The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: How to Tame Her with Slumber

Chapter One: Mesmerism will Fix Her Liberal Ways

Tags: md, ds, mc

Synopsis: Louise, a young suffragette, has been forcibly engaged to the odious chauvinist Mr Leashem. Little does Louise suspect that Mr Leashem can make any woman very compliant. Will Louise find herself forsaking her deepest ideals? Will she find herself fighting against them?

Disclaimer: All characters are over 18. Feedback can be sent to

“Men do not want solely the obedience of women, they want their sentiments. All men, except the most brutish, desire to have, in the woman most nearly connected with them, not a forced slave but a willing one, not a slave merely, but a favourite. They have therefore put everything in practice to enslave their minds.”

—John Stuart Mill, The Subjection of Women, 1869

A half-year ago, when I extinguished my eighteen candles upon my cake, I did not wish as I usually did. Even hope cannot withstand impossibility. As such I did not whisper to myself, ‘I wish my sex to receive franchise before my eighteenth year.’

Unaccustomed to progress, the men of the world called the 19th century the ‘women’s century.’ Three months shy of 1900, as I sit in the drawing room, listening to mother discuss my future with my fiancé of four months, I rue how far this empire, pinnacle of civilisation, is from those men’s estimations.

‘I told my husband copious education does terrors to a growing girl’s head,’ says my mother in the next room. ‘Fill their little brains with classical literature and modern science, and they start believing they’re as clever and strong as Odapades.’ I hear angry sips of tea. ‘My parents taught me only the womanly arts: cooking, cleaning, reading—But literacy only to the extent required for a child’s bedtime story or Mrs Beeton’s guidance. And I must say, Mr Leashem, I am—was, I should say—a better wife for it.’

Mother never believed in women’s rights. Once she caught me reading Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Only father’s intervention saved the volume from the flames. Another time, when I returned from a meeting of sister suffragettes, I ruefully realised I had left their pamphlet on my desk. Mother burnt blue, coming close to blasphemous utterances, ordering me to renounce conspiring with those ‘vice-ridden trollopes.’ Father stepped in. He said I’d permission to soroitise with whatever group I wished, regardless of creed or aim.

To mother’s credit, those rights she would deny womankind, she does not reserve for herself. If father made his position concrete, she submitted, regardless of how far it violated her wishes and values.

Only after father’s death did she take up that most masculine activity: breadwinning. She saves her femininity, however, by restricting her occupations to the publishing of recipes and, in tight-budgeted months, sterile romances. I supplement our income by penning New Woman essays, for sale in niche salons, and salacious literature of boarding school mischiefs. One of my endeavours pays better than the other.

‘Yes, I do so feel your pain, Miss L- Sorry, Mrs Lovencare (even gone, they remain with us),’ says Mr Leashem, my fiancé. ‘A woman with eyes above her station quickly loses her aptitude for her rightful station. Leaping so high, yet missing the ladder’s rung by such distance, eventuates a fall with such impact that I doubt any discerning gentleman would find her battered body attractive.’

Do they know I hear them quite well through the door?

‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, Mr Leashem. The unbridled freedom society gives these girls has tempted them to manly pursuits: Writing, business, and, dear me, smoking. Soon enough they may forgo men altogether, and that way lies the end of civilisation.’

‘You speak the truth, madam. At times, it seems I and my brothers in the Males for the Proper Treatment of Women Brotherhood stand solitary against the coming storm. But you—I apologise for clasping your hand, but I must feel your warmth to be sure you are not a mere figment of my ideals—you understand the endangered value of femininity.’

I always hated Mr Leashem. Even at our first meeting, he demanded I call him ‘Mr Leashem’, never furnishing me with his Christian name. That first meeting, when I first learnt I had been ‘involuntarily pushed into that blessed state of marriage’ by mother. Mr Leashem speaks bilge with such calm conviction. When the foundations of his arguments have thoroughly eroded, he grips the pillars, and calls the mere fact that the roof does not squash him evidence of his claims.

‘But I despair, Mr Leashem. You say we stand alone against a coming storm, yet how are we to stop a storm?’ said my mother.

‘Mrs Lovencare, to a woman’s mind, so prone to hysteria, crises seem insurmountable. A man’s mind, however, equipped with courage and cunning, can reduce even tornadoes on the horizon, to tundras in teacups. Allow me a few hours alone with your daughter and I shall talk her from the ledge of foolishness.’

‘Oh, yes, do. But, forgive my incredulity, I do not believe any argument, however true and well-put, could bore through that girl’s stubborn skull.’

He chuckles. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. As I have said, allow me but a few hours.’ I hear his footsteps start then stop. ‘For the sake of my work, I require complete privacy, even from mothers. I do believe she can hear us through the door; I have heard her scoffing.’

Bugger.

‘So please, madam, retire to your bedroom. I shall call when I, and she, are ready.’

