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Chapter 1: A Meeting WithMr. James
“Please, sit down.” They had arrived at my Highgate consulting rooms on a damp afternoon in April. The weather had been dismal for the two weeks since Easter. It was showing no signs of improving. The chimneys of London were still pressing black, coal smoke into the air. The streets and slates of the roofs were still silver with the sheen of recent rain. Gas light from the posts in the street and in my own hall had leant a warming glow as I opened the door to the arrival of my visitors. I shook the rain from their coats as I took them.
I am always happy to see new clients, especially when they come, as Mr and Mrs Meriel James had, on the recommendation of those that I have helped before. “You found me without too much trouble I trust?” I said as I ushered them in to my consulting room. I invited them to sit. They took their place on my thickly padded, leather covered couch. I folded my thin, tall, frame into the chair opposite them. Unkind friends have said I resemble Lytton Strachey, but on a good day. I suppose I do share his somewhat aesthetic demeanour and untidy beard.
Mr James nodded. He was a dark haired man, slightly smaller than his wife, neatly dressed in a three piece suit and wearing shoes with a high polish. He had the air of a man of determination and of one who’s determination had often proved successful. “Yes, it was not too difficult at all. We missed a turn beside the heath but then saw a sign that put us right.” Mrs James said nothing. She sat there just smiling quietly as her husband explained how they had finally found the right road. I took that as a good sign.
“You know the Darrows, I believe? Julian and Clare.”
“Yes,” said Mr James. “It was theythat suggested that you might be able to help us. You’ve been of service to them I believe? They spoke highly of you.”
“That was very kind. Yes, I believe I was able to help them.” Mrs James still said nothing. She sat in her neat suit with its high buttoned jacket and plain straight skirt, her knees and ankles pressed modestly together; her hands clasped in her lap, resting lightly on the pale tan leather gloves that she had removed as she sat down. She bore the neat self assured look of a woman whose life revolved around her career and the workplace. Her hair was short and neatly cut; her makeup simple, her expression at once open, attentive and thoughtful. I was not encouraged. “There is some tea, if you would like,” I said.
Mr James looked at his wife. She nodded. He said, “That would be very agreeable.” She didn’t say anything.
I poured for them. Milk for him, lemon for her. I passed them their cups. Mrs James shook her head when I offered her sugar. She took a napkin, placed her gloves at her side and spread the napkin across her lap. Mr James took sugar. Two lumps, dropped into the cup with a sound that seemed to act as the starting pistol for our discussions.
“I wonder if you know,” Mr James began, “the problems that a man faces in making his way in the world these days.”
“I can appreciate them,” I said. “I set up my own business some ten years ago but even then it was difficult to make a mark. Nowadays, I know that the difficulties are, if anything, greater. If one is well connected, with property and finances, the challenge is significant. If one is unfortunate enough to be merely blessed with talent, then it may appear insuperable. The would-be entrepreneur has to face the question of amassing capital, finding a connection to the right business, …..”
“Establishing the right social framework.” Mr James interrupted me. It seemed that the two of us had established a clear rapport. Mrs James though looked tense, her napkin torn unconsciously into many pieces, lay in her lap.
“Indeed,” I said.
Mr James continued. “You will forgive me if I say so but I observe many parallels between our own times and those of the first Victorian era. I see from your appearance that you subscribe to the values of that period.”
I nodded in response. “I know that many consider me eccentric,” I said, “at least for the way I favour frock coat, breeches, waistcoat and cravat. For me, the apparel of that era betokens the strength and energy of those times. I should stress, though, that I have never given much thought to those that judge solely by the superficial attributes of appearance.”
“True,” says Mr James, “but I believe you are right about our Victorian forebears. That era set the foundations of today’s prosperity and we would be wise to continue to consider its qualities today. In matters of business now – as then - it is not so much what you know as who you know and how you develop your position with them.”
I nodded in agreement. “A man’s contacts are, I am afraid, as important as his abilities.”
“Exactly,” said Mr James agreeing enthusiastically. “It is no longer sufficient to be an expert in your field.” Mrs James looked affectionately at her husband as if to acknowledge his talent.
“If indeed it ever was,” I interjected. The conversation was agreeable but I was not sure yet where it was leading. Mr James’s next comment, however began to take us forward.
“Indeed. Now one needs to command the social spheres as much as those of the factory floor or the sale room.”
“And a wife must be able to support her husband in doing so.” Mrs James spoke for the first time. Her quiet, determined, voice communicated at one and the same time her conviction and the problem that her husband was facing. I could see why he had felt that my services could be of value. Mr James looked at his wife with an expression that was more of sorrow than anger. She realised at once that she had spoken and ventured an opinion without invitation. She looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said and sank back into silence.
I turned back to Mr James. “Can I ask how you know the Darrows?”
“Our Chamber of Commerce,” he replied. “He and I are both in the same line of business. We both work on ways to help businesses improve their financial records and management techniques. New ways of applying the International Babbage Machine; the difference engine?”
I nodded, feigning understanding and interest. It was, I supposed, a legitimate application of technology but one which had never enthused me. For gears and springs, levers and cams, to replace the elegance of the quill pen and bound ledger appeared to me a retrograde step. It also saddened me that Babbage had thought it necessary to seek capital from colonial entrepreneurs but that was hardly germane to our discussion.
“We were invited to dinner. I fear there was an incident,” Mr James went on. He glanced quickly at his wife. She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Mr Darrow was very understanding. He saw my difficulty at once. He said he had once had similar problems himself. His wife and Mrs James are of a similar age; a similar background. I was surprised. He had recently been proposed as chair of our industry association. A powerful position.”
“Well, you are wise to cultivate him.”
“Precisely my thought,” James replied. “But I had not considered it was possible for a man to gain such a position with problems such as those I face. It was then that he told me of the help that you had given. I must say Clare Darrow is an excellent advertisement for your services; the perfect hostess; an enviable social asset.”
“Thank you. She was an attentive and eager pupil. I can claim only a little credit. So you have discussed this with your wife?”
“Yes. We are both agreed.” Mrs James looked up and nodded in agreement with her husband’s words. “She understands and accepts the importance of her place as my wife. She realises that her upbringing has not prepared her for life in the world as it is today but she wishes to be at my side; to support me as a wife should. Isn’t that so dear?”
