Below is the meat of a comment I received from the amazing Lady Jessica. I need say no more!
………… Here, skivvy and I have just been getting on with our everyday lives: for him, each day sinking another millimetre or so into the quicksand of my alluring despotism; for me, each day presenting new opportunities to indulge the sadistic pleasures that I so keenly enjoy.Christmas is a time for all families to focus on what really matters: which in our little domestic tyranny is obviously skivvy’s relentless oppression and humiliation. The seasonal traditions begin with a home-made advent calendar, with little envelopes fastened to a festively-decorated board, one of which skivvy opens each day to reveal a surprise. A few are quite nice – one must always inspire hope, so that it can be crushed in due course. Some years some of the daily surprises are sweets, for example, but this year I decided to mix things up by wrapping small squares and ovals of soap in sweet wrappers (I threw the actual sweets away – I personally do not have a particularly sweet tooth).
Skivvy’s face was such a treat that day! Initially, relief and delight on opening the envelope to see the ‘sweets’ nestling inside. Many of the daily surprises are quite unpleasant or painful, and only the day before poor skivvy had received a pair of shiny bulldog clips which we tried out on several parts of his body over the course of the day. I am perfectly capable of repeating exactly the same ‘treat’ from one day to the next (he should never feel hat he has ‘got something over with’ – all punishments and treatments can be repeated in full at whim, sometimes immediately), so just the absence of bulldog clips was a good start to the day in itself.
It was more than just a sense of relief, though: anything sweet-tasting is a true blessing for him because skivvy’s daily diet, while perfectly healthy, cannot be described as tasty or pleasant. He pulled out the ‘sweets’, looked down at them in his hand, then looked up at me with such pathetic, hopeful eyes that I simply could not find it in my heart to deny him, so I smiled and said he could pop one in his mouth straight away – but he should be quick, as he had chores to do. He took one of the little parcels, swiftly twisted off a wrapper and popped it straight in his mouth.
Then he looked a bit puzzled, then a bit alarmed, as he started to recognise the taste. He hates mouth-soaping. I use it rarely these days, but in the early months of our marriage he got to know the taste of various soaps quite well, as he gradually came to terms with the speech rules I imposed upon him. It had been a while since he had experienced that sharp, astringent taste. I made him write a punishment essay about it once, as I was curious to discover what it tasted like. In five thousand heartfelt words, he described to me the initial taste, the way it seems to fill every corner of the mouth and rise up as if through fumes into the nose – all the way to the aftermath with teeth squeaky clean with the mouth washed of all the body’s natural lubrication, and the hours of indigestion from the soap-suds churning around in his insides. It sounded perfectly dreadful. Thank goodness I shall never experience it.
“Suck it slowly, skivvy. Make it last.” I advised him kindly, and he knows by now not to ignore my ‘advice’. His face screwed up slightly as he gently sucked away at the melting mass of mineral cleansing agents and perfume. He had taken a pink ‘sweet’, which I had carved from a bar of rose-petal facial soap. The three remaining wrappers were, respectively, green for a pine-fresh toilet soap, blue for a strongly-perfumed lavender bar and silver for the traditional white ivory soap – as they say: not perfumed, not coloured, just cruel.
Eventually he finished his rose petal-scented treat and opened his mouth, panting slightly. He knows better than to ask for a drink of water in these circumstances, so he merely asked whether he should now go and get on with his chores. “Oh no rush, skivvy” I replied. “Wouldn’t you like another sweet first?” So of course he had to ask for another. Politely. Entreatingly. Which I allowed him to have, out of the limitless kindness of my nature. Then I let him get on with his chores and he had the third sweet before lunch and the last just at bedtime, to last him through the night. And the next day he had another advent calendar envelope to open and a new surprise for the new day! Such a lucky skivvy.
I won’t provide a journal of our whole Christmas, my dear Mistress Scarlet. Every family’s Christmas is different, but there is surely much that is the same. We exchanged presents, we played games: there was laughter, there were tears. Quite a lot of tears, actually. All in all, it was a memorable, merry time – for me – as it is every year.
I did, however, just want to mention one serendipitous incident, completely unrelated to Christmas, that occurred recently. I am in the habit of putting skivvy into nappies – diapers to American readers – at times. This is a pragmatic necessity if ever I give him a really early bedtime, as I sometimes do when going out for the evening or having friends around. Seven pm to seven am is a long time for a man (deep down and almost completely forgotten to the world, skivvy’s identity as a male is still technically intact) to endure without a trip to the bathroom, and as a visit to the actual bathroom is obviously impossible with all four limbs strapped down, other methods must be found. Hence the nappies. He is not, under any circumstances, permitted to do anything other than a ‘wee’ in his nappy. If he does… something else, the punishment is simple: the filthy nappy goes on his head and remains there for the duration of a severe caning. It has happened just twice in our marriage. But weeing is allowed: indeed encouraged, as I like him to feel the soaking wet padding all night.
