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.

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!

You know the gen. Dashwood are the clever ones, who break all the school rules, run the booze racket and get away with it, or to take the unkind Byron view on it, the mad eccentrics and the school pauper. Byron has all the hotties, or to take the unkind Dashwood view on it, the school sluts.

This rivalry had boiled over into a fight and when Jessica was hauled up in front of Mr Edmunds and accused of being the instigator she felt that there was more than a little inter-house revenge going on….

So she wasn’t sorry.

Mr Edmunds asked her if she was sorry. Jessica said not and quoted Disraeli at him – “The essence of humility is the acknowledgement of wrongdoing.”

Mr Edmunds said that Jessica was a smart-arse who was shortly going to be very sorry.

Jessica thought not.

Mr Edmunds thought that was a challenge. He had a certain glint in his eye. A tiny bit of Jessica was quite scared. But she wasn’t going to show it. Wasn’t the honour of Dashwood at stake?

So the stand-off began. And Jessica, who is not a stupid person, should have known perfectly well that when there’s a man with a stick and a girl with a bare bottom, there is only going to be one winner and it wasn’t going to be her.

The cane – the senior cane – which followed on quite swiftly after the hard and painful hand spanking and a very thorough paddling – hurt. In fact it really hurt. There were only six strokes, but each one whistled through the air and bit into Jessica’s bottom with all the venom of a cobra striking.

Jessica gritted her teeth, but her eyes were wet. It really hurt. She could feel the welts rising on her skin and the burning pain in her bottom. One stroke landed quite deliberately squarely across the top of her thighs, which nearly made her levitate. She managed not to sob, but couldn’t help a few pained noises from emerging. It seemed to be enough for Mr Edmunds and he let her go with a grim little smile his face. It ached to lie on her back that night.

Next morning, Jessica inspected the damage. Six strokes. All still visible and three had already bruised into perfect cane stripe bruises.

Ouch.

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!

 Every instinct I have tells me no. In addition to the general thing about me being a woman and liking to wait for a man to ask me*, as a submissive, I like to think that the dom is the one to initiate play – the one who feels that I need punishment, who wants to play, who wants to use me and abuse me as he sees fit.

 I’ve spent a lot of time in the past six months whinging about lack of offers. Therefore, I’m pleased to report that prior to my weekend in Derbyshire, I received two offers of play before the weekend – one from Abel and one from HH. Due to circumstances beyond my control, i.e. being shy and not being in the right place at the right time, neither of them happened. But that’s not the point. I still got offers of play and both offers brightened my day and boosted my ego!

 I have this problem an awful lot with HWMBO. When I see The Lover, which is once a week, we plan in advance what we will play and unless one of us is unwell or just feeling not up for it, when we meet, we play. However, because I live with HWMBO and see him every day, he often ends up not initiating play as I feel is his role. Admittedly, he’s not helped by my manic social life – I rarely have a free weeknight in the week and weekends are often given over to seeing friends, or doing group events. So to try and overcome this, we make ‘date nights’, like my friends who have children – except in my case, I want him to beat me till I cry and then fuck me roughly with no compunction whatsoever.

Even on date nights though, it can sometimes be a bit odd. Basically, I start to feel aroused at lunchtime. In the evening, we still need to have dinner, do a few chores and allow dinner to digest**. And so often, I am sitting, waiting – like I am now, typing madly away whilst waiting, waiting for it to start – and HWMBO is either watching Channel 4 news or worse, Kirsty Allsop doing property porn. It’s at this point that I normally want to scream “It’s my turn! Shag me!!!!!”

 This is the essential problem with being in a long-term relationship. People often tell me how lucky I am, I’m married, I have a lovely husband, I have someone who loves and cares for me. Check, check check. And believe me, I love being how I am and I’m very lucky. But at the same time, it makes you lazy. Whereas with The Lover, we plan play and I know HWMBO spends time planning and enjoying his playmates – with each other, it sometimes falls by the wayside with each other, simply because we do see each other all the time. So there is no urgency to play, no desperate urge to savour each other’s bodies, because we can do it whenever we want. But somehow, this means we don’t do it as often as I’d like.