Mrs James gathered herself. She looked down at the remnants of the napkin in her lap, seeming surprised at the way that it had become torn. She looked up again, staring squarely at me, having regained some of her calm and inner strength. “Yes,” she said. “I wish for nothing more than for my husband to be proud of me; for me to help him build his business and his social circle.”
I was convinced that her answer was entirely sincere although, without doubt, she would find it harder to achieve her ambition than she imagined. “I have to ask both of you if you understand the commercial terms upon which these services are provided? My time is an investment in your future, Mr James. You realise that my fees will be taken as a percentage of your future earnings?”
“Indeed,” said Mr James. His wife nodded. “But without your services my future earnings would be far less.”
“And you both understand that Mrs James will need to undergo a wide range of experiences as part of this. I doubt that her married life to date has prepared her for them.” Mrs James sat staring impassively.
“Of course. She realises what is involved. She and Mrs Darrow spent some considerable time discussing it.”
“I need your acquiescence in this as well, Mrs James,” I said, looking across squarely at her.
“You have it, unconditionally,” she said.
“Very well.”I walked to my desk and turned to face the couple. I have to select my clients carefully; only by engaging with those that offer the opportunity of success. Experience allows me to make my decisions quickly on these matters and it seemed that there were good prospects for attaining the outcomes expected from the commission. “I can undertake this project if that is what you wish.” The look of relief on the face of Mr James told me all I needed to know of his commitment to the project. Mrs James appeared less enthusiastic but that was only to be expected. I took a copy of my standard agreement from the leather folder that sat beside the blotter. “Please take this,” I said. “Read it thoroughly and when you are both ready sign it and return it to me. Once that has been done we can make further arrangements. If you have any questions in the mean time Mr James, please call me.”
Mr James took the documents, got to his feet and shook my hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m very grateful. This means a great deal to me,” he looked at his wife with an air of tenderness, “to both of us.” Mrs James got to her feet, pulled on her gloves and nodded to me. I walked with the two of them to my door. Outside was parked Mr James’s vehicle. A new German coupé, I noticed. It was regrettable that so much of England’s engineering heritage had been squandered so that the successful sought out foreign products but I could not fault his choice. Whatever else, Mr James was evidently enjoying some considerable measure of success even without my involvement.
As they were about to leave, I realised that I did not know the name of his wife. I asked Mr James.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s Nicola.”
“Nicky,” she said brightly, interrupting without thought. “I much prefer Nicky.”
I looked straight at her. Her interruption only served to underline the extent of the problem that Mr James faced. For myself, it was merely an indication of the need for my services; for others in a world where deference and self effacement are valued as attributes for a wife, it would be seen as an unforgivable social gaffe. “And I prefer the use of names as they were given.” I said bluntly. “It will be Nicola while you are here.” I turned back to her husband whose fretful look told me that he recognised the challenge that I knew I faced. “Do not worry, Mr James,” I said. “I know it seems difficult but I am sure I can help.”
Chapter 2 : The Arrival of Nicola James
Meriel James was as good as his word. I had not really expected it to be any different but you never know. The arrival of his coupé signified the start of my project. It quietly slid to a halt outside the house with the barest hiss from its steam condensing power plant. Meriel stepped out followed by his wife.
“Good day,” he said, offering his hand.
I shook it warmly. “You have the agreements?” He passed me an envelope. I had no doubt that it contained the documents signed by both Meriel and his wife, authorising me to take such measures as I thought fit to provide him with the ideal wife for one of today’s breed of entrepreneurs; respectful, polite, the perfect housekeeper and the ideal hostess.
Nicola stood quietly as he gave me the envelope. I wondered whether she had really considered the coming few weeks, whether Clare Darrow had really shared everything of the experiences she had undergone during her time with me. As I looked at Nicola James’s quiet, modest, smile I doubted that Clare had been so open. For my own part, my memories of Mrs Darrow’s time with me were the subject of many pleasant reveries.
“When should I call?” Meriel asked.
“In a week,” I said. “By then I will have formed a view.” Nicola bit her lip.
“As you wish.” He gestured to a suitcase strapped to chrome carrier bars on the back of the car. “She wanted to bring some things.”
I shook my head. “It’s not necessary,” I said.
“As you wish,” Meriel said getting back into his car. Nicola looked dismayed as he waved to me but shut the door of the car without a glance at his wife. He would be finding this part the most difficult of all, I knew. Meriel slipped the clutch on the car and it moved off almost soundlessly, with characteristic speed.
I looked across at Mrs James. She seemed disconcerted by the suddenness of her husband’s departure. “Please,” I said, waving her towards the door “do come in.”
“Thank you,” she said, walking towards me “Thank you, Mr … Oh. What should I call you?”
“Don’t worry for now. We can deal with that all in good time.” I watched her as she walked by me. I could see that I was going to find her something of a challenge. First of all she was wearing trousers. She cannot have imagined that would be acceptable. Her shoes had high heels, which was at least a step in the right direction. The way she strode, however, stepping out confidently, was very definitely not in the approved manner. I followed her into the house and waved her into the lounge, asking her to sit on the couch.
I remained standing. “Tell me about yourself,” I began. “And tell me what you hope to achieve while you are here.”
Nicola James looked up at me. She seemed uncertain. “About myself, I’m not sure where to begin,” she said, “and I’m not sure that it matters much anyway. Does it?” I took her question to be rhetorical and allowed her to continue. “I am twenty eight years old. I have been married for two years now. I have a responsible job of my own.” She caught my look of disapproval. It was hard to see how she could hope to combine that and her husband’s ambition. “But if that is an obstacle to my husband’s opportunities for success then I will willingly forego it. I am here because I wish to be as my husband needs me to be. We both believe that your methods can help me to achieve that. I wish to be the dutiful, respectful and hospitable wife. I wish to be, as you say, ‘trained’ to support my husband.”
“Excellent, Mrs James, excellent. Well, I believe that we should start at once. You realise that you will be expected to obey any instruction that you receive from me?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Splendid. In which case stand up, please, Mrs James.” As she did so, I took my seat in one of the comfortable armchairs. “Now please undress.”
Nicola was obviously startled by the instruction. “Oh!” she exclaimed holding her hands up to her mouth. “I hadn’t thought that…. I mean in here? The windows…”
I knew that I had to be firm from the very start. “Mrs James, please do not question my instructions. If I had wished for you to undress elsewhere I would have said so. If I had wished the curtains to be closed I would have asked you to do it. What I wish is what I asked you to do. Please do it.”
