The Colonel is standing on the other side of the turnstiles, a cane in his hand and looking very impatient. 'What's all this shillyshallying?' he demands. Then turns on his heel and marches out of the station. (The hotel is maybe a 5 minute walk away, but it feels like 50 and I'm worried I'm actually going to be sick with fear as we walk there). At the hotel Lily nervously answers his questions and dares not resist when he undresses and inspects her.(T he scene continues until we leave the hotel for lunch and to my relief HH asks do I want to break role over lunch. The plan was to stay in role with him watching and evaluating her throughout. I'm thankful he gives me a break however, as I'm too upset to be able to talk or eat!)

Poor Lily suffered much at his hands, but as she was a very compliant and submissive little thing she doesn't disappoint him and returns to the orphanage in relief. Lucy Plackett on the other hand was a very different matter!

Lucy was the first character I ever played that I didn't actually like. She had no respect for authority, cared for no-one else's opinion and was quite a bully to the other girls. And horror of horrors she refused to wear her uniform properly. She was pupil at St. Anne's reform school and came to life during a detention scene with several other girls attending a party hosted by Martha.

The only person Lucy liked, and grudgingly at that, was Suzanne McNally, a tough scouse girl. After sizing each other up, realising they couldn't bully the other they called a truce and decided to rule the school together. In truth Lucy was an aggressive little bitch. From her Essex face lift (due to her hair being scraped back so tightly!) to her sneer, there was nothing to commend her to anyone. And the increasingly harder whackings doled out by the teachers had no effect on her at all. She still threatened to cut Candy and Rosemary's plaits off for crossing her, deemed Jemima So and So Gored too wet to even notice and Faye became her own personal bitch.

Not sure I want to bring her out to play too often and the other girls definitely don't want to see her again anytime soon. But even playing her I still felt the same liberation of just letting go and seeing where I end up!

Conspiring in the library!

Over the Christmas holidays I had the pleasure of spending time with Casey Morgan. If you haven't met her let me tell she is even more wonderful in person than her writing and tweeting promises. We had a lovely time in the UK, staying together at both Abel and Haron's, at Elaine's and dancing at the Fawcett Hall ball. But the real icing on her trip was managing to convince her to come to Dublin for a few days.

It was an easy sell, given that I could dangle Master Retep, Bandree and Caroline Grey as my bait! In the end she arrived in Dublin before me and we all caught up on my return over a fantastic dinner (thanks Caroline) and a very funny board game.

The next day we took Casey around our favourite places in Dublin, including a nice long drink at the Library Bar! But it was in the Trinity College 'Long Room' that Casey and I had the most fun. If you've never heard of it this is the old library in Trinity College and is just the most fantastic room. I bring all visitors to this place and love that they feel its magic just as I do.

The picture really doesn't do it justice, it's a very long narrow room with very high ceilings, divided into two floors, with the upper floor a mezzanine over-looking the main floor. From floor to ceiling each aisle is stacked with books, the smell of which assaults you as you enter. It makes me dizzy with longing to flick through the books, to choose one to read, and to sit there cross legged on the floor getting lost in its contents.

Along each side of the main floor is a line of white busts, paying homage to many famous learned men and women, from Descartes to Shakespeare to Milton to Swift. As you walk by them you feel their eyes on you, challenging you with the weight of their knowledge.

It's a room that inspires me with awe. It's also a room that feeds my kinky imagination; I'd give anything to be caned in it ! To my delight Casey found it just as inspiring and we spent the much of our visit developing a detailed fantasy around the room.

Casey is going to write up an actual story about it, which I can't wait to read!  But our premise was that the Long Room was the library in a boys' public school. Each evening the boys would complete prep on the mezzanine floor. The main floor was reserved for the prefects of the school. And it was here that boys would be summoned to be dealt with for various infractions. The boys were all familiar with the procedure. When he entered the duty prefect would call out his name 'Shaw', and pronounce his fate. But he wouldn't be told the number of strokes, it was crueler than that.

