The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


(MC, MF, FF, MC, GR)

For J.R.Parz’s HOTTER THAN HELL anthology of Male Dom Mind Control stories. Thanks to J.R. for kick-starting me into writing this.

This was inspired by a comment made by TechnicDragon on the Forum thread ‘Harem Maintenance’. The title is, of course, stolen from G.K.Chesterton who would have hated me using it like this.

* * *
Hey Sis!

Yep, it’s me again, your annoying kid sister. Turning up like a bad penny. Don’t worry: I’ve no ulterior motives. I’m not going to ask you for money this time. In fact you’ll find herewith a cheque for what I owe you from the last two times.

I’m in the money (‘At last’, I hear you say) and I’ve got a new job that should last me some time. Wanna hear about it? Put your feet up and settle down for a bit: this could take some time.

When you last heard from me (yes, yes, the last time I borrowed money off of you) I had just got the boot from the job in Leicester. The council had run out of the grant money that was paying for most of the Parks department (under the guise of us qualified professionals providing ‘works experience’ for the city’s kids who were too dumb, disgusting or drugged up to find real work for themselves) and I had to schmooze money off you to keep my flat.

Well, about a fortnight later I’d just come back from the Jobcentre where I’d been telling them all sorts of lies about my ‘job search’ when I found a letter in my mailbox that wasn’t a bill or advertising bumf. It was from my old friend Sandy. You remember, my roommate at the Uni, the one on the same course as me. We used to be quite the pair, patrolling the clubs and pubs of Nottingham together as we did a combined course in Horticulture (during the day) and Pulling and Puking (at night).

Sandy had got herself a job in a private house in Hampshire and she was inviting me over for the next weekend to stay. Apparently her employer didn’t mind if ‘the staff’ had friends over and she could bag one of the guest rooms for me. The place was lovely, the food was great, and, to make it even more of a no-brainer, Sandy had sent me the rail fare.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my phone and texted her right away and spent the next two days on the edge of my seat, waiting for Friday to come.

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when I humped my bag down off the train and stood on the platform at Abbey Feltham Halt. It was one of those tiny rural stations, with wooden platforms, one ticket machine and no staff that somehow survive despite every effort of every government to close them down. And at the bottom of a long wooden staircase down from the platform to the country lane below was Sandy, standing by a big purple People Mover, looking gorgeous.

That was the first odd thing that struck me. Sandy looked absolutely gorgeous. At Uni, I’d always been the prettier of the pair. No false modesty: she was The Other One. Not that she was ugly or anything…. But she wasn’t quite in my class when it came to pulling men. But now…. Her hair shone, she seemed to have had her teeth cleaned and straightened and her figure…. Well, I think I could spot fake tits and hers weren’t. They just looked…. A bit bigger and a bit firmer than I remembered.

I felt… Well, like I’d just had a very long train journey and was sweaty and… plain. Comparatively plain. It was an odd feeling.

And above those nice tits (which weren’t in a bra, by the way) she was wearing a white gold necklace with a word spelled out on it in big, ornate letters. It said ‘THURSDAY’.

I made some joke about her having the wrong day’s necklace on. She just smiled and shook her head.

But despite the fact that she made me look like an unmade bed without even trying, she couldn’t have been nicer. She grabbed my bag, gave me a hug and loaded me into the car and soon we were rolling through the country lanes, chatting like we’d seen each other the week before instead of two years ago at graduation.

I told her all about my three jobs, each one more horrible than the last (including the story about Kevin With The Pimples which you said made you want to throw up: she just laughed) and the two miserable boyfriends. I tried to get her news and to pump her about her job but she said I’d just have to wait and see.

And then as we came around a corner she pulled into a layby and stopped the car.

“Come on,” she said.


“You wanted to know about the job. I said you were going to have to wait and see. Well, you can start seeing from here.”

