Missives

Dear Miss Cavendish

As instructed, I am writing to
express my deepest gratitude for the beating you were kind enough to bestow on
me last Saturday.  As you know, for some
time now I have been experiencing feelings of rebellion at our ‘little
arrangement’ and petulance at the constraints you so wisely impose on me.

The caning I received at your
hands opened my eyes to the ingratitude of this attitude on my part, compelling
me to re-examine my behaviour and see it for what it is: the result of my
undisciplined childhood, that you are now taking such effective measures to
remedy.  I have been lucky indeed to
have made your acquaintance, even so late in life. 
Had it not been for a chance encounter, I might never have experienced
the cane across my backside.  It is hard to recall how it was not to know the pain of being thrashed with your cane, now that it looms so large in my life: constantly present in my thoughts as I try to follow your precepts in all that I do.

I hope that you were not
disturbed by my snivelling and pleading during the administration of this most
necessary exercise.  I further hope, more
wholeheartedly than I can express in this short missive, that such floggings
will not be necessary in the future. 
However, should the need arise, I am confident your strong right arm
will once again provide the correction I require and will undoubtedly richly deserve.

If (unlike my previous effort)
this thank-you letter meets with your approval, I very much hope that I will be
allowed the educative experience of copying it out a further 99 times.  It has, as you will observe, met and indeed
exceeded the required length of 300 words and I believe there are no spelling
mistakes this time.

Your obedient and thankful pupil

Martin

 ———————————————————————————————-


Dear Sarah

You will perhaps not recall me
by name, but if I mention a disastrous dinner at the St George Hotel in 2011, followed
by a particularly cringeworthy experience back at your apartment, perhaps the
occasion we met will be called to mind.

In the years after our
catastrophic ‘date’ I have had the good fortune to meet a woman who knows
exactly how perverts like me should be treated. 
On our wedding night, I made an attempt to be ‘a man’ and – you will be
unsurprised to hear from your own experience – failed utterly.  That was the last time I attempted sexual
intercourse with a woman, as my wife decided that such activities should stop
then and there.  The next morning – the
first of our married life – she purchased a steel tube and you will no doubt be
relieved to hear that my penis has penetrated nothing else since that
date.  I will spare you the gory details,
but some minor piercings have now ensured that no lock or key is required to
keep the device in place, so the women of this world are finally safe.

After six years of tolerating
me, my wife finally decided to divorce me and marry one of her many lovers, so
naturally a divorce settlement needed to be drawn up, which brings me finally
to my purpose in getting in touch again, after all these years.  My wife – soon to be ex-wife – does not need
my earnings, because the man she will be marrying is far richer than I, as well
as being more manly, witty and attractive. 
However, it has been some years since I had any real financial
independence, so new arrangements must be made to ensure I have no spare funds
to abuse.  My wife has therefore decided
that I should write to all the women with whom I ever attempted sexual
relations of any kind: firstly, to apologise and secondly to offer some financial
compensation.  There are, luckily, not
many.  Apart from my wife herself, I have
attempted penetrative sex with just three women, and achieved a sexual climax
in the vicinity of a further five, one of whom is unknown to me as she was
merely a fellow-traveller on the bus one day. 
The former – including yourself – are each to be offered 20% of my
post-tax income in perpetuity, the latter 5%. 
The 5% owed to the untraceable lady will be donated instead to a charity
supporting female participation in politics.

Rest assured that no further
contact with me (even by correspondence) will be required on your part, should
you choose to take up the offer.  My wife
has appointed a firm of (women) solicitors who will make all the arrangements
and will themselves receive a further 5%. 
As my wife has pointed out, I am lucky indeed not to have experienced
more sexual encounters, or I would not retain even the 10% of my post-tax
income that I will keep under this arrangement. 
Fortunately, my needs are very modest. 
If, however, you would regard even receiving a monthly transfer from me
as being too unpleasant a reminder of my physical existence, then I would be
most grateful if you could nominate a charity to receive your 20% (or, if you
prefer, specify that the sum be burnt by me in cash each month, under the
solicitors’ supervision).

