When I first met..

There's a very nice topic trending on Twitter this past week: #whenIfirstmet. The idea is to tell about your first meeting with who ever in one single tweet. For example Jessica said of me "#WhenIfirstmet @lilemmaj I thought she was trouble. The good kind". And I said of Abel: #WhenIfirstmet @AbelJenkins I wasn't as scared of him as I expected cos I was laughing so hard at his shirt."

I've enjoyed this topic for many reasons. Not least because it's lovely to think back to the moment I met so many wonderful people who play a huge part in my life right now. And of course it's fun to hear what people's first impressions of me have been. But I also find myself analysing those early meetings: how I came across, what people thought of me and what my initial impressions were. And what, if anything, changed over the years.

Particularly considering where I am in my life now. I went from a spontaneous trip to London to meet Abel and 14 other kinksters to see a play, to having close relationships and friendships within that circle, to moving country to be nearer this group, this community.

Over the past two years, via the Gods of Ryanair, I bounced along to parties, roleplay events, the odd night-out I could manage and several intimate weekends with my partners. I was carefree, without repsonsibility, an escapee from the real world. So for at least 80% of that time EJ was on show. The vibrant, attention-seeking, entertainer. Less frequently you saw the real me: the career girl, bossy oldest sister person.

Of course people like Abel and HH saw it the most. Not least the arguments in the kitchen over the best way to 'skin a cat' or in HH's case avoiding my kitchen altogether. Or listening to me in work mode on the phone or my tales of older-sister-ness. (For example when my lil sister failed an exam she asked my Mam not to tell me!)

For most other people they are seeing that side of me more often; the grown-up me. Particularly those that have visited my house and experienced me trying to be a considerate host. (One can't dance on the tables whilst dinner needs preparing.) And I find it near impossible to play with anyone if I've been entertaining first.

Or those who've met me on week nights out. A couple of friends have even asked me was I alright, so quiet and different I seemed. On these nights, especially when I've come from the office and am still dressed in my suit, it's very hard to be the carefree EJ. And of course my housemate certainly lives with the real me. The person who is anal about matching crockery, laundry being sorted into three separate loads and what chopping board we use for the meat.

Not that I feel this is a bad thing. And certainly don't think people love or hate me any the less. I know people who like me accept all sides of me and that fundamentally I'm the same person. It's just a very interesting situation to have to relearn the person we thought we knew so well. Because of course it's the same for me: I am also learning about 'real' people. Having to change my perceptions, realign values, do things a different way.

The more we interact in non kink environments, the more we share and show our real selves. The thing that brings us together, our kink, for some of us our greatest secret, has been like a fast track system to immediate friendship. My friend Morena visited a few weeks back and was both curious about, and delighted at how comfortable I was with people I knew for what, in reality is a short period of time.

In comparison she and I have built a deep, lasting friendship over 10 years. She knows everything about me, my past, my family and my what makes me tick. We have a trust based on time and experience, from being together through the highs and lows of life's experiences.

Yet with my kinky friends there was almost instant trust, an immediate liking.  For me I suspect that I'm predisposed to liking other kinky people. Especially those who I've met through blogging or via a mutual kinkster friend. I expect to like them and for them to have similar values to me: I want to like them and I want them to like me.

So for me #whenIfirst met was as much about reflecting on what I thought then and what I think now; what others thought of me and how they see me now. The initial uncertainties that steadily developed into deep friendship, the chemistry that became love, the dynamic that became the deepest of kink connections, the spontaneous friendships that grew to make me move country.

#whenyoufirst met @lilemmaj I was a child standing enviously on the edges of the playground. Now I'm firmly in that playground, usually playing messily in the sandbox amd I've even learned to share it. But sometimes I find myself retreating from that playground and want to be seen and treated like a grown-up, and for everyone around me to be grown-ups too. But that's OK, cos that's just being ME.

Ritual

For me the ritual of a spanking is just as powerful, or perhaps even more so, than the actual spanking itself. When I fantasise about the simplest of scenes it’s always the ritual I dwell on. It’s been that way forever. From Enid Blyton perversions to designing my own school and rules.

Even now, despite all the school scenes I’ve played I never tire of that formality that comes with the ritual. Perhaps so much of the shame and humiliation comes from going through the carefully crafted routine that you know you could have avoided but didn’t.

