Making my way back...

The signs had been good. Slowly getting back into wanting to play 'properly'. Certain types of scenes: caring, DD, and relatively easy headspaces. With time and practice and the desperate need to reclaim my head I was starting to get into proper roleplay again. Some times it's been easier than others but all the while I've definitely been moving forward. And within that, little by little, going deeper and deeper.

When Abel and I played a school scene during the week I felt I was almost back to where I used to be: so quickly had I slipped into Lucy's shoes; how easily I'd been that errant young student; and how ashamed I felt to have let myself and my school down.

And so I confidently planned scenes in advance of my recent visit to HH; I felt ready.

The first scene was to to start from the train and was intended to help me cast off my work persona and get into a good space to play. It was a fairly innocuous scene in theory: a young woman who'd lost her way and got into too much trouble, sent to a new guardian to make a fresh start in life. The idea was that careful guidance and a certain amount of discipline would set her back on track. There was nothing dark or abusive about it and I had planned to play her lightly - not taking the new life very seriously, at least at first.

To my surprise it was far from light. Ally turned out to be a complicated character and one I became so immersed in that I could see every aspect of her life: her past, her fears, her frustrations. All of which were hidden by the outward defiant persona that Mr Wilson (HH) was seeing. 

She fought back on everything from refusing to answer to Alison, to disdainfully wearing the clothes provided and insisting she wouldn't obey his stupid rules. She even refused to go across his lap for a spanking earned through her rudeness. Nor was it a cursory refusal as I would often do in a scene: it even getting to the point where it could have derailed the scene completely. Ally was outraged about being spanked and twisted and kicked and punched against him, but he was too strong for her. Finally overpowered, she gritted her teeth as she lay across his lap, waiting it out, trying not to show that it was hurting. Each time he paused to check on her attitude she threw barbed insults at him.

When he tried to take her knickers down the battle started afresh, with no let up from her, even when he threatened to rip them off. Normally in something like this EJ will take over and give in to keep the scene on the road, especially if a pair of knickers was at stake. But Ally was in charge. So Mr Wilson changed tack: sat her on his knee; explained how he could help her; made her aware that if he really wanted to beat her into submission, he could, but that her life had to change; emphasised that she no longer had any friends or family who cared about her and this was her last chance. It worked. Breaking into tears she let herself be hugged as she admitted she just wanted to go home.

Ally stayed in my head for a long time afterwards. And even when EJ eventually resurfaced I didn't feel at all like I normally do after great immersive play; I was down, upset for Ally and unable to forget her. The feeling lasted much longer than usual and it troubled me. Yes it was normal to have a period of resurfacing after scenes but these feelings were surprisingly painful. I couldn't cast off her despair. Was it because those feelings of misery were too like those I'm experiencing in my real life?

It made me doubt the other scene we'd planned: a much darker context. A maid who had breached her contract and had been sent to the House of Correction as punishment. It was to start with admittance to the institute and a private flogging which I knew would be severe. Despite changing the original premise of the scene, from one where she was blameless to where she was culpable of the offence and had redemption and hope when she finished her sentence, I still expected it to take me to dark places. I just wasn't sure I wanted to go there anymore.

I was worried about how I would feel post scene. What if I didn't fly? What if I got trapped in her misery and struggled to come out of the horrible dark place? I was also worried on practical level: I hadn't played a severe scene in a long time; I was afraid of how much it would hurt. In the end I decided to go for it, letting my fear build up as HH made his preparations.

Again I quickly slipped into Nancy's head: she was regretful of treating her employer so badly; wishing she had worked harder for him and not been so lazy; pitying herself for being sent to the House of Correction. Her hands shook as she made her birch, needing several attempts to secure the bundle. Blushed as he made her strip naked, laughing at her predicament. She was already crying by the time she was chained to the whipping bench. A properly terrified girl.

Anyone who's ever been spray birched can attest to how agonising it is and for Nancy nothing could have prepared her for the searing pain. She screamed in shock as the first few strokes fell, building quickly on each other; anticipated each following stroke in terror as she heard it swishing down with the shards breaking off every time it connected with her skin. It wasn't long before she was sobbing. At times she couldn't breathe, couldn't understand how she was surviving it. But she had no choice: whatever feelings EJ had on the matter were dismissed - there was only Nancy and the warden.

He was thorough and vicious: alternating between slow and fast strokes; ensuring the birch crept into the sensitive places exposed by how stretched she was over the bench; taking his time to land strokes precisely on her inner thighs, laughing at the louder shrieks of pain this elicited. He was a man determined to take her to the point of doing anything to make him stop: when he demanded what he wanted she didn't resist but silently complied. And then the last dozen strokes fell on her limp body as she lay crying silent tears.

Post this scene I hid under the bed covers on my own trying to come out of the scene. At this point HH always checks if I want him to stay near or leave the room. Either way he waits until I want him but he knows I can't be touched until I take Nancy out of the scene and then get out of her head. I cried until I retched, for her, for her misery, for the promise of more abuse to come, for the physical pain I was feeling.

But when I started to calm down and disassociate from her I cried even more to realise I wasn't feeling the usual relief in surfacing. The misery and fear refused to leave, the despair hung over, it all felt too familiar. Now I was crying for me, for the familiar feelings of fear and despair that are never far away. And I wondered why the hell I roleplayed such misery and fear when I've had so much of it, seen so much of it this year?

I didn't really recover from this scene until we played the rest of it the next day. When the Master took his turn to abuse her: birching her on her breasts and thighs, threatening a full repeat of her recent birching, so she was amenable to what he wanted. And when she faltered at a request, took a strap to her until she screamed, stuffed her mouth with his handkerchief to muffle the screams and then whipped her some more until he was satisfied she was fully compliant.

The difference with this scene was that I didn't go nearly as deep - I was Nancy, but EJ wasn't far away. But it brought closure to the character and in the end  I did fly and feel thankful that I could go back to the deep dark places and it wouldn't kill me. But then the real life deep dark places don't kill you either: you just make your way back, slowly, slowly, slowly.

The naughtiness continues!

This evening Abel and I went out to dinner with some new friends. Let's call them Bambi and the Hunter. Mainly because one will really hate their name and the other will be bemused by it.

We've met Bambi and the Hunter a couple of times now. Enough for EJ to start escaping. Both are fairly new to the scene and meeting kinksters, although both experienced with each other. They're partly contributing to my kinky re-awakening as I look at their enthusiasm to play and their precious time grabbed with each other, making the most of it. I used to be like that; before I got spoiled and had play on tap. Before there wasn't room to flirt and brat and fantasise because my play was all around me.

But I digress, that's a blog post for another day. Needless to say with EJ escaping and finding a kindred spirit in Bambi the evening turned out to be playfully mischievous. First there was a ride on a carousel for Bambi, Abel and me. (Oh how we sniggered that Abel rode Joseph!) Then a trip to the big purple cow to sit on the magic mushrooms (work that one out yourselves people!) Before dinner in Yo Sushi.

