Friday, 30 March 2007

Just a Little Bit Faster Now...

Who am I? What am I doing here? What is this blogging about? Why is this so important? Is it important?

I've found a door which lets me out!
When you rock 'n' roll with me
No one else I'd rather be
Nobody down here can do it for me
I'm in tears again
When you rock 'n' roll with me

Three and a half months ago I married the love of my life, the one who really loves me and wants to be with me. We have been together for years so I know what I am doing, as much as anyone is able to know such things. I am one of the lucky ones.

But this blog is not about me being either happy or unhappy. It is about that parallel track in my mind that has always been there. Have you, like me, been one of those who never dared to act, never dared to move or let anyone see who you are then you know why you sometimes take the other track, the easy, colourful one, the one you know.

She waited by the moon
She was sick with fear and cold
She felt too old for all of this
Of course she never showed

Writing is magical and one of my true desires but it is about more than desire and lust. The view is wider, the fantasy land is full of more than things I want to do, things I want shall happen. There are things there that concern memories, experiences and thoughts that scare me more than anything else. Still I feel compelled to go there, to look at it, to form it into things I dare look at, even transform some humiliation into something desirable.

She'll turn the radio high
Find a station playing sad, sad soul

It is like a sad, sad film that you want to watch although you can't really see why you want to cry and be scared. I am one of those sad souls who loved the Titanic film but it doesn't mean I enjoy people dying in great disasters.

Just a little bit louder now

I still dare not move, dare not act and I still dare not show who I am. I admire you all who know what you want and believe that this blog is about spanking and sexual desire. You who know that your fantasies are just a reflection of your desires. I am not mocking you and I am not being ironic. I envy you.

Just a little bit faster now

I am not ironic or trying to be clever when I say that my mind is far more interesting than I am in my real life. I am basically quite boring. I blog because for once I want to be daring enough to talk about what is inside my head, my wilder, more daring self, the person that jumps between roles and who knows her desires, at least for a flicker of a moment, for the duration of a fleeting fantasy.

All I've done
I've done for me
All you gave
You gave for free
I gave nothing in return
And there's little left of me

I feel sometimes that I use you all, you who read, you who comment, because you give something to me. You make me feel that what I have in my mind, my fantasies are valuable and something enjoyable even. My dirty secrets are your dirty secrets and we share and I am not alone with my parallel track.

And she'll drive the big car
And talk herself insane

Perhaps you are right, you all who know what I need and what I should do. Maybe am I just holding on to a kind of self inflicted madness by staying in my mind instead of taking on the world. Maybe I should move with you who say you know, who tell me there is a way and you know it.

Just a little bit angry now

Why should I play your game, you who abuse me and treat me like I was not worth anything and believe that is what I want? Tell me!

I'm in tears again...

Janice has taught me one thing and that is I don't have to know the world, don't have to be responsible for everything in it and I don't have to compete any more. I am a dreamer, a person in disguise but I will talk freely, I will share my dreams with those of you who want to share. That is one way for me to face up to my demons.

I am being cryptic, I know that but I am also honest, perhaps more honest than I have been before. And once again I will thank you all who read and talk to me. I do, really, want to hear more from you. You don't have to say anything clever to comment.

Dear Miss Ellison, like a thief in the night I steal from you again but this time it is only the form. The content is all mine. Thank you for inspiring me.

Text in italics by David Bowie from 'When You Rock'n'Roll With me' (1974), 'Days' (2003) and 'She'll Drive the Big Car' (2003).

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

The Tavern

Fantasies are about painting pictures and sometimes when you do that it almost becomes a story. Here is a picture that not yet has become a story. Perhaps this theme is new for those of you who have read my blog. I made the drawing (had to say that).

Close to the harbour on a crowded but yet narrow street lies a tavern where ale and food is served along with entertainment and the lovely sight of fair women. Rowdy sailors go there and sit side by side with rough men from the mountains. You would find traders and adventurers there, and soldiers and thieves along with slavers and lumberjacks. All sorts of rough and strong and rowdy and brutal men sit on the benches and chairs in the big room of that tavern.

