Addition to the previous post on Lady Jessica’s punishments

My dear Mistress Scarlet

What an honour and a pleasure to be featured so prominently on your adorable blog!

I have one additional tweak to the system outlined above, which I will mention because I propose to modify it still further according to a suggestion you made a few posts ago.

Occasionally I repeat the guessing exercise at the end of the punishment. Sometimes this merely takes the form of a question as to whether skivvy deserves extra and additional strokes, perhaps to reflect excessive whining and fuss during the punishment itself (perhaps a little unfair, Mistress Scarlet, as I do actually gain considerable pleasure from tears and frantic pleading – but fairness is not a feature of skivvy’s disciplinary regime). Again, I do not cheat: I will write my own opinion on a piece of paper and place it face down in front of him, just below his head where the floorboards are so magnificently stained with a rich, deep glow from the frequent application of copious tears, over many years of our blissfully happy marriage.

This judgement may well be ‘zero’. Indeed, it usually is. However, he is free to request more if he believes he deserves it. After he has stammered out his own suggestion, I sometimes like to discuss it with him: exploring the reasoning behind his request for – for example – six extra strokes, before allowing him to see my own opinion on the matter. Of course, the usual asymmetry applies.

More usually, however, the discussion concerns his post-thrashing corner time. When a serious beating is needed – I am not talking here about a quick bend-over for a few strokes of some convenient implement before resuming chores – there are always three stages: written punishment, the beating itself and then some post-beating thinking time, typically in the corner with his hands on his head. I lightly tie his thumbs with a ribbon and place a glass Christmas ornament on top of his folded hands, so I can be sure he will not stir. The ornaments are cheap and smash easily – I make sure I keep plenty in, as they are hard to find out of season and nothing else works so well.

We usually play the same guessing game – there is so much drudgery in his life, after all, I expect he enjoys the opportunity to play a little game like this. I’ll admit I do not know that, as I have never asked him, but I expect he would agree with me that these games bring a little joy into what is his often rather dismal existence. I fact, I am sure he would.

I write a duration on a piece of paper and fix it to the wall in front of his face, blank side out. He then tells me his own estimate and I leave him to it. I then return, at the time he specified (unless unavoidably delayed for one reason or another, or unless I forget) and turn the card over. If it is less than he had requested, the corner time is over. If more… then he must deploy his skills in multiplying by three again. He has a degree in mathematics, so he is good at that. If the duration runs late into the night, then I would typically use a webcam and review on fast-forward in the morning, rather than relying on the glass ornament. Of course, any chores still remaining from the day must also be completed before bedtime, without any stinting.

However, Mistress Scarlet, thanks to your lovely suggestion: the next time he has a really serious beating, I will at the end produce a wooden chair, and place on it my doormat (I mean my real doormat, of course, not skivvy) which is made of thick, bristly and slightly irregular coir. His thinking time will be spent sitting on that: ribboned hands on head and two glass ornaments balanced in place, one on his folded hands and the other on his lap. My estimate will be fixed to the wall in front of him, as usual. Of course, he will have no idea what the ‘norm’ might be for a coir matt session. Fifteen minutes? One hour? Two hours? Maybe it should be less than the usual standing corner time, because I understand it can be quite uncomfortable (I wouldn’t know, of course: I have never tried it and never will). Or perhaps it should be longer – after all, he is sitting down.

Anyway: I will leave the decision to him, in the usual way.

Oh, I am so looking forward to this! I do hope it is not long until his next serious beating. Of course, I can simply impose one capriciously but I do like him to feel that a punishment is his own fault and that he could have avoided it if only he had acted differently. Regret can bring such sweet tears, even before any pain is applied. Hmm. What can he fail at? Perhaps I will wear a ruffled blouse today… a little 1980s perhaps, but it is a complete nightmare to iron properly. He rarely gets it right.

And then of course there must be consequences. Mustn’t there?

Yours in sincere sisterhood

Lady Jessica

13 thoughts on “Addition to the previous post on Lady Jessica’s punishments

  1. Mistress scarlet.

    Autumn is the best of the season’s in my view. Dancing between light and dark is how I like to keep both the boy and Jane.

