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The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 01

By: prophet007



INTRODUCTION

In our day and age of easy labels and quick stereotyping, we tend to imagine the Victorian era in England as something of a conservative and reserved time. It is an old observation that every generation thinks it invented sex, but no people in history are seen as having been quite so sexless as the Victorians, and especially the refined society of the Victorian middle and upper classes.

As so often with our preconceptions of history as we would like to understand it, the reality is actually very different. Every society has its underbelly, and the English especially have always had a host of hidden shames. Never more so than in the Victorian era. For all we may joke with our absurd urban myths about even table legs needing to be covered lest they appear overly risqué, the Victorian gentleman -- for indeed it is almost always the gentlemen -- was in fact quite an enthusiastic consumer of pornography.

Of course it is not true that every one of those top-hatted fellows had a collection of obscene magazines hidden away under his bed, but a great many of them must have done, as the amount of material produced, usually in London, in the latter half of the nineteenth century is quite extraordinary. From the erotic and perverse novels of the Streatham print-houses to the magazines that came out of Soho and particularly Whitechapel, every taste and fetish appears to have been catered for, albeit in some cases in somewhat embryonic forms.

The example that follows comes from a publication entitled The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly. This was one of the most popular periodicals to come out of the notorious press-house hidden under the bakery on Vallance Road in Whitechapel. As might be expected, tracing the history of such black market publications is a difficult and frustrating exercise, as precious few records exist and even archives of the magazines themselves are few and far between and usually extremely patchy.

Nonetheless, students of this extraordinary field were granted the most enormous boon when a collection of what seems to be almost the entire run of The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly formed part of a library material donated to the Sex & Sexuality Collection here at the University of South Gloucester in 1991. The name of the donor is known to the university, but as his ancestor -- who compiled quite an impressive library of pornographic material in the 1890s -- was a gentleman of some repute, it is best to maintain his anonymity for now. While we are always eager to find out more about who purchased this material, we have no wish to ruin any long-standing reputations so far after the event.

The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly seems to have been first published sometime in 1891, and ran from then right through until around 1899, although some publications in a somewhat different style but with the same name exist dated 1901 and 1902. The serialised story reproduced in this collection is by no means the most salacious material printed in the magazine's pages; some of the stories -- such as The Curious Misadventures of Sally Sweetheart -- would make even today's hardcore pornographers blush.

But our story -- The Gentleman's Confession -- is of particular interest because, clumsy and amateur though its prose is, it forms an attempt to tell a proper narrative story, and even delve into some of the psychology behind what we would these days refer to as sexual submission. This is the first time that it has ever been properly published in one volume, and I hope that the reader will find it a fascinating window into the hidden sexuality of a bygone age.

I am particularly grateful to Dr Stephen Lasher and Professor Amanda Gerrard for their thoughts on the text, and their assistance with the compilation of this edition. I must also thank Mark Starling at USG Press for his wonderful work scanning and assembling the text, and of course Clive Bach, Elise Longford, Julianne Barnes and everyone else at the University Library's Sex & Sexuality Collection -- without a doubt the finest body of work ever assembled in that field.

Professor Anthony P. Everyman. Department of Literary Studies, University of South Gloucester January 2008

"The Gentleman's Confession" -- Part One Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly" Volume IX, number 17 Issue dated March 18th 1896

I have no Earthly reason for beginning this journal. Surely no good can come of it. Its pages will, I have no doubt, be my undoing were they to be discovered -- the ruination of my reputation, and of my good family name. This is not a wise course of action, but the events my shaking hand sets out to chronicle weigh so heavily upon my soul that I cannot help but surrender to the urge to expunge some of my guilt by releasing the repressed narrative into a written form.

For who else can I tell? I am no Roman, and have no priest to confess to. My brother is long dead, buried deep, deep down to avoid the teeth of the rats in a hot and sultry Indian graveyard. My children are mere schoolboys, and my wife... 

Oh God, my poor, poor wife. Were she ever to discover this journal it would be the end of her, my darling, beloved Annabel.

I know all of this. I know the sensible thing to do would be to fling this book with its fresh, virgin pages into the fireplace. To hang any thought of confession and revelation. But I cannot! I cannot! For if I keep this within me much longer I shall burst, so here I write, so frantically that even I can barely decipher my lines upon the page.

I am a weak-willed man, and must bend as the winds of fate see fit to guide me. I never thought myself thus until recently -- I regarded myself as a strong and able man in charge of his own destiny. A man of substance and respect in the world at large, a gentleman whom, I prided myself, not a few people looked up to and admired.

But if they knew! Oh, if they knew! For it is a sham, reader, a sham!

A man is the sum of his shame. The very best of men is only as good as the most base and debauched of his fantasies. There are some, perhaps -- a very few -- who can justly claim to be pure and above such thoughts, and I admire such individuals. But now, after all that I have learned about myself and my own desires, I come to wonder, can it be true? Are there really men whose thoughts are entirely pure, and are above such things? Are all the monks and vicars and philanthropists and fine and upstanding Gentlemen of all trades and descriptions merely putting on an act, a show? Is my guilty secret no more wicked than the rest of them? Are there others who are worse?

I believe it may be so. For I fear that all men -- every single one of us, to a man -- shares my guilt and my shame, and yet none of us will admit it. Perhaps you, unknown reader, know how I feel. Perhaps you can sympathise with my plight. Perhaps even now, you are nodding in understanding.

Or perhaps this is simply all so much waffle with which to attempt to justify myself. Out with it, man. You may be the most pathetic and broken of men, but you can at least face up to your fate, bite the bullet and proceed with the story.

Very well. This, reader, is my own personal shame. And all the greater shame is the fact that I delight in it, and it has given me the greatest, sweetest joys it is possible for a mortal man to know.

It began late last October. Perhaps, if you were at all familiar with London in the autumn of the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, you may remember how particularly cold and foggy it became upon many an evening then. The fog clouded up the streets as if they had become blocked with bundles of wool, and the chill bit to the very bones of even the most practically-clothed.

It was upon just such an inhospitable evening, a Thursday, that I took a cab as usual to go and see the Colonel. Annabel had advised me not to go at all -- she had taken my hand and softly chided me, told me that it was freezing out and that I would do my constitution no good by being about in it. She had said the Colonel would understand my forgoing our Thursday night game at cards just this once.

Oh, how I wish I had paid her heed then!

But of course, being a foolish and arrogant man, I brushed aside her comments, told her I would be perfectly all right, and that I had no doubts about finding my way to the Colonel's new address. He had of late moved properties, and I had not visited him at his current abode -- however, I had the address, and saw no reason to doubt the sturdy London cabbie's ability to find his way there, even in the thick fog.

"Darling, are you sure?" Annabel asked me, peering out through the curtains into the gloom of the street. "It looks so awful out there. I am quite sure that the Colonel would understand."

"My dear, you worry so. It is no trouble! His new home is in any case closer than the old. I shall be back before midnight, I can assure you!"

I kissed her softly upon the forehead, brushing aside one or two strands of her silvery-blonde hair, and then took up my coat and went down onto the street, where our footman had already hailed a cab. The vehicle stood waiting, the driver rubbing his cold hands together while his horses stood implacable, their breath further clouding the air ahead of them.

"Number 11 Maple Street!" I called to the cabbie as my man helped me aboard, before wishing me a good evening. "Do you know the street?" I called, as the door was slammed shut.

"Like the back of my hand, sir," the man above assured me, before spurring his horses on and beginning our trek through the strangely-deserted streets of London town.

I had been going to the Colonel's house to play at cards almost every Thursday night for the past two years. He was not what you might call a sociable man, and not particularly clubbable, which was why he preferred to engage in what social activities he did partake in within the bounds of his own home.

We did not have much in common -- he was a few years older man than I, and limited his interests almost solely to the cricketing reports in The Times newspaper -- but he was a lonely all fellow and, for all his taciturn nature, I knew that he had been a good friend of my brother's in India. It was the Colonel, indeed, who many years before had brought home to us the news of my brother's death, killed by a native bullet in a nameless, sunbaked valley. The colonel too had known loss on the sub-continent. As a young man he had seen his extraordinarily pretty wife -- of whom a portrait still hung in his lonely home -- decay and succumb to fever there

Those who had known him that far back always said he had never been quite the same man since. Certainly, he had never forgiven the place for it.

So it was my pleasure so repay what kindness he had done my brother by keeping him company upon those Thursday evenings, and by from time to time acting in his interests in my capacity at Faunder & French, the bankers. I handled his account personally, and had often been in a position to turn matters of stocks and shares to his advantage, so despite my never having been a soldier -- he had contempt for most men who had no military background -- he treated me with a manner of gruff, reluctant respect.

Respect, I known now, I hardly deserved.

We made very slow time through those foggy streets that night, but that was only to be expected. By the time the carriage drew to a halt in what I was assured was Maple Street, however, it was already a quarter of nine, fifteen minutes later than the Colonel usually expected me. The fog was by this time so thick that one could barely see six inches in front of one's face, and I was somewhat dubious as to whether we had indeed arrived at the correct locale, so I drew the shutter down and spoke up to the cabbie.

"Have we arrived?"

"Aye sir, Maple Street, right enough. Number eleven just across the way, sir."

I looked at where I thought he had indicated -- it was so hard to tell in the fog -- and I could indeed just barely make out the shape of a house, one of a number in the new terrace that made up most of the street, a large building of light-coloured stone. There was a crescent of glass above the door, into which was set a coloured piece of typography denoting the number, which did indeed seem to indicate that we were standing outside of number eleven.

"Very well then."

I saw myself down from the vehicle, not wishing to incur any further delay. A tossed a sixpence up at the fellow in the driver's seat -- whether he could even see it or not in that weather I know not, but he did not protest or call out at all as I strode away from the cab, so I suppose he must have done. In any case, he trotted off into the distance and was soon swallowed up by the fog as I ascended the steps to the black door of the Colonel's new home.

The place was clearly quite well-to-do, as it had a pull for a bell mounted into a small recess alongside the door, in addition to the more traditional knocker so familiar to us all through the festive tales of Mr Dickens. I both pulled the bell-chord and gave the knocker a good thump to announce my presence, not wishing to be left waiting on the doorstep for too long. This was both because I had no desire to keep the Colonel waiting, and because it was damnably chilly out there in the open air.

That house could have been anywhere. It could have been floating at sea, it could have been in the middle of the countryside, it might have been on the plains of South Africa and I would not have known it in that fog. I fancied that had I had a knife about my person I could have reached out and sliced the atmosphere in two. These things we often read about in fictions, but I am here to tell you that it was as real as I sit here today. Perhaps it was portentous -- taking hold of the city as She was about to take hold of my life.

I do not recall now for how long I waited upon the step. A minute or perhaps two. Long enough for me to be shivering in the cold and to consider muttering a curse to the impromptness of his housekeeper, at any reckoning. I had even taken to walking up and down along the step in a vain attempt to keep some warmth within my bones, and consequently was not looking at the door when suddenly it opened, and the dim light of the turned-down gas lamps that lined the corridor within flowed out across the threshold. 

I stood and turned and I do believe I stopped breathing for several seconds.

I had never seen such a beautiful creature in all my born days. She was such a young and slender little thing, nineteen if she was a day. Her smooth, shiny black hair flowed down like silk across her shoulders, which were covered by the velveteen material of the dark purple dress she wore, which in turn flowed and tumbled all the way to the thick-carpeted floor. 

Her eyes were the most striking feature about her, however. They stood out like shining green gemstones against the pale white skin of her face. But it was not simply the physical features -- there was an essence, an aura to this girl -- no, this woman -- that had literally taken my breath away. The way she held herself, the slightly impatient, challenging, puzzled look upon her face, the unspoken questions of her eyes...

A quarter of a century in years and a gulf of unfamiliarity stood between this young Lady and I, but in an instant I knew that I should like to know her better. Without her even having said a word. I ached with the disappointed knowledge that I never would know her better, that I had arrived upon this Earth some twenty-five years too early to be any kind of suitor to her.

A suitor! Fancy it! The recollection of my darling wife at home came flooding back to me, and with it came the shame, but the shame was all the greater because I could feel a base, debauched excitement stirring within my loins.

"Yes?"

The question was impatient and clinical. Her accent was cut-glass English, the cream of the crop, and it was very clear from her speech and deportment that this was no housekeeper, nor any other kind of serving maid. This puzzled me -- the Colonel, so far as I knew, had no family who might fit her description. No daughters for sure, and no niece nor God-child who might perhaps be visiting. And in any case, why would such a person of distinction answer their own front door, never mind that of a house in which they were staying as a guest?

"I am sorry, Ma'am...." I bowed slightly as I spoke, and yes! Another thrill went through me as I dipped my head before her, sweeping off my hat and swooping it low in my hand. The thrill of subservience, of showing her that I deferred to her, even as I stood out in the cold and she at home in the warmth. Even though I was the Man of the World and she, supposedly as society might have it, the mere slip of a girl. Only ordinary polite behaviour, you might think, but it was the manner in which she looked at me with such dispassion and even contempt that stirred something deep within my soul.

Oh my poor, disgraced, sinful soul!

"Do you intend to complete that sentence, sir, or are you going to keep me waiting upon my doorstep with the cold coming into my house all night?"

The sharpness with which she directed those words at me, the tone in which she used the supposedly honorific 'sir' left me in little doubt as to the amount of respect I had managed to attain in her eyes upon this first, strange meeting. Instantly I was eager to make amends, desperate to try and find favour with this unknown Woman without knowing why I was so keen to seek her approval.

"I apologise most sincerely, my Lady, I fear that I may perhaps have the wrong house. I am looking for number eleven Maple Street. Would I be correct in assuming that this is not that address?"

I looked hopefully at her, optimistic that my repentant tone of words might have smoothed matters over, but the expression upon her face made me feel smaller and more worthless than ever.

"Well obviously not, you cretin," she told me harshly. "This is number twenty-two. I know the fog is thick out tonight, sir, but I cannot help but feel the numbers above the door might have been something of a clue."

I stood back and gaped up at the numbers. Sure enough, I realised that I had indeed been mistaken upon my first glance at them from within the carriage. Instead of two 1s, the stylised writing set into the glass above the door was in fact a representation of a double instance of the number 2. This was number 22, some way along the street from the address which I sought.

"Forgive me, my Lady," I said, bowing again, much more deeply upon this occasion. "I have made a more grievous error. This is indeed not the house for which I was looking. I hope you will forgive my error, and allow me to depart and return you to your repose."

The young Lady shook her head slowly. This was most unexpected. As was her stepping forward to stand mere inches in front of me, framed in the doorway, her eyes locked upon mine and her hands placed very carefully upon my hips. She looked me up and down, and then ran her tongue slowly across her pale pink lips in a manner that... In a manner that...

Oh it shamed me! I admit it! I admit all! I could think only of lust, of fornication. I was hers at that instant, I confess, so utterly hers.

"Erm... No, my Lady?" I asked. My mouth was very dry, and it was so difficult to speak. She smiled then, and I swear to you reader it was both the most wondrous and at the same time the most chilling expression I ever saw pass across a fellow human being's face. But what thrills it gave me! Why, I was almost trembling! And I am now, to think back upon it. I fear you shall have difficulty in reading my hand from this point on.

"I desire you to stay a while," she told me, her voice leaving no doubt at all that I had no option or say in the matter. 


The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 01



"For how long, my Lady...?" 

She completely ignored my question, which gave me a strange delight. The delight of a prisoner who has had all of life's troubles and questions taken away from him, and has the whole pattern of existence set out before him in a manner so simple and easy to understand.

"After all, I do not feel that you have yet sufficiently apologised for your conduct this evening, disturbing me and dragging me to the door in this abominably cold weather. It is decidedly chilly, is it not? And don't you think you ought to apologise to a Lady such as myself, boy?"

Now this was the one point at which I was ready to protest, partly because I was so shocked at the sudden turn of her speech. There was no question that she was a Lady, even at her tender age, as... Well, you need only look at her. She was a perfect example of the blossoming of Womanhood. The prime example, I might go so far as to say. Of that there was neither doubt nor question.

But to address me, a fully-grown man, as a boy! A man who could put five and twenty years of age and experience between his years and hers; a man who had been in the prime of his life when she had not yet even been born. A man with grey hairs invading his head, a respectable man of profession and standing, to be called a boy!

"I must protest!" I said, my pride hurt, my face flushed.

Her own face was a mask of icy, innocent calm.

"No, you must not," she told me, instantly terrifying me that she was about to slam the door upon my face, and that I might never see her beauty again. "You will either apologise to me at once for that remark, or you will turn about and leave here this instant and never come back again. Now, which is it to be... boy?"

Her smile returned as she addressed me by the term again, but this time my resistance had crumpled. Her beauty was too beguiling; its effect upon me had been quite hypnotic. And besides all of that there was the degradation, the shame of being addressed so, by one so young, and a girl at that... 

I nodded my head, a dumb servant now.

"I am very sorry, my Lady," I said, not knowing quite why. I spoke like a thing possessed. I suppose I was possessed. By her. "I meant no offence. Please, my Lady. Forgive me."

