The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Call me infirm of purpose, but my heart trembles at the mere idea of my coming scheme. To mesmerise an entire room—a church hall, no less—of ladies seems a crucible, even to my trained hand. I feel like a humble lass of the lower classes, who, singing one day for her family, is overheard by a passing theatre director, who plops her on a theatre stage. Any who claim the parlour prepares one for the stage is mad.

For, yes, I had mesmerised enough girls to fill a church hall, but always tête-à-tête, and, more often than not, in the cosy embrace of a home. Now I must monologue to fifty girls in a church. Oh, I expect this is what performers call the ‘stage fright’. Thankfully, this ingenious device I lug behind me shall ease my trial, by peeling open their minds.

Ah! But I’ve gone too far sans proper context. My story throws mere threads to my readers. What I embark upon now is, like all my best projects, my husband’s idea.

After my conversion from the dark and lonely path of suffragettism I was loathe to associate with its travellers—those mannish girls who call ill-discipline freedom. Every Saturday I have attended their unholy meetings. For the sake of suffrage and other absurd ‘rights’, The Women for Liberty and Equality would meet in St. Alphonse and have tea, cake, and ‘educated debate’. The reverend of that church is one of those misguided progressives, one who would, with proper poking from the RSPCA, address his congregation on the merits of vegetarianism! Oh, the sickening irony that the House of God should serve as forum for such blasphemy. But, oh, the sweet justice that His House will be a place of correction, a place where wayward girls shall have the Truth forced through their eyes.

Shortly after my womanly awakening, I told my husband that now, free from the suffragist ‘cause’, I’ll have three extra hours a week to serve him. He asked why, and I replied that those were the hours that my former sorority stole from me weekly. I expected him to smile, to praise me for my tendered resignation, but instead he fell thoughtful.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘for my sake you shall remain a sister in this sorority.’

‘Pardon!?’ For his sake I would do anything, but at time I questioned if he really knew what he asked. ‘You… wish me to be suffragette?’

‘Of course, not,’ he said, looking deep into my confused eyes. ‘I don’t send you to be converted. A wise girl like you would never let that happen. I send you to... prepare.’

‘Prepare?’ I attribute my slowness at that time to my induced stupidity. Had he allowed me my full intelligence his first word would have illuminated his entire plan.

‘My dear.’ He stroked my nape as if I were a panicked cat. ‘I have seen the good work you have done for the imperfect females of our street. Why! I dare say, after meeting you Mrs Prodigal spends not a penny over a pound a month. But!’ His eyes assumed the calm firmness of a teacher’s. ‘But these maladies you’ve cured so far are merely irritations, inflammations at most. Any priest might be called a saint if we judged him only on those petty sinners he saves, sinners who do not so much break God’s law, as sit on its edge. No, such a priest ignores his calling—to save the hopeless causes. I want you, Louise, to save your fell sisters.’

Finally, his meaning crystalized in my dulled mind. ‘You want me to mesmerise the suffragettes?’ He nodded. ‘This Saturday?’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, not Saturday. I appreciate your eagerness, but deplore your haste. In addition to your mesmeric skills being, as of now, fledgling, I advise that you spend a few weeks surveying the ground. Yes, you have long attended those meetings, but new perspectives often make hoary places unknown; you may “tip your hand” if incautious. But soon, my love, you will save them all. Soon.’

And soon is now. St Alphonse comes closer. In the dark morning it appears a satanic mill. At the open doors I see Miss Merriweather, smiling like a newlywed—which, with my help, she will be soon.

She hails, ‘How do you do, Miss Lovencare?’

Here I am still known as such. I have hid my wedding ring on a necklace beneath my dress. Though I abhor concealing this symbol of my submission, I must give my sisters no ground to suspect I have deviated from the cause.

‘And how do you do?’ I reply, signing off my name in the ledger.

Her eyes alight on my large travelling case. ‘Oh! And is this…?’ she cries.

I wink and tap my nose.

‘Then go right in. Only Miss Goodson and I have arrived, so you can set up a perfect surprise.’

I nod and enter, making my way to the front of the hall.

I spot Miss Goodson chomping on an apple while gazing at a stained glass image of The Fall of Man. The action holds too much symbolism to be unintended. Just like her, to ally with Eve, the first sinner and wrecker of man.

