Return to 1873

Return to 1873

by ‘d’

A diary of days spent as a Victorian Young Woman kept under Strict discipline

Introduction : The top floor

At the top of our house is a floor that is kept normally locked away. It is our `time warp’. Once, immediately after the house was built in the 1840s, it would have been where the servants slept but, long before we bought the house, it had been transformed into a separate self-contained flat (apartment). Because of our lifestyle, and because we felt we could do without the flat’s income when we bought the house, we decided to reclaim the floor and to set it aside as our `homage’ to the bad old Victorian days.

Those of you who know us, or have read about our life style, will know that I am a twenty nine year-old submissive (and masochist!), The Bear being my Master. Our particular `kink’ is that we both enjoy transporting me back to the harsher days of the mid Nineteenth Century, and making me live and dress and act completely as a somewhat unfortunate and badly treated young woman might have done in those days – days when young women had little or no rights even in the most civilised of Western countries.

During the years we have been together, the top floor has been transformed. Two small bedrooms have been knocked into one large room to make `The Schoolroom’, and the flat’s living room has been converted into a combined bedroom and punishment room. The tiny kitchenette remains, although locked off most of the time, the bathroom has been `simplified’, and all the carpets and modern furnishings have been removed. The window in the new bedroom has been boarded up and sound-proofed, all other windows double or triple glazed and have been either permanently covered up or have opaque window glass so it is impossible to look out.

All `mod cons’ have been removed. There is no electricity, no central heating and only cold water plumbed through to the top floor. Its walls have been painted a depressing off-white colour, or are a drab grey-green, and all the furnishing are either genuine Victorian pieces or are modern replicas, suitably `aged’. It is a dark, silent place, totally cut off from the outside world, and just right for containing a Victorian young lady who is to be kept under the harshest of discipline..

Sybilienne Conventions and Dress.

One important aspect of our role-play has to do with a totally fictitious school for young ladies called St Sybil’s. (Readers will find it referred to in my fictional stories, especially in `Claire’s Tale’). In the six years we have been together, we have acquired or I have made several complete sets of uniform clothing for a `Sybilienne’.

It is NOT a comfortable or convenient means of dressing, being heavy and entrammeling, being under-pinned with a full length corset that is always be worn laced up as tightly as possible, and finished off with a floor length cape without armslits that must always be at least buttoned closed down to waist level. To add to all that, I have to wear gloves all the time and have my head and hair covered by two tight fitting coifs that match the rest of the heavy woollen uniform and leave just the front of my face exposed. As can probably be understood wearing such a uniform all the time can be both oppressive and tiring – it is meant to be just that ! But it is what I must wear whenever we `go back’ to Victorian times.

Eighteen months ago we had our first major `time travel’ experiment. I went to live in the top floor as a Sybilienne for several weeks. It was a time that was designed to see whether it was possible to `transport’ me back in time and to find out how I would really react to a longer term `immersion’ into our scene. It was partly successful but what we both learnt was the ways in which `real life’ could worm its way even into the shut-away top floor of our home.

My need for baths and showers, for 20th century food, and for stimulus not available in our `Victorian world’ all interfered with the total success of our experiment. But we made up our minds that, when the opportunity occurred again, I would volunteer to be shut away in the top floor, and that this time I would HAVE to live in accordance with our `Full Sybilienne Rules’.

This time there would be NO modern-day comforts or pleasures.

The Sybilienne Rules are tough enough if we are just scening for a day or two, so I knew I was in for a hard time once I was shut away in the rooms upstairs. This would be especially so as my Master, The Bear, had made it plain that he was going to be a very strict and unforgiving taskmaster, and that I would be properly punished for my faults, no matter how trivial or unavoidable. So I was fully aware that I was in for a very hard time indeed as soon as I was locked upstairs for the duration of my stay in `Victorian Times’.

As things turned out, my stay there was even more fraught than I had anticipated for a whole variety of reasons, nearly all unpleasant!

The one task I knew I would have to complete each day was making diary entries, and this article is the end-result of those efforts. They were primarily written so my Master could see how I was reacting to my incarceration, as well as a schoolroom exercise, as readers will see. They are largely reproduced here just as they were written at the time I was locked away: some very minor editing has been done to make them more comprehensible to the reader who does not know us well. Apart from that, the entries remain as originally written.

It was only when our friend, Leviticus, showed interest in them that we considered them for publication. I hope that they prove interesting to his readers and fans.

As a final note, it is our intention to repeat this experiment. However next time it will be for a great deal longer, with NO relaxation in the severity of the lifestyle, nor of the discipline’s strictness. Now that really SHOULD produce some interesting diary entries!

‘d’

London, February 2000

My Diary for December 1873

Monday, 27th December

I am into my first full day living back in 1873, having stepped back in time yesterday when the rest of the world was celebrating Boxing Day, and still recovering from the excesses of Christmas Day. However, although I know what day it is now, as my Master allows me no external light, and there are neither clocks nor watches in my quarters, I am unable to tell what time it may be. But I do know that I was brought up here fully dressed in my Sybilienne attire yesterday, to spend an evening in the school room before being put to bed.. But how long I was allowed to sleep, I do not know. Certainly my Master did not say and, as I am strictly forbidden to ask him any questions at all on any subject, I know that I will be unable to know what time or night or day it is for as long as I remain here.

