Why do I like this kind of play? Well, to a certain extent, a lot of roleplay-based BDSM revolves around the idea that the submissive is in some way being made to act against her will – such as a reformatory girl, bound to obey the whims of her masters or an Uncle who wants to have his wicked way with his niece. One of the main reasons that I like it is because as a submissive I am quite bad at articulating my desires and non-con play means that I don’t have to work to get what I want, I just get it, with no hesitation involved from me. At the same time, I wonder if deep down, I still think that the mere fact that I get turned on by being spanked or caned or roughly fucked is in some way ‘a bad thing’ and that if the scene is non-con I can revel in the feeling of being hurt and abused without any of the associated guilt. Even if I secretly know that I like it, I want it and the people I play with are not mad, bad and dangerous to know.*

So I enjoy being tied down, held down, being dragged by my hair, treated roughly, having my face slapped, being thrashed for the dom’s pleasure and many other things. All behaviours that in real life, if perpetuated on me, would see the person being charged with assault.

It’s commonly known that rape features in the top ten lists of women’s sexual fantasies on a regular basis. The rational part of me always wonders why – because it must be horrible to have sex against your will, with someone you don’t like. But the inside part of me, my dirty little secret if you like, really likes that. I like the feeling of losing control, of losing my power to own my own body. And non-consensual play is the same – I love the feeling of being overwhelmed, both physically and mentally by someone who is stronger than me.

It’s a difficult thing to get right, especially for the dom involved and it relies to a certain extent on the submissive being very honest about how she feels and what she wants from the scene. But that’s why I’m looking forward to the reformatory this week so much, because it takes me to a very dark place inside myself that really excites me. Why, I don’t really know. To quote Lady Gaga (who really must be a submissive) at this point:

‘And baby when it’s love, if it’s not rough, it isn’t fun….’

*********************************************************
*At least not all the time!

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!

At Chateau F, debutantes were given a French name, to reflect the origins of the institute and as an homage to Roissy. Debutantes only knew each other’s French names, not the real, wordly names that each woman used day to day, in their own lives. Sévrine liked her name. Gentlemen guests at the Chateau were merely known as Master or Sir. Sometimes, they were masked. Sometimes not.

Debutantes in training were assigned a valet, who was their personal trainer whilst they were there. It was only last month that Pierre, Sévrine’s valet, whilst licking the tears from her blushing cheeks, had said that she was ready. Ready to be displayed. Ready to be admired. Ready to be used.

The call, when it came, has been to the point.

You are required to do as commanded, without questioning. Obedience is the watchword for a Chateau debutante.

You will also be required to remember the following, fundamental rules. Again, any deviation from these will be severely punished.

Any gentlemen guests are referred to as ‘Master’ or ‘Sir’ at all times.

When a guest enters the room for the first time only, all debutantes must assume Position 3 until asked to rise.

A debutante must always wear her collar.

A debutante never wears any knickers, so she is constantly available for use as desired.

A debutante never closes her legs in the presence of her masters.

A debutante does not sit unless invited to do so by a master.

A debutante does not orgasm without first obtaining the permission of her master.

And so now Sévrine, along with Antoinette, Colette and Camille was preparing herself for the evening, bathing, rubbing sweetly scented oil into her skin, sliding on silk stockings. She was nervous. Oh so nervous. As her black cocktail dress slipped over her head, she blushed. It came to her knees, but she was aware, oh so aware of her lack of knickers. How could something so small loom so large in her mind?

In the drawing room, the debutantes waited nervously. They did not yet have a drink – gentlemen guests were always served first – and nor could they sit down. They chattered, an edge of nervousness to the proceedings. They did not wait long however. The door opened and the evenings guests appeared, two of them, smart in black tie. Immediately, Sévrine slid to her knees with practised ease, assuming position three, kneeling, legs slightly apart, hands flat on the floor, forehead pressed to the ground. From the rustles around her, her fellow debutantes were doing the same. There was a long silence. Then one of the gentlemen broke the silence.

