Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand (-/F M/F F/F) - Part 6 added

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 1: A visit to the Smithy


I am Kathrin and for six years now I have been the mayor of our little town. It's an office I love although it's certainly no 9-to-5 job, rather one that follows me from the town hall into my home and sometimes into my dreams.

One of the few hobbies that I still allow myself is our historical guild. I've been with the guild since I was born, because already my parents were active members. My first role was baker's apprentice, then milkmaid, then (once and unconvincingly) a virgin princess. I was junior witch twice (more convincingly), a shield-maiden once (but was not keen on wielding swords) and I even wore the velvet robe of the dutchess at our castle's 600-year anniversary.

To make this very clear: we are no 'renfaire' guild, which hangs around at these commercial carnivals. We are a historic guild. We wear historic dress, we pitch tent in the shadow of real castles, we tolerate no elves and no orcs among our ranks.

Anyway, with a stressfull office my activity in the guild has dwindled down to one event per year:
Our town's annual castle festival is the heart of the year for our guild. Every August I enjoy the familiar scent of woodsmoke, warm beer and sausages that have been on the grill too long. After having run through all female positions the guild has to offer, I now prefer the role as a simple kitchen helper at our guild's tavern stand. Just a plain linen dress, an apron, bare feet and a few peaceful days with my old friends. And as mayor nobody denies me this role ... "doing some honest work for a change"

At least that is my hope every year. But reality is more like :

"Madam Mayor, could I just bend thine ear for a moment?"
“Milady, my cousin seeketh permit for a shed but the Building Council answereth not...”
Or just as bad in modern tongue:
“Mayor, can I talk to you real quick about zoning near the river path?”

I can't escape it. Even in a laced bodice and soot-streaked apron I seem to be on duty. They expect me to break character and be at their service - a walking Town Hall collecting empty beer steins. Last year, after a non-ending conversation about speed limits and festival parking — while I was scrubbing grease off our big copper cauldron — I nearly quit the guild altogether.

But before I could bring myself to send the email, we had a group outing. The castle in the neighboring town had finally been renovated. And before they opened for the common public, they invited our guild for a tour - we do have some historical expertise among us and with our costumes we always provide a great photo opportunity. A bus trip was organized, the visit fell on one of the few empty days in my calendar, so I just jumped on board.
A lady from the administration of castles and gardens guided us through the newly opened castle rooms. But instead of talking about the history and architecture of the castle she delved on costs, funding, emergency exits and wheelchair accessible toilets. 'Good to know when I renovate my own castle' I was tempted to say.
Thankfully she didn't guide us through the last station, which was the dungeon and torture chamber. There we were greeted by Ian, the local blacksmith. A bear of a man as you'd expect from a blacksmith, he wore a leather apron over his tunic and spoke fluent renfaire-lingo.

"Kind friends and gentlefolk" he went as we entered the chilly torture chamber "like any prisoner that arrived here hundreds of years before, let me show you the instruments of truth, order and obedience... As your schooled eye will certainly note, most of them are replicates, alas truthfully crafted from historic examples. How doth I knoweth? Ian, your humble blacksmith, forged them himself."

He pointed out the rack, the Iron Maiden, the heretic's fork. Well made but nothing we hadn't seen before. But then something unusual: a Scold's Bridle. A cage around the head, its front an iron mask with a flat tongue-press that jutted inward the mouth.

"When this piece is locked upon the head" he said with visible pride "the wearer may utter not a word lest their tongue be cleft or crushed. A tool for unruly women."

He laughed at his own joke. The female half of our group didn’t, the male half didn't dare to.

“Would any brave soul among ye dare try it on?” he asked, holding the mask aloft.

I almost raised my hand but a younger girl* beat me to it and stepped giggling forward. They buckled it on her. Her whole face disappeared behind its iron plates and though she tried to speak no intelligible sound came. Just wide eyes and awkward shrugs. Don't ask me about the other torture instruments that Ian presented to us afterwards - I admit I was captivated by the Scold's Bridle that the girl wore. A few minutes later they removed it already since we had to catch our dinner reservations.

(*) That girl was 'Barbara the Volunteer' as we call her. She had never volunteered for anything usefull. But whenever someone was needed to be locked in the tickling stocks, be dunked in the water or be lead to public trial as a witch one could count on her. Her favourite act was to walk over glowing coals as proof that she was no witch - most impressive after sunset.

Back on the bus I still thought what it might be like wearing a Scold's Bridle:

"Treated a commoner, unrecognised, and if - not able t'answer to the heart-aches and the thousand natural shocks that public's flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd." I might have said had a skull been handy.


Only three days passed before I visited Ian’s smithy. He looked surprised to see me but recognised me despite me wearing business attire this time.

"A good morrow to thee, Lady Mayor! What seekest thou from mine humble forge this fair day?"

(Was he really staying in character all day? Hold my mead. A girl like me, born to the guild, can out-character you any day.)

"I am come to commission a Scold’s Bridle, good smith."

"Ah! Methinks thou wert taken with it, when last I did present the piece unto thy company." (Had I been that obvious?)
"Verily, such delicate smithwork is rare these days — a marvel wrought in iron." (Thank god not!)

"What cost dost thou set upon it?" (Maybe a little blunt.)

"The making of it shall keep me well occupied for a fortnight. Three thousand and five hundred Talers, tax included — shouldst thou require an invoice."