As usual when sleeping up here, the low truckle bed had been placed in the ‘punishment room’ and I am left strapped to that at night. As its mattress is thin and the bed hard, sleep is not usually easy (as I know from last year when I was locked up here for three months). What was different was that my Master this time locked me into my sleeping irons so that, as he said, I would not be tempted to touch myself. These sleeping irons are something that I do not like being locked into, but even I must admit that they do their job with cold efficiency.

Made of steel, the sleeping irons comprise of a long ‘back bar’ onto which are attached three sets of restraints. At the bottom, a rigid pair of ankle irons: further up, similar cuffs to hold my wrists behind my back and, at the top, a deep steel collar that is locked about my throat. Because the back bar is adjustable, I can be secured either drawn rigidly out, as though lying to attention on my arms, or with my ankles drawn up. Whatever way the bar is fixed, this device is uncomfortable at the very best, and can be agonising too. A night spent locked in my sleeping irons is never an enjoyable one.

Thankfully, the Christmas period had been long and tiring and I slept reasonably well, although not for long enough. I seemed almost as tired when my Master woke me this morning. As he was watching me getting dressed, and between lacing me REALLY tightly into my corset (the long one), my Master announced that I must – as part of my school work – keep a diary of my stay up here. And it must be written with an old fashioned steel pen, using a proper ink-well, all of which makes writing rather slow (as I am now discovering). Also he informed me that I will receive schoolroom punishments if my diary entries are not accurate and neat WITHOUT ink blots. At least I will have plenty of time while locked up here.

But there were other things to do before I would go to the schoolroom. First of all I had the sweep and then scrub the floor in the room where I slept. Getting the bucket and brush and clothes from the bathroom was the start of this labour which took, I suppose, about an hour. Only when I had finished that task to my Master’s satisfaction was I allowed food or drink.

After eating so well for the last few days, my new Victorian diet came as a nasty surprise. While I was still in bed, my Master brought up the supplies which will have to be all I’ll eat while locked up here. Water comes from the bathroom tap, but I am allowed black tea IF there is enough hot water (my Master says that I am not to be trusted with boiling water) which, at the very best tastes horrible. I had a cup for my breakfast, and I found myself wishing it had been water – that would have tasted better. For food, I will have to survive on bread and, sometimes, cheese. But no butter or anything to put on the brown bread. However, my Master says that he may allow me hot food if I stay up here for more than a day or so. Not that his promise is all that enticing as he did the same when I was here before. My ‘cooked meals’ then consisted of things like over-boiled cabbage with equally over-cooked fatty chops which I hate. But I have to eat all given to me or I am punished.

After breakfast, I was brought in here to the schoolroom, where my Master AGAIN tightened my corsets so that I thought I was going to faint. Also, to make sure that I don’t stray from my desk, I have my legs bound together under my skirts.

My first task was to write out the new Constitution for Mutual Punishment, having been told, I would be punished unless I reproduced it with total accuracy. This Constitution is a new part of my life that effects me outside my Sybilienne role. A short while ago, The Bear, my Master, and I signed a mutually binding agreement with another Master and his slave ‘m’. Its basis is simple but frightening; If one of us submissives does anything wrong and needs punishing, the other (innocent) submissive will be punished in an identical manner. In the short time it has been in operation it has proved to be horribly effective, as ‘m’ has no wish to see me punished for her faults, and I am horrified at the thought that she, my friend, should suffer for my mistakes. As soon as the Constitution came into effect both I and ‘m’ had to learn it by heart; a chilling process but one that reinforced in our minds how we must both improve our behaviour. (Fortunately any punishments I earn for myself while up here will not rebound onto poor ‘m’.)

Thankfully, I learnt The Constitution by heart reasonably well last week, but I am not too sure I have got it right. I checked it through carefully – I know I’ll get punished if I cross things out, but that will be a minor problem in comparison with what will happen to me if I cite it incorrectly. So I did do one crossing out, hoping that my Master would go easy on me for such a small mistake.

After I had finished that work, I obeyed my Master’s new orders about what I must do when I am ‘unemployed’. Essentially, when I have finished my set work and he has not returned to the schoolroom, I am to kneel on the floor next to my desk, straight backed and straight upright from the knees as always. NO lounging back on my heels for me! It was a bit of a struggle getting down on my knees because of my legs being tightly trapped togther. My skirts and petticoats also don’t help but at least they pad my knees so they don’t get too sore when kneeling on the bare boards of the schoolroom floor.

Even so I was feeling tired, my back aching by the time he came to see me. He took my exercise book aware to check what I had written, leaving me on my knees while he did so. Fortunately he passed my effort at remembering the Constitution, although he told me that I would have to do an additional twenty minutes exercise this afternoon for the crossing-out.

After that he came over to where I knelt, and pleasured himself. (I have been instructed that I may only say ‘pleasured himself’ when describing personal matters in this diary. It is the only aspect of my life here that I may not report on fully.) Afterwards, he checked my attire and then told me that I might start writing my diary. Which is what I am doing now.

