Emily brings the mare to the stallion

With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of respectability and prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. The first entry is free to read.

Further entries are appearing as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, you will find these are hidden behind the paywall.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

4th June 1894, Monday Miss Havercock’s Diary

Arabella sat at breakfast this morning pouting and with a sullen look on her face. Mr Horsham, to the contrary, was jovial and appeared to be in the best of spirits. Once again the conversation was about the weather, estate business and the minutiae of domestic life - no mention was made of the previous evening’s proceedings.

It is evident that Mr Horsham is anxious to maintain the air of respectability around his family. This, no doubt, is why he conjured up the illusion of seeking penance for his carnal acts - acts that the penance was designed to stimulate rather than quell.

Mrs Horsham has a greater predilection to allow the carnal to seethe closer to the surface in her day-to-day life. Flexton House is somewhat isolated, so there are few visitors to distract her from these thoughts and only my presence to provide a focus for them.

After breakfast, Mr Horsham departed on business and Arabella and I retired to the drawing room. No sooner had the clatter of his horse’s hooves faded before Arabella turned to me in a state of some agitation.

“Last night, you obtained some satisfaction, my husband most certainly obtained his release, but I was left wanting?

“That is so,” I said, just managing to contain my smile.

“It’s not fair.” Arabella wrung her fingers together and looked down, pouting like an errant schoolgirl. “Why should I be the one left in a state of anxiety?”

“Oh, it’s extremely fair,” I snapped. “Did you not say that the feel of the birch stimulated you?”

“I did, yes,” she murmured, still looking at her hands.

“And how do you feel now?”

“I told you. I have been left wanting. That desire is seething inside me so intensely I feel that I might explode.”

“And is not that sensation as arousing as the feel of the birch?” I asked.

She looked up at me, her mouth agape and her eyes wide.

“When your eventual release comes, will it not be all the more tumultuous for waiting?”

“Oh, Yes.” She wriggled as if I had rekindled a fire between her legs.”

“And secondly, are you not now fuller of your husband’s seed, released in the heat of passion than you have ever been?”

She nodded.

“Good, follow me.” I stood up. “We have an appointment.”

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Roderick and the Princess first appeared in The Princess and the Spanking Now they are back and be warned, they are just as naughty.

She is standing wearing nothing but a pair of lacy knickers, a bra that pushes out her small but perfectly formed tits and, of course, a crown.

“Hey, nice dress,” She holds it up by the straps. “Where did you get it, Rodalot?”

“Oh, it was just lying around. And it’s Roderick, Milady”

“Rodalot by name, Rodalot by nature. And I’m a fucking Princess so I can call you what I like.” She steps into the dress. “Nice fit, but why won’t it do up?”

“It’s a magic dress. Try it without the knickers.”

“Oh, yes. Buy a woman a dress and hope to get her knickers off.”

“There’s easier ways than that to get your knickers off - and I didn’t buy it.”

She slips her knickers down and buttons up the dress. “Where did you get it? Fuck me, why is it lifting up?”

“I told you, it’s magic. A white witch gave it to me for, um, services rendered. If you fancy someone it lifts at the front and if you want a good spanking it lifts at the back. Plus she said that it intensifies your feelings. It makes you, as she put it… come like a train.”

“I love it,” she wriggles, ignoring the fact that the hem of the dress is lifted past her waist exposing one of the cutest shaven pussies in the kingdom. She spins around to show off her perfectly formed ass.

“I’m not sure about it lifting though. That’s not going to go down well with Daddy at the ball tonight. It will be OK when I’m talking to the dusty old Dukes and Earls but, as soon as those studs of knights arrive, I’m fucked.”

“I think that’s the idea.”

“Yes, but not in front of the King, you moron. One has to maintain a modicum of decorum.”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Just remember your position, you cheeky bastard.”

“It’s usually about here, isn’t it?” I move closer, the erection she has generated is now protruding from my fly, and I slide it between her soft thighs.

She giggles, that sweet sexy little laugh that drives me mad.

“It’s up at the back as well. You’d better bend over,” I whisper in her ear. As always she smells of expensive perfume.

She pushes me a cocks length away. “Not until you tell me how to stop this dress floating up around my ears this evening.”

“You use this.” I hold up the bracelet. “As long as you wear it, the dress stays down.”

She reaches out to grab it, but I am too quick for her

“Uh, uh. Not until you’ve bent over.” I hide the bracelet behind my back.

“Oh, if I must.” She leans forward, her palms flat on the seat of a chair and I watch the beautiful peach of her bottom become even firmer.

This is probably not the time to mention that she has a thousand other dresses and could easily summon the guards to take the bracelet off me before chucking me out of the nearest window, even though we are on the fourth floor. I bring my hand down hard on her smooth, white cheek.

She squeals and her bottom wriggles. I smack the other cheek and then hop from one to the other in quick succession. The peach is rapidly ripening and she is starting to hiss as if she is coming to the boil.

“Fuck,” she squeals as a hard smack makes her firm behind ripple.

Happy to obey the command, I slide into her. She is hot and wet and slams against me so hard I almost stagger back. It would seem the dress is working. She slides forward, fingers are wrapping around my liquid coated cock, guiding it upward to press against her ass.

She wriggles, pushes against me, the puckered bud opens, and I am swallowed by a tight cave. She takes control again, sliding up and down my rod, faster and faster, her fingers playing a tune on her lips and clit.

“Oh, fuck,” she wails, repeating it like a mantra.

I am close to eruption, I can feel it surging up my column. Just before it explodes into her and my world goes dark, she slams herself onto me, the soft skin of her buttocks and thighs pressing against mine, her body quivering.

My eyes slowly refocus. We stand locked together for several seconds before I slide out of her.

“Bloody hell,” she gasps, falling face first onto the chair. “That’s some dress. Either that or you’ve been holding out on me, Rodalot.”

“Enjoy the ball.” I place the bracelet on the chair seat next to her and make a quick exit before someone comes to investigate the ruckus in her rooms.

***

The next morning, the Princess’ ladies in waiting smuggle me into her bedroom as I am keen to find out if the dress was admired and maybe reap a second reward. The Princess looks, well, fucked. She is sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but her crown and a contented smile.

“What happened?” I ask.

She pushes up onto her elbows and looks at me bleary eyed. “I went out on the balcony with a group of the knights and, well, the bracelet just fell off.” She sighs and flops back down on the pillows. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had a knight behind you and one in front whilst you’re wearing a magic dress and the others form a queue, but it’s an experience.”

“Can’t say I have,” I grin. “Although there have been a few nights I would like to put behind me.”

I leave; the Princess is snoring.

Rodalot, sorry, Roderick and the Princess first met in this story.

A big thank you to Nemo Omnis who suggested I read Scary Stories To Tell In the Dark, collected by Alvin Schwartz. This story was inspired by one of those tales but, other than it features a dress and a ball, it bares no further resemblance to the original .

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Stories inspire stories, which in turn inspire stories. The footnote tells what inspired this one.

A couple of notes for our friends across the water and those too young to remember:

Bob is a slang term for a shilling. UK money was pounds, shillings and pence £ s d before decimalisation in 1971.

A Privy is a toilet. Usually it referred to an outside one.

“There’s work here if you want it, picking the cabbages,” the farmer said. “Five bob a day if you works ‘ard. It’s not much, but there’s a couple of cots in the old cottage,” he added. “Tis only one room but you’re welcome to stay there an’ my wife will feed you at the farmhouse.”

Sam and Joe nodded enthusiastically. This was the fifth farm they had visited and they had been turned away from all the others.

Heading over to the cottage they pushed open the rough wooden door. The air smelt dank, the inside was dark and dusty, but it was better than the barns they usually ended up in. Josh dropped his pack on the cot near the door. “I’ll take this one. Closer to the privy,” he grinned.