And she got out of the car and lead me over to the fence around the layby where there was a view spot where you could look out over the valley below. And smack dab right in the middle of the valley, which was rich and green and as English as… as… Roast Beef! was Abbey Feltham. It was a big, old cream coloured house, most of it looking like something out of Jane Austen but with bits that went back to Elizabeth the First. It had trees and a lake and bloody huge grounds with woods and even a maze.

“That’s your job?”

“That’s it. Good here innit?” She grinned at me and I just stood there with my jaw dangling, unable to think of anything to say. It was a gardener’s dream job, to be allowed to care for something like that.

I eventually managed to say ”You lucky bitch!” and she grinned even harder.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d spent all day doing one of those flower beds by yourself. Or trimming the maze and getting so lost you didn’t get any supper.”

“Doesn’t your boss let you have any help?”

“I’m in charge of the gardens! And none of the others know a pruning knife from a halberd.”


“You’ll see. Come on. I want to show you around before we have to clean up for supper.”

Down more country lanes then and eventually through the gates of the Abbey, which looked even better from ground level.

“What’s he do, your boss?” I asked as we went down the lawn.

“Mr Sunday? He’s into a lot of things. Land. Biotech. He used to be into demolitions a lot but he says he’s out of that now. He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.”

“And he bought this place when?”

“Oh, this has been in his family for... Oh, just about forever. He’s Old Money. Really old.”

She took us around the back of the house. There was a row of other cars round the back all parked neatly in a wooden building with one wall open to the air which must have been the stables at one time. Sandy pulled into a vacant space, the fourth of six spaces marked out neatly with whitewash. There was a seventh, larger space at one end.

“That’s for the Roller, Mr Sunday’s car.”

“Do you always call him that? Never ‘George’ or ‘Fred’?”

“Oh.” She stopped and tilted her head to one side for a moment, puzzled. “Do you know… I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use his first name. Not sure I know what it is. Anyway, I wouldn’t dare. You’ll see when you meet him. He’s always Mr Sunday. Or sometimes The Boss. Or… Well, you’ll have to see. Come on.”

She lead me in through the Servants’ Entrance. (That’s actually what it said: a discreet little sign by the door. SERVANTS’ ENTRANCE. With a proper and correct apostrophe too.) We took a staircase up right inside the door: I could smell that the kitchen was just down a corridor from the Entrance and supper was already being prepared.

Up on the first floor there was another long corridor and a little way along it was Sandy’s room. As she unlocked it a pretty little red headed girl in jeans and a tee shirt came past us in the corridor. She was carrying a vacuum cleaner.

“Hey Thurs,” she said. “I’ve got the bed made up in the guest room. This your friend?”

“Yep, this is Amanda. She hates being called Mandy. And this is Tuesday, our maid of all work.”

“Ah, me! I am a poor oppressed peasant! The lowest of the low! A down trodden working girl!” She grinned and stuck out her hand for me to shake. She had a nice grin. And, yes, you’ve guessed it, around her neck was an identical gold necklace spelling out the word TUESDAY.

I had just taken her hand and was about to ask her about the necklace when a voice yelled from below: “Tuesday! Get yourself down here! These carrots won’t peel themselves!”

“Oh, dear. Mother is in a mood! See you later!” And off she went down the stairs.


“The cook. She’s harmless. Mostly. And Tuesday sort of likes that sort of thing.”

I was going to ask Sandy what sort of thing that sort of thing was and I was going to ask her about the necklaces but I forgot. I forgot because once I was in her room I was off into another fit of jaw dropping, drooling deep-green-eyed envy. It wasn’t a room, it was a suite! It could have swallowed my little bed sit in Leicester twice over with room to spare. It had its own bathroom, plasma telly…. And on the walls paintings of flowers that were so real… I’m sure that galleries across the world would be falling over themselves to acquire them if only they knew they existed.

“You can use my shower to freshen up with later. Let’s put your stuff in the guest room and I’ll show you the grounds.”

The ‘guest room’ had a four poster bed in it and was in the Tudor, oak-beams and wood panels part of the Abbey. You could have hidden entire families under the bed.