The door opens and shuts as Mr Leashem enters. He sits opposite me, across the tea table, on a plush chair. He is a tall man, and not unattractive, but his every appealing physical characteristic betray themselves by their snake-oil slickness. His hair is too brightly blond and too well-combed; the eyes’ whites are pristine, like polished porcelain, with nary a bloodshot nor mote; his teeth blind with shine; and his clothes, well, they are so clean and un-frayed they imply an easy life, one lacking even the morning commute to work through the sooty morn.

‘Hello, Louise.’

‘Hello, Mr Leashem.’

‘Now, now, that is no tone to speak to your future husband with.’

‘Exactly.’

His face crinkles as he supresses anger with a forced grin. ‘Charming.’ He rummages in his coat pocket, pulling out a chain, ending in a large locket. ‘Rationality, I have found, does not work on womankind, so I shall appeal to your emotions.’ He leans forward, opening the locket, revealing the photograph of a middle-aged woman. Pinching the end of the chain, he lets the locket hang between us. It sways gently, catching the sun.

‘This is my mother. It is a fault of your suffragette sorority to believe we men despise women.’

‘Sir, you misunder—’

‘In actuality, we adore women. Or rather, we adore the ideal of women.’ The swings of his pendent widen, yet remain slow, creating an arc within my eye line. At each pass of the pendulum through its lowest point the locket catches the sun, dazzling my eyes. ‘I love my mother, for she was an ideal woman: dutiful, loyal, loving, obedient, and all the other feminine virtues.’

‘Bu—’

‘Like theatre critics—’ I swear, he always waits for me to open my mouth before speaking. ‘—we, men, demand the perfect show. A high demand, yes, but one present in any discerning theatregoer’s mind.’

The light from the locket is not as irritating as it should be. It does not flash like a torch appearing from around a corner, assaulting my eyes, but like a reflection on a lake, occasionally obscured by swaying foliage.

‘In the constitution of any decent theatre director should be, at least, this one virtue: discipline. Rules—yes, even the theatre has rules—must be followed to attain perfection: rules of pacing, aesthetics, and moral values. The director must adhere to these rules so to make art worth society’s notice.’

His voice, as well, does not grate as I expected it to. When he wishes, he can shear the coarseness of his tones to a silky stream. If only he recited something more pleasant than his sophistic philosophy.

I pipe up, ‘Your analogy is inaccur—’

‘Difficult?’ he continues. ‘Why, of course, adherence to rules is difficult, but necessary for sculpting masterpieces. Women are no different. What you suffragettes lionise as “liberation,” I decry as “ill-discipline.” Intimidated by the rocky road to the female ideal, you “modern” women take instead the calmer route, that of lax morals, coarse actions, and disobedience.’

I do not correct or interrupt. Bulls will tire themselves before words can sooth them.

‘Like the theatre critic who can instinctually demark a show from the West End halls from a satyr play from the East End alleys, a discerning citizen can mark the difference between a suffragette and a submissive. Also like the critic, the citizen cannot quit the show—‘Twould be impolite—but must stew in their own disappointment, and bare the show through, hoping for improvement.’

The swinging locket raises higher, as do my eyes; its course widens and slightly quickens its back and forth sway, as do my eyes. The sight pleases me in an odd way, the sway back and forth, punctuated by a glint in the middle, imbuing me with a sense of certainty, a safe knowledge that it will continue as it has. If only he would stop talking I could luxuriate in this feeling.

‘Sitting in a poor play can be so tiring. Those moments which should erode ennui, happen like clockwork or, more likely, not at all.’ His voice is so slow all of a sudden. ‘The actors, rather than lure the audience into foreign worlds, lull them to dreamland. As the curtains open for the second act, eyes droop closed.’

Words, though flowing through my ears, are spoken a volume too low and a frequency too slow to earn my full attention. The intermittent glare soothes like a loving hand stroking my hair. The locket brings my eyes to water, as its wide wave strains my following eyes. Nonetheless, I follow it, so soothing is it, like relaxing in the sun after a picnic.

‘Actors drone while eyes droop, those tired eyes of tired minds.’ My eyes water too much. I blink like butterfly flaps. ‘For when all moves slowly, the mind moves slowly, too. And as the mind moves slowly, the body moves slowly. Breaths, starved of vigour, deepen. Deep breath in… Deep breath out… Deep breath in… Deep breath out. Breathing deeply, the audience just grows more tired, more slow.’

Did I breathe deeply? Well, I’m breathing deeply now. Each breath makes my chair so comfy as I sink into it.

‘The audience wishes to nod off, to surrender to tiredness, to let sweet numbness bathe their bodies.’

That sounds nice.

‘You look tired, Louise?’

A question?

‘You are tired, Louise. I can’t blame you. I’ve droned on, and on, and you must be so bored. You want to yawn.’

I… don’t think that’s true.

‘I see a yawn deep in your bosom, a yawn floating upwards, growing bigger as it does so, a yawn grown so big that you can’t contain it. The yawn’s at the top of your throat. You cannot resist the yawn, so yawn.’

I yawn a yawn that stretches my mouth to its full extent, peaks in a groan and has its afterglow in a moan. My eyelids take on lead weights, and bob like ships on a windy sea, yet still my eyes follow on the locket.