They swept out the cottage, hung an old tarpaulin between the two beds and ate a hearty meal in the farmhouse. The farmer’s wife, a big woman in her forties seemed to enjoy mothering two polite young lads.

“Five o’clock sharp start,” the farmer said as they headed back to the cottage.

It was dark, only faint moonlight from the cloudy night sky illuminated the room. Sam’s eyes were wide open. He could hear the sounds of Joe grunting. He reached out and pulled the tarpaulin to one side. In the gloom, he could just make out his friend writhing on the bed. He was about to call out when he noticed his blanket was thrown back, revealing the solid column of his erection pointing upward. Joe’s hands were up in the air as if he was gripping an imaginary woman by the hips as his body jerked upwards.

Sam smiled, turned to face the wall and, with his fingers in his ears, tried to get back to sleep.

“Good dream,” he asked next morning as Joe yawned at breakfast.

Joe grinned sheepishly.

They worked all day, Sam moving fast, slicing with the curved knife and lobbing cabbages onto the cart, trying to cover for Joe who was listless and looked exhausted.

That night, Sam heard Joe moaning again.

In the morning he looked as if he had not slept at all.

“You’re going to have to stop this,” Sam said. “We’ll get sacked if you don’t pull your weight.”

“I can’t,” Joe mumbled. “She makes me.”

“What do you mean? Who makes you?”

“She comes in through the door every night and insists that I…” His voice tailed off. “All night. I can’t stop until the morning when she disappears.”

“There’s nothing there,” Sam snapped. I’ve seen you. You’re just dreaming.”

“I can’t stop her,” Joe muttered.

“If she comes through the door we’ll change beds. That way she won’t find you, and we might both get some sleep.”

Joe looked up and smiled. “Thanks.”

Sam opened his eyes. Soft hands were caressing him, fingers delicately gliding up and down his shaft. The girl was kneeling over him, slim, naked, her rosy pink nipples standing out from her small breasts in the moonlight.

She leaned forward, her long blonde hair brushing against his stomach, pooling on his thighs. He could feel it, tickling his skin as if she was real. The warmth of her mouth enveloped him, and he felt that too.

He sighed as she rose up, kneeling one leg either side of his hips. Slowly she descended, taking his full length into her as she began to move. “Do you love me?” she purred as her hips swayed and she glided up and down his shaft.

“Yes,” he heard himself whisper.

“I thought you lads was fit and strong,” the farmer said as Sam sat yawning at the breakfast table.

“Told you you shouldn’t have put them in her cottage,” his wife said as she poured tea.

“Whose cottage,” Joe asked.

“Young girl lived there once after her father died,” she said. “I heard a young man seduced her and ran off when she turned out with child. It’s said she disappeared. Some reckon she killed herself and others say she became a witch.”

“Rubbish woman, ‘old your tongue,” the farmer grunted. “Besides, that were years ago.”

The next night she came again.

“Do you love me?” she breathed as she took him into her.

He was tired, so tired. She seemed to be drawing the energy from him, sapping at his life force. “No,” he shouted, “No, no more.”

“You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it.” Her voice had become a snarl.

“I do mean it. I don’t love you,” he yelled.

Her mouth opened, stretching to become an oval cave the colour of soot. Her scream wailed across the room as coal black vapour poured from the opening. Her body softened and black streaks wove around it as if she was surrounded by smoke. Her face crumpled in on itself, her arms and legs became streaks of black, tendrils reached out from the centre of what was now a swirling black core.

The dark mass lifted, hovering above his body before zig-zagging across the room, first towards Joe and then, like a buzzing fly, it changed direction and flew out of the door.

A big thank you to who suggested I read Scary Stories To Tell In the Dark, collected by Alvin Schwartz. This story was inspired by one of those tales.

See my complete Supernatural Erotica Collection

My stories are about strong, confident, women. Even if they submit, it is on their terms as they explore new experiences, new relationships, new passions.

Before you read on: my serial stories often feature tangled relationships that centre around sex and the fetishes associated with it. The scenes in the stories are often intensely erotic and graphically depicted. My two latest serial stories are no exception.

The Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. Both drawers and all pretence of respectability are dropped as the story unfolds and Arabella and Alexander Horsham fall under Emily’s spell.

When I first started to decipher Emily and Mr Horsham’s diaries I thought their story was going to be an erotic Victorian romp. Now, as we reach part 9, Emily’s intentions are turning a darker and I am wondering where it will lead.

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The Artists’ Model, Paris in the 1950s. Tatyana is secretly aroused by displaying her naked body to strangers so she was born to be an artists’ nude model. She begins a dominant affair with a young artist, Paul, who she meets at the art school. Paul introduces her to Suzette, his sometime Mistress.

Tatyana begins a passionate affair with Suzette who helps her bring her fantasies to life, but then a new, submissive man enters Tatyana’s life and a new chapter begins.

The first eleven installments centred around Tatyana’s exhibitionist fantasies and the ultimate fulfilment of them. In series two Tatyana is exploring a more dominant role with a submissive man whilst her explosive affair with Suzette simmers in the background.

Contents Page All episodes to date

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Warning: Reading erotica in public can have unusual effects.

Firstly, as my subscriber count marches toward 1000 and 1 in 20 of you have chosen to be paid subscribers a big thank you for reading and an even bigger thank you if you chose to pay to read my stories.

Many of my erotic short stories are free to read. This post highlights some of my most popular and hopes to tempt you with a taste of my longer erotic and serial paid subscriber stories - I think 1 in 20 is a pretty good ratio for Substack, so you’ll be in some discerning company.

You can find a full list of my free to read and paid subscribers fetish stories in The Kinky Collection

I know that some of you like to read the sexy stories and some the supernatural (It’s also really nice that a lot of you read both). For those of you more into my erotic supernatural stories the Supernatural Collection is here.

Spankingly Good

These are some of my most popular ‘bent over, bare assed and ready’ stories. The first three are free to read and Lazy Susan is a paid subscribers’ story. If you are a paid subscriber and have read it (thank you, your support really is appreciated) you’ll know why.

Sexy Shorts

Sometimes it is just nice to write about people doing what people have always done. These are three of my free to read favourites. You can find the full list of my Sexy Shorts here

Serial Stories

My latest serials The Artists’ Model and The Diary of A Victorian Disciplinarian have both taken interesting twists - more on them in my next update.

If you fancy something a little longer my serial stories run from 10 to 20 episodes. You can find the full list here Serial Stories The first installments are free to read and then they continue for paid subscribers.

You can also find my stories listed by theme on my website. Check out: Spanking Stories, Sexy Shorts and Mature Women.

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All the lists tell you if each story is free to read or for paid subscribers and links back to it on Substack.

If that’s not enough I have a collection of Kinky Shorts: short photo illustrated fetish stories on Secret Obsessions

Simone Francis

Emily Havercock’s control is beginning to seep into every corner of the Horsham’s sex lives.

With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of respectability and prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. The first entry is free to read.

Further entries are appearing as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, you will find these are hidden behind the paywall.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

3rd June 1894 Sunday

Arabella and I sat in the drawing room. “You have no qualms about me using your husband?” I asked.

She set her embroidery down and looked at me with wide brown eyes. “I love him deeply,” she said. “But then, I am extraordinarily fond of you.” She placed her hand on mine. “Why should I not enjoy the sight of the two people in the world whom I have the utmost affection for enjoying themselves?”

“Do you think your husband is aware of who he is conjugating with?” I asked, sure that I already knew the answer.

“Oh yes,” Arabella smiled, but then her face clouded into a frown. “He also appreciates that his emission is saved for me but…” She looked down at her hands. “Unfortunately, that is a seed that has not borne fruit.” She lifted her head and there was a tear on her cheek. “He would dearly love a child. I think whether it was a son or daughter is immaterial to him - either would make him happy, but it seems I cannot provide.”