    Each evening returning home from work, the boy has no idea what awaits him, what mood am I in?, playful, angry, bored, creative, or just in need of his improving attentions.

    Just like Jane his recent announcement explained that he is now deeply in love with me, (such foolish nonsense), how he goes on about his ever lasting love, of course the first occasion he decided to share this with me I could only laugh in his face, Ah how nice my little lying boy is all in love, well that’s interesting, how much do you truly love me?, with all my heart the fool replies, really?, enough to take 25 of the cane for me across the bare?, his face what a silly boy, I find it quite easy to make him cry usually a good long lecture accompanied with my strap does the trick.

    Please mistress I do love you, but please 25 strokes, please I can’t, you know I can’t, I have never been able to, blah, blah, blah, oh dear you must be lying again, oh please no Mistress I didn’t mean to suggest, silence, if you truly believe in your words 25 should not be a problem should it?, remember the attitude young man, oh of course mistress 25 thank you so much for looking after me.

    [What a silly, silly, broken excuse for a man(now boy)he has become, he is in bits when in my presence, how I love to play with his head, his voice is lower, he has fallen into himself, but the most important thing, he is in complete fear of me. Sometimes when completing his chores I just walk up behind him and say nothing just looking over his shoulder he is a nervous wreck, I stand for up to 10 minutes saying nothing, I might then tut to myself as I shake my head and walk away, going through his head is nothing but his fear of me, and what has he done or not done?]

    How dare you speak to me about your feelings when not requested , I will add at my pleasure an additional number of taps of my cane to your bottom and thighs.

    Scarlet he is sobbing still from his beating but is as I write between my thighs, making up the time I lost on having to listen to the fool rambling on.

    Oh well the things we have to contend with, he is now a complete nervous wreck, he doesn’t have to come home each evening but here he is caught in my ever increasing wicked grasp, I explained to him that a young lady has been found to look after him when I can’t be bothered. this calls for a special outfit I announced, a little bit of petticoat discipline does no one any harm,(what joy) you will stand in front of her and explain in detail your up bringing and how thankful you are of her assisting your Governess in looking after you, I also explained that my good friend Jennifer has kindly agreed to carryout his medical examination in front of me of course.

    Autumn has an atmosphere that can be at times harsh but also nice, I think this reflects my efforts in raising the boy, he might disagree about the nice bit but who cares?. I will continue to reduce a fully grown man into a little boy in mind, body and soul the delightful humiliations I have planned for James just lead me to keep him ever more in his place which at the moment is between my legs meeting my ever increasing needs.

    Almost forgot it didn’t go unnoticed that Jane micro cock did not curtsey when explaining to you the simple punishment I kindly provided for her, this is an example of the little tantrums I have to contend with, I will beat her soundly a good dose of my strap followed by a caning next time that we meet, she really is one spoiled little girl.


    1. I am rather worried ‘Mistress Denise’ that the same person writes your comments also writes the comments from ‘your ex husband, Jane’.
      As I check the grammar of all comments to endure they are fully legible, I have noticed the same strange use of random brackets, the strange approach to speech within narrative and the same unusual phrases such as, ‘in bits’.
      In addition your email address is your Christian name with an ‘o’ in front of your Christian name and ‘your ex husband, Jane’s’ email is a Christian name with an ‘o’ in front of the Christian name?

