Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Dear Diary

Here is an 'in character' write-up of an unbelievably hot F/f scene from summer 2008...

Dear Diary,

I fear I scarcely know what to write – so much has happened in such a short space of time. In truth, I feel more dreadfully, sinfully wicked than I have ever felt before in my entire life…

Where to begin? I think I shall start at that moment when Mr Caruthers (in whose character I have been most grievously deceived) left me alone in his chambers to await his guest: Madam Rosie. I remember his expression, for it made me shudder so at the time – he looked hungry, as if I was something to eat, and I was not sorry when he left me alone in his drawing room. Still, he left me in total ignorance of my fate – the cruel, wicked man - and tarried merely to assure me that if he discovered that I had angered his guest, I would suffer his displeasure.

Silent and alone, I waited and waited… and by-and-by she came.

I have never seen such a woman before! Her clothes, her air, her tone of voice – all were strange and unfamiliar to me and even then, before she had even laid a hand on me, I felt inexplicably afraid of her. Her expression was like that of Mr Caruthers as she scrutinized and examined me. Her keen eyes raked my face and body… and I didn’t know what to make of it.

However, if my astonishment at the appearance and deportment of this woman was great, it was nothing compared to my astonishment as she explained why she had come to see me. Oh Diary, I have barely enough courage to write it here… but, surely, there is no call for me to state it plainly, for I am sure that it shall become overwhelmingly apparent in due course…

Once I assured Madam Rosie of my compliance (do not blame me, Diary – there are so few choices open to a woman in my position), she produced a tape measure and proceeded to take down my measurements. I burned in humiliation, particularly when she commented on the small size of my breasts. ‘But don’t worry,’ she whispered, ‘some gentlemen like that…’

Measurements recorded, she ordered me to strip down to my undergarments and then she interrogated me, asking the most shameful and embarrassing questions without the merest hint of a blush. I, however, blushed enough for both of us, especially when confessing to my sinful relations with some of my friends here at school, relations that could potentially call my virginity into question. In response to my whispered confession, Madam Rosie simply regarded me coolly and remarked that she would discover for herself in due course whether or not I was still a virgin.

And then, of course, it was inevitable: we went into Mr Caruthers’s bedchamber together.

Oh Diary, you will not blame me, will you, for what I did? For what I allowed to happen? For submitting to those shameful, unnatural acts and, worst of all, for achingly, feverishly enjoying such treatment, though I trembled all the while in terror and anticipation?

But I am getting ahead of myself with these self-justifications – it does not do to dwell on blame and guilt. Suffice to say my life has changed now… and that change occurred within the confines of Mr Caruthers’s bedchamber.

My schoolmaster had left instruments of punishment and correction lying about his chambers and, after ordering me to remove my drawers and bend over her raised thigh, Madam Rosie wasted no time in applying his heavy leather paddle to my bare bottom. I have experienced worse pain at my teachers’ hands but I have never felt as frightened as I did in that dimly lit room in the clutches of that terrifying, powerful woman. Though I endeavoured to remain silent, the sting of my punishment seemed to increase tenfold with the certain knowledge that I had done little, if anything, to warrant such treatment. To my confusion, however, Madam Rosie was not angered by my gasps and moans of discomfort – indeed, she appeared to positively revel in them, all the while assuring me that ‘the gentlemen’ would approve.

With one final, hard smack, the paddle was discarded and I was ordered to remove my corset. Consumed by ever-mounting fear and (oh forgive me!) excitement, it did not even occur to me to protest and I obeyed the order to lie down on the bed without a murmur.

Oh what anxiety I felt then, stretched out before her, all my sensitive places exposed and vulnerable! I knew from her expression, and indeed from her own admission, that she meant to hurt me badly, to test me, to push me. I lay there trembling and imagined horrors… but even my imagination fell short of what Madam Rosie had in store for me.

She informed me that she intended to force me to associate pleasure with pain, petrified and yet transfixed I knew that I would endure all that she inflicted on me, however terrible it seemed at the time.

From that point on, my memory blurs, whether through the haze of pain or pleasure ‘tis difficult to say. I can remember single acts, through the shuddering remembrances of pain and of frighteningly unfamiliar experiences or through the exquisite memory of intense pleasure.