Eugenie Goodson is not the head of the sorority; ideals of equality prevent such a station. She is, how shall I say, a strict coordinator, the sun around which the sisters orbit. Without her the sorority would have possessed a common purpose, but little else; without her, we aimless girls would have dispersed back to our homes—for the better, of course!

She hears my rattling progress and turns her head towards me. ‘Louise!’ Her voice always possessed that boyish firmness.

She tosses back her apple core as she trots towards me. Her hands slam upon my shoulders, while her toothy smile strikes me frozen. She is but a half-head taller than me, yet under her grasp, under her beaming eyes, I feel subject to a much older sibling.

‘You’ve got no clue just how excited you’ve made me,’ she says

She smacks her lips upon my cheeks, one for each—a mere symptom of French blood, with nothing else meant by it than ‘greetings’. But, English girl that I am, no number of these ‘greetings’ could dull the shock of her overstepping intimacy.

CLICK

‘Ah! The future!’ she cries. So shocked was I, I did not notice her head behind me to open my case.

‘Oh, y- yes,’ I say, willing the flush from my cheeks. ‘A hideous device itself, but functional’

‘You think? I think it’s quite beautiful.’ Eugenie, kneeling at the case, extracts the machine with the care of an archaeologist handling an artefact of uncertain fragility. The reels come first, big metal wheels holding black tape; then the three-legged stand; then—the beast itself—the cinematograph. ‘Beautiful,’ she called it. To me it resembles a weapon fit for one of Welles’ Martians.

‘What painters dream of,’ she says, ‘what photographers thought they achieved, is grasped in this machine: reality, full and objective, captured.’

‘Oh, don’t be hasty.’ Like a train spotter beholding a rare steam engine for the first time, her eyes gleam and her mouth hangs open in joyous surprise. ‘These moving pictures don’t even possess sound.’

‘But we have phonographs, don’t we?’ Her eyes never leave the device. ‘Only someone barren of imagination could not put the two together.’ She looks up at me. ‘No offence.’

Without my help, she begins setting it up, felling all my attempts to instruct her with her convincing, though impenetrable, jargon. A week ago, when I first inquired with her, I had thought my suggestion of bringing in a cinematograph would be met with a modicum of scepticism; either a disbelief in the device’s existence, or doubts as to how such a device could aid the Women for Liberty and Equality. But the hours I spent predicting her every objection or query, and formulating inarguable replies to each, were unwarranted; she leapt upon the idea. Through some means or other, via these journals or those newspapers, she had become the foremost expert on cinematographs in all England. She begged me, if I was not cruelly lying to her, to bring the device in as soon as possible.

‘But where on blazes did you get this.’ She pulls me back to the present. ‘God knows, I’ve strained after one for years, sending letters from Europe to the Orient, to every engineer and enthusiast I’d heard of. Oh, I almost got one, so many times I almost got one—but the second they got a smack of my gender—denied! Why risk a delicate machine to a girl’s whims.’ With a wild smile, she screams, ‘Well, look at me now, bastards!’ She turns to me. ‘But, where did you get this?’

‘Just an inheritance,’ I say. ‘From Europe.’

Actually, my husband borrowed it from Mr Leery. Leery is a connoisseur, you see. Any and all advances in the pornographic arts find their way into his collection. Although hesitant to part with ‘Darling Pornocrates’, he acquiesced when my husband revealed what it would be used for, and what such a use could get Leery. ‘Surely,’ my husband said, ‘you accept that the image pales before the reality.’

‘You lucky sod,’ Eugenie says. She wraps her arms around me firmly, and kisses me on the forehead, like a sister. ‘You don’t know how much this means to me.’ She hugs me close so her chin rests on my head and my face buries in her chest.

‘No,’ I mutter into the mind dulling warmth of her breast, my words so quiet not even I can hear them. ‘And neither do you.’

XXX

The sisters swarm in like sheep to the slaughter. Oh! But that is a terrible metaphor, quite unfitting. They are… they are… like sheep to the shepherd! All fifty of them, oblivious sheep, all of them lost, soon to be found. Not a one of them suspects this shall be the most important day of their lives.

