Juliet Tessler — My Fantasy

A confessional story from Janus 124 by Juliet Tessler (a.k.a. Lucy Bailey)

Juliet is an attractive, (readers will recall her appearance in Janus 95) articulate and forthright young lady who genuinely enjoys the many pleasures surrounding CP. Here, she shares with us one of her secret fantasies.

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I am a woman and I have been into corporal punishment and beatings for as long as I can remember: Well… how would I depict myself? I have appeared in Janus once before, although my appearance is very changed now, as that was a number of years back. I am probably best described as a small, blonde girl. I am in my mid-late twenties; I am fair and have long ash blonde hair. I have the sort of shape that the great masters used to like to paint and sculpt: small round breasts, a petite waist opening down onto my large hips, a round plump bottom and very shapely legs.

I have had, over the years, one fantasy that has persisted in my vivid imagination. It, like my body, has grown, changed and matured. I therefore cannot start at the beginning or at the end but somewhere in-between.

I am a young maid in a reasonably comfortable household of days passed. I have never considered whether it is in the town or in the country for I am never permitted outside of its burdensome walls. The Master of this house is a true draconian. I have never spoken directly to him or even dared to look up at him. I am sure, if I ever did raise my head, his eyes would be quite black.

I have only been resident in this position for a few months and they have been long and arduous.

I am the youngest in the house and hold the lowliest position here. I have to perform the most unpleasant, laborious tasks. My day starts at sunrise when I wake and go about the business of brushing out all the fireplaces of the house; this I finish by early morning. I then start on floor scrubbing. This gruelling, harsh task I perform until lunchtime every day, except Sundays. More wearisome work fills my afternoons and the slow evenings. As the day grows long I start to dread the darkness, I know that before bed I will have had to suffer and bear whatever punishment my Master sees fit to award me for that day.

Every night now, it has been deemed that at the hour of nine I have to report to his private study, which is along a distant passage, upstairs in the house. No-one ever disturbs him here. I am now creeping up those stairs, head bowed and full of dread at my fait accompli.

When first I did arrive at this abode, I did commit some small misdemeanours. I do profess that I was truly guilty of these acts and was rightly ordered to his study that evening for the first time. I was frightened, although at least my ignorance then to his cruel ways, meant I knew not the path my scolding would take.

On entering, he orders me into the room and sharply tells me to bend over his desk. This I do, unsure of his actions. He takes off some kind of belt and straps me with it firmly on my behind, just a few uncomfortable strokes and quickly sends me, henceforth, to bed. That was the first of what was to be many visits to my Master’s room, each time he seemed to get a little crueller, the strokes harder and his actions bolder.

He soon changes from the use of his belt to a birch that he made me cut myself from the garden. Three times he makes me prepare that rod until he was happy with its shape and form. I quickly learned to loathe my handiwork. At first he only whipped me over my servant’s livery which is made from a thick crude wool. Thankfully, I wear two petticoats beneath that, but, as the weeks passed, they were soon lifted, one by one. Now all my punishment is given over my split-pantaloons. This gives no useful protection as it provides but a thin cotton layer over my full cheeks.

In recent weeks he has taken to brutally beating me with his stick, which is a long rattan cane that he keeps for the dogs. This is truly unbearable.

Once I have gladly left his room, the tears start to well up inside my throat, I can no longer hold them tight, they overcome my body and burst forth, rolling down my flushed cheeks. I run from his study along to the servants’ quarter and up to my little safe haven in the heavens of this cold house. Most nights I lie face down on the hard bed stroking my sore behind and sob myself into the spell of sleep.

All these punishments are for acts that I truly need make no amends for. Excuses and wild reasons are found for these unfair and painful thrashings. Now, it is without reason that I must go to his study for my now daily castigation. I was informed earlier that the Master will require his stick along with my attendance this night. An encircling blackness sweeps round my body and soul, what kind of berating will I have to endure this eve?

I am at the top of the old stairs now, yet as I walk quietly along this passage, something is different. The smells have changed and as I turn the corner and face the door to the Master’s private room, I can hear hearty laughter and loud voices. I am relieved of today’s punishment. I realise now that the Master has guests, gentlemen from the Borough have stayed late. He will not punish me now, I have escaped my fearful censure and remonstration.

