Together Forever

Together Forever

Part I

Ahmed smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her approaching. At the same time every day she got off the bus and walked past the café en route to her studies in the university. Her name was Yasmin and she was, quite simply, the most beautiful girl in the world.

together forever

He’d first noticed her weeks before. He had been sitting in the café drinking his tea when, looking up from his textbook by chance, a beautiful woman had been approaching. She was wearing a black hijab and long, flowing abayah, which accentuated her beauty and showed her to be a good, modest girl. Ahmed was smitten. He took to sitting in the café at that time every day in order to catch a glimpse of her as she passed by. Not only that, but he asked questions. He enquired of the waiter if he knew who she was and learned that she was a student at the University of Mosul, a fact that he knew because his niece was also a student there and he had seen her talking with the girl in question. With some baksheesh, Ahmed managed to get the waiter to talk to that niece and find out more. That was when he learned that her name was Yasmin al-Rashid and that her father was a lawyer in the city. She was also studying law, that she was Sunni and, most importantly, she was single and had confessed to noticing the handsome youth who sat in the café by the bus stop every day. Oh yes, and her favourite flower was the national bloom: the red rose. Which was why he had one such rose in his hand and, as she approached, he rose from his seat, walked up to her and presented it to his belle accompanied by the words, “A gift for the true Rose of Mosul.”

The following day they were sitting in the café together.

And the day after that, walking by the rivers of the Tigris, they shared their first kiss.

The months that followed were like a slice of heaven for Ahmed. Indeed, they were so fantastic, he felt as if they were not real and such happiness could not last. Sadly, he was right. One Friday, just as the month of June was beginning, Yasmin came to their favourite bench overlooking the river in tears. She’d had a meeting with her father who told her that, since she was due to graduate in a matter of weeks, it was time to face up to her responsibilities. “A woman your age should be married and I have had an offer for your hand. It is a good offer, one that we could never refuse. Yusuf al-Qassim has noticed your beauty and intelligence and wants you for his wife.”

Yasmin had gasped. Yusuf al-Qassim was a name known to everyone in Mosul. He owned several local factories and countless properties, and companies, including the law firm that her father worked for. He was close with important figures in the government, a supporter of numerous mosques and charitable foundations and rumoured to have a fortune worth billions of US dollars. None of that meant anything to Yasmin however, not with Ahmed.

“But father, he is old, in his fifties!”

“I am ten years older than your mother. Age is in the mind and it is said that he keeps fit and healthy.”

“But he is already married!”

“Your grandfather had multiple wives, and our Prophet, peace be upon him. There is no shame in being a second wife, indeed, you will doubtless end up as his favourite.”

“But he is so strict and religious. He wears jellabiya and a beard and his wives, or so it is said, stay within the home and cover strictly!”

“Bazaar rumours, dear daughter, that is all. I have spoken with him. He will respect you and allow you freedoms, I am sure. Besides, how can you refuse him? He represents great prosperity for our entire family; if you refused the company could be closed down and then how would we feed ourselves? No, darling, this is an order: you will marry Yusuf al-Qassim a month from today.”

“But, how can I?” she asked Ahmed, tears in her eyes. “I love you!”

“You cannot! It is again heaven! We will be together, do not fear.”

“But how?”

“We will elope together. We can go to Baghdad and hide in the slums there. We will marry and when that is done and sanctioned by an imam, your father will have to accept us!”

A week later they were in the capital, in the working-class district of Ghazaliya. They were lying on a mattress in the humble room that they had rented for a pittance. It was a rude hovel, but it was theirs and both were in bliss for, moments before, they had joined their bodies in mutual adoration. Thus, it was that they lay, naked, in each other’s arms, both thinking that life could not be more perfect. “We will stay together forever, my love,” Ahmed whispered to the woman who he was due to marry at the Jumma Mosque on the morrow.

But in a split second that perfection was shattered into a thousand pieces. Without warning, four figures barged through the door to the room and made their way to the young couple. Dressed in military fatigues, carrying AK47s and wearing masks, they were terrifying. Each of the lovers was grabbed by one of the heavies while another placed a damp pad over their faces. The chloroform caused both to faint clean away within seconds.


Part II

Yusuf al-Qassim stirred his tea slowly then, carefully, put down the spoon, smiled and looked up at his guest. “The folly of youth!” he exclaimed softly. “What are we to do?”

“I am so sorry, brother, truly I am,” said Mustafa al-Rashid, his face distraught and broken. “I am so ashamed. That she would even think about refusing your hand, then running away with that rake and then, then…”

“It is unfortunate that the men I hired located them too late, but at least they found them. Your daughter is safe, that is all that matters.”

“Safe, but shameful. How can I ever accept her back into my home, knowing that she has been with a man outside of marriage.”

“You do not need to accept her back into your home; she may enter mine instead.”

“But how can you accept her after such a crime?! Who would want a sullied wife?”

“Allah is merciful,” replied the businessman, raising his eyes heavenwards as if the Lord Himself was sitting there. “As I said before, youthful folly. She is not a bad a girl, although the crime is serious. I cannot marry her now, it is true. She needs to repent and understand the error of her ways. But, I made a solemn promise to you, dear friend, to take your daughter off your hands and care for her. I am not a man who breaks his vows and so that still stands. She may enter my household and I will provide for her needs until a suitable candidate for her hand can be located. But the dowry I promised you which, I believe, is to pay for your son to complete his studies, will still be provided. Half a million dollars I believe it was. You, after all, are not to blame.”

“Yusuf, you are too kind!”

“As I said, Allah is merciful. Besides, a stay in my home will do her good, morally.”

“That is too true, Yusuf; your morals are legendary!”

Al-Qassim nodded but did not say a word. He took another sip of his tea. Then, putting it down again, he said, “The boy?”

“What of him?”

“What do you want me to do with him?”

“Alas, our laws do not recognise what he has done as a crime.”

“But you feel that justice should still be served?”

“Of course, but how?”

“Trust me, I am an expert in meting out justice. If you place this matter in my hands, then I shall see your honour is restored.”

Al-Rashid smiled. As a lawyer, he knew the rumours about how people like Yusuf al-Qassim meted out justice. It usually meant taking the suspect to some location deep in the desert and putting a bullet in the back of their head. He could not think of a better end for the wretch.

Ahmed came around to find himself still naked, sitting in a chair in a white room. He tried to get up but found that he was firmly secured to it, straps going around his wrists, ankles, stomach and neck. He struggled against them, but it was clear they were firmly tied. He would not be escaping.

He turned his head and discovered, to his left, that his love was sitting in a chair next to him. Like him she was completely naked and firmly secured. It angered him that she was exposed to the world but then was thankful that she was still alive. Not that that meant much. He had no doubt who it was that had kidnapped them, nor what to expect from him. The rumours in the city said that Yusuf al-Qassim was a harsh man. They could expect no mercy.

After a few minutes, Yasmin came around. She slowly opened her eyes and took in her predicament. A tear fell from her left eye and then she turned to her right and saw Ahmed. He smiled at her and whispered, “Love you!”

“Together forever,” she whispered back.

“Together forever, eh?” Both bodies started as if shocked by electric. The voice came from behind them. Craning round, they saw a door open and a man walk in. A man called Yusuf al-Qassim.

He strode around the room until he was standing directly in front of them and then said with an evil smile, “Well, well, well, what do we have here then? Layla and Majnun[1] perhaps?”

They did not answer. They knew they were at his mercy.

“I could have you both killed, you know. You have dishonoured my name and your father’s, young madam. Whereas you…?” He let the words linger and horrific scenarios form in their heads.

“However, I am a merciful man. Yes, Yasmin, you should have been my wife; yes, you should be pure, but I can recognise true love when I see it. It is rather beautiful. Together forever, eh? Well, if you wish it…”

“We do, sir, we do! We are sorry to have displeased you, and Yasmin’s father, but we cannot help how we feel. We love one another and…”

“Shh, young man. Do not state the obvious. I will not kill you and I will allow you to stay together until death do you part which, Inshallah, shall be many years from now. However, some things will change. That though, is for later. First things first, tea!”

Al-Qassim clicked his fingers and two of the hired heavies entered. They were no longer wearing masks but looked equally fearsome without them. They untied the belts fastening the two lovers to the chairs and then let them stand. Then they gave each a loose jellabiya to protect their modesty, before taking their arms and leading them out of the room.

They went down several corridors, each lavishly decorated in beautiful mosaics or murals, before entering a large room with a table in the centre. At the table were three chairs. Al-Qassim took the centre one with a lover on either side. Even when they were seated, the heavies stood behind.

A maid entered, veiled in black so that only her eyes could be seen. She set down a steaming silver teapot and three cups on the table. Then she methodically poured out the tea before handing out the cups to the three drinkers. “Go ahead, drink,” said al-Qassim, beckoning for his guests to go first. They did so, and he smiled. The maid poured them both a second cup.

“I should like you to meet my wives,” their host then said. “He turned to Yasmin. “It is a crying shame that you shall not be joining their number, but evidently, that was not the plan of fate. However, it is only correct that you should meet your would-be sisters.”

He snapped his fingers and a pair of double-doors in front of them opened. Standing behind them were three completely-veiled figures. Nothing whatsoever could be seen of them; they were like pillars of black cloth.

“Drink,” said al-Qassim. The lovers did as bid, both glad that Yasmin had escaped the fate of living her life in such strict purdah. The maid refilled the cups.

“From left to right there is my first wife, Someya; my second wife, Zaynab, and my third wife, Sara.” As he spoke, each of the veiled mounds nodded in turn. “There was Rashida too, but she passed away three months ago, freeing up a vacancy. A vacancy that I had hoped you would fill, Yasmin. However, it was not to be. Please, do you like the tea?”

“Y-y-yes, it is nice.”

“It is brewed from the finest leaves from the province of Hunan in China. $100 a cup. Please, drink.”

They did as they were bid although by now Ahmed had noticed that their host had not touched his cup.

“Hmmm, I tell you what. Since we are among friends and will be seeing a lot of each other in the future, why don’t I ask my wives to unveil in front of you?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t…”

But al-Qassim never let him finish. Instead the businessman snapped his fingers and the maid went over to the wives and, with a deft flick, removed the veil from each one. As the cloth fell to the floor, both Ahmed and Yasmin gasped.

In horror.

Standing in front of them were three women. But these were no normal women. Their heads were. All three were beautiful – or had once been – with expertly applied make-up and finely coiffured hair. But below the necks something was wrong.

Their necks all protruded from ceramic pots. Ceramic pots that rested on pedestals. Each did not seem to possess a body. The pots were beautiful, covered in floral designs, rather like those old Assyrian, Babylonian or Hittite ones that Ahmed had viewed in the National Museum when he’d visited Baghdad, except for one small detail. In the front of each one, near the bottom, was a small window in the ceramics through which a set of denuded womanly lips protruded.

“What on earth…?”

“Bring over Sara!” announced al-Qassim. The maid went over to the youngest and prettiest of the wives and, using the two handles of the pot, picked it up and carried it over to the table. It did not seem to be heavy at all and was only about a metre high at most. Where was her body in there? And why were her most intimate parts exposed?

Yusuf al-Qassim stood up, leaned over and kissed the lips of his youngest wife. Then, using his hand, he brushed the exposed lower lips that protruded from the pot. Sara smiled but said nothing. Al-Qassim then turned to his guests and said, “I think it is time for a history lesson. I’m a history enthusiast, did you know? I actually use some of my extensive fortune to fund archaeological digs. Were you aware that I have a particular interest in the Hittite and Assyrian Empires?”

Neither Ahmed nor Yasmin had been aware of any of that, but what they were both increasingly becoming aware of was that something was seriously wrong. Their host’s line of conversation possessed a dark undertone to it and the entrapment of his wives in ceramic pots could never be normal. More immediately concerning though, was the fact that their bodies weren’t responding to the commands that their brains were sending them. Ahmed tried lifting his arm, but it would only move a few millimetres whilst when Yasmin tried to say something, her tongue felt heavy and only a groan came out. Either al-Qassim did not hear this groan or he deliberately ignored it.

“Yes, the Hittites and Assyrians. Amazing civilisations, world leaders in their day, yet we rarely talk about them today. Such a shame… we could learn so much. Their religion was particularly fascinating you know. They worshipped many gods you know, countless. As good Muslims, we understand their ignorance today, of course, but it still worth exploring their cultic practices for historical reasons. One deity that always appealed to me in particular was named Ishtar. Have you ever heard of her? No? Oh well, she was a beautiful creature, the ‘Queen of Heaven’ they called her, the goddess associated with love, beauty, sex, desire, fertility, war, justice, and political power. Which, as chance would happen, are all the things that turn me on. Anyway, twenty years ago, when I was still a young man, a fascinating find was made in the mountains to the north-east of here, not far from Aqrah. In a cave, archaeologists unearthed a temple complex dedicated to her. It was a large place with some incredible murals, but what was most intriguing were huge quantities of pots with human remains inside them. Now, at first these were merely assumed to be funerary vessels; people died, and they were buried in pots. Such practices were, after all, common across the Bronze Age world. However, upon closer investigation at the University of Baghdad of both the pot themselves and also the inscriptions on the walls of the temple, an astonishing discovery was made: the occupants had all been interred within the ceramic jars whilst still alive!

Yes indeed, what a discovery! It turns out that, to honour the goddess, noble families chose to deliver one of their daughters, usually the second-born, to the temple. Once there she would be ceremonially inducted into the Sisterhood of Ishtar in a mystical ceremony during which she was plied with herbs that rendered her unconscious for a number of days and slowed her heartbeat to almost naught. Then, her body was taken to the main altar, stripped and her four limbs amputated before being cast into the eternal flame as an offering to Ishtar. After this the high priest would open up her chest and start taking away what was not required. For what they had learned was that living in a pot requires much less body mass, so most of the organs inside were either removed or reduced in size. The liver, stomach, bladder and intestines were reduced in size while one kidney and lung were removed. Most of the bones were also removed, leaving only the skull and some of the spine intact. The only thing that was left alone was the heart since that, as you two lovebirds know better than anyone, is more important than anything. After that, her skin was stitched back together and she was carefully fitted inside the pot that had been made for her, first the bottom and then the two top halves until they were all joined together and she was snug as a bug in a rug, with her head popping out of the top and her private parts accessible for waste disposal purposes. And thus, she would live out the rest of her days – which, according to the inscriptions on the walls, could be numerous indeed – standing on a shelf in the temple, reciting praises to the goddess and acquiring good karma for her family in the afterlife. What a strange yet marvellous practice, do you not think?”

Neither Ahmed or Yasmin liked the way that this was all headed, but they both liked far less the fact that they now seemed to be completely paralysed, their heads drooping against each other for support while their tongues lolled out of their mouths.

“Well, me being such a history aficionado, I thought, ‘Why not try and bring history back to life?’ and who better to start with than my unfaithful, nagging and thoroughly interfering wife, Rashida. So, it was that I contacted the finest – and least ethical – surgeon in the world, a man by the name of Martinez from Brazil, and outlined my vision and the amount I was prepared to pay him. He expressed some reservations as to whether she would survive, but I merely assured him that if the Assyrians could manage it then so must we, their descendants. And so, she was sedated and put under the knife and there before you is the result. Potted as she was, she gave me great pleasure and so, when it came time to remarry, I did the same with Someya, then Zaynab and then, ten years after, with Sara here as well. And you, dearest Yasmin, were to become my next potwife but, well, as we have said before, it was not to be. However, I am never a man to let a good opportunity go to waste and your love story touched me to the core and so I thought, why not? They want to be together forever; who am I, Yusuf al-Qassim, to stand in their way? But then I considered that you have both sinned grievously, against both me and Yasmin’s poor father, and, thus, a degree of punishment is necessary. Which is why I brought you here and gave you that tea. It is expensive and from Hunan Province, but what I forgot to mention earlier is that it is also laced with a large dosage of neuromuscular-blocking drugs which have the exciting effect of paralysing your entire body but ensuring that you stay awake throughout. I thought, whilst those ancient virgins in that Ishtar temple not far from Aqrah had the honour of becoming potgirls, due to the primitive technology of those times, they were denied the opportunity of watching their transformation take place. You two, however, are more blessed. Come, to the operating table!”

And with a click of his fingers, the two heavies lifted the inert lovers up from their chairs and carried them out of the room.

Part III

It was an ordeal of such horror than even a Hollywood filmmaker could not have conjured it up. Ahmed remembers every single minute of it; indeed, time seemed to pass in slow motion. He recalls being carried through the corridors to a lift which then descended downwards to a well-equipped underground operating theatre where a surgeon and his assistant in scrubs stood waiting. He was laid on the table and each of his limbs was sawn off with precision. Thankfully, the drugs had also deadened all feelings, otherwise he is sure he would have died from the pain.

After the limbs were gone, he watched the surgeon cut open his chest and start working on his organs. He gazed on in horror as a kidney and a lung were removed, and then the surgeon meticulously reduced the size of his liver, stomach, bladder and intestines. After that, he got to work on the bones, removing ribs and those around the pelvis. All the time, he was able to see every detail in a huge mirror placed directly above the bed on the ceiling. Then he saw the surgeon stitch the skin back together leaving him with a limbless, misshapen torso only slightly larger than his head.

And after all of that, his head was turned to one side and he watched the entire process be performed on his beloved. That hurt more. Mutilating him was one thing, but when he saw them lop off parts of her perfect, gorgeous body, and reach into her innermost recesses, tears flooded from his eyes. Never had he imagined that man could be so barbaric and all the while Yusuf al-Qassim stood watching, clad in scrubs, a medical mask over his face, his eyes smiling.

When they were done, he was carried over and placed alongside his love. She stared at him with defeated, scared eyes. What had happened to them both?

“That is enough for today,” said al-Qassim above them. “I like an element of surprise and so we’ll knock you out now, but I know you’ll both love what comes next!”

And with those words, a gas mask was placed over his face and Ahmed passed out.


Part IV

He awoke to find himself in a warm, light room. There was the faint odour of frankincense burning and a breeze caressed his cheek from the right and sunlight flooded in from the same direction. As his head cleared, he tried to move. His entire body was totally immobile. Indeed, most of it had no feeling at all. Only two areas could he move: his face and his manly tool. As he accustomed himself to the surroundings, he tried out his new form. He raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. He tried to speak but only a groan came out. He sniffed with his nose and tried to turn his neck. There was feeling in the latter, but it would not budge. It felt like it was held in a vice. Down below, he could feel the breeze on his member. He tried using the muscles and it twitched.

Soon after he drifted off to sleep again.

When he awoke for a second time, Yusuf al-Qassim was standing before him smiling wickedly. Ahmed tried to speak again, and a faint croak came out. The smile broadened. “Don’t worry, your voice won’t be coming back,” said al-Qassim. “I had the vocal chords severed, although you will be able to groan a little.” There was a noise, another croak, to his left. Ahmed tried turning his head, but it would not budge. He could only look straight ahead.

“So, Layla and Majnun, you’re both awake at last! You’ll be pleased to know that the operation was a success; you didn’t die. Back in the Assyrian times, mortality could be as high as fifty per cent you know, but surgery is more advanced these days. Anyway, I suppose you’re itching to see what the finished article looks like? Well then, here we go!”

He clicked his fingers and two maids came in carrying a full-length mirror. What was reflected in it was like a vision from heaven and hell at the same time.

It was a pot. A large, traditional Assyrian pot, elegantly curved with a handle on each side and traditional-style artwork surrounding it. What was more shocking though was that, unlike most pots, this had not one neck but two and from those two necks protruded two heads: his own and that of his beloved. Both were immaculately made-up. On the top of his head, he wore a felt hat decorated with feathers. Yasmin wore her hair in long braids with a traditional-style headdress festooned with silver adornments. They looked like a pair of Assyrian nobles. Around their necks, reaching right up to the chin were severe gold collars decorated with writing. The only other parts of them visible were in two windows in the front of the vase. One revealed Yasmin’s womanly cleft that seemed now to be adorned by a gold ring while through the other protruded his – now erect after seeing the face of his beloved – member. That too had been pierced with a gold ring.

“What do you think?” exclaimed al-Qassim laughing. “Together forever, Layla and Majnun. Of course, you shall be; why, you even share the same pot!”

Part V

As the days, then the weeks, then the months and then the years, Yasmin and Ahmed learned the full depths of al-Qassim’s depravity. Entombed within their pot, they had no control over their destiny or bodies. Completely immobile, unable to even regulate the temperature of their reduced torsos, they were entirely at his mercy.

And he made the most of it.

They learned the main feature on that very first day. Taking a remote out of his pocket, al-Qassim pushed a button and, slowly but surely, their heads started to move. While their bodies still faced forwards, the golden collars – which he later told them had ‘Layla’ and ‘Majnun’ inscribed on them respectively – turned their necks so that they faced one another, gazing into each other’s eyes.

And there they were left, their faces only inches apart but unable to touch. All they could do was look at one another and reflect on their tragedy. And in that position, they were left all day, every day.

Except when he wanted to torment them further. On that first evening he came back to see them and, using his remote, turned their heads forward. He walked up to the giant pot and then he rubbed his hand over Ahmed’s penis. The touch was exquisite yet also humiliating. The thought of a man caressing him there. Despite this, it sprang into action. Ahmed was desperate for release, but then, al-Qassim smiled and left it, turning his attentions to his one-time betrothed.

And then, in the full-length mirror, he watched their captor unfasten his robes to reveal his own straining member, which he then carefully, and gently, inserted into her waiting love cavern. Against her will, she groaned in a mixture of pleasure and disgust and al-Qassim brought his lips to her and kissed her passionately.

Ahmed was forced to watch the entire rape.

Then, without a word, al-Qassim turned their heads back facing one another and left them, turning the light off as he went. The shame and guilt in Yasmin’s face was plain to see.

Al-Qassim visited often at first. Always to rape Yasmin and torment them both. He explained with glee how, as well as their names, their collars were inscribed with quotes from the famous Layla and Majnun poem:

“They tell me: ‘Crush the desire for Layla in your heart!’ But I implore thee, oh my God, let it grow even stronger…My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty, my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is!” around Ahmed’s collar and “Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Born of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.” Around Yasmin’s.

They both cried when he told them.

And on another occasion, he explained the pictures that surrounded the pot. In the style of ancient Assyrian art, they were a pictorial telling of how they’d met. There was Ahmed in the café, him handing Yasmin a rose, the kiss by the Tigris, her father’s order to marry al-Qassim, their elopement, the kidnapping and then the whole horrible ordeal at the hands of their tormentor.

And all the while he explained the images, he had one hand on her love slit, playing with its ring and the other was tugging playfully on the similar ring that impaled the head of Ahmed’s member.

They had other visitors too, but only al-Qassim ever spoke to them. The maid came several times a day to feed and water them. She would take away the little golden bowls that collected their liquid wastes and would feed them tiny spoonfuls of mush washed down with water. They never ate much as their reduced stomachs could not take it and, because their bladders had been similarly downsized, there was soon the tinkle of golden waters in their bowls.

And all the while they stared into one another’s eyes, together yet never touching.

Yes, for even inside the vase, they were separated. Al-Qassim sadistically explained that, when designing their captivity, he had ordered a dividing wall to be placed between them so that even their deformed and reduced torsos could not snuggle against one another in their prison. Even so, during those long hours when they were alone in that opulent room, they could both hear and feel each other’s hearts beating in tandem beneath the pottery shell. And when they did, they would mouth with their useless lips, the words ‘I love you!’ before puckering them in a kiss that could never be fulfilled.

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Written 23/12/18

[1] The Middle Eastern equivalent of Romeo and Juliet.

The Tale of the Christkind

The Tale of the Christkind



In German lore, the Christkind or Christmas Angel leaves presents under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The Christkind was originally introduced in the 16th century by religious reformer Martin Luther; Until then, it was always Saint Nicholas who brought gifts on Dec. 6. But as Protestants can’t have saints, Luther needed a new Christmas tradition for his followers. Luther wanted to move the gift-giving away from the Catholic holiday on Dec. 6. So he reinvented the tradition for Protestants by moving it to Christmas Eve and making the Christkind – really, the baby Jesus – the person who brought the gifts.

It was under the rule of the National Socialists that the image of today’s Christkind was ultimately anchored in the collective German mind. They built on Nuremberg’s tradition of producing tinsel angels, and in 1933, had a young girl in an angel costume open the city’s Christmas Market for the first time. After the second World War, Nuremberg’s tinsel angels became simply the Nuremberg Christkind, and the figures were sold nation-wide.[1]

My name is Kirsten Vogel and I am a normal, everyday, blonde hair, affianced, working German girl in her mid-twenties. Normal in every way that is, except one. For I have a secret. A terrible, traumatic secret. A secret that only my fiancé and I know anything about. That secret I shall now tell to you, if you will be so kind as to listen.

Six years ago I was eighteen. I had just finished school and was looking forward to university. I worked on the weekends in a supermarket and I lived with my mum and dad. I was just a normal, happy-go-lucky German teenager from the city of Bremen.

And then, it happened.


I was just a normal, happy-go-lucky German teenager

I had been to the city centre to a nightclub with some girlfriends. As usual, at the end of the evening, I took a taxi back to my parents’ house. The driver was friendly. We chatted about the rail fares and he mentioned that he was a Werder fan. The night was cold as it was February and in my thin party dress I was chilled to the bone. He offered me a coffee from the flask on the seat beside him and I gratefully accepted. Within a minute my head started to spin and then my world went black.

I woke up sometime later. I can’t say exactly how long later, though I am sure it was no longer than twenty-four hours after I had been sat in that taxi. When I woke up however, I was in no taxi, nor in my own bedroom. Instead I was lain on a huge, four-poster bed with thick blankets covering me. When I opened my eyes I could see that the room in which I was in was huge also, and old. The wood pannelling and gothic windows suggested a castle of some antiquity. Confused I go up and walked to the window of tiny diamond panes. Outside were majestic gardens. This was no ordinary castle, but instead more a palace. But what was I doing there? What had happened? I walked over to the door but it was locked. Then, beside my bed I noticed a cord. ‘Pull for assistance’ read the notice. I pulled and waited.

A minute or so later I heard a key being turned in the lock and the great wooden door to that great wooden chamber opened. Through it walked a woman. She was dressed like a maid from the time of Bismarck, stiff black and white and a frilly cap perched atop her head. By her bone structure I guessed her not to be a German. When she spoke, this guess was confirmed. “Welcome Miss Vogel. I trust that you have slept well.” Her German was heavily accented. Some accent from the East, Czech or Polish perhaps? I confirmed that I had slept well and asked her where I was. “Miss, I cannot tell you anything at this time. Partly because I am not allowed to and partly because I do not know fully myself. However, I have been instructed to prepare you.”

Prepare me? Prepare me for what? I asked her both of those questions.

“To dress you, Miss,” she said by way of an explanation.

I was not dressed at that time. When I had woken I had discovered, to by dismay, that I was wearing only my panties and a T-shirt. Why, I do not know.

“I am to dress you in this, Miss,” she said. She held up a garment. A white garment. It looked strange and I took it in my hands. It was a corset! A corset of white silk with bones running its length. How mysterious.

“I do not wear a corset” I said, noting for the first time that she did.

“I have been instructed to make you wear it,” she replied.

“But I am not going to wear it,” I countered.

“Fair enough,” said she, and then she made to leave.

“Wait a moment!” I said. “Where are you going? I need you to tell me some things. Where are my clothes? Why am I here? I am hungry too! Where is here? I need to know!”

“Miss Vogel. I can tell you nothing and give you nothing until you are dressed. And you said that you will not be dressed, so therefore I have no work to do here.”

“What? Do you mean, until I am clad in that corset, I can learn nothing?”

“Yes Miss. Nor go anywhere. I have been instructed not to let you out of this room until you are wearing your stays.”

“What if I force my way past you?” I asked.

“You cannot, Miss. Look!” I walked with her to the door. In the doorway, standing with his arms folded was a very burly-looking man, also, I guessed, an East European. “He will stop you,” the maid explained.

I decided to be a fighter. “Fair enough,” I said. “You may go.”

And so, she went.

Ten hours later my resolve gave way. My stomach ached with hunger and I was tired of pacing around that infernal room. It contained nothing save the bed, the table besides the bed and four huge wardrobes that filled one wall. I tried the wardrobes but they were all locked shut. Frustrated and at the end of my tether, I rang the bell and the maid came again. “Are you ready now?” asked she. Dejectedly, I nodded to confirm that I was. “Come this way,” she said, motioning with her hand. We walked to the wardrobe. “Now hold this knob,” she instructed. “It will help. I have been instructed to lace you to 64 cm. Your normal waist is 74cm so this will be a reduction of 10.” All this meant nothing to me. I took off the T-shirt and grasped the large wooden knob and she fastened the corset around me. I had often wondered when watching costume dramas what it would be like to wear such a garment. Now I would find out.

The maid noiselessly buttoned the busk and then started threading the laces. After a couple of minutes she started to pull. Immediately I felt my middle constricting. “Breathe out,” she instructed. I did so and the garment tightened more. Then she pulled again. The constriction began to felt dangerous. Breathing was becoming difficult and I began to be afraid.

“Stop! Stop!” I said. “It is suffocating me!”

“Nonsense, Miss, you are quite safe. Four more centimetres to go.” She pulled again and again. I began to feel light-headed.

“Stop!” I pleaded again. This time she did as I asked. She took out a tape-measure and circled my waist with it. “64cm,” she confirmed, very good.” She tied the laces off in a double knot. I clutched at my sides. They were as hard as rock. I made to sit down and then found that bending was impossible. “The corset forces you to keep your back straight, Miss,” she explained. I sat down keeping my back straight. It was easier. “One more thing,” continued the maid. She took out a belt of shiny bronze with filigree engravings and fastened it around my tiny new waist with a click.

“Why?” I asked.

“To prevent you from undoing your laces,” explained she. I tried to out. She was right! It was impossible to get to the knot that she had tied. This corset was locked on me!

“Now can you explain?” I asked.

“Yes certainly,” replied she. “Firstly, I shall introduce myself. My name is Božena. I come from Slovakia and I am your maid. Anything that you require, it is my job to provide.”

“Are we in Slovakia now?” I asked.

“No Miss,” she replied. “You are still in Germany. I do not know the name of this castle, nor its exact location, but we are somewhere in the South.”

“Why am I here?”

“Ms. Schmitz will explain that later.”

“Who brought me here?”

“Ms. Schmitz will explain that later.”

“Who is Ms. Schmitz?”

“Ms. Schmitz is your trainer. You shall meet her a fortnight from now. She is busy at the moment.”

“Trainer? Trainer in what?”

“That is for Ms. Schmitz to explain. All I know is that by the time that you meet her, you waist must be no larger than 60cm.”

“Why am I being forced to wear a corset?”

“Again, that is for Ms. Schmitz to explain.”

It was obvious that I would not be getting far with Božena, so I left it at that and returned to more pressing matters. “Can I have something to eat, please?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “I shall bring it to you now.”

She left the room and returned a minute later carrying a tray. On it was a small salad, a couple of slices of bread and a glass of orange juice. I tucked into it ravenously. It was good but I soon felt full. I realised that the corset prevented me from eating a lot as it squeezed my stomach into nothing. ‘At least I won’t be getting fat,’ I thought.

When I had finished I turned once again to the Slovakian. “Can I go out of the room now?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said she. “Now dressed you have complete freedom of the castle and grounds.”

I realised however, that clad in only a corset and panties, I could not go very far. “Do you have any clothes for me to wear?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Božena. She went over to the first of the wardrobes and unlocked it. “Take your pick,” she continued. “All these clothes are for your use. I shall go now as you do not need me to help you dress in these. Please feel free to go wherever you want. If you go out of this room and turn left and then take the first door on your left, you will find that it leads to a balcony. There is a nice view from there. If you wish to get to the grounds, then continue down the corridor that runs past this room, descend the stairs and then turn left. Goodbye Miss Vogel.”

“Goodbye Božena.”

She left once more.

I looked in the wardrobe. It was absolutely full of clothes. Fashionable, modern clothes. Jeans, blouses, T-shirts, tops. You name it, they were there. I selected a pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater. I then picked out a thick coat with a fur hood, figuring that it looked mighty cold out there. I then looked for some footwear. There were about twenty different pairs of shoes and boots in a variety of styles. Strangely however, all had heels of about five cm. I never normally wore heels, except for special occasions that was, and I felt strange putting them on. I selected a pair of thick, ankle-length boots and put them on. Thus dressed, I then walked out of the room.

The East European heavy was not there. No one was there. I did as Božena suggested and took the first left. As she had said it would, it led out onto a balcony. I walked out onto the balcony and the cold winter air chilled my bones. It did indeed command a fine view. The gardens of this castle were magnificent, laid out in a symmetrical way with pruned box hedges and trees. In the distance I could see forest and mountains. We were indeed in the South. I heard a noise, human voices. I looked down and saw twelve figures doing exercises on the lawn. They were watched over by three other figures. One was the heavy who had been stood outside my room. Another was a similar burly Slav but the third was a women with blonde hair. She was shouting instructions and the exercising dozen were following them. All those exercising were female. I couldn’t be sure as they were several hundred metres away, but all looked East European, and all were corsetted. It was very strange. I decided to walk out to them and take a closer look.


I walked out onto the balcony and the cold air chilled my bones

I remembered Božena’s instructions and walked back in to the corridor and then continued down it until I got to the staircase that she had mentioned. Walking down the stairs in my new corset and high heels proved to be a rather strange experience, my corset keeping me upright whilst the heels threw me forward and I must admit to being quite unsteady and clutching at the oak bannister for balance. Soon enough however, I was down and soon after that, I was out in the gardens.

