14 March 2010: Painfully Pink

10 March 2010: Doll House Private Use

It is now possible for sissy/baby to spend an afternoon or day in private solo dressing and play at the Doll House (nappies, dress sets, feeding items, and toys available for use) in a quality setting at the fee of  3 hours at £150 or 6 hours at £250 or longer by negotiation of needs.

There is also a safe-keeping storage service for a suitcase of personal items for attendance.

9 March 2010: District Reformatory & Doll House Attendance Glimpse III

8 March 2010: District Reformatory & Doll House Attendance Glimpse II

6 March 2010: District Reformatory & Doll House Attendance Glimpse I

3 March 2010: Further Reformatory & Doll House Glimpses

Ten years ago I returned to Yorkshire from London to the rejuvenating qualities of the moors and I bought a rustic property to develop and that became The Practice. That little detached cottage became my playhouse from which I enticed submissive and masochistic males from across the world to fill my days with dark novel pleasures. I was the playful and erotic Miss X in my little house, experimenting wildly with humiliating, punishing and bizarre practices and I adored it. I had found my calling as a teacher in my own school of alternative adult education. I developed an acute interest in infantilisation and sissification and I had a Wendy House built in my cottage grounds in which I specialised in the adult nursery. But then I outgrew the cottage and the nursery. I am still a little girl in mind (in the body of a matron) and I still have the little house but now I also have a big house in which I am all grown up as Lady Governa and I am very set in my disciplinary and belittling ways at my District Reformatory & Doll House. I know exactly what I want in my home and reformatory ~ to keep men captive, to discipline them, to torment them, to belittle them, to sissify them and to record my work in the written word and the dramatic image. I do so like the idea of a man being powerless to resist the lure of a woman in the home that she has made a reformatory for the man.

This house is a work in development and I will only reveal glimpses in to the story so far...

District Reformatory & Doll House Entrance

Waiting Area

Reception Room I

Reception Room II

Upper Hall

Reformation Room

Beam Restraints (throughout the house)

Attendee WC & Shower Room

Boarding Room

Examination Room

3 March 2010: Visit the Reformatory & Doll House & Shoppe ~ next week only

I have a surplus to requirements stock of AB & sissy clothing, nursery items, my personal items of clothing and footwear, and my AB&SissC Annuals issues 1 & 2 for sale.

If you would like to visit the District Reformatory & Doll House to meet me and purchase items then do contact me ASAP. This invitation is for next week only as I continue to furnish the house and clear out my surplus stock of nursery and personal items.

25 February 2010: Reformatory Glimpse

I have but had the time to photograph the front door. I have been juggling delivery men and reformatory attendees this week as I complete the unpacking and arrange the furnishings. It will be some time before I am satisfied but I am now smiling. It is all coming together nicely.

I am using this newfangled device called a 'dongle' to access the internet and e-mail.

More images over the weekend...

Lady Governa in The District Reformatory & Doll House, Halifax, Yorkshire, England, The World

17 February 2010: Relocation Period Contact

From Thursday morning I am at the mercy of British Telecom to set up my internet connection at the District Reformatory & Doll House new premises so from that date and until further notice, I will be contactable by telephone and post only not e-mail.

Do be sure that you are familiar with the information at the Introduction page of my website that details contact and attendance protocol as I am renowned for my brusque telephone manner and unforgiving nature. I do not answer telephone calls from withheld numbers and I do not respond to text messages.

07981 917513

13 February 2010: Amazon Gift Certificate ~ Attendance Deposit & Gift

I recently discovered the Amazon Gift Certificate e-mail service at Amazon and it has proven a great success for payment deposit for attendance and gifts. It is an anonymous process so your personal and financial details are kept private and secure and I simply receive a notification of the Gift Certificate with any message that you add. I receive the Gift Certificate immediately by e-mail and I can then use this as cash at Amazon. This method of payment of the attendance deposit saves the time delay of visiting the post office to send cash by recorded delivery and also any risk of loss so it is now my preferred option for attendance deposit.

10 February 2010: District Reformatory & Doll House ~ Grand Opening

I can now formally announce that the District Reformatory & Doll House proper will be open for attendance from 22 February 2010 on the outskirts of Halifax.

I have been caught up in the property recession for the past couple of years and it has been quite a trial to this point. I have been searching for a property in hard times with slim pickings and it has been a vexation. I have travelled the length and breadth of Yorkshire to find a substantial property suitable as my residence and as a reformatory with rooms for boarding facilities and soirees. I have considered a wealth of property ~ from isolated farmstead to Victorian school house to converted chapel to village inn ~ and I have finally settled on a... Well, you will just have to wait and see... As soon as I have unpacked then I will be taking photos and film to feature at the website. Of course, as is my little hobby, I will also be developing some very special content for a private area here too.

As tradition affords, I do have a house warming gift list of practical items (one can simply never have enough crockery or crystal) here at Amazon (an anonymous process) though Amazon or Argos gift vouchers or other gifts are most welcome , so do give generously to a worthy cause of the furnishing of a fine and goodly District Reformatory & Doll House for the reformation of the adult male ~ and perhaps you will be blessed to see the gift in person in situ... at an attendance or at a soiree as I will, indeed, be holding events at the District Reformatory & Doll House to which trusted attendees and respected ladies will be invited.

(Thank you for the teapot, totty. Thank you for the gift certificate, 'Boots'. Thank you for the gift certificate, Lynne. Thank you for the gift certificate, Nicky. Thank you for the crystal glasses, Naval Officer. Thank you for the dinner service, T.)

4 February 2010: Fine Dining Not Fast Food

An attendance at the District Reformatory & Doll House is an expensive luxury. It is something very special. It is a rare treat to be savoured. It is fine dining for the mind and body. I make no excuse for the fees that I charge. The longer one has to wait and save the pennies then the greater the want, the need, the anticipation, the excitement, the pleasure and the reward one gains. There is little gratification in instant gratification. That should provide salve and hope for the presently impoverished and a re-education for the cheap & cheerful chaps.

I have updated the Introduction page with further details of set courses of treatment and fees at the District Reformatory & Doll House.

3 February 2010: I have updated 'The Practice of Pain & Punishment Archive of Image' with a link to The Practice of Pain & Punishment Archive of Film

3 February 2010:  I have just been very pleasantly surprised by a gift of a pair of gorgeous Kurt Geiger black leather knee boots. Thank you, 'Little Fancy'

31  January 2010: Extreme Treatment: Torment & Catharsis

Confinement, restraints, spanking, whipping, breath control, sissification, golden bottle feeds, violet wand, nappy & rubbers, enema...

22  January 2010: Extracts from The Playful & Punishing Pen of Lady Governa

~

The Suckle

A musky scent emanated from the warm bodies of the nursing pair and this heady pomade lurked in the stagnant air. His slight yet chubby frame was swaddled at the groin in a white terry towelling nappy as seen through a pair of transparent rubber pants and his nappied bottom was settled in the space between her parted legs on the overstuffed nursing chair. The squat walnut frame sat on its robust turned legs and feet of brass and pot castors in the centre of an old Persian rug. Its threadbare pattern crept over the floorboards but for a runner of polished oak which squared the room. In the far corner, a large wooden cot was shrouded in shadow. A dark paper of buds and creepers climbed the four walls that contained the occupants of the nursing chair and a dusty plaster rose held a cobweb of crystal teardrops above their heads. The ticking of a mantle clock, the sighing of breath and the suckling of teat, ornamented the somnolent room.

The nursing mistress wore a heavy black linen dress of fluted neck, leg o’ mutton sleeve and a full skirt that spilled over the seat of the nursing chair and swept the floor like the train of a widow’s weeds. The yoke of her dress was unbuttoned to reveal a parting of white lace trimmed camisole and an abundance of bosom into which a blonde head was plunged. Her long chestnut hair was plaited into a thick skein that was loosely caught in a red velvet ribbon at the nape of her neck and a red velvet ribbon at the final tuft. This whip of hair draped over the left shoulder of her fulsome figure and was clutched as a comforter in the free hand of the nursling whose face was absorbed within the cleavage of her magnificent lactating breasts and latched on to the milky nipple.