I remember Madam Rosie pushing her fingers between my legs, reassuring herself that I was ‘still tight’, chuckling darkly… I remember her pinching my nipple and twisting viciously… and then having to watch in helpless anticipation as she turned her attention to the other one. I remember being whipped all over with a small suede flogger as I flinched, forced myself to remain still and then flinched again.

I remember Madam Rosie slipping her fingers once again between my legs, giving me just a taste of what pleasure could be… before returning once again to pain.

And then the most terrifying moment of all, when she bound my wrists, blindfolded me, forced a bit-gag into my mouth and then left me waiting, shaking, horribly aware that I was about to experience pain but not knowing where on my body or when…

…And then, sudden sharp and scaldingly hot, I writhed and twisted in shock and agony as she dripped molten wax onto the top of my thigh… oh how it burned! My tormenter’s fingers found their way back between my thighs and I was lulled into a false sense of security by a brief interlude of more pleasurable touching… but then (oh how I wanted to plead with her!) it was the turn of my other thigh. The waiting… the awful waiting in darkness and silence was agony itself… until the hot wax brought true agony to my bare trembling thigh and I lost myself to another wave of pain and fear.

Impervious to my pitiable state, Madam Rosie seemed amused as she bade me roll onto my front and offered me the choice between another paddling or one more drip of wax. I begged for a paddling… but instead received the wax.

Shuddering and gasping for breath, I teetered on the edge of manageable fear. But then Madam Rosie untied me, uncovered my eyes, removed my gag and assured me that the worst part was over now. The tight feeling of anxiety eased somewhat… but still I quivered before her, as she removed her dress and described the conditions and expectations of my future life. Scared as I was, I wanted to please her and I submitted meekly as she demonstrated the rough treatment that I must come to expect from ‘the gentlemen’. Even when she pulled me about by my hair and slapped my face hard, I did not struggle – she had won my total and unquestioning obedience.

And yet still I remember my shock at her bold, shameless question: ‘Have you ever been buggered, Emily?’ I assured her, mortified, that I had not. Another dark chuckle, ‘Well, you will be – once I have auctioned off your main virginity and auctioned it again and again and again, I shall then auction off your other virginity to the highest bidder. Yes, I shall make a lot of money out of you…’ I could only listen in horror… yet still I obeyed when she commanded me to lie face down, to arrange a pile of pillows beneath me. I felt my face grow hot as I imagined how I must look, naked, with my bottom thrust up into the air. But all embarrassment was soon forgotten as I felt cool liquid being dripped between my cheeks and then fingers probing in the tight, secret place there. Madam Rosie bade me relax and once again I obeyed, although I was unable to prevent the odd whimper from escaping my lips as her fingers slid ever further. I knew that I was pleasing her with my compliance and this desire to submit to her will was what held me in place as I felt her push what felt to me like a huge unyielding object into that place where her fingers had been moments before. I forced my body to relax, to accept this unfamiliar intrusion, and I was rewarded with pleasurable caresses of my most sensitive areas. Strange feelings jostled for position inside me, as the quivering heat between my legs combined with the sensation of that invading object filling me up, Madam Rosie pulsing it in time with the ministrations of her fingers. My breathing became shallow and ragged… and though it shames me to even write it, I cannot deny that, strange as it was, I enjoyed the whole experience and have scarcely ceased thinking about it ever since.

But barely had I had time to recover before Madam Rosie informed me that I was about to discover how it felt to ‘be with a gentleman’. I could merely wait in confusion as she rummaged amongst her effects… and then I couldn’t prevent my eyes from widening in shock as I watched her strap a most bizarre-looking apparatus onto herself. A fearful-looking black shaft extended from her body and though I felt I should look away, my eyes were fixed upon it, almost against my will.

Clearly enjoying my innocent bewilderment and trepidation, Madam Rosie bade me kneel on all fours before her… and then I whimpered and gasped as she worked that thick, hard shaft up inside me, until it filled me completely. We were facing the mirror and I watched, transfixed as she thrust and withdrew… thrust and withdrew…

And, no, once again I cannot deny that I enjoyed it… that my whimpers were more of aching pleasure than of pain or fear. I clutched at the sheets and groaned as Madam Rosie ground me ever harder into the bed. And oh, Diary, though I know it is deeply sinful to think so, I know I shall not be sorry to be alone with a gentleman if that is what will happen to me. Oh how wicked I am become!

