They had between them:

A bottle of vanilla vodka
A bottle of grapefruit vodka
A bottle of apple vodka
A bottle of ginger wine
Orange juice and lemonade to mix
Diet coke
Percy Pigs
Wotsits
Doritos
Haribo
Jaffa cake bars
Sherbet fountains/Dip dabs
Lollies
Mini-chocolates selection

Those are just the ones I can remember!

Due to some very ingenious hiding and very lax inspection regime by the staff, most of this was consumed between the hours of 12am and 4am on both nights.

Is it any wonder that I think I’ve had a sugar overdose?

That was the abiding thought as she lay in the dark in the narrow iron bed, shifting restlessly, unable to sleep, her cheeks still a little wet from her earlier weeping. All she was aware of was the relentless burning heat of her bottom, peppered with red welts and stripes, bruises and marks.

Outside, a night bird called. It was quiet here in the depths of the forest, where Lord Fawcett’s Institute for Delinquent and Debauched Young Women was situated. The cool night air drifted through the open window but Rose’s bottom was a ball of heat that would take more than the tendrils of a March mist to cool. She felt the room closing in on her, like a cell.

Up until tonight, she had shared a dormitory with two other inmates, Tessie Stevens and Nancy Ingram but tonight, she had been separated to a solitary room. Tomorrow, they would all be returned via wagon to the railway station and from thence to their various abodes but Rose was different and a closed carriage would collect her at dawn. Unlike some of the other girls, Rose had a place to go as her employer, Mr Anscombe, had told the magistrates court that he would take Rose back into his household when she had served her sentence.  But once she had been given her final punishment, he had insisted that she be separated from the other inmates. “She will be infected by their ways” he’d insisted to the Chairman of the Bench.

Rose, already devastated with horror at her conviction for theft and whoring, had remained silent. The magistrates hadn’t wanted to hear how she came to steal the maids uniform provided for her by Mr Anscombe, her protests that as he had burnt her workhouse dress, she could hardly have run away naked. Nor did they understand that her one experience of the Cyprian trade was due to hunger and desperation to earn sixpence to pay for a room in a cheap lodging house rather than risk the streets for a second night. Nobody had listened at the court. And at the Reformatory, branded a whore and a cheap one at that, Rose had had to endure unwelcome attention from some of the Masters. And now, her sentence was over, her conviction expunged but come the morning, she would be returned to Mr Anscombe’s house. Her stomach whirled with the thought.

She tried to sleep, lying on her stomach to remove the pressure from her tender rear. Even the blanket covering her seemed to hurt. But sleep was hard to come by. Her memory was constantly assailed by snatches of memory from the weekend….

Firstly, her arrival at the Reformatory and the shy chatter amongst the girls, whilst they waited to be processed. They couldn’t think of themselves as inmates – not yet anyway, and nor could any of them bring themselves to ask the others for what they had been sent here for. It didn’t matter for soon, they five of them were lined up in front of the head of the reformatory, Dr Grimace, flanked by the imposing figures of the other three Masters present, and they were each questioned individually about their crimes in front of all. The first girl, Mary Frances, was also a maid and had been convicted of libel and forgery, of forging a note from her Master. The second girl, Nancy, again a maid, had been imprisoned for theft, as she had stolen a book from her employer. When Rose was questioned, she felt herself flushing a mortified red at having to speak up to theft and whoring, especially when the masters muttered amongst themselves with disgust but audible to her blushing ears and she saw the eyes of the other girls widen a little. Of the final two inmates, Audrey had outraged public decency for profit and Tessie was convicted of theft, fencing and accountancy. Rose wondered what accountancy was, but didn’t dare to ask. In fact, she didn’t dare to speak and accountancy sounded really bad.

The girls were then given card to wear around their necks, upon which were marked their names and their crimes. The cards would also be marked if they committed any of the four cardinal offences at the reformatory – disobedience, idle chattering, foul language or Deadly Sins. This was a sub category all of its own and Dr Grimace explained that if the girls were thought to be displaying any of the seven deadly sins – pride, wrath, sloth, envy, lust, greed or gluttony – there were special punishments, ordained by God. If a girl committed any of the cardinal offences, she would receive a black mark and five black marks in any category in any day meant an exemplary punishment. Dr Grimace also handed out roughly wrapped brown paper parcels to each of the girls – their uniforms for the weekend.

The girls or as they now were, inmates, were herded upstairs and brusquely commanded to strip and their own clothes confiscated. One at a time, they then entered the Master’s bathroom where they were washed with icy cold water and carbolic soap, something that Rose, who was shy, found shameful as she was aware of the Master’s eyes assessing her naked form. Then it was along to Dr Grimace’s room to be checked for diseases, another painful and humiliating process. It was a relief to be finally allowed to dress in black evening dresses, black knee stockings and sturdy regulation black knickers. Rose was even more delighted to escape to the kitchen where she found that she had been given the bulk of the supervision and preparation of the evening meals, no doubt due to her experience. As she laid the table and prepared vegetables, talking quietly to Tessie, they heard the Masters walk through the kitchen to their common room. One of the Masters, Mr Jenkins, immediately gave both Tessie and Rose black marks for chattering. They both scowled and Tessie, who seemed a confident girl, stuck her tongue out at him when his back was turned before returning to her task. Rose, an armful of plates in her hands, suddenly felt eyes upon her and she raised her head to see Mr Murdstone staring at her. His eyes were hard. He started a little longer, then turned away and Rose felt weak with relief.