A sharp wind whistled through the stalks of the lifeless flowers and the bare branches of the trees and I hugged myself as I strolled through those grounds. In summer I could imagine them to be spectacular when the blooms were out, but even in winter they had a sort of melancholy charm to them. I made my way to the lawn where that queer corsetted twelve had been practicing, but when I got there I found, to my surprise and dismay, that the place was deserted. They had obviously returned to wherever it was that they had come from.

Not only was that lawn deserted but indeed the entire place. I walked for kilometres, exploring every bit of those fine grounds, past the ornamental pond, through the box hedges, the orchard and the glasshouses, and not a soul was to be seen. The castle, when looked at from outside was a huge Gothic pile with Bavarian traits. I was now sure beyond all doubt that Božena had been telling the truth when she’d said that we were now in Southern Germany.

But where in Southern Germany exactly?

After about an hour evening started to draw in so I returned to my room and pulled the cord. Božena appeared with dinner, again light and yet again quite filling. She then left and I settled down in my huge bed for the night.

Have you ever worn, or had to wear, a corset? It is a most curious experience and in some ways quite pleasant and even erotic. At night however, (and to my astonishment, the Slovakian had said that I was to wear it through the night as well as the day), it is simply plain annoying. That first evening I slept perhaps two or three hours at most. All through the dark hours it nagged and irritated me, restricting my breath and making lying down somewhat uncomfortable. Later on things improved somewhat, but that was much later. For the first month or so, sleeping was nothing more than an irritating, uncomfortable yet necessary chore.

For the first month I said. Yes indeed, for my stay in that castle was not a short one. But… I am getting ahead of myself. Instead of months, let us talk instead of weeks and in particular those first two weeks before I met the fabled Ms. Schmitz. After that first day things followed a definite routine. Every morning I was woken by Božena at nine, unlaced from my corset and taken to the bathroom which was across the corridor and was always waiting, steaming hot, for me. After a soak of thirty minutes or so, I returned to the bedroom and was laced up for the day by the maid before being served breakfast. Then, I was left alone until twelve. I spent the time wandering about the castle and grounds.

Although the Slovakian had said that I had free run of the castle, I soon learnt that that statement was not entirely true. Day after day did I explore that place and try countless doors, almost all of which were locked. On occasions I heard the sounds of human voices behind the doors, but never did I see another soul save my maid. I never saw the corsetted, exercising girls either, or the musclemen that guarded them. Instead it was just me. On the second I discovered that one of the great old doors opened into a library with literally thousands of books. After that I spent most of my time in their reading the great classics of world literature.

On the fifth day of my stay however, something of great note happened which I shall now relate. That day was a little brighter than most and so after lunch at twelve I decided to go out for a stroll. I was walking by the glasshouses when, to my astonishment, around the corner came someone else and we very nearly bumped into one another.

It was a boy.

A boy almost the same age as myself.

“Hello,” I said, as I related before, most surprised.

“Hello,” replied he, also surprised. He smiled. “My name is Dieter,” he continued. “I’d shake your hand of course, but as you can see, I can’t.”

I looked at him. I clearly could see. He was dressed in a thick coat like mine, but unlike me, he didn’t appear to have any arms!

“Don’t you have any arms?” I asked, rather stupidly.

“Oh no,” replied this Dieter, “I have them alright, but I can’t use them. Undo my coat and take a look for yourself.”

I did as he suggested. Underneath that coat he did indeed have arms, but they were folded behind his back and kept in that position by a tightly laced and locked leather sleeve. “But… why…?” I asked, now even more astonished.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” he said. “But they insisted on it.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“Them that run this place.”

“Don’t you know who they are either?”


That conversation having run itself out, we stood there in silence. Then realising how rude I’d been, I introduced myself. “My name is Kirsten,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “Everyone here knows about you.”

“Do they?” The astonishment kept on growing.

“Yes, they do,” he confirmed. “It’s awful how they just abducted you like that, but what can you do?”

“Weren’t you abducted?” I asked.

“No. I signed up for this.”

“Signed up!?”

“Yes, signed up, though I didn’t know fully what I was getting myself into at the time.”

“Can you tell me about it?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. And so he told me everything.

His name was Dieter Müller and he was a second-year art student at the University of Bonn. He enjoyed university and was good at what he did, but alas, money was always a problem. Then he saw an advert in the university paper.


At the time he fancied working anywhere in any way for generous renumeration, and so he applied. He was given an interview by a middle-aged man in a grey suit in an office in the centre of town. The man said that the job would require him to take a year and a half out of university, but paid 200,000 euros and provided free accommodation. Holidays were also generous. At such an incredible sum, Dieter naturally agreed. He was told to wait as they had hundreds of other applicants. He waited and six weeks later, received a phone call. He was the man that they wanted the voice on the end of the line said and would he come back to that office at twelve noon the following day.

He went to the office and the same man wearing the same grey suit explained it all to him. The position was an unusual one. He would be required to live on site, a castle in Bavaria. All his clothes, meals and accommodation would be provided, but there were two catches. The first was that he could tell no one, not even his family what he was really doing and where he was. And the second…

The enterprise, the man had said, was connected to the fetish community. His job, he was told, would be to help train fetish models from Eastern Europe. He himself would not be subject to any restrictions or punishments, save that he would not be allowed the use of his hands. A single sleeve, identical to the one that he now wore, was then produced. ‘You will be wearing one of these at all times,’ the man had said.

All this of course sounded rather strange, but Dieter had always had a taste for adventure and inklings towards the fetish world. Training models sounded quite intriguing and exciting besides. ‘Will there be any chance to…?’ he had started to enquire. ‘Plenty,’ the man had confirmed. He had signed up straight away and told his parents that he was going backpacking to South East Asia for a year.

At the end of the university term he had returned to that office for a third time and the same man clad in the same suit had given him a coffee to drink. Then, like myself, he had passed out and woken up some time later on a bed in the castle. His arms had been encased in the sleeve when he woke. That was six months ago and he had not left the castle since. His every need was attended to him by a maid, a Slovakian named Eva who fed, washed and dressed him. Then, everyday he was sent to work with the models. Of these models there were twelve in total. All were, like the maids and bodyguards, from Slovakia, and all were incredibly beautiful. In the mornings he helped the Mistress, the fabled Ms. Schmitz, teach them German and in the afternoons, he taught them other stuff.

“What other stuff?” I asked.

“Well…” He was apprehensive. “They are learning to be fetish models as I said before, so I help them in various ways. I judge their appearances and help with technique…”

“Sexual technique…?”

“Well, erm…”

“Go on…”

“Well, yes. That’s my job. They give me blowjobs and such like and I instruct them on how to do it better. I also give them normal… and anal sex.”

“So basically, you’re paid to fuck beautiful women?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it so bluntly as that, but… yes.”

“Bet that’s like a dream come true, eh?”

“It is rather.”

I looked at him. He was well-built and healthy and his bone structure was good. He had wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He was really quite handsome. I could see why they’d chosen him.

“Tell me more about these girls,” I said. “I saw them once, doing aerobics on the lawn.”

“They’re all from Slovakia as I said before, and they’re all between 18 and 25. They came here of their own accord. They knew full well what they were getting themselves into. Some of them were prostitutes before, I’m sure, but most were just normal girls. ‘They’ promised them German passports and 50,000 euros each if they come here for training for eighteen months and then complete a year of service in the house of some pervert. I train them all, except one. Her Master is apparently going to be no Master, but a Mistress, so Ms. Schmitz trains her in technique. She prefers it that way anyway. She is a lesbian.”

“So am I the only one here who was brought by force then?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“But why? Where do I fit into all of this? What do I have to do with a fetish ring?”

“Kirsten, I don’t know, honestly. They told me nothing about you, save that the Angel had arrived and that her name was Kirsten Vogel, that she was 18, pretty, and that they were sure I should get to meet you soon.”

“The Angel…?”

“Don’t ask me, I’ve as much idea as you have.”

So I didn’t ask. Instead we just walked around the grounds together and arranged to meet up in the library the following day at six. From that day on we met up in the library at six everyday. I got to like Dieter. He was zany and funny. I should have liked to have seen some of his art. I began to look forward to our time together. Other than that though, life followed its same easy, boring routine. At the end of the first week, Božena tightened my corset up another 2cm and on the fourteenth day she reduced two more. “You shall meet Ms. Schmitz today,” the maid had said that morning. She is coming here after lunch.

And true to form, at one o’clock, after I had finished my omelette and salad and Božena had departed, the door opened and the long-awaited Ms. Schmitz walked into my room.

In all my life, I can truly say that I have never seen anyone who looked even close to what my Ms. Schmitz looked like. She was a medium-sized woman of, I would imagine, around thirty-five years of age, with long blonde hair and large blue eyes. It was what she wore however, that caught my attention. On her two feet were tight, knee-high, leather boots, laced to the utmost like a corset and with incredible heels of at least 15cm that caused her to stand on the very tips of her toes like a ballet dancer. Around her hips she wore a skirt of ruffled black satin. Above that was a corset, longer and more fearsome than my own, like the boots, also of black leather and laced tightly. Under the corset she wore a white blouse, and around her neck some sort of incredible collar of leather, laced like a corset and easily 12cm in height, so that it forced her chin up and her neck into a solid black tube! She was incredible, like a living doll. And her waist! It was so tightly laced and I was sure that my two hands could circle it entirely.


She was incredible, like a living doll. And her waist! It was so tightly laced and I was sure that my two hands could circle it entirely

“Miss Vogel, good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Ms. Schmitz. I am to be your trainer. Before we start however, I must make something very clear. You have been kidnapped.”

I was surprised that she was so open and blatant about it.

“Sit down please.”

I did as she bid.

“Now, look at these photographs. Do you recognise any of the people in them?”

I looked. There were twelve in all. All bar one showed men, middle-aged men, plump and self-confident. Most of the faces I did not recognise, but three of them were familiar. “This one,” I said, pointing at the fourth of the images, “I know this face. He’s in the government isn’t he? The Foreign Minister perhaps? And this one here. I’ve seen him in the papers although I don’t know who he is. Some businessman I think? And this one… Isn’t he in parliament too?”

“Miss Vogel, you are entirely correct on all counts. That man there is indeed in the government, and yes, he currently holds the position of Foreign Minister. He is the most powerful person in the SDP in fact, even more so than the Chancellor, although he keeps that latter fact quiet. And yes, that man there is also in the government, in the Opposition. He is one of the most senior figures in the Christian Democrats. Some have tipped him to be the next Chancellor. And the man that you said that you recognised from the papers. He is indeed a businessman. The head of AGPA, the manufacturers of magnetic film, Germany’s largest corporation. Those are the ones that you know, now here are the ones that you didn’t.” She then proceeded to list what sounded like a role call of the most important people in the Republic. There was the director of the car company BMV, the owner of a major Bundesliga club and the country’s largest gambling concern, a dairy magnate from the former Democratic Republic who had been a member of the politburo over a decade ago, the director of the largest pharmaceutical concern in the land, a major figure from the police, the Chairman of the country’s largest bank, the leader of the Green Party, the director of the airline Luftkanza, a notable General and an Admiral of the Fleet.

“These people, Miss Vogel, are the people that kidnapped you. Why do I tell you this? Why do I give you the names of those who have committed such a heinous crime against your liberty you think? Look at them. You can see how powerful they are. These people are the people that run Germany. Without them, our fair nation would crumble into dust. You can accuse all you like but they shall never be brought to justice. I tell you all of this so that you can get such ideas out of your mind. Do you understand?”

I was shocked, stunned. They were so important, so influential. Pillars of the Community. I couldn’t take it all in. I stayed silent. The corsetted woman continued.

“Miss Vogel. These people have kidnapped you for a purpose. They need you to perform a task for them. A very great task. A task that you will probably find distasteful and yet will fulfill nonetheless. And a task that will require a certain amount of training before you can complete it. That, Miss, is where I come in. My job is to train you.”

Task? Train? What?

“How do you know that, if I find it distasteful, I shall fulfill it nonetheless?” I asked.

“Because twenty years ago my dear, I found it distasteful and fulfilled it,” replied she.

Twenty years ago? But what was this task that she had fulfilled? Had this been going on for twenty years?

“Sit down Miss, and I shall explain further. Twenty years ago, like you, I was a normal German teenager. Then, one day, just like you, I woke up to find myself here in this castle. I went through what you have been through and what you will go through. I was trained in a tradition that dates all the way back to 1936 when certain members of the National Socialist Party formed the Council of Twelve, the modern-day council being the people in the photographs that I have just shown you. This twelve, ever since ’36 have run Germany. Through war and peace, good times and bad, they have steered the ship. They are, as it were, our unofficial government. However, there is also a darker side to their activities, and that darker side I am afraid Miss Vogel, is what you are going to have to discover.

As I said before, they have kidnapped you for a purpose. However, before you can do what they want you to do, I have to train you. When I was kidnapped, I had a body much like yours. Eight months later, I looked much the same, albeit younger and prettier, as I do now. Eight months from now, your body shall look like mine.”

I gazed at her astonishing curves and minute waist and my heart was filled with terror.

“Eight months from now, Miss Vogel, you shall be wearing this.” Then, from underneath the chair, she pulled out a black leather corset. I stared at it in disbelief. The corset was fearsome. It maintained its shape without anyone inside it and the waist was as minute as that of the lady who held it in her hand.


The corset was fearsome. It maintained its shape without anyone inside it and the waist was as minute as that of the lady who held it in her hand

“But how shall I ever fit inside that?” I asked in disbelief.

“With my training you shall,” replied the living doll.

Then something inside of me snapped. “No! No! No! Get away from me! You freak! You’re a freak and you’re not coming near me! Go! Go! Goooo!!!”

But of course it was not good and I knew it. My position was hopeless. Within a minute I had burst into tears and the strange lady had her arms around me and was comforting me as best she could. “I know it’s hard my dear, I know. I have been there myself. I remember it like it was yesterday. But this is the cross that we have to bear my angel. Be brave and you shall see it through. Trust me and work with me and everything will be alright.”

She dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. “Why me?” I asked.

“There is no particular reason,” said she. “They picked you and that is that.”

“Will they hurt me?”

“Not if you play their game. If you play, instead of hurting, they will reward you.”

“What is their ‘game’?” I was recovering by this time.

“They want you to play a special role, in a play as it were. They want you to become something.”

“And I have to wear that corset to play the role I suppose?”

“Indeed, and more besides. Tomorrow we shall start the training and you shall be fitted with more than just a new corset.”

“Will I be made to wear all that you are wearing? The collar, boots and  so on?”

“The collar, no, but the boots, yes. And other things besides. I shall introduce them all to you in due course.”

“Playing this role. Will I be required to… have sex like those Slovakian girls do?”

“I can see that you have been talking to young Dieter. First of all, let me tell you, you are not like those Slovakian girls. Your role is a very different one to theirs. However, as for the having sex… you shall not be forced to do so, but… it will be an option. An option that you will be strongly urged to take.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then you refuse. Do you have anymore questions?”

“No. Except… when I’m training… will Dieter be a part?”

“Sometimes, yes, if you wish. Now, I have to leave. Tell Božena that I am most pleased to see that she has got you down to the required 60cm. I shall see you tomorrow at nine when we commence our training. Goodbye Miss Vogel.”

“Goodbye Ms. Schmitz.”

And her high-heeled boots clip-clapped out of the room.

The following morning at nine, as promised, she was there. Her outfit was the same as the preceding day save that this time she wore no blouse, long leather gloves, and a pink mini-skirt. She let Božena take me for a bath and was stood waiting when I returned fresh and clean. Beside her was something new that workmen had obviously installed whilst I had been soaking. It hung from the ceiling and looked like a circus trapeze.


Her outfit was the same as the preceding day save that this time she wore no blouse, long leather gloves, and a pink mini-skirt.

“Meet your new best friend, Miss Vogel,” said the living doll. “This is a lacing bar. Come over to it and place your hands here.” I walked over to the contraption and grabbed hold of the bar. There were two leather loops attached to it and my wrists were secured in these. Then, using some sort of remote control device, she caused the thing to rise up slowly until only the tips of my toes touched the floor. “For truly effective lacing,” she explained, “a lacing bar is essential. The waist, when stretched, can be laced far smaller than using normal methods. However, before we start talking about corsets, I must fix you with the first of your new items of apparel.”

She walked over to the second wardrobe which had hitherto always been locked and opened it. Out of it she took a white box. She walked back over to me and opened the box. Inside were a pair of shiny stainless steel underpants. “A chastity belt,” she explained. “Mandatory from now on. I am sorry Miss Vogel, but they do not like you either having sex with unauthorised men and women or pleasuring yourself.”

“I do not pleasure myself!” I retorted, outraged at such a suggestion.

“Then this will be no burden for you then,” replied she.

She clicked the belt around my private parts and tightened it until it was snug.

“It is perfectly hygienic,” she continued, “and you shall have no problem using the toilet with it on. Now, the blouse and corset.”

She walked back over to that second wardrobe and brought out a white blouse identical to the one that she had worn the previous day and ominously, a black leather corset. She fitted the blouse onto me from behind and I discovered, to my surprise, that the sleeves were specially designed so that they could be fitted whilst one was attached to the lacing bar by having zips along their entire length. When that was done, she then got out the corset which was longer and heavier than my previous stays but nonetheless, still nothing compared to those that she wore.

“This corset shall bring you down to 50cm,” she said. 50cm! I couldn’t believe it. I already felt incredibly constricted at 60. How was I to cope. “Unfortunately for you, you will find these stays much more difficult to wear than your previous corset. It is the length you see. And the fact that they ensure a conical shape such as I sport at the moment. A conical shape is far more difficult to achieve than a wasp waist. Do you have any questions, Miss Vogel?”

I shook my head.

“Then we shall begin. Karel, come in please!”

The door opened and the Slovakian heavy walked in, up to me and then behind me. He then grasped my laces and started to pull. Immediately the constriction was incredible as, like she said, the length was greater and my breast and pelvis were forced into an unnatural shape as well as my waist. I groaned but nonetheless he continued to pull. I began to feel dizzy and started to beg him to stop. However he heeded not and carried on pulling. He pulled once more and the dizziness increased. Then my world went black.

I was revived by a pungent spell. “These are smelling salts,” said the voice of Ms. Schmitz. “In the old days ladies used them when lacing.” I however, cared not.

“It’s too tight! It’s too tight!” I cried.

“Nonsense, my dear. Listen, you’ve done very well. You’re down to sixty already with only one fainting and you didn’t complain half as much as some of the girls that I’ve had to train.”

“Sixty! But wasn’t that my measurement before? This feels so much tighter!”

“I know it does. It’s the design as I said before, the conical shape. You see, this type of corset is called the ‘S-Kurve’ or, in French, the ‘droit devant’ It is named so because the lady who is wearing it is given a figure whereby the waist is pushed forward so that a straight front results. Below the navel, the lower front of the corset is curved backwards, so that the lady is forced to move her buttocks outward. Furthermore, it also holds the shoulders backwards, which make the breasts more pronounced. This makes this corset line even more attractive and indeed some men are particularly fond of the accentuated backside.”

All these explanations sounded so scientific… and kinky. I said nothing and let her continue.

“The history of this type of corset is actually quite interesting. Initially the straight front corset was introduced to make it easier for women to wear a corset, in practice, this shape causes a very severe impact on the spine, which is forced to be sharply curved inwards at the waist. Therefore, the training to obtain this shape is very demanding and often painful in the back.”

“It bends my spine! But surely that is dangerous? Please, Ms. Shmitz, take it off me! I don’t want to end up deformed!”

“Fear not Miss Vogel, we are not aiming to deform your body here. Worn over long periods, then yes, you would end up deformed, but you shall be alright. After all, unless you choose otherwise, you shall be wearing S-Kurve corsets for less than a year.”

This woman, if nothing else, certainly knew her stuff. “Tell me more about how this S-Kurve works, please,” I asked.

“Certainly. Well you see, how it differs from the normal wasp waist corset, such as the white one that you were wearing before, is that in a wasp-waist the spine keeps its original shape, and the support to the body is achieved by the collaboration of the muscles and the corset around the spine. You are constricted, yes, but the spine can still do its job.  In the case of the S-Kurve, however, the support to the upper body must be provided entirely by the corset, because the spine, in its deformed shape, can not contribute anymore, and the muscles cannot do too much without a spine.  Consequently, the shape of the corset must be perfect and the corset must be sufficiently stiff as well. And as you can see, this corset is perfect in shape and sufficiently stiff.”

Although I was beginning to accustom myself to the tightness, I still knew full well that what she was saying was entirely true. “How come it is so stiff?” I asked, fascinated with the science behind this new and dreadful part of my life.

“Well, it is made of 1.6 mm thick leather, and has three 1.6 mm thick steel front stays, and 0.6 mm thick stays at all other locations. Just for information: the 1.6 mm stays are 19 times stiffer than the 0.6 mm ones.

The 1.6 mm stays come from the orthopedic industry. They are bent and distorted to give the corset the overall shape that is prescribed by the shape of the individual pieces. The corset has leather lining on the location of the stays and fabric lining at all other places. It is all-in-all, a formidable garment. All the corsets that you will be wearing from now on will be constructed in the same manner, including the final one which I showed you yesterday. All that differs in them is the waist size. This one will, as I said before, bring you down to 50cm. Once that target is achieved you shall be broken into your next one.”

“And what will that bring me down to?”


43cm! It was unbelievable, impossible! “And that is not final?” I asked.

“No, that is not final. Once at 43cm you will be broken into the stays that I showed to you yesterday.”

“And they will bring me down to…?”

“They will bring you down 38cm.”

38cm! I tried to imagine such a size in my head. It sounded minute.

As if reading my thoughts, Ms. Schmitz said, “If you want to know what 38cm will look like, look at my waist.”

Look at her waist! She had no waist! And I too would be in the same boat! I was filled with terror… and… an inexplicable sense of excitement. “Will you let me down from this trapeze now, please?” I asked. “My arms are beginning to ache.”

“No, not quite yet Miss Vogel,” replied the woman with the 38cm waist. “I have something else to fit first.”

She walked back over to that second wardrobe and came back holding two items of black leather. They were instantly recognisable as boots. Boots with incredibly high heels.

“Your first pair of proper boots, my dear. From now on, these, like your corset, will be a mandatory part of your daily attire.” She picked up my left leg and started to fit the first boot. It took a long time as the thing reached up to my knee and was laced throughout its entire length. Once laced tight my lower leg felt rigid and solid. There was no bend in the ankle at all. Worse than that however, my foot was forced down into an unnatural angle.

“How high are these heels?” I asked as she started the fit the right-hand boot.

“8cm,” replied she.

“But how can I walk in such footwear?” I protested.

“You shall learn,” was all that she replied.

Once both were fitted I was declared ready to be lowered from the lacing bar. Ms. Schmitz picked up her remote and warned as she pressed the button, “Be careful Miss Vogel, the constriction will increase on both your feet and around your waist as soon as your weight is transferred to the floor.”

She was not wrong either! As soon as that weight was transferred, I wished immediately to be back up in the air. The pressure was incredible and I would have fallen had my wrists not still been attached to the bar. Quickly and professionally, Ms. Schmitz unlocked the cuffs and then took two broad straps from the back of the corset and fastened them over my shoulders. This latest trammellation was not at all pleasant and it seemed to restrict my breathing even further, but I said naught. Then, my trainer led me over to my bed and laid me on my back on it. This made things easier, but even so, I still found breathing almost impossible. The problem was that my muscles, squeezed and entrapped as they were, would not work. I mentioned this to her.

“Don’t worry my dear, this is normal,” she replied. “Let me explain how it all works fully. The tiny upper body of this corset makes your breathing like that of the ladies in the nineteenth century and thus you have to get used to this technique of breathing, which solely takes place from the upper part of the chest. Diaphragm breathing, that is in the normal fashion, using the lower muscles is stopped almost entirely. Now, not only is your diaphragm breathing stopped, but you shall also notice that it is now absolutely impossible for you to bend your body. Of course, wearing your white corset, the bending was much restricted, but the S-Kurve stops it entirely. In fact what happens is that your body has the same whether you are lying, sitting or standing.”

I looked at her stood erect over me and realised that yes, her body shape was exactly the same as mine was lain on the bed. “But how can I sit in this thing of I cannot bend?” I asked, confused.

“Learning to sit is something that will come later in your training and, believe me, it is not that easy to do, but basically, what happens is that you must learn to do all the movement with your legs and hips. You do not sit as it were, but more perch. Look.” She then demonstrated, sitting, or, as she said, more ‘perching’ on the edge of the bed. I noticed that the body shape, as she had said, stayed exactly the same.

“What are the straps over my shoulders for?” I asked, having noticed that these latest additions irksomely pressed down on me at all times, even when lying.

“Well, the shoulder straps are their basically, to give you a more feminine appearance You see when the upper body is considerably compressed such as yours is now, the shoulders tend to go up, in order to give the lady more space to breath. Mother Nature helps out this way, but the view of risen shoulders above a tight corset, is not particularly beautiful. The neck looks shorter, and the entire figure looks less ladylike.

Thus, it is that we have shoulder straps to hold the shoulders down and backwards. They are not comfortable to wear, I know, but it is just a matter of getting used to them.

When you wear your corsets, the shoulders straps are on all the time. However, sleeping with the shoulder straps in the ‘day’ is quite impossible, and thus they shall be loosened during the night.”

That concession to comfort hardly gave me any piece of mind. I had sort-of guessed that I would be wearing this new torture instrument through the night as well as the day, but the confirmation of it still sent shudders down my spine, (or at least, what was left of that spine).

“Would you like to see how you look now?”

I nodded ascent and held out my arms so that she could pull me up as I could not rise unassisted myself. Then together, I holding her gloved hands firmly for balance we walked, or perhaps I should say ‘tottered’ out of the bedroom and into the bathroom next door where there was a full-length mirror. Walking in this new and fearsome attire was indeed a strange experience. The corset and shoulder straps held my body completely erect whilst the high-heeled boots threw my body forward and caused my steps to be most unsteady. I indeed stumbled several times on that short journey and would have fallen had not Ms. Schmitz been there to save me. What was also strange about walking in my new and trammelled state, was how quickly I got out-of-breath. Even the smallest movement now seemed to take all of my energy and due to being forced to breathe entirely using my upper body, my breasts, though not large, appeared now almost huge and rose and fell at an astonishing rate.

When we got to that mirror however, I can honestly say that it was all worth it. Well… perhaps. As I gazed at the fantastic womanly figure stood facing me clad in black leather, I had to blink twice before I realised that it was me. I looked stunning, a world away from the average, ordinary, everyday Bremen student that I was accustomed to seeing every morning in the mirror.

“Impressive, eh?” said my trainer.

I nodded, unable to form any words, so out-of-breath was I.

I turned around and noticed that my bottom now protruded out on quite an accentuated manner. Knowing how men get excited about the female backside, this made me feel incredibly sexy.

“Most ladies would not like the idea of being encapsulated like this,” I heard my trainer say, “But some people are different, and a few people just love it! It is just a matter of personal taste. Looking at you, I am wondering if I have found one of the few…?”

I said nothing. I was still extremely angry at how I had been brought to that place against my will and forced into those ridiculous clothes. And yet… yet something about them did excite me.

“Let’s get back to the bedroom,” said Ms. Schmitz.

I spent the rest of that day lying on my back on the bed. Ms. Schmitz said that I would need a few more days to get used to my new attire and she was right. Just the simple act of breathing was difficult enough. The only change came when I needed to use the toilet. Then I shuffled over to the edge of the bed and rang for Božena who helped me to the bathroom. She also came in several hours later with dinner, only a salad and yet more than enough to fill me entirely. The new corset allowed virtually no room at all for food.

The following day was the same, and the day after that. I lay on my bed all morning after breakfast until lunch and then at one Ms. Schmitz would come in and we would walk around the room together. Then I would lie on my back until dinnertime and then again until morning. At night I got virtually no sleep on that first night, but gradually the situation improved until by the end of my first week in the S-Kurve I was managing about five hours per night.

Worse than the lack of sleep however, was the loneliness and boredom. There was no chance of meeting up with Dieter in the library and I had no books to read. I longed to be able to walk in the beautiful ground as I had done during my days in the white satin corset. On the third day I asked my trainer if we could go outside. I was not pleased with the answer that I received.

“No. Categorically, no. Or at least, not until I am satisfied that you have reached a sufficient point in your training.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, most confused.

“When I have seen that you can walk, unassisted, in a ladylike manner in your new corset, then you will not be allowed outside, or indeed beyond here and the bathroom.”

“So when do we begin training then?” I asked.

“If you feel ready, then now,” replied she.

“I feel ready,” said I.

And so we began, although I wished that we hadn’t for it was tedious and irksome stuff indeed. For hour after hour did Ms. Schmitz have me walk around that room, showing me how to place my feet, move my hips, keep my head upright and much more. For three days did we do that and at the end of each day I was exhausted. Then, on the fourth day, I was allowed to walk up and down the corridor. After two days of that she declared herself delighted with my progress.

“So can I go outside now?” I asked.

“No, Miss Vogel, you are still not ready. However, I may be able to grant some other wish that you might have…”

I thought. “Well, I am rather bored when you are not here. Could I have some books brought to me from the library?”

“Certainly. Just tell Božena which ones you want and she shall bring them to you.”

“And… well… I am rather lonely here too. Would it be possible for someone to visit me in the evenings for a chat and to give me some company?”

“Anyone in particular…?”

“Well… perhaps Dieter if he is not too busy with the Slovakians…?”

“I thought as much. I think you’ve got a crush on our armless servant, Miss Vogel.”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that. It’s purely platonic and I just fancy some company, that’s all.”

Whatever you say, whatever you say…”

“Well, can he come?”

“Of course, I’ll send him over after dinner.”

“My, Kirsten! You look hot!”

“Are you sure? After all, how can I compare to all those gorgeous Slovakian fetish models?”

He was silent for a moment. “That’s just work, Kirsten,” he said.

I don’t know why, but I was feeling cantankerous. Perhaps it was the corset sapping all my energy and restricting my movements? Or perhaps not. As I said, I don’t know. “So, do you mean to say that you don’t enjoy it when they suck you off? Or perhaps they haven’t serviced you today and you’re feeling on edge?”

“Look Kirsten, I didn’t come here to be abused. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again these past few day and now all you do is abuse me. I’m off.”

He stood up and made to go. “No! No! Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It’s just that well…” I never finished that sentence. As I told you before, I didn’t know why I was feeling that way.

“Ok, ok,” he said, sitting down again. “I guess you’ve been through a lot. And that thing, and those boots must be awfully difficult to wear. I’m sorry too.”

We sat in silence for a minute or so.

“You’ve met Ms. Schmitz then,” he said eventually. “What do you think of her?”

I told him what I thought, and of all my experiences over the past week. I told him about the lacing and the walking, the inability to sleep or eat properly, or even to bend and sit without assistance. After I’d told him all that I began to cry and he comforted me. I would have loved him to hold me in his arms, but naturally, that was not possible, so instead I buried my face in his chest and sobbed, “What’s going on? What’s all this about? Why is this happening to me?” Of course, he had no answers to my questions, but the crying made me feel better, and after I had finished we talked about the books that we had read and of paintings that we liked. He then assured me that, once Ms. Schmitz allowed me to, he would go on long walks with me around the castle grounds. It was 10pm by the time he left and that evening I felt like I had some quality of life again and I slept better than I had done since arriving at that place. Perhaps Ms. Schmitz had been right when she had said that I had developed a crush on Dieter.


My life then developed into a strict routine that lasted for several months, until Spring was in full flow in fact. Daily I would be taught in deportment by Ms. Schmitz. My progress was excruciatingly slow but I did progress. Two days after meeting for Dieter again, I was allowed to attempt the staircase. This was especially difficult as my pushed-up bosom made seeing where I was going an impossibility and my high-heeled boots, finding the steps hard, but slowly I managed to walk up and down them, a first just walk and then to do so gracefully. After that it was sitting, another previously simple task made difficult by my new attire, and like the walking and the stairs, first I learnt how to sit and then how to do so elegantly. All the while, my corset kept on being reduced until by the onset of April I was at 53cm and by the middle of that month, Ms. Schmitz started talking about breaking me into the next pair of stays, the pair that would bring me down to an incredibly small 43cm. And then after that… still an incredible five more to go! In the meantime, outside of training time, I lived a relaxed and ordered life. In the mornings I read books from the library and lazed about in my room and the evenings I spent with Dieter, sitting and talking or strolling around in those fantastic gardens.

When I was eventually allowed to go outside I soon realised why Ms. Schmitz had been so strong in insisting that I did not do so until I was ready, for as I discovered on my first few steps in the fresh air, walking on gravel in high-heeled boots, is a far more difficult matter than on a wooden floor and had not Božena been with us to steady me, I would have fallen before I had walked ten metres. However, that, like everything else had a knack to it and it was a knack that I very soon learnt and after a month or two I found that I could stroll about on the gravel almost as easily as I could do indoors, although of course, with my limited breathing and small steps, I could go nowhere near the distance that I had managed whilst virtually unfettered in my white corset. At the time I only longed to be released of the restrictions I then lived under. Little did I know what was to come.

It was Dieter however, that kept me going during those times. Ms. Schmitz, I must admit to liking in a strange kind of way, but she always remained somewhat distant from me as perhaps was only proper considering her position as my mentor and teacher. Dieter however was in the same (or at least a very similar) boat to me and we soon became fast friends if not more. I was careful not to mention the Slovakian girls to him for several months, but one evening in April I could not help myself and whilst we were walking by the ornamental pond I said to him, “Excuse me for mentioning this, Dieter, as I know you didn’t like it when I did so last time, but I want to know; with the Slovakian girls, what sort of well… relationships do you have with them?”

