Ihbat

Ihbat

Chapter 1

My name is Ihbat. That has not always been my name. But it is my name now. That is my name. This is my task. My task is to set down on paper the history of my life. Or at least the history of the life of Ihbat. Nothing matters before that person came into existence. And so, with the help of Allah, I shall begin, and thus fulfill the task that it has been commanded I fulfill.

Ihbat came into existence thirteen years three months and five days ago. He, I, awoke on a bed in a beautiful room. It was a room decorated in a style that I was unfamiliar with. A style of the East, of the Orient. Fine rugs covered the floors, Arabic inscriptions made in gold leaf glittered behind their frames on the walls, and silken cushions were scattered on the huge bed on which I lay. There were no windows, but light was not absent, coming instead from a crenellated skylight. It was a beautiful place.

But I, Ihbat, (even though I didn’t know it at the time), was in no position to enjoy the beauty. Instead I was puzzled, confused, scared. I had not been in this place when I had fallen asleep. In fact, I had never been in this place before. Nor anywhere like it. Nor had I fallen asleep. What had I been doing? I’d been at school… no, not school. I’d finished school already. I was on my way home from school. Yes, that was it. Walking back from school. No, not walking, riding. Riding my bicycle back through the olive groves to my parents house. Then I felt a pain, just a little one, like an insect bite. A bite on my leg. Then I felt dreary. I stopped my bike, rubbed my eyes. The dreariness increased. Then I passed out.

Then I passed out and now I awoke. In a strange room. An Eastern room. Or at least one that appeared to be Eastern. I don’t know to this day where that room, or indeed that whole institution was. It could have been anywhere I suppose, from Timbuktu to Tokyo. But it was Arabian in character and ownership.

After some time I got up and looked around. There beside my bed was a teapot and a glass. I was thirsty, so I poured myself a drink. Besides the pop was an envelope. It had my name – my former name – on the front. I opened it. Inside was a letter. I read it.

Al-Ihbat,

Welcome to your new school. Medrassah Purdah. That is the name of this school. From now on you will be learning and living here. Forget your old school and forget your family. Forget your former life in all its entirety. It will be easier for you that way. You must adapt now and begin your new life. The life of al-Ihbat. When you feel ready to embark upon that new path, ring the bell.

And that was it. I was confused. What did it all mean? Who was al-Ihbat? I? I looked across at the table. There was a silver bell. I rang it. Silence. Then, after a minute or so, the wooden door to that sumptuous room was opened and somebody walked in.

 

Chapter 2

It was a woman. Or at least I assumed so. I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t know because she was covered completely with veils. Black cloth shrouded here entire body. Well, all of it aside from her eyes. They, and only they were left free. I looked at them. They were definitely a woman’s eyes. A beautiful woman in fact. And I was a man who took an interest in such women. Underneath the silken sheets, something hardened.

“Al-Ihbat, I am Fatima,” she said. She spoke Greek. I was surprised. “I am to be your maid here. May I call you Ihbat for short. It would be easier.”

“You may call me what you want,” said I, “but I am no lhba whatever. My name is Nikos.”

“No, Ihbat,” corrected she. “Your name was Nikos. Now it is Ihbat.”

“Oh.” I was confused. “Where am I?”

“Medrassah Purdah,” she replied, “The School of Purdah.”

I didn’t comprehend. “But…”

A gloved hand appeared from under her veils and was raised up in front of her face as a gesture for me to be silent. “Come!” said she.

As always, when a woman beckoned, I came.

I got up from the bed, wrapping a sheet around me to hide my nakedness. “You don’t need that,” said she, and with a flick of her gloved hand, whisked it away. My standing member was plain for her to see. I know not what her reaction was though. It is hard to gauge the reactions of someone that you can’t see.

I followed her to a side room. In it was a bath, full of steaming perfumed water. “Get in,” said she.

I did as I was bid. Then she began to undress. She removed her black shrouds. Underneath was, as I’d imagined, a fair maiden. No, that is not true, she was far lovelier than I’d imagined. Her dusky tanned skin completed her dark eyes and long brown hair. And her curvaceous figure was enough to make any man…

And beneath those veils she wore but a tiny white bikini.

“I will be attending to your bathing every day,” she said, climbing in with me. Let me rub your back.” I couldn’t believe this. This was not real, it was a dream, a fantasy. She moved lower down, towards that aching rod. “Christ!” thought I. She touched it, slowly moved her smooth hands up and down the shaft and then…

Clink, click. To this day I can’t believe it.

She’d grabbed my hands and twisted them behind my back, fastening them together with a pair of golden handcuffs. Before I knew what was happening, the same had been done to my ankles. I was bound and helpless!

“Sorry, about that Ihbat,” she said, standing up and getting out of the bath. “Now, get out and let me sort you out.”

I was more confused than ever. It had been so erotic, so steamy, and now…

I stood in the middle of the floor and she approached with something. It was golden. “What is it?” I asked.

“Shhh..” she replied, grasping my cock again. So, it was all part of her game. She like tying people up. I played along and let her stroke it. I re-entered the world of pleasure. She was an expert, she knew how to make a man… oww, arrgh, click, click.

What was she doing? She grabbed hold of it, wrenched it back and then placed the golden object over the top and fastened it into place. What was it?

“Now that is out of the way,” she said, we can get started.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting you ready, as I will everyday.”

“But what is this?”

“That is a chastity belt. It keeps that irksome little member of yours out of harm’s way.” Now come!” She had picked up something else golden.

“No! No!” said I, backing away. But restrained by my wrists and ankles there was little that I could do. It was a collar. She fastened it around my neck and locked it shut. Then she picked up and a gag and moved to place it in my mouth. I shut that orifice firmly, but she simply squeezed my nostrils until I had to open up to breathe and then that too was put in place and secured. I was helpless, restrained and silent.

And confused.

“Now, back to the bedroom and I shall explain all,” said she. I meekly followed. I had no choice. She sat me down on the bed and then sat down besides me, stroking me provocatively, causing immense discomfort lower down where my cock, unable to achieve an erection, struggled in its golden prison.

“As the letter stated,” said the Goddess, “You are now Ihbat, and what’s more a student at this school, the School of Purdah. You shall learn soon enough what Purdah is, and what your role and future are to be. In the meantime all you need to know is the following. I am your maid, and I will do anything you bid. Anything that is, except remove your cuffs, ankle chain and chastity belt. They you will be wearing 24 hours of the day, 7 days of the week. The gag you will wear whenever you step out of this room. Inside this room, if you behave, you need not wear it. The reasons behind these restraints will soon become apparent.”

“Now, this room is yours. It is where you will live and spend all your time whilst not in classes or at prayer. In it is all that you need; books to read, a toilet to relieve yourself, a bath to relax in, a bed to sleep upon, tea to drink. Meals will also be served in here at set times. I will serve them to you and I will feed you as it is obvious that with your hands behind your back you will be unable to do so yourself. I will also clean your bottom everytime that you have been to the toilet for a… Number Two. For the other toilet visits, you will of course, sit on the bowl. With your little penis restrained so, standing up to urinate is of course an impossibility.”

“Now, I will move onto what happens when outside of the room. Everytime that you step outside of the room you are required to wear this.” She reached under the bed and pulled out a garment, a mass of cloth. “I shall now wear it to demonstrate how you will look and how to put it on.” She put the cloth over her head and it unfolded all around her. It covered her completely, including her face. Over that face there was a grille of embroidered thread. There was also embroidery – flowery designs – down the front of the garment, and on the top which was shaped a little like a Muslim’s skullcap. The back billowed out as it was pleated. The garment was made of heavy-looking black material. The embroidery was in gold. The garment was beautiful, yet frightening. It covered all the body, leaving no trace of who was underneath. Even behind the grille there was no evidence of the maid’s facial features. It looked encumbering and hot. “It’s called a burqa,” she said. Her voice was considerably muffled by the material. She was hardly audible. “They wear them in Pakistan and Afghanistan.”

Fatima took off the burqa and her lovely figure was revealed once more. “Within this room you will wear these. She picked out another garment from under the bed. This was white and voluminous. They were a pair of trousers… of types. She gestured for me to stand and put them on. They were specially designed so that they fitted over my bonds. They were fastened at the waist with an extremely tight belt that left me breathless, and round the ankles below the cuffs, where they were gathered and tied with ribbons. They contained a lot of material and ballooned out around me. The outside was cotton, but inside they were silk and the smooth cloth brushed against my legs and caused my imprisoned desire to heighten. Inbetween the silk and the cotton there was obviously a lot more cloth, that caused the trousers to be huge in size. As I sat down I felt like a girl on her wedding day, wearing one of those wide white puffy dresses.

“And on top you wear this.” She produced a cotton shirt, that like the trousers was also voluminous, and also line with silk. She fitted it around my torso. It had no arm holes and was fastened by ribbons  at the neck, just below the collar and the waist. Down the front, like the burqa, it was embroidered.

“Now the burqa,” she said. That awe-inspiring dress was placed over my head, the inbuilt skull cap fitting perfectly. Behind the grille I noticed that a piece of thick black cloth had been stitched, that being the reason why all traces of Fatima’s facial features had been eradicated. Also eradicated was most of my sight. With the burqa over my face, only dark outlines remained. It was hot and the material clung to my face irritatingly.

