Becoming poor and menial

The descent of a fashion-conscious middle-class woman into shabby poverty, all at the behest of another woman, fifteen years her junior.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Roped in

I have just slapped myself. The reason? – I was staring into space, contemplating the abyss into which I have fallen once again – and by sitting so idly, I was failing to complete the assignment that had been given me. Yes, that is right it seems that I am once again a slave – for despite attempting to escape my Mistress, I could not endure my liberty, and so here I am once again: tithed, humiliated, enslaved.

I could not endure the shame of what was happening to me. I could not bear that I was spending money on an invisible stranger that I could have spent on my children; of course, I also couldn’t bear that I was unable to spend on it myself, that my clothes were being ruined or given away, and that I was looking ever shabbier; and I couldn’t bear that I was being fattened. Although, in my fantasies, it seemed almost the most humiliating thing I could imagine – to be FATTENED, like a pig! – to know that in other people’s eyes I was growing ever more overweight! – yet I found the reality TOO humiliating – and so I ran away. I stayed free for several weeks – but now, here I am, writing my blog up once again.

I am doing so because it was the first thing that my Mistress ordered. The second was to pay her the overdue tribute. Even as she ordered me to offer up this token of my submission, a part of me was screaming out, “No!!!! Don’t do it!!!!!” But even though I was listening to this part of me, the other part of me knew that I WOULD listen. My finger paused over the button – and then I pressed. My tribute had been paid! I was a serf surrendering the dues of my inferiority once again! And so I stared out of the window, feeling electric with desire and need and craving, but also sick.

And of course, because I was staring out of the window, I was not completing my blog entry. Like a schoolgirl who neglects to do her essay, I had to be punished. And so I slapped myself three times, then three times again, because my Mistress assumed that the first slaps had not been hard enough. Then three again. So it is that my cheeks burn – my cheeks, and my soul as well…

Sunday, March 19, 2006


Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Before getting dressed for it, I took a shower, and then, for the first time since I started being fattened, dared to weigh myself. I was surprised and relieved. I seemed only to have put on a pound. But goodness, I feel so much fatter! It’s as though I don’t recognise my own body, as though I’m trapped in an alien mass of flesh – and yet, only one pound! It gave me a bit of a reality check, to be honest – maybe I’m not in as deep as I had th ought.

But then, this is all such a roller-coaster. Because immediately after weighing myself, I went to get dressed – and of course, that was when it really, REALLY struck me that my two favourite dresses were gone. I looked in the cabinet: it was as though the absence of the dresses was more visible than all the clothes that were still there; as though what was gone was more present than what was not. I moaned; I laid my head against the door; then I rolled onto the bed, clutching myself, clutching at my belly, and then – pathetically – covering my breasts. Even as I did this, I wondered WHY I was doing it: and I realised that it was because I felt that a veil had been torn away from me, as though the absent dresses had served to conceal what I was, and that I was now feeling my desolating nakedness truly for the first time. THE DRESSES WERE GONE! Even if I stepped away from all this, that would never change. THEY ARE GONE. Their absence prickled through like a profoundly unnpleasant but deeply arousing electrical erotic charge. I wanted to touch myself, in fact more than touch myself, to frig myself violently; but I couldn’t; I am not allowed; and of course that made me want to frig myself even more.

And then I had to get dressed; and I knew I wasn’t looking as nice as I would have done if I weren’t my Mistress’s slave; and so all evening I was thinking of her, and worrying that I looked dowdy, and worrying that I looked fat. And then as the evening went on, and it was getting near 11, I suddenly felt like Cinderella – because 11 is the bedtime, as set for me my by Mistress. And so I began to nag my husband, begging him to let us go home – feeling stupid, stupid, STUPID as I did so. We finally made it back by 11.30 – and I made the mistake of logging on, and running straight into my Mistress. She told me off for being out after my bedtime – which made me feel so juvenile and humiliated – and so off I went, feeling VERY sexually charged and frustrated, to bed.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


I’ve crept away to write this, despite having guests. I’ve had to do this because I’ve been ordered to write up an account of my emotions, my feelings – it is an assignment – my homework – of the kind that I give my students – or in fact, because I at least give them a week, and I had this sprung on me a couple of hours ago, it is like the homework that schoolchildren are given. And of course, this makes me sodden with yearning and shame: that I should be treated as a schoolgirl by someone younger than me. And it reminds me of all I do for her: all the things that affirm her superiority, and brand me incorrigibly her inferior.

Today I stuffed my face again on the tube – ‘porking out’, as I have to do every day until I am given permission to stop. In time, I know, the effect of this will be seen on my waistline and on my whole body – just in time for the warmer weather too - my wobbling thighs – the thighs of a woman who will, I’m sure, soon be verging on the obese. It is not being fat in itself that so arouses and humiliates me – but what it represents: that not even my body is my own – that a woman many years my junior exerts such a control over me that she can mould and shape me as though I were made out of playdough. My own flesh seems suddenly compicit with her: not my own – my body seems to be laughing at me.