I must confess that, of all my many pleasures, watching a student obey, for the first time, my order to undress is one of the greatest. I have what many consider rather old fashioned views in many things and I admire many of the values of our Victorian forebears. However, my approval of the first Victorians does not extend to the rather hypocritical prudery that some practiced. In reality, of course, many of the Victorians were as appreciative of the female form as those of any era before or since. I join them in that celebration and I have found that an acceptance of nakedness before me by the student is an essential initial step in my programme.
Fortunately Mrs James needed no further urging to comply with my wishes. She unbuttoned her dark brown jacket and removed it, laying it neatly across the arm of the chair on which she had been sitting.
I gained, for the first time, an appreciation of my student’s form. The fabric of her pale green blouse both hid and revealed the shape of the body beneath. Good sized breasts, I decided, made all the more impressive by well wired underwear. I suspected that vanity on her part had driven that choice; more to impress those in her workplace than to please her husband. But no matter, vanity was a malleable weakness.
Her waist was not as trim as might be expected but as a modern Victorian I had ways to address that. She paused, hoping, I imagined, that I would not press her to go further. A look of bemusement was sufficient to encourage her to continue.
She took off her trousers next. Good legs, I thought, though perhaps carrying a little too much fat upon the thighs. Tights, of course, - I had expected no better - but at least she was quick to remove those as well.
She paused again, perhaps waiting for further instruction from me, perhaps believing that I had not meant what I said.
I remained silent, waiting; knowing that she would, in time, comply with my wishes. I find that allowing my trainees to discover their own submission is an effective approach.
And so it was.
The blouse followed the rest of her clothes. When she saw that no further urging was forthcoming she completed her undressing.
“Thank you, Nicola,” I said when I saw that she had finished. I find that approving of my students behaviour when they do as desired is as powerful a stimulus to learning as any corrective measure when they do not; although, of course, correction is applied when it becomes necessary.
I took my opportunity to appraise her physically. She was not a great beauty, it was true, but she did have pleasing proportions, agreeably plump buttocks and well fleshed thighs. I could understand Mr James’s desire for her and I could see why he was prepared to invest in equipping her better for the role he wished her to take rather than any of the alternative measures open to him.
I could tell that she was shocked by my careful study of her naked body but she managed to stand passively, allowing me to look at her. The combination of modesty and submission I found encouraging.
The hairs at the base of her belly were as black as those on her head. Her skin was unfashionably dark, more so than would have been achieved through indolence in the sun’s rays, I thought. A small, dark, mole close to her navel was the only blemish on her skin, The aureola’s of her breasts were dark, a deeper brown still than the rest of her flesh.
“Tell me Nicola,” I said, “did any of your family serve in the Colonial Service,”
She knew at once what I was implying and, to her credit, faced it. “Yes,” she said, “My grandfather served on the border between Imperial India and the Central Arabian Territories. My mother had the misfortune to fall into the hands of raiding tribesmen. Her husband was very understanding. I was brought up as his own child but, as you see, my blood is not entirely English.”
“Do not worry, Nicola, I said to reassure her. “It will not matter here. I have the highest regard for our Colonial Service. To maintain the values of Empire so far from its centre is a worthy task and you should not be visited with the consequences of your mother’s ill chance. Now please stand quite still with your hands by your sides.” I suppose I am unfashionable in my views. We English have a reputation for xenophobia which is not entirely unearned. I, on the other hand, consider that one of our strengths as a nation has been the leavening of the blood resulting from our Imperial reach. The only difficulty is that sometimes a certain independence of spirit can be observed in women of this background, but that can, of course, be dealt with.
I took my first touch of her as she stood there, passively anticipating it. I ran my hands across her belly feeling the muscles beneath as she tensedinvoluntarily. I slid my hands down her arms, judging the musculature and gauging the slenderness of her wrists. I took each of her breasts in turn, cupped them in my hands and tested the sensitivity and responsiveness of her nipples. Nicola stood still, only flinching slightly at my touch of her breasts.
“You seem content for me to handle you,” I said.
“From my discussions with Mrs Darrow I had expected that this would be part of my experience … Sir,” she said.
I was pleased that she added the epithet at her own initiative. It boded well for our work together. There would be plenty of opportunities to explore how she felt about this later, for now it was sufficient that she did not object.
The next stage was the crucial one.
I have developed my own techniques based on the principal that the trainee should be allowed to lead themselves into submission, that force is rarely essential and almost always contributes to a slowing of the pace and the completeness of submission. Submission is something that must be given, not taken. The trainee needs to be provided with the opportunity to submit. Only when that opportunity is not taken should more directive measures be applied.
My method depends on a short initial period of solitary contemplation, a period spent without distraction from the mater in hand. My experience has been that this is best achieved by confining the trainee but to use force at this stage creates unnecessary barriers to future progress. I prefer to allow the trainee to come to the same conclusion as I have.
Mrs James, prepared to some extent by her conversations with Mrs Darrow, spoke out. “Marjorie – I am sorry, Mrs Darrow – said that I might find my first encounter with the accommodation disturbing.”
“I cannot say,” I replied. It was likely, that was true; but who is to say what will disturb people? “Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes I would.”
I gestured to the cellar door and let her find her own way through and down the wooden steps. The cellar is the one part of my house where I continue the use of gas mantles to provide lighting. Of course it is less than practical these days now that the supply of electricity is so widely available but I must confess to enjoying the softer light shed by the gas lamps of an earlier time. The warm glow of the lamps, diffused by the pearl glass shades, filled the cellar space, bathing the bare brick walls with a soft yellow light.
The walls of the cellar were lined with the tools of my trade. The shackles, ropes, straps and other implements of restraint.The rods, canes, crops and other instruments of correction. In one corner stood the cage that would be her home, at least in the early stages of her training. The low barred door through which the occupant could only enter or leave on hands and knees stood ajar.
Mrs James explored the racks on the wall. She examined each item closely, apparently without alarm.
I took up the place that I always did, in front of the door to the cage where she would eventually be confined. I was careful not to stand between Mrs James and the exit from the cellar, careful not to give her the impression that I was there to impede her, about to seize and bind her. It was important to me that she felt free to leave at any time; that she never felt she was being pressed into remaining here.