“You may rise.” he said. They did so and suddenly Fifi the maid was circulating with a tray of champagne. Sévrine checked out of the corner of her eyes that the two gentlemen both had one before accepting hers. They were then invited to sit. She sat, knees slightly weak with relief. She’d done it! She hadn’t got it wrong! So far!

When called through to dinner, Sévrine found herself seated on the right of one of the guests, with Camille beside her. She settled herself neatly into her seat, careful to keep her legs slightly apart. Next to her, Camille was in a much shorter, more fashionable dress and when she parted her thighs, her sex was clearly on display. Sévrine almost blushed but was struck by the eager gaze of the gentleman on Camille’s right. He looked – hungry. And not merely for dinner.

During the first course, of smoked salmon mousse, Sévrine was quiet, enjoying her wine and listening to the conversation between the gentleman closest to her, who was conversing with Antoinette, placed opposite her, sparkling in an emerald green dress, like a jewel amongst the candlelight. Sévrine was idly watching Fifi as she poured out the rich red wine, and how pretty it looked in the elegant gold-stemmed glasses when a hand slid confidently between her thighs. She managed not to make a noise of shock or clasp her thighs together, for was this not what she was for? Was this not what she expected at Chateau F?

The hand slid up her inner thigh and checked that she was, as he expected to find her knickerless. He caressed her briefly – even that brief touch set fire to her loins. Why? Because that very morning, in bed with her lover, Sévrine had been forbidden to come. He had wanted her to be ready and desperate for this evening and she felt a blush start as she remembered her fruitless grinding against his leg, his soft laugh as he forbade her to orgasm. She caught the eye of the gentleman and in his amused gaze, it was as if he knew just what she was feeling. Then his hand was gone and Sévrine felt oddly bereft. There was no more touching.

After dinner, they withdrew to the drawing room again and quickly, play began in all its wild desire. Colette was the first to be sat on a gentleman knee and Sévrine, the guest perhaps knowing something of her, of her voyeuristic desires, was made to face away from them, kneeling. The guest pulled up her dress so that her bottom was on display and Sévrine felt the shame of such exposure and the desire at listening to another girls pleasure. When another guest spanked her bottom in that position, she felt oddly ashamed, unworthy almost, of a sexual touch. Her groin ached. She hoped that they wouldn’t make her beg because she knew that the words, the words of longing would spill helplessly from her lips.

Time spun then and Sévrine, heady with wine and lust, lost track of proceedings. One debutante was held down whilst another debutante licked her pussy, her cries of pleasure ebbing and flowing. Another debutante was ordered to play with herself for a gentleman’s amusement whilst he fondled the debutante doing the pleasuring. Sévrine found herself ordered to spank Fifi the maid for poor service, something she did a little unwillingly, for it felt odd for her, a submissive, to deal so roundly with a fellow submissive, but she tried her best, wishing to do her work well. All the time, she was aware of the desire she felt, the need to be touched, perhaps to be fucked, but as yet, it was not forthcoming, she had not yet been chosen. Watching Fifi’s bottom moving under the paddle, Sévrine was struck with a spiteful desire to hurt. She made her strokes harder, frustration driving her. And then like sand, she felt her desire start to leak away as shame and sadism fought to gain supremacy in her head, leaving no room for desire. She was consumed with the desire to punish…

And it was at that point that the pendulum spun, the die rolled around to her and one of the gentleman called her. Sévrine froze slightly. She fumbled in her head for her submissive pleasure. It wasn’t there, like groping in an empty biscuit barrel. She fought to keep her face still. When he picked up a cane, she winced. Why the cane? None of the other girls had been so punished. Had she done something wrong?  Failed in some way? He bent her over the sofa.

“This is what happens to girls that bite…” he whispered.