Instead they told him the name of a bust. The position of the bust in the line determined the number of strokes. A Shakespeare would only be two, a Socrates six and a Swift was twelve, depending on how far up the line the bust came. We imagined the boy slowly walking though the library, fearfully reading the names on the busts as he went, praying his wasn't too far up the line.

And when he'd get to it, he'd bend over and wait. Until the prefect would take his run up (the further up the room, the longer the run up for the poor boy) and deliver his stroke. It'd ring out loudly and the boy would try to not make any sound, knowing his classmates were above, listening intently to his shame.

Feel free to share other ways you think the room could be put to good and kinky use!

Getting what she deserved...

I very rarely blog about sex. Actually scrap that, I never blog about sex. The details of what I like in my sex life I prefer to keep private. But the below excerpt from the book The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas, which I'm currently reading, just has to be shared. The sheer need for surrender and ownership, if even only momentarily, speaks volumes to me!

"The first thing she did after they were shown to their room was to ask him to fuck her. He responded to the urgency of her request; he kissed her roughly, biting her lip, exactly what she wanted from him. Moaning, she turned around and lay on her stomach on the bed. He pulled her underpants off, forced her legs apart, she heard him unzip, the tearing open of a condom packet and then his cock was entering her. She gritted her teeth, choked back a cry as he pushed hard inside her, the pain slicing her, the sensation exactly what she wanted, needed, what she deserved.

She took one, two, three, four shallow gulps of air, winced, and then she was above the pain. He was now a jackhammer, slamming into her, she was full of him, as much in her belly as in her cunt, she buried her face into the coverlet, her outstretched hands were clutching at the sheets, the fabric coiled around her fingers: she wanted him to fill her completely.

He was smashing into her, tearing her apart, destroying her and putting her back together. She was crying from the pain and the relief. She was still nowhere near arousal when he climaxed - he came with a roar, not touching her - but she let out a loud, grateful moan. He fell on top of her and she savoured the heaviness of his wet body over hers. He had made her his again."

To Darlings we are sent...

There is just so much to say about Finishing School that it will take several blog posts, so this is just a teaser. The introspection and analysis comes later. For now I'm just going to give you a taster of what came to pass.

It all begins with the wonderful world of Twitter and a conversation between a few girls (one of which was me) and Lucy of Northern Spanking, on which she half joked about hosting a finishing school and we all thought it was a fantastic idea and begged to be allowed attend.

A few months later cue 10 girls heading to Scotland to Darlings Academy under the care of Mrs Darling (aka Lucy) and Miss Hammond-Grant (aka Amy Hunter.) The scene is thus set. Some of the action unfolds as follows:

I wait nervously at the airport to be picked up, along with three others until we are met by Miss Hammond-Grant, who cuts a terrifying figure in her smart clothes and her strict voice. Having never met Amy before I am shocked that we go straight into role. She announces Parker our driver and we trail about 5 metres behind them along the airport out to the bus, all shocked into silence.

Once safely on the bus Caoilfhionn and Jemima find their voice and keep up a  monologue of questions, singing and giggling the whole hour long journey to the academy, torturing both their escort and Parker as we go. It's not until after dinner that night when we relax out of role briefly that Amy finally tells us Parker wasn't a kinkster at all, but a regular hired bus driver. Eliane and I don't quite get over the mortification of this the entire weekend!

Admittance to the Academy (a spectacular castle) is dramatic. We wait in the cold night as the bolts are slowly and noisily drawn back and then Mrs Darling herself bades us enter. Once shown into the Drawing room to be inducted to the school rules we collapse into nervous giggles. We are, as was the desired effect, completely unnerved.

The only lesson of the evening is Grooming and all 10 girls listen in raptures as Mrs Darling and Miss Hammond Grant demonstrate make-up and hair techniques, genuinely wanting to learn. The next morning I try to bouff my hair and although some unkind girl (Tombola) says I look like Elvis, it makes my day when Miss Hammond-Grant compliments me on my efforts.

