Historical females

Once again, it’s time to look back on the more elegant femdom of times past. One of this blog’s earliest and least-popular series, continued here out of sheer stubbornness and an almost total lack of self-awareness: Jane Austen femdom. With a few anachronistic wobbles of a hundred years or so in either direction from the divine Jane’s own period.

Even in the prudish Victorian era*, brides-to-be were often passed practical guides to the secrets of married life, by their mothers or other older women. The good Baron’s was one of the most popular.
You’d think he’d be better at recognising birch by now. Oh well.
I do think the husband of the more experienced lady depicted here was most unlucky, after having spent years at one of the most selective boarding schools, to emerge without a taste either for being buggered or viciously flogged. He found adjustment to married life very trying, poor fellow.
Justice must be done, seen to be done and then later recalled in the Queen’s bedchamber.
The depressing thing is, he always remained hopeless at Latin grammar, despite the strenous efforts of a succession of governesses over many years.
As it turned out, the quality of her mercy came to be much appreciated by her subjects, not least because it was so rarely exercised. It’s good to be the Queen.

* Yes, I know Jane Austen was pre-Victorian. Do pay attention: as the paragraph at the start noted, the actual time period featured here varies. All posts set before 1910 or so** are labelled as ‘Jane Austen‘ (indeed, many are introduced as featuring ‘Hot chicks in empire-line dresses’ even when the hot chicks featured are in fact attired in the fashion of an entirely different era).

** Posts after 1910 (and before about 1960) being labelled ‘Downton Domination‘. But you knew that, right?

One thought on “Historical females”

  1. I am drinking coffee in my corner office, on the 32nd floor of the Lawyers firm where work. I look out at the river and think about my sissy slave husband, Max.

    Lately, I have been wondering if I have become too soft with him. He seems to think he can choose when to do his chores, he no longer asks permission to worship my feet, especially after the gym or after a hard day at work. He just gets down and starts, surely he should ask, I muse.

    The moment is shattered by my PA, Emily, who comes in and reminds me of a meeting I am chairing with a client in about fifteen minutes.

    ”Zoe, you have the Parkinson meeting, I have checked the meeting room, it is good to go. Is there anything you want from me?”

    ”No dear, that is fine. Thanks. Actually you can sit in and take some notes, not ‘minutes’, just their answers to some questions, then we can debrief after over coffee and cake”

    ”Cake, Zoe?”

    ”Yes, Max made a coffee and walnut cake, and I have some for us. I better go.”

    After the meeting I say with Emily and we chatted about everything as girls tend to do. I don’t think we took a breath.

    As I put n my coat to drive home I realized that today, with the Parkinson meeting, I had made the firm over $8 million.

    When I got home I was tired and Max took my coat and said supper is almost ready. He then proceeded to kneel down and kiss my stinky feet.

    I smiled at his enthusiasm, life is good, why spoil it by telling Max off for what, for him, is natural behavior.

    My feet do feel good after Max has finished worshipping them.

    I go upstairs to change and take a shower.

    Max kneels by my seat as I eat the lovely supper he has prepared.


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