I almost regretted saying it as soon as I had opened my mouth, but I should have known better. “Physically or emotionally?” he asked.

“Both,” I replied.

“Well, physically, we’re intimate of course. It’s my job after all. We have sex, we lie together, they caress me and do the most amazing things to all parts of my body, things that I didn’t know that a woman could do. But that’s what they’re learning you see. They’re being sold as sex toys for a year long period, but not just any sex toys, but the very very best. They are learning how to pleasure a man so that he cannot take anymore, and I am their guinea pig.”

“And emotionally?”

“Emotionally, well, you probably won’t believe this but well, we’re as distant as can be. You see, the thing is, it’s my job and it’s their jobs and we’re all being well paid for it, but it is, stupid as this might sound, strictly professional, and so yes, we do every kid of kinky and sexual act under the sun, and yes, we all enjoy doing it I’m sure, but well, there’s no love in it. It’s just like going on a rollercoaster at a funfair. You love the act and it doesn’t matter who you sit beside.”

I wanted to say that in my mind there was a very big difference between riding a rollercoaster and riding a Slovakian sex slave, but I kept quiet.

“And besides,” he continued, “there are other types of distance between us as well. One is cultural. Their German is shaky at best and besides, they were brought up in a different society to that which we were brought up in. And I don’t just mean a Slovakia-Germany thing, but more, well… they chose, physically chose, to become sex toys, to screw unknown men for money, and well, that’s something that’s, well, hard to respect, don’t you think?”

“But you chose a job where you were required to screw unknown beautiful women,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s different…”


“Well, because I’m a man.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well men, all men, and don’t let anyone tell you differently, whenever they speak to a woman, or at least a woman under forty, have only one thought at the back of their mind, and that is ‘I wonder what she would be like to fuck?’. It doesn’t mean they love them, it’s just, well… men have a need.”

“And is that what you thought when you first met me?”

“Well, you’re under forty aren’t you and, please take this as a compliment by the way, you are hot, particularly in the corset and boots and the way they make you walk.”

I smiled. I should have been angry at him for his impudence and chauvinism, but the truth was, well, I liked being told that I was sexy and what’s more, the only thought at the back of my mind was how much I would have liked to fuck him. Three and a half months without sexual satisfaction after all, takes its toll on a girl as well as a boy.

“Besides,” he continued, “going back to the Slovakians, I know that this sounds like a horrible thing to say, but at times I almost struggle to think of them as human. After all, they live more like animals.”

“What on Earth do you mean?”

“They sleep, not only laced into corsets, but these things called Venus Corsets, whereby they have their arms folded against the smalls of their backs and thus look as if they were born armless. And then they are laced into tight sleeping sacks which caused them to be deaf and blind as they have only three openings, for the mouth, nose and arse.”

“The arse! Why the arse?”

“So they can take a leak and when they do, it runs through tube into the mouth of the one lying next to them.”

“They drink each other’s piss! Urrgh! How gross!”

“And that’s not all. They spend every afternoon trussed up in some kind of extreme bondage; a hog-tie, or stretched out like a star on some frame, or weights hanging from their pierced nipples.”

“That’s terrible! How can they stand it?”

“I don’t know, but the thing is, they love it. Some of them, when they’re released for dinner even beg for more. As I said, they’re more like animals than humans and how can one form a close emotional relationship with people who beg to drink piss or be rendered immobile?”

I agreed entirely, it was just too weird. And yet… yet some of that stuff did sound quite exciting. Not the weights on the nipples or piss drinking, but being trussed up so…

And when I returned to my room I asked Božena to take me to the bathroom so I could see how I looked when I walked in my new, ladylike fashion.

And I felt quite proud when I saw how unbelievably sexy my new protruding bottom, swinging hips and heaving bosom appeared.

But anyway, to return to my tale, yes, I was beginning to form quite an attachment to Dieter and was at times rather jealous of those hog-tied, piss-drinking Slovakian fuck toys. But that is by the by, and now I shall proceed. As I said before, my life had entered into a sort-of routine, but on April the 29th all of that changed.

“Miss Vogel!” It was Ms. Schmitz and she was in my bedroom earlier than usual. “Today is a big day for you and I need to talk to you properly before we begin it. Today you see, I have decided to break you into your new corset and to enter into the third phase of your training. However, before I do so I must warn you that things will not be quite so easy from now on and you will have some decision-making to do first.”

Not so easy! And what exactly had been easy about the preceding few months I wondered. I was soon to learn of course.

“What decision-making?” I asked.

“I have a question to put to you and I need you to think carefully about the answer, for it is very important that you do. And that question, my dear, is, will you consider the possibility at all that you would be willing to sleep with another human being and enjoin in sexual intercourse with them as part of your role here? That is the question but before you answer it, let me tell you some details. First of all, it is not definite that you shall ever have to sleep with anyone. It is but a possibility, but it is one that you must consider. Secondly, if you consent now, it does not mean that you cannot refuse later on. Even if you think that there is only a one per cent chance of you saying yes, then you should consent now. I am asking this question purely for purposes of developing your training regime, that is all. Basically, the only girls who might refuse now – and not one has ever refused yet – is that you might be saving your virginity until marriage. And thirdly I perhaps should mention that when I say sex, I mean sex. I do not include violence or bondage in the question. You can forget Dieter’s tales of the Slovakians. As I said before, you are a different case entirely. Now, will you consider the possibility or not?”

I sat and thought. Of course I was initially disposed to say ‘No’ in the strongest of terms, but something held me back. Primarily, it was probably Ms. Schmitz’s insistence that to accept now did not necessarily mean that I would have to go through with the act later on, but also, there was something else. The fact is, as I said before, after almost four months without sex, I desperately wanted it. With whom and in what way I cared little, but to put it bluntly, I needed a shag. Looking back, I wonder if I had not had some sort of mild aphrodisiac put into my food and drink, but I cannot be sure. After all, wearing such clothes as I was wearing everyday, and living in such a weird and perverted manner was enough to make anyone horny. There was more than that though. Sexual training would inevitably require a man and which man could they choose but Dieter? And was there any man on Earth who I wanted to be with more than him? Of course there wasn’t.

“Yes,” I said tentatively.

“Good,” replied Ms. Schmitz. “And now that is sorted, let’s get you to the lacing bar and put this new corset on.” I did as she asked and was soon cuffed and hoisted in the air. Then, for the first time since my arrival, the third wardrobe was opened and my new corset brought out.

To be fair, the fitting of the new corset was a bit of a let down. I’d expected the experience to be difficult, but in fact, it felt just the same as my old one, since, after all it was the same, just smaller in the waist, though on that first fitting I was laced only to my normal 50cm. It was after the corset however, that the excitement started, for once fully laced and tied off, Ms. Schmitz went back to the third wardrobe and brought out the next items in my new, tougher stage of training.

They were boots. Long, knee-high leather boots, laced for their entire length. And they were high-heeled boots, but not 8cm heels like my previous pair. No, these were another matter entirely.

“15cm,” said my trainer by way of an explanation.

15cm! I almost fainted on the spot! The boots were levered on and laced with some difficulty and then I was lowered down. Walking in those new contraptions was a different matter entirely. I was forced almost onto my tiptoes and the pressure was incredible. I squealed with the pain and almost fell immediately. Eventually I recovered but found that my sexy, ladylike walk had disappeared and my movements were now reduced to an unwieldy totter. Like with the time before, Ms. Schmitz led me to the bed, but this time I perched, not lay. My trainer then went back to the wardrobe and brought out the next items of apparel.

They were gloves.

Not ordinary gloves, but thick, shiny gloves of black leather that reached up to the armpits and were laced for their entire length. I said nothing as she began to fit them. They were tight, incredibly so, but they were also very sexy. Once she’d laced them up I found that I could hardly bend at the wrist or elbow and my fingers were virtually immobile. My arms looked and moved like the arms of the Christmas fairy. And I felt unbelievably good about it. As you can probably guess, by now the perverted nature of that whole enterprise in the Bavarian castle was beginning to take its toll on me and I was actually looking forward in some respects to each further restriction.

In some respects that is.

Learning to walk in my new boots and use my arms whilst clad in those sexy gloves took two months. At first I was like a new-born babe and stumbled and fell with every step, but slowly I became accustomed to the new shape of my footwear and the way that they forced me to walk. The gloves were equally difficult. Even the simplest things, such as pulling the cord to summon Božena or holding my book in front of me were now difficult and acts such as holding a pencil were virtually impossible. I slowly had to learn not to rely on my arms as support when descending and ascending the stairs as if I did, nine times out of ten they would slip on the polished wooden bannister and I would tumble down and end up helpless and covered in bruises.

Progress was also being made with the corset, though the waist reduction came more slowly and with more difficulty than previously. Every time even a half-centimetre was taken off my waist I ended up fainting on the bar and being revived by the dreaded smelling salts whose smell haunts my nose still. Nonetheless, by the end of June my waist measured an incredible 45cm and looked something else.

My waist and deportment were not the only things that were progressing however, for outside of training time, my intimacy with Dieter also grew. In May he told me that he loved me and I him and we both kissed by the ornamental pond and a week later I told him that I wanted to enjoy with him what the Slovakians enjoyed. Full sex however, was impossible, due to my irksome chastity belt, so instead one evening I lay him on the bed and then sucked him off. This intimacy pleased us both, but of course did not help me in my quest for release, (his release after all, being of little importance since he was granted it several times daily whether he wanted it or not). A fortnight later, whilst we were lain on the bed, I mentioned this and he came up with an astonishing suggestion.

“Well, not all your holes are protected by that belt,” he said.

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

“There’s always the back-passage…”

I was mortified, astonished at his audacity and furious. I ordered him out of the room as quick as I could and vowed never to mention, let alone enjoy, intimate relations with Dieter Müller again. However, over the week that followed I got to thinking about quite how anal sex would feel and what it would be like to have his tool inside me in that place. Eventually, after a week and a half of agonising with myself, I said to him, “Ok, let’s do it. You can enter my arse.”

“Enter your arse, eh? Sorry darling, but that’s impossible.”

After all the build-up and now that! “Why?” I asked. “I thought you wanted it.”

“Oh I do, Kirsten, believe me I do, but a man can’t just shove his todger into a lady’s arse, you know. And particularly not a lady who wears corsets such as yours.”

“And whyever not?”

“Because your arse, or at least the hole is far too small, and the pressure from the corset makes it even smaller. My old man would never fit in there.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Ask Ms. Schmitz for a pessarie.”

I didn’t know what a pessarie was, but I asked the following day nonetheless. “That’s a good idea, my dear,” she replied, “a most healthy suggestion considering the pressure on your passage. I shall get one right away.” She then disappeared, click-clacking out of the room and returned a few minutes later with Božena. “Right now Miss Vogel,” she said. “Please bend as much as you can.”

Puzzled I did as she bid and then watched in horror as the maid pulled out a large plastic cylinder, the size of a large male penis and started coating it in lubricant. “What’s that?” I asked in horror.

“The pessarie of course,” replied Ms. Schmitz. “Now Božena dear, in it goes.”

And then with a thrust, a turn or two and a long loud groan from me, the cylinder was thrust up my back-passage. Once fully in and I was standing again I felt most full, bloated and uncomfortable.

“Jolly good,” said Ms. Schmitz. “I was planning to introduce this much later in your training, but this way we can now proceed to an even larger model in a few months time.”

Even larger! I felt like I wanted to die!

Dieter didn’t however. He was most pleased with the new addition and after a week or so of my bottom getting used to the new intruder we were both enjoying sex in the only way open to us, much to his satisfaction, though less so to mine.

The pessarie was not the only new addition to my life. Indeed, after the fitting of the new boots and corset, Ms. Schmitz began on a steady succession of adding new items of restriction. First up was a pair of cuff and then a chain of 10cm that ran between my ankles, causing my strides to be more ladylike and my walk consequently, much slower. Then came a wide leather strap just above the knees and the reduction of the chain to a mere 8cm. My steps were now no longer steps, but mere minces and my walks in the grounds now limited to the lawns. The ornamental pond and glasshouses were simply too far away.

It didn’t stop there either. The next part of my body to be restricted were my elbows which were brought behind my back, cuffs attached and then a chain of about twenty centimetres fastened between the two cuffs. “This will help your posture, my dear,” Ms. Schmitz had explained. “I was tempted to introduce a collar such as mine as your head sags when you walk, but I shall leave that for now and just implement this which will keep your shoulders back and your body upright. However, if you do not rectify your sagging head yourself, then trust me, I shall introduce a collar.”

You may be sure that my head was held high from that day onwards!

The elbow chain however, stayed at it was indeed most irksome. Naturally, my elbows did not want to stay forced behind my back and ached at first, but they soon got used to the position and that ceased to be a problem. What continued to be a problem however, was doing such everyday acts as holding a book to read or eating my dinner, and these problems only became more acute as Ms. Schmitz started to progressively shorten the chain. The only blessing was that I was forced to wear that infernal restraint only for six hours each day, three in the morning and three in the evening.

When the chain was down to a mere 3cm however, and my elbows were almost touching, most activities became almost impossible and so I spoke to my trainer about this. To my surprise however, she only agreed and said, “Fear not Miss Vogel, tomorrow matters will change.” Quite what that was meant to mean, at the time I had no clue. Naturally, I was soon to find out.

The following morning, after being laced and restrained as usual, I waited for the elbow cuffs to be attached, which, of course they were, although this time I noticed with some intrepidation that the chain between them was but a centimetre in length if that. After she had finished fitting that however, to my surprise, my trainer then returned to the wardrobe and brought out another item, this time another glove of long black leather. Unlike my other gloves however, I could see that this one was quite different, for it was plainly designed to hold both the arms together as one and render the wearer absolutely helpless. “It’s called a monoglove,” Ms. Schmitz explained, “and your elbow chain was introduced with the sole purpose of making you able to wear it. The monoglove has long been a toy used in BDSM games, though it’s sometimes called a single glove instead. As you can see, it holds your arms together rigidly so that not a muscle can be moved. Normally monogloves, such as this are made out of leather, although other materials can be used, and often, like this one, they have supporting straps that go around the neck. I shall not pretend to you that this will be easy to wear. Particularly after a few hours it causes great strain on the shoulder muscles, but it will do wonders for your posture. Nowadays, instead of the chain, you shall be wearing this every morning and evening.”


“It’s called a monoglove,” Ms. Schmitz explained

Wearing such a garment certainly felt strange. By that time of course, after months of the elbow chain, I was quite used to having my arms restrained behind my back, but this monoglove was something else. With the chain, although my arms were forced back and I was unable to do many things, I still had a lot of movement and could grasp things, move my arms, bend by wrists and so on. Encapsulated in the glove however, my arms were absolutely immobile. Even my fingers couldn’t bend, forced as they were against their opposite numbers from the other hand and I was now entirely helpless.

“But what am I to do?” I asked, confused. “Ms. Schmitz, I cannot do anything now! How can I read, or hold the bannister or even go to the toilet by myself?”

“Obviously, Miss Vogel,” she replied, “you cannot. Whilst wearing the monoglove, Božena shall be attending you at all times. We have a desk ready for you to prop your books upon and when you need the page turning, you must ask her. She shall also accompany you on all walks to ensure that you do not fall and also on trips to the toilet and yes, before you ask, she shall wipe your bottom.”

So, I had been reduced to an entirely helpless doll, dependent upon my maid for everything!

You may be wondering of course, what I thought of all this, why I did not rebel more or try and escape my predicament. The question is indeed a valid one and the answer, even I am not sure of. Partially of course, there was the fact that the more restrained I was, the more difficult any rebellion was. Coupled with that, there was also the fact that I knew full well that there were powerful forces behind my kidnapping and present predicament, and any escape, even if successful, could only have resulted in dire consequences for myself. Then of course, I was by that time deeply in love with Dieter, and the thought of being parted from him, even if that meant being free of all my restraints, filled me with sadness. There was however, a fourth factor as well. Whilst I did not ask to be, or even enjoy being restrained, and indeed often did I cry into Dieter’s chest about my travails, I must admit to a strange liking, excitement or perhaps I should say fascination with my restraints. In a perverted kind of way, I got excited about being restrained and felt horny about being so helpless and doll-like. I cannot explain it fully to you as you have not been there, but all I can say is that the nature of that place and my whole weird life within it was wearing off on me.

The biggest shock however, was still to come.

It was a morning in the middle of July and my waist was now 43½cm in diametre and almost ready for the fourth and final corset. I had been taken for a short walk in the grounds by Božena wearing my monogloves and other restraints as was customary by that time and was quite exhausted as I mounted the stairs and then tottered down the corridor to my room. When I opened the door however, I got such a shock that I fainted on the spot and had to be caught by my maid from falling to the floor. When I was revived by the smelling salts I discovered that the cause of my shock was still there.

Sat on my bed, entirely naked save for a fetish discipline helmet and single sleeve which restrained his arms was Dieter. I knew it was him without being able to see a single feature of his face. After all, when you’re in love with somebody you get to know their entire body.

Stood beside him was Ms. Schmitz. “Don’t worry, Miss Vogel. He can neither see or hear us. He doesn’t not know where he is or who you are.”

“But what is he doing here?” I asked. “Surely he should be working now?”

“He is working Miss Vogel. He is here to train you. You assented to sexual training and so here it is. You are going to give him a hand job and he is going to tell you what you are doing right and wrong.”

And strangely enough, that is what happened. I sat beside my boyfriend and started jerking him off and he, from behind the helmet, gave businesslike instructions. “No Miss, you are caressing the wrong part. Caressing the stem brings nothing, caress the head… That’s better. However, you are moving your hand too fast and grasping too hard. That is not arousing, only annoying and at times painful,” and so on and so forth. I for one never realised that there was such and art to exciting a man and when he eventually came into my gloved hand with a gasp I must admit to feeling quite proud.

From that day on a session with Dieter became part of my daily routine and I soon learnt all the arts of not only giving hand jobs, but also oral sex, and I quite wondered as to how he’d ever achieved relief before, so bad had my previous technique been. I for one, in a perverse kind of way, (and by that time I was quite perverted), really enjoyed those sessions. After all, I was in love with the guy anyway, and the fact that he didn’t know that it was his girlfriend who was jacking or sucking him off everyday made it all the more exciting. It was my little secret and I often smiled when he told me about his day’s work, knowing that half the Slovakian girls that he was talking about were actually me! The only drawback was of course that my chastity belt still prevented me from having proper sex and achieving release and my that time I was dying for intercourse and would have done it with anyone at any time. I had half hoped that my sexual training would include me having the belt removed but alas, it was not to be and I remained incredibly frustrated.

And then at last, on the first of August, the big day came. My old corset was removed and the fourth and final pair of stays brought out and fitted around my torso. We reduced to the now-customary 43cm slowly and then Ms. Schmitz announced that ‘to celebrate the occasion’ I should have another full centimetre removed. I fainted twice during that session of further lacing and when conscious, I lay on the floor trying to recover after the strenuous lacing session, gasping for breath like a floundered fish. When the tape measure was passed round my waist however, and the figure ‘42cm’ read out I felt as proud as punch.


I lay on the floor trying to recover after the strenuous lacing session.

Once that was done and I had fully recovered (or at least recovered as much as a girl can when laced to 42cm in an S-Kurve corset) to my surprise, Ms. Schmitz sat me on the bed and spoke the following words:

“Miss Vogel, I am proud of you, I really am. In all my years of doing this job, not once have I dealt with a girl so co-operative and determined to succeed as you have been. You are a credit to yourself and your nation and I am proud to say that, two months ahead of schedule, your training is now complete. Well done.”

I beamed and she smiled back. Then, she continued.

“So, as I said before, your training is now complete and that means that we can relax things a little. When I said it is complete however, I did not mean to say that your current regime will be halted entirely, as I am afraid it will not. You will be staying with us for another four months yet and during that time I am sorry to inform you, but the lacing will continue and you shall be brought down another 4cm to that magical 38. Furthermore, you shall still be required to wear your chastity belt, ankle chain and boots at all times. The rest however, shall be relaxed. Your monoglove I wish you to wear from time to time just so that you stay in practice, and so how does an hour every evening before you go to bed sound, my dear?”

How did it sound!? After six hours daily of such torture it sounded like positive freedom! “Thank you, Ms. Schmitz,” I said.

“That’s alright, my dear. Now, that’s not all that’s going to change in your routine. It has also been decided to change the garments and your image. After all, what’s the point in corsetting your waist away so that you look beautiful, when you don’t have clothes to sufficiently show that waist and your own natural beauty off? From now on Miss Vogel, you’ll be wearing these.”

And then she got up, went over to that previously locked fourth and final wardrobe, turned the key in the lock and threw it open. Inside it was filled with absolutely gorgeous gowns, such as they wear in those costume dramas on television, all made of the finest fabrics with lace and other adornments.

“I’m to wear those!?” I asked in amazement.

“Yes, my dear, you’re to look like a princess from now on. This castle dates from the 18th century you know, and so all those dresses are based on designs from that time. Go on, pick the one that you wish to wear today.”

I went over and looked through them. There were dozens and all were gorgeous. Eventually however, I picked out a pretty yellow day dress which, along with the countless petticoats that it required, was laced onto me by Božena and Ms. Schmitz.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror.

“Oh no, Miss Vogel, you’re far from complete yet,” warned my trainer with a smile.

“After all, a lady needs to have her hair and make-up done, does she not?”

That was true and yet in all my time at the castle I had entirely forgotten about such things, never having any make-up applied and my hair always being brushed out straight or put into a simple ponytail. Božena sat me down and started curling my hair into ringlets and arranging it in a style suitable for the dress that I was wearing, whilst Ms. Schmitz attacked my face, plucking my eyebrows almost bare and applying powder, lipstick and false eyelashes. It was an hour later before they had finished, but when I looked at myself again in the mirror, I realised that it had been entirely worth. I truly did look the princess! It was like a dream come true.

“May I take a stroll in the grounds now, Ms. Schmitz?” I asked.

“Of course, my dear, your time is your own. However, if you do so, don’t forget to wear your gloves and hat!” And then she handed me a pretty pair of white silken gloves to go over my leather ones and a large straw hat. I put on the gloves, had Božena tie the hat ribbon under my chin, (for wearing slippery silken gloves over my tight, thick leather ones meant that I could grip nothing and my hands were virtually useless), and minced off down the stairs and into the grounds.

On the lawn I met Dieter. He bowed and announced, “Milady, what a pleasure to see you here.” I blushed becomingly and then kissed him. My joy was now complete and I was the happiest girl in all of Germany as I strolled round that beautiful place in my pretty yellow dress and straw hat, my beau by my side.


I was the happiest girl in all of Germany as I strolled round that beautiful place in my pretty yellow dress and straw hat

And from that day on, my life was indeed most pleasant. Daily I dressed in gowns fit for the set of Les Liasions Dangereus and lived like a princess. Of course, the lacing still continued, by now every quarter of a centimetre causing immense pain and effort and so tight was my corset that I had even started fainting during normal daily activities, just like the ladies did in the days of old. By the onset of November however, I had reached the hallowed 38cm and my corset was at last finally closed. And of course, I still had to wear the irksome pessarie at all times, and the monoglove for an hour every evening although I must admit, particularly in the case of the latter, that I actually quite enjoyed this form of perverted restriction and even looked forward to it.

Wearing such beautiful gowns of course, also caused new problems to arise. I had to learn the art of managing countless petticoats and visiting the toilet whilst encumbered with so much cloth, plus much time was now spent in hairstyling and applying make-up, but to be fair I minded not and apart from the continuing frustration of a lack of sexual release I was a most contented girl, although I must admit that I often puzzled as to why all this had happened to me and what it was all leading towards. Ms. Schmitz had mentioned four more months back in August which meant that something was due to happen around Christmas or New Year time. The big question however, was, what?

Then, on the 1st December, the onset of Advent, I learnt it all.

It was the evening and I was sat, my arms restrained in the monoglove, a copy of Musil’s ‘A Man Without Qualities’ propped open on the desk in front of me, Božena silently turning the pages, when Ms. Schmitz walked in and quietly asked the maid to leave. She did so and then my trainer carefully undid my restraint.

“Miss Vogel,” said she. “We have to talk.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“Almost a year ago, you were brought to this place by underhand means for a purpose that so far has remained a mystery to you. Tonight I shall reveal what that purpose is, for the task which you are to fulfill is to be fulfilled in the very near future.”

Something stirred in my breast, fear or excitement, I am unsure which.

“Miss Vogel, I shall start by giving you a little history lesson. In the 16th century the famous religious reformer, Martin Luther, broke away from the Catholic Church and its traditions and became the world’s first Protestant. As we all know, millions soon followed him. When forming his new faith he made many changes to the accepted, Roman version of Christianity. One of them was that he did away with the revering of saints and that of course included St. Nicholas. However, without a St. Nicholas, who was to give presents to the little children at Christmastime? Naturally someone was needed, so Luther invented a new character, the Christmas Angel or Christkind. Ever since, German children have been brought up to believe that a kindly angel comes down from Heaven and gives them presents on Christmas Eve.”

I nodded. Indeed, as a child, I had believed this too.

“In the city of Nuremberg, for centuries they produced tinsel models of angels that were sold in the markets during Advent. This was but a local tradition but under the rule of the National Socialists that image of the Christkind became anchored in the collective German mind. They built on Nuremberg’s tradition of producing tinsel angels, and in 1933, had a teenage girl in an angel costume open the city’s Christmas Market for the first time. Since then the city has chosen a 17 or 18 pretty girl to open the market every year.”

“I know,” I answered. “I went once with my family.”

“Now, as I told you before, you were kidnapped by a group of twelve very important and influential individuals and that that group first assembled during the time of the National Socialists, or to be more precise, in 1936. They got together to further the interests of Germany. At the time they were all fervent, patriotic members of the National Socialist Party, but over the years they changed, particularly when it became clear that Hitler was on a path to self-destruction and then later when the war was lost and the political climate changed dramatically. Through all times however, from 1936 to this day, in war and peace, it has been that group, not the parliament or army or anything else, that has steered the course of the German nation or to be more blunt, has run the country. They are a committee assembled to rule, and rule is what they do.

However, like all organisations, there is play as well as work, and I am afraid that power usually attracts some of the most unsavourary of characters. During that first Christmas Market in 1936, two members of the Twelve happened to be present, and both commented on how comely the Nuremberg Christkind was, and so that evening they had here kidnapped and both raped the poor lass repeatedly before making her disappear forever into the abyss of Dachau.

I am pleased to say however, that over the years, whilst the perversion has remained, they have improved their tactics somewhat. The fact is Miss Vogel, that you were brought here this year and trained in the manner that you have been trained in order to perform the role of this year’s Christkind at the annual Christmas Banquet of the Twelve here in this castle. You shall dress up in the angel costume and welcome those powerful figures; you shall entertain them throughout the meal, and then, like a true Christkind, you shall give them their presents.”


“Yes, presents, or to be more precise, the twelve Slovakians. 18 months before they took a trip to Slovakia and picked the girls that pleased them most from the hundreds of applicants. These girls were then brought here and trained in the perversions which their particular Master or Mistress most prefers. After the banquet they shall stay in their owner’s home for the period of a year, after which they are free, rich and holders of German nationality. Then, the following year, now slaves will be presented to the Twelve by a new Christkind.”

“And is give out presents all that I have to do?”

“Well, yes… and no. Technically, yes. The Twelve are kinder these days and if you wish to do no more, then you shall be required to do no more. However, if you are willing to do more, then you shall be handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”


“Yes, let me explain. You have been absent for a year. No one knows where you have been and who kidnapped you except for your parents who received a visitor from the Twelve who told them all and impressed on them the influence of his organisation. They know that you are safe and although worried, are not frantic. They have told your friends that you have gone backpacking in South East Asia I believe. But I digress… You have been absent for a year and that year has been a year without any pay. However, if you are willing, you can make up for that on the night of the banquet. The custom is that the Twelve hold a lottery and the winner is granted the right to spend the night with that year’s Christkind, or in other words, you. Now, if you will look at this form, then you will see how handsomely the Twelve are prepared to reward you for your service.”

I looked at the proffered paper. It read:-

We, the Twelve undertake to pay the 2005 Christkind the following amounts for assenting to the following acts.


Sleeping with the winning member                                   €100,000

Having normal sex with the winning member               €1,000,000

Having anal sex with the winning member                    €1,230,000

Providing oral sex for the winning member                    €560,000

Acquiescing to wearing a monoglove during the night spent with member  €834,000

Drinking the urine of the winning member                     €1,983,000

Acquiescing to wearing a ring-gag during the night spent with member      €134,000

Acquiescing to wearing a discipline helmet during the night, etc.         €876,000

Kissing the winning member                                                    €52,000

I was astonished and yet excited. By each line there was a box for me to tick if I agreed or not. But what would I agree to. Some of those things were pretty disgusting and yet reading about them all turned me on. And so much money at stake too…

Ms. Schmitz handed me and pen and almost to my own surprise, I slowly but surely ticked them all. My trainer smiled. “You’ve been a good student, Miss Vogel,” she said, before adding. “Oh, and by the way, they tip extremely generously.”

It was eleven o’clock on the morning of the 24th December. I had been woken by Božena at six and bathed, before the lacing into my corset began. That took almost an hour and the usual couple of fainting fits before it was fully closed, and then my boots, new ones for the occasion and with actual en pointe ballet heels, were fitted, the lacing of each one taking a full fifteen minutes. Then came the gloves and after that I was taken to a chair to sit down whilst my hair and make-up were attended to.

The make-up of the Christkind was most severe with a thick coat of powder, pink lip gloss and my eyebrows plucked entirely and new ones drawn on in a higher position so that I appeared eternally surprised.

If the make-up was severe however, the hairstyle was worse. My blonde hair, which was quite long by this time, was bleached an even blonder blonde and then curled in the most ridiculous perm so that it looked almost artificial. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it was not Kirsten Vogel that I saw, but instead some brainless, vacant bimbo.

After the styling was complete, it was time to don the costume. The Christkind has to wear a most ridiculous outfit indeed, a long white and silver dress, adorned with large golden stars and requiring ten petticoats to fill it out and then over that a long, pleated cape of gold. White silken gloves were then drawn onto my hands and finally, to top it all off, the heavy, tall crown was placed on my head. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw some fantasy fairy-tale fuck toy staring brainlessly back.

It was not Kirsten Vogel that I saw, but instead some brainless, vacant bimbo

That done, I left the room, mincing slowly down the stairs, virtually immobile and very unsteady in the en pointe boots, into a photo studio that had been arranged for the occasion where we spent over an hour photographing the 2005 Christkind from every angle imaginable.

Then, there was a short break before I was taken to the main entrance to welcome the guests. I had to stand there for almost an hour unaided whilst the Twelve arrived, and my feet were on fire for the entire period. Member after member turned up in their limousines and I had to welcome each one with a kiss, whilst they fondled my backside and surging breasts annoyingly.


I had to stand there for almost an hour unaided whilst the Twelve arrived

Then we all retired to the drawing room where it was my job to keep them entertained. And I soon learnt what being entertained meant. I was forced to sit on the lap of Mr. Baier the AGPA chief whilst he fondled me and licked my neck before going over to Mr. Wolf of BMV and treating him to a hand job, the results of which formed by breakfast that morning. After he had enjoyed that particular service they all wanted it, except Ms. Becker of the Christian Democrats who preferred to French kiss.

That ordeal lasted four hours and then it was declared that the festivities should begin. We all went into the large gothic dining room and the Twelve dined whilst I tottered around the table filling their wine glasses and they watched a display of live lesbian sex performed by two of the Slovakians on the table.

Then it was back to the drawing room for the presents. I, as the Christmas Angel, stood by the huge tree and kissed each member as he or she collected the package that was lying for them underneath that tree. Each package was enormous and when opened a Slovakian mummified in a leather body sack was revealed. The Slovakians were left trammelled however for what was undoubtedly the highlight – for them that is, not I – of the evening, namely the drawing of the lottery to see whom would be spending the night with the Christkind.

I cannot say that I was particularly bothered as to who I would be sleeping with that night, for none of the men were particularly attractive or interesting and all were middle-aged. The one thing I was sure about however, was that I did not want Ms. Becker as the thought of copulating with one of my own sex made me feel quite sick and so I was praying inwardly, ‘Not the woman, not the woman,’ as Gen. Schröder of the Army was given the honour of drawing and he came up to me, patted me on the bottom and drew out the slip of paper from the gold sack that I was holding.

“Mathias Baier,”  he announced, quite dejected that he was not to be having the honour. So, I was to spend the night with the obese AGPA chief who was now making his way over to me, leering excitedly.

Soon after that we all retired, the members with their new Slovakians and I with Mr. Baier, (his Slovakian was left unwanted and still entombed in leather by the tree). We entered his princely chamber and he started kissing me. ‘Oh well, that’s €50,000,’ I thought as I tasted the red wine and roast goose in his saliva. He on the other hand, was far too excited to care what I thought. He really was like a big child and he kept repeating over and over again, ‘I’m going to fuck the Christmas Angel! I’m going to fuck the Christmas Angel!’ I however, minded not, for unappealing though he was, I needed sex. I am sure looking back that I had been fed some strong aphrodisiac that day as never before had I so wanted sex like that. He lay me on the bed, tossed my skirts over my head, unlocked the chastity belt and then, yesssssssssssssssss!!! He was in, screaming ‘I’m fucking the Christmas Angel! I’m fucking the Christmas Angel!’