‘Good girl, you knew your natural urges were too strong to resist, so you obeyed them. Notice how you follow this locket, back and forth, back and forth, drawing your eyes in. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t look away, because the urge is too strong, and you are too weak.’

Weak… No… But the word rolls over me like the subtlest perfume. Weak, weak, weak. My bones, already lead, are wrapped in muscles as firm as jelly. Is my mouth gaping?

‘You know you are weak, too weak to hold those heavy eyes open. But you will hold them open, because the urge to follow this locket is too strong to disobey.’

Heaving my eyes open seems the work of Atlas. It would be bliss to close them, but the locket…

‘But you are so weak. It’s all you can do not to close your sleepy eyes. After all, you are but a weak, little girl.’

No? That’s not…

‘But you have done so well keeping your heavy eyes open, focussing on my locket. Good girl. Tell you what, you’ve done so well I’ll let you close your eyes, let you give in to sleepiness, to your own weakness. Does that sound nice?’

I cannot contain a moan.

‘I thought so. Now, I shall count down from five. When I reach one I will permit you to close your eyes.

‘Five… Eyes a hundred times as heavy.

‘Four… So watery, so tiring.

‘Three… You need to close your eyes.

‘Two… Almost there. A thousand times heavier.

My eyelids drag down, till the world is but a haze through water and eyelashes.

‘Oh, but I can’t let you sleep just yet.’

Ohhhh…

‘Now, now, I merely need to know how much you want this.’

Through the slivers of vision I’ve left, I follow the locket back and forth, back and forth, so tiring, so soothing.

‘I know, I’ll let you close your sleepy eyes when you say, “I am a weak, little girl.”’

No… No?

A second, no, it must be an eon, passes, before he grumbles. He continues: ‘Follow the locket, Louise. See how it flashes, so beautiful, but so tiring. You can’t keep your eyes open. You’re too tired, too weak. You have to obey your natural urges, so you’ll have to close your eyes, but you can only close your eyes when you say, “I am a weak, little girl.” Therefore, you have to say, “I am a weak, little girl,” because you have to close your eyes.

That… makes sense? Oh, my eyes, flickering, watering. They’re closing, which means I have to…

‘I… am a… weak, little… girl.’

‘And one. Good girl.’

He snaps his fingers, and darkness embraces me.

Words pass through my mind. A whole sentence will appear to me, true and of highest significance, and then, in an instant, will vanish, gone from my consciousness, but, I sense, still alive deep within me, as true as ever. Only a few words meander through my awareness.

‘Girl.’

‘Obedient.’

‘My sweet.’

‘Girls are weak.’

But these words roam like butterflies, never relating to each other or combining to a single thought.

The words stop.

‘Yes, Mr Leashem, I understand.’ Is that me?

Standing atop a precipice, I look over a troubled sea, awe and terror filling me. I am but six months eighteen, at the age to leap off. But I am not ready. I am a girl without preparation for this step. I must, y-yes, I must tend to my character, so that, one day, I may stand here again, and take the leap. Yes. I walk backwards, and memories flow out my mind. I am five months eighteen. No, four months—No-

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

Harumph! Here I am, but two months eighteen, and already mother has auctioned—that is the only word for it—auctioned me off to the first rich bastard to proffer a bid. What a superbly indicative name he has, ‘Leashem,’ indicative because his ‘philosophy’ demands all those lacking a penis wear a leash. Well, I shan’t give him the pleasure of a pleasant courtship. I’ll show him the woman—No, the human—whom he must endure if he ever hopes to marry me. And that is only ‘if’ he marries me, for from this moment to the appointed day of our wedding, I shall exercise my every legal right as an adult Englishwoman to thwart this engagement.

‘What are you thinking, my dear?’ Leashem’s smile reminds me of a snake with distemper.

‘Oh, nothing. Just you, Mr Leashem.’

‘Are you not overjoyed that this very day your mother promised you that which every girl dreams of: Marriage?’

I make a show of checking my pulse. ‘Not a hint above average. I suppose that occasions one conclusion: I am not a “girl”.’

‘But, surely, I am not so loathsome? Surely, there exist worse fates than marriage to me.’

‘Could you endure my honesty, Mr Leashem.’ He nods, maintaining his sickening grin. ‘There are worse fates, but, as it stands, I am under no risk of acquiring consumption, nor is Britain at any risk of an anarchist revolution. That considered, Mr Leashem, marriage to you excites me as much as a dagger in a dark alley, or a cancerous growth on my foot.’ I look him in the eye, gauge his reaction, and see if he’s reappraising me.

The same grin.

‘Well, my dear,’ he says in his perennially patronising tone, ‘you certainly are a shrew.’

‘Temper, Mr Leas—‘

‘Quiet, my sweet.’

My mouth shuts in the middle of my sentence. I cannot open it—I cannot even groan from behind my closed mouth.