Eventually she turned towards me, trying to peer around me at the cage behind. “And is that where I will be kept?” She asked.
“Is that what Mrs Darrow told you to expect?” I responded. She nodded. “Well, please look.”
I have no need to wrestle a trainee into their cage. Invariably they go of their own free will, intrigued by the prospect, anxious to move their own experience forward.
I stood to one side allowing her sight of the low door that provided entry. She got to her knees and crawled inside. I left the door open behind her. She stood up inside the cage peering out between the bars. “I expected you to shut the door,” she said. “Don’t you wish to imprison me?”
“If you think that would help,” I replied. She nodded, anxious to begin her training, not realising that it has already started. I shut the door. The lock clicked home as I turned the key. I hung the key on a hook on the wall, in her clear site but out of reach.
She tensed in response to the sound of the key in the lock. “You know that you must stay here,” I said. “I will return in a while. Perhaps you could spend some time considering what your husband needs of you.”
Nicola looked confused but said nothing. I didn’t really expect her to make much progress on her own but a few hours alone would be beneficial.
I suppose that I left her for about two hours. She was, as I expected, rather agitated on my return.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “Surely you can’t expect me to stay in here all this time? It’s unreasonable!”
It was a predictable, if disappointing response to her circumstance, I thought. I held a finger up to my lip and waved for her to turn around so that she had her back to me.
She gave me a quizzical look but then finally did as I indicated.
I reached through the bars of the cage and dropped a ball gag in front of her face. As she went to cry out, a practiced jerk pulled the ball into place between her teeth. She gave a grunt of protest as I tightened the gag’s straps and fastened them tight with a small padlock. As I released my grip the naked Nicola spun around, glowering at me, with her hands behind her head as she tried unsuccessfully to wrench the straps loose.
I put my finger back to my lips and left her once more, her muffled complaints following me up the cellar steps.
When I returned in another hour’s time she had evidently learned her lesson. As she heard me arrive she got to her knees and waited quietly for my attention. I let her stay as she was for a while, taking a few moments to rearrange some of my tools on their rack alongside one wall of the cellar. Eventually I turned to Nicola.
“I should explain,” I said, “that I consider you to be an intelligent woman. It is just that you have not yet focussed that intelligence as your husband needs and as a result it has been more of a problem than a benefit to you – at least as far as your married life is concerned. Generally speaking I will not tell you what you should or should not do. I will allow you to infer the behaviour that you feel is appropriate. Of course, if you misjudge things – as I think we both know you did just now,” She looked up at me and then nodded before returning her eyes to the floor. “Then I will provide appropriate correction. I will not treat you with unnecessary cruelty,” (I avoided the question of what might be necessary cruelty.) “and the extent to which your experiences are unpleasant will depend largely on your own ability to determine what is needed of you. Do you understand?”
Nicola nodded but, to her credit, made no attempt to give voice to her assent.
She made no noise either as I went to leave; an excellent response. As a reward I returned and removed her gag.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said, her words slightly distorted by the stiffness of her jaw. The corners of her mouth were scored red from the gag’s straps and her chin was streaked with drool but she did nothing to try alleviate either.
In the following day I took the opportunity to explore the limits of Nicola’s obedience. She was not required to carry out any particular tasks at first but she was kept naked.
To her credit, she did not question this. It was clear that she neither felt uncomfortable with her nakedness (although on occasion her conventional modesty reasserted itself and she would start as I entered any room where she was) nor considered that I was unreasonable in requiring it of her.
It is my experience that when required to remain naked, my trainees exhibit one of a range of responses. Some attempt to withdraw, hiding themselves from contact. Some become flirtatious, believing that I can be diverted from my purpose in some way by their assumed allure. Some, a surprising few (perhaps not so surprising given their husbands’ willingness to invest in their training) become angered, attempting to defy me and requiring restraint or worse. Nicola James, to my interest, responded by seeking to understand how her situation would assist her development.
“May I ask, Sir,” she began with admirable humility, “how my nakedness will help? How this will assist in my becoming better able to support my husband.”
In an age of engineering, I think of myself as an engineer of the human spirit. My father was an engineer of a more traditional kind, working on the great extension of the Manchester Canal that now carries ocean going vessels from the North Sea to the Atlantic. Beside that my own efforts are more modest but, I like to think, still important in their way. In consequence I like to share my thoughts on my methods. Perhaps it is a weakness of mine to enjoy discoursing upon my methods to those that are to experience them. Perhaps there is some vanity there on my part but, because of my successes, I must confess to feeling entitled to some vanity on the matter. For whatever reason, I choose on occasion to indulge myself with my guests. It has been my experience that sharing my views does not hinder my work. For those that I work with who are blessed with a reasonable amount of intelligence it even seems to help.
I gestured for her to sit on the floor as I sat myself in one of the large armchairs. “A successful man,” I began, “any successful man, needs a solid foundation upon which to build his success. That solid foundation needs to be a wife that in every respect exemplifies the essential virtues that all men desire. In displaying his wife to his business associates a man must be confident that she will appear as all men wish their women to be. By demonstrating the perfection of his wife he, by association, becomes a man to be admired.”
“I can see the logic of that,” Nicola responded thoughtfully, “but surely no man expects a woman to be naked at his beck and call at all times.”
“We must be careful,” I said, slowly, “to separate the conscious, intellectual drive and the primeval, inherited, acquired drives. Have you made any study of archaeology? Or anthropology?”
“No. A little history but no more.”
“To understand human drives you must see them in the great perspective of the sweep of time. I have little truck with these Viennese thinkers who believe that all our desires spring from our own experiences; they are much deeper than that. Consider the Egyptians of antiquity. Their engineers were as great as ourselves but now we see their lives revealed through their inscriptions to be as much in turmoil as our own. Male lusts and drives were as intimately linked then as they are today. It is only by understanding and exploiting those drives that a successful man can achieve his position in society. And it is only by understanding that that a wife, a Nefertiti or a Hatshepsut can expect to support that process.”
“Yes,” Nicola said. “I have heard something of the work of the Frenchman, Champollion. His work allow us to understand their texts, I believe.”
I snorted in disgust. As ever, the popular account of discoveries neglects the contribution of those that provide the true insight. “Yes,” I said. “He is widely credited, but without the work of an Englishman, Thomas Young, his work would have come to nothing. Young provided the basis, the insight that showed how some parts of the inscriptions were royal names. From those efforts the Frenchman was able to leapfrog.”
