In the scene, we three girls were orphans or delinquents at Lord Fawcett’s Domestic Academy for Household Economy, where we were training to be domestic staff. Rebecca and I were going to be cooks and Scarlett a housemaid. Mr Brocklehurst aka HWMBO was in charge and The Lover was Sir Mulberry Hawke, the visiting head of the board of governors.* I was Ceridwen Iorwerth, from Ceredigion**, who’d come with her parents to London to find work, but they’d both died of typhoid, so I’d entered the Institution.

The girls cooked dinner, enjoying each other’s company, until we were summoned to see Mr Brocklehurst and Sir Mulberry. Mr Brocklehurst asked each of us to step forward and say something about ourselves to Sir Mulberry. He asked me first. As I stepped forward and came under the gimlet eyes of both HWMBO and The Lover in one fell swoop, I was suddenly aware that I was really, actually, for me, quite scared. I managed to stutter something out, blushed and fell back into line. Callie was called forward and I stood quietly, looking at the floor, really aware that I felt totally meek and submissive and not at all like my usual self*** When Eliza was taken to task for wearing paint on her eyes and I was sent to fetch a wet washcloth, I cringed for her as she was scrubbed clean and made to stand on a chair for vanity and felt very relieved when Callie and I were dismissed back to the kitchen.

At dinner, Callie and Eliza were really quite naughty, constantly mistaking Sir Mulberry for someone else (you get the picture I’m sure, Sir Strawberry, Sir Raspberry, Sir Blackberry, Sir Boysenberry etc etc), being cheeky and mucking about. I put in the occasional quiet word, ate my dinner and cringed a lot. I got myself into a tangle whilst trying not to say that Lord Fawcett’s daughter had a bastard child, not wanting to use the word ‘bastard’ and groping for something more suitable to say. I eventually managed ‘child of love’ to which Eliza then said brightly ‘Oh, you mean bastard?” which nearly made me cry. All in all, I was being most unlike myself, because I genuinely wanted to be a good girl and perform well.

Needless to say, we all ended up in trouble and Mr Brockelhurst and Sir Mulberry berated us in the drawing room. I actually felt my eyes get wet just from being told off and when we were told to bend over a bench and lower our knickers, I actually started to shake with mortified sobs before a hand had even descended, tears splashing onto my hands.

Both HWMBO and the Lover noticed quite quickly and whilst The Lover continued in his thrashing of Callie and Eliza, I was taken away for a time out session and sat on HWMBO’s knee, where between sobs, I managed to explain that I was mortified, felt really naughty and that I was worried that my dinner (which I thought had turned out really well) was awful. He laughed gently and reassured me. When I calmed down, I was taken back to play, chastened now that whilst my dinner had been very nice, I had been a little cheeky and not properly mindful of my place and I did need beating for it. And Callie held my hand, which was a comfort.

Later on, I was trying to work out my own feelings in the play and could only assume that the dual presence of HWMBO and the Lover, both doms for whom I have a lot of respect and occasional fear had somehow magnified my usual submissive feelings twice over. Plus, they make a bloody scary double act, something that they might have not previously realised, because that was the first time they’ve played in the same scene (apart from large group scenes). But what I really liked was that it reminded me that I am a submissive and that my strong feelings were somehow a celebration of that fact. I wanted to be good. And that it was funny how sometimes, as a sub, you are really scared but that fear is good for you, because it’s good for you to realise you have a place and where that place it. Sometimes, submission can be really frightening. But at the same time, you feel cherished by it.

I had a nice warm glow afterwards – and not just in my bottom!

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*Note to The Lover, when picking a name for yourself, generally not a good idea to give the girls an instant opportunity to take the piss.
** That’s in Wales, look you.
***Aka Miss Cheeky-Clever-Clogs.

He Who Must Be Obeyed has a playdate tonight and I am having a quiet night in. This is possibly one of the strangest, but at the same time, the nicest things about our relationship. We are both happy for the other to have whichever playmates they choose, who often become good friends of the other. We discuss ‘dating’ and talk about our drinks and meetings with potential playmates. And then finally, when one of us plays with them in our home, if the other is in, typing blog entries, watching the news, tidying the living room, they will hear the occasional snatch of sound from above, only occasional because we live in an old house with good thick bricks! You certainly don’t get a moment-by-moment audio soundtrack!