Before dinner, they were all summoned to the Master’s common room to receive the first of their hourly punishments, a brief but sharp spanking on the hour, every hour, for the duration of the weekend. Then it was back to domestic chores and finally dinner. That first night, although she was very hungry, Rose did not eat much and was quiet at table, even though the chattering rule was temporarily relaxed. She was scared, a slow dull terror inside at what was going to happen. Would she cope? Her bottom was a little sore from the spanking. What would happen when the real punishment began?

After dinner, she had her first taste of proper discipline as Dr Grimace announced the first remedial punishment session. Rose was told she would first see Dr Grimace in his room, with Audrey. They quickly found themselves stripped of their undergarments and bent over a frame as Dr Grimace beat them, first of all with a leather strap and then with an unrelenting tawse. Rose winced and gritted her teeth. This was only her first proper punishment! Dr Grimace had some harsh and humiliating things to say to her, a girl caught in a transaction of the most bestial nature. His hand slipped briefly between her legs and he stroked her most secret place. Rose twitched with embarrassment and Dr Grimace laughed.  “I don’t imagine it’s something you don’t like Rose,” was all he said.

After half an hour of hard and unrelenting beating, Rose was sent to Mr Mudstone’s room, this time on her own. Mr Murdstone was an austere gentleman, neat in his manner but with something in his eyes that reminded her of a hawk, floating the air-stream whilst on the look out for a rabbit. He ordered her over the bed and took his belt to her. He too had something to say about her indiscretions and she realised with mounting horror that he knew her employer Mr Anscombe. When he flung her onto the bed and ran his hands all over her body, thrusting his hand hard between her legs, hurting her, Rose could see why they were friends. She struggled and without even thinking about it, caught Mr Murdstone a hard blow in his most private place. Mr Murdstone winced – and then boxed Rose’s ears viciously, making her head swim and her ears ring as she wept with fright at the rough treatment. “I hope you’re not going to be difficult Rose,” he commented. “After all, I’m not expecting to pay for it.” Rose, sobbing didn’t reply – and then the ringing bell interrupted Mr Murdstone but his face, as he told her to see Mr Jenkins, promised her that she was unfinished business.

Mr Jenkins was a strict and no-nonsense type with a very hard hand. He also commented on Rose’s apparently lascivious nature, assuring her, whilst she was bent over the arm of a sofa, having a strap applied hard to her glowing rear, that he could see that she was a good girl who had merely strayed from the right path. He was sure she was going to be a good girl and learn her lessons well. He could see that she was going to be a cooperative girl. And didn’t she know that Dr Grimace would never take her word above that of a Master? Given that she was a convicted criminal and all. His hand worked its way between her legs. “Well young lady,” he commented “I can see that you’re finding this experience….stimulating.” Rose, mortified again, gritted her teeth as he lashed his cane hard into her cheeks, six hard stroked, burning across her bottom.

That night, in the dormitory with Tessie and Nancy, Rose didn’t dare to say anything about her treatment at the hands of the Masters. Looking at Tessie, who seemed to be unquenchable and fresh-faced and Nancy, who looked the picture of rosy innocence, she couldn’t imagine what she would say. She felt the enormity, the humiliation of her crime, felt it almost branded across her breast. She lay for a long time that night, sleepless. When she did doze, she awoke to silence and found both her room-mates gone. She didn’t know where, but outside her room, she heard the wooden floors of the reformatory creaking and doors opening and closing. She heard the sound of leather on flesh. And then sometime later, she heard a moaning sound, feminine moaning and the creak, creak, creak of a bed as it banged against a wall. By the time she fell asleep again, neither of her roommates had reappeared.

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

The next day was unrelentingly difficult and demanding. The girls had improving lessons, learning how to read, write and count, religious instruction, general knowledge and Empire geography. Hourly punishments came and went and Rose got used to having her skirt flipped up at the least opportunity. By the end of Saturday lunchtime, she felt like she was on an even keel again. Until after lunch. Nancy and Tessie were to go on a nature walk with Mr Lawson and Dr Grimace. Audrey and Mary-Frances were to have remedial discipline with Mr Jenkins. Rose was to carry out domestic chores and begin to prepare dinner. Supervised by Mr Murdstone.

Her heart sank.

She kept her head over her work, peeling what seemed like a barrel of vegetables, clearing the dishes, putting them away. Mr Murdstone stood, sipping coffee, watching her. He didn’t need to tell her to work hard, but took the time to lecture her on her crimes and the sins of the flesh. Has she had Bible instruction? Didn’t she know that lust and unnatural practises were sins against God and man?