Please rest assured as well
that I have passed this letter to the solicitors to address and send. I do not
know your address.  Furthermore, the solicitors can monitor my location using a chip implated under my skin and the geographical range of my movements is very tightly restricted. 

Finally, whatever your decision
regarding restitution, please allow me to extend my deepest, deepest apologies
for my sexual advances towards you that night, and for the pathetic performance
when I attempted to follow through on them. 
I hope that you have gone on to experience a rich and satisfying sex
life, as I now appreciate very well that most other men are vastly more
proficient in these matters, as well of course as being more personally
attractive. I hope you can at least take some comfort from the misery that I
have experienced in being forced to write this letter, and at the prospect I face so deservedly, of a
life of desperate poverty and toil without respite.

I am so very sorry.

Yours sincerely

Alan Harcourt (né Raeburn)

 ———————————————————————————————-

To the pretty nurses at St
Bathory hospital

Dear nurses.  I hope you are all very well.  If you are not, maybe a hospital is the best place to be!  Because if you get sick in
hospital, you will get better quickly.

My Mummy, who is not really my
Mummy but I call her Mummy, has told me to write a thank-you note now I am
back from hospital, so here it is.  You
were all very kind and nice to me after my operation, and the food was lovely
and I liked the way the bed went up and down when the buttons were pressed.

Mummy tells me I was very
grumpy before the operation but I don’t remember that.  She said those straps on the bed were to hold my arms and legs still and stop me running away because I was so cross because I didn’t want the operation.  She said I made a big fuss and shouted about
what an important and rich man I was, and how you couldn’t do this to me.  Fortunately, there were no other patients on
my ward, but she says I was very rude to you nurses and called you rude names
and said lots of rude words.  When I
asked her what words she laughed and would not tell me, so they must have been
very bad.

Mummy says that the reason I
was so cross was there was something wrong with my brain.  There was too much ego and IQ in there.  I asked her what those things are and she laughed
again and said it doesn’t matter, the important thing is that I have a lot less
of both of them now, because the doctors took out some bits of my brain.

I knew I must have done
something naughty, because you all spanked me before I left hospital.  Nurses are strong, probably because you lift
heavy things all day.  Mummy spanks hard
but you spank harder.  The nurse with the
brown skin spanked me hardest of all. 
Mummy says that’s because I said racist things to her before the
operation and I don’t know what that means but I hope it has been spanked out
of me and I am forgiven.

I hope the nurse with blonde
hair reads this.  I liked her very much
but I want to say sorry for how my willy got all stiff whenever she tried to
help me do a wee-wee.  Sorry.  I don’t know why
it did that, but it does it whenever I think of her.  Mummy says I might need another operation to
sort that out, so perhaps I will see you all in hospital again!

Mummy says my name is Sir James
Edmonton but that seems like too much name, so I am just Jimmy now.

Love from Jimmy, age 57

xxxx (and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx to
the nurse with blonde hair!)

Good manners never hurt anyone

Bad manners, on the other hand, can you leave you sore for days.


See what I mean about good manners? He’s approaching the conversation in a polite, respectful way.  I am sure she’ll give him a fair hearing and explain the reasons for her decision, in return.

Now this looks like an example of someone going all sulky and silly about things. She offered him a choice.  She didn’t have to but she did.  If he won’t respond graciously to that then… well, there will be consequences, let’s just say that and leave it there.
She’s very keen on good manners.  Impossible girl.
See how fair they’re being?  They’re going to calmly debate it and they’ll only keep on whipping him if it’s what the majority wants to do. I hope he’ll accept the decision graciously, even if it’s not what he wanted. Not that it affects anything, whether he accepts it or not, but it’s more polite.



My SO went to the Caribbean. – Jamaica?-  No, of course not. I don’t get to tell her what to do – I’m her slave.