  2. Once more I have written more than planned, but I have been really inspired by Lady Jessica, a lady of my own heart, ‘there are always three stages: written punishment, the beating itself and then some post-beating thinking time, typically in the corner with his hands on his head’.
    I am pleased to say I was able to put into practice Lady Jessica’s ideas of dashing hopes sooner than expected, resulting in a wonderful show of tears and intense misery!
    My boy has just come back from an 8-day business trip, where he was in a time zone 8-hours behind home. (I hope this time zone bit doesn’t complicate this too much!) His planned trip involved him running an executive team meeting on the final day, a Saturday, and then flying home that same evening. Unfortunately, the flights on both the Saturday and Sunday were full and he had to return on the Monday night.
    Consequently, the Saturday meeting was rescheduled to the Monday. Shortly before he left, the local manager emailed him to suggest they spend the Saturday together anyway, on a deep-sea fishing excursion. My boy begged me to let him join his colleagues extolling the business benefits of ‘bonding’ and ‘team building’, while also emphasising the fact that his need to return later than planned had been totally out of his control. I advised I would think about it and let him know the next day. Needless to say, he was like a nervous puppy, praying for me to let him go. He was quite ecstatic when I did agree, and talked excitedly about it in the lead up, whilst also showing the good grace to thank me for allowing him the opportunity.
    Due to the time differences, we would talk early each morning (his time), and at the end of our chat, he would be set his lines for that evening. Come the evening, he had to eat and then start his lines no later than 7-00 pm. I would call him some time after 11-00 pm his time to advise he could finish and get ready for bed, provided of course he had met his quota for the night, which he met every night.
    We had a lovely talk on the Thursday morning, he was incredibly excited about his trip, it was apparently a very luxurious boat they had chartered. At the end, as usual, I set his ‘line’ for that evening, but this time I continued by announcing, “Before we finish, I need to talk to you about this fishing trip on Saturday. I have been reading about deep-sea fishing on the internet, and it seems it is potentially quite a risky sport, you need to take lots of precautions before going out to sea; yet you haven’t advised me of any of the safety procedures or even the name of the boat you are going out on?” He was deathly quiet and I watched the blood drain from his face, his lips quivering. He started to say something, but I sharply cut him off. “I don’t know where you are going, who the charter company is, what safety equipment they have, what the weather forecast is, whether the sea will be choppy, how far out you are planning to go, and I’d hate to see you get sea-sick or hurt in any way. It can also be very physically demanding reeling in big fish, not to mention the risks from lines snapping or if you catch a shark, and you need to dress properly too. Considering everything I have now read, I really don’t think you are mature enough yet to be going out to sea unsupervised. Since I am responsible for your care and well-being, I’ve decided we’re going to have to cancel the trip.”
    I was very calm and compassionate as I spoke but, as expected, my words cut home deeply and the tears immediately started to well-up as he started to beg me to let him go and explain how safe it was. I again cut him short, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me David? I said I have made up my mind. You are not going and that’s the end of the matter! We’ll both be much happier I’m sure if you remain in your comfort zone, relaxing with a little written work. You’ll just have to make your excuses to your colleagues.” His sobs grew more pathetic as he pleaded, “What can I possibly tell them? Even children go out on these trips!” I was so aroused by the results of my change of mind, smirking sweetly as I suggested, “You can simply tell them your wife has said you’re not grown-up enough to go!…. Now, you have your work for tonight and the reassurance of knowing I’ll be taking good care of you on Saturday. So, unless you’d like me to give you something to really cry about, I suggest you stop being so selfish, dry your eyes and we’ll talk again tomorrow morning.” I left him trying to dry his tears, his face in a state of total despair. It was just wonderful!
    On the Friday morning he still sounded a little aggrieved and I gave him a stern warning, before advising his lines for that evening. I let him know that I was allowing him a late start on the Saturday, but he would need to have an early lunch since his start time would be at noon. I also advised that to take the stress out of his weekend, he would be writing the same line as tonight, on both the Saturday and the Sunday.
    When I called him again that evening (Friday), just before his midnight, (his time, my 8-00 am) a little later than previous evenings; I instructed him to go have a drink of water, put his nightie on, get ready for bed and then call me back. Ten minutes later he called back and received a stern rebuke for his earlier childish behaviour, and a lecture on his lack of gratitude for all the effort I go to, to keep him well-occupied and out of trouble when travelling. I closed by advising that since he had a late start the next day, he could keep writing for a couple more hours. He again looked so amusingly morose and tearful as I hung up.
    It was actually more than five hours later when I did call back. He was extremely tired, very distressed and he had obviously shed more tears from both his frustration and the hard toil involved in completing his laborious, monotonous task. He had been writing continuously for ten hours as I brightly announced, “Gosh time flies. I was going to call you at ten o’clock my time, but my sister arrived early. We had a coffee and a chat and the next thing you know, three hours just flew past! We had such a good time, I haven’t laughed so much for ages! I completely forgot all about calling you back. Lucky you have a late start today! You must have been wondering when I’d call. Still, a few extra hours writing never hurt anyone.”
    Luckily he had met his revised target, though only just and he had clearly struggled as evidenced by his tear-stained eyes. I closed by telling him, “You can put your pen away now and have a good sleep. Make sure you set your alarm to give you plenty of time to get dressed, have your breakfast, visit the washroom and be at your desk ready to start writing at twelve.
    When he did call, before telling him he could start, I rubbed a little salt into his wounds, by noting, “I’ll call you again in a few hours, before I go to bed, so you can have a short toilet break, then you’ll be on your own for a very long time before I call again, since I’ll be sleeping. So, a little advice, since your mind is bound to wander while you spend so many lonely hours writing, curtains closed and no idea of the time. You mustn’t think about what your colleagues are doing out at sea, it simply doesn’t matter. Just keep your focus on how much better off you are in the safety of your hotel room with nothing to worry about beyond how vital it is to complete your target quota of lines. I am setting a very, very demanding target, I want at least thirty lines an hour. Which means you won’t be able to relax for a moment.”
    He ended up writing until a little after two o’clock in the morning on his Saturday, with just that one break, after 3 hours! This was because I had a little sleep-in, until ten o’clock! He was so exhausted and distraught, while I was feeling ever so bright and relaxed, as I joked about how much more fun he must have had compared to going on a fishing trip!
    He was woken at eight thirty, on his Sunday morning, from a deep sleep I might add. I simply told him he had thirty minutes to get ready and start writing again, I was heading out for a family BBQ and I would call him in due course for his breaks! I did set my alarm for early the next morning, so he was excused from his writing at ten o’clock his time. I can be compassionate sometimes!