They suspect something, though, just nothing untoward. I hear titters of ‘Why’s it so dark?’, ‘Who put those curtains up?’, and ‘What is that… thing?’

‘Ladies!’ Eugenie, centre stage, hushes the girls. ‘Miss Lovencare’s brought something marvellous. You’ve heard of—’ she leans forward ‘— the cinematograph?’

Gasps. Armed with new knowledge their eyes fixate on the device. Mutters of approval and doubt rumble.

‘A magnificent machine, emblem of the future! What better device to accompany us—The Women for Liberty and Equality—into the future!’

Like seals the girls clap.

‘But I’m rambling. This is Miss Lovencare’s device, so it’s her meeting today. She’s made a film for us, a film which expresses the New Woman’s creed—our creed—the ideal we strive towards, and the enemies who cruelly and stupidly snatch it from us. In time, perhaps, we shall spread this around England, perhaps Europe—America even!’ She regains herself. ‘I’m excited to see it as you. So,’ she says, moving to the projector to get it rolling, ‘I hand it over to Miss Lovencare!’

On the wall behind the altar, the projector throws a square of light, reading a simple title: ‘The Future of the Female Sex.’

‘Thank you, Miss Goodson,’ I say from the speaker’s stand. None of the girls look up to me, for the stand is quite to the side of the fascinating light. They shall hear my words, though.

To all but my dullest readers, my scheme should seem obvious. As I doubted my ability to mesmerise a crowd unaided, my husband suggested a novel aid.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘did you know that the female mind is so flimsy, so stubborn yet so slipshod, that while the most well-reasoned argument will make no dent in it, a single image, slipping through its cracks, can irreparably alter it.’

He spoke, of course, of subliminal messages. A single rogue image, tucked away with twenty-three others, can skirt the mind’s conscious notice, yet influence it profoundly. With this film, and my narration, I shall draw these women to the righteous path, without them even realising it.

My husband, kind and industrious man that he is, vowed he would make the film and write my script for me. I, however, denied him—in utmost humility! I argued, or suggested, rather, that since I had gone among these fallen women, I stood better chance of inducting them. Or rather, I held the dubious honour of knowing how they think, and thus, how to change their thinking. I explained that while his mesmeric skills swayed me, there were girls among the sorority more foolish than I was, whom not even mesmerism could budge far. By knowing their ideals and, more importantly, their fears, I could save them.

The film starts clicking and random images flick by, among them a few subliminals reading ‘LOOK’ and ‘LISTEN’. The first coherent image is my opening line in writing:—

‘What is a woman?’ A world map comes on screen. I continue, ‘A simple question, one supposes. After all, do not women walk every street and occupy every home in this nation, nay, this Earth? Do not women comprise half of creation?’ A question mark replaces the map. ‘Given this admirable sample, so accessible to the scientists and philosophers of the world, why is there such dissent on this question?’

The screen flicks over to the first ‘moving picture’. It depicts but one woman, your archetypal ‘Angel of the Hearth,’ here played by Mr Johnson’s wife. For the film, the members of my husband’s club lent me their female kin; in exchange, I returned them in a more ‘agreeable’ state of mind. In a food-soiled but respectable apron, Mrs Johnson checks the tenderness of a slow-cooking roast, all the while sighing at Mr Johnson’s framed photograph.

‘Ask what a woman is to any learned man—and I do stress “man”. For why would a woman comprehend Woman’s nature, any more than a dog comprehends Dog’s nature?’

Giggles ripple across the pews as the girls, predictably, take my earnest words ironically.

‘Ask any learned man what a woman is, and you will find a constant, if subtly altering, answer. Ask these men and their answer may conjure something like this.’

Here I let the screen speak for me. Mrs Johnson, absorbed in her cooking and cleaning, spies her kitten approaching her ankle. She snuggles it to her breast. At this image a few girls in my audience let their masculine facades give way to a girlish ‘Aww’ing. Frames here and there reading ‘LOOK ONLY HERE’ and ‘LISTEN ONLY TO MY VOICE’ flash by, but none, of course, notice.