And the grounds. From up above we had only seen the large stuff. There was a Grecian folly by the lake and a Chinese folly on top of a hill. There was a herb garden and a kitchen garden (where we saw Tuesday digging up more carrots). There was a greenhouse and an orchid house (“Mr Sunday likes to tend to them himself.”) and enough work for half a dozen gardeners. I started to drop hints to Sandy about how she must find it hard to keep up and couldn’t she use an assistant, maybe, huh? Huh?

And she just smiled and said that the country air must agree with her because she seemed to get a lot more done here than she ever did working in town and anyway Mr Sunday preferred to keep strict limits on the number of staff in the house. I had to keep smiling at her just to stop me grinding my teeth.

By the time we got back to the house it must have been gone six and Sandy told me to grab my best frock from the guest room and come to her room and get myself cleaned and dolled up. When I rejoined her she had already showered and was leaning out of a window looking at the garage outside. There was the sound of something heavy swooshing through the gravel below

“The Boss is back!” She leaned out and gave whoever was below a wave. Also a good sight of her (new and improved) titties since she hadn’t bothered to dress yet.


“Oh, pooh! Hurry up girl! We don’t want to be the last there!” And she went to a door on the far wall and opened up a walk in wardrobe (a walk in wardrobe!) and vanished inside.

I won’t lie to you, Sis: I got into that shower already planning to do my damnedest to worm my way into Mr-Really-Old-Money-Sunday’s good books over dinner and maybe persuade him that though my old friend Sandy might be hot stuff in the potting shed I could do things with a pair of pruning shears and some compost that she could never manage in a thousand years. And I was willing to bat my eyelids and flatter his masculine vanity and… Well, I was waiting to see what he looked like before I decided how far I was willing to go in order to steal my old friend’s job but if he wasn’t actually hunchbacked and leprous I think it would have been pretty damn far indeed.

I came out of the bathroom starkers, with my head wrapped in a towel. Sandy was already there in a dressing gown with her make up done and she was holding up the dress I’d brought and was frowning at it.

“Is this what you’re planning to wear?”

“And what’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, well. Nothing. If that’s what you’ve got. But… I think Mo… I think cook’s planning to rather roll out the barrel for you. Kill the fatted calf for the honoured guest. And Mr Sunday… Well…”

“That’s what I’ve bought! I’ve not been living in a country house, love. I’ve been living in Leicester on a local government gardener’s pay…”

“No, no. Of course not…Umm, just a second.”

And she came out of her walk-in wardrobe a couple of moments later with two dresses. They were sort of…. Backless and expensive looking and… and… Gorgeous. The sort of thing you’d go to the ballet in on the arm of oooh say George Clooney. One was sort of burgundy and the other was sort of silvery and they rather complemented each other.

“I thought, perhaps I could wear one and you could wear the other? Hmm?”

And I couldn’t feel offended or anything because… Well, I was feeling like a bit of a louse because she was making me look good and I was going to use her gift to steal her job.

So we got ready together and I smiled and thanked her and hardened my heart a bit further because I saw when we finished that despite all I did for myself she was still looking much better than me. She… Bugger it! She glowed! With health! With vitality! With sex appeal! It was bloody annoying!

And when the gong was rung for dinner she held out her arm to me and we walked, like old friends, off down the corridor and down the huge staircase that lay at the other end from the Kitchen Stairs and we were in the Great Hall of the Abbey. Off to one side was a huge round table, impeccably laid out for dinner and standing around looking even more impossibly gorgeous were even more women!

Tuesday was there, not looking at all as if she had spent the afternoon digging out carrots and peeling them. She brought us a glass of wine each on a silver tray and then went scurrying back to the side of a stern faced little Chinese woman who wore a necklace that said MONDAY.

It said WEDNESDAY around the neck of a statuesque blonde woman who stood about six foot tall and had her hair in a single thick braid that ran right down to the crack in her arse (which I could see because her dress like Sandy’s and mine was very low cut at the back).