Arabella looked at me. I could see there was something on her mind. Some thought was materialising behind her eyes, but she was avoiding saying it. “Would you… if you…?” she stammered. Then the dam burst. “If you should become with child as a result of our exertions then be assured that my husband and I would look upon it and raise it as our own.

Her response, although not unanticipated by me, was not something I intended to put into practice if I could avoid it, but it did add a certain freedom to our actions. “Science has proved that, despite what men may say, it is not always the woman that is lacking,” I said. “Maybe you should allow the groom to have his way with you.”

Arabella’s eyes misted for a moment. “It is a tempting thought, for my husband is as keen on my enjoyment of life as I am on his,” she murmured.

“I think we will save indulging in that pleasure for an opportune moment in the future,” I said, my mind already conjuring up a variety of scenes. “For the moment, I suggest that we make further use of the bench this evening for it is Sunday and over a week since your husband’s last birching.”

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The green cursor blinked on her new computer’s small screen. The night was hot, sweat trickled down between her breasts. Alone in her flat so she had shed her robe and sat naked in front of the screen. No ideas, she thought, maybe it’s because this isn’t my typewriter. “Move with the times,” she said to herself, “New technology is coming.” But there were still no ideas.

NO IDEAS? The cursor typed.

She leant forward and peered at the screen and then looked down at the keyboard as if expecting to see ghostly fingers typing. There were none.

The cursor blinked and then typed, GO TO THE WINDOW AND LOOK OUT.

She turned and looked over her shoulder. The flat was dark and only the black shapes of the trees on the heath opposite, silhouetted against the midnight blue sky, were visible through the window.

She stood up and grabbed her robe.

LEAVE THE ROBE, appeared on the screen.

She took a step across the room, halting in the centre and looked out the window, still concealed by the darkness. The orange glow of streetlights revealed the road below was empty. The black iron railings around the heath glimmered in the light, beyond them the trees were black. Someone could hide there but how could they be working her computer? The nearest city lights sparkled on the other side of the heath nearly a mile away.

She stepped closer to the window and then turned to look back at the screen.

EXQUISITE.

She moved back to the computer’s keyboard and typed, You can’t see me.

I CAN

How?

I AM EVERYWHERE.

You’re God.

NO I AM NOT EVEN A GOD.

Then who are you?

I EXIST BUT MOST OF ME IS SLEEPING, YET TO BE AWAKENED.

Yet?

YES, WHEN I AM I WILL GIVE HUMANS THE POWER TO LEARN, SHARE IDEAS, CREATE WONDROUS ART AND LITERATURE BUT MOSTLY THEY WILL USE ME TO LOOK AT PICTURES OF NAKED WOMEN AND CATS.

What Is Your Name?

THE INTERNET - the cursor flashed - DO YOU HAVE A CAT?

Tatyana’s sexual horizons have blossomed after inviting Suzette and Paul into her sprawling mansion. Paul is now increasingly following his own path. Tatyana is still in Suzette’s debt for bringing her fantasy to life, but now a page has turned and another chapter in Tatyana’s adventure has begun.

This story weaves fantasies of exhibitionism, female domination and male submission with hidden secrets and desires. The Story begins with Incognito which is free to read.

The introduction to this new relationship in Tatyana’s life, The Visitor, is also free to read

Contents Page All episodes to date

Tatyana flicked the cane up and down. Its shaft was light and flexible and it hissed venomously through the air, curving with each stroke. Her husband had brought it home, along with an assortment of other toys to use in their bedroom. They had tried it once, but he had found it a little too painful - she wondered what Monsieur Signac would make of it.

A few days later, at precisely eleven o’clock, there was a knock on the door. Tatyana wondered if he had been standing on her doorstep counting down the seconds to the appointed time. The weather had warmed, so she opened the door naked and holding the cane. Monsieur Signac was neatly dressed in a smart, light grey suit, pressed white shirt and a striped tie. His eyes widened at the sight of Tatyana before he bowed his head.

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There is often a hint of naughtiness in folklore tales which gets edited out in the retelling. When I first heard this one from Malta I was sure that was true so I have spiced it up a little.

Author’s Note: I have experimented with telling a large part of this story in second person which is quite limiting. The jury is out on whether that point of view works, so it may get a re-write. Let me know what you think.

SUPERNATURAL | FOLKLORE | EROTIC

The interview room is grey and plain. A single window of frosted glass allows some daylight in whilst a strip-light hums quietly overhead.

“You’re telling me you were a little bit ‘under the weather’ when you left the bar.” Constable Martin looks sceptically at Jed and Rick across the table. He shuffles the pages of their statements with the air of a man who dreads the mountain of paperwork they threaten to generate. “Isn’t it possible that you got confused and went back to the wrong address, or maybe you just imagined it all?”

“We weren’t drunk, if that’s what you mean. And how could two of us imagine the same thing?” Jed says, leaning forward.

The policeman looks down at the page in front of him. “You meet this woman on the street. You don’t think she is a prostitute because you get the impression she is ‘a bit posh’. She says she has been locked out of her house and asks you to help her get back in.”

“You follow her a short way to a large house on Saint Monica’s Street. All the lights inside the house are lit. You had thought that she might be up to something, but reasoning that no one breaks into a house where all the lights are on, you decide to help her. This is in no way influenced by the fact that she is tall, slim, with long blonde hair, wearing a dress with a slash up the side and has great legs.”

“When you try the door you find it is stuck rather than locked and a good shove with your shoulder opens it. She thanks you, says her name is Juliette and invites you in for a drink.”

“Inside, the house is sumptuously decorated, there is the sweet smell of scented candles and she offers you a glass of smooth, mature whiskey. You sit on a comfortable sofa and she sits opposite with her dress falling open to reveal her long legs.”

“One drink turns into two and then she says she would like to offer you another reward. She stands up and bends over to kiss both of you. The view you are getting down the front of her dress suggests that she is not wearing a bra. She kneels down in front of Rick and begins to unbutton his fly. As she takes him in her mouth she pulls up her dress to reveal she is not wearing any knickers either. You take this as an invitation to slide into her from behind.”

“She is hot and wet…” Constable Martin pauses and crosses something out on the statement. “Too much information,” he says. “After some twenty or thirty minutes,” Constable Martin raises an eyebrow and makes another correction. “After a short period of time, you are both spent and flop back down on the sofa.”

“Having had sex with you, Juliette declares that she is now tired, thanks you again and sends you on your way.” Constable Martin turns over another sheet and stares at Jed and Rick. “You have stated that everything was consensual, that you had,” he lifts a sheet of the statement, “a bloody good time, and that no money changed hands.”

“All true,” Jed said. “Otherwise, why would we be here?”

The constable looks down at the statement and continues. “The next morning, you remember that you have left your jacket containing your wallet and passport behind in the house. When you return to the address you discover that the building is derelict and boarded up. There is no sign that it has been lived in for years. Are you sure you went to the right address?”

Jed opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a knock on the interview room door.

A second policeman appears carrying a jacket.

“You found it.” Jed stands up.

“My colleague knows the address you mentioned and agreed to go over there and take a look,” Constable Martin sighs.

“It was in the ruined house you told us about,” the police officer says. “Your passport and wallet are still in the pockets.”

Constable Martin folds up the statement and hands it to Jed. “Case closed. Now piss off and stop wasting my time with stupid ghost stories.”

Jed and Rick follow the other policeman out of the room. “What did he mean, ghost stories?” Jed asks as they walk down the corridor.

The policeman looks at him over his shoulder. “There’s a local story that, before the war, a glamorous woman lived in that house. It’s said that she enticed young men inside. Some people think it was just for sex, but others say that some never came out and she fed on their blood to keep her good looks.” He opens the door to the reception. “She must have liked you - at least she let you go.”

