The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I must confess, I was over-hopeful about my plan. I thought, by mesmerism, I could set my former suffragette friends upon the wholesome path of womanhood and let that be that. Of course, to know the path is one thing, to traverse it another. One needs know where one can safely camp, and which berries are safe and sustaining. The night after the mass mesmerisation, as I pleasured my husband alongside a few friends, I realised, mid-fellatio, that I had set a path for the sorority which some were ill-equipped for. For supposedly grown women they’d no idea of the wifely arts.

For the past few weekends I have worked to rectify my slip. The sorority still meets on Saturdays (and now on Sundays, as well) but in a different place, and for a far different purpose. The Women for Liberty and Equality now are named the School for Femininity and Wifeliness. A name, that is, that none use. Few girls have told their families and loved ones about their recent conversion, and none have revealed the means of their conversion. Among the sorority, however, it is ‘the School’, for each and every weekend I hold a make-shift finishing school where young maidens learn the wifely arts. And though they shall not reveal their weekend occupation, I hope their loved ones notice my good work, as I return to the girls as ever more dutiful, ever more docile, ever more womanly women.

For this reason I stride down the immaculate tiles of this regal corridor as the morning sun shines through the arching windows. That I can utilise this awe-inspiring manor for my meagre purposes owes to one man who I once, shamefully, reviled: Mr—Nay! Lord Johnson. I should have known he was of good blood. His very commonness proves his nobility. A middleclass man lives and dies on his respectability, so he must maintain good manners; an aristocrat’s nobility is inherent, de sanguine. No faux-pas or sin, no matter how muddy or bloody, can obscure their shine.

Lord Johnson has so kindly allowed the School to conduct lessons in his personal estate every weekend. All the girls stay three nights then depart on Monday morning.

‘Good morning, Mistress Leashem.’ A maid nods to me, stopping in her routine, and I halt, too. Her smile bears teeth, and her eyes glass slightly—and she is wholly starkers. It was Johnson’s brilliant precaution that on Fridays, before the girls arrive, he dismisses the male staff for the weekend, while I ensure the female staff have only the most banal stories to tell upon their return. The School does not wish to spawn gossip. Yet.

‘Good morning, Bushy Pussy.’ I call all the female staff by funny names. What? They won’t remember. They do not even notice that every weekend they ‘forget’ to clothe themselves. I do this… for entirely comedic reasons. Why, the hilarious embarrassment is parasitic; my cheeks redden and my heart runs whenever I see their naked… full… forms.

‘Good luck, Mistress Leashem.’

‘P-pardon.’ I swallow.

She tilts her head. ‘With your class.’

‘Oh, oh, yes.’ I pull on my dresses collar, but it has too little give. ‘You may sit in, if you desire. You or any of the other girls.’

‘Oh, no, Mistress. We all have ever so much work to do. And I must provide Master Johnson with his noon cock-sucking.’ She says that last word as though it were ‘tea.’

I express my resignation. She walks off. I, for some reason, fix my eyes upon her bum as she departs. Only when she passes around the corner does my will return to me, allowing me impetus to move.

Why couldn’t I move? I am not one of those… those… Well, I suppose it is nothing to worry about. Merely one of moments where one recognises how strange God’s world is; a random object can entrance one. It could happen gazing at a flower, a table, or even a servant-girl’s plump, round bottom.

I start walking, in the direction opposite that which to girl walked.

Now at the classroom’s door, I take a deep breath, and open it. I enter a converted parlour room, which wafts with young women’s lavender perfume. A blackboard and desk stand at the front, with twenty-five desks facing it. Twenty girls fill those seats, those in especial need of my aid. Their chatter sparkles in the air like clinking glass. One girl, Eugenie Goodson, stands by my desk, holding chalk and a pointer out to me.

The girls wear what Leery assures me is ‘conventional schoolgirl dress’, but I must admit that in no school I have attended have girls been attired so. If I were to guess, I’d say he based his tailoring more on ‘gentleman’s literature’ than life. I am grateful, however, for Leery’s contribution of these white, see-through, ankle-length uniforms which resemble chemises more than dresses, and which must ‘have no knickers beneath them’. No hats, or bonnets, as well, so brown, blonde, and black locks, and streams of hair abound unhidden.