 Then, I get cross. I wait to be asked. Despite the fact that I know that HWMBO, in common with most men, responds much better to a direct request than an indirect yearning, I wait. Because for me, to ask to play is an anathema – people should want to play with me, I shouldn’t have to nag to get it. So I don’t ask. And HWMBO chills on the sofa, not realising that I am typing away, getting crosser and crosser, so when we do eventually start playing I feel resentful and cross because he hasn’t done it sooner.

 Oooo. He’s just said to go and get ready and I can see that there’s a notice from Lord Fawcett on the bedroom door…..

 ************************************

*Yes, Jessica is a sexist beast

**Very important to HWMBO, whose digestion process takes roughly the same time as a glacier’s progress through the French Alps.

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.

Sybarite, me?

Anyway, what was far more interesting to Uncle Edmund – who on the way to West Sussex had warned Jessica sternly that they were staying at a grown-up hotel and therefore she must be on her best behaviour – was that at the end of a bed was a leather luggage stool, to balance cases on whilst unpacking.

Uncle Edmund quickly found another use for it though. He realised that when Jessica knelt on the stool and rested her upper body on the bed, her bottom was elevated to a perfect spanking height. Which was why Jessica found herself, less than ten minutes after arriving, mounted on the stool, her red plaid mini-kilt flipped up and her tights and knickers around her knees.

“I haven’t done anything!” protested Jessica.

“This is a deterrent so you know what will happen if you do” riposted Uncle E.

He then proceeded to spank Jessica thoroughly until her bottom was the same shade as her scarlet kilt, paddled her thoroughly with a new paddle and then for good measure, finished her off with his belt. Jessica, wriggling into the soft bed felt thoroughly abused.

But not nearly as abused as when he then proceeded to remove the stool, spread her thighs and take his pleasure vigorously, using her pigtails as reins. The bed was obviously an excellent height for this as well.

Why is it that Uncles are so mean?

This was a question that came to the fore as The Lover and I set off to stay in a castle for the weekend last week. Looking at the reviews on Trip Adviser I realised that in some of the rooms, the en-suite bathroom is only separated from the bedroom by a curtain! Now I know it’s a castle and all that and at least I’m not having to pee into a hole in the floor, but really! It’s not what you expect from Relais and Chateaux!

It made me think about mystique. I, for example, still get incredibly embarrassed if I accidentally break wind in front of HWMBO, even after a ten-year relationship. Likewise, I can now have a pee whilst he is in the bathroom with me, but only if I am running the tap into the bidet and thus he can’t hear it. A few times, we have tried to do the kind of BDSM play where the dom supervises you on the loo and I can never go, my bladder is always frozen with embarrassment even if he has made me drink ten pints of water and I feel ready to explode.

The thing is, do guys fancy you less when they realise you have bodily functions like them? I’m not sure, but for all those reasons, I don’t do any of the following in front of the men in my life, even the one I’ve known for ten years!

•    Break wind (unless by accident)
•    Pee in their hearing
•    Do a number two.
•    Have unshaved legs (unless waiting for a wax and one must be booked)
•    Ditto unshaved armpits and pussy
•    Have sex if I have my period
•    Allow them to see my tampon
•    Make them buy some tampons
•    Cut my toenails
•    Belch
•    Be sick (actually, this one has gone wrong a few times. Gotta love HWMBO for holding my hair back)

I’m reminded of the story of Marilyn Monroe, shortly before she married Arthur Miller. He took her to meet his parents and over dinner, she needed to have a pee. So when she went to the loo, she turned the bathroom tap on full blast so they couldn’t hear her doing it. Which led, when she’d gone home and he was talking to his parents about her to his mother saying:

“Gee Arthur, I sure do like that gal, but she pisses like a horse!”

You can’t win, can you!!