“A final precaution,” said she who held all the power, and to my surprise, she fastened the burqa to the collar by means of several hooks inside that formidable garment. “Now, we can guarantee that you won’t be removing it,” she said. And she was right! Even with the use of my arms I could not have taken the thing off. I was completely imprisoned within the cloth! She smoothed the rest of the burqa over me and adjusted it so that it looked right. The pleats billowed out behind me. “Now finally, you slippers,” she said, “so that your feet are as silent as your mouth.” A pair of embroidered velvet slippers were placed on my feet.

“Stand up!” commanded she.

And so I stood, a sweaty, restrained and enveloped figure, anonymous and silent to the outside world.

“Good,” commented my maid. “”Now wait whilst I get dressed again and then I’ll take you to your lessons.”

 

Chapter 3

And so I walked out of that door, following the black veiled Fatima. Well, walked is not really the word, more like shuffled as the overpowering garments and short ankle chain, (eight centimetres is all I have ever been allowed), permitted little walking. And so I shuffled silently, save for the rustling of material, down countless corridors until I entered a room.

I couldn’t see a lot of the room of course. I couldn’t see a lot of anything. With the cloth and grille covering my eyes, the world was dark and indistinct. Even today I have not grown accustomed to that. Taking away clear, distinct sight was perhaps the worst thing that they ever did to me. Well, maybe…

But I could make out that this was a classroom, of sorts. Veiled in a manner similar to Fatima was a woman, obviously the teacher. Sat on the floor all around her, dressed in the same burqas as I had been forced to don, were the students. All were, like I, silent.

“This is the new student, Aisha,” said Fatima. “Ihbat. Don’t worry, Ihbat has no problems with English.”

“Good, welcome Ihbat,” said the teacher. “Sit down, we are about to start today’s lesson. This class is Purdah Study. Everyday we look into different aspects of how we live in Purdah and listen to real-life stories. I lecture you and you listen. Obviously, you do not ask questions or write anything, as you, like all the first year students here, are unable to do so. Now, today we will hear the tale of Noor, a young lady living in Britain, though separate from British Society.”

The teacher took out a book and started to read from it.

‘My name is Noor, and I am 22 years old. Ever since I left school I have been living in Purdah. As all of you knows basically what that means, I won’t go into that aspect of things. Instead I will describe my daily life. I wake up each morning for prayer in my bedroom. I sleep dressed in padded mittens and a burqa which covers me completely. Every evening, before I go to bed, my father ties the end of it together, (it was made deliberately long for me). This way any non-mahram male who might chance into my room by accident is prevented from having a fit of fitna and being tempted by my curvaceous form. What’s more, tied so and wearing the mittens, I cannot get out of the burqa so that the temptation to free myself is taken away. The temptation to pleasure myself in an un-Islamic way is also eradicated. However, I can walk in the burqa, and more importantly pray.

I stay in the burqa until my mother comes in and frees me. I then relieve myself and bathe, before dressing for the day. I am required to veil fully, including several layers of eye veils, every time that I leave the room. My dress is as follows:-

Tight shoulder length gloves in black.

Thick stockings in black.

Turkish trousers and a closed shirt.

A tight headcovering that leaves only my mouth and eyes free.

When I have put these on, I eat.

Then comes the next stage.

A thick floor-length black dress. A head covering and face veil of thick black material that leaves only my eyes free.

Thick fingerless mittens.

Then over this, a floor length abayah.

Triple faceveils including eye veils.

Two pairs of thick black socks.

Finally, an afghan burqa with face mesh.

This is my day’s clothing. Father, (it is he who insists that I live in Purdah), has stipulated these as mandatory for outside of my room. Most days, I go downstairs and sit with my mother and sisters in the living room. We sit on the floor and are silent if men are in the house, as Father believes that a woman’s voice is awrah, that is it is forbidden as it tempts men. We sit in attendance of him. We are forbidden to watch the television as it only shows the work of the devil, though this I don’t mind as to be honest, I can see very little anyway underneath all my veils. I am also very hot as even though Britain is a cold country, Father keeps the heating constantly on as he misses the heat of Pakistan. We do not complain about this of course.

It is sometimes asked how I use the toilet. The truth is, we wear nappies to stop any accidents, but I have trained myself sufficiently so that I rarely have accidents.

The routine only changes when I go outdoors. Then my nappy is removed and I am forced to don a chastity belt for my own protection. A chain is also attached to my ankles, and my hands are also cuffed to the sides of my body, held beside the chastity belt. My mouth is gagged so that I am not tempted to say something and thus tempt men with my young female voice.

We go out once a week around the town centre. Father accompanies us, and takes us out to show us the British women and how evil their lifestyle is. He points out girls wearing short skirts and mini tops, talking loudly to all and sundry, bearing their cleavages and legs, and teaches on how evil that is and how we will never be allowed such freedoms.

This is my life in Purdah, where I am kept hidden and pure until I am married. Father has already chosen a husband for me, a man in Pakistan who is a scholar and sixty years old. He believes firmly in Purdah and Islam. I will be his third wife.

Thank you for listening to my story and thank Allah for all of his beautiful creations and mercy.’

And that my students,” added the teacher, “is a perfect example of a life in Purdah.”

The lesson continued for another hour or so. All the time the teacher kept pointing out examples of how women living in Purdah, (which I learnt meant seclusion from men), should avoid tempting menfolk around them. To be honest, I found it all rather strange. The thought of that young girl, whom I imagined to be beautiful and ripe for picking, living controlled and enclosed like that made me feel hot, and my imprisoned manhood struggled hopelessly within its prison. I tried on several occasions to bring my hands round to my front and slip them into the belt, but I could not do it and even if I had, the belt was so tight, that I doubt I could have got a baby’s finger inside it, let alone the hand of a fully-grown man. The idea of her wearing a nappy like a baby, also increased my frustration, as did the thought of her being shown weekly the freedoms that she could never enjoy. Consequently, because of all this, and the layers of cloth that covered me, a soon grew very hot and sticky and my body was drenched in sweat. Looking around at the fidgets of some of the other students, I guessed that they were undergoing the same thing.

To divert my mind away from such thoughts, I set to wondering as to why was I being subjected to all this, being covered up like Noor, and told the lives of Middle-Eastern women. I could not figure it out. That I, a 17 year-old Greek boy, with a libido equal of any of my countrymen, a manly chest and may I say, handsome set of male equipment, with a respectable history of seductions behind him, should be trussed up and covered like an Arabian maiden…? It was all very strange.

 

Chapter 4

The lessons didn’t end with Purdah study. Next we were subjected to Islam, then two hours of Arabic, and after that some English. By the end of the day I was exhausted and drenched, and my cock painfully ached for release. ‘That,’ thought I, ‘I can get tonight in bed.’

However, when time to return to my room came, and Fatima stripped me of my clothes and bathed me, I was surprised to discover that the only bondage that she removed was my gag. The cuff and chastity belt stayed on, and after bathing she fed me some falafels, couscous and tea.

“Fatima,” I said, being relieved at being able to speak, (though she’d only given me the right, so long as I promised not to ask any questions about my predicament, nor make a fuss), “were you telling the truth when you said that I was your Master and you would do whatever I wanted?”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile.

“Right then,” I said, gazing at that gorgeous beauty, who was again stripped down to a bikini. “Will you kiss me?”

“No problem,” she replied, and pecked me on the cheek.

“No, I mean properly.”

“Are you sure that you want that?”

Have a stunning, bikini clad whore kiss me on command. Of course I was sure! “Yes,” I said.

Then that hot fox, put her lips to mine and we engaged in what was the best kissing of my life. That vixen obviously knew what she was doing, and as her tongue did things that I could not believe a tongue could do, my cock sprang to life, pressing painfully against the walls of it’s golden prison cell.

“I can do more than that,” she said, freeing herself, and starting to caress my body with her hands, her long nails causing waves of rapture. She moved lower down, caressed my ass and inside my legs. My manhood was on fire!

“Free me! Free me!” I cried.

“Sorry, Ihbat, you know I can’t do that, now, lick my pussy!”

And to my astonishment, she whipped off her bikini bottoms and thrust her wet pussy in my face. I licked it the best I could and her warms juices flowed into my face.

“That’s good! That’s good!” she cried, climaxing, and drawing herself away.

“Free me, Fatima! I can’t stand this!” I cried.

But she heeded me not, and instead, pulled out another burqa. Time to sleep my little trussed up stallion,” she said, and place the burqa over my head. I soon discovered it was like the one that Noor was forced to wear, overly long but unlike where Noor’s father tied it shut, this one was zipped. I was in a burqa sleeping bag!

“Night, Ihbat,” said Fatima.

“Don’t leave!” I cried.

“Ok, then,” said she, I’ll sleep by you.

And then that hot chick laid down beside me and snuggled up to me. Seeing her curves and feeling them and the warmth of her body next to mine sent me mad with desire.

“Release me! Release me!” I cried.

“You want more?” she asked, before adding, “So do I. But like that you can’t pleasure me. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself!” And at that she started fingering herself and groaning in ecstasy.

My frustration was unbearable, but of course, I had to bear it. It was a very long time before I managed to sleep that night.

 

Chapter 5

The weeks and months that following were spent in a very strict routine. Everyday I was woken by Fatima, released from my sleeping burqa, washed, fed, and dressed. And then I studied all day long. The lessons were boring, pointless and the same; a solid diet of Purdah Study, Arabic, English and Islam. The last one irked me the most. Islam is of course the backward faith of the Turkish animals who raped our Greek homeland for centuries. Why should I study it? It was inferior to my Orthodox Christianity, the One True Faith. Everytime the teacher rambled away on the words of the Prophet I wanted to scream out loud. But of course, gagged and restrained as I was, I could never have done so, so instead I sat and listened in disgust.