‘Wife and home-keeper, they will say, or fiancé perhaps, or girl waiting for engagement,’ I say. ‘I sense disagreement. “Us women, all? Categorically? Surely not. We are a kind more myriad than this, not so narrowly defined.”’

‘ACCEPT MY WORDS’ flashes by, ‘OBEY MY WORDS’ flashes next, repeating every few seconds.

‘Ladies, I pray you forgive my generalisation. But my research on the creature “Woman” has led to no other answer. I open the Mail, I open the Telegraph, the Express, the Times—those journals contributed to by our Empire’s most learned men—and on each and every page, when they should condescend to analyse our fair sex, I can gather no image other than this.’

Mrs Johnson has just set down the roast upon the table when, in pantomime fashion, she jolts at the door’s opening. In strolls Mr Johnson, who collapses into a chair, exhausted and famished in the manner of one who actually works for a living. Flying to him like a battlefield fairy, she mops his brow and carves his dinner post-haste.

‘SCRATCH YOUR NECK’ flashes by. To my satisfaction, some girls do indeed drag their nails along their necks.

‘Woman in her natural environment—or so I infer from the learned men. Indeed, the more I researched for this presentation, the more I found this scientific description confirmed. As I have stated, I combed the papers. The articles, of course, but so too the “Letters to the Editor”, penned by decent, hard-working, British men who chastise Britain’s women for their failure to adhere to this “ideal”.’

‘IDEAL’ flashes as Mrs Johnson massages her husband’s shoulders, a look of placid contentment on her face.

‘In the advertisements, too, I found copious ointments, powders, potions, and manuals designed to instil these apparently in-born “ideals”,’ I say, earning laughs.

‘SCRATCH YOUR NECK’ flashes again. Nigh-on all the girls give a little attention to their necks. My words have a confirmed foot-hold in their minds.

‘I must admit that I, a woman, grew quite ashamed I was unaware of these “ideals”—so well-known they appear to be.’

The scene changes to a story book illustration of a dewy eyed wife and her stolid husband, illustrated by Mrs Leery.

‘It is no wonder men know so well what women are, given the comprehensive education they received in the thrall of what is called “Children’s Literature”. In such works Britain’s sons and daughters find the womanly “ideals” mentioned as casually and credulously as the rising of the sun or the force of gravity. Surely, these writers would not lie to children?’

And here, I know, I shall have to time my speech well to match the screen perfectly. On the screen the page turns, a new illustration revealing itself. A wife with hands to heart, and eyes closed, in approximation of divine grace.

‘Why, ask any boy or girl, what “Woman” is and they will answer:

‘Warmth,’ I say, exactly as ‘GOOD GIRLS ARE WARM’ flashes.

A new illustration, this time of a wife at a market, clearly overburdened with meat and vegetables, but cheerfully resolute.

‘Dutiful,’ I say as ‘GOOD GIRLS ARE DUTIFUL’ flashes.

A new illustration appears, one of a wife polishing her husband’s shoes.

‘Obedient,’ I say as ‘GOOD GIRLS ARE OBEDIENT’ flashes.

A new illustration. She prostrates herself before her husband as before God.

‘Submissive,’ I say as ‘GOOD GIRLS ARE SUBMISSIVE’ flashes.

‘BE WARM’, ‘BE DUTIFUL’, ‘OBEY’ and ‘SUBMIT’ flash in imperceptible procession. ‘YOU WANT TO BE A GOOD GIRL.’

The scene changes to the portly Mrs Jellywhip, dressed as a schoolmarm, scrawling on a blackboard. ‘TEACHER KNOWS BEST’ and ‘MY VOICE IS TRUTH’ flash by.

‘RELAX’ flashes also. I see a few girls cease fidgeting in their seats. ‘RELAX’. One must sedate these girls after knocking at their most cherished illusions. ‘CALM AND RELAXED.’ A few who fidgeted yawn.

‘If, indeed, Britain’s young are told lies by their bedtime tales, their schooling does naught but confirm them.’

Mrs Jellywhip turns to face the camera as she brushes chalk from her bosom. ‘TRUST’. She yawns like a hippo, and I see the yawn infect at least fifteen girls in the audience.

‘Our teachers ensure that boys and girls know what boys and girls are.’