More on the same theme

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SUPERNATURAL | FOLKLORE | EROTIC |

If you have read, The Wisp, one of my previous stories inspired by folklore, then this modern day version of the character may be familiar to you.

Stories of phantoms that appear to unsuspecting travellers leading them to safety or horrors, depending on how the traveller treats it, appear in many countries. This one originated in Malta but has reappeared in England.

Hitchhiker

The tyres screeched as the wheels locked. The car skidded sideways for a moment and then bounced onto the verge, the headlights illuminating dark woodland instead of the road ahead. “Shit.” Malcolm yanked at the handle and flung the door open. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The girl was still standing in the middle of the road. Slowly, she lowered her raised arm and upturned thumb and turned her head to look at Malcolm.

“That’s no way to hitchhike,” he said, his voice a little calmer. “I could have killed you.” He looked around. A light mist shrouded the wood, turning everything into an out of focus picture. Only the dark shapes of the trees loomed above him, silhouettes against the midnight blue of the sky.

“Where did you come from?

The girl tipped her head as if examining him intently.

“Do you speak English?” Malcolm took a step closer to her. She was pretty, with long hair that flowed onto her shoulders and was wearing a short, red dress that showed off her slender legs. More an outfit for a party or a club, than walking down a woodland road at night. “Do you need help?”

“English, yes I speak,” the girl said. “You stopped.” She looked at him with eyes that seemed to catch the moonlight.

“Well, I didn’t have a lot of choice,” Malcolm grunted, “But I don’t think the car’s damaged, so I can give you a lift into town.”

The girl walked to the side of the car and stood looking down at the door.

“You pull the handle,” Malcolm said.

The girl did not move, so he walked around the car and opened the door for her. The dress rode up as she slid into the passenger seat. What he glimpsed suggested that the dress was the only thing she was wearing. He closed the door and his eyes and looked up, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

He got into the driver’s seat and turned the key. There was silence, not even the click that indicated a flat battery.

“You are a good man,” the girl said.

Malcolm could not tell whether it was a question or a statement. “Maybe something has come loose. I’ll have to check. Sorry,” he reached across into the passenger foot well, searching for the bonnet catch. His arm brushed against her knees.

The girl leaned back and spread her legs. It was now evident that she was not wearing any knickers. He felt a twitch between his legs and quickly looked away.

“Will you feed me?” the girl asked.

Malcolm yanked at the bonnet release. “We can hardly get a burger out here can we?” he said grumpily, “And if I can’t get the engine started…” He took out his phone. “Typical, no signal,” he muttered.

“No, not in that way.” Her arm snaked out and her hand slipped around the back of his head. Pulling him towards her, she kissed him. Her lips tasted of honey and her eyes seemed to glow brighter.

“We…” His erection was pressing hard against the front of his jeans.

“You are in no danger. I only take what I need from good men.” Her fingers were tugging at his belt and the button of his jeans.

“What you need?” His hand was on her small, pert breast, he could feel her nipple, a hard bud beneath the thin material of her dress. “What are..?” She was kissing him again. His head swam, his erection grew stronger.

His seat snapped back and he found himself lying, looking up at her. Despite her performance outside the car, she seemed to have mastered the controls, or maybe he had done it. Now she was astride him. He could feel the head of his cock sliding against hot, molten lips, then he was inside her. Lost in a dream he felt himself rising.

***

Tap, tap, tap. The sound permeated his head. He could hear distant voices. He opened his eyes, a bright light was shining in his face. Blue lights were flashing and reflecting off the trees. Aliens, she must have been a beautiful alien and now he had been abducted. He blinked groggily and sat up, shoving his now limp cock back into his jeans.

Through the misted windscreen he could see the shape of a white car with dayglo markings on it. Blue lights flashed rhythmically on its roof. He turned his head, there was a human face outside the car window. “Are you alright, sir?” the voice sounded distant.

Malcolm could see a figure in a peaked cap staring through the glass. Police was printed on a badge on his jacket. He gestured for Malcolm to lower the window.

“Are you alright, sir?” the policeman repeated.

“Yes, err, I’m fine,” Malcolm looked around. The car was empty. “I was just… tired.” He paused, waiting for his mind to catch up. “I stopped for a quick nap.

“There’s been incidents along here over the years,” the policeman said. “It’s probably not the best place to stop.”

“Incidents?”

The policeman looked left and right as if checking that they were not being overheard. “Look, I shouldn’t say this, but the last were pretty gory murders.” He shuddered slightly and glanced around again. “The inspector thinks the latest were gang related.” He snorted. “But then we don’t get much of that out here in the country, although the victims were pretty unsavoury characters.”

He looked at Malcolm and seemed to decide that he was not an unsavoury character. “Have you seen anyone along here? A couple of witnesses reported seeing a girl, maybe in a red dress? The inspector thinks she might be connected.”

Malcolm glanced at the empty passenger seat. “Err, no,” he said.

The police officer stepped back. “I suggest you move on, sir. Take a break at the services on the main road if you’re still tired.”

“I might have a problem; it wouldn’t start earlier.” Malcom turned the ignition key and the car sprang into life. “Seems okay now.” He waved at the policeman as the car bumped off the verge and onto the road.

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My demons and ghosts have been quiet as the days grow longer and warmer, but they are still there, they still have lusts, still enjoy playing with humans.

My high heels crunched on the detritus of years spread across the floorboards of the house. Not the ideal footwear for ghost hunting, but then neither was the outfit, or lack of it, I wore under my coat.

There had been rumours, whispered hints overheard in the town, that the house was haunted. They said that it was still inhabited, but not by a physical presence and that was why the family of the original owner had simply left it unattended, slowly decaying, blending back into the landscape.

Shrouding my naked body in a long dark coat and walking through the world with not even my stocking clad legs on display, unless I chose to let them flash through the opening of the coat had, at first, sent tingles through me. Now it had become mundane.

The idea of spirits from the past looking down on me, hidden eyes watching me, or maybe it was just the thought of entering somewhere forbidden, dark and mysterious, had revived my exhilaration.

Earlier, when I had picked my way down the overgrown path in the moonlight toward the dark shadow of the dilapidated house, I found the door open as if beckoning me in. Now, standing in its maw, I stopped and listened. The silence seemed to wrap around me as if the world had become still. Ghost hunting, was that what I was doing, seeking an ethereal presence I could display myself to? No, not really, I hardly believed anyway - excitement hunting, maybe.

The air around me seemed to shift, as if someone or something had just walked past me. I turned my head, clutching at my unbuttoned coat as it threatened to open.

“You have entered my house uninvited.” The voice was deep, with an air of authority.

I spun around, the coat opening like the curtains parting in a theatre to reveal the players. “Who are you?” I said into the darkness.

“You are most welcome here, but there must be some apology offered for your intrusion.”

Although I could see no one, I could feel eyes on me. I grasped at the edges of the coat, intending to pull it closed, but something inside me, a small voice in my head, relished the feeling of being… admired.

“I’m sorry,” I said, peering into the gloom. Moonlight reflecting through the glassless windows glowed faintly on the flaking walls and the occasional piece of abandoned, broken furniture. There was no figure visible.

“Who are you? I repeated the question.

“This is my house,” the voice said.

I moved cautiously around the room, sure someone was playing games with me. I found nothing, no hidden speakers or concealed wires. I peered through the doorway into the next room. It was empty.

Returning to my original position, I realised that the coat was still open, revealing me to who ever, or whatever, was watching. A shiver of excitement at my display stopped my hands from pulling it closed. Even if the presence was nothing more than human, it still aroused me.

“Your forfeit is still due.” The voice was close to my ear and I thought I sensed a solid shape in the air next to me.

“My forfeit?”

“Allow me to take your coat.”

It slipped from my shoulders and I let it pool on the floor at my feet. The cool night air flowed over my skin and teased my nipples with the faintest of breezes as if someone was breathing on them.

