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?

Screaming historically

…with apologies for the unusually awful pun in the title, even by the standards of this blog, we happily present more femdom captions from a time before those words even existed.  But there are some timeless verities and female superiority is one such.







Hmm… maybe Karen Gillan was wrong.








A fondness for reading, properly directed, must be an education in itself

Another look back in time, to the more elegant and yet sweetly brutal femdom of yesteryear.

 

 

She had remarkably progressive attitudes for her time, as you can tell.  Indeed, I believe she visited the former colony, by then a thriving republic, later in her life and has something of a claim to being the founder of ‘BBC fetishism’, now so very popular on the Internet.

 

 

Cecily has a lot to learn… as does George, but soon after this, the ladies engaged a very experienced governess to help with all that and never had to bother themselves about him again.

 

 

 

She’s beautiful when she’s vexed.

 

 

 

What a fine moral compass that young lady has!  I’m sure it will stand her in good stead when she marries.

 

 

 

 

And one too large to fit as a caption, even one as wordy as those above.

My dearest Emilia

Of course, my first communication on my return from honeymoon can only be to my dearest school friend, so here you find me writing.  Goodness, what an exciting time we had!  So many tea dances, sonnet recitals and long country walks in the rain, it made my head quite spin.

And of course, marital bliss.  Dear, dearest Emilia, I was reminded of the little games you and I used to play at school – do you recall, in the dorm, when the nuns had ceased patrolling for the night?  Silly, girlish games, really, but I recall them with great affection.  I was reminded for some reason of our little ‘tickling contests’ under the sheets.  Do you recollect, my dear, your telling me that our little games were useful practice for romance with a man?  All that kissing and petting and… other things?  Well, my dear, the ‘real thing’ so to speak is a little similar in some respects but very different in others.  It is quicker, for one thing.  Much, much quicker. I had barely thought it started, when – done!  Men are so much more efficient in these matters, it seems.

Also, nothing in my previous experience had prepared me for the important role that my shoes would play in ‘rousing’ Harold to the right state of enthusiasm.  Nor the necessity of securing my husband
tightly to the bed with straps, to prevent harm to his delicate wife.  All most ‘educational’. 
Perhaps these things are ‘old hat’ to you, my dear, living your glamorous life in London.  Although I understand your social circle consists almost entirely of women.  So perhaps not.


Would you care to visit some time, dear Emilia?  Even a married woman must not forget her old school chums.  Why, peculiarly enough, I have been thinking a lot of Lydia, lately: old ‘slipper’ herself, the terror of the dorms when she was a prefect.  I happened to mention her to Harold for some reason or other and he seemed quite fascinated, so I had to recount all the details of how we suffered under her hand! And of course you and I would comfort each other afterwards, kissing all that poor bruised flesh better.  However, I thought Harold would not be interested in that part of the tale, so did not bore him with it.

So, Emilia, dearest, do write back with the utmost haste to arrange some dates for a visit.  Or simply arrive!  We do not have much space to spare but I am confident we can squeeze you in!  For three days of the week Harold inspects the farms in the North of the county, so it will just be the two of us – oh, and my young housemaid Agnes, of course.

We could even share a bed.

        Mmmm….  Perhaps not.

We could even share a bed.  It would be just like old times, my dearest Emilia, so do act without delay and I look forward impatiently to once
again holding you in my arms and

        No.

holding you in my arms and conversing with my dearest, closest friend.

It brings me great joy to be presented to the world as ‘Mrs Melchett’ but to you, my dearest, I fondly hope always to be your beloved and

        and… and… and…         ah yes!

 affectionate

 

Anne

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.

When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.

… and then the pain is back again, and so it goes on.


Astute readers (both of you) will have recognised a Jane Austen quotation, of course, and realised that you are in for a treat. Oh yes – regency femdom!  More hot chicks in empire-line dresses!  And long sentences, in elegant serifed fonts instead of that dreadful modern Gill Sans. 

Swoon on.

 

 

Special delivery

 
Yes, it’s from Harold. Listen to this, Marion:
My dearest Bess.  I write these words in haste.  I hope you are well and have not been too worried
by
my unexpected absence.  If you are reading this missive then I have the joy to announce that our enforced separation can at last be ended.
You see, my love, there has been the most monstrous misunderstanding.  The uncle of yours, to whom you suggested I apply for a position, appears to have been under the impression that I was a potential pupil for a school of which he acts as governor.  I  am not aware of the precise location, but somewhere on a bleak moor in Derbyshire, I am enrolled in a boys’ boarding school! 
In vain, I have pointed out that I am no schoolboy, but an independent gentleman of 25 years, recently contracted in the blissful state of wedlock with a beautiful young lady. Yet the school , it seems, caters to delinquent young men and the headmaster appears to assume that I am one such.  I have ceased to protest for fear of his cane, which he and the staff use viciously to deal with any minor infraction or even annoyance.  Most of my ‘class’ appear to be well into the age of majority, and have advised me to ‘buckle down and take it’, so beaten into submission are their poor spirits.
My own spirit is flagging somewhat, I will admit, under the oppression I suffer daily.  As you know, dearest Bess,
since I recall you remarking on it with a smile when I mentioned the fact, my own school had a more progressive outlook and so the canings, cold showers and country runs are taking a terrible toll on my physique, not to mention my mental state, which alternates between terror of a forthcoming thrashing and tedium as I complete the mindless rote-learning tasks that pass for instruction in this benighted institution.  I have been here not more than three weeks, yet already I have written over five thousand lines!  Yes, my dearest, lines: it apears modern educational theories have yet to reach whatever godforsaken corner of Northern England holds me captive.
Furthermore, several of the tutors take… liberties with the ‘boys’ that I will not commit to paper for fear of being prosecuted for penning an obscene publication – and are in so sense fit to mention to a young lady, even one with
such enlightened ideas as I was pleased if somewhat shocked to experience on our wedding night.  
I am handing this missive to a groundsman, to whom I have entrusted the last of my secreted funds. I can only
hope and pray you see it and intervene with your uncle before the end of the week, when I have been promised the thrashing of a lifetime.
I kiss the air and pray for your well-being, my love, my only dearest. 

Your ever-faithful
Harold.
Goodness. Marion, my darling, will you bring me paper and pen?  I need to write to my uncle.  Is the boy who delivered this still waiting downstairs?
Excellent.  Give him some supper.  Tell him I want him personally to deliver my letter to Uncle Frederick, will you?  I’m sure Uncle Fred will enjoy dealing with him himself.  Honestly: taking money from pupils to deliver letters.  You can’t trust anyone these days. 
Oh – and that reminds me: we need to pay Harold’s school-fees for the rest of the year.  Apparently after this first year, we can set up a trust which pays the fees in perpetuity, so we don’t need to be bothered with it again.
But we can sort that out tomorrow.  Run my bath, will you Marion dearest?  And get in: I’ll join you there when I’m done with this.
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