Historical behaviour

Mmmm… So, acting on numerous readers’ requests I fired up the old time portal to try to grab a few more glimpses from our future.  But regular ‘readers’ of this blog will know that my time machine is about as effective and reliable as everything else I possess and this time it seems to have veered off into the past.  The dial flicked between the 1930s and the nineteenth century, before breaking off and rolling into a corner of the cellar where my chain isn’t long enough to reach, so I’m afraid I have no idea when these originated.


I have a feeling this has happened before, though.  Long, long ago….



Simply divine, darling

These things happen.  So do canings.

Pnk’s nice.  It’s a bit showy but manhide isn’t cheap, so why not flaunt it?

You have to hold the toungue very still while you do it, basically.  And of course, you can’t really use a gag, so you have to not mind screaming.  Fortunately, she doesn’t.

Works for me.

It’s not the actual intercourse, it’s the cuddle afterwards, I find.






If it isn’t hurting…

…then you’re wasting your money.

 

Actually, I think she just wants to see you get beaten up.

 

The rule is that only the lower brown stripe can still be visible, before the traffic stick treatment can be considered complete.
 
 
It’s good that she’s so broadminded.  I’ll get me coat…
 

 

It’s what your right arm’s for.


It’s amazing the things they can do with CGI special effects these days.  They can actually make it look as if flesh is being burnt off with a red-hot brand, you know.  But her method’s better.

Plugged in



Boy?  You can come in here now.  I’m just about done.

Right, so as you can see I’ve been setting a few things up on your computer.  One of my other pupils is an IT expert.  Andy – such a clever boy!  He’s built a few tools under my instruction, and I’ve just installed them. See?  It runs in the background there: MyGoverness.

Now, give me your left hand.  Let me just put this on your wrist… hold still while it clicks shut – there!  Now, this just looks like an ordinary leather bracelet, but you see at the side here where it folds back?  Open that up.  That’s right.  Now that’s a USB key, and if you pull it you’ll see you have about three feet of cable too.

Let’s check the length.  Just plug it into the nearest USB port on your computer.  Hmm.  That’s a bit tight.  Can you move the PC just a bit to the left, so it’s closer to where you sit?  That’s right.  Now plug it in.  There – that’s fine, isn’t it?  You’re sitting comfortably at the PC and you can type with both hands but you’re plugged in, too.

Now you see how the icon has changed?  That’s because it knows you’re plugged in.  And it’s noted the time, and I’ll be able to see what time you plugged in too.  Now, the reason it’s yellow is that you’re on a voluntary session just now.  So you can unplug again – that’s right, just pull the USB key out – and you see, it’s turned back to green.  That’s OK.

But – plug in again, will you? – if I just set a compulsory session… hang on, I can do it with an app on my phone.  Here we are… George, that’s you… set compulsory…immediate…no end time – there.  You see?  The icon is red now, because you’re on a compulsory session.

Try unplugging.

See?  “Unauthorised exit” it says – and it’s flashing the whole screen and making that alarm noise to warn you.  And of course that’s all recorded and I can see that you unplugged without permission.  Those alarms are so that if you plug back in within ten seconds, it just records a minor infraction.  You know what you get for a minor infraction, don’t you George?  That’s right – it’s not pleasant, but it’s bearable.  But if it’s more than ten seconds it records a major infraction – and then of course it’ll be the cane.

No, no set number of strokes.  But obviously, there would be more the longer the unauthorised absence.



Let me just cancel that.  Plug back in first, will you?  That’s right.  And I’ll make a note to delete the major infraction it’s just recorded – see, there’s a message on my phone stating that George unplugged without authorisation for a period of 40 seconds.  And I press on that, it’ll call your dedicated mobile, so I can check what’s going on, and book you in for a caning.

Now then, compulsory sessions can be of fixed length or they can continue until tasks have been completed.  Let me show you some of the things we can do, shall I?

(Oh, he’s such a clever boy, Andy, he really is.  He’s been on this system for almost two years now, and of course since his job actually involves sitting in front of a computer, at home, I can keep him plugged in most of the time).