A wave of happiness runs through my veins. An acquittal, I will be discharged this night. I thank God for this pardon. I stand facing the door, I cannot help but listen for a little while as I have never been party to such an occasion and am a little fascinated. These men seem quite rough and vulgar compared with the women’s parties I have once or twice attended in this house.

I take courage and knock upon the door, there is no reply. I believe my knock was too quiet, it was not heard against their noise. I breathe in deeply and knock again. I try and remember that soon I will be tucked up in my little attic bed. He will surely dismiss me immediately. He has probably not realised how late is the hour. He will not want to be concerned with me while he has guests.

A voice cries, ‘Come’. I enter. I am holding the stick with both hands, firmly. I am ignored and stand at the back of the room in the shadows. I dare not look up at anyone in the room. The room is filled with perhaps, four gentlemen, tobacco fills the air and I spy many empty claret bottles.

‘Place it on the desk,’ says the only voice I recognise. I do as I am told. Yet no more is said. Panic starts to run through the veins of my body. Why have I not been told to leave or ordered to bed? I start to shake. I am confused. My breathing seems so loud, so fast. I must be still. I must control myself. Perhaps he has forgotten me. Perhaps if I am silent, quiet like a mouse he will forget I am standing here.

I listen to the dialogue of these gentlemen. Mostly it makes no sense to me and is full of commotion and chortling. Suddenly, its discourse moves to me and I hear my name being spoken. My master is at lengths telling these gentlemen of my misconduct within this house. It is all untrue and unjust, but I can say nothing and am now too afraid to even become inwardly vexed at these words. He then explains to them how he has taken to administering nightly lashings on my person to curb this innate badness.

‘Forward girl… come here,’ orders my Master impatiently. I step out from the darkness into the warm orange candlelight of the chamber, a fire roars in the hearth. I stand terrified in front of this strange assembly. I am still blank, bewildered by my position. I am so uncomfortable as I have never been the attention of so many gentlemen before. ‘This is the useless, slovenly girl I hope to fully chide this eve. She is in need of a lasting reprove and I indeed will give her thus.’ I hear a little laughing from the group.

Now fully realising I am indeed to be beaten in front of this audience, I am panic-stricken. I want to run quickly from this room up to my attic bed and hide myself forever under its coarse covers. Yet I know that I cannot. I am far too frightened to even dare move from this spot, without being ordered thus. Even if I ever dared such bold defiance I could be dismissed from this house. This other nightmare fancy, flashes inwardly, to be alone on the streets or worst still, the work house. No, there is no choice for me but obedience.

I am turned round and pushed over the desk by my Master. This he has done so many times before, yet with these guests here it is so embarrassing. He roughly begins pulling up my smock and two petticoats. With my coats now up over my back, exposing my split-knickers, he easily pulls them rudely open. My face blushes. No, please let him not beat my bare behind in front of these gentlemen. I wish I dared to beg him thus, yet not even choked words would come up from my frozen mouth. ‘She has quite a lovely bottom,’ comments an elderly voice. ‘Yes, quite a beautiful plump, little peach.’

‘Ripe for a good smiting, eh,’ loudly scoffs another tongue. I now am overwhelmed with shame. Indeed, I have never been naked in front of any person in my whole life, let alone this group of gentlemen. My bottom is now on display to all, this is such a terrible humiliation. I just want it to be over so I can run from this place and hide myself in disgrace.

I fix in my mind that surely it will not be a harsh punishment. With this gathering and the shame of having my private parts visible, it will be brief and for show. I feel my Master pat my behind two or three times with his stick. Suddenly, it whistles through the air and I feel it strike my bottom. This stroke is ferocious. It is the hardest I have ever been struck. My body jolts forward and I cannot help but make a short moan. He still continues drubbing me, again… and again… and again with his sharp stick. My nates are burning now and I can feel thin welts rising up on my now tender skin. Each blow is severe and cruel but they continue to come. I cannot believe his brutality. I am crying out now, louder and louder with each thwack, yet he continues to hit me.