The day starts with Assembly and we are taught the school song and sing it with enthusiasm! My room mate Catherine Thomas is pronounced as head girl, a role she carries out perfectly, leading all the way, and very much a girl to be looked up to. She was also very capable of mischief, although generally of the more subtle variety.

Caoilfhionn genuinely tries hard to be good, but mischief is never too far away! And along with Alexandra, Tombola and Jemima is soon vying for the worst placed pupil award!

Her first prank pantygate as it is christened in discovered in the first assembly. All dressed in our matching uniforms we are meant to be wearing suitable ladylike underwear. However, some advanced plotting (aided by Abel no less!) means we are all wearing matching Little Miss Trouble knickers. A scheme of which our teachers have already found out about! We are all bent over and soundly lectured and spanked for breaking the rules. However it's just the warm up to the day that's needed and we all visibly relax.

Lessons are devoted to preparing for a Gala evening of entertainment for our bachelors. My class prepare songs to sing as well as flower arrangements to decorate the rooms. We also learn to prepare cocktails for cocktail hour. Whilst there was much spanking and mischief in our first music lesson, we are concentrating too hard in the second for anyone to get spanked at all!

Flower arranging also passes by, almost without incident. On a trip outside to collect foliage, Caoilfhionn is egged on by Cate to jump on the snow covered trampoline. It's tremendous fun until Mrs Darling catches her and spanks her in the snow. She is also given a stern lecture about fool hardiness that evening which reduces her to tears (more on this later).

That evening the girls have 15 mins to dress for the visiting gentlemen, in their prettiest dress. Each is assigned to escort a gentleman to his rooms and show him around the castle. Mrs Darling has impressed on us the seriousness of not letting her down and every girl tries hard to be the perfect hostess whilst we also prepare and serve dinner. Only Tombola can't contain herself and is the first to be in trouble at the dinner table.

Caoilfhionn conspires again, this time with the Head Girl no less, to serve the gentlemen their after dinner coffees with 'willy' shaped mints on the side. Our heads are not impressed, and poor Tombola is at first accused. I soon own up and my protests that I thought they were plain after eights are ignored, with a scathing put down from Mrs Darling.

I'm sentenced to a caning in front of all assembled and to my horror both heads stand either side of me with a cane each. What follows is the most painful of the punishments meted out to me, a double caning form either side, 12 agonising strokes delivered at a blistering pace. I still have the 12 clear lines on my bottom.

If they were angry at my part in this prank, the involvement of our Head Girl is an outrage and she is given twice the punishment, 24 hard strokes delivered at the same speed.

The next day as we washed up over breakfast the thought struck me that we might be expected to know the school song off by heart. The head girl suggests we learn it off and one of my best memories of the weekend is singing it over and over with the other girls as we attended to our duties, delighted that we'd escape that punishment at least

Morning assembly, however brings punishments for nearly all girls for various misdeeds of the night before. (Mine is for tweeting after lights out!) Although Caoilfhioon is very sore, courtesy of the canings and several spankings by the gentleman the night before, and resolves to stay out of trouble it's a short lived hope.

The sexual etiquette lesson is a fountain of knowledge for the girls and several of us take detailed notes. I carefully noted, as instructed by Mrs Darling that I should not monopolise conversations during dates. However my real shame comes when I am ordered to demonstrate the furniture top dancing that I listed as a special skill on my application form! In front of the school and the gentlemen I have to dance on a stool, aided by Jemina and the girls singing the Trinian's theme. As I topple off my stool I am caught by Miss Hammond Grant and neatly out across her knee for a very sound spanking.

The snow interrupts my last lesson and I miss final assembly but am told on the way out that Caoilfhionn came bottom. Considering the antics of Alexandra, Tombola and Jemima this is quite a feat and although Caoilfhionn has the decency to be a bit ashamed I am almost proud!