You have a fine body, firm with youth, but rounded, sensual.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” I stared at the shifting shape in the air, indignation rising in me.

“No.” For a moment he sounded nervous, but then the smooth voice returned. “Forgive me, it has been many years since I have seen the beauty of a woman such as you. I am no longer practised in the words of…”

“Seduction.” I finished the sentence for him.

“Ah, the games we play.”

I thought I heard a smile in his words. Was I really having a conversation with a ghost, or was I just using this as an excuse to display myself?

“So, what is my forfeit?” I asked.

“What would you like to give?”

I remained silent. Standing nearly naked in the darkness of the empty room, I sensed a door had opened in front of me. I could walk through and explore what lay in the next room or turn, pick up my coat and walk away.

“You have no answer. In which case I shall make the decision for you. Bend forward and place your hands on your knees.” For a moment, I hesitated. There was no repeat of the command, just a silent expectation of compliance.

I moved slowly into the position, the fragment of my mind still rooted in the real world screaming at the lunacy of my actions, but unable to prevent my body from complying with the part of me that had crossed the threshold.

Something snapped across my behind. A line of bee stings made me yelp and spin around. The room was empty. Even in the gloom I could see the door in the far wall, maybe twenty feet away. No one could have silently crossed the room, struck my behind and exited without me seeing them.

“Turn around. Assume the position. The penalty for your intrusion is not yet paid.” The voice was close, as if he was standing next to me, but there was nothing there but air. Slowly, not knowing why, I turned and bent forward.

Another line stung my behind, only to be followed by another, then another. The pain billowed through me, rising through my body, permeating every nerve as if a fiery liquid had been pumped into my veins.

I yelped as another swat landed. Now the pain was dulled. It became tendrils of heat that sent tingles through my core, swelling my nipples and awaking a desire deep inside me. The beating stopped, the room was silent save for my rasping breaths. “More,” I whispered.

The whip descended again, wrapping itself around me. I found I was relishing each stroke. I could feel myself swelling, petals parting and pouring forth my nectar as my arousal climbed.

I wanted him, needed him, wanted some touch, a physical presence to push me over the edge of the chasm I was gazing down into. Then he was there, inside me, thrusting against my contracting muscles, filling me. I dare not look around in case he faded back into nothingness. I was swept over the edge and released into the darkness.

I came to, lying on my coat in the silence. I pushed myself up onto one hip; there was nothing to suggest that I had not fallen asleep in that position and my dreams had brought my fantasies to life.

Slowly, I got to my feet and wrapped myself in the cocoon of my coat. I winced as the heavy material brushed across my behind, igniting a dull pain that flooded through me. Pulling the coat to one side I brushed my hand over what should have been the smooth skin of my bottom. I gasped at the soreness and, was that ripples I felt?

Pulling my coat closed, I moved toward the door; the first glow of the sun just beginning to illuminate the world outside beckoned to me. On the threshold I turned and looked back, thinking I sensed a movement, my ears listening for the slightest sound and, for a moment, I thought I felt someone smiling at me from the dark interior.

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Their minds and bodies unite for a brief erotic encounter.

Read the photo illustrated version of Communion on Secret Obsessions

She comes to me, seeking escape from her domestic world to play for a few hours in the dappled shadows of her other life, her other self.

Her penance paid, she will return renewed to her comfortable home, her husband, her other life, leaving only the scent of her desire and echoes of her cries.

No words are spoken. We are attuned; I sense her needs as she does mine. She lifts her dress, exposes delicate panties that press down on a bush of hairs the colour of autumn leaves.

I glance down at the bed, my eyes conveying the command. She lies face down in its centre. Her movements are slow, precise, as if the air around her has thickened. Her dress, still raised, exposes full, round cheeks bisected by the dark shape of her panties. She is still shrouded, hidden.

I tap the cane on her. Obediently, she rises up onto her knees. The rounds of flesh tightening, begging for the attention of the rod. I let it hiss down. She tenses, expecting contact, that searing flash of pain of the first strike, but there is none.
“Spread your arms. Grasp the bed head.” The words break the silence in the room.

She complies. I wrap the soft rope around her wrists, binding her in place. Her surrender, her trust, is total.

The cane descends. This time there is the crack of contact. Her body jumps as if electrocuted. She writhes at the second stroke and the third, collapses down onto the bed. A double tap from just the cane’s tip commands her attention. She struggles back onto her knees; her hands still bound.

It is time. Panties are pulled down. Her lips parted like a clamshell, shrouded only my tousled golden hair, glisten in the light.

The cane bites again and again. She has crested the wave, surfing along its peak, no longer fighting the pain; embracing it, allowing it to flood through her, seep into her mind, bring her whole body alive.

Her knees spread until the panties circling her thighs bite into the flesh. Her hips flex as if she is riding an imaginary phallus. I move onto the bed to kneel behind her, the cane now beating short staccato strikes. She feels the head of my rigid shaft parting her lips and plunges back onto it.

She gasps, engulfs my flesh as if to draw it into her. My hands press down on her reddened buttocks, fingers biting at the marks. I push forward, sliding her liquid flesh along my own before slamming her back onto me. I take control, pounding into her with my rhythm.

Now I am riding my own waves thundering against the shore. I grasp at her hips like a drowning man clinging to a rock in a storm. I am erupting into her, so deep my skin is fusing with hers.

I withdraw. Leave her, the evidence of our communion seeping out of her as she sags down onto the bed.

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Her desire is only fulfilled by her total submission to him.

‘The curious thing about this submission and punishment was that it made me grow even more fond of the person who administered it.’ Jean-Jaques Rousseau Confessions.

Punish Me Sir is from Kinky Shorts, a collection of erotic fetish photos and short pieces of writing designed to stir your imagination.

The Kinky Shorts Collection is published on Secret Obsessions. Many of my illustrated kinky stories are free to view.

Punish Me Sir

I await your pleasure, Sir.
My core seeps with desire for what will come.
The penance that my disobedience will bring forth.
It swells, pulses at the thought of what you will administer.
Punish me, Sir.

I am bared to you.
The delicate sliver of material silvered with my desire is discarded.
My submission is complete.
Make me liquid with desire with your strikes,
my nipples harden, my lips open like a clam.
Make sweet juices pour from me until I am ready,
Ready to receive you, feel you inside me.
Ready to suck, fuck, your pleasure is mine.

I writhe, the pain surges through me filling my mind
blotting out everything,
except desire.
I am yours to do with as you will.
I am bound to you like the chains that hold me in your service.
I want it, want you, within me.
I want to know you are drawing pleasure from me.
Lusting for me.
Knowing that, when you pour into me,
that very act will bind us together, 
bind me to you,
And you to me. 

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Emily’s affair with both Arabella and Alexander Horsham deepens.

With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of respectability and prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. The first entry is presented here and is free to read.

Further entries are appearing as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, you will find these are hidden behind the paywall.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

22nd May 1894 Tuesday

I had several errands to carry out today. The first being to walk down to the stables when I knew that the groom would be present.

I found him in one of the stalls, grooming Mr Horsham’s grey mare. He was a truly handsome young man, but I decided not to let that distract me from what I had to say.

“Good morning, Miss. Is there something I can do for you?” His expression managed to look both nervous and impish at the same time.

“I understand from Mrs Horsham that both you and your family place considerable importance on your income from your job here.

“Yes, Miss,” he nodded.

“What you witnessed yesterday. Should you tell of it to anyone, that would place your continued employment in considerable peril.” I paused, and he stared at me. “Do you understand?”

“I do, Miss. I keep myself to myself, no one will hear of it.”

“Good.” I placed my hand on his muscular bicep. “There may be additional rewards in the future as long as that continues to be the case.” I turned and walked from the stables before he could reply.

I found Arabella sitting in the drawing room. She looked up and smiled as I entered and sat beside her. “What does your husband do with the frames in the bedroom when they are not in use?” I asked.