‘TEACHER TELLS THE TRUTH’

Twin lists fill the chalkboard, headed ‘BOYS’ and ‘GIRLS’. They detail the virtues of the sexes. For boys: Lively, intelligent, dominant. For girls: Demure, trusting, obedient. I am sure that in the girls’ conscious minds they consider these lists purely satiric. Little do they know their conscious minds are but vain vigils, unaware a Trojan Horse has invaded.

‘A girl’s schooling is but the moulding of her mind.’

‘RELAX’

‘LET YOUR MIND BE MOULDED’

‘LOOK AT THE SCREEN’

I can tell that last subliminal went by, for a few girls who looked close to dozing raised their tired heads up again, suddenly knowing it is very important to watch the screen.

Mrs Jellywhip looks right at the audience, and puts her hands on her hips. The serenity of her countenance is replaced by a look of patronising moral indignation, an expression perfected by teachers. She wags her finger at the audience and mouths, with such exaggeration any could lipread her, ‘Naughty girls. Naughty girls.’

‘TEACHER IS ALWAYS RIGHT’

‘So intrinsic to the lives of citizens, to the running of the nation, do the great men of church, state, and culture believe these virtues to be, that they will gladly let them be taught as undeniable truth.’

‘UNDENIABLE TRUTH’

‘These truths are self-evident.’ ‘RELAX’ ‘These truths are obvious.’ ‘ACCEPT’ ‘You will accept these truths that even children accept.’ ‘YOU WANT TO BE A GOOD GIRL’

I see none stir. Good. While my words have not yet occupied the central city of their minds, their defences are battered, and now we fight a war of attrition. The only resource they’ve left is endurance, and that is in limited supply.

‘What is a woman?’ I say. ‘You will remember, girls, I said there is disagreement on this matter.’ Mrs Jellywhip still mouths her admonitions. ‘But this disagreement does not come from any… respectable source. No, as I have shown, the sensible world agrees upon what women are. Learned men agree. Even schoolchildren agree.’

The scene changes to four of my husband’s club members’ wives, each dressed mannishly before a polling box, voting slip in hand.

‘In fact, the only party who disagrees is a sorority of fools… called suffragettes.’

‘RELAX’

‘ACCEPT’

‘RELAX’

‘ACCEPT’

‘Suffragettes deny these obvious, undeniable truths. They say women should not be warm.’

‘BE WARM’

‘They say women should not be dutiful.’

‘BE DUTIFUL’

‘They say women should not be obedient.’

‘OBEY’

‘They say women should not be submissive.’

‘SUBMIT’

‘They are wrong.’

‘BE A GOOD GIRL’

‘They require correction.’

On screen the suffragettes seem ready to cast their votes. One girl, with emphasised slowness, looks about to drop their slip into the box. But something grabs her wrist, pushes it away. From behind the box rises a man, my husband, smiling at the woman in his clutches, smiling at the mock fear on her face. From the left and right of the screen come some of his fellow members, every man seizing a suffragette in his clutches. My husband starts the ritual. He manhandles his suffragette, turns her round and bends her over, so her clothed bum faces the camera. The other gentlemen do likewise. Out of their jackets, the men draw canes, and with music hall synchronicity tap their canes thrice on their respective girl’s bum. They tap thrice again with broader strokes, then draw out their arms as far as possible, prime their efforts, then strike the girls’ backsides. And though, of course, there is no sound on the film, anyone with half an imagination cannot help but hear the SWAT! for this and the following strikes. The men swat, and the girls go wobbly in the legs, so wobbly that on the tenth swat they all fall in a heap. My husband digs his hand through their ruins. He pulls up a voting slip, shows it to the audience, and rips it to pieces.

The film cuts to black, but does not finish. It keeps going, projecting a black screen, broken only by worded frames. ‘OBEY’, ‘RELAX’, ‘ACCEPT’ mostly, and occasionally ‘BE A GOOD GIRL’.

‘You are suffragettes. You require correction.’ I see no fight in any of them, no stirring, no shaking of the head, no struggling against my mesmeric spell, nothing, just the motionless bodies of open minds. ‘Stand up,’ I command.

They all stand. The groggier ones falter as they rise, but in the end they all stand. ‘Stand up straight.’ Simultaneously, their postures straighten.