A great fireplace lights the room and its flickering light lends a certain red glow to the square features of the men, the flames reflecting in their hard eyes and glimmering on their steel muscles. This is a hard world of ruthless men and still there are women in the room. Between the tables and among the loud men there hurry the servant girls, small and soft and vulnerable in comparison.

The girls hurry between the men, trying to avoid their eager touch, their strong arms seeking to possess their bodies. They are appropriately and, with this, scantily clad. There is one clad in a thin cloth around her narrow hips, another in a flowing breechcloth and small embroidered waistcoat, yet another wears nothing but a leather thong and nothing more, her young breasts on full display.

The girls move in the room, their soft bodies in sharp contrast to the rough men, their semi exposed bodies accentuating their vulnerability. Their bodies are on display for the pleasure of the guests, their service not only that of bringing ale but also to let the men enjoy the sight of their shapely frames.

The crowd is loud and brutal but in a good mood. They laugh and drink and talk and sing. Suddenly there is a roar as one of the brutes manages to get hold of the thin skirt of one of the girls and rips it off. The girl having to complete her tasks in the nude to the great amusement of the guests. Her naked body only goes to strengthen the sense that this is a man's world, a place for the pleasure of men and the girls are only for entertainment.

In the middle of the room there is an open space. At one side is the fireplace at the other a small dais. Three musicians take their places on that dais and start playing. There is a drum, a flute and a strangely shaped sitar. The noise in the room continues but some of the guests turn their head towards the open space.

Suddenly all eyes are focussed on the open space as a girl enters. She is small, tiny in comparison to the men and all eyes are upon her. She is dressed in a red flowing breechcloth held in place by a golden chain low on her hips. Around her chest is tied a thin red piece of cloth. Besides this she is naked. The music stops and the girl stands still. She is waiting. The whole room is waiting.

The flute begins to play and then the sitar and lastly the drums. The girl begins to dance. She moves her body in soft flowing movements. The men can't take their eyes from her. She is small and looks so young, almost like a child but still there is something about her that makes her look older and wiser than ever a child can be. She is not a child, she is a woman and everyone can see that.

Her dance is beautiful, it is soft and vulnerable. She is both innocent and vulnerable and yet confident and strong. She dances her dreams and desires along with her strength and her softness.

The music gets wilder and the dance more intense. She moves her body to the music, becomes one with it and all the men stare at her in silent devotion. They desire her more than anything but not one of them dares to move risking to break the magic spell. He body exposed but yet covered makes them lust for her but she is not for them to touch, she is beyond them, belonging to another world.

The music stops, the dancing girls hurries from the floor on her bare feet. The men sit in silence. Some of them fighting back tears, knowing that they have seen something that is beyond them, something far more beautiful and lovely than they can ever be, something that is above and far, far away, never to be touched or taken. There is desire and lust and all earthly sensations but they know, as well, that they have been touched by something beyond that, something they will never forget.

Monday, 26 March 2007

Slave Trade Act

Yesterday it was two hundred years since the Slave Trade Act received Royal Assent, in practice outlawing the trade with slaves within the British Empire. At last the abolitionist movement had gained an important victory in the struggle against slavery. The most well known of the British abolitionists, perhaps, is William Wilberforce who had campaigned for the cessation of slave trade since 1789.

In this context it feels silly and almost wrong to talk about fantasies about slavery. The grim facts about the trade in humans make a terrible backdrop to the exciting and even arousing fantasies about being captured and enslaved.

Slavery is wrong and it feels almost trivial to state that. Only very ruthless and cruel people can think otherwise. The reason why I talk about this here is that I have to struggle a little to distinguish between fantasies and reality at times. The themes of my fantasies scare me. That which alleviate that feeling and allows me to continue having my fantasies is the knowledge that fantasies do not necessarily represent real life event or wishes. I would not want slavery for any human being, not even myself, but still the fantasy of being someone's captive can be something pleasurable and good. It is a romantic and basically silly fantasy but it is a nice one, however scary at times. But who said that humans were simple beings?

Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Allison's Bottom

This story is written for and inspired by a dear friend of mine, Kirsten Ellison, who is an excellent writer of spanking fiction. The story is mine but I have stolen a lot from her. It is a tribute and I hope she will like it and don't think me rude for putting poor Allison, the heroine of this story, in a very embarrassing situation. If you want to read some of Kirsten's work you should go here!

Allison hurried through the corridor. She was furious, she was angry, she was annoyed and frustrated. The blond brat in her class had managed to push all the wrong buttons, again. Jannike was tall, slim, delicate and very pretty. She had an angel's smile and very gentle manners. Seeing her for the first time you would adore her. But her innocent frame harboured the heart of a gargoyle. Allison hated her. She knew it was wrong to hate one of your pupils but she couldn't help it. They had had a discussion again and this time Jannike had been right.

Allison thought about spankings. She often did that when she was frustrated. Any other day she would have preferred to be at the receiving end and even in the rare cases when she delivered the smacks she was never angry. She never spanked in anger. Jannike had made her reconsider that. The delightful thought of having the young girl in her lap, relentlessly smacking her bottom made Allison feel guilty. Spanking was something she would never, ever, consider for her pupils. Spanking children was just wrong.

She was still frustrated as she walked into the common room and almost bumped into the man standing inside the door. He turned to her and she had to look up. He was not a big man but he was tall, slim and tall. She had never seen him before and for a while she felt lost and utterly bewildered.

'Allison, this is Theo, our new colleague, just arrived from the Netherlands,' someone said.

Allison stared into the new face. She smiled, trying to compose herself. She stood in awe for a second and then Theo turned to be introduced to someone else.

'Isn't he handsome?' a voice whispered in her ear, a voice belonging to a female colleague of Allison's. The other woman was some years older but the tone of her voice made her seem like she was thirteen.

That bewildering day came to an end and Allison hurried home with many thoughts tumbling around in her head. The handsome face of the new teacher persistently popped into her thoughts. A tall, dark, Dutch man had become her new colleague.

'Tall, Dutch and handsome,' she thought for herself and giggled a little.

Life went on and things returned to normal, which meant the usual gossip in the common room, the annoying classes containing Jannike and that ever present stress that seemed to fill up her life.

Some days later Allison went into the common room and picked up the morning paper only to find the face of the blond devil Jannike staring at her. She had been interviewed by a local journalist hunting for something to criticise the UK education system for. The young pupil provided him with some tale of mean and uncaring teachers who didn't know their subjects.

In that moment she hated the girl. Perhaps it was guilt over that hate the prompted the words that she didn't realise she had spoken out loud.

'Well, spank me! That little...'

'I am only khappy to oblige,' the voice came from behind, happy spoken with a very distinct aspiration. Allison turned around and faced her new colleague, the Dutchman, Theo.

'What?' she said.

'You said, spank me,' he replied beaming, 'and I said that I was only khappy to oblige.'

Allison was lost for words. She stared at Theo and all of a sudden she felt like fainting, her knees were weak.

'I...I,' was the only thing she managed to say.

Theo looked at her and suddenly he was serious.

'Do you really want me to spank you?'

Allison found the situation quite absurd.

'Well,' she stumbled on her words, 'well, yes.'

Allison shook her head in disbelief as they walked to her office. She wondered how this had happened. The whole situation was surreal, something that should not happen. Still it felt strangely natural.

As Allison locked the door to her office, Theo looked around the room, walked to her desk and picked up a ruler. He smiled a strangely happy and innocent smile, although Allison knew well what he was thinking, as he was swishing the ruler through the air.

The tall man sat down on the chair and looked at Allison. She looked back and she almost started laughing at the strangeness of the situation. Theo tapped his knees and she stared at him. As she took a step closer to him she felt an urge to speak.