I cannot tell you exactly what happened next, some of the finer details have been lost in the haze of delirium. Still, the image that stands out most strikingly in my mind is that of Madam Rosie writhing naked beneath me as I gave her the pleasure of my tongue. Though I feared her, I was also captivated by her beauty, the soft white perfection of her skin and the desperate, gasping sounds she made as her pleasure overwhelmed her.

Indeed, I shall not be sorry to be under her care in London - for yes I passed my interview. Come morning, I shall leave with her in her carriage.

Everything is changing, Diary. A world of pleasure and pain awaits me and, wicked though it undoubtedly is to think so, I believe that I am going to quite enjoy myself….

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Ruining the Mood...

So, Mr M and I were having a play argument about housework.

To summarise: I am a lazy bitch. The house is a fucking tip. I need to get my act together or there will be trouble.

So far, so lovely.

I took the foolhardy decision to argue back, suggesting that Mr M clean the kitchen himself if it bothers him that much.

Before I had chance to run away, he was up off the sofa.

Trouble was, so was the dog.

As Mr M pinned me down on the floor, pushing my face into the carpet and growling 'how dare you speak to me like that'...

...the dog leapt down and started trying to shag his head.

Seriously, how am I ever going to be put in my place if the dog keeps rushing to my defence?!

Tuesday, 4 July 2017



I want to get drunk and go dancing. Rip my dress. Break my shoes. I want to be tortured by music that hits me like endless punches to the head. I want to be so drunk I leave my feet behind and have to twist to avoid walls of blackness. I want to be crushed between strangers until I can't breathe and then for them to push in harder.

And then I want to come home and have you shout in my face. Slap me so hard the whole world goes black. Slam me up against the wall and call me a fucking worthless bitch. I want to be dragged upstairs by my hair and thrown down somewhere hard. Fucked in ways I won't like. Made to cry or scream. Or both.

I want to feel alive.

Friday, 23 June 2017

I'm Going Back to the Start

I feel the eyes of the other passengers needling into my skin.

I wonder what I will say if anyone starts talking to me, if anyone asks where I am going.

I decide to say that I am going to visit a friend. They will never know that this friend is really more of a stranger, that I’ve only met him once (three days ago), that we’ve been emailing one another for the past month and that his last email to me was entitled ‘Detention’…

I am wearing a pale green hooded top, jeans and converse-style trainers. I have straightened my hair to make it shine. I am 21 years old and, to me, this constitutes ‘making an effort’.

The train terminates two stations early. I fumble for my phone but another train arrives almost immediately. I cram through the door with the rest of the crowd and stand for the remainder of the journey with my bright red holdall bumping against my shins. Strangers are pressed up against me. I think: they know… they’re so close they can surely hear my thoughts… they know where I’m going… I smile to myself and squeeze the strap of my bag.

But my insides are squirming by the time I finally reach my destination.

I walk through the ticket barrier and hesitate when I see the vast swathe of strangers filling up the station. But then a not-quite stranger catches my eye: Mr M is standing by a pillar. He waves and comes to meet me. We hug and I feel my face getting hot.

He asks me how I am. I mumble and smile and give him my patented ‘nervous’ look. He ‘awws’ at me, takes my bag and leads me through the crowds. I stare at my feet and the floor around them. I manage not to bump into anyone.

Mr M asks if I mind going into HMV. I don’t mind. He buys a 6-DVD Eddie Izzard collection and says that maybe we can watch it together later.

On the way back to the car, we stop at a pub for a drink. I have an orange juice with loads of ice and a segment of orange. I take tiny sips and stare at my hands when I talk. Mr M tells me that it will all be ok and that it’s fine to be nervous. I sneak little glances at his hands.

The car is nice, much tidier than mine. I look out of the window, as unfamiliar roads, trees and buildings whiz past. I ‘ooh’ at a Sikh temple. When I manage to talk, it’s in little snippets. Mr M gives the back of my hand a little stroke and tells me again that everything will be ok.

