Having been what is politely termed a ‘luddite’ for some time, slightly less politely termed a ‘late adopter’ (Marketing Speak for ‘sad buggers who don’t buy consumer goods unless they have to use them to breathe’) and rather rudely a ‘old relic’, I’ve decided to bore everyone rigid on Twitter instead of my blog. The idea being, I can’t possibly say anything that HWMBO will take offence to/find embarrassing  in 140 characters.

Ha ha ha. Yes, I thought that was funny as well. How about:

‘HWMBO has recently had a sex change. Can we all please call him Hilda from now on? Go her!’

And

‘Official – HWMBO and Jessica have recovered from Chlamydia. Now safe to shag again!’

And

‘HM Revenue & Customs (Vice Squad) confirms suspension of this account.’

Anyway, ahem. Yes, I joined Twitter, so hopefully you can enjoy my (slightly shorter) drivel in another environment. You can find me @FawcettHall!

I’ve really enjoyed my eight months of writing here and also the contributions from the people who have the patience to read my random spouting. I’d like to say a special thank you to the indomitable Dr Higgins of Lowewood Academy, who is the technical guru behind Bend Over Jessica. As usual, he has been more than a star and I am very appreciative of him. I’ve also enjoyed being a part of the kinkster blogging community and I will still be contributing something to other people’s musings via the comments facility.

These days, it seems like we all live in a goldfish bowl and that privacy, both personally and within relationships can be a difficult commodity to come by. The whole phenomenon that is ‘Social Networking’ – whether that’s blogging, Facebook, Fetlife or Twitter – means that we know more about each other than ever before, especially when you get someone like me. People of my generation are used to living out their lives in public. People older than me are not. I’ve never been embarrassed or ashamed by anything – with me, what you see tends to be very much what you get. Where I have made a mistake was assuming that in giving no-holds barred accounts of a girl’s kinky life and times that it was all right to take the people closest to me along for the ride, without every really asking their permission, to characterise them in the pages of this blog, to give you all a picture of what they are like as people – without ever realising that they didn’t have a right of reply, unless it was in a public arena.

I brought my private life into the public sphere. I’m still fine about that. But He Who Must Be Obeyed is not. It was a remark, made whilst he was a little drunk* that brought home to me that I can’t continue to carelessly parade my hopes, dreams and fears for all to see, because he is bound up in these and he never wanted or desired for the entire world to know, for example, that he eats toast and marmite, is amazing in bed, sometimes forgets to play with me and occasionally lets me down.

Those of you who are UK based may know the infamous Liz Jones who writes a regular column for both The Daily Mail and The Mail On Sunday. Formerly married to Evening Standard Journalist and write Nirpal Dhaliwal, her very public chronicling of her unsatisfactory marriage, its subsequent breakdown and her rediscovery of herself in a rural community was brutally and searingly honest – but as the link here shows, her husband felt that her vitriolic columns were a considerable factor in their break-up, because he felt hurt and belittled at how he was often portrayed to the public.

Liz is a little like marmite – you either admire her honesty and candid voice or you think she is an appalling woman who mercilessly skewered her other half with her pen for money, washing her dirty linen in front of an enthralled public with not a thought as to the hurt that she caused him. I fall into the latter category. So when HWMBO said, in response to a question about whether or not he liked Bend Over Jessica, that ‘often, he feels like Liz Jones’s husband’, I knew it was time to stop writing. Because our relationship is worth more than the friction. I never knew he felt like that, now I do and now it’s time to end.

I could compromise. I could censor myself. I could not write about real-life issues or my personal life. But that’s been part of Bend Over Jessica from the start. Countless people have written to me to say this is what they love about it. So I can’t turn it into a corporate lovefest that paints my life as sunshine and roses. There are always showers and squalls. But equally, for once in my life, I can start keeping my thoughts to myself.

Thanks all for reading!

Jessica xx

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*In Vino Veritas and all that

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 isn’t to say that I always expect my bed partners to be swinging from the chandeliers with a whip at their belt and a knife in their teeth but I have to say that the idea of merely going to bed fills me with dread. ‘Going to bed’ in my vernacular is code for going to sleep. I ‘go to bed’ in order to get some shut eye. Not to indulge in endless in-and-out that I’m not getting off on. If there’s no spice in it for me, it’s not really that exciting. I’d rather have the sleep to be honest, that’s something I’m pretty deprived of!

I do worry about this sometimes. Does it mean that I am in some way emotionally stunted and I can’t get off on what any other couple would describe as a natural and loving act? Am I an adrenaline junkie, who needs to feed of her fear and pain in order to achieve orgasm? Or is it that ‘vanilla’ women don’t, as is frequently noted in magazines, have orgasms from sex, or at least not as often as the men?