My Master also instructed me to briefly describe my quarters here. They are on the second floor of the house, and comprise of a small bathroom, various built in cupboard in the passage way at the top of the stairs, a smaller room (about 11′ a 9′) which is known as the Punishment Room. That is mainly because my punishment seat is always kept in this room, bolted to the floor near the wall opposite the door. In addition, my low bed has been placed in here just as it was when I spent three months here last year. Also new is the trestle over which I am tied down before being caned. This normally is kept in the cellars but had been brought up here in case my Master thinks I need severe punishment. Seeing it in that room does not make me feel at all happy, as I know what pain I will experience if I am bent over if for a whipping.

Otherwise the room is unfurnished apart from a small table with a wash bowl, soap, tooth brush and towel on it. (I am not allowed to use the bathroom, even relieving myself must be done at set times in the pot kept under my bed. In fact I only go into the bathroom to empty it, and to fetch cold water when needed. To clean my teeth I have the choice of salt, baking powder or the normal coarse soap I use for washing.)

My Master has permanently boarded up the window in that room, so light comes from a solitary candle. The room is white walled, the floor is of bare boards which I must scrub once a day.

The schoolroom is much the same, except it is slightly larger – in fact it is two small ‘servants’ bedrooms knocked into one room. It measures approximately 14′ x 10′ and, although the window is not permanently boarded up, as with my last stay up here, the windows are double curtained and the drapes nailed in place so not light can get into the room from outside. Also, as the windows are double glazed, it is just as silent as in my bedroom/punishment room. The furniture here is a genuine old cast-iron seat and desk in one which we found in a scrap yard. There is a table and chair for my Master when he is correcting my work or hearing me recite lines I have learnt by heart. To one side of the table is an easel and blackboard. Fitted onto the right hand wall is the posture back-board while, projecting from the wall at the back of the room, is what looks like a solid wooden bench-type seat (and can be used as one) but is also a chest in which various items are kept. Finally there is the schoolroom cupboard which is kept locked normally, my work books being kept in my iron desk’s drawer. Like the other room, the school has bare walls and a wooden board floor which I have to scrub daily, normally before I am given my last meal of the day. If I take too long scrubbing it, or do not do it to my Master’s satisfaction, I will have to scrub it all over again, which means I miss my evening meal and am put to bed with an empty stomach.

Those are my quarters and I will spend most of my time in one of other of those rooms. The only times when I am not in one or the other is when I am very briefly allowed to go to the bathroom for water or to empty my chamber-pot, or when it is exercise time. That last occupation I will explain after this afternoon session.

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Monday 27th December. Evening.

I had to stop writing my first entry in this diary rather abruptly as my Master came back. To my surprise it was already lunchtime (the morning seemed very short whereas I remember time dragging past so slowly when I lived up here for three months previously.) Lunch was just bread and cheese washed down with water. Not that I minded it being probably inadequate as, laced up this tightly, I have very little appetite for food. I feel hungry but, as soon as I have eaten a few mouthfuls, I have had more than enough, which sometimes makes finishing off a meal rather hard. However I am thirsty most of the time as the clothing I wear is very hot and heavy. Fortunately water is not rationed and I can drink as much as I need at mealtimes.

After lunch I was permitted to go to the bedroom (I will call it that, if I may, rather than punishment room as it’s called more normally), so as to use my chamber pot. This I can only do at certain times or when told to do so by my Master. In fact I may not alter my position without his permission, never mind go into another room. Anyway, as to using the chamber pot, I could not do that on my own even if allowed to do so; for the crutch strap of my corsets is always locked tightly in place, and this has to be unlocked and unfastened by my Master before I can relieve myself.

After this, I was made to go back to the schoolroom and there to black lead my desk. As it is made of cast iron, it has to be kept very clean. In 1873 black lead would have been used for this purpose; now we have to use a substitute but it is a long and tiresome business, and one I particularly dislike as the desk and seat have lots of little curlicues and decorative bits on it that are difficult to clean. At least for this (and for scrubbing) I am allowed to remove my gloves; with them on the task of polishing into the little crack and crannies would be almost impossible. My Master always closely inspects the desk and seat after I have cleaned it, and I am in trouble if he finds any dirty bits or places where the polish has not been buffed off properly. Today I was lucky as he was more interested in getting me ready for my exercise period, rather than in looking for faults with a magnifying glass. Yes, he has been know to use a glass to make sure every millimetre of the desk was properly cleaned.

Exercise is the time of day that I probably dread most of all. I do see its necessity but that does not stop me from disliking it intensely. The format is always the same because I cannot go outdoors while dressed like this. Anyway I am confined to this floor for as long as it suits my Master, and I have to get some form of exercise other than scrubbing the floors, which is backbreaking exercise anyway!

For exercise, I have to be masked and cloaked on top of my normal attire. Obviously with my uniform Sybilienne cape buttoned closed from chin to floor, I cannot put on my cloak , so I am dressed by my Master. This afternoon, to my horror, he also gagged me under my mask, which is something he may do outdoors now and then but normally does not do it for indoors exercise. My circuit starts at the end of the passageway on this floor along which I walk until I reach the top of the stairs. Then I go down them to the first floor landing which I must walk round and then climb back up the stairs to my floor. Then I walk down the passageway to its end, before turning there and starting a new circuit. It does not sound too bad except for several things.

Firstly: I am really weighed down by my burden of clothing; full Sybilienne uniform with its cape and then with a massively heavy hooded cloak worn over everything else.