It did not take long, but of course, he was not over. After all, had I not acquiesced to the lot? After finishing I sucked him clean and then left him strip me of my costume till only my corset and boots remained, and he was circling my waist with his hands and muttering, ‘The Christmas Angel’s waist is so tiny!’ Then I let him lace me into the monoglove and put the ring-gag in my mouth, before he removed my pessarie and started on my arse, screaming, ‘The Christmas Angel is getting it up the arse by Baier the King of Christmas!’ I listened not and instead just imagined that it was my dear Dieter who was taking his pleasure.

After that however, Mr. Baier declared himself spent and his face was certainly red and flustered, so we showered together and then he lay down for the night, fitting a discipline helmet over my head that rendered me deaf and blind and then fitting his flaccid penis into the mouth opening and ordering me to give him a blowjob before then releaving himself of the calls of nature into my mouth afterwards. It was disgusting, truly horrible, and yet I swallowed and smiled. After all, would I not be free soon and well-paid for my efforts?

Several hours and one more blowjob later, my arms dead from being forced into the monoglove for so long I eventually fell asleep, a Christmas Angel exhausted from giving out so many presents.

I could sense the light even before I opened my eyes. When I eventually did so I found that I was in a white room, lain on a white bed. Baier was gone and my bondage was gone. In fact I was naked save for a white corset similar to the one that I had worn when first arriving at the castle. Light streamed in from a nearby window. I walked over to the window and looked out. The cityscape of central Berlin was stretched out below me. I was in a high-class apartment in some city centre tower block.

I walked back to the bed and then sat down. To my right was a white door. I got up, went over to it, opened it and walked through. I found myself in a white kitchen with a big white table in the centre. On the table was a laptop computer. It was switched on. I went over to it and looked at the screen. On it was a message. I read the message.


You are now free to go about your life once again. The payment for your efforts is in the envelope beside this computer. The apartment that you are now in is yours. It is your tip for a job well done. Your parents know your location and should be with you within an hour or two. In the meantime, if you open the door to your left you shall find a pleasant surprise. One final thing. Ms. Schmitz advises you to keep the corset on for sometime until your body gets adjusted to living without being tightlaced. She also wishes you the best of luck.

The Twelve

I picked up the envelope beside the computer. In it was a lottery ticket, that was all. I then walked over to the door that they had mentioned and opened. It led into another bedroom. Lying on the bed in the middle of the room still sound asleep was Dieter Müller.

I walked over to my love and lay beside him. He stirred and opened his eyes. “Good morning, darling,” I said.

“I asked to be left with you,” he replied. “Are you alright.”

“Quite fine,” I said truthfully.

“Shall we go out for breakfast then?” he asked.

“Later,” I replied. “There’s something more important that we need to do first.”

He smiled as I took off my clothes and let his tool slide into me. It was a happy ending to a long and strange journey.


The lottery ticket in the envelope was of course the winning ticket in the 6 aus 49 Superzahl. The winnings amounted to €6,769,000 exactly. I met my parents that day and they were overjoyed to see that I was safe and sound, though horrified to hear of my experiences, (even though I gave them a much watered-down account). I decided to stay wearing the corset as I had learnt to enjoy the tightness that it provided and besides, my new fiancé, Dieter Müller liked to see me tightly-laced. Some of the first purchases we made with the jackpot money were some en pointe leather boots, a monoglove and a pair of thick leather gloves. In the privacy of our apartment we sometimes remember our Christkind experience in a unique and private way.

It is seven years exactly since I became the Christmas Angel. I am now a university graduate, as is my Dieter and we are due to be married next Spring. In the meantime we have Christmas to celebrate and this year we are doing what we do every year.

We are going to the Nuremberg Market to watch the Christkind open the show.


[1] Adapted from an article on Deutsche Welle.

The Gift Offering: Part 3

Part 2

Part 3

Princess Hetephernebty, the wife of Prince Amenhirkhepshef sits on the shelf in her marital home and stares into space as she does every day. She has been married for five years now and can expect to stay married for another fifty, maybe even a hundred. The lifespans of potgirls can be as much as triple that of the unpotted due to the modifications that they have received and the easiness of their lives. Not that she is glad of this fact.

Her wedding, a double celebration with that of her younger sister to Prince Hapuneseb, was one of the biggest occasions in the kingdom. Anyone who was anyone was there and for her, not only did it mean she would be joined forever to an unknown man, but also that her new look was revealed to the world.

For, as preparation for marriage, she had been repotted, and her previously exposed breasts deemed inappropriate for a married woman. Married women are modest and chaste, saving their charms only for their spouses.

The irony!

And because her husband was of a much lower status than her, then her new look was less opulent too. After all, in Egyptian society a woman is merely a reflection of her guardian’s status, and whilst her previous guardian had been the pharaoh, now he was just a mere prince.

He hadn’t been that before. Both the new princes had, previously, been the second sons of minor officials who had been promoted after the palace coup. Promoted because they would never be a threat to her brother. And, once again, she had become a gift offering to seal that political alliance.

Heti’s new pot was significantly plainer than her previous one, but it had a quiet, simple appeal to it. A mid-length neck flared out into a body, giving the impression of a wide set of hips. A set of handles joined the neck and body of her pot. Each was a single piece, composed of clay. Around the neck of her pot, a red and blue porcelain necklace hung. She had to admit to herself that she looked cute but she longed for the opulence of her single days.


For after marriage she had moved out of the main palace and into a far humbler residence, hundreds of miles away in Memphis, the city that her husband had been made titular governor of. Away from the court and society, things were simpler here and infinitely more boring. The lack of company drove her mad.

But that was not the worst thing.

No, it was the lack of something else.


You would have thought that she would be getting more of that since she now had a husband to provide it for her. But what she had not anticipated – and what had stunned her into speechlessness when the white bridal shroud was removed from over her in the Grand Temple on her wedding day, was that, in order to ensure his loyalty, Prince Amenhirkhepshef had undergone potisation as well! He too was unveiled, in a pot identical to hers, save for where a piece of white silk modestly covered her womanly parts, a similar silk sheath did little to disguise the tool swaddling within.

A tool that she later learned had been deliberately enlarged and was kept almost permanently erect through the use of herbs and more modern elixirs, all at the sadistic orders of her increasingly deranged brother.

Their wedding night had been memorable… though not for the right reasons.

Potted people cannot copulate as normal folk do. Even if they are arranged so that their genitals touch or indeed fill their partner, they cannot move their bodies to fulfil the act. Even those with sufficient neck movement cannot jostle their own pots, stable and heavy as they are. As with everything else, a third party is required.

On her wedding night, she was taken to the bedchamber with her husband and his sheath removed to reveal the enormous, straining rod, pierced at the top with a jewelled gold ring as a gift from the pharaoh.

The same pharaoh who then entered the room with his potted, formerly unfaithful queen, who had had her lips unsewn and golden mouth-ball temporarily removed for the special occasion.

Princess Hetephernebty was then carried before her husband on his pedestal by two maidservants who then carefully worked his rampant tool into her mouth. The enormous rod filled her completely and she struggled to keep it in place. Knowing what she had to do, though detesting herself for doing it at the same time, she slowly started to lick and suck which caused her unfamiliar groom to groan in ecstasy, for he had been deliberately kept unmilked for weeks prior to the occasion. Then, upon a command from the pharaoh, the maids started rocking her pot backwards and forwards, impaling her on the warm, throbbing stick. Prince Amenhirkhepshef groaned in even greater pleasure while Heti spluttered and gagged, her throat unused at having something so large thrust into it.

Eventually, she felt her husband’s reduced body start to shudder and the disgusting precum start to seep onto her tongue. She prepared herself for his seed, but then, after the pharaoh clicked his fingers, the maids ceased the rocking and withdrew her until Prince Amenhirkhepshef’s excitement subsided.

Then the entire process was begun afresh, she working her spouse slowly into a frenzy with her face before, when he was on the brink, it was stopped again.

And so it continued, for five times until, upon one word from her brother, Prince Amenhirkhepshef was finally allowed to achieve satisfaction and he jetted his long-unreleased seed all over his new bride’s face.

While at the same time the pharaoh similarly erupted all over the face of his potted queen who had similarly been pleasuring her husband orally with her untoothed mouth.

But both women were left unsatisfied and with dried semen still caking their cheeks in the morning.

Still, at least that was the only time she had to suffer such an indignity. Not since then has she had to endure her husband’s ever-swollen cock in her mouth.

Or even touch him.

No, the Prince and Princess have not once, in all their years of marriage, shared so much as a kiss. Instead, they must spend each day, only inches from one another, standing on a shelf in their pots. Indeed, they struggle to even look at one another because, as they are side-by-side both facing to the front, near-permanent decorations in their own empty home, they have to really crane their necks round to do so. Indeed Heti could see her husband’s engorged spear penetrate her field of view before he did, projecting helplessly out into the open air as it does.

The pharaoh, in his benevolence, does allow them release. But only when he decrees it: on the religious festivals in the annual calendar: the Opening of the Year; Thoth; the First of the Year; Wag; Sokar; the Great Festival; the Flame festival; the Procession of Min and Sadj. On those auspicious days, the couple are placed on pedestals facing one another and while one maidservant milks Prince Amenhirkhepshef, a second pleasures Hetephernebty with the porcelain rod. The experience is exquisite; it is what she lives for and, as she gazes into the eyes of the man that she is married to, both pots climaxing in unison, she almost believes that she loves him.

For on all other days, she just rests there in her vase, her potted husband at her side, and waits.

She sighs. Outside the sun begins to set over the majestic Nile. She makes a mental note: only four more days until Sokar.

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Written 20/12/18

The Gift Offering: Part 2

Part 1

Part 2

The mirrored chamber was opulence itself. Walls of silver and glass reflected a king’s ransom in golden baubles and trinkets through a haze of incense smoke. An ornate brazier of coals was placed in the centre, cushioned couches, pedestals, and seats radiating outwards from it. Through a window in the ceiling, the light of the morning filtered through, carving bright ribbons into the smoke as the mirrors reflected it across the room. The sight of the magnificent chamber would have been enough to fill the heart of almost anyone with awe and respect, but these days Princess Hetephernebty wasn’t just anyone.

Set upon her pedestal, she surveyed the room with an expression of profound bleary-eyed boredom. As she stretched her neck, hearing it crack. She enjoyed that profoundly. After all, it was the last part of her body with which she could independently gain such relief. It reminded her of her humanity. She deigned to let out a yawn. Her jet-black hair was plastered to the amber skin of her forehead with sweat, she could feel it. Heti shook her head back and forth in a futile attempt to get her hair to behave, but it was no use. It was times like this that she wished she had hands, or arms for that matter, but those luxuries were well behind her. Below her neck was a series of golden rings which widened into an elaborately decorated clay pot, the vessel which contained what remained of her body.

The incense-filled room was making her sweat, but that often wasn’t the sole cause, the clay of the pot that encased her made it hard for her body to manage its temperature and she knew that she was overheating. In the early days that had been one of the hardest things to adjust to. The lack of movement, lack of limbs and dependency she had been prepared for as much as someone can be prepared for such things. But the fact that she was too encased to even control her own body temperature, now that had been an unpleasant surprise. She needed to get some fresh air.

Heti was still trying to shake her sweat-matted hair from her forehead when a woman walked into the room. Clad in the flowing white linen robes of one of her maidservants, the girl slowly approached her mistress. “Can I be of service, Princess?” she asked deferentially. The Pharaoh’s sister fixed her with as regal a smile as she could manage and beckoned her over with a flick of her neck. Cool hands met her warm skin, arranging her hair, and Heti shivered, “bring me outside to the balcony,” she said, “I need some air.”

In the three years since we last saw her, Heti’s life has changed completely. An even greater change than her elevation from Dutch university student to Egyptian princess, even though she hasn’t moved a hundred metres from the throne room where her brother, Pharaoh Khaemweset II, pronounced her fate. For, following that interview, she and her little sister Ahmose were forced to undergo an ancient royal ritual.

They had both become potgirls.

Potisation – or potting, as it is generally referred to – is an ancient and unbelievably complicated and dangerous tradition. When it first appeared, more than a millennium ago, it was so lethal that around forty per cent of the girls put forward for the honour did not survive. But those in charge deemed it worth the risk, for what are the deaths of a few noblewomen compared to the peace and stability of the nation?

It all resulted from centuries of palace coups. The Egyptian pharaohs had been polygamous since time began, begetting scores of children who, when grown up, fought to the death over who would inherit the imperial throne. After a particularly bloody civil war lasting thirty years fought between an eldest daughter of the former pharaoh and her younger brother, the victor – the brother, incidentally – decided to institute reforms designed to ensure that the succession was never questioned again. So, it was that all siblings save for the eldest son were potted upon reaching puberty, after which they could live out a life of leisured luxury, still able to advise the ruler and participate in court life, but never able to take the throne themselves, spread gossip or breed offspring who could similarly challenge the established order.

Potisation was an arduous ordeal, lasting eighteen hours minimum, often much longer. The subject would first be drugged in a religious ceremony, so that they remained totally unconscious for several days. Then they were taken to the temple altar, under Ra’s eternal gaze, where the royal surgeon would operate upon them. First, their limbs were removed, the nerves deadened, so that only a torso and head remained. Then that torso was opened up. Living in a pot requires much less body mass, so most of the organs inside were either removed or reduced in size. The liver, stomach, bladder and intestines were reduced in size while one Kidney and Lung were removed. Most of the bones were also removed, leaving only the skull and some of the spine intact. The only thing that was left alone was the heart.

After that, the torso was sewn back up and then placed inside the pot the subject – or their guardian – had chosen ahead of time. The body was by this stage only slightly larger than the head, but could vary in length or anatomical arrangement based on the desired design. The clay pots, by this time a secret blend of clay and strengthening plastic for shock-resistance, were made without the top attached to them. Furthermore, the neck of the pot came in two parts so that, once the reduced torso was placed in the bottom part of the vessel, the top two pieces were then closed around it, sealing it in, the subject’s head protruding from the top, the fitting being extremely snug creating a nearly-watertight seal as all pots were handmade for the occupant within. As the pot was so tight fitting, and  the soft, modified body assumed its shape and soon settled into it (assuming the stresses of the operations had not caused a fatality), meaning that it became more or less one with the pot, removable only with another complex operation. And thus, a potgirl was created. Reduced and encased in such an extreme manner, they were incapable, not only of bearing competing heirs, but also of almost any movement beyond the turning of the neck, and even that was reduced to a mere 45 degrees in each direction, or less in some cases. It was seen as the very epitome of luxury, and as potent of a symbol of wealth as the human mind could devise. Disabled as such, in essence imprisoned for life within their vessel, the occupant was entirely dependent on servants for everything.

Is it any wonder that poor Heti was so appalled when her brother ordered her potisation, or that their mother had run away to another continent to avoid it? Or that the Dutch government had granted her refugee status without thinking twice?

But despite her objections, her pleas and her resistance, she too was forced to undergo the process. After all, this wasn’t about her but the kingdom, and an elder sister to the pharaoh was always going to be seen as a threat to national stability.

That said, Pharaoh Khaemweset II was not without compassion for his sisters. Although his character had changed considerably since ascension to the throne – gone was the nerdy, shy boy and in his place sat a domineering young despot who thought about little beyond his numerous concubines and other bedpartners – he still remembered the old days when his sisters had looked after him and supported him after the tragic death of their parents. Therefore, he let Princess Hetephernebty have considerable say in the design of the vessel in which she was to be entombed for both this life and the one beyond (for potted people are always cremated in the very pots that they lived in upon death, so that they may be potted in the afterlife as well) and so she decided to make the most of the opportunity.

After all, it could be the last bit of freedom she would ever exercise.

When sketching out her vision to the royal potter and surgeon, Princess Hetephernebty expressed certain desires that resulted in the vessel in which she is encased being rather unusual. Unlike more standard pots, generally shaped like traditional canopic jars, Heti’s incorporated an additional window in the front of the jar through which her ripe, plump breasts burgeon outwards, their nipples pierced with golden rings. These piercings and others symbolized not only her painful integration with the mantle of egyptian nobility, but had also been a desire of hers for quite a while, limited only by european modesty which of course was no longer a concern.

Heti had thought long and hard about what it was that gave her life quality and pleasure as a “normal” girl and how that could be maintained as much as possible after her potisation. While running, swimming and most of her other favourite pursuits would now be forever barred to her, she realised that, since attaining adulthood, she had become extremely sexually active, regularly masturbating to a degree that was unseemly, and she also loved having men fondle her breasts and play with her sensitive nipples. And so, if those little pleasures could be kept after her ordeal, then all the better, and if they were deemed a trifle improper, who cares? She was a princess now, after all.

And so, unlike most other potgirls, who have their breasts removed or simply entombed within the jar, she demanded a window for them so that she may feel the breeze upon them and have servants touch her, providing great pleasure. And as for masturbation, below them was a second, smaller window through which one could see her denuded womanhood, flowering below. Unlike above, such openings were standard for all potgirls; a necessity for waste expulsion, but Heti instructed the potter to make hers a little larger than usual in order to fully expose her sensitive bud (which many potgirls have removed), and also for those most womanly parts to be pierced like her nipples, so as to draw attention to them and enhance the one bit of fun she still had left to her.

The sun came into view as the servant exited the main series of chambers from the palace; the hot and smoky air of the chamber of mirrors where she had slept left behind for air soothingly warm, tempered with a gentle breeze. Heti took in the sight of the water gardens and the majestic Nile beyond as she peered over the edge of the balcony. She felt herself being lowered onto a pedestal, the signature vibrations of impact somewhere below her line of sight, and then the servant girl quickly withdrew her hands.

A few minutes passed as she continued to gaze out over the vista before her. As she did, she remembered the very first day that she was placed on this pedestal, something that has become a ritual in her much-altered life. She recalled waking up from that long, drug-induced slumber and, even though she knew, rationally, how things would be, immediately panicking. The total lack of ability to do anything for herself, the complete and permanent imprisonment, the destruction of all her dreams and freedoms. Even as the drugs faded away, her mind stayed numb. She acknowledged no one, did not speak or even move. On that morning the maid placed her there and she simply stood and gazed out for hour after hour, mindless and defeated. Strangely though, the Nile helped her accustom herself, at least, as much as anyone could normalise potisation.

The breeze picked up somewhat, and now the sweat was wicked from her skin. Heti continued to stare imperiously out over the kingdom while the servant stood silently behind her. Then she shuddered at the caress of the breeze against her spread labia, her nipples hardened, and the hairs on her neck stood on end. Her eyes were still distant, but across her face spread a sly feline smile and she turned her neck to address the servant.

“Are you cold, my lady?” the girl asked. “I could get a blanket, or maybe bring you inside.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Heti paused, and then said, “Open the drawer beneath my pedestal.”

The sound of wood scraping against wood alerted the potgirl that the drawer was being been opened. She removed something which she held in front of her mistress. The object in her hand had a warm-coloured porcelain shaft with a somewhat bulbous rounded head, all set upon a polished wooden handle. “Do you require release?”

Heti nodded.

The servant girl placed her hand on Heti’s womanhood. The potgirl shivered and tilted her head back, a small sigh escaping from the back of her throat. Carefully, the servant’s fingers probed the inside of her, darting in and retreating with increasing intensity.

Heti’s breathing quickened now, and she felt a growing dampness spreading out from within her. The girl’s fingers slid out of her, and she let out a soft moan, followed by a slight gasp as the bulbous porcelain shaft was slid in. Much to her embarrassment, the princess noticed her own tongue was hanging out of her mouth, but beyond a slight blush of embarrassment, she didn’t care, she was lost in the pulsating throes of ecstasy as her servant thrust the spear into her, by now knowing exactly which angle and rhythm elicited the most rapturous moans from her holy mistress. Heti wanted to reach out, to claw at the table or fondle her unattended breasts, but it was beyond impossible now. The tension just built and built and–  

As she climaxed, a second gasp escaped her throat, and she began to pant, her tongue still lolling. The porcelain slithered out of her and she let out another shuddering breath. The servant girl had set it down beside her on the pedestal and was now standing a few feet away.

“That shall be all,” she said when she had recovered her breath. “Bring me a cool towel and then breakfast.”


Following the morning pleasuring, Princess Hetephernebty’s day continued in the same routine that it did every other day. She ate breakfast – only a couple of tiny, richly flavorful morsels; her reduced stomach could take no more – and then had her bath. This was not a full immersion of course, more like a soaping and sponging down of all the exposed parts of her body, before she was dried, and made ready for the world.

Heti left the bathhouse smelling of perfume, her hair damp, her eyes darkened with makeup, her lips glossy purple, and her skin glistening with oil. The maidservant held her tightly as she strode down corridor after corridor, her bare feet gingerly treading the floor, careful not to trip and fall. She kept up a steady pace until her mistress said, “Halt!” Immediately the well-trained girl did so. She knew why the princess had barked out such an order but said nothing. It was not her place.

Coming the opposite way was one of the palace guards. He was a strapping young fellow whose fine physique was accentuated by his uniform; a uniform that left his manly chest bare and exposed. Not much good in a battle perhaps, but when she had redesigned the staff uniforms in favor of ancient stylings, Princess Hetephernebty had not had such things in mind.

Her lust-filled eyes drank him in as he approached, and the maid felt uneasy. She didn’t want either herself or the guard to get in trouble but if the queen found out, like she had last time, then…

“Soldier, halt!” ordered the potgirl. The man stopped, at attention. “Let me approach him!” she commanded the girl. Gingerly, the maid moved her mistress forwards until she was only inches from the guard’s sweat-sheened chest. Heti breathed in and let the manly scent envelope her nostrils and fill her reduced lungs. Down below she felt warm and damp, the tingles only beginning.

“You have not washed today, guard,” she said softly, almost a whisper. He did not reply; what could he say? “You could get in trouble… if someone else notices.” Again he said nothing. “But I am merciful,” she continued. “Let me help you.” The maid knew what to do and, nervously, she tilted the pot slightly and moved it forwards until it touched the guard’s chest. The princess’s tongue flicked out and licked the exposed nipple of the soldier that was positioned before her face. “All clean now,” she purred.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, neutrally.

“Show your thanks,” she replied.

The guard went down on one knee and lifted the silk sheet covering her breasts. Then he used his own tongue to lick first one nipple, then the other, which he suckled at for but a moment longer. Heti shuddered in bliss. He stood up, dropped the silk back down and then moved his face next to hers. His unadorned lips met her purple painted ones. They kissed and she made sure her tongue explored his mouth.

In the distance, footsteps could be heard. She finished the kiss and the maid withdrew her. “You may continue,” said Heti with a sly feline smile, “and I shall keep our little secret. As will you.” The soldier walked on.

Then she was taken to the water gardens where, formerly, she had frolicked and played. In public like that, of course, covers were placed over her breasts and womanhood for the sake of modesty, but the fine silk did little to hide her curves and rings. There she was placed in a circle of pedestals and joined by the other potgirls of the court, her sister Ahmose of course, and around a dozen other women of the new nobility who had been potted, almost all against their will.

Formerly, noble girls were educated from an early age to look forward to their potisation, to see it as the ultimate embodiment of prestige and luxury. Girls would begin their schooling at the age of five and have it drummed into their heads that a lady is there to do nothing and to be totally dependent. That her value is in her helplessness, and the little girls were shown their potted elder sisters, aunts and mothers and taught to look up to them as pious, proper role models. Around ten, further training may commence. Many girls would then have their arms restrained, folded behind their backs, palm to palm, elbow to elbow, so that any use of those limbs became but a distant memory. And following that, at around twelve, the legs were also restrained, feet folded against the bottom, and the young ladies carried around on cushions. Potisation was still a great leap from such full-bodied freedom, but this education was a start, an easing into their new status.

But, like Princess Hetephernebty, none of the potgirls present in the water gardens that day had had the advantage of such conditioning. It had been hard on all of them, but particularly so for some of the lesser potgirls whose fathers had been far stricter in the application of the potisation than Pharaoh Khaemweset II had with his sisters. Those harsh and pious parents had decreed that their daughters have their lovebuds removed in the traditional style, and a metal screen installed over the window for their womanly parts, the only window in their jars, so that any attainment of sexual release would be impossible, not only now but for all eternity.

Release was impossible, but the desire always remained, enhanced by the boredom of their new existences and the sexual stimuli all around them. This came in the form of handsome servants, palace guards or, if they were inclined that way, the beautiful maids, but it was often more than that. When Heti surveyed her potgirl companions, she had to admit that she found them beautiful and, perversely, sexually stimulating. There was something about their total incapacity that drove the potgirls’ hormones to excess, it was true; but aesthetically, there was something about the idea of a girl’s head popping out of the top of an elegant and exquisitely-crafted jar that was profoundly erotic though, for the life of her, she could not think why.

Indeed, there was much about them which one would imagine could only deter sensual thoughts. When Heti imagined what her own body might look like should her pot ever be smashed, she shuddered: a misshapen bag of skin and atrophied muscle, covering the reduced organs and bones that the temple surgeons had left inside. Indeed, prior to her potisation, she had become morbidly fascinated with the entire process and, to demonstrate it all to her, the palace officials had brought before her a most curious girl indeed.

It was a foreign girl who had been kidnapped by some now-dead prince and used as his sexual companion. However, when he had discovered her infidelity with a servant, he had ordered them both undergo potisation as a form of punishment. However, unlike all other potgirls, for the purposes of medical education (and to increase her sense of shame and vulnerability) he had ordered her entombed within, not a pottery vase, but a glass one, so that all within was visible. The sight was hideous, indeed, it had made her feel physically sick at the time, and yet it was also addictively fascinating. She had returned several times to view the beating heart and pumping lung of the girl and, after her own potisation had been completed, Heti’s pity for the poor wretch increased all the more, for at least a ceramic pot allows the body to stay cool to a certain degree: imprisoned in glass, that girl must have been roasting at all times. Or perhaps she could not feel the building heat, but that was perhaps more dangerous. Plus, with no genitalia (this was stipulated as part of the punishment), she would never know pleasure again.


Heti was shifted out of her musings on the differing lots of her potgirl sisters by the sound of a splash as someone dove into the garden pools, though it was more of a lake. Who was it? Obviously, she could turn her neck somewhat, but as the lake was directly behind her head, it would do no good and besides, why should she deign to notice such things. After all, it was probably her, that bitch.

Inside her ceramic prison, her blood boiled. To think that while Heti – and all those arrayed before her in the circle, including her dear sister – had had to sacrifice so much while that scheming whore… Yes indeed, there was one continued absence from their noble circle that irked both Hetephernebty and Ahmose intensely:

Queen Merytaten-tasherit.

In the three years since they married, she had provided the pharaoh with no less than three children, two of them male. Tradition dictated that queens must undergo potisation one year after bearing a healthy male heir, and so why had this not happened to Merytaten-tasherit? If the sisters of the pharaoh had had to follow the absurd and barbaric customs of their ancestors, then why not his wife? Of course, they both knew the reason: their brother was merely a puppet, controlled by his lusty wife and domineering father-in-law. During private audiences – which were almost impossible to obtain since one or the other of the Sabus liked to be at his side at almost all times and most of the servants were in their pay too – the sisters urged Khaemweset to have the Queen undergo potisation for the good of the kingdom (and because they had both grown to detest the manipulative bitch) but he always made some lame excuse and their chance to influence affairs was virtually nil (that being half the point of the potisation ideal). So it was, that they had to suffer, while she swanned around, slept with servants and lived the life of freedom and ease. While they underwent the same ordeal of immobility, mindless chatter, and eternal boredom in the garden every day, Queen Merytaten-tasherit would swim in the lake or cavort on the lawns. It really was too much!

Still, looking at the potgirls around her, Heti realised that things could be worse. Aside from the ability to receive pleasure through her exposed breasts and womanly parts, she had other freedoms that some fathers or husbands had denied their possessions. Most of the noble potgirls had their lips pierced together through a series of golden rings. Fastened so, they were almost sewn together, although three of her companions had been forced to endure something even more severe, and thick golden thread literally did sew their mouths shut. Of course, nutrition could still be obtained in liquid form by passing a straw between the rings, but they could not speak and so were only passive observers to the proceedings, a status further emphasised by the fact that two of them had large golden balls lodged in their mouths that could be perceived through the gaps in the thread and the bulges in their young cheeks.

And one potgirl was even more strictly adorned. She had been married off by her parents to a particularly possessive husband who, worried that other men might be tempted by her beautiful visage, had her wear a blank golden mask over that face whenever out of doors, with only holes at the nostrils and mouth, and no facial features whatsoever, merely the hieroglyphics ‘Wife of Meriptah’ inscribed in their place. The hidden mouth too, was securely gagged. Silent, hidden and totally blind, she was in the world yet not. Heti could not imagine how such an existence could be endured, particularly since she had heard a rumour that her husband had also custom ordered noise-cancelling earplugs cast in gold for her, in order to shut out sinful chatter.

Those potgirls that could, were having their usual chatter (alas, none of it remotely sinful…) when, unexpectedly, a phalanx of soldiers appeared, accompanied by a captain. Without saying a word, to the astonishment of the servants standing behind their mistresses, a soldier was assigned to each potgirl who was carefully lifted and then carried off in his arms. What was happening? This was most unorthodox?!

Now looking off to see if the Queen was being escorted in a similar fashion, Heti saw one of the younger noble girls swimming in the pool instead, it must not have been her splashing about.

Heti wished she could see the burly warrior who was carrying her, but it would be unseemly to turn her head or even acknowledge his presence. Was he the one whom she had shared that little intimacy with earlier? Still, at least she could smell his manly odour and, when they passed by a mirror, she shot a glance at him and saw that, although it was a different guard, he was still handsome. Down below she felt warm and wet. What she would do for a real man to enter her rather than her porcelain toy!

They were all carried down the corridors and up the stairs into the private audience chamber of the pharaoh. Her brother was sitting there on his throne, two of his comeliest concubines at his feet. All three were smiling. Queen Merytaten-tasherit was nowhere to be seen. On either side of him were two vases shrouded in purple silk.

Once all the noble potgirls had been placed on pedestals, the pharaoh stood up and addressed them. “My dearest noblewomen, I have invited you here today in order to welcome two new additions to your little circle. I do hope you’ll make them both very welcome. Please, let me introduce my darling Queen Merytaten-tasherit and my equally-esteemed father-in-law Hepzefa Sabu.

All the potgirls gasped as the purple shrouds were removed to reveal the queen and the prime minister. Both though, were radically different in appearance from how they had formerly looked, for both had undergone potisation. Not only that, but Heti noted, with a sly feline smile, that both had also had their lips sewed tightly shut with golden thread while golden plates which looked reassuringly permanent covered the eyes of Hepzefa.

After the unveiling, they were all transported back into the water gardens. All, that is, save for the two princesses. When they were alone, Pharaoh Khaemweset II spoke with them.

“Dearest sisters, you warned me countless times about those snakes, but I did not heed you. However, late one evening, after a session of lovemaking with Isetnofret with whom I usually spend my Tuesday nights, she suggested that we go for a stroll through the gardens and, down by the riverbank, in among the grove of palms there, we heard some heavy breathing and muffled cries of ecstasy. Puzzled, I crept forward so as not to reveal my presence and there chanced across my wife copulating with a lowly gardener!

“This set my heart to great anger as you can imagine, and I was about to strike them both dead there and then, but my darling Isetnofret wisely counselled me against it and instead suggested that revenge is best left cold. As the wise and august pharaoh of this land, of course I perceived this to be the correct course, so I crept away and pretended I knew nothing of it. However, that very evening I employed Isetnofret as a spy to dig around for evidence of more infidelities of the queen. This she duly did but, in the course of her investigations, she also managed to obtain pictures and video footage of my shameless wife and her traitor of a father plotting against their pharaoh, their aim being to depose me, plant our infant son on the throne and then rule the country through him.

“With this damning evidence, I knew it was the time to act and so, last week, I invited them both to a banquet in celebration of the full moon and had Isetnofret drug their wine. They fell asleep within seconds, their faces full of horror as they realised that they had been outwitted by my magnificence. When they awoke they were as you see them now. Never again shall these two treacherous Sabu snakes threaten the one ordained by the gods!”

Both potgirls wept with joy.

Then, however, their brother’s face turned stern. “However, I have decided that things must not end there! I am pharaoh and as such, I should start stamping my gods-given authority on all my subjects. Which is why my eye has fallen on my two sisters, for my faithful Isetnofret has unearthed some disturbing evidence concerning the both of you but, in particular, you, my headstrong Heti. Evidence of you forcing the palace guards and maidservants to pleasure you in a most improper and unchaste manner. Unfaithful sis, how could you? I gave you freedom over the design of the vessel which was to bless your body for all eternity and you took advantage of my munificence and used that freedom to fulfil your wanton desires! Do you deny that this is true, Heti?”

His sister’s blushes told the pharaoh the full story.

“Well, I shall be lax and soft no longer. You are both fully-grown women now and as such you need to be wedded. I have found husbands for you both. You shall be married next month!”

Married? But how? And to whom?


Part 3

The Gift Offering: Part 1

The Gift Offering

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Author’s note: This story is set in an alternative version of our world. Things there are much the same as our own except for the fact that Egypt as a country never adopted Islam (or Christianity). Therefore, it is still ruled by a dynasty that goes right back to the time of the Pharaohs or, to put it another way, it still is the time of the Pharaohs! The current ruler is Seti XXIII. Although Egypt is not a great power or empire, it is still independent, and it continues to cling to the old religion of its glory days. However, as the centuries have passed, diversions from the original vision have taken place. This story largely concerns one of those.