That morning, in bed, she had bitten her lover. He’d promised retribution. This was the retribution, passed on by her lover to Chateau staff. She nearly cried out loud at the unfairness of it, don’t punish me, pleasure me! But she was silent.

The cane bit. Accurately and savagely, it cracked into her cold bottom and it stung and burned. Sévrine gritted her teeth. She knew that this was the hardest punishment to take, to take it on cold flesh, un-warmed by spanking. She felt the blood rush into the white welt left by the cane and it struck again. And again. And again. And again. Sévrine wanted to weep with the unfairness of it all and had the submissive feelings still been swirling in her head, she might have done. Instead, the residual spiteful sadism was still there and she gritted her teeth and gnawed on her lip till she felt a tiny tickle of blood in her mouth, but no sound emerged from her lips, there was no submissive bucking of the hips. She was ice. Even when the gentleman stopped his individual strokes and instead covered her rear with a continuous sharp caning, she was silent.

He took her upstairs then, laid her on one of the Chateau’s many beds and his hands went to pleasure her. But focused on her burning rear, she couldn’t orgasm. The desire was there but it couldn’t come out. After a while, he withdrew.

“I’m not spending my time on this.” he said finally. Then he left the room, presumably to find more fruitful ground.

And then Sévrine wept. Because it was her first night, her first challenge and she would have to tell her valet that she had failed. At that moment, the agony of submission had never been so apparent.

As you do.

One of the things that made the scene so hot was HWMBO’s use of sensory deprivation for some of the scene. He had me tied to our bed but had also blindfolded me. As always, by being deprived of sight, my other senses got sharper. I could hear him moving around, but had no idea what might happen to me at any moment. I could smell the cologne that he was wearing, even though he was on the other side of the room. I could feel the sheets underneath me, soft and comforting. And I could taste my own fear, especially when he brought some kind of strap cracking down on the bed and literally made me levitate three inches off the bed in shock.

I love sensory deprivation. I adore being blindfolded, when I can hide my blushes under a mask and don’t have to look my dom in the eye as he plays with me. When my eyes are hidden, I can relax and take far more and be far lewder than I ever can when I’m conscious of my own shame and humiliation. I also like being gagged, not only for the sensation, but for the fact that when I’m gagged I can let out my feelings in small strangled noises, whereas when I am free to scream down the rafters, I rarely make a sound. Embarrassment again you see.

For someone who is from such a liberal home and who leads such a louche life, I can become shy and embarrassed very quickly. My friend Martha loves being dealt with in a group, the eyes of the room upon her. For me, that situation is one of my very personal hells, which is why I quite often behave at Lowewood Academy – I hate bending over in front of the class! So to be blindfolded, gagged or ear-plugged really works for me, because then it doesn’t matter if I’m shy because nobody can see or hear.

To have a sense taken away from you makes the anticipation so much greater – because you don’t know what’s coming next. Apart from the fact that you will be able to really enjoy it – and that’s why I really love it.

“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.

It was only when Marco went missing that she worried. Marco was Michael’s driver and as Michael’s girlfriend, he took her to a lot of places. The last time Lily has seen Marco, on a Saturday night in November, he’d dropped her off at her club, The Black Cat. He’d said cheerily that he’d pick her up at 1am, as usual.

But he didn’t come. The car, when it turned up half an hour late, just as Lily was thinking about trying to hail a cab, was being driven by Ronnie, one of Michael’s business associates. He seemed – excited. Like something had happened. Lily had asked after Marco. Was he ill? Ronnie has found that funny. “He’s feeling a bit weighed down by things.” was all he would say.

Marco hadn’t driven Lily – or Michael – since. The new driver was Juan. He didn’t say much.

Last week, on Saturday night, Lily had had a visitor to her dressing room. He introduced himself as Detective Leo Magozzi from the 53rd precinct. He’d enjoyed her set. Could he take her for a drink?

