The Dream Factory (F/F) (Now with all new chapter 9!)

[Stiletto Amore]

The Witchfinder General


After clearing away the breakfast dishes, I followed Aunt Harriet down the hallway toward the drawing room, my heart fluttering with anticipation. She moved with effortless grace, her riding boots clicking against the polished wooden floors as I clumped after her like an uncoordinated duckling.
As we stepped inside, I noticed that Aunt Harriet had made some additions to the room. Against the far wall stood a large blackboard, the slate dark and imposing.
My school desk for the day was positioned neatly in front of it—the table from yesterday with a stack of fresh lined paper, a fountain pen, and an inkwell laid out ready for me.

“Take a seat, Samantha,” Aunt Harriet instructed, her tone cool and authoritative.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Aunt Harriet moved gracefully to the blackboard, plucked up a piece of chalk, and with a deliberate, precise motion, began writing her name in an elegant, looping script.
MRS. HARRIET
The sound of the chalk dragging against the blackboard sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, the sharp, grating noise making my toes curl inside my shoes.
It was intoxicating, and at that moment I marveled at how perfectly my childhood fantasies had been brought to life. Suddenly I felt impossibly grateful to my parents for supporting me and to Great Aunt Harriet for throwing herself into the role with such conviction.

Aunt Harriet turned, dusting her fingers together, and fixed me with an appraising look. “We will begin today with a rather grim chapter in English history—the witch hunts of 1645 to 1647”

I straightened in my chair.

“Now class,” Aunt Harriet began, pacing slowly before the blackboard, She tapped the board with the tip of the chalk. “Who can tell me about Matthew Hopkins?”

I eagerly raised my hand.

"Samantha?"

"I believe he was the Witchfinder General Miss.”

“Very good,” Aunt Harriet said with an approving nod. “Hopkins was responsible for the largest and most brutal wave of witch trials in England’s history. In just two years, he and his associates oversaw the execution of more so-called witches than had been tried in the entire century before.”

I hung onto her words, completely enthralled. Aunt Harriet was an engaging speaker, her voice smooth and authoritative. She spoke not just of the trials themselves, but of the deep-rooted misogyny that fueled them—the fear of women who were too old, too young, too intelligent, or too independent.

“These women,” she continued, “were accused of consorting with the devil, of bewitching cattle, of flying through the air at night. But, in truth, many of them were simply healers, midwives, or widows who had the misfortune of living alone.”

I swallowed hard, my imagination already running wild. In my mind’s eye, I saw the flickering torches of an angry mob, the ominous wooden stake in the center of a town square. I pictured myself in place of one of the accused, bound at the wrists, my skirts dragging in the dirt as I was presented to the jeering crowd.

My shirt collar felt suddenly warm against my throat, but I dared not loosen it.

Aunt Harriet’s voice cut through my daydream. “Now, Samantha,” she said, “consider this: If these women were truly witches, as the townspeople feared, why didn’t they simply use their magic to escape?”

I knew the answer immediately but hesitated before speaking, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious.

I blinked, my face suddenly hot.

“Well,” I began hesitantly, “they were probably… gagged.”

Aunt Harriet’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “That is an excellent observation,” she said, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “The townspeople believed that a witch could cast spells merely by speaking. So, to prevent this, they would ensure that the accused could not utter a word.”

I watched, my breath catching slightly, as Aunt Harriet crossed the room to a nearby cabinet. With deliberate movements, she pulled open a drawer and retrieved two, heavy objects.

I barely suppressed a gasp as she turned to show me what she held.

“These,” Aunt Harriet continued, holding up the items, “are examples of the kinds of restraints that might have been used on accused witches to prevent them from speaking.”

One was a leather bit gag, a simple but effective contraption, the kind I had only ever seen in historical illustrations. Next to it was a fearsome-looking metal harness gag, its cruel iron shape less familiar, but equally thrilling.
My eyes widened as she placed them on the desk in front of me.