There was a pale skinned, dark haired woman with impossibly red lips who wore a necklace marked SATURDAY. She wore a sort of Victorian style dress all in black and probably a corset too. She licked her lips when she looked at me and for a moment I felt rather shivery. (And with good reason too, as I later found out.)

The two of them sort of converged on me and started to give me the Spanish Inquisition. Blondie (it turned out) was Mr Sunday’s chauffeuse and the estate’s mechanic and general handy person. Ms Goth was his secretary and personal assistant. Between the two of them they had me giving up everything I knew about myself from name, rank and serial number to whether I preferred CORONATION STREET to NEIGHBOURS or CASUALTY to THE BILL. I didn’t even think about taking offence: not only did I want them to like me but Wednesday towered over me and Saturday’s eyes bored right into the back of my skull as if she could read every neuron there.

In the background Monday would vanish into the kitchen occasionally and Tuesday would refill people’s glasses and hover as if waiting for someone to ask her to do something. Sandy watched, smiling, as I was grilled. I kept meaning to ask about the necklaces and the days of the week but somehow….

And I was babbling away, defending my preference for CHARMED over BUFFY (which Saturday seemed to think was heresy) when I became aware that they had all stopped listening to me and were turning to face the staircase.

And there he was. Mr Sunday. And you could see at once why nobody would ever want to call him George. Let alone Freddy.

He was huge. A big brick wall of a man with a big, wide bearded face and a slight smile perpetually dancing around his face. His skin was… not tanned, not swarthy but glowing like the sunset on a long summer’s day. And I suddenly realised that the glow, the energy, the beauty that I had been seeing in my friend and in the others was just a reflection from him, from the power and the energy of him.

He wore a very relaxed and very expensive version of an English gentleman’s summer wear and on his right arm he wore another (yet another!) beautiful woman. She was black and her ebony skin glowed with reflected warmth just like his other women. Her eyes were on him, the whole time.

“Is that his wife?” I asked Sandy.

“No, no. He is not… That’s just Friday.”

And now I looked again I could see the gold word (her name?) around her neck.

“Today’s Friday.”

“Yes. It’s her day.”

He came down into the room and came to each of the women in turn. He would take their hand in his left hand (a huge broad, spade like thing) and bring it to his lips to kiss and then lean forward to whisper something in their ear. They would say something to him (perhaps the same thing? I could not quite hear) and then he kissed each of them on the lips and stepped back.

Sandy left my side to go to him, the last of them to be greeted by him leaving me alone by the fireplace. When he had greeted her and kissed her she brought him towards me. He towered over me (hell, he towered over all of us even the Amazon labelled Wednesday).

“Sir, this is my friend Amanda.”

“Amanda.” His voice spoke my name and it was like…. Oh, it was like purring and rumbling and…. and earthquakes. I could feel the vibrations of it all through me but especially in my tits and my belly and my… my sex. My cunt. You’d have to hear him speak yourself to know what it’s like to feel a voice in every part of you.

“Amanda. ‘Worthy to be loved.’. A most suitable name.” And he took my hand and raised it to his lips and just breathed on my fingers, just brushed them with his lips, his whiskers tickling the back of them.

“I….” was all I could manage. “Mr Sunday… I…”

“Come, you will sit on my left side and we will talk. Thursday, you have done very well.”

And at that Sandy… well she actually curtseyed. As if he were the Queen. Or King. Or something.

And he tucked my arm under his left arm and lead us to the table with me on one side and Friday on the other. And we were seated with Friday on his right and Saturday beyond her and then all the way around the table in order of the days ending with Sandy (Thursday?) beside me and me beside him.

And we did talk. What about? Flowers mostly. How to look after them, how to choose them for the garden and arrange them. And how I felt about various sorts of trees and shrubs. He actually asked me to imagine their personalities (I know this sounds silly) the way I imagined plants thought about themselves. But I found it a perfectly natural question at the time and I could answer it too.

