Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian - Part 3

A walk in the countryside arouses unexpected pleasures

Photo Copyright: The Author

Emily Havercock has taken a position as companion to the Mistress of Flexton House. Her inklings that there were deep, exciting passions seething beneath the Master and Mistress’ virtuous countenance have been proved true.

As with many of my stories this one is growing in length. Part one is free to read. Part 2 does get even naughtier, so is for paid subscribers. This entry is quite spicy but it is free to read for the time being.

Diary of a Victorian Disciplinarian - Part 1

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5th May 1894

At breakfast the next morning, both Mr and Mrs Horsham shuffled in their seats. Mr Horsham more so, as I could imagine that his behind was somewhat more tortured from the previous night’s birching. Neither made any reference to the activities, although Arabella looked at me with wide, dewy brown eyes.

We all three ate our breakfast, commented on the weather and the forthcoming day. Mr Horsham announced that he had business to attend to in the nearby town and would be out most of the day. He suggested that we take a walk across the moor; it seemed that he intended that I fulfil my primary role as his wife’s companion rather than the more sensual one.

The day was warm and the air humid as we set out arm in arm across the moor. We had gone barely half a mile before I broached the subject of the previous night. “Your husband enjoys the feel of the birch; it arouses him, does it not?

“He does,” Arabella replied, still looking ahead.

“And you, what are your desires?”

Arabella stopped and turned to look at me. There was a fierce determination in her eyes. “There is a craving in me, a need. The pain it causes awakens my other desires.” She turned and continued walking. “I know that is wrong, but sometimes it even fulfils those desires.”

“It is not wrong. I know the local minister may tell you so, but I have heard of priests and nuns who flay themselves, and I am sure they do not all do it as a penance. There are men who long to return to the nursery for a spanking and those who bow down in the bedroom to powerful women, so why shouldn’t we indulge in what brings us pleasure?”

Arabella turned her head to look at me. “You really are the most remarkable woman.”

I laughed. “I seem to have the knack of placing myself in positions where remarkable things happen to me, or around me.”

We walked on in silence for a while as I summoned the courage to raise the second subject that was burning in my mind. “Your husband has a very pleasing looking weapon,” I said casually, as if mentioning his face or jacket.

“I am afraid my experience is somewhat limited, but I do find our conjugations quite rewarding,” Arabella said. “Especially when combined with the birch.”

There was a pause as we walked down a slope towards a grove of trees surrounding a beck, before she spoke again. “My husband is a kind and gentle man, maybe not the most intelligent in the world, but he is considerate of my needs. There is something exhilarating about his thrusting - but then your touch is more - intimate, softer. They are different feelings of pleasure.”

We walked on before she spoke again. “In return for his consideration, I am sensitive to his. She stopped and turned to look at me again. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you not desire the feel my husband’s organ as well as my touch, since you say it has a pleasing aspect?”

“I do, yes,” I admitted.

“Then we must contrive a way to make that happen.” She turned and walked down the path towards the trees. I was left standing, my mouth slightly agape. That was indeed the outcome that I had been working up to, but I had not imagined she would be quite so forward or amenable about it.

“And now,” she said over her shoulder, “we must find some nice stout but flexible whips as I feel I must be chastised for my indecent suggestion.”

I hurried after her.

At the edge of the trees we found a hazel that was growing several long, straight new shoots from its base. The lower ends were about as wide as my finger and they tapered upwards to less than the thickness of a pencil. I took a penknife out of my dress pocket and cut off four lengths about a yard long.

“Always prepared,” Arabella said, looking at the knife. She walked into the shadow of the trees and bent over to place her palms flat on a fallen trunk. Moving behind her I lifted her dress and petticoats to reveal the beautiful cheeks of her behind peeping through the open gusset of her drawers. Her alabaster skin was still striped with mellowing red lines from the night before.

I gripped either side of the gusset and ripped it apart to reveal the full glory of her naked behind. In view of the stripes I decided to be gentle and picked up just one of the hazel sticks. Despite my intentions it still hissed through the air before curling around her behind with a muted crack.

Arabella hummed with enjoyment. The switch snapped at her again, creating a delicate furrow in her flesh. She gasped; a sharp intake of breath that resembled the sound of someone who had just bitten into a lemon, their muscles contracting at the sharp, acid taste but also relishing the sweetness.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Punish me for my indecent thoughts.”

Her indecent suggestions were the last thing I wanted to punish her for. They had sent a tingle of expectation through me, the glowing embers of which were now being fanned into flames by the sight of stripes appearing on her behind.

I picked up a second switch and applied both to her naked flesh. She wriggled, bending her knees and twisting her body each time they landed, but still she cried out for more. Fearing that I was on the verge of breaking her skin, I stepped close and pressed my fingers between her legs.

She immediately spread her feet further apart and three of my fingers sank into her melting flesh as if she were a succulent, overripe fruit. She bucked against me, pressing one cheek of her reddened behind against the rough material of my dress, no doubt enhancing the still echoing stinging from the birch.

Jerking and growling like a wolf caught in a trap, her body shuddered as she achieved the peak of excitement. The copse was still and silent for a few seconds before she let her dress and petticoats fall back into place and twisted around to sit down, still panting, on the tree trunk.

I stood in front of her smiling down at her. Slowly, deliberately, she dropped forward onto her knees and lifted the hem of my dress. I took half a step forward as she raised it and my petticoats over her head and disappeared underneath. I sighed as I felt her fingers pushing my wet lips open, first one, then two. I moved my feet apart as much as my dress would allow. Her tongue pressed against my most sensitive spot. Her fingers slid into me, sending shudders through my body as they curled inside me, gently pressing against my flesh.

My legs felt weak. Pulses of pleasure surged through me, snaking up my body and into my mind. She pressed harder with her tongue, her fingers sliding in and out of me. Two became three, spreading me open, pressing against my inner cave and making my mind dance at the sensuous feelings.

The sunlight speckling through the trees darkened, the birds were silenced as I crested a wave of ecstasy. I began to slip into darkness as her attentions slowed, but then she swept back into me, pushing me to another peak before allowing me to contentedly subside.

Arabella wriggled out from under my skirts and we both smoothed down our dresses before standing in the wood waiting for our heartbeats and the flush on our necks and faces to subside.

“I believe you may have to plead indisposition this evening as your bottom is quite obviously freshly reddened,” I said as we walked back up the path.

Arabella giggled. “Maybe it could do with a day’s rest before we set about my husband.” She smiled. “But then it is he that may well receive most of your attentions.”

There will be further diary entries posted as soon as these are deciphered. In the meantime, if you enjoy reading stories of male submission and sapphic affairs Painted Stripes, The Contract and The Artists’ Model are published for paid subscribers. The first installments are free to read.

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