Secondly: although my Master eases my hobbles (without doing so it would be impossible for me to walk up and down the stairs), my legs are still partially bound and they are fettered by the dragging weight of my petticoats and skirts. This makes walking difficult and tiring on its own.

Thirdly: as my skirts are all floor length, I have to normally pick them up slightly when walking around. But this is impossible with the skirts of my cloak during exercise as my hands are trapped under my sealed-up cape. In consequence I have to go up and down stairs with a great deal of care so as to ensure I don’t step on my skirts or trip up on them. Luckily the stairs are typical Victorian ‘servants wing’ stairs – in other words they are narrow, and they wind down via two small landing so that they take up the smallest space possible inside the house. So, even if I was to fall, I would probably not hurt myself. But my Master always waits watching at the bottom of the stairs, both to make sure I am alright, and also to check that I do not slack.

Taking exercise is exhausting and, my Master watching me, I cannot slack or slow down. If I do, he will just tell me that I have to do extra time. Normally my exercise period will last three-quarters of an hour (it seems twice as long), but today I had an added twenty minutes for the crossing-out in my exercise book. It seemed endless and, had I not been silenced, I would have begged to be allowed to rest. But that is not normally allowed and, as I would be punished if I stopped without being told to, I would certainly be punished. So I carried on, even though my legs seemed on fire and I was gasping for breath – although I am not sure if ‘gasping for breath’ is the right description as I could not breath through my mouth, as it was stopped up by my gag.

Tuesday, 28th December. Morning

I went to bed in tears last night but feeling wonderful too as my Master locked me in my sleeping irons, promising me that he would be even more severe with me unless I behaved better today.

I did not sleep as well as before and it took me a time to go to sleep because of the pain and joy I felt. My hand throbbed non-stop but so did my crutch more pleasurably from his ministrations. But I am running ahead of myself.

Normally before punishment I am locked in the cupboard downstairs. Yesterday, I was gagged and blindfolded, hooded and then sat on the bench at the back of the schoolroom for a while, so I could focus on my failings and on the punishments to come. After a time, still hooded, blind and silenced, I was dragged across to stand in the centre of the room. There my Master removed my left glove and informed me that, as I had spilt ink on the white gloves I had worn earlier, my hand would be the recipient of the punishment to come. I was to hold out my hand, supporting it by my other gloved hand, and then to await my punishment.

I stood there, shaking and moaning silently within, but with my whole body electric with anticipation, my crutch betraying my excitement. Wearing my coifs and with the thick hood fastened down over my head and face so that I felt half suffocated, I could not hear anything beyond the darkness of my own fear-filled world. Then there was an appalling pain across my open palm as my Master drove the rod down to administer the first stroke of my punishment.

Because I had not heard the rod cutting through the air before striking my hand, the impact caught me by surprise, making the pain of impact seem worse than it might have been. I know I would have filled the room with my cries had I not been gagged. But, almost before I could assimilate what had happened to be, another and harder blow fell across my palm. This time I howled into my gag, distressed at the awful pain and appalled (as always) at how the pain make me shake from head to toe with desire and want. Had I not been silenced, I would have begged my Master to hit home even harder with the next stroke.

But the stroke never came and I felt bereft waiting for it for what seemed an age. And then it impacted horribly with my hand, making me stagger and sending lights up in front of my eyes like a firework display. It was SO SO hard to hold my position; my legs seemed to have turned to jelly and I was shivering all over. I think I screamed so loudly that not even my effective gag could hold back the sounds that filled my head and made me body shudder as though hit by an vast electric shock. The blow was vicious but I could not wait for the next one. When it came I was torn by the agony of its impact and the onset of an incipient orgasm. But that event was drowned by the terrible impact of the rod smashing home across my flesh again. My legs gave way and I recall staggering forward. Blindfolded and hooded I can’t say what really happened next but I think I was dragged across to the table, and bent back over it, my Master throwing back my petticoats and skirts before unfastening the crutch strap of my corset so I felt cold air strike my private parts that I could feel convulsing.

He used me with total brutality, not minding if he hurt me, leaving me still hooded and gagged, while I dissolved into a series of orgasms or maybe it was just one that seemed to last a lifetime; I don’t know.

I think I must have fainted. For the next thing I remember was feeling him still inside my body, now using another opening, yet with me at long last being able to see and hear and cry out. When he had finished with me, he stood back, tidying his clothes as I helplessly slipped to the floor to lie there, my hand sending arrows of pain up my arm as, unaided, I seemed to continue to orgasm. It seemed like a dream; maybe it was my imagination. But I think I had yet another orgasm as I lay in a tumble of clothing on the floor half under the table,

In the end my Master brusquely informed me that I had half an hour to undress, see to my toilet needs, wash and eat my supper which was in the other room. With that I turned and left the upper floor, locking the door on the stairs behind him. Some how I managed to drag myself into my bed room, where he had left me a meal of bread and cheese as usual but, wonder of wonders, with a segmented orange as well. One handedly I undressed, used the pot and then – for once satiated and not wanting to touch myself – washed and ate my meal as I prepared for bed. Some how I managed to do everything before he reappeared, grim faced as always. But, when he saw me kneeling by my bedside as though in prayer, he smiled and handed me a chocolate!!!

“For being such a brave little girl,” he said.