My clothes possess a modicum of appropriateness. My blouse accentuates my bosom and my skirt magnifies my hips and rear, making my waist seem miniscule in comparison. While their hair flows down like that of Botticelli’s Venus, mine is tied back with a tiny hat perched atop.

‘Come on, class,’ I say over the chatter, tapping my pointer on the table.

Almost immediately the girls quieten, and turn their eyes to me, alight with precocious eagerness. After scanning the girls, head by head, to check off my mental attendance list, I take the chalk proffered by Eugenie and write today’s topic on the whiteboard.

‘To begin, class, we shall continue mathematics.’

Their groans echo my sentiments. Mathematics, that rational, objective, masculine discipline, should, in a perfect world, garner no female disciples. Ah, but such is the infinitude of God’s mysteries—and, dare I say, humours—that a woman’s work sometimes requires a man’s skills. A woman’s work encompasses the home, and the entirety of its processes, from cooking supper to buying ingredients to spending her husband’s income on the purchase.

On the board I draw the final question mark, and then turn to the class. ‘Three questions, class. Here you have the typical budget of a typical marriage. In your notebooks adjust the budget for each of the three listed scenarios.’

They draw their pencils and put their noses to the grindstone—a figure of speech, of course, for they’ve perfect posture. As they scribble away, accomplishing arithmetic too simple to overheat a girl’s dainty brain, I throw my gaze over them, viewing not one, but all at once. Inside a lovely warmth coats my tummy like melted butterscotch. Here is proof that I, a girl, have aided this Empire in a small, but vital way. These girls once dared to demand education for the sake of their own flourishing; now, they refine their minds purely for their husbands, or future husbands.

My sigh sends a little tremor through me.

‘Mrs Leashem?’ I turn. Eugenie looks at me with worried eyes, and a limp fist held over her heart. ‘Are you feeling well, Mrs Leashem?’

‘P-perfectly fine,’ I say. ‘When the adrenaline of one’s good work recedes, light-headiness is a natural follow-up.’

She is satisfied, so smiles. What a panacea, that smile… next to my husband’s, of course.

I take a deep breath—a difficult thing in this corset. ‘And please,’ I say, cupping her chin, ‘call me Louise. You are my assistant, not my student.’ Well, that is a half-truth. My hand slides from her warm skin, and I turn back to the class.

She is not my student, at least not in the way these girls are my students. Eugenie possesses the knowledge and cleverness to put a schoolboy to shame. A distasteful intellect for a girl to have, but best to put the devil’s playthings to God’s work than leave them idle. These petty exercises on the board are so much recreational algebra to her. Her culinary skills exceed mine, I will admit. So too does her knowledge of soaps and dusters. And find any housewife with more efficient tidying techniques, I will give you fifty pounds plus expenses.

She did not join, aid, and abet the suffragette menace from any lack of skills on her part. She did not, one day, break her scrubbing brush from her incompetence, and then vowed never to be on her knees for a man again. No, her problems are emotional, that overactive element of female psychology.

As was to be expected, the sorority sisters were quite disorientated after their mass mesmerisation. Lead a man from a cave into sunlight, his eyes will sear for a while. But Eugenie had it worse. She was not disorientated; she was shattered, barely cognizant for a day. To be expected, I suppose, she was the most enamoured with the sufragette ideology. It warped and replaced her entire world with its precepts; those precepts surgically removed, her world collapsed. From when I saw her shivering and crying, I made it my duty to glue her mind back together, in a more pleasing shape.

Though she is five years older, and a head taller, than me I care for her as for a younger sister, and in return she trails me by my hemline wherever I go. I gently guide her towards femininity, clarity of mind, and self-assurance—sans further mesmerism. I shall not apply a hammer and nails to a rickety shack.