“Oh. I did not know. That is most interesting.”
I was encouraged. Nicola was responding as any man might hope. Deferring, attentive, considering, flattering. The combination of nakedness and being placed in a subordinate position invariably has that effect eventually but this change was coming about more swiftly than I had hoped. Even so, the issue was an irrelevance. I needed to bring proceedings to a close. There were other matters to attend to, another client to see, and the presence of Nicola James would only be an encumbrance to my discussions.
“Yes,” I said, “but we must consider it on another occasion. For now, you must return to your accommodation.” Nicola looked disappointed. “I wish you to think about our discussions. You will be silenced and hooded to aid your contemplations. Please return downstairs. I will join you shortly.”
She followed my instructions. When I joined her in the cellar she was waiting by the door to her cage, kneeling, with her head bowed. She didn’t resist as I squeezed the rubber ball between her lips and strapped it in place. Neither did she object as I smoothed the rubber hood over her head. She went willingly as I guided her through the door and in to her cage. It certainly felt like Nicola James was beginning to accept how she must behave.
My other business concluded,I took the time to visit Nicola’s cage. I hadn’t really noticed before what an excellent job had been done welding the bars to the frame of the cage, how neatly the hinges on the door had been finished, how solidly the steel rods were set in the concrete floor. The grey steel burnished to a dull grey smoothness impressed on those within it, or without, the strength of the construction. The lock on the cage’s door, its key plate in polished brass, confirmed that whoever was inside would be unable to escape.
In my admiration for the impressive example of the engineer’s art I had almost forgotten about the cage’s occupant.
She realised that I was there, of course, in spite of the hood that covered her head, blinding her and dulling her hearing. She had heard my steps and in some way sensed my looking at the cage and, in her mind, her within it. She made a short, questioning noise, distorted by her gag and muffled by the hood. She rubbed her head slowly against the bars of the cage as a cat might. Even the short period of isolation that she had endured until then seemed to have brought out a dependency for affection and attention.
I crouched down beside the door of the cage and reached through with my hand. I brushed my fingers against her rubber covered cheek. Startled at first she backed away but then leant forward again pushing her face forward against my hand. I cupped my hand against her cheek and she pressed her cheek against me. I let it rest there for a moment or two, no more, and then withdrew it. My action drew a further questioning sound as she moved her head searching for the touch of my hand.
I have found that the use of a rubber hood has a very marked effect in the early stages of training. The sense of isolation that it provides is useful of course and, when used in conjunction with a suitable mouth filling gag, the wearer feels completely deprived of their usual means of communication. I have found an excellent source of rubber – the benefits of our colonial reach include access to the products of the Malayan peninsula – which provides sufficient stretch for a good fit while at the same time being rigid enough to prevent any aspect of the wearer’s expression beneath being transmitted to the observer. Deprived of their ability to express a scowl or a coquettish fluttering of the eyelids, the hooded trainee has simply to accept whatever is said to them without concerning themselves about their response; it is part of the process by which they learn dependency.
For many of my trainees, seduced by dreams of the benefits supposedly offered by an independent style of life, it requires considerable effort in order to learn to depend on others. Being deprived of the ability to express themselves helps them to come to terms rapidly with their dependence on another. I make this clear to them, of course, but it usually takes some while before they truly understand it. In Nicola’s case, though, she appeared to grasp the situation quickly.
When I finally came to remove Nicola’s hood and gag she appeared quite docile, not saying anything at all at first, simply looking up at me from where she knelt, awaiting whatever it was that would next befall her. I said nothing at first and just waited myself. She seemed confused by the way I stood, observing her on her knees, obviously expecting me to say or do something. Instead I spent my time observing her.
Mr James had made a sound choice when selecting his wife, at least in respect of her physical attributes. Her skin was quite flawless – except of course for its slight dusky tint. There are those that still find it difficult to accept the mixing of races but for myself it was hard to see how anyone could deny the beauty of Nicola’s coloration. Her waist was trim, her belly flat, her breasts pleasantly rounded and full but not excessively large. The only flaw in her proportions perhaps were buttocks that were larger than those deemed fashionable by those obsessed with women that could pass as boys and thighs that carried more flesh than would be deemed ideal. Her hair was dark and lustrous. Normally it would have been shining like well polished ebony but now it was heavy with sweat from being compressed beneath the hood. The hair that covered her sex, however, curled around her crotch, veiling her sex in a way that I found both enticing and frustrating. It was not clear to me whether or not she would be allowed to retain it during her training. In the longer term, of course, it would be her husband’s decision.
“You understand that you will experience both restraint and punishment while you are with me?”
Nicola seemed to sense a certain critical point had been reached. “Yes,” she said, “I believe so. I had assumed that these,” she nodded to the various implements hanging on the wall, “were not merely for decoration.”
I smiled. It was good that she was able to look with humour upon the future path of events. “Then you will understand if I ask you to bend across here.” I gestured towards a wooden frame that stood near to her cage.
“You intend to beat me, Sir?” she asked. “Can I know for what reason?”
“Yes, of course. It is part of the regimen. To be bound. To be beaten. To be silenced. To be confined. To accept that you will be of service to those around you in whatever they chose. For now it is that I chose for you to be beaten; to be bound and beaten. And you choose to allow this to happen.”
“I see. I am not sure that I understand but I see what is required.” With that she walked to the wooden frame and bent herself across it, laying her waist across the bar and reaching down with her hands on either side to grasp the legs of the frame. The straps I used to secure her wrists and ankles were of thick leather, rough against her skin. She tested their firmness as I fastened the buckles that held her tight against the wooden legs. To hold her waist secure a coarse rope fixed her to the bar across which she was bent. The same rope with knots in its length was brought up between her legs and settled into the groove of her sex.
As she seemed to settle herself against her bonds I chose the instrument I would use for what would be the first of many floggings for Nicola James. A soft leather multi-fronded flogger was my choice, knowing, as I did, that it would deliver soft and hard blows and blows of rising intensity with ease. There was however a pause before I started.
I find it helps to increase the anticipation in the student if, before I start, I spend some time in a careful examination of the area on which I intend to work. In this case I took trouble to explore her buttocks with care, feeling their weight and firmness in my hands, seeing how they moved when pressed or parted, noticing their response to a light tap of the hand and seeing the resilience of the skin and muscle beneath as the flesh rebounded from a slight blow. Each touch seemed to increase the tension in Nicola as she held herself against the frame, anticipating the start of what she of course expected to be painful strikes upon her.