We are lucky enough to have a nice playroom, so the playmate never feels constrained by the presence or HWMBO or I. The player takes over the top of the house, the quiet-night-iner stays below. The amusing thing is occasionally having date clashes and negotiating who gets the playroom. We even talk about ‘home’ and ‘away’ fixtures, if one of us is at a playmates house!

People often ask me if I get jealous of HWMBO’s playmates and he of mine. I think the answer to that is, quite honestly, no – because one of the major thrills that we both get is to know the other is having a good time. It doesn’t detract or lessen opportunities for each other – but it adds a piquant spice to the gumbo of our relationship.

There has only ever been one moment where I’ve panicked. It was with a new playmate of HWMBO’s – I’ll spare her blushes here – who was new to the scene and on being laid over his lap for the first time, promptly fainted, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash that shook the house. I ran to the bottom of the stairs, all kinds of things going through my head – but then, muffled by two doors, could hear HWMBO laughing and soothing, so I knew there was nothing seriously wrong – but I burned with curiosity to know what was happening!

It’s funny how, for me, even something as loud as spanking, can fade into the background. Just another night in Jessica’s house!

I spent time planning dinner, drawing up a shopping list, dusting the dining room and writing a note for my maid Sophie (oh for the days when there was an entire staff of people to do my biding!). I instructed her that the finest crystal and china were to be used, instructed her not to drop it and then wrote in brackets ‘I really mean this’. Not that darling Sophie would of course. But I have played with people in a domestic sense before who seem to think that deliberately chucking china on the floor is a sure-fire way for me to punish them. No. Deliberately chucking china on the floor is a sure-fire way for you to get kicked out of my house and asked never to darken my doors again.

It made me think about subs playing for attention. Sometimes, the doms in our lives need a bit of encouragement to swing into action. A cheeky remark. A look. A sly poke of the tongue. Hell, I do it myself – you sometimes want to provoke them, to give them the excuse to deal with you. But sometimes you can take it too far, push them too much. The above mentioned china worry is no joke – I have maided in the past and wouldn’t dream of deliberately damaging something to get attention. But quite a lot of subs would and they are not the subs I want to be staff at the house party! Because sometimes, as a sub, you have to be self-controlled. To know when to push and when to stop. And that’s the hardest lesson of all for a submissive, because sometimes you want to play so much that you want to push and push until all hell is unleashed. But that’s never a good idea. Doms know their limits – for example, I won’t play when I am angry with someone – so subs should as well. We shouldn’t always expect the doms to know the limits and know where to draw the line. We are responsible for ourselves. And we should take that responsibility. Every time. No excuses.

Given that Bex and I are working-class, we had both picked Victorian working-class characters to be – me a brothel madam and she, a stowaway. Emma has also picked a poor-but-respectable character. Felicity meanwhile, was actually rather posh. She was – shock horror – Upper-Class! She was called Cecily for goodness sake! I thought I summed it up rather nicely when Dr Grimace (otherwise known as Dr Grimface or Dr Grimarse) was booking us all in, when Lily, my character, summarised the traditional British contempt for toffs.

Poor Cecily has just announced her name. There were sniggers from the commoners and Lily vented her feelings.

“Cor. We ‘ave a bleedin’ Duchess in our midst!” she said clearly. “La-di-da!”

We all watched with interest as the back of Cecily’s neck went red.

“That’s enough!” shouted Dr Grimace.

It was clear to both Bex and I that our characters – Lily and Mollie respectively, were going to give the posh bird a hard time. Until we had our cold showers and then lined up, naked, for our medicals. I went first and Cecily managed to be last. What was going on behind the door was obviously traumatising her. The other two were being a little mean to her. This was not what she was used to!

As Lily, I went to say something sarcastic. But the real me, Jessica, noted that Cecily was slightly damp about the eyes with anticipation and embarrassment. Lily bit her tongue.

“Cheer up darling.” she said. “It’s not that bad.” She put a comforting hand on Cecily’s arm and gave her a little cuddle.

So there you have it. The class divide, broken by adversity. Trauma crosses all backgrounds.

So one morning last week was a bit of a departure as it saw Jessica doing hard labour over an ironing board. What was she ironing, I hear you cry? Well, kinky clothes of course. Specifically, eight reformatory dresses – four grey dresses for day and four black dresses for evening**. These were for the four new inmates of the Lowewood Institute for Delinquent and Debauched Girls, the forthcoming weekend play.