I had the best part of a foot upon her in height, but I felt so much smaller. I was standing, but I felt as if I were kneeling, looking up at her. Perhaps because I so wanted to kneel at her feet.

Oh I know, I know, I know! But if you had seen her, reader! If you could see her still! Oh!

That ghost of a smile... Those eyes... The exquisite figure clothes in deepest, darkest purple.

I was lost to her.

"I might consider forgiving you, boy," she said, with this strange power over me. "But it will take some persuasion."

"How..." I coughed, started again. "How... might I be able to convince you of my sincerity, my Lady?"

You do not think I had any thoughts for my poor wife at home? Of course I did! I loved her dearly. Still love her dearly. I was disgusted with myself for what I was doing, but my libido and my desire to serve this remarkable young woman had taken over completely, overruling any trace of common sense that might have remained.

She did not immediately answer my question. Instead, extending a hand with a single upturned finger to indicate that I was not immediately to follow, she stepped back some paces from the doorway. Then she did the most extraordinary -- and, you can readily suppose, the most exciting -- thing I had seen all evening, and indeed for quite some time.

She slowly, very, teasingly slowly, began to draw up the heavy purple skirt of her dress. She had it held very firmly in her hands so that the petticoat beneath, of the most extraordinarily fine white lace, was drawn up with it. All this time she looked squarely at me, challenging me perhaps to look down at what was revealed.

I am a weak and feeble man -- a boy. As you will have guessed, I looked.

Her left leg was extended forward, visible now stretching out from where she had finished drawing her dress up to the knee. The boot that she wore was extraordinary -- like some cavalryman's riding boot out of an adventure story of the Napoleonic age. It had a pointed tip, a shining silver buckle and was made of the smoothest, thickest, most expensive leather. To see it sheathing the shapely leg of such a wondrous creature as her...

Oh I ached for her again, reader. How I did ache!

"Does the little boy like what he sees?" she asked me, mockingly, for she knew very well that I did. I could only nod dumbly. She smiled.

"Kneel."

The word was very simple, very easy to understand. Yet I gaped at her for a moment not comprehending, before her look turned to steel once more and she frowned.

"Kneel!" she repeated.

I fell to my knees, thumbing them on the carpet just inside of her doorway. She smiled once more, a viciously cutting smile that made me want to weep with the joy of it.

"Now, come here boy," she said lightly, but still with such a commanding tone to her voice. "Crawl to me."

This time, I did not need telling twice.

Can you imagine such a scene? A fully-grown man, a banker, crawling upon his hands and knees across a carpet, with the doorway open behind for anybody to see. Prostrating himself before a slip of a girl as she shows him her boot, commands him to come to it, to debase himself in this way. But I did it. Oh God, with my head bowed in shame I did it.

And my... Reader, I must be frank with you, for I have told you this much, I may as well tell you all. My... member was fully-hardened! I could feel its wet, sodden tip leaking into my underclothes! Oh my heart was bounding and all my limbs trembling, for I was her slave and I crawled to her!

The shame!

It felt an age before I reached her. I was only an inch or two from her boot, I could smell the rich scent of the leather. I looked up at her, for a moment catching the briefest glimpse of the milky-white skin of her thigh as she adjusted the skirt she held. And was that, above...?

"I do hope you weren't being a filthy little boy and trying to look up my skirt, were you pet?"

I immediately shook my head, my cheeks reddened with my shame. I had never, ever tried such a thing before! Never... Not since... Not... When I was a boy...

Oh God, I still was a boy. I saw it then. All the vile fantasies and foul practices of my youth had never left me. It had taken the sight of such a Woman as Her to release them.

"Good, because I would be very disappointed in you boy if you showed yourself to be such a filthy little thing so soon. Now... time for your penance, I think. Kiss it."

I was confused.

"My Lady?"

She shook her booted foot slightly, to indicate what was meant.

"My foot, boy. Kiss it. Now."

I looked back down. It was so close. The smell of the leather and the shiner that had been used upon it were almost overpowering. Slowly, my eyes closed, I puckered my lips and bent forward to offer my worship like a Roman at the sacrament, but suddenly I found only thin air and then carpet, and heard the sound of the foot dragging back across it.

She giggled then, as I glanced up in despair, feeling foolish and humiliated. The giggle was a reminder of her youth, how she had only a brief year or two before been a little girl, and it shamed me all the more. To be reduced to this... By a child...

"Try harder, boy," she encouraged, smiling that beguiling, teasing smile of hers.

I shuffled forward a little on my hands and knees and bent down once more, but once again the foot was dragged back at the last moment, and once more she giggled.

"Please, my Lady!" I begged, my temper flaring for a moment. But I did not once consider getting up and walking out. Not with the pain in my knees and the ache in my back, because the ache within my soul and within my... masculine part, was all the stronger.

"No, no help boy. You must try again!"

And so we repeated this charade on three more occasions, until she had backed down to the end of the hallway and I had followed her all the way along, like some little puppy dog.

"Please?" I begged again. I felt the pinpricks of tears in my eyes. Why was she shaming me so? Had I not done everything that she had asked of me? Had I not tried my hardest to be a good little boy for her? I silently cursed her control and cursed her youth and cursed her feminine wiles.

"Very well boy," she said, with some magnanimity. "You may have the pleasure of kissing my foot. Go on."

For what felt like the thousandth time, I bent forward, under her watchful gaze. Finally, blessedly, my lips found the leather of her boot and I kissed the end softly. It tasted quite foul, as you can imagine, but the feeling of her toes moving just beneath the surface of the material made it so very thrilling, and more than worthwhile. I kept my lips there for some moments, before finally looking back up at her.

"My Lady?" I breathed, eager to be told I had done well.

Her face was as solid as stone, not a ghost of a smile nor a trace of pity to be found upon it.

"Stand up, you pathetic little creature," she said icily. As I hurried to obey, she allowed her dress to fall back, and crossed her arms, in a position that I could not help but notice was just below the line of her bosom, somewhat accentuating the curve there. 

I was never usually one to look at women so. I felt I had been reduced to it. By her. By this... Goddess. A Goddess at all of nineteen years!

"I am pleased that you finally managed obey such a simple little task," she said. "But really, you ought to have done so much better. I would have thought a man of your age would have learned a thing or two down the years. I can see that I am liable to be disappointed by boys if they are all as dim as you by the time they have reached your age. There is nothing else for it -- as I do not have any further time to waste upon you this evening, you shall have to call upon me again tomorrow. Eight of clock, I think. See that you are not late."

"My-my Lady?"

I had intended to tell her that this was quite impossible, that there was no way I could ever come here again, but for some reason I could speak only those first two words. All else was lost.

"Plain enough instructions, are they not?" she challenged me. "And rest assured, boy, if you do not come tomorrow, do not even think of darkening my door again -- once you have changed your mind, it will be far too late."

I stood there, simply gaping I think. 

"Well -- what do you stand there and gawp at me for? I have told you what I expect of you. Hurry along now. It is very cold in here -- do please close the door as you leave."

I opened my mouth to speak once more, but a look from her was enough to silence me without a single utterance leaving my lips. Instead I bowed clumsily, retrieved my hat from where it had earlier fallen upon the floor, walked backwards until I was safely out on the steps, and then pulled the door shut by the knocker.

I was so overcome by what I had done -- or what I had allowed to be done to me, perhaps -- that I almost stumbled down the steps and back onto the foggy street, only righting my balance just in time. I was reeling like circus ring boxer. 

Had I...? Had I really allowed that girl to...?

I staggered along the street, looking for a taxi. All thoughts of the Colonel and our game of cards were gone. I simply wanted to get home to my wife, to my house, to try and get some sleep and to put out of my mind the shame and the guilt of what I had done that evening.

But reader -- oh reader! Can you guess? I am sure that you can. I am sure that you know that already, in the darkest pits of my mind, ideas were forming for what excuses I could possibly use to convince my wife that I would be away from the house the following evening.



The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 02



Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"

Volume IX, number 18

Issue dated March 25th 1896

It has been some days since last I took up my pen to add to this sad and sorry narrative of shame. I could not bring myself to resume the thread, but after days of drink and despair I knew that I must return to my notebook, locked in the drawer of my study, and unveil the rest of my downfall. I have started the tale; only a coward would refuse to complete it.

You can imagine, I suppose, the guilt I felt as I returned home to my wife on the evening I had crawled to kiss the boot of a girl who was young enough to be my daughter. A beautiful, enchanting girl... A Lady. How I had become her pet, her boy. And then returned home, to see and speak to the woman I had loved for so many years. I could barely bring myself to speak to her at all that evening; the shame was a feeling akin to having been kicked in the midriff. Annabel knew that I was out of sorts, of course, but could do nothing to lighten my mood. Even to look upon her was a reminder of how I had betrayed her.

And the very worst of it was that I knew, even then, that I would betray her again the following day. All the next morning and all through the day of working at the bank, the feeling gnawed at me like a hunger.

I could not at all concentrate on my work that day. I saw the ledgers and the account books pass across my desk, and I daresay that I signed any number of bills and contracts, but had you asked me that day what I had looked at even five minutes beforehand, I would not have been able to tell you. My mind was full of Her -- of the white flesh of her thighs, of the glimpse, the merest glimpse, I thought I had had up her skirt... Oh, the shame, the shame! I thought of the boot, how I had kissed it, the look in her eyes... 

Eventually, mid-way through the afternoon, when I had tortured myself for hours with my problem, I snapped. I banged my hand hard on my solid oak desk, and called through to the vestibule for my secretary, Simmons.

"Simmons!" I shouted, at the top of my lungs. "Simmons, get in here now, man!"

Simmons was a young and nervous fellow, an ink-spattered weedling of a man whom I had been rather forced to employ as he was distantly related to one of the members of the bank's board. The thin, sandy-haired youth immediately scampered through from his side office, wiping his inky hands on the tail of his coat.

"Sir?" he asked, once he had scuttled to the front of my desk.

"Simmons, I want you to go out to the Telegraph Office on the corner of the road and have a message sent home to my wife. You know the address, I believe."

"Yes sir, of course!"

He fished into his pocket for a notebook, and pulled a small, stubby pencil from its resting place behind his ear.

"What message, sir?" he asked, licking his lips eagerly, looking like some novice newspaperman waiting outside the courtroom of a particularly salacious murder trial.

"Simply tell her that I am liable to be late home tonight. Very late. I am detained by work, and she is not to wait up for me. That is all, Simmons."

He was confused. Even one as obtuse as he was perhaps not quite so easily fooled.

"Busy, sir?"

I glared at the insolent youth.

"Yes Simmons, busy!"

That perfect, feminine leg danced across my mind again, as my reserve cracked like a broken windowpane.

"The... erm... The Hartley account... It... It needs more work," I added, rather pathetically. What use was it? It was an excuse, plain and simple. Well, even if Simmons knew that, Annabel was never likely to discover the truth.

"The Hartley account sir? But isn't Mr Ericsson...?"

"Do as I say man!"

I slammed my palm down on the table once more, and a look of panic crossed the boy's face as he practically ran from the room.

"Yes sir! Sorry sir! At once sir!"

He was so contemptible, that fellow. But a thought struck me as he scurried away -- had I really been any different last night, in the eyes of that Lady? When I had crawled to her and worshipped at her feet? Had I been any more respectable than Simmons with his weak-willed, simpering ways?

I would end it tonight. I decided, then and there. I would go to the house and I would tell her that I had been foolish, that I was sorry for inconveniencing her, and that I would not be partaking in any activities with her again. I would put my foot down. I would take charge of the situation.

Yes. Yes, that was what I would do.

There was considerably less fog that night, although the weather was still decidedly inclement, as rain had replaced the cloudy wisps that the night before had clogged the streets like fatty tissues in the chambers of an old man's heart. I was almost soaked even walking the short way down from the bank to the end of the street where the taxis were to be found, but I made no effort to shield myself from it.

I deserved it.

I did work considerably later than anybody else that day. I remained in the office until half past seven, into the darkness and well past the time that even the most junior and overworked of the clerks had gone home to their wives. I found myself thinking of such things increasingly through the afternoon and into the evening. Remembering how once I had found nothing more thrilling or exciting than Annabel's sweet nature and witty conversation. How I had hurried home to her, as a young married man, when I had been one of those junior clerks. 

I could not taste that excitement any longer. I could not bring it to my mind. When I thought of excitements of the human mind, all that I could see was the Young Lady. And her eyes, and her leg, and her boot. The thoughts made me, as I had been frequently that day, as hard as iron inside my breeches.

I know. I know how base a thing to write about that is, but I must share my shame. I must bare all.

I was perhaps a minute or two early for the scheduled appointment in Maple Street. I had made sure that there was nobody I knew in the street as I hurried from the taxi to the front door of number twenty-two -- I had no desire for the Colonel to catch me in the street where he lived. After all, I had still not explained to him why I had not appeared for cards the night before -- what would he think of me visiting some other house a few doors down from his?

It occurred to me then, as I waited, damp from the rain, on Her doorstep that the Colonel might perhaps know something about this young and utterly beguiling female. It was certainly something to consider. But if he did know about her, might he read something into why I was enquiring?

It was all so confusing.

I had stood there for a while before I checked my watch. It was a minute past eight already. I had been so involved in my sorry thoughts that I had not heard the church bells and the clocktowers striking the hour. Fool. She would be displeased at me for being late now.

No, no -- it did not matter whether she was pleased or displeased. I attempted to convince myself of this, but as you can imagine, reader, without any success. I knew, in my heart, that all her mattered to me was her pleasure. That was why she was so dangerous. Why she had such a curious hold over my entire being.

I put my hand to the door to sound the knocker and announce my presence, but as soon as I touched the heavy brass implement, the door swung back slightly. It was already open and unlocked. Clearly, she was expecting me.

I was so predictable. I had come crawling back to her, just as she had imagined. Well, if I was to do this, better to get it over and done with now. I took a deep, steeling breath, and pushed the door fully open, stepping inside.

The hallway within was in almost complete darkness -- the gas lamps mounted on the walls were lit, but at their lowest possible flow, so they guttered like dying candles. It leant the passageway an air of foreboding, a warning that I suppose I might have done well to heed.

But I could not turn tail and flee then. Because standing there, in the shadows at the very end of the hallway, past the stairs, was the Young Lady.

"I knew you would come," she said. Her tone was neutral, giving nothing at all away. "Good boy."

Good boy... Oh why did I swell with such pride at the compliment?

"My Lady..."

What was I going to say? Perhaps I was going to protest, to explain that I could not stay, but as she stepped forward into the dim light of the hallway the words died in my throat. She looked... magnificent. She wore tight white breeches, so perfectly moulded to the skin of her shapely legs that it was as if she were a statue of herself carved in the purest alabaster. She wore boots again, of a dark, rich, oak-like heavy brown leather this time, with high heels at the back, boots which had a most peculiar effect upon me... She wore a black jacket, with a white blouse of some sort beneath, and a man's cravat of the deepest red at her throat. As she took her arms from behind her back and folded her hands in front of her, I saw that she wore tightly-fitted grey gloves, of what appeared to be the softest kidskin. Her hair flowed free as it had the night before, and those eyes fixed me in their glare like a hare in the sights of a poacher's rifle.

"You look beautiful," I said. For it was the truth. The only truth.

She bestowed upon me a smile then, a full and genuine one that showed the happiness of a girl pleased to have been paid a compliment.

"Thank you boy," she said. Then the smile was gone, and look of command that came so oddly naturally to this Young Lady's face returned.

"Now on your knees for me, pet," she ordered gently.

I stepped forward, one hand raised in protest. It was here that I was going to take my stand. I had come this far, but would go no further. I would be a Man. I would stand up for myself, I would be faithful to my wife, I would be a good and decent and morally upstanding person and I would end the corruption of my being and my mortal soul here, at this juncture.

"Now look here..." I said. 

A glance of such steel and domination gripped me from her eyes then that once again my sentence was stopped before it had ever really gotten started.

"My boy protests?" she asked.

"I... That is to say... Well..." My firmness had become desperation. Utter, complete, desperation and pleading. "I cannot... My Lady, please... I am a married man. A respectable man in a respectable profession... I cannot do this. I cannot. It is... it is against everything I have devoted my life to!"

"My silly little boy is attempting to tell me that he only came back here this evening to tell me that he cannot come back here this evening?"

She was smirking at me. Smirking! This Lady, this child, was looking upon me as a governess might look upon a small boy who has said something particularly stupid.

"I... I mean... Yes, my Lady," I finished, weakly. I cast my eyes to the floor. What had happened to my reserve? My steel? My conviction? Why did it vanish so when I was in her presence?

"No, my pet," she said softly, shaking her head. "If you truly desired to be free of me, you would simply not have come. You would never have visited here again, you would have simply ignored me. You may have tried to convince yourself that you were coming here to tell me you wished no further part in this, but really you came because you desire to know what is to happen to you next. What is to be done to you. Mmmmmmmmm, and I cannot wait to show you, my dear little boy!"