Now this is one of my favourite places to eat at the minute but I hadn't truly appreciated the potential for brattiness. There's the water taps on the table: if you push the tap too hard everyone on the table gets splashed or if you overfill the drip tray people's feet underneath the table get wet! Then there's the fun of pressing the service bell, on and off, lights flashing and announcer claiming table 12 needs attention, followed by the exasperated look of the waiter arriving to find we weren't in need of anything at all. Or the fun of the carousel with the bowls of sushi. However, I'm not going to describe the strange chocolate dessert, save to say Abel's description of 'japanese condom' was very apt!

As the Hunter took Bambi off he promised she would pay for her naughtiness. Abel assured him I would pay for mine too. And so I got my first caning in my new home, with the dreaded dragon cane. I would have gotten six, but HH on hearing I was to be punished was so approving that Abel decided to double it, in his honour.

I can't tell a lie: the 12 strokes really hurt! But I was a good girl and took them bravely(ish). Didn't I stripe beautifully?

The words won't come...

I'm waving shyly at you lovely readers and hoping my absence will be excused. That's the first problem I face returning to the blog that I have shamefully neglected. Shameful not just because of the perceived neglect of the readers I've had for so long, but the neglect of myself and my need to document and process.

All I can offer is that it's been a challenging couple of months with health issues and family and personal stresses. But I feel in a better place now; not a perfect place, but a good place. Nothing is easy, but nothing is impossible either. Kink wise I'm playing with the people I love and trust the most and when play doesn't work out I still feel safe and cared for. And I'm surrounded by my friends, some of whom happen to be kinky, but it's not the defining link anymore. As ever my family are special and important.

Finding energy and space to write hasn't been a priority, yet I know I'm missing out on so much: I miss my blog and I miss my readers. But the words won't come. I want to talk about the wonderful kinky weekends and parties I've had and been too, the scenes that were great and the people I love. But the words won't come. And nor will the capacity to process the more difficult elements: the scenes that didn't work; the sudden and irrational anger, frustrations and jealousies; the relationships and groups dynamics that are tough to navigate. The words just won't come.

So here are some pictures to keep you close to me and let's all hope the words come back, when they're ready, when I'm ready.

I celebrated my 30th birthday recently and had a party with a London Blitz theme - the house was decorated in blitz style and all our guests wore 1940's costumes, and thanks to Lucy, all had perfect 1940s hair too. Below is just one of the many decorations and posters my dear Catherine Thomas made for the party! And the fabulous cake Kinky Ella made (using all her ration for months to do it!). Of course I went as an evacuee, determined that EJ's girly spirit was just as strong, even in my 30s ;-)

I've been trying to improve my overall health by getting fit and having a better diet. HH and Abel are very supportive of this, so much so they delight in over-seeing my training. This is all for my own good you see; as is caning me as extra motivation. Nothing whatsoever to do with their sadistic natures, apparently.

The last two are from a recent weekend away in the darkest countryside with HH and Abel - a weekend where I was their play thing, abused and used for their pleasure. Abel has written a great post about it here, for those of you who would like more detail. But I think these two pictures tell it all: the submissive girl, birch in hand going to meet her fate and the broken girl, sore and sobbing but yet feeling comforted and safe by those who know her best.

Getting over my 'difficulties'

My past few visits to HH have seen me arrive in an odd mood; last weekend was true to form. Despite looking forward to the visit and the weekend of play, despite having discussed scenes in advance, despite knowing on this occasion I was due a punishment as soon as I arrived (and had been worrying appropriately!), despite all this I refused to play. Not in a bratty, whiny way - just in a 'you must be kidding' type of way.

So we chilled for the evening and before bed I got a firm hand spanking which I just about coped with. The next day my punishment was duly delivered and I was as contrite and well disciplined as you can imagine. I had stopped being 'difficult', for a while at least and I felt at peace.

It lasted until bed-time, when HH reminded me that bed time spankings on the day of a punishment are always given with a hairbrush, hard. I tried not to be rebellious about it; I tried to be accepting. But as the hairbrush rained down so hard, biting my skin, I got angry: at the pain, at him, at the world. And semi intentionally went quiet, channelling my anger and frustration into breaking him into stopping. A few more whacks and I was let up. I had succeeded. If I was a clever girl  I'd have been very contrite, realised I got away slightly lighter than I should have and breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately I'm not a clever girl: I stood up in a huff and pulled my knickers and pj bottoms up, without asking permission. (As you may recall from a previous post of mine, the asking of permission is a big deal in our play.) When he sat me on his knee and patiently told me off for being difficult I caved in - admitted that I knew I could manipulate him into stopping, that I was increasingly trying to top from the bottom.

He nodded, then put me back over his knee and hair-brushed me til I begged him to stop. Then hair-brushed me some more, until I was crying limply over his knee, not resisting anymore. To drive the message home he caned me on my thighs.

I really hoped that was the end of my being difficult. Discipline and obedience is my core kink - I can't allow myself to undermine HH's authority (that I imposed on him!) or we'll lose the dynamic that works in this type of play. And in other role pay we do, where I give myself totally to him and get lost in the depths of those feelings.

When we discussed scenes to play the next day this was heavy on my mind. I told him I wanted to be scared, to understand how fully in his power I could be, to beg for mercy and really mean it. I wanted to play with the disobedience and disappointment; my feelings, not his. My kink swings may frustrate him but he didn't feel he needed to make a point of it. Nor does he require my obedience because he wants it, but because he knows it's what I need.

To make it work on that level I wanted to be me in the scene: EJ. However, I knew this would cause a dilemma for HH, as he can't really be truly evil unless he's role-playing someone else. Therefore I suggested that I was to be sent to a master disciplinarian to be taught a lesson - that HH had sent me away to be broken and returned to him with a new attitude.

This led to a very interesting dynamic - I really felt that it wasn't HH I was paying with, especially as he taunted me about 'HH' during the scene. During the final pain and humiliation I actually begged out loud for HH; it was scary and weird all at once.

As he prepared the play room for the scene, I lay on the bed, worrying. I was trying to prepare myself for the pain ahead. Trying to talk myself into an accepting space. I knew if I got angry or defiant in the scene at all the consequences would be horrific.

When the time came he ordered me to strip naked. As I watched nervously, he attached cuffs to my ankles and wrists and a posture collar to my neck. The latter forced me to look up which was particularly cruel; I couldn't hide from his derision.

Upstairs the sight of the wooden pony made me feel ill. For those of you unfamiliar with it, below is an excerpt from the last blog post I wrote about it:

A narrow plank of wood suspended from the ceiling. One at a time we were placed straddling it, legs held apart with a spreader bar, wrists cuffed to an elastic rope above. As the plank was winched higher, our legs were too strained to support us and the pressure between our legs became unbearable.