Anyway Jessica wanted to have a moan.

“It’s not fair.” she whined to HWMBO. “Why do I have to iron everyone’s dresses? Why can’t the others iron their own?”

HWMBO has ways of dealing with whiny wives.

“Would you like to use the flat irons?” he asked sweetly.

Jessica did not. Flat irons, which wives and servants struggled with before the invention of electric irons have to be heated in the oven and then you struggle with trying to pick them up soon enough to iron things without burning off your hand.

HWMBO is really mean sometimes.

*****************************************
*And gets house points deducted if Miss Cavendish notices.
** It’s a posh reformatory, which benefits from Lord Fawcett’s endowment. There’s Sunday Best as well!

She looked at her feet, sensibly shod in heavy black boots and white cotton stockings, poking out from under the hem of her grey checked skirt in heavy twill. This, along with a plain white cotton blouse, constituted her ‘Sunday Best’ which was given to all the orphans at the workhouse, handed out every Sunday, worn for church and then handed back to Matron after the return to the grey buildings that were home. All Violet remembered was the orphanage, she’d grown up there, learning nothing but how to read, write, count – and work. Work hard. Now, at 19, she was still there. Her compatriots had long since gone to places of service, but she’d always been good with the younger orphanage children and the powers that be had decided that she could earn her keep by looking after the little ones, the ones too young to work.

Violet usually looked forward to Sundays – not because of the church service, which always seemed inimitable, but because of the fifteen minute walk to and from the church, the only time in a week she saw the outside world. She envied her old friends. They had places, new clothes twice a year, half a day off a week – and wages!

She picked at the collar of her blouse, which felt tight in the warm church. Violet had grown a lot in the past couple of years and she was aware that her clothes, hand-me-downs from charitable citizens were slightly too small for her, her full breasts pushing out the cotton, her skirt tightly gripping her waist.

“And the Lord said….we should all know our place in life. High and low, He has ordained a path for us to follow, which we do dutifully, obeying our betters, strong in the knowledge that He watches over all of us…

Violet’s gaze wondered up the walls covered with marble and brass ornaments and then idly over the gallery of the church, towards the Squires family and the town worthies, who sat resplendent in their best clothes, placed higher than the mere mortals below. She could see the Squire, his fat wife and their eight children. She could see the oldest son, a strapping man of 20, usually at university but back for the summer. Her gaze lingered on him – and then she noted, sitting behind him, a well-dressed but austere looking man, his coat exquisitely cut, his stock white and neatly tied, a silver-topped cane in his hands, a top hat balanced on his knee. Who was that? A visitor to the Squire’s house? Then as her eyes wondered over his face – to her horror, she realised that his eyes were not fixed on the Reverend Jenkins but on her, staring at her as she stared at him. She dropped her eyes, a red flush rising over her cheeks and then lowered her head, her close-bonnet shutting her face away from his gaze. For the rest of the sermon, she didn’t dare to lift her head. Well behaved girls listened in church, they didn’t stare at the great and the good in an impudent way!

When they stood to make their way down the church for communion, Violet risked a glance up and to her left. He was still looking at her. Face flaming now, she shepherded six of the younger ones down the aisle towards the alter, glad that her bonnet hid her face. She took no pleasure in the rest of the service. What if he complained to the Workhouse Master about her?

Outside the church, Violet concentrated on getting the younger ones into a neat crocodile and took her place at the back of the line, exchanging a brief word with Miss Aislaby, one of the wardresses.  She could see the worthies leaving the church – they always went first and the common people hung back, to give them room to make their way to their carriages.  The unknown man was speaking to Reverend Jenkins. As Violet watched, Reverend Jenkins gave a frown and scanned the crowd until he came to the thirty girls from the orphanage. He nodded in their direction and the well-dressed man turned to look as well, scrutinising the group. Violet’s heart sank. He was complaining. She looked at the stone-flagged floor, and then in an effort to avoid the gaze, knelt to tie the bonnet strings for Sarah Morris.

“Hurry up there Violet! We need to get back!” snapped Miss Aislaby.

Violet stood. The well-dressed man and the Squire’s party were gone. Perhaps she’d got away with it?