It was the latter subject that also got me thinking as to why this was happening to me. Why kidnap a young Greek boy and tutor him in the practices of the Eastern religion and how they keep their women. Such a life as I led could not have come cheaply, so why? I wondered at first if it was not a plot of the Turkish dogs to dishonour yet another heroic Greek, but on reflection I guessed that it was perhaps not. Then I wondered if it was not all planned by Fatima, who just played at being a maid, but instead was in fact the woman behind it all, and who craved for a handsome young man like myself to be constantly at her service, licking her out with my tongue. But then I rethought. If it had been her, then she would surely have had a taste of my cock by now, for that no girl can resist, yet every night she would refuse to unlock me whilst she performed.

And boy how did she perform! She was a nymph, like one of the Sirens of yore. Her lithe body wrapped around mine, and she was true to her word. Whatever I asked save for the releasing of my restraints, she did willingly. I saw her finger herself in so many ways, she attached a dildo to my chastity belt and fucked herself with that, she licked my ass, drank my piss, and then made me do the same. It was heavenly, incredible and yet… not once did I climax. Every minute of every day I was mad with desire, yet never did I achieve it. My life was a hell of frustration. In the end I realised that all the things she was doing only made it more uncomfortable for me, and I asked her to stop, but even then, just the sight of her, or the image of her in my mind as I sat sweltering in my cocoon during those long tedious hours of Islam and Arabic, it drove me wild.

And so it carried on, a life of frustrated hell. And confusion, for of course I was still entirely ignorant of why this was happening to me, who was behind it all, and what was going to happen in the future. Those weren’t the only things that annoyed me as well. Another was my physical shape. I, like most of my race, had always been a typical Adonis since puberty, and had long prided myself on my well-toned body. All these months of enforced inactivity had caused, I noted to my disgust, a certain flabbiness, particularly around my chest and buttocks, and wearing silk everyday also seemed to have the strange effect of softening my skin. This bothered me as I knew that I would need my strength when the moment to escape presented itself. With everyday that passed, I hated by silken feminine bonds even more.

Then, after I had been at Medrassah Purdah for around six months, something happened. After the day’s lessons, one Thursday I was called into the office of the Headmistress. Never before had I seen her, or been called. Fatima surprisingly ungagged me before leading me down some corridors to some large wooden doors which she proceeded to knock upon before leaving me. A minute or so later, a voice from within called “Enter!” in Arabic, (I had, by that stage, a basic command of the tongue), and so I pushed my body against the wood. It opened and I entered a large room with several bird cages in which canaries twittered and a fountain gurgled in the centre. By the fountain, on a rug, was a woman, shrouded in a red burqa with golden embroidery. “Sit, Ihbat,” commanded she. I did as I was bid.

“Ihbat,” she started. “You have been commanded here today as a congratulation. Today the first stage of your schooling here has come to an end. You are ready to enter the next level. Do you have anything to say?”

I had of course a thousand things to say. “Why? Why am I here?”

“The reason behind you being here will soon be made clear to you. Basically you were chosen because you filled the requirements of the owners of the school.”

“What requirements?”

“Physical requirements. Your body seemed the right shape.”

My body! Did they perhaps need me as some sort of sex slave? I was as perfect as a male could be after all. And that would explain why Fatima had been assigned to tease me. “Who are the owners of the school?”

“This school is owned and financed by three organisations. The first is the Islamic Association, the second the IPO and the third the SFVI.”

“What do those initials stand for?”

“You will find out over the next year. Your next level of study includes studying the history and aims of our three owner organisations.”

“How long will I stay here?”

“Until you are married.”

“But how can I get married if I don’t have the chance to meet anyone to marry.”

“We will find you a spouse.”

“What if I don’t like them?”

“That is of no concern.”

“But which woman wants a man dressed up in veils who can only talk about Islam and Purdah?”

“No woman wants such a spouse.”

“Then how will you find me a wife?”

“Ihbat, have you not guessed yet? We will be finding you no wife. We will be finding you a husband. Have you not noticed the changes in your body? Every day for the last six months. Fatima has been feeding you with food and drink laced with hormone pills. She reports that your skin is now soft and feminine, your buttocks rounded and budding breasts are starting to appear. Ihbat, we are turning you into a woman, a woman of Purdah, a woman of Islam.”

A woman! I couldn’t believe it! But I was a man! A strong man! A Greek man! I would be no woman! What she described, why it sounded like homosexuality, I hated Gays, sick creatures, puffs! “You will not change me into any woman!” I cried. “I am a Son of Alexander the Great!”

“You were a Son of Alexander the Great,” corrected the Headmistress. “You are now a Daughter of the Prophet. Now you can either accept that gracefully and submissively as a woman should, or we will impose it by force!”

“I am a Greek!” I cried. “I will never surrender to an Eastern Barbarian!”

And I didn’t. And they did what they promised. Back in the room, Fatima replaced my gag with a different one that had a small hole in the middle. This gag was never taken out and I was fed through a tube that was pushed through the hole and down my throat. The hormones were obviously increased in quantity now as well, as the speed of the changes got faster, and daily I watched in horror as small breasts appeared on my chest, breasts with nipples that Fatima used to pinch and caress, sending waves of pleasure through my being.

The breasts weren’t the only new part of my life. Every morning, after my bath, my handcuffs and ankle cuffs were fastened to rings, one hanging from the ceiling and the other embedded in the floor and I was shaved all over until the only hair left was on the top of my head. Then, on my face, make-up was applied, long false eyelashes attached to my eyes and false eyebrows stencilled in. My hair, which was now quit long, was conditioned and combed daily, and often styled. When I saw myself in the mirror I realised with dread that I was now an attractive looking young lady, the sort whom I used to chase after, and only the pain of unfulfilled desire in my loins was left to show that I was really a male.

My lessons also changed now. The English was dropped, as was Purdah Study, (we had more or less exhausted the subject anyway). The Islam and Arabic remained but they were joined by some new subjects; Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders, Dance, Sexual Techniques and Deportment. The last three were taught in my room by Fatima as they required my burqa and veils being removed. In deportment I was taught how to walk and sit in a seductive manner, in Dance how to do the belly dance and other Eastern moves and in Sexual Technique, well… I prefer to forget about that. When I first heard that I would be studying sex I was excited. So, at long last I was to be released from that hateful golden girdle, I thought. But of course, it was not to be. Instead most classes involved Fatima wearing a huge rubber dildo which I was forced to suck upon, whilst she pointed out what was right and wrong with my technique and paddling me for my mistakes. Other times we looking into French kissing, and different sexual techniques, where for the first time I had the humiliating experience of having something shoved into my anus, that being Fatima with the large strap-on. In fact, I was forced to wear a dildo in my ass everyday from then on, (“So you get used to the feeling”), something that was always a hateful reminder of my humiliation and subjection, and did not help with the old frustration, since as my back passage was now caressed every minute of every day by a large intruder, my cock was now even more alert than previously.

The dildo was not the only new addition to my daily wardrobe either. Every morning I was forced to don a kind of glove that held both my arms together behind my back in a painful position. This was kept on throughout my lessons causing my arms to be dead at the end. When I misbehaved Fatima also kept it on throughout the night, which was even worse as it prevented me from sleeping on my back, and of course, was not comfortable anyway.

The lessons on the Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders turned out to be interesting. The school it seems was built fifty years ago under the auspices and with the finances of three organisations. The Islamic Organisation was an international group based in Saudi Arabia that promoted Islam and Islamic values. IPO stood for International Purdah Organisation, a multi-national, multi-faith society that promoted Purdah as a way of life for all women, and whose eventual aim was to keep every woman at home and under the command of her husband or father. The SFVI was a little strange. The initials stand for the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal, and it was founded in 1842 by one Wilhelm van Wettering, a rich Dutchman who lived in the East Indies. He kept his wife and concubines forever in a state of bondage where the use of their arms was restricted. Apparently he had got the idea from his father-in-law, one Jacob van Hessel who had been to Italy to see the treasures of antiquity. This Dutchman had apparently been so awe-inspired by the beauty of the Venus de Milo that he had had a copy made, and this he presented to his son-in-law upon his marriage upon his marriage to his daughter, Gabrielle van Hessel. Van Wettering too, it appears, was transfixed by the Venus Ideal and so proceeded to turn his new wife into one, using a corset designed by van Hessel, a corset, that held the wearers arms crossed behind her back in such a manner so that they appeared to be amputated. The Venus Corset is what he named it. Others – rich and perverted men who van Wettering invited to banquets and orgies at his mansions in the Netherlands and Borneo soon became transfixed by the image of the armless and helpless female, and so it was that the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal was born; a society that promotes and indeed stipulates that the arms of the wives of its members must at all times be rendered useless and bound. Knowing that such organisations were behind the strange institution where I was held, and that I was being transformed into a woman at the will of one or all of them filled me with a dread that made me shiver.

 

Chapter 6

I studied in such a manner for a further year. By the end of my time I had become a fully fledged female with tantalising curves and feminine graces. Well, a female aside from my imprisoned cock and the male fire that still burned constantly in my heart.

It was soon after my 19th birthday, when I was again summoned to the Headmistresses Office.

“The time for you to leave this school will soon be upon us,” she said. “Your studies have been completed. You are mentally ready for marriage.”