She giggled at that. Giggled with the look of a woman who has plots and plans afoot. I wanted to know what they were. I knew that I should turn and go, but she had me hooked upon her line as the fisherman hooks a trout.

"I have to go..." I whispered, feeling tears of frustration welling in my eyes.

"Go then," she shrugged, smiling. "Go back to your wife and your happy home, and go with my blessing, pet. Turn around, walk out of that door and close it behind you. But of course that means you can never come here again. Never see me. You will never, ever know what might have happened to you if you had stayed. What might have transpired tonight. If you walk out and close that door behind you, you are walking away from me forever. If you close it now, from this side, and stay within with me, well... Then who can say what might become of you?"

I had a choice then, reader. A very firm and definite choice. This was the moment at which I was to make my decision, the decision as to what kind of a man I was. Or whether I was really a man at all, or simply a boy. Her boy.

"Please..." I begged, a tear trickling down my cheek.

She laughed to see me.

"So broken so soon!" she exclaimed. "You are a weak little pet... I could have such fun with you..."

She was so young as she said that! Like a girl with a new toy, a doll's house perhaps. Her coquettishness was overpowering to me. I shook my head.

"I... I..."

"Your choice," she whispered, fixing me with another of her most intoxicating stares.

I hung my head in shame. I turned. I grasped the edge of the door.

And I swung it shut, blocking out the wind and the rain. Blocking out the world completely. There was only that house. That hallway. Me. And Her.

"Good boy," she said approvingly.

"Who... Who owns this house?" I asked miserably, suddenly concerned for my reputation. "Who else is present? Who knows that I am here? I ask not for myself, my Lady, I promise, but my wife, my children, the reputation of --"

"Shut up."

It was cool and commanding and clinical, and it cut through my words completely. I was silent.

"You are wet," she observed. "You're dripping all over my lovely carpet and making it quite damp. This will never do. I shall be terribly upset if my nice new pet ruins my lovely carpets. Kindly remove your clothes. All of them."

"My Lady?"

"All of them. Now."

I gaped, like a fish. I had never, ever been naked in the presence of a Lady before. Perhaps once or twice with Annabel when we had first been married and had been flush with the excitement of youth, but always then in total darkness. I had known the feel and contours of her body completely, as she had known mine, but never would we have dared to undertake such behaviour with the lamps lit, even in private, even in an empty house.

"My Lady, I have never... That is to say, I mean... Well it is hardly proper, for a Gentleman such as I to be... to be... in front of a Young Lady such as yourself..."

"I see no gentleman here," she said dismissively. "Only a silly little boy who will learn soon enough not to question the commands of his Lady. I desire you to be naked, boy, and what I desire I am used to receiving. Now, kindly remove your clothes this instant. You will only make it worse for yourself if you do not."

The look in her eyes told me that she was entirely serious. I knew not what dread consequences she might inflict upon me if I did not obey. I did know, however, that I had accepted submission to her commands by the closing of the door. That had been a sign, a sure sign, as binding as a signature on a legal ledger. I was hers now. Bought and sold.

I said nothing. I removed my hat, and placed it on the top of a cabinet just inside the hallway. My cape I shrugged off and hung upon the coat rack, which graced the opposite wall. 

She nodded approvingly.

"Keep going pet," she encouraged. I felt as if I were performing for her. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, ridiculous even. But the feeling between my legs betrayed the fact that I also felt excitement. Perhaps a greater excitement than ever I had known before. Those young eyes, watching my every move intently! To shame myself in front of such a girl as her!

My boots were next. I cast them aside carelessly, with no mind for the proper place or order of things. Then my waistcoat, similarly cast to the ground, and the shirt followed it, and finally the undershirt. My hands trembled as I pulled the soft material over my head, and once free of it could see her staring most curiously at the pale skin thus revealed.

"Very nice, pet," she said admiringly. "I can see that I have chosen well. But keep going, my sweet. I know that you have so much more to show me."

She was smirking again, because she knew of course what was to come. So did I. I was able to meet her eyes for a moment or two, before I swallowed and began to unbuckle the belt about my breeches. It was quite the task, as my hands were shaking, shaking so hard that a bystander, had there been one -- perish the thought! -- might have thought me afflicted with a palsy.

"Having trouble, boy?" she said, giggling once more with girlish delight.

"I'm sorry, my Lady," I mumbled.

Why was I doing this? Why? My heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, my mouth was dry, there was a sticky sweet taste upon my tongue and suddenly my breeches were lowered, and out of them I stepped.

Only my long-johns remained to protect my modesty. The bulge within them was shamefully obvious, and my cheeks coloured scarlet almost instantly. Was it so hot in there all of a sudden? Worst of all though, oh the worst humiliation imaginable, was the spot of dampness that marked the leakage of my excitement, soaked through the material of the underwear.

"You see boy? I knew that you never wanted to leave me!" she exclaimed in delight. "Now come along, my pet -- show your Lady everything that she owns. Show her what you have for her."

Oh God!

I think I whimpered at that point. Certainly I was long past capable of making any identifiable speech. I hooked my thumbs beneath the band of the long-johns and slowly, head bent to avoid her eager gaze, I pulled them down, over my feet, and allowed them to drop to the floor.

"Stand up straight. Hands behind your back. Look at me."

Slowly, slowly, I did as she ordered. My hands were clasped behind me. I was looking at her as she gazed up and down my body. My... my member stood proud and erect in front of me, and there was nothing that I could do about it. Nothing at all. The fact that she looked upon it with such a lascivious gaze made it so.

What was I doing? What was I doing here being forced into nakedness by a woman little older than a schoolgirl? What had become of me to reduce me to this?

"Lovely, pet," she said. "Now turn around for me, in a circle. Let me see all that you have to offer, boy."

"Please..." I finally managed to beg again.

"Do not plead with me, pet. It is so very pathetic. You will speak when I bid you to speak, just as you will do whatever I bid you to do. And I have commanded you to turn right around in a circle for me. Slowly. Let me examine you."

Slowly, miserably, but oh-so-excitedly, I shuffled my feet around to move for her in the manner that she had commanded, displaying every inch of my naked flesh for her inspection. When I was turned around so that my backside was upon display, she giggled at me again.

"Oh yes, that one will do," she said. "That one will do very nicely. We shall have some fun with that, my boy."

She did not explain any further what she meant by this remark, and I continued to turn as bidden. Eventually, after what seemed to me to have been an eternity, I was facing her again. I was still hard, oh-so-painfully so, and so very aware of it. Again, she giggled at me.

"Now, onto your hands and knees. Quickly please."

She sounded for all the world like the clever girl in a schoolroom doing an impression of the schoolmistress for the delight of her fellow pupils. Using airs and mannerisms more assumed than naturally occurring, and yet when she took them on they seemed to fit her as well and as snugly as the kidskin gloves she wore.

So I did as I was told. I sank first to my knees, then adopted the familiar posture from the previous evening's exercises, and went forward onto my hands as well. After resting there a moment, considering my situation and my shame as I stared down at the thick, red carpet, I looked up at her expectantly. Desiring instruction, domination, correction.




The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 02



"Very good pet. Now -- follow me."

Quickly she turned around and disappeared through an open door at the end of the passageway and to the left. She left the door open for me to follow, and after a mere moment's hesitation I slowly began to crawl my way along that all-too-familiar carpet, towards the spot at the end of the hall where I had shown my submission by kissing her boot the night before.

The doorway into which I was to turn led into a small but comfortably-appointed sitting room. It was dark, like the hallway, but very warm, for the only illumination present was provided by a large and well-stacked log fire that crackled and burned in a fireplace opposite the doorway. The back wall of the room was decorated with two large landscape pictures, while the remaining wall had large windows covered with heavy drapes to shut out the darkness outside. The room was decorated in dark reds and browns, and the furniture had mostly been pushed back to the walls to create space -- the exception being the large wicker chair in which She now sat, next to the fireplace. She was studying me as I entered, a slight smile playing across her lips, but my eyes were immediately drawn to the large and vicious-looking riding crop she was flexing experimentally in her hands.

"Yes, I know, isn't it lovely, boy?" she enthused, cutting it through the air and delighting in the 'whooshing' noise it made as it sliced the warm, heavy atmosphere of the room.

"Come closer pet," she instructed.

I crawled further into the room, eyes as wide as saucers as I came to appreciate the certain knowledge of what was to be done to me in there. When I reached her feet, she extended one booted foot and placed it under my chin, forcing my head up to look into her eyes, and holding her foot there to keep my head in place.

"You know that you have to be punished for your insolent behaviour, don't you boy?" she asked me, giving me no choice whatever in the matter.

"Yes, my Lady," I managed to stammer, through my dry mouth and whirling mind. It was so very hot by the fireplace, and I was sweating profusely, although some of that was doubtless down to nervous anxiety.

"Good boy. Do you think you can take ten?"

"I... I think so, my Lady."

Ten!

I had not been beaten since I was a schoolboy, and even then it had usually been on the hand. Even when we were caned on the rear, it was rarely more than six at a time, and never had we been expected to take it on the bare. But I was naked and vulnerable, and held in this young Lady's thrall, and I had to take whatever she saw fit to give me.

"I hope you can, boy. I would so hate for you to disappoint me. You've come so far already -- let's hope you can show me that you really can be a good little pet. If you come through this, then we can begin to advance your training onto the next step. You may even get a little reward..."

A reward! Oh how my heart sang at the idea! I did not say that being in her presence was reward enough in itself, although I think she knew that to be true.

She pushed my head back painfully, and then removed her boot and stood.

"Stand up pet. Chop chop!"

I staggered to my feet. 

"Good boy. Now, turn and face the fireplace please... Good pet, that's it. Now -- put your arms out in front of you, and grasp the mantelpiece... That's it... No, arms further apart, grasp the ends... That's it. Very good, pet. Now, feet nice and wide apart please..."

She used the end of the crop to gently tap my legs at the inside of my thighs, getting me to spread them. I was now leaning forward, supported by the mantelpiece, my legs spread and my sagging forty-two-year-old backside fleshy and vulnerable to her assault. The heat from the fire was tremendous, and I was half afraid it would burn me to a crisp before we were through. The sweat was pouring down my skin as fast and flowing as the rainwater outside, and I did not know how long a time there I could stand.

Very well then. So it was to be a test, a test of my stamina and endurance. I would show her. I would show her what a very good boy I could be for her.

A boy! Already then, I thought of myself as such. She had reduced my mind to know that as my station in life. A boy!

I could feel the end of the crop now running slowly, very slowly, up and down my right leg... smoothing across the hot and nervous skin... And then suddenly, strands of hair brushing slightly against my back, and tickling my neck... Her lips at my ear as she whispered so very delicately:

"I am going to make you suffer, pet... And it is going to be beautiful..." Then she licked my ear, just a flick of the tongue, a teasing, tantalising gesture that was almost enough to make my juices spurt there and then. I could feel liquid sliding down the length of my manhood, and I knew that I was so shamefully aroused for this Young Lady that it was quite indecent.

I moaned slightly, but said nothing.

"Shhhhhhhhh."

She had stepped back as she shushed me, and then suddenly the crop was smoothing up my leg and across the flesh of my backside, exploring the region it was soon to attack with such violence. For a knew, I knew as certain as you reader know that night follows day, that she would wield it with an expert hand, and never miss her mark.

A girl! A mere girl!

"What is going to happen is this," she explained, as the crop was removed. My heart raced. My skin burned. My muscles tensed.

"I am going to strike you ten times. After each strike, you will count out the number of it, and thank your most gracious Lady for being so kind as to bestow it upon you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lady."

I was shaking, the heat from the fire was so uncomfortable and the anticipation of what was to come so great. But I did not move, nor make any attempt to plead for clemency. I knew already, in my short acquaintance of this Lady, that it would have been hopeless to do so.

"If you lose count, or cry out, or make any other unnecessary noise, then we will start again from the first strike. Do you understand this also?"

She had returned to the strict tone of the schoolmistress. It was exquisite. It was not my fault, whatever occurred now. I had been ordered to do it. And I was being punished for my sin, so that was also in order. I felt, curiously perhaps, the most overwhelming sense of relief.

"Yes, my Lady. I will do my best, my Lady."

There was a lightness in my soul now. A desire to be punished.

"Very well, boy. We will begin."

Swish!

"Oh God! Aaargghhhhhhh!"

I buckled, but managed to stay standing. I had not expected it to hurt so! It was like a hot knife slicing through my poor flesh, and instantly tears sprang once more to my eyes. 

"Pathetic," was her one-word verdict upon my performance.

"I -- I'm sorry, my Lady! I can do better, I swear!"

"You better had, pet. We shall begin... again!" 

Her irritation and impatience were clear, and I gripped the mantle all the tighter. There was clock sitting upon it, and I concentrated on gazing into its face, and upon the sound of the constant tick-tock, tick-tock...

Swish!

"Urgh.... O... One, my Lady! Th-thank you so very much!"

"Not quick enough, and you cried out first. We will try one more time, you stupid little boy. I know you find it difficult to understand such concepts as obedience and counting, but I should expect you to at least be able to stand there and count to ten. Any further silliness from you and I shall increase the tally to twenty. Do I make myself very clear?"

"Yes, my Lady!"

I was terrified. The pain of those first two blows had been quite astounding, and each cheek of my backside was alive with fiery agony, quite enough to make me forget the searing sensation of the fire in front of me. 

She made me wait for the next stroke. I could hear her booted footfalls, softened by the carpet, as she paced up and down behind me, her timing metronomic, interlinking with the constant ticking of the clock. Up and down, up and down... Once or twice she tested the crop through the air again, and then...

Swish!

"One, my Lady! Thank you, my Lady!"

I shouted it at the top of my lungs, crying out to release the pain as this new strike crossed the first upon my left buttock, but I had managed it! I had taken it! I had been to the pain and I had found I could bear it.

She did not congratulate me, nor praise me, but I did not need it. The loving caress of her crop was enough, and I was overjoyed to feel it swing through the air and bring pain down upon my backside once more, punishing me for being the sinful, wretched little boy that I had discovered myself to be.

"Two, my Lady! Thank you so much for striking me, my Lady"

And so it went on. The agony was blissfully intense, strikes criss-crossing my backside until it was all nothing but a fiery, blossoming world of pain, and I knew for certain that I would not be able to sit down comfortably for some days. I cared not. I had been punished, and it was torture, but it was also exhilarating.

"Well done, boy," she finally offered, once the tenth stroke had been counted off, and her crop placed carefully down upon the wicker chair. As she moved close to me, I suddenly felt one cool, gloved hand smoothing gently across the burning flesh of my behind, exploring to see the damage her correction had wrought.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, with an apparently quite genuine curiosity.

"Abominably, my Lady," I said, weeping gently. The tears mixed with the thick layers of sweat, and the intense heat of the fireplace was once again becoming my prime discomfort. I was sure that the end of my engorged member would become scorched from it, but there was nothing I could do to soften it, especially not with her hand upon me, and her sweet-scented self so close.

"Poor boy..." she patted me softly, and then removed her hand.

"Wait there a moment, pet," she whispered. "Do not move!"

I heard her retire from the room, but I knew not where she went. I was concentrating once more upon the clock, as the pain from the fire was now quite acute, and I did not know for how much longer I would be able to stand there and suffer it. With the cuts and welts wrought upon my backside also throbbing, my skin all over was a perfect clothing of pain, but I knew I deserved it and I did not want her to think that I was any weaker or more pathetic than she already knew me to be.

With these thoughts parading through my mind, I did not know how long it was before she returned. When she did, I saw from the corner of my eye that she was carrying some sort of material in her hands, which she placed on the wicker chair. There were boots on top of the bundle, and I realised suddenly that these were my clothes.

"For you to put on again in a few moments," she explained perfunctorily. "For I know how quickly you will wish to leave once your reward has been given. I know full-well the manner in which you boys behave."

I did not care for any of that, however. My curiosity was overtaken by the earlier part of her speech.

"R... Reward, my Lady?" I asked hopefully.

"Oh yes, my poor dear pet... For how shall I keep you coming back to me unless you are shown that occasionally -- very occasionally -- you may be rewarded for your efforts?"

Suddenly, she was behind me again, and on this occasion her body... Oh, that young body of hers! ... was pressed directly up against my back. I could feel the soft cushioning of her perfect bosom pushing against my skin, slick with sweat as it was. Her chin was resting on my shoulder, and in the glass covering of the clock face I could see the distorted reflection of her eyes looking searchingly into mine.

"Just stay exactly as you are, my sweet..." she commanded. "Look into my eyes..."

I had not expected her hand to reach around me. Not at all. But suddenly she had my swollen, dribbling member in her grasp, and had formed a fist around it. Her hand was still covered with the soft, downy material of the kidskin glove, so very very soothing, and when she slowly began to pump this tightly-gripped fist of hers up and down, I knew that I was in heaven.

"Oh my Lady...." I breathed.

"Shhhhhhhhh, hush now boy. Just enjoy it... Concentrate upon it... Look at me, look at my face in the glass... Look at the face of your Lady..."

The two faces were such a contrast -- hers bright and pale and clear and smooth, so young and fresh and apparently so innocent... Mine old and weathered and darkened, stained by the sins it had witnessed and taken part in.