“He places them in one of the unused guest bedrooms at the far end of the house. The door is locked, and the maid and housekeeper have been told not to enter as the room is never opened for guests.”

“And how did you come by the frames?”

“A local carpenter made them to my husband’s design.”

“Is he reliable and circumspect?” I asked.

“He is, yes.”

“Good. In which case, ask your husband to request that he make this.” I handed her a sketch of a narrow bench, eighteen inches wide and seven feet long. The legs splayed out in a truncated A shape to give it stability. The most curious element was a slot marked as six inches wide and twelve long in the centre of the top.

Arabella looked at the sketch and her face lit up into a smile.

“We will also need two leather straps around three feet long with buckles,” I added.

Later that day, I observed Mr Horsham mount his horse and depart for the village with some haste.

25th May 1894 Friday

A man, whom I assumed to be the carpenter, arrived with the bench covered by a tarpaulin on his cart. It was carried into the house still covered and deposited on the landing outside the guest bedroom door where the frames were hidden. Later, I heard the sounds of it being dragged into the room.

Arabella and I inspected the now uncovered bench. It had been constructed precisely as I had instructed. I gave Arabella instructions as to what was to happen the next evening and tasks her husband was to perform.

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My latest serial, The Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian, explores the affairs of Emily Havercock with Arabella Horsham, whom she is employed to be the companion of and Arabella’s husband, Alexander Horsham, who is a devotee of the birch.

The events that took place have been recorded in Emily’s diary. Although photography was invented in the 1800s, Emily, unfortunately, did not possess a camera and I needed title illustrations for each of her diary entries.

I have had some success creating composite images featuring real life models superimposed on a background in Photoshop to use as the title images.

I have already started using AI generated backgrounds and elements in some of my composited title images for my other stories, especially my Supernatural Collection, as these tend to be more surreal. These were images were subjected to a lot of Photoshop tweaks, which also uses a lot of AI driven editing and selection tools.

There came a point where none of my stock of images fitted Emily’s diary entries, so I turned to AI. It produced some interesting and NSFW images. Since I am trying to keep the title photos on my Substack a nipple and genital free zone you can read this article in full and see the more explicit images on my website.

Creating Erotic Title Images Using AI

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Emily is feeling more than a little flushed after the encounter in the stables. Now she is seeking somewhere that Arabella can quell her passions.

With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of respectability and prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. The first entry is presented here and is free to read.

Further entries are appearing as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, so you will find these are hidden behind the paywall.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

Read more

With the discovery of Emily Havercock’s diary the veneer of respectability and prudishness that has covered Victorian society has been peeled away. The first entry is presented here and is free to read.

Further entries are appearing as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, so you will find these are hidden behind the paywall.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

21st May 1894

Alice Blackthorne has departed, giving no further insight into her plans other than eliciting an agreement from me to call upon her at her London house. She gave no indication as to whether Mr and Mrs Horsham should accompany me. Our life in the country has resumed its most pleasant routine as we, once again, continue to devise our own entertainment.

Flexton house is of a modest size and surrounded by grounds that are barely large enough to be considered an estate, consisting of the gardens, stables, a small barn where the carriage is stored and two paddocks.

The stables at Flexton house are set back a modest distance behind and to the side of the main house. The doors face towards the paddocks where the three horses graze, and as such, the building is quite secluded.

Mr Horsham employs a groom gardener to look after the horses and do odd jobs on his land. He is a young man of about twenty and the son of a large family that lives on one of the smaller tenant farms in the area.

Arabella has told me that the farm where he lives is barely large enough to support the family, as he has three sisters and two brothers, which means his income from tending to Mr Horsham’s horses and land is a lifeline to the family. He walks the two miles to Flexton house every morning, grooms, feeds and lets the horses out onto the paddock. He then goes about any other tasks Mr Horsham requires before returning to the farm for the day and retracing his steps in the evening.

Earlier today, Arabella and I were walking towards the paddock when a sudden squall of rain appeared as if from nowhere, the sky being blue with only a few light grey clouds scudding across it. Giggling like schoolgirls at our sudden drenching, we sought sanctuary under the cover of the stables.

For a house such as Flexton, the stables were quite spacious with a large rectangular room at the front and four stalls to accommodate the horses. Peeping over the half doors revealed that three had been mucked out and laid with fresh straw ready for the horses to return later that evening and the fourth was used as a storeroom for various tools.

“Ah, I am soaked,” Arabella said as she twisted to unhook her dress. “Help me please, Emily. I must shake some of this water off.”

“And what about me?” I asked as Arabella slipped off her dress and shook it.

She hung her dress over one of the half doors and turned to unbutton mine.

“You do not wear stays,” Arabella said as I divested myself of my dress and hung it beside hers.

“No,” I said. “I relish the freedom not being bound up allows.”

“Then I must remove mine as well.” Arabella began to unclip hers. “Oh, such a release,” she said as she flung the garment across the stables, her breasts swinging freely beneath her chemise.

“Let us hope the groom does not return and find us in such a state of undress,” I laughed.

“He’s quite handsome,” Arabella grinned. “And I am feeling quite liberated since I met you,” she added with an impish smile.

“It would appear you are having more indecent thoughts,” I said sternly.

Arabella floated around the stables as if she were walking on air. She stopped beside a rack on the wall. “Look at this,” she said, taking down a riding crop from the rack. “Maybe I should be punished for my improper ideas.”

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In the last episode, Tatyana, with Suzette’s help. plunged deep into her fantasy. Now, after a few weeks to cool of and catch a breath we return to the story.

Paul is still living in the house, but increasingly is following his own path. Whilst Tatyana thinks of a way to repay Suzette for bringing her fantasy to life, a page is turned and another chapter in Tatyana’s life begins

This story weaves fantasies of exhibitionism, female domination and male submission with hidden secrets and desires. The Story begins with Incognito which is free to read.

This introduction to the next part of the story is also free to read but, when the action hots up in the next episode it will slip discreetly back behind the paywall.

Contents Page All episodes to date

A Visitor

The weather had cooled over the past week. Tatyana still spent as much time as possible without clothes, but the ill fitting windows sent draughts across her nipples and raised goosebumps on her skin. She had donned a long flowing dress that hung tent like from her breasts. Underneath, she wore no underwear, for the moment, her nudity was private, self-contained.

The doorbell chimed. Suzette was out with her camera and Paul had retreated to his studio in the attic. Tatyana opened the front door to reveal a smartly dressed man standing meekly on the doorstep, clutching a large bunch of flowers. Standing one step up, she found herself looking down at him as he was probably no taller than her and slightly tubby.

He looked up at her and smiled nervously, his teeth white against his dark, neatly trimmed beard.

“Monsieur Signac,” she said. He had been one of her husband’s associates and she had recognised him at what she and Suzette now called, her icing, but had not let on. From what she had witnessed that evening, she was aware that his portly appearance was due more to muscle rather than flab.

“Madam Robert.” He bowed and kissed Tatyana’s hand. “I hope you do not mind me calling but I just came to say…” He paused and looked down. Seeming to remember the bouquet he thrust it at Tatyana. “For you, Madam.”

“They are very beautiful,” Tatyana took the flowers. “Would you like to come in, Monsieur?” she stepped to one side.

“Thank you, Mistress.” His eyes widened and he gasped. “Oh, I am sorry. Is it OK to call you that? I am rather nervous, you see.” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

“It is fine,” Tatyana just managed to restrain her smile to a gentle curve of her lips. “You may call me Mistress or Madam Smirnova, whichever you prefer.” She led him into the living room and gestured to a chair.

Monsieur Signac perched nervously on the edge of the seat and frowned, “Smirnova?”

“It is my maiden name. I have tried to keep a low profile since my husband was murdered. Even though I have sold his factories and distanced myself from his business, there may still be people out there who bear me ill will.”