Lily hesitated. It seemed a bit wrong to go for a drink with this sexy man in his thirties. What would Michael say? But it was only a drink and she felt lonely. She knew Michael was at home with his wife that night. Why shouldn’t she go for a drink?

They went to Merlotte’s, a bar on East 4th Street and had a nice time. She drank cocktails and he paid. They danced. And in a heady moment, laden with music and the fuzz of alcohol, they kissed. He asked if she had a boyfriend. Lily, slightly merry from too much peach vodka said that she did. When she told Detective Magozzi his name, he seemed very interested. What did Michael do? Did she hear any of his friends talking? Go to any of his meetings? No, no, no laughed Lily. She never did any of those things.

Then the detective asked abut Marco. When had she last seen him?

At that point, Lily, even as drunk as she was, realised that she had a problem. The Detective obviously already knew she was seeing Michael or how would he know that Marco had driven for him? She was suddenly afraid. She didn’t want to be involved. So she made her excuses and left as quickly as she could and hoped that Michael wouldn’t find out. Drinks were one thing, kissing was another.

Poor Lily. So naïve.

On Monday night, Michael called and summoned her to dinner the next night. He had a problem, he said. He wanted to talk to her. She was getting a lot of attention from the wrong kind of people and she wasn’t handling it well. Lily agreed to meet him, found out what he wanted her to wear and then worried. She worried even more when later that night, Detective Magozzi turned up at her apartment with, he said, a warrant. He wouldn’t let her read it but it looked official. He questioned her for over an hour, harsh, questioning. Lily felt fugged with questions. She didn’t answer a lot of them, she couldn’t, Michael would be angry if she did, so she kept quiet and the Detective  threatened her with obstruction of justice. Was he arresting her?

Not yet, he said, but I might.

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

Dinner was nice, the restaurant grand, the diners monied. Lily’s Dover Sole melted in her mouth, but her stomach was churning. Should she tell Michael about the Detective? As she wondered and fretted, over the cheese course, Michael helped her out. Is there something you want to tell me, he said?

She knew he knew.

So she told him. But left out the kissing. The look in his eye left her no doubt as to the single salient fact that she had seriously fucked up and he was seriously pissed off.

She got a speech then. About how he valued loyalty. And discretion. She shouldn’t worry about things that didn’t concern her. Like Marco. Marco had moved to Chicago. But other people were poking their noses in. And she wasn’t helping. He’d fix the detective who was harassing her, but she had to help herself. She had to learn a lesson. And he was going to teach it to her. She nodded meekly. She was afraid of him when he was like this.

The car journey seemed to take a long time. It was a very cold night and the moon, a tiny sliver of silver light in a frosty sky, seemed to mock her. They were in a quiet residential area now, going, Michael said, to his townhouse. Where it was quiet and they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Lily didn’t like to think why Michael thought he needed total privacy. But once inside, he poured her a glass of champagne and started to show her.

When he stood over her, as she perched on the edge of the couch, she couldn’t meet his eye. Instead, she stared at his polished shoes, taking in the perfectly cut trousers, the waistcoat, the smart tie. He took his jacket off. Bad sign?

Reaching down, he lifted her face towards his, her chin firmly gripped.

“You need to learn Lily. You need to learn that talking to nosey people annoys me. You say you were frightened. Fair enough. Well you need to be frightened enough of me so that they don’t frighten you any more. That’s what I’m going to do tonight.”

The two backhanded slaps, hard enough to rock her back onto the sofa seemed to come out of nowhere and she felt her eyes fill with tears at the sudden pain. She covered her face but he dragged her to her feet by her hair and sat down on a chair. She stood at his side. He began to methodically stroke her thighs and bottom under her dress.

“I could easily give you a black eye Lily, but I don’t want it to show. You’re getting well-known at the club. You don’t want to have two weeks off at this point.”

He tapped her bottom.

“But here – well here it’s not going to show. The thing is Lily, I really like you. But you have to learn how to behave.”