That she is still Miss Goodson, and not Mrs Her-Husband, owes to her fragile state. Throughout her upbringing males were, I have learned, quick in passing, and during their passing, cruel to both her mother and her. No wonder she ran to suffragettism when her foundational experience of the strong sex was of despotism. She confused her fear with hate, and from repellent emotions formed an irrational lifestyle devoid of men. As it stands I cannot in conscience throw her into matrimony, any more than I could throw an abused dog into a new home away from its siblings. I must be slow at this and teach her mind, and more importantly her heart, that many men are to run to, not from.

‘Anyone still writing, class?’ Those with their heads still down scrawl out their last lines of working. ‘Then let us begin. Hannah.’ I proffer my chalk. ‘You answer the first question.’

She comes up from her chair with her writing-book, takes the chalk, and then transfers her workings. When she finishes she turns around to the class, and looks at me. I scrutinise her workings, then nod at her, reservedly. ‘Very good,’ I say, walking directly behind her, in front of the blackboard. ‘But, surely, you could save a few schillings on sugar.’ From behind I rub her belly, earning a shocked squeal from her and giggles from the class. Hannah is a plump girl, but pleasingly so. She knows I meant it affectionately. ‘To your seat.’ With a heavy blush she returns to her desk.

‘Hmm… Sophia. You answer the second question.’ She comes up, takes the chalk, and answers. She looks at me, but lacks the nerve to turn to the class. I shake my head. ‘No, no, I see your reasoning, but no.’ I tap my pointer to the mistake. ‘Dismiss the servant, save some money, yes, but now her work is yours. With that on your shoulders, do you believe you’ll have the time and energy to serve your husband’s more intimate desires with the requisite competency?’ I take the chalk and make adjustments. ‘Cut a pound of the clothing—have the servant mend your old dresses, and buy no more—cut six shillings off ‘entertainment’—your allowance for silly romance novels—and two pounds off wood and coal—your husband is off working most of the day—bear up in the cold whilst he is gone.’ I look her in the eyes. ‘You must learn to stop caring for yourself so much.’ I turn to the class. ‘Remember, girls, a servant is a blessed appliance. At the earliest convenience acquire one, and only after the last straw dismiss one.’ I look to a dewy-eyed Sophia. I stroke her hair and nape, and kiss the tears from her eyes, so she knows I correct her for her own betterment, from love. ‘Back to your seat.’ She obeys.

‘Emily,’ I say. ‘Come up and answer the third question.’

She, with a few other girls scattered around the class, giggles. Those silent students look to and fro between their giggling companions, quizzical expressions on their faces.

‘And what is so funny, Emily?’

‘It’s a trick question,’ says Emily, a grin on her face. ‘You wrote, “Your ‘usband and you ‘ave just received raises in income.” Well, that there means me ‘usband’s got a job, that being God’s truth, there ain’t no reason in freezing ‘eck for me to work as well. ‘Ence, I can’t get no raise.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, with such conviction that her fellow former-gigglers stifle their smiles. Only Emily retains her Cheshire grin.

‘As sure as I is Emily Cave.’

I stare a few moments, hoping to crack through her eyes, before acknowledging my bluff. ‘Absolutely correct. Your husband will be very proud of you, Emily.’

‘That ‘e will,’ she says.

Emily is among the cleverest in my class, though she speaks like an East-End pub-frequenter. Unfortunately, her husband is one of those self-made men who views any non-financial self-improvement as a betrayal of one’s roots. Were it not so, I’d scrub her mouth daily.

‘And now, class, we move on to history.’ They light up. History, story time based in reality, a perfect subject for females. In these classes I highlight moral exemplars, and denigrate immoral beasts, throughout Mankind’s time, and correct misconceptions these girls may have hitherto had about them.

‘Today, we shall learn about Cleopatra, Egypt’s ruler.’

‘BOO!’ say they all. It is good they join in, the best way to learn.

‘Oh, she was a wicked woman, a conceited woman. She sought to ruin Rome.’

‘BOO!’

‘Caesar tried to tame her.’

‘YAY!’

‘Antony tried to conquer her.’

‘YAY!’