Chores complete, she was taken to his room and this time she knew that there would not be a ringing bell to interrupt them.

Once in his room, he wasted no time. He flung her onto the bed and despite her protestations, used her in a way that only a man can use a woman. She cried that it hurt and he laughed. He hadn’t started yet, he told her. And then, in the ultimate indignity, he turned her onto her front, running his hands over her sore and glowing buttocks. He groaned with…pain? Pleasure? And then he did something so terrible, so painful and so lascivious that Rose was only able to bite the pillow and let her tears flow unchecked into the plain white linen.

As she shakily dressed herself again after he dismissed her, he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I’d like to cane you,” he said in a chatty way. “I think I’m going to. And I don’t need an excuse. And then, when I’ve put some welts across that beautiful little bottom of yours, I think I’ll need to do that again. So you’d better watch out.”
 
******************************************

On Sunday, Rose woke in the certain knowledge that what was ahead of her today was more pain and suffering. In particular, as today was the last day of her sentence, she would receive her official birching out, when all inmates were birched. Rose knew however that she would not be birched as Mr Anscombe had spoken for her in court. Instead, she would receive the dragon cane. The thought did not comfort her.

On Sunday morning, after the medicinal figging which stung her sore parts, Rose was punished in an exemplary manner, along with Nancy and Audrey. For accumulating five black marks for the deadly sin of lust, Rose was forced to lift her dress whilst Mr Lawson applied stinging unguent to her female parts, something that itched and burned. Then, for foul language, Dr Grimace washed out her mouth with soap whilst Mr Murdstone held her arms to prevent struggling. There was another remedial discipline session with Mr Lawson and then Mr Jenkins again, who tried out his formidable arsenal of weapons on her sore bottom. As she lay naked on her back, the martinet stinging her breasts and private parts, fully aware of the view she was presenting to Mr Jenkins, she nearly cried.

And still, there was her caning to come.

When the time came, it was almost a relief. Rose found herself alone, facing the four masters. She had already heard the sickening sounds and gasps of pain as Mary Frances and then Audrey, were birched thoroughly.

Dr Grimace sentenced her to 12 strokes. Severe ones. Three from each master.

Rose was stretched over the table and her outstretched arms were held by Mr Lawson and Mr Jenkins. Six strokes were given hard, the crack of the cane echoing, and she gritted her teeth and told herself that she could ride this pain. And ride it she did until the final three when Mr Jenkins carefully and viciously aimed all three of his strokes into the sweet spot between bottom and thighs. Rose managed to only make a small whimpering sound. But when she stood, the wooden tabletop was wet.

She made her way upstairs to bathe, bottom throbbing, able to feel her blood pounding along every welt on her backside.

In the corridor, she met Mr Murdstone. “My room Rose. You know what I’m going to do.”

And he did.

And Rose enjoyed it. Shamefully, with the marks of her weekend still raised on her bottom, she whimpered and writhed and wriggled. And Mr Murdstone laughed.

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

And so, when night fell, Rose found herself in her little room, her thoughts wild. What would Mr Anscombe say when she was back in his charge? When the floor creaked outside her room, she flinched a little, afraid that a master had come to take his pleasure with her again. But nobody came. She was alone with her tears and her sore bottom.

Until the morning. Until dawn broke through the clouds and the sun shone on frosty grounds. Until Rose, staring at the dawn, heard footsteps outside her room, the creaking boards that announced the presence of a Master. She turned. It was Dr Grimace.

“Your carriage awaits Rose. Come along. I hope you will remember the lessons you learnt here.”

Rose left.

The floorboards sighed.

The reformatory was over.

There are only four pairs of knickers on the kit list! And we are there from Friday night until Sunday night (well actually Monday morning, but we are only in role until Sunday night). That’s at least four changes. What happens if a girl gets all hot and bothered? And they will be the gross regulation kind, that you could parachute out of a plane with!

In common with fellow bloggers Eliane and Emma-Jane, whenever I travel for a scene weekend, I always have at least four times as many pairs of knickers than I actually need. Because you never know when the urge might strike you and what type you might need to wear. But at the reformatory, if you have stuff that’s not on the kit-list, it gets confiscated*

How can they do this to me? I haven’t been that bad a girl!

It’s almost enough to reform you!

*************************************************************
*Mental picture of Dr Grimace sitting in his room with a huge pile of knickers.

My character is based on what might have been a typical story of the period (circa 1850) – a respectable servant girl, an orphan, taken from a workhouse, abused by her employer, runs away, and resorts to prostitution whilst looking for another job, which would have been very hard to get without a reference. Rose has been caught whilst indulging in her first ‘sixpenny-upright’* and is brought before the magistrates where she is charged with whoring and, to add insult to injury, theft, given that she absconded from her job whilst still wearing her housemaid’s uniform, given that her new employer burnt her other clothes. Thus the magistrates decide that as she is a first-time offender, she will be given a short spell in the reformatory rather than sent to prison – but the reformatory is not really the easy option! Poor Rose….