******************************************

Later that afternoon, she was summoned to the Workhouse Master’s office. Miss Aislaby made her change back into her Sunday best, brush her hair and plait it again and wash her hands and face before going.

“What have you been up to Violet Murray?” she scolded. Violet thought she knew. She felt sick. She wondered if the offence of staring at someone important meant a beating or simply a telling-off. She tried not to think about the last beating she’d had from the Workhouse Master, when his heavy leather strap had lashed into her naked buttocks until she cried with pain…

She knocked on the door.

“Come!” she heard him shout. She opened the door. The Workhouse Master was behind his desk. Sitting in the wing-back chair reserved for visitors was the man from church. Violet’s heart sank. She bobbed her curtsey and stood, eyes fixed on the floor.

“This is Violet Murray Mr Anscombe. Is this the girl you mean?”

“Yes that’s her,” said the man from church, Mr Anscombe. “Is she healthy?”

“Never a day’s illness Mr Anscombe.”

“Obedient?”

“All our girls are obedient Mr Anscombe,” said the Workhouse Master. She could tell the question had annoyed him and promised her pain later.

“Why isn’t she in service yet? Howe old is she?”

The Workhouse Master consulted a buff file. “She is nineteen Mr Anscombe and we saw fit to keep her here to nurse the younger children. But she’s been trained in all the domestic arts as are all our girls.”

“Let me see her punishment file.” said Mr Anscombe. There was a rustle of paper as he scanned it. “I see she’s only had a few beatings…”

“Violet is a biddable girl Mr Anscombe.”

Violet wanted to scream at both of them, the way they were both talking about her like she wasn’t there. But what could she do? This was her lot in life.

“Would you like a job outside the workhouse Violet?” said Mr Anscombe, addressing her directly for the first time. Violet raised her eyes just enough to take in his polished black shoes and the hems of his trousers.

“Yes Sir,” she whispered.

“Bored of life here?”

Violet felt flummoxed. What could she say to that? That yes, she longed to escape from the institution? “I’m very grateful to the Master and the parish for looking after me Sir, but I’d like to work outside the house….” she faltered.

“And are you a good girl?”

“I try to be Sir,”

“Unless your attention is distracted – like this morning.” he stated baldly. Violet chewed her lip. She didn’t know what to say. The silence seemed to stretch…

“I’ll take her. I’m going back to London tonight, I’m only staying with my brother for the weekend. Have her collect her belongings and meet me in the yard. She can travel in my carriage.”

“Certainly Mr Anscombe. Violet, you’re a very lucky girl. Mr Anscombe is a banker in London, he runs an excellent establishment. He’s been looking for a housemaid and he wanted a country girl.”

Violet risked a look at her new employer. He had a small smile on his lips.

“Thank you Mr Anscombe!” she ventured. “I’ll work very hard.”

“You certainly will my girl.” he said. “Now, I’d like to leave shortly…”

“Go and get your things Violet. Be as quick as you can. Sherry, Mr Anscombe?”

“A small one…”

********************************

The next half hour passed in a flurry and before she really knew what was happening, she was sitting in the corner of a plush carriage, her bundle tucked under her legs. She didn’t dare to move as Mr Anscombe climbed in and sat opposite her, but gently wriggled her fingers against the velvet seat. That felt soft…..she felt the carriage move and suddenly, they were away! Mr Anscombe pulled a book out of his bag and she sat quietly, looking out of the window as the scenery flashed past. She felt her head nod as the jolting soothed her and then her head slid sideways and before she knew it, she was asleep.

**************************

When the carriage jerked to a halt, Violet awoke suddenly. Outside the window, she could see tall houses, iron railings, trees….

“We are here Violet. Out you get. I thought you needed the sleep.” said Mr Anscombe. Violet climbed down, her legs stiff, gripping her bundle. Light spilled onto the step and there was a formidable looking butler at the door. Violet looked around for the entry steps, and turned to go down them, but Mr Anscombe, with slightly impatient exclamation, grabbed her arm and hustled her up the main steps.

“You may use this entrance tonight Violet. Caruthers, this is Violet, our new housemaid. Show her to my study will you and give her some wine, we’ve been on the road for four hours. Send my valet to me in my room, I want to wash and change. Have Catherine make up the housemaid’s room for her.”