      1. No, since this is not a punishment, just my way of taking care of him and ensuring he is suitably well-occupied and doesn’t get up to anything ‘naughty’ when travelling; he wears a schoolboy uniform, complete with grey shorts, white long-sleeved shirt, school tie, grey sleeveless school jumper (a recent addition), long grey socks, black lace-up shoes and a blazer. He also has to Bryl-cream his hair back with a smart part.
        For punishments events, such as the strict detention I wrote about, he wears a schoolgirl outfit.
        I thought readers might also be interested in the line he had to write, as it helps show just why it is was such a demanding task.
        I gave him a clue, though he didn’t realise it at the time, when I set his Thursday assignment, a verse from Virgil’s Ecologue 1:
        “Therefore sooner shall light stags feed in the sky and the sea-channels leave the fishes naked on the beach; sooner, over-wandering both their boundaries, shall the exiled Parthian drink of Arar, or Germany of Tigris, than his countenance shall fade from our heart.”
        For the next three days he spent over 35 hours writing the same, only in the original Latin:
        “Ante leves ergo pascentur in aethere cervi et freta destituent nudos in litore pisces, ante pererratis amborum finibus exsul aut Ararim Parthus bibet aut Germania Tigrim, quam nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.”

  3. Dear Mistress Scarlet

    You were kind enough in correspondence to ask for further glimpses of my and skivvy’s domestic arrangements. Well… I say they are ‘our’ domestic arrangements but obviously the actual arranging has been entirely mine. However, skivvy is intimately involved in the implementation of these procedures; indeed in many ways the arrangements are for his benefit so I think it is fair to describe them as a joint effort.

    A comment above speaks of autumn… I do so love autumn.

    Something often lost in today’s 24-7 digital world is the importance of seasonal traditions. Historically, people lived by the seasons: marking the turning points of the year, feasting on seasonal produce and so on. I feel we are in danger of losing our connections to the natural world. With our electric lights we can eliminate distinctions between night and day, with our central heating we can make winter as warm as summer and so on. I myself resist the lure of ‘household conveniences’ preferring, for example, to eschew machine washing of clothes or of crockery and cutlery and of course skivvy feels exactly the same way. He himself usually sleeps in a room in the attic with neither air conditioning nor central heating: whether sweltering in the summer or shivering beneath his blanket in winter, he enjoys a connection to the natural world that few of us today are lucky enough still to know.