He Who Must Be Obeyed had the idea of the reformatory about 18 months ago and it was always kept quite small until February 2009, when we had our first ‘large’ reformatory – four girls and three guys. This year, there will be five girls and four guys (it’s all our venue will take!) and I’m pretty sure that the combination of staff that are coming will strike fear and pleasure into me in equal measure.

You see, that’s the odd thing. I know perfectly well that for the entirety of the weekend I shall feel meek, scared, picked-on and abused. I know that I’ll receive severe corporal punishment, be forced to carry out punishment domestic work, such as scrubbing and the whole time, will be available as a plaything for any of the Masters who care to take advantage – and that even if I do pluck up the courage to complain to Dr Grimace, the head of the reformatory, that no one will take my word over that of one of the Masters. So you see, that creates the fear.

But at the same time, I shall have plenty of pleasure. All the chaps who are going are nice in real life and all know me well as a playmate, so will be able to push my buttons. There are also some lovely girls going and adversity is never as bad when you have friends to share it with you, to hug you and to dry your tears. And of course, because I am, I’m sorry to say, a rather perverse person, this kind of ‘non-consensual’ abuse is a huge turn-on for me. I hasten to add that the only reason it’s a turn on is that I can stop it if I want to, which is why I put ‘non-consensual’ in inverted commas!

Last year’s reformatory was one of the most intense BDSM experiences of my life. For a start, I felt really into the roleplay and the scene – I genuinely felt like I’d gone back one hundred years. Then there was the institutional nature of the experience – you were effectively stuck in the scene, you couldn’t leave, you were there for a sentence and your sentence had to be carried out. So you couldn’t say at any point ‘I don’t feel like being spanked right now’**. And it was strange to play with playmates who were being so strict – you had to be very careful with your banter, act deferentially towards the masters, take your punishment as decreed, not fight back.

Yet we still had fun. We still had hidden food and alcohol, whispered together after lights out, indulged in idle chatter, came up with the rudest names possible for the Masters (Dr Grimace, Mr Blackshaw and Mr Sykes quickly became Dr Grimarse, Mr Crack-Whore and Mr Psycho) and pulled the most disgusting faces behind the Master’s back or as soon as they were safely through the door. And somehow that made the beatings, the spankings, the birching, the cold showers, the domestic work, the boring lessons, the medical examinations, the lumpy porridge and the sheer unfairness of the bastards running the place worth it.

So yes, I am excited. This year’s staff have an awful lot to live up to. But somehow I’m sure that by the end of the weekend, I won’t be able to sit down. Bring it on!

********************************************
*It’s a shame they don’t have a www.1850urbandictionary.com.
**Although if anyone had safeworded, everything would have halted!

“Make sure there are white carnations. A large array. Within the white, there should be a single red carnation. A reminder to me of what a bead of blood looks like on your white skin……”

One was a lady, a married lady of stature, admired and respected for her charitable work. In her youth, she had been a great beauty and now, although older, she was still beautiful. Her white skin had a luminous quality to it, almost ethereal. Only by looking very closely at her eyes could you see the beginnings of fine lines, where despite the application of the finest creams and unguents, time was taking its inevitable toll.

The other was her maid, a young sylph, her pearly youth still fresh on her rosy cheeks. If she hadn’t worked as a ladies maid, she could have been a dairymaid, laughing at her swain as he passed her in the sun. Vitality shone from every pore and in every light step there was an acknowledgement of what it was to be alive and young and beautiful, to be wanted and desired. The knowledge warmed her and it warmed every person that she met.

And the man that they lived with, the lady’s husband, we shall call Mr X.

One was Lily, one was Rose. And between them, they made sure that the carnations were always in place, in every room that Mr X might enter. It was his foible, his folly. And woe betide any one who failed to meet this command.

Mr X was an older man. A man of power and wealth. His wife, like his house, was one of his many possessions and he valued her, not for what she was but for what she did, the prestige she brought him, the dinners she organised, the charm she displayed, the contacts she met, the knowledge she accrued. The lady knew this, because once, she had been thought of as bright by her peers and inside her smooth head, a brain still ticked away, although she tried to hide it, having long given up the thought that it would be any use, she knew her place. Wasn’t that what he’d taught her from the very beginning – and wasn’t that what she passed on to her staff?

The maid, as a ladies maid, her most personal servant, was more aware of this than anyone else in the house. Because her lady strived always for perfection, it was expected that she should as well. Her mistress brooked no dissent and no excuses. Mr X did not. So why should she? Was not every failing by those under her a direct reflection of her own abilities?

That was the way of the world. That was how their stars were placed. To change the stars was to change the world.

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

A bell ringing harshly. A black clad figure ran to answer it, the master bedroom bell.

“Yes Sir?”

He was standing at the end of the bed, stripped to the waist, the well-cut breeches tight against his long legs. Over the end of the bed was stretched a recumbent figure, naked, pale skin gleaming, legs apart. Across her naked bottom were several angry welts, where the crop he carried had slashed into her delicate bottom. She didn’t move at the sudden intrusion.