“Then have you found me someone?” I asked.

“We have not looked yet,” she continued. “I said that you are mentally ready, but Ihbat, you are not physically prepared yet.”

“But I am fully a woman now,” I said in a vehmenous tone. “Except for my manhood.”

“Fully a woman yes, but not a woman sufficient enough for our clients. Do you want some tea, Ihbat?”

“No,” I said. “Fatima has just given me some.”

“That is right, I commanded her to. In a minute or two you will start feeling drowsy. There was a strong draught in that tea. You are going on a trip, Ihbat.”

“What?! Draught? Why? Where?” But already the drug was taking over. I fell to the floor with a slump.

I awoke in a hospital bed, wearing nothing. I tried to get up, but realised that my hands and feet were tied down. I instinctively thought about my crotch, but it wasn’t painful. I looked down. I couldn’t see genitals! I couldn’t see them, not because they weren’t there, but because something else obscured my view. Two large silicone footballs that heaved with every breath. “I’ve been given a tit job!” I exclaimed to myself.

“And not just a tit job,” said Fatima who was stood behind me. “All your body hair has been removed through electrolysis, including that surrounding your little friend.”

“My… is that…?”

“Oh, he is still there, as encased as ever, in his little gaol. He’s not as big and male these days, the hormones have taken their toll, but he still works. Not that you’ll have the opportunity to find that out though.”

“Oh Christ!”

“Stop that Ihbat! You’re a Muslim now, remember. Yes, your new titties are quite something aren’t they. Even better than the ones the school gave me. I’m rather jealous!” And at that she started playing with my new nipples. The caress of her long nails sent ripples of pleasure through my body. New tits, more buttock fat, some nice fat collagen lips, permanent eyebrows, and non-removable long eye lashes. My dear Ihbat, you look like a little doll, a fuck toy worthy of a prince. Well, perhaps you will get a prince after all, though you’ll be no mere fuck toy, but a fully-fledged wife.

Married to a man. Being fucked by a man, like a homosexual freak. The thought was too mortifying for words.

“I think I’ll have a play with your new love toys,” continued the maid, caressing those huge, firm mounds. The old, awful frustrating returned with a vengeance as her wonderful hands grasped my new appendages.

I was released from the hospital that day and taken back to the school where my normal regime was re-established. One day however, instead of leading me to my lessons, Fatima instead took me to a large photo studio and stripped me of all my clothes barring the chastity belt. Then, to my horror, a man appeared.

Strange as this sounds, I felt awful. For so long had I been completely covered up in the presence of anyone, let alone a man, (this was the first man that I had seen since Nikos became Ihbat actually), that I felt naked, unprotected and weak.

“But, Fatima,” I protested, (my voice box had also been altered in the hospital and there was no way of telling now that I had ever been a man), “Purdah states that I must be covered in front of men.”

“I know, but this is an exception. We have to make sure that you get a good husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that a man must see what he is about to marry before he actually does so, and then once he has chosen, hide that jewel off from the rest of the world. So we have to make sure that when he sees you first, it is in the best possible light.”

What she meant by the ‘best possible light’ was having me dress up in all manner of outfits and photographing me. There were wedding and cocktail dresses, bikinis, jeans that were put on wet and then dried so that they were so tight I could hardly move my legs, a Victorian gown complete with excruciatingly tight corset that took an hour and two fainting fits to put on, some oriental dresses such as a kimono and ao dai, short skirts, pencil skirts, an Arabian Nights outfit, uniforms, (army, air hostess, schoolgirl), baby girl dresses and even some shots where clothes were not required. All in all, it could have been viewed as a pleasant experience for most women, but for me I just felt awful. Apart from the feeling of vulnerability caused by being without my veil, for the first time ever I was put on display as what I had actually been turned into; a hot chick for some guy to play with at his whim. Plus of course, the modelling session also brought home the realisation that I was soon going to be passed onto a man, a man who would violate me and control me. A man much like whom I used to be and still was inside. To say that the thought of being forced to suck, or take a cock up my ass terrified me, is the understatement of the year.

Following the model shoot it was back to normal, though without the lessons. Daily I was entombed within my mound of cloth, and daily did Fatima bring me to the brink of unbelievable ecstasy, but not once did I ever hurdle that insurmountable fence.

Then, a fortnight later I was summoned for the third and final time to the Headmistress’s Office. “Ihbat, I hope you have enjoyed your time with us. I am pleased to say that I have found you a satisfactory student. Here is a souvenir of your time at Medrassah Purdah.” The souvenir, which I perused when back in my room was a large book. On the cover was a photograph of me in the school uniform burqa. Inside were some quotes from the Purdah philosophy that I’d had drummed into me, and so photos of me at my lessons. Then there was a variety of pictures of Fatima in all manners of dress and position, to remind me of the girl that I never could have. And lastly there was a selection of images from my photo shoot, a selection that, it must be said, horrified me as to my eyes I really did look sexy and ready to be raped.

“And now, the news,” she continued. “We’ve found you a husband. You’ll be married in five days time.”

 

Chapter 7

I was lain on a huge, sumptuous king size bed. My only clothing was a harem outfit, such as one would expect Scheherazade to be donned, with a gauze veil, silken Turkish trousers and a tiny top covering my (distressingly) un-tiny breasts. Of yes, and a thick collar of gold with ‘Ihbat, the Property of bin-Husseini and Allah alone’ inscribed in Arabic. And from that collar, a chain that attached me to the bedstead.

After my final meeting with the Headmistress I had returned to my room and had been ensconced by Fatima in a sort of leather cocoon which I knew, (from my studies), was a common way in which members of all three founding organisations used to transport their Purdah-living wives, as of course it guaranteed that no prying eyes could see them, and what’s more, (due to a face mask), that the person trapped within could see no one, thus ensuring absolute safety and the elimination of all opportunities for temptation.

Being put into such a garment was unpleasant to say the least. Apparently, it has already been described in one text, written about one of the wives of the SFVI and deemed by many to be fiction, so I need not go into too many details, except to say that it was uncomfortably hot, that within it I was unable to do anything – move a muscle, see, hear – except breathe, and that the merciless lacing at the waist, the elongated laced neck and the tight headcovering made even that activity difficult. Thankfully, it was only a few minutes before the sleeping drugs kicked in.

And when I awoke I was on this bed, dressed in my traditional sleeping burqa. I lay there for several hours until two maids came in, fully veiled including their eyes. I knew however from their low voices that Fatima was not one of them. They stripped me, took me to a bathing room, handcuffed my wrists to a ring hanging from the ceiling and fully prepared me. I was washed thoroughly, my hair also, and then that was braided. Make-up was expertly applied to my face, my nails decorated and my hands hennaed. My whole body was perfumed. My chastity belt was even removed but they showed no surprise at the presence of my cock and balls, (the former immediately springing to life, and only losing its virility when one of the maids doused it in cold water), and instead just concentrating on making certain that every part of my genitals was spotlessly clean and perfumed. Then to my horror, a hot needle was produced, and a gag shoved into my mouth, and they proceeded to pierce my ears and nipples and foreskin, (the latter two operations being excruciatingly painful), whilst I cried into my gag. That done, golden rings were place through all my piercings.

Then, my chastity belt was replaced, and my hands released from the ceiling and cuffed to the belt instead. The gag was left in and I was dressed, firstly in the harem outfit that I have already described and afterwards in three full body veils and a glorious red velvet burqa with gold embroidery. Unfortunately, the burqa had a piece of black cloth sewn behind the grille and I was now completely blind.

Following this I was led out by the maids, over a distance that I could not determine until I entered a room. There the marriage ceremony took place, to a man that I could not see. I heard a room full of people, but I just stood there, blinded, restrained and ignorant for several hours until someone led me away and back to the bedroom, where I was stripped of my burqa and body veils, freshened up, the collar, (my wedding ring I later learnt), attached and locked onto my neck and chained to the bed.

And it is there that you find me waiting, waiting for my husband to have his way with me. A man named Ahmed bin-Husseini they tell me.

 

Chapter 8

Ahmed bin-Husseini came several hours later. He smiled when he saw me and started to kiss me and caress my lithe body. He disgusted me and I tried to wrench myself away, but of course it was impossible. Then he turned me over onto my front, lubricated my anus, (which to be fair did not need a lot of lubricating as after all my training with dildos it was more than big enough to accommodate his little thing), and shoved his throbbing penis into it.

It did not take him long and afterwards I was required to clean off his manhood with my tongue. It was disgusting and I almost wretched. Then he gave me a drink and within moments I found myself paralysed, (such a draught is also described in the story I mentioned earlier concerning Araksia, a SFVI wife. It is common practice to initiate Society Wives into their new life under its influence).

“Now my dear sweet Ihbat, a gift from Allah in Heaven. It is time for me to show you how you will live. As your training at Medrassah Purdah will have told you, you are now the wife, the property of a member of one of three societies, the Islamic Organisation, the International Purdah Organisation and the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal. Well my love, I may tell you that I am a member of two of them, the latter two. I am of course a Muslim as well, as are you, but by marrying someone who is till technically a man, then I violate religious laws and so cannot be part of their society. That however, is immaterial. You are now a Society Wife and that means that you will be living under the twin pillars of Purdah, which of course you already know all about, and as a Venus.