Today I think I can still taste that delicious chocolate on my tongue. Oh I know that’s just my imagination but it was such a delightful and utterly surprising treat. Opposing that delight, my left hand still throbs and it swollen, it’s palm laced with the marks of the rod’s blows. Putting my glove on that hand this morning had me fighting back moans of pain and biting my lips to prevent my Master hearing me. As I write now, later in the morning, it is throbbing away inside the glove that feels even tighter than normal, showing that it is swollen still. It is really too painful to use, so that I had to scrub my room this morning using one hand only. Unfortunately my Master was just as demanding as yesterday and I missed my breakfast for the second day running, having to made do with just water again after I had re-scrubbed the whole floor.

That done, my Master just ordered me to button up my cape from chin to floor and to go and stand in the corner of the schoolroom, facing the wall. There I have spent all the morning up to now when I have been allowed to sit down to write this diary. My legs are aching and my back is sore from standing to attention for so long. As he pointed out just now, I should be enjoying the rest because, this afternoon, he is going to exercise me till I have reached the stage of wanting to beg him to allow me to stand in the corner once more.

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Tuesday 28th December. Evening.

I am totally exhausted. My Master was not exaggerating when he promised me a long exercise period. It seemed to last an eternity and I have no idea how I survived it. Then to make me earn my supper, he made me kneel under the desk so as to pleasure him while he did some reading or maybe writing above me. He made me wear a mask that has just one opening in it, one opposite my mouth. Wearing that, my arms tightly strapped behind me under my buttoned up cape, I had to keep him ‘amused’ with the threat of being further punished if he should get bored or annoyed with my efforts to please him. Now, to add to my still throbbing hand, aching back, and exhausted legs, my knees and thighs are sore from kneeling between his legs to ‘amuse’ him. I have no idea how long I was there but at least I did not disappoint him, for I have been put to work to write this entry in my diary before supper. Then I will be allowed to go to bed. How I have survived today, I am not sure. But I seem to have done so.

Wednesday, 29th December. Morning

I was woken this more feeling stiff and sore and with my hand still throbbing, but not as badly as yesterday. Again I felt awfully tired, as though I had not slept enough which makes me wonder of time up here is different to normal time elsewhere. But I had little opportunity to think about that problem because, right from the start, my Master was hustling me along, ruling me with a metaphorical rod of iron, and once more making me miss my breakfast because he thought I had not cleaned my room properly; he found a trace of dust on the bed rail, and made me clean and scrub the whole room again.

I have to admit that, even as tightly laced into my corsets as I am now, I am feeling hungry and long for something other than bread and cheese washed down with water, that diet broken only by a disgusting tasting cup of black tea. But, surprisingly, I seem to be coping alright; my Master believes in making sure I get enough exercise up here. My afternoon ‘walks’ certainly make me expend more energy than any aerobic work out, as does the endless floor scrubbing that he makes me do.

Really I should be even more tired than I am as I seem to be ‘bubbling’ all the time with fear and expectation, as I am never sure what is going to happen next to me, being it good or bad. Again this morning, after he’d laced me horribly tightly into my corsets, my Master locked my crutch strap in place and remarked that I was disgusting, juicing all the time. If he was genuinely cruel, he told me, he would whip my pussy till it had REAL cause to weep. Of course that threat just served to make me even hotter so that, when I was sat down at my desk to learn ANOTHER page of Hebrew, I was shaking with desire and yearning, which was barely ideal for learning just a hard section of incomprehensible text.

Today – so that I do not ‘feel that I am being spoiled’ – I have my arms twisted up behind my back, my wrist up at shoulder blade level. He used an old harness I have not seen for some time to do this. I am not sure why he did this to me, but he informed me that he wanted to know how comfortable it would be after a few hours with my arms immobilised in that way. I could tell him now that it is MOST uncomfortable, even when I am just sitting at my desk, trying to learn from the book that is propped up in front of me. Just to make things worse, he also told me that, except when I am getting dressed or undressed, or am cleaning and scrubbing, I will have my arms immobilised in some way or other. He says I am becoming too self-sufficient so that, making me rely totally on someone else for every single necessity of life, will nicely humble me.

The idea of not being able to feed myself or do anything else is something I find incredibly exciting. When I was last up here for a long period, he made me wear my cape buttoned up all the time when I was not working, and instigated a rule that I was not allowed to lift its hem without his permission. The feeling of helplessness then was overwhelming and exciting. This time I think he means to make it even more comprehensive and to make me rely on him for all sorts of things. Even so, it is little things that can be unpleasant, like having an itch on my nose, or wanting to scratch even, that are strangely unpleasant and frustrating.