“There, there, my lamb,” she said, cradling and rocking and patting the nappied bottom of the desperate breast feeder embedded in the sumptuous pillow of her bust. “No need to fret. My breasts are yours to suckle and my milk is yours to lap. Take comfort at the teat, little one.”

The open flap of the cup of her cream lace nursing brassiere was sodden with spilt milk leaking from the swollen breast that was fit to burst with its rich, sickly sweetness. The suckling had a mouth full of this corpulent mound and like a limpet, his lips and teeth were fastened to her engorged flesh. He was rampant in his feasting on her rich secretion, his hand kneading and squeezing her succulent voluptuous bust, his mouth sucking and nibbling her plump pink nipple. This frantic consumption created a film of sticky wetness that bonded the wet-nurse and the milksop in a thick white discharge of dripping milk, dribbling saliva and beading perspiration. A feeding cycle emerged of excitable tonguing, mounting to sloppy sucking, climaxing in furtive guzzling and then relaxing into sleepy mouthing, over and over again. At intervals during this oral worship, the mistress would place her hand inside the clammy rubber pants and the damp nappy, to feel for the stirrings and undulations and seepage of creamy fluid from his swollen cock, as expected.

The spell was temporarily broken when the wet-nurse shifted her weight in the chair, took his head in her hands and unplugged his mouth from her now drained breast. She then unbuttoned the second nursing flap and peeled its damp napkin from her skin to reveal to him a fresh udder resplendent with a pregnant nipple oozing milk. For a moment the adult baby gazed at its bountiful wonder before he thrust his face forward to latch onto the erect teat to suckle with renewed fervour. Each mammary was to release its fair share of milk yield and each mamilla was to receive its fair share of suckling as her nursing charge fed his hunger for the elixir of the teat. The nursing mistress settled back into the nursing chair and gently hummed a lullaby as the glutton lapped up the remaining half of her creamy potion.

“Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, cradle, and all.”

For a long time the nursing mistress whispered this lullaby to her babe-in-arms, until she could no longer bear the clamminess of his skin against hers, the dead weight of his limbs upon hers, the stench of his urine leaking out beneath the elastics of the rubber pants from the sodden nappy that had soaked in to the fabric of her dress, and his rapid and shallow breathing echoing through her. This discomfort prompted the singing of the final chorus of the suckling lullaby.

“Hush–a-bye, baby, on the breast top,
When the herb blows the body will rock.
When the breath breaks the body will fall,
Down will come baby, body, and all.

His nursemaid extricated herself from beneath his still body and pushed him into a stiff sitting position on the nursing chair. She stood over the boy, fondling her potent breasts, studying the slightest of movement from him. The eyelids flickered but he did not have the strength to open his eyes to the shadowy vision of the nursing mistress. As she watched him, her fingers tugged at the red ribbon bow at the tuft and then the red ribbon bow at the nape of her plaited hair. In a flourish, her chestnut mane was loose and wild about her shoulders and breasts and in her hand hung the long and thick, blood-red velvet ribbons.

The mistress circled the nursing chair to stand behind the human doll and bending over its lolling head, she took each heavy hand and dropped it off the side. She knelt on the rug, brought together the wrists of his limp hands behind the chair and, with a couple of loops consisting of a clove hitch with half hitch and a stretch of ribbon between, manufactured a set of velvet manacles that fixed him to the nursing chair. The lady in black returned to his front and repeated this haberdashery restraint at his ankles, which were held behind the bowed chair legs. Finally, she pulled down his dripping rubber pants to his ankles and at his nappy she unclasped and removed the large metal nappy pins to open the soaking wet nappy and expose the boy's flaccid penis and shrivelled plums and the flaming sores of nappy rash that ate in to his genitalia, bottom and thighs.

And there crouched, her hands stroking his feverish crown, her hair shrouding his face, she told him a fairytale, which would induce the deepest of slumber.

“Once upon a time, there was a greedy suckling boy and a generous nursing mistress and together they shared the carnal pleasures of the lactating breast. Each day the nursling suckled at the wet-nurse and this made him a contented milksop but his insatiable greed made her a discontented milk-cow. The nursing mistress decided that the nursling must succumb to a final weaning off the breast so that the mistress could be free to pleasure herself once more. And so it happened that one day she caressed her teats with the kiss of belladonna, the liquor of deadly nightshade, and as her babe suckled the nourishment from her nips and bubs, he also ingested the natural venom that would suck the life from him.

“At the half hour chime of the mantle clock, the suckling boy felt hot, his skin flushed, his mouth dry, his eyes wide and sore, and his heart beat faster and faster. He suckled ever harder for the quench of the milk but he could not satisfy his thirst or soothe his pains. The more he suckled, the more he grew feverish and restless and in this helpless state he held tightly onto the mammary, seeking solace at the sweet nipple, in the haven of the breast. But at her flesh he found no comfort and soon he was too weak to escape her suffocating mass; the boy was drowsy and disorientated, unable to find his voice to cry for help.

“He was delirious, hallucinating, distressing sights and sounds - of witches mounting broomsticks, legs astride their dangerous rides, rubbing themselves against the wooden charge between their thighs, flying with sexual abandon through the dark night. It was a spellbound, sickly child, indeed, to dream of such terrible things.

“Now you are about to start convulsing, my darling. I have bound you tightly to the nursing chair so that you will be held safely as your fits consume you. But throughout the torment, be sure in the knowledge that I will remain with you here, until you breathe your last. And in these, your final moments, your mind may wander to the question of the condition of your beloved nursing mistress, of how she responds to the touch of belladonna that is suckled from her teat.”

The mistress raised the skirt of her dress and the layers of her petticoat and sat astride the young mount. In her split-bloomers, she gyrated her child-bearing hips at his groin. With her left hand, the buxom wench grasped his hair, with her right hand she pulled and pinched her erect nipples, which released a trickle of milk running down her stomach and inner thighs that spilled into his lap. As the body beneath her began to convulse, she yanked at its hair and ground her cunny into its jerking groin. Her breathing quickened, her face blushed, her mouth gasped, her body danced to the rhythm of the belladonna and the suckle of death.

She cried out, “Your every suck at my teat did bathe me in her sweetness. I feel her touch on my flesh and I hear her voice in my mind. Come, take me, Belladonna!”

The nursing mistress rode the raging spasms of the man-child until her convulsions overwhelmed his, and her masturbated teats spurted their last ounce of milk over his naked corpse. Finally, her sticky bosom collapsed onto his inert chest and her dark head dropped onto his fair hair. She put her cheek to his cheek and mouthed, “Goodnight, my weanling, sleep tight.”

19  January 2010: The Sublime Pleasure of Your Sufferance

The juxtapositions ~ desire and guilt, discipline and indulgence, excitement and fear, pleasure and pain ~ are fundamentals of the human condition. From tribal ritual through Victorian Christianity to Gothic romanticism ~ in art, literature, religion, sport ~ there is a spiritual and sensuous elevation and enhancement in the sufferance of a personal trial or sacrifice. The human mind, body and spirit require the stimulation and catharsis that comes with personal challenge and the unknown ~ the stuff that has the man clinging to the side of a mountain or the man trading punches in the ring or the man bending to the rod at my hand.

This is a concept that reduces the collective might of the politically correct brigade, the health and safety executive, and the thought police to that of a pen with no ink.

Of course, there are those occasions when all we need for fulfilment is a cup of tea and an early night ~ and then we go and spill the hot tea in the lap...