Now.  This is ‘detention’.  It’s the simplest programme of all.  You see – your computer’s completely unresponsive.  So you just sit here for as long as I’ve specified, and the clock there tells you how long you have to wait.  And if I just specify the no-hands option – like…so!  Now you can see the clock’s ticking upwards?  Quite fast?  Well, that’s because it’s adding time.  To start it counting down again, you have to press the q and the page down keys at the same time.  See – they’re on opposite sides of the keyboard so you have to use both hands. That’s right.  You see now it’s counting down again?  So if this were real, you’d stay like that for another hour and twenty minutes, before it releases you.

Oh – George?  Don’t try to stick the keys down with anything.  It never really works and I do make snap inspections you know.

And then there’s another option that specifies five keys on each side being pressed.  So you have to hold your hands perfectly still in a fixed position, until your detention is over.

 



OK, I’ll cancel that.

Hmmm?  Well no, of course you can’t.  If the cable to your wristband is broken, then it won’t register you.  It’s quite strong, though.  I suppose it could break by accident. You’d just have to make an appointment to see me and we’d discuss it.  If you have a good explanation, then I might not be too hard on you.

Right – now of course there’s a line-writing module.

Oh don’t groan, George!  Of course there’s a line-writing module.  All my boys have to write lines.  You knew that when you signed up to have a governess, didn’t you? 

Yes, of course you did.

Anyway, that works pretty much like the line-writing programmes you’ve probably seen on the Internet – Fond of Writing, writeforme and so on.  You see the line up there, you type it in a little box and if you make an error you have to write it again, and it adds an extra to your target.  Pretty straightforward.

In some ways, I prefer making boys write lines by hand.  I’ll still have you doing that as well – that’s generally what I have in mind when I set you a detention without fixing your hands on the keyboard.  But it’s so much easier this way – all quite automatic, you see.  And I can have a line of any length at all.  No – no limit.  At first Andy had it set at 255 characters, but when I said that wasn’t enough he converted it into an unlimited field.  I copied and pasted an entire chapter of the Guide to the Correction of Young Gentlemen, once.  Of course, it’s almost impossible to type that much without making at least one mistake!  When I looked the next day, I realised the boy I’d set it to had been going for over 18 hours, and he had 76 extras!  So of course I just let him finish the one he was on and that was that.  I’m not that strict!

I like setting lines in foreign languages too.  Turkish, Estonian… that kind of thing.  You have to concentrate a bit harder.  I could even just set a random sequence of letters and characters, but I do like the thought that the boy is actually learning something as he types it again and again.

Anyway, it can set on compulsory or voluntary mode while you’re writing your lines.  So it might keep you at it until you finished, or you might just have a target number of lines to complete by a set date.  One of my boys said in his application form that he needed a governess’s guidance to stop him procrastinating; so I set him 5000 lines every month but left it completely up to him when to do them.  The first few months, he left it awfully late and had to work through the night as he got close to the deadline, but now he’s learnt to settle down into a steady routine.  Isn’t that nice?



So that’s line-writing… what else can I show you?

That little light?  Yes, your camera’s on, you see.  I can check up on any of the boys who are plugged in.  And it stays on for a couple of minutes after they unplug – I love watching them frantically trying to plug back in within the ten seconds deadline if they pull it out accidentally.

Hmmm?  No, there’s no connection to your chastity belt.  Andy had some ideas about that, but it sounded very complicated and I didn’t really see the point.  After all, every boy comes to see me in person at least once every two weeks, so even the most frequent masturbation schedule can be supervised in person.

Oh – but that reminds me.  Here’s a task that you’re going to become very familiar with over the next few months!  This is called ‘mens sana‘.  Do you recognise the quote?

That’s right: mens sana in corpore sano.  Meaning?

Well, what’s the point of ‘knowing’ it if you don’t know what it means? 

I see.  Forgotten.  Well – it’s a good thing you’ve got a governess, then, isn’t it?

