calmeilles
07-07-2016, 02:56 PM
Being a servant.
That's my role, to be a household servant to a superior Gentleman. Whether the sole domestic or one of several, whether a singular Master or a houseful doesn't matter. I am destined to serve.
Not, however an employee on a wage but indentured to serve, subject to discipline and with no means to escape.
The discipline generally comes in two ways.
Informally Sir might spank me at any time, or use a riding crop which he keeps at hand. Such incidents might be looked on as encouragement or warnings. Along with the casual beating comes the certain knowledge that something will be marked down in the punishment book for later consideration.
That book is a source of terror. No fault or failing goes unrecorded. And the list of those awaiting attention always grows faster than they are struck out as dealt with.
Sir simply says "Bring the book." It could be any time but the period of greatest danger is after Sir has finished dinner and before I'm dismissed to my own.
The routine is fixed. First I go to fetch the punishment book — and you can be sure I'm always well aware of where it is. It must be presented to Sir on a silver salver, open at the page which shows the oldest entry not yet marked as dealt with.
If Sir takes the book, which almost invariable He does, I go to my room, strip to pants and vest, then go to wait, standing against the wall beside His study door.
He will arrive holding the book and enter the study leaving the door open. Afer a time He'll call me in and I walk in, stop just short of His desk and stand, head bowed.
Sir rarely speaks on these ocasions. I know why I'm there and it pleases Him to man-handle me rather than give orders. If I'm pulled around the desk it'll be to go over His knees and the session will start with a spanking. First on pants, then on my bare backside. Starting with the hand but usually soon changing to an implement, slipper or paddle.
He will continue until I can't remain still and start to wriggle. He'll stand me up and move me to the desk, and push me over. I know the rules, I have to spread my legs as far as I can so my waist bends over the the edge of the desk and reach to grasp the far side with my hands.
What will he use? The customary choices are belt, heavy rubber strap and cane. But there are other posibilities. The riding crop, the flogger, the cat-o-nine-tails, the dog whip and more. Whichever is selected first at least two will be employed and He usually ends with the cane.
There is only one rule: I must not move. I've learned it the hard way. If I move I'll be tied in position and He'll start again, harder and longer.
There's no rule about noise. I may whimper or cry or even scream. To start with I'm silent, mostly from stubborness but in part because I sense that He likes this, likes breaking my spirit and forcing me to cry out.
When the cane starts I know it's approaching an end. But I still don't know how much more is to come. Sir always delivers the cane in fast sets of six, changing sides between each set. Six. A dozen. Two dozen.
It ends when... well, when no more strokes arrive. I don't move until told.
The last part is a ritual humiliation. I stand before the desk and watch as Sir reads the punishment book entries. He takes a strait edge and a pen and draws a careful line through one entry and I'm required to say "Thank You Sir."
Occasionally He'll strike through a second or even a third. Perhaps because the first was only a minor offence or perhaps because the beating had been particularly hard or maybe it's entirely arbitrary: it's never explained so I cannot know. But each one requires that I thank Sir for it.
The last move is Sir closing the punishment book. The signal that it is definitively over. The signal for me to return to my room, dress in my uniform and return to work.
That's my role, to be a household servant to a superior Gentleman. Whether the sole domestic or one of several, whether a singular Master or a houseful doesn't matter. I am destined to serve.
Not, however an employee on a wage but indentured to serve, subject to discipline and with no means to escape.
The discipline generally comes in two ways.
Informally Sir might spank me at any time, or use a riding crop which he keeps at hand. Such incidents might be looked on as encouragement or warnings. Along with the casual beating comes the certain knowledge that something will be marked down in the punishment book for later consideration.
That book is a source of terror. No fault or failing goes unrecorded. And the list of those awaiting attention always grows faster than they are struck out as dealt with.
Sir simply says "Bring the book." It could be any time but the period of greatest danger is after Sir has finished dinner and before I'm dismissed to my own.
The routine is fixed. First I go to fetch the punishment book — and you can be sure I'm always well aware of where it is. It must be presented to Sir on a silver salver, open at the page which shows the oldest entry not yet marked as dealt with.
If Sir takes the book, which almost invariable He does, I go to my room, strip to pants and vest, then go to wait, standing against the wall beside His study door.
He will arrive holding the book and enter the study leaving the door open. Afer a time He'll call me in and I walk in, stop just short of His desk and stand, head bowed.
Sir rarely speaks on these ocasions. I know why I'm there and it pleases Him to man-handle me rather than give orders. If I'm pulled around the desk it'll be to go over His knees and the session will start with a spanking. First on pants, then on my bare backside. Starting with the hand but usually soon changing to an implement, slipper or paddle.
He will continue until I can't remain still and start to wriggle. He'll stand me up and move me to the desk, and push me over. I know the rules, I have to spread my legs as far as I can so my waist bends over the the edge of the desk and reach to grasp the far side with my hands.
What will he use? The customary choices are belt, heavy rubber strap and cane. But there are other posibilities. The riding crop, the flogger, the cat-o-nine-tails, the dog whip and more. Whichever is selected first at least two will be employed and He usually ends with the cane.
There is only one rule: I must not move. I've learned it the hard way. If I move I'll be tied in position and He'll start again, harder and longer.
There's no rule about noise. I may whimper or cry or even scream. To start with I'm silent, mostly from stubborness but in part because I sense that He likes this, likes breaking my spirit and forcing me to cry out.
When the cane starts I know it's approaching an end. But I still don't know how much more is to come. Sir always delivers the cane in fast sets of six, changing sides between each set. Six. A dozen. Two dozen.
It ends when... well, when no more strokes arrive. I don't move until told.
The last part is a ritual humiliation. I stand before the desk and watch as Sir reads the punishment book entries. He takes a strait edge and a pen and draws a careful line through one entry and I'm required to say "Thank You Sir."
Occasionally He'll strike through a second or even a third. Perhaps because the first was only a minor offence or perhaps because the beating had been particularly hard or maybe it's entirely arbitrary: it's never explained so I cannot know. But each one requires that I thank Sir for it.
The last move is Sir closing the punishment book. The signal that it is definitively over. The signal for me to return to my room, dress in my uniform and return to work.