17 January 2010: But is it Art?

The previous entry and the questions come flooding in ~ Is it real? Is it Photoshop? How can it be so red? ~ but only 2 people know the answers and I am one and the other is the man in the image.

This degree of CP is a rarity ~ and it takes a rare breed to administer it as it does to receive it.

I see the beauty in many forms of CP ~ from the blush of a spanking to the stripes of a caning to the bruises of a strapping to the blood of a beating ~ but only in the controlled environment of the practice of discipline.

I consider it to be a physical art as well as a physical education.

Now I have made my point and mark with this brief glimpse in an image that will soon disappear ~ as do the cuts and bruises of it but not the memory of it.

This is his memory of it...

~

16 January 2010: Severe or Judicial Punishment

I am placing this photo of one of the most severe corporal punishments I have administered ~ so do be warned that it is a bloody beautiful bottom to behold. I do hope that it acts as a deterrent for the naive and the fantasist from requesting a severe or judicial punishment from me that would be far beyond their capability and comprehension. I am very selective as to the bottoms I bloody and I take pride in my work and administering corporal punishment for the greater good.

This corporal punishment consisted of 500 strokes over the course of an afternoon with a variety of implements, including the rubber whip, the dragon cane and the wooden paddle. This was a considered, careful and caring administration of CP to an extreme level ~ as only a puritan would understand.

extreme content warning ~ Bloody Beautiful Bottom ~ extreme content warning

11 January 2010: Extracts from The Playful & Punishing Pen of Lady Governa

~

Detained at Her Pleasure

(In the world outside this tale, 'Lucy Smyth' is actually a karate kicking and panty wearing man who dreamt as an adolescent and as an adult of being one of the girls from the 6th form at the girls' school opposite his boys' school and being disciplined by the mistress who drove the racing green sports car ...)

Miss Taylor peered through the observation window of the detention room door. She expertly surveyed the schoolroom scene: the central column of five wooden desks at which sat the petulant detainees of morning break. The dour Miss Spinks sat hunched at the head-desk marking in a manner of distaste a pile of compositions.
Miss Taylor’s keen eye penetrated the column of detainees and came to rest with interest upon the blonde-haired figure of Lucy Smyth. The tip of the pupil’s regulation fountain pen was caught between her teeth as she daydreamed longingly through the window. The upper fifth lacrosse team cavorted in the distance on the muddy playing field. Miss Taylor was familiar with this young charge, a most coquettish upper fifth former. Such a wanton demeanour should not go unpunished, she decided. A faint smile emerged from the Mistress’ full mouth.

As the Mistress contemplated the breaking of the girl’s improper bearing, the arm of the child punctured her thoughts. It raised itself and so began a desperate waving of its hand. A few young heads disengaged themselves from their chore but the silent commotion went unnoticed however by its intended audience, the Detention Mistress.

Finally, with an aching arm, a desperate voice pleaded, “Miss Spinks! Miss Spinks, please may I go to the toilet?”

“Permission denied,” came the dry response from the head-desk.

At this point Miss Taylor’s refined hand turned the door handle and her lithe form entered the room. The Mistresses exchanged curt nods. Stiletto heels on the parquet floor scratched the presence of the Head of House into the vacant minds of the young girls. The schoolgirls nervously shifted their pert bottoms on the harsh wooden seats. Miss Taylor, standing centre stage, hands on smooth hips, observed the chalked written punishment of the detention on the blackboard.

In Miss Spinks’ spiky script lines, punishment was listed as follows:

Emily Ford: I must not slouch at my desk. x50
Maria James: I must not ask ridiculous questions. x100
Annabel Cox: I must not copy from the books of other girls. x200
Charlotte Banks: I must not talk in assembly. x50
Lucy Smyth: I must not suck my fingers in class. x100

Miss Taylor raised her eyebrows and shook her head in a feigned act of exasperation. She started up the column inspecting the penmanship of the charges. They worked self-consciously, line after repetitive line, now with unaccustomed purpose. No schoolgirl dare meet the eye of the Mistress. As Miss Taylor’s sure fingers glanced in her passing their plaited and pony-tailed hair their breathing quickened and a blush of colour spread across their pale cheeks and chests.

Finally, Miss Taylor came to stand above the comely body of Smyth. The girl’s mane was falling loose from its silver clasp and strands of gold caressed the back of her bottle-green blazer. ‘I must not suck my fingers in class.’ Miss Taylor read, at scribbled line 47 of 100. Lucy produced her ill-formed script with difficulty as the Mistress’ striking scent overcame her.

Miss Taylor bent to Lucy’s fair cheek, brushing the pupil’s ear lobe with her reddened lips. She whispered, “That’s all very silly, Smyth, but do continue.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor,” the errant pupil gulped.

Lucy’s hand trembled as she dipped the bronze nib into the inkpot. In her haste to return her pen to her punishment, a single drop of royal blue liquid fell from the nib onto the crisp white paper. Lucy gasped and the errant pen fell from her delicate hand and rolled into the poised hand of Miss Taylor. Lucy’s wide eyes remained fixated at the stain that sullied the page. Miss Taylor made neither comment nor movement to betray her thoughts. Just as Lucy felt she could bear the unknown no longer the Mistress placed her other exacting hand upon that of the child’s. She guided the soft, unsure hand to the blotting paper at the side of the inkpot. The Mistress’s sharp red nails cut lightly into the pliant white skin.

“Blot, and quickly,” stated Miss Taylor in a manner that was unsettling in its calm.

“Yes, Miss Taylor. Sorry Miss Taylor,” Lucy flustered.

She could feel the gentle, steady breath of the Mistress upon her neck. Nervous and flustering, Lucy grasped the blotting paper but this act was impeded by the pull of the hand that controlled hers and in a deliberate execution the pot of ink was overturned. The thick blue contents obliterated the lines and seeped across the desk. In disbelief and fear, Lucy bit her lip and drew a smudge of scarlet wetness.

“Oh dear, Smyth. What have you done now, you clumsy child?” asked the Mistress.

“Um, I, I…” Lucy mumbled, shocked and confused.

Miss Taylor’s crimson-stained mouth opened and her starched shirt caressed the flushed skin of Lucy’s cheek as she spoke. “You had better clean up this mess, hadn’t you Smyth?”

“Yes, Miss Taylor, sorry Miss Taylor,” the detainee stuttered.

“See me at lunch break. No refectory or toilet visit. I want you in the gymnasium wearing gymslip and plimsolls.”

Without waiting for response to her missive, Miss Taylor inserted the fountain pen into Lucy’s mouth, promptly turned her back on the young girl, and marched to the door, her hips rising and falling rhythmically. Lucy, holding tightly the pen between her teeth, stole a furtive glance at the Mistress, at the black hair tied neatly at the nape of her sweet neck, the pristine white cotton blouse concealing her firm breasts, the tight black calf-length skirt accentuating the curves of her bottom, and those sharp stiletto-heeled black patent-leather shoes.

Lucy’s moist palms travelled beneath the old desk and under her uniform dress. She inserted her right hand inside her white cotton knickers and stroked the tender pale skin between her legs. Her eyes shut tightly, Lucy held the vision of the cruel beauty of her Mistress and of a physical punishment exacted a term ago though eagerly revisited at each lights-out.

Miss Taylor directed her parting words to the Mistress in charge of today’s detainees. “I do believe Smyth is need of your attention, Miss Spinks,” she stated.
As Miss Taylor exited the detention room Miss Spinks settled down her pen and closed her record of punishment book. She hobbled to Smyth’s desk and immediately a look of horror erupted on the teacher’s wrinkled face. She stood rigid in temper at the appalling sight of Smyth’s desk. The blue-black tar had corrupted the blessed lines of detention.

“Lucy Smyth, you are a filthy child!” Miss Spinks spluttered, “Just look at this abomination!”