    So I try to maintain traditions at the turning points of the year, to mark and celebrate the changing seasons. At this time, the leaves in the forest near our secluded cottage are beginning to turn all manner of autumnal colours and the effect is glorious. Not as spectacular as those forests of New England, perhaps, but the delicate palette of a European autumn has its charm. And the forest has gifts for us: blackberries grow in profusion along the sandy paths through the woods, and especially along the railway line, and so do many stands of that noblest of trees: the birch.

    And so, one weekend every autumn is declared (by me) to be our “B&B” weekend: blackberries and the birch. We set forth early on a Saturday morning: skivvy carrying plastic bags to receive our harvest, refreshments, umbrella in case the weather should turn against us (it is very changeable this time of year) and me… well, not carrying any of those things. Skivvy wears shorts and a blouse – unremarkable enough at a distance but perhaps a little effeminate close-up, particularly in a bright autumnal sunlight when his pink panties and bra clearly show through. But skivvy is shy and usually tries to avoid strangers, skulking behind me, for example, as we pass dog-walkers or joggers on the way, with a cheery greeting.

    The first blackberry bushes are usually rather denuded, but we press deeper into the forest and soon enough find a place where fruits are unpicked. Ripe, succulent blackberries abound – I just adore them! The sweetest and the best go into a plastic bag for me, but even the smaller and more wrinkled sour ones, often just turning from the red, are edible and skivvy pops them into his own bag: they’ll be blended into the healthy vegetable porridge that forms his staple diet. I have quite an eye to spot the very best fruit-bearing bushes, often some way back from the path, and many is the time I smilingly chide skivvy for having failed to notice some particularly attractive specimen requiring him only to struggle through a few metres of thorny bushes to pick for my pleasure (the shorts and blouse he wears are old, thin cotton, so it does not matter if they get a little ripped and bloodied, although he does become anxious when the rips become so extensive that his pink unmentionables show!).

    And the birches! Birch trees are late in changing colour, so most of their foliage is still a vibrant green at this time of year. They can grow quite tall, but they reproduce and grow fast, so there are usually some younger trees, with twigs hanging down invitingly at a height suitable for pruning. I am very particular about the twigs that I use for making our autumn rods. I prefer a rather tight bunch of straight, long switches, to some more bunched-out spray. I understand the latter is actually more traditional – derived from the cleaning brushes that housemaids would use, providing a convenient disciplinary implement – but I prefer the greater control from a longer and more parallel set of twigs and I believe the more formal disciplinary rods used in prisons and the navy followed this pattern too.

    So, under my direction skivvy finds and carefully prunes off only the straightest, longest extremities of the birch tree’s youngest branches. Each should be no more than 4mm in diameter, a brownish woody colour on the outside but green immediately underneath. These are the most flexible. I aim for a rod of length 50 – 75 cm, so we harvest the very longest twigs. The leaves remain on, at this stage, for freshness, and skivvy wraps a soaking wet tissue around the base of each one, for the same reason, and places them carefully in a canvas bag that I believe was originally designed for fishing rods.

    Has anyone in history ever been blackberrying and not eaten as they harvest? I can never resist it and will often simply hold a hand out, as skivvy struggles out of the thorny undergrowth with his prizes and pop the ripe, sweet blackberries straight into my mouth! It is the same with the birches: I simply cannot resist grabbing one of the twigs, quickly plucking off most of the leaves and giving skivvy’s calves a quick impromptu switching! I try to avoid the thighs, to save them for the real thing. So hard, sometimes, to resist the temptation,

    We continue until we have full bags of blackberries and about 25 fresh whippy birch switches, then we wearily but happily return to the car. One further tradition awaits before returning home to enjoy our harvest. We stop off in the small town near which my house is situated and we buy additional supplies. We begin in the small grocery shop where skivvy buys the ingredients for whatever he plans to cook for me with the blackberries. This is something I leave up to him, so he bustles about (wearing a long coat, as there is usually little left of his outfit from the depredations of the blackberry bushes) choosing whatever he needs. Of course, when he has to pay, he must ask me and I pull out my purse and carefully count out the money into his palm. He so hates that! On other occasions I might tell him something is too expensive, I will not buy it for him and he must put it back. But he can choose to make whatever he likes for Blackberry Day (although he will obviously be very careful indeed to ensure it will be something I like!) so for once he is spared the fear of that humiliation, at least.