‘But she was a stubborn woman, too stubborn submit to a man.’

‘BOO!’

‘Her fall, which I shall tell, is the perfect warning to us girls to never reach above our station, to never rule, or rule beside, but to be ruled by a man.’

As I weave my tale (with the skill, if I may say so, of a lesser, female Plutarch), I enthral them. Some forget their posture so much that they lean forward with their elbows on the tables. I shall forgive them and let it be.

All riveted, that is, spare those two at the back, Olivia and Omana, who have been whispering throughout.

Just as I arrive at Antony’s marriage to that good sister Octavia, I can stand it no more. ‘Mrs Olivia Carter. Mrs Omana Feldman.’ I break off my story, thus breaking the class’s trance. They all twist round to view the culprits. ‘I do hope by highlighting history’s greatest viragos, I have not made impoliteness seem permissible by contrast.’

‘Oh, no, my teacher,’ says Omana with her eyes to the table.

‘No, never, Mrs Leashem,’ says Olivia, her eyes meeting mine in puppy-like fear.

‘Then explain yourselves.’

Omana glances at Olivia and shakes her head. Olivia swallows. ‘You see, Mrs Leashem, my husband, John Carter, was born and raised in India, so he has a fondness for their food. Now, me, I’ve never even been to Scotland, and cook nothing fancier than a Sunday roast.’ She gestures to Omana, still face down. ‘Well, given that Omana is Indian in all but husband, I asked if she could teach me some dishes.’

‘And I said yes,’ whispers Omana into the table.

I consider their case. The culprits, as well as the class, await my proclamation as if I were an Old Bailey judge. ‘I cannot call the contents of your conversation frivolous. A man’s stomach is his wife’s to attend to.’ The two exhale. ‘But.’ They gasp. ‘But, there is time enough before and after class to discuss such matters. I do believe,’ I say with a look to Eugenie, ‘discipline is in order.’

Omana’s forehead presses her desk, as her shivers squeak the chair. Olivia, straight-backed as though a touch would shatter her, is entirely still spare her sweat.

‘Stand.’ They do, though hesitantly. ‘Come to the front of the class.’ They obey. Olivia’s fear-stiffened limbs cause her to lag behind Omana, who herself wobbles down to the front. The ritual is known and followed by all: when called, stand in front of desk, facing the class, at attention. The ritual is not mesmerically programmed. Sometimes the old ways are best, and for my purposes they must maintain their free-will, so they may willingly submit to correction.

They stand. I signal Eugenie who, after a sympathetic glance to her comrades, opens the bottom drawer of the desk. She arises with, in each hand, a short, wooden cane (which Lord Johnson possessed for… his own reasons). I set down my pointer and grasp the cane she lays in my hand. Omana leaks tears and Olivia looks close to wetting herself. Dear Lord, you’d think they’d never been caned before—permissive parenting if I’ve ever seen it.

‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘What are you?’

Olivia says, ‘We are very sorry.’

‘Very sorry,’ scrambles Omana.

‘And why are you sorry?’ I ask.

Olivia says, ‘We were talking during class.’

‘I gave her a recipe,’ says Omana.

I raise my cane to Omana’s face. ‘Was that back-talk?’ My, my, all the other students savour this more than they do tales of Cleopatra.

‘Oh, no, my teacher!’ She gulps, and does not dare to look me in the eye. Her words fall over themselves as she tries to clarify her confession. Of course I know she meant nothing by it, but a lady must never talk back, even unintentionally, even under great stress.

‘I accept your apology.’ She exhales. ‘For talking back.’ She forgets to breathe. I look over both of them. ‘The punishment for talking during class is ten hits.’ They both twitch, but I see a slight exhale from Olivia. The class does not dare, nor desires to, interrupt me. ‘Ten, hard lashings to the bottom,’ I repeat. Olivia is calmer than she should be. Omana glances at me, but quickly turns fear-blinded eyes back to the class. ‘Alright, you two, turn round, and bend over the desk.’