The sticky pen dropped from Lucy’s mouth and her hands flew from beneath the ruffled slip and back upon her lap. Four heads spun round in unison to enjoy the spectacle of yet more punishment as Mrs Spinks exclaimed, “Banks, fetch the ruler!”

***

Heavy oak double doors guarded the school gymnasium. A musty air gripped the hall. The parquet floor was highly polished from the regular rubbing of wool gymslips and cotton socks of the girls’ tumbling. Gracing four wooden panelled walls was fixed climbing apparatus mounted on casters that could be pulled out from the walls to a right angle. Climbing rungs and ropes decorated the wooden frame. Netball hoops craned at opposite ends of the gym. A horsebox stood solidly off-centre.

Lucy Smyth stood fidgeting in the far corner of the gym, dressed in green gymslip, white socks and black plimsolls, just as Miss Taylor had ordered. She sulkily kicked the toe of her plimsoll at a wooden floor slat as she awaited the presence of the Mistress. It was a quarter past twelve and the school was now at lunch. She could hear girls swarming the corridors and the hum of their chatter invading the hall but all too soon this advanced to the refectory, leaving in its wake only Lucy feeling suddenly quite alone and quite afraid and with a desperate need to go to the toilet.

Lucy’s pricked ears were alert for the signal of the Mistress’ entrance. The need to visit the toilet was now most urgent. At break detention, Miss Spinks had denied Lucy’s request to relieve herself and Miss Taylor had forbidden detour for food or release at this lunch detention. That amounted to a whole morning bearing a full bladder. Lucy dare not move from her place of confinement and so she distracted herself from the urgency of the toilet requirement with counting from one to a hundred, repeatedly.

Whilst counting Lucy fiddled with the pleats of her gymslip, pulling them up and down and up and down, gaining comfort in the rubbing of the material at her thighs. Her constant clock-watching soon showed the time to be half past twelve. The refectory would be closing soon and Lucy would miss the spotted dick and custard that she craved and she did so need to go to the toilet.

“Lucy Smyth, stop that at once!” Miss Taylor demanded. “Have you permission to touch yourself in that manner?”

Lucy dropped her arms to her sides immediately. “Sorry, Miss Taylor,” the pupil responded, blushing at being caught in such an act of foreplay.

The Mistress’ long-admired stiletto-heeled shoes had been replaced with thigh length black leather riding boots, although only the pointed toe and spiked heel were visible beneath a traditional riding skirt. In complement, the riding skirt and a hacking jacket were also formed of this delectable second skin. In Miss Taylor’s leather gloved right hand, she gripped the bulbous silver tip of a robust yet elegant ostrich-leather riding crop. Her long black hair was caught in a black mesh snood that dropped to the shoulder blades. The heels of Miss Taylor’s boots marked a marching beat against the parquet tiles as she advanced to the spot where the downcast pupil awaited this most private lesson.

The tongue of the riding crop licked at Lucy’s chin as Miss Taylor raised the lowered head. The pupil’s soft blue eyes were overwhelmed by the equestrian beauty of her Mistress and fixated at the sight of the Lady’s blood-red mouth. The Mistress locked her dark eyes on the vulnerable gaze of her charge and the contact was so penetrating that Lucy had to avert her eyes. Simultaneously the girl experienced the dampening of the gusset of her knickers.

Miss Taylor announced, “I have just completed the task of teaching the lower fifth to rise to the trot with strength yet grace, and now, Lucy Smyth, it is your turn to be manipulated for the greater good.”

The Mistress teased open with the crop’s split tongue the trembling pink lips before her and toyed with Lucy’s mouth,. Penetrating the wet hole, she tantalised the moist inner flesh, gently driving the firm leather in and out, again and again. Lucy groaned at the uncontrollable pleasure. At that, the Mistress withdrew the saliva-soaked stiff leather member and wiped its wet tip in the thickness of the pupil’s hair.

In a far away part of the building, the giggling of schoolgirls at boisterous play could be discerned. Meanwhile, the voyeuristic clock face ticked on in the isolation of the gym, accompanied by the rapid heartbeat and self-conscious swallowing of the pupil who stood exposed in the corner with the powerful leather-clad body of Miss Taylor looming over her. Lucy Smyth was indeed in isolation from the familiar world outside of the gymnasium.

“Smyth,” Miss Taylor began, “Miss Kean, the Games Mistress, reports that you had on two occasions last week, a note from your Form Mistress to excuse you from PE, is that correct?”

“Yes, Miss Taylor.”

“And why was that?”

“I had my first period, Miss Taylor,” Lucy mumbled, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“Oh, indeed, well we shall have to see about that, won’t we? Physical education is most important for the vitality of a young girl,” Miss Taylor impressed upon her charge. “However, we shall discuss your sanitary requirements in due course. We have more pressing matters to attend to now, don’t we?”

The Mistress raised her black leather riding crop and caught the strap of the schoolgirl’s gymslip. She eased it slowly from Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy felt her pussy lips tingle and the contraction of her newly discovered vaginal wall.

As if sensing her charge’s sexual stirring the Mistress taunted her, “It feels good, doesn’t it? But such pleasure must be earnt and at my whim, Lucy Smyth.”
Lucy was forced to bite her bottom lip to stop it quivering so but she could do little to control her shaking legs.
“On your hands and knees, charge!” Miss Taylor brusquely commanded.

Lucy fell to the floor, hurting her knees on the parquet bricks. The Mistress raised her leather-clad leg and weighted her spiked foot on the girl’s back, forcing by the weight of the boot the girl’s stomach to the ground. Lucy’s mouth scraped the dusty floor and the bitter taste clung to her lips.

“I cannot abide a wanton child. It does so affront my senses. Now, I shall gain my composure from the loss of yours.”

Miss Taylor spoke so softly it strained Lucy to receive these words but receive them she did. As she concentrated on listening to the Mistress’s beratement, Lucy experienced a strange and horrifying sensation between her legs. She realised too late that she was wetting herself. Denied permission to toilet herself, Lucy had now lost control of her painfully full bladder. A stream of warm water soaked through her knickers, seeped down her legs, through her socks and plimsolls and puddled about her.

The Mistress was fully aware of the pupil’s act of soiling and savoured its course. “You have missed two lessons of physical education this week but now, in my capable hands, you have just undergone a different type of corporal test, more punishing than the most savage lacrosse match.“

Miss Taylor released her boot-hold on the girl’s body and scrutinized the pathetic crime at the rear of the grovelling child. Lucy felt tears pricking at her eyes as the Mistress documented the evidence of a weak bladder. The feeble sight of the young charge pleased the Mistress as much as it distressed the pupil.

With the tip of her riding crop, she raised the gymslip to reveal a yellowing pair of knickers. “Oh dear, Smyth, has suffered another little accident,” she mocked. “First it was spilt ink and now it is spilt urine. What a silly girl to spill all her fluids.” The Mistress crouched at Lucy’s face and stared at her unmercifully. “Now what are we to do with all this mess, indeed.”

The humiliation was too much to bear and Lucy gave in to her tears.

“This is no time for histrionics, child! There is the practical matter to attend to in cleaning up this foul mess. Now, stop snivelling and remove your gymslip.”

Lucy stood up with difficulty, sobbing and soaking wet, the energy had departed her body. In this sorry state, she could not feel any more humiliation at the act of removing her sullied clothing in front of the Mistress. Miss Taylor watched with evident amusement as Lucy removed the gymslip to reveal a white vest and soaked knickers.

Head hung in shame, the pupil held the garment loosely in her hand, her eyes affixed to the pool of disgrace on the floor.

“Clean up your mess with your gymslip,” the Mistress stated without emotion. “When you have done, sit on the floor, take off your shoes and socks, vest and, of course, those dirty knickers.”