"Mmmmmmm, can you feel my hand boy? Can you feel me stroking you...?"

Her speech fell into the same rhythm as her stroking of my member, and the effect was wondrous... I do not know, reader, if you have ever experienced such a thing, but I had not, at least not by a hand other than my own, and even in that case not for some time... Looking into her eyes, the eyes of the Woman so, so much younger and so, so much better than I, as she pleasured my straining manhood, as she played me as expertly as a musician might play a fiddle, was so very exquisite...

And all too soon it was over. She pumped and thrust and gazed at me in the glass, and the sweat of my skin lubricated her movement so that she was slickly sliding all the way up and down, pumping me for all I was worth, the electricity of feeling built and built within and I was shaking with the heat and the desire and then... and then...

Oh God. It was like nothing on Earth.

Imagine that all of the nerves in your skin were suddenly transferred to one point. Imagine then that such a feeling came down upon them as if had been directed by the very angels themselves... Oh, but it was no angel who brought this feeling. It was Lucifer, and that made it all the sweeter. The wages of sin...

"Oh God! Oh my Lady! Oh God! Oh GOD!!!!!!!!!!!"

She laughed. And I... I climaxed, reader. I climaxed by the hand of this controlling, dominating Young Woman, the jism shooting from my shaft and landing directly into the fireplace, making the flame spit and sizzle like drops of fat falling from some hogroast.

She pumped and pumped me until I was drained dry, my member left soft and flaccid. Then she stood back, and without a word of command from her I crumpled into a pile upon the carpet, weeping as the feeling died and the shame overtook me. 

What had I done? What had I done?

The Young Lady coughed.

"You had better dress yourself boy, and be gone. No -- I do not want to hear a word from you. I know everything you think you want to say. You are disgusted with yourself, ashamed, you cannot believe you allowed yourself to be taken to such a level of debauchery. That is the tragedy of you boys -- your greatest shame always follows your greatest pleasure. Well, your self-loathing is of no interest to me. You may go."

I said nothing. I could think only of Annabel. Oh dear, sweet Annabel! How could I return now to the marital bed? How could I pollute it with the stench of what I had done?

I hurried into my clothes, and made for the door without even looking at the Young Lady -- curse her, curse her name! -- who stood watching me, with I think some amusement. I said nothing as I hurried along the passage and then out into the relieving cold of the London night, the rain now softer and gentler as it hit my warm, reddened face.

Oh God. What had I done to myself? What had become of me? What might become of me still?

As I ran from the house and tried to find a cab, I swore to myself that I would never experience this sick feeling in the base of my stomach again. Would never return to that house. Would never see that Young Lady evermore.

Oh reader, would that I had kept that promise!



The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 03



Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"

Volume IX, number 19

Issue dated April 1st 1896

When I left you at the conclusion of my previous entry, my kind and patient reader, I had debased myself at the hands of my young beguiler, shamed myself more deeply and more completely than I had ever imagined might be possible. I had seen and experienced things that -- despite possessing what I had arrogantly imagined to be a sound working knowledge of the ways of the world -- I had never dreamed existed.

Oh how I hated myself that night! Cursed my own name as I crawled home bed, too ashamed to dare disturb my dear, sweet, loving Annabel. I took to the bed in the spare room of my dark house, and wept as I tossed and turned and got no sleep at all until just before the break of dawn.

"It is over!" I repeated to myself in defiant whispers, over and again. "It is done with! Finished!"

The next morning was a Saturday, and I rose late. I instructed the maid, Jemima, to prepare a hot bath for me, and did not go downstairs to face the world and my wife until I had soaked in the warm, soothing waters for some time. Trying to soak away the sin, to wash away the stain that went so much deeper than my skin.

Even the task of speaking to Jemima had been arduous -- the girl with the chestnut brown hair and meek and mild manner was only sixteen, a slip of a girl herself and too much of a reminder of the Young Lady in Maple Street. At one point I found myself imagining what it might be like to crawl for Jemima with a smirk upon her face.

Was my mind ruined? Was there no way back to decency and clean-living for me?

I felt a little better after the bath. A clean body helps lend cleanliness to the mind, and I was determined to make that day the first of a fresh start. When I was dried and dressed I finally decided to make a clean break of it and face the world, putting the madness of the past two days behind me.

Annabel was finishing her breakfast and studying that morning's copy of The Times when I joined her in the dining room of our happy little home. I was struck as I entered the room by how utterly beautiful she looked. As she leaned over studying the newsprint, the bright autumnal sunshine was piercing the windowpane and illuminating her lightly-curled, warmly-brown hair, just beginning to be flecked with the grey of her distinguished years, in the most delightful fashion. She was wearing a blue dress of hers that I had always thought most handsome, and as she heard the door open she looked up from the paper and affixed me with a most dazzling smile.

"Darling!"

I wanted the world to swallow me up and destroy me. I wanted, and knew I deserved, to be cast into the deepest, most fiery pits of hell itself. How could I even have thought of betraying such a Woman as this? How could I shame and stain the happy, good, moral little home she and I had built up together? Infect our perfect marriage?

"Hello my dear," I replied thickly, taking a seat at the table and studying the teapot to see how warm the liquid inside remained. I winced as the contact with the chair sent throbbing pains through my tortured posterior, an all-too-pertinent reminder of my recent punishment. Annabel, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort, abandoned her newspaper and rose to sit nearer to me along the table.

"Darling, how are you?" she asked, her eyes full of concern, a soft, delicate hand upon my shoulder. "The Colonel sent a telegram for you here yesterday -- he was most distressed that you did not go and see him on Thursday night... And you worked so late yesterday! Is all well at the bank?"

I shrugged off her hand, and instantly regretted the decision. She was hurt by the gesture, confused that her attempts at comforting me were being rejected, and I felt wretched at making her feel so.

"Is it the Cartwright stocks?" she asked, hiding her distress at my attitude. "I have been reading the reports of their difficulties in the newspaper these past few days... I know of course that the bank has investments tied up in their fortunes..."

"Yes... Yes, something very like that," I managed to say, not meeting her eyes. I could not. I felt sure that if she looked into my eyes she would see right through them into my dirty, filthy soul. I gazed out of the window instead, and concentrated on the chatter and the clatter of the world passing by outside.

"Would it not help to discuss it?" she asked, very lightly, not wanting to press the matter too far. I think I waved a hand dismissively at her. I had never before hidden any work matters from her, but how could I possibly discuss what ailed me?

"It is... complicated. There are certain private accounts, confidential matters... And in any case, all too dry and dull a set of affairs to sully a weekend with, my dear!"

I managed a thin smile then, and did finally turn to face her. She was trying desperately hard to look comforting, and to hide her concern. Finally, she stood back up and went to the window.

"It is a fine day outside!" she enthused, gazing up at the clear blue sky. "Perhaps we could go for a walk down to the park later on? You know how you enjoy the autumnal shades of the trees so... It always raises your spirits, being closer to nature. It would be so lovely!"

Such innocent, charming pursuits! How could I tell her that I was a devil undeserving of such homely pleasures?

"Oh, and I quite forgot to mention!" she continued, dashing across to the side table, upon which the letters brought by the morning post had been deposited. "There was a letter from James this morning! Oh, you should see how he writes! He is quite the young Gentleman, I am sure!"

She carried across the letter, written in neat and delicate script, from our youngest son. He was currently in his penultimate term at prep school, and next year would be joining our oldest boy up at Wincastle, if the fees could be afforded. My position at the bank ought to have been enough to cover the costs comfortably, but supposing I had compromised my position? Supposing somebody had discovered my dreadful, dark secret? I could have brought the lives of all of my family crashing down into ruin.

"So lovely, don't you think?" she said, handing me the letter. I could barely concentrate on reading it, my hands made the paper tremble so.

"Darling? My love, what's the matter?"

I could say nothing to her. I flung the letter to the table and, ignoring her protestations, strode out into the hallway, swiftly picked up my coat and hat and went out into the cold, clear air of the street. I knew not where I was headed, only that I could be shut up with the guilt no longer.

Slowly, matters improved somewhat.

It seems very hard to believe. Perhaps it is simply that my soul is degraded and beyond repair, but I do not believe that you too, reader, have not had some similar experience. If you have read this far, you must perhaps have at least some crumb of sympathy for my bedevilled plight, and I trust I am not taking too great a liberty to suggest that you too have done things of which you are ashamed.

And no matter how terrible it seems, the guilt fades, does it not? As time marches onward and Chronos places greater distance between oneself and one's previous actions, so gradually one's feelings and emotions fall into their previous balance, and you suppose that after all you might live life again as once you did.

It took some days, but I was even able to lie with Annabel again, and not feel that I had ruined any prospect of ever being intimate with her evermore. No longer did I constantly see the face of my intoxicating Young Lady in my mind. I found that I could banish her from my thoughts. I buried myself into my work at the bank, was a doting and devoted husband once more at home, and after a while I even began to be able to visit the Colonel again, at his new address.

I was very careful, however. I ensured that I always took a taxi to the far end of Maple Street, and no matter how inclement the weather I walked the distance down to number eleven. To have gone the shorter route and taken a cab directly to his door would have meant passing number twenty-two, and I was not strong enough to steel myself to be able to do that. If I did not see that accursed dwelling, I could perhaps pretend that it did not exist. That its occupant had been a figment of my imagination, and the whole sad and sorry affair had never occurred.

A little over two months went past.

It was the middle of January, I recall distinctly. The boys had lately returned to their respective schools after a long and very pleasant Christmas period with Annabel and I, where we were all together and jolly and thought of sin and depravity could not have been further from my mind. 

It was dark and rainy outside, and even in the middle of the morning the day had the gloom of midwinter clinging to it. The skies were heavy with cloud, and the raindrops battered constantly against the windows of my office like a barrage of artillery in some interminable battle. But nonetheless, I was happy to concentrate upon my work -- I am not being immodest when I say that I was a very capable and dedicated servant of the firm, which was why I had managed to progress so comparatively swiftly in my field. Even with my grey hairs sprouting through, there were not many of equivalent rank within the company who were less than ten years my senior.

I recall hearing an exchange of voices in the outer room of the office, and I registered that one of them was female, but I did not look up from the ledger upon which I was concentrating. Simmons then walked carefully into the room, stopped a few paces short of my desk and coughed politely to alert me to his presence.

"What is it Simmons?" I asked irritably, without looking up. I was in the midst of a particularly taxing calculation, and had no wish to be distracted.

"I'm sorry sir, but there is a young lady here who is very insistent upon seeing you."

I ignored him for a few moments more, finishing the sum, my brow furrowed in concentration, before finally I looked up. Simmons was engaging in his immensely disagreeable habit of shifting his weight from one leg to the other, making it appear as if he wobbled slightly where he stood, an undertaking he often practised when anxious or excited.

"I have no appointment with any young lady," I told him dismissively. "You have made no such appointment on my behalf and neglected to inform me, I presume?"

"No sir, but... Well..."

"Out with it man!"

"Well, the young lady says that she is a cousin of yours, sir... Evidently she has some business to conduct with the bank, and she was most firm with Mr Hobson downstairs that she wished to speak only with you, sir. Mr Hobson sent for me, and, well... The lady does have one of your personal business cards in her possession, sir."

This, I readily surmised, must be the lady whose voice I had heard from Simmons's alcove in the outer office. I could not see through the doorway between his workplace and mine as he was standing directly in the way, so I had no intelligence of whom this young lady might be. But if Simmons -- the young idiot! -- had already seen her upstairs, then it would be rude of me to dismiss her.

"Perhaps, sir, if you're busy I could see to the young lady's needs and present you with a report?"

He was practically slobbering over his disgusting, rubbery lips, and it was easy to tell that this was obviously an attractive young lady, hence his particular interest in assisting her. Hang the business card -- that was probably the only reason why he had allowed her upstairs.

"No, Simmons, you had best show her in."

Partly this was because I had no wish to inflict his attentions upon the lady, whoever she might be, and partly I admit it was because I enjoyed frustrating his ambitions quite immensely. He really was a most stupid and vexing young man, not the stuff the bank was made of at all.

"Are you sure, sir?"

His disappointment was evident.

"Yes, thank you, Simmons. Now show the lady in, and we shall see what this is all about."

He bowed slightly.

"Very good sir."

He turned and strode to the connecting door, calling through to whoever was on the other side.

"You may come through now."

He led the young lady into the room.

Not any young lady, of course. Have you guessed? Of course you have. You are not slow, I realise that.

It was the Young Lady.

I gaped. My mouth was open and slack and my eyes wide. She appeared quite cool and calm and collected, but there was a look upon her face, a sign in her eyes that said all-too-clearly "Did you think that you would never see me again, boy?"

And oh, how beautiful she looked!

She wore a red dress with black trim, topped with a matching hat in the popular style. The dress was long but thin, clinging more tightly to her hips than might perhaps have been deemed decent even five years earlier, but was now very much the fashion with the young ladies about town. She was clearly inserted into a tight-fitting corset beneath the dress, which greatly accentuated the swell of her bosom. Her cheeks were barely dusted with the lightest traces of rouge. She was immaculate, and bone dry -- an umbrella which she casually handed to Simmons as if he were the butler was the explanation for that.

"Sir?"

It was Simmons who snapped me out of my awestruck state. He was frowning in concern and, I think, curiosity. I only hoped that he was as stupid as I supposed, as it would have been readily apparent to even a mildly intelligent observer just what an effect the Young Lady's arrival had had upon me.

"Thank you Simmons, that will be all," I found myself saying quietly.

"Are... are you quite sure, sir?"

The Young Lady was smiling in self-satisfaction, but had said nothing as of yet. She merely stood beside Simmons, in front of my desk, awaiting her moment.

"Yes Simmons... Very sure." My throat was very dry. There was a decanter of water upon the desk, and I hurriedly poured a glass, giving myself a moment or two to try and regain my composure. I was shaking. It was as if I were confronted by a ghost -- or perhaps a demon.

"Oh, and Simmons?"

"Sir?"

He stopped halfway to the doorway.

"Close the door behind you, Simmons. This is... a very private matter. And then you may take your luncheon."

"Oh, but I am planning to take my luncheon later, sir, I'm meeting my --"

"Damn your eyes man!"

Simmons got the point, and retreated sharply.

"Yes sir."

He bolted out of the room, closing the door behind him. A few moments later there came the muffled sound of the outer door closing also, and the Young Lady and I were alone.

She strode slowly forward towards the chair opposite the desk, the heavy boots I supposed she wore under her skirt clicking sharply against the polished wooden floor. She was looking around the spacious room with some approval.

"So..."

My collar was awfully tight suddenly. I loosened it, and took another gulp of the water.

"There is nothing for you here!" I said hurriedly.

She sat down, turning sideways in the chair and crossing one leg over the other. The skirt rose up, and I saw that she was indeed wearing her high-heeled black boots. Perhaps the very same pair that I had... That I had...

"Oh, I think there is, dear boy," she said. "It has been such a long time since you came to see me, pet! And please, none of this pretence that you do not want to, I know what a sham it all is. But as you could not pluck up the courage to come and see me, I have come to you -- is that not generous of me, do you not think?"

She was smiling, but I was furious. I stood and marched to the window, thumping my fist on the sill.

I could not look at her.

"I am a decent, married man!" insisted, looking down into the street. "What happened before was... It was an aberration... A... mistake..."

"You love your wife very much," she said softly. It was not a taunt, but a statement of fact.

"Yes!" I agreed. "Yes, I do... I am glad that you can see that... I... I have no wish for there to be any kind of unpleasant scene between us..."

"But you're thinking about me right now, not her..." she continued, her voice dripping with honey. "You are thinking, if I know my little boy as I think I do, of crawling across the floor to kiss my boot... Or perhaps of how I beat you... You liked that, didn't you pet? You loved being punished for what you are, what you want... Do you still have the scars, pet? I'd love to see them... Or perhaps you are thinking of how I took you in my hand and..."

"Stop it!"

I had shouted somewhat louder than I had intended to, and was afraid those in the nearby offices might have heard, but I that moment I cared not. I spun around to confront her.

And stopped dead.

All the time she had been speaking, she had been drawing her skirt up her legs. Now she held it bunched at her waist, and sitting side-on on the chair as she did, I was afforded the most wonderful, spectacular, arousing view of her naked, shapely leg, exposed for the world to see, clad in the tight-fitting leather boot.

"You missed me, didn't you boy?" she asked gently. I was gazing at her leg. She did not appear to mind.

"I..."

My arousal was hard as iron within my breeches. I traipsed forlornly back to my desk and collapsed into my chair. Head in hands.

"Oh God..."

I wanted her. I wanted to crawl to her, to kneel at her feet and run butterfly kisses all the way up that wonderful, smooth, silken leg.

"You're so young..." I moaned. I looked up, a thought having struck me. "How did you...?"

She smiled even more devilishly at that, still holding her skirt with one hand and reaching for a pocket with the other. She withdrew from it a slightly battered business card, which she reached forward and placed into the edge of my desk.

Mine, certainly.