So if it’s a school scene there’ll be the knocking on the door beforehand, standing before the headmaster, being scolded, adjusting clothing before bending over. In my fantasies I gloss over the actual spanking. As much as I gloss over the spankings etc. in spanking porn; I prefer the build-up, the story unfolding and the anticipation.

And I love how different people have their own rituals. Abel for example will regularly roll up his shirt sleeve before delivering a caning. Carefully removing his cufflinks, methodically folding the sleeve the correct number of times before he’s satisfied his arm is sufficiently free to deliver the punishment.   

Whilst HH will tower in front of me, looking down as he casts sentence, often raising my chin with his finger so my eyes can’t escape his censor.

Even Mr Allen, who I don’t role play with, also seems to have his rituals: taking his time in selecting his implements, weighing each in his hands and examining it carefully. Then with with great precision chooses his stance, measuring the implement exactly to the bottom, before any stroke is permitted to fly.

Then there are the rituals we create; that seem private to us. Although it’s unlikely they are, we just like to feel it is so, as proof our own special connection.

My favourite one with HH is having to ask permission to pull my panties back up after a spanking  or such. I can’t even remember when it started; if he first reprimanded me for not doing so or whether I asked for permission. That’s irrelevant now, but it’s one of the most endearing and lasting of our rituals.

I always ask: whether we are alone or in company, whether the spanking was light hearted or severe, whether in role or as me. And I say “may I?” not “can I?”; that’s important too. It makes me feel incredibly head spacey; almost as much as the whole scene before it. Usually he grants permission, but sometimes he refuses, enjoying my discomfort at being denied.

And I never forget. Until, I did, last weekend. On the Sunday HH gave me a final spanking before he was due to leave. Only his hand (as hard as it can be), given how sore I was. We cuddled afterwards chatting a while, me naked from the waist down. Until the time for departure drew near and I offered him a cool drink for the road. As I slipped from the bed to fulfil the request I absentmindedly retrieved my panties from the floor and pulled them on. 

The elastic had barely snapped into place when I swung around in horror. HH was shaking his head. ‘Oh I forgot, I’m sorry. I never forget.’ I wailed, dramatically. On the scale of transgressions it’s a pretty small one, but I pride myself in remembering.

Of course it didn’t go unpunished. Despite how sore I was, over the bed I went for a short but firm hairbrushing.  But I was glad to be dealt with for it, secure in the ritual and all that it means to us.

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.)

Who am I?

I'm strong
I'm fearless
I'm considerate
...I'm tough-skinned
I'm self-sufficient
I'm independent
I'm not needy
I'm reliable
I'm hard
I'm soft
I'm understanding
I'm sensible
I'm kind
I'm a good friend
I'm tough
I'm a carer
I'm alive
I'm a survivor
I'm Not a Victim
I'm ok

I'm me.

'You Are Not Alone - Personal stories on Surviving the Impact of Addiction published by the Rise Foundation

This poem speaks volumes to me, for more reasons than I want to go into here. But one thing I love about it  is the many personal traits it covers off. We are many things to many people. Do we really know who we are? What we are? How self-aware are we?  In this online age where we are constantly on display, constantly interacting and expressing ourselves, what are we portraying? And why?  Are we able to delineate ourselves so clearly?

In roleplay I see all my characters as separate identities, know their strengths and weaknesses, what makes them tick, where they have come from, what they are afraid of. But I'm not sure I understand my own real self that well; the many facets of me. On Twitter I can lurch from career girl, to whiny-sick girl, to lonely, needy woman, to good friend to bitch, in mere seconds. Is that consciously done?

Is it escapism not to understand real me? Or is it laziness or fear? Through my various roleplay characters am I consciously/sub-consciously learning about myself? Is that enough? And what's actually real and what's not?

I appear to be in a very ponderous mood. Just one question mark short of asking what's it all about really?! Fortunately it's a happy, ponderous mood. Life is getting back on track, and with it my kink is stirring. I've even managed a role play scene. And I've been beaten purely for the pain of it: enjoying the simplest of kinky transactions that felt so beyond me a few weeks ago.

But I can't help but reflect. What have I learned? How have I changed? Who am I?

Stamping my foot...

I haven’t been neglecting my blog; I’ve actually been avoiding it. My last post was very raw for me and the comments and emails from you all overwhelmed me. I felt needy and attention seeking, doubting my dramatic sentiments. And yet your support on here, via email, over Twitter, meant a huge amount to me.  But I couldn’t respond, had nothing else to say.