This story was inspired by the wonderful artwork and storytelling of Gammatelier, NoCoeur, and Jadow Star, in particular Gamma’s artwork and the marvellous tales The Ennui of Luxury and The Pot-Girl Museum. Before you click on those links though, I do recommend that you read this first as his stories kind of give the game away as to what to expect here. Indeed, as a homage to gamera’s tale, I have used a scene from that story, slightly reworked. I hope this does not offend. I have also used other snippets from his work as the two of three pictures in this story are ones from his work and so I needed the costumes to match exactly.

I have not written anything of this nature before. Do feedback what you think since, if you like it, there could be more.

Dave Potter

Part 1

Heti sighed as the professor droned on and on. Professor Ververgaert truly was the most boring of all her lecturers, but she needed to attend his lectures since his module was a mandatory one and, if she failed that, she’d have to retake the entire year. Not that she expected to; she was a bright girl and a hardworking student who everyone predicted to do well at Leiden University, just as she had excelled in high school. Even so, having to listen to him drone on about Herodotus was just mind-numbing. She glanced across to her friend Marijke but her head, like so many of their fellow students, was already on the desk and her breathing was deep. So much for the support! She’d be asking Heti to borrow her notes to catch up later tonight, again.

Eventually it finished and the students trooped out. Heti switched her mobile back on and, to her surprise, an email notification popped up:

“Come to the dean’s office right away.”

Puzzled – why would such an important person want to talk with her, a mere first-year undergraduate? – she told the now-awake Marijke that she’d see her later in the café and headed across the campus to the dean’s office. Once there, she introduced herself to the lady at the desk and was shown into the office itself. Inside sat the dean (whom she recognised from photos) and two men whom she did not recognise at all but, from their appearance, did not look like locals.

“Hetephernebty Klaasen?” he asked, using her full name.

“Yes?” she replied, confused.

“These gentlemen have come to see you. It is about something of the utmost importance.”

“Greetings Hetephernebty,” said the first man, standing up. “My name is Nebetka Ineni and I am the Ambassador of His Holy Highness the Pharaoh of Egypt to the Kingdom of the Netherlands. With me is my colleague, Inyotefoker Pentu, the Minister of the Interior.”

That explains the dusky appearance and the use of her full name she thought to herself. Now what can they want? She shook their hands and sat down.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. “I am not an Egyptian citizen as you know, although I am eligible through my mother.”

“Have you seen the news today, Hetephernebty?” asked the ambassador.

“No, I don’t follow it as a rule. Mostly fake.”

“This is not fake. Please, observe!”

The dean then switched on a TV that was behind his desk and turned it to one of the 24-hour news channels. The headline screamed out:


As she watched, she learned that the family had been gathered for the Sokar Festival, one of the numerous celebrations dedicated to the Egyptian gods, and there had been an explosion. No one knew if it was an accident or deliberate. Some blamed Israel, others a homegrown terrorist organisation, others still postulated a gas leak. Whatever the case, all of them had been wiped out instantly.

“That is terrible,” she said finally, when the dean had switched off the screen. “However, how does it concern me? As I said before, I am not an Egyptian citizen.”

“Subject,” the ambassador corrected her. “Under His Holy Highness’ rule, we are subjects, not citizens. And no, you are not, yet. But your mother was. You know that she was of an Egyptian noble family, but left when she was a teenager on a skiing holiday in Switzerland, and lived undetected for several years in Europe before gaining refugee status here in the Netherlands and then marrying your father.”

“Of course, I know all that; I think about both of them every day and wish they were here. That is why seeing death saddens me so much. No one should have to endure what we did.”

“That is true, and they are noble sentiments, Lady Hetephernebty. However, did you also know that your mother was 142nd in line to the throne?”

“No, but why should I? Number 142 is hardly important, is it?”

“Under normal circumstances, no, but with the terrible tragedy that occurred this morning, should she still be alive, your mother would now be first in line. But, she is not; now that honour falls elsewhere. You, however, are now Number 2, which is why we came to see you. Your younger brother, Khaemweset is Number 1, while your sister, Ahmose is Number 3.”

“Oh my god!”

“As Egyptians we would say, ‘Oh, by the many gods!’ Princess Hetephernebty, but yes it is true. There is a plane waiting. We leave for Waset immediately.”

“But I can’t! My studies! My life in the Netherlands!”

“All, I am afraid, must cease. The needs of the kingdom…”

“But, with all due respect, I am not an Egyptian! I’m Dutch! I don’t want to go! My mum ran away from there for a reason, remember? You cannot force me as I am a Dutch citizen!”

“Hetephernebty,” butted in the dean with an apologetic look upon his face, “I’m afraid you must follow them. For reasons of international diplomacy, the Dutch government have rescinded your citizenship and, as we speak, your new Egyptian passport is being prepared. If they did not, it could cost millions in lost contracts, not to mention the fact that, without a royal family, Egypt could descend into anarchy and people could lose their lives.”

“So, my wishes don’t come into it?”

“Princess Hetephernebty,” said the interior minister, who had hitherto remained silent. “Your wishes are of no import; you are, as your name suggests, to become an offering to prevent war and promote prosperity. It is almost as if it were written in the stars, that your parents knew what the future held when they named you.”

Heti gave a start. Her full name meant ‘Gift Offering’. So that was to be her destiny? To be an offering to some country that she had never even visited.

And that her mum had deliberately run away from because she knew what they did to noble girls.

Following that momentous meeting in the dean’s office, Heti’s life changed irrevocably. She was whisked away from the university in a limousine with blacked-out windows to Schipol Airport where a private jet was waiting. Also waiting was her 16-year old sister Ahmose and her 18-year old brother, Khaemi, soon to become Pharaoh Khaemweset II. All three were shocked, but whereas she was upset, the younger two Klaasen siblings were excited about the new life they were about to enter. “We’ll be living in a palace, Heti!” cried Ahmose, clapping her hands.

“And I’ll be a king!” added Khaemi, smiling.

And they were right. When they arrived at Waset, the heat hit them like a wall as they descended from the plane. Even more astonishing though were the thousands of people who lined the road, bowing down to them as their limousine slowly made its way to the great palace where the pharaohs had dwelt for the past five hundred years. Once inside they were bathed and dressed in gorgeous outfits of flowing white cotton and adorned with gold and jewel-encrusted bracelets, anklets, necklaces and the like. All to represent the opulence that coursed through everything here in the palace. Their black hair was cut into the bob-cut fashionable in the pharaonic court and thick make-up applied to their faces. Even though she was still not happy, Heti had to admit that she looked and felt good.

disney egypt

The following day was both Khaemi’s coronation as pharaoh and his marriage to his new queen. Since the entire royalty and most of the nobility had been slaughtered in the blast – now determined to be due to a gas leak – choosing a bride had not been easy, but eventually a girl of eighteen from a very minor noble family named Merytaten-tasherit Sabu had been selected, largely because, although her lineage had not been strong enough for her to be at the Sokar ceremony, the family owned and ran the largest telecommunications company in the kingdom. Her father was powerful and there was a faction that said that his son, the 30-year old Rahotep, should have been made pharaoh, he being tenth in line but, unlike the Klaasens, a full-blooded Egyptian. The marriage was seen as a political attempt to placate the influential Sabu clan; after all, in this arrangement their grandson would become the next pharaoh following Khaemweset II. The ceremony was grand and opulent and the meal following, glorious, and even Heti had to admit that she rather enjoyed it all.

What she enjoyed far more though, was the life that followed. She was assigned two maidservants who followed her wherever she went and attended to her every need. She lived in a huge bedroom with a vast bed and dressed in the finest clothes and jewellery every day. During the sunny hours – and in Egypt every single day is sunny – she played with her sister in the vast water gardens by the Nile, while at night they listened to traditional music while lounging on couches, drinking fine wines and eating the tastiest morsels. No, with such a lifestyle, even Heti was convinced that maybe things weren’t so bad after all and, she almost forgot her previous existence as a Dutch student.

Almost, but not completely. At the back of her mind a doubt lingered. Her mum had run away from this place after all, and with good reason, and she was only a minor noble, not the elder sister of the pharaoh himself. The childless elder sister. At night as she tossed in her enormous bed, trying to cope with the heat after pleasuring herself, something she was doing more and more as her skin was constantly caressed by silks and satins, and so many beautiful, scantily-clad people surrounded her, doubts crept into her mind. She imagined herself facing the same terrible fate that her mother had had put before her. Where could she run to and how would she escape, if it came to that? But then, as her ears caught the lapping of the Nile waters against the river bank, she would relax. Seti XXIII was the pharaoh then, not Khaemweset II, her geeky, gawky little brother. It was true that both she and Ahmose were getting slightly concerned about the influence that Queen Merytaten-tasherit and her scheming father seemed to have over him, but Khaemi was a sensible, educated, Western-minded guy. The old ways held no attraction for him and, besides, what attraction did they hold for Egypt as a whole these days? After all, if it hadn’t been for that terrible custom, then the death toll at the Sokar Festival would have probably been half of what it was, if not less than that, and they wouldn’t have had to import a new royal family in from Holland, of all places.

No, those days were in the past and good riddance to them.

And with those reassuring thoughts, her mind would turn to something more pleasant; perhaps that hunky gardener, always stripped to the waist, whose job it was to clean the palm leaves out of the lake. What would it be like to have him in the bed with her, to have his rod – which she’d noticed straining under his loincloth – spring out and spread her lower lips.

And as she thought such sinful yet heavenly thoughts, her hand would stray downwards once again and she would be lost in ecstasy.

But then, some three months after their arrival in Waset, a servant came to the two sisters as they were playing in the water gardens and told them that their august brother, His Holy Highness Khaemweset II requested their presence in the throne room. They’d been seeing less and less of their brother as he became increasingly occupied with affairs of state – and, if the palace rumours were to be believed, by his young wife and countless concubines in the bedchamber – so they welcomed this opportunity to have a chat. However, when they arrived, they found him surrounded by his ministers, including the new prime minister, his wife’s father, all clothed in the full regalia of state.

“Dearest royal sisters,” he announced, after embracing both of them warmly, “I’ve summoned you here today to inform you that now is the time for us to really cement this new line of royal blood in our ancient kingdom by reinstating some of the old traditions.”

“What traditions might those be, Khaemi?” asked Ahmose.

“Why, the ancient and holy rite that let’s noble women like yourselves truly embrace your new status. Sisters, I have come to tell you that, this coming full moon, you shall both fully embrace your royal status by undergoing the rites of…”

“No! No, Khaemi, you can’t mean that!” cried Heti.

“Of course, I do, sister. It is the traditional way. All princesses and second-in-line…”

“Khaemi, what about mamma? Why do you think she ran away from Egypt in the first place and would never return?”

“Her shirking of her duties is a stain that should not be mentioned in this place. It…”

“It is barbaric, that is what it is! She could not bear it! I cannot bear it!”

“It is your duty, Princess Hetephernebty, as it is yours too, Princess Ahmose.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Ahmose, confused, for she had never been told why their mother ran away to Europe and was granted refugee status all those years ago.

But when she was told, the palace guards had to restrain her until she had calmed down enough to be led away.


Part 2

The Ladies of Hetherington Hall: Part 3

Part 2

Chapter 5

The moment she opened her eyes, she knew instinctively that something was wrong. To start with, there was her sight. She could see… but it was different. Like gazing through a pair of binoculars backwards, Lucy was left with two small pinpricks rather than all-around vision. Anything peripheral was gone.

And there was a feeling of enclosure. Around her head. Her head felt covered and compressed. And her mouth felt full. She tried to speak but nothing happened. Not a sound. Her mouth wouldn’t even open. She put her hand to her face, but it didn’t touch. She couldn’t feel anything… well, not properly. As the fog of sleep cleared she realised that this was due to the rubber coating her fingers, but it was more than that. Her fingers couldn’t feel, but then neither could her cheek. And that was surely not right. She tried to sit up but in the corset it was hard. Eventually she managed, disorientated with every turn as she could only see straight ahead. She could hear nothing too. It was like she had been mummified. And like a mummy, she was warm, very warm, all over. Eventually she sat up, her legs dangling off the bed. She tried to stand but when she attempted to take a step she stumbled and fell back onto the bed. Then she recalled her bedroom boots without heels. Of course she couldn’t walk in them! She shuffled towards the post at the corner of the bed and stood gingerly, holding on for support. Then she turned to face the full-length bedroom mirror. What she saw caused her to faint instantly in shock.

She came to with Meakes standing over her wafting some smelling salts beneath her nose. “Good morning, Miss Parkinson,” she said, smiling. “I trust you slept well.”

Lucy tried to answer but, of course, she could not, so she waved her rubberised arms about in protest.

“Ah, I assume that you are referring to your new head, Miss Parkinson? Well, Miss Unsworth did tell you about her fascination with rubber I believe, and it would not have been correct for us to only cover the lower part of you, now would it?”

Lucy had been referring to her “new head”. What she had seen in the mirror had been a life-size rubber doll. The body – arms, legs, everything up to the neck – she had expected, but it was what was now above that had caused her to pass out. Staring back at her was a totally rubberised head. It had the face of a doll, with large, vacant eyes staring back at her, and long chestnut hair that cascaded all the way down to the floor. What was most off-putting however, was that it was, unmistakably, her. It was a rubber doll’s face but a face modelling closely and accurately on her own, like as if someone had wanted to produce a life size Lucy Parkinson Barbie. As if reading her thoughts, Meakes said, “Yes, I know, the dollmaker has done a wonderful job with it, truly exquisite.” She paused and stood back to admire that “wonderful job” and then said, “I shall go and inform Miss Unsworth that you have awoken.”

While Lucy waited for the maid to return with her friend and lesbian lover, she explored her new reality. The strange vision was explained: she was now peering through two pinholes in the centre of the large fake doll eyes on the face. What was more, she had noticed that her hearing seemed dimmed and somewhat indistinct, but of course it would be with rubber now coating her hears and their canals. Similarly, her mouth seemed to be filled with something. Using a rubberised finger, she found that she could open the mask’s lips and insert it, but only a narrow channel remained. There were no teeth and everything else was packed with some sort of rubber filling. Her tongue was nowhere to be found. At first she wondered it if had been removed, but then realised that such a notion was ridiculous considering that this was only a temporary thing and the whole rubber ensemble would be removed at the end of the week ready for her to return to uni. This had all been done to prove herself to her lover, a lover who had already proven her devotion back through the exploits of the night before.

That lover then burst through the door and ran towards her friend. She threw her arms around her and declared, “Lucy darling, you look so wonderful! I never thought it could be but you are truly exquisite, like a living and breathing rubber doll!” Lucy tried to reciprocate the embrace but with a rubberised face, a filled mouth and lips that no longer obeyed her commands, she found herself unable to do so, like a passive participant in the whole affair.

“My darling, what a marvellous job they have done! I watched the early stages of course, but not the rest. I kept it a secret as I so wanted to surprise you; I could see how much you had embraced the bondage and rubber before and I thought how much you would love this complete enclosure. You must be wondering what happened, though?”

Lucy did her best to nod.

“They shaved your head, rubbed in the lotion and then sprayed it all with the rubber until only the face remained. Then they sprayed the interior of your mouth before adding the pre-formed mouth filler before it had dried so that it merged into the liquid rubber and filled you so well whilst still leaving a channel for food and other activities. And then came the face plate, premanufactured of course and affixed with great care with spray rubber being used to seal it in place and smooth the seams which are now indistinguishable. Then finally came the wig; do you like it? I’ll let you into a secret: I let them use some of my hair in it so that you will always have a piece of me with you!”

Jane’s words had soothed her shock and fear somewhat. Her friend obviously thought that her embracing of all the rubber and bondage was a show of love for it: what a misunderstanding! Still, she obviously had her best interests at heart! Years later they would laugh about it. The only thing that concerned her slightly was the phrase “always have a piece of me with you”. What was “always” about an outfit she would only be wearing for a few more days at most? Then she realised: Jane said “always” because she intended to keep the costume once discarded and perhaps reuse it for their sexual games on later occasions. Oh well, she would consent to that!

“I must go now as Meakes needs to get you ready for the big day. I too have to get changed of course, but we’ll see each other soon! Love you forever!” And then, with a peck on her unfeeling, rubberised lips, she was gone and Lucy was left alone and wondering, what big day?

Meakes did not explain and Lucy could not ask. She was immediately led to the bath where, despite her rubberised form, she was washed thoroughly. It was weird having water all around her and yet remaining dry. She also wondered what the point was, but again, as if reading her mind, Meakes commented, “This rubber is a new technology developed by the US military in fact. It is a unique compound created by blending conventional commercial butyl rubber and polymerizable liquid crystal. What that means is that, while it keeps elements out – like germs and disease – it also allows the skin to breathe and sweat to seep out so that it can be worn, if wanted, permanently.”

Lucy, of course, could think of nothing worse than being encased in rubber permanently, but it was interesting to learn what modern technology could now do and it explained the purpose of the bath.

After being towelled dry, she was led to the lacing bar and her dressing began. Today there was no shift and instead a new corset was brought out. It was a beautiful creation of white silk and lace but heavily boned. As it was fastened around her and the laces drawn in, Lucy first felt security, then constriction, then faintness. Soon she blacked out for the second time that morning.

When she came to, the pressure around her waist was unbelievable, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her head spun and her rubberised breasts heaved up and down and, with each rise, there was a painful tug on the rings still adorning each nipple. As she hung there, Meakes worked down below, fitting stockings attached to suspender clips dangling from the bottom of the stays, and then thigh-length en pointe boots. All was in in white. Then came the petticoats and the crinoline, enormous in its dimensions.

After this the suffering girl was released and, after getting over the initial shock of weight being put onto her legs and her waist expanding, she minced over to a chair. Then came the styling of her much-longer hair. It took over an hour, an exquisite creation of ringlets and curls with jewels and ribbons affixed within. Again, all was white.

That done, there came a pair of tight white silk gloves and then the dress itself. A glorious monument to the dressmaker’s art in white silk, dripping with jewels, lace and false flowers, it was lowered over her head and laced formly. Off-the-shoulder, it left that bit of her rubber skin free. Around her neck was a white lace choker that indeed lived up to it’s name.

And then, finally, an item most unexpected: an elaborate veil of netting with several layers that, when lowered, obscured what little vision she had left. And, thus completed, Meakes held her hand as she minced out of the room.

She walked blind down corridors and then they stopped. Meakes let go and another hand took hers. “You look wonderful,” whispered Jane. “Being knocked out for three days while we fitted that rubber head was definitely worthwhile!”

Three days? What did she mean? She had been out for that long! But three days, that meant… it meant the wedding, Mr. Unsworth’s wedding, was today!

The organ struck up a chord and Jane started to lead her friend forward and, with horror, Lucy realised that the wedding was now.

And she was the bride!


Chapter 6

Her wedding. Where to start?

The day would remain engraved on her mind forever. In that instant when the organ began to play the wedding march and the woman she had hitherto considered to be both friend and lover guided her forward, in that single instant her life changed irrevocably. It was, as with St. Paul, like the scales fell from her eyes.

Metaphorically at least. Literally, imprisoned behind doll eyes and then covered by several layers of veils, she saw nothing at all beyond a white blur.

But metaphorically, all became clear. Or, at least, the illusion was smashed. If Jane was her lover, why was she marrying her off to her father? And if Jane was her friend, then why had she deceived her in such a manner? And if Jane was neither a lover nor a friend, then what exactly was she?

Stunned and dazed, she minced forward. Then, she stopped – or was stopped by Jane – who bent over and lifted the veils. What she saw shocked her.

On one side was the man who was soon to be her husband. Mr. John Unsworth, the slightly-leery father of Jane. His none-too-subtle ogling and constant compliments now made sense. He had never seen her as a friend of his daughter, but instead as his future life partner, no, possession.

But on the other side…

Who was that standing next to her, giving her away?

Well, it was Jane of course, but a Jane transfigured. Gone was the casual uni student and gone too was the Victorian maiden. And in their place stood a confident, dominant and extremely sexy woman. Yes, she was wearing a male suit and top hat as befits the father of the bride. But this was a suit specially tailored. The trousers were tight, highlighting her perfect arse which strained against them, whilst the jacket tucked in the middle to similarly highlight her corseted waist, while above, her breasts strained against the material. It was a lesbian reworking of the classic outfit. Even betrayed as Lucy felt, the infatuation left in her made her ogle. She was gorgeous!

“Who gives this woman away?” intoned the priest.

“I do,” replied the new Jane.

And thus the service continued, a blur of words and emotions as Lucy struggled to stay conscious and continually shifted from one foot to the other to relieve the pressure. At one point the priest say, “Do you, Lucy Annabel Parkinson, take this John Humphrey Unsworth, to be your lawful wedded husband?” How could she answer. What should she do?

“She does,” replied Jane confidently.

Then came rings and the kiss and, before she knew it, she was joined to John Unsworth for all eternity. Jane let go and he took her arm in his, turned her round and marched her down the aisle.

Which is when she got another shock.

The congregation.

The men were all in Victorian dress. She recognised several from the ball the previous… nay, four nights ago. The women were also in period costume, a fantasia of corsets and crinolines. But what struck her attention more than that was their faces. Each and every one was a rubber doll just like her. The only non-rubberised female present was Jane.

What the fuck was going on?!

In the reception held in the dining room, she found out. Oh my God, did she find out!

Prior to entering, her husband had lovingly laced a single glove over her arms. They all sat there eating the wedding meal. All the other women – save for Jane – were similarly restrained. Or at least, the men ate. And Jane. The women though, rubber dolls all, were instead presented with a kind of mush in tubes which the maids squeezed slowly down their throats. All had mouths modified like hers. All were incapable of consuming solid food. Not only were they as helpless as babies, but they also ate like them. And then, when everybody was full and the wine had begun to flow for the men – and Jane – there came the speeches.

Jane spoke first. As “the father of the bride”, that was only correct and traditional. What she said was neither.

“You all know me,” she began, “for this is the fourteenth time I have played this role. Indeed, looking around the room, I recall acting as the father for many of the dolls here. I have enjoyed each and every one, although I am sad to say that this may possibly be the last wedding I arrange. After all, I will be twenty-five next January and it is getting increasingly difficult to pass myself off as a first-year undergraduate. However, if Jenny Simpson does retire today, fear not; her successor has already been groomed. Indeed, she is out working on a case today. The future of our esteemed Society is assured!”

At these words the entire room – or at least, the male half of it – clapped and cheered. Lucy, on the other hand, was confused. Jane had acted in this role fourteen times already? Jane was actually twenty-four?! Jane was actually called Jenny?! And who were the Society?!

“However, my final assignment Lucy Unsworth may well turn out to be, I can say in all honesty that she has also been among the best. When the Society told me that the girl they had selected was Miss Parkinson, I did not know what to expect. Over the course of the last few months however, I have come to know a caring, charming, compassionate young lady whom, I have no doubt, will make a marvellous wife for my friend, John Unsworth here. I told Lucy that I loved her and I genuinely do. Indeed, and this is not always the case in this job, it actually hurt me to lie to her about my name and motives. I am in fact rather jealous that it is John and not I who will be sharing her bed tonight for, if this is not too crude to say, she has a lovely pert little arse, fantastic tits and, well, John, let me just say this: you’re getting a fantastic shag!”

At these words the room erupted into cheers and applause again. Lucy however, merely felt mortified.

Jane – or should I say Jenny Simpson’s – speech was followed by that of her husband. His was a bland and stale affair and revealed far less. He thanked Jane for her work, also Meakes for preparing his bride and the Society for making his dream possible. He spoke of his fixation with dolls from an early age and his youthful explorations of the fetish scene when he lived in Germany as a young financier in Frankfurt. He then spoke about his first marriage and how his wife had cheated on him and was interested only in his money. Then he went on to the second which, in his words, was no better. “Finally though, I am sure I have found a wife who will remain faithful – well, until Jenny comes round to visit” (cue raucous laughter) – “and will fulfil all my requirements for a spouse admirably. And so, thank you darling Lucy for making an old man very happy again!”

The final speech was made by a man sitting at the top table who was obviously the best man. He was of a similar age to her husband and Lucy recognised him from the ball a few days before. He stood up and announced himself as Jacob Huntley-Smith, Chairman of the Society of Doll Aficionados United Kingdom Chapter. What he said revealed so much to Lucy but also chilled her to the bone.

“As a child, I, like so many others, was fascinated by dolls. We are naturally drawn to them with their perfect faces, gorgeous costumes and elegant poses. Girls, in particular, naturally feel an affinity towards them. The simple truth that the child can see, the adult often misses. A girl can recognise in a doll what it is that she should aim to be: beautiful, submissive, passive. A boy can recognise what he should be looking for in a bride for a bride becomes a life partner. A man’s natural role is a leader, and a woman’s is as his accessory. Sadly, with the dragons of feminism, cultural Marxism and political correctness so prevalent in our depraved world today, what is good is seen as evil and what is evil is seen as a virtue.

“It is a full thirty-two years today since I founded the UK chapter of the Society of Doll Aficionados. You all know this story, but, like John here, I too have had painful experiences with marriage. I married young and I married for love. I gave that woman my trust and in turn I was betrayed and rejected. Society outside these walls was on her side. Unlike many men though, I learned from that painful experience. I worked out what the ideal in a woman should be: the doll ideal. Then I sought such a woman and, when I found none forthcoming, I created her. I did not marry afresh but, instead, had my existing wife abducted from her Bahamas beach house, transported to Loch Leerie Castle and transformed into what she should have been all along. Sadly, she is no longer with me, but in the twelve years that she lived by my side as a doll, I believe she learned the error of her ways.

“When I think back to those early days, I almost laugh. How primitive we were! Remember the porcelain masks that our first dolls wore? Or those pioneering rubber suits that were zipped at the back and had to be changed regularly. Technology has helped us no end, particularly through the conduit of our American cousin Hank Peterson III – Hank, are you there? Yes, give us all a wave! Hank here, with his position in the military, helped to fund development of the rubber compound we use today; a compound that is sprayed on, that allows the skin to breath, that bonds with that skin so that it may never be removed for, to remove the rubber is to remove the skin itself. A second skin that is permanent. Gentlemen, is that not the very fulfillment of the doll ideal? The doll identity so fused with the original that the two are inseparable? Once encased, our dolls will never become base humans ever again. What an achievement! Instead they remain as silent and enchanting as young Lucy here, still youthful even as the decades roll by.

“Gentlemen, I have spoken too long. You all have your own dolls to attend to and John here has his to enjoy for the very first time. However, before I go, I must pay, on behalf of the Society, our huge debt of gratitude, to Miss Jenny Simpson here. It was an inspired idea all those years ago to use our connections in data analysis to scour university and college student lists for young females without familial ties like Mrs. Unsworth here, and then to use talented lesbians – Jenny, I’ve always seen you as an honorary male – to lure them in. How you do it, I do not know. That you have sneaked into so many lectures in so many educational establishments with no one ever questioning your right to be there is breathtaking. The confidence of a man, I see it in you. And you say that, at twenty-four, it is getting hard to pass as a nineteen-year old? Jenny, I’m sure if you wanted to, you have a good few years yet.”

This elicited some cheers and ‘Hear! Hear!’s from the crowd.

“However, to show the Society’s gratitude to you for your services, on behalf of all of us here at the Society, I would like to present you with a gift. Do you recall, all those years ago, young Emma Houghton whom you lured in from Exeter University and who became Mrs. James Draycott of Draycott Hall?”

“Of course, she was my second assignment, Jacob.”

“Well, sadly, James died of a heart attack two months ago, leaving Mrs. Draycott a widow. More than that, he also left to the Society, his house and all his wealth on the proviso that we care for his beloved. And so, in appreciation of your sterling work, Jenny, may I hand you the keys to your new home and present to you a gorgeous companion for your bed!”

And with those words a rubber doll with platinum blonde ringlets, her arms in a single glove, was led into the room by a maid on the end of a silver leash. The whole (male half of the) room stood up and clapped as she tottered over to the top table and the leash was handed over to the lesbian deceiver whom Lucy had loved as Jane. And, as glasses were raised to the bride and groom and the band struck up, Lucy fainted clean away.



Silence reigns in the room save for the ticking of the clock and the beating of the raindrops against the window panes. Mrs. Unsworth sits there motionless, her arms pinnioned behind her in a monoglove, her crinoline dress ordered and pristine, her eyes staring vacantly forwards.

Beneath that rubber face though, there is turmoil. It is a full six months since Lucy was wed to John Unsworth. They have not been the happiest months of her life.

In addition to the shock of betrayal, there was that wedding night. As per Society custom, she was stripped naked, lain on the bed, her wrists and ankles fastened to the four posts by silver chains. Then she was taken, entirely passive and accommodating. Subsequently, it has been different. John has at times allowed her more freedom – he enjoys the struggle – on other occasions less – he loves the look of a monoglove. One constant remains though: his lack of concern for her pleasure. She worked out on that very first night why his first two wives left him.

Beyond the sex there is boredom. Day after silent day as an anonymous rubber doll, clad in the most beautiful of costumes, sitting silent and restrained in the drawing room. Anger boils over in her heart some days. She thinks of the life that she should be leading, the fun-filled, hedonistic and carefree existence of a university student in the prime of her life, experiencing life in all its fullness. Instead she is now naught more than a doll, a pretty accessory to the man who rapes her every night. Nothing breaks the monotony.

Well, almost nothing.

She shudders slightly. The dildo in her love channel has started up again. Its long, low vibrations, always enough to excite her, never enough to bring her to completion. On their first morning together John produced the two plugs that would become a permanent part of her attire from then on. She is used to a full bottom and vagina these days. At the start though, they humiliated her.

But not nearly so much as when the bottom plug was removed and something else stuck in there.

The buzzing continues and she fidgets again, excited. For today the monotony will be broken.

When Jenny Simpson first turned up, a month after the wedding, she wanted to rip her eyes out, to beat her to a pulp for her cruel and callous betrayal. She did nothing of the sort, of course; she physically could not, but the hateful desire was there. But then, when the lesbian handed her “toy” over to John to play with and she led Lucy to the bedroom, something changed. She still hated Jenny, but this fellow woman understood her needs and was willing to accommodate them. After the stale, desultory sex with her husband, bound and needy as she was, the session with the woman who had tricked her was heavenly. And so, despite the anger still burning, she desired her.

The line between love and hate is thin.

‘Today is March 15th. I don’t usually know the date, days bleed into each other, but I know that today is March 15th because on March 15th, in the afternoon, Miss Jennifer Simpson and Mrs. Emma Draycott are coming to stay for a night. When though, I cannot say. No one includes me in anything these days, no one asks my opinion or thinks I should be informed. That’s because they don’t really see me as a human being anymore. I am no longer the vibrant, lively, happy uni student that I was but six months ago. No. Today I am only a doll. A silent, passive, cute and willing rubber doll.And it is all my own fault. No one else is to blame. I befriended Jane. I chose to come here. I accepted the bondage. I signed the documents. I stood by passively as they covered me in rubber. I never saw the signs.

Perhaps I was destined to be a doll all along. After all, a normal girl would have done something, would have said no…’

Her thoughts drift off into nothingness. She sits there unmoving, waiting, waiting, waiting. The clock ticks and the raindrops continue to patter against the windows. But the buzzing has stopped. It never lasts long, but then it never stays off long either. Behind those glass eyes, she starts to feel drowsy. Sleep starts to come.

She hears the doorbell ring and she jerks open again. They are here! Lucy the rubber doll can’t help but squirm in anticipation.



Written December 8th – 13th, 2018

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

The Ladies of Hetherington Hall: Part 2

Part 1

Chapter 3

Lucy awoke the next morning in her four-poster still wearing the tight corset. As she adjusted herself away from the realm of dreams, she recalled the night before and her mind entered turmoil. What had happened and what was she to do?

In short, what had happened is that the passion that had been brewing for weeks, nay months, between her and her friend Jane had finally boiled over and burst into the open. She had told Jane how she felt about her and, to her surprise and delight, the feelings were reciprocal.

Well, almost.

You see, that passion wasn’t all. Jane had also revealed to her friend another passion that was foremost in her mind.


What even was it? She knew vaguely about tying people up and cheap porn videos or sex clubs where one person submits to a “Master” or “Mistress” and then is whipped and wears leather or something. But those ideas were vague and unformed and it was not something that she had ever personally considered. But Jane had said to her, in no uncertain terms that, if they wanted their intimacy to increase, she would have to agree to trying out some of this bondage.

And Lucy, overcome by the moment, had agreed.

But did she want to be dressed in leather, tied up and whipped? Her gut reaction was ‘No way!’ but then if it were Jane doing it… perhaps. After all, she had never considered wearing Victorian costume before and, despite the difficulty of the corset and wide skirts, she had sort-of become used to that and even enjoyed it in a way. But was that enjoyment because she was restricted or was it because she was living history?

She didn’t know.

Should she go back to her friend and tell her that she had changed her mind?

She could, but then Jane would undoubtedly feel let down. Was it not a good thing that she had been so honest and besides, if they were to have some sort of future together, then was it not but right and proper that they shared one another’s passions?

Even if those passions did involve being tied up?

But then again, did they? Jane had asked her to try out some bondage and restriction but hadn’t really specified what. She thought back to that strange essay. The girls in there wore collars around their necks and were attached together on a chain when they attended finishing school. They also had their arms bound and wore masks which preserved their anonymity. None of that sounded much fun but then, well… don’t knock something until you’ve tried it.