The elastic above gave false hope. The more you pulled the lower it would drop down giving no relief.

At first the wood between my legs was bearable, eased slightly as I tried to sit back, leaning on my bottom, whilst he twisted and whipped my nipples and breasts. But then he made me sit less comfortably, by attaching clamps to my nipples and dragging me forward. This was the first of many times in the scene that I begged.

I tried hard to bear it - closed my eyes, bit my lips, tugged on the elastic above my head. Until I couldn't stand it anymore and the pain swelled to unbearable depths. (I really have no tolerance for nipple clamps!) At the point my begging became near hysterical he counted down from 20 so slowly it felt like each second was a minute. Finally he released each nipple by pulling the clamp off sharply, to a piercing scream from me; I sobbed pitifully.

When he raised the pony even higher a whole new wave of pain overcame me, my legs straining to tiptoe higher, my arms desperately pulling on the elastic. By the time he let me off the pony he had already broken me. What followed next was just gratuitous pain.

He lay me on my back on the bed, my legs suspended in the air with my ankles chained to the beam above. My thighs were completely exposed, pulled tight and at his full mercy. As he picked up the bean paddle I whimpered in fear. I hate the bean paddle. Imagine a small scale oar, the head about the size of a regular paddle with a longish handle. The head is thin and whippy and very shiny and it feels like the worst combination of a thin leather strap and a wooden paddle.

My fear was not in vain, the paddle whipped down on my thighs and crease until I screamed and sobbed and then could only whimper. In between his hands probed and hurt me with smacks raining down between my legs, on the front of my thighs, my breasts, my face - everywhere was game and I was powerless to stop him.

The final six with the paddle left me a hyperventilating mess. I had to count each stroke but the garbled words could barely be understood. This merely made him laugh. When he stopped he grabbed my face and asked me would I be a better girl for HH in the future. I swore I would, then begged with all my heart to go back to him.

But he wasn't finished yet - one last abuse executed without compassion, that left me under no illusion of who was in charge. My last tears fell quietly as I tried to pretend I wasn't there, that it didn't hurt, that he wasn't destroying me completely.

I eventually got 'HH' back for some much needed cathartic tears and cuddles, and needless to say I wasn't a bit difficult for the rest of the visit. I dread the thought of having to revisit this man, but feel reassured knowing he's there if needed, to help me get over my difficulties...

A painful review

As those of you who are regular readers of The Spanking Writers will know, Abel is somewhat of a collector of implements. In one of his recent posts he listed a helpful Implement Rollmaker of Honour. Two of the entries in particular caught my eye.

The first was the Claire's Accessories hairbrush which seemed incongruous amongst the others:

"For hairbrushes: it just has to be Mason Pearson – although, bizarrely, I found the most gorgeous cheap brush in Claire’s Accessories when Emma Jane and I were on holiday in Belgium last month, which was very robust but not too severe, and worked rather beautifully"

I had to agree with Abel's assessment, and as you can see below it's a very cute and girly brush, but packed quite a sting and reddened me very nicely!

The second was the list of cane makers:

"For canes: Prysm, Maui Kink, Can-iac and Quality Control. Jack’s Floggers are also recommended (although try finding them at places such as the LAM; I never managed to get a reply to my requests to buy their canes online)."

It reminded me I still hadn't tried his new canes from Prysm.

On my next visit we put that to rights, with six strokes of each swiftly delivered, as blogged by Abel. And then once my favourite (read most painful) one had been established I got many more until a full sixty striped me all over!

I hope you readers appreciate the pains I go to to provide detailed reports on new implements!

Whipped

The first Christmas I knew HH I gave him gun money as his Christmas present. (Gun money was what James II paid his soldiers with in the fight against King William. It was meant to be transferred for legal tender on his victory; but that never came about). The gun money came with a scene idea – a poor girl naively accepting the money as payment for work. When she tries to spend it is brought before the magistrate and sentenced to be whipped to set an example to others trying to do the same.

We’d long planned to play the scene but there was never a suitable time, until during our holidays, in a Scottish Castle, the setting was too perfect to pass up.

She was a poor girl, quite alone in the world, making her way to Dublin to try and find work. But she was soon to learn that people took advantage. After a few weeks working on a farm she was grateful to earn a whole half crown. The work had been back breaking but the money would see her to Dublin and help her find her feet. She thought it looked different to regular money, but the farmer assured her it was newly minted at the orders of the new viceroy.

Alas for our girl, she had been tricked into taking gun money; not only illegal but also showing her as a supporter of the papist James. When she tried to use it in Dublin she was arrested and brought before the district magistrate. Under orders to stamp out any perceived support for James and to rid the market of the gun money the magistrate made an example of her. She was to be turned over to the bailiff and whipped severely.

The next day she was taken down to the whipping room and hung from the ceiling to await her fate. She shivered in the cold, her bare feet numb on the icy floors, the thin drawers and chemise giving little protection from the chill.

By the time the bailiff came to deal with her she was weak from cold and fear. But he offered no comfort.

He removed her drawers and chemise, openly ogling her body. She flinched as he ran his hands over her, but this entertained him more: he assured her she’d soon do anything to stop the pain.

Laughing, he promised to make his little papist slut sing like a canary so the whole prison could hear her. She shivered as he picked up his whip. Long and black, with many thick strands of leather it looked terrifying.

She soon learned it felt even worse than it looked. The first few strokes made her gasp for air, spraying across her bottom and thighs, the ends biting into her cruelly. Before long she was screaming aloud with the pain.

In between the lashes he tormented her with his words and hands, laughing as she screamed. As bad as it was on her bottom and thighs when he switched his whip to her breasts and back she nearly fainted with the pain.

When he finally put the whip down she sagged in relief, burning all over from the nasty whip. But he was not done yet. Picking up a heavy leather strap her beat her relentlessly with it until she was hanging limply, crying noiseless tears. Her hands tied tightly above her were turning blue and lifeless.

Satisfied at last he stepped back to admire his work. Pinched and groped her lewdly, knowing she wouldn’t resist. Before leaving her hanging there, all alone, afraid of what might befall her next.

Intern in trouble!

One of the joys of going on holiday with a kinky friend is being able to exploit your surroundings in a scene context. Abel and I spent a night in Brussels recently and inspired by the types of people we observed around us, came up with an intern scene.

I was working in the city earning just enough to get by, but certainly not enough for any treats such as expensive meals out or new clothes. So I'd come up with a plan. I'd target business men on their own, go to the restaurants they'd eat in, flirt with them and see what I could get out of them.