We arrive at his flat and Mr M takes a bright blue hockey bag out of the boot. My hands have started to shake, just a little. Small shivery sighs escape from my lips. We go inside.

I have a glass of water and take little sips. Mr M’s bedroom is big and bright. I sit on the bed with my knees pressed together, close to the bedside table.

Mr M asks if I would like to have ‘a little play’ with some of the implements before we start. I smile and blush and say that I would.

I bend over the edge of the bed and he spanks me over my jeans. Then he gives me a few practice strokes with the tawse. He asks if there are any implements that I would like to try out. I prod one of the canes, the crook-handled one, and he obliges. It stings, even through my jeans. I suck in my breath and half laugh.

It’s time to get dressed now. He asks if I mind him staying in the room while I get changed. I say that I don’t mind at all, and laugh again a little.

He is dressed but I am still buttoning up my shirt. After one last check that I’m still ok, he says: ‘Knock on the study door when you’re ready.’ I nod and half-smile and blush. He leaves and I kneel down to retrieve two folded sheets of paper from my bag.

I hear Mr M going into the living room. He puts on a CD, just loud enough. Trembling, I make the finishing touches to my costume, before shuffling my bare feet into precariously high black wedges.

I hear the door to his study click shut. Alone, I pace the floor of his bedroom, pressing my hands against my face and making small distressed noises. I look in the mirror and give my reflection a half-sympathetic, half-despairing look. I take longer sips of my water. Blur are well into their first track now: I know I can’t keep putting it off.

Taking small quivery breaths, I totter into the hallway… to where I know he is waiting. My fist hovers inches from the door, as ‘Beetlebum’ blares from the living room. Nothing feels real anymore.

I shake my head, and I knock.

‘Come in.’ His voice has changed.

I push open the door and shuffle inside. I don’t know where to go, how to stand, or how to act. I don’t know what to say.

‘Yes, what is it?’ The kind, considerate gentleman has gone. He is glaring at me.

I can feel myself turning red again. Then I remember the two sheets of paper squeezed in my hand. I walk towards the desk and hold them out to him. ‘I was told to give you these, Sir,’ I stammer.

He doesn’t take them. ‘Put them on the desk then.’

I obey, biting the insides of my mouth. I’m not sure whether I want to giggle or whimper.

‘Right, now get back out into the corridor until I tell you to come back in.’

I obey.

Today, my name is Faye. I have always been a good girl but this week has been a Bad Week. I have had 6 detentions in a row and have earned a private detention with Mr Croft as a result. The pieces of paper I have given him are a printed list of my offences signed by the School Secretary and a handwritten letter of apology from me.

Thinking about it now, I am not sure that my letter of apology will be altogether convincing.

Finally I am summoned back inside, where Mr Croft proceeds to tell me off. I am surprised by how good he is at it. When he has finished, I even feel a little ashamed of my fictional self. I remember that I have a part to play as well. I tell him that I am sorry… but I can’t help from smiling in embarrassment at the same time. He glares at me some more. ‘Said with an unconvincing smirk on your face,’ he snaps.

He sends me to stand in the corner and leaves the room. I stare at the wall and feel scared, excited, hyper and nervous. ‘Song 2’ comes on next door and I do a little dance in my corner. The door opens again and I stop at once.

As the door clicks shut, I think: this is it.

Mr Croft brings his chair around to my side of the desk, sits down and calls me over. I’m not sure that I fully hear what he says through the blood pounding behind my ears but the meaning is clear enough. My time has finally come.

I bend across his lap, gripping the side of the chair so that I won’t fall. My movements are awkward and disjointed… but I make it unscathed. I look down and I can see my hands turning red. I look behind me, under the chair, and I can see my legs, my knees, my ankles and my feet tiptoeing in their inappropriate shoes. I feel his hand resting against my bottom, his other hand gentle against my back. My heart is pounding so hard against his thigh, it’s almost audible. There is no doubt in my mind that he can feel it too. I feel my face flush crimson. But he comments that he is glad that my heart is pounding like that, as he assumes this means that I am truly sorry for what I have done. I don’t respond, except for the tiniest whimper.

