Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian - Part 1

I am a woman who enjoys her pleasures, guilty or otherwise

Photo Copyright: The Author

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 will appear as they are deciphered and, as they reveal explicit details of birchings, sapphic affairs and all manner of indecent goings on, they will be for paid subscribers.

See all the entries on the Contents Page

Emily Havercock has taken a position as companion to Mistress of Flexton House. She has an inkling that there may be deeper, more exciting passions seething beneath the Master and Mistress’ virtuous countenance.

4th May 1894

I have been at Flexton House for only a week. It is a sombre place, set out on the moors some distance from the nearest hamlet. It has the air of a rectory with its grey stone walls and high windows. Why a rectory, I think to myself as I look out of my bedroom window across the heather tinted orange by the setting sun? It has that feeling of guilt, not of criminal acts, but a guilt formed from indulging in any form of pleasure or enjoyment.

I am a woman who enjoys her pleasures, guilty or otherwise. I have come to this place as a companion to the Mistress of the house, a role I do not usually take on but, unable to find a position as a governess, my usual occupation, I had been drawn here. Beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers.

Despite being childless, the Master and Mistress had been very interested in my previous roles when they interviewed me: Did I birch my charges? Was I a strict disciplinarian? I replied that I was indeed a strict disciplinarian, but it was my opinion that the birch should only be applied to older miscreants, those who had achieved adulthood and could be deemed responsible for their actions. This answer seemed to please the Master, Mr Horsham, greatly. Quite what that had to do with being a companion to the Mistress I had yet to find out.

Mrs Horsham is a pleasant, bright-eyed lady of around thirty summers. Upon my arrival, she had immediately started to address me in an informal manner as if I was an old friend; something which I found quite pleasing. She added that, out of earshot of others, including her husband, I should call her Arabella.

I was about to prepare for bed when a knock at my door jolted me out of my thoughts. I opened the door to find the Master standing in the hallway. He had on a dressing gown that was held closed by a sash tied around his waist. Looking up and down, I ascertained that, underneath, he was clad in a nightshirt. His naked calves were visible below the robe and he had slippers on his feet.

Now he is quite a handsome man; around forty with a full head of hair that is beginning to be streaked with the same grey as the stone of the house. From what I have seen, he is quite trim and, judging by the way he handles a horse, quite muscular. All of this said, I am not used to being taken advantage of by my employer, so it was with some brusqueness that I asked, “What is wrong, Sir?”

“I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Havercock,” he stammered. “I wonder if my wife and I might have your opinion on a rather delicate matter.” He shuffled uncomfortably in the hallway and looked down at the floor.

His demeanour did not seem at all arrogant or threatening. “And what might that be?” I asked, maintaining the sharp tone in my voice. My senses were already telling me that this might lead somewhere interesting.

“You mentioned in your correspondence that you are a strict disciplinarian.

“I did,” I replied abruptly.

“I… we,” he shuffled again.

“Out with it man - speak up.” I had an inkling of where this was leading. One of those guilty pleasures appeared to be being dangled in front of me.

“We have indulged in carnal acts.” He spoke quickly as if the words were being forced out of him.

“Is that not perfectly acceptable within marriage?”

“Yes, but we, we gained pleasure from it and performed acts that were not for the procreation of children. We must atone for those.”

“And what were these acts?”

“I am ashamed to say.”

“And what do you wish me to do about it?”

“We have, in the past, punished ourselves for these acts. I… we wondered if…” His head was now completely bowed as he stared at the floor.

“Where?” I asked.

His body seemed to jolt as if I had just slapped him. Without speaking, he led the way down the hall to the master bedroom. He opened the door, and still with his head bowed, ushered me inside.

On entering the chamber I was confronted by two frames constructed from rough timber leaning back at an angle against the wall; each around six feet high and in the shape of an A. Mrs Horsham was standing facing one of the frames, her arms raised and her wrists secured together and to the frame by a binding of rough rope. She turned her head and smiled at me with an expression that suggested relief that I had not rejected her husband’s request and flown into a rage.

She was wearing only a white cotton shift. I could see she is indeed a voluptuous woman, the outline of her round behind being clearly visible through the thin material and, although it hung away from her front, her bosom still pressed it into the shape of two large and ripe fruit.

Before I could say anything, the Master removed his robe and leant against the vacant frame, entangling his hands in the ropes at its peak. “Pull the ropes tight, Miss Havercock, so I cannot break loose and then please administer the birch.”

