When we last heard from Fiona Lewison she was contemplating a weekend of ‘continuing therapy in an old house in the country with creaking stairs, draughty corridors and a menacing figure of authority watching her every move’. She very kindly agreed to keep a diary of her experiences. This account tells the story of the first part of her ‘Janus Weekend’…
When I had my first punishment from Maurice, we agreed that it would be the beginning of a course of treatment designed to help me overcome certain problems and anxieties that had plagued me for a while. The spanking I received was a painful and emotional experience, and I can say without doubt that it helped me. Or at least that it had begun to help me. I can’t say that I actually enjoyed my time over Maurice’s lap, but I can say that it felt like a natural place to be, and that I felt more positive afterwards. I wasn’t ‘cured’, but it seemed to lead my thoughts in the right direction. So we both knew that I needed more, and that subsequent punishments would have to be different. Different in approach, different in nature, different in severity. I had no fixed idea of what this would mean, nor whether it would work, but I was very willing to give it a try.
The idea was that I would spend a weekend at Maurice’s house in the country, on the understanding that he would oversee all my activities and movements, and that I would remain in an entirely submissive role. I would have to discard my clothes and underwear and spend the weekend in a ‘uniform’. There would be regular, as yet unspecified, discipline to which I would be expected to submit without complaint. I would be set certain tasks, and given extra punishments for any failings or infractions. I would be allowed the use of my laptop to keep a diary for Janus, but I would be denied all other normal comforts or ‘necessities’. No television, no Internet, no mobile phone. I would be ‘in character’ from the moment I arrived on the Friday evening, to midday on Sunday when we would stop the treatment, have lunch in a local restaurant and behave like normal adults before I caught a train back to London.
To me, it seemed ideal. I could demonstrate my willingness to be obedient and take what I was given, I could push the boundaries of my punishment experience, and Maurice would presumably enjoy his autocracy and help me at the same time. I wanted to do it for him, as well as for me. It was a gamble, of course. I might not be able to stay in character, I might go stir-crazy, I might find the whole thing silly. I might not feel it was worth it or of any practical use. But it still seemed like an experiment that had no serious consequences if it didn’t work. I had, I felt, nothing to lose and really quite a lot to gain. OK, I could pretty much guarantee a sore bottom. But if I came out the other side a happier woman, it would be useful. Wouldn’t it?
And so it was that I found myself at Paddington station, sitting on a train waiting for it to leave and wondering whether I was an enlightened modern woman in charge of her own destiny, or a complete nutter. Believe me, I couldn’t decide. What I did know and recognise was an emotion that I’ve written about before: fear and excitement in equal measure. The roller-coaster feeling; it’s immense fun as long as the car doesn’t derail and send you plummeting to a certain death. The disaster is always at the back of your mind, but that’s what makes the ride thrilling.
The train was busy, full of commuters with that depressing air of resignation and helpless exploitation, and the mood affected me. I felt uncharacteristically alone and unloved, which was silly, and wished that I was going somewhere else, or at least to a place that would be warm and convivial and welcoming. I also had the distinct feeling that I was being watched, that my fellow passengers somehow knew where I was going and what I was doing. I was strangely conscious of my bottom, which seemed to have assumed a far greater importance than it would do normally. OK, women are always very aware of their bottoms, but this was more than usual. I was wearing a fairly tight skirt, which didn’t help, and that part of me seemed absurdly prominent even though I was sitting down. Stupid.
Matters were made much worse when I took one of those ready-mixed gin and tonics out of my bag and practically swallowed the thing whole. Now people really were staring. I was a frazzled alcoholic heading for an unsavoury suburban sex party. A prostitute, perhaps. At the very least, a woman to be avoided at all costs. Irrational paranoia, of course. Nobody knew where I was going and, more to the point, nobody cared. I was alone and heading into the relative unknown, and actually I felt good about it. Privileged, somehow. If someone had asked, I’d have said I was a freelance writer on an assignment for a famous spanking magazine. That would have shut them up. Small victories, even if only imagined, are so sweet.