"I took it from your jacket when I returned your clothes after beating you -- do you remember?" She asked as casually as one might ask a friend if they remembered the time you had gone to the teahouse together. "Yes, of course you do, my pet. How could you not? I thought it might be advantageous to know your place of work should you ever try and escape me, pet. I know you boys do take these silly little turns -- but you want to be my plaything, don't you?"

Just say no, I was telling myself. My mind was screaming at my mouth to say the words, but my eyes were latched upon her legs, and furthermore had noticed that her silky pink drawers were visible, just barely, in the space between them...

I am a weak and feeble man. 

"Does my pet want a closer look...?" she asked obligingly.

"Please..." I whispered.

"Very well then, just a quick glance for you, my boy."

"No! No, that is not what I meant, I... I..."

She turned forwards in the chair, her skirt still held high. Slowly, oh-so-very slowly, she spread her legs, sliding them wide apart, feet facing sideways out, displaying their nakedness and the bare, milky skin of her thighs... Then she lifted the dress even further, and there in the centre...

Short, French-cut, expensive pink silk drawers. I could not look away. I challenge any man reading this to say that he could. I knew it was wrong, I knew how much younger than me she was... But she had me held fast in her grip.

"This is wrong..." I whispered.

"Stop it then," she challenged me. "You are the 'man' here, are you not? The powerful banker... Surely you have all of the authority and the control here? Who am I but a mere girl? Surely, if the world works in the fashion that you suppose it to, you can send me from here in shame and disgrace?"

She held her skirt there a few moments more, and we were locked in silence as I stared at something I had never seen-- for no woman had ever displayed herself to me in such a fashion before! -- and then eventually, achingly, she allowed the skirt to drop, and leaned forward with a distinctly pleased expression upon her face.




The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 03



"But you cannot, can you?" she asked, a taunting eyebrow raised. "You can attempt to ignore me, perhaps, but when I am here, you cannot run away. You do not wish to. You're my pet, boy -- my playtoy. And I do enjoy playing with you so very, very much... I wonder what that boy Simmons would think if he knew his Master was in the thrall of a Lady even younger than he, the secretary, is?"

"What do you want from me?" I asked weakly.

"As it happens, I do by chance have some business with your bank. Rather a pleasing little accident of fate, do you not think, pet?"

As she spoke, she undid a top button of her dress, which fell open slightly, revealing a tantalising glimpse of the ebony-coloured corset beneath. From within, she pulled out a thin, folded sheaf of papers which had evidently been carefully concealed in an interior pocket. She reached forward and placed them on the desk next to the business card. She did not immediately rebutton her dress. I could see the flesh of her cleavage forced upwards and spilling over the edge of the corset. 

I felt quite faint. 

She smirked, knowing full well at what I was looking.

"Concentrate, boy. I know it is terribly difficult for you, but we have business to discuss. Come along. I'm sure that even you can keep your mind away from your amours for a few moments."

She made me sound so very pathetic. But I knew that I was. For as I picked up the papers, my heart leapt to feel how warm they still were, from having been pressed so closely to her flesh.

"Wh... what are they?" I asked, unfolding the documents.

"My great uncle recently passed away, and he appears to have held a rather substantial account with your institution," she explained, leaning casually back in the chair, the swell of her slightly-exposed bosom rising and falling with her breath.

A sudden, brief, momentary desire to rip open her bodice and know what it was like to spill my seed across her magnificent breasts flashed across my mind. It took my breath away. I blinked and it was gone, but I felt as if I had been hit by a speeding steam engine.

"I... er... that is to say..."

I fumbled with the papers, almost dropping them. She giggled.

"I said concentrate, pet. Really, you are such a silly little thing."

I forced myself to follow the writing and figures imprinted on the paper. It seemed that indeed her relative had held quite a significant figure with us. The papers appeared to be in order, but what had the account to do with her?

"The money was left to me in his last will and testament," she said, in answer to my unasked question. Did she know my mind so well already, as to anticipate anything I might ask? "He had no other living relatives," she continued.

"That is... um... all very well, ah... madam..."

"My Lady."

The correction was sudden and forceful. That look of steel returned to her face. I fumbled the papers again, dropping them to the desk. 

"My Lady," I said apologetically, bowing my head. 

Why? Why?

"You are wondering whether I propose to simply walk out of here with his money without any evidence of my claim? Of course you are. You think I am a stupid little girl. Well do not forget, boy, that this girl owns every inch of you, and can do with you as she pleases. But... in answer to your query -- his solicitors, Prentice & Jarlow, will ratify my claim. You know them?"

"I know of them... my Lady." The honorific was added hurriedly, but she nodded her approval anyhow.

"Excellent. Then you will be able to make the arrangements...?"

"You... erm... you hold an account with us?"

It had occurred to me that even now I did not know her name. She knew all about me -- my name, my place of work, enough to ruin me utterly, and I knew only her address, and not even that for certain. It could be somewhere rented, the house of a friend, any one of a number of things.

"No. But I will accept the money in either notes or gold bullion, whichever is most convenient for my boy's little toy bank to provide."

She was mocking one of the most august financial institutions in the Empire. But then, if I were a part of it, how esteemed could it be?

"You will tell me what you have arranged when you come to visit me on Wednesday evening of next week," she explained casually. This stopped me dead, in fear and lust and excitement and surprise and... Oh, a torrent of emotions all wrapped up together!

"My Lady?"

"You heard me perfectly well, boy," she replied curtly. "Wednesday next, you will come to my house at eight in the evening. You will tell me what you have arranged. And then of course you will be severely punished for all these weeks of having ignored me. You did not think that I was simply going to forget about all of that, did you, little boy?"

Images of whips and cuts and whelts came unbidden to my head. Of dark rooms, and torments, and of an aching, powerful arousal. I told myself that I did not want this, that it was not who I was, but the more the images came the more I knew that I did want it. More than anything, I desired to be punished for my sins, and the Young Lady was the one person who knew about them and could administer the deserved punishment.

"Yes, my Lady," I found myself saying, dumbstruck at my immediate agreement.

"Excellent! I knew you would agree! Such a good little boy... Well, some of the time, anyway.... Stand up pet."

The change of tone in her voice from praise to command was striking, and it jerked me quite involuntarily into action in the manner of a hound commanded by his master's voice. Or mistress's voice, in my case. I stood, embarrassed that the great bulge in my breeches was so obviously visible, and she giggled once more as her eyes fixed upon it.

"Dearie me boy! Such a dirty little creature... Come here, boy."

One delicate finger beckoned me forward. I was powerless to resist. Simmons might have returned at any moment. I found that I cared not a jot.

"Closer," she commanded, and I moved around the desk and walked right up to her as she continued to beckon. Eventually, with the tips of my shoes practically touching the ends of her boots, she moved her finger around in a slow arc and pointed to the ground.

"Kneel, pet," she said quietly.

"I..."

"Kneel."

I knelt. She smiled.

"Good boy. Now... give me your hand."

I reached out my right hand, and she took a firm grasp of it by the wrist. With her other hand, she began to pull her skirts up about her waist again, until once more the exciting, forbidden flesh of her young thighs was visible. And, of course, the soft pink material of her silky drawers, the most tantalising and erotic sight I think I had ever seen. I was so close, so very close, my face perhaps a foot away from that soft flesh and the veil of material at the centre.

I trembled. She looked down upon me like a Goddess from the mountaintop. Then slowly, slowly pulled my hand forward to her thigh, pressing my fingers against the warm, soft flesh. I had curled my fingers into a fist, but she admonished me to allow them free roam.

"Stroke it," she commanded.

"My Lady, it is not proper!"

"There is nothing more natural in the world, pet. Now... stroke it!"

I slowly, nervously, unfurled my fingers and allowed the tips to play across the wonderfully silky flesh. I felt as if my fingers were skimming across the surface of a vat of the finest cream. The Young Lady closed her eyes and leaned her head back, sighing slightly.

"Good boy..." she whispered, taking my hand and moving it a little further up her thigh. The flesh was warm and soft and wonderful to touch, but it felt so very wrong... That was a part of why it was so very, very exciting, I think. I was taut, fit to burst. I wanted this to end, and I wanted it never to stop.

"Good little boy..." she repeated. Then, eyes open once more and looking down at me, she pulled my hand again, this time right up to that most private and forbidden part of her.

"No, my Lady!" I gasped in horror, attempting to pull back, but her grip on my wrist was too tight, and she forced my hand forward until my resistant fingers were brushing against the thin material of her underthings.

"Do not defy me, boy!" she said, her voice full of threat. "Don't forget, that I can destroy you right here and now, pet. I need only call for help..."

I did not dare think about what lay fractions of an inch away from my fingers, beneath the lacy material, the single wisp of clothing left preserving her modesty. It was against everything I had been brought up to believe was right and proper and true.

"Slip your fingers under the material," she commanded softly and simply. "Stroke it. Pleasure your Lady, boy."

I looked up at her fearfully.

"I... I have never..."

She appeared surprised.

"Aw, the little wife at home has never...? No...? No, you have simply never asked, have you pet?"

"I would never ask such a thing of Annabel!" I gasped in complete shock and horror. The thought of it! Oh my Annabel! Allowing my hand anywhere near... It was vile.

"You would be surprised," the Young Lady told me. I had bunched my fingers together once more, but she pressed them firmly against the fabric, then allowed the dress to fall around my arm as she gripped my chin in her free hand, lifted my face up to her and leaned over, looking intently into my eyes.

"Touch me," she ordered. "Now."

My fingers spread. It was... It... Oh reader, how can I pretend? I am flesh and blood; skin and bone. Of course I was curious. How could I not be so? Please, reader, pity me. I was overcome with desire and with curiosity. My defences crumbled, all excuses gone and spent.

I slid two of my fingers underneath the material. I felt the tips brush against something very warm and wet and smooth, and I gasped in shock.

Just as she gasped in delight, her eyes lighting like fireworks and her bright white teeth exposed in a smile of joy. I felt my heart nearly burst to see her so pleased, and all thoughts of Annabel were gone as I brushed my fingers along her... her... her wetness once more, delighting in soliciting a similar reaction.

"Good boy!" she enthused. "Oh, such a good little boy!"

I ran the fingers across again, exploring the new world opened up to me, closing my eyes and feeling my way across the contours and textures of this most exquisitely feminine world. She was sighing more deeply now, rhythmically, in time with my strokes across her tender and ever-more-damp flesh.

"Are you certain you have not done this before, boy?" she teased.

"Of course not!" I insisted. "I have never... And Annabel would never..."

My protests were weak. She ignored them.

"Do it faster, my little playtoy," she encouraged, flushed and happy. "Come along now toy. Pleasure you Lady! Mmmmmmm, yes, come along! Faster! Faster!"

I stroked ever faster, my fingers slippy and wet with the juices I could only guess at the origins of, liquids I had known of the existence of beforehand but something that had never been spoken of when my wife and I had engaged in our conjugality. But this... this was nothing like that. This was a world away from the soft romantic evenings we had passed in our bed at home... This was something altogether filthier and more furtive, more shameful and sinful, and so, so much more exciting that I was half afraid I was about to spill my seed within my trousers, there and then, kneeling on the floor of my office with my hand within the underwear of a delicate young lady.

"Harder!" she demanded, and I was confused for a moment as to what she meant, when suddenly she used her grip upon my wrist to force my fingers more deeply behind her clothing and... and into her.

My fingers were inside of her!

"My Lady!" I gasped.

"Oh God!"

Her exclamation was followed my a deep, unmistakeable moan of pleasure that I was terrified would have every clerk in the bank running to the room in search of its origin, but it also thrilled me more deeply and fully than anything else I had so far experienced. I felt the muscles of her... of her cooze contract sharply against my fingers, and she moaned again and forced herself forward onto them, until they were so deep inside of her that the remainder of my hand was pushed hard against her wetness, grinding the soggy material of her underclothes against her flesh.

"Good boy!" she gasped, before sighing once more and then finally, finally pulling my wrist away and allowing my fingers to slide out of her, and for my arm to emerge from underneath her skirt.

I gazed at the glistening dampness upon them as she sat still upon the chair, her chest heaving, her breath coming back to her. Her usually implacable face was flushed red, and she gazed at me, grinning widely.

"Well done boy!" she exclaimed, looking even younger than she was. I felt as if I were some puppy dog who had just performed a clever trick for her.

"I.... I..."

"Oh be quiet boy, if I wanted you to speak I would have asked you to, would I not? Now... You had better clean yourself up, pet."

I frowned once more, not comprehending.

"My Lady?"

"Your fingers, boy," she said, the smile fading, and a look of intense, eager command replacing it. "Lick them clean."

This was a new horror upon horrors. But the arousal was still painfully intense, and by curiosity on fire to know what it might taste like.

"I cannot... It is... I..."

"Lick. Them. Clean." Her face assumed a mock-offended aspect. "Or perhaps you do not care to sample the taste of your Lady?"

That was enough to persuade me. With a last, lingering look at the way the sticky liquids clung to my skin, I closed my eyes, steeled myself and plunged the fingers into my mouth, Simmons and the clerks and my work and my wife and everything else be damned. I had come this far on this insane journey, what difference was a little further into the mire now?

She tasted wonderful, of course. It was like nothing I had known before, sticky and sweet and... so intimate. So arousing. It was quite the most powerful aphrodisiac I had ever known, and in that moment I would have done anything for her. Absolutely anything. The sin and depravity of what I had done, what I was doing, had driven me insane with desire, and all wisdom and common sense had departed me. There was only the Young Lady, and my urge to please and to pleasure her.

"Good boy," she said, rising to her feet and ruffling my hair. I opened my eyes -- she was walking towards the door, composure restored, every inch the refined young heiress. 

Whilst I had been reduced to kneeling upon the floor of my office, sucking my fingers.

"I shall expect you next Wednesday, then, at eight o'clock precisely," she reminded me. "Oh -- and do not be late, boy. It is bad enough for you already, my pet -- but it could get so very, very much worse..."

With that she was gone. But my aching, tortuous arousal remained. And I knew, knew for certain, that run and hide and try as I might, there could never be any escape now from the thrall of the Young Lady of Maple Street. 



The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 04



Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"

Volume IX, number 20

Issue dated April 8th 1896

*

I wonder, my friend, have you ever been bound?

It is a marvellously liberating experience, with much to recommend it. Oh yes, I can well predict how you may be gazing at this page askance, wondering if these lines can possibly be written by the same upstanding Gentleman who composed the previous entries, but I can assure you that they are. 

And I am most earnest in my claim, I can well assure you. To be bound is a wonderful thing, because it lifts the souls and calms the mind. It removes from the conscience any sense that you may be responsible for your own actions, for when you are held fast by the most secure of bonds, you are capable of undertaking no actions at all of your own volition. Things can only be done to you, rather than by you, and you are not answerable for that.

No, once I was in her lair and secured in my bonds, it was all because of her. That beautiful, enigmatic, quite addictive Young Lady and her commanding and controlling ways.

I do not suppose that you imagined for one moment I would not have succumbed to the temptation and obeyed her command to attend her residence upon the Wednesday of the following week? No, of course not. You know too much about me and my foolish ways by now. You know how weak I am, and how easily commanded by the beauty of the flesh and the dominion of the mind.

So for all of my black moods, for all of my wrestling with what was left of my morality, and for all of the pain and suffering my unspoken depression and upset inflicted upon poor Annabel and my colleagues at the bank, I knew in my heart of hearts that there was never the slightest doubt as to what I should do when Wednesday evening came.

I had to see more of the Young Lady. I had to attend for the punishment I was aware that I fully deserved. It was a compulsion, and when it came down to the matter of it, I knew that I had no choice but to obey.

On this occasion it was the Colonel's house I was required to avoid when travelling to Maple Street, so I ensured the cab I took from the bank brought me to the far end of the street, enabling me to walk to the fateful number twenty-two without needing to pass the house of my good friend and take the slightest risk, however small, of discovery.

Even as I ascended the steps to her doorway, a voice inside of my mind was insisting to me that I still had the opportunity turn and flee, that even with all that had happened thus far I did not need to go inside and to see her. But the voice was a quiet one, quieter still now each time I have seen her. 

The door was ajar, just as it had been upon my last visit there. I pushed it open with my free hand -- the left was clutching a thick sheaf of bank papers, and correspondence between ourselves and her solicitors, all confirming that she was indeed entitled to the inheritance to which she had made claim. She was very soon to be a Lady of some not inconsiderable wealth, but I thought nothing of that as I opened the door and stepped into the again dimly-lit hallway.

As upon my previous visit, she stood in the shadows at the end of the hallway, by the doorway past which I had so thoroughly shamed myself. Even that did not come instantly to mind on this occasion, however -- for the appearance of the Young Lady was quite the most mesmerising thing about the place.

Her hair was on this particular occasion tied tightly back, which leant her a slightly more mature aspect. Her shoulders were shockingly naked, as she wore only a very tight black leather corset, which left very little indeed to the imagination in regards to her décolletage. It accentuated her perfect, feminine shape, but was not half so eye-catching as the skirt she wore.