That’s what her mother used to say, God bless her memory.

No, she would try it. For Jane’s sake. It would demonstrate that Lucy’s devotion was real. And besides, it was only for a few weeks until after the holidays had finished. She could put up with anything for that long.

And besides, if she did, then Jane might go further than she had been willing to the previous evening when, after a lot of kissing and cuddling, she had broken away and made her friend make the promise.

“Lucy here has decided to embrace the Victorian ideal more than before. Although she has become competent at wearing her corset and crinoline, she has recognised, through reading accounts from the time, that in terms of discipline, mindset and posture, she is far from the Victorian ideal. Therefore, she would like you to take over the matter and act as her guardian in this way.”

Jane was talking to Meakes. The two girls had enjoyed their breakfast as usual with Mr. Unsworth and had then returned to their rooms. Lucy smiled inwardly at how her friend was explaining it all to the maid. She really was entering into the role play element of it all and Lucy guessed this was turning Jane on. Perhaps Meakes too if she liked similar things although the strait-laced (literally!) maid never betrayed any emotions.

“Is this true Miss Parkinson?”

“Yes, Meakes.”

“That is fine. However, I am afraid to say that since we currently live in the 21st century and not the 19th, I am not prepared to implement any disciplinary, posture reformation or restrictive measures without your signed consent. I do apologise but I am sure you understand that I cannot leave myself open to any legal claims.”

“Lucy would never do anything like that, Meakes, she…”

“I must insist, Miss Unsworth, as I insisted with you.”

“No, no, I quite understand,” butted in Lucy. And she did. It was yet another case of health and safety gone mad.

“Then I shall print off a copy of the form that we developed for Miss Unsworth and you can sign that.”

The maid disappeared and then returned several minutes later carrying the “form”. Except that it was more like a book, with page after page, each in very small script. Lucy started to read and, despite the legalistic language, it looked pretty kosher. Jane started tapping her feet though to indicate her boredom so Lucy skimmed over the next forty or so pages and then signed her name at the bottom. Once this was done, then Meakes nodded, took the document and turned to her “charge”.

“Right Miss Parkinson, since you have given me these new responsibilities, then I feel it is my place to state some truths that I have kept to myself unto now. Firstly, although you have made admirable progress with your corsetting, you still have a ways to go until you are presentable in society and, with Mr. Unsworth’s wedding not far off, I feel that the progress should be accelerated. To do that, I shall be introducing a lacing bar to your morning routine. Now, I appreciate that there is no such piece of apparatus in the room that you now occupy and so I propose moving you to the late Mrs. Unsworth’s room, so please, come with me.”

Lucy followed the maid through several corridors into the West Wing where Mr. Unsworth slept, into a room far grander than even Jane’s, which had once been occupied by her mother. As they walked, Lucy wondered just what a lacing bar was exactly, but when they got to the room, she got her answer straight away. It was a bar hanging from the ceiling like a trapeze with two cuffs hanging from it. Lucy was stripped of all her clothing save for the shift and then directed towards the bar which she was then ordered to hold. She did so and then the maid fastened the cuffs around her wrists. Wondering what their purpose was, she soon found out when Meakes turned a handle by the wall and the bar slowly rose, taking her with it. Eventually it got to the point where she could only reach the floor with her tiptoes. Then Meakes stopped and brought out a corset.

But not the one that she had previously been wearing.

“This arrived today, Miss Parkinson, direct from the corsetiere’s. The one that you wore before was Miss Unsworth’s and it never fitted properly. This is specially tailored to your body.”

Specially tailored it may have been, but Lucy was not quite sure that she wanted to wear it. It looked considerably longer than the previous one with a busk and smaller in the waist too. Curiously, there was also a strap hanging down from it.

She started to fit it and immediately Lucy could feel that it would constrain her more. Even lightly laced, it seemed to restrict her breathing to a greater degree than her old stays. When Meakes seriously started to pull, Lucy felt most uncomfortable indeed. However, she knew better than to ask her to stop and so she kept quiet, yet still Meakes kept tugging and tugging until her breath became ragged and she began to lose consciousness. “Stop… please… I’m… feeling… faint…” But Meakes did not stop and, before she knew it, Lucy faded away.

She was brought around by an acrid smell in her nostrils. Immediately she tried gasping for air but the corset would not allow it. “You are at nineteen inches now, Miss Unsworth, which is progress, but the corset is still a full three inches off closing. You shall wear it closed for the wedding.”

Sixteen inches! But how could she ever?!

“The lacing bar has made a great difference. It stretches your body allowing for greater reductions,” continued the maid.

As Lucy’s body was recovering from the lacing, Meakes was working elsewhere on her. She went down below, taking the strap that was hanging from the bottom of the corset and fastening it between her charge’s legs, attaching it to the bag. It now covered both her sex and her bottom hole although, disconcertingly, it seemed to be covered with what felt like rubber nubs that rubbed against her and excited her. Meakes then fitted a new pair of white silk stockings onto her legs and then brought out a new pair of boots. Lucy was not pleased to discover that these had an extra inch or more on the heels.

“These will do for now until you work up to suitable heels,” said the maid.

The obligatory petticoats and crinoline now followed and then the bar was lowered and Lucy put her feet properly on the ground.

Or at least, the tiptoes of them.

Immediately she noticed a difference. Without the stretching caused by the bar, her waist tried to expand and the pressure around her middle grew exponentially. She felt herself growing faint again but, thankfully, this time she stayed conscious, barely.

Unfastened from the bar, she was led to the middle of the room and her blouse and gown fitted over her head. Today she was dressed in a beautiful creation in blue silk but the beauty was offset by the ferocity of the undergarments that made wearing it possible. Lucy was then led over to the bed and bade to sit down. “Your posture really is a problem and so we must do something to remedy that,” remarked Meakes. She refitted her charge’s kid leather gloves and then took her hands and, to her astonishment, guided them behind her back where they were fastened using a sort of sleeve, a little like a muff, that kept them secured wrist-to-elbow. This extreme position not only rendered her hands useless but also forced her to thrust out her breasts lewdly. “What are you doing? How can I do anything like this?” she asked.

“A lady need not do anything, Miss Parkinson. That is why you have me to assist you.”

And she was not finished with that “assistance” either. Another item was brought out, a high leather collar with a golden ring on the front and lace trimmings was fastened around her neck. This forced Lucy to keep her head erect and made turning it difficult. Finally, restrained and squeezed almost to fainting, she was allowed to mince out of the room with her maid’s support to join her friend.

Jane, to Lucy’s surprise, seemed to be wearing more or less what she had before. She was, however, enthusiastic about the changes in her friend’s attire, complimenting her on the narrower waist and improved posture. And, after that, the day went much as before except that now Lucy needed everything doing for her and she was constantly out-of-breath. Indeed, when it came to a walk around the grounds, she could only manage around twenty steps before having to stop and catch her breath, her breasts heaving up and down for around a minute until she could continue. None of this was helped by the fact that, whenever she moved, the nubs on the corset strap rubbed her down below causing great excitement in a place where, restrained as she was, that excitement could not be relieved.

The loss of the use of her arms irked Lucy the most, as it really rendered her helpless. She looked forward to lunchtime as she knew that then they would need to be released but, to her surprise and dismay, Meakes instead decided to feed her the sandwiches that had been prepared as if she were a baby, dabbing her lips delicately after each bite.

Not that she took many bites. With her waist so compressed, she was full after only three or four of the dainty little snacks.

She also expected release soon afterwards when she revealed that she needed to use the toilet, but again, Meakes attended to her as a baby, wiping her bottom so that she felt quite embarrassed and ashamed.

Finally though, after an evening meal during which Jane’s father was most enthusiastic about the changes and seemed to drink in her new figure to a degree slightly off putting, it was announced that she should prepare for bed. She was led upstairs and divested of her arm sleeve and the gown and then taken to the lacing bar where, to her delight, the crushing stays were removed.

The relief was only temporary of course. The reason that the stays were taken off was so that a shorter night corset could be fitted. This left her breasts free though, which was bliss after having them compressed all day. On several occasions, they had even threatened to pop out of the corset altogether making her secretly glad that she wasn’t wearing a low-cut dress, but being rid of the culprit now was even better.

Her boots were also removed but, to her dismay, once released from the lacing bar she was led to the bed and some unexpected items were fitted onto her.

The first were a pair of mittens that went over her cream-filled gloves. These were in white silk and decorated with pretty sky blue laces, but what irked Lucy was that they were padded and thumbless, so once wearing them, her hands were as useless as they had been during the day. “This is to stop any naughty behaviour in the night,” explained Meakes, “such as trying to undo corset laces or crotch straps.” Lucy blushed. Whilst she had more or less given up on trying to take off her corset, she had been planning on undoing the simple button on the strap and releasing the tension that had built up during the day.

The second new item was another pair of boots. These were most peculiar indeed as they stretched to her thighs and were laced for their entire length. Fitting them took a full ten minutes each and, once on, Lucy’s ability to bend her legs was severely hampered. Worse than that though, the boots forced her feet down vertically like those of a ballet dancer, and they had no heels so moving around in them without holding onto someone else for support was impossible. “They prevent nocturnal wandering,” Meakes explained.

Horrified at what her guardian called nightwear, she just sat in silence as the maid fitted a dressing gown over her head and then tucked her in bed. Jane came around soon after, which was a pleasure, particularly as she used her free hands to explore Lucy’s body (although, annoyingly, she refused to undo the crotch strap), and her lips to explore her friend’s willing mouth. However, she left all too soon and Lucy found herself alone and almost entirely helpless.

And so things continued for a week without much change. On the second day in this new outfit, it was decreed that the girls should join Lucy’s father in the drawing room for a music recital and so they changed into evening dresses which were off-the-shoulder. Lucy found hers, a glorious creation in pink, to be beautiful indeed, but it presented a new problem: that of her breasts which had escaped the corset cups on more than one occasion already. Meakes remedied this by adding clips to her nipples which were then fastened to the corset. This worked, but the pain was intense, causing her to complain bitterly. Meakes nodded in agreement, then took her charge’s right nipple, examined the metal stud in pierced through it and then said, “Perhaps something can be done with this instead?” Thus, the following day, just before bed, the maid carefully unscrewed and removed the studs and replaced them with metal rings. This was all well and good, but what surprised Lucy a little was that, once she had carefully (and painfully – for the rings were much thicker in diameter than the purely decorative studs had been and so stretched the pierced holes somewhat) threaded the ring on, Meakes then used a heated implement to quickly braize them shut. “What was that for?” she asked in shock, the ring stinging a bit from the heat. “Because otherwise, Miss Parkinson, the rings would be too weak to bear the stress. As they are now, we can attach them onto these clips here within the corset busk and they will keep your lovely firm breasts safely ensconced within their homes.” This arrangement was certainly less painful than the clips, although they did drag and tug on the nipples when she next wore an off-the-shoulder number the following evening, but they also had the effect of continually reminding her of those delicate nubs which, added to the almost intolerable tension caused by the crotch strap, was now sending her almost over the edge.

For the first time in her life she understood why many Victorians viewed women as being naturally hysterical.


Chapter 4

Lucy stood naked in the room, shivering all over. It was not the cold however that was causing her to react that way, but the fear. What she was about to do was something she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with. An argument was raging in her head:

One Lucy Parkinson was saying, ‘Go ahead! Yes, it’s been difficult so far, but you must admit it has also been exciting and besides, think of the prize at the end!’

The other Lucy Parkinson shouted, ‘Stop! This is weird! It’s freaky! It’s wrong! Have you really enjoyed spending most of your time tied up, squeezed and silenced? All that and now this? Yes, there is a prize at the end, but is that prize even worth it? If she really loved you then she wouldn’t ask such a thing!’

The two clashed and fought in her head, first one gaining the upper hand and then the other. Finally, the Lucy of caution won over. ‘I shall just tell her no,’ she told herself.

And at that moment Jane opened the door, walked in, threw her arms around her friend and kissed her passionately on the lips. “I love you so much!” she whispered in her ear. “I can’t believe you are prepared to do this for me!”

And in that moment all her doubts had disappeared.

A month passed. It was now the start of September and they were due to return to university. But Jane convinced Lucy to delay it for a week and stay on at Hetherington Hall until her father’s wedding had taken place. “It will be soooo special and, besides, what does it matter if we miss a week or two of lectures; we hardly turn up to them anyway!”

That though, was only part of the story.

The month that had passed had been one of the most intense of Lucy’s life, for it had been a month spent in Victorian costume and bondage with the eternal prize of Jane’s love forever dangled before her but never quite in reach. And the bondage she had been living in was not that which we last left her with.

It all happened so gradually. A bit here and a bit there. The corset reductions were constant and now she sported a seventeen inch waist as a matter of course. Nor was that the only lacing that she endured. Her boots had changed too. The daytime ones now also reached up to her thighs and, like those she wore in bed, forced her to walk continually on tip-toes like a ballet dancer. Jane called them en pointe. Lucy felt constantly unsteady and even the shortest journey was a trial. Thus, she had started to move far less, spending most of the day sitting. But when she did take her (now mandatory) “constitutional” around the grounds, it was an awesome task. The pressure on her feet was immense and to move any distance took an age for the boots forced her to take mincing steps, one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying lewdly as she moved. And, to further enforce that “ladylike gait,” a short chain of ten inches linked the two boots. The gym bunny now moved like a geriatric.

Her neck was also laced. The high collar was replaced by another a week later that, laced at the back, functioned as a mini corset for her neck, causing her already-laboured breath to become even more ragged. Covered in silk and lace, it looked pretty but beneath the frippery, she was held in a vice and could hardly turn her head, let alone nod up or down.

That though was not the most debilitating of her laced accessories. Instead, that honour must go to her armbinder or monoglove, a fearsome single glove that held her arms together, immobile and useless, for most of her waking hours.

Of course, when we last saw her, those arms were already bound, behind back, elbow to wrist. But the single glove, introduced a fortnight after that initial binder, was another thing entirely. It was the same item as those described in Trelawney’s ‘Corsets, Collars and Chains’, a fearsome construction of leather with loops over her shoulders, that held the arms as one, palm-to-palm, fingers against each other in individual pockets, behind her and then laced to above the elbows, slowly tightened further each day until, that morning, for the first time ever, those elbows actually touched.

The discomfort cannot be adequately described. The pain in her arms when it was first fitted was immense and it only lessened when they went numb from the constriction. But that created a new problem: when unlaced it took time for any feeling to come back into them and, by then, they had been restrained in another manner, either to the lacing bar or in the original binder which had now become de rigueur in bed. Until three days ago that is. Then it was decreed that she would trial the single sleeve for a night.

It was all about posture apparently. Using that infernal essay as inspiration, Meakes lectured to her that, “Your arms should be bound thus for at least six hours each day. Understand, Miss Parkinson, it is the last hours that do the good. The third hour does more good than the first and second taken together. The fourth hour does more for the habits than all three earlier ones. The fifth hour provides a more persuasive remedy than all four previous ones, and the sixth hour is the most curative of all those which have gone before.”

Six hours a day! If only! On that first painful morning, her darling Jane had suggested that, instead, for the purposes of historical research, Lucy should follow the regime of Yelinda Ardmore in the essay. Thus, Meakes insisted on lacing her charge’s arms in a single glove each morning, and she refused to undo her arms until bedtime. Thus her arms were rigorously restrained all day long, every day.

And in the essay it was revealed that this Yelinda’s arms were also, on the orders of her husband, bound at night in bed. “But that shall be too hard for my dear Lucy,” declared Jane. “Let us only implement that when she has grown accustomed to daytime restriction.”

And three days ago, it was decided that her arms had become accustomed. The result: a night of little sleep as, unable to lie on her back as she preferred, she tossed and turned relentlessly.

But at no point did she raise an objection. Why not? Because of another addition to the bondage. A gag consisting of an intrusion and panel strapped behind her head was also worn for most of her waking hours. “Ladies should be seen and not heard,” decreed Meakes the day she first fitted it. Her arms bound, she could do nothing to stop it and so now, except on the occasions when Jane or Mr. Parkinson wished to converse with her, she lived in an enforced silence.

And because she was silent, people changed how they acted around her. They talked about her when she was present and spoke of her as if she were a small child or pet animal in need of care. It was humiliating.

And it was all extremely boring as well. Sitting there compressed and restrained, a vision of restricted beauty, unable to say or do anything, merely waiting for… for what?

At no point had she ever wanted such a thing, asked for it, sought after it. Yet there she was. And now… now she was doing something else entirely.

It had happened yesterday. After dinner, she had retired to her room and been stripped to her bedclothes. Then Jane had come and they had played with one another. Her friend removed her gag (though not the armbinder or crotch strap) and had kissed passionately whilst her hands explored her friend’s passive body. With no sexual release for an entire month, Lucy was bursting with desire and tension. Then Jane said it:

“My darling, you know we have only a few days left and the last of those will be taken up with the wedding and its preparations. I know that this may come as a shock to you, the idea may even appall you, but what I feel for you, I cannot control it any longer. I want us to love each other fully as women, to become one in body and spirit. Do you wish the same?”

“Appall me? Not at all! I long for it too! Please, release my crotch strap and we can…”

“No, not like that. I am a virgin… at least with a girl, and I want the first time to be special. Very special. I want it to be memorable.”

“Me too, so…”

“Shhh, my love. I have another passion, another fantasy. You have been so marvellous in helping me realise so much already, but there is one thing that we haven’t tried and, with you I want to do it, together, tomorrow night.”

“What is it?”

“Rubber. I dream of being covered in rubber, a second skin, smooth and tight, between me and the world. I want to wear it and then join with you in that way, like two dolls almost, two Victorian dolls of course. I even want to do it without armbinders although if you prefer…”

“No, I am happy without armbinders!”

“I want your rubber-covered hands exploring my rubber covered body and your rubber-sheathed hole sharing the same toy as mine whilst our lips meet and…”

“Our rubber-covered lips?”

“Oh no, not the lips.”

And because the image of having free arms and using them to hold her love tight as they coupled was so intense and heavenly she agreed on the spot.

Agreed to this.

She had expected to be given some sort of shiny catsuit like she had seen fetishists wear in 18-rated films set in seedy nightlife venues. Indeed, Jane had shown her the catsuit that she would be wearing for their special night. However, now she was naked in the room with Meakes who was holding what looked liked a spray gun used for staining a fence.

“This is a new technology, Miss Parkinson. Whereas Jane has opted for the more traditional rubber suit as it is cheaper, she stipulated that you should have only the very best, no matter what the cost. I spray the rubber onto you and it cools within seconds creating a much more realistic, flexible and sensitive second skin. You are truly lucky to be granted such an honour.”

Somehow though, Lucy did not feel all that lucky. Kinky as Jane was, Lucy would’ve preferred to be unbound, naked, her skin as receptive to touch as it possibly could be. She wasn’t looking forward to this.

The process however, was easier than expected. The gun was turned on and the liquid rubber, in a realistic flesh tone, hit her. It was warm rather than hot and did not burn. Plus, as Meakes had promised, it dried almost immediately. If anything it had a tickling sensation to it that excited her.

It took a long time though. It was completed, with a large plastic sheet on the floor, under the lacing bar. After so long spent on tiptoes, Lucy found to her horror that her feet were quite uncomfortable lying flat on the floor. Plus, uncorseted as she was, she felt weaker and unsupported around the middle, and so held onto the bar for stability and to keep her feet raised. Indeed, the feet and legs were done first, Meakes carefully ensuring that every crevice and joint was evenly covered. Then came her private parts. It was good to have these uncovered at long last and Lucy longed to bring her fingers down to relieve the tension, but instead the maid, using her own hands clad in latex gloves, carefully dried her petals and fingered them open so that the rubber penetrated within and she was completely covered there too. This was exciting beyond measure and, when the front was done and the maid turned her attentions to the bottom hole, she gasped as Meakes’ fingers entered her bum and the warm rubber jetted in like some invading seed.

The bottom half done and dry, Meakes took a break and bade Lucy sit down on a chair. Then she refitted the stockings and en pointe boots to relieve the pressure on her charge’s feet. That done, it was time for Round 2. The maid worked slowly and methodically up the girl’s torso, carefully fondling her breasts and, when she got to the nipples, using a cloth to wipe the rubber off the rings before it dried so that they shone through, two beacons of gold in a sea of rubber. She worked up to the neck around which she fitted a steel ring. This provided a clear line for where the rubber was to end and the real skin begin. When done, a collar was placed over to hide it, not laced or overly high this time, instead more like a pretty lace choker that hid the join. It looked seamless.

She was then fitted with her corset again, to help her waist cope, but this time the crotch strap had been removed, a surer sign than any of what joys were to come. Finally came the arms, each covered meticulously, each finger separated. After over an hour she was deemed complete.

Lucy admired herself in the mirror. The rubber made her skin smooth and flawless like that of a doll. Under it she felt warm, hot even. What was most remarkable though was how it pressed in on her everywhere, the completeness of it all, and how all her touch now was secondhand and dimmed. It was unsettling but she had to admit that she looked good.

Meakes dressed her in a gorgeous evening dress of white with yellow ribbons and trim, off the shoulder ending in lace and decorated with pink carnations. She looked more of a princess than even Belle in Beauty and the Beast and felt freer than she had done in weeks.

Her heart aflutter, she made her way downstairs to see her friend. Jane was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs dressed in a gorgeous rose pink ball gown. She kissed her and then took her by the hand and they entered the ballroom. Lucy gasped as it was full of people, almost all men, dressed in period costume. They clapped in admiration as the two girls entered and the music began. A ball was being held that she had not been told about and, to the sound of a string quartet, they danced the night away.

Around ten Meakes came to prepare her for bed. Both she and Jane left and ascended the staircase hand-in-hand. Jane whispered, “I shall see you soon!” and then she went with her maid to the room where she was divested of her entire costume leaving only the choker and her rubberised body. Meakes left and within minutes Jane arrived.

Her love looked stunning in a black shiny catsuit up to the neck, whilst her long hair was left flowing and free. Eyes of fiery passion were framed between those long locks and Jane made her way over to Lucy on the bed, straddled on top of her, and nearly dove at Lucy, their mouths fixed together, finally without hesitation or excuse. They explored each others tongues for an eternity whilst their hands explored their rubberised bodies. Then Jane broke off the embrace and turned around on the bed, straddling backwards before lowering her face to Lucy’s pussy, brushing her tongue to a place where no tongue had ever graced before and, with an expert succession of flicks and licks, started to unlock sensations in her beloved’s body that Lucy never even knew existed. As Jane slowly escorted her to heaven, Lucy was overcome with confidence and dragged Jane’s rubberclad hips down so that her own tongue could perform its duties on Jane’s delicate nub, left bare by the gap in her latex suit. Both women brought themselves up to the brink of climax, trying to concentrate on the other’s pleasure even as they were overrun by their own, but then Jane suddenly wrenched herself away and leaned over to her bag. ‘What?’ Lucy asked wordlessly.

With a smile, Jane pulled out a long pink rod. Silicone, flexible, vibrating? This toy was unlike Lucy had ever seen, but indeed she wasn’t very familiar with the paraphernalia involved in this kind of lovemaking. Jane refused to break eye contact, even as she sensually plunged one end into her mouth, took it out still dripping with saliva and inserted it into her exposed hole. Lucy needed no lubrication and she merely gasped as Jane returned to the bed and bent the firm phallus, moaning as it undoubtedly shifted inside her, and maneuvered the other end of the rod into the desperate love channel of her devoted friend and now lover.

After a few awkward thrusts, the heat was back, and the pussy juices left on their lips were intermingling as the first waves overran their intertwined bodies.

Hours later they lay side-by-side in bed recovering from their exertions. Jane had rung for tea which now stood in a steaming pot on the bedside table. She got up, poured a cup and handed it to her lover. “Lucy darling, it’s been a wonderful ride!” she said, handing her the cup. Lucy smiled in bliss and took a sip.

The drowsiness overtook her immediately. Within seconds she had passed out completely.

Part 3

The Ladies of Hetherington Hall: Part 1

The Ladies of Hetherington Hall

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

This story 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

Lucy couldn’t believe how well things were going. Of course, she’d long looked forward to the day when she would go to uni to study history, her main passion in life, but even so, she had never believed it would be so much fun! She loved the parties and the nightlife, the new friends she had made. Why, she even liked the lectures! And it was about to get a whole lot better. Her new friend Jane whom she had met during Freshers’ Week (and whom, she struggled to admit, even to herself, she found rather cute) had just made her an incredible offer. “Why not spend the summer holidays with me?”

Why not indeed. Ever since her parents had died in a tragic motor accident two years’ before, Lucy had hated going home for those occasions which the world deems as “family”. She was an only child and her grandma was in a home, what was the point anymore? Before the accident things had been so very different. She recalled the love and the warmth, the days out and holidays at the beach. But after the initial rush of relatives surrounding the funeral, she was left alone and, essentially, uncared for. She was surplus to requirements, a reminder to aunts and uncles of just what they had lost. And that house, those relatives, merely brought that emptiness back to her. That was why she had leapt into uni life with such eagerness. There she was a new person, a blank canvas without teenage trauma and dark memories. She could now live! And how lucky she had been; she loved the campus and the vibrancy of life there. But most of all, she could not believe how fortunate she had been in meeting Jane Unsworth.

It had happened in her very first week of lectures. This strange girl had come into the lecture theatre a few minutes late and so slipped onto the back row. “Is this seat free?” she had whispered. And that was how it had started. They had gelled immediately and were soon meeting up every other day, then more often than not. Jane wasn’t in halls but instead had a room in a private rented house on her own. It was hard to believe that she was a first-year too, for she seemed so independent in her lifestyle and attitude. Although they were both nineteen, she felt almost like a big sister. A rather sexy big sister too; all the boys liked her and when they went out clubbing guys were always hitting on her, but she brushed them all away and instead stuck with her friend. At the weekends they would go out to cool places together and Jane would encourage her to try new experiences, some of which Lucy would never have dared to go through on her own. Her heart missed a beat when she remembered whizzing down that zipline in a quarry in Wales and then she blushed when she recalled the day they both went to get their nipples pierced. She fondled the little stud in her left nipple through her blouse and smiled. Yes, Jane had definitely changed her life.

And so, although many of their friends were thinking of backpacking in South-East Asia, and although Aunt Sarah had offered for her to stay at their place in Bournemouth, neither appealed. Indeed, only one destination did appeal to her, so when her cool new friend offered for Lucy to join in on her family’s festivities deep in the countryside, she couldn’t say no. It didn’t hurt that Jane was loaded. Lucy usually didn’t think much about such things but Jane had an unconscious flashiness that gave her the feeling those stories of a 17th century mansion all to herself wasn’t a fantasy story. She had heard so much about the old house, so full of character and history, that she simply couldn’t wait to see it, and besides hoping for more with her new schoolmate, it was an opportunity Lucy just couldn’t pass up!

On the final day of the academic year, with many of their friends off on travel experiences or doing some work experience to prepare them for the harsh realities of life after study, the two girls packed up their bags and then made their way to the train. It took two changes before the local stopping service arrived at the isolated halt of Hetherington, where Jane assured Lucy there would be a car waiting. Which indeed there was, but what her friend had not warned her of was just what kind of car it would be. A 1960s Silver Shadow! Wow! She had never known such luxury! A uniformed chauffeur got out, bowed to Jane and said, “Welcome home Miss Unsworth, and to you as well, Miss. Please get in.”

They drove for several miles through beautiful yet isolated countryside before turning down a long gravel drive bound by woodland on either side. The car tyres crunched as they rolled along and then the trees opened up and the house came into view. Lucy gasped. “Welcome to Hetherington Hall,” said Jane. And it truly was a hall, like something out of a BBC costume drama… well, without the costumes of course.

They came to a halt at the front door and the chauffeur opened the car door for them. Jane jumped out and threw herself into the arms of the man waiting at the door. “Papa, I’m home!” she cried. The man, who looked to be in his fifties and very well-dressed, greeted his daughter warmly and then turned to the newcomer. “This is my friend Lucy Parkinson whom I told you so much about,” said Jane. The man eyed her up and down and then smiled. “Miss Parkinson, I am charmed,” he said. “I hope you will enjoy your stay here at Hetherington Hall.”

“I’m sure I will, sir,” she replied, still wide-eyed, struggling to take it all in.

The girls went inside, through a huge hallway and up a grand staircase to the bedrooms. Jane’s room was huge and Lucy was to occupy a smaller one next to it, though even that one was occupied by a four-poster bed. They showered and changed out of their traveling clothes, and then went down for dinner. Lucy found Mr. Unsworth polite and friendly, if not a trifle reserved. She also noticed how he stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, which Lucy found slightly disconcerting but she brushed it to the back of her mind as nothing to worry about. He was her friend’s dad after all.

Following dinner the girls went upstairs together. They sat in Jane’s room in front of a roaring log fire and hugged each other tight. After a moment in the embrace, Lucy felt warm, and not just from the burning wood. She moved closer to her friend and put her head on her lap. Jane bent down and kissed her on the lips. Lucy wondered if more would follow but then the other girl withdrew and smiled. “So, how do you like Hetherington Hall?” she asked.

“It is truly marvellous, I cannot believe it. I keep thinking of all the people who must have lived here in the past and find myself imagining what it would have been like, living as a fine lady in that era with a beautiful gown, perhaps waiting for my Mr. D’Arcy to call.”

“You imagine such things?”

“I know it’s silly, but it’s hard not to in such a place.”

“No, it is not so silly at all. I do the same. Would you like to have lived back then?”

“I don’t know if I would full-time, but some aspects, yes. I’d love to wear one of those wide dresses, you know the type, a bit like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and go to a ball with the local nobility.”

“But why imagine when it can be real?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I never told you before, but I… well, Papa and I, have a little hobby. We have a passion for history as do you, but we especially like period dress. In fact we regularly have events where we don costumes from the Victorian Era – that is our favourite, particularly the 1850s and 60s – and pretend that we are here over a century before. There is no event planned this summer, but if you’d like to, I can arrange for us to dress as Victorian maidens tomorrow.”

“Could you really?”

“If you’d like it.”

“I’d love it.”

“Then we’ll do it.” And with those words she gave her friend another light kiss on the lips.


Chapter 2

The following morning Lucy awoke, swaddled in the huge four-poster bed she had been granted at Hetherington Hall. She smiled at the realisation that this was not a dream, that she was actually staying in a place that was both old and big enough to star in one of those television adaptations of a Dickens or Austen novel. She drank it in happily as she considered what her friend had said the night before. Not only would Lucy be staying in a costume drama house, but she was also going to be wearing one of the costumes! She imagined herself striding down the wide corridors in a huge, flouncy gown and felt excited all over. Then she thought of her friend Jane dressed in a similar fashion and, without her realising it, her hand strayed down below.

Lucy was not a lesbian. Or at least, she had never thought of herself that way before. But there was something about Jane that she found unbelievably sexy. She was a pretty girl of course, with her shining hazel eyes and gorgeous long chestnut hair, but it was more than that. She was sassy, cool and wonderfully eccentric. She would’ve made a good lead for a Disney film and she was already in the correct setting. Jane looked great now, but in a huge Victorian gown she would look amazing, like a real-life princess or something.

Before she knew it, her fiddling was not so absent-minded, and Lucy had reached a shattering climax.

At breakfast Jane spoke to her father. “Pappa, Lucy and I were speaking last night and I told her all about our hobby. She wants to give it a go.”

Mr. Parkinson smiled and looked across at Lucy. “You would like to dress up in period costume, Miss Parkinson?” he asked.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, sir.”

“It’s no trouble at all and, please, call me John. We’re closely acquainted now so we don’t need the formality.”

She smiled. She was warming to this man whom she had found slightly creepy the day before.

“We do have a number of outfits that I believe may fit you. Our family have been costume aficionados for many years now and, I am afraid to say, we have spent a considerable amount of money on having some accurate reproductions of period dress items made by expert dressmakers, milliners, corsetieres and the like. Jane here has been donning costumes from a very early age and she loves it, don’t you, Dear? However Lucy, I must warn you: wearing Victorian costume is not easy. We do not just throw things on here, we do it properly as they would have done and dressing in those times, particularly for a lady, was a time-consuming and sometimes difficult process. However, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m sure it won’t be too arduous… John, and besides, when in Rome.”

“That’s the spirit. I shall arrange for Meakes to attend to you this morning in order that you may be ready for lunch. Jane, would you like to dress-up as well?”

“Of course, pappa!”

“Then it shall be arranged. Off you two go and enjoy the grounds while the costumes are sorted and be back in your rooms for, shall we say ten, to get ready.”

At ten the girls did return to their chambers. Jane went to her own, of course, and so Lucy was left alone with Meakes who turned out to be a maid dressed in a small black and white period uniform. Sizing her up, Lucy reckoned that if she ended up looking half as good, it would be worth it.

“Right Miss Parkinson,” said Meakes, “let’s get you ready. To start with you need to strip completely, even your underwear. I believe that Mr. Unsworth has informed you that we do things properly here at Hetherington Hall and back in them days there were no bras and panties.”

A trifle embarrassed, Lucy did as she was bid until she was standing naked in the middle of the floor. Then Meakes produced a white cotton shift which she lowered over the girl’s head which at least reinstated her modesty. Then she picked up a garment which was most unexpected.

“This is a corset, miss. Have you ever worn one before?”

“Err, no, I haven’t.” And it was true. Lucy knew all about corsets of course, as a student of history, they were mentioned as being de rigueur for ladies back in Victorian times, but she had never thought about wearing one even though some of her friends occasionally donned one for a night out clubbing.