The new empowered me got off the train at Maidenhead and waited for the connection to Marlow, the nearest station to Maurice’s house. I was about 25 minutes away. I was brave, I was comfortable, I was happy. I wasn’t thinking about my bottom at all. Well, not much anyway. I made a final check on my make-up. I looked fine. I popped a peppermint as the train pulled in.
It was getting dark as I stepped outside, but there was a taxi waiting and I jumped in. The driver watched me in the rear-view mirror as I fumbled in my bag for the address, and soon we were off. About a 20-minute drive, he said. We chatted for a while, then I switched off and tried to concentrate. What should I do when I arrived at the house? Be yourself, I thought. You can’t be expected to be ‘in character’ during the first few seconds. After that, I would do as I was told. Simple. I checked my mobile for messages and switched it off.
Suddenly the road surface changed and I realised we were driving over some sort of gravel. There was a porch with a lantern. It was an old house and it looked lovely, like something out of a novel. As did I at that moment. I paid the driver, grabbed my bag and got out. It was very quiet, and the windows at the front were dark. It honestly looked like no-one was at home. I rang the bell, and within a few seconds the door was opened. But not by Maurice. It was a plump, matronly woman of about 60 who introduced herself as Maurice’s housekeeper, Susan. My weekend had begun with a totally unexpected shock.
6.45pm Susan has just taken me straight upstairs to my room and said that I should come down to the drawing room, which she said is on the right at the bottom of the stairs, in 30 minutes when Maurice will be ready to see me. He made no mention of a housekeeper, and I’m disconcerted. In fact, I’m annoyed. I didn’t really know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Is she in on the whole thing? Does she know why I’m here? It’s a very odd feeling. She seems perfectly nice, but her presence has made me terribly embarrassed. A glance in the mirror shows that my face is bright red. I feel like an idiot, and I’m angry with myself. And with Maurice too. It’s not fair to spring this on me, and I will tell him so.
The room is comfortable and beautifully furnished, with a single bed, an armchair and table, and an en suite bathroom. It’s a bit like a hotel room. In the bathroom there’s a basket of individually wrapped soaps and shampoos, a hair-dryer, lovely big white towels and a bidet. And there’s most definitely a woman’s touch to it all. No question about that. I have to admit the room’s very nice, but there’s no TV or radio, and my laptop isn’t finding a W-Fi connection. I’m completely isolated, which is an odd feeling these days. I must freshen up and go downstairs now.
7.45pm I’m back in my room with a set of instructions and rules. I have to report to the study for my first treatment at 8.30pm. Maurice was perfectly civil, but he is behaving so differently that I hardly recognise him. Cold and unfriendly. And intimidating. I stood gormlessly in front of his desk like a schoolgirl in front of the headmaster. To be honest, that’s exactly how I felt. Irresponsible, powerless and incapable of doing anything but nodding stupidly. I hated myself, but I couldn’t seem to behave in any other way. I was uncomfortable and self-conscious. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I was constantly clasping them in front of me, then letting them hang at my sides, then clasping them behind me, then trying to do all three at the same time. Needless to say, I didn’t mention my annoyance about Susan. I didn’t dare. What’s the matter with me? Why am I so overwhelmed by all this? Why am I behaving like a delinquent teenager? What am I so afraid of?
The rules say I have to call him ‘Sir’. Apart from the treatments, I will be given extra punishments for breaking any of the rules, but I will also earn rewards for ‘good behaviour’. A plain dark blue housecoat and a pair of frumpy white knickers have mysteriously appeared on my bed. I was with Maurice the whole time, so Susan must have put them there when I was downstairs. Now I know she’s is aware of everything, and I don’t like it one bit. I’m already having second thoughts. I am to wear the housecoat at all times with just the knickers underneath. Nothing else. It’s very unflattering and I look terrible in it. I’m not allowed to wear socks or any footwear, in other words I have go everywhere barefoot. It’s obviously designed to make me feel vulnerable and trapped, and it’s working. Oh, and I’m not allowed to wear any make-up.