Eventually I ceded to her desire for a start, catching two flogger blows across each buttock. Although the blows were soft, barely spreading the fronds of the flogger across her, she responded with quiet cries as though the landing of each blow was somehow magnified in intensity for her. She shifted her position on the frame and in doing so dragged the knotted rope across her crotch and arse bud. A further blow caused her to buck, pushing the knotted rope against her once again. It’s effect was swift, delivering pleasurable stimulation to both her cunt and arse, and soon with each blow she was gasping with pain and crying with pleasure in quick succession. The steady rhythm built up with each successive blow drove her further and further to a point where she was unable, I could tell, to distinguish between the painful and pleasurable stimuli. She began rocking back and forth on the frame, no longer driven by the flogger but powered by her own internal momentum, until the final wave of orgasm overtook her and she fell back, her wrists and ankles raw from her bucking against her bonds, the knotted rope stiff with her cum wedged tightly in her cleft.
I stood beside her reached beneath and gripped a nipple. This sudden touch upon a sexually aroused part of her so far unmolested, brought forth another cry and, with little manipulation, another orgasm.
She lifted her head slowly and then let it drop back, her black hair falling loosely across her sweat streaked brow. “Thank you, Sir,” she said. “Thank you.”
It was a welcome politeness and a suitable conclusion to the first of many sessions in which Nicola would be both aroused and beaten in pursuit of her coming to understand her role in her husband’s life.
The regimen that I employ with those that are sent to me links periods of confinement, stimulation and punishment with times when the subject is simply free to wander around my house. It is important for them to feel the normality of a home life alongside the extreme sensations imbued by the close quarters of the cage, the strictures of the rope, belt or fetter and the attentions of the whip cane or flogger.
At the end of the day I often like to take a single glass of brandy in my study before retiring to bed. Sometimes, as on this occasion, I have my student join me before returning them to their night time accommodation in the cellar.
“Have you ever been required to pleasure yourself?” I was sitting beside the fire in my study. Nicola, as expected of her, was sitting on the floor at my feet, naked save for the collar she wore and the fetters around her wrists and ankles.
“Required?”
“Of course. There will be times when you husband needs you to be aroused. He is a cultured man and will not wish to force himself upon an unwilling partner. It is most important that you should be able to demonstrate your readiness to accommodate him, that you should be prepared. But let me broaden my question. Have you ever sought the benefit of mechanical devices to develop your state of sexual arousal?”
“No, not at all.” Nicola shook her head vehemently giving me the impression that she was not so much answering the question as deprecating the concept.
“Well, do not worry. I shall provide you with all necessary instruction.” Her look of concern reinforced my opinion. Lack of instruction was evidently not what she had been worried about. “Have you never seen one of these?”
I brought out of my desk drawer one of my favourite stimulators. I have been lucky enough to forge a relationship with an exemplary craftsman in this field, someone that has been able to combine the skills of a master watchmaker with those of a sculptor of anatomy in order to produce the most marvellous, animated, replicas of the membrum virile. The device I handed to a disbelieving Nicola was a masterpiece in brass and heavy black rubber. The black rubber shaft and tip cast in a mould taken of some well endowed fellow no doubt, would present an ambitious challenge to any woman. The brass base had been cast with a contoured grip, a series of grooves (which I found most useful when tying the device in place for those that warranted it). A pair of dials allowed the speed and intensity of the device to be set while a final ridged wheel on the base allowed the clockwork motor that drove the device to be wound. It was this that I addressed Nicola’s attention to first of all.
“Please take the trouble to wind the device using the wheel at the base.”
Nicola took the device with distaste, turning it over in her hand so that the base was uppermost. The winding mechanisms needed no great effort. After all the spring that powered it needed little tension. I believe that some of the new voltaic cells are starting to be used for this type of device but somehow the simple mechanics of a spring driven motor seem more appropriate to me. “It’s horrid,” she said but she did as I had asked.
I ignored her remark. “Now please set the lower indicator to its first level and the upper to its second value.”
Nicola looked at me and then at the device. As she switched the lower indicator to its position the device sprang into life, slowly pulsing and throbbing as the stimulator’s motor drove the cams and plungers that pushed the rubber form from within. At first Nicola almost dropped it in shock and then, laughing, looked up at me to exclaim, “That is not like anything that my husband has ever shown me!”
I was pleased by her laughter. Approaching these tasks with good humour generally made them easier and there was something in the device itself that seemed to have engaged my pupil. “I am sure not,” I replied. “And even men are more complicated to wind up than the device in your hand.” Nicola smiled in response, her almond like eyes twinkling brightly against the pale, matt, coffee-coloured, skin of her face. “Please try the different settings on the upper indicator.”
As she twisted the controls, progressively more intrigued by the device, the action of the stimulator changed from a slow twisting to a pulsing up and down motion, then to a combination of the two and finally to an incessant vibrating. The sound of the device changed as she altered the speed and intensity of motion. I watched her carefully. At one point she seemed absorbed by the sensation of the device’s movements in her hands. As she finished rotating the controls and the motor began to run down she looked almost disappointed.
As it stopped she replaced it on my desk. “Thank you,” I said. “Now, please wind the device again, lay on the couch over there and lift your legs.”
Nicola looked startled. I was surprised. I caught a look of concern and a momentary hesitation as she bit her lip and contemplated disobedience. She should have been ready for such direction, I thought, but perhaps she had believed that there was some other purpose behind my introducing her to the device.
I glanced across to where my riding whip was laid on my desk. The look was sufficient to banish thoughts of defiance.
“Yes, Sir,” she said and did as I asked.
“Please,” I said, “try the device.” She stared at me, reluctant to accept that I would stand and watch her. To encourage her acceptance, I folded my arms and took up a pose of interested inspection. “Go on.”
She wound the brass handle at the base of the stimulator and started it. The quiet sound of the clockwork mechanism sounded like a small animal as it pushed and span the rods and cams concealed within its rubberised, phallus-like, head. I watched as she slid it towards her crotch, reacting to the first touch of the device’s vibrating form as it brushed against the inside of her thigh in the pale gap before reaching the dark, hair shadowed cleft of her sex. I studied her closely as she worked the device closer to her, seeing her surprise as she realised the effects of the devices actions.