Lucy crouched and soaked up the urine with the gymslip. The cloth absorbed much of the liquid but when it could take no more Lucy placed it over the remainder as a shroud to her disgrace. Immediately she pulled off her plimsolls and placed them by her side, into them she placed her damp socks. Her vest followed and finally she removed the soaked knickers and rolled the vest around them. The pile of laundry was now complete on the floor. Lucy sat, naked and exposed, her knees clasped to her breasts. Miss Taylor regarded the pupil’s body, young yet curvaceous and the breasts far too developed for any hope of modesty.

“Stand!” the Mistress ordered.

Lucy gingerly uncoiled her squatting form and rose to her feet.

“Turn around and bend over!”

The Mistress was now greeted to the delectable sight of the damp, red bottom of Lucy Smyth. With her leather-gloved hand she delivered a harsh slap across the cheeks. The punishment smarted and Lucy winced but she had no tears left to cry.

“You are a filthy slut, Smyth, and a filthy slut earns a just reward. Follow me,” she instructed.

With the now shivering naked form in her wake, the Mistress headed towards the sturdy wooden horsebox at the centre of the gymnasium. Miss Taylor cropped the leather top and signalled for Lucy to mount it. Summoning all her remaining strength, Lucy heaved herself astraddle its frame.

To be continued... one day

8  January 2010: A Sore Bottom for Sissy

This sissy is regularly sent to me for corporal punishment and humiliation by a lady, a Miss Smith, who uses him as her personal 'sniffer' and 'sucker' for knickers duty...

7  January 2010: The 'Punishment & Pain' and The 'Adult Nursery' Archives

For those who are not familiar with my previous websites, there is now a pictorial study of my work in The Archives linked below. I have selected some of my favourites from the 1000s of photos I have taken of my charges over the years.

There is the Punishment & Pain Gallery from my initial experimental adventures as a dominatrix and the Adult Nursery Gallery from my recent years of specialism as the adult nursery governess.

Click here for a sample of the Punishment & Pain Archive Gallery

Click here for a sample of the Adult Nursery Archive Gallery

I have been privileged to have explored extremes of femdom and BDSM with some very special attendees and experiences from genital torture to judicial caning to human puppetry. From this, I have developed and honed my personal style and focus that is now at its pinnacle in The District Reformatory & The Doll House ~ the delights of which are yet to be revealed...

2  January 2010: New Year Greetings

I have been away and out of internet and phone contact over the festive season, as many of you will have learnt. Of course, as tradition dictates, the server of my website throws a tantrum over the festive season , and, in my absence, visitors to the Lady Governa site were redirected (albeit for a day) to a site revealing 'the full monty', as they say...

Anyway, we are now back on track and the Lady Governa site content is right and proper.

I spent Christmas at a country house in North Yorkshire and New Year at a country house in Suffolk ~ a terribly indulgent time of wall to wall grandeur, fine dining and big band entertainment. The grim northern weather did try to thwart travel plans with its snow and black ice but a tow rope, a four wheel drive and a determined effort saved the day, though the winter flu bug hitched a ride too. I am typically a solitary type and hate to travel far from home so this sojourn was a rare treat and next year, indeed, I envisage a soiree at The District Reformatory, by the strictest invitation only.

The District Reformatory is set to be an ever grander affair this new year... watch this page!

20 December 2009: Extracts from The Playful & Punishing Pen of Lady Governa

~

Master Ward

It had been a hectic day but the deal had been done and he was the one who had signed, sealed and delivered it to the board. He smiled to himself. Charles Ward was in control. Charles Ward was in power. Charles Ward was The One. This would earn him an even more ridiculous salary. He loosened his old school tie and removed the jacket of his finest Savile Row pinstripe suit. He looked and he felt on top of the world.

The traffic was crawling out of London to the Home Counties. He was an hour late already. She would not be pleased. He shifted uneasily in his seat. He put his foot down and the engine roared.

The electric gates allowed him into the grounds to continue along the gravel drive to the house. The door was open and the light illuminated her form in the darkness of the late evening. He was immediately terrified and immediately excited at her presence. The lady wore a twin-set and pearls with stiletto heels and her hair in a chignon. Her face was impassive and her arms were crossed beneath her bosom.

He turned off the engine and swallowed hard. He could feel the perspiration at his armpits and the stirring in his loins. He quickly got out of the car and slowly approached the steps. Charles Ward hung his head before her.

"Good evening, Governess," he whispered.

"You are late, Master Ward," she responded.

"I am sorry, Governess, but it has been a very busy day of important meetings and I did rush back as soon as I -" he was cut off mid explanation.

"Drop your trousers, you silly boy."

He fumbled at the belt buckle and then hurriedly unzipped his trousers and let them drop to his ankles. He stood at the bottom of the steps with her towering above him. He stood only in his shirt and tie and a pair of pink satin directoire knickers.

"You will be punished for your lack of punctuality. You will go over my knee. You will be spanked until you cry," she stated.

"Yes, Governess," mumbled Master Ward.

"Come to me."

The satin knickers caressed his erect cock as he climbed the steps to her. His governess pulled down his knickers to his thighs to reveal a pink satin beribboned cock. She took hold of the ribbon tails and pulled gently. The bow gradually disappeared but the knot stayed put. The lady pulled firmly on the pink satin ribbon leash and walked the naughty sissy to the spanking chaise.

~

Beautiful Cruelty

He had been lying in the wet nappy for hours. His cock and balls and bottom were sore with nappy rash. He was tied up in the cot and locked away in the nursery. There was no one in the house to help him. She had left him there all alone as she often did. He was cold and wet and hungry. He was a neglected and abused adult baby. It was dark and lonely in the nursery. All he could do was look up at the cot mobile of clowns above him. There was no music to soothe him. There was no Mummy to take care of him. His mummy was beautiful and sexy. She was also cruel and selfish. She was out again having a good time with his money. He could do nothing but wait for her to come home to change his nappy and feed him. He closed his eyes and imagined her sensual touch. Her soft hands caressing him. The massage of the cool nappy cream and baby oil into the burning nappy rash. The lovely scent of the sprinkling of talcum powder into a fresh nappy. The adult baby started to rub himself in his nappy. He opened his mouth to take her erect nipple. His little cock grew and oozed sticky creamy. He could almost feel the warmth of her full breasts in his face. He could almost taste the sweet milk. He was jolted back to harsh reality at the sound of her car pulling up outside. She was home. His mummy had come home to her baby.

He automatically cried out to her, "Mummy!"

He heard her key in the door and the scraping of her high heels in the hall. He became ever more excited. He wriggled in his cot. He pulled at the cot restraints. He kicked his feet.

"Mummy! Mummy!" he cried.

Her laughter carried up the staircase and his heart beat faster and faster at the sound of her voice.

"Is that my poor little baby? Does baby need his mummy?" she teased.

"Baby wet! Baby hungry!" he answered.

The door of the nursery opened and she turned on the light. The brightness hurt the baby's eyes. He could just about see Mummy standing there in her high heel sandals. Her long golden hair framing her beautiful face. She was wearing a very short and tight dress. The suspenders at her stocking tops were showing. Her large breasts were pushed up and out of the dress.

"What is it, baby? Have you wet yourself, baby? Do you need a nappy change, baby?"

The baby tried to put his arms out for his mummy. The straps restrained him and held him down on his back in the cot. All he could do was smile and wave at his beautiful mummy. His mummy did not go to comfort her baby. She stood with her hands on her hips and made fun at him.

"The poor, little, pathetic, wet baby! All he can do is cry and wait for his mummy!"

He listened to her mocking. He looked at her sexy curves. He ached for her touch at his nappy.

"Mummy!" he cried helplessly.

She turned around and said, "Come in and look at him."

The adult baby froze in the cot. His little cock and balls shrivelled inside of him.

A woman came behind his mummy. She was tall and slim with dark cropped hair. She was wearing a cut-off top with stretch jeans and platform boots. She put her arms around his mummy's slender waist. She moved her hand up to his mummy's breasts. She fondled his mummy's sexy body.