There was food, I know there was, and drink too. But mostly I was watching him. Only one thing about the meal sticks with me: from time to time Friday would slice his meat for him and feed it to him on her fork. And once he took some fruit (a pear, I think, sweet and juicy) and sliced it in four and feed her half. I remember her sucking the juice from his fingers. I had to look away because I was blushing and I wanted, oh how I wanted to be the one to feed him, to be fed by him.

At the end of the meal, Tuesday brought out liqueurs and served us. The other girls, except for Friday, cleared the table as he sat back and watched them. And watched me. We had come to the end of our conversation, our very odd but very true conversation and he sat there watching me as Friday watched him, her hands occasionally reaching up to stroke his beard. I just sat there and sipped my drink (Calvados, my favourite) and when all the girls had returned to their seats with drinks in front of them he turned to them and smiled.

“My dears, you have done me proud on this happy occasion. A fine meal, a family event.” He turned to Friday. “My sweet, I must ask you to give up a little of what is rightfully yours. I hope you will not hold it against me.”

And for the first time since she had entered the room Friday shifted her gaze from him. To look at me. She was…. Measuring me. Appraising me. And she smiled a little, sad smile and turned back to him. “Whatever you wish, of course, beloved. I have no fear that you will not be able to give me all I need. And more.”

He laughed and turned back to me.

“You are a lucky child,” he said. “You are going to be given your dearest wish. And more.”

All of a sudden I felt cold where a moment before there had been heat and I looked around the room. All of the women in the room were watching me.

“Take her! Prepare her!”

I tried to get up, to get away… But I had too much good wine and good food in me and the others… They were on me in a second grabbing me by the arms, the legs. The big blonde amazon had me in a head lock! And they were lifting me up and pulling the dress off me and my panties off and a moment later I was on my back on the table, spreadeagled and helpless.

“Get the fuck… Get off me you… SANDY!!!!!”

And then she was there. She was still wearing her dress, I saw.

“You really don’t know how lucky you are, Amanda, love. If I had my druthers… I’d never leave myself, but… Well, you remember my Mum? She’s not well. Not got long, poor thing. And there’s only me to help her. But I couldn’t leave without making sure there was someone to take my place.”

“Look, Sandy please…”

“Hush love. This won’t hurt a bit.”

And she took off her gold necklace and put it around my neck. And she turned and left the room, without looking back. I think she was crying. I never saw her again.

And the big blonde girl took her arm from around my head and turned my face towards hers.

“You are Thursday,” she said. “You belong to me.”

And I heard myself say: “I am Thursday. I belong to you.”

And she kissed me. Her lips were hard on mine and her tongue darted against mine and I didn’t want it to end.

And each of them then, little Monday with her tight smile, Tuesday shyly and gently, Saturday fiercely and cruelly took my face in her hands and told me that I was Thursday and that I belonged to her. And I agreed and they kissed me.

And then Friday came. Unlike the others, she was naked and she climbed up on the table with me and laid her body along mine, skin to skin, hers dark and mine pale. And she too told me who I was and who I belonged to. And after we kissed she lay alongside me for a moment breathing her warmth into me. It felt like fire, kindled inside me. But it was nothing to what was to come.

She hooked her fingers into the Thursday necklace (my necklace. Mine!) and pulled me up by it, lead me like a dog being pulled by its collar up off the table and into the next room.

Mr Sunday was there. He sat in a huge wooden chair by a roaring fire and he was naked. His body was covered all over with fine dark hairs and between his legs…

Oh what a cock! What perfect piece of man meat! Already erect and more like a forearm with a fist on the end of it than anything that had ever entered my poor pussy before.

Panic ran through my mind. I’ll never take it! I’ll never manage it! I want that thing all the way in me, I do but I’ll never…

He smiled at me and said: “You will manage it with ease. And with comfort. And with delight. Your pussy is already wet and ready for me.”