There is so much more I could say, however the other girls must tell their own stories. I will be posting again about how deeply I went in role, and why I think the weekend worked so well for me.

But massive thanks go to Lucy and Amy for their ambitions and attention to detail that resulted in such a fabulous weekend. Having never met either of them before we easily fell into role with each other and  they both embraced, and let Caoilfhionn flourish.

All the other girls and tutors were also wonderful and added so much to the weekend too. And although, as with all incredible roleplay weekends like this and the Regency House Party, I and several of the other girls have been crashing terribly today, but it's certainly been worth it!

1810 - The way we were

Protected. Beautiful. Wanted. Loved. Understood. Worthy. Special.

That's how I felt this weekend. No other roleplay makes me feel this way like the Regency House Party does. Last year wasn't just a once off, a new experience blown out of proportion. At the second tasting it was just as profound. Many times I looked at the people around me and felt humbled to be part of this. To be included.

For men to ask me to dance, stand when I entered a room, seat me at dinner, fetch my napkin, give me an arm when walking, compliment me in ways that I heard.

For beautiful ladies to tell me that I too had beauty, to share a whispered secret, to giggle behind a fan, to help me dress, praise my choice of clothes, shoes, jewellery, to enjoy the other's company.

The swish of my dress as I flounced into a room, the pure girlyness of my own laughter sounding strange to my ears, the blush of an unladylike thought, the gentle beating of my own happy heart.

The indulgence of exquisite food, the carefree abandonment of eating and drinking at leisure, the joy of servants on hand.

The frisson of excitement on entering the Hellfire club masked and cloaked, the thrill of being won to Lord Fawcett, the submission of being leashed and led, and the fear of the look that promised retribution.

The anticipation of being blindfolded and dealt with by each gentleman in turn, the surrealness of hearing all the ladies endure as I endured, and the certainty with which I went to my own man.

The laughter at some joke or trick, the sudden realisation it has gone too far and punishment quick to follow.

The pleasure of writing and receiving  letters, the promise of fun and delights to come, the thrill of new experiences, and the pleasure of old ones revisited.

The ritual of the dance, partners barely touching, chemistry at its most potent, catching an eye across the room, and finally coming together for the waltz, dancing all of us in harmony.

The shameless posing and flirting with the camera, and the girl with the camera, in the hope there might be a photo that captures the essence of love and life and togetherness of this wonderful weekend.

The wonderment that one person could have such vision and ambitions to create this uptopic fantasy and bring it to fruition, the frustration that mere words would never be enough to convey our thanks to the Arch-Duchess.

The tears welling up as it all came to an end, the drop crashing around my head like the bells of doom.

And the acceptance that 1810 is no more, but happy memories, photos and friendship endure in the real world too.

Protected. Beautiful. Wanted. Loved. Understood. Worthy. Special.

From the diary of Lady Grace Altamount

I have just taken a peek at Cousin Francesca's diary. (If she will leave it lying around it only serves as an invitation to read her most intimate thoughts!) I was very pleased to learn that she truly had enjoyed Lord Fawcett's party, as indeed had I.

Although we were nervous on our arrival, the charming company and luxurious surroundings put us both immediately at ease. We were grateful that both our fathers had been generous in our clothing allowance and we were dressed as finely as the other young ladies. Although it was noted that Miss Dorothea Latimer, a delightful and handsome young lady, wore dresses of the finest silks and most modern styles. It appeared that the rumours of her vast wealth were indeed true.

Mrs Derby, as our chaperone was very particular to oversee our preparations and seemed very pleased with our appearance. With a parting reminder on posture and manners she dismissed us to go down and meet the other guests.

However, I was very quickly to learn some news that did not sit well with me at all. Dearest Papa in some fit of lunacy had engaged Sir Abel Cadogan, newly appointed Chief Punishment Officer of England, to act as my disciplinarian. To my absolute horror Sir Abel felt the need to demonstrate his discipline techniques both first thing in the morning and last thing at night and nothing less than a painful dose of the cane would do. Although I must confess it the only cloud on an otherwise wonderful weekend.