“Bring a bottle of champagne Lily. And two glasses.”

“Yes Sir.”

The woman on the bed moaned a little.

“Stop whining Rose.” he said contemptuously and slashed the crop across her haunches again.

Lily left the room quietly and as she ran down the long corridor, a small thin scream echoed from the bedroom behind her. In the cellar, she quickly pulled a bottle of champagne from the cold rack and hesitated. Pink or ordinary? He hadn’t said. She would have to guess. She chose pink and arranged it on a tray with two glasses and carefully made her way up the stairs. At the head of the stairs, she passed a fine display of white carnations and as an afterthought; she removed a single stem from the arrangement and laid it on the champagne tray.

She knocked at the bedroom door. She could hear grunting from Mr X and soft, sharp gasps from the woman.

“Enter” he snapped. He sounded slightly out of breath from his exertions. He had Rose pressed up against the wall as he fucked her brutally, her slim legs entwined around his back, her arms wrapped about his neck as she gasped in pleasure.

Lily went to place the champagne on the bedside table, trying not to stare at the scene before her. Her heart was beating fast under he black dress. They looked so beautiful together. A sudden charge of lust pierced her lower regions and she tried to push it away. It would do no good. Such pleasure wasn’t for her. Face burning at her thoughts; she stripped the foil from the bottle.

The rutting couple were now quickly reaching the peak of their pleasure and the loud pop of the champagne cork coincided with the join orgasm of Mr X and Rose. She slumped against his body as he lowered her feet to the floor and then trailed slowly across the bedroom to slump onto the bed, her face flushed with pleasure.

Mr X turned round and looked at Lily, who was pouring the pink champagne into two glasses.

“Lily. Come here.”

For one small, foolish moment, Lily’s heart leapt. He’d noticed her! Would he…would she…..what would happen? Was she to have the pleasure of his attention, of his hard right hand, of his cock? She knew what that was like, because occasionally, it was bestowed on her and for the remaining time, she dreamt of it. Mr X haunted her dreams. She wanted him and she despised herself for doing so. But she did, hopelessly and wearily.

He looked directly at her for the first time. Then without warning his hand slapped her hard across the face. She stifled a squeal but couldn’t stop her hand flying to her cheek, to hide the red mark rising on it.

“If I want very expensive 1842 pink champagne, I’ll ask for it. Don’t presume to know my mind. You haven’t the brains.”

“Yes Sir. Sorry Sir.” she muttered miserably.

“Now get down on your knees and clean my cock.”

Quickly she knelt and did as he asked, swirling the still tumescent flesh in her mouth, licking the head, tasting Rose on his cock.

He pushed her away. His new erection stood out, hard and proud.

“Stay there and watch.” he said brusquely.

With little ado, he climbed onto the bed. Rose was already waiting for him on her hands and knees, head down, perfect bottom high in the air, the welts from her beating clearly visible. He parted her cheeks and stroked her rosebud and she mewled at the pleasure, and the pain to come. He smoothed oil between her cheeks and in one thrust, took her in her most secret place.

Left alone in the middle of the carpet, Lily forced herself to watch. Mr X had aligned himself so that she had a perfect view of the two of them. Lily’s reluctance to watch was not so much that she found what they were doing repulsive, but because she desperately wanted to be the focus of his attention, to be the girl on the bed. But that was not to be. She knew her place. But despite that, she felt herself getting wetter and wetter and longed to slide her hands between her legs and at the very least, achieve her own pleasure via her own hands, a lonely act on any occasion but one, at least, where she was allowed some respite.

Rose’s mewling became louder and stronger. She was orgasaming again. Lily, desperate for her own pleasure and with none of her own forthcoming, tried to keep her heart serene, but it was a black well of turmoil.

Mr X, confidently and pleasurably, came, shooting his lust deep into Rose’s delicate bottom.

He withdrew.

Then they both sat up at the end of the bed and Lily rushed to offer them their champagne glasses. He reached across her hand and picked up the white carnation.

“A nice touch.” he said. “But it needs some red.”

On the bedside cabinet, Rose had discarded the fine jewels she had been wearing. Picking up a cameo brooch, he held Lily by the wrist and very deliberately, ran the pin into her finger. She gasped in pain. A single bead of blood appeared and turning her hand, he let the drop splash onto the white purity of the carnation. Then, he laid the violated flower across Rose’s shaved pudenda. The vision pleased him.

“My God, what you do to me, you little witch….” he murmured to her pearlescent beauty.

He held out his hand for a champagne glass and Lily handed it to him.

He sipped slowly, savouring the taste, before he turned to Rose.

“We have a dinner at the Aloysius house tonight. The carriage is ordered for seven. Lay out Lily’s lilac cambric and the pearl collar. That is the most appropriate garb.”

“Yes Sir.” said Rose.

“And as for you Lily, instead of standing there gawping, you’d better get along to your bedroom to bathe. We don’t want to be late. Mrs Alosysius is looking forward to discussing the charity concert with you.”