    Then to the hat shop: to choose two ribbons! It is an old-fashioned sort of place (the owner calls herself a ‘modiste’ but I am fairly certain that the last time anything she sold was á la mode, Chanel’s little black dress was the height of novelty) and it has a huge selection of ribbons. We take our time: I might point out some lovely pink satiny ribbon, or skivvy might suggest a yellow daffodil colour this year – not very autumnal but so delightfully gay, in every sense – and we really make an event of it. Of course, whatever ribbons we eventually choose need to be fairly strong. The ribbon holds the birch rod together, so anything too lacy and delicate is out. Nonetheless, there are many decorative options and we have a lot of fun imagining each of the pretty ribbons on display tightly bound into a handle to enable the vigorous application of our birch rod. Skivvy’s face sometimes drains white in terror, as I hold a pretty ribbon in my hand and thoughtfully curl my fingers around an imagined instrument of correction – such fun!

    Ribbons and ingredients chosen, we at last head home with our haul. I am usually quite exhausted and collapse into a comfortable chair, a footstool slid below my feet and my hand outstretched for a revitalising gin and tonic. After seeing to my comfort, Skivvy of course is keen to make a start on the Saturday chores that he has been neglecting while gallivanting about the forest and the town, but first he puts the blackberries and other ingredients in the fridge, then carefully plucks the leaves and any side-twigs from the birch and lays them down to soak in brine. We use a tray for this. If one stands the birch in a vase, the twigs will bend and I do so prefer the rod to be as straight as possible, as I mentioned.

    The rest of the day is spent in the usual routine, although depending on what culinary delight skivvy has planned for me, he might need to prepare pastry or soak the blackberries and suchlike. I don’t supervise! It’s his business, although I will be judging the outcome. If possible I try to get him to bed early, as the next day is inevitably going to be quite a trial for him, but with the chores from the morning to catch up, along with his daily writing imposition, it is often after midnight that he crawls into bed to dream of blackberries and birch rods. Anyway: very little danger of him dozing off the next day!

    Blackberry Day dawns! Of course, skivvy has already been up for hours: scrubbing, dusting, wiping, tidying and so on. I treat myself to breakfast in bed with a little ring of the bell. A delicious smell wafts in along with my scurrying maid with the coffee: skivvy has been making a blackberry crumble. One of my favourites – he is playing it safe, perhaps! Last year he tried an overambitious vanilla cream confection, using the blackberries for a coulis and while I admired his willingness to experiment, I had to admit that I did not really like it and so some rather negative feedback had to be delivered. Since the poor thing had already had his annual birching, it was a difficult day for him.

    Ah – the birching! After breakfast, I go downstairs and command skivvy to prepare the rods. The twigs are brought and carefully dried off. Then skivvy divides them into two piles, by length. If we have around 25 twigs, he will put the shorter twelve or so together and the longest eight together, with up to five to be discarded or as spares. It wouldn’t do to ruin the birching with an inadequate rod just because of a few carelessly broken twigs!

    Then the handles. Skivvy takes tight hold of a bunch and taps the snipped ends to align them. If at this point any of the twigs stand out, they are trimmed – from the cut end, of course, not the tip where they taper naturally into lovely thin, whippy strands rather like stiff whipcord. Once the length is right, and neat, I nod and skivvy binds up the handles with ribbon. No cheating here – I do not allow tape to be used! The ribbon alone must hold the components of the rod together, so he begins by winding tightly around the very end, looping through to ensure a strong base, then neatly (oh – very neatly, if you please, skivvy – remember 2016!) winding it in an overlapping spiral up the first six inches or so (I live in a metric country and generally think that way but there is something inherently imperial about a birch rod, don’t you think?). At the top end of the handle, he winds and loops again, then ties a bow. The bow is very important. It is pretty, feminine, dainty: in delightful contrast to the 24 inches or so of cruel and unforgiving birch, stained black from the brine. The handle, with its attractive ribbon and delicate bow, is for my feminine hand; the business end is for his male rump.