And, do you know, it was true! I knew I would handle it with ease. And comfort. And delight. And as Friday pulled me up to him he reached to my pussy and proved the second part of what he said was true. His index finger, as thick as the cock of most of the men I’ve had sex with ran up my wet gash and sank deep into me. I felt myself squeeze it tight as it withdrew.

“Up now, Thursday,” said Friday. I somehow clambered up so that I was kneeling on the chair, my knees to either side of his body and my pussy poised above His cock. “And down!”

And he was in me and I felt every line, every vein of that monster fill me up and stretch me out. I’d never thought I could take such a thing inside me but it fit me as sweetly as a hand fits the glove that’s made for it. I lowered myself down till my pussy lips were tangled with the hair above his cock and my lips and face were touching his.

“Ahhhh! Yes! You,” He said, “are Thursday.”

“Yes! I am THURSDAY! AND I BELONG TO YOU! I BELONG TO YOU!” I shrieked it out and danced up and down and took him, deeper and deeper into me. I came for the first time then.

After a time when he filled me in my mind as well as my cunt, he reached up and cupped my breasts in his huge, spadelike hands and he gave my nipples hard sucks that ended with bites.

Then he grinned at me and said: “They say more than a handful is wasted. But I have very large hands…. And your lovely tits fill them just enough…”

And it was so. As he spoke it, it was made so. My tits sort of flowed and fountained outwards and filled his hands just nicely and I was so happy to be his big-titted Thursday-girl that I didn’t think to wonder at the way it happened. (Not that Mr Sunday ever explains himself. To me or anyone else.)

I came for the second time then.

And then he gripped my upper arms and pulled me up and sort of flipped me around so I was riding him with my back to him. And what I saw when he turned me around was all the other girls. They had got themselves naked too and were seated in chairs watching us. Their hands were in their pussies (in the case of Monday and Tuesday in each other’s pussies) and they were showing just how much enjoyed the show.

I heard his voice rumble from behind me (and up his cock and through me too!) and he said: “These are your sisters. They belong to you.”

That made it complete somehow. I knew the ritual was fulfilled. I said: “I am Thursday. You belong to me!”

And they called back to me.

“I belong to you, Thursday!”

“I’m yours, my sister Thursday!”

“You belong to each other, my loves. And you all belong to me!”

With that we all cried out: “We belong to Sunday!” And he thrust up into me and stood from the chair and carried me forward still impaled on his prick and then knelt so that I landed on all fours in the centre of the circle of chairs with him still in me. And then he pushed me forward with his thrusts, to where Friday sat and I began to prove to my Sisters how much I loved them and belonged to them.

I lost count of how many times I came. I passed out to the sensation of Friday eating his come out of me.

* * *

Well, I thought I’d give you a moment to recover from reading that (and frigging yourself silly if I know you, dear). Better now? Then I’ll get to the end of my story.

I awoke the next morning in the bed in Sandy’s room. I was sore and sticky and tired. I just lay there for a few moments and was thinking about getting up and finding a loo when the door opened and Tuesday stuck her head around it.

“You awake then? Feel like facing up to breakfast?”

I nodded somehow.

“Full English or just cereal and toast.”

“Weetabix. If you’ve got it. And some coffee?”

“Two ticks. Get yourself to the loo and the shower and I’ll be back in a tick”

And I did just that and when I came out she was there already in the bed: she’d discarded her t-shirt and jeans and was sitting there naked with a breakfast tray on her lap, buttering some toast.

“Pop in,” she said and I did. And she fed me and checked out my pussy and felt my tits (I just let her and continued to munch on my toast) and congratulated me on them. “Mr Sunday doesn’t give everyone improved tits. He says they would look silly on me or Monday. And Wednesday came already equipped with her massive bazookas.”

“Ummm. Look what….”

“Just happened? You’ve joined the staff, dear. You’re one of Mr Sunday’s girls now. Will be until you choose to leave.”