‘See, you can obey orders. Say, “Girls obey”.’

All together they groan, ‘Girls obey.’

‘Now, now, with feeling! Say, “Girls obey”.’

They chant, ‘Girls obey.’

‘Say, “Suffragettes are silly”.’

‘Suffragettes are silly.’

‘Good girls,’ I say. ‘It feels so good to admit that. In time, you will not even remember what a suffragette is.’ I take a long gulp of water from my glass to soothe my throat. Why my throat burns, and is not merely dry, I don’t know. My words anger me, that is it—No, no, not my words, those I address my words to. They anger me, yes, that they must be told obvious truths.

‘Men and women are equals,’ I say, and let the sentiment hang in the air. ‘True words, but dangerous in their ambiguity, so apt to be misunderstood by unsophisticated minds. Minds like yours.

‘Men and women are like playwrights and actors, equal in worth, but different in qualities. The world, for its proper running, requires men and women, just as the stage, for its proper running, requires playwrights and actors. For the betterment of the performance the playwright and actor perfect their functions, but only a fool would call these functions the same. A playwright is the mind behind the stage, the imagination that flows through each actor. An actor is the physical instrument of that imagination. Both roles are vital to a play, but woe betide the playwright who tries to be an actor, and especially the actor who tries to be a playwright. An actor who improvises his own lines, or a playwright who fumbles through his own lines, brings mockery to the theatre. So too is the case with men and women. Men have their function, and women theirs, distinct but complimentary. The man fights, dominates, and creates; the woman cares, obeys, and inspires. By fulfilling these respective functions a divine alchemy is accomplished, the fuel of civilisation.’

Saying this, bile rises in my throat. I feel almost at crying’s brink, and the back of my neck throbs like some massive insect bite. Why do I feel this way? Surely- surely because I am faced with this rabble, these girls who are anathema to civilisation, a fact I had not truly comprehended till now. Yes, that is it. I must follow my script, punish and correct them, and this feeling will be gone.

‘You are suffragettes. You are very naughty girls. Foolish girls. You are naughty, foolish bitches. Bark! Bark like the bitches you are!’

They bark and ruff, but sans emotion, not truly like dogs.

‘You, all of you, into the aisles, into the passageway, whichever is closest.’ Both columns of pews break down the middles, like two red seas parting, as the girls funnel, soldier-like into the aisles and central passageway.

‘On your hands and knees, go on! Fall to your hands and knees!’

Quickly they fall. Soon I see a tight-packed hoard of girls, suffragettes reduced to their hands and knees, abhorrent bitches all. ‘Bark!’

They do, finally with some feeling! Barks and ruffs and growls and howls, shrieking, snarling from the mouths of these once so prideful girls. I look over to Eugenie, whose face is scrunched in bestial ferocity at the screen. The glorious sound echoes on the church walls, trebles in duration and volume; for a moment I do not care that some passer-by outside might hear. For a moment. I mustn’t bring undue attention. ‘Silence!’

All at once, quiet. More than silence, a tangible force within the room, which oppressed me like humid air, evaporates at my word. My breaths hurry now. Surely, public speaking does not take so much out of a girl.

‘Good girls. Good, obedient girls. Now, I shall recite a few statements, statements so simple even foolish girls like you can comprehend them. My every statement, you will repeat, out loud, clearly. And more than repeat, you will think them. As clearly as you speak these statements, you will think them, and these new thoughts will push down any other beliefs that dare to contradict. You should feel grateful. After proving yourselves incapable of good thought, I shall think for you. I begin.’

I take a gulp of water and a deep breath.

‘Suffragettism is a lie.’

Loudly, clearly, though not synchronously, they say, ‘Suffragettism is a lie!’

‘Girls do not deserve the vote.’

‘Girls do not deserve the vote!’

‘A good girl submits to her man, mind, body, and soul.’

‘A good girl submits to her man, mind, body, and soul!’

‘A girl not in want of a husband is a foolish slut.’

‘A girl not in want of a husband is a foolish slut!’