For it was quite unlike any other garment I had ever seen a Lady, or a female of any kind, wear. It was a black leather skirt, tight to her hips and so indecently short as to be of little practical use in preserving her modesty at all -- why, I swear to you, as God's honest truth, it came down to at the very best two inches below the knee. Two inches!

To complement this she wore a pair of black boots new to my eyes, but similar to the pair I had so worshipped on a previous occasion. This particular pair had more sharply pointed toes, a higher heel at the back and came slightly less high up her leg, leaving a great expanse of quite indecently exposed flesh between their tops and the hem of her skirt.

I am not sure that I said or did anything for a full minute after entering that house. I simply stared. I could not even swear to the fact that I remembered to breathe or not.

"Close the door, pet," she commanded, smiling the wicked smile of the devouring Goddess. "It is a little chilly to be leaving the house open to the elements, do you not think?"

"Y... yes, my Lady."

I pushed the door firmly closed, sealing myself within the house and abandoning my fate to whatever she might have in mind for me this evening.

"And how has my clever little boy been progressing with his work? You have brought good news for your Lady, I trust?"

The enquiry was spoken most politely, but the signs upon her face, the slightly raised eyebrow, and the look in her eye all told me all-too-clearly that unless I had brought good tidings, my suffering would be all the more severe.

Note, reader, how I had already long accepted that there would be some degree of suffering to be had whatever I might say to her!

"I... er.."

Her look faded from smiling to stern, and I remembered just in time the sheaf of papers I held in my hand. I waved them rather, I must confess, ineffectually around in front of me.

"There is indeed good news, my Lady," I said, desperate to please her. My instincts had taken complete command of the ship that was my body, and would take no argument from my more rational senses. "The, er... The arrangements with your solicitors have proven to be most satisfactory. There is no doubt that you are the entitled party... It will just take the bank a few weeks to... um... assemble the assets..."

Perhaps when that was done, she would let me alone?

Oh God, what if she did let me alone?

"A few weeks?" She frowned deeply. "I had expected a somewhat shorter period... Nonetheless, I know how long it takes you silly boys to achieve anything. I suppose I ought to be grateful it is not months!"

I allowed the arm holding the papers to fall, and bowed my head.

"I am sorry, my Lady..."

"Never mind, pet. Just leave the papers on the side table there. I think the little boy can stop playing at being a grown-up banker now. It is time for you to assume the role to which you are so much more naturally inclined."

With a thick lump of anticipation and dread clogging my throat, I discarded the papers as commanded.

"You know what you must do for me, pet," she instructed.

"Oh my Lady, please..."

"Now pet, do not disappoint me..."

She folded her arms beneath her corseted bosom, turning slightly side-on, the very picture of dominance and regality. 

"My Lady..." I begged, knowing the shame to which I was inevitably to be instructed.

"Do it," she commanded.

I paused. Just for a moment.

Then I nodded, my blood pumping oh-so-swiftly around my veins and my fingers taking to the buttons of my jacket, beginning to remove it. I was to cast aside the foolish garments of the outside world, the costume I adopted to carry out the pretence that I was a good and upstanding member of the community. I was to reveal my true, naked self.

For her. The Young Lady.

"That's right, pet," she cooed in satisfaction as I began to discard my attire, a process made all the more shameful by how excited it made me. I dreaded and at the same instant could not wait for the moment when my shame would be fully revealed, and she would see how tall and proud and hard I had become. All because of her.

All-too-quickly I had brought myself down to nakedness once more, and I was all-too-pleased to discover that my Young Lady was looking over my shame with some approval, particularly noting the frustrated stiffness of my member, which her attire and manner did little to dispel. My passions became all the more inflamed as she began to stride down the corridor towards me, her clinging leather skirt sliding above her knees as she walked; my eyes were upon her beguiling boots, however, which exerted their strange and terrible power upon me.

"Very nice, pet," she said softly, smiling a little as she reached me, and trailed a finger down my bare chest. I shivered under her touch; I felt uncannily akin to some mouse made the plaything of a cat before its final, fatal devouring.

My member twitched; she was so close that the very tip of it that it almost brushed against her skirt. Oh, how I wanted it to! I was gone, all gone, completely given over to the desire to crawl for her and be her slave. So when she reached into the cabinet upon which I had placed her papers, opened it up and extracted from it a thick leather collar, of the type one might use to restrain an arrant pet...

Oh reader, I wanted to melt!

"My Lady...?" I asked, my voice all-a-quiver.

"Oh come along boy, you know what this is for!" she insisted, with a girlish playfulness in her words. "You're my little pet -- it is time I started treating you like one. Now hold still for me, boy, and I have no wish to hear any of your extraneous noise or fuss, do you understand?"

She had fallen into the manner of the prim schoolmistress once more. I could merely nod.

"Yes, my Lady."

"Excellent..."

I cannot tell you how magnificent it felt to have her leather-gloved hands about my neck, sliding soft and cool across my shoulders as she brought the collar around me like a hangman with his noose. The leather was thick and tight, and had a metal hoop bound about it which chilled the skin as she buckled the collar close against me. I coughed, half-choked for a moment, and she slackened it slightly -- but only very slightly.

It was terrible.

It was wonderful, so wonderful!

"Comfortable?" she asked.

I was not at all, but I did my best to nod for her once more, all movement of the neck now quite severely restricted by the collar.

"Yes my Lady," I rasped.

"I knew you would like it! I'm ever so pleased!"

She petted me -- petted me, as a girl might her pet dog! -- tickling me under the chin with one finger, then taking her hand back and clasping the gloved hands together in glee.

"Oh wonderful, my little darling. You look wonderful!"

In spite of it all, I was pleased.

"Thank you, my lady."

"Mmmmmmm... Now kneel for me, pet. You know how you love to."

I did not protest. How could I? I was naked, collared, obeying her every command... To protest at kneeling for her would have been futile, and against my very nature. In that moment, in that house, I was hers entirely, and the slightest command I had to obey.

I need not add, I suppose, that to obey such commands also made the world seem sweet and life seem to have a purpose beyond any it had held before. Oh how had I ever lived before without a Young Lady to humiliate and command me? Without a well-proportioned young heel to crawl to? It was as if I had been blind my whole life, and only now saw.

My duty was to serve women. And this Lady, in particular.

So I knelt on all-fours, my head bowed, adoring the constriction of the collar and the binding nature of it. I was all the more excited when she returned to the cabinet beside me and pulled out a second item which had resided within.

"Life your head up for me, little one," this woman a quarter of a century younger than me commanded.

"My Lady?"

I did as ordered, and was shocked to discover that I was in direct line-of-sight with the hem of her skirt. As I looked up further still, this became quite irrelevant as I discovered that between her hands she held a long length of slim chain. She was twisting and turning it, curling some of its ends around her bunches fists, smiling as a girl smiles at a new doll she has just been given.

"We're going to play a game!" she told me, with a manner of icy delight to her tone. "It's going to be ever so much fun, little pet! Just you see! Head up, let me get at you..."

I lifted my head as bidden.

At one end of her chain was a clasp, which she used to attach its length to the hoop of metal upon my collar. At the other end was a leather strap, which she held tight in one hand as she moved around, stepped across me and placed one gorgeous, booted foot on either side of me, standing directly across my kneeling form as I sat motionless on all-fours.

I knew what was going to happen. It seemed right, natural, just as feeling her tug experimentally upon the chain, jerking my head upwards still further, felt right and natural also. For perhaps the first time since I had been in her service, I felt calm and composed. 

This was where I had waited so long in my life to be. It was terrible and wonderful and shaming and exquisite all at once.

"Giddy up, pet!" she whispered mockingly, as she jerked the chain again and then sat down upon my naked back. I could feel the leather of her skirt press against me, the warmth of her skin pulsing through it, and dark thoughts crossed my mind as to what she wore beneath the skirt.

Leather drawers, perhaps?

Oh that thought... the very idea...

She lifted her feet from the ground as she sat upon me, and dug her sharp, pointed heels into my flesh.

"I said giddy up!" she reiterated crossly, once more pulling the chain with which she held me, half choking me.

"Yes, my Lady!" I coughed, beginning to plod slowly forwards.

It seemed impossible for even myself to believe that a few short hours earlier I had been a respectable banker in one of the most esteemed financial institutions in all of England. I do not think that anybody would have believed me to be such had they seen me then, a pony-ride for a girl all in leather, and why would they? I was nothing, a boy, a slaveling, and I had never felt such joy in all of my days.

When we reached the end of the hallway, I was about to turn left into the room in which I had previously been punished, but she responded to this attempt by both digging her heels once more into my vulnerable flesh, and at the same time spanking me most fiercely upon the buttocks with her free hand, the stinging rebuke exciting speculation of punishments to come within me.

"Stop!" she ordered sharply.

I instantly did as commanded, and to my surprise to reached to her right, to the doorway of the cupboard beneath the stairs. With a click it came open, and as it swung I noticed that there was a guttering light emanating from within, albeit evidently from down a flight of steps.

A cellar, then. And one that had obviously been made ready for my arrival.

"Down you go, pet," she instructed, smacking my fleshy hindquarters once again.

"My Lady, I am not sure that..."

Smack!

Yes, another! And now she leaned forward, her tongue lapping at my ear as she whispered:

"Do not think for one moment of questioning me, boy! You are nothing -- remember that. A pet. A toy. Nothing. You obey all commands issued to you by a Lady, especially this Lady. Now move, pet -- bear me downward!"

Still uncertain of my ability to convey her safely down the stone steps that descended into the dimly-lit cellar, I nonetheless, took a deep breath and carried her across the threshold and into the darkness.

The stairs were not steep, but they were very cold and awkward to negotiate, especially when crawling and having to be so very careful of the precious cargo which I held upon my back. 

"Careful boy!" she warned me, constantly pulling upon my collar, meaning I could barely breathe by the time that we reached the final step, a good six feet or so down into the gloom, which was indeed lit by an ornate candelabra, placed on top of a fine old oak cabinet, which was pushed against the far wall

This was almost, but not quite, the only furnishing of any kind present. There was one more item, the like of which I had never seen before, and as I dared to look up and take in my new surroundings, my concentration was instantly fixed upon it. It was both breathtakingly thrilling and utterly terrifying all at once. I hope you will forgive me if I pause my narrative here in order to furnish your fevered imaginations with some description, as I think the item bears it.

In essence, it was a large wooden frame, made of stout polished timbers. It was rectangular, perhaps eight feet in height and five feet across. In each corner, crossbars ran diagonally to strengthen the structure, and to these crossbars were attached heavy leather cuffs -- it was easy enough for even the most casual observer to surmise that these were to hold the ankles and wrists of a man.

A boy.

Myself.

The structure was upright, and held in place partly by a long length of chain which ran through a metal hoop extending from the top of its upper bar. This length of chain met a second hoop mounted into the ceiling, and thence ran across to one of the walls, where it was affixed to some sort of bar or rung.

On either side of the wooden frame, at the bottom, extended small blocks of wood, through which pegs ran, presumably into holes drilled into the floor, so that the device might be held steady and firm.

It was an impressive feat of engineering, and I wondered who had installed it here, and for what purpose. Surely she had not manufactured the assembly all herself?

But then, I knew so little about this Young Lady, I might have believed it entirely possible for her to do anything at all.

"Do you like your new playground, boy?" she asked, standing and pulling my chain firmly, bringing me across to the frame as she strode quickly to it. I had to scamper to keep up with her pace, and was still once more half-choked as we finally reached it. I wanted to collapse into a pile on the floor and take deep relieving breaths, but she was clearly in no mood to allow her toy any such recuperation.

"No slacking, pet! Come along, chop chop! Lots of fun to be had! Stand up now, boy. Come on!"

I slowly got to my feet, prompted all the more by her fierce tugging upon the chain, which she had curled around her fist until only a foot or so of clear length remained between her hand and my collar. When I finally stood, she pulled me forward, walking through the clear space in the centre of the frame and stopping when I had my feet upon its bottom side.

"Stay there, pet," she commanded. Then she put her hand to my collar and undid the chain, but leaving the restricting leather itself in place.

"Spread your arms and legs for me, ever-so-wide..."

I did not think of disobeying. Why would I? I did not say anything at all. I was totally within her power now, moulded to her will in every respect. Anything she commanded of me was hers to have, and I gave it willingly.

And that was when she bound me.

She took my weak and unresisting wrists, and threaded them through the leather straps, the buckles of which she adjusted until they bit tight into my flesh. Then she knelt and did the same with my ankles, tethering me completely to the frame, and my only thought -- aside from what a wonderful, wonderful feeling it was to be so constricted -- was to gaze down so that I might perhaps steal a glance at the creamy white flesh of her buxom bosom, so invitingly compressed and exposed within the dark corset.

"Do not think that I did not see that, boy," she whispered with a sharp, wicked smile as she rose, and suddenly one of her leather-gloved hands was upon my... my...

My balls, reader! I know no other word with which to describe them. She held them within her hand, and she squeezed them until the tears came to my eyes!




The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 04



And oh, it was exquisite!

"Now you are going to suffer for me, pet," she added, in another wicked whisper. 

Finally, she released my poor, aching, throbbing balls, stood back, and admired her handiwork.

"We are going to have so much fun!" she cried gleefully, once more clasping her hands in delight, and then giving herself a small, brief round of applause. "Oh, I cannot wait to get started! And I do not need to, do I pet? I may do whatever I like, whenever I like..."

A step forward, and that whisper once again:

"And there's nothing you can do to stop it now..."

I shivered. My response was whispered, so she placed a finger beneath my chin, raised my head up and gazed steely at me as she bade me repeat it, more loudly.

"I said... I would not wish to, my Lady."

That brought a further smile.

"I know, pet. You wish to submit to me, and be punished by me. And to think, you once thought you had a will and a mind of your own! Oh you are broken, my boy! So very, very broken!"

It shamed and thrilled me to be told it. But not thrilled so much as when she walked across to the cabinet at the end of the room and opened it, for I could tell from the look upon her face that she was endeavouring to decide what the instrument of my torture should be.

She spent some moments deciding, and then she turned, the chosen implement clutched in her hands. As she came back across the room, her mouth was split by a grin, and her perfect teeth themselves were split by her tongue, the tip of it parting them slightly as she excitedly swept it back and forth.

"Look, pet!" she said excited, standing a few steps in front of me and holding the object up for me to see. "Isn't it simply marvellous?"

It was a paddle. Made of thick, heavy leather, and coated with three rows of shiny metal studs. She took the handle in one hand and swept it experimentally through the air, evidently satisfied with the swing.

"Are you excited, boy?" she asked, clearly breathless with her own excitement. She stepped closer; suddenly, the cold metal studs were pressing against my shaft, pushing it back against my belly, and then she was rubbing the paddle slowly up and down, her face an inch or two in front of mine.

"Tell me what you want, boy..." she said quietly, still rubbing me with the paddle. I was pulling against the bonds, half in agony, half in ecstasy, wracked with pleasure and guilt.

"I just want... I just want to be a good boy..." I said, feeling the tears of shame and joy spill.

"Ah, my silly little pet..."

She laughed, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she stepped back, and suddenly took a gentle swing at my member with the paddle. I shrieked more in surprise than in pain, and spasmed in the frame.

"Tell me what you want," she repeated casually.

"I want... I want... I don't know what I want, my Lady!"

For it was true. Did I want to run home to my wife? Did I want to stay here forever?

She tuttued, and crossed her arms reproachfully, the paddle still clutched tightly in one hand. She began to walk around me, very slowly, in a wide circle, her heels clip-clopping against the cold stone floor.

"I know what you want," she said icily. "But I want you to tell me. I want you to say it, boy!"

Smack!

The first strike! The studs crashed against the flesh of my backside, and I shook in the bonds again, crying out.

"Please, my Lady, I don't know!"

"Yes you do," she said, very airily, so casually, as if it were some stifling summer afternoon, and she were engaged in nothing so taxing as a conversation with a friend. "Tell me now."

"I want..."

What did I want?

Smack!

The second strike, on the other cheek of my tender backside... I remembered how hot and painful it had been when she had beaten me before. This would be a thousandfold worse, I knew that, but I also knew... I knew...

Smack!

"Speak to me boy!" she demanded.

Smack!

Oh the flesh was red, and on fire! And oh, at the hand of such a girl! But it felt... it felt... 

Smack!

"I want you to beat me!" I cried out, in pride and lust and triumph. "Oh please, my Lady! Beat me and smash me and break me! Destroy me! Please! Oh please my Lady! Is it all a poor wretch such as I deserves; I need to be shown my place, my Lady! Need to be punished for who and what I am! Oh break me, please, my Lady, break me!"

She was back in front of me now. Grinning like the devil himself.

"Oh, my poor sweet child," she said. "I already have. But now I'm just going to grind you into the dust..."

Smack!

Directly upon my shaft. Agony. And my... my balls... the assault continued. She would walk all around me, raining blows down upon my buttocks, balls, shaft, legs, chest... constantly varying her angle and her pace and the force of her blows... Grinning and laughing all the time as if she were playing a game, which of course she was. A game with me as the toy. A game with her little boy, all tied up for her amusement and pleasure, and I loved it and hated it and wanted it to stop and never wanted it ever to end, not ever, because I deserved it and dirty little boys should have what they deserve.