“Yes Sir.” said Lily.

“And Lily – no pleasuring yourself in your room. It is conduct unbecoming in my wife and you certainly don’t deserve it. Hurry along.”

Alone in her room, in her bath, the array of carnations on her dressing table seemed to mock her.

She ached for release.

But she knew that release was not permitted. Her humiliation was complete.

Mrs Derby was indisposed on Saturday night and was unable to partake in any of that night’s planned debaucheries, much to her sorrows. So at 4.30am, when she felt better, she was raring to go and as Lord Fawcett is not at his best in the early hours, she decided to seek out Mr Conningsby, who, being a fellow businessman, is used to rising early.

So, dressed in her long cotton nightdress and robe, but forgoing a candle, Mrs Derby crept down the darkened corridors and slipped into Mr Conningsby’s pitch-black room. Feeling a figure in the bed, she gently shook the sleeping figure, whilst whispering his name. Something along the lines of “Mr Conningsby – is that you?”

The recumbent figure awoke – and then, in a very female voice, admitted that no, she wasn’t Mr Conningsby. At that point, Mr Conningsby’s voice, from the other side of the bed, informed Mrs Derby that he was over there.

Mrs Derby suffered a single moment of extreme social embarrassment.

Then Mr Conningsby suggested that Mrs Derby got in the other side.

I shall spare the other lady guests blushes by not naming her, but I think it is safe to say that a debauched scene of very many bare legs in the bed ensued. Around 6am, Mr Conningsby** wrote a note for Lord Fawcett and sent Mrs Derby and the unnamed other young lady along to Lord Fawcett’s room.

Lord Fawcett, despite the early hour and the shock of two young ladies getting into his bed on either side of him, managed to rise to the occasion, especially as the note from Mr Conningsby claimed to have caught the two young ladies in Sapphic activity and he felt that Lord Fawcett was required to turn them both back to the ways of manly love.***

Thus ensured a second extremely debauched scene which sent Mrs Derby down to breakfast two hours later as hungry as a hunter. The first person she met was Thomas., the footman. Footmen know absolutely everything as soon as it has happened by a combination of whispers, observations and general strange psychic ability.

“Good gallop Mrs Derby?” he said whilst pouring her tea.

“Very invigorating.”

“How were the horses?”

“I was forced to change mid-gallop, but they both acquitted themselves well.”

“Oh excellent. Bacon?”

“Yes please. Oh and take Lord Fawcett two cups with his morning tea. He is engaged.”

“I already have Madam.”

“Jolly good. Well done Thomas.”

I love having staff.

*****************************************************
*But suffering the usual female problem of trying to fit 40 outfits into one case for six days.
**Somewhat worn out
*** Not sure what this means. Does Mr Conningsby fancy Lord Fawcett, or vice versa?

Despite a successful share issue of my new company, The Iron Horse Steamboat Company, to build iron-clad ships, powered by steam to bring my goods quickly from the American markets to the British ones, intrigue was afoot. I, or rather my new subsidiary had been the subject of a ‘concert party’, where all the shares available in the issue has been bought, directly or indirectly, by the Conningsby Iron and Steel Company. In addition, the bounder in charge of the company, Mr Fenwick T Conningsby I, had also bribed and bullied the directors of my main company, Maskell Enterprises, into selling him their interests of 40%, a substantial stake. I felt trapped and betrayed, like a bird in a cage. And worse still, I had to spend the weekend being pleasant to the very man who I felt was trying to orchestrate my downfall, Mr Conningsby himself.

This was in addition to thinking through how my chaperonees, Lady Grace Altamont, Lady Francesca Aubrey and The Honourable Dorothea Latimer were going to fare at the house party. I was already deep in discussion of matters matrimonial for Lady Grace and had hoped to close the deal by breakfast on Sunday. I was also sure that the lovely Miss Latimer, the toast of the season, had caught the eye of The Earl of Dorchester, the most eligible bachelor in Society. I hoped that this weekend, he would have a chance to admire her in a more rarefied setting.

All in all, I had a lot to think about as the carriage rattled towards its destination.

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Whilst dressing for dinner, I was surprised to receive a heavy legal folder from Mary-Frances, 2nd housemaid. On examining it, I discovered it appeared to be documentation from Mr Conningsby. Damn the man I thought irritably can’t he hold over his business for the weekend? Lord Fawcett, made cross by tying his stock, was brief.

“Don’t worry your head Juliet” he said. “You already worry about business far too much, it’s not ladylike”.

But when he vanished to the bathroom, I quickly examined the parcel. It was a note from Mr Conningsby – and a single share in The Iron Horse Steamboat Company, the casting share! There was also a charming note from Mr Conningsby, explaining that he had nothing but admiration for my skills as a businesswoman, as well as a more personal interest in my more feminine attributes. I was at once both confused and pleased.