“Your friend Sandy? Gone. Driven off in the night. Poor dear. Mr Sunday is very firm on people meeting their family responsibilities, especially to aged parents. Lucky for me I was an orphan when I was recruited. This is your room now. The stuff from your old bedsit will be picked up later today (Friday’s taking care of that as it’s Saturday’s turn to take care of the Boss) and we can get you properly settled in…”

“But who is… How did he…”

“Don’t ask. Because he will never tell. I have my suspicions, mind you. But it would be rude to put them to him. And pointless too.”

“I don’t understand.”

She gave me a smile and a little hug. “Don’t try is my advice. Just accept your good fortune and live a life of luxury. Also lots of sex.”

And at that for some reason the panic that had come over me at the dinner table returned. I was trapped and controlled and made into someone I wasn’t by this terrible ogre and had to get out. I rolled out of bed and ran to the door, trying to get away and get free…

And as I got to the door Tuesday’s voice snapped out: “Thursday! Stop that!”

And I just froze where I was, my hand on the door knob.

“Come back, here you silly girl!”

I turned and I walked back to where Tuesday was now standing by the bed. I couldn’t not do what she said.

She gave an annoyed little ‘tsk’ like a primary school teacher to one of her pupils who had wet herself or eaten a crayon.

“Get down on you knees, Thursday and clasp your hands behind you.”

I did that too, without even thinking. I was trembling a bit when she reached down and touched my cheek gently.

“You’re going to be Bottom Girl for a bit,” said Tuesday, “Lucky you.”


“Mr S. has fixed it so that you’ll obey all your Sisters for the next week. Or a bit less. Until next Thursday, in fact when it’ll be your day again and he’ll see how you’re shaping up.”

“You mean… He won’t use me again… For nearly a week?”

My voice went into a squeak at that. For someone who had been running away from dire captivity a moment ago, I felt horribly depressed that I wouldn’t be fucked by my captor any time soon.

Tuesday grinned. “You’ll survive. We all do. And your Sisters will want to put you through your paces. You’re a lucky girl. Do you know how much I long to be made Bottom Girl again? I’ve tried provoking him but he always knows what I’m up to… Still, there are compensations.” She got back into bed and said. “Now, without taking your hands from behind you, come over here and start eating my pussy. Let’s try to improve your technique before Saturday takes you off to her chamber of horrors.”

I crawled across the bedsheets towards her and just before I began to lick I paused and said:

“I thought you said I could choose to leave?”

“Oh silly girl! You’ve got to give us a fair trial. Consider that an order!”

And I did.

The week went by and I served them all in one’s and twos and threes (and yes, Saturday is a complete and utter bitch-dominatrix: only The Boss can tame her) and I worked in the garden and on Thursday morning I woke Mr Sunday from his rest at the appointed hour and I was His Girl all day until Friday roused me out just before dawn on her day.

And that was three months ago.

On Sundays, you’ll be interested to know, we (and He) get a day off. We walk down to the parish church in the morning and sit in the pew reserved for the Lord of The Manor (what the locals make of us I really don’t know) and Mr Sunday makes ferocious notes about the service and the sermon, glaring at the vicar the whole time. Then we go back and have a huge Sunday lunch and spend the afternoon and evening relaxing, watching television and DVDs and reading and playing games (Tuesday collects board games and always has a new one she wants us to try). No sex on Sundays. Ever.

And finally, now, I get to the bit that explains why I’m writing to you. (See, I did have an ulterior motive!) Friday is Mr Sunday’s Librarian. She keeps his huge collection of books up to date and does research for him. And her poor old dad in the Caribbean has gone and had a stroke. And Mr S is hot stuff on ‘honouring thy Mother and Father’. So when he asked at Sunday dinner if any of us knew of a good librarian who might want a job…

Naturally, I thought of you, love.

I’ll be at the station on Friday afternoon to meet the 15-08 train. You’ll be there too. After reading this letter, you won’t have a choice. Don’t be nervous (consider that an Order!): I’m sure he’ll like you. And aren’t we lucky to be orphans? We could be together in His service for a long, long time.

Your loving Sister,
* * *