‘My dear, I am sorry to reveal, when you said you weren’t a girl, I laughed a little inside. It reminded of when my little brother, still practically a glint in father’s eye, said he didn’t want to be treated like a child.’ He crosses one leg over the other. ‘You are a girl, Miss Lovencare—Or should I call you Mrs Leashem... No, no, like the first fornication of marriage, waiting make that name-change sweeter. As I was saying, you are a girl, just a very bad one. A naughty girl in need of correction. Does that sound right to you, Miss Lovencare? You can speak, my sweet.’

My lips unseal. ‘You patronising barbarian! If you think for a second I will consent to your “correction”—’

‘Stand, my sweet.’

I’m on my feet. The standing itself slipped my notice, for I stood without thinking. My breathing is erratic. ‘What have you done to me, you bastard!?’

‘Just like a girl, the pretty words crumble at the slightest pressure,’ says Leashem. ‘I have done nothing. You, however, are getting in touch with your feminine side, that long dormant part of you which naturally submits to men—Your husband, especially.’

‘Tell me,’ I reiterate, ‘what you have done.’

‘Alas, it seems, I still have work to do.’ He stands and walks towards me. I begin retreat, but he says, ‘Halt, my sweet. Allow me to remove your clothes, my sweet.’ My feet are stuck, glued to the floor. He grabs me, and I cannot muster the will to bat him away. With him standing behind me, I hear and feel him undo my dress, first the top buttons, then the long zip. He pulls down my dress to around my ankles, leaving me in nought but a corset and chemise.

‘You bastard, you utter bastard!’ I scream, but he says ‘Shush, my sweet,’ so I do. He removes my corset, before sitting back down in his chair, leaving me standing in my chemise, in a pile of my clothes.

He eyes me up and down. ‘Take off your shoes and socks, my sweet.’

I fight my decent to my knees, to the undoing of my laces, to the sliding off of my shoes and socks, but to no avail. I stand, on cold wood, barefoot, in only a-

‘And the chemise, take it off, my sweet.’

Oh, God, no. I fight and fight, knowing it to be futile. The knowledge grows stronger as I bunch up my thin, ankle-length chemise around my waist. Every inch of leg revealed compounds my powerlessness, until finally my pussy is revealed, then my breasts as I pull the chemise higher, higher and higher before throwing it off.

I am naked, naked before this philistine.

‘You have been a very naughty girl, Miss Lovencare. My upbringing taught me how to deal with naughty girls. You see, my mother, a lovely, beautiful, and, above all, dutiful woman, makes mistakes, as all humans do. But sometimes she errs too far—burns the roast, talks over a guest, walks outside un-chaperoned—so my father takes measures to correct her conduct. And he made no secret to me and my brother what those measures were.’

Blood rushes to and from my face simultaneously, as his inevitable revelation dawns on me.

He does not smile, he does not even frown. ‘He would take her to the living room, tear off all her clothes, bend her over his knee—’ He slaps his knee. ‘—and thrash her arse red.’ His stare pierces me ‘So, lay over my knee, my sweet.’

I can’t fight it. I walk as onto the gallows. Will the pain or humiliation be worse, I wonder? I lay over his knees, my breasts dangle down, and my arse lays vulnerable. I cannot will my hands to shield my bottom. He rests his palm on my bum, and strokes it. I crunch my eyes shut.

SMACK!

Ah!

‘You have been a very naughty girl.’

SMACK!

‘You are disobedient.’

SMACK!

‘You are disrespectful.’

SMACK!

‘You are wilful.’

SMACK!

My bum burns, as if teeth bite it. His spanks come on top of each other.

SMACK!

Tears squeeze from my eyes.

‘You don’t know your place.’

SMACK!

But he is right, I think? Wait, no! I am a naughty girl who must be punished. No! I am an independent gir- woman! I am a naughty, independent woman.

SMACK!

‘This is for your own good!’

I must be a good wom- girl.

SMACK!

I must be a good girl. I must be submissive, obedient SMACK! Oh, God, it hurts! SMACK! an obedient, docile girl.

SMACK!

Aaaaah!

I have not obeyed my mother. I have not obeyed men. Yes? The spanking’s for my own good, to make me a good girl.

SMACK!

I must be a good girl! who obeys without question! who strips without question! who submits to spanking without question!

SMACK! SMACK!

I cry, but take it, because I’m a good girl.

‘Obedience is for your own good.’ SMACK! ‘Obeying those who love you will keep you safe.’ SMACK! ‘Obey your mother, your husband, and any men who love you like a sister.’ SMACK! ‘They know what’s best for you.’ SMACK!

Yes. Obey men. Men know best. Wait, girls are equa- ekwe- Girls are weak. Men know best. Obey men.

‘You know this is right.’ SMACK! ‘You deserve this spanking because you have been disobedient; you have disrespected those who know best.’ SMACK!

Yes, obey men who know best; they love me; they want what’s best for me.

‘Only three more, Louise.’

Three more and I shall be the perfect, docile, obedient, dependent wife. Salvation!

‘This shall banish disobedience.’ SLAP!

Oh, God!

‘And this shall banish all disrespect for men.’ SLAP!

AHHHH!

‘This shall banish independence.’ SLAP!