She moved the tip of the device across to the inside of her other thigh and repeated the exercise. The building sensation brought a soft, “Oh!” from between her lips. I was encouraged that her hands naturally fell into the best way of holding and controlling the device, her right steadying it and adjusting the lower control for intensity and speed, her left occupied in occasionally changing the way in which the stimulator used the whirring of the motor. She gave a further moan of enjoyment as she drew her knees up towards her belly and pressed the stimulator to her crotch, smearing its black rubber head with the glistening fluid that by now coated her vaginal lips.
Although she was becoming increasingly distracted by the workings of the stimulator, she looked across to where I was watching her, her expression combining the embarrassment at being watched with the abandon brought on by the twisting, pulsing device between her thighs. I watched as she arched her legs in response to the stimulus, pushing her hips upwards in the attempt to force the device harder against herself. Her cries as the rhythmical thrusting of the device pressed her to orgasm were as loud as any that had ever echoed around my living room.
“Sir,” Nicola’s voice was quiet as she crouched beside my chair. She had spent some time in the use of the mechanical stimulator as was now the regular case in her daily routine but now, with the sweat of sexual fulfilment drying on her body in the evening air, she waited on my attentions in the library. I looked down, noting approvingly that she had her eyes turned to the floor waiting for my response.
“Yes,” I said, inviting her to speak. The time that she had spent gagged had already encouraged an economy of speech that was more in line with her husband’s plans and now she took her time to form her ideas, not speaking until she was certain that what she had to say was both appropriate and respectfully phrased.
“Sir, when I first came here you said that my clothing was not appropriate and asked me to remove it.” This was true. Nicola had worn nothing except her restraints since her arrival. “I wondered if I was to continue to remain naked or if, at some point in the future, I was to be introduced to clothing that would be considered appropriate for my role.” Nicola spoke quietly continuing to look at the floor.
I was pleased. She had spoken respectfully and her question showed that she was beginning to consider the impact of the decisions she made about appearance and behaviour on those around her. It was a statement that deserved a positive response.
“What do you think would be appropriate?” I replied.
Nicola looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose,” she said, with agreeable uncertainty, and careful consideration, “that it would be something to please my husband and those he seeks to influence.” I nodded encouraging her. “And also something that made my position as a wife quite clear, I imagine.”
“Very good” I said, “very good indeed. That is indeed our aim, a difficult task you will admit, to combine in your appearance the wifely virtues of modesty with the less wholesome attributes needed to please your husband and his friends. A challenge indeed to dress the virgin and the whore in one.” I noted with pleasure the blush that filled her cheeks at the word ‘whore’. “Fortunately we have some excellent guidance.”
“May I ask what, Sir?” she said.
“Why our precursors,” I smiled, “the first Victorians. In this as in so many things they had the right ideas. Towards the end of the first Victorian era a woman’s dress perfectly symbolised her role in society; chaste in public and decorative but likely to fuel her husband’s carnal desires in private.”
Nicola looked puzzled. I went on. “Consider,” I said, “the typical outfit of a woman in the late 1890’s. What comes to your mind?”
“Long skirts, I suppose. High neck lines. Yes, I can see that it was a modest look.”
“You are forgetting an important aspect though. Think of what was worn beneath the outer garments.”
“Oh, corsetry, I suppose you mean.” I nodded. “Well, yes, I can imagine that my husband and his friends would find the shape that such garments create attractive.”
“You are right of course, but your husband will respond to more than the shape. He will find the idea of his wife at one time confined and yet exposed quite arousing. As will his friends. Today’s Victorians, I am afraid, are men of simple pleasures, as I am myself. You, by appearing this way, will reflect well on your husband among his circle.”
“I see that, yes. But you said ‘confined and yet exposed’ – I can see how the corset and indeed the rest of the apparel confines but how can it expose as well?”
I leant forward and ran a finger up the inside of her thigh. She stiffened herself, sitting erect in response. “You have become used to being naked below the waist,” I said. “Victorian drawers would not have covered your sex. The women of the first Victorian era knew the pleasure that they could bring to their men by combining the allure of concealment with the suggestion of availability. Today’s versions of such clothing take their inspiration from such ideas but improve upon them. After all we cannot believe that we have not progressed since the days of our great grandfathers, can we? Where would we be if the Stanley brothers had not poured their ingenuity into the development of the steamers? Firing them with something other than British coal, I’ll warrant.” She was watching me closely. Listening. Taking in everything I had to say. Not venturing any opinion of her own. I could not have imagined such self control before now. “That same innovation, inventiveness has gone into devising the clothes you will wear.”
“So I am to be allowed to wear clothes?” she looked up brightly. “Here? For you?”
I shook my head. She looked distraught. “Not ‘allowed’ to wear clothes,” I said, “not allowed but required. You will wear exactly what I require you to wear.”
“I am sure, Sir, that your choice will help me to understand how I should look for my husband in future.”
I studied her closely, something about her reply made me feel that she was saying what she felt I wanted her to say. But, on the other hand, that was enough for now. Compliance was sufficient at this stage, whole hearted acceptance would come in future. I took a small key from my waistcoat pocket and presented it to her. “Take this,” I said. “There is a cabinet in the next room. Take this and put on what you will find in there. Then come back here and show me.”
Chapter 7: A Slave’s Demeanour
Nicola returned, having dressed as I required. A long cloak, fastened at the neck, hung to the floor around her, shielding her nakedness from view. Her hands and arms covered with gloves to above the elbows, protruded through two slits on either side of the capes front opening. High buttoned boots covered her feet, ankles and calves.
I saw that she was anxious to speak and granted her unspoken wish with a nod.
“Forgive me, Sir, but this seems not to meet the requirements which you expressed. I do not see, Sir, how this is likely to be a source of pleasure to my husband or his friends.”
I passed to her a hat, equipped with a heavy black net veil. She put it on.
“Nor this, I am afraid, Sir.”
I followed the hat with a fur trimmed muff. Puzzled Nicola took it and it was only once she had placed her kid gloved hands inside it that I produced the steel cuffs and fastened her wrists together. “No, of course,” I said. “Nor is it intended to be. It will however serve to dress you for a short excursion. Let us go.”