I looked up at Aunt Harriet in astonishment. “Are they… real?”

“They are modern reproductions,” she said smoothly, her gaze never leaving mine. “Though I assure you, they are quite functional.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly bone dry. The mere sight of them sent my pulse racing. What on earth was she doing with these?
Did she expect me to try one on? The thought alone made my stomach flip in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

Aunt Harriet watched my reaction carefully, her lips twitching as if she found my wide-eyed expression amusing. “Fascinating, aren’t they?” she mused. “I thought they would serve as interesting props for today’s lesson.”

“They’re certainly very,.. evocative,” I agreed

“I’m glad you think so, as they bring me to the subject of today's assignment. I want you to write a short story—no less than 2,000 words—describing a witch trial from the perspective of the accused.”

I felt a thrill of excitement at the challenge.

“Aunt Harriet continued. “Describe her thoughts, her fears, her determination. How does she respond to the accusations? Does she protest her innocence? Does she embrace her supposed power? How does the town treat her? Was she perhaps, betrayed by a loved one?”
I scribbled down notes as quickly as my hand could move.
The assignment was perfect. I could already picture the story playing out in my head—the flickering torchlight, the cold iron shackles, the whispers of the townspeople as I was led to my fate.

Aunt Harriet smiled in quiet satisfaction "I take it you approve of the subject matter?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Very much so, Ma’am,” I said earnestly. “I can’t wait to get started.”

She smirked. “Good girl. Now, I believe that concludes the morning’s lessons.”

I blinked, surprised at how quickly time had passed.
“Go wash up,” Aunt Harriet instructed. “Lunch will be served shortly.”

I stood, clutching my notebook, already itching to begin my story.
This was already the most thrilling homework assignment I had ever been given.

Lunch was sparse to say the least. A small salad made up of lettuce, onion, tomato and cucumber. Precisely the kind of ingredients I would routinely toss from my hamburger.
There was no dressing, no bread, and no sign of dessert.
"Tuck in Samantha" Aunt Harriet encouraged.

I nodded obediently, though I couldn’t stop myself from stealing a wistful glance at Aunt Harriet's over-stuffed plate.

I reluctantly speared a cherry tomato with my fork, my stomach already growling in protest. As a girl of ample curves and what might be described as a ‘healthy’ appetite, I found the meager portion thoroughly unsatisfying, but I reminded myself that this was all part of the game. An enforced diet was entirely in keeping with the boarding school fantasy. My rumbling stomach was simply further proof that I was suffering for my art.
Once lunch was concluded, we reconvened in the drawing room for our afternoon lessons - this time focused on the subject of deportment.
What followed was an excruciatingly detailed seminar on posture, poise, and the correct application of cutlery.
I could scarcely believe how many utensils existed purely for the consumption of fish.
Aunt Harriet quizzed me mercilessly, holding up different implements from her collection and expecting me to name their proper function. I did my best, though more often than not, I failed to produce the correct answer.

“That is a fruit fork, not a dessert fork,” Aunt Harriet corrected coolly as I fumbled through another quick fire test. “And what have I told you about slouching?”

I snapped upright, my spine protesting at the rigid posture she demanded.
By the time the lesson transitioned from table manners to posture, my head was spinning.
Which was unfortunate, because my very next task involved balancing a book on top of it.

“Our final lesson today will take place in the garden,” Aunt Harriet announced suddenly and without warning.

Without another word, she selected a hardcover book from the shelf, and threw open the set of French doors revealing an expansive and immaculately kept lawn.

As Aunt Harriet strode purposefully across the garden I hurried after her, careful to try to maintain my poise. After a brisk walk we arrived at a set of expensive looking garden furniture,

“This exercise,” she began, as she placed the volume of The Complete Works of Jane Austen atop my head. “Is designed to test your poise, balance, and grace"
I nodded, determined to prove myself.

"I want you to walk from here to the far end of the garden and back without letting the book fall.”