The rules cover everything, every moment of the day from the time I must get up, to the time I must take my meals (alone in my room) and the time I have to go to bed. I will be set certain ‘tasks’, as yet unspecified, which will be marked out of 10. If I get full marks I will be rewarded, if I don’t I will be punished. My room will be ‘inspected’ at random times of the day to see that it is clean and tidy. If it isn’t, I will be punished. There are detailed instructions about how I must take my punishments. I must show total, unquestioning obedience. I must be quiet, I must keep still, I must say ‘thank you’. I am strongly advised to pay close attention to ‘personal hygiene’. This is so humiliating I could scream. I feel like a child being told to wash properly. I hate it. But, despite this, I have just spent five minutes on the bidet washing myself as if my life depended on it. It’s nothing short of insanity. And now I have to go downstairs to the study. I’m hungry, I’m fed up and I don’t want to go. I suddenly thought of Sydney Carton’s famous speech from The Tale of Two Cities when he says: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.” But right now I don’t believe a word of it. I feel alone and utterly miserable.
9.20pm I’m back from my first treatment. There is now a tray on the table with a Thermos flask of soup, and some bread and cheese. A lonely and depressing supper, but I am nevertheless very grateful for it. The soup is hot and delicious, and it’s helping me to feel better. Somehow I wish I’d been in the room when Susan brought the tray. I have nothing to hide from her now, and it would have been nice to see a friendly face, even to have a chat. But it seems I’ll be denied anything so comforting. And if she can treat my presence in the house so nonchalantly, I can’t be the first woman Maurice has brought here to be punished, can I? That upsets me too. Irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.
The treatment was a spanking on the bare bottom over Maurice’s lap. It began with an inspection of my appearance and dress, which I now know will take place every time I am summoned to the study. I had to stand in front of the desk and lift up the housecoat to show my knickers, and bare a shoulder to show that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I have to do this without being told from now on. Maurice then explained what was going to happen and, more importantly, why it was going to happen. The reasons were entirely sound, in my view, so I considered it justifiable. Not that I’d have said anything if I’d thought it was unjustifiable.
The spanking was hard and painful, and much longer than the one I’d been given at my flat two weeks previously. It was also much more formal. I had to fetch a chair and place it in front of the desk, then stand to the right with my hands on my head. I was then told the rules for this punishment. I must lift up the housecoat before bending over Maurice’s lap. I must keep my hands and toes on the floor at all times, and keep my legs together and perfectly straight. I must raise my hips when my knickers are being taken down, then lower myself back again. I must maintain this position throughout the punishment, and remain still and silent. Any deviation from the rules will result in starting again from the beginning. So I could get two or even three spankings one after the other if I didn’t behave. That really brought it home to me.
It hurt terribly from the first smack, and it took a mighty willpower to stay still and not cry out, but I think I took it well and, despite still feeling miserable, I’m proud of my good behaviour and my obedience. It is, in some ways, why I’m here.
When it was over, I was told to get up and to stand facing the wall, holding the housecoat up so that my bottom was on show. I had to stay there for a full 10 minutes (an eternity, I can tell you), and I can say that this was the most agonising part of the treatment. I felt horribly vulnerable and exposed. What was even worse, I heard the study door open and close twice before I was eventually told to go to my room. I hoped that it was Maurice leaving the study then coming back to check on me, because I hadn’t moved an inch, but there is always the dreadful possibility that it was Susan popping in to do some tidying up or whatever. I won’t know till Sunday.
10.45pm I’ve had a bath, and I’m in my pyjamas ready for bed. The rules say the lights must be out by 11pm, but I’m going to switch them off now and try to sleep. I have to be up at 7am.
To be continued…
The second part of Fiona’s account can be found here.