At 7.30pm, the gong rang, summoning us all to a champagne reception in the drawing room. I had already inspected my chaperonees, who all looked radiant and in fine fettle. I carefully progressed about the room, welcoming guests, chatting, enjoying the champagne. Everything was running smoothly. I did feel a frisson of nerves as Mr Conningsby entered, but I was protected by Lord Fawcett’s reassuring presence and Mr Conningsby went immediately to speak to Viscount Fitzwarren, of whom he was inordinately fond. When we did speak, he was nothing but charming to me, complimenting me in so many directions that I felt quite flushed and we were then thrown together when a guest dropped his champagne flute, causing glass to scatter and enabling Mr Conningsby to protect me and two other ladies from going near the scene of the accident. Very gentlemanly behaviour – for an American!

The gong rang for dinner and as the hostess, I was escorted in on the arm of The Earl of Dorchester, a charming young man with a twinkle in his eye and excellent legs in his breeches. Lucky Dorothea! I thought! The moment of lazy lust made me realise that whilst I might be a sad widow, I certainly wasn’t dead yet! We dined like kings on spiced herrings, hare soup, stuffed quail with jewelled Persian rice and a lemon posset with lavender shortbread.

After dinner, the evening festivities began. The ladies withdrew and the gentlemen began their private devotions as members of the Hellfire club. As a novice of the order, I knew what ordeals awaited two of my chaperonees as they were initiated into the order, along with Lady Cecily and Lady Charlotte. I, as a more senior member of the order, would have my own ordeal to come as the gentlemen began their night’s gambling.

When the time came, I was escorted into the chamber. The gentlemen were now anonymous as the order demanded, masked in black. My lot, for which the gentlemen would bid, afforded the opportunity to whip me soundly until satisfied then the winning bidder would then sign his name across my bare back in hot wax, to affirm that it was his own handiwork. The bidding was fast and furious and quickly reached the maximum bid available. I felt myself tremble with anticipation as the winning bidder stood and Lord Fawcett himself – for I recognised my former guardian, even through his mask – stripped me of my dress, leaving me standing in my stockings and drawers. I was laid over a bench and then the cat descended harshly onto my back and bottom, bring a blush to both sets of cheeks as the leather bit sharply into my pale flesh and I wriggled and gasped. It had been a while since I suffered this kind of discipline and it seemed to be somehow more humiliating for that, that I, a grown woman, should be so easily reduced to a quivering wreck. When the whipping stopped and the time for the wax signature approached, the Abbot ordered the gentlemen present to hold me firmly over the bench, preventing me from moving as the wax began its slow and torturous drip. I couldn’t help gasping and whimpering and was almost grateful for the restraint, even though I burned with shame at so many eyes upon me and my nakedness.

After the ordeal was over, I was escorted from the chamber and two of the maids picked the wax from my burning back before helping me to dress and restore myself a little dignity!

After my ordeal, I decided that a little night air was in order and I summoned Dorothea to walk with me outside in the damp country air. The servants fetched our cloaks and we gazed at the stars. Suddenly, with a burst of laughter, the gentlemen spilled from their meeting and several walked out onto the terrace. First among their number was The Earl of Dorchester, drawn like a moth to a flame at the sight of Dorothea, pretty as a picture in pale blue silk, sparkling in the moonlight. I conversed gently with them both, but then took pity on the two lovebirds and with a murmured apology withdrew to a discrete distance, close enough to observe any bad behaviour on behalf of the Earl, but far enough away that they might talk in private.

Suddenly then, Mr Conningsby was behind me.

“Defending your chicks?” he murmured.

“I’m sure Dorothea does not require defending from such an honourable gentleman as Dorchester,” I responded dryly.

“And do you need defending my dear?” he asked.

“I am a married lady and not someone who needs a champion.” I bit back.

“Oh really? Then I assume all is fair in love and war” he replied.

With that, I found his arm about my waist in a most intimate manner, which made the blood race to my face and to certain other parts of my anatomy. He went to kiss me, but I was painfully aware that we were in a public place…..

“Shall we walk inside? “ he asked.

With that, I found myself led away from the company and quickly found myself in Mr Conningsby’s private chambers. My heart pounded with a mixture of lust and embarrassment and I made little protest as his strong hands stripped me of my dress. He paused momentarily to fondle my bottom through my silk drawers.

“I look forward to riding with you this weekend Mrs Derby….” he murmured as he moved on top of me.

I felt his lust pressed against me and I knew that soon, his suit would be most firmly pressed…..it was a promising start to the weekend….and what followed on the remaining days proved to be beyond my wildest dreams….

HWMBO and I have a rule. That rule is that I can only organise a big event if the fun that I get out of it is greater than the work I put into it. And generally that’s true. But I reach a point, normally about 72 hours before an event where I feel like running screaming into the street and frothing at the mouth.