"Aye, I DO require an invoice. Who among us doth not?" (Who was kidding whom?)

"So thou art content with the price?" (As though he couldn't believed his luck.)

Breaking character a little, he turned to his computer. Soon an order confirmation slid quietly out of his laser printer.

"I had hoped for a parchment writ by quill, with waxen seal and all."

"Would that I could, m’lady. But alas — the king’s tax men cannot read the cursive hand." (He handed me the paper; I signed it with a cheap ballpen.)

"Dost thou require coin in advance?"

"Nay, not from a noble dame such as thyself, good Lady Mayor. I thank thee and shall send word when the work is complete — likely in a fortnight’s time."

And just like that, he figured we were done for the day.

"Dost thou not require my measurements?" I asked him.

"Measurements? For what purpose, milady?"

"If I am to wear it properly, it must needs fit, must it not?" (I was tempted to add “stupid.”)

"Wear it? Thou wouldst don the bridle thyself? But for what cause, madam?"

"For silence. For presence. For... peace." (I gave him a wry smile.) "And not for five minutes, good man. I mean to wear it a whole day."

(He blinked, nervous now. Wiping his hands on his leather apron.)

"Then must I fetch my tools of measure. Prithee, wait but a moment."

He returned less nervous and set to work: measuring the circumference of my head, the breadth of my jaw, the line of my throat, and more.

"I believe that shall suffice. Return in two weeks’ time, milady, and we shall see what the forge hath wrought."

[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

[Bigballgag1]

Its a good start and premise, interested to see where you take this. You set the scene well and made it clear to the reader why Kathrin would need such a device.

It would be nice to include some more description about Kathrin and what she looks like etc but you may be saving that deliberately for the big reveal once its made.

The big question though, will it work? Or will she find herself having to silently agree to things?

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 2: Return to the Smithy and Surprised by my Husband

Some of you have asked what I look like. Shame on you! I’m a successful, ambitious politician — you should be asking about my values and my agenda! But fine, I’ll give in to public pressure:
At a little over 50 on good days I look like Giorgia Meloni, on bad days I struggle not to resemble Angela Merkel. I keep my gray strands at bay with a tint called '6TF Dark Toffee Blonde'. Apart from my earrings, if I had any other piercings or tattoos, they'd be on parts of my body that are none of my voters’ or readers’ business.


A 'fortnight' later I visited the smithy again, this time in my guild dress and barefoot to set the mood. The Scold's Bridle Ian had made looked just like the one I had seen in the castle's torture chamber. We tried it on. It fit my head well, maybe a little too high. And the plate that supressed my tongue was a little too wide. Apart from that, good job.

"The head cage sitteth a touch too high, and the tongue plate seemeth a mite too wide." (I was not going to break character first)

"My lady, ‘tis so because I did allow for a cushion atop thy noble crown. And as for the tongue plate, I have prepared two other sizes for thy choosing." (He wasn't going to break character either)

I was impressed. He removed the mask, unscrewed the tongue plate, replaced it by a smaller one and fitted a small round cushion for the crown of my head. I tried the mask again. Everything aligned much better now.

"As regardeth the cushion, I could craft one clad in fine leather, which appeareth more historic. But the ones I make of Neoprene prove more practical — or so sayeth my customers who wear chastity belts."

“Wait, you also make chastity belts? And have customers who actually wear them?” I wanted to say breaking character. But the tongue plate effectively silenced me.

"Dost thou wish to behold thyself in yonder mirror?" (He gestured toward the corner of his workshop.)

But as I rose to walk over, the front of the mask swung open with a rattling sound and nearly dropped to the floor.

"Ah! We did forget to lock it."

He shut the hasp with a padlock, removed the key and placed it atop his credit card reader. The grin on his face made it clear: you stay locked until you pay. When I had been there two weeks before he wouldn't even accept a downpayment from me. Were two minutes inside the bridle already chipping away at my status as Lady Mayor?

So, locked in the mask, all I could do was walk over to the mirror. And I liked what I saw. Wearing the mask I still could see rather well, but from outside one could hardly see my face behind the mask. And we had already established that speaking with the tongue plate in my mouth was not an option. The only thing I didn't like was the shiny finish of the mask, he'd have to work on that. But right now I was in no position to express this wish. So I gave him a quiet thumbs-up.

"If milady findeth my work satisfactory, might I humbly request her payment?"

I drew my credit card from a hidden pocket in my guild dress and swiped it through his machine. He stood there, key in hand, and the very instant the receipt stopped printing, he unlocked the — now my — Scold’s Bridle.

"What thinkest thou?"

"It doth work." I had no intention of explaining to him exactly how.

"And the cushion, milady? Shall it be leather, or Neoprene?"

"I shall follow thy other customers and choose Neoprene. One more thing — the finish shineth too brightly for my liking. Canst thou make it more dull?"

"Aye, easily done. But the tarnish must needs dry a day or two, so thou canst not take it with thee anon."

He ducked beneath his counter and emerged with a brass bell that rang far too loud every time it moved.

"May I offer thee this bell, free of charge, to go with thy Scold’s Bridle? I could mount it atop the mask."

"Hmm... let me ponder a moment. Canst thou mount it suchwise that it may be removed — e’en whilst the mask remaineth locked on me?"