My bum is on fire! But my soul is cured!

‘Thank me, Louise.’

‘T-thank you... Mr Leashem.’

‘Get up, my sweet.’ I do. ‘Return to your seat and sit, my sweet.’

I wobble to my seat, legs threatening to collapse at every step. I sit—Oh, Christ-Bloody-Damn-It!—The upholstery on my arse feels like lemon juice on papercuts. But I keep my mouth shut. This is the pain a naughty girl like me must endure.

He stares at me as I mop swelling tears from my face. He waits until I’m all dried up, ten minutes at least. He still has that neutral expression he assumed before the spanking.

‘Touch your nose,’ he says. I don’t why he orders that, but he does.

I touch my nose.

‘Cup your breasts.’

I do, though my hands tremble.

‘Get on your hands and knees and bark like a dog.’

On shaking legs I stand, only to practically fall to the floor. On hands and knees I look up to him. ‘RUFF! RUFF! BARK!’ I shake my bum like a dog before her master. ‘BARK! BARK! AROO!’ Happiness swells in my heart despite this silliness—No! because of this silliness. After being such a sinful girl, performing this simple silliness brings a smile to my long-suffering fiancé’s face. I was a bitch, but now I am his bitch.

‘Very good. Sit back down.’

I get back on my feet to sit on the chair. Sitting hurts less, and my happiness quells even the remaining stings.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asks, with a little chuckle that infects me.

The question is so simple that it catches me off-guard. ‘Because you ordered me to, Mr Leashem.’

‘But what if you didn’t?’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘What if you didn’t do what I told you? What would you have done if you disobeyed me?’

‘Pardon?’ The very thought unbalances me. ‘But I must obey you.’ I am a good girl who obeys without question.

‘Oh,’ he says, with mock-shock on his face. ‘Why must you? Surely, if you put your mind to it, you could disobey me.’

‘It wouldn’t be right,’ I almost yell, but restrain myself. ‘You are man, my future husband! You know best, so deserve my utter obedience.’

‘What does it matter that I know best? Why does that mean you must obey me?’

How doesn’t he know the answer? Oh, he must know the answer, and merely tests me! ‘Because I am just a girl! A weak, silly female. I cannot survive without men to guide me. My mother has protected me since father’s death, but she—just a woman—cannot shelter me forever. I must have a man guard me. I must marry.’

Oh, no! All the things I said to him, the foolish, foolish things. ‘If I have offended you, please forgive me! I thought I could go through this world alone, but I now know I cannot. I shall do all I once, ignorantly, spat at. I shall obey you, take your name, be your housewife, do all in my meagre power to make your life a brighter endeavour.’

While I ranted, he had come so close to me. He holds my face, stopping my outflow of apology. ‘Hush, hush, my sweet. I know all that, I just wanted you to admit it to yourself. Aren’t you glad I spanked you, now? Aren’t you glad I banished all those immature thoughts of disobedience, disrespect, and independence?’

In his eyes I see love, love of me, despite how I was. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Leashem! If ever those fallacies arise in my mind again, I shall beg you spank them right out.’

‘Good girl,’ he says, stroking my cheek. His affection fills me with warmth. ‘But I did nothing of note. I merely made you realise a most basic fact about the world: Girls are weak.’

I yawn. Oh, self-discovery really takes it... out of you… I just need a... little... nap...

I stand closer to the precipice, but still a ways down the incline. Already I feel hardier, more ready, but not enough. Remission of the disease has begun, but the tumour still yet festers within my mind.

Ah! But there is Mr Leashem, here to guide me. He speaks, but the words only enter my understanding in fragments.

‘Intelligence.’

‘Foolishness.’

‘Men’s’

‘Slider.’

I feel as though, if I truly tried, I could take sense from the words, but Mr Leashem doesn’t want me to. I must obey his wishes, a man’s wishes, because compliance is a girl’s truest joy.

‘Wake up, my sweet.’ A snap.

I nodded off? I am eighteen years old, that is, not a child; I shouldn’t nod off. I hope I didn’t inconvenience Mr Leashem. Only two months engaged and I’m already nodding off on him. Next time my eyes droop I shall pinch my wrist.

As I grow aware, I realise this chair irritates my bottom… my bare bottom. I’m naked… That’s right… naked around Mr Leashem. It’s no matter that I’m naked around Mr Leashem. It is safe and pleasant to be naked around my fiancée; my body is destined to be his, so he may behold at any time.

‘Sit up straight, my sweet.’

‘My sweet.’ Even though my obedience is assured, Mr Leashem will add that little phrase to the end of any especially urgent command. When he says it, my body obeys him as if without my intention. It sprang from a silly game we played in around the start of our courting, whose rules trickled into everyday living, becoming an odd tradition. One day, outside the game, he said, ‘Buck like a chicken, my sweet,’ which I did, because it amused me and, more importantly, amused him. Eventually the commands became, ‘Wash the dishes, my sweet,’ ‘Fetch my shoes, my sweet.’ Useful domestic commands for his useful domestic fiancé.