    I inspect the finished product. I might require it done again, especially if the twigs have somehow skewed during the ribbon binding, and are no longer neatly aligned. But skivvy has done this many, many times now and has developed some skill in preparing these instruments. He knows how to construct a rod that – in practiced hands -will inflict the purest agony, and he knows as well that I expect him to do the very best job he can in doing so.

    It is 2pm. The pretty birch rods lie invitingly on the pure white tablecloth, by the remnants of my lunch. I nod curtly as skivvy pours me a small glass of dessert wine and he scurries back into the kitchen. The furniture in our combined dining and living room has been pushed to the walls to make space for the whipping block and of course space for the whipper herself to move about behind it, with plenty of room to swing. The whipping block is normally kept in the attic on the third floor, in the schoolroom next to skivvy’s bedroom, as I prefer the ground and first floors of the house to kept in a reasonably ‘vanilla’ state for visitors (with the horrors of skivvy’s true existence kept modestly down in the cellar or up in that attic floor). But although heavy, the block can be dissembled and reassembled, and skivvy has brought it down for the occasion. Bolts and wing-nuts hold it firmly together: it must, after all, fix an adult male (in body, if not mind) thrashing desperately in place, without the slightest ‘give’ or motion. It will.

    I clap my hands. It is time. Skivvy appears, bearing on a fine china dish his culinary creation: a blackberry crumble. It is golden, slightly browned on top. In a few places, the blackberry filling has broken through the crust and bubbled and caramelised. I take a deep, appreciative sniff. Perfection! Well done skivvy.

    He is wearing a traditional maid’s dress. Very different from his usual household attire. I do not hold with these sissies who want to flounce around in frills and lace, still less latex or satin. Have they ever spent six hours scrubbing a cold stone floor, or vigorously handwashing period-stained panties on a ridged washboard? These silly outfits purchased from sex shops wouldn’t last five minutes! Normally skivvy is in the usual uniform appropriate for a modern domestic cleaner: a simple tabard dress, for example, hard-wearing smocks and tunics, that kind of thing. Today he is in his dress uniform: a proper, modest old-fashioned maid’s dress in cotton, with apron and cap – some subtle lace trimming, true, but nothing to provide a sissy fetishist with a wet dream. His stockings are perhaps a little more modern, as I find the removal of tights irritating, so a suspender belt holds up a pair of sensible black nylons – but nothing too overtly sexual. Only his drawers are out of the ordinary: to my delight some years ago I found traditional housemaid’s drawers modelled on a nineteenth century design that are tied – and more to the point, untied – with simple cotton ribbons. Anyone who has read one of the classic descriptions of birching – from The Pearl perhaps – will be familiar with the concept. Skivvy certainly is.

    He serves me some crumble, in a small bowl. He raises the cream jug and looks at me enquiringly. I raise a finger to indicate that I want just a spot of cream – and he pours. When he sets the jug back down on the tablecloth, a drip of cream runs down the side. Oh dear, skivvy. We’ll deal with that tomorrow.

    “In position, if you please, skivvy”, I say, my casual tone masking my excitement, and he goes over to the block and leans forward. He pulls himself over, his hands down by the front legs, his knees resting on small ledges at the back, his lower legs sticking out behind. His is supported on his stomach, not on his feet. That way he can kick out freely without shifting position. I fasten his wrists to the eyebolts, then I walk around behind him. I fasten leather straps around the bottoms of his thighs, securing his legs. His bottom is still free to wriggle at this point, so I take the hem of his skirt, lift it up exposing his drawers, and fold it forwards across his back. Then I take the thick leather belt – more like a saddle, six inches in width – over from one side of the block to the other, over the turned-up skirt, pressing down and holding the small of his back, like a corset, so he is tight against the block. He is helpless. Of course, he was helpless even before being strapped down. But now his helplessness before me now takes physical form.

