Category: birching

Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women.

More glimpses from a bygone, more civilised age.

Except obviously you won’t be buggered afterwards. Not with a real penis, anyway.
Of course, she won’t continue her career as a governess after marriage. That would be quite against the spirit of the times, which held that even professional women, once married, should focus all of their efforts on their husbands.
War is hell. So’s her strap-on, actually.
Striking at the root of the problem, so to speak.
Even young ladies of fashion had to develop practical skills in those days. The lady behind looks singularly uninterested, though… dreaming of marriage to a billionaire, perhaps.
He loves – and loves a lass above his station, by the look of him.

It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do

You will, of course, have recognised the title from the divine Jane’s Sense and Sensibility and thus have girded your loins (or had someone else firmly gird them for you) for another chapter of this blog’s longest running theme: period femdom. Like period drama you see, only…

What? No, not that kind of ‘period’. Pervert.

Anyway, here come the hot chicks in empire-line dresses, bustles, cropped bodices and suchlike.

They needn’t worry. The spirit of Chrstian mercy burns fiercely in their Aunt’s breast and she would greatly prefer to see the lad thrashed – several times, ideally – and retained in her service.
In the last county fair, the whippiness and suppleness of the birches produced on her estate received high praise.
As Marx tells us, social relations will be revolutionised by technological and economic developments. Yes, industrialisation may regrettably make slavery obsolete, but it will bring in new possibilities too. Electric cattle prods, for instance: unknown in pre-industrial society but today it is hard to imagine married life without them.
I have made a careful study of the good Baron’s oeuvre and may yet publish a scholarly monograph on it. Sadly, some of the pages in my only copy of his greatest work have become stuck together, so publication will have to wait.
To Sally’s disappointment, he describes nothing of the lives of the women of this exotic tribe and how they manage, left to their own devices without men. She takes a keen interest in that kind of thing. Perhaps when or if he writes another letter, she’ll learn more.
Don’t imagine that in saying ‘I’m sure you received worse thrashings in school’, she is merely speculating. She takes a keen interest in boys’ education and is on the board of governors of three local charity schools, so she is very well acquainted with the topic.

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?

If it’s Tuesday this must be femdom

Fortunately their arguments are usually quite short.  She’s very sensitive, poor thing – hates it when there’s disagreement in her marriage.

 

 

Her husband’s very sensitive too, which is just the way she likes it.

 

 

“This slave is so privileged to have the honour of directing your divine footsteps, Mistress, and ventures most humbly to suggest that Mistress’s perfect feet should first take a left (by which is meant her left, needless to say, not the left from the perspective of this worthless insect), then…” etc etc.

 

 

Apparently one of his favourite maledom fantasies concerns ‘caning to real tears’.  So he’s in for a real treat today because that’s definitely on the agenda.

 

 

 

Just to be clear: she’s fairly unlikely to hold with that sort on nonsense after the wedding day, either. And there are other words for which you’d be wise not to dispute her definition: ‘husband’, for instance.

 

 

 

One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.

To celebrate Bastille Day, let’s have some more Regency femdom. The tumbrels and republican principles of the Revolution itself do not lend themselves well to the theme (although I always felt a vague kinship with the sans-culottes) but on the other side of the Channel, the natural order was maintained.
 
Of course, these are merely modern ‘takes’ on the period. Fashions in femdom at the time were rather different and would seem strange to us today.  Humiliation play, for example, might involve acting out being introduced at a ball to a duchess and incorrectly addressing her as if she were a mere viscountess, or using the wrong fork for the fish and being gently and gigglingly admonished (or – worse – subjected to a sustained pretence by one’s dinner companions not to have noticed!  Oh, the shame).  A ‘forced bi’ scenario would typically end with some roleplaying the inevitable appearance before local magistrates, followed by branding or even transportation to Australia* for committing unnatural acts.  And of course the gimp suits of the time were made of wool or coarse cloth -unthinkable today but they knew no better.
 