That is the groundwork, the axioms. Now the body proper:

‘Stop repeating. You may feel confused right now, conflicted. Do not worry, such doubt shall pass. Your new, correct thoughts merely battle your old illusions. And the battle is already won, for these “new” thoughts are in fact your most primal convictions. You always knew a girl’s proper place in society. Always. Even when that dark spectre suffragettism covered your eyes with vain ambition, and led you down its gloomy paths. Your illusions are veils, hiding what you always knew.’

I take another gulp. These words tire me. Though they are of my own pen, voicing them strains me like milking a stone. Such is the weight of truth, I suppose.

‘Look deep within yourself, deep into your hearts, your memories. Do you recall any instance, any moment at all, where you felt the slightest desire or longing for a man? Any moment at all when your heart beat but one beat, your face flushed but a bit, or your nethers tingled just a tickle. Do you recall any moment? Do you?’

Of course they do. I adhere to that old ad-man’s motto, ‘Grab them by the genitals.’

‘Seize the feeling! Feel it! For this is your true nature fighting to complete you.’ Girls redden, they sway on their hands and knees like exhausted dogs, their breathing grows haggard as love and lust consume them.

‘This feeling heralds more than fornication. It is your femininity drawing you towards a man. When your heart palpitates and your nethers flame, you feel your femininity scream, “To him! Submit to him! Abandon yourself to him!” This is your truest nature. Submit to it, feel its heat and let it inflame you.’

Low moans pour from mouths as swaying increases. I can almost smell the sweat and sex wafting from them.

‘“Docility,” your femininity demands. “Obedience,” it demands, too. It demands you forsake free will and free thought. It demands you submit your will and thoughts to man’s dominance. That is what the heat between your thighs demands!’

Moans grow louder, resonant upon the walls, resounding like a perverse choral chant.

‘Only worthless tribads have free will. Only abominable Sapphists think for themselves.’

These words slip like razors from my tongue, though I know not why.

‘And now, you shall submit to your femininity. Feel the heat, feel the cleansing flame. You are bitches, bitches in heat, your only purpose is pleasure. Present yourselves for fucking like the bitches you are!’

Some have mind and dexterity enough left to struggle out of their clothing. Most, however, plant their chests to the ground and jut their clothed arses in the air, swaying them side-to-side as if trying to lure passing bees.

I take a deep breath, my deepest of the day, and prepare my throat for a tearing. ‘GENTLEMEN! TAME THESE BITCHES!

I know my words reach outside, for immediately the doors open, and the club strides in, shadowed by the glaring light of day. Once all are in, the door closes, darkness returns. They go to work.

Leery spies a girl already disrobing, her fumbling hands slipping over the buttons on her dress front. He comes behind her and helps, tearing the dress apart, sending buttons flying. Quite the slut, she seems, for unbound by corset or petticoat her breasts bound out. Like a hungry tiger Leery kisses her throat as his hands knead her swelling breasts.

Smallwood wastes no time choosing. The first one he reaches, he grabs from under the arms. Despite her fetching bottom, he brings her shaking body to its knees. Today he has no belt on; his trousers are pre-unbuttoned. As he undoes his zip it grows clear he refused under-things this morning. His member flicks out, and nuzzles her lips, which open to accept.

Thomas and Johnson choose near-by girls to sate their far apart preferences. Thomas takes a shivering, presenting girl by the hand, and then another right next to her. He leads them to a pew, where he sits between the two. And though fully clothed, he has his fill of them, taking their mouths with his, kissing their necks and letting them kiss his. An altogether innocent affair compared to Johnson’s. He finds a girl presenting her massive arse, and does not help her up. Like a circus bear too long imprisoned in his vest, he sheds his shoes and trousers, till he stands in only coat, shirt, tie and hat. His whole lower half is naked, and his cock stands at rigid attention. With scissors he kept in his coat pocket, he gets on his knees and cuts a foot’s length up the girl’s dress. With great strength he tears her dress apart. Bisected up until the waist, her bloomered bottom juts at him. He stows the scissors, licks his lips, and wrenches down the obstructing fabric, revealing her white posterior. Both his hands smack down on either side of her rear, fingers snaking towards her pelvis, and he takes as much grip as he can. He takes her hard and fast up her arse.

The arse is the limit, the men and I agreed. Any who take a trip up the ‘sacred grove’ deprive the future husband of his right. But that limit is quite high; much can happen below the watermark.