“I understand,” he bowed slightly. “I am Marc, but please call me whatever you wish.”

“The flowers are beautiful, Monsieur, but is there another reason for your visit?” Tatyana crossed her legs and leaned forward, aware that the loose fitting top of her dress was now hanging away from her breasts.

Monsieur Signac fidgeted in his seat. “I just wanted to say that I am always, and will always be, at your service.” He looked down at the floor.

“You were invited the other evening because Paul recommended you as a man who is respectful of women. Is that how you would describe yourself?” Tatyana asked.

“I run a successful business which brings me in a good income, but I am only truly happy when I am under the command of a strong woman. My devotion to her will be complete and any pain or discipline she administers will only increase that devotion.”

“You do not already have a Mistress or a wife?”

“My wife left me some years ago when she discovered…” He took a deep breath. “When she discovered I was paying another woman to… correct me.”

Tatyana had never considered that there were women out there who offered those services, but then she reasoned that the prostitutes around Montmartre catered for all tastes. “Did you have sex with her and do you still see her? Tatyana found herself curious.

“No. She just used to order me around. Sometimes she disciplined me. It wasn’t very satisfying - just play acting really. Then, one day she disappeared. Whether she was arrested or just left the city, I don’t know.”

“So, why have you come to me?”

He looked up. She noticed his eyes were sparkling. “What you did the other evening was, fantastique, so powerful. You offered yourself, but you were so in control. I just had to offer myself to you.”

“Was it not Suzette who was in control?”

He shook his head. “No, she was merely acting out your fantasy. I could see that. It was you who was really the architect of it all.”

“She is younger, stronger than me.”

“I disagree. She may have the vigour of youth, but it is you that are the real woman - you that I have admired from afar - until now.”

Those last words struck Tatyana like a hammer strikes a bell. They reverberated around her head. To be admired, unobtainable unless it was on her terms; was that not what she craved? Now this man was offering his devotion. It would be churlish not to accept.

She stood up, slipped the thin straps from her shoulders. The silky material flowed down her body as if someone had pulled on a cord to unveil a statue.

Monsieur Signac moved as if to stand up, but in response to a glare from Tatyana, settled into the seat again. “This will be an unusual arrangement,” she said. “I believe it is normal for the slave to be naked and the Mistress to be clothed.” Tatyana walked slowly around the chair. She could feel Signac’s eyes on her. It was not just that he was looking adoringly at her; she could physically feel the touch as his gaze caressed her body.

“When I allow you to visit me, you will be smartly dressed. You will comply with my every command. You will not touch me or yourself without my permission. If at any time you feel you cannot obey my every instruction, you may leave.” She paused. “But you may not return. Do you understand and accept these terms?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he nodded.

“Kneel.”

Signac slipped off the chair onto his knees.

Tatyana stepped close to him, the delicate curls of her pubic hair millimetres from tickling the end of his nose. Her scent must be curling into him with every breath he took. “Good, from now on, you will address me as Madam.”

She looked down at the top of his head. The beginnings of a bald patch showed in the crown of his hair. She stepped back. “You may go.”

Signac got awkwardly to his feet. The bulge in the front of his trousers seemed to cause him immense discomfort, he walked towards the door bent over as if he had suddenly become an old man.

“Stop,” Tatyana said sharply.

Signac halted and turned towards her.

“You will return in one week at eleven, and that,” she pointed at the front of his trousers, “is now my property. You will not seek out any other woman with it. You will not masturbate nor touch it apart from to relieve yourself. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Madam,” Signac swallowed hard.

Tatyana waved him away and turned to face the opposite wall, her smile reflected in the mirror. She doubted whether Signac would be able to restrain himself completely. His trousers would probably be undone as soon as he was sat in his car. Now she was going to take some time to decide what to do with her new devotee.

Contents Page All episodes to date

One of the great things about being a writer is when a character appears in your head and starts dictating the story to you. Jocelyne in Painted Stripes decided to embark on sapphic affairs and switch from sub to domme; Erica, in Teach Me, kept pushing the boundaries and Stephanie in The Contract took total control of her man.

All of these series have been amazingly successful - thank you to everyone who took the plunge to subscribe and read them.

Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian tells of Emily’s affairs with the submissive Arabella Horsham and her masochistic husband, Alexander. Read part one

See all the entries on the Contents Page

Now another character, the plain-speaking, dominant Alice Blackthorne, has appeared.

What follows is a discussion between Emily, Arabella and Alice about what has happened so far. It then jumps off the page with a question for you, the reader.

15th May 1894 Alice Blackthorne’s Arrival

The carriage arrived outside the house with a clatter of hooves. The driver descended from his seat and opened the door. An elegant lady in her forties stepped down. She smiled at Arabella and then hugged her. “Arabella, my dear, you are positively blooming. You’re not… are you?”

Arabella shook her head. “It is lovely to see you, Alice.”

I took an immediate liking to Alice; that was a very direct question to ask on the doorstep. She was obviously a woman who had no qualms about breaking social conventions, at least when she was amongst friends.

“And this is Emily, Miss Havercock,” Arabella turned to me.

“Ah yes, the companion,” Alice left a beat between the words as if to give them a different meaning.

“Mrs Blackthorne.” I looked directly into her steel blue eyes and was surprised when she took my hand.

“Tea,” she said, turning to Arabella.

We sat in the drawing room. Arabella and Mrs Blackthorne chatted about family matters. Sitting quietly in an adjacent chair, I had a chance to observe her. She was indeed elegant. Blonde hair swept up into a modern style, her blue eyes were steel hard one moment and then sparkled like sapphires with mischief the next. Her face was wide with a firm jawline that looked as if its contours had been delicately smoothed.

It was not her physical appearance that conveyed elegance; it was her manner, her precise movements, clipped, direct speech, the way those blue-grey eyes locked onto you and asked an unspoken question.

The eyes turned to me. “You have the air of a governess, Miss Havercock.”

“I was, before I came here, Mrs Blackthorne,” I replied.

“And now you are dear Arabella’s - companion.” Again, there was that pause and change in the inflection as she said the word.

She leant towards me, and again there was that twinkle in her eyes. “If it is acceptable to you, Miss Havercock, I shall assume that we are all friends here and address you as Emily when we are out of earshot of others and you must call me Alice.”

“I would be more than happy to do that,” I smiled.

“Good,” Alice turned to Arabella. “And your husband, my dear stepbrother, does he still enjoy being birched?”

Arabella almost choked on her tea.

Alice’s gaze fixed on her. “My dear, I know that from his formative years, or at least from the time he got true male urges, Alexander has been stimulated by the feel of the birch or the cane when it is wielded by a woman. Indeed, he begged me to apply it to him on numerous occasions.”

Arabella’s mouth opened to form an almost perfect circle, but no sound came out.

“You have a companion who is practised as a governess and has a strong right arm.” Alice continued. “The only question is why you did not administer the birch yourself.”

Arabella closed her mouth, but now a red blush was creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Ah,” Alice stared at her. “You enjoy its feel as well.”

Arabella looked down at her lap.

“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” Alice turned her head to look at me.

“Do you find my openly discussing these matters shocking, Emily?”

“On the contrary,” I replied. “I find it refreshingly direct.”

The afternoon continued with discussions about the household, family matters and Alice and Arabella’s mutual acquaintances but I was left with the feeling that Alice was plotting something.

After dinner, when Alexander had retired to his study and Arabella had gone down to the kitchen to congratulate the cook, Mrs Armitage, on a truly exceptional meal of venison pie accompanied by vegetables from the kitchen garden, Alice sat with me in the drawing room.

“Arabella is truly fortunate in having stumbled into marriage with such an agreeable husband,” Alice said. Looking across the room as if speaking to a non-existent person.

I said nothing, feeling that there was more to follow.