They obey, slowly but surely. They lay their stomachs and bosoms across my desk, so their chins hang off the other end. So fine is the silk of their gowns that all the class can see the skin of their heavy buttocks and full thighs. ‘Miss Goodson.’ Eugenie straightens like a young cadet. We take our places by our respective girls, her by Olivia, me by Omana. I nod to Eugenie to ask the customary question.

We both bend to speak in our charge’s ears. ‘Before we begin, is there anything you wish to say?’

Before Omana speaks, I hear Olivia answer Eugenie, ‘Thank you for making me a good girl.’ The standard answer to the customary question; not required for the ritual, but often considered as such.

Omana manages little more than a whisper, but I hear her nonetheless. She does not thank me for making her a good girl. I make no reply to her answer. Eugenie and I move to the front of the desk.

We, like cuckoo clock automatons, raise our canes and deliver them to but an inch before their arses. The girls flinch at the mere swoosh. We raise the canes again. The whole class, I notice, crane their necks like dogs following a finger. One, two, three—we bring the canes on their bottoms. They give petite groans. We wait six seconds before the second strike. Olivia’s pale bottom blushes already. For Omana’s dark bum I believe two more shall produce a shade.

By our third strike their resolve begins to slip. No longer petite groans, Olivia squeaks through clenched teeth, and a grunt rolls out Omana’s open mouth. For our fourth we tender their thighs. The surprise takes them as much as the pain. The fifth is again to the thighs. They both wobble.

‘Stand straight,’ I say. They rise on shaking legs. Dewy tears drip down their faces. They do not calm, for they know this is not salvation, they know what comes next. ‘Disrobe.’

Though the thinness of the gowns offer little padding, there is magnitude of difference between getting caned in uniform before class, and getting caned nude before peers, practically presenting your pussy.

In seconds their gowns pile at their feet. Leery, our ‘specialist tailor’, made sure they come off easy. They bend back down. Sans fabric, Olivia’s bottom and thighs are rosier than I thought. I can see the effect I’m having on Omana’s. I nod to Eugenie.

We raise our canes. From the smack against their cheeks, and the screeches from both girls, the class knows we have stopped pulling our lashes. Against the thighs for the seventh. Olivia’s knees nearly buckle. Despite her hushed blubbering, Omana weathers well. For the eighth we whack their left cheeks, with all the strength in us. For the ninth their right, and they screech with all the air in them. And for the tenth, Eugenie and I ready our canes like champion golfers looking to bypass a lake. Three, two, one—across both cheeks—so hard the desk jolts forward.

‘Stand,’ I say, though I know the desk supports them more than their legs. After a minute or two they muster the will to obey. ‘Turn.’ They face the class, noodle-legs beneath them. ‘What do you say?’

At once they say, ‘Thank you, Mrs Leashem.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Back where you came from.’ Omana nods respectfully as she moves past me, but Eugenie grabs Olivia by the shoulder. ‘Uh-uh. I meant only Omana.’ Olivia pales. ‘Omana has been a good girl. An honest girl.’ Olivia gulps. ‘So honest that she reminded me the punishment for talking in class is fifteen lashes. Isn’t that right, Olivia?’

‘I, I forgot.’ I put on my iciest matron’s stare. ‘That, that is right. F-fifteen.’

I nod. ‘An honest girl gets ten lashes, but do you know what dishonest girls get? What especially naughty girls like you get?’

Her legs are wobbling, shaking, breaking, as my threat slices at her nerves. Eugenie holds her up. That look in her eyes is not suspense, for she knows what comes next. We all do.

‘Back in place,’ I say. She obeys, presenting her big, red bum to the class. I address the rest of the girls, ‘Form a queue, class.’

Like fair-goers awaiting a game, they line up, a line which snakes behind Eugenie and along the wall. Though most girls are gay, in some I see only pity, slight winces in their eyes. They are the previous recipients of the penalty; I do believe recollection of the punishment has summoned phantom shocks over their behinds.

‘Eugenie,’ I say, ‘set down the cane. A personal touch is required.’ I address the girls, ‘Now, girls, follow Mistress Goodson’s example.’