I didn’t want the next post to be in that vein. I wanted to come back with something cracking and insightful, entertaining and thought provoking; hence the silence. I haven’t had the energy to write such a post. I’ve had plenty of things I want to write about, but little concentration or ability to get past an idea in my head. So I left it for a few days until I had something kinky to offer. And a few days turned into weeks until it’s nearing the end of a calendar month of nothing and I find myself despairing of ever blogging again. Just like I despair about ever being properly kinky me again.

When I wrote my last post I expected the aversion to kink would be a blip, that I would quickly be back to roleplay and hard core scenes. As much as anything I figured I’d need the distraction; would need to lose myself from the everyday pain and stress. But it hasn’t happened that way.

Yes the aversion passed. I know I still crave what I’ve always craved. I find myself coming up with roleplay ideas, stories to write, fantasies to share. It’s better than hating the whole idea of it all. But actually playing has been far harder. At times it’s felt like the most horrendous pain, even a handspanking or gentle strapping. I find myself questioning what is the point of feeling such pain, what did I ever get out of it? And then there’s still a little niggle that it’s all a bit stupid.

The irony of it all is that I really need the release and catharsis that I can only get from play. Apart from the bereavement, there’s a hell of a lot of other stuff going on in my life. New country, new house, new job, new inner circle; a time of enormous change. The past, present and future all seem to be colliding with each other and I’m struggling to keep all the balls in the air. Kink has by necessity fallen down the priorities, yet it’s also a source of comfort and release I’m now lacking.

The first weekend after going home and dealing with the horribleness I went to visit HH. I warned him the idea of roleplay left me cold, but that I wanted and needed to try to play. Indy was there for the first night and being able to talk to someone so emapthetic really helped; as did HH’s hugs, picking up from where Abel had left off. It reinforced what I’d been feeling all week, that I was surrounded by good people and real friends. 

For that weekend with HH I told him I wanted to feel safe and little girl like, not to make decisions, be told when to sleep and eat and be disciplined in between. As I’ve blogged about before I am mainly disciplined for transgressing agreed boundaries, which I generally ask to be out in place.  But more and more we play a game of me being at best submissive, but more usually obedient to HH. When he uses a certain tone I obey or face the consequences. It’s not a constant feature of our time together but it’s frequent enough for it to feel real, for me to respond to the tone . I’m at my most calm and safe when I’m answerable to him. It takes the strain of real life away and let’s me be or play at being a carefree individual. It’s a complex dynamic and only works from a trust built up over two years of playing. At this point I don’t know if it’s play or real. I wouldn’t disobey him and I fret when I even feel resistant in complying. However he’d never ask me something I couldn’t or wouldn’t accede to. I don’t really have a label for it: it is what it is and that’s enough for me.

This kind of play or real life discipline is pretty much all I’ve been capable of play wise. That weekend, I got a bed time spanking to settle me for bed. But I couldn’t cry, couldn’t find the release. I had cried so much that now I couldn’t, so much was out of my control that suddenly this was my way of taking some back. All the opposite to how I wanted it to be. And so the weekend went on with me struggling to cry and he being endlessly patient.  Dealing with me when I went cold and angry at feeling pain, responding to my neediness with punishment and orders, continuing to persevere even when I was becoming defiant, trusting me more than I deserved to be.

On the Saturday night he resolved to break me. Told me he’d start with a spanking and then I’d get slippered. The thought of the slipper filled me with dread. But in truth the hand spanking was the hardest I’ve ever had and that’s saying a lot. I thought at one stage he was using a hairbrush it stung so much, and not only did it sting but it was so fast. In my mind I thought I don’t want this I’m just going to end it, there’s nothing to be got from this. But I hung in there, I too wanted to break. I was sweating from the effort of taking it, struggling to breathe from pain. 

Then he paused and said he didn’t think he’d slipper me after all, that his hand was sufficient.  And this act of mercy undid me. I started to cry, softly at first, then loud gulping sobs. I didn’t notice when the spanking stopped. I cried through the hugs and then I let it all out. Beat my fists on the bed in frustration and anger then finally let myself cry for what I had lost, the person I had lost, silent tears of personal grief. When you’re the fixer in your family, the forever dependable adult from a very young age, it’s very hard to let your own feelings take precedence. It takes being treated like a small girl with no responsibility to let myself be selfish with my feelings.  I cried for a long time because I was allowed to. Indulged myself until I had cried myself out.