And with that he produced the garment that I had heard so much about and dreaded with all my heart – the Venus Corset. My body, now paralysed entirely, (barring the mouth, which was now whimpering and crying for mercy), was easily maneuvered by my new husband, and my arms, crossed behind me at the top of my back, and then my whole torso encased in that fearsome piece of corsetry. He laced it with a passion and my life was squeezed out of me. “Forty centimetres is the sat I set for my ladies,” he exclaimed.

This done, after he had finished panting with exertion, he took me again, excited as he was by the shape and helplessness created by the Venus Corset. By now I had recovered most of my bodily movements, (as the draught is not strong), but of course I was still entirely at his mercy, and indeed the thrashing of my legs seemed only to excite him further.

“You will be wearing this 23 hours a day, 7 days a week he explained, with only an hour’s bathing as rest. Then, your wrists will be handcuffed together and strapped to the ceiling ring as they were this morning. Your chastity belt will also stay on, I have no interest in your cock, and indeed only kept it there to remind you of your humiliation and to keep you from being able to climax. You will be required to be fully veiled everywhere outside of your room as you were in the school, and outside of the Wives’ Quarters, you will be gagged as I am a Muslim and believe the female voice to be awrah.

Everyday you will be required to sit in attendance of me for five hours whilst I entertain friends or attend to business. Otherwise your time is your own, except when I require servicing.

Other things, let me think. Oh yes, your toilet visits will be replaced by a daily enema, and you shall be sharing a room with my second wife, Lina. That is all, I am tired now and need to sleep. Goodnight.”

 

Chapter 9

I slept with him that night, but the following morning, after another humiliating bout of anal sex, I was escorted to my new room, bathed, clothed and fed by my maid, who like Fatima stripped down to her underwear to see to my needs, and like Fatima was incredibly sexy, though she – Jay was her name – was Thai, not Arabian, and unlike Fatima was interested in playing no sex games, attending to me with an indifference that I found almost as excruciating.

Then, whilst I was eating, the door opened and a figure wearing a beautiful green burqa walked in. The burqa and other veils were removed and I met Lina.

Lina was of course beautiful. Bin-Hussein only selected beautiful women and he had the power and money to select only the very best. But it was not her beauty that captivated me, but her personality and smile. Once undressed down to a chastity belt and Venus Corset she sat down besides me and smiled. “Are you Ihbat?” she asked. “I’m so glad that you’ve come. I was so lonely here with only the maids and other wives for company, (and I don’t much get on with them I’m afraid). I do so hope we can become friends.”

And we did. For the first time since my kidnapping, here was someone who liked me, was friendly towards me and did not want to play unfulfillable sex games with me. She smiled and laughed and we talked daily for hours on every topic under the sun. However, I’m afraid that whenever I saw her laughing brown eyes, long dark hair and smiling mouth, I felt pangs of desire even stronger than I ever had with Fatima or anyone else. The fact was, that I was in love with her, and she with me, (she didn’t know that I was man, but confessed one night in tears that she had always preferred women.

After that we kissed and stroked each other with our legs and intermingled our still-free lower bodies in bed every night, but of course, not once could we do what lovers want to, and now even more than ever the frustration was killing me.

And so that became my life. Everyday I awoke besides my love, a love whom I could never have, was showered and prepared by the maids, (including the humiliating experience of an enema, something which I haven’t got used to to this day), and then shrouded in a mass of heavy cloth until I was stifled and almost blind and then forced with my love to walk to bin-Husseini’s chamber where we sat, his four wives on a carpet in silence whilst he conducted business, smoked his hookah or laughed and played with friends. Then, when it was time for the midday nap, he would summon one of us to pleasure him, (normally orally), whilst the rest were sent home. Whenever Lina was called I felt so jealous that another man was enjoying her that my heart burned, and when I was called I felt dread and disgust at having to service one of my own sex.

In the afternoons we would sit in the Wives’ Quarter with the other wives, (Aisha and Sham, though later on Sham disappeared as she was the eldest and bin-Husseini was bored of her, and replaced by Scheherazade, an Iranian). Like Lina, they interested me little, I found them haughty and boring, though I have to admit that it was there that I learnt the allure of the veil. Previously I’d never understood why some men find veils sexy, yet there I grasped it. Sat beside this women, talking to her and hearing her beautiful voice, knowing that she was a lady on a par with Helen of Troy, but unable to see anything of her features, my imagination went into overdrive, knowing that she was so near, yet so far, so perfect and yet so unattainable. I was always glad to return to my chamber but then seeing my Lina in there in all her loveliness, well… no stress was relieved.

So we spent our days gossiping, listening to songbirds, drinking Arabian tea, and admiring each others clothes, whilst at night, at erratic times we were summoned to pleasure our Husband and Master, in all manner of strange and unpleasant ways.

And all the time of course, clad in a Venus Corset. An uncomfortable garment that left my waist tiny and my arms dead, and I forever helpless and unable to do the simplest things like open a door or hold my beloved Lina.

My life as such continued in such a way for just under a decade until the charms of youth slowly started to fade.

 

Chapter 10

Then one day I was summoned to bin-Husseini and after I had milked him with my mouth, he told me.

“I have divorced you,” he said. “Your charms are fading and you have started to bore me. I have a new She-Male wife being prepared at Medrassah Purdah. You are to be remarried.”

“Thank you Master,” I said.

He didn’t tell me who my new husband was to be, but manys the tear that was shed as Lina and I knew that we were to be separated forever. Two days later, I was prepared as I had been for my marriage to bin-Husseini and ensconced in blinding burqas married in another Islamic ceremony.

Then I was returned to my chamber and enclosed in my travelling cocoon before being sent to sleep.

I awoke clad in a burqa, my Venus Corset on, and a key – the key to my chastity belt!- hung around my neck. I sat and waited.

Two hours later, the door opened. A burqa-clad figure walked in. ‘A maid,’ thought I.

The figure stopped and wiggled. It lay on the floor and then stood up. It was removing its burqa. After a while I helped, and the figure was free.

“Lina!” exclaimed I.

“Ihbat!” exclaimed my love.

“But…”

“But…”

We laughed.

“I was told that I would find my husband waiting in here.”

“And I was told that my wife would be coming.”

“Then you must be… but you’re a…”

“No,” said I. “They transformed me. I still have a…”

“Then we are husband and wife! Bin-Husseini has a heart after all! He tired of us and so he put us together so that we may at least have some happiness.”

I couldn’t believe it. “The key… to my belt, it’s around my neck.”

“Mine too.”

I took off hers with my mouth and opened up those precious realms.

“Now your turn!” she said, using her mouth to take off that precious golden key. She moved down to my lower regions and fitted it to the keyhole. It would not however, turn.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t get it to turn.”

Then a terrible but familiar laughter filled the room. It came from a loudspeaker on the wall.

“Ladies! You are free of me,” said bin-Husseini. “You are married to each other and now live in your own little palace, all paid for by I. However, I could not leave you without one little joke. Ihbat, I had your belt soldered shut whilst you were sleeping. It can never be opened. You will forever live up to your name.” He laughed once more and then the loudspeaker was turned off.

“Live up to my name?” I said. “What does he mean?”

“Ihbat, have you never realised?”

“Realised what?”

“Ihbat. It’s Arabic for frustrated. You are al-Ihbat. The Frustrated One. That was their plan all along. You will never receive any sexual satisfaction.”

FINIS

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter

 

 

 

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

This story is a loose sequel to A Day in the Life and A Day in the Life Revisited. It was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

 

Chapter 1

Lord Henry Eastham put down the letter that he had just read and gazed across at his young wife, asleep on the bed.

Whether she was actually physically asleep or not, he could not say for sure. Her heavy breathing suggested that she probably was, but with a waist compressed to such incredible proportions, her breathing was always laboured anyway. It was one of the things that he loved so much about her. No, Lady Eastham was asleep because he had decided that she was asleep. Her maids had attached her securely to the bed, spread out like a starfish, wrists chained to the upper two bedposts, ankles to the lower, so that she could barely move a muscle, just as they did every evening at nine. He had come upstairs half an hour later and taken his pleasure with her, and she had been awake then because he had heard her gagged groans from beneath her new face, but afterwards he had shut her eyes and climbed off. That was what was so marvellous about his wife, or, to be more precise, about how he and all the other men in the Society kept their wives. When he decided she was asleep, she was asleep. Whether or not she actually was sleeping was immaterial, just like all her other actions, wishes and wants. Lying stock still on the bed, her eyes closed, she had the appearance of being asleep.

And that was all that mattered.

After gazing upon his sleeping spouse for a few moments, he returned to the letter from William Cavendish. Its contents had shocked him but did not particularly worry him. The repercussions would be minimal and repeat offenses could be prevented from occurring. Even so, it was embarrassing that this had happened under his roof and it was important that he be seen to do something, otherwise his standing within the Society would diminish. But what to do, exactly?

He rang the bell and within a minute Fanny arrived. He let his eyes linger upon her corseted waist for perhaps a moment more than was polite and then said brusquely, “Tea, please.”

Two minutes later she had returned carrying a tray with a small teapot, delicate jug of milk and fine china cup and saucer. She set it down before him and he gave her bottom a pat as she did so. She said nothing of course. Whether she liked it or not was immaterial. In Lord Eastham’s house such behaviour was de rigueur.

“How are you these days, Fanny?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Your Lordship, thank you for asking.”

“And your parents?”

“You forget Your Lordship, they’re both passed away. I have no family now.”

“Not even a brother or a sister?”

“None that survived childhood, Your Lordship.”