Mr Jenkins had seemed very nice and had fallen under my spell as easily as the men before him. He had generously bought me dinner and cocktails after and walked me home, like a gentleman. The next day he texted to say he's bought me a present and invited me to his hotel to get it.

This was very promising. Usually the men didn't give presents so easily: I was thrilled. He was staying at one of the posher hotels and I made sure to look smart and sophisticated whilst also very sexy in heels and a short, tight fitting dress, under a demure black coat.

He seemed pleased with what I was wearing, looking me up and down appreciatively. The present was a beautiful handbag, very to my taste. This was so easy, I grinned to myself. And maybe we'd get up to some naughtier fun too, I was quite attracted to him: he wasn't not at all bad for an old guy.

But then things took a weird turn...

He told me about a friend of his who was often in Brussels. A friend who had met a young girl, just like me, who’d flirted with him in the same restaurant we had met in. I laughed nervously, what a coincidence.

Indeed it was he agreed smiling. Then told me firmly he knew my game and thought I had been very silly and reckless. If my daughter put herself in such compromising situations I'd be very worried he explained. I tried to explain I was in no danger that I could look after myself.

It was a good argument until I was up-ended over his knee and he was spanking my bare bottom. I was outraged but couldn't do anything and he seemed to enjoy making this point as his hand rained smack after smack: 'That a girl who turns up in a man’s hotel room could have anything happen to her!' When he finally let me up I was hot and sore, rubbing my bottom petulantly.

He continued to scold about personal safety: not trusting strangers, working for my treats and not blagging them from unsuspecting gentlemen. I'd hoped we were finished but he felt I needed a stronger lesson. Taking his belt off, he made me bend over the bed and strapped me very hard until I was crying and begging. How could it hurt so much?

But he had a nice side too, cuddling me in his arms afterwards he warned that he'd be keeping an eye on me. It felt very safe. And then he introduced me to other naughty pleasures I'd never even considered and that was lovely too…

Up to Mischief!

Abel and I went on holiday recently. We had a lovely time and got up to lots of mischief. Of course some kinds of mischief can get a girl into trouble. Like when we visited a lovely walled garden, full of delicious fruit for any naughty girl to be tempted by.

I couldn't resist and got so distracted that I didn't hear the gardener enter. I was caught in the act, stealing his prized apples. I was so afraid I ran away, but didn't get very far. The gates were locked and despite my efforts I couldn't get over them!

The gardener was very annoyed and told me I was in for a sound spanking. Over his knee I went there and then, squealing loudly as his hard hand punished my poor bottom.

And aftwerwards he tied me to a post, my red bottom on show so that everyone could see exactly what happens to naughty little thieves!

Five go to a Kinky House!

Our house specifically: it was our House Warming party you see and Anne (Catherine Thomas) and I played host, both dressed appropriately (or in my lovely house mate's case with a skirt so short it was inappropriate!)

With the theme being Famous Five, many of our lovely guests also came in character. We had Uncle Quentin (HH), Mr Rowland the tutor (Abel), Captain Johnson (the riding school owner), Joanna the cook, a whole series of Annes (from no skirt Anne to slutty Anne to drunken Anne and good Anne), the Vicar's daughter, Jo the Gypsy girl, Cousin Peggy and the fortune teller, a random burglar, Jack the Fisher boy and a Julian but no Dick.

To match the theme we also had a 1950's spread of food. There was spam, and corned beef and hard boiled eggs with twists of salt and fish paste and sardine and jam sandwiches and other wholesome goodies; not to mention lashings and lashings of ginger beer (as well as the other sort of lashings too!)

Whilst of course the day was just a bit of fun to show people our new home and an excuse to drink copious amounts of fizz, the theme was, of course, deep seated in our early kinkhoods. In the days of first reading Enid Blyton and encountering those references to spanking that stirred something unknown, but important, within us.

How often had I read about George and the trouble she had gotten in with her father; the spankings that were implied but never explicitly detailed. How I had filled in the gaps myself giving her OTK spankings and hairbrushings, even a caning that the boy she desperately tried to be deserved.

And yesterday I got to be her. In my boy's grey shorts, blue shirt and maroon tank top with grey socks and sandal shoes I was a passable impression of a boy. (Or at least a girl who really wants to look like a boy.) I certainly stood out against all the other girls in their pretty dresses and skirts. It was a role I very much enjoyed playing up to: fiercely declaring I should be called George, that I was as good as any boy and threatening to fight anyone who dared say otherwise!

This led to two delightful scenes. The first when Jack the Fisherboy put ice down my back and I fought him (actually her) to the floor and we wrestled enthusiastically. Until Father, or Uncle Quentin as everyone else called him, hauled me to my feet and marched me upstairs.

It was a different dynamic for HH and me to play: I knew both characters so well, whilst he had only his online research to aid him.  It was also unusual for us to play a scene where he was my Father, yet so firmly was he Uncle Quentin of the books that any angst I'd normally have didn't arise. As ever, he lived up to the role fabulously as I threw every Georgism I could remember at him!

Poor George was made to take her shorts and pants down and spanked over his knee before being strapped to tears with his tawse. Although she was ashamed of her 'girly' tears she was very proud when he told her she had taken her beating just as bravely as any boy.

But then he ruined it all by making her change our of her boy's clothes into a pretty dress with her hair in bunches, as befitted her as a joint host of the party. It was awfully humiliating to have to return to the gathering so evidently humbled, much to the taunts of the likes of slutty Anne.

Later in the evening there was another scene; this time between George, Uncle Quentin and Mr Rowland, her tutor. Again I had the upper hand of knowing the back story. Of Mr Rowland spying on Uncle Quentin's work and George finding him snooping where he shouldn't. In essence she was being punished for her rudeness to her tutor but refused to apologise. It was a lovely scene with all the righteousness in the world on my side, Uncle Quentin being strict but fair and Mr Rowland being very mean. (A role that Able seems to play all too convincingly!)

By this time in the day I was already very sore, (an earlier dalliance with Mr Allen and his canes being partly to blame), so the spankings really hurt whilst the hand strapping caught me off guard completely, leaving me piteously rubbing my raw palms.

As the evening wore on we became less Famous Five and more real-life kinky community:  The community that I have moved country to be nearer to;  The community that supports and looks out for each other. The community that transcends age, continents and background; My community.

(Of course not everyone could make the party; not least of all those who are in Ireland or the states, but all were there in kindred, kinky spirit and much missed in person.)

Tales from a Yorkshire School

I've just returned from a wonderful weekend with my closest kinky friends. A weekend of relaxing, chilling out, sight seeing, eating and some excellent roleplay! The main scene of the weekend being a Victorian school roleplay. Although set in 1824 it was slightly pre-Victorian, but in that ilk, and a replica of the Yorkshire schools of that time.