And everything else colludes in this sense of shame. The fact that my clothes will continue to be winowed out – and soon I will be wearing nothing without the permission of my Mistress – like a toddler – a small child – and no matter how many tantrums I throw, there will be no escaping her strictures. And then on top of that, of course, the fact that soon I will no longer be in a position to buy anything even if I could summon the will: because my spending money is being leeched: every week I am tithed – and when I complain, my Mistress says that this will last forever: that I am a serf for life – property – with no function save to fill her coffers. I will become fat and shabbily dressed, and be leeched of my spending money, so that she can become more beautiful. And this, I realise, is why being the serf of a woman is more humiliating than being the property of a man: because every woman’s dread, that she is getting older, and being upstaged by those younger than her, is being foregrounded in my mind by the brute fact that I am owned by a beautiful 24 year old.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Porking out

Today, before taking the underground (what Americans like my Mistress call a subway), I had to empty out my Matthew Williamson bag (what Americans like my Mistress call a purse). By the tube, there is a Sainsbury’s – I went in and bought three chocolate doughnuts, and a couple of Kit-kats. Then, without wrapping up the doughnuts, and not taking any napkins, I had to drop what I’d bought into my precious £320 bag. The chocolate smeared the lining – bad enough, you might think – but there was even worse to come. Taking the tube and finding a seat, I had to take out one of the doughnuts – and then – as my Mistress put it out last night – ‘pork out’ on it. When I’d finished the first one, I had to take out a second. Already, I was feeling full, but despite the bloated feeling in my stomach, and the faint feeling of nausea, I had to start on the second. Already I could feel myself reddening at the thought of the third doughnut still to come, and the two kitkats – and also feeling almost violated – as though the food was the index of an alien presence that was taking me over – entering me – transforming me. All this year – even since New Year, in fact – I’ve been really trying to get my weight down – running – watching my diet – and I’ve finally got myself down to the high 130’s – it varies – but generally around 138/9 – but now, just today, I’m eating something like 500 extra calories – which means that probably I’ll be ballooning out again – and not just to my original size, but right out. I’ll become fat – really FAT – my stomach will become really soft and flabby and bulge out over the waistline of my knickers – I’ll get double chins – I’ll become FAT. And people will look at me in my second hand clothes and flabby condition and just see… what? Someone who’s NOT me – but it will be me. Just like one person looked at me today, on the tube opposite me, watching as I ate three chocolate doughnuts in a row, and then two chocolate bars, PORKING OUT.

I still feel bloated as I sit here 8 hours later. I’m being fattened – like a pig. A ‘piggy’ – with a piggy lunch box – and I lack the moral and emotional strength to resist it. I need this treatment, this awful humiliation. What’s wrong with me? How far will I end up letting myself be taken?

Friday, March 10, 2006

Swinish dreams

Yesterday I was told to sleep like the piggy wiggy that I am. I had to go to the bins and fetch out the five pieces of my favourite dress that my mistress had ordered me to slice up (and how it still makes me flush with shame and pleasure to use that word 'mistress' so casually!) – then - filth smeared though they were – I had to strip the bed and use them as my bedding – rolling and nestling myself among them, like a great heavy sow – naked – sleeping in the tatters of my favourite dress. I also knew that in the morning I would have to put on the clothes I’d bought in the same charity shop to which I’d taken my other dress – jeans, top, ribbed jesey – the whole ensemble was only £19 – and even though I’d washed them, I knew they would still have the fug and fust of SECOND HAND about them. Cheap second clothes, suitable for the sort of person I’m becoming – oh the shame, the awfulness – and soon to become even more awful – because I’m going to be fattened – my mistress said as much – and so I thought of that too, as I lay in my bed (or should that be my sty?), and imagined how my body would grow, my thighs – and thought that would be the worst violation of all - that not even the food I eat, and my BODY, are to be my own.

I’m wearing the second hand clothes now, as I type. No one commented today at work. Charity shop chic maybe. Or maybe most of my clothes look second hand and so no one notices. But I just spend my whole time thinking EVERYONE must know!

I blush as I type this.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

A charity case

Yesterday I went to the charity shop. I was carrying my second favourite dress – my favourite had already been cut into pieces – and it was neatly folded up in the bag I normally take it in to the drycleaner’s. But this time, when I dropped it off, I wouldn’t be picking it up. Before putting it in the bag, I had looked at where it hung in the wardrobe – and known that this was the last time I would ever see it there. Walking down the high street, my heart was pounding – with a sense of humiliation, which was pleasurable, but also of my own stupidity and follly, which was not. When I walked into the shop and smelt that musty stench of worn clothes, I thought my legs had turned to water. Something in my head kept telling myself that it would be ok, I would walk out of the shop, I would take the dress back – but I didn’t. I handed it over. The shop girl took it, and didn’t seem unduly fazed. I guess she didn’t appreciate how much the dress had cost, what its value still might be. As I handed it over, I looked at the dresses hanging drably from their thin wire hangers and thought of what my mistress had said, that from now on the only clothes I would be permitted to buy would be second-hand. But strangely, I almost felt more upset for my dress – anthropomorphising it – and imbuing it with my own snobbery – feeling desperately sorry for it, to be left in such company. I turned – I left the shop. And I somehow felt naked – thinking of the two dressses I had lost – because clothes, after all, as well as signifying us, veil us – and I felt, having lost them, that I was both more and less myself. Yes, I feel naked – naked and vulnerable – my heart beats – my blood feels vibrant with gold – and I know myself to be poorer, drabber, and more of a slave.