‘I know you have a silly, little liking for the written word,’ he says, making me blush. ‘Tell me, my dear, what have you been reading?’

I open my mouth, but snap it shut when I realise what will come out. ‘Wollstonecraft.’ Should I say that? I’ve no idea why I read it, shrewish lies for its entirety, from a woman who failed to understand the place of her sex. Should I say it? Of course I must, for it is the truth. A good girl never conceals the truth from men.

‘W-Wollstonecraft,’ the name tumbles out. Why do I speak with fear? Even if Mr Leashem spanked me, I would know it is for my betterment: he does not punish me, rather, reforms me.

‘Pardon?’ He leans closer.

‘Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.’

The look on his face is neither anger nor shock, just disappointment.

‘And I believed you such an intelligent girl. (Or should I, as your fellow bints would prefer, call you “woman”?) Ah, but there is a difference between an intelligent girl and a wise one. A merely intelligent girl will expend her intellectual energies aimlessly; she lacks the discipline and capacity of a man’s mind, thus her intelligence is a feckless faculty. She will waste her meagre mental reserves on rubbish like “women’s rights”.

‘A wise girl, on the other hand, understands the purpose of a girl’s intelligence: to aid men. The finest fertiliser is but effluent, if not applied to seeds. When someone asks a girl, “What have you been reading?” she should answer, truthfully, “A cook book, or a house management book, or a novel.” Do you understand, Louise?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say, but something gnaws at the base of my mind, a heat on the back of my neck, as though I feel guilty for saying what I do not believe. But I do believe it. I do. But…

‘I see doubt in your eyes, ah, fear not, I shan’t damn you for it. Some of the best wives I’ve met once fought their fate.’ He raises his head in thought for a while. ‘For demonstration of all I’ve said, I shall perform a magic trick.’

I want to say, ‘I’m not a little girl,’ but if Mr Leashem feels this will help me become a better wife, I will go along with it.

He walks behind my chair, then places one hand on my left shoulder, while the other hand’s forefinger brushes a line up and down my right temple.

‘Louise, relax. There is a sliding switch on your temple. This slider will help you. You cannot touch the slider. Only I can touch the slider.’

I feel the slider, almost as if it was always there. It’s a weird feeling, but not a distracting or unpleasant one. When he pulls his hands away I almost forget it exists.

‘Mr Leashem, if I may, what does the slider do?’

‘You shall learn in due time, my dear.’ He walks to the bookshelf, makes a show of scanning the volumes, then pulls an old book from the middle shelf. ‘Ah, Jonson, the other bard.’ He drops the book in my lap, splashing dust on my naked thighs. ‘Open to any page and read—but be sure to emote, as if you were reciting for a school prize,’ he commands before standing behind me.

I open it, and pick the shortest poem in sight.

‘Break, Fant’sy, from thy cave of cloud
And spread thy purple wings;
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things;
Create—’

He drags the slider down. Warm fudge pours into my mind, a thick haze enveloping it. My thoughts have eaten well and now go to… to… What was I thinking? Hot chocolate? Not quite.

‘Keep reading, my dear.’

‘Pardon? Oh, sorry, Mr Leashem.’ Where was I?

‘Create of airy forms a stream it must have blood and nought of puh… puhhuh, oh, phlegm… and though it is—sorry—it be a waking dream yet let it like an odour rise to all the senses here and fall like sleep on- upon their eyes or music in their ears.’

‘And what does Jonson mean by this poem, my dear?’

‘It, um, sorry.’ I skim through it again. A bit ago I understood. Now it’s just words. A ‘cave’ or ‘cloud’, I can imagine; ‘purple wings,’ also. But what do they have to do with each other? ‘Phlegm’? That’s at the back of the throat, I think.

Rushed minutes later I look up to Mr Leashem. ‘I am sorry, I’ve no clue what it means.’

‘To be expected,’ says Mr. Leashem. ‘The female mind has little talent for abstraction. I shall interpret the poem for you. “Fant’sy”—Imagination—is God-like and regal—“cave of cloud,” “purple wings.” It creates beautiful things full of “blood and nought of phlegm”—A double meaning, both are bodily fluids, but blood also means lively, and phlegm also means sluggish. Jonson says that products of imagination can create lively, lovely things that invigorate “all the senses.” Do you understand, my dear?’

As I look over the poem I see he is right. I find in it all he said. Mr Leashem is so intelligent.

‘Yes, Mr Leashem. It’s so clear now.’

He moves in front of me and gets on one knee to look me in the eye. ‘Do not fret that you could not understand it. You are a girl, after all. I shouldn’t have started you with such heavy-going fair. Jane Austen, that admirably superficial women’s novelist, is more your level.’

‘But, Mr Leashem, for a while though I understood it.’

‘Oh, my dear, that is a simple matter. Do you remember the slider on your temple?’ I nod. ‘With that I can control your intelligence.’ He puts his fingers on my temple. ‘I can give.’

A fresh breeze rolls through my mind, as thoughts shake off lethargy and-

‘And I can take away.’