On the topic of wanting to scratch, I have only been allowed to wash in icy cold water since coming up here a lifetime ago (or so it seems). I long for a hot bath and to be able to wash my hair. It is confined under two tight coifs for 16 hours day and, although I comb it out and then plait it at night, it feels itchy and horrid. Last time I was up here, I was allowed to wash it regularly, but I can see my master won’t allow me that sort of luxury this time. In fact he is being incredibly strict with me. I get barked at if I even breath loudly, and I have spent most of the time gagged this morning because he says I am a noisy slut. In fact after my time learning the Hebrew (again an nearly impossible task, so I dread being tested on it later), he sat me down on the bench, leaving me there gagged and blindfolded and hooded as well. What I have not explained about that bench (which is really the top of a small chest in which are kept various school room items) is that it is narrow across the top and has a small ‘back’ that prevents me from sitting on it in comfort. Being so narrow, I have to perch on it with just the back part of my posterior supported, my legs holding me upright and still. Because of this it is a strain sitting there and I hate being left there for long, especially as, unable to see anything nor able to hear much, I do not know if I am being watched. What I DO know is that, if I move even a fraction of an inch to ease my posture, I might be seen by my Master. And that would lead inevitably to punishment. So I sit uncomfortably perched on the chest, tense and excited for what seems like an eternity, not knowing if he is looking at me. All the while my stomach is turning over with fear, because the strain of keeping still grows every second, just as the heat under my airless hood grows all the time.

Time stands still and, by the time I heard him ordering me to stand, I was juicing with fear and anticipation of what would inevitably happen if I moved just a fraction of an inch. I could barely get up; I was stiff and sore but also shaking with longing for relief.

At least I no longer am hooded and blindfolded, and I have my cape undone to the waist and have my hands freed of the paralysing harness so I can write this entry. Once more I am wearing those awful white gloves over my normal ones, and my heart beat accelerates with fear every time I dip my pen into the ink well. I think I have manages to make this entry without dropping ink onto the gloves, but I thought that last time……

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Wednesday 29th December. Evening.

Again, this may be a short entry. For the time since I last wrote in my diary has been only too eventful, leading me towards a punishment session that is due to take place after I had written this entry.

It started with my Master finding a spot of ink on my left gloves AGAIN! And also saying that my diary entry has been badly written. I howled inwardly to hear this awful judgement, as my poor hand is still sore from the last time it was whipped. I would beg him to beat me elsewhere rather than on my hand but, knowing him and the way he always says that a hand whipping is the ONLY suitable punishment for shoddy writing, I know that nothing I might say would change his mind.

Of course I said nothing; I am too well trained to utter a word in my defence if I have been told that I may not make a sound without his express permission. So I stood still as he removed my cape and harnessed my arms cruelly tightly up my back. He then led me to the other room, extracted the chamber pot from under the bed and told me to use it. Of course – as he knew full well – this was impossible. So he teased me, making me speak so as to beg to have my clothing adjusted and my crutch strap unlocked. It was when he was unlocking the cruelly tight strap that he discovered yet again that I had been juicing during the morning. He rubbed his fingers in the evidence of my lust and made me lick his finger clean, leaving my mouth tasting of my own desire.

Even then my humiliation was not over. For I had to beg him to hold my skirts and petticoats out of the way so I could squat down over the pot. Even afterwards, I had to ask him to clean me, a task he said he was unwilling to perform for a girl so badly behaved as myself. In the end he relented but not before I had begged him most earnestly to have pity on me.

Even after he had done that and had readjusted my clothes, I was humbled even more, as it was my lunch-time and, as he pointed out, if I did not eat it, I would be punished for wasting food. With my arms fastened behind me, of course there was no way that I could do that, and again I was forced to beg him to help me. As he fed me, I was made to realise how I was complete at his mercy, relying on him for everything, and unable to do anything to help myself.

When he had pushed the final crumbs of bread into my mouth and given my a last drink of bitter tea, I was placed back on that awful bench for what seemed an eternity until it was time for my afternoon exercise. By now, this time is assuming all the aspects of punishment and I dread it. With good cause as I lost concentration walking up the stairs after I had been walking for what seemed like forever. I did not slide my foot forward so as to push the skirts out of the way before stepping up. Just a second of carelessness, and I trod on the hem of my cloak and the next thing I knew was being dragged forward and falling down to lie helpless of the stairs, totally unable to get up again, so tangled was I in my layers of skirts and cloak; with my hands immobilised behind me I was more helpless than normal and I had to lit there until my Master came to my rescue. He knows perfectly well that I can walk up and down those stairs without tripping. So he informed me that I would have to ‘Pay an appropriate price’ for my carelessness.

Even apart from that incident, my exercise period seemed endless and more exhausting than ever. I am very fit normally, but the weight of my clothes and the steepness of the stairs makes this daily ritual one that I truly dread. My legs are burning before long and my back aches horribly. But, to add to all that, being masked and gagged during my exercise periods means that I am alway short of breath, my lungs burning as I climb up and down the stairs, longing for a moment’s respite, but knowing that to pause even for a few second will mean that I am punished for my weakness. So I have to battle on, sweat dribbling into my eyes, until at long long last, I am told my purgatory is over.

So I am now here at my desk, still feeling exhausted and wondering what that price I will pay for tripping during my exercise period, and how my Master will punish me for my earlier faults. My stomach has turned to water and I am shaking with delicious fear. Because I know he will punish me well for such unforgivable faults.

Thursday, 30th December. Morning

I am still trembling and my crutch burns with what happened to me last night. For my Master decided that the source of my lust would have to be punished, as he judged my carelessness was brought about by its dominating my thoughts so that I was careless about IMPORTANT aspects of my life here.