What’s that?  You want me to shut the fuck up and just show you the pictures of hot chicks in empire-line dresses? Oh, OK then.  Sorry.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
* Generally regarded as a hard limit by most scene players today – and indeed very few dommes are even prepared to try it, although I understand Mistress Servalan of Sydney has ocasionally put on demonstrations at BDSM conventions.

Words of praise


Look at that… she gets to have a mug of rich, steaming coffee… and Raoul’s coming round later, too. 
Things just haven’t been the same between us since Humpy Hippo moved in.
 If you like Humpy Hippo, then you might also like Mr Floppyears because it’s basically the same caption.
I remember as a child running excitedly to the door to let the District Disciplinary Officer in, while Dad grovelled for mercy at my Mum’s feet.  These days you can order a beating on-line, but it’s not the same.
It’s silly to criminalise sexism. Men are better than women at lots of things and it shouldn’t be a crime to say so.  Hard labour, for a start: we’re really good at that.












10 Green Bottles?

 

Callous talk




Oh no.  Don’t tell me I married an escape artist.  Again.
Scurry scurry scurry.
Thank goodness it’s nothing personal.
That looks very motivating, doesn’t it?  I think just one of those rods would motivate me, so a whole bunch wrapped together like that… I feel motivated just looking at them.
I wouldn’t mind, but he’s the priest who married us and that just seems wrong.  Still… very nice shoes.

 

Reader: I pegged him

Even more hot chicks in empire-line dresses! One of the earliest CtD posts – probably dating from the 18th century itself, truth be told, but re-posted in 2011, dealt with this highly topical theme.


To quote that early post:  

“Well-born males degradingly forced to engage in social intercourse with ladies below their proper station!  Wild tea dances! 


Remember, you saw it here first!  And probably last.”

Little did I know…. eight years on, same old nonsense. 

 

 

Kept men

(we don’t talk about the discarded ones).



Another 2% fantasise desperately about it not happening, or at least not so often and not quite so hard.
Featuring the lovely and no-nonsense Miss Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress.
Right.  It’s about time all this nonsense stopped – I’m going to put my foot down. In fact, I’m going to stamp my foot – hard.  Several times.  And I’m going to to have a proper tantrum.  That should show her she can’t treat me like this.
Their faces usually fall again when she goes on to inform them that she will therefore proceed to the next thrashing, for the next item on her list.
I once asked my SO if she could feminise me, but she just laughed and said she’d love to, but I don’t have the IQ to make a convincing woman.
She cares a lot.



By the way, not ‘found femdom’ in any meaningful way, but over the break I’ve been watching episodes of 90s British sitcom Game On and perving ever so slightly to the lovely Samantha Janus and especially her relationship with the character Martin.  I watched it occasionally at the time it was broadcast and it’s as weird and spectacularly depressing as ever, as the basic set-up is that Matt – a neurotic, agoraphobic narcissist – rents out rooms in his flat to Martin (a wimp) and Mandy (a goddess!).  Martin is a virgin desperate for sex, while Mandy is frustrated with her life and hates herself for sleeping with so many men.  But (da-dum), the only men she absolutely will not have sex with are the other two characters.  With Matt, she refuses and pushes him away but with Martin it obviously never even occurs to her to have sex with him. There’s a lovely scene in this episode (intended to be the first ever, although they varied the order of broadcast), in which her latest boxer boyfriend takes up her whole bed, so she snuggles up with Martin, who lies there with an erection the whole desperate night.  Here, starting 16.22.  Ahhh…

So, yeah, not in any way femdom.  Except that Samantha Janus is quite literally a goddess and I for one intend to found a religion in her honour.

She is notionally Samantha Womack these days, but I’ll be hunting down Mr so-called Womack and forcing the blasphemer to change his name to Janus, as is only right and proper, so don’t worry about that.

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