I took a tentative step forward, feeling the book shift slightly as I moved. I instinctively threw my arms out to steady myself, but Aunt Harriet’s sharp voice stopped me mid-motion.

“Arms at your sides, Samantha. You are not an acrobat on a tightrope.”

Blushing, I quickly dropped my hands and resumed walking.
Somewhat predictably, the first attempt was a complete disaster. I barely made it five paces before the book wobbled precariously and tumbled to the ground.

“Again,” Aunt Harriet commanded, retrieving the book and handing it back to me.
I set my jaw and placed it back on my head, determined to do better this time.

For the next hour, I paraded back and forth across the garden under Aunt Harriet’s unyielding scrutiny. The heat of the sun bore down upon me, the still afternoon air making my blouse cling uncomfortably to my back. Sweat beaded at my temples, and I was aching in places I didn't know I had muscles.
Before long, I stripped down to my shirt sleeves, rolling them up neatly to my elbows, although I knew better than to ask for permission to remove my tie or loosen my shirt collar.

Aunt Harriet, however, remained perfectly composed in her full riding ensemble, the bright red tunic and immaculate white jodhpurs still crisp and pristine. Not a single bead of perspiration touched her brow, her posture as rigid as ever. I couldn’t help but marvel at her self-possession. If she was feeling the heat, she certainly gave no indication, standing statuesque and regal beneath the afternoon sun, as composed and as unruffled as ever.
Aunt Harriet watched with hawk-like scrutiny from behind her thick, dark shades as I paraded across the gravel pathways of the garden, my every step measured, my arms held stiffly at my sides.

“Chin up. Back straight. Chest out”

"Yes, Ma’am," I replied, my voice coming out breathy as I adjusted my gait once more.

It took several attempts before I was able to complete an entire circuit of the course without the book falling.

"Very good Samantha" she said at last, nodding in approval. "But before we conclude today’s lessons, I have one final challenge for you.”

Her sharp eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as she stepped forward her hands gliding up toward my throat.
With a practised ease, she reached for the knot of my tie, tugging it loose and drawing the material from around my neck with a slow, deliberate motion as though I were a mannequin in a shop window.
My face flamed with sudden heat from the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
She was so close, her sharp perfume mingling with the fresh air. I couldn’t quite meet her gaze, my pulse quickening as she held my tie between her hands.

"You look rather flushed, dear," she remarked, raising a knowing eyebrow.

"I-It's just the heat, Ma’am," I stammered, though we both knew better.

Aunt Harriet smiled faintly, then, without another word, she stepped behind me. The sound of her boots on the gravel sent a shiver down my spine. Before I could ask what she was doing, she placed the thicker end of the tie gently over my eyes and began knotting it at the back of my head.

"Ma’am?" I murmured, my voice uncertain.

"Don't worry. You're perfectly safe," she said kindly, her breath warm against my ear. "But you will complete the course again—but this time, blindfolded."

I exhaled shakily.
The loss of sight made everything feel more intense. The warmth of the sun on my skin, the uncomfortable stickiness of sweat clinging to my blouse, the distant sound of birds chirping in the hedgerow—all of it was heightened by my forced reliance on my other senses.
I felt Aunt Harriet place the book carefully atop my head,

"When you're ready - you can begin.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I moved carefully, every step cautious, my arms held stiffly at my sides. But my balance was off and the book soon slid from my head, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.
I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Again," Aunt Harriet commanded, retrieving the book and placing it back in position.
My second attempt lasted longer—I managed to make it halfway before I lost my balance, sending the book falling once more.
I clenched my jaw.

Aunt Harriet’s tone was calm but firm. “Precision, Samantha. This is an exercise in control, not speed.”

"Yes, Ma’am," I murmured.

On the third attempt, I focused every ounce of my concentration. One step at a time. Slow. Deliberate. My breath came steady, and I kept my spine impossibly straight. I felt the book wobble dangerously but forced myself not to panic. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I reached the end of the path.
I let out a slow breath.