“I am sorry to hear that. You are an excellent maid, Fanny. I do appreciate your hard work.”

“Why thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I do so hope that the world treats you better in the future, girl. Good night.”

Fanny bade her master goodnight also and left the room. What she did not realise that the decisions made by that master during the short two minutes that it had taken to make his tea would change her life irrevocably.


At the same time that Lady Eastham was sleeping and Fanny’s destiny was being altered, the author of the fatal letter, William Cavendish Esq. was sitting in his own bedroom, also drinking tea and also gazing upon his own sleeping wife.

Mrs. Cavendish however, unlike her sister in silence, Lady Eastham, was sleeping on her front tonight since the sexual congress that she had just enjoyed – or endured – with her husband, had been of the more prohibited type. As he had started taking to do more and more often, he had ordered Woakes to arrange his living doll on her front with her large and extremely alluring plugged bottom high in the air with a bolster placed underneath it. She was, as always in bed, entirely naked save for the corset around her waist, the monoglove binding her arms together and the hood and then porcelain cast enclosing her head. Not that this really counted of course. As far as William was concerned, the ceramic head topped with a golden wig was Mrs. Cavendish’s real head and the only sort of real waist was a corseted one; she was naked. For, in his mind and those of all the Society members and their wives, she had ceased to become a woman per se and was instead a very special china doll.

Albeit a living and breathing one.

Nonetheless, something had now changed. Something drastic. Not that one could tell from either his demeanour or hers, but the change was real nonetheless.

It dated back two months to when they had both attended the masking ceremony of the new Lady Eastham. Sometime during that ceremony, it transpired that Mrs. Cavendish had overheard two maids chattering. Quite without meaning to and by chance, those maids had given away the Society’s secret and undone years of indoctrination. They had essentially told the silent and unmoving Mrs. Cavendish that real society ladies do not wear masks or china heads, are not permanently gagged and fed liquidised food and do not have their arms bound in monogloves most of the time. Instead, they had let it slip that she was an indoctrinated victim of a sadistic group of men who desire to turn their wives into china dolls.

Indeed.

He gazed upon her sleeping form and wondered: was the woman inside his doll actually asleep or not? Did she love him or hate him? How did she feel about being taken anally most nights? How did she feel about being silenced and anonymised? What difference had this realisation made to her life?

He had only learnt about her discovery because, a week before, on a whim, he’d decided to allow his doll a conversation. These were increasingly rare occurrences, since he didn’t really care for what she had to say or indeed her thoughts and feelings as a person. After all, do normal china dolls think and feel? But he was bored and slightly tipsy on port and the idea of a “chat” had appealed, so he’d unlaced her monoglove, taken out her conversation book and let her write.

He’d expected the usual submissive, mindless blah, proof if it were needed that the Society’s intensive indoctrination programme in the years leading up to marriage had worked flawlessly. What he had instead received that day had shocked him profoundly. She’d revealed her discovery and pleaded with him to treat her as a “normal” wife. He had comforted her, hugged her, and then replaced the monoglove, to her weak protestations.

Then he had written straightaway to Lord Eastham. The letter that His Lordship had just finished reading unbeknownst to its author.

Chapter 2

Upon reading the letter, Lord Eastham had realised immediately who the guilty culprits had been: Fanny Baker and Millie Bainbridge. Both girls were pretty dull intellectually, and no great shakes as housemaids either. He had only employed them – and tolerated their repeated mediocre performances in their roles – because they were extremely pleasing to look at, did not complain when he gave their buttocks or breasts a squeeze, and were too stupid to ever mention to the authorities about what went on in Eastham Hall.

His initial thought upon having read the missive was to sack the pair of them on spot. However, after he had sent for a maid and Fanny had arrived in person, he’d started to have second thoughts. Was a mere sacking punishment enough for such irresponsibility? And if kicked out of his employ, how could he guarantee their silence? Plus, he had long held fantasies about doing far more with one or both of them – particularly Fanny – than giving their bottoms a grope.

And almost as soon as he thought about this, a solution precipitated into his mind. Oh yes, a great solution! One that would satisfy the Society, satisfy William Cavendish and, most importantly, satisfy him.

On the morrow he ordered his carriage readied and rode out to the railway station. There he took the first train to Sheffield where he changed for Throwley. Three hours later he was hammering on the door of the isolated Throwley Hall, where his friend and fellow Societyman William Cavendish lived with his own doll wife. The two men met and spoke in the dining room for about an hour. Then, Lord Eastham left and returned directly to his home. After enjoying his evening meal, he withdrew to his study and promptly summoned three of his servants to him. The first was Nolan the butler. The two men spoke for around fifteen minutes after which Nolan departed looking extremely grave. Next, he summoned Millie Bainbridge. He spoke to her for around fifteen minutes and she left looking quite distraught. Finally, he summoned Fanny Baker.

“Fanny, please sit down,” he said, smiling and showing the lowly maid to the best chair in the room.

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I’ve been thinking about our little conversation last night and I have a proposal to make to you. Life has been unkind to you in the past, I understand that, yet you have continued to work diligently in my employ and proven yourself to be a first-rate housemaid.”

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship, you’re too kind.”

“No Fanny, no I am not. You have earned that praise and it is my belief that you have earned far more than that. Indeed, I have called you into my office today in order to offer you a promotion. Lady Eastham, as you know, lives in a rather, how shall I put it, unusual manner and although she is most happy with her lot, I sense that she is lonely. During our evening conversations, she has repeatedly mentioned to me about how excellent you have proved to be when serving her and what a delightful girl she finds you to be. Thus, it is that I would like to offer you the position of Companion to Lady Eastham. The wage is quadruple the amount you are currently paid but I do appreciate that you are happy in your current work and this role may not suit…”

“Oh no Your Lordship, it would suit me right proper would that!”

“Well, are you sure? It is a big step up and…”

“Oh, Your Lordship, thank you very much, I’d be honoured!”

“Well that is excellent and, as it happens, I have another bit of news for you. I believe that you are good friends with Millie Bainbridge, am I correct?”

“Oh yes, Your Lordship, me and her is like sisters.”

“How delightful! Well, only this morning I met with a dear friend of mine, Mr. William Cavendish, and he asked me if I have any intelligent and able young ladies in my employ who would be happy to act as a companion for his wife. Immediately I thought of you and Millie but I wanted to keep you employed in this household, so I offered the Cavendish position to her and she has accepted too. Ladies, you are both going up in the world!”

“That’s unbelievable, Your Lordship, thank you so much!”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “On the morrow, you are to travel to Sheffield and visit the draper. You will need a new wardrobe after all for your new position. As this is being prepared, you shall continue in your current post but then in, shall we say a fortnight, when your new clothes are ready, you shall be inducted into your new role.”

“Thank you again, Your Lordship, you’re too kind, you really are.”

“Well, if that is how you think, please, permit me a little kiss on that pretty cheek of yours and then you can be off.”

“Of course, Your Lordship! For you, anything…”

And so he had his peck on the cheek – which strayed towards her rosebud lips – and then she was sent on her way with a pat on the bum.

And as she closed the door behind her, Lord Eastham muttered to himself, “Brainless cow!”

Chapter 3

Lazily, Fanny Baker opened her eyes in her new bed on the first morning of her new job. Almost immediately, despite the succour of sleep still being in her head, she knew that something was wrong. She had opened her eyes but nothing had changed; the world remained black.

Not the black of a dark night but pitch black, the total absence of light at all.

More than that, something was covering her head. Enclosing it, tightly, as if it were in a bag. She tried to bring her hand to her face to check what it was but that hand would not move. It was firmly secured to the frame of the bed above her head. In panic she screamed.

No noise came out.


The night before she was due to begin her new position, in accordance with the new duties and status, Fanny had been told that she would be moving to new quarters, up in the West Wing next to Lady Eastham’s rooms. It had been an emotional day for the young maid. That morning she had tearfully bade goodbye to her friend Millie who had set off for her new job at Throwley Hall, and then the change in her circumstances had been announced at dinner by the butler to all in the servants’ dining room. There had been a couple of muttered snide comments about people who got a promotion by flashing their tits rather than doing any work, but most people had applauded her respectfully. She had never felt so proud and so beloved.

After that she had made her way up the wide staircase to the upper-class quarters. Her bedroom, when she was shown it, was incredible. It wasn’t as grand as her mistress’s of course, but it was still huge, dominated by a four-poster bed and, worryingly, a lacing bar that dangled from the ceiling. There was a large wardrobe full of the new outfits delivered that afternoon in the draper’s van. She opened it and looked at them. Fine satin and velvet, lace trimmings and exquisite embroidery. After that day, she would look incredible. She sat down on the bed and smiled. How lucky she was! Of course, she had always known that His Lordship had a soft spot for her; that was why she endured the little strokes and squeezes that came her way, but she never believed he would favour her in such a manner. If she played her cards right and let him do more than stroke or squeeze, who knows? Perhaps her own little place in a nearby town which he could retreat to when he grew tired of his strange, china-faced wife.

Just thinking of Lady Eastham made her shiver. What a freaky way to live? Silent and hidden, more like a piece of the furniture than a real, living person. And what was she as the Lady’s companion supposed to do with her? She imagined some very dull one-way conversations in the ladies’ drawing room. Oh well, however tortuous, it would be worth it. The salary alone, plus the status and the prospect of further boons to come her way, had made this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Fanny was shaken from her reveries by a knock on the door. It was Nolan the butler who was wheeling a trolley.