The corset was fitted around her middle. It was a beautiful creation made of white silk and strengthened with metal. It sat on her hips, diving down in a V shape towards her private parts, whilst it stretched up to cover her breasts, ending with trimming of fine lace and a pretty ribbon. Meakes did it up using a series of clasps at the front and then ordered Lucy to turn around in order that it could be laced.

And that was when things began to get difficult. At first it was all fine, but then the laces started to squeeze and restrict her to a degree that felt uncomfortable. She began to worry about getting her breath and so said, “Please, stop, that is enough. I shall suffocate if you lace me any further.”

The response from the maid though, was not what she had anticipated. “I’m sorry Miss, but I cannot. As it is, none of the dresses will fit as your waist is too broad. And besides, we wouldn’t let you suffocate. You can be laced down a couple of inches more and be fine.”

And so she suffered a few more tugs but then, her breathing very short indeed, she spoke again: “Please, stop now! This is ridiculous! It is killing me!”

Meakes however, merely replied sternly, “Then we may as well take it off and tell Mr. Unsworth that, after requesting to wear Victorian costume and putting us all to the trouble of getting them out and preparing them, you have now changed your mind. As it is, the dress will not fit and you were warned that dressing was not an easy process back then!”

Lucy felt chastised and silly, so she meekly replied, “Please, continue, I’m sorry.” Meakes went on pulling and, when Lucy was genuinely beginning to feel faint, the maid tied off the laces and got out a tape measure. “Twenty-three inches. That will suffice for the broadest dresses although, to wear the nicer ones, you’ll need to reduce significantly. Now for the rest; please sit down on the bed.”

Glad that she ordeal was over but panting at the restriction, her breasts heaving up and down just below her eye line, she made her way over to the bed. There though, she found a new problem. Sitting made her waist want to expand which increased the pressure even more. Worse than that though, the corset seriously affected how she could bend and so she found herself lowering down rigidly towards the sheets.

Once she had sat down, Meakes brought out the next items: a pair of fine white silk stockings that were drawn onto her legs and held in place by tight garters which cut into her thighs. After this came a pair of boots. These were in white leather and reached up to her ankles. What was disconcerting though, was that they had heels of several centimetres. Lucy never wore heels, being a bit of a gym bunny who liked shoes that enhanced her physical performance and she felt unsteady on these. “Do you not have anything lower?” she asked. Meakes looked surprised at the question. “Miss, these are the lowest available!” she replied sternly.

Then came a series of petticoats, five in all, which caused the volume and weight of her outfit to increase considerably. And after this was a pretty white corset cover, then a blouse and then another unexpected item.

It looked like a cage, a series of hoops linked by ribbons. It went around her waist where it was tied tightly. Meakes explained it was called a crinoline and necessary to give the skirt its shape. Lucy now realised how those costumes were so big.

Then came the dress itself, a gorgeous creation in pink satin line with black geometric designs along the hem and at the sleeves and with black buttons up the front.

Lucy thought that she was now dressed but Meakes was adamant that she was not. “Your hair, miss, is unacceptable. As an unmarried lady it should be styled in ringlets but I fear that it is cut too short.” This comment surprised Lucy as she had always worn her hair long, down to the shoulders in fact, but Meakes continued saying that it was the norm in Victorian times for a girl’s hair to reach her bottom. Now it made sense why Jane’s hair was so long. “We shall be able to remedy yours with time, miss, but for now I shall braid it and style it like that of a married lady.”

This took some time as the hair was combed, parted down the middle, carefully braided and then pinned up. At last, Lucy thought she was finished, but there was one final item to add: a pair of white kid leather gloves. Meakes explained that Victorian girls were never ungloved in public. That as may be, but these were exceptionally tight and, when buttoned at the wrist, considerably reduced her motor control. ‘Oh well, one must suffer for fashion,’ she thought to herself in an affected, Elizabeth Bennett type voice.

Leaving the bedroom, she found moving and walking in this costume a whole new experience. The width was the first thing. She had to be careful not to bump into things whilst her high heels made her unsteady. The wide skirts also blocked her vision which presented a real problem when descending stairs, but most of all, the tight corset caused her to be constantly short of breath and her middle to feel quite rigid and inflexible. She moved slowly and in a stately manner which befitted the role she was subconsciously getting into. This would not be for long but she was determined to enjoy it.

Downstairs she found Jane in a dress of similar size but in blue. She noticed that her friend now had her hair in sausage curls which looked cute in a kind of Elegant Gothic Lolita steampunk Victorian way, whilst she also noted that the other girl’s waist was considerably narrower – and sexier – than her own. Jane jumped up to greet her and hugged her warmly. “You look great!” she exclaimed. “Give us a twirl!” Lucy obliged and Jane clapped her gloved hands before taking that of her friend and leading her to a couch with a rigid back. They sat together holding hands and talking whilst Meakes and another maid brought tea and Lucy felt like she truly were in a fairy tale.

They ate lunch with John who was most enthusiastic about the change in Lucy’s attire and encouraged her to try and wear some of the “more elaborate” dresses whilst also commenting that he would “arrange a solution to the hair issue”. Then they returned to the drawing room, but, since the weather was clear (though a trifle chilly) Jane suggested they go for a walk around the grounds. Lucy agreed and so Meakes was summoned. She returned bearing even more clothing, namely a fur-lined cloak in deep royal purple, a matching muff and a poke bonnet. Now even more encumbered, the girls set off and spent a wonderful hour strolling around the gardens, although Lucy found her tight corset kept her continually out of breath and, despite the sedate pace, they had to stop several times to regain their composure. This was a real shock to the system to the girl who was used to running 5km minimum during every gym session.

That night they were stripped of their garments save for the shift and, to Lucy’s surprise, the corset. Jane explained that it was usual for Victorian girls to wear their stays (another name, apparently, for corsets) 23 hours a day as otherwise they could never reduce enough to fit into fashionable dresses. This all sounded rather strange to Lucy but Jane said she understood completely and would provide her with some historical books that explained it all and which would also help with her degree. Since Lucy was studying twentieth century ideology and conflict as her major, she doubted this, but was happy to learn nonetheless and the two girls spent a pleasant evening cuddling on Lucy’s big bed whilst pretending to be real Victorian maidens who were about to marry a handsome lord like Mr. D’Arcy. When she returned to her own room though, Lucy found the corset a real impediment to sleeping and tried to undo it but, wearing the tight gloves (which had been replaced by Meakes after washing and filled with some sort of cream which would be good for the skin) she couldn’t undo the tight knot. Of course, the solution to that would be to remove the gloves, but that too proved impossible because of the tightness of the fastening at the wrists and so, in the end, she fell into an uneasy sleep still corsetted.

And so the days continued. Every morning Lucy awoke in the wonderful bedroom dressed like a girl from over a century ago. She was then prepared by Meakes, had breakfast with her friend, and then spent the day in “feminine pursuits” such as needlework and embroidery (difficult in the tight gloves), “promenades” around the grounds when dry, reading or just drinking tea and chatting. The clothes were difficult to wear. They weighed her down and restricted her and whenever the corset seemed to get a trifle easier to bear, Meakes would promptly tighten it further, but they looked incredible and she loved the fact that she was actually living out history.

And doing so in the presence of Jane.

Some things did change though. On the second day of Victorian wear, she found, to her surprise, that a hairdresser had been summoned to the hall and she was led to her bedroom and her braids undone. Then, the stylist attended to her, adding significant hair extensions so that, like Jane, her hair now reached all the way to her bottom. This meant, of course, that she could also sport elaborate and time-consuming styles involving sausage curls or other ringlets, but the added weight was another trial to bear. With a heavy head, constricted waist, wide and weighty skirts and high heels (these seemed to increase as the waist decreased) she found that she could only move slowly and in a ladylike fashion. Oh well, it was only for a couple of weeks.

On the fourth day though, she found herself again summoned to the bedroom where a number of strangers were waiting. They were revealed to be a dressmaker, a corsetiere and a bootmaker and all were there to measure her for new outfits, in particular for the wedding. Slightly confused, Lucy later talked to Jane about this.

“Well, the clothes that you’re wearing now are mine really, so they don’t quite fit. Victorian maidens of a certain class always wore specially-tailored outfits to match their precise proportions so why not you as well?”

“Yes, but we only have a few weeks and then we have to return to uni!”

“We do but then there will be the Christmas holidays and the Easter break. I’d love it for you to come here again and live as we do now although, of course, if you’re finding it boring…”

“Oh no, not at all. Wearing this stuff is difficult, that I do admit, but it is marvellous too. I really feel transported back in time and I do like being with you as well.” They looked at one another and winked. Most nights now they had enjoyed more than a quick peck on the lips although neither had openly said anything.

“Besides, there is the wedding and you must look your best for that!”

“But what is this wedding that I have heard mentioned several times?”

“Pappa is remarrying. Mamma died years ago and he has been so lonely since. However, he has managed to find a girl who shares the same hobby as we do and so has decided to take the plunge. The wedding is in mid-September and it will be amazing. The gowns that will be on show you cannot believe, as everyone will be dressed in period costume.”

“What is she like, his fiancee?”

“Oh, she’s lovely. I really get on with her and she will be the perfect wife for pappa.”

“I should like to meet her.”

“You shall, do not worry about that.”

As the days passed though, there was one aspect of her new life that Lucy began to feel a little, well, uneasy about. It was the reading material. Jane had promised to educate on how Victorian maidens lived by providing her with suitable reading material on the era and so, every afternoon, an hour or more was dedicated to reading in the drawing room. At first these writings were innocuous, like diaries of young maidens or some romantic novels from the period, but then they began to get a little stranger. The first was a series of accounts from a magazine entitled ‘London Life’ which seemed to be focussed very much on corseting of an extreme nature named “tightlacing” where girls tried to get their waists down to impossible dimensions. This seemed to be connected to a sexual theme with bondage elements like skirts that hobbled them and excessively high collars or tight sleeves. Then came an essay entitled ‘Victorian Yearnings: Enforcement of Disciplined Formality’ which went even further, referring to women repeatedly as “the weaker sex” and recommending spankings for breaches in costume decorum. Finally though, came another essay, ‘Corsets, Collars and Chains: European Practices of Yesteryear’ by one John Francis Trelawney. This was a survey of all the methods used to “enforce discipline” on young ladies in Victorian times, from tightlacing to masks and even pouches that bound their arms. Rather shocked, that evening in bed, Lucy spoke to her friend about it.

“Jane, have you read that ‘Corsets, Collars and Chains’ thing that you gave me?”

“I have. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s rather… extreme, don’t you think?”

“It is, but it is also rather exciting, don’t you think?”


“Yes. Imagine being tightlaced like that, or disciplined with spanking or even wearing one of those single glove armbinders like Lady Ardmore?”

Lady Ardmore was discussed in the essay. She sometimes wore an armbinder that kept her arms together behind her back in a single sleeve, palm to palm, elbows touching, tightly.

“I don’t know… maybe.”

Jane snuggled up to her and kissed her on the lips. Her tongue lingered longer than it should and her gloved hand slipped down to stroke her friend’s bottom. “I really like you,” she said.

“And I really like you…”

The stroke became a caress and the hand moved towards a more intimate place. “We’re being a bit naughty…”

“We are.”

“But before we go further, I must tell you something. It’s not just the costume. I have another passion. You mentioned extreme and maybe it is, but I like things that restrain and confine me. Like the corset. I also have a single glove like Lady Ardmore… and other things. If we are to become naughtier together, then I would like to share this passion of mine as well. Are you game?”

With her friend’s gloved hands on her breasts and a hot feeling down below, Lucy did not feel that it was in her power to say no.


Part 2

First Kiss

First Kiss

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

With thanks to Cafter Homme for the editing and suggestions.

Author’s note:

The following story is extremely different from most of those I write in both tone and content. I thought it up after reading some of the erotica penned by the famous author Anaïs Nin and was inspired to write something more in line with the length and tone that she writes in. That said, this is not a Nin tribute nor even a tale written in her manner: I am me and she was she and our tastes differ. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

Dave Potter


Michael had always had the feeling that he should have been born in a different age. Perhaps it was because he had parents who were National Trust members and so spent half of his childhood being whisked through one stately home or another. Or possibly it was because he loved reading adventure stories involving knights and castles or World War I fighter pilots involved in daring dogfights. Whatever the reason, he always knew that where he should not be was in Year 12 at Trentham Road High Sixth Form in 1996.

What was the problem? The problem that every boy of that age has I suppose. Girls. He’d discovered them. He loved them. They hadn’t noticed him. His days were spent in a hormone-induced daze, gazing at the cleavage of Julia Jenkinson or the legs of Hannah Baines or the absolute complete perfection of Jenny Watkinson knowing that all were well and truly out of his reach. Even the middling Becky Robinson hardly casted a glance in his direction. It was excruciating.

And nowhere worse than A-level English. Was it his fault that God had made him a man with a passion for literature? The only man with a passion for literature. Four times a week, for an hour and ten minutes, he had to sit at a table with the aforementioned holy trinity of Trentham Road womanhood, plus eight more gorgeous babes whilst being lectured to on modern women’s poetry, George Eliot and Dorothy Wordsworth by Mrs. Cooper whose husband had just left her for a younger model. The moral of each tale seemed to be that all men are bastards and, as he was clearly the only bastard in the room, a dozen pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him with thinly-veiled disgust.

And to make it worse, that discarded old maid had decreed that he be partnered with Jenny Watkinson, the most delectable of them all, and that every time they sat together, almost touching, her cute dimples when she smiled, her silky blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes and her tantalising cleavage sent him into some sort of demonic mash-up of heaven and hell. And just to add insult to injury, in the evening when they were having their dinner, his mum would pipe up, “How was school today, son?” and “Are you still in the same group as Sandra Watkinson’s daughter. She’s quite a bonny lass, is she not? I went to school with her mum and she was pretty too. You should try asking her out one day, you know. They’re a lovely family.”

Ask her out? If only! He longed for what he could not have. To take Jenny Watkinson, nay, any one of those girls in English in his arms, to plant a kiss on her rosebud lips just as Stephen Guest does with Lucy Deane in ‘Middlemarch’, now that was beyond a dream. Their curves and smiles, smooth skin and sparkling eyes tempted and teased him continually, night and day, allowing no escape. They haunted his dreams and his waking and his member strained in his pants whenever he thought of them.


And being born in the wrong period, he looked to the past for relief. ‘Oh, if I were to just get married!’ he sighs to himself. He envied the Asians who have their marriages arranged for them by their parents. Wouldn’t that be easier! His mum and dad pick a suitable girl of the right class and it would be happily ever after. No embarrassment, no awkwardness. If only!

That Sunday they go to a National Trust property. While his mum and dad take gran to the tearoom, he wanders off on his own, through the dining rooms and drawing rooms. And as his feet wander, so too does his mind.

He imagines that 1996 is but a distant dream of the future and instead it is 1856. His mind transports him to that more genteel era when those lavish furnishings were new. Gone are the ‘Here to help!’ volunteers and the camera-laden pensioners and instead he is a guest at the local baronet’s annual garden party. He is a dapper young man of seventeen in a pressed morning suit whose parents have recognised that he is of the age; that they need to marry their son off to a suitable maiden so that he can start a family of his own. But who is the correct girl to choose? They have scoured the town for suitable candidates and have talked to the fathers of all the eligible girls. Michael is middle-class; they need a girl whose family are of similar standing. But Michael is intelligent too (he is expected to pass all four of his A-levels) and so they need a girl that will challenge him. But she should be kind and gracious also, well-mannered, healthy and, if possible, pretty. And, having done their work well, they know that only one girl fits the bill. He recalls the awkward first meeting with Miss Jennifer Watkinson in the sitting room of her house. She smiles at him and his heart melts. She is dressed in her best day dress, a delightful tiered creation in blue-grey satin with lace on the flounces, held wide by a large crinoline before diving into a delightfully tiny waist. He remembers the almost imperceptible creaks in the quiet room caused by her breathing against the strictures of the tight corset that created that wonderful waist and their polite yet nervous conversation with one another.

Feeling his rod stiffen, he heads outside.

He passes through the formal garden and into the maze. He wanders through the hedged pathways thinking only of the delightful maiden who will be his wife. Still in a daze, he reaches the centre where the bench stands under an arbour of roses and there, to his surprise, is his betrothed, his desire. She is wearing a walking dress of tartan print and has her bonnet on her head, her delightful face being framed by the large black bow that is tied under her chin. She too his lost to the world but, upon his arrival, she looks up.

“You came!”

“I could not wait!”


“It is so hateful there, all those people talking and staring. I so wished to get away, to be alone… with you.”

“I too, my darling.”

“Sit with me.”

He sits on the bench and smells her scent. Cautiously, he takes her gloved hand in his and squeezes it. She smiles, inviting more. He snakes his hand closer, around that rock-hard waist, caressing the stays and material that keep him from his desires. She gasps and moves her face towards him. “Michael, my love.”

“Jennifer, I shall always be yours!”

Their lips meet and he dissolves into bliss.

“Michael Shingler! What the fuck?”

He looks up. He is alone on the bench, his hand clasped around his penis, not her waist. But Jennifer Watkinson is there in front of him. The 1996 version.

He gasps and blushes. His rod collapses with the shock despite the flesh and blood sight of her in tight jeans and a figure-hugging top.

“Jenny! I… I was just… it wasn’t what it looks like and…”

“You were calling my name, declaring undying love and playing with… that.”

“I’m sorry, I, err… I thought I was alone and… don’t tell anyone, please.”

After a moment she smiles wickedly and strides over to him. He fumbles at his crotch trying to put the straining monster away but she places her elegant hand over his to stop him. “I won’t say anything if you tell me exactly what you were thinking of.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything. Well, I was but…”

“The truth, Michael, the full truth or else! I heard you call my name from practically the other side of the garden, was it me?”

“Well…” He turns things over in his mind. Can he tell the truth? Will she mock him mercilessly? Will he ever be able to meet her sky-blue eyes again? Yet what could make things worse than now? He plunges into the icy water.

“Ye…yes, it w…w…was you. I was f…fa…fantasising about you. We all… I mean, all… all the boys do. But th…this was d…di…diifferent. It was you but… but not you… if th…that makes sense, which I… I know it doesn’t, but…”

“Tell me more. I am intrigued.” She sits close to him on the bench. Her hand has not moved from his crotch. He stiffens even further.

“It was you but not you now. I was in the past, a hundred and fifty years ago. Victorian times. This place, this house and gardens and everything. Our times are so crass and shallow. People screw each other and talk dirty. They bare all to the world and don’t care about anything. But back then, when this place was built, when women wore crinolines and corsets and people were polite; back then when the books we read in Mrs. Cooper’s class were written. Back then things were nobler and purer and… better. And in my fantasy we lived then. You were wearing a glorious dress with a wide crinoline and tight stays. I was dressed in a suit with a cravat. We were engaged; our parents made the match because we are the same class. We came to this place because it is private. On this bench we stole out first kiss and… and then…”

“…and then I came.”

“Yes. You came.”

She moves closer to him and he feels her breath on his cheek. She is breathing heavily as if her middle is constricted by a corset yet she wears only a t-shirt. She leans over to him and her hand encircles his tool. “In all those English lessons I wondered,” she whispers. “I wondered if anyone else was as entranced by those stories, if anyone else shared my fantasies, escaping to those simpler times. I never guessed that you were the one who did so completely, Michael Shingler, never in a thousand years. I never saw you as being so romantic.”

“Really? You… You… Yeah I always have wanted things to be like that. I was born in the wrong time.”

“Me too,” says Jenny Watkinson climbing on top of him. “Now, what were you saying about our first kiss…?”





This story 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.

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by the following description of the lives of women in traditional Korean society written by Isabella Jane Bird in her 1895 travelogue ‘Korea and Her Neighbours’.

It is also worth the reader acquainting themselves with traditional Korean dress. These diagrams may help:


The information on traditional Korean hairstyles comes from this video:


Chapter 1

I suppose I should start off by introducing myself. My name is Beo-Jin, Pak Beo-Jin, and I am a high school student at Park Valley Private High for Girls in California. Or at least, I was. I’m not anymore. Not a student, I mean. Like, my name’s  not even Beo-Jin. But you’ll get it later.

What I was not and am not is a “normal” girl. After all, how many “normal” Korean girls study in an expensive private high in the US? No, I don’t think so, not normal at all. That was due to my dad. His name is Pak Cha-Ek and he was one of the executive directors of Chollima Inc, a global electronics brand worth, like, billions! That’s how he had the money to send me to such a prestigious school in States, convenient since he was in charge of their American operations. Oh, he paid for everything, but that was it. He never bothered himself much with either my upbringing or my welfare, too busy making money and serving the company. A typical Korean businessman, I guess you’d say. Anyways, we weren’t close.

Nor too did my mum bother herself much about me. I mean, like,  she neither raised me nor cared for me; I was always an afterthought. My dad got together with her when he was forty-two and she was just an air-headed nineteen-year old beauty queen. My guess is she had my brother Ryu to get a ring out of my dad, cause knowing him he would’ve just dumped her for the next floozy that came along. Like he had the last. If there had ever been a “spark” between them, it was dead and gone by the time I was here, like, a year or so later. She now spends her time living off of a healthy stipend from dad, usually on the French Riviera where she bathes on yachts, gambles in casinos, and looks for new sugar daddies. Like with dad, we weren’t close.

Despite this rather fucked up family though, I wasn’t depressed or anything drama. You don’t miss what you never had, right? Like, school was alright, especially playing field hockey and soccer; I loved K-Pop, I dyed my hair ginger and did my makeup like Hyuna with no one to stop me; oh! and I loved partying with my cool Cali friends! Yeah, when you’re sixteen and rich in the sun, life ain’t bad.


Or at least, mine wasn’t until the letter arrived. Dad wanted me to come home, and by home I mean Korea. He called it a “summons,” I called it a waste of time. It was only for a visit of course, or at least, that’s what I assumed. I just guessed he’d gone through one of his occasional bouts of parental guilt and wanted to show me what a great dad he actually was. Whatever. It was a bummer, as always; the summer holidays were approaching, and I’d been planning to go with Kelly down to her mum’s place in Mexico. Still, I knew better than to refuse my father. After all, if I pissed him off, my allowance could stop, and bang would go any cool plans and stuff. We all have our cross to bear, right? This was mine. Or so I thought.

The letter informed me that I had a flight booked to Seoul on the Saturday after I finished school, first class of course. It went on to say that I would be met by a car which would drive me to our house which, I was surprised to learn, was a new one that dad had some fancy architect build over the previous year. This was a total shock; why had he mentioned nothing about this a few months back when he’d popped over to LA for business? The letter also mentioned that he had now taken on a new job, from Chollima to Chongsanri, of which he was now Vice President again. You have no idea, I almost, like, screamed. Chollima was big, but Chongsanri was, like, HUGE! The leading Korean tech outfit by a mile. My God, what must dad be making now?! It didn’t really matter, it was good news for me!

Ahh, if only we had the benefit of hindsight!

As promised, I got picked up at Incheon Airport by a blank-faced lackey chauffeur who showed me towards a limo with blacked-out windows. I settled in the back, made myself a coffee from the minibar and watched the world go by. Seoul soon faded away and we were well into the countryside. I was puzzled. Dad had always preferred city life, and in Korea that means Seoul or bust!

Still we drove on and on, up into the mountains. Then, somewhere near to Pyeongchang, we headed off up some creepy side road that made me mistrust the dumb chauffeur, winding through forested slopes until we came to the house itself. Let me tell you, it was not what I had expected.

It was an unsurprisingly large place for Dad but, weirdly, it was built in a very traditional style, like super old fashioned like some sort of Buddhist temple with a walled compound and large pavilions and stuff. Actually at first, you might’ve thought it was ancient; it was only upon a closer look that the modern details became obvious. The car swung into the courtyard and I was shown out by the driver. There to meet me was some maid I had never seen before dressed in like a full, traditional hanbok. Weird. She bowed towards me and told me to follow her, but like, her accent was strange, and I couldn’t place it. Either way I did as she asked, and she led me into one of the pavilions, down some corridors and into a large bedroom furnished in that same old, traditional style. And believe this, on the bed was this ridiculous outfit.

“Your father is busy right now,” said the maid, “but he will meet you for dinner. Please bathe and then dress in the clothes on the bed. If you need a hand, please ring. Otherwise, I shall return at six to show you to him.” And then, with those oddly-formal words, she left.

I was so confused. The opulence was something, but like not that strange?

But all the emphasis on tradition just puzzled me. I mean, you have to understand, Dad had never been that kind of guy. And the outfit that I had to put on matched the surroundings: it was a hanbok. I had worn hanboks before, of course – which Korean girl hasn’t? – but only for special occasions like graduations. But why one today for just a meal with my father? Still, weird as it was, I was super glad to change after the flight, and besides, it was pretty!

I bathed in the adjacent shower and then returned to the room naked. First up was the underwear, which looked like it had come out of the fuckin’ Ark with Moses or something. I was really tempted to put my good Western lingerie back on, but it was a little bit stinky from the long flight so I decided to bite the bullet. Next came the sokchima or underskirt which was supported by hoops, so wide that it was about a metre and a half at the bottom. Then came the chima or skirt which was a golden colour and covered with some super gorgeous embroidery. After that was the jeogori which was in black and also beautifully embroidered. I tied off the otgoreum just below my small, firm breasts. Finally, there were some pretty beoseum socks for my feet and white silk gloves for my hands. After fitting these I looked at myself into the mirror and nearly burst out laughing! Apart from my dyed ginger hair and 21st century make-up, I could have been a girl from the Joseon Dynasty. This was getting to be just ridiculous.

How little did I know.

At six the maid returned to escort me to my father.

gold hanbok


Chapter 2

What transpired that evening over dinner is seared into my memory forever. I often replay it over and over in my mind, and it always gives me like serious goosebumps. On that evening my life changed, irreversibly.

What struck me first was his costume. Ok, so I was wearing a hanbok already, but in Korea many girls do, especially on special occasions. But dad had on the male hanbok, something no guy ever does except maybe when he’s like getting married or something. But there he was, sitting at the table, sipping soju and looking like an extra out of one of those period dramas on TV. Weird.

That was only the start, though. Then came the sudden change in attitude. Suddenly he was all formal with me as if he had somehow changed. The word that comes to mind when I think about it is ‘brainwashed’. Yes, like as if someone or something had washed out his old, corporate, money-making brain and replaced it with something straight out of the nineteenth century. He was formal and particular and although we discussed nothing really beyond small talk and pleasantries during the meal, in my gut I just knew something was up. I also noticed that he didn’t really even ask me about school either, and when I started to tell him about my time on the beach and parties with my American friends, he was clearly uninterested. All he would say was, “Some things are going to change.”

After dinner we chilled out in a traditional sitting-room and after I pressed him a bit more he explained to me what. It was all to do with him moving to Chongsanri. The corporation, at least in it’s highest echelons, seemed to have a very different philosophy than Chollima, or really the rest of the country. At all of dad’s previous jobs it had all been about making money as quickly as possible, but Chongsanri was something else entirely. Chongsanri was all about Korea. To paraphrase another slightly-deranged demagogue, their president was obsessed with trying to make Korea great again. And in my dad he had apparently found a willing disciple.

“The problem is that we try to ape the foreigners, the Westerners, the Chinese, even the Japanese, all those who have oppressed us in the past. We mimic their business methods, their Christian religion, their mode of dress, their tinny pop music and even their hair colour.” He looked at my ginger locks when he said this and I felt uneasy. “But we are not Western, nor Chinese, nor Japanese. We are Koreans! A great nation, millennia old, glorious and cultured! Yet it is as if we are ashamed of our heritage, as if we try to hide it. At Chongsanri they are trying to change that. We are prosperous, yet also true to our Korean roots. We provide jobs for Korean people and extoll Korean culture. Look at this country and the sorry state that it is in! I know this sounds incredible, but even the North, that poverty-stricken, dictator-dominated hellhole, even they are better than us. At least the Kims that they worship were true Koreans who battled the outsiders, not gave in to them or aped them. They glory in their identity! None of their women dye their hair, and their music sounds like true Korean music should. And their women are chaste too! None of this sex before marriage and cohabitation. Compared even to them, we are cultural paupers!”

As he was speaking all this nonsense, like I totally recognised the strange accent of the maid. She was from the North!

“My new boss, Kwon Yong-Byok, the CEO of Chongsanri, has shown me an alternative way, and I have embraced it. I now live as a businessman, yes, but also as a true Korean. This house for starters; it is like the houses that our ancestors dwelt in, except that there is a crucial difference: technology. Back then people died early, got sick, endured the cold and many other deficiencies in life, because the technology was not there. We were vulnerable to domination because of this. What Yong-Byok and now I do, is live in the traditional Korean way but with technology on hand to help us to enhance that wonderful mode of life even further. So the house for example, it has ondol heating as is typically Korean, but the heated vapours are geothermally generated and time-controlled. We have taken tradition and refined it with technology. The happy news is that our family can now live in an almost perfect, original, Korean manner.”

“But dad, like, I’m at school in America, so is Gyu. And mum is, well, mum is wherever she is…”

“No, Beo-Jin, you were at school in America. The old me sent you there. But I have summoned you back here because we’re going to start living as a family again and we are going to live in a true Korean fashion. You shall not be returning to your school; from now on you’ll live here as a proper Korean girl.”

“Fuck that, like, no way! I want to return to Cali! My friends are there and–”

“Lesson Number One, Beo-Jin: Korean society is Confucian. We obey our parents. When I say that you shall be living here, then you shall be living here.” His voice wasn’t angry, but unforgiving.

“But I don’t want to! And besides, up here in the mountains, like, we’re away from everything that means anything. I mean, I’ll be fair, it’s like nice and all, but there’s no school, no jobs, no opportunities. Do you even have wifi?”

“Beo-Jin, you will not be returning to school. It is unnecessary. A Korean girl’s destiny in life is to marry and become an honourable wife to her husband. School will not teach you that, certainly not the schools that you have been attending up till now. From tomorrow onward you will be living at home and learning your future duties as a submissive and honourable wife.”

“Jesus, Dad, I’m sixteen! I don’t want to marry, like, for ten years, at least! I want a career and to go out with my friends and…”

“Silence! There will be no speak of false western idols in my home! What you want is immaterial! A Korean girl’s destiny is to obey her parents and then her husband. And sixteen is a perfectly suitable age to be married. Indeed, in the Joseon Era girls were often wed well before then. Besides, you are not ready yet. You need training to become a suitable wife and that will take time.”

“No, dad, no! This is my life, not yours and I’m not some stupid fucking submissive drone who is going to be ordered about by a man. This is not the nineteenth century, it’s like, the twenty-first! We’ve had a sexual revolution, or haven’t you realised that? I love you dad, but I will not live as you want! I’m sorry but that is that!”

And with those words his face changed. I’d expected anger, but instead he just looked defeated and disappointed. He slumped in his chair and poured out another measure of soju. “This is too much, too fast, I suppose,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied, glad that he was speaking like a human being again.

“Ok, we’ll see about amending things then. Forget what I said for now and drink some tea with me.” He poured a cup from an exquisite Joseon Era teapot and I raised it to my lips. It tasted really nice and wasn’t too hot, so I drained the tiny cup in one.

Within seconds my sight began to blur, and I slumped to the floor in a faint.


Chapter 3

I awoke in the floor-level bed in that traditional bedroom where I’d changed after first arriving, feeling pretty strange. Then I realised that under my head was not a usual pillow but a traditional Korean buckwheat pillow in its hard, bundled rolls. Raising my head, it felt strangely heavy, so annoyed and confused I got up and walked to the mirror. What I saw shocked me.

My ginger styling was all gone and instead I had natural, jet black hair again! More than that, this hair was long, very long, reaching past my waist when unpinned from the top of my head. That was the weight I had felt. But what had happened? Obviously, I had been drugged and during the time I had been out they’d dyed my hair black. But what about the length? I checked. Extensions. Hmm… Nothing else seemed different. Why would my deranged father drug me just to redo my hair? He must be going mad!

I took off my slip and checked my body all over. The hair was gone from down between my legs, which was a bit disconcerting, but that was all. Oh yes, and a small mark like a tiny incision or a bug bite just above my love slit. What was it? Hmm…

That same maid came in. “You are awake, Miss Beo-Jin. Please, bathe yourself and then let me prepare you,” she said with her Pyongyang accent.

I took a shower and then came back. Lain out on the bed was another hanbok, this time with a yellow chima and a pink jeogori. “I’d prefer a different outfit,” I told her.

“There are only hanboks in this house,” she replied.

I was naked and my suitcase was nowhere to be found so, reluctantly, I put it on. Then she sat me down and started doing my hair in an elaborate fashion. “Please, just a ponytail,” I said. It was starting to become obvious what was happening.

“Your father orders this style,” she replied simply.

I knew there and then that I had to put a stop to this before it went too far. “Fuck what my father wants,” I told her. “This is my hair! My body! Haven’t you people heard of like, feminism?”

And then I got up and dashed out of the room. I had to get out of here, to escape. Dad obviously wasn’t going to observe my wishes, so to hell with him! I expected her to try and stop me, but to my surprise she just nodded and passively let me get away. Hurriedly, I walked down the corridor to the courtyard. I crossed the courtyard to the main gate. It was ajar. I went to go through it when suddenly like this piercing pain racked my body, like an electric shock starting at my genitals and coursing outwards. I tried to push myself through, but the pain was too great, like fire and ice all at once coming from my mound! I jumped back, and it subsided. What the fuck was that!? I turned around to see my father and the maid standing on the pavilion, silently. He was smiling. “You cannot leave,” he said calmly.