"I thought you were kidding! You actually keep him as a baby!" she whispered and giggled into Mummy's ear and then kissed her neck.

"Of course I keep him as a baby. It makes a man easier to handle. It puts him in his place. I make him like it too."

The baby started to whimper.

The women laughed at him and continued their foreplay; stroking hair, kissing mouths, sucking flesh, fondling beasts, as they were watched by the adult baby trapped in his cot.

The baby started to wet.

The baby cried for his mummy and continued filling his nappy; wanting mummy, needing mummy, loving mummy, hating mummy as he was ignored by the women having sex in his nursery.

His mummy pulled herself away from the arms of her lesbian lover. She went to see to her baby. She removed her sex-soaked panties. She forced them into his mouth to gag his noise. She was a dominant woman in control. He was an adult baby in nappies. She was so cruel to him. She was so beautifully cruel to him.

~

Say It

"Say it!" she insisted.

He winced as if she had slapped his face. He hung his head and shook it in despair.

"What are you?" she demanded.

She came closer to stand in front of him and she repeated even more emphatically, "Say it!"

He looked down at the ridiculously pink satin dress he was wearing and he knew that she would not allow him to leave without saying that word.

He shifted his feet and kept his eyes to the floor. He tried to wet his lips but his mouth was dry.

"I'm waiting," she said and crossed her arms under her ample bosom.

He opened his mouth and a weak, broken voice finally uttered the word she wanted to hear.

"I'm a sissy," he whimpered.

"I didn't hear you," she lied. "Speak up."

He cleared his throat and repeated, "I'm a sissy."

"Look at me when you say it," she responded.

He lifted his head to see her mocking but beautiful brown eyes bearing into him and her red lips pouting that cruel smile.

"I'm a sissy," he said.

"I thought so," she replied. "It's that dress, you see, it's all so very... pink."

She thoughtfully fingered the satin and then dramatically fluffed out the frills at the hem.

Then suddenly she lifted the hem of his dress up to his chest to reveal a pair of matching pink satin frou-frou knickers.

He tried to get away from her but she held the dress firmly.

"No, please, don't..." he begged.

"Don't? Don't what? Don't show you up for what you are? A pink satin dress wearing sissy, you mean? Is that it?"

His eyes pricked with tears as she taunted him.

"If it were simply a matter of a man wearing a pink satin dress and matching frilly knickers then that would be one thing," she smiled. "But a man wearing a pink satin dress and frilly knickers and having an erect cock leaking semen all over his pretty satin frillies then that is quite another thing all together. Isn't it?"

The skirt of his dress was held aloft exposing his pink satin frilly knickers that were now soaked through at the gusset. His face burnt with shame but he could not deny that his cock was fit to burst in his knickers.

"Get down on your knees and hold up your frills," she ordered. "I want to inspect your sissy panties."

He knelt on the floor beneath her and tentatively raised the front of his dress above his knickers. She crouched down to his groin and looked at the mess he had made of himself.

She tutted and announced, "It seems that you really are a dirty little slut."

She tucked the frilly hem of the dress into his wet sissy pants then wiped a finger against the wet satin and caught a red fingernail full of his pre-cum. She brought the moist digit up to his mouth.

"Open," she instructed.

He opened his mouth and she pushed her wet finger into his hole.

"Suck it, she said. "Suck it like a rubber dummy."

He did exactly as he was told and sucked on her finger. He could taste his own juice and at first he gagged on it but he kept on sucking.

"You naughty sissy," she laughed. "Lick and suck the lollypops!"

She forced two more fingers into his eager mouth and the satin and frills of his dress rustled as his head bobbed and his tongue worked harder to please her.

"Sissy, sissy, sissy - " she repeated over and over again as she watched him eagerly clean her finger with his tongue, lips and mouth.

The combination of that word, her laughter, the sucking, the rub of the satin against his throbbing cock, it was all too much for him and he let out a high pitched cry as his cock exploded and filled his frilly satin knickers with cum.

He could not stifle his moans and groans as his cock pumped out the last drops of cream into his soiled knickers. He crouched limply in front of her with his heart racing. His whole body was trembling with exhaustion and fear.

She withdrew her fingers from his mouth and wiped them in his face. She stood up to look down at the pathetic figure beneath her. She looked disdainfully at the mess he had made in his satin knickers.

At arms length she took his face in her hand and caught his face to look up to her.

"Now, tell me what you are," she demanded.

He could not avert his gaze from her piercing stare.

"Say it!" she insisted.

"I'm a sissy," he panted.

She bent down to his blushing face and her red lips brushed against his cheek as she whispered in his ear, "I told you so... sissy."

With a toss of her hair, she turned upon her high heels and left him there, in his pretty pink satin frilly dress with his matching pink frou-frou knickers covered in the sticky evidence of his sissy humiliation.

16 December 2009: A Reformed Christmas Carol from an old (sissy) boy of mine, totty

O beg, all ye recalcitrants,
Sorrowful and repentant,
O come ye to the Reformatory,
To kneel and submit;
Hail! The Queen of Dominance;
She who is born to Rule,
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
Lady Governa.

O plead, school of miscreants,
Plead in trepidation,
Fear these tools of punishment,
Wielded by our Lady;
She who is so merciless,
Craving is not heeded,
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
Lady Governa.

All Hail! Lady, we awake to Thee,
Inspection on this morning,
Bent over in correction,
By Your Guiding Hand;
Word of the Goddess,
Now in Rubber appearing;
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
O come, let us adore Her,
Lady Governa.

All together now, boys and girlies...

14 December 2009: Punishment Contraptions Blog

This is a link to a site of a follower of my work - and painfully good his offering is too...

10 December 2009: Words from My Marionette, Thithy Katie

The District Reformatory
Pain and correction in purgatory.

Fearful inmates suffer inspection
Strict obedience through merciless correction.

Your surrendered flesh, your quivering hole
All under Lady Governa's control.

To be purged through pain as She sees fit
By enema, strap, cane or whip.

So suffer in your cell in your shackles and chains
At the Reformatory, a place of uncommon pain.

9 December 2009: lady Governa Instructs

click here & listen very carefully

8 December 2009: The Lady Governa Ethos & Motto - for those who have not yet learnt this by heart...

~

Lady Governa Ethos

The man is belittled & kept in his place for his own good & her own pleasure...

He is a ward, a pupil, an infant, a sissy, a doll, a pet, a toy, a plaything ... for a moment or a lifetime, as she so wishes. He is a vulnerable yet potent creation of the woman who controls and nurtures him, as is her prerogative. The adult male is enticed and regressed by the adult female and forced into a helpless and vulnerable state in her delicate hands. The man is physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually dominated and manipulated by the woman. He is immobilised and incapacitated, disciplined and humiliated by her. He is made to submit to her will, her whim and her desire. The man is stripped of his adult male status and he is laid bare by her natural seductive power and control. The woman utilises her womanly wiles and charms to emasculate and disempower the man. His freedom of choice and movement is taken from him and he must do as the woman demands for her pleasure or suffer her displeasure. He is kept as a plaything in restraint and containment by his female owner. He loses control of the most basic of functions of movement, feeding, toileting and sex. He is disciplined and punished, mocked and chastised, teased and cooed over, dressed in frills and fancies, displayed as a novelty, treated as a human toy for her entertainment. He is ashamed yet aroused at this humiliation and cruelty that he cannot stop. His inherent weakness is his sexual desire for seduction by the female and this is used against him by the provocative and powerful woman. His erect cock is the explicit manifestation of the desire that he cannot hide and she controls its pleasure and pain, release and restraint, as she sees fit. He is a dependant for his physical and sexual release and he must beg for her attention and for her mercy. The man is belittled in this most fundamental form of male submission and female domination. Her feminine beauty is the natural weapon of the woman and her high heels, black stockings, red lips & red nails adorn this.