“Are you both to receive the punishment?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I, of course, am responsible for leading my wife astray, for is it not a husband’s duty to ensure that his wife is virtuous and reverent, so please stop as soon as she admits the error of our ways.”

“And you, Sir, what of you?”

“You may birch me until I beg for mercy.”

I reached up and tugged on the ends of the rope. As I did so my somewhat ample bosom rose beneath my corset and I noticed his eyes were now looking down and I was sure it was not then in penance.

The birch lay on the end of the bed. I picked it up and ran my fingers along its strands. It had been well chosen; the twigs were light and flexible. Each was flecked by small nodules which will inflict more pain without breaking the skin if used wisely.

I turned to Mr Horsham, now clad only in his nightshirt. “Should not the birch be applied directly to the skin?” I asked.

“That is correct, Miss Havercock,” he replied.

I detected a quiet gasp from his wife, who to this point had said nothing.

Lifting his nightshirt revealed a solid pair of well-formed male buttocks. I threw the shirt over his head and the top of the frame, effectively leaving him masked. I noticed his wife had now turned her head to look at her husband’s naked form, her eyes wide with expectation.

Standing a pace to the side, I brought the birch down with some force. The Master gasped at each stroke. His buttocks clenched and his body writhed as the supple twigs bit at him. I increased the force until red stripes began to appear on his flesh.

Curiously, Mrs Horsham also seemed to be wriggling against her bonds as she watched her husband’s thrashing. I paused to give the muscles in my arm time to flex and regain their strength. As I did this I stepped a little more to the side. Looking down, I was not surprised to see that Mr Horsham had regained some of the vigour he had claimed to have used on his wife.

Having been acquainted with several men, despite my virtuous countenance, I observed that it is indeed a large and well-formed member. I would not compare him to a horse or even a small pony, but it is certainly of a good girth and curved delicately upwards. It appeared to be the type of penis that would bring a certain amount of pleasure to a woman and the sight of it stirred a tingle to my quim.

Deciding it was time Mrs Horsham benefited from my attentions, I moved to beside her. She whimpered quietly as I lifted her shift. The look in her eyes suggested that this was more because she thought she was about to be deprived of the sight of her husband’s punishment, rather than any upset at what I was about to do. Responding to this, I hung her shift over the side of the frame, leaving her head clear, whereas her husband’s was still covered.

Removing the shift did indeed reveal that her breasts are magnificent. Her position against the frame meant that they hung away from her body like two large teardrops topped by wide brown aureole that had swelled out with excitement. The nipples surmounting them had a firmness that could convince one that we were in the depths of a winter chill rather than a warm summer night.

Taking advantage of her husband’s hooded vision and, anxious to see what her reaction would be, I ran the palm of my hand down her back and across the smooth skin of her rounded buttocks. To my delight, she closed her eyes and arched her back as if relishing the touch. My fingertips hovered just under the last curve of her buttock, mere inches from her sex.

Deciding it was too soon, I stepped back and brought the birch down across the Mistress’ behind in a series of measured, but forceful strokes. Her reaction was completely different to that of her husband. There was no writhing or clenching and she did not cry out; in fact, she seemed to be thrusting her behind out towards the descending birch. When I stopped after six strokes she let out the sigh, not of a woman who had just been chastised, but more of one who had just finished reading a love letter.

I stepped close to her and allowed my hand another dalliance over the now red striped skin of her full cheeks, pausing again at the crevice where her buttocks met.

“It is so nice,” she whispered in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, “to feel the birch in the hands of a woman.” She turned her head slightly to look at me coquettishly from under her lashes. Her half smile and demure look gave her the appearance of a naughty schoolgirl despite her thirty-something years of age. “I am sure you know exactly which spots to strike.”

I allowed my fingers to slip down to touch the cleft between her legs. Her sex was hot, her juices flowing so profusely that her flesh felt as if it had liquefied. Her hips moved back so that in one movement she sucked my fingers into her. Only then did she emit a sound; a quiet hiss as if she was a kettle nearing the boil. I withdrew my fingers, straightened them and pressed on the bud that all women desire to have touched. The hiss became a suppressed gasp.

“Quiet,” I murmured in her ear as I withdrew my fingers. “Your husband is still awaiting further correction.”

“Then free my hands,” she pleaded.

“Be patient,” I said. My mind is filled with the most delicious of ideas.

Discover what those ideas are in part two (they are rather naughty so part to is published for paid subscribers).

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