I see Eugenie mouth an apology to Olivia, an act of insubordination I shall let slide. She raises her palm, gathers her tomboyish strength, and SMACK. Olivia screams. Her raw bottom, so recently calmed, was caught unawares. Eugenie begins to stroke her student’s bottom, as one would a frightened kitty-cat, but one glare from me smothers her compassion. This is punishment. She is not to be comforted!

Eugenie comes to my side. The next girl takes position, a mousy twenty-year-old named Abigail. One would little guess such ferocity hid in such a tiny palm, but the ringing slap shouts the evidence.

You may wonder how I can ensure these peer punishments are up to corporal snuff, how I can ensure none of the girls will let their friend off with a measly tap. Quite simple. I have pre-mesmerised them, such that when they spank with sufficient intensity they shall feel their menfolk’s lips upon their most agreeable places. As Olivia sobs, Abigail bites her lip as her knees shudder.

So come the next five girls, all a tad too girlish in strength, but the promised reward invigorates their slaps, like elixir. Comes one, SLAP! Comes two, SLAP! Olivia bites her lip. Third, SLAP! All the blood in her face has rushed to her bum. Fourth—SLAP! Through bitten lip Olivia makes a full-throated scream. Fifth, SPANK!

The line diminishes, each girl eager for their turn. Each girl, having slapped, hazes in mesmeric bliss. Some lean on the desks, some on each other, some swoon to the floor—all undone by loving arousal.

Here come the last three girls, rural girls, hearty girls, girls in whom beef dinner has bred oxen strength. The first approaches—SLAP! These farmer girls have little care for preamble. No sooner does the second deliver a SLAP than she, the farmer girl, falls to the floor, feeling a fiery licking from her phantom lover. Olivia’s legs look set to liquefy.

Now thumps forward the last disciplinarian, Brunhilda. She looms over the shivering Olivia, but then she’d loom over most men. She’s as tall and muscled as a pit fighter—and till I rescued her mind, she was one. These days, she puts her strength to more proper use. She brushes Olivia’s left cheek with her calloused palms. Olivia whimpers. She brushes the right cheek with her other. A groan from Olivia. Brunhilda separates her palms around Olivia’s bum, as if preparing to clap. And she does. With both hands she claps, she smacks Olivia’s bum on the sides, not quite at the hip. As if time slowed, the red flesh ripples, pain flowing into pain, scream into scream.

Brunhilda gets her reward. The mesmeric phantom of Mr Bely, her husband, kisses her mouth, it seems. She grabs the air’s shoulders, bites the air’s neck and rams her pussy on the air’s cock. It looks very much like a perverse mime show. And, oh!! She is very rough, very dominant. I will discuss this with her later. In bed, a wife must be as jelly to her husband’s touch: responsive and ne’er assertive.

I let the girls marinate in their pleasure as I go to Olivia. I take her by the shoulders and raise her to stand. The only thing keeping her up is my grip. I look her deep in the eyes and ask, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Sore,’ I think she says. That single syllable is drowned gulping sobs.

‘And why are you sore?’

‘‘C-cause, I-I’ve been a n-n-naughty girl. I spoke in c-class, and l-lied!’ She sobs more now, like a leaking dam becoming a waterfall.

I take her to my shoulder. ‘There, there. Good girl. You took your spanking so well.’ I reach around and stroke her bottom. She screams a little scream and shudders at my touch, but after a second she settles. ‘Now, go back your seat. And the rest of you, too, back to your seats.’

They obey. Spare Olivia and Omana still nude (as per their punishment), and leaking tears and groans at the feel of upholstery against their raw bottoms, the class resumes as if nought had happened. And with good reason. Each girl knows the slightest titter, or contemptuous glance, at their chastised classmates would bring equal punishment on themselves.