I blush to think of what he did to me and of my reactions to his punishment. All I know is that the area between my legs is still sore and throbbing and that walking is painful, which will make this afternoon exercise period total purgatory for me. But the time he spent correcting me will remain etched in my mind for a very long time. Never before have I known such mingling of pain and pleasure. He was only too right when he called me a ‘pain slut’ but I am paying for my enjoyment this morning. I am actually glad that I have to wear petticoats and heavy skirts under my cape because they hide the fact that I am waddling like a duck this morning. Even my Master did not over-tighten the crutch strap of my corset this morning – the first time since I have been up here.

But in no other way has he been lenient with me and also I am beginning to worry about how long he is intending to keep me under this regime. Tomorrow night and the morning is going to be the start of the New Millennium, but my Master shows no sign of bringing my stay to an end. I know I asked him to keep me up here for as long as possible. But I had thought he would have freed me from here in time for the celebrations. Of course, being under the Rule of Silence, I cannot ask him about this. He may be teasing me but …………………

Strangely, I slept well last night, even though my pussy area seemed on fire and he locked me in my irons overnight. As I was being locked up for the night, I wondered how my fellow submissive, M, was getting on and what her Master was doing to her. That her Master and mine talk a great deal probably means that she knows what’s happening to me. I just hope and pray that her Master is not trying to balance our situations and is making her suffer like me. (Not that she would object!)

At least my hand seems a lot better this morning. Even so, scrubbing my room’s floor was both backbreaking and painful this morning. My knees seem to be always sore, and my back aches to. But I feel surprisingly fit. At least I got my breakfast this morning; well, part of it anyway; my Master found a tiny trace of dust on the bed frame again but he just punished my by leaving me with just bread to eat, and water to drink. So, corset laced up tightly or not, I am hungry all the time now.

Strange how food doesn’t seem to matter so much when I am wearing my stays. But it gets to a stage where I also start to dream about food, even though I know that – this tightly laced up – I can only pick at whatever food my Master sets before me. Not because it is dull and unpalatable (which is always is up here) but because with my stomach so compressed, eating almost a penance. Two mouthfuls and I feel full. Half an hour later and I am assailed by hunger pangs.

Ah well, I seem to remember reading that a human can last easily for 30 or more days without food, providing he or she has enough liquids. And my Master is always watchful to make sure I do drink enough. So maybe my hunger pains are just make-belief; me thinking I need food when it is merely an unnecessary luxury I don’t really require.

****************************

Thursday Evening, 30th December

My Master says that the entry I made in this diary for this morning was rubbish. I have read it through again and it seems to be a little rambling but not rubbish. But, if he says it is rubbish, it must be.

Maybe being up here for this length of time is getting to me. I haven’t seen daylight for what seems like forever and I am uncertain of the time. I either sleep heavily or not at all. Either way, I am tired when I get up, and everything seems such hard work. Yet when I was exercised this afternoon, I seemed able to climb those awful stairs as well or maybe better than when I first came up here.

What is strange is the mental state I am in as I climb up and down the stairs; I have said how I have to concentrate as I take every step or I am in danger of tripping on my skirts. Now each step seems a challenge that has somehow become something almost of beauty. I feel a surge of satisfaction as soon as I lever myself up to the next thread. It is …………. I was about to say ” almost an orgasmic experience”. But that would be exaggerating. Instead it is a moment of fleeting but intense happiness. Maybe lack of food is effecting me, but I don’t think it is that. It has something to do with the feeling of being owned and controlled up here which is so intense.

I think that as I have lost all right to decide what I can or cannot do, I am focussing on things that I can achieve on my own, and gaining pleasure from each tiny triumph. My Master may order me to climb those stairs, but I have to do it; I have to force my aching limbs to climb or descend each step. I may have lost all vestige of personal freedom, but I have gained something else which I do not yet really understand.

I had been sadly correct when I had said that exercise today would be painful. It was – exquisitely so. I wear heavy flannel pantaloons over my corsets and these reach down to below my stocking-covered knees. They become heavy with sweat when I am exercised and rub against the inside of my thighs. I cannot begin to describe what this is like when the flesh is that area is abraded and raw from last night’s punishment. Yet it was something of a triumph – yet again – for me to be able to ignore or ride over the misery caused by sweat-damp material rubbing coarsely against my poor flesh. Each step caused me to wince yet I was able to carry on. And it was something of a mixed blessing as that area is close to my most sensitive regions which, given my innate predilection for pain, caused me to taste bitter pleasure along with the misery of being so harshly exercised. To be a Sybilienne it IS necessary to absorb sufferings and to feed on them too.

Friday, 31th December. Morning

I think I fainted being laced up this morning. I am not sure as I had been used and I was in a dream-like state when my master laced me up. It has happened before but not like this. Maybe I just had another orgasm. I don’t know. To have an orgasm just because I was being laced up? It was not even very painful, though tightening the crutch strap is now near agony as I have been whipped there. Naturally I have not be allowed to see anything of the damage down there, now may I touch the area.

To speak of an orgasm while being laced up is silly, of course. Physically it would be impossible but something happened and even now, hours later, I feel disassociated from my body; I know I hurt in all sorts of places but I can not accurately feel where the pain is or how intense it might be. But one thing is certain; each time I breath in any manner but the most shallow inhalation there is a pain surprisingly at the back of my ribs, where they join my spine. So doing things like scrubbing my room had to be done slowly and careful so I did not need to breath in deeply. Even moving from one room to the other must be controlled, not just by my hobbles but also by my desire to avoid unnecessary pain.