“His Lordship thought you might like some tea before you retire,” he said.

“That’d be lovely, ta. Just leave it there.”

“As you wish, Miss Baker. Good evening.”

“Goodnight Mr. Nolan,” she replied.

She did not know that they were to be the last words she would ever speak.


Lord Eastham looked on with sadistic pleasure as he saw the china doll on the bed start to squirm, groan and test her restraints. As no one else was present, she could see nothing and his trousers were tented, he unbuttoned them and took his member in his hand. In less than a minute he had erupted over her new porcelain face. Then he revealed himself.

“Good morning Fanny,” he said, “and welcome to your first day as Lady Eastham’s companion. Immediately she stopped her squirming. He took out a damp flannel, wiped the semen from her face with care and then opened her eyelids to reveal a pair of dark brown doll’s eyes with a tiny pinhole in the centre of each one.

“I guess you are wondering what has happened to you since you drank that cup of tea last night. Well, you shouldn’t be confused, as the truth of the matter is entirely obvious: if you are to be Lady Eastham’s companion in life then it is only natural that you must live in the same mode that she does. However, because you are not a member of the aristocracy and only a lowly serving girl, it would have been inappropriate for you to have a dolling ceremony as she did. So it was that your head was fitted last night when you were sleeping off the effects of the drugged tea.”

Immediately the squirming, bucking groaning and general non-acceptance of her life began again. Lord Eastham stopped speaking. He enjoyed moments like this and wanted to savour this one. Already his trousers were beginning to tent again. With his wife he had not had such a pleasure, as she had been indoctrinated to accept, nay, embrace her doll status. But this brainless wench had had no such preparation and her predicament was panicking her. As he watched her battle in vain against her restraints, he remembered the previous evening.

Half an hour after giving her the tea, Nolan had returned and then summoned his master. Lord Eastham had come along together with the Earl of Norfolk, the founder and Chair of the Society whom he had contacted the week before and invited along for the occasion. The three men had then stripped the sleeping maid, tied her to a chair and cut her hair off with shears before then shaving it as bald as an egg. After that they had fitted the fearsome hood which was then laced up tightly at the back, before inflating the gag to full capacity. Then the china head had been produced, another perfect product from the Staffordshire manufacturer Wade, whose owner was also a Societyman and who made all Society heads to their purchaser’s unique specifications. Since his wife was a blonde-haired and wide blue-eyed doll, Lord Eastham had decided to go for a stark contrast and so ordered Fanny to become a raven-haired beauty with brooding dark brown eyes and rosebud lips. Not unlike the Empress Sisi in fact. The rear half of the head had been fitted first, then the front joined onto it and, finally, the mass of black ringleted hair affixed on top.

The vision complete.

Fanny was then untied from the chair, lain on the bed, and her wrists and ankles were attached firmly to the four posts by bronze chains before the counterpane was lain on top of her, and she was left to rest in peace.


Eastham stayed silent until Fanny had ceased in her futile struggles, after which he stroked her ersatz hair and began his litany again.

“Fanny, from this day forward you shall live exactly as your mistress does, for you shall be her companion in everything. You are now a doll just as she is and, to help make that clearer to you, I have decided that you are to be renamed. Your new moniker is Dolly. Dolly the dolly. Simple, like you, and easy to remember. At this moment, as I impart this joyful news to you, all the servants are being addressed by Nolan who is instructing them that you must always be referred to as ‘Dolly’ from this day forward.”

She started to buck and groan again, doubtless due to the shame of this ordeal. His Lordship’s member grew even stiffer. When she had calmed herself again, he continued:

“Unfortunately, as you are doubtless aware, your waist is currently much broader than Her Ladyship’s. therefore, you shall undergo a period of intensive waist training. I have already ordered the new stays to accomplish this. Your personal maid has been instructed to ensure that your waist circumference, twenty-eight inches at present I believe, does not exceed sixteen by this time next year. Oh yes, and your maid is to be Lottie. I believe you two are close friends.”

The bucking started again in earnest. Lord Eastham had been lying. The plain, almost boyish Lottie Wilkins, one of the most efficient and hard-working maids in the hall, was also the one who had muttered about people getting promotions by flashing their tits the previous evening. Nolan had informed him straightaway. The two girls absolutely hated one another.

“Now, I shall ring for Lottie in a moment and she shall administer your first enema and then prepare you for your first day as Her Ladyship’s companion. However, before we do that, whilst we are still alone, I have one little confession to make.” As he said those words he moved his face right next to hers, so close that he could feel and hear her breath entering and exiting the holes in the button porcelain nose. “Dolly, I lied to you earlier. I did not choose you for this position because of your hard work; instead it was due to a very different reason. A month ago at Her Ladyship’s dolling ceremony, you and Millie Bainbridge – now renamed Molly the Dolly I believe – spoke freely about our practices. Either purposeful or simply careless, you let another doll know that how she and Lady Eastham – and now you too I suppose – live is not the norm, and – I am using your words here – our society is ‘evil’. Now, my dear doll, such an abuse of trust is absolutely unforgivable. You have caused both Mrs. Cavendish and Mr. Cavendish great upset and so, it is only right that you – and Millie – share the burden as it were. Whatever bed you are lying in dear Dolly, it is you who has put yourself there. And with those thoughts, goodbye.”

Softly he kissed her pottery cheek and then rang the bell for Lottie.


Four hours later a figure walked into the drawing room at Throwley Hall. “My darling, meet your new companion, Molly the Dolly!” announces William Cavendish as a flame-haired, green-eyed doll tentatively enters, unsure on her new heels.

And at the same hour we can find Fanny… nay, Dolly, sitting alongside Lady Eastham, her shoulders in agony from the monoglove that has been laced onto her for the first time in her life, her breast heaving from the overtightened stays but her face placid and tranquil.

 

Chapter 4

Four months later

Ticking of the clock pounded through her brain, tormenting her, driving her mad. It was only a faint sound, barely discernible through the tight leather hood and pottery cast that now covered her ears, but in a world of almost complete silence, it engulfed her entire being.

I say ‘almost complete,’ for there was another sound: that of heavy, laboured breathing; the constant battle to force air in and out of dangerously-compressed lungs and then through the tiny holes in the pot head. The eternal battle for air that both enraged and comforted her. She hated it, she longed for a break from that unending struggle to just keep herself alive and yet, at the same time, it was a blessed reminder that she… and the figure sitting across from her… were alive. For breathing was the only non-artificial thing about them.

She was doing her job, the “promotion” that she had eagerly accepted and looked forward to. She had been excited by the fact that she would become almost a lady herself, wearing fine dresses, sleeping in fine quarters and doing no physical work. Well, all of that had turned out to be true, but in the cruellest possible way. She now was Mrs. Cavendish’s companion indeed, but keep her company was all that she did do. It was all that she could do nowadays.

She closed her real eyes behind the doll ones and remembered. She remembered running in the fields as a little girl, singing songs at Sunday School, laughing and joking with her friends, flirting with the boys. She recalled glorious summer Sundays lying on the grass staring up at the fluffy clouds in the sky, cups of tea around the kitchen table, wild nights at harvest time when everyone drank home-brewed ale and danced around the hayrick. She had been poor, unimportant and ignorant, but she had been, in so many ways, happy.

And now…?

She stared at Mrs. Cavendish. How ironic that they spent nearly every waking hour together and yet had never spoken and knew nothing about each other. Instead she just sits there, in the armchair across from her, dressed in the finest of gowns, her ample chest heaving up and down, her face blank and artificial. Who is she? What is she like? What does she dream about? Does she hate the husband that did this to her or does she love him? Does she realise that she is a victim of a group of sadistic, evil men who just like to control women or does she think that it is normal? She remembers that once, when they were free, Fanny had told her that they don’t realise, that they think it’s normal. She also remembers that Fanny is now Lady Eastham’s companion. She has met her several times of course but, corseted to fainting and her head hidden beneath a doll head, then she would never have known that it was her old friend. She recognised Lottie though, that plain bitch who preferred women to men and always hated the fact that Fanny had more normal preferences and didn’t find her attractive at all. And now Lottie was Fanny’s maidservant. She shuddered when she thought what that meant.

She stared again at Mrs. Cavendish. She had no choice. It was almost impossible to turn her head these days without shifting her whole body. She could glance from side to side but that just meant blindness since her eyes then did not line up with the pinholes in the doll head. She took in her mistress’s gorgeous cream gown with printed roses on it and her minuscule waist, emphasised with a huge red ribbon. A wave of hate passed over her. Her gown, although fine, was far plainer and her waist was far broader. She was now nothing more than an anonymous clotheshorse and yet even in that role this bitch was eclipsing her.

And it was more than that. Madam had been trained so that she could accept all of this. She knew no different. Ignorance is strength. For her this was all normal. Oh, to have that peace of mind, that serenity, that ability to accept and not be angry. How she hated her with every fibre of her being!

Nor was that all. That cow, that submissive, putrid little doll whom it was her life’s curse to accompany, yes, she could not speak, move, express opinions or anything else, but she could still be a woman. She was a wife. A woman’s purpose in life is to marry and please her husband and, in a perverse way, that bitch was doing that. Every night she would lie with him and he would enter her. Oh the memory! She was no virgin of course, she had lain with several of the serving boys and, although she had not really loved any of them, it had been good, oh yes, it had been wonderful! The feeling of a man inside her, his rod slipping up and down her cavern, caressing her down there, his arms entwining her, the ecstasy, the joy, the…

The thoughts caused her breathing to grew heavier and she felt her head spinning. She tried to fight it but then she blacked out.

