Another delightful update from Lady Jessica. I need say no more!
My dear Mistress Scarlet
How lovely to see from your blog that ladies all over the world are maintaining standards for their male charges, even in the present conditions of lock-down. Mistress Francesca seems like a delightful person. How very lucky sissy slave M must be: so many males struggle to control their baser urges, but he has someone willing to take on the task, on his behalf. I have to say, he does not sound quite as grateful to be relieved of that responsibility as one might expect in such circumstances, but perhaps he is still learning.
Chez Lady Jessica, life has settled into a comfortable routine, as far as I am concerned. Now, as the legal and health restrictions start to ease here, as in most places, I believe we all have an obligation to ensure that no mis-placed notions of ‘freedom’ are unduly applied to those lucky males for whose welfare we have taken responsibility.
The lock-down for me has brought a refreshing and exhilarating opportunity to increase the oppressive nature of the regime I apply to skivvy, as I have written before. His hair is now delightfully long, with the end bleached and dyed a pale pink, and when he is not teleworking it is arranged in various plaits, pig-tails and bunches. My favourite just at the moment is a ludicrous arrangement in which some of his hair is neatly tied out in two side pigtails but with a third bunch taking in as much of his hair as can be grabbed, and flopping forward: straight over his face in a loosely-ribboned plait before ending just below his nose in a bow over 30 cm wide, (1 foot), which obscures and flaps all over his silly face.
He has not worn any item of adult male clothing below the waist since the lock-down started, although to go out and about, he has various pairs of shorts that could just about be considered to be male attire, as long as the male in question has no fear of appearing effeminate. Skivvy has such a fear, (oddly enough: you’d really think he would be used to it after all these years), and so finds these outings excruciatingly embarrassing. But someone must do the shopping and it will not be me. We have a strict division of labour when it comes to the shopping: he does groceries and other such items, following my list and retaining all receipts for inspection if required (I don’t check everything but occasionally I do and woe betide any skivvy who cannot account for every centime!). I buy all the clothes and indeed everything else of any value or permanence, although obviously I don’t carry the bags.
When he does go out, of course, he is masked. His sewing skills have come on well, so he ran up a few home-made masks quite early on in lock-down and we have added to his collection since. They say any reasonably close-weave cloth is effective, so his masks all have an inner lining made of my used panties (during my time of the month, always the period-stained ones), or worn out stockings or socks, especially those I wear for exercise. I went to the considerable inconvenience of wearing the same nylons around the house for over four days to provide the gauzy interior for several of his masks, so I hope he is grateful. The outer layers of the masks feature flower or fairy patterns – I have some Tinkerbell cloth on order, for his next one.
I have also instituted the principle that everything he eats or drinks must be in some sense second-hand or rejected by me. To forestall your readers with an over-excitable disposition and little grasp of reality: I do NOT mean that he drinks nothing but my pee. That would be impractical and biologically impossible. No: I merely mean that his drinking trough is filled with water collected from my bath and that a good proportion of the food he eats is the liquidised leftovers from my own meals. There is obviously a significant exception: he eats all manner of stuff that I would not dream of allowing on or near my plate. I have no intention of pushing a pile of dog food around with a fork just so we can say it is part of my left-overs! So we have a different system: any such ‘food’ is simply emptied out into the rubbish bins as soon as it is opened. Every few days, skivvy is handed a bucket and told to retrieve whatever he can. I typically make sure he has not eaten for at least 16 hours beforehand, to give him every incentive to scrape up every morsel.
He recently asked whether we could discuss this system, so we discussed it very extensively yesterday evening, and I’m glad to say that by the end of the discussion we were in perfect agreement on how lucky and very grateful to me he was, for taking such care with his diet.
I have also taken the opportunity – although why I did not do so before I have no idea – of implementing a clear physical reminder of the control under which he lives his life: he is now always chained, when at home. I discretely installed steel rings, firmly fixed to the wall in various out-of-the-way places around the house and in the garden. He has various lengths of thin chain and is always -without exception – attached to one or more. The chains can be hidden away when visitors are present (but they are rare in lock-down, except for a dear friend who is aware of our little arrangement) but normally must be carefully arranged along the bottoms of walls, so that he can reach the end of – for example – the chain for my bedroom, at the top of the stairs, while still attached to the chain anchored in the downstairs hall.
Of course, I have to be present as well, to unlock and reattach the padlocks, but that is an effort I am prepared to make for such an important improvement to both our lives. We try to schedule his chores so that he does not need to move often: most days, he begins performing his early morning chores on an upstairs chain, taking the greatest care not to clink unduly while I am still asleep!. I have installed a coffee machine and fridge so when I ring for him, he can bring me my morning drinks. After he has taken care of my morning routine, we attach him to a downstairs chain for the remainder of the day. So really, my dear, even though the locking and unlocking might seem something of a chore for me, rest assured I am not too fatigued by it. Anyway, we must all do our bit.
In the garden, we have a long chain on a rotating drum. This allows access to all points of the garden, when he is granted the liberty of its full extension – which he rarely is. It is close to the house, so even half of it is sufficient to allow him access to the kitchen to bring me drinks and anything else I should command, on the patio. That is where he is at present as I write this, as it happens: chained and on his hands and knees scrubbing away at moss and lichen which has grown up in the cracks between the patio tiles. He is using a toothbrush of course, specifically: his toothbrush (also recycled: it used to be mine).
He is wearing, underneath his faux-feminine clothing, a latex ‘gimp suit’. The weather is quite exceptionally hot here, and I find that he tends to sweat most unpleasantly, when working at any remotely acceptable pace. The gimp suit is the perfect solution. Of course, he does not sweat any less – rather more if anything.
He is allowed to drink from his drinking trough as often has he likes – I know, Mistress Scarlet, I am just a big softie at heart, but it is so important to avoid dehydration, don’t you agree? And he does look terribly, terribly hot, kneeling there in the full heat of the sun, scrubbing desperately away at the baking ground. Poor thing, it must be simply awful. But there is a distinct tinge of green between the patio tiles, so it has to be done, and the faster he does it, the sooner he can have a lovely change by moving to the next task: watering the plants. I expect it will be quite soothing for him to watch cool, clear water from the hose spraying onto the parched soil, even although he is not himself allowed to drink any of it.
Which reminds me that my glass is nearly empty and I must have it refilled with a wine spritzer – with plenty of ice this time. Skivvy!
Yours in sincere sisterhood