‘I hope this will curb your behaviour, you wretched little thing,’ he roars as he canes my seat once more.

His guests seem amused by this little spectacle and are laughing and offering up words of suggestion and encouragement.

‘Quiet yourself, girl, this is nothing compared to what I have given errant servants in my time. I have girls sent down to the stables for a sound horse-whipping,’ bellows an unknown voice.

‘Come, sir, thrash some manners into this young jade,’ urges another.

Taking heed of their cruel words, indeed spurred on by them, my Master again takes his stick to my now, well-lined, bare buttocks, which scream out with pain. Four more strokes come, and quick too. I writhe round uncontrollably on his desk, knocking over a pile of books; they fall with a thud to the floor. He pauses angrily.

‘Oh please, Sir,’ I beg very quietly. I have never in all my life ever spoken to him thus, ‘Please… please.’ My hands instinctively move to my behind. I have to soothe the skin. I rub it, for it is burning, hot enough to scorch. I can feel heavy ridges, deep in my flesh. He listens not to that which I implore and ignoring my plea he begins administering fearful blows once more.

I am lost and overcome with an unimaginable terror and desperation. When will it end? I can surely take no more. I feel the stick cut unceasingly into my flesh, whilst the more I cry out the more the strokes come hither. Yet I am unable to stop my incessant wailing.

Two of the gentlemen have come forward and are assisting my Master by holding me fast.

I can do nothing but endure this painful flogging.

I turn my head a little to implore a reprieve with my now distraught face, but all I view is the cane being raised high above my master’s head and being brought down with all his masculine strength and force behind it. I wail out and my whole body jerks forward with pain. I, uncontrollably, burst into sobs, for I can hold myself no longer. The tears roll down my cheeks and fall on to the oak desk. A few more strokes come and at last my Master finishes his labour.

‘Get up girl. Get over there and stand in the corner.’

My behind is now on fire. It is a sore pad of welts and bruises. I will surely not sit down for a week.

I swoon, I am exhausted and limp in body but I manage to stand and make to pull down my petticoats.

‘Leave them up,’ shouts my Master and roughly tucks them into my corset. So, to the corner I go, with my behind in full and constant display to all. I stand sombre, unable to forget my trounced bottom. I cannot quiet my sobs, though I try for fear of more chastisement. I cannot calm myself, I feel so wretched, so ashamed.

‘By God, sir, her seat is well striped,’ comments a young voice. ‘I’ll wager she’ll not sit on that for some time,’ replies my Master smugly. I can feel their eyes surveying my sorry position.

‘Now get out girl and remember you will be meeting this cane again tomorrow.’

I lower my undergarments and rush to the door, still sobbing. I do not stop running until I have reached the sanctuary of my attic room.

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It is mid-morning now and I am on my knees and hard at work scrubbing the main entrance hall. I am tired. I slept little last night. I cried much of it and spent much time trying to comfort my poor belaboured backside. I never imagined such a terrible night could ever befall me. I still cannot believe this waking nightmare. It darts in and out my troubled mind. The state of my bottom is foremost in these thoughts. I cannot forget its sore, battered state. No one in this house knows what I have to bear. I try to concentrate on the task in hand and stare at the floor. There is some noise from outside; coachmen start to bustle around, the doors are pushed open, arriving home is the Master and Mistress. I can only see his boots as they saunter in and around the hall. This demon; this incubus — only he, the perpetrator, knows of the severe welts and purple bruises under my coarse apron dress. My mind whirls, I am to be beaten tonight, as I am every night.

I suppose I should reiterate that this is only one of my many fantasies. I realise a thrashing like this is excessive. It is just that, I sometimes love to imagine being thrashed every day and kept under the strict regime of an angry, cruel Master. These beatings are always hard and merciless. There is no escape and I have to bear all that the Master wishes to bestow on me.

This particular story began with imagining each of the different visits to his study over several months, each time being a little harder and more personal. These build up in my mind to a final humiliation of being lashed in public.

The video I will post next week, starring and directed by Lucy Bailey, seems to me like it is an enactment of the fantasy she outlined here.