“What the fuck was that!?” I demanded.

“Your new implant. It was inserted whilst you were asleep. It ensures obedience. Whenever you try to leave the woman’s quarters of our home, it will activate. I am sorry to do this to you, but you need to be taught how to become an honourable Korean woman. You will be punished whenever you try to leave or whenever I feel it is necessary. Your maid informs me that you refused to have your hair styled correctly. Beo-Jin, I will give you another chance because this life is new to you. Return to your chamber and prepare yourself accordingly. I am your father.”

I stood my ground. “Forget it! I’m not your doll to be made up and kept in a cage, let me go!!”

And I stormed past the invisible line again and my pussy instantly contracted in pain while the rest of my body contorted, trying to dispel the intense shock, the pain, but it was no use, I retreated back toward them.

My father was not smiling anymore. “Beo-jin! You will be punished for your insolence, return to your chamber!”

I wanted to object, to counter, to rebel, but the memory of the pain was too horrific. Like the submissive Korean girl that he wanted me to be, I returned to my room and let his maid prepare me.

She sat me down on a chair and then started to work, combing my long hair out, parting it down the centre and then plaiting it into a long ponytail. This was then rolled up and fastened low behind my head. A black padded form with red silken ends was then attached to the top of my head using pins and long platts of real human hair brought out, each over a metre long. I later learned that these, like the maids, came from the North, with Chongsanri paying huge quantities for North Korean girls to donate their hair. The platts were wrapped around my head and the form and then attached with pins creating a high and round structure but revealing the red silk end of the padded form. This was then decorated with jewellery, I admit really exquisite stuff if I hadn’t been furious by that point.

“This style is called eoyeo meori,” she explained in a neutral voice when she had finished. “It was the usual style for noble women of the Joseon Era to wear their hair, and so your father has decreed that this is the style for you to wear every day. On special events I shall do your hair in a more elaborate fashion.”

More elaborate! This style had taken the best part of an hour to complete and it was so difficult to wear! The weight was tremendous, and it jangled whenever I moved. And I was expected to endure this every day!

But that was not all.

Eoyeo Meori

Next came the make-up. Turns out I was not to leave my room without being made-up from now on. Defeated and passive, I sat there whilst she started the process, applying a really thick coating of white foundation to my entire face and then white powder to create a sort-of porcelain look. Whilst she did this, I tried to engage her by asking her name and so on, but her replies were neutral: “I am only a maid”, “My age does not matter, mistress” and so on. She wouldn’t even admit to being North Korean. “Where the master hired me from is unimportant,” she blithely said. I was starting to really hate this bitch.

After my face, my eyes were done with a variety of cosmetics, including black eyeliner and false lashes to emphasise my femininity. Then came the brows, thin black lines drawn high to emphasise my haughtiness. And finally, the mouth, a pair of red rosebud lips. The china doll was complete. Well, almost. The finishing touch was a pair of white cotton gloves for my hands and that was it.

My first day had no lessons. The maid said that I was to get used to my clothes and my surroundings. It was so weird, just pacing around in that fine dress, the ridiculously wide hooped skirt bumping into things and my heavy hair feeling unsteady as it jangled away. I warily drank tea, and explored the house, or at least, the little I could. Many doors were locked and only one courtyard open to me. When I say “locked,” you might think the doors wouldn’t open, but they did, the whole complex was technically ‘open,’ it just sent powerful ripples through my implant whenever I tried, warning pulses that quickly turned to pain when I looked through, or worse, stepped over the threshold. These were the women’s quarters, and I was barred from the rest, kept modest and pure in my own little prison. I seethed with anger but knew that there was nothing that I could do… yet.

That evening I dined with father again. He was full of praise for my new appearance and called me a “proper Korean maiden”. What a fucking joke I must have looked like, I felt sick to my stomach but said nothing, remembering the pain all too clearly. Whenever I spoke for too long, I would see his hand wander into the pocket of his robes, no doubt waiting for me to say something out of turn. I had no desire to re-live that pain, though, so I gave him no reason to chastise me. Turns out he already had reason enough.

That evening, my head and neck aching from the weight imposed upon it and the trauma of the day, and I looked forward to bed and a chance to become a normal human being again, but bedtime too held some nasty surprises. The maid helped to undress me but then came something that caught me like totally off guard: with a firm grasp she grabbed by wrists and handcuffed them behind my back. Then she led me to the shower and attached the handcuffs to a hook on the wall. After this I was washed thoroughly by her before then being led back into the bedroom and leant over a chair. “Your father has decreed that your misdemeanours be punished. These include any form of disobedience or unladylike behaviour. There have been countless today, but he has told me to go easy on you because it is your first day as a real Korean lady. So, I shall only administer ten strokes for the most heinous.” And then, taking out a large wooden paddle, that pious bitch stood behind me and…


“That is for refusing to have your hair styled.”


“That is for attempting to escape.”


“That is for swearing at your father.”


“That is for swearing at me.”


That night I lay in my bed and tears streamed down my face whilst my bottom was like red raw. Worse still, my hands, encased in padded gloves, were tied to a belt around my waist so I could not dry those tears, whilst my legs were immobilised, encased in a long single stocking with my feet tightly bound in the end, so there would be no nocturnal wandering or touching myself, as I had grown very used to doing every other night back in California. Even this was off limits now.

My life had descended into hell.

Chapter 4

And so, my new life began.

Every day I awoke, was showered and then dressed in my sumptuous yet restrictive outfit. Then I attended lessons with my tutor, another North Korean. These were neither interesting nor educational, absolutely nothing like my school in Cali. Instead they were a series of phrases that I had to repeat over and over again. Phrases like “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty” or “A wife must be chaste and pure.” With time I realised that they served a dual purpose: to educate me in my new station and to break my spirit. If I made any mistakes they were rewarded with paddles on my bottom before bedtime and for the first few months my bum was always red and sore. I felt like a goddamn child, it was so messed up!

My misery did not end with these lessons though. For the rest of the day (basically the afternoons) my time was my own, but there was so little that I could do now, I was like bored out of my mind. I was officially confined to the female quarters which meant my bedroom, my classroom, a sitting room and dining room and a small courtyard. I was by all means a prisoner, and so in my spare time all I could do was pace around the tiny confines of my prison and wish I was outside. Even that though, was not unobstructed. After my first day, my tutor decreed that my gait was unfeminine and not suitable for a Korean lady. “A noble lady should glide in her hanbok, not prance!” she declared. And so, I was fitted with two straps: the first a thick band of material that was tied just above the knees and the second a leather strap of some twenty centimetres or so fastened to bands that went around my ankles. Now I could only glide – or shuffle – along at a snail’s pace and ascending or descending any steps was like super hard.

In the evenings I still dined with my father elsewhere in the house, and although I now truly hated him, I looked forward to the experience just as a change from the simplistic daily schedule. He would speak at length (not really to me, but at me) about the Chongsanri Corporation and its vision for the rejuvenation of the country. He spoke of the CEO, Kwon Yong-Byok, as if he were a god and spoke of future plans and ideas.

I did not rebel. It is true that in those first few weeks I made several off-hand derogatory remarks to him, instantly resulting in extremely painful contractions in my pussy, but I soon gave that up as it became de-rigueur for me to be gagged after the meal so he could talk at me without interruption. This gag consisted of a large white plastic intrusion with a white leather panel on the end and a strap that reached around my head, buckled at the back. It looked simple but it must have been connected in some way, as every time I groaned or sighed I was rewarded with an appropriately-sized shock below. Dad lauded this gag as an example of how Chongsanri had improved upon the traditional ways. I felt absolutely humiliated, especially since it had ‘A female’s duty is to be silent’ in hangul characters on the front of the panel.

I was docile not just because I remembered the pain, but also because I knew that now was not the time. At our first dinner together after my new life had begun, dad had mentioned that Ryu would also be forced to adopt a traditional lifestyle. I imagined my younger brother, used to his American high school, wandering around in a male hanbok pretending to be some yangban from yore and smiled. Yes, he would never accept that. He would be my ally. Until then, I could wait and endure the charade.

To pass the time it was decreed that I be allowed “feminine pursuits”. If I did well in my lessons I was allowed to paint traditional Korean pictures with an inkbrush or write a scroll in hangul characters. Once I wrote a really nice poem, but using the English alphabet, a “crime” for which I received no less than twenty-six paddles, one for each alien letter. Korean girls, apparently, are only allowed to write Korean characters.

Yes, it was that ridiculous.

Even that pleasure however, was not always allowed to me. Concerned about my unfeminine behaviour, in the women’s quarters I was never far from a maid or my tutor, even when I was supposed to be having free time in the courtyard. Combine this with my sleeping situation, unable to move my hands or legs at all, it didn’t take very long for me to start skipping off to the bathroom in search of privacy. One day during the part of my cycle that always makes me hot and needy, and after I had worked up the courage, I found myself in the bathroom with nowhere to sit (traditional korean toilets are embedded in the floor), determined to get off somehow. Thinking ahead I pried off the tight white gloves, hiked up my massive chima skirt and brought my fingers down, past the faint implant scar to touch my clit, only to receive the most intense, body-wracking shock since my first day here, leaving me sobbing and spasming on the ground, getting my dress all dirty. smearing my makeup, attracting the attention of every maid in the compound.

After this incident, another item was added to my wardrobe, a sort of sleeve which went over my arms when they were crossed in front of my breast, covering them completely. This looked elegant enough, but what a casual observer could not see was that underneath the hanging cloth, my forearms were bound together in a laced sleeve, making use of my hands impossible. This was initially instituted for walking in the courtyard only, but gradually I was expected to wear it inside as well, sometimes for an entire afternoon, greatly hampering my precious free time, restricting my allowed feminine pursuits. And, as the weather grew colder, a new and even more cumbersome item was added. This was a kind of all-encompassing veil that left only my face free and from October to April was decreed mandatory outdoors.

About a month after my captivity began, a new figure entered the household. She was introduced as Mi-So and she was extremely beautiful yet also North Korean like all the other servants. What shocked me was that she dressed in sumptuous gowns just like me and had her hair done in the eoyeo meori style as I did. Unlike the other servants, she joined dad and me at dinner, sitting like really close to him, and afterwards she would play the traditional gayageum exquisitely well or even dance for us. I was in awe of her.

After a couple of days, I saw her sitting in the women’s courtyard alone and so slowly, gracefully, I approached her. Unlike the other servants, she was happy to talk to me. She told me that she was a gisaeng and when I expressed ignorance at the term, she explained that it is like the Japanese geisha, something of a cross between a courtesan and an artiste. She explained that she came from Pyongyang originally and because of her musical talents and expertise at dance, she had been sent to the premier school in the North Korean capital where girls are trained in such things to the highest standard, called a gwonbeong. She had expected, as all the girls in her class did, to graduate and go on to serve the Motherland either in an artistic troop or a teaching capacity, but then one day, some esteemed visitors from the Chongsanri Corporation had come to the school and watched the final year students put on a performance. Afterwards, five of the girls who had taken part were summoned to the Party Office and told that they had been chosen to serve the Motherland by becoming employees of Chongsanri and practising their arts in the decadent south. Although shocked at first, they had been assured that the Marshall wished this of them and that they would be well-paid which, Mi-So assured me, she was, although 90% of that money went straight to the state. And so she had come with four friends – deemed to be the prettiest of their year – and a busload of other Chongsanri employees, over the border near Kumgangsan and up to the mountain mansion complexes of the Chongsanri elite (it transpired that all of dad’s co-executives and their homes were situated within a few miles of each other, a veritable ministate of traditional values). This whole story fascinated me, and I was glad to be able to share my lonely life with someone, although I now felt uncomfortable in the evenings as my father would openly fondle Mi-So, pushing his hand under her jeogori and slapping her bottom whilst she would kiss him passionately on the mouth.

Indeed, as time progressed, it became de rigueur for me to be dismissed straight after dinner, though this did not always save me from the gag.

My heart trembled with excitement as my maid assembled my new hairstyle. In view of the auspicious occasion, it had been decreed that I would wear the tteoguji meori style, which is even more elaborate and difficult to wear than the eoyeo meori as it involves adding to that style an enormous black wooden ornament, the tteoguji, which is fastened to the hair by means of pins and ribbons. Even this added encumbrance I did not mind however… for my brother was coming home!

tteoguji meori.png

I minced towards the main chamber in a purple hanbok which I had to admit was nice, arms bound in front of me as was becoming more and more common, excited to see my brother and make him aware of my plight. The door was opened for me to reveal him seated already for dinner with dad and, to my surprise, Mi-So and another gisaeng who had her gloved hand resting on his thigh. Furthermore, he was already dressed in a traditional male hanbok. This did not look good, I thought to myself.

We ate making only small talk, Gyu complimenting me on my beauty and dad saying how much I had changed for the better. I scrutinised his face for clues to the anger I wanted to see, but he remained impassive. And then, after dinner, I was dismissed, leaving the two men alone with their gisaeng.

The following day though, I got my chance. He came to the women’s quarters, walking through the forbidden door like it was nothing, and asked that I be excused from lessons to walk around the courtyard with him. As he was a man, this was not refused.

As soon as we were alone I began pouring my heart out to him and warning him of the dangers to both of our futures. To my surprise – and dismay – though, he merely frowned and replied, “Beo-Jin, what you say is wrong. I can understand how hard this is for you, I really can; after all I was an American high school student myself only a few weeks ago, but what choice do we have? Dad controls all the money and to disobey him would be to cut ourselves off from our future. And besides, what’s so wrong with this whole traditional thing anyway? Why should we Koreans forever be aping the Americans? We were wrong you know, to try to be like them; we’ve got an ancient culture of our own that’s rich and…”

I wanted to slap him across the face, bring him to his senses, but my arms were laced together pretty securely. “Gyu, come on man! You’re sounding like him now! Look at us in these ridiculous clothes, like we’re in some costume drama or something. It’s a fucking joke and not a funny one. And you don’t even understand, I’ve got some sort of sensor implanted in me that shocks me when I wander off! I’m a prisoner here and all I can do is fucking recite lines, paint random shit, and strut around this fucking courtyard. Help me, bro, this is hell!”

“Beo-Jin, you always were too rebellious. What’s wrong with you being feminine for once in a while. And besides, I like this life. Back in the States I was too geeky, none of the girls looked at me yet here I’ve got Mun-Ju who is hot as anything and what we did last night…”

“You mean, you accept it because dad gave you a gisaeng slave to fuck!”

“Not just one, he’s promised another and he’s shown me the girl I’ll be marrying; she’s a total babe… in a Joseon Era kind of way of course.”


“Yeah, President Kyon Yong-Byok’s youngest daughter. She’s fifteen now so it won’t be for a year or so but the engagement is official and in the meantime there’s Mun-Ju and…”

“I can’t believe you, Gyu! You’d sacrifice your own sister for the sake of your dick! Help me here bro, I need to get out of here! I have to leave, Gyu, or I’ll go mad!”

“Well, relax then sis, because you will be leaving. Dad arranged it this afternoon.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Beo-Jin? Me and dad celebrated your engagement this morning. On the fifteenth of next month you’ll be getting married to Kyon Yong-Byok’s son and heir, Yong-Gon.”

Chapter 5

The day before my wedding my life changed forever. For most people it is on the day on the actual wedding but for me it was the day before. Because on that day my father did something to me, something so cruel, so inhumane, so… words fail me, even today.

Like, literally.

I had received all the pre-wedding indoctrination of course. Hour after hour of it, going through every detail of the ceremony, how I should behave and what would happen to me. But one thing above all was stressed over everything else. “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty. During the whole of the marriage day the bride must be as mute as a statue. If she says a word or even makes a sign she becomes an object of ridicule, and her silence must remain unbroken even in her own room.” My tutor had repeated those words over and over again until my head rang with them. Of course, I did not intend to obey. In fact, inwardly I smiled. This was my chance, and seriously, like, low-hanging fruit! I didn’t want to get married and I hated my dad for how he had ruined my life, and this was to be my revenge: silent! You could forget it! I would be as loud, rude, obnoxious and unfeminine as a girl possibly can be when dressed in an elaborate outfit with a ridiculous hairstyle. And as for the electric shocks, well, would they dare to use them in public? Of course not. That would reveal I was being held against my will! This was my moment!

That evening after dinner I asked my father if I could go back to my room, thinking of painting a picture, as these days that was the best option to kill the time. However, waiting for me there was a stranger whom I had never seen before. She had the white coat of a nurse and she looked pretty serious. “What is this?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” she replied as my maid grabbed hold of me from behind and a needle was plunged into one of my bound arms.

I awoke soon afterwards and found that barely an hour had passed. I was just lying on my bed still clothed. I sat up. Nothing seemed to have changed. They had not disrobed me or done anything immediately apparent. So, what had happened? I rang for the maid and she entered immediately. “What was that all about?” I demanded angrily.

Except that the words did not come out of my mouth. Nothing did. Air flowing without a sound.

I shouted, and I screamed, I called her the bitch she was, but silence reigned. “You have been muted, mistress,” explained the maid. “It is your father’s wedding gift to you, a means of helping you stay honourable during the ceremony. He told me to tell you that it is the latest Chongsanri invention, and a brilliant example of how technology can help us women lead a proper, traditional lifestyle.” Then her expression hardened, and her tone changed. “He also instructed me to warn you that, if you try any funny business during the ceremony, the same can be done with your hearing.”

I sank to the floor in shock, testing myself, hoping even a hum would escape my throat, but there was nothing.

Late that night my father, brother, and I sacrificed before the ancestral tablets, and acquainted our ancestors with the event which was to occur on the morrow. It all passed by like a dream, no, definitely a nightmare.

When the auspicious day arrived, an hour before noon, my bridegroom on horseback, and in court dress, left his father’s house accompanied by two men who walked before him, one carrying a white umbrella, and the other, who was dressed in red cloth, carrying a goose, which is the emblem of conjugal fidelity. He was also attended by several men carrying unlit red silk lanterns, by various servants, and by his father. Upon reaching our house he took the goose from the hands of the man in red, went into the house, and laid it upon a table.

I record all of this but I did not witness it. My maid and the other servants informed me enthusiastically, concentrating on the symbolism of each item. Later, when I learnt that fidelity in a Korean marriage is only ever expected of the woman, the goose seemed particularly ironic.

I heard but not witnessed this because of how I was dressed. That I wore an extremely cumbersome hanbok with a sleeve that immobilised my arms is not worth mentioning, nor too a ridiculous elaborate and heavy hairstyle, a variant on the tteoguji meori style. Such things I expected by this stage. What I did not expect was the make-up.

korean wedding.png

For a traditional Korean wedding, the bride’s face is covered with a thick layer of white powder, patched with spots of red. When they had finished I looked like one of those Japanese geisha in the films. That, however, was not all: after they had done my face, they moved onto the eyes. Surprisingly, no eye make-up was done but instead an adhesive compound was applied to my eyelids which were then glued together, after which the white powder was smeared over them too.

I went through the entire ceremony blind, unable even to open my eyes!

I was led out by two attendants to the room where the ceremony was to take place and then instructed to bow twice to my “lord”, after which he bowed four times to me. This alone made the marriage valid. A cup of wine was then given to my bridegroom, who drank a little, after which it was handed to my maid, who gave me a sip.

And that was it. Afterwards within the house, my now-husband and the other men were served an elaborate feast, but I merely retired to the women’s rooms. He rejoiced with his friends in the men’s apartments but we women got no simultaneous banquet.

Then, during the afternoon my husband returned to his father’s house, and after a time I, still bundled up in a mass of wedding clothes, and with my eyelids still sealed, attended by the two maids, some hired girls, and men with lanterns, went there too, in a rigidly closed chair, in the gay decorations of which red predominates. I was received by my father and mother-in-law, to whom the maid instructed me to bow four times. Then I was taken upstairs to the wedding chamber where I was disrobed completely, my hairstyle dismantled and the powder washed from my face and my body showered. The eyelid adhesive however, stayed. I was then taken to the bed and my wrists chained to the posts and there I waited.

I did not wait long. My unseen husband came and took me with vigour. It was my first experience of lovemaking and, after the initial pain, one of the most intense. Perhaps it was because I didn’t even know what this man who was inside of me looked like, or perhaps it was because I was so silent and passive, so in his control. Perhaps it was because I had not been able to get myself off in months. I cannot say. That though, was my wedding night.

Chapter 6

I woke up to my husband climbing on top of me again. During the night the eyelid adhesive had worn off (I later learnt that it was designed – by Chongsanri – to last for twelve hours maximum) and so this time I saw who was inserting himself into me. The good news is that he was passably handsome.

The bad news though, far outweighed the good. After he had finished and removed himself from me, he untied me from the bed and helped me to sit up. Then he explained my future.

“Like your father and my father, I too believe in a traditional lifestyle, augmented by modern technology, of course” he began. “Unlike them, I doubt it will lead to the rejuvenation of the nation or any other similar claptrap. I guess you could say that your new husband is a bit more cynical although, on second thoughts, I guess you can’t say anything.” He laughed at this cruel joke and I immediately decided that I hated the man I had been married to.

“Your life from now on will be simple. You are my wife and that is your whole purpose in life from this moment forward. Your former name will no longer be used. In accordance with tradition, people will refer to you as ‘the wife of Kwon Yong-Gon’. I, on the other hand, shall refer to you as ‘Look here!’ (Yabu). Apparently, this was the norm in traditional Korean society because your duty is to look to me when I call. Without fault, do you hear? Nod. Ok good. After that your duties include remaining chaste and silent (no issues there I’m sure, ha, ha!), and to provide me with offspring so as to continue the respected Kwon family line. That means sex, of course, and you’ll be glad to know that I love sex. Indeed, one could almost say that I am addicted to it and so we’ll be having a lot of it. Your duty is always to accept my advances, whatever your own feelings. As you can clearly see, a Korean wife has clearly recognised duties to her husband, but just so you know, he has few, if any, to her. I will always treat you with respect in public, for you are mine and so to disrespect you brings shame on me. Furthermore, you will want for nothing. However, as was the norm in Joseon Era society – and this is why I love the traditional ideal so much – whilst I demand chastity and fidelity from you, you may not demand it of me. I keep gisaeng in this house and you must welcome them and show them respect. I do not look for affection in marriage, but who knows, maybe we shall find it? You are certainly prettier than I expected, and, despite your natural inexperience, I enjoyed last night and this morning.”

He paused as if to take stock and noticed my confused expression. “Yabu, you wonder why I say all this to you?” It wasn’t my main question but I nodded. “I guess I have a streak of sadism in me. Like you, I have lived in the west and learnt from it. Feminism, yada yada. I feel for your plight, the silence, ridiculous clothes and hair, lack of freedom and everything, but at the same time it turns me on. That is how I am, Yabu. Your duty is to submit, however distasteful that might be.”

Disgusted with his callousness, I yelled nothing, shook my head, and pummelled him with my unbound fists in an act of pathetic resistance. He laughed and took my weak wrists in his hands. “Such disobedience should be punished and I can’t wait to land a slap on that beautiful rounded bottom of yours!” he exclaimed. I tried to back away and he laughed again. “Not now, Yabu, not in our wedding bed.”  He paused again and then reached forward, grabbed me and forced my face to his, kissing me with gusto, exploring my mouth with his tongue. I tried to bite down but he was too quick and, strangely, although he angered me, his actions excited me too. “By God Yabu, you turn me on!” he declared, when he finally extracted himself from me. He put his left arm round me and started to explore my body with his right hand, squeezing my breasts and stroking the bottom that he had just praised. Handled against my will, hating my body’s instincts, I began to desire him.

“Hmm, Yabu, I think you and I will enjoy each other as well as hate each other. However, that is for later. I must say, you are much better than I thought you would be – and far better naked than in that awful bridal outfit – but there are still areas of concern. These tits for starters! Pert, yes, but way too small for my tastes. I was in the west a long time, you know.” I began to hate him again and my desire faded slightly. “Not very Korean I know, wanting big tits; my father would not be impressed, but I cannot change how I am and you are mine, Yabu, to do what I want with. However, before that, I need to explain some things to you.”

This guy needed the same procedure I had, I thought to myself. I wanted to ask him what he meant by doing what he wanted with, but, mute as I was – and still am – I could not.

“You know your duties as a wife and you know how you will live – much as you did with your father, in predetermined spaces and roles, yes. However, what you do not know is how I operate my household. I studied Psychology at uni – can’t you tell? – and I guess I am a bit of a disciple of Skinner. Hmm, Yabu, your confused look suggests that you don’t know who he was? Well, he believed in a theory of reward and punishment to motivate people and so that is what I shall institute here. I demand sex from you whenever I want it, but what I cannot demand is your enjoyment or the quality of sex that I am accustomed to. Therefore, it is up to you. If you please me sufficiently, I shall reward you. If you fail in your duties, I shall punish you. I believe that your father already instituted a paddling regime; good man. Personally though, I prefer to smack a rounded bottom with my own hand. Your punches earlier, they warrant a smack or two for example. Punishment alone though, does not work.

“Yabu, every day you will dress in full hanbok and eoyeo meori hairstyle as in your father’s house. Here however, you will also wear the arm sleeve as a matter of course. That is to say, silent as you are, denied of the use of your arms, you shall be largely unable to communicate. Your maid will feed you and attend to your toilette. However, if you please me, the sleeve will be removed. For example, a satisfactory morning blowjob will result in three hours without the sleeve in a single day. This can enable you to write a letter, paint a picture, or engage in conversation with another female. Enthusiasm during vaginal intercourse could result in a different reward, say the use of the neolttwigi for an hour.”

He saw my confused look and stopped. “Yabu, do you not know what is neolttwigi?” I shook my head.

“Neolttwigi is our traditional Korean see-saw. Yangban women developed it as a way of seeing beyond the walls of their houses. You will never be allowed out of the house save in a closed carriage so, if you want to see something of the beautiful forests that surround this mansion, neolttwigi is your only option as when you jump up high, you can see beyond the wall. It will also help keep you fit, important considering your sedentary lifestyle.”


I could see his sadistic enjoyment in delivering this monologue, yet despite this, I was cautiously excited at the prospect of neolttwigi. Even the tiny freedom of being able to glimpse the outside world seemed so precious to me now! Even if it was only the other compounds of the Chongsanri settlement.

“There are other benefits of course; huge ones for anal intercourse and other subversive pleasures, but you don’t need the details now. I shall provide a full list when you are ready. For now though, why not try earning your first reward?”

And as he said those words he moved me close to him and playfully slapped my arse. “And there’s the punishment for the punches,” he said, causing my subconscious desire to heighten once again. When we had finished we lay together exhausted and he called for tea.

Seconds later I had blacked out again.

I awoke on the bed, naked but unrestrained. I moved my hands to my chest, remembering his words and half-guessing what had happened. Sure enough, where my A-cups had once sat, two sizeable and extremely fake mounds were now to be found.

I felt different down below too. I moved my fingers lower and discovered why. My sex was sealed off with a chastity belt, one with attachment rings for clipping my nighttime gloves to. It was made of polished silver and covered me like a pair of underpants. As I shifted my body I felt that it did more than just cover my holes, which had been off-limits for quite some time. Inside two rods now filled me, teasing me, making me ache from being stretched like this.

I got up and went to the mirror. The face that stared back at me was my own but subtly different. Now the nose was more of a button and the lips more like a full rosebud. He had changed me, improved me, created the perfect Korean doll wife.

I stared at that image for a long time, angry and traumatised but unable to resist what had been done to me.

Chapter 7

And so, my married life began. Was it better or worse than life with my father? That is hard to say. It was different.

The biggest thing was the sex. I enjoyed it, I really did. I hated my husband and yet, at the same time, I desired him. Perhaps because this was the only time that I had power and control over my destiny, because with the sex came rewards.

Without the rewards, life was harsh. No use of my hands whatsoever and no voice meant that I was incommunicado, a mere elegant ornament to the household, fit only to be ignored. But if I gave him a blowjob I could indulge in a painting, or if I pleasured him sufficiently during normal sex, I could jump on the neolttwigi with one or two maids on the other end, for a precious moment or two I could soar into the air and glimpse the trees and the beautiful mountain slopes. And if I submitted to the painful ecstasy of anal intercourse then…

I get ahead of myself. First, I need to introduce Jong-Suk. When I saw her on my first day of marriage I hated her. She was my rival, the primary gisaeng that my husband sought pleasure in. She was impossibly beautiful and, when she started to play and sing, impossibly talented. I could never sing now, never again. Oh, how I hated her!

Yet, at the same time, she did not hate me. And in my lonely world, I needed a friend and she was the only one to be had. We would talk with my writing messages for her on paper using an inkbrush and her speaking the replies. And we would sit together and she would hold me and then brush her lips against mine and whisper bedroom secrets of how to bring Yong-Gon to ecstasy.

In short, I fell in love.

And Yong-Gon knew it.

“Yabu, the reward for anal intercourse is Jong-Suk.”

I happily submitted.

And the day after, my bottom hole still throbbing, I was allowed to retire early and she would lie with me. I was restrained, of course, with chastity belt, gloves, and ankles tied, but she was not and she would explore my bare skin with her hands, whilst her tongue explored my mouth and I gasped silently in ecstasy.

And my husband watched on through a peephole, with another gisaeng bringing him to fulfilment with her mouth.

And that was that, save for when, after only a few months, I fell pregnant. Nine months later, my son was born and my husband named him Ju-Hwan. He was the love and light of my life and I treasured holding him and feeding him.

Several months after his birth, I was pregnant again. By this time my husband had acquired two more gisaeng.

And so my life has continued. Restricted and silent, a songless bird in a gilded cage. I have my pleasure – both in the bedroom and in the seven children that have resulted from it – and I have my pain, but it is a life. Like countless generations of Korean women before, I have grown accustomed to it. I no longer even see the doors which would have once brought me pain. It is our tradition, these are our customs. I am Yabu, nothing more. Yes, Yong-Gon?


Chapter 8

Thirty years later

And now I shall take over the narrative. In the months running up to her fortieth birthday, I ordered my wife to write down the story of her remarkable life. By that time, her rebellious spirit had been quelled long ago, and she assented to my every wish. And besides, it meant time with her hands free being able to communicate with others. She enjoyed it immensely. I am a just man.

I wanted her to write it all down as an historical record of the start of our movement of national rejuvenation. Well, that was the reason I gave officially. Unofficially, as I told her myself during the first morning of our marriage, I am a sadist with a high libido and tales of female suffering turn me on.

That is why I asked her to do it, but why I ordered her to do it then was for quite a different reason: after her fortieth birthday she would no longer be able to do such things.

Yabu was pretty. I don’t think she ever realised just how pretty she was. As hot as any of the gisaeng I’ve had and, believe me, I’ve had a few. My latest, the delectable little Mi-Kyung is nestled beside me as I type this in fact. But even the prettiest of women fade with the years and the fact that I used her as a breeding machine for the Kyon clan, forcing seven babies out of her, means that she faded faster than most.

And I cannot do with a faded woman.

But traditional Korean society is strict about many things. Most of the rules suit me, but one that doesn’t is that about monogamy: once a man has married, he may not marry again, even if he has disowned her. And Yabii gave me no reason to do that, no reason at all, so we are attached to one another until death do us part.

Thankfully, Chongsanri has an answer for that too, and after Yabu’s fortieth birthday, the age when she is declared past childbearing age, I instituted it.

That evening I slept with her for one last time and then put her to sleep using the same tea draught that I had used when we first wed. This time though, I was doing more than just pump up her tits again.

Once out cold, she was transported to the Chongsanri medical facility in the heart of our little community up here in the mountains and there her transformation began. Her hair was shaved off completely and her head laser treated to stop any future hair growth. Similar treatment was conducted on her brows and lashes. Then the object was produced.

Back on that first hospital visit, over twenty years earlier, as well as pumping up her tits and lips, I’d had a cast done of her virginal young face. That had been saved, entered into the Chongsanri database and then, this year, reproduced as the mask of a hood which was designed to encase her ageing head until the day she died. Carefully it was fitted, an intrusion going into her mouth and a tube down into her stomach to feed her. Tubes also went up her nostrils and then lenses were placed over her eyes with only a pinhole in the centre to allow limited sight. The whole thing was made of a new plastic compound that stays flexible (to a degree) and allows the skin underneath to breathe. Developed by Chongsanri of course. Similar treatment was also meted out to her hands and arms, although the new covers kept the hands rigid. She would never use them again.

She panicked when she awoke three days later but, unable to do anything for herself, and unable to deny my will anymore, though she hadn’t tried in many years, she slowly got over it. Today, as before, she is still dressed in the most sumptuous hanboks, her hair styled in the most elaborate Joseon Era styles, but she is now permanently and completely incommunicado. She barely sees, cannot turn her head or use her hands.

Nor too can she have sex. I had her pleasure nub and inner petals taken away and then had her vaginal opening closed permanently with just a small hole for wastes. On top of this I refitted her chastity belt, this time with nothing to fill her, the key for which is embedded in a prism of glass on my desk at work. The president’s desk, which is back in Seoul. After all, what use does a forty-year old woman have with such things? Now those parts will only be used for their essential tasks, and whatever is communicated to the implant of course.

But although she is forty, she does not look it. Instead, my darling wife, my Yabu, is forever seventeen, the blushing bride who was married to me all those years ago. These days she has no life of her own. Instead she stands or sits in my room as an elegant ornament, a dutiful and submissive accessory to my wealth and status. I often gaze upon her staring mindlessly into space whilst Mi-Kyung or some other gisaeng sucks me off to ecstasy.

There is a lot to be said for tradition, you know.