As we mingled with the other guests before dinner on the first evening, I was to learn more fortunate news. Mrs Derby had found me a suitor that she felt would both please me and make me a most fortuitous match. Although the young man himself was not in attendance, I had the pleasure of meeting his father, Mr Conningsby. To my astonishment I discovered he was an American.

It was so very exciting hear his tales form the New World and he seemed quite taken with me. He felt my spirit would serve me well in the New World and I eagerly told him of my pirate connections which amused him more than it had Lord Fawcett.

With this lovely prospect of escaping the clutches of Sir Abel, I happily was escorted into dinner by the charming Lord Plymouth. A quite accomplished man he was recently engaged to Lady Charlotte Carlise and they were due to be married that very week. If we were surprised at their haste it was not talked of, much.

At dinner I had the honour of seating to the left of Lord Fawcett and felt the compliment exceedingly. The delightful Lady Cecily De Burgh was seated across from me and dinner passed most pleasantly. Of course all of society was aware of her recent incarceration in the Lowewood Reformatory. However, apart form some slight remarks, not much was talked of this.. Lady Cecily being so pretty and rich was enough to overcome such a scandal.

Dinner was a truly sumptuous affair and I tasted the delights of finely prepared fish, hare soup and exquisite quail. After dinner the Ladies retired to the drawing room and enjoyed a small glass of port as we awaited the gentlemen. I was delighted to make the further acquaintance of Lady Emma Cavendish, a lady of such beauty she is renowned in three countries.

And such was the order of the weekend, fine company, delightful amusements and exquisite food. When not in the company of the gentlemen we ladies spent our time in the quiet pursuits of needlework, letter writing and reading. I had been fortunate to receive a folio of an unknown writer by the name of Jane Austen, simply titled Persuasion. I was enthralleed by the utter romance of the novel and dearly hoped she would publish some day.

To our interest we learned that each lady present was assigned one of the gentlemen to act as her champion and defend her honour. My heartfelt sympathies went out to Francesca as Sir Abel was named as hers and my fears were confirmed as he spanked her at dinner on the second night! Although in a strange reversal of behaviour it was I who confiscated her wine and urged her to behave herself. Perhaps Sir Abel was having an effect afterall.

I myself was under the protection of Lord Dorchester, a wonderful, charming young man with an eye for Miss Latimer. However, I was startled to learn he played fast and loose with my honour and at the card tables had indebted himself to the sum of 87 guineas to Mr Conninsgby. For which I was fofeited to make the repayment.

It was with great fortune that Mr Conningsby had by now made up his mind that I was suitable marriage material for his son Fenwick Conninsby II, and was therefore as interested in my honour as I was myself. He did however subject me to a thorough inspection to ascertain my breeding qualities. And also gave a firm display of the discipline that he and his son were in agreement upon.

The festivities finally concluded with a ball, my absolute favorite pastime in the world. I happily was engaged for several dances with the dashing Viscount Fitzwarren. It was quite a thrill to learn a new dance from the Americas called a waltz. To our shock the gentlemen put their hands on out person as we danced, how racy indeed.

The Viscount proved an accomplished dancer and at first a seemingly mellow man . But when I was put over his knee and firmly spanked for trying to lead him in the waltz, I had to hastily revise my early judgement of him.

So it was with very heavy hearts we departed in our carriage, our weekend of fun and frolics at an end. What a wrench to depart from such charming and wonderful company. I was even sorry to bade farewell to Sir Abel, even if we did give me 18 hard cane strokes to remind me of him. Still despite the sorrow we were overflowing with joy at been invited and Cousin Francesca and I both felt very lucky indeed and forever indebted to Lord Fawcett and Mrs Derby.

A sick imagination

I've been rather unwell this week, hence the lack of posts. Not only have I lacked energy, I just haven't been in a kinky frame of mind. However, today I seem to have turned a corner. As I endured another day of enforced bed rest my kinky mind suddenly woke up and started to entertain me (and about time too!).