Mens sana in corpore sano means ‘a clean mind in a healthy body’.  And it’s what I aim to instil in you.  Because at the moment, you have a filthy mind in a disgustingly perverted and unhealthy little body, don’t you?

And why’s that?  Because you’ve spent so much time sitting right here, masturbating in front of all the pornography you have on this computer, that’s why!

Oh don’t be ridiculous, George, of course I found it!  I told you Andy was clever, didn’t I?  Do you think I wouldn’t have software that can find hidden images and movies?

Look – there it all is.  Filthy, filthy pictures and movies showing all sorts of things you’re not going to be allowed any more.  So – we’re going to clean it all up!

See – I’m setting a task called ‘clean up computer’…and requiring, let’s see, 100 a week.  Now – you see it’s opened a directory full of your pornography?  You can see the files there – in fact, this is the only way you can access this directory now.  Just double click on any of them – a picture, say.

There it is.  It’s all quite greyed out and blurry, so you can’t see much of it.  Not enough to get excited.  But we can see enough to know what it is, can’t we?  Poor girl – she must be awfully cold in that bra, especially without any panties.  Anyway – move your mouse over it.

That’s right.  You see how it’s changed to a scrubbing brush? So press both mouse buttons down and start scrubbing back and forth.  That’s right…back and forth, back and forth.  And you see how the picture is gradually disappearing where you scrub?  It takes about ten passes over any pixel to scrub it completely clean.  And once you’ve done it for the whole picture – that’s right, keep going.  Scrub it all away…  Once it’s done it for the whole picture, it deletes the file and records one filthy picture cleaned up. 

It works on videos too.  How about that one?  “Melissa sucks cock”  That sounds like the sort of thing we want to clean up.  It takes a frame every minute as a photo, and you have to clean all of them.  So let’s see… goodness, Melissa sucks a cock for a long time, doesn’t she?  Well, you’d better get started.  It will credit you with eleven cleaned-up pictures for this, so it’s all quite fair.

Each one takes about three minutes if you’re scrubbing vigorously, so 100 a week is just over three hours or so.  And you’ll continue that every week until they’re all gone.

How many have you got, anyway?  Goodness!  However did you find time to look at them all?  Well, you’re going to be doing this for a few years, by the looks of it, then, aren’t you?  And some of those look like quite long videos.



Anyway. you carry on scrubbing away poor Melissa’s unpleasant experience, and I’ll go downstairs and have a cup of tea.  I’ll set you a compulsory six hour session – to give you a tour of all the different features, and then when you wake up tomorrow you should plug in to see your weekly schedule – I can set it up tonight.  All my boys need to be plugged in at 6am every day, just to check for new instructions.

No, I can let myself out.  You gave me a spare key, remember?  So I can come and go as I please.  Unlike you.

The part of The Governess in this technological tale was played by the stern but beautiful Miss Jessica Wood. She’s based in Hertfordshire, which I think might be the first positive thing I’ve ever heard about the place.
 
PS – if you like writing lines for imaginary dommes (and, curiously enough, I do) try this line writing site.

It’s not just Irene


“Well Holmes!” I expostulated as soon as we were ensconced
in the first class compartment, waiting for the train to depart.  “You certainly surprised us all this
time!  I was quite convinced the
Governess was the culprit”

Holmes nodded wearily. 
“A natural mistake to make” he replied, and opened a newspaper as if to
close the conversation.


“I mean, damn it all Holmes” I went on, determined not to
allow him to avoid explanations.  “Her
glove was found at the scene of the crime, the rope used in the hanging came
from her sash window, we found the bloodied knife in her room and on top of
everything, Sir Horace had recently changed his will leaving everything to her.”


Holmes put his paper down with some visible
irritation.  He seemed to be physically
discomforted, in addition to his usual irascibility.