As I watch the men take girls and finish with them, the girls left gasping heaps of lusty contentment, a feeling I cannot understand thickens in me. No, I know what the feeling is. I know it is revulsion, terror and guilt all in one dirt and maggot filled sandwich. What I do not understand is why I feel it now, at this of all sights, this sight that confirms the victory of good, of the subjugation of the feminists under the foot of man. Such a happy sight should bring a smile, not bile.

‘I begin to believe your skills exceed my own.’ My husband embraces me from behind, his lips to my ear.

‘Oh, do not flatter a girl,’ I say. ‘She may start believing you.’

‘I am serious,’ he says. ‘An entire crowd, my dear! Why, it was only after a month of planning that I tamed you, my former shrew. Even then, it seemed at times your wilful spirit would break my spell. But you!’ He turns me around, away from the orgy, to look up into his face. ‘You planned not even a whole week, and you conquered all these.’

That horrid feeling withers. His embrace always calms me, as it warms my body and quiets my thoughts. I put my head to his chest, greedily grasping at as much of this calm as possible. ‘You praise my meagre skills too much.’

He takes my chin to lead my eyes to his. ‘You must learn to accept a man’s praise. To rebuff his compliments is to insult his taste. I praise you in all sincerity. Your skill in mesmerism exceeds my own.’ When he sees my lips part he puts a finger to them. ‘Shush now.’

He looks past me, I presume at the orgy. His attention returns to me. ‘Do say you will not mind if a few girls come to bed with us, my sweet.’

The trigger forces words leaping from my tongue. ‘I will not mind if a few girls come to bed with us, sir.’ He smiles, pats my cheek, then lets go of me. Down to the girls he goes, cattle under his famer’s scrutiny.

Out of his grasp I feel cold.

Why did he make me say that? Even unforced I would have agreed, for his wishes demand my agreement. Perhaps he takes puckish glee in it, forcing his wife to consent to adultery. But if it is his pleasure I mustn’t question it. I will go along with all his wishes.

I know that, I know I will submit to all his wishes, but I used to know that with bliss, bliss as of a monk who knows of God’s grace. Now, in my knowing, a sombreness hangs from me, unease too. This depression is less intense than the bile I suffered so recently, but I suspect it is related, and I fear it will last longer.

I mustn’t tell him of these feelings because… because… I do not wish to worry him. I need a spanking. I shall break a plate, talk back to him, something, and earn a spanking. Spanking always cleanses me, reminds me of my place, reminds me my husband controls me, and any sour thoughts or feelings I have do not matter.

A moaning shriek pulls my attention towards the crowd. By sound alone I know the shriek belongs to Miss Merriweather. She is… there, with Johnson. He has endurance and speed, I’ll grant him. Four other girls bear the ripped dresses that evidence his conquest. The men would consummate the girl’s conditioning, we planned, granting them the orgasm that would provide the capstone to my induction. Every girl will be taken, but only once each—mustn’t be greedy. If Smallwood wants a girl Leery already rutted, well, tough.

I search the crowd for… There she is! Miss Goodson, nude, sat on the pew with Thomas. He gently rubs her breasts, or lightly tweaks her nipples, as his mouth trails kisses over her neck. Her back is so straight, despite it not being against the pew. As if under the influence of a too sour sweet, her face scrunches, lips pursed, eyes closed. I watch her conquest through to completion, to that moment when the light kneading becomes the final feather which breaks the dam of her resistance. Despite her mannishness she has the most modest of feminine climaxes. A single light, long inhale, before fluttering down in tired relief.

I am glad Thomas completed her, though I don’t know why. A suffragette as mannish as her probably deserved Johnson up her bottom, or Smallwood down her throat. But, no, I cannot deny I am relieved she received Thomas. He had a gentlemanliness so intense he could make a girl cum just by escorting her to her door. As I look at the post-orgasmic and post-mesmeric dozing of Eugenie I do feel relieved, but, also, I feel something else, that doubt, that depression, slithers up. I avert my eyes.

Tonight, I must be spanked, have my sinful bottom turned crimson by a flurry of smacks. Tonight, I must be punished.