"Aye, I believe so."

"Then do it. The bell shall be most fine for when I stride through the crowds at the castle festival. But it shall drive my fellow guild members in the tavern kitchen half-mad."

"Very well, milady. Thou shalt receive thy Scold’s Bridle within a few days. And... should any inquire whence it came, prithee let it be known ‘twas made at Ian’s smithy."

"Whilst I weareth tis mask, methinks such telling may prove... difficult." I smiled. "But I take thy meaning."

In fact it should turn out that such dialogues mostly went like this:
Where did you buy this mask? I had it made to measure at Ian's smithy. Nice ... does he also make chastitiy belts? Yes, but with them I have no first hand experience.

The Scold's Bridle arrived at our house on a day when I came home early in the afternoon to get some paperwork done. Of course I had to try it on immediately. I even decided to mount the bell on top of the mask — after all, I would only annoy myself. When the mask sat properly on my head I clasped the lock shut and placed the key on the kitchen counter. I went into my office and started working. I had to focus on not moving my head too much to keep that stupid bell quiet. And I had to resist picking up the phone. Calling the Mayor's office with someone on the line who couldn't speak - but ring a bell - would definitely raise questions. Aside from that, the mask wasn’t much of an obstacle to working from home. And I was slowly getting better at not ringing the bell on my head. I got so engrossed in my work that I didn’t notice my husband coming home.

My husband, Paul, I forgot to mention him. He’s an architect. We met at university, got married and he followed me back to my little hometown. He is NOT a guild member.
To complete my home story once we're at it: We have two kids but they already left our home. Our son is currently finishing his PhD abroad. And our younger daughter, well, I can neither remember her current major (the third now?), nor can I imagine who might need someone with such a degree. When Paul recently said she’s studying until she finds herself a nice doctor I failed to protest.

I had planned to show Paul my newest acquisition anyway, just with a few introductory words. It came differently.

He had already seen the packaging of the bridle in the kitchen, so he was expecting something. When he didn’t see me, he called my name — but I couldn’t answer. I got up from my office chair — and immediately the bell on my head gave me away. I walked towards the kitchen, he walked towards my office, and we met halfway in the hallway. He looked at me, amused. Walked a circle around me. Flicked the bell on my head. Checked the padlock.

“Perfect, Kathrin. Finally you can’t talk but you can still do your work — and your bell tells me exactly where you are. What more could a husband want?” He grinned. “I won’t ask how much you spent on it. But I’m guessing it wasn’t cheap. In that case, I’ll make sure it sees proper use.” With that, he held up a small key. “I found this lying on the kitchen counter. Now I know what it’s for. You can ask for it when we go to bed.” I had planned to ease myself into wearing the bridle slowly. But now I’d already been wearing it for three hours — and going to bed was another three hours away. Six hours as a start. And what about dinner?

Well, we had a very lopsided dinner. My husband helped himself to whatever he found in the fridge, while I sucked a rather bland — but certainly healthy — smoothie through a straw. I had to fold the straw to get it into my mouth. We decided we'd drill a small hole in front of the mouth plate to make handling straws easier... later, once I was unbridled again. During dinner, my husband told me all about his day... uninterrupted! And after dinner we sat and watched TV — soccer, of course. He even got to eat cashew nuts without me stealing most of them. After the match, he announced he was going to bed. He changed into his pyjamas, went to the bathroom, and then came back holding the key and looking incredibly smug. Imagine his surprise when I reached into the pocket of my jacket and pulled out the same key. I used it to unlock my bridle. After having that plate in my mouth for so long, it took me a moment to speak. “Every lock comes with two keys, darling,” I said, mocking him.
When we finally retired to our chamber, we consummated our sacred union like newlyweds.

Over the next few weeks, I slowly got used to my Scold’s Bridle. I learned to move without making the bell ring too much. The hole we drilled made drinking through a straw much easier. Soon I could last whole Saturdays. (Saturdays — because most Sundays I have one or more official appointments.) We reactivated an old piggy bank. After locking the bridle on me, I’d drop the key through the slot. The key to the trapdoor on the piggy’s belly stayed with my husband. He'd release me when he saw fit. But in case of an emergency, I could simply smash poor piggy on the kitchen floor.

Only sleeping with the bridle never worked for me, although I tried. I can only sleep on my right side — and lying on my right pushed the tongue plate painfully between my jaws and into my left cheek. Not bearable.

Apart from that, I considered my Scold’s Bridle a full success. Besides the promised goals — silence and disguise — I’d already lost two kilograms (not much, but I credit the bridle), and it had... rejuvenated Paul's and my passion.


[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 3: Pulled over by the Police and At the Guild Metting

Soon I was ready to introduce my Scold’s Bridle to the guild. The upcoming monthly meeting seemed like a good opportunity. I put on my kitchen maid dress, went barefoot, put on the bridle — and, without much thought and in a bit of a hurry — dropped the key as usual into the piggy bank.

Then I got into my car. Driving barefoot isn't worse than driving in high heels. By the way, I drive a white BMW convertible. Well, being the Mayor does have its perks.

We were a sight to behold: a premium car with its top down so that everyone could clearly see the historical kitchen maid behind the wheel — a woman who apparently had been harshly sentenced to reconsider her nagging habits. We weren’t just a sight for “everyone” but especially for a certain police officer who pulled me over just a few minutes after I left home.