“Indeed Watson.  But
as you know, I had a very long talk with the, erm, formidable Miss Huntingdon
in her schoolroom, and she explained everything to me very clearly.  Very clearly indeed.  I cannot breach her confidence to explain
why, but there is no question of her guilt. 
She was most persuasive.”


And he fell silent as if recalling a vivid memory, then shook his head and shifted nervously in his seat – and instantly, it seems, regretted it, as he
winced in some pain.


“This railway company is a disgrace.” he remarked.  “Singularly uncomfortable seats.”


“We could swap” I offered.  “Mine is well upholstered.”  But he refused with a curter shake
of his head.


“So…”  I mused.  “Suicide, after all.  But Holmes, how ever did Sir Horace hang
himself and stab himself several times, after
tying his own hands behind his back?  And
did you ever solve the mystery of the strange marks across his buttocks?”


“The English aristocrat is a remarkably creative animal,
Watson” Holmes remarked.  “Damn this seat”
– and he got up, wincing all the way.



“If you’ll excuse me, Watson” he remarked, I think I might
after all not accompany you all the way to London.  I cannot abandon Miss Huntingdon, at this
difficult time.  To lose her employer and
gain control of a household and vast fortune all in one week like that… the
poor woman will need a man’s guidance.  I
shall return to Castle Charingbourne.

And he left the compartment, leaving me to brood with my
thoughts.  One day, I decided, I would
make him tell the whole story, even if it had to be sealed for posterity to
learn its secrets at some later date. 
But a thought struck me, just as the train began to pull out of the
station, and I lowered the window and called out to the retreating Holmes, who
was standing pensively – but perhaps rather stiffly – on the platform.

“But dash it all, Holmes! 
Sir Horace was an unmarried man! 
Why employ a governess, if you have no children?”



But he did not – or would not – hear me or look in my direction, gazing instead almost longingly up the hill in the direction
of the great house, with the faintest smile playing across his lips. 

Timing is everything


So I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to try out Graham’s invention.  Of course, you can’t see, because it’s behind you and you’re strapped so very tightly across the whipping block.  But back there, the mechanical arm holding the cane is fully retracted, so the machine’s ready to strike.  When it does, the electric motor drives a small wheel into rapid motion, increasing tension for a second or two, before the arm is released and the cane lashes across your bottom.

It’s that little delay that makes it work, actually. Poor old Graham kept on trying and trying to propel the arm immediately to make the stroke, but you can never get enough force to get it to lash at the speed you need for a proper impact.  It took him ages to find a solution.  I was getting quite frustrated actually – he was probably getting more strokes from me manually than he was testing each day on the machine.  But that delay lets the speed build up and then – whoosh, and it cracks across your buttocks.  So you’ll hear a little whir for a second or so, before you hear the cane whistling through the air.  I’ve asked him to work on that whirring sound – it would be better if there weren’t any warning.  I’m sure he’ll be able to sort it out, with the right encouragement from me.  Still – it canes hard and that’s the main thing.

So after the stroke it winds back again, going a little bit up or down so it doesn’t keep caning the same spot.  Graham himself suggested that little feature, actually, after the first time I tried it on him.  Twelve on exactly the same spot makes you ever so sore.  He started work on the vertical motion straight away after that!  Anyway, I can set it to go steadily up or down, or just let it go randomly.

Oh, you’ll find out.  The pattern should be clear by stroke three or four or so.


I’m so pleased with this.  I mean, I’m not going to stop caning boys manually, obviously!  But sometimes it’s nice just to hand the job over.  And there’s something quite relentless and brutal about being caned by a machine… the way it just keeps going, no matter what you say or how piteously you cry or scream.  I mean, so do I of course, but boys still always start making a fuss after a while, in the hope that I’ll go easy on them.  Boys can be so stupid. Well, this machine takes that hope away.

You look worried!  No…maybe worried isn’t the right word.  You look terrified.  Well, so you should.  You’re getting twelve, good and hard – and I’ve already programmed them in.  Nothing you can do.

But you know, I haven’t told you about the cruellest feature yet.  Do you want to know?



