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.

Monday, March 06, 2006


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…


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