I do not know how many blows there were. Mercifully, upon this particular occasion she did not require me to count them. I know not for how long she walked around me, smacking me ever harder, slamming the studded leather against my flesh until my backside was a red ruin and the pain thumped all around my body.

But eventually, mercifully, disappointingly, she stopped.

"I think that will do for now, pet," she uttered quietly.

My taut and tensed muscles instantly collapsed into loose slackness, and I hung from my bonds, a battered and most completely broken an individual as you are ever likely to see in all of your born days. I half feared the structure would collapse, as it had to bear all of my weight -- I had no strength left to support myself. My entire body ached, and I throbbed where she had struck me so many times. So many glorious times.

"Thank you, my Lady," I sobbed, the tears running down my cheeks. I had screwed my eyes tight shut, but still the salty liquid flowed. "Thank you so very much!"

And I meant it. I had been bound and beaten, and it had been so very, very good. I felt pure. Cleansed. I felt as though I were where I belonged, and it was truly wonderful.

"Shhhhhhhh."

The paddle was gone -- I know not where. She was standing directly in front of me, and I had not noticed. I opened my eyes a little, and saw that she was smiling, a benign Goddess looking down at the devastation she had wrought; the remains of a creature that had once been a man.

"M... My Lady..."

"Shhhhhh," she repeated, but kindly, placing a finger to my lips. It was soft skin that touched them -- she had removed one of her gloves. This tenderness surprised me, but not half so much as her leaning forward and gently, very softly kissing my chest. She moved her head across to the other side of it and repeated the gesture, and then drew the very tip of her tongue very slowly and carefully between the two points.

Her spittle felt icy cold and refreshing against my warm skin, and as she flicked her eyes up at me once she had completed her task... Oh those eyes! A man could drown in them, I swear it. This pathetic little boy most certainly did.

"It is all going to be fine, my pet," she cooed very softly, stroking my cheek with her ungloved hand and blowing me a kiss with her sweet, sweet lips. "Everything is going to be wonderful..."

I had not the strength to question her. I simply hung there in my frame, my eyes trailing after her as she knelt down in front of me. She sat still for a moment, her eyes looking lasciviously upon my throbbing member, and then she darted her lips forward and planted a very quick kiss upon its tip.

A kiss!

I gasped. She looked up at me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Not today, pet," she said. "Perhaps another time. I have something much better in mind for you, don't you worry. I need my satisfaction too, and you are do me the honour of the greatest service a boy can do his Lady!"

Again I did not question her. I was, I think, under the mesmeric influence of her beauty and her commanding nature at this point. I merely watched as she worked at the bottom edges of the frame, removing from their slots the round wooden bolts which slotted through holes into the ground beneath. I felt the entire construction sway as it was suddenly supported only by the chain hanging from the top, but she placed her finger quickly to my lips once more.

"It will all be all right, my pet," she assured me, before moving across to the side of the room, where the chain hung down and was spun around a bar fitted to the wall. This length of the chain she began to uncircle, and after several turns it was held freely in her hands.

The frame began to swing wildly, now supported only by the grip of the Young Lady, and I cried out for help as I began to feel myself fall slowly backwards, the frame being lowered to the ground.

"My Lady?" I whimpered pathetically, as the angle increased, and I began almost prostrate.

"Just a little more. Hold on tight, pet."

I hit the ground with a resounding thump, my head striking the cold stone with some little force. I think I was perhaps half-dazed, but not so shocked as not to realise the position in which I now found myself. I was laying, bound tight, on my back, my shamefully stiffened member standing proud for all to see, and suddenly, standing across me with a booted foot on either side of my abdomen, was the Young Lady.

She looked down at me as an own might look down at a vowel. There was a hunger in her eyes, and she licked her lips.

I trembled in my bonds.

"What is going to happen to me?" I whispered fearfully.

"Beautiful things!"

She took the hem of her skirt in her hands then, grasping at the tight-fitting leather. Still looking at me, our eyes locked upon one another's gaze, she began to draw the material up, up, up, still further, her thighs, her moon-white, soft-as-butter thighs opened and exposed...

I screwed my eyes tight shut once more.

"I can't!" I insisted. I turned my head to one side.

"You can!" she spat back, somewhat petulantly. And then, with a more considered air of menace:

"You will!"

There was a boot above my face; a sharp heel digging into the skin of my cheek. It pressed down harder and harder, the smell of the leather suffusing my senses, I could taste it and smell it and I was afraid that at any moment the spike of the heel would pierce my cheek.

"Please!" I gasped.

"Look!" she shouted.

I snapped my eyes open and reluctantly turned my head back around. She removed the boot.

I had never seen the like in my life.

The skirt was fully lifted, and was now clinging tightly to her corset, so that she had no need to hold it. Her legs were spread wide, and she stood almost directly above my face now. I was looking up... Looking up...

Oh God, reader -- I was looking directly up into her cooze!

"What is it, boy?" she asked, as softly as a schoolgirl.

"It... It... oh please my Lady, it is not right that I should..."

"Tell me what it is."

"It..."

"If the silly little boy does not know, shall I tell him?"

I nodded miserably, my member dribbling sticky wet discharge as my heart beat triple-time with the salacious thrill.

"It is a cunt, boy," she said, enunciating every syllable to perfection, making the word all the more shocking. How could a Lady say such a thing?

"And what is more, it is a wet cunt," she continued. "A very wet cunt, that needs to be filled... You're going to fill it for me, aren't you boy?"

I shook my head.

"Please my Lady! I have a wife! I have never... I would never betray her like that! Please!"

"Shut up boy. You worship me now -- you worship this!"

She actually put a finger to it! She put a finger of her own to her... her... cunt as she called it, and she drew it right across!

She shuffled backwards a step or two, and then squatted down over me. 

"Taste it... You tasted it before, from your own fingers... You loved it... Now taste it from mine!"

So saying, she ran her finger, sticky and wet and oh-so-sweet, across my lips... The taste was golden, glorious, and in an instant I am ashamed to say my tongue was out and trying to lick it all, but she pulled the finger back and away.

"Ah ah ah..."

I whimpered, beyond words. Even more so when she moved slowly back once more, and lowered herself... As she had been squatting above me, I had paid little heed to how close her sex was to my member, but now... But now...

Oh, she was lowering herself directly onto it! I could feel its warmth, its wetness, and suddenly my member was pressed flat against my stomach as her cunt pushed it downward, her oh-so-silky smooth and slick, tender flesh pressing warm and ready against it.

I sighed. I sighed the sigh of a guilty man, but a guilty man who no longer cares what he is doing. I wanted it. Yes, I confess! I confess all! The only thing I wanted now was to bury my shaft deep inside of her sex, but such a thing was denied me!

"Be patient, pet..." she told me, trailing her slick finger along my sweat-soaked chest, drawing lines and figures in the flesh as she looked down at me, her eyes half-closed. "Patient..."

She rocked her body back and forth over me, running her sex up and down my shaft... up and down... massaging it with her wetness. Teasing me. I think I cried out again. I am quite sure that I did. But she shushed me, and once slapped my face when I made too much noise.

"Wait, you impatient little boy!" she snapped. And then, with a more contented sigh: "I am enjoying this... Enjoy it too pet... Luxuriate in it... in the feel of my cunt..."

This went on for some considerable time. My eyes closed, my breathing quickened and my hands bunched into fists as she went gradually faster and faster, making my shaft ever slicked with her juices, until suddenly she rose up again, just a few inches, reached down and grasped the aching, wanting flesh within her hand.

"Just a little longer, pet..." she breathed.

"Please..."

"Just a little more..."

And then I was inside of her!

The head of my shaft, slipped oh-so-smoothly into her... Her hot, young flesh clasped around it, and I so nearly lost myself there and then, but she seemed alert to the danger, and reached down with a hand to once more grasp my poor balls, this time at their very root... She twisted them with some little violence, and I gasped in pain and begged her to stop, but the effect stalled any crisis in my pleasure, and allowed her to enjoy the satisfaction of sliding herself up and down my shaft without danger of my spurting inside of her divine body.

Up and down she rose and fell upon it, for what seemed like hours... Perhaps it was. I had lost all track of time. I had lost all track of anything. I know knew I had a Goddess, a Young Lady, a Mistress, call her what you will, who had my shaft at her command, and who was impaling herself upon it... Running all the way down until it was buried inside of her up to the base... and then pulling up until the very tip of it merely brushed lightly against her wetness.

The effect of this upon me was, as you might well imagine, quite horrifically teasing. To feel such flesh against your most sensitive skin... To feel the dampness there, the warmth, the tightness, to know how young and fresh that body is, but not to be able to reach the moment of climax! To be teased and tantalised, but not to be able to thrust and to pound...

I was an animal then, all muscle and bone and sinew, nothing human to me at all.

And she knew it.

"You want to fuck me, don't you boy?" she demanded, her eyes now fully closed, her head thrown back and her body arched as she squatted up and down at great speed upon my shaft. The hand not grasping my balls had gone down to her own flesh, and as she used my shaft for her pleasure she was at the very same time diddling her button with her fingers, awash with her own thrill of sexual ecstasy in a completely wanton and lustful display, the like of which I had never before witnessed.

"I..."

"Oh say it say it boy! You want to fuck me! Your wife at home waiting for you and you're buried deep inside of me! You want it! Say it pet! Say it!"

"YES!" I shouted it, cried out at the top of my lungs, pulled against my bonds and called out for all the world to hear. "I want to fuck you my Lady! Please! Please let me fuck you!"

"Ooooooooooooo!"

The cry of orgasmic delight was all hers. She had ridden my shaft to her moment of crisis, and suddenly I felt a tidal wave of her juices flow upon my member, staining me with the evidence of her pleasure as she called out an unknowable cry of pleasure.

She continued to pump my shaft with her flesh until she was quite spent, and then staggered a few steps backwards, still squatted, until she was beyond the end of the frame and seated, exhausted, on the floor.

The moment that she had removed my shaft from herself and released my balls, the pleasure and the frustration intermingled to such an extent so as to overwhelm my senses, and I too reached my orgasm. I felt my thick, creamy white discharge explode across my stomach, pouring out hot and shameful across my flesh, and I knew with terrible certainty the dreadful thing that I had done.

"Annabel!" I called out in despair. "Oh, Annabel, what have I done?"

But there was no Annabel. There was only a satisfied, sated voice in the darkness, soft and low and wicked.

"She isn't here, boy," it said. "You have done what you have always wanted to do. You have become mine, pet -- you are mine forever now."

I wept. I wept for what I had done, and I wept because I knew what the Young Lady was correct -- I had wanted it. And I was hers now, there could be no denying it.

Hers entirely.



The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 05



Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"

Volume IX, number 21

Issue dated April 15th 1896

*

Strange events today indeed!

It is a week since I allowed myself to be so debauched and degraded at the hands and feet and... well, let us be frank, at all possible parts of the body of my Young Mistress. I related the experience here in these pages a few days ago, but have seen or heard nothing at all of her since. It is perhaps for the best -- thoughts of what I allowed myself to do and to have done to me in her accursed dungeon upon that evening still bring a sickening guilt to my soul.

I have had recourse to seek a separate bedchamber from my wife -- I could not lay with her knowing what I had done. What man could? I could not even bring myself to speak to her, so have feigned illness this past week, claiming headaches and sickness, and yet I have ever gone back to work. "Work is the best cure," Dr Malliday has always told me, and fortunately this excuse would appear to have convinced my darling Annabel.

But for how long?

At any rate, this is not the matter of which I took up my pen to write today. Annabel is downstairs, and knows nothing of it. She thinks perhaps I am working on papers or ledgers for the bank. She knows nothing of this journal, thank God!

And others would have course to thank the Good Lord too that its pages are kept secret, as tonight I have course to add others to my strange narrative; people of reputation and standing. On the one hand it is shocking and enough to make a man lose all faith in the moral fibre of the world. On the other, it is I must admit somewhat of a relief to me to discover that I am not alone in my sick and sordid perversions. There are others thus driven -- others in higher stations in rank and society, too. Oh yes, my friendly reader, I have discovered today that perhaps the whole world is wallowing in a sexual ardour I have barely seen the merest glimpse of.

Let me compose myself. I shall begin at the beginning and attempt to explain my narrative in an orderly and direct fashion.

I had arrived at the bank as usual this morning, somewhat earlier than was the custom, as had become my wont of these past few days, so that I may rise and avoid the necessity of a morning intercourse with my dear wife. For what words could I exchange with her, so sweet and trusting and above all such sordid acts as I polluted the world with?

Thus I was at my work even before Simmons had had an opportunity of drawing up the fire in the office, and it was quite bitterly cold while I worked at the morning's ledgers. However, I liked this, feeling that I deserved it. Even when Simmons did eventually arrive and organise the construction and ignition of the fire, I took little warmth either from its combustion or from his human company. Such devils as I do not deserve such comforts.

So I had spoken to barely a soul, excepting perhaps a word or two of reluctant greeting here and there, when at perhaps ten o'clock, Simmons lightly rapped upon the interconnecting door betwixt our offices, and explained that a message had arrived for me from the Sixth Floor.

The Sixth Floor, I should explain, is the very summit of the building, both in a literal and a figurative sense; it is where the board members of their offices, and where the very top decisions of the bank are made. A summons to the sixth floor can usually mean only one of two things for a man of my station -- promotion or dismissal.

"Who there wishes to see me?" I enquired of Simmons, trying desperately to keep the nerves away from my voice. 

"Sir Reginald," he replied casually, as if the man were not Simmons's own relative, the man who had gained the impudent young fool his undeserved position within the bank!

"Sir Reginald wishes to see me?"

"Yes sir -- at your earliest convenience, apparently."

This could mean only one thing, I was convinced upon the point! Sir Reginald had somehow discovered my vile infidelity, and was about to have me thrown out of the bank's employee forthwith! There was no other explanation I could conceive upon for such a meeting -- oh, how that young fool Simmons would smirk at me! But perhaps he knew already?

It was impossible to tell, so I withheld myself and summoned as much dignity as I could muster, rising and heading for the stairs. Very well. If this was how it was to be, then so be it -- I had made my bed, and now I must lie in it. I could not skulk and hide -- I must at least face up to my punishment like a good Englishman ought.

Sir Reginald has his own secretary, a fastidious old chump named Carter who likes to think that he and he alone is responsible for the running of the bank, and that the entire edifice of the institution would crumble into dust without his presence. This tiresome old fellow, as thin as a rake and eighty if he is a day, kept me nervously pacing up and down outside of the door of Sir Reginald's office for some good five minutes, or perhaps more, before he eventually emerged and informed me -- as if he were doing me some great favour! -- that I could be admitted into the office.

Sir Reginald's office is a sight to behold, as of course befits his status upon the board of the bank. It is at least twice the size of me, and as well as the standard desk has its own small side table positioned next to the fire, with chairs clustered about it as if the place were some fellow's living room, or perhaps the smoking room of some gentleman's club!

It was in this area that Sir Reginald -- large, rounded, sixty years old with a shining bald head and a comical drooping moustache -- was seated, but there could be no mistaking the place for a gentleman's club at the current time. For, sitting next to him in another of his chairs and looking quite icily at me as I entered, was a rather striking Lady.

She was perhaps forty, with close, tight curls of chestnut hair and pale, slightly freckled skin. She looked at me with piercing blue eyes as I entered, and I felt as if the layers of my soul were being peeled away as easily as one might peel an onion. She knew all of my secrets -- this was the abiding impression that I had from her. 

"He is here, sir, as you instructed."

I was not aware that Carter had followed me into the room, and found his announcement of my presence immensely irritating. To my great satisfaction, Sir Reginald evidently experienced a similar emotion, and not only dismissed the man but sent him off completely.

"I can see that, Carter!" he bellowed, with his deep voice, well-practised at the art of shouting down distinguished Gentlemen at meetings of the board. He holds some great sway in the bank, and indeed in London financial circles in general -- what Sir Reginald says is listened to, whether the listener likes it or not.

"Be a good fellow and take yourself off down to the archive, see if you can scare up that Siegerson document -- damn it, it must be down there! Just because those fools can't find it... Anyhow, away with you!"

Carter clearly held no appetite for this task, yet he bowed his head obediently and headed off to the archives, kept below in the cavernous cellars of the building. So I was left alone, with Sir Reginald and his Lady guest, awaiting my fate.

"You asked to see me, sir?" I enquired, somewhat redundantly.

"This is him?" the Lady asked. She had gotten to her feet, and walked across the deep red carpet to take a more studied look at me. Her pale blue dress trailed behind her, and I could not help but admire the grace and poise with which she carried herself. 

Her tone, however, was somewhat less graceful.

"This is the tiresome little man who has my affairs so tied up and inconvenienced? For goodness sake Reginald, why do you allow such petty-minded little bean-counters to have the run of your bank? It won't do. It simply will not do!"

"Ah-hum, yes, well..."

Sir Reginald, if somewhat embarrassed at his guest's attitude, did nothing to contradict it.