Aunt Harriet was silent for a moment. Then—"Well done Samantha."

Relief washed over me, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face as she removed the blindfold. The world burst back into view, the sunlight almost blinding after so long in darkness.
Aunt Harriet folded my tie neatly in her hands before offering it back to me. "Reassemble your uniform properly. Then you are dismissed for the day."
"Yes, Ma’am."

I took the tie from her and hastily refastened it, making sure to tie the Windsor knot just as she had shown me.

Back in my room, I collapsed onto the bed, my limbs aching from the day’s training. My body was exhausted, but my mind was buzzing with energy.
With a sigh, I sat up and pulled out my notebook. It was time to complete my writing assignment.
The words flowed easily, as if I had just been waiting for the chance to put them to paper. I wrote feverishly, my imagination running wild as I lost myself in the fantasy of being put on trial as a witch. In the story I subjected my heroine to every indignity and ritual humiliation I could imagine, peppering the story with scenes from my favourite damsel in distress fantasies.
For over an hour, I was utterly lost in the world I had created.
When at last I set my pen down, my heart was pounding.
I stared at the pages, suddenly feeling lightheaded with nerves. The story was so personal, so unmistakably steeped in my deepest desires.
A sharp knock at my door made me jump.

“Samantha,” Aunt Harriet’s voice called out, smooth and authoritative. “Dinner is ready. Bring your assignment with you.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a strange thrill course through me.

Clutching the neatly written pages in my hands, I made my way downstairs, my pulse racing.
Tonight, my fantasies would be laid bare before Aunt Harriet’s watchful gaze.
And I had no idea what she would say.
I descended the stairs slowly, my pulse quickening with each step.

[Stiletto Amore]

Chapter Nine - Storytime


I found my Great Aunt in the library, seated behind an expansive desk that looked like it had been carved from the hull of a once great ship. In keeping with the nautical theme, Harriet was now dressed in a frilled white blouse, open at the collar, with knee length boots and a figure hugging pair of black leather trousers. It was remarkably easy to imagine myself, the captive Wendy Bird being presented to a fearsome, if rather striking pirate Queen

Aunt Harriet didn’t look up at first. She was apparently occupied making notes in an old leather-bound ledger, each stroke of the fountain pen delivered with immaculate precision. For all I knew she was writing out her shopping list, but it had the desired impact.

I waited, holding the manilla document folder tightly. mindful that that my cheeks were already glowing a healthy shade of fuschia.

“Yes?,” she said, eyes still firmly fixed on the page.

“I finished the essay Miss."

Finally, she looked up, setting down her pen. “Is that it?”

I nodded pathetically and stepped forward, nervously handing over the folder.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she noticed my mounting discomfort, but otherwise she remained firmly in character as she opened the document.

Standing to attention with my chin up and my hands clasped behind my back I watched silently as she began to study my homework.

God, what had I been thinking? The whole thing was ridiculous. An overripe gothic melodrama dripping in innuendo in which a nineteenth-century heroine is subjected to bondage, ritual humiliation, torture and interrogation - at the hands of a stern jailor who bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain Great Aunt.

Why did I write that? And more importantly, why had I given it to her?

I thought about snatching it back. Pretending it was all a joke. But that would hardly be in the spirit of the game, and I was having far too much fun to turn back now,..

Finally she came to the end of the story, a wry smile threatening to break out in the corner of her mouth.

My stomach performed an impressive series of somersaults (like a drummer falling down a flight of stairs) as I waited for Harriet to deliver her verdict.

She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin.

Finally, after an immeasurably long silence, Harriet spoke.

“Well, that was quite the adventure," She purred “Doctor Who, by way of the Marquis de Sade.”

I felt my ears go pink.

“Wait. You know Doctor Who!?!"