This house party has been particularly fraught. We had a guest drop out due to family circumstances, had to promote a maid into the guests place and then a footman dropped out, leaving us short of staff. Each time something changes, I have to painstakingly change and then re-print the paperwork that is taken with us. Waitrose supermarkets suffered a sudden and catastrophic shortage of mackerel, leaving HWMBO to call practically every fishmonger in London and the East of England looking for a supplier. One of the girls couldn’t fit into her dresses and panic ensued, then the new guest had to be kitted out at short notice. Emails have flown. I have lost an oyster shucker* and have been scouring pound shops for a new one. I broke a tray of glasses and had to replace them. One of my crates broke and I can’t find a candlestick or the large roasting tin, so need to buy a new one. And I forgot the tea towels. And HWMBO used the firelighters for the bonfire last week.

For anyone who has never organised a large play event, the complexity of the organisation involved comes as something of a surprise. And when it’s not simple like a schoolday, but complex like a historical play, there is so much more that needs doing. Although everyone who comes to my events generally loves them, I sometimes feel that they don’t quite grasp the things I have to do or the hours I have to put in to make it amazing. But for me personally, it’s all worth it when I smooth down my silk dress, drink my first glass of champagne and just take in the scene before me.

All I am hoping is that when it starts, I will have such a lovely time and be so overwhelmed with play, that it will all be worth it and come the Sunday I will be tired but pleased.

Here’s hoping!

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*Before anyone asks, this is the kitchen tool used for opening oysters without chopping off your own fingers.

1. Dancing at the ball, with one of the chaps who miraculously turns out to have the dancing ability of Nijinsky, but is not gay. He sweeps me into a waltz and it feels like floating. Then afterwards, I am hot and he suggests we go upstairs so he can loosen my corsets. Much rudery ensues.

2. Dinner on the first night. I can feel my dining companions leg pressing against mine, through my long satin skirt. The pressure on my leg is a contrast to the relaxed look on his face as he discusses politics with me. I feel flustered but know that after dinner, he will make his move.

3. A private moment with Lord Fawcett. He is displeased about something (something small, I hate it when things go wrong) and decides to whip me, tying me to one of the posts of the four-poster bed in our room and stripping me naked before thrashing me without mercy. When I slide my silk dress back on over my throbbing back, the pain reminds me, all the way through lunch, how much I like to please him.

4. Walking in the grounds on a crisp autumn day. I can see one of the chaps making a beeline for me, taking the opportunity to have some private time. The knowledge of being wanted fills me with warmth.

5. Intrigue is the name of the day. Caught in the corridor, it takes only a moment for me to be blackmailed over an indiscretion. What will I have to do to keep my respectable reputation intact before the company?

6. The champagne reception. As I chat to a small group of people, I feel a gentle hand in the small of my back. There is such a lot of promise in that discrete touch. Nobody else notices and I feel as if I am in on a secret.

7. And finally, on the domme front – catching one of my chaperonees in bad behaviour. I whip her with no sympathy, furious at her behaviour, which reflects on me. She cries and stammers apologies.  I feel only righteous annoyance. And a lot of pleasure. That is my secret guilt.

The House Party is an interesting weekend – unlike a school day or a reformatory, it’s not institutional and although there are suitable activities to whet a kinky appetite and encourage play, a lot of play is ‘free play’* and therefore the chaps pull the girls. Occasionally, the girls pull the chaps, but this is the Regency era and we do tend to languish waiting for them to make the first move. So there is a lot of anxiety amongst the girls as they wonder which Regency Buck is going to make a move on her – or worse still, what if none of them do? Chaps are feckless creatures, always more likely to chase the new, the pretty and the young, which gives Jessica (the old, looks ok with her back to the light, getting on a bit) sleepless nights.

Last year, in a series of unfortunate events in true Lemony Snicket style, which I won’t bore readers with, I managed to go an entire weekend without a single spanking or a single orgasm. Despite sharing a bed with HWMBO. This is partly because I am jolly hard to pin down (ho ho) when I’m hostessing such a massive event, I’m more likely to be getting up early to be first to breakfast** organising the next activity, speaking to the chef, doing an emergency repair on a torn dress and rushing around than thinking of kink. But it’s also because I am actually quite shy and am terrible at expressing my interest to people so tend to wait for chaps to come to me – often fatal, because chaps are pretty lazy and would much rather take an obvious offer from someone else than enter a fraught flirtation with the possibility of no reward. Translation, hunters will take down an injured or tired animal before chasing after the fit one that runs fastest!

The House Party was still amazing and I still loved it though. But this year, I am desperate to play, if only to prove to myself that someone apart from HWMBO fancies me. And we have some fanciable chaps and ladies this year. But I am a terrible coquette. I’m horribly practical so I often get called away. And I’m sarcastic under pressure. None of which are designed to make a man rush to pull me when there are other dishes available.

So the question is – do I pleasurably anticipate possible liaisons in my spare moment, leading to the probability of disappointment? Or do I go expecting nothing so anything I do get is a bonus?

It’s a terrible thing, being confident on the outside and a trembling wreck inside.

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*It sounds like a Steiner school, I know!
**Normally leading to me sitting at a table for 14 on my own for an hour, drinking tea and chatting to Thomas the footman before any of the other buggers show their faces. But I have to be there when it starts, just in case one of them is there!