"Why don't you take a seat old man?" he asked me. "And we'll see if we can sort this thing through, eh? That's the stuff..."

He was being very polite. This was unexpected.

"We shall do more than sort it!" she exclaimed, coming toward me and jabbing one of her white-gloved fingers sharply against my chest as she leaned down to examine my visage. "You, little man, have caused me a considerable deal of trouble, and I trust that you shall be severely reprimanded for your carelessness once the affair has been sorted to my satisfaction!"

She glared at me for a moment or two longer, a fierce, searching glare that I could not meet on equal terms, before she turned and withdrew to the window, her arms folded, lips puckered in anger and frustration.

"Ahem... yes..."

Sir Reginald coughed, but pretended the entire little confrontation had not taken place at all. I followed his lead, and similarly ignored the Lady's outburst.

"The thing of it is, you see, there is a certain matter you have become involved in of late," he explained. "Regarding a certain will... And an inheritance resulting from it..."

My blood ran cold! Discovery! How did Sir Reginald come to know of the existence of these things?

"I believe I know the document of which you speak, sir," I admitted, my face drained of blood, trying so hard not to show how struck I was by his words.

"He thinks!" the Lady scoffed. "Hah! I would be surprised if one intelligent thought had ever passed through the brain of this sad and sorry individual! I cannot believe you allow such matters to be conducted by such individuals!"

She turned away once more, evidently happy with this analysis. Sir Reginald shifted rather uncomfortably in his chair.

"Thing is old chap, there's been some disagreement over this legacy..."

"There is no disagreement!" the Lady insisted. "The money is mine, by all legal rights!"

"Yes... Well, you see, Lady Sarah here does appear to have a valid claim... But I understand you are already in the process of arranging for the money to be delivered to another?"

I felt as if my heart might stop! My jaw hung slack, I was at a complete loss for what to say. How much did Sir Reginald, or this Lady Sarah with whom he was somehow associated, know about the Young Lady?

"I have made some progress in that direction, sir, that is true," I admitted carefully.

"Fool," Lady Sarah whispered.

"As I thought," Sir Reginald said sombrely. "A bad business... Very bad. But I trust you're not so far along as you can't stop it in its tracks, eh?"

"Well..."

What to do? I could hardly turn around and tell the Young Lady that the money belonged to another. I had not even seen any of this Lady Sarah's documents. But presumably Sir Reginald had done so, and in the bank his word is law. Who am I to contradict him? Certainly I would have a very short future career there if I dared to do so.

"I shall tell you what you will do, you idiot!" Lady Sarah said. "You are going to tell that whore that she is not having a single penny of that money. Not one penny! You are going to rip up whatever promises you may have made to her, and you are going to ensure that I receive what is rightfully mine!"

I looked at Sir Reginald for assistance, but he seemed curiously brow-beaten by the force of the Lady's personality. 

"The thing is, my Lady, there is a proper manner of doing things..."

"You think I care for your banker's traditions and other such poppycock?" she asked him.

"No, but... It would look somewhat better to outside observers if we observed the proper protocols." He switched his attention to me. "Isn't that right?"

"Oh yes sir, absolutely!"

"Now... I'm sure you can use your charm on this young lady, and undo any of the harm you've done so far, so that we can set things back on track... Don't you think?"

I didn't think so at all, and nor did I see that I had done any real harm, aside to my own moral character. But who was I to demand further evidence of Lady Sarah's claim?

"I suppose it can be done, sir..."

"That's the spirit!"

"There is no suppose!" Lady Sarah insisted. "You must do it, sir. Do not forget that I am a Lady -- touched by grace. Do you think that young hussy has anything that can come near my class? Do you think she is anywhere near in my category of personage? Does she look like someone who deserves that inheritance?"

In truth I could perceive little difference between the Ladies, outside of the twenty-or-so year age gap between them, but I nodded my head to agree with her.

"See to it," she demanded stiffly.

"Best do it as soon as you can old chap," Sir Reginald instructed. "I shall expect a report on... Shall we say this Friday? Ought to give you plenty of time."

Lady Sarah tutted her disapproval, of such a generous timescale no doubt, but said nothing. I bowed my head.

"Yes sir. I will... I will do my best."

"Splendid, splendid... Well, best be getting on old chap, things to be doing no doubt! Thank you for stopping by..."

"Thank you, sir... And goodbye, my Lady!"

She ignored me completely, continuing to stare out of the window. I thought perhaps that Sir Reginald shrugged very slightly at me as I made my way to the door, but perhaps I imagined that slightly indicator. 

I cannot rightly say what caused me to linger outside of Sir Reginald's door following the elapsation of the extraordinary interview that I have just recounted. I know that I cannot pretend to you, reader, that I had either noble or innocent intent -- it was pure, human curiosity that drove me to tarry there a while. I sensed my opportunity, and I took it -- I knew that Carter the secretary would be gone down in the archives for some little time yet, so I very carefully and silently retraced my steps back to Sir Reginald's door, and -- being carefully to look around for any other sign of life -- knelt at it.

I thought for a moment they suspected my presence, as there was no sound or indication of any life or activity at all from the other side of the door. But as I was preparing to quietly steal myself away, with nothing learned about the relationship between Sir Reginald and this interesting young Lady Sarah, finally the silence was broken, and I heard Sir Reginald speak.

"Did I do well?" he asked.

His tone was totally different to that which he usually employed when addressing myself or other members of the bank's staff. Usually so gruff and uncompromising, now he sounded decidedly weak and wimpish. Clearly there was a good deal more to this Lady Sarah than met the eye!

"You did pathetically, you stupid little pig!" she admonished sharply. I could hear the footfall of her heels as she walked about the room, pacing angrily up and down by the sounds of how swift her footsteps followed one another upon the carpet.

"I tried my best Mistress!" he implored. She cut across him before he could say any more.

"You did not. And even if you had, your best would hardly be good enough, now would it? It never is. Really, you are the most miserable and pathetic specimen! That money ought to be mine! It should be in my hands, here and now! It should not be willingly handed over to little trollops such as her without so much as a by-your-leave by snivelling little junior clerks such as that miserable specimen of humanity who so recently sullied my presence!"

At the conclusion of this dramatic speech, which grew increasingly vocal and impassioned, she slammed her hand angrily down upon a solid wooden surface, which I supposed to have been Sir Reginald's desk. The description of myself was hardly flattering, I think you will agree, but I had no desire to break away from my voyeuristic observation. Especially when it occurred to me that the keyhole in the door of Sir Reginald's office was very large, and by placing my eye to it I was afforded an excellent viewpoint across his office to the desk, where Lady Sarah now stood, silhouetted in the light from the large window.

"You shall have your money, Mistress!" Sir Reginald declared, from outside of my field of vision. "It will be yours, I can assure you! Oh please forgive me Mistress! Please allow little piggy to prove himself to you!"

This was all quite extraordinary. Piggy? And why did he address her as "Mistress"? This became ever more intriguing by the moment, and never more so than when she reached out a gloved hand and beckoned for Sir Reginald to come to her.

For instead of walking across to where she stood, I heard the sound of a chair being pushed backward, and then a shuffling sound across the carpet. To my stunned amazement, I saw Sir Reginald -- one of the richest and most powerful men in all of the City of London, I need hardly remind you -- crawling upon his hands and knees across the carpet, his head bowed.

I was so surprised at this turn of events that I looked away from the keyhole, and around about me to see whether I was being observed in my spying. But nobody was nearby. I knew that I should walk away and leave, but the temptation to continue to observe was too strong -- especially when it was coupled with such relief! Yes, relief that I was clearly not the only man in England who had gone down upon his hands and knees for a woman, and crawled to her like an animal! A pet!

I half-expected to have produced the scene from my fevered imagination, and for it to have disappeared and set itself to rights when I placed my eye once more to the metal of the keyhole, but no -- not only was Sir Reginald still clearly in the thrall of Lady Sarah, but now she had raised one booted foot to rest upon his back, digging the heel of it deep into him.

"You are a stupid, pathetic little boy, aren't you?" she asked.

"Oh yes Mistress! Yes I am!"

"You are going to get me my money back, and ensure that harlot does not gain possession of it, aren't you?"

"Yes Mistress! Little piggy will do anything for you Mistress!"

His voice was high-pitched and nasal -- it was a stunning sight to see him so reduced, although it did make me wonder how I would appear if any observer had seen the things I had done for the Young Lady who held me in a similar thrall, and who appeared to exist in a state of such antipathy with relation to the mysterious Lady Sarah.

"You had better," she was saying to her own slave. "But for now, piggy, I think you have earned some punishment for allowing your little banking boy to be so stupid with my money, haven't you?"

His head darted up, and my interest was also piqued -- punishment.

For a moment, a mad moment, I wished myself in that room in Sir Reginald's place, at the feet of this Lady, and about to be punished. 

"Punished, Mistress?" Sir Reginald echoed.

"Stand up," she commanded, taking her foot from his back and retreating a pace or two from him, so that she was at the very edge of my field of vision. Sir Reginald did as he was commanded, bizarrely straightening his jacket slightly as he did so, as if he were rising from a table at a dinner party than from his knees in slave-like submission.

"Now, lean over the desk for me piggy. Right over!"

He did as he was commanded, leaning across his own desk, exposing his ample backside to her tender mercies. He did appear very pathetic indeed. However, his respectability declined even further with her next command.

"Undo your breeches, piggy."

"Mistress...?"

"Little piggy is going to take his punishment on the bare!"

"Oooooooo........"

Whether his whimpering was bred from joy or from despair I could not say, but he was quick enough to fumble with his breeches, and even in his restricted position he was able to push them down below his buttocks after only a few seconds delay. He then shook his legs until the garments had slid down to his knees, well out of the way of the considerable fleshy target with which Lady Sarah was now presented.




The Gentleman's Confession Ch. 05



"Has little piggy-wiggy been a bad boy?" he asked desperately.

"A very bad boy indeed!" she answered sternly. "A very bad boy who is going to be severely punished for what he has done!"

"Oooooo!"

It was a cry akin to that of a wounded animal, and she had not yet even struck him! No, she was saving that for the implement which I now saw her withdraw from her bag -- a small, wooden paddle. It had a short handle of a few inches which she gripped tightly in one hand, and a large, circular, flat surface, making it appear much like a much reduced tennis racket, with solid wood where the strings might have been. She swished this about experimentally in the air for a moment or two, as those who play at tennis might practice their strokes before starting a match, and then suddenly and without warning she brought the implement down against Sir Reginald's backside with the most resounding crack of wood upon skin.

Oh how he squealed! Even I winced, convinced that such a sound would be heard throughout the bank, but no running footsteps came to investigate the commotion.

"Be quiet piggy!" she snapped.

Instantly, his squealing stopped, but when she smacked him again on his enormous backside, he gave another yelp.

"I mean it!" she demanded. "One more yap out of you and I shall ensure that backside of yours is so red you cannot sit down upon it for a month or more! Now, be silent!"

And so Sir Reginald, knight of the realm, clamped his lips tight shut and kept silent -- or as silent as he could, for he still shifted and groaned with each attack -- as Lady Sarah beat his flesh with ever-increasing vigour. Again and again the paddle came down; again and again it smashed against the skin with a sharp smack.

Faster and faster she went, becoming more creative in her positioning of the smacks, running the paddle all across the flesh, every inch of his posterior covered and -- I imagine -- left warm and red and flushed by the blows. She did not smile or show any sign of emotion as she beat him, but it was obvious that she took great pride in her work, being careful to ensure that the punishment was administered as effectively as was possible.

Faster and harder still she went, until Sir Reginald -- after perhaps thirty strokes of more -- could bare it no longer, and cried out.

"Oh Mistress!" he roared, and I could tell that he was weeping.

Lady Sarah paused, stood back, then advanced again and unleashed one final blow of such force and vigour that I was convinced she would break the paddle in two.

She did not. Instead, she replaced it in her bag. Sir Reginald's head was now slumped right down upon the desk, snivelling and weeping sound emanating from its vicinity.

"Has piggy learned his lesson?" she asked perfunctorily.

"Oh yes Mistress! Oh yes! A thousand times yes! Little piggy-wiggy is so sorry for being such a failure, Mistress!"

"Hmmmmmmmm."

She was giving careful consideration to his beaten bum, arms folded once more across her chest.

"You're lying to me," she eventually said.

He lifted his head a little, and looked back at her, I think with quite strong and genuine fear.

"M-Mistress...? I.... Your little piggy would never..."

She uncrossed her arms and gave him a short, sharp spank with her gloved hand, which made him whimper once again and drop his head.

"If you had learned your lesson and fully understood your place, you would not have cried out and begged for me to stop, would you piggy?"

"No Mistress," he admitted miserably.

"You need to be punished further, don't you piggy?"

"Yes Mistress, it seems so."

"Mmm-hmmmm."

She nodded to herself, for the first time showing some indication of pleasure in her work, as a ghost of a smile flickered across her lips.

"The spike, I think."

His head came up once again, and he nearly rose fully from the desk.

"Oh no Mistress, please! No the spike! Please don't spike piggy!"

Another spank was administered quickly, her expression once again as hard as cold steel.

"Do not dare to beg me!" she said.

"I am sorry, Mistress, please..."

"Be quiet!"

He was silent. She reached once more into her bag.

"Little piggy is going to be spiked, and he is going to lie there and take it."

"Oooooo......."

There was despair in his tone, but resigned despair. Clearly this "spiking", whatever it may be, was all-too-familiar to him.

It took a few moments for me to be able to make out the object that she had removed from her bag, which she now held up for her own examination in the light of the window. At first I was confused as I had no way of understanding its purpose -- it appeared for all the world to be a slightly larger-than-life model of a pine cone, carved in wood. Perhaps a little longer and tapering off to more of a point than the familiar type of cone, but nonetheless with all the spiky, hard edges of such an object.

For what purpose could such a thing possibly have been made? And why did it strike such fear into Sir Reginald?

"Now, ask me for it, like a good little boy," Lady Sarah commanded.

"P-please..." Sir Reginald sniffled.

"Come on piggy, I'm waiting...?"

"Please... Lady Sarah, can little piggy-wiggy be plugged?"

"Yes," she replied, smiling once more. "Little piggy-wiggy can and shall be plugged. And guess what?"

"What, Mistress?"

"This time you are to keep it in for a whole day!"

Keep it in. Suddenly, reader, the purpose of the 'spike' became clear to me, and I started to well understand the reason for Sir Reginald's horror at its implementation. My dread suspicion was confirmed when she reached down and placed the tip of it roughly between the cheeks of his backside, causing him to flinch mightily.

"But... but Mistress... cannot I be buttered first, as usual?" he asked.

Buttered... so many new words, so many new thoughts! Had such worlds existed beneath and around mine for so long, without me ever realising? For how long had Sir Reginald been the victim of such practice?

"Certainly not!" she dismissed, holding the spike steady. "You have been a very bad little piggy today, and besides is this not how a man ever expects it of a woman? Is this not how a thousand unhappy wives must suffer their penetration? You shall take the spike as nature intended, piggy, and as you would have a woman take your miserable little member!"

So saying, she both twisted and thrust the spike forward, drilling its serrated length all the way into Sir Reginald's hole, causing him to let out a great howl of agony that was dreadful to the hear and mind to hear.

"Quiet piggy!" she shouted, and he did his best to stifle his cries even as she finished working the painful object all the way into his backside. Once she had achieved this, she stood back to admire her work.

I realised that my own member, locked tight inside my breeches, was as hard as iron and leaking its pre-excitement fluids in copious amounts. My heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, and I felt quite giddy -- and I knew why, to my shame! It was because I was imagining what it must be like to lay in Sir Reginald's place, and to suffer and serve as he now did!

With the 'spike' quite secure, Lady Sarah then had Sir Reginald stand, which he did with some clear discomfort, although also with the practised air of a man who has been made to suffer in this manner before.

"A day!" she repeated, as he pulled up his breeched and rebuttoned them, a look of forlorn resignation written across his face. "Not an hour less, and not an hour more! I shall return for another appointment tomorrow, to inspect that sorry little hole of yours and to retrieve my spike."

That was when I had to break off my audience, as I feared she was about to leave, and would discover my vantage point looking in on them from the other side of the door. But I could muster the energy to do very little work once I had returned to my office -- even the sight of Simmons was enough to make me think of his uncle and his perversions, and I even found myself wondering what Simmons subjected himself too when not bound by the strictures of office life.

Do all men offer themselves up so? Am I not alone in what I do? Does that make it better, or worse?

As I saw old Sir Reginald leaving the building this evening, walking very carefully as he made his way down the steps from the main entrance a little way ahead of me, I could not help but feel that such passions are both a blessing and a curse. For while I pitied him and pitied myself for what I had been through, I could still not help but wonder what I would be like to feel the pain of the spike lodged within me, and to be instructed to keep it so by a Lady so commanding as Lady Sarah.

Oh what is to become of me? And what am I to do about this whole affair with the money? The world is a stranger and more complex place than ever I could have imagined, but for your poor narrator it is full of woe and intrigue indeed!