“Of course - I'm not a complete luddite Samantha. I grew up watching Jon Pertwee. He was quite the dandy in his day - frilled shirts, velvet jackets, bow ties - I suppose you could say that I found his fashion choices… somewhat formative.”

I gazed admiringly at her outfit - she was dressed like a disco space queen.

"So," I asked tentatively "What did you think?"

"Well the prose is a little leaden in places and it's let down by a few unforgivable spelling and

grammatical errors - but it held my attention throughout. The plot was engaging, if a little repetitive in places - I lost count of the number of times Evelina was captured and recaptured - but the historical details were well-researched and lovingly rendered,"

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry, grin, or run out of the room. Maybe all three.

“Thank you,” I said, softly.

"You're very welcome dear," She went on "I thought the characters were vividly drawn - I was particularly taken with Mistress Thorn - and the sapphic longing between our hero and her aged jailer was really rather affecting in places"

I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile.

"And the final coda - where Evelina is revealed to be an actual witch - was a lovely twist in the tale - if a touch bloody for my tastes. The flaying of the magistrate scene was,.. rather excessive.”

I winced inwardly. “I might have got a little carried away there,”

"Oh don't apologize. A little gothic horror never hurt anyone"

She handed me back my manuscript now scored in red with a crisp A at the top.

“I don’t give those out lightly,” she said. “But you've earned it.”

My breath caught. “Thank you, Aunt Harriet.”

She stood, smooth and deliberate “As a reward, after supper you can go ahead and join me the lounge.”

The less said about that evening's meal the better - I was forced to struggle through a plate of rice cakes, whilst watching my Great Aunt wolf down a plate of pancakes - then it was on to my treat - an evening with Harriet.

To my relief, the living room was far more inviting than I had anticipated and featured no stuffed animals whatsoever. A grand fireplace took center stage, its mantle lined with carefully arranged books and a stately clock that ticked with quiet precision. A dark leather armchair sat by the hearth, clearly Harriet’s chosen seat, while an equally well-maintained, if rather austere sofa faced a large, polished cabinet that housed an ancient television.

Truth be told, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Aunt Harriet even owned a set - although predictably it looked like it belonged in a museum.

I stood hesitantly in the doorway, unsure of the correct protocol for such a rare privilege.

"Come inside my dear - take a seat"

I did as I was told, sitting primly on the edge of the sofa with my hands in my lap.

Aunt Harriet turned to me, and after a brief pause, she offered, “You may remove your tie, if you wish.”

I reached up, carefully loosening the Windsor knot I had tied so diligently that morning. I slid the tie from my collar, folding it neatly and setting it on the armrest of the sofa.

I considered unfastening the top button of my blouse as well—it was excessively warm in the room—but thought better of it. Aunt Harriet hadn’t said I could, after all.

Her eyes flickered to my still-buttoned collar. She said nothing, but I caught the faintest hint of approval in her expression before she returned to her task of the VCR to the back of the television.

She settled into her chair and reached for a cut-glass bowl on the side table.

“Would you care for a sweet?” she asked.

I hesitated, afraid of walking in to a trap. “Yes, please.”

She handed me a small, chalky-looking boiled sweet. I popped it into my mouth and immediately regretted it. It tasted of aniseed and nail varnish remover.

I fought the urge to grimace as the bitter flavor coated my tongue.

Aunt Harriet, now seated in her armchair, observed my reaction with amusement.

“An acquired taste,” she noted.

“That’s one way of putting it, Ma’am,” I managed, forcing myself to keep the sweet in my mouth out of sheer determination.

With a slight smirk, she picked up the remote and clicked on the television.

“I understand young people are rather partial to superheroes these days, so I picked out something I thought you might enjoy.”

That piqued my interest. “Oh?”

The screen flickered to life with a hum and a brief warble of static before the picture sharpened.

Then, that oh-so-familiar bassline kicked in—da-da-da-da-daaah!—followed by a cymbal crash and the unmistakable lyrics:

"Wonder Woman! All the world is waiting for you..."