And I slept properly that night, deeply.

Of course it didn’t last. One weekend and one spanking can’t fix everything. My subconscious wouldn’t let me escape.  Through a series of dreams made me guilty for imagined responsibilities I was shirking, brought up the past and left me more unsettled. I tried to play with Abel but resorted to hugs after the briefest of spankings. Attempted to play at a party but couldn’t make it work for me, it just felt like pain; needless pain.

Right now I’m on the way back from visiting HH again and I take a sliver of light with me. It’s been another weekend of struggle but in the midst of it all there was one scene where I did let go a little and get partly into the head of another. A baby step, but a step none the less.

However we did a lot of D/s play which I did enjoy. Sent to wait in various positions. Then made to hold them as he beat me; the worst on my back with my legs in the air and the cane striping my thighs. The only downside of our play was that it felt much more painful than usual. Whether that’s because I’m out of practice or he was being really viscous or I can’t process pain the same way I cannot tell. But it’s a sign of how much I fear and respect him that I took what he gave me, even when my head wasn’t fully engaged.  It felt like a very safe place and as the weekend wore on I became more relaxed.

As I write this I’m sitting very uncomfortably on the train home. I have hope that I’ve made a kinky step forward but trying not to run away with myself. It is what it is. I need to let it be what it is. As usual I understand the logic. I rationalise my feelings perfectly. Yet, I have so little patience. I want the world to get back on its smooth access and until it does I’m going to stamp my foot a little. Thankfully I’ve got my friends and partners to rebalance me and keep me in line. I’ll get there.

Repulsed by my kink

This should have been the post about Caoilfhionn's Lowewood Boarding School experience. About how many housepoints she won and lost, how the netball went, how mean the teachers were and just how much of a pain it was to sheep dog the new girl Ellie.

But as immersive as I like to get in my roleplay I couldn't escape real life and my weekend abruptly came to an end after breakfast on Saturday morning. News of the worst kind: a sudden and tragic family bereavement. There I knelt, dressed neatly in my uniform (tie perfectly knotted, white knee socks pulled tight and my Byron badge proudly displayed) on the phone, first to my sister, then my Dad. The news was compounded by the fact that my family had been trying to contact me since Friday afternoon, but in my immersive state I hadn't been checking my phone.

Catching sight of myself in my uniform I was almost sick. For the first time feeling ridiculous to be a 29 year-old dressed as a school girl. How weird was I? Just what did I think I was doing? Wrenching my tie off I flung it on the floor in anger and disgust. From below I could hear girlish laughter as the others made their way to assembly and felt disorientated. It all felt so wrong. What were they all doing?

I won't bore you with the details of hastily arranged flights, many tears and hugs and packing in a daze. But as I visited each classroom to bid everyone farewell, now in jeans and t-shirt, I continued to feel alienated and disorientated. Looking at rooms of school girls attentively listening to their teacher. I wanted to laugh at the craziness of it all. Wanted to ask them did they not feel as stupid as I had felt earlier. In relief I escaped from the 'school', not at all bothered that one of my favourite kinky roleplays was now repulsing me

Nor was it just the about the Boarding School. On Saturday night, back home in Ireland I started getting flashbacks to the water boarding I went through. The lack of control and sheer terror was as potent as it was at the real event. I questioned why the hell I went out of my way feel such depths of despair and misery when real life could do it so easily.

And as our parish priest led us in the rosary at the wake, my grandmother leaning on my arm for support I felt another kind of revulsion; self hatred for daring to ever try to play a Catholic scene.

Looking back on it all now I know it was an extreme reaction to the circumstances. I'm still kinky. The same roleplays still work for me. And they work because being taken to 'role played' depths of misery and despair is a safe place that I can come back from. The nightmare ends with the fantasy. Reality isn't a easy to shake off.

But although I understand it and accept it, I still feel frightened to have felt such strong abhorrence. To feel that way about a part of my life I have been actively embracing for the past 2 years. When I next group role play will I feel the same unease? Can I do immersive roleplay again without checking my phone every hour? Will I freak out?

I don't have answers to my own questions, but I will find out; slowly and carefully with my  most trusted play partners. I can't make reality go away but I hope to escape to my fantasies. To embrace my kink again without any revulsion.

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.