The idea had been in the planning for a few weeks and originally we were looking forward to being joined by our friends Marlow and Lily. Unfortunately they had to drop out at the last minute and were much missed. (Don't worry Lily, I have it on good authority you'll be attending such a school in the near future!)

The premise of the school was that it would be harsh, both in discipline and in environment. A place where girls were sent far from home, and very rarely came back for a visit. My character, Victoria, was the longest in attendance (2 years), whereas Catherine (Jessamine) and Eliane's (Louisa) characters were fairly new.

This meant I was supposed to used to the routine of the school and already indoctrinated into the discipline. As I say in my character profile, it had originally taken me a whole to settle down.

Victoria is 15 years old and has been at the school 2 years. Arriving to her parents late in life, some 16 years after her older brother she was an almost unwelcome addition to their family life. Her Mother fancies herself nervous and never has had much time for her. Whilst her father is a very old fashioned sort who believes children should be seen and not heard of.  A series of nannies and governesses looked after her until she was 13, and when the last governess left to get married her Father decided to send the young Victoria to the Simpson school, hearing of it through a partner in trade.

Settling down to school was something of an ordeal for young Victoria who is very proud and was used to the comforts of home and having her own servants and governesses to entertain her and stimulate her. She finds the pace of the lessons too slow and the masters too fastidious. And whilst she has learned it's best not to complain about the school, and is generally an obedient pupil, her quick temper and pride can often lead her to trouble. The masters have learned that she responds well to the rod. She has been home once a year, at Christmas, since joining the school and her Father is much impressed by the perceived steadying of her character.

We began the scene at 10PM the night before, ordered to our rooms to change for bed and await an inspection. Having been given a poem to learn by lunch-time the following day the masters, Mr Simpson and Mr Jenkins,  found 3 girls diligently learning their lines when they came to inspect us. My first punishment was quick to fall; for reciting the words of the poem to myself when I should have been silently in line. It set the context for the rest of the roleplay. Every infraction, no matter how minor was dealt with, severely. Jess and I were whipped at 7AM the next morning; for not standing at the side of our beds when the masters entered the room. And at breakfast, which I had cooked, I was given 6 strokes of the tawse on my hands for forgetting to put milk on the table.

It was an amazing headspace for me. Everyone was fully in role all the time. Even when we girls were alone. I spoke as the girl who had been at the school longest, advising on how to stay out of trouble, telling of goings- on in the past.. Whilst Jess regaled us with the stories of her running away to join a theatre group and Louisa was pitied for the fact her doting parents had no idea as to the type of establishment they had sent her to.

My headspace was compounded by the subjects we had to undertake. Victoria was very careful and obedient, but needlework and handwriting were beyond her and led to much trouble. For me, EJ, it was incredibly hot to be beaten for something I had actually tried really hard at but still didn't come up to standard.

Although my cross-stich so little resembled the pattern I was supposed to be following that it provoked Mr Simpson to ask me what part of the pattern my piece corresponded to as he was having difficulty orientating himself. This resulted in the other girls bursting into laughter and even I joined in nervously; a big mistake. The others were thrashed for undue levity: I was thrashed firstly for the laughter and then again for poor work!

It was also very head spacey to have to cook a generous breakfast of bacon and eggs for the masters but eat only gruel and water with the other girls. And asking the masters if we might have honey with our gruel, given it was Easter Sunday, was a very humiliating experience, not far off that which Oliver himself endured.

And even at the things I was good at, reading, comprehension and learning by rote, nerves led me to fail. I was spanked for stumbling over my reading of the Encyclopedia Britannica. (An 18th century edition with S's disguised as Fs!) Following that I was was once more tawsed on the hands for not being able to answer all the questions correctly in the comprehension I was set to read, tears in my eyes as I was lectured once again on my lack of diligence.

Even on the prescribed poem ('When we two parted', by Byron) I also failed. Having managed to learn it the night before, I was reciting it to the other girls perfectly all morning; I can say it perfectly even now! But in front of the masters I stumbled over it, ending up in tears of shame. My subsequent birching, 24 strokes, was given for letting myself down and failing to set an example to the new girls.

When the scene ended I dropped like a stone. As long as it had been, it wasn't long enough. So that evening when it was just Catherine, Abel, HH and I left, we decided to revive the school for a further scene; a more severe one. The background being that Jess had sneaked out to meet the boy she had run away to the theatre to be with. As she was going to be at the school for at least 5 years it would be a rare opportunity to see him. Given how close we had become, and that I had access to the kitchen door key on Sunday mornings, I aided the rendezvous.

Alas Jess was caught with her beau, and my part in the mischief was soon discovered. We were ordered to wait in our room until summoned to the punishment room. We sat nervously holding hands, worrying aloud as to our fate. The beautiful part of this for me was once again how in role we were. Jess lamented never seeing her beau again and apologised for getting me into trouble. I in turn told her of what I knew of other such punishments that has passed in the school. How they always happened late at night so all the other girls would hear us cry. We both resolved to try and be brave so as not to scare the little ones too much. With little comfort to offer each other we were shaking with fear by the time we were called for.

Jessamine was called forward first, scolded bitterly, then ordered to raise her skirts and lie over the punishment block. Helplessly I watched them tie her down and Mr Jenkins fetch his heavy tawse. She cried out as the first stroke landed heavily on her bottom. By 6 strokes she was begging, by 12 she was crying. I watched in terror. He was getting progressively harder and the sound of the tawse hitting her was unbearable.

When they turned to me and told me that if I had been a good and honourable friend I could have prevented this, the tears came into my own eyes. Jess's punishment (30 severe strokes or more) was the hardest one I EJ, have ever watched Catherine take. Not physically, but mentally. She was Jess, and they were breaking her. Afterwards I reflected on how amazing it was to see Cath go so deep in a scene that she was properly crying and begging a few strokes in.

When my turn came I was ordered to remove my bloomers and tied face down on the block, as Jess had been. My guilt at causing her punishment was magnified as I was scolded for abusing the trust placed in me. Mr Jenkins then took up the birch, told me coldly that the 24 I had had previously would seem like nothing in comparison and began to beat me with all his might.

For Victoria it was a horrific beating, like nothing she'd ever felt. For me, EJ it was as severe as the spray birch sessions I've had at my judicials. I was not prepared for the pace and the pain that rained down. When he finally stopped I was close to fainting, with heat and pain. A cold face cloth was brought to revive me and the window was opened for some air. I waited to be let down. Except it wasn't over with. He switched sides and began again, just as fast, just as hard, just as many. I buried my head in my hands and clung on for dear life. Victoria scared and repentant. EJ shocked to be beaten so hard by Abel.

When HH proclaimed that was enough and I could get down, I did so weakly. Unable to stand I sat gingerly on the chair as they gave Jess her second punishment. This time she was tied face up on the table. In confusion I watched as they raised her skirt above her knickers. When Mr Simpson raised the birch and rested it on her thighs my stomach churned in realisation of what they were doing. Jess started to beg even before the birch was raised. When it smacked down she screamed into her hands. And thus it continued, relentlessly, until she was once again crying and begging for mercy.