My heart practically sang with delight. Of course as a lover of both bondage and retro TV I already knew this series inside out, but something about watching it in company - Aunt Harriet’s no less, made it feel even more thrilling, almost illicit.

This particular episode was one I knew by heart. It was the one where Diana Prince is investigating an oil spill off the California coast, only to discover a greedy land developer is behind it all— Peak seventies environmentalism.

But I wasn’t here for the ecological message (or even for the kidnaped dolphin) I wanted to see

Diana Prince get snatched up.

As soon as Diana began poking around the dockside in her black trouser suit, I could feel the anticipation rising. A capture scene was coming. I knew the beats. I could practically hum the suspenseful score from memory.

And then—there it was.

Diana turns a corner and walks right into a trap. Two of the developer’s goons grab her roughly. She resists, of course, but remains graceful and poised throughout her ordeal, even when they decide to throw her on board their yacht.

I bit down gently on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from squealing aloud.

There she sat, perched obediently on the edge of a gaudy sofa—her hands tied neatly behind her back with rope, and her ankles secured just as firmly. There was a thick black scarf tied tightly between Diana's teeth.

“Goodness gracious me” Harriet commented "Ms Prince is really in trouble now"

I could barely form words. “Y-yeah. - I don't see how she's going to be able to turn into Wonder Woman with her hands and feet all tied up like that,"

She smiled, but not unkindly.

"Yes - It's quite the pickle"

I didn’t dare meet her gaze. I stared hard at the television as Diana began to struggle—calmly, methodically, like someone who’d been tied up before and knew how to escape. Her bound hands fumbled at the knots behind her, her body shifting subtly with each attempt.

And then—victory. Her hands slipped free, but she didn’t go for the gag right away. No. She untied her feet first.

Only after she was completely unbound did she reach up and untie the scarf, gently pulling it

from between her lips. She sat for a second, breathing hard from her exertions, clutching the fabric in one hand.

And then—whoosh—a twirl of colour and sparks. Wonder Woman was back. Justice was served. The dolphin was rescued and the villains - thwarted.

I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.

“Well,” Aunt Harriet said smoothly, “that was rather spirited, wasn’t it?”

I swallowed. “Y-yes, Ma’am.”

"Would you care to watch another?” she asked, her tone deceptively neutral.

My heart thumped.

“Yes please Ma’am.”

She nodded once and reached for the remote. “Then I believe we’re in for an old fashioned double feature.”

I adjusted myself on the sofa, hoping my face wasn’t quite as red as it felt.

The screen flickered again. Another episode. Another of my all time favourites. In this one, Diana was once again investigating a series of suspicious shipments at the docks, only to be captured by a group of criminals who—naturally—had plans to detonate a bomb in a warehouse.

This time, they tied her to a chair—arms to the rests, legs pressed together.

Diana tried to reason with them, using that same patient, no-nonsense tone that she usually used on her kidnappers, but the head villain wasn’t having any of it.

“Put a gag in her mouth!” he barked, waving toward one of his goons. But then, changing his mind, he crossed the room himself, snatching up the thick black scarf himself

(Was this the same one from the previous episode? or did they buy them in bulk?', I wondered to myself)

There was a vivid close-up as the gag was drawn tightly between Diana’s lips and knotted at the nape of her neck.

Diana blinked, but her eyes burned with defiance.

I felt Harriet glance at me again. but I pretended not to notice.

Now there was a time bomb set ticking ominously on a nearby table, but Diana could only watch helplessly whilst Mmmphing frantically into her gag.

And then—enter Henry. A loveable idiot, if there ever was one. He rushed over to her and started fumbling with the ropes. But when she tried to draw his attention to the bomb with increasingly urgent “Mmmmph! Mmmph-mmMMph!” sounds, he just shushed her—“Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”—and ran off to tinker with the wiring.

I practically burst with sympathetic frustration.