He gives my bottom a final rub… there is a heart-stopping moment when his hand is suddenly gone… and then I jump as the first slap lands. It feels sharp and hot and leaves a spreading stinging heat in its wake. At first, he stops to rub between each smack… but soon he is just spanking me, harder and faster. And I realise, truly realise - not just theoretically - that this hurts. It hurts a lot. I can’t stop little distressed whimpers from escaping my lips. But I don’t move.

After minutes or maybe hours, I am ordered to stand and am sent back to my corner, where my skirt is tucked into my knickers. I marvel at the feeling of my bottom throbbing; I never thought it would really do that. When Mr Croft leaves the room again, I twist around and stare downwards. My skin is pure scarlet. As I look at it, it seems to throb all the more.

He’s back… and I am over his knee once again, only this time my knickers are pulled down to my knees. And this time his hand isn’t gentle in the slightest.

But apparently I have been too naughty to get away with a mere hand spanking. Now I am made to bend over the desk and Mr Croft takes a hairbrush to my already sore bottom. I grip the far edge and hiss through my teeth, my knickers still gathered around my knees.

I no longer care that nothing feels real anymore. Blur’s greatest hits have faded into the background.

And now I am kneeling on a leather cube in front of the desk as I write out ‘I have behaved very stupidly and deserve to be punished with the tawse’ over and over again. I am to write this out 10 ten times, while my knickers lay in a crumpled heap next to the pad. Mr Croft surprises me by slippering me when I am writing line number 7 to stop me from ‘cooling down too much’. I gasp but my pen doesn’t slip.

When my lines have been finished to his satisfaction, I am ordered to bend further forwards over the desk, still kneeling, so that I am looking straight at the sheet of paper. I do as I am told and manage to stay in that position as 10 strokes of the tawse lash my bare cheeks. They are regular methodical strokes that layer my bottom with burning heat and they make me moan softly and dip my head.

My punishment should be over now… but Mr Croft wants to talk about my knickers. They are white hipster knickers with faint pink, yellow and blue polka dots. He drops them onto the desk in front of me, positioning them just so. I see what he is talking about but I no longer have it in me to blush. He demands that I explain myself… and I confess.

Now all of my clothes have gone and I am back over his knee, for a while.

With my clothes go most of my restraint. At various stages and to various ends, I sit on the edge of the desk, lie on top of the desk, crawl underneath it. I do as I am told without a thought. In return, I am given free rein to indulge that side of myself that so often remains hidden… and I embrace it fully.

But I am brought sharply back to reality by a sudden fist in my hair that drags me into the centre of the room. ‘This is a punishment and you are NOT meant to be enjoying yourself!’ Smacks punctuate every syllable. I am forced forwards and brace my palms flat against the floor to stop myself from falling.

Then I hear a swish. I know what that means.

The sting is far more intense than it was earlier, in Mr M’s bedroom, a lifetime ago. Almost against my will, I let out a long, low moan that seems to come from somewhere deep inside. I don’t think I’ve ever made a sound like that before.

Five more strokes follow the first. I almost can’t bear it.

But then it’s over.

Mr Croft has become Mr M again. He hugs me and says ‘well done’.

He sits down and pulls me onto his lap this time, not over it. I am naked but he is still fully clothed. He asks for a kiss… I lean down and press my lips to his. It is a soft kiss, a good kiss, and I know I will remember it.

I feel like I’m floating.

One last time, he puts me over his knee. This time it’s a bath brush. It is the closest to purest agony that I have experienced today. I squeak and ouch and moan. I almost kick.

He stops, eventually.

I stand up on legs that seem to have forgotten how to do so. He asks me if I would like to go into the bedroom for a cuddle. I say that I would.

Ensconced in his bedroom, cuddles swiftly progress into something more. Hours pass us by. I have forgotten how to think properly and that feels good. For a while, the rest of the world disappears…

Afterwards, I lay my head on Mr M’s shoulder. We fit together just right. He tells me that I am beautiful, and I blush and hide behind my hair. We laugh and talk about silly things. He rolls me onto my front and checks my bottom – I ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at the yellowing bruises. He squeezes my cheeks and I squeak.

But it’s getting late now.

We get up, get dressed.

We’re ready to go out for dinner.

And that, as far as my memory allows, is a true and accurate account of what happened exactly ten years ago today.