The first spanking, with her taken over his knee like a child, wasn’t too bad. It was lazy – she sensed that there was a lot of strength behind his arm, but he was just choosing not to use it hard. But then it got harder and harder and she wriggled and gasped as his hand slammed into her bottom. Then he made her fetch a paddle. The paddle was even harder and she fought not to cry, not to fight him, because inside, she felt ashamed. She knew why he was angry. She deserved to be punished.

Methodically, he stripped her of her pretty dress, ripping it from her in one vicious tug and took off her bra and knickers, leaving her in just her stocking. Then he placed her arms above her head and a whip lashed into her naked back and bottom. She wriggled and whimpered. He didn’t stop though and thrashed her mercilessly with it and she felt her back burning, her skin prickling, the welts rising on her soft white flesh.

There was a pause. And then something sharp was pressing into her skin of her back, like a tiny needle. It moved, pricking her, sharply painful. She squealed and that was the moment where she begged first.

He didn’t listen. He carried on. She was learning a lesson he said. Her only role now was to take it.

When her rear and back were glowing, he thrust her onto her back on the sofa and lashed the whip into her naked breasts, cruelly accurate with his aim, the tips stinging her delicate nipples, which, like traitors, rose up to greet the kiss of the lash. She bore it for as long as she could before covering herself with her hands.

“Michael please….”

“Hand away. I won’t tell you again”

“Michael….”

The third back-hander of the night, catching her directly on the face and taking her entirely by surprise, was brutal. It made the tears come, leaking down her cheeks.

He ignored it and spreading her legs, whipped her delicate pussy. She screamed for real now, and the tears doubled in strength. Just when she thought she might die, he stopped. She lay, shaking, tears soaking into her hair.

He lifted her up from the sofa and she clung to him like a frightened child. He seemed so strong at that moment and she resolved that never again would he doubt her loyalty.

“Are you sorry?”

“Yes” she sniffed, he voice breaking slightly. She meant it. Her sorrow at having made him angry knew no bounds.

“Good. I’m going to take you to bed now, and have you pleasure me. Then it will be your turn.”

Lily managed to smile at him, a slightly watery smile, like the sun peeking through a raincloud.

“But first, you need the cane. I’m just going to cane you till I think you’ve had enough. And you know why I’m doing it. I’m teaching you how I expect you to behave and what I’ll do to you if you don’t. Now bend over the end of the couch.”

The next fifteen minutes were horribly, terribly painful. Lily did lose count as the beat her with the nasty thin stick, the rattan cracking against her already sore bottom, each stroke harsh and vicious. She wriggled, wept, sobbed and eventually begged and begged again. He was deaf to her entreaties, only concentrating on meting out what he thought she deserved. At the end, he massaged soothing cream into her burning and welted bottom and thighs. His touch, delicate, was a studied contrast to the pain he’d dispensed with frightening efficiency and no emotion whatsoever.

“Run along to bed.” he said.

Lily knew she was forgiven. For the moment.

And everything else? It was none of her business.

‘Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response sometimes seen in abducted hostages, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger or risk in which they have been placed. The syndrome is named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg in Stockholm, in which the bank robbers held bank employees hostage from August 23 to August 28, 1973. In this case, the victims became emotionally attached to their captors, and even defended them after they were freed from their six-day ordeal.’

Famously, Patty Hearst, the heiress kidnapped in the 1970’s, later took part in a bank robbery with her captors, apparently of her own free will, but she was supposed to have been suffering from Stockholm Syndrome – something that wasn’t believed by the court, who jailed her for it!

Now I can’t say whether SS is real or not, but I do know that after my 24 hour kidnap last week, by the following morning, I was feeling very strange indeed. In my write up last week, I didn’t talk about what happened the following morning and afternoon, partly because I didn’t want to be repetitive and also because I don’t think posts should be too long and that one was VERY long!