I do know, from frequent Kinky Girls Nights Out that women find it hard to achieve orgasm from penetration. Often, we require some other help, from fingers or mouths. Scientifically, this is due to the fact that orgasms in women are centred on the clitoris whereas the act of penetration is centred on the vagina, so unless you have some convenient friction or the angle is right, women do find it hard to come from sex.

It feels somewhat abhorrent to say this. It feels like I’m saying (and to a certain extent I am) that being vanilla bores me. That yes, I like cuddling and talking but when the cuddling and talking develops into sexual activity with no BDSM context, whilst I don’t exactly mind it, I do get bored. And if I know that’s all that’s going to be on offer, it’s like expecting to go to a five-star restaurant and then suddenly finding yourself in McDonalds.

Chicken McNuggets anyone?

I’ve suffered from it quite a few times in the past couple of weeks, not just from He Who Must Be Obeyed but The Lover as well. Basically, it goes something like this.

Jessica notices that all is not well in man world.

Jessica (knowing full well that this is the case): “Is anything the matter?”

Him (adopting either sulky or martyred look): “No, nothing.” (Deep sigh. Puffs out cheeks.)

Jessica (slightly irritated): “Are you sure?”

Him (bottom lip pushing out): “Yes! Don’t nag me!” (Deep sigh. Walks to desk and starts fiddling with handy piece of cable tie or other male item, occasionally opening drawer or typing with more force than usual)

Jessica : “I know something’s upset you.”

Him (vehement): “No! I’m fine!” (Deep sigh. Even deeper sigh.)

Jessica storms out in exasperation to cook dinner/do washing/clean bathroom/have shower (delete as necessary)

Later on, you catch them out when they actually say why they are upset or unhappy, normally when you have burst into tears and told them you hate it when they are cross. But by then, they’ve spent a minimum of six hours and a maximum of four days sulking and the whole time you’ve been trying to work out why they are unhappy – because you can’t take any steps to solve it until they say something. And then, because they’ve been sulking and upset you, you don’t feel remotely sympathetic to their plight. What you actually want to do it stab them in the eye with a pencil.

I find this so frustrating about men. As a woman, I’m used to having long and girly chats with my good female friends about everything. We analyse. We dissect. We surmise what he meant/what he said/did you see/did she really say/ Really? No! I don’t believe it! But whenever I try to talk to the man in my life, he adopts the pained expression of someone attempting to pass a watermelon without blinking. He dreads the words “I’d like to talk about something.”  If I ask to sit at the table for dinner, as all civilised people should, he attempts to eat in front of the telly, dreading that something emotional will come up over the broccoli.

One of the reasons that HWMBO and I fit together well is the opposition of our emotional states. I am all temper, hurricanes, shouting, ballistic missile-esque ball of fire and warmth. He is ice cool, snow, silence, hidden oceans of calmness and quiet. He calms me down. I rev him up. When I start shouting – and oh, how he hates that outpouring of rage, well-articulated by the pithy insult and the elephantine memory of All The Bad Things He Has Done – he literally waits for the storm to pass. Meanwhile, I am fuming at his lack of engagement, his refusal to argue, his careful eye-rolling, his calm voice saying “I’ll talk to you when you have let this out.”

I am from a large, extended working-class Welsh family with Byzantine style family feuds and old insults and any large family gathering is like a piranha pond – last person to bite gets their leg chewed off. HWMBO, by contrast is from a small, terribly polite middle-class English family with buttoned up emotions who would never have dreamed of smashing plates whilst screaming and drinking vats of red wine in the way my lot do. My family watch fights in the street whilst the women call encouragement out of windows. His family are the ones that complain to the police about the common people who fight in the street. So maybe I am just better at getting it out than he is.

So men of the world – please – you know how you complain that you can’t read women’s minds? Well guess what – we can’t read yours either. So either spit it out or for goodness sake, stop sulking!

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.”
 
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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….’

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*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!

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

Because it had been my birthday party the night before, we had about seven people staying over and the Lover was already up, as is his wont, washing up*. I said hello, boiled the kettle, made him some tea and then went to take the boiling kettle upstairs. The Lover raised a laconic eyebrow.

“That looks like some pretty serious S&M” he commented.

I was hurt. Yes, I once bit HWMBO’s cock by accident, but seriously, a kettle? Boiling water?

I’ll leave that to MI5 in Morocco thanks!

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*The Lover has a washing-up fetish.