She sat there, roped to the chair, gagged tight, watching the bomb count down, unable to do anything but glare at Henry and squirm in her restraints.

Eventually, Henry managed to disarm the bomb. He returned and untied her ropes, but left the gag for last.

Diana reached up, slowly, and pulled it away herself. She held the scarf for a moment—then tossed it aside and spun into Wonder Woman.

Cue theme song, roll titles.

As the credits rolled, I sat there stunned.

“Well,” Harriet said at last, turning to me, “I think that was even more thrilling than the last story”

I was inclined to agree, but when I tried to speak, my voice caught.

I cleared my throat. “Y-yes, Ma’am. Very exciting.”

“Yes, I rather I thought you might enjoy it,” she said mildly.

I couldn’t help but let out a laugh—nervous, a little too loud.

Harriet stood and turned off the television. “But I think that’s quite enough stimulation for one evening. It's time for bed.”

I rose quickly, smoothing down my trousers and reaching for my tie where I’d left it on the armrest. I folded it into my hand.

“Goodnight, Aunt Harriet,” I said, my voice still slightly breathless.

She gave a slight nod, watching me go. “Sleep well, Samantha.”



As I slowly ascended the stairs I turned the events of the evening over in my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder, was it really a coincidence that both episodes that Aunt Harriet had selected had featured lengthy tie-up scenes? That seemed unlikely, as they were not linked sequentially. No, it was almost certainly deliberate,

Curiouser and curiouser I thought to myself as I padded up the stairs.

Back in the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a long moment, savouring the events of the evening.

My head was swimming—not from exhaustion, though I was tired—but from the realisation that something had shifted in the dynamic between the two of us.

The performance was still ongoing, yes; Harriet still reigned supreme as headmistress, governess, pirate queen, and all-around disciplinarian. But tonight—tonight had felt… different.

There had been a generosity to her actions, a sly intimacy beneath the usual rules and rituals. She’d read my story. She’d recognised herself in the narrative. And she hadn’t flinched.

More than that—she’d responded favourably.

And those television episodes hadn’t just been some random choices from an old VHS library. They were hand-picked, curated like fine wine.

I pressed my hands to my cheeks. They were still flushed.

I set the tie neatly on the desk, then I slipped off my blazer, taking care to hang it properly before unbuttoning the grey cardigan beneath.

FinI reached the high collar of my shirt and hesitated—fingertips grazing the top button. I’d kept it fastened all evening out of respect, or possibly obedience.

With a slow exhale, I reached up and undid the top button of my blouse.

The pressure around my throat lifted, and I instinctively rolled my neck from side to side, relishing the increased mobility. It was like taking off a noose—one I’d worn so long, I’d almost forgotten it wasn’t my own skin.

My blouse came off next, sleeves turned inside out as I shrugged free, this was quickly followed by my trousers.

When I reached my underwear, I hesitated. My cheeks flamed as I became acutely aware of the faint, damp warmth between my thighs. For a moment, I stared down at myself, the fabric clinging uncomfortably.

I didn’t quite know how to feel.

But then I thought about Aunt Harriet.

She didn’t shame me when I stammered.

She didn’t flinch when I handed her my erotic story.

She hadn’t once made fun of me for the way I looked, or how I flushed whenever she stood too close.

So it followed that she was unlikely to judge me for getting aroused whilst watching Linda Carter get roped and tied.

In fact, I suspected she already knew.

I balled up the damp underpants and dropped them into the laundry basket with everything else. Then I padded quietly into the bathroom, bracing myself as I turned on the shower.

If possible the water was even colder than yesterday.

I yelped and danced in place for a second, then steeled myself and stepped under the flow. The shock of it was enough to chase away any last vestiges of embarrassment. I braved it for a full minute before retreating to the safety of my room.

Toweling off I slipped into the loose cotton pyjamas before climbing into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin with a contented sigh.

Suffice to say, I couldn't wait to see what joys tomorrow will bring.