Again it was very difficult to watch. Finally she was taken down and ordered to stand beside me. In shock I realised I now was being called forward again. (For some reason I had assumed I was done with!) Mr Simpson told me coldly that this was not my fate, but I had involved myself and would suffer the same as Jess. Ordered into the same position. I felt sick. Victoria was terrified, but I EJ was even more so. I'd never been birched on the thighs before.

He asked if I needed to be restrained, I shook my head. With my bloomers removed and my skirt above my waist I was completely bare and at the mercy of the birch wherever it struck. The strokes were slow and measured and stung like hell, building all the time into agony. The fear of waiting for it to fall, worrying it would land too high, was almost as bad as the pain of sensitive, rarely touched flesh feeling the cruel sting. It wasn't long before I was crying and begging for it to end. He finally pronounced 4 more and I screamed quietly into my hands for each one.

It was a dark and severe scene and the absolute perfect end to our Yorkshire School. HH and Abel were both amazing and shocking as Victorian School master and Cath and Eliane were wonderful schoolmates. But the enduring memory for me was seeing Cath broken as a character; broken by headspace, not pain.

Letting go

Letting go is hard. Both in real life and in scenes. The degree to which I do it in a scene can vary. Most of the time I can give way to what's happening, either to me or my character. And often the character's emotions can be magnified by real life events. If I'm feeling all bottled up and need a release from the every day working stresses it's good to play and be beaten and abused and made to feel small. Or if I'm raging against the world it's good to fight and be made to surrender in more cathartic ways. Or if I'm being a grumpy so and so it's useful to be reminded of how I should behave.

But sometimes I'm tired and low on energy, or overwhelmed by everything that's going on in life. In this frame of mind I can't always predict how I will react in scenes. Sometimes it's good, I'll be even more miserable or feel more ashamed or cry more tears. Other times I'll struggle to engage.

During our recent reformatory weekend hosted by Lord Fawcett and Jessica, I managed to experience both the negative and positives of my real-life state. I arrived undone from life's excitements. This coupled with lack of sleep meant I was verging on exhaustion. Yet for the first evening this state of mind worked perfectly for my character.

Poor Fanny Evans, the most pitiful girl you could ever meet. She stole her Mother's jewellery back from her Father (her Mother had given it to her) and ran away to London, to get away from his abuse. But alas was caught and charged with theft and sentenced to the Lowewood Institute for Debauched and Delinquent girls. She was a little innocent mouse terrified of her own shadow, the other inmates and of course the masters!

Therefore the induction to the institute was an awful ordeal for her. Being made to strip naked in front of the other girls, not to mention in front of the men. Scrubbed with nasty carbolic soap and inspected by Dr Grimace himself, in all her private places. It was all she could do not to cry, and when Eirlys whispered comfort as she fled to her bed, she finally gave way to the tears. Fanny was overwhelmed. EJ was over wrought.

But as the weekend went on I found myself too lacking in energy to continuously wear her mantle. I found myself coming in and out of character. A weekend long institutional play is difficult to maintain at the best of times anyway, but in my current state it was even harder. And looking back I regret not having stayed fully in role. Thankfully this didn't mean the weekend wasn't a success and there were many hot scenes with the masters and the other girls, where we were abused and terrified in many inventive ways.

Similarly when I play with Abel and HH my physical and mental state is a big factor in how successful the scene is. As well as they can both read me,  if I'm off, not myself, it's nigh impossible for them to predict how I'll respond.

At the weekend, with HH, we played two scenes that ordinarily would leave me broken, needing to resurface. But in both I never quite got there. The first was a military scene where I was in the brig for passing information to wiki leaks. I was unrepentant about my actions and as a consequence was experiencing a secret form of justice - learning complete obedience to my superiors. It was a humiliating scene,with the individual parts giving me shivers thinking back on them. But I blocked out the overall experience,  refusing to let him in. Until the very end, when he I had had enough, wasn't capable of much more and he showed me a small act of mercy that completely undid me. Alas it was just a small break through.

The second scene worked even better for me but still I didn't let go. Natalie, the senior house prefect, observed by her Housemaster getting intimate with her boyfriend. He is distraught to see his favourite pupil behaving so and makes her tell him, in embarrassing detail, exactly what she had done with her boyfriend before caning her harshly. At one point making her lie on her back, legs spread in the air, as he viciously caned her thighs. In almost every way this scene broke me, yet I did not cry.

Afterwards this puzzled me; I usually cry easily in scenes. On reflection I think given the upheaval (all good I promise) in my vanilla life I just couldn't let go. I couldn't switch off enough.

In fact I cried only once all weekend; my bedtime spanking on Saturday night. The hand spanking was hard. The slipper undid me. There were only four strokes, but they were at the fierce level that I have come to be afraid of. I'm psychologically more scared of the slipper than any other implement, even though other implements can hurt far more. I've never quite figured it out,  but it's the only thing guaranteed to make me cry.

And last night in bed when the enormity of the changes in my life, as positive and welcome as they are, hit me, I finally had that release that was so absent at the weekend. I cried copiously. Cried indulgently at getting everything I wanted, crying even though I don't want it any other way. And at that moment I wished desperately that this had happened at the weekend, over HH's knee with his firm hand spanking all the emotion out of me, and providing the reassurance and hugs afterwards. Or on Abel's next visit where crying could give way to the planning and excitement of a new life.

But still, at least it was letting go, in more ways than one.

The cycle of kink

I'm feeling in a dark place, play wise. I want to be mentally and physically abused. Objectified and demeaned. Made to feel worthless. Made to cry in shame at my nothingness. But I'm not concerned about it. I'm embracing it. I'm enjoying it. I know it's just part of the cycle.

Because my penchant for certain play does move in a cycle. One that has no rhyme or rhythm but a pattern all of its own. I have learned to appreciate and accept the cycle. Not to force an appetite for a different type of play.

The intervening periods are of indeterminable lengths, often overlapping. There are times when I primarily want to play hard, when I want only loving, gentle play, when I want dark abusive scenes or light hearted fun scenes. There's even the part where I don't want to play at all and I am powerless to overcome it.

Sometimes the cycles vary with the person. Whilst blogging about our lovely hockey captain scene Abel talked about how less and less we do dark scenes together, preferring softer more comforting scenes. That's our cycle for now, but it can change too. It wasn't always so.

Towards the middle to the end of last year it was all about hard play for me. I did two severe JCP scenes and lots of private play at a hard level. I buzzed with the adrenalin of it all. Flying high on a wave of pain and endorphins and survival. I couldn't get enough.