That was a bit of a problem in the first years of our marriage. Like many adults, which he notionally and legally is, he had some inhibitions about ‘wetting himself’. Of course, he always did eventually but I didn’t like the idea of his lying there warm, snug and dry, even with a steady build-up of pressure. A couple of pints of water at bedtime help, of course, but unless I remember to make him drink them a couple of hours before he goes upstairs, he still has a chance of getting to sleep in a dry nappy, thus frustrating my plans for his discomfort and humiliation. And I cannot abide being frustrated.
So one evening I took matters into my own hands, so to speak, and peed in his nappy myself. After strapping him to the cot, I pulled the rubber covering back and just let go. This caused me a surprising amount of pleasure, both at the time and later, thinking about skivvy lying there not merely in a urine-soaked nappy but one saturated with someone else’s urine. So I developed a habit of placing the new nappy in a plastic bucket, folding it out, peeing copiously and then (with rubber gloves on) fastening the vile thing around skivvy before popping the rubber covers on and saying goodnight.
Well, my dear, I was busily engaged in this one evening in the week before Christmas. Skivvy was already secured in his cot by the wrists but his ankles were still free so I could dress him – the nappy folds around of course, but as I mentioned, I use one or more layers of rubber pants that need to go up over the legs. I had just finished peeing when I heard the most angelic sound outside – carol singers! I so love carol singers, so I quickly finished what I was doing, and hurried downstairs. I must have been five minutes standing in the door, listening to this little group of angels. And angels they appeared to be – five girls and just two boys, the latter skulking at the back and looking as if they wanted to be elsewhere. Vile little brats: I do hope that in later life they will each meet someone who can ‘look after’ them properly. I so dislike boys. But the girls were so sweet, with lovely voices. I gave them quite a lot of money – it’s Christmas and skivvy can easily afford it.
Then, suffused with the joys of the season, I went to the kitchen and made myself a G&T, before settling down I front of the TV. I must have been there about half an hour, before I suddenly remembered with a shock what I had been doing, before I was so entrancingly interrupted. I went back upstairs, to skivvy’s room – where everything was, unsurprisingly given his restrained condition, just as I had left it. I put the rubber gloves on, hoicked the sodden mass out of the bucket, instructed skivvy to raise his bottom up, slipped it under, then made him lower himself and started fastening up the front.
Immediately, I noticed him gasp and his nose wrinkle with disgust. “Something not to your liking, skivvy?” I asked.
“It’s… it’s quite cold, Lady Jessica.” he explained. And so of course it was. I like to keep skivvy’s room (it’s not really ‘his’ of course – nothing is – but it is a room entirely devoted to his needs) unheated, at least in winter, and the urine which had left me in a hot stream was by then quite cold. How awful and clammy that must feel! Hard to imagine, of course, as such a thing will never happen to you or to me. But I expect everyone has had to pull on some clothes that are still wet, at one point or another in their lives, and it is not a pleasant feeling. How much less pleasant to pull on not merely some rather damp cotton panties, but instead a soaking wet, stone-cold sodden nappy that is saturated not with pure clear water but with smelly, pungent urine! Someone else’s cold, pungent urine. I gave a smile of more than usual delight and encouragement as I snapped the two rubber coverings in place. Then I secured his ankles, switched off the light and went back down to enjoy the evening, gently humming Silent Night, the tune of which had got stuck in my head earlier.
No doubt you are way ahead of me on this activity, Mistress Scarlet, as you are on so much else. For me it was a new delight, though, to discover that his bedtimes can be made still less pleasant by the simple device of slowing things down, of taking a little more time, for things to cool down. There’s a metaphor about life in there, I am sure. I shall be doing this again. You have often written of the use of ‘special’ ice cubes, my dear but skivvy has yet to experience such a treat – but quite apart from their other benefits, I imagine they can prolong this delightful chilling effect so we will be trying this in the New Year. I’m not having such things in the freezer where I keep my food, obviously, so skivvy has been researching small freezers, or even specialised ice-makers to install in his room. When he has found the perfect machine, I’ll send him off to the January sales to see if he can get one cheap. Oh, I so love this time of year!
A very happy New Year to you and to all your female readers, my dear!