He was maybe ten years younger than me, wore sunglasses and came slowly marching up — in that wide-legged officer stride — towards my parked Beemer.

“Good evening, routine traffic stop,” he introduced himself.

He walked slowly around the vehicle, though I guess his eyes were mostly on my bridle.

“Can you imagine why I pulled you over today?”

Traffic lawyers recommend not to answer this question. That was easy, all I could do was grunt to make it clear I couldn’t speak.

“Can you please remove that mask?”

Pointing at the padlock I shook my head — which of course made the stupid bell ring.

“Naturally you have the right to remain silent. However, I’ll need to see identification, your driver’s license, and vehicle registration.”

That was no problem. I handed them over, hoping the name of the Mayor might ring a bell. (pun unintended)

“Your documents and the vehicle check out — but I need to confirm that the person under the mask matches the ID. Please turn around.”

With a firm grip, he turned me to face away from him — and seconds later, I was wearing handcuffs. (For the first time outside of a bedroom.)

“You remain here. I need to check something in my patrol car.”

He returned to his cruiser, tapped at a few screens and came back after a few minutes.

“The database lists under 'unique identifying features' a tattoo on your left breast.”

As he turned me back around, I thought... would he really? Yes! He unbuttoned my dress from the top, pushed the fabric aside with his right hand and exposed most of my left breast.
There it was (and still is): a round tattoo, about six centimeters wide. He examined it closely — with eyes and fingers. Then he buttoned my dress back up, unlocked the handcuffs, stepped back, and gave a formal salute.

“A thousand pardons, Lady Mayor. Word reached mine ears that thou didst bear the crest of our guild upon thy very heart, but I wished to behold it with mine own eyes. Ride safely hence — we shall meet anon at the guild gathering, I suppose.”

Of course I knew Peter, the officer (it is a small town). When he joined the guild at 10 I was 22 and leader of the youth group. (Was this already 30 years ago?) But these days he was also at the town council as a member of the opposing political party. Therefore, when he stopped me, I asked myself which loyality would be stronger - to his party or to our guild?

The guild tattoo had come about twenty years earlier, during a very merry guild outing to a Renfaire in the neighboring town. (Renfaire, I admit, not truly historic.) Someone suggested it, and after enough schnapps six of us - men and women alike, considering ourselves the very salt of the guild - found it a great idea. A small tattoo studio in a tent was still open and glad to serve us six, all slightly tipsy, all wanting the same design: our guild emblem. We haggled them even down to a 'pay 5, get 6' deal. And so an inofficial but lasting guild tradition was born. Lasting also because to this day some very devout guild members let themselves be tattooed. And the guild's board still complains at every annual meeting: a secretary, a treasurer or a youth coordinator are far more useful to the guild than yet another member with a tattooed chest.

Was it plausible that Peter during 30 years in the guild had never seen my guild tattoo? Maybe. I admit there was an age when I 'shared the hayloft' with other guild members. But Peter was too young then and I was even his chaperon. Later I became more virtuous. And regarding my guild dress, I never really competed with the other female guild members in their 'cleavage race'. Firstly because I am just not that gifted, secondly I started to think about my political career. Anyway, now Peter had seen my tattoo not only with his own eyes but also with his own fingers.

Once again the mask had proved its worth. I couldn’t speak. I was unrecognizable, at least one could pretend. And Peter certainly didn't treat me like the Mayor.


I knew I couldn’t just walk into the guild meeting wearing my Scold’s Bridle, take a seat and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. But I was prepared. (We had discussed a “neck violin” at length at a previous guild meeting, modelled of course all the time by Barbara, but my Scold’s Bridle was clearly in a different league.)

The jingling of my bell got me the attention of the assembled guild members, their looks followed me and my mask.
I walked straight to the board’s table. The current chairwoman was Mary, my second cousin (yes, we do live in a small town). As I had forewarned her, I handed her a rolled parchment, gave a small curtsey and took my place beside the board table, head slightly bowed, hands folded demurely in my lap. Writing with a quill on parchment and sealing scrolls with wax was something I used to teach to the younger guild members. Just borrowing the actual city seal was ... questionable.

My cousin stood, broke the wax seal of the scroll, held it up for all to see and then began to read aloud in a solemn tone:


“Behold here Kathrin, the rightful wedded wife of Paul, an honourable and chartered master of the builder’s craft.
It hath come to our ears — not once, but many times — that this woman doth possess a wicked tongue, speaking oft where modest wives ought hold their peace. (general approval from the guild members)
More still, in her ceaseless errands beyond the threshold she hath neglected the duties of hearth and husband. (further approval)
As both chastisement and correction — and as warning to others” (at this point she looked at those persons I had instructed her to) “we do sentence her to wear this Scold’s Bridle, until such time as she better her ways, remember her virtues and reclaim her wifely modesty.

By order of the Magistrate: Signed, stamped and sealed — The Lady Mayor”


There was a general murmur of agreement from the assembled guild members, maybe more from the men as from the women. But well, who would dare oppose a verdict issued by the mayor herself?

With that, I took my usual seat. The serving girl approached and asked somewhat skeptically if I'd get my usual drink. I nodded and pulled a straw from my gown.
After the guild meeting's official part was over people started to surround me, asking all kind of questions. Alas in vain. When they had finally convinced themselves that I really couldn't speak and was in no position to take the mask off they retreated, some a little shocked.

But again my Scold's Bridle had worked perfectly: nobody had pestered me with "Mrs. Mayor, just a moment ..." questions.

For the next event I might carry with me a sign with standard answers:
- Can't speak
- Can't take it off
- at home
- not Paul's idea
- by order of Mayor
- Ian the black-smith
- totally worth it
- yes, also CBs


[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 4: At the Castle Festival

In the following months I kept on wearing my Scold's Bridle on those Saturdays on which I'd stay at home. On some of these evenings, Paul, my husband would have friends over. I remembered them always a bit timid around me, not knowing whether to treat me as their hostess ('mind bringing me another?') or as Mrs. Mayor (I hope it’s not too forward to ask — might I have another beer, please?). With the mask on my head all of this timidness was gone. And with no possibility to participate/interfere in their conversations I could concentrate on being their perfect hostess. Ah, and Paul ordered me to remove that bell on these evenings.

Soon the annual castle festival was drawing nearer. I declared early on that I would sleep at home ... I am just too old for that. While the festival is more or less always the same, this time there was indeed something new: Barbara the Volunteer had volunteered as a kitchen helper.

A step-in main witch was found. Generally, wearing outlandish hair colors automatically signed you up for the trial as junior witch. At the last guild meeting before the festival you'd get a warning: either cut your hair, cover it, or face the inquisition. At the festival, if your hair gave you away as a witch or mistress of the devil, your hands would be tied together and you'd be tethered to the main witch. This witch throng was then lead through the crowd of visitors onto the wooden rostrum where the trial took place. Sometimes the parents of the junior witches even slipped the inquisitors hints about their evil deeds. But usually the inquisitors would be lenient with them and only cut away their dyed hair for burning it on the stake - together with the main witch, should she this time fail the walking-over-coals test. Yes, this meant that you could be left with a rather unbecoming haircut - a few went away almost bald. But there never was a shortage of (mostly) girls serving as junior witches.

My Scold's Bridle got me a lot of attention when our guild marched onto the festival grounds. And it may have attracted additional customers to our guild's tavern. When you sign up for tavern duty you are actually working. Not much time to stroll around among the booths, have a break, chat with guests - no option for me this time anyway. Barbara did her best to help us, but she was obviously lacking experience.
She hardly could pass me standing at the hearth without clumsily bumping into me. Or squeezing her way into the kitchen just when I was on my way outside - when a moment's wait could have avoided this. Once she even let the milk cook over because she seemed to watch my mask instead of the pot. Apart from that, we handled the kitchen quite well.

Of course, a young woman like Barbara, tall, 'gifted', long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, full lips, feminine hips, toned legs in her rather revealing dress (maybe she had grown since last wearing it) ... will get some comments like "Dost thou serve only food and drink, or servest thou thyne guest's other appetites as well?". (I mean, who wouldn't?) If spoken in proper renfaire-lingo they were tolerated and not taken seriously.

In the evening of the first day, when the last guests had long left, we had already cleaned the kitchen and were stocking up for the next day, a strange procession came walking to our tavern: Mary (as chairperson), two virgin damsels with burning candles, and two of the tallest and strongest men of our guild, both wearing masks. I somewhat expected they'd come for Barbara, but to my surprise they came straight at me.

Mary spoke "Kathy, mine kinswoman, ’twas reported unto me that despite being punished by this mask thou art a right nuisance to thy fellows in the tavern. We have come hence and shall put an end to such mischief."

I didn't know what I had done and what punishment to expect, but with the two virgin damsels present, it couldn't get too bad. (Our guild is sometimes lewd and kinky, but always responsibly.) The two man gripped my ankles and lifted me upside down so that my Skold's Bridle was just above the tavern floor. Thank god their grip included the hem of my dress, so my modesty remained intact. Then the two girls knelt down with their candles and let them drip into the bell. When the bell clapper was covered in wax they stopped and the two masked man stood me back on my feet. The other tavern staff applauded. Apparently I had gotten so used to the bell on top of my mask that I did no longer notice how annoying it was to others.

Now fully silenced I waved to the others my goodbye. On the way back to my car I reminisced the day. The mask had worked perfectly. Not a single 'Mrs. Mayor, just a moment please ...'. I had drunken two beers, but over the course of one day this isn't too much. And now the policeman knew who this masked lady in the white convertible was and should avert his gaze. At home Paul released me from my bridle. Then I had a late microwave dinner and went to bed early because I wanted to attend mass the next morning.
I admit that I am not a regular church goer anymore, but the 8:00 a.m. Sunday mass during the castle festival is something special because it's in Latin. I had learned Latin at school, so I understood part of it and the sing-sang of the priest seems to be the same in any language. Obviously many people felt the same fascination because the small medieval castle church was full. Locked in my mask I hadn't planned to enter the benches in the church's main room. After all this WAS a holy mass and not a historic spectacle. But this church had an anteroom (an 'excluse') for penitents like me. There I stood - historically most correct - and followed the holy mass through a window with an iron grid that separated the congregation sitting in the main room from the unworthy standing outside.

With that my second day at the castle festival - again mostly at the tavern's kitchen - began. It largely went like the first, just without my bell ringing with every move. We had a short moment when the head of the opposing political party came by. Apparently he wanted to see my mask with his own eyes. He said something like "Good idea, putting an end to your silly chatter. Your husband should have kept you out of politics long ago." I had many sharp retorts on my tongue ... but also the mask's iron plate that kept me from speaking them out. In that moment Barbara came to my rescue. She 'tripped' and 'accidentally' spilled half a beerstein onto his pants. When the incident was finally resolved after lots of apologies I wanted to high-five Barbara. But her hand 'missed' mine, instead it went over my shoulder and we ended in a full-body hug; she even kissed my mask (later at home I found her lipstick on it). As quick as it went - I think nobody had seen us - as long it lingered in my mind. It stayed with me all evening, while we cleaned up and re-packed everything for the next year's festival. On my drive home I summarized: my mask had worked again, also in an unexpected way: Both Mary's henchmen and Barbara hadn't treated my like the mayor when they sat me upside down - each in their own way.


[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 5: Being Honest


Now that you have stayed with me for 4 chapters I can be more open with you:

I met Paul, my future husband, at university during what I now call my 'green hair phase'. At that time I was living with… well my girlfriend. So, to Paul it was clear from the beginning that I wasn’t fully straight. Maybe Paul was a little drunk and didn’t mean it 100% seriously when he suggested on one of our first dates: I could sleep with every girl as long as we would let him watch. As cheesy as it sounds, this solution has worked for both of us for the last 25 years! Think of it: he knows who I am with, I know he approves of her, and she knows whom I am loyal to.
Currently I have gone full circle because every other weekend or so Mary (yes, my second cousin and chairperson of the guild) comes over. We were once each other’s first lesbian experiences. Mary's husband knows where she's going and what we’re doing but - unlike Paul - isn’t interested in watching. (Paul also has stopped watching long ago, but he could.) Mary and me being modern, open-minded women have of course told our husbands that we would totally tolerate and support them should they also want to explore … but no.

My 'green hair phase' has also left me with an ever fainting souvenir on my back: when I look really closely I still see four scars from when I got myself suspended from four hooks pierced through the skin on my back. I wouldn’t recommend this experience to just anyone, but it gave me an adrenaline rush that I could later only compare to — as a woman — ousting the male mayor of 12 years from his office in the first round of voting.
But this phase was long ago and apparently I am quite successful in keeping up my heteronormative facade: last year, when I asked our party’s queer spokesperson for a rainbow sticker for my car he declined it sternly, saying I was just blatantly currying favor with the LGBTQIA+ community.


But let's return to my story. After the castle festival was over Paul and I went on vacation for two weeks - without the bridle. Its next planned 'public' appearance was Halloween, when I'd wear it to greet the trick-or-treaters ringing our doorbell.

When we returned from the vacation I was in for a surprise. As mayor I am not head of the town hall staff and they can do their own HR without asking me. And so they had hired Barbara as a junior clerk for the vehicle registration office. This went quite well for a few weeks, just, until now, the registration office had never needed almost daily coordination with the mayor's office. But then 'my' secretary of the mayor's office had a serious bicycle accident and - including subsequent rehabilitation - would be out of office for several months. And Barbara volunteered to take her place during this time.

My previous secretaries hadn't given me that much attention. A hug for hello and goodbye, but only if no one was watching. A hand on the shoulder or the upper arm during conversations. Since she was quite a bit taller than me she'd knee down beside me when we looked together at my computer screen. Also the way she dressed ... I remember having to explain away her too-tight top with a clothing mishap during lunch and her too-short skirt by saying she was heading straight to a party afterward. It might have been funny had it not all happened in the mayor’s office under the eyes of half the town.
Had she not been so good at her temporary job I might have tried to get rid of her. But with her our computers always 'worked' and she quickly grasped what needed to be done. And what she wrote needed hardly any correction from me. Or maybe she was just my first secretary who knew how to use AI.

But I could no longer rule out that her constant attention and affection might impair my work for this town.
I had to invite Barbara home. But before that I needed to talk with Paul.

That evening when I came home Paul was sitting in the kitchen, a bottle of wine open. He poured me a glass.

P: You are rather late.

I: I need to talk with you, but before that I needed to think.

P: About Barbara?

I: Why? Yes, how do you know?

P: You have been talking an awful lot about her lately. So, what did you come up with?

I: That I love you. And that I love her attention, closeness, her freshness.

P: She's twenty. You're fiftytwo. She works for you. Don't you see how messed up that is?

I: I do. But it doesn’t feel messed up when I’m around her. When she laughs and looks at me. When she seeks every little opportunity to discretely touch me. Not the mayor, just me.

P: And what does she see in you? A mentor? A phase? A lover?

I: I don't care. I want to be touched — not just physically. I want to feel like I’m still alive. (my smile was a little bitter)

P: Aren't me and Mary enough for that? And if she’s using you? (he was also a little bitter)

I: Then I’ll see it. I’m not naïve.

P: True. You’re not naïve as long as you let your BRAIN do the 'thinking'.

I: You know for the last 25 years I’ve never been with any girl without your consent. I want Barbara, I need her, and I’m asking your consent.

P: I don’t want to lose you ... if you think it's worth it ... but I won't watch.

I know it sounds strange, but this was the smallest degree of 'yes' that was possible. We agreed that when I'd invite Barbara over, he would be present and he'd do the initial talking. We had means to keep me quiet.

It took me a few days until I found the opportunity (and courage?) to invite Barbara to our house.

On that evening Barbara arrived a little early and rang the doorbell dressed like for a romantic date — heels, short black skirt, red silk blouse with ample cleavage, a short black leather jacket and skillful makeup (I am always impressed what a little makeup can do compared to the 'natural' look we cultivate in our guild).

She was certainly surprised when Paul opened the door.

B: Oh, good evening. I thought... Is she —

P: She’s inside. Come in.

He helped Barbara out of her jacket as she stepped inside. There, in the armchair by the fireplace, I sat wearing one of my 'little black ones' and, rather out of place, the Scold’s Bridle (without bell).

B: Okay... wow. Am I coming at an inconvenient time?

P: You’re not. Please — have a seat.

Paul picked up a bottle of wine and began to pour her a glass.

P (as he poured): Are you old enough to drink?

Barbara gave a surprised laugh.

B: I’m twenty. Do you want to see my ... (starting to nestle with her purse)

P (handing her the glass): It's okay. But, you understand why I asked?

She took the glass, maybe a little peeved.

B: I’m legal. In every sense.

P: Good. Then we can talk like adults. (pointing at me) We’ve agreed that I’ll be the one speaking for now.

B: Obviously (gesturing toward the bridle)

P: It was her idea. She didn’t trust herself not to say too much, too fast. And she wanted to hear you. Without jumping ahead.

B: I honestly didn't expect this.

P: So, what did you expect?

B: Okay ... I just thought we were flirting.

P: You surely were. So she invited you here — and gave me the space to ask you plainly: Do you know what you want?

B: No. Not really. I just know I like how I feel when I’m around her.

Paul nodded.

P: That’s not nothing. But here’s what you need to understand: she’s not your fantasy. She’s fifty-two, married, two children, both older than you. She’s the mayor. She’s responsible for people — including you.

B (glancing at me): When I am around her she doesn’t feel like fifty-two.

P: That’s the danger, isn’t it? If you’re just bi-curious — that’s okay with us. If you think it's an achievement to turn a mature woman's head - I can at least understand. But if you want more ...

B: And what if I don’t know yet what it is?

Paul took a long sip from his glass. Remained silent, thinking, brooding. Finally he stood, raised his glass, took a last sip,

P: To ambiguity, then!

With that he left us. I took the key to my mask's padlock from the coffee table and unlocked my Scold's Bridle.

B: So... was that some kind of test?

I: Kind of. Also kind of a ritual. For the last 25 years (Barbara wasn't even born then) we have agreed that I may have romantic relations with girls as long as he knows (I didn't tell her about the watching) and as long as the girl knows that I belong to him.

B: So, now that we know?

I stood a little closer to her - with her heels she was almost a head taller than me.

I: You make me feel something I wasn't prepared to feel again. That doesn’t mean I get to keep you. Or rewrite the story of my life.

B: What if I’m not asking for any of that?

I: Then what are you asking for?

B: I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.

Barbara hugged me, lightly pressing my face against her bosom. When she released me I took her hand.



[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

[StringTheorist]

Wow @Jenny_1972

Not a normal TUG story but fascinating in its own way. Please keep writing.

What other items could the blacksmith Ian contrive?
- girdle with posts
- bra with points on the inside
- a version of the Scold's bridle with a phallus attached for use on Barbara

I imaging that you have a long story line. Awaiting.

ST.

[Jenny_1972]

What other items could the blacksmith Ian contrive?

Don't worry, further business for Ian's smithy is already in the pipeline.

[Jenny_1972]

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 6: Heterosexual Virginity


What we did with each other in our bedroom is left to my reader's dirty little minds. Let's just say it felt rejuvenating. Her young, strong, flexible, wrinkle-free body; somewhat inexperienced but willing to learn.
But yet, Paul's refusal to watch - crazy as this might sound - tainted the experience for me. He had given his consent just barely. And Barbara too seemed eager to leave afterwards, not much cuddling or chatting. She got dressed quickly. Also Paul, who helped her into her jacket, hadn't expected her to leave so soon but. I remade our bed and Paul and I went to sleep without much conversation, like ignoring what just happened.

Gladly, the next day was very busy at the mayor's office. Neither of us had much time to entertain awkward feelings or to think about yesterday. That is until things got quiet in the evening. My computer was already in shut down and I was just gathering my coat, when Barbara entered and closed the door behind her without asking.

I: Everything all right?

B: I just... I wanted to talk. Not long. Just before we both pretend everything’s normal. (she avoided eye contact)

I: We don’t have to pretend.

B: Good. Because last night I left too quickly, I know. It wasn’t you. It’s just—

I: It's okay. We had both stepped out of our comfort zone - in a way.

B: Yeah. But that's not why I am here.

She walked to the window, looking out at the darkening market square.

B: There’s something I didn’t tell you. I probably should have - before. But then, with your husband around. And I didn’t think we’d actually ... You know.

I: Barbara, you don’t owe me an explanation. Whatever last night was — it was wonderful and I think it was mutual.

Barbara turned around, looking directly at me.

B: What I should have said: Like you, I have a significant other to consider in this. I’m engaged. To a boy my age, Leon. We’ve been together since prom night. He’s doing his military service right now.

I: ... You’re getting married - to a man? (yes, I actually asked this)

B: Yes, we’re planning to. As soon as he gets back next year. Our parents agree.

I had to process this and sat down slowly.

I: Does he know about me?

B: No, of course not. But also — it’s not like I cheated. I mean, it was with a gi.. a woman.

I: So women don’t count?

B: Not for him. And honestly, not for me either. Not in that way. I mean, it’s not 'real' sex. Not... you know.

I had to laugh — disbelieving.

I: Well. That’s one way to look at it.

And after a break

I: So we were preserving your virginity for your fiancé yesterday? Truly, it didn't feel that way. You do realize how absurd that sounds, coming from someone who spent last night in my bed?

B: I’m not ashamed of it. I enjoyed it. Without your relief I'll go crazy before Leon comes back. Think of it as preserving my heterosexual virginity. But if you feel used and betrayed because I didn't tell you about him we can still be close. Hug, maybe kiss. But no more... you know.

I: Scissoring? ... Actually I like how your Leon adds to our relations. He makes it symmetric. You have Leon, I have Paul. We two make out with each other and yet we are loyal to our men.

B: Yet I am afraid this 'relief' between the two of us might not suffice for me. Visiting you every other week, with your husband helping me out of my jacket. I might still be tempted to seek further ... Maybe you’d have an idea.

I: You want me to help you not sleeping around while your fiancé is serving our country?

B: I need help not to sleep with men for the next 11 months - that's when Leon will return.

Pause.

I (half-joking): You want a chastity belt?

B (serious): That would be a solution I have already thought about, but I can't afford one. I thought — you have connections.

I: You want me to have Ian the blacksmith fit you with a made-to-measure chastity belt ... so you can marry your fiancé with a clear conscience?

B (beaming): That would be perfect. And at the wedding we'll surely get enough money from our relatives and friends that we can pay you the money back.

I (after a long pause): So, it's sort of an interest-free short term credit. But since you have no securities to offer, I'd have to keep the keys.

Barbara obviously hadn't thought of that.

I: Of course you'd have to visit me every other week or so at home to get unlocked for 'hygienic purposes'.

And she clearly hadn't thought of that. But she agreed.

The next day we made a phone call with Ian's smithy. Regarding chastity belts it seemed to be clear that they were meant to be worn and therefore required exact measurements. Barbara later told me about her visit at the smithy:

B: Good day, master smith. I bring... a special request.

S: If it’s made of iron I can craft it. Speak thy need, fair maid.

B: A chastity belt custom-fitted for myself.

S: Thou art but a young maid and thy virtue doth thee credit. But tell me — know’st thou what such a girdle doth cost?

B: Fear not good smith. A noble lady, well known to thy forge, hath taken it upon herself to safeguard my virtue.

S: Ah, so this noble dame hideth her own belt beneath her gown as well?

B: Nay, quite the opposite — she weareth thy craftsmanship upon her head, plain for all to see.

S: Ah, say no more. Well, for your chastity belt fitting must be precise — no room for error.

B: Must I disrobe?

S: Only to thy linen and in private. I am a smith, not a rogue.

B: Good. It must hold for eleven moons. My betrothed serves the king and is far from home.

S: Then it shall hold like honour itself. No gap, no give — just steel.


Three weeks later, when it was finally ready to be picked up, we drove there together. When he saw the two of us Ian supposed the belt was some 'guild thing', which we didn't deny. While Barbara withdrew to try the belt on, I was given a parchment and a quill:


Survey of the Honoured Patron’s Contentment

Pray, kind wearer, lend thy thoughts upon the craftsmanship thou hast received. For each query below, mark thy judgement on a scale from 1 to 5, where 1 be "most grievously lacking" and 5 be "most excellent indeed."

I) How dost thou judge the comfort of the device in long wear?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

II) How secure deem’st thou the lock which hath been provided?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

III) How certain art thou that escape be impossible without the rightful key?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

IV) How well doth the mask conceal thy visage from common gaze?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

V) How well doth the mask silence thy voice, as was intended?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

VI) How fine findest thou the overall finish and craftsmanship of the piece?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5

VII) How well withstandeth the device the trials of time and usage?
 ☐ 1 ☐ 2 ☐ 3 ☐ 4 ☐ 5


When I had finished filling in this survey Barbara had returned and was very satisfied with the fit of her belt. I paid for it and pocketed the keys. Ian said to me something like

"A wise choice and a fine purchase indeed, good Madam Mayor. Far too few mothers dost tend so dutifully to the virtue of their fair daughters these days." but we were already halfway in my car.

I didn't tell Barbara that I'd place the second key (there are always two) in the glass case outside of my office where the city's golden key and the town seal are on display. Right under Barbara's nose and yet unreachable - at least not without some major explanations by her.

I thoroughly enjoyed being her keyholder, feeling the lock of her belt press against my belly whenever she'd give me a hug. Or when the chains of her belt left indentations whenever she got up from the visitor chair in my office. Also watching her carefully shift position as she was sitting in her office chair; exchanging knowing glances, me grinning, she rolling her eyes. And of course when I'd send her to guild events locked in her belt.

What I didn't tell her: I wouldn't ask the money back. It should be more fun to give the key to her husband as a wedding present. At least one of the two ...

[ The End ? ]

Thy feedback is welcome.