But there was only so much of that play that I could sustain. I took a long time to heal from my December JCP, physically and mentally. Even after the visible marks on my bottom had disappeared I could still feel the impact deep down. And on playing I marked much more easily, felt the pain go deep. Fancied that my right crease was more tender, was concerned that I wouldn't fully heal.


Then there was the mental healing. It's very terrifying to put yourself in a position where someone can inflict that much pain. As I've blogged my control freak gets quite upset when I put myself into such situations. And after December's JCP she got her own back, albeit temporarily. I haven't wanted to repeat such a scene. I haven't wanted to feel that stomach churning, palor inducing fear of knowing that a world of unimaginable pain is going to descend and that you can't (won't!) stop it. 


At the Spanking Writers party a few weeks ago I played harder and longer than I had in months.I got that flying through pain and endurance feeling again, although on a much lower scale. It was very reassuring I still enjoyed it. And hearing Catherine talk of her recent JCP I feel my interest stirring in such a scene again. Although I shan't be signing up for over 300 strokes with a manx birch like my darling (but mad!) twin.

The current dominant mood is the need to be shamed and it's being well indulged. Apart from Claudia who was shamed to tears there's been several other such characters. And a very recent scene with Abel and HH (blogged here on Spanking Writers) made me want to die. Very unusually it affected me both in and out of character.

I was a school girl made to work as an escort to pay off her guardian's debts. The gentlemen running the agency made poor Charlotte take a series of increasingly embarrassing and lewd photos for their website. From partly dressed to legs spread wide, to naked on all fours, to being spanked and caned on film. I thought the humiliation couldn't get any worse than having to walk around with a butt plug deep inside me while they photographed my red face and tearful eyes.

Yet when Abel calmly bent me over the bed and fucked me, as HH silently watched I was humiliated beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. Understandably from Charlotte's perspective because she was so violated. But even more so personally, for me Emma Jane. To be so objectified by the two men I am closest to in my life. To be so used by one in front of the other. Both dispassionately making nothing of me. It was very hard to bear, and the tears I cried were barely in role, it was me Emma Jane that was completely humiliated.

Still I haven't had my fill of this shame business just yet. Remind me to tell you about Natalie next week, a poor prefect that falls out of favour with her Housemaster. I dread to think what HH has in store but i'll be delicously dark.

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...

If...

Mistress Switch, the organiser and one of the main interrogators of the scene I alluded to in my last post, has given me permission to disclose the details of the interrogation. At this point I make little attempt to analyse my feelings, but to merely recount the scene and how I got through it.

Before you read this please remember that although I was going into the unknown I completely trusted the two main players, Mistress Switch and Mr Evil. (I did not know until after who the others were, but knew they too would be trustworthy and capable). The premise of doing such a scene is to come in with an open mind and see it through to the end. There are no limits and there are no safewords. By entering into it you are giving consent for them to do what it takes to break you.  

All are very experienced people who know what they are doing. Furthermore, there are several of them, all very closely monitoring each participant. I would not do this type of scene with anyone I don't trust 100%. And whilst there are parts of this I never wish to do again, I do not regret a moment of it. I am proud to have survived it. And I am still buzzing from the high!

If you can fill the unforgiving hour,

There were five of us. Three men, only one of whom I knew and my twin, Catherine. Waiting to be transported to our destination, all nervous. Our phones beeped, each given the three pieces of information we we were not to reveal to our interrogators. For the first time I felt optimistic about the scene, I now had a purpose. It was game on.

We finally set off and after a long drive we arrived in the wooded camp. As instructed, got out of our car and  knelt on the ground in a line facing forward, with arms out stretched. They approached us from behind, one captor for each of us. Dropped hoods across our heads and dark goggles across the hoods. Our sight was gone and would not return until the end of this ordeal, some four hours later.

We were led away, one by one and ordered to strip naked. Given a thin paper jumpsuit to wear and ordered to put just one of our shoes on. And finally our wrists were secured tightly behind our backs, in my case with cable ties.

With sixty minutes worth of distance run,

Once restrained I was led to the sound room where various static and white noises played loudly. I was put in a variety of positions, for 15-20 mins at a time. Each uncomfortable and made worse by having only one shoe on, making it impossible to balance the body. I tried to block out the noise but could not, and in the second position could feel myself begin to faint. I'd read about stress positions and sensory deprivation, but nothing prepared me for the reality. I started to buckle out of position, nausea building. One of the captors put me back into position. A few mins later I buckled again.

This time they moved me to kneeling upright on the floor, I swayed from side to side, happy to pass out, hoped it would happen even.

Suddenly grabbed roughly from behind and dragged outside. My heart quickened. But despite my fear the fresh air was welcome and I breathed deeply through my hood. They marched me round the woods, my one bare foot scratching on stones and thistles. Left me to stand alone for a short time then dragged me back down to the main building. Forced my poor bare foot into a bucket of cold water, but I did not flinch. I was already retreating into my self, into my own head. It was lovely there. These people couldn't hurt me there.

Over and over I recited Kipling to myself, it became my main way of coping and as the ordeal wore on I focused on it more and more.

When I was finally let out of the water they lay me face down in the mud. It was lovely and soft and earthy and I was happy to use the two senses they hadn't cut off. I would happily have stayed there for the rest of the night.

Then it was more stress positions, this time outside. One, head on a table, shoulders hunched, knees bent and feet uneven. Again I retreated in side my head, until one of then rapped on the table hard, the impact made me bite my lip in shock. But I made no sound. Because I was not there. I was gone.

Then yours is the earth,

I have no idea how much time passed before I was brought before him, the chief interrogator. Sat on a high stool, my hood and goggles removed, I staring at a the bright light in front of me. Tried, and failed, to see the man behind it.

The questions were easy, but I struggled to answer. I was not there, my conscious had floated away and talking had become an effort.

'What age are you ?'

I wasn't sure, was I 28 or 29, I had a birthday soon my foggy mind reasoned, but then was I 30?

'What are your brothers called?'

Oh yes I told him, I had two brothers didn't I? It took a long time to get their names out. He mentioned my Dad, called him by his name. How did he know that I vaguely wondered? What did my Dad do for a living? My answer made little sense.

Then he asked who was Harry? My conscious became more alert. Harry (my teddy bear) was in my rucksack in the car and I was afraid. What would they to do him? I told him I didn't know any Harry. He asked again and wasn't happy at my refusal to answer.

A plastic bag over my head was my reward. Sealed tight, they then opened and shut it slowly, releasing little whiffs of air. I tried to keep calm, panicky gulps of air were not going to help. The bag came off and he asked again? Asked what was in my rucksack. I named every item except Harry.