    I set a small towel down on the floor below his face. In the schoolroom, I allow his tears to fall on the floor, where a wonderful stain has formed over the years, but down here I would rather keep the carpet pristine. I suppose an alternative would be to order him not to cry. But I don’t think he would succeed. Not under the birch. There will be blood, too, but this will drip down onto the base of the whipping block.
    Fingers trembling slightly with anticipation (I will confess, Dear Mistress Scarlet, that at this point in the process I am well beyond foreplay and thoroughly aroused!), I unclip the suspenders holding up his stockings and pull each firmly down to his secured knee. Then I pull the ribbons that hold his drawers in place. Sometimes those drawers fall open by themselves – lovely – other times, I push them aside to reveal… my favourite sight in this world: my quaking skivvy’s bared, vulnerable bottom!

    So: it is time. I pick up the bowl and try a spoonful of gently steaming crumble. It is divine. The sweetness of the crumble itself, set off by the tart blackberry, with just enough cream to bring it together. Well done skivvy! I feel an enormous sense of contentment with my life as I put the bowl down and contemplate the twelve-twig birch rod. This too has been beautifully done: the yellow satin ribbon forms a comfortable handle, creating a firm rod from the disparate twigs, as well as setting off that rod’s brutal elegance with a neat and delicate bow. I will use it first: swishing in horizontal strokes, each one resulting in twelve separate whipping, curling impacts. It will be agony: from the very first stroke skivvy will be screaming uncontrollably. The twigs will break, the rod will gradually wear out but I will only stop when there is little left. The natural strength of the birch itself determines how many strokes skivvy receives – I love that! Then after a short break (mmm… that crumble, skivvy – well done again!) I will take up the eight-twig rod – longer and more controllable – and begin more targeted strokes until that too is exhausted.

    The floor will end up covered in birch pieces for skivvy later to collect. It is messy, brutal – but that is nature’s way. It is a different world from the sterile, artificial world of a latex-clad dominatrix with her riding drop, for instance. Nothing wrong with that – but today Mother Nature has given us her bounty and we celebrate with simple and traditional pleasures.

    I take another mouthful of blackberry crumble. It is divine. I put the bowl on the table and pick up the first birch rod. “It is time, skivvy”, I murmur. And we begin.

    Yours in sincere sisterhood

    Lady Jessica

    1. Lady Jessica,
      I am so taken by your writing skills. You do such a wonderful job of describing in great detail how you make skivvy’s life so miserable. And reading your letters is like peeling an onion- each torment/humiliation slowly removed to reveal another torment/humiliation. I am a bit embarrassed to say how exciting ( and yes I do mean that way!!) it is to read your descriptions of how you treat skivvy. I have to say I am envious of your talent.


      1. Let me add that Lady Jessica exhibits the type of skills that make Ms Scarlet such an outstanding writer and chronicler of her Female Domination traits.


          1. Carla, I entirely agree with you about Ms Scarlet’s writing. Obviously, it was her talent and creativity that inspired me to contribute here and continue to do so.

            You are both very kind. Sadistic women often are kind and thoughtful towards others, I believe. After all: without empathy, how could we appreciate the sweet miseries to which we subject our partners? Empathy is more of a female trait and this explains why female sadism often takes such a different form from the regrettably frequent male sadist/female submissive material so common on the Internet. Male sadism seems (to me) to be about treating the ‘submissive’ partner almost as an object, aiming to bend her (or him) to the dominant’s will. Our pleasures (I think) derive more from the reluctance, resentment and humiliation we perceive inside the submissive; in the shame he feels at not daring to stand against us.

            Kindness, in any case, is its own reward for the truly empathetic woman, as indeed (in a slightly different way) is cruelty.

            In sincere sisterhood with you both


  4. I do enjoyed reading Lady Jessica post and more coming soon because it is so hot and exciting. Perhaps there should be a journal like stress Scarlet. Skivvy life under Lady Jessica is pleasure and hell.

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