“Go, Sir?” Nicola’s look was one of alarm. “But Sir, beneath this cloak I am naked and with my hands fastened so I will be unable to hold the cloak closed against any breeze. Surely you cannot intend us to venture forth with me dressed like this?”
“I fear you are mistaken in that as in so many things, young lady,” I responded amused by her failure yet to grasp the amusement that I derived from her discomfort, quite apart from the benefits I knew it would bring to her training. She looked distressed but showed no sign of any intention to defy me.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the cab that I had summoned. The sudden rap shocked Nicola, I took her arm in a firm, unyielding grip knowing that at this instant there was a risk of her bolting. “Come,” I said decisively, “it is time for you to meet someone.”
Nicola looked quizzically at me as I led her to the door. “But.. Outside?” was all she said as I directed her towards the Stanley Hackney parked at the kerbside.
The swift acceleration of the Stanley as we pulled away pressed us both back into the padded leather seating. Nicola, demure behind her veil and with the harsh steel of her cuffs pressing on her wrists through her gloves, sat surprisingly calmly. The Hackney was warm; a benefit of the steamers is in the recirculation of source of their motive power diverted into the vehicle’s heating system, a fortunate benefit for the largely naked Nicola.
Our journey was short; our destination the premises of a woman whose skills I have come to rely on in the services I provide. Madame Genoux is possibly one of the most accomplished needlewomen of the age. Her talent as a corsetiere is unsurpassed, although her methods are considered by some to be somewhat unorthodox.
She had agreed to my commission for a range of corsetry to help achieve the transformation I intended for Nicola James and greeted us warmly as we crossed the threshold of her shop and workroom. With a small wiry frame, clad in a plain grey dress, her grey hair pulled tightly back on her head she gave the appearance of a small mouse busying herself in readiness of the task to come, collecting up the tools of her trade. Nicola to her credit remained calm throughout as she was led inside.
“I assume you wish to watch, M’ssieur?” she offered.
I nodded. It is always a pleasure to watch a true craftsman at work. Madame’s philosophy was that success with these garments owed as much to engineering as to fashion. Her skills with a needle rested on exact measurement and an obsession with precision that I greatly appreciate.
She gestured through a door. “My workroom, please.”
I escorted Nicola. She was, I could tell by the tensing of her arm as we crossed the threshold, a little perturbed by what she saw. Along one wall a rank of mannequins, some bare, others carrying half completed examples of Madame’s work stood as silent sentinels. Bolts of cloth, reels of yarn, and bundles of elephant bone stays were piled haphazardly on a large bench. A large wooden frame filled the centre of the room. Into each side brass inlays marked in inches and fractions provided Madame with her precise measuring rule. Two bars each able to be adjusted for their height from the floor ran horizontally between the frame’s uprights. “Please, M’ssieur. If you could arrange the young lady so that her neck is fastened here,” Madame pointed to a collar set in the centre of the higher bar. “And it would be more convenient if her hands were fastened behind rather than as I assume they are beneath her muff?” Madame put her head on one side in the sort of quizzical gesture that might be expected of a small bird.
I did as she asked, keen to see how the contrivance of the frame was to be put to work. Nicola, unresisting, allowed me to take release her hands from the muff and to fasten them again behind her. In the meantime Madame Genoux had fixed a metal bar between the heels of Nicola’s boots ensuring that she stood perfectly erect.
“Thank, you, M’ssieur,” she said finishing her work. “And finally the cape...”
“Of course, I replied. It had obviously not occurred to Nicola that the cape would be removed. She gave a sharp “Oh!” as I swept it back from her shoulders and then unfastened the collar so that it slumped to the floor behind her. Before she could show her concern at being left exposed except for her hat, veil, gloves and boots, though, Madame was already at work, adjusting the height of the bar that held her neck so that Nicola was forced to stand bolt upright, her head lifted to prevent herself choking on the steel collar.
“We must start, M’ssieur, with the posture we intend to achieve. Posture is as important a feature of the corseted form as constriction. That we can determine from the waist band here.” She lifted the second horizontal bar until it was level with Nicola’s waist. Precisely positioning the bar and clamping it in place with knurled brass knobs on either side she then took the broad leather strap that was attached to it and fastened that around Nicola’s trembling belly. Madame paused to note the readings from the brass inlays and from the graduations on the waist belt in a small notebook that hung from a chain at her belt. “Precision, M’ssieur is essential.”
She took a further few measurements with a small tape measure and then, reaching out to her work bench picked up what looked like two small metal disks.
“No women, however perfect,” Madame paused as though to acknowledge Nicola had some claims in that direction, “is truly symmetrical. One breast larger than the other, one slightly higher. All these factors me must take account of.” So saying she clipped each of the disks to Nicola’s naked nipples. Nicola gave a gasp as the spring clips dug into her flesh. “These small disks allow me to measure such imperfections precisely.” She clipped a metal cable marked clearly in inches and fractions just as the brass inlays had been to each of the rings in turn and used it to measure precisely the distance from the nipple to the centre of the nick to the waist, to the tip of Nicola’s pubis and to her shoulder. As she took each measurement from the cable she also read off the angle made by the cable to the vertical line scribed on the disks clamped to Nicola’s nipples. To say I was impressed with the precision of her work would be an understatement. Nicola however, seemed not share my interest, becoming increasingly distressed at Madame’s handling of her and finally yelping in pain when the clamps on the disks were taken from her breasts and the resurgence of blood and sensation to her nipples manifested itself as a sharp pain.
Madame Genoux consulted her notebook, checking that she had all of the readings that she needed. Thank you, M’ssieur, she said abruptly. That is all I need for now. I will send you some samples of materials and some proposed designs. If you can let me know your selections the garments can be with you within a week.”
“And then,” I said, “a fitting?”
“Not usually necessary,” Madame responded. “But of course, in the unlikely event of any problem I will of course be happy to resolve it immediately.”
Nicola said nothing during our return to my Highgate house. I placed her cloak back upon her but left her gloved hands cuffed behind her. It was, I will confess, a small amusement to toy with her, playing with her body beneath her cape as the cab sped back along the roads of London. The lascivious grin of the cab driver as I paid the fare suggested that my intimate intrusions had not gone unobserved. Behind her veil, Nicola’s blush of embarrassment was, I suspected as red as the sore aureolas of her breasts where Madame’s disks had been clamped.
© Freddie Clegg 2011
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