He loves and hates it. He craves and fights it.

The Lady does so love to tantalise and torment her playthings. She is so very creative and cruel with her toys.

~

Lady Governa Recital

capture his mind

restrain his body

pacify his spirit

control his desire

discipline his behaviour

manipulate his sex

gag his cries

force-feed his hunger

sissify his dress

confine his genitals

~

penned by Lady Governa, 2005

3 December 2009: Stripped, Spanked, Sissified, Strapped, Striped... 

11 November 2009: Indulgence

I have spent a long weekend in London enjoying belated birthday treats of: a theatre trip to The Woman in Black, a concert by Fleetwood Mac, a grand hotel spa pampering from head to toe and champagne, more champagne and even more champagne. Thank you kindly, 'PM'.

Such is life that I have returned to the frozen North to suffer a chill and I am fit only for sniffling, sneezing, and shivering and getting high as a kite on my home-made cold remedy of a lemon, honey and brandy draught to be sipped and topped up throughout the day.

23 October 2009: Discipline & Punishment

Naval Officer attends for his annual disciplinary sentence of extreme sanctions of punishment and humiliation that includes judicial use of the cane on the buttocks and the thighs, ginger figging of the anus, clamping of the nipples, electric shock therapy, and so on...

These extreme acts are carried out with dedication and control and to an exacting standard.

It is a delightful duty for Lady Governa and an excruciating experience for Naval Officer.

16 October 2009: Rubber Dress Photos

Time flies and canes swish here as plans for The District Reformatory boarding school grow in momentum.

I had a super time at the fetish event over the weekend and I do hope to go to the next bash in the spring. It was a no camera affair but after the fact I took some photos of a couple of my outfits. I have a handful more photos and a couple of film clips for you to pay attention to the rustle of the rubber, which I will upload in due course.

8 October 2009: Lady Mac

My SBR mackintosh has its own fan club so for those loyal followers, here is a bit more of the 'Lady Mac' in action in 2 film clips.

(films now at Intro. page)

7 October 2009: Rubberwear

I am attending a 'polite' fetish event this weekend at a hotel in the south of England, which is to include a dinner dance and a rubber fashion show. It is for those of us who like to wear rubber, vinyl or leather as daily attire. It has taken some time to find an event that does not take place in a seedy pub or nightclub and involve New Age or rave music and drugs as the entertainment ~ so fingers crossed for a bit of refinement...

I shall take some snapshots of me in my rubber finery for the next update here.

I have picked out a couple of rubber dresses of a suitably 'matronly erotique' design that are to be polished to a fine shine to wear over the weekend along with a pair of patent leather Oxford style 5" high heels, and, of course, a shiny black rubber mackintosh that is a daily necessity in the year long rainy season here.

I should make clear the difference between my traditional style of rubberwear that I term 'robust' rubber attire and the more common latex rubber variety. The robust rubberwear is a heavier gauge rubber, which is thicker and more robust than latex rubber, and it is typically used in classic rainwear designs such as the mackintosh or cape but it can also be used to make other garments. The latex rubberwear is a lighter gauge rubber, which is thinner and more flimsy than robust rubberwear, and it is typically used in fetish fashions or clubwear and also underwear. I do not like the latex moulded and glued rubber skintight outerwear but latex rubber does have its place for me in vintage style underwear in latex such as camisole and bloomers and also gloves.

My favourite rubberwear is SBR, which is an abbreviation of Shiny Black Rubber, and it is the most robust rubberwear of rubber with a cotton backing that is cut and stitched to make garments. Robust rubberwear need not be limited to the shiny black rubber as other materials can be rubberised and so silk or satin garments in a range of colours are also available from the few specialist suppliers of traditional rubberwear.

My preference is for the SBR outerwear but I do also like my rubberised black satin dresses, skirts and tops, as well as white or cream latex underwear. I generally wear black patent leather or vinyl shoes or boots with my rubberwear as this is the complement to the glossy finish of SBR.

The appeal of SBR for me is the bold patent shine of the rubber fabric and the rustle of it. It rustles with every movement, heralding one's presence and focussing attention on the figure. It is also practical attire in that it can simply be wiped clean and it is also waterproof. And so, SBR is the perfect attire for the lady governess of a reformatory whose charges are typically wet and sticky for one reason or another.

25 September 2009: Officially A Matron

I turned 40 years old 10 days ago and my vintage form-fitting underwear and I am settling nicely in to the matronly years and the growing wisdom and curves.

I do appreciate all the lovely birthday card greetings and gifts. Thank you kindly.

 I am delighted to have such lovely contact from so many enthusiasts but as I prefer the sedate lifestyle of a lady of means rather than the workload of a pit pony,  I take my time to consider any contact and I am very selective and limiting of the number of attendances I have so it does take some time to receive a response from me. My post and e-mail boxes and mobile phone have been working overtime to accommodate the contact and I am gradually working my way through this so do sit tight all you boys-in-waiting.

I have taken a little break from duty to acknowledge my 40th year but now I am back on task and in due course I will be adding to the website in words and pictures and film.

3 September 2009: Praise & Gratitude

This is a notice of praise and gratitude to my ward, Timmy, whose support of the plans for The District Reformatory has been above and beyond the call of duty and whose generosity in filling my wardrobe with rubber attire is most impressive.

I wrote this tale as a reward for Timmy and his wholehearted interest in 'The Rubber Knickered Governess'.

~

The Rubber Knickered Governess

Part 1

In the dark corridor, Timmy knelt painfully on the hard floorboards with his face pressed feverishly into the door frame. Through the keyhole, he watched Governess prepare for her evening bath. The sound of running water drowned out his laboured breathing and involuntary gasps of pleasure at the sight of her undressing. His face was flushed with excitement and nerves and his hand was sticky from rubbing his leaking little penis through his cotton directoires. Timmy knew that Governess would spank him within an inch of his life if she were to catch him peeping but he simply could not help himself. Indeed, the more he thought of being caught by her, the more urgent and overwhelming his growing 'stiffy' became.

Finally, her black silk full length slip fell to the floor to reveal the all but naked body of Governess covered in a voluptuous white rubber 'playsuit'. The rubber underwear was formed from a pair of rubber bloomers trimmed in rubber frills that started above the knee and continued up over her hips, in to her waist and up to finish just over her ample bosom in a frilly rubber decolletage.

Whilst Timmy furtively rubbed himself, Governess stood in front of the bathroom mirror and admired her curves in rubber, caressing her rubber clad flesh - up and down her bust and bottom and in between her legs. Timmy could bear it no more and with a grunt and groan, an eruption of warm creamy mess spilled into his directoires, and he sank to the floor in a quivering heap.

Timmy was lost and helpless in the afterglow of his stolen pleasure when the stickiness of his creamy expulsion was swiftly replaced by the soaking of his urine flow. To his growing horror and humiliation, he felt himself lose all control of his bladder - with Governess just at the other side of the door - and he proceeded to thoroughly wet himself. As the puddle about him grew bigger and bigger and crept under the door, Timmy desperately gripped at his now limp penis through his sodden underwear. He so wished that he had kept on the protective rubber bloomers over the directoires, as Governess had instructed him to as she had tucked him into his bed just half an hour ago.

A shaft of punishing light illuminated his predicament and shame as the bathroom door opened and Governess emerged to stand towering over him in her intimate rubber uniform. Timmy looked up at her - his eyes wide with surprise and his mouth open but mute and his trembling hand still clutching at his shrunken willy through the soaking wet directoires.

"Well now," said Governess, surveying the sorry scene of her guilty charge, "It seems that the naughty little Peeping Timmy has had an accident ... and now he needs to be treated with a firm and guiding hand for his extracurricular exertions."