‘Now, class, take out your Shakespeare. It is rehearsal time.’ From beneath their chairs they take their volumes of Shakespeare’s comedies. While Shakespeare is the supreme edifying force of English culture, one can entrust a girl with no more than his comedies. His tragedies will affect their unassuming, receptive minds like a powerful medicine on a frail body. That which is vaccine for a man’s sturdy reason and aesthetic sense becomes disease for females. Oh, to think, the peril I unwittingly subjected myself to, having read Shakespeare’s entire cannon thrice through. I was saved only, my husband assured me, by my blessed stupidity. I am too dense to understand Hamlet’s tragic truths.

‘May our Kate and Petruchio stand,’ I say. Omana and Emily stand. ‘Start from where we left off yesterday, act two, scene one, line one hundred and seventy.’

The Taming of the Shrew, the work best fit for female study. We are working on a production for our husbands. It shall at once entertain them, and show how far their little women have come.

Omana starts: ‘Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing—’

The door swings open.

‘My dear!’ booms Mr Leashem, arms wide, as if to hug me.

‘My husband!’ I say. He approaches, and I approach him. ‘W-What brings—’

‘On your hands and knees, my sweet.’

I fall to the floor, but crawl forward to his feet. ‘W-what are—’

‘Bark only, my sweet.’

‘Arf!’ I look up to him as he lowers to one knee. ‘Woof!’

He ruffles my hair and tickles me under the chin. ‘I know we agreed these classes were yours to teach, but a wicked thought occurred to me. A teacher claims authority over knowledge, so what a dangerous thing a female teacher is. Might give these girls ideas above their station.’

‘Bark!’

He presses a finger to my lips. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of taking this class from you. We must, however, remind the girls whose feet women sit at. All women, even their teacher.’ He holds the side of my head and pulls my eyes closer to his. ‘For the next three hours, my sweet, you will be a dog.’

Oh, I am draining, draining… happy-ing…

Master!

‘Woof! Arf! Ruff!’

I lick Master’s hand. I nuzzle Master’s neck. So warm!

‘Beg.’

On my hind legs, forelegs to my chest, tongue hanging out. Master smiles! ‘Good girl,’ Master says.

Giggling, high giggling, lots of it. I turn and see… girls! Girls are pretty. Right now they’re smiling at me, making those ‘Aww’ sounds. Master talks over my head. A lot of big words. ‘Eugenie,’ he says. My ears prick. He points to me.

Eugenie comes to me. Her hand shakes. So she knows I won’t bite, I lick it. She grabs my shoulders. I don’t growl ‘cause I trust her.

She undresses me. The un-comfy skirt and shirt come off. Air, cool air, spreads up the chemise. Oh, but hard, hard corset! I paw at it. ‘A-woo…’

‘Shush,’ says Eugenie. She takes it off, and I breath big breaths. She lies me on my back. The chemise next, and air kisses my skin… fur. Eugenie rubs my tummy, and lovely tickles run through me.

Master speaks! I roll onto my hands and knees—My feet. Oh, but he’s not speaking to me. So tall above me, he talks to the pretty girls, laughing too, and waving his hands about. Master’s so funny!

He claps, then turns to me. I loll out my tongue, and shake my bum—tail! He kneels and puts his face close to mine. He says something to me, but I just tilt my head. The girls giggle, and Master grins at them, then chuckles at me. He speaks slower, and I can understand some words: ‘… Louisee-pooh … play … grass outside … Yes, she does! … Good girl.’

‘Arf!’

Stupid tongue! Say, ‘Yes.’

‘Arf! Arf!’

He smiles. Snapping his fingers above my head, Eugenie comes to my side. She wraps something cold around my neck—Ooh, my leash! Master speaks to the girls, who all stand up, smiling. He and they leave the room, before Eugenie pulls me out by my lead. We go through the house (so big!), and I am so tired when we get to the garden.

All the girls sit on the grass, while Master leans on a tree. I lay my head on Eugenie’s lap, my eyes resting on Master. Grass and dew play in my nose and on my skin. Suns patters on me through the leaves above. Breeze sometimes rustles past, but I just curl up tighter. Eugenie’s lap makes my eyes cosy.

I cannot understand Master, but I hear him. His voice is deep and smooth. It pours through my mind slow and sticky. It makes me so calm, that I just sl…