Here's one of the ideas I had today. I enjoyed twisting it back and forth!

A girl skives off school pretending to be sick. The housekeeper buys her fake coughs and sniffles but not her strict Uncle. On returning early from work he inspects her rigorously, determining that she is indeed faking. The sound thrashing that follows ensures she won't try that again.

or

A girl is sick. Her Uncle is very concerned for her well being and orders her to stay in bed. He forbids her from using her phone or laptop. When he happens upon her sending an email to a friend he is not swayed by her sickly cries. Over his knee she goes for a short but hard spanking, all for her own good.

Naughty daydreams

My naughty daydreams in the office are always inspired by what I'm wearing and usually go like this. I have a major presentation thingy so I dress appropriately. Usually in a short (but still acceptable) dress, or skirt with a very fitted blouse. Outwardly I look like a modest young professional, dressed to impress. And if I've got my glasses on I mean to be very serious indeed.

But underneath I'll be wearing a black lace bra, lacey black panties and stockings with high heels to round the outfit off. And I delight in knowing that in one fluid movement I could be revealed as the naughty girl I am.

This feeling is even further exacerbated if it's after a recent playdate. I know that if I bend over too far or reach too high, not only will the tops of my stockings show but also the blatant stripes on my thighs and bottom!

And feeling so naughty means my mind easily wanders off into lovely daydreams. You know the ones; about being spanked in the boss's* office, strapped by the quality standards team or being caned by the chairman of the board.

Such delicious day dreams keep me well entertained during the often tedious hours of boring meetings. Although I know there are some who would feel that not paying attention in important meetings is a spankable offence all by itself...

*Except of course I'm substituting my real boss, and colleagues for infinitely more desirable types!

Fantasy. Reality.

Young girl caught drinking underage, arrested and faces a conviction. Instead is sentenced to 6 cane strokes, administered by the prison govenor. Fantasy.

32 year old Muslim woman arrested for drinking alcohol. Fined €1,000, sentenced to 6 cane strokes and publicly disgraced. Reality.

Teenager sneaks out wearing an inappropriately short skirt. Her Uncle catches her and is very displeased. Gives her a sound whipping with his belt as a reminder to dress more modestly. Fantasy.

Sudanese journalist faces 40 lashes for wearing trousers in public. Reality.

Hangover Cure

I was a lil bit naughty the other night. Actually I was a lot naughty. Went out on a school night, didn't get home until near 3am, drank an indecent amount of alcohol and was terribly hungover all day at work. That would have been ok (ish).

Except silly me decided to check and respond to a few emails before I finally closed my eyes. It certainly wasn't clever to include Abel in that correspondence and therefore alert him to the lateness of the hour or even worse, the extent of my inebriation!

And thus the next morning, through bleary eyes, I read the following note from him:

Young lady, it is evident that you stayed out far beyond your bedtime last night, and that you were drinking alcohol.

As your guardian, I have a duty to make sure you behave properly. I have to say that your conduct is quite unacceptable and cannot go unpunished.

You will go to school as usual today. When you return, you will go straight to your bedroom and wait until I am ready to deal with you.

Despite the fact I was alone, and knowing that Abel was at a very safe distance, I still blushed furiously. And I squirmed all day long. Feeling alternatively naughty, repentant and slightly defiant.

Although really I was enjoying the delicious squirmy feeling and happily let my mind wander over the various punishments I might have received...

It certainly helped distract me from the woeful hangover!

Desolate fantasies

Last night before I went to sleep I had the following fantasy. In it I was playing with friends of mine and I took a lot of liberties with their characters, making them do things they probably wouldn't do, especially the last part!

I also took liberties with myself because the incident leading up to the punishment is absolutely not something I'd ever do, and I even blush writing it! But isn't that what fantasies are about?