But having refused to eat any breakfast or drink anything – by now, I hadn’t eaten or drunk for over 18 hours -  and having been forced to exercise outside in the rain in my underwear, I was feeling mutinous. After breakfast had been taken away, uneaten, I felt a little tired and faint and was put to lie on the bed upstairs. I felt cold, even though it was warm in the house.

Straight away, I was whipped and covered with hot wax for refusing to eat and for generally being rebellious. As this ended, I felt so strange and tired and uncaring that I thought I might float away. The Lover (who was my captor) seemed to sense this and after rubbing arnica onto my welted bottom, started to massage my back, which I love. I lay limp, enjoying the sensation. Eventually, as these things happen, his hand stole between my legs and I quickly had an orgasm. But then, even as the sensations subsided, I started to sob. He asked what the matter was and all I could manage to say was that I was sorry for being tiresome and not being obedient. At that point I felt – well – awful. Like I’d been the worst person in the world when all he had done was to look after me.

Later on, at the end of the play, we discussed this response and I’d said I couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel angry with him after he had hurt me and used me so comprehensively ‘against my will’.
It was his thought that it was the onset of SS. I was intrigued by this thought. For me, I wasn’t sure if it was that or that my genuine submissive feelings were aroused by the fact I knew that he, outside the play, was worried by my refusal to eat and as a result of that, I felt guilty.

But really, it was a strange sensation at the time – where I thought afterwards that had he said at that moment – “I’m going to kill you now” – I don’t think I’d have fought it.* The way I felt, I would just have accepted it as one of those things. A pretty terminal thing, but one of them.

Strange. Something to ponder during sleepless nights.

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*Jessica reassures her readers that none of her playmates have any homicidal tendencies!

I really enjoy it when a dom slaps me across the face.

It’s a difficult thing to admit. For one, lots of people don’t approve of it, particularly in the CP scene as opposed to the BDSM scene. For them it is too derogatory and humiliating. Secondly, if you don’t do it right, you can hurt someone, catch their eye, bruise their cheek. Thirdly, I do vaguely consider myself to be a feminist* and nothing screams ‘brute!’ more than a dom giving you a jolly good slap.

Which is probably why it’s so hideously erotic and insinuates itself evilly into my mind like a crack-addict in a hospital pharmacy.

As a related thing, I also really like having my hair pulled as well. There’s something about a dom, male or female, when I step over the line, showing me, quite clearly, that they are in charge and if I don’t behave myself straight away, there’s going to be a lot of pain in my near future. Nothing shows this quite so clearly as the unexpected slap on the cheek, which can be quite gentle, moving through sharp to the rocks-your-head-back type. There’s something about the shame, the burn of your skin as you feel your cheek prickle as the blood rushes to the fingerprints on your pale flesh.

It has to be right though. If a dom walked up to me at a club and just smacked me across the face, he’d be looking for his teeth***. If a dom I don’t respect does it, I get really angry and upset. I have to have previously agreed to allow the dom to do this at his leisure. But with the doms I trust, the shock and shame of a slap to the face can reduce me to tears and instant obedience when a severe caning will only make me grit my teeth and search for a cheeky reply.

The most effective play technique as far as I am concerned is to slap sharply then almost instantly, caress the area of the slap gently. I will invariably shrink away from the hand, expecting a second slap and encounter only tenderness. For some reason, this makes me so excited I’m surprised I don’t go off like a firework.

It’s funny isn’t it, how something that has such negative connotations can also be such an expression of regard?

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*In a ‘postmodern-anarchic-RACK**-ironic-eccentric-quite likes cooking and feet kissing’ way.
**Risk Aware Consensual Kink
***Note to readers, if you see Jessica in a club, do not attempt this!

Her bottom is throbbing from a sharp strapping and caning, the tight bottoms of her pyjamas rubbing against her sore skin. Between her legs, her tender parts, unused to such use, ache gently. In the dead of night, she sleeps, uneasy dreams crowding her mind.