Violet was ushered into a study. It was full of books with heavy carpets. She was told to sit on a hard-backed chair, facing the bookshelves and without fuss; a carafe of wine was placed by her side. Seeing she was too overcome with nerves to even think about pouring her own, the butler poured her a glass and left. Violet lifted the glass and tasted it. It was sweet, like communion wine. Thirsty now, she gulped it down, listening to the clock ticking in the silence. She was very hungry – it seemed a long time since the meagre workhouse lunch.

Eventually Mr Anscombe appeared. He sat in an armchair and helped himself to a drink.

“Come and stand in front of me.” he commanded. Violet obeyed meekly. He scrutinised her for what seemed like an age.

“Take your hair out of its plait.” he said. Confused, Violet removed the ribbon from her hair and untwisted the short plait, letting her golden blonde hair tumble down to her waist. Mr Anscombe stood and walked over to her, smoothing his hand over the tresses.

“I thought it looked long” he said. He gripped her chin and looked at her blue eyes. Then his hand slid down from her hair and onto her shoulder, then onto her breasts, the thin cotton suddenly seeming all the thinner as his hand caressed her breast. Shocked at such intimate contact, Violet stepped back. Instantly, he thrust his hand into her hair and twisted it painfully, making her squeak.

“I thought you told me earlier that you were obedient!” he hissed.

“I….I did…I mean, I am….”

“Stand still then! I am your Master now and you do everything I say, without question, whatever I may choose to do. This is the price of freedom from the workhouse. Do you want to go back there?”

“No…” she whispered.

“Then be a good girl for me.” he said, releasing her hair. He continued to fondle her breasts, then drew back.

“Let’s see what I bought then. Take your clothes off.”

Violet was mortified. Take off her clothes? She’d never been naked in front of a man before! She looked at his implacable expression and, heart sinking, started to unbutton her blouse. Eventually, she stood in her underwear.

“And the rest” he said.

When she was blushingly naked, he moved behind her, laughing as she tried to shield her private parts with her long hair. He pushed her over the desk and she felt his leg pushing her legs apart. There was a pause.

“Are you a virgin?” he said.

“Am I….I don’t understand.” she said.

“Have you lain with a man?” he said patiently.

“I’m not married Mr Anscombe.” she managed.

“I know that, goose. But men and women don’t have to be married to carry out the act of copulation. Have you done anything you shouldn’t with a man…or a boy?”

“No Sir!” she said, indignant. “I’m a good girl.”

“We will see that for ourselves in due course…” he whispered. Then she felt his hand between her legs in her most intimate place and she gasped in shock and shame as his finger slid inside her.

“I see. A truthful virgin. Excellent. You may get dressed.”

Violet scrambled into her clothes.

“You can go to bed now. Report to my housekeeper tomorrow. And remember Violet, I will have a lot of…personal wants which I will require you to fulfil. Do you understand?”

“What sort of wants Sir?”

“Are you questioning me?”

“No Sir…but….”

“I won’t be questioned.” He reached behind him and swung open the door of a cupboard. Against a bed of black velvet, canes, straps, birches and other things caught the light. “I have ways of making you obedient. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good. Now go to bed. Tomorrow, we shall begin your education. I will find it the greatest of pleasures. Perhaps you will as well. Off you go…”

Jessica has been around, in more way than one, more or less continuously over the last ten years. I’ve come a long way – from a scared teen novice to a slightly cynical observer of the lives, loves and gossip of the world of kink.

To say something serious, I suppose that I am defined by my desires. My desires are sometimes equally hard to define – but all I know is that I gain immense pleasure form indulging in behaviour that other, more narrow-minded people would condemn as deviant. Well all I’ll say to that* is that it’s my life and I’m living it the best way that I can. My worst fear is to get to a certain age and look back and say ‘God, I wish I’d done that’. Sure, there have been times in the past and there will be times in the future where I think ‘I really wish I hadn’t done that’. But most of the time I think – ‘I love this – give me more!’

To be able to indulge my imagination and my lust to such a degree is all part of what makes me the beautifully kinky (and sometimes just a little bit twisted) person that I am. I’ve never hidden how I feel – all those close to me, my husband, my playmates, my family, friends and lovers all know what I am and what drives me. I have no idea where my desires originated or why I am the way I am. But I’m damn comfortable in my skin. I think that’s the best place to be.

*************************************

*at this moment in time