Monday, March 06, 2006

A thing of shreds and patches

Because I am naturally vain, with a taste for nice things, the Princess decided, last week, that this self-indulgence had to be reined in. She ordered me to fetch my most expensive dress: Donna Karan, much prized. Then, when I was kneeling before her, she ordered me to cut it into five pieces. I could not believe that I would obey such an order: everything in me made me cry out in outrage. And yet even as I shuddered with horror at the thought of shredding my beautiful dress, I felt myself shudder as well with something else, with PLEASURE, so that the horror and the desire melted and comingled, and I knew that I would do it. And so I did – and then, once I had done it, I was given permission to orgasm. By now I was weeping – weeping over my ruined dress – and as I orgasmed, so the tears were flowing down my face.

I decided there and then that I would give up the Princess again – not only because I was APPALLED with myself for what I had done, and dreaded having to repeat it, but also because I didn’t want to start finding my own unhappiness erotic – I didn’t want to become turned on by my own tears. Who knows how wretched that might make me? And yet – sigh – AND YET – here I am again – and as you can tell, by the fact that I am writing this blog, I HAVE come back – and yes, I do have to dispose of another item of clothing. Tomorrow I will take another dress – Ghost, this time – to a charity shop. When I do it, I will be wearing my cheapest, drabbest clothes. Will I really do this? I don’t know – and yet I know, even as I type that, in my heart of hearts, that I will.

What have I got myself into? I feel myself sinking, sinking, sinking…


I have been ordered to start this blog by the woman whom I suppose I should call my ‘mistress’. Just typing in that word sends a shiver down my spine: for the fact that she snaps her fingers, and I scurry to obey, is a humiliating – and therefore, to me, essentially delicious – reversal of roles. I am an academic, a teacher at a university, accustomed to giving assignments and instructions to my students; and when I first met ‘Princess Kandy K’, she was herself a student. That, perhaps, more than anything, is the reason I find it so impossible to escape her.

Because, you see, right from my earliest memories, I have had fantasies of role reversal, of being a Cinderella in reverse, not a scullery maid who becomes a princess, the dream of most girls, but of being a princess who ends up in the scullery. As I have grown older, so the fact that age tends to generate authority has added a new dimension to my fantasies: a yearning to be treated as a teenager, a dependent, by someone younger than me. That was how I first met the Princess: on a group specifically devoted to young dominants cracking the whip over older submissives. I found her imperiousness and her natural presumption of superiority just melting! She told me that she had graciously decided that I could serve her as a shoe slave: each week, I would buy her a pair of shoes, while simultaneously cutting back on my own expenses so as to be able to afford it. Within a few weeks, this had been regularised, so that I was paying her what she called tribute: the kind of tithe that a serf would have paid, a peon, a peasant. That I found this incredibly humilating amused the Princess. She became keener and keener on making me live in a menial, shabby way. She raised the tribute I had to pay, and forbade me to buy any new clothes or shoes. Then she went one step futher: she ordered me to find a job cleaning rooms in a hotel, and give her all my earnings. The university holiday gave me the opportunity to do this, albeit only for a couple of weeks – and how AWFUL that was, how AWFUL, AWFUL, AWFUL – and yet – oh dear – how arousing too. How ashamed I felt all the time, how humiliated, how weary and cross, with the Princess, and with myself too, for behaving so ridiculously – and yet I did it – and knew myself a slave.

After that, I tried to give her up. I succeeded for several months – and then I succumbed again. Once again, I found myself paying tribute – and once again I found myself having to take a humiliating job, this time as a contract cleaner, under the supervision of an immigrant who could barely speak English – and hand over all my meager earnings to the Princess. I was also forbidden even so much as to touch myself sexually – again, an excruciating humiliation. I was told that, soon enough, I would be put on an allowance.

Once again, I tried to give her up. Once again, I failed. Now I am back as her slave – paying her tribute, just as before. I have been told that I will have to get another job – this time working in a shoe shop. I have also been told that I am to keep this blog, and write in it at least three times a week – or else I will be punished. I have also been told that my diet is to be firmly controlled – though whether to thin me or, horrors, fatten me, is as yet unclear.

And there is one further instruction the Princess has given me – an awful one. But that, I think, I will save for my next entry…