In the dark, something stirs…not the monster of old, the bogeyman from under the bed, but someone else. Someone human and warm, someone whose dark desires drive him, drive him on to hurt and revel in it.

Jessica wakes slowly from the purity of sleep, dragged from the depths of unconsciousness into a sharp awakening, but her senses are confused in the blackness – she can see nothing, only feel the movement and know the degradation that is approaching. Strong hands turn her onto her front, pulling down her pyjama bottoms, spreading her thighs. She feels covered, crushed down by the black figure, feels his skin hot against hers, feels his lust, his need to take her, willing or not.

There is a short moment of fumbling and then, his cock is inside her, the shock of it making her whimper with pain, her body not prepared for the intrusion. It starts to thrust hard into that tender place, already sore from the exertions of the evening and she is now aware of nothing but the sensation of being held down, the physical sensation of being fucked hard – and then deep inside a tendril of treacherous excitements that begins deep in her tummy and starts to rush to her groin.

The hard physical fucking rises to a crescendo of pleasure for the unknown man as he jerks into her brutally and Jessica is unable to do anything but allow her body to be used as a receptacle, for his lust is overwhelming.

He comes, rolls away and then, pulls her unresisting body into his arms.

Jessica leans on the shoulder offered. She feels him relax. She feels safe yet unsatisfied. But there is to be no pleasure this night. This night, she is being punished and bad girls don’t get to come.

But soon the night overwhelms her and Jessica sleeps. Until next time.

Now He Who Must Be Obeyed and I have known each other for a long time and I know that I am a special person to him. That’s a good thing. It makes me feel wanted. But an interesting side-effect of a long and deep relationship is that I think it affects how the dom sees you and specifically in my case, how much HWMBO wants to hurt me as part of our BDSM play. I’m not talking about mental hurt, no dom wants to cause serious mental pain to a sub. But I’m talking about how a dom can end up seeming almost benevolent towards you as if he is now so close to you he almost can’t bring himself to cause you pain.

I noticed this last week. I’m a big fan of ‘non-consensual’ play, where I am grabbed, slapped, manhandled or have my hair pulled. I love a rough touch – it reminds me of my submissive position. Now HWMBO rarely treats me like this – although probably if I stopped kicking and biting him, he might do it more often! I sometimes yearn to be treated dismissively and roughly. Recently, with two different playmates, I have watched him handle them in a very dominant way, in one case roughly stripping the girl of her dress and hauling her towards him by the hem of her knickers, making her stumble and in another seeing him grab a playmate by her tie and drag her towards him before roughly pushing her onto the sofa. Watching it, I thought…phwoarrrrrr……

When I first knew HWMBO, he was a lot harsher with me. I’m not saying that he treats new playmates badly (quite the opposite!) and he has deep relationships with his playmates, but it does seem that when you have a serious connection with somebody, your desire to treat them in this manner seems to diminish. HWMBO and I have noticed this with Lord Fawcett and Miss Marwood – Miss M is able to twist Lord F round her little finger and always gets away with it! And also, I’ve noticed the same thing with The Lover, who has a Regency character with whom I can also get away with almost anything with. It’s almost as if – can I put it like this – that the act of caring somehow seems to ‘unman’ them in the dominant sense. It’s as if as you build a life together outside of BDSM that you are more unwilling to be – dare I say it – brutal with your sub?

This opens up a lot of questions, because a) it suggests that male doms don’t care about their playmates (which is not true and NOT what I am suggesting here) and b) that somehow, when a need to nurture a relationship takes over it can cancel out the dominant urge. Can this be true? It’s not something that I can really answer – because I am essentially a submissive – but for me, the urge to still be scared, to still know I am the sub, to submit, to be taken at whim and used for pleasure – is still as fresh and as strong as it has been every day since I knew what I was and above all, why I felt this way. How does loving your sub change things for you?
 
Comments on this from the doms out there would be very much appreciated!