She awoke. How long had passed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Nothing had changed. The clock still ticked and Mrs. Cavendish still stared vacantly back at her. Bitch! Tonight that cow would enjoy a man whilst she lay alone as she did every night, her sex on fire due to the insertions in both her nest and her bottom, but with no way to relieve them. It was so unfair!

But a woman is not born to be just a wife. No, she has an even higher calling than that, the highest calling of all. The be a mother and raise a brood of gorgeous children. She loved children but they did not love her. The doll head with its staring eyes freaked them out and the few that came to Throwley ran from her and Mrs. Cavendish. But soon, that cow across from her would find a child that ran towards her, not away. Soon, she would be nursing one, having it suck on the teat of one of those ample breasts that now heaved up and down across from her.

Oh yes, a week ago it had been announced that Madam had missed her period and today the doctor had visited and another announcement made: Mrs. Cavendish was expecting! Her stays were going to be loosened and she would be pampered whilst the new life grew within her. How evil was that! That this mindless, pathetic girl who rushed to embrace becoming a doll should be gifted with a child whilst Millie herself was left unsatisfied every night.

God how she hated her!

A click to her left shook her out of her reveries. Although she could not see what it was, she knew from past experience: the door had been opened. Into her line of sight appeared Mr. Cavendish. He was a handsome man with a rugged face and excellent dress sense. She could see why that worthless freak had fallen for him. He went over to his doll wife and pecked her on her porcelain cheek. “I had to check on the mother of my child,” he said warmly. She did not move or react.

Then he turned towards Molly and gazed upon her for longer than was decent, his eyes resting on her now 20-inch in circumference stem-waist. “And her charming companion too, of course,” he added. He walked over to her and she involuntarily wiggled her monoglove-clad arms even though there was no life in them. His hand brushed her cheek and she cursed that she could feel nothing. Then it strayed down, brushing her heaving breasts almost accidentally. Oh, the feeling of a human touch on her body! It was exquisite but all too infuriating for its briefness. “Your waist is progressing well, Molly,” he commented. “Soon it shall match my wife’s.”

And then he departed.

God how she longed for him!

God how she hated her!

But none of those feelings came out and instead she just sat there, unmoving, her artificial face smiling as the clock ticked endlessly on.

Chapter 5

A year later

The congregation are assembled, the minister stands with his prayer book and the groom waits nervously by the altar. Then, the familiar strains of the wedding march strike up on the organ and the bride enters, a glorious vision in white. She moves slowly and daintily down the aisle and all present admire what they see: her sumptuous dress, her minuscule waist and her proudly-held head, covered by a bonnet and thick white veils. At the altar those veils are flipped back to reveal her face. She is as pretty as a doll! Indeed, she is more than that. She is a china doll! Her lips do not move and her eyes stare unblinking.

And thirty minutes later she has become one Mrs. Stephen Nolan.


In the year that has passed, much has happened. Both Dolly and Molly have settled down silently, uncomplaining, as the companions of Lady Eastham and Mrs. Cavendish respectively. They meet regularly, for every other month the Cavendishes make their way over to Eastham Hall whilst on the alternate months the Easthams travel to Throwley. Although friends before, His Lordship and William Cavendish have become even closer and nothing makes them happier than seeing their two wives and their two wives’ companions sitting in a row, all tight-laced, monogloved and expressionless in the drawing room. It is just exquisite.

But for William Cavendish, it has become more than that. Indeed, the presence of a new doll under his roof has changed the whole dynamics of his household. Mrs. Cavendish always excited him, but now there is double the temptation. At first he was content to just let his eyes drift over the newcomer’s ever-improving figure and flawless porcelain complexion but then, as with Lord Eastham before him, he found that he could not resist a stroke or a squeeze.

And Molly the Dolly could not resist him.


Things came to a head though, when a happy event took place within Throwley Hall. Worried about his future legacy, William had started undertaking his nightly congress with his wife not only vaginally, but, furthermore, without protection. And within three months, nature took its course and her periods stopped.

Which was wonderful news of course, but as her stomach grew and her stays had to be loosened, the doll that he was married to began to appear less and less appealing in comparison to the one that he had merely employed. He found himself sneaking into her room at night to gaze upon her sleeping form and, before a fortnight had passed, he had taken to lying next to her and gently stroking her whilst also bringing himself to fulfilment.

Before the month was over, they had consummated their new-found relationship.


As with so many things, what happens at Throwley Hall, also happens at Eastham. His Lordship however, had always foreseen the day when he slept with his wife’s companion and so had made plans. However, he had delayed it for his own perverse pleasure.

He knew that Dolly hated him. On the rare occasions when he allowed her to have a conversation with him, she swore and railed against him in misspelt English with crudely-formed letters. She really was as dumb as they come, and her anger and malice excited him to no end. So, he formed a plan. He wanted her to want him as much as she detested him, to plead with him to sleep with her yet hate herself for doing so.

It was not hard. All Society members learned that their doll wives loved to lie with their husbands. The reason was simple: denied of any skin-to-skin contact, forced to live life second-hand, ‘through a glass darkly’ as the Society’s spiritual head, the Rev. Halcombe had put it, the brief physical contact that they enjoyed with another human being during sex became a beacon of hope and reality in their lives. It was the only thing that made them feel human.

And indoctrinated as they all were, they knew that they should love it and should adore their husbands anyway. That they longed for that time was only natural. It was God’s will.

But with Dolly it was all so different. She had received no education and was under no illusions. She knew that he was to blame for her misery and only he could free her, yet chose not to. She abhorred him with every fibre of her body and so shrank away when he neared her. Still though, he set to work. He instituted weekly conversations ‘to discuss the progress of his darling wife’ and during these would ask her what she thought of him. Using her brainless bluntness she told him that he repels her.

“So, you wouldn’t like to sleep with me?” he asked.

Not for all the money in the world, she wrote.

“Fair enough, because I never shall unless you ask me to.”

And I never will ask you to you shit!

However, whilst all this was going on, his plan to break her was progressing. The cook was ordered to put copious quantities of Spanish fly, a strong aphrodisiac, in her liquidised meals and Lottie was under strict instructions to keep sizing up her bottom plugs as well as also adding a frontal insertion.

And then, every evening, an hour after she had been put to sleep, he would enter her room and slowly stroke or tickle her beauty bud. She would buck and groan but he would never let her do more than that.

After four months of mental and physical torment and intense internal debating, she humbly wrote in her conversation book, Please lie with me.

“Why? Do you love me?”

No, I hate you. You are a louse.

“I only lie with women who love me.”

Two weeks later she told him she loved him.

Which was all well and good except that Lord Eastham had never been a fan of congress with a sheath. And so he went about it au naturel and, after five months, Dolly too missed her period.

Which potentially posed a problem. After all, who had access to her but His Lordship? And what would be the talk in the county if it became known that he had made a servant pregnant? But, as I said before, Lord Eastham was a man who had made plans for such an eventuality. The very week that Dolly missed her period, quite out-of-the-blue, the butler Nolan declared his undying love for Lady Eastham’s Companion.

And the very next week they were married with the Rev. Halcombe presiding in Eastham Hall’s private chapel.


In the reception afterwards, William Cavendish seeks out his friend.

“Bertie, old fruit, I must say, I don’t know how you do it! I’m in awe, I truly am!”

“Whatever do you mean, old bean?”

“Well, getting Nolan to marry the doll like that. I mean, it’s an awful shame for you since he’ll be using her from now on but at least the scandal of the child is covered up. How much did you have to pay him to agree?”

“Pay him? Oh, not a penny, old chap. Did it for free. And what is more, he won’t be stopping my access to her. In fact, she’ll consummate her wedding night in a couple of hours’ time with the same fellow who impregnated her in the first place.”

“What on earth do you mean? Nolan is prepared to ride solo whilst you’re on his mare?”

“Not at all. Nolan won’t be riding solo tonight just as he has not for many years. My guess is that he will be busy galloping his way through the night on Parker as he does most nights.”

“Parker? Which mare is that? Can’t say I’ve noticed her before.”

“You haven’t because Parker’s a stallion not a mare. Nolan is a raging pederast you see. Damn good butler but a shirt-lifter. I’ve known for years, naturally. That’s why I had a word with him before Lady Eastham was dolled and another before I dolled up Dolly here. It keeps his mouth shut. Better that than him languishing in the nick.”

“Aha! I get it now! Absolute bloody genius! He keeps quiet about your tendencies and you keep quiet about his; he gets to appear as a normal family man and you get to roger the doll; he gets a child and you don’t get any scandal.”

“Got it in one, except for one minor detail: if it’s a boy, it’s his, although I’ll provide for the lad well enough of course. But if it’s a girl, the Society gets her. As you know, we’ve been getting worried that these orphanage reforms may cut off our current supply of dolls, so what better than to breed some of our own? Everyone’s a winner… except Dolly and the baby perhaps!”

They both chuckled heartily at this and took long puffs on their cigars. Then Cavendish turned to Eastham and said, “Listen old bean, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

Eastham held his hand up. “You needn’t bother, old chap, I know what you’re about to say: Yes, I can help. Wilkins the footman and Peters to gardener are also raging queers who are rather fond of each other. Do you fancy employing them both at Throwley Hall? I’m guessing young Molly is getting itchy for some wedding bells too…”

The End

 

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter