Wednesday, 9 October 2013

S&M Here! Now! With Female Dominatrix -Flagellation as Extra featuring Theresa Berkley, Miss Ring, One Eyed Peg, Bauld Cunted Poll and Ebony Bet


The Berkley wasn’t the sort of horse one finds at The Derby. It didn’t leap hurdles nor did it canter around Epsom. Being made of wood it wasn’t that easy to sit astride although it did favour the odd application of the riding crop. The Berkley Horse was, in the politest sense, a piece of erotic furniture which really, when all is said and done and in plain English, is a flogging machine.
“A notorious machine was invented for Mrs Berkley to flog gentlemen upon, in the spring of 1828. It is capable of being opened to a considerable extent, so as to bring the body to any angle that might be desirable. There is a print in Mrs Berkley's memoirs, representing a man upon it quite naked. A woman is sitting in a chair exactly under it, with her bosom belly, and bush exposed: she is manualizing his embolon, whilst Mrs Berkley is birching his posteriors.”

The precise year of Theresa Berkley’s birth is hard to establish. We do know she died in 1836. She was said to be a very attractive woman, one who…serviced the aristocracy in ways their wives couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“She possessed the first requisite of a courtezan, viz., lewdness; for without a woman is positively lecherous she cannot keep up the affectation of it, and it will soon be perceived that she moves her hands or her buttocks to the tune of pounds, shillings, and pence.
The horse, or chevalet as the famed dominatrix called it, was a device where men of noble birth would be strapped before punishment, a good lashing usually, followed. One gentleman said he would pay “a pound sterling for the first blood drawn, two pounds sterling if the blood runs down to my heels, three pounds sterling if my heels are bathed in blood, four pounds sterling if the blood reaches the floor, and five pounds sterling if you succeed in making me lose consciousness.” The gent was obviously a connoisseur of the crop if not conservative with his cash.

This high-class flagellation brothel was situated in the heart of London, 22, Charlotte Street to be exact. It was from this address that princes, dukes, baron’s and knights of the realm would visit to have their bottoms smacked, whipped, beaten black, blue and often raw. Those Imperial coves knew a thing or two about having fun. The establishment reached a degree of notoriety as such a place might but never seemed to find itself, very often at least, in the courts. It is even thought, incorrectly, that Exhibition of Female Flagellants  by George Cannon, a pornographic tome, was inspired by Theresa Berkley.

According to clients, the good lady was not adverse to a bit of bum bashing herself.

"More silver coin if you make me bleed"
"For those whose lech it was to flog a woman, she would herself submit to a certain extent; but if they were gluttons at it, she had women in attendance who would take any number of lashes the flogger pleased, provided he forked out an ad valorem duty. Among these were Miss Ring, Hannah Jones, Sally Taylor, One-eyed Peg, Bauld-cunted Poll, and a black girl, called Ebony Bet."

Such colourful sobriquets especially that of Poll who apparently was much appreciated by many a Sir.

The notorious horse was not the only device of twisted pleasure on offer, there were hooks planted in the ceiling from which a body could be hung.  The house employed various whips, nettles, birch canes and other methods of restraint. And the clients were not all male; there were one or two females who also enjoyed such vigorous pursuits. Mistress Berkley, a devout Catholic (no surprises there then) was, as I said, uncommonly attractive but also an astute business woman whose rules and regulations were as rigid as the gentlemen clients members. If you didn’t follow them then you were firmly removed then escorted off the premises.

Theresa Berkley died a rich woman. Her brother, a colonial from Australia, a rough uncouth land filled with crude fellows. Upon his return to Victorian London with all its gentility, was abashed to find out his sisters sordid secrets and refused to accept his inheritance fleeing back to the ‘Land Down Under’ as quickly as a ship could sail him. Much like a boomerang thrown by an Aborigine.
The fortune left behind did not go to waste though as her Majesty's government took it for safe keeping. The British never mind how one makes one's money as long as one pays one's taxes what? And there is no trashing quite like that administered by the taxman now is there?
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Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

4 comments:

LeeKwo said...

Great story teller that style of the English essayists of the 1800s/I really enjoyed the whipping of words/I have never quite understand a good thrashing/I suspect the poor had enough hell in their lives to go paying for more/Great work/Regards Lee Kwo/

Aurora Hylton said...

I guess there have always been some folks who enjoyed a good whipping! If I were forced to go into the sex trade, I'd be a dominatrix, as then I'd be in control of what transpired. Honestly, I don't think I'd make a very good one in the long run. I'm one of those who doesn't like to hurt anybody.

Russell C.J. Duffy said...

Lee>>>Good and thrashing do not, in my book, go together in blissful union.

Russell C.J. Duffy said...

Aurora>>>I agree. I am the same. Lovemaking yes but bashing a babe about her buttocks would send me bored rather than rigid.