When they finished with me I was led back to the edge of the sound room. Made to kneel up, head on a stool. My leg quickly went dead but strangely I found a vaguely comfortable position by sliding my head to the side and then I disappeared again. Bocking out the pain in my leg, the weight of my shoulders, the stiffness in my wrists. It must have been at least half an hour before I was moved. When they lifted me up I promptly fell over, my foot was too dead to feel, to stand on. So they leaned me in a corner, my head dipped in support, until my leg agonisingly came back to feeling.

I had heard little from my fellow captives through the evening, semi aware of them being moved around. Once I heard Catherine fighting back, another time I heard moans of pain from someone in the distance.

Then from beside me came more definite moans of pain, getting louder, until he was told to shut up by one of the captors. I trembled wondering what was next to befall me. ( Later Loki explained his handcuffs had become unbearable.)

All of a sudden the static sound was turned up very loud. Listening to it made me dizzy again so I chanted Kipling aloud. And suffered a bucket of water in consequence, but again I made no sound, I was not there. 

Yours is the earth and everything that is in it,

It felt like a very long time before they came for me. Led me outside. My bare foot felt water on the ground, I could sense several of the captors around me and the terror set in. I knew even before being lifted onto the bench that this was the dreaded water boarding.

I was laid out flat, my head at the edge. A thick, tight fitting hood was placed over my head. I immediately felt claustrophobic. The chief interrogator asked me did I have information for him. I denied it. He pushed me back on the bench, someone sat on my legs, others gripped my arms. I tried to brace myself.

The water started to pour, I held my breath, but eventually my nose and mouth were filled with water, and I struggled desperately to get up. When they released me I was panicking, gulping for air. But my big gulps just made the hood tighter, and I inhaled more water. He ordered me to calm down and  I blurted out the information he needed. But he laughed and told me he hadn't asked for it yet. When they pushed me back I begged and pleaded hysterically to be let go.

The second time was worse, knowing how it would feel in advance. Again I held as long as I could, and again came up screaming and panicking. The third time was just as horrendous. That awful moment when you have to open your mouth and the water consumes you. I thought of all the things I could say to make them stop. And yet there was nothing I knew would work. I have never felt more terrified or helpless in my whole life. Even now I can  feel that fear. On the 4th time he told me if I could stay down as long as he expected me to, if I took it well and didn't fight or struggle he might stop it there.

I held my breath as long as I could, I took the water as long as I could until I jerked my head up. And screamed in terror that it hadn't been long enough, that he'd do it again. Right then I would have given him anything he asked for, even Harry.

(What I didn't find out until later was that I was taking staying down for logner than the others and therefore taking a huge amount of water. All because I was too terrified of him to think of fight back!)

When they let me down they led me shaking and weeping to a tree nearby where I found Catherine and two of the men already there. It had taken two attempts for her to reveal the information and I could not believe her bravery in resisting after the first round of it. We clutched hands, and wet and shivering we listened to the last of our party be broken. When he finally joined us at the tree I had managed to compose myself slightly, was able to extend my hand to him, whispering comfort.

They came for each of us then, once at a time. In my turn I went in terror, praying they wouldn't do anything else. I was broken. I almost fainted with relief when Mr Evil declared that was 'it'. Fell into Mistress Swtich's and my co-captives's arms  in ecstasy at having survived.

And which is more, you will be a man, my son.

Control freak, freaking out!

Like many bottoms, I'm a control freak. In everyday life  I'm bossy, independent and determined. Not at all submissive. It's that classic cliche, where the person dominant in real life turns to submission in kink, for the release, the liberation.

In my last post on roleplay there were lots of great comments around the ability to roleplay characters vs playing  as ourselves. As the post focused on roleplay I didn't talk much about playing as me. But I actually do, much more than might have come across.

With some people, playing as me is about being submissive in a private and sexual way; sexual pleasure, sensory touching, gentle dominance or rough beatings and sex. With others it's about real discipline which is the hardest to take. Having to admit I have messed up and  that I deserve punishment. The discipline kink is so powerful for me that it can't be faked. A roleplayed girl who is being disciplined causes not half the depth of emotion that me, Emma Jane, feels when it's actually real.

Yet my roleplay characters are important too. They free me from the everyday me, the controller aiming to be a perfectionist. So I don't feel I hide behind them, but they are a useful tool to release my inhibitions. Kaelah wrote she couldn't imagine playing a character that she didn't like or that wasn't a part of her. I think that's true for me too,  and I don't think I play characters that aren't part of my id.

I didn't like Lucy Plackett, but she was still me. She's the not so nice part of me, the little voice in the head that just wants to be mean, to get one's own way, to enjoy having power over people. I like to think that my other nicer and more pleasing traits dominate that little bit of me, keep it hidden, at least most of the time. But I loved being able to set her free in a controlled and safe environment.

Roleplay works so well for me cos I can think it through, after all for most of us kink and the sexual thrill are created  in our heads.. The upcoming dark fantasy I am planing with HH is one that goes through my head over and over. I imagine the girl, what she'll say, how she'll react, picture her crying, picture how scared and helpless she is. Play it over in my head so when we do play it then I will be her.

I never knew what self-visualisation was until I did a psychology course at college, but it's something I've always practiced. Before public speaking at school I'd act it out in my head, see the audience, feel calm and confident. And even prepping for interviews now, I'm going through every conceivable question and answering it confidently and accurately.

The control freak in me is reassured by such preparation. Just as she is before roleplay scenes that are thought through, discussed, dressed for. Not that I am allowed to dictate the scene but I generally have an idea of the level of severity, and just how dark and scary it might be.

Of course in real punishment, there isn't any reassurance to be got by thinking it through in advance. That only deepens the shame of being in trouble. I know that it'll hurt and that I'll cry and plead that I'm sorry; but that's all that I know. The control freak is OK with that though, because it's a punishment for stepping outside the boundaries that were agreed.  The control freak loves rules and boundaries and defined consequences for breaking them. That's easy.

But I have a scene coming up soon where I have absolutely no control over what happens. I have no idea what will be done to me, how long it will last or how I will react. I don't even know for sure who's actually going to be there as the tormentors. I try to visualise the scene but can't, having never done anything like it before. And others who've gone through it are careful not so share any details. So I'm left with fearful anticipation and wild guessing. With no idea what end of the spectrum my guesses are landing. The control freak is freaking out.

I have thought of pulling out. Thought of many excuses, even a list of ailments that could prevent me from going through with it. Reasoned that with everything else going on right now it's not the best time to do such a scene. Trotted this theory out to people like Abel and HH, hoped almost they'd make the decision for me. Even my dreams are disturbed as the control freak expresses her outrage at getting her into this mess.

I'm going to have to block her out, because for reasons I can't really explain I want to go through with this. I want to turn up blind and put myself through the unknown. I will try to stay strong and endure bravely. If I cannot endure bravely, I will endure anyhow. I'm genuinely curious to know how I will react to this complete and utter lack of control, to know how the control freak will cope.

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!