I can programme the speed.  It can go at any speed I like.  So what do you think is about to happen, hmmm?

What?

No.  Oh for goodness’ sake.  You boys are so unimaginative.  You think that the worst thing I could do to you is to make it go as fast as possible?  Twelve strokes in quick succession – THWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACK?

Well, it could do that.  And obviously that would be sheer hell – it would certainly make you scream.  But that’s not what I’ve done.  Quite the opposite.  Can’t you guess?

Between now and – oh about nine o’clock tonight – you’ll receive twelve strokes.  It’s just gone noon, so that’s about one every 45 minutes.  But they won’t come regularly.  The intervals have been set to be random – anything between 30 seconds and two hours.  You will get all twelve – you can depend on that.  But you’ll never know when the next one’s coming, as you wait there hour after hour.  Until you hear that little whir anyway… then you have a second or so to brace yourself.  It’ll be so much better when Graham’s sorted that out…

Yes, you see?  I thought you would.  It’s much worse than getting twelve all at once, isn’t it? 

Do you think the randomness makes it worse?  I wasn’t sure about that.  I like the thought that you’ll be on edge for all of that time, never knowing when – or precisely where – the next stroke will land.  But on the other hand, it might be nice some time to try spacing them evenly – say, one every hour.   And you could have a clock in front of you, watching the seconds counting steadily down.  Or no clock, and you’d be frantically estimating whether the hour is nearly up.  Maybe we’ll try that next time.

Hmm?  Oh, we’ve already started.  I switched it on about five minutes ago.  Every five minutes you have about a one in nine chance of a stroke.  It could have happened already. But it didn’t.  It will, though.  That’s certain: you’ve still got all twelve to go.  It could happen any second… or not for almost two hours… it’s just up to that little microchip.  Out of my control anyway, and certainly out of yours.

Hmm?  Yes, I know it’s cruel.  I am.

Anyway, it’s not much of a spectator sport, so I’m going to go about my day and leave you to it.  Don’t worry, I’m not leaving the house, so I’ll be able to hear you scream from time to time.  You’ll be quite secure here, though.  And if you start to feel thirsty – and I think you will, if you keep sweating like that, or if you start crying – just remember that it’s supposed to be a punishment and you deserve it.

See you.

Oh – you know, I just had a thought.  Maybe instead of designing out the little whirring sound, Graham could design it in!  So that – I don’t know – about five times out of six or so, there’s the sound but no stroke.  Wouldn’t that be fun?  I’ll have to have a word with him.

Enjoy the rest of the day.


  The lady here is of course the formidable and beautiful (and formidably beautiful) Mistress Cassie Hunter, The Hunteress.  Visit her web site if you’re feeling interested and want to see more, visit her in person if you’re feeling guilty and need to suffer.

The deal

Not for the first time, I found myself writing a ‘caption’ that’s so long it could barely fit onto the Sistine Chapel ceiling (and, to be honest, might not be entirely appropriate there), so instead of putting it in 6 point type, here it is, unlocked and free to dangle, as it were.

Actually, this one’s a bit serious, not a joke.  Very strong fantasy for me.  Hope I haven’t ruined it by writing it down.


And it’s called ‘The Deal’.





The
deal’?  Well, I thought I’d been
perfectly clear.  I can run through it
once more, I suppose.

I
am a professional governess and lifestyle counsellor.  I specialise in taking charge of supposedly
grown men like you, who have never grown up.

I
will set you homework every week and punish you if it is not done to my
satisfaction.  At weekends, you will come
here and do chores before breakfast, then you will sit in a classroom under my
supervision.  You will go to bed by 8.30.

I
will lock your penis away so you can’t indulge your filthy habits.  And I will fill the time you save by setting
you punishment lines to write, and making you stand for hours in a naughty corner in your
apartment, monitored by a camera feed via your computer.