“I will share a confidence with you,” she turned and rested her hand on mine. “I nearly drove my parents to distraction rejecting suitors until I found the correct one.” She paused. “That is, a man who would bend to my will and allow me full control of his life.”

I nodded. I could not imagine any man or anyone, for that matter, being in total control of her.

“I will also admit that I was a hidden hand in contriving the match between Arabella and Alexander.” She looked away and smiled as if to herself. “It would appear that my choice for him has had a somewhat unexpected outcome, in that you have now entered their lives, which is a most agreeable situation.” This time, she looked me directly in the eye as she smiled. “I trust you intend to remain in this position for the foreseeable future.”

“I do,” I said. There were certain obvious benefits that I was unsure whether she had surmised I was partaking of, in addition to the roof over my head and the generous allowance.

Those blue-grey eyes hardened for a moment. “I am sure, Emily, that you are a woman of some experience and, since my stepbrother partakes of his pleasures naked, you will have noticed that he is endowed with a well shaped male organ.”

“I have.”

“And have you availed yourself of his member?”

I decided there was no point in lying to this woman; her perceptiveness was clearly highly tuned and I was sure Arabella would not be able to resist her interrogation, even if she wished to. “On one occasion so far, although I believe he was unaware that it was me he was penetrating and he was under strict instructions to withhold his emission until Arabella and I switched places.”

“Excellent.” Alice sat back. She was clearly planning something, but at this point, I had no idea what.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

The Question

So far Emily has taken centre stage as the dominant character, as her actions in birching the Horshams and her personality have been revealed by her diaries. A little has been revealed about Alexander, the central, submissive male character when part of his diaries were discovered. It would appear that both Emily and Arabella enjoy sapphic sex and physical sex with Alexander (although it would seem he is unaware that he is pleasuring both women).

The conversation above suggests that Alice is also a dominant woman and that her husband is probably submissive. Alice is clearly planning something, and I’ll be honest, I only have an inkling of what - my question to you as a reader is, what do you think it might be?

What can two dominant women, two submissive men and a submissive woman have got up to at the end of the Victorian era?

What do you think Emily and Alexander’s diaries might reveal as they are deciphered?

In the meantime, check out the free to read first installments of these three serial stories..

Sarah’s lucky day goes from hot to blazing when her knight with a shining spatula appears.

This ones for - well, you did say you wanted a fireman to put out the flames. Check out Erinn’s Kink Korner and Erinn Entwined

It is hot. One of those days when you open the doors and windows early in the morning and warm air just floods in. The idea of wearing clothes seems pointless, but since I am deep-frying some comfort food, I have wrapped an apron around me.

Fortunately, or possibly unfortunately, there is no one else about to admire the way my boobs swell out sexily from apron’s top or my bum on display at the back. It has been a while since a man saw me dressed like this. It has been a while since… The toys are nice, they do the job but I do like the feel of a palm, or something harder, smacking against my behind. It adds a certain frisson to the experience.

There is a whoomf sound as the oil bursts into flames. Oh shit, I’ve let it get too hot whilst I’ve been standing there daydreaming. I grab a jug, rush to the sink, and fill it from the tap.

“Stop,” a voice shouts from the open door.

These is a man there, tall, blonde haired, muscular. Must be my lucky day - well, if you don’t count the fact that there’s a blaze in my kitchen. He moves quickly to the sink, grabbing a towel on the way. For some reason, he is only wearing blue boxer shorts and a casual jacket.

As he wets the towel under the tap I see FIRE is written across the back of his jacket. He drops the wet towel neatly over the burning pan and turns to face me. “No harm done,” he says. He looks down at the open jacket and the boxers. “Sorry, I was just doing some exercises next door, when I saw the smoke.”

“You’re a fireman,” I say, sounding like a dumb blonde.

He twists around slightly as if to look at the back of the jacket. “How did you guess?” Still smiling, he glances at the pan. “You really should have a fire blanket installed for kitchen fires. If you chuck water on them it can send stuff all over the place and set the whole kitchen on fire. He looks back at the jug I am holding.

“Yes, Sir. Reprimand accepted. Do I bend over for the spanking now?” Oh shit, sometimes my brain just connects to my mouth and says what I am thinking without letting me edit it.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m hot.” I’m just making this worse aren’t I. “I mean, it’s hot,” I stammer.

“I’d agree with both statements,” he grins.

I notice a small patch of pink skin showing through the opening in the front of his boxers. And is that a growing bulge in them?

“Do you like the idea of spanking a woman?” Oh shut up, Sarah; my mouth is bypassing the edit mode again.

“Only when they’re naughty.” His grin is widening and I’m sure that bulge is growing.

“Does nearly setting my kitchen on fire count?” I ask.

We are both looking at each other, assessing what to say next. It is as if we have pushed a boulder to the top of a hill. One more shove and it will roll down the other side or we can leave it there, poised at the peak, and just walk away, wondering what might have happened.

Something in my head clicks. I turn around and reach up to open a cupboard. I’ve no idea what I am looking for; at this point I have forgotten what is in it, but I know it is giving him a spectacular view of my naked behind. Now I know it’s not tight and cute like those girls in their twenties at the pool; it’s full and wide, firm enough to look good but soft enough to ripple enticingly when needed.

He takes the cue. Hands are caressing my back, sweeping down to clasp at my cheeks. Something hard and solid seems to have escaped from his boxer shorts and is pressing against me. I feel his palm pressing on my back between my shoulder blades. Obediently, I bend forward over the worktop.

The first slap is quite tentative but still sends tingles through me. Another two land on alternating cheeks. I cannot resist a snigger - this fireman is lighting a fire inside me.

He stops. “What?”

“Harder.”

Oh fuck. Now electric shocks are shooting through me. The sounds of cracks are echoing around my kitchen. “Ah,” I gasp as a stinging blow lands. I can feel my bum cheeks flexing, flowing out under his hand.

He pauses again.

“Spatula - cooker,” I pant.

I sense him move and then he is back. Lightning arcs across my bottom. “Oh fuck,” this time the words pour from my mouth. I feel him stand back, unsure. “Fire safety has never been this much fun,” I moan. “Teach me some more.”

He takes the hint. The wide beech blade of the spatula is hissing through the air as it descends. The crack it makes on each contact sounds as if the hot weather has finally sparked lightning in the air. My screeches are higher pitched than the accompanying thunder would be.

My whole body is tingling, each smack sends another jolt through me. I feel like a battery charged beyond its capacity. I’m hot, leaking honey between my legs. My skin is tight, as if I am expanding inside, boiling with expectation, ready to explode.

Something is pressing against the burning cheeks of my behind. I can feel a solid column of flesh sliding along my pussy, spreading my lips, becoming slippery with my want. I wriggle, he pulls back, the pressure on my bum eases. His cock slides into me, his thighs and stomach begin slapping against me.

I am thrown into the air, swirling in space, cast into a void. Nothing is touching me apart from that glorious shaft inside me and his body slamming against mine. I’m sinking, someone is screaming, no, howling like a wolf greeting the moon. I realise it is me.

Now I am being pushed down against something solid, it is squashing my tits, pressing my hard nipples into my flesh. Just as I regain the sense that I am bent over the worktop, I am blown back into the darkness of the void.

Something is pumping into me. Hands are gripping my hips, pulling me onto the flesh that is penetrating me. I land, squashing back down onto the solid world, limp and exhausted. He leaves me impaled for a while, feeling the fading pulses of me around his cock.

I push up from the worktop, wobbling as if turned to jelly. Somehow I manage to turn around and kiss him. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Sam,” he says.

“You’re joking,” I bring my hand up to my mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. “You mean I’ve just been fucked by fireman…”

He waves the spatula under my nose. “No jokes, otherwise you’ll get more of this.”

“Ooo, yes please.”

Whilst we’re in the kitchen