Part 2

Timmy followed at the shiny black patent leather high heels of Governess as best he could with the weight of his sopping directoires pulling him down. The stolen pleasure of his recent masturbatory crime was erased from his memory in an instant. He knew what was to come and now, in his drained and bedraggled condition, he no longer felt excited but terribly afraid by the prospect of a severe spanking punishment. He was snivelling by the time they reached the end of the corridor and Governess ushered her charge into the confines of her study.

Timmy stood nervously in front of the oak desk, sucking upon his thumb for comfort, while his other hand held onto his sagging directoires. He shivered from the damp cold and the fear of what was to come as Governess walked silently about him and examined his pathetic state. After a few minutes of looking him up and down and following a swift tug of his directoires that left them at his ankles, Governess stopped directly in front of him, hands placed firmly on her rubbered hips.

"You're wet again, Timmy," Governess stated simply as a matter of fact.

Timmy hung his head in shame and nodded.

Governess moved forward and at very close quarters whispered into Timmy's ear, "You're simply a little boy who cannot control himself. This is why you need Governess - to guide you and to show you the error of your ways. And you have many dirty little erroneous ways, don't you, Timmy?"

He felt the caress of her rubber bloomers against his thighs. The rubber enveloped his genitals and he gasped at the startling sensation. There was no hiding place and he felt his cheeks burn as his humiliation swiftly rose to a 90 degree angle.

Governess half smiled, half sneered at his condition.

She continued, "You must be punished for your wrongdoings, Timmy. A sound over the knee spanking is in order. I want you to collect and position the spanking chair in its usual punishment place, Timmy,” Governess instructed.

Timmy bent to pull up his soggy directoires and cover his ever growing embarrassment.

“No, Timmy!”

Governess’s sudden harsh tone stopped him in his tracks.

“You go just as you are, with your genitals swollen and your knickers dragging at your ankles; like a ball and chain.”

The spanking chair was a robust high backed oak hall chair in the Gothic style that had a broad seat with a shaped recess for a more comfortable seat for the spanker’s bottom and to afford a prolonged spanking for the spanked bottom.

Timmy’s stomach and bowel churned as he struggled to manoeuvre the spanking chair centre stage, all the while tripping over the bloomers at his ankles. Throughout his fumblings and exertions, Governess watched and marked a mental card that recorded all the achievements and failings of her charge.

“Now Timmy, I want you to shuffle off over there in to the corner. Stand in the corner, hands on head, nose to the wall. And there I want you to consider the error of your dirty little ways and the spanking chair that awaits its purpose. So, shuffle along, my boy.”

Timmy did as he was told and shuffled along to the corner of the room with a puddle of his heavy knickers about his ankles. His nervous breaths echoed about the room as he dwelt on the impending pain of his punishment. The minutes passed painfully slowly but his heart and mind raced.

The whispering behind him of rubber rustling on his Governess’s bloomered body as she prepared for him cut in to his thoughts. His arms ached but his hands were glued to his head as Timmy was transfixed in a state of fevered torment.

“Timmy, I am ready for you now,” she announced.

He turned slowly, his hands still fixed to the top of his head. There sat Governess on the chair in the centre of the room. Her rubbered lap beckoned to him and Governess nodded for him to approach her. Timmy obediently if slowly made his way to the seat of his punishment.

“Assume the position for a spanking, Timmy.”

Timmy bent his knees and slowly, carefully, gingerly, dropped to his knees to then lay himself over the lap of the Governess.

Timmy was tethered to the floor at one end as he was held down by the weight of his sodden bloomers; in the middle, Timmy’s now deflated and delicate parts were held in the rubber nest of Governess' lap; and Timmy’s sweaty palms were planted on the floor at the other end. He was naturally restrained in the traditional OTK stance.

Governess made a few minor adjustments to his position by catching his limp cock between her smooth rubbered thighs.

“Timmy, you are now to receive six sets of six spanks to commence the punishment for the nocturnal adventures of our little peeping Timmy. This is to be swiftly followed by six sets of six with the leather strap.”

Timmy gulped. He shut his eyes tightly and dug his fingernails into the rug to steel himself for what he was about to receive that night. He held his breath as he felt Governess raise her hand from his clammy bottom in readiness for the first spank. His naked groin pushed against the rubber bloomers and though he felt the fluttering of trepidation in his tummy, to his dismay, he also felt a stirring in his loins and the bud of new growth. However, the life was quickly snuffed out of this as Timmy soon discovered that Governess would squeeze her strong thighs together in rhythm with the spanking strokes.

The spanking commenced with a sharp smack from Governess and a start and a yelp from Timmy – short, sharp, stinging slaps were deftly administered to Timmy’s quivering fleshy bottom cheeks. Spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank… and the first set immediately ran in to the next and the next and the next and the next and the next. Poor wailing Timmy was utterly defenceless as the blows reigned down on his burning backside.

The once pale flesh of Timmy’s bottom was transformed – from pink blush with the first set of spanks to fiery red by the sixth. Timmy, caught across the lap and held fast by the strong arm and thighs of Governess; all he could do was to kick his feet in painful protest and fill the room with his repertoire of guttural moans and groans and squeals, punctuated by actual words of “Ow!”, “No!”, “Ouch!” and “Stop it!” in the solo chorus of the spanked boy.

And then at the final spank of thirty six spanks and with barely a pause for breath, the leather strap was deftly snapped up and ruthlessly administered by Governess to the already bruised and tender cheeks of Timmy’s backside.

Timmy recalled that Governess had been a badminton player at university and was awarded club colours for her smashing efforts. Now she was passing on the colours to him and that colour was decidedly red. For a moment, a pleasant image of Governess in a white pleated gym skirt and Aertex blouse with white knickers and socks and rubber soled plimsolls came to his mind but the second spanking set knocked it swiftly out of his mind and back to focus on the reality of this most painful and prolonged of  bedtime punishments.

Timmy gritted his teeth and held on for dear life as he realised that his feeble efforts to interrupt or escape the scolding strap were futile and, indeed, only served to fuel the strong arm of the Governess.

And then just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Governess was calm and quiet but Timmy was heaving and sobbing. His limp, sore, beaten bottom draped over her with the mark of the strap imprinted across his cheeks as a brand of her authority.

Governess released her thighs and let Timmy slide to the floor in an unsightly heap. He lay there for many minutes, sobbing and panting as Governess silently looked down upon him and awaited his recovery.

Then Governess bent down to him from her chair and lifted his chin with her finger so that his eyes met hers. “And now, Timmy,” she said softly, “A kiss to make it better.”

Timmy stared into the deep brown eyes of Governess as her full red lips came down to his trembling mouth. Then Governess broke the spell as she moved her puckered lips from his eager lips to kiss his forehead and spoke her words of goodnight.

“Face flushed and bottom burning bright; time to be tucked back into bed for the night; silky knickered and rubbered tight," Governess recited as she took him by the shoulders and ushered him to the door. “Sweet dreams, my darling Timmy, you sorry and snivelling little thing.”

 

2 September 2009: Contact

I placed my telephone number at the site and I received approaching 100 telephone calls over the weekend – and all went unanswered. It does state at my Profile page that my preference is for e-mail or postal contact in the first instance and that I have made the telephone number available only as a last resort or for urgent contact and for attendee use. I prefer not to use the telephone as a main form of contact for a number of reasons but primarily due to its appeal to masturbators and madmen and masturbating madmen.

Also, do note that an e-mail consisting of a one-liner and abuse of literacy immediately confirms unsuitability for attendance with me.

Respectful Contact

e-mail:   ladygoverna@ladygoverna.com

mail:   P.O. Box 48, Todmorden, OL14 7WW, UK   (no name, address only)

tel:   07981 917513 (e-mail or postal contact first - telephone only as a last resort/urgency or with my prior permission)

full website in development & opening in due course

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