Warm, hazy, thoughts so cosy.

‘You thought you understood the poem. You did not. I control your intelligence, therefore your intelligence is my property. As such when you felt you could understand the poem, it was really me allowing you to understand, lending you the intelligence that is in truth mine. You know this makes sense, my sweet.’

It makes sense. Of course, it does. ‘Sorry, Mr Leashem, for asking such a silly question.’

‘Don’t worry. A good girl makes mistakes when engaged, so she does not repeat them in marriage. For your benefit I shall lay out some logical principles—Do not despair, they are so simple even a girl could understand. Nod along if you follow.’

I nod.

‘You cannot understand this book. I can; therefore, I am smarter than you.’ I nod.

‘I am a man. I am smarter than you; therefore, men are smarter than you.’ I nod.

‘You are a girl. Men are smarter than you; therefore, men are smarter than girls.’ I nod.

‘A wise girl knows she knows nothing; therefore, she will defer to those who know more; therefore, wise girls defer to men.’ I nod.

‘You want to be a wise girl; therefore, you will always defer to men.’ I nod.

‘Those men who care and provide for you in your life, such as me, want what is best for you; therefore you will defer to them absolutely. You will obey and believe the words of loving men absolutely.’ I nod.

‘All other men you will show due deference to. You will understand they know better. You will heed their advice, so long as it does not harm yourself or the men who love you.’ I nod.

‘Good girl.’ He comes in front of me, then pushes my slider up.

My thoughts emerge from a warm bath into cool air. I feel so much wiser.

‘Now a test: What colour is the sky, my dear?’

‘Why, it is blue.’

Putting his hand on my shoulder, he shakes his head. ‘No, no, it’s purple.’

Purple? Whenever I look out the window I could swear it’s blue. Out the window, right now, it’s blue. Perhaps Mr Leashem refers to some new scientific discovery whereby the mind interprets the sky’s purple as blue.

‘What colour is the sky?’ he repeats

‘Purple.’

‘Oh, no, my dear, it’s blue.’

Oh, yes, of course it is.

‘But, my dear, you were right for saying purple, for you showed you believed a man’s words above your own eyes. Even if, later, you learn, from a man of course, that something taught to you by a man was wrong—even if the truth was what you believed originally—you will know you were right to believe the man. A good theory is based on the best evidence available. You can trust men to have the best evidence available. Even if your knowledge aligns with a man’s, you will know he is more right than you, because girls don’t have the best evidence. You would be right for the wrong reasons. Do you understand?’

I understand Mr Leashem speaks the truth, on an intellectual level, that is, but, try as I might to supress it, a pit in my gut rebels. A renegade cell in my brain insists his theories, that I know to be based on the best evidence and logic, have holes in them. Where the holes are, I cannot tell. But then my natural foolishness implies that any holes I find are non-existent, delusions of my over-hasty ‘critical’ faculty.

‘Yes, Mr Leashem, I understand.’ In the end, I am a girl, best to believe my intellectual superior.

‘Very good,’ he says. ‘To think we started off with you revealing you read Wollstonecraft.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Leashem. Thank you for teaching me the error of my ways. I understand now that girls are silly things, who must have the loving mind of a man to guide them.’

He strokes my hair, sending tingles of submission through me. ‘Good girl. You’ll make an excellent wife, for you follow your natural feminine urges: Obedience; deference; loyalty. Above all you have recognised that truth which “modern” females have forgotten: Girls are weak.’

I yawn. His words hold true. We have only talked a while and already sleep bears down on female body. I try to lift my sagging eyelids, and pinch my wrist, but then I hear him give me permission to sleep, so I…

I am so near the precipice. With Mr Leashem at my side I may reach it. He takes my hand and we continue our assent till finally at the peak, I am more than girl, I am a Wife, ready to leap. Although I still fear the thrashing abyss below, no longer does it petrify me. Once I believed I would leap alone into darkness, but now I realise…

A few steps from the edge I ready myself. I run towards it, leaping at the last moment, flying into gnashing nothingness. I fall, but know I’ve a destination, as my husband, as large as an entire world, catches me in his embrace, banishing the chill of the whirling sea with his manly security. My husband has saved me from uncertainty and despair—my husband, Mr Leashem.

‘Wake up, Louise.’

My epiphany still courses beneath my skin as I open my eyes to my husband—fiancé only in law, he is my husband, the man who possesses my fate. My mind lightens as my old responsibilities, my old ambitions, my old convictions dissolve. A niggle of loss discomforts me, but such niggles accompany all changes. More than anything I feel free, free to serve my husband. My convictions are his convictions, my ambitions are his ambitions, and my responsibilities are only to further his convictions and ambitions. As a suffragette, I never felt such sure purpose. I smile and sigh.

‘I love you, my husband.’ I could not hold the words back; I said it half-unconsciously. They sound strange; but they must be true.

A smirk passes over my husband’s face. ‘I know, my adorable dear, and I love you, too’ He wipes a tear of happiness from his eye. ‘Louise, tell me what those scenarios we ran through were.’

‘False. They never occurred.’