Anyway the whole point of it was that the scene didn't end in nice comforting hugs, but with me alone in tears. It's actually a recurring fantasy of mine that I'm not sure I'd ever like to act out but I find the idea very hot. Punished and shamed to tears. Left alone to contemplate my actions. Being left in desolation.

I was coming to stay with Mr and Mrs Friend for the weekend but had given them the wrong flight details. So Mr Friend was left waiting at the airport for me for more than two hours while Mrs Friend was at home having made a nice dinner which was slowly going to ruin.

I wasn't the least bit apologetic that my failure to give accurate flight times had inconvenienced everyone else. I was practically belligerent about it. Nor did I apologise to Mrs Friend for ruining dinner or thank her for her efforts. In short I was being a horrible bitch.

So Mr and Mrs Friend decided I needed teaching a serious lesson in manners. I was hauled upstairs and forced over the desk in Mr Friend's study. Then Mr and Mrs Friend took in turns to hold me down while the other applied a senior cane to my bottom. Hard.

At first I kicked and struggled and yelled blue murder. But pretty soon I was too busy trying to cope with the onslaught of cane strokes to struggle too much. They had both swapped over several times before the tears came. And shortly afterwards I was babbling my apologies and begging them to stop. But they didn't.

I have no idea how many strokes I'd had when they did eventually stop. All I was conscious of was the burning, throbbing pain. Ordered to stand in front of them I was asked once more to apologise, which I did, trying to control my tears. A moment of silence before a curt nod from Mr Friend and I was ordered to bed with the warning I had better behave myself for the rest of my visit.

Alone in my room I lay on my stomach, carefully touching my welted bottom. And cried myself to sleep.

Relaxing, kinky style

I've had a very dull and stressful vanilla week, with barely a kinky thought. Sometimes life gets like that. Work gets busy and I don't have the time or inclination to day dream as much as I'd like. And I was also off to spend the weekend with some vanilla friends. Although looking forward to it I knew there wouldn't be much time for kinky thoughts then either.

So when I got home from work on Friday I took a short nap to reconnect with my kink and relax myself. I closed my eyes, aimed my thoughts kinkwise and let my mind wander. This is where it took me:

'I was sent to my room to await punishment. Warnings had been given but not heeded. The stern tone enough to brook immediate compliance. This wasn't going to be a gentle reminder to behave. As I made my way out of the room he told me how he expected to find me.

In my room I quickly removed my clothes, putting them away neatly. Then knelt on the bed with my knees apart. I leaned forward with my elbows flat on the bed and head pressed down, leaving my bottom up high in the air. Vulnerable.

He didn't make me wait long. As eager as me to get this punishment over with. He didn't stop to lecture me. Knowing by my quiet submission I already repentant. I felt nervous and exposed. It's always harder for me when he doesn't speak. When I can hear him fetching an implement (or was it implements), but having no idea of what's in store. His disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

The first stoke lands without warning and I struggle to hold onto my position. A tawse. Heavy. Painful. Another lash just as hard. And another. And another. I fight to stay in position. The more I submit and take it, the sooner it will be over. Again and again it lands and I concentrate on not moving. The burn intensifies and my cries increase from whimpers to yelps. He moves it up and down my bottom. Sometimes landing 3 strokes in a row on the same spot. Agonisingly painful.

But I know worse is to come. He waits until I'm crying before moving down to my thighs. The first blinding lash makes me sit up. And I give way to sobs. In defeat I get back down again and suffer the onslaught on my thighs as best I can. I'm squirming on the bed, no longer at all brave, not at all obedient. Every muscle in my body hurts from trying to hold still.

By the time he stops I'm distraught. The pain and shame has overwhelmed me. I collapse on the bed and he waits in silence until I control my tears. I know we're not finished. I know he's waiting. I get back into position, arching my back, presenting my bottom. He stands behind me, hands gently stroking me, reassuring me. I take a deep breath and surrender to him.'

Don't you just love when your mind takes you to such hot places?