Having been laced up tightly for days on end, I find that I am now breathing solely through the tops of my lungs, or so it seems. It is as though my ribs have been compressed by the continuous pressure of my stays, allowing me only partial usage of my lungs. This feeling is born out by the fact that I not only suffer pain at the base of my ribs if I breath too deeply, but I become light headed when I exert myself at all. In some ways it is a pleasant sensation but I know that it is a dangerous one and, when my head starts to spin, I stop and wait until the sensation stops.

I have never experienced anything like this which is, I suppose, brought about by the severity of my lacing and lack of food. I tried to eat what little breakfast I earned for myself, but even the tiniest mouthful is now hard to force down, thanks to the compression about my stomach. I admit freely that I am terrified of what will happen during this afternoon exercise period. For climbing the stairs I need liberal quantities of air and, laced this tight, I do not see how I could obtain it.

Yet, if I put that thought out of my mind, I feel strangely at peace. Writing this diary calls for all the concentration I can muster and I know that I am writing more slowly and more labouriously than before. My fingers feel numb and I look down at my writing to see that it is not as neat and compact as once it was.

For all this, I also feel something approaching euphoria at times. This morning my Master’s harsh words merely washed over me, and although I understood what he was saying, they seemed remote and almost as though he was speaking to someone other than myself.

One thing does intrude into my strange state. That is the knowledge that tonight is the end of the year – a special year outside, though it is just 1873 in here. I would have thought that my Master would have allowed me to return to the ‘normal’ world for the final hours of the 20thCentury, but he shows no sign of doing so. He has ignored the subject and I may not ask him about it. I suppose that, if he wishes to keep me here during the Century-end and Millennium-end celebrations, that is his decision and I must accept it as best I can.

I have just noticed that I have smudged the word ‘wishes’ in the last sentence, and that there is evidence of my doing so in the ink stain on my glove. I know that I will be punished for my carelessness – presumably in the same hideous manner as has been the case when I first soiled my glove. Yet the delicious fear which I normally feel before such punishment is not there now. Instead the feeling of having left my body is ever stronger. I see everything so clearly and yet physical aspects of my existence do not seem to be of any importance now.

I realise that what I write must make little sense, and anyway the time allocated for my diary writing is over, my Master having just entered to tell me to wind down my writing. So I will stop so I may go to the corner of the room and there kneel facing the wall while he decides what is to be done with me next.

************************

Friday Evening, 31st December

It would appear that I am not to be allowed to rejoin the world for tonight’s celebration. My Master looked at my diary this morning and informed me that, although he had considered the idea, the disgustingly sloppy manner in which I had written it made him realise that I had failed to earn such relief from my present servitude.

Instead I am to spend the night chained to my desk, copying pages from a book he will give me. He has deemed my hands to bruised to be whipped again so this is to be my punishment. While the world celebrates I am to be left up here copy writing at my desk until such time as my Master thinks I have learnt my lesson.

He threatens to keep me at my work all night long and to make me go without sleep right through until tomorrow night. I cannot imagine how I will cope with that, but I will just have to do so, if that is his command.

If the future appears grim, at least this morning’s diary entry alerted to him as to my fear about trying to walk up and down the stairs during exercise while so severely laced-up. For he actually loosened my stays a fraction before preparing me for exercise. It was still as purgatorial a time as ever, but I was able to breath without too much pain, and I did succeed in struggling through the time allotted for exercise.

However, as soon as it was over, he retightened my laces so that I am in as parlous a state as this morning.

Writing is harder than ever this evening. Time flies as I struggle to write without smudging or blotting my work, yet at other times it stands still.

My Master has returned and has ordered me to cease work.

************************

Epilogue

February 2000

If you have struggled though my 1873 diary this far, I must tell you what indeed had happened while I was locked away back in my private time warp.

Right from the first moment of my incarceration, The Bear, my Master, had started to play games with my estimate of the time. He made my nights extremely short, and similarly shortened my days so that, when I thought it was 31st December it was, in fact, only the 30th, and not the evening but midday. He had literally deprived me of more than a whole day or, as far as I was concerned, inserted 30 extra hours into my mental calendar.

His original idea had been to keep me locked away until the evening of what I thought was 1st January, so that I would emerge imagining I had missed all the Millennium celebrations. Then he would be able to surprise me by telling me we were soon going to walk down to the Thames and watch the end of the Century with the millions of other people lining the river for the grand firework display.

Unfortunately, that never happened as work intruded and I had to make some urgent phone calls which meant he was forced to liberate me 24 hours ahead of schedule. Even so I was totally shocked and surprised when I discovered how effectively he had distorted my sense of time.

Interestingly, regardless of what I may have written about being starved, I only lost less than a pound in weight during my time locked away and, once I had a long long bath (Oh it was bliss!) and a good night’s sleep, I felt tremendous.

Since then we have discussed the experiment in some depth. I want to try a far longer time shut away in my ‘Sybilienne World’. As always, the demands of 21st Century living and work make that a pipe-dream, certainly for the next six months. But, when we can arrange for me to be incarcerated again (probably under even more stringent conditions) I hope to keep another diary. And, if Peter is not too bored by this one, perhaps he will allow me to publish it here as well.

‘d’

London. February 2000.

One thought on “Return to 1873

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