‘But?’

‘But that does not mean they aren’t true. They are the truth of how our courting should have gone. I regret you did not show me Truth sooner, that you did not spank away my insolence the day we met, that you did not guide my thoughts to suitably feminine avenues.’ Is it my mind that answers, or his?—The difference is immaterial!

‘Good girl.’ Both our smiles broaden ear to ear. ‘What do you think of suffragettism?’

‘Oh, my husband, such foolishness blinds women, luring them from their natural state of submission. We cannot vote; we can barely think for ourselves. A good woman would only concur with her husband’s vote.’ How could I have ever thought differently?

‘You’ve no idea how nice it is to hear you talk sense.’ He walks to the bookshelf, picking out a tome, one falling apart from constant reading. Holding it up to me, I see the title, which repels me like a vampire from the cross. A Vindication of the Rights of Women. ‘Do not be frightened. After nursing you towards enlightenment, do you really believe I’d plunge you back into ignorance. No, I merely wish you to confirm what you have said.’ He proffers the book to me. ‘If you truly believe all you’ve said, go to the fireplace and burn this bible of the false woman.’

I take the unholy testament, hesitating a little—though I’m sure only from revulsion to touch the book in any way. As I move to the hearth, I open the book and tear out a chunk of pages. Tossing them into the flame, the blackening paper thrills me as the warmth lazily licks my naked form. I tear another chunk, and another, condemning them to flames. At each destruction my husband’s hands wrap around my brain, squeezing out the last chills of my independence.

All burned, my life decided, my past life burned, my new life in the hands of the man who knows best.

‘Good girl.’ He takes my shoulder, turns me around, and looks into my eyes. His eyes express both love and self-satisfaction. ‘Put on your clothes, my sweet.’

‘Yes, my husband.’ As I dress myself, a realisation pleases me: beneath my dress, my corset, my chemise, I am naked. These layers merely decorate my nakedness. I am always naked before my husband.

‘Come with me to the parlour.’

I follow his lead.

In the parlour he turns to me. ‘I believe we’ve something very special to tell your mother.’

Oh, yes! Mother will be so proud.

‘But, as I’m sure you know, best to keep my methods hush-hush—she mightn’t understand.’

I nod.

‘Good girl. Mrs Lovencare!’

Minutes pass before I hear mother creak upon the stairs. Approaching us, she glares at me with suspicion.

‘Mrs Lovencare, may I present your daughter, as you always wished her to be.’ She sees me smiling next to husband I once foolishly despised. Her suspicion cools to incredulity. ‘You are right to disbelieve, mother-in-law. Only a fool would believe the best sans evidence. I shall show you! Louise?’

‘Yes, my fiancé?’

‘Bark, my sweet.’

I ruff.

‘Jump, my sweet.’

I hop.

‘Show your mother all you’ve learnt, my sweet.’

‘Yes, my fiancé.’ My body moves on its own as I feel a script buried within me take over. I prostrate myself before him. ‘I shall obey you, my fiancé, for that is my duty and your right. I shall never contradict you, or act for myself alone. I am your servant, my fiancé, for a woman’s place is at a man’s feet.’

‘Very good, Louise. Rise.’ I do, brushing myself off when standing.

Mother comes up to me, eyes hesitant to hope. ‘Is it true? Is it really true? Have you truly been cured of your wilful ways?’

I chuckle. ‘Yes, Mother. Mr Leashem taught me the foolishness of my old life. I feel so silly for ever believing women could be men’s equals. I know now a woman’s natural state is subservience.’

Mother cover her mouth and nose, sniffing a little. ‘You’ve no idea how proud I am to hear you say that. But—But how ever did he teach you? Did…’ She leans in to whisper, ‘Did he beat you?’

‘Oh, no, Mother, “beating” is such a harsh word. Mr. Leashem just spanked me. That’s what it took to get me to listen to reason.’

My husband puts his arm around me. ‘A red bottom taught her her place far better than any carefully reasoned polemic ever could.’

‘You put my mind at ease, sir,’ says my mother. She exhales heavily. ‘And to think, because of my husband’s dictates, hitherto her bottom’s never been a shade darker than snow.’

‘Ah, madam, even men can be foolish. As so many “progressive” spirits do, he misidentified the aim of spanking. The whip is not to punish, but to reform.’ My husband pats my bum, pushing me forward. ‘Now isn’t there something you wish to inquire, my dear?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘Mother, these past years I’ve wasted with false learning have left my wifely skills uncultivated.’ I walk close to mother. ‘As I wish to please my fiancé in every way, mother, I implore you, teach me to cook.’

Mother grabs my hands. ‘My daughter, of course I will.’ Mother pulls us towards the kitchen. ‘Excuse us, Mr Leashem, but my maternal duty has overpowered my manners.’

‘Not a problem, Mrs Lovencare. If you can make her even half the cook you are, I predict my married life to be a happy one.’

As mother drags me forward, I feel my husband’s smile on my back, a smile I reciprocate. The future I see before me has narrowed to single, golden path, walls towering on either side.