 
I will take control. You will go on a strict diet, and will
exercise to my specifications daily.  You will keep your apartment spotlessly
clean, to a rota I will provide.  TV and Internet time will be severely rationed, and you will not be
permitted to watch anything inappropriate.  I will control your spending, by
monitoring your bank accounts, and you will be expected to keep records of
everything, and account for every penny so I can make sure you are not
frittering your money away.  Any purchases over £25 will need pre-approval. You
will bring me your performance evaluations from work, and we will discuss ways
in which you can apply yourself more effectively in your career.

And I will beat you every time I am in the slightest degree dissatisfied
with your perfomance.  I will use the strap and the tawse on your
palms.  I will beat your thighs and calves with a heavy leather belt.  And whenever I am
still not satisfied that you have learnt your lesson, I will cane you.  There is
an old-fashioned whipping block in my study, and I will strap you tightly over
it and I will flog you with this cane until I am satisfied that you have learnt
your lesson.  You will scream, and struggle, and beg and plead and you will
cry.  All boys do.  But the straps are strong and so is my will.

You
will dread the ringtone of the mobile phone that is only for my use, to call
you with instructions.  You will dread
the journey to my house on a Friday evening. 
You will squirm in fear as I look over your homework and your
lines.  You will shake when you are
waiting outside my study for the call to enter and to face your
punishment.  Even in your lonely bed at
home, you will wake in a cold sweat, from a nightmare in which you imagine me
displeased with you.

You
will obey me.  You will work for me.  You will scream in pain, or endure hours of tedium, as I dictate.  You will hate the pain, and the
discomfort and the sexual frustration, the misery and the terror.  Above all, you will hate this cane and
you will fear what I can do to you with it. 
Every waking moment.

That is ‘the deal’.

Oh
– and one more thing.  You will pay me
for the privilege.

You
may now leave, or you may choose to sign the contract and we will begin.


Your obedient servant

What's Portuguese for 'dominatrix'?

Don't governesses have neat handwriting?

Who are these people?  Why don’t they even need to address the postcards?  Or in Her case, affix a stamp? I have no idea, sorry.

***UPDATE*** I have added the text of the two postcards ‘in plain’, because I guess they’re unreadable.  I’ve kept the font, but you should be able to copy and paste into somthing ugly like Arial if you like.

Sorry about that.  If anyone wants to suggest an appropriate measure of correction, just in case I’m not sorry enough?  Hmmm….?

From him to Her:

Dear Mistress
i am having a lovely time in Brazil, at the ressort You booked.  There are a lot of other men here, some sentenced to staying just a few weeks like me, others for life rather longer.  I have marked my room with ‘X’. I spend a lot of time there.
But I go outside too.  Sometimes i lie in the sun for hours at a time, not moving a muscle!  Sometimes I just run round and round the yard. i’ve been getting quite red in the sun (and out of it), and i’m certainly getting an all-over tan!  But i’m not just layzing around!  Every morning, we all go  for a good healthy run, followed by a brisk outdoor shower.  The guards staff here like to keep us on our toes (or occasionally off them)!  There are three shifts, so there is always plenty on duty.

So, thank You again for forcing me to booking my stay here.  You were quite right – i ’ve really learnt a lot about myself, here, especially about my own self-worth.  i won’t say “wish You were here”, but i certainely wish i was with You right now!

Yours (truly!)  Servitor

From Her to him:

servitor
I received your postcard.  I was a little surprised that it had taken you so long to write.  Perhaps the staff were keeping you too busy!  I’ll call them, to ask.
I was pleased to hear how you have been getting on.  I was distinctly less pleased to count three spelling mistakes, a grammatical error and no fewer than eight crossings-out! In your next few postcards, I ‘suggest’ you should endeavour to correct the spelling errors, repeatedly (the usual count!).
Other errors will have to wait until your return.  I have made a note, and we shall discuss them with Mrs Lochgelly and Miss Rattan, whom I expect you remember well.
Finally, you really do not need to inform me about your activities, as you know I receive a full weekly report.  Simply express thanks.
I remain
your Mistress
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