'But only on my clothes,' she said, sounding stern.

'Off course,' he answered with a beaming smile.

Allison thought that it was something very boyish about that smile, about that tall man sitting in her chair about to smack her bottom. Still he was very much a man. Her knees were weak again.

In her confused mind Allison wondered how she ended up in this situation lying face down on the lap of this strange, happy Dutchman, a man she did not know, who seemed so boyishly confident. The tapping on her bottom with the ruler brought her back from her thoughts.

'What are you doing?' Allison cried out, 'on my clothes, I said.'

She had been taken by surprise as Theo flipped up her skirt.

'But those tights things,' he said, sounding surprised, 'aren't they clothes?'

'Of course they are,' Allison retorted.

'Well then.'

Before she had a chance to say anything, Theo brought down the ruler on her now less protected behind. The sting was considerable and Allison suddenly had other things on her mind than protesting about a flipped up skirt.

Theo smacked her bottom with some determination and Allison found the whole thing quite unpleasant. She didn't cry or protest. It was below her dignity. She struggled to keep her composure. After all, she didn't know the man. She was embarrassed at finding her body so close to Theo's and the fact the he could stare unhindered at her scantily clad behind did not diminish that sensation.

She thought that it was probably right that she should suffer. She had hated her pupil and that was something that made her feel guilty and the relentless smacking of her bottom alleviated that guilt.

The sense of deserving a punishment made Allison almost able to cope with her spanking. Theo was a tall man with long arms and a good swing. It crossed Allison's mind that perhaps he could be a good bowler with that swing. The Dutch did play cricket but were not very good at it.

What happened next caught her completely off guard. She was utterly unprepared for the sensation of Theo's fingers getting hold of her tights and tugging them downwards with great force. Allison felt surprised and powerless as she felt them sliding over her upturned bottom. With fear she realised that it was not only her tights that were removed.

'Are you mad?' she screamed with both anger and fear in her voice.

'It is only for the last ones,' Theo said and she imagined the boyish smile on his face which made her even more upset and angry. She felt humiliated and overwhelmed but was not able to get up and walk away. Something kept her in place.

He didn't give her many more spanks but the ones he delivered were delivered in earnest and on her unprotected bottom. Allison cried out in shame and agony.

'Done,' he proclaimed, 'you may stand up now.'

Allison felt her cheeks blush as she scrambled to her feet and readjusted her clothes in a very unladylike fashion. She was humiliated and angry and was about to scream something appropriate to this madman who had treated her like this.

'That wasn't too bad?' Theo said with his beaming smile.

Allison found that she could not scream. She could only nod and look down.

'No, not too bad,' she said.

'Thank you,' she continued and almost bit her tongue.

'Any time,' the tall handsome Dutch said.

Allison was upset as she walked home, upset and angry. She was still mad at Jannike and the strange Dutchman. Didn't Jannike sound like a Dutch name? It was a conspiracy. Still there was a strange sensation in her as she walked home, a new spring in her step. Anyone seeing her could, perhaps, discern an inward looking smile on her face. She would never admit it but there was this persistent pondering in her mind. It was a scheming and planning that went on without her conscious permission. She blushed as she realised that she, really, was trying to figure out a way of getting over that blasted Dutch knee again.

Tuesday, 20 March 2007


When fantasies tumble around in your head it is not that easy to see what it is all about. The chaos of them, sometimes, reflects the chaos in life and how complex life can be. I firmly believe that fantasies are about more than just sex and arousal. I think that sometimes there are more important things at stake. I am not saying sex is not important, only that sometimes other things can be as important and even more important.

Being Janice allows me to explore things about me that is different from my real self. Janice is far less proud and stubborn than I am. When faced with an accusation about having done something wrong or faced with some unpleasant fact about her Janice is less inclined to protest and fight to keep face than I am. I would say, 'but...' and try to come up with an explanation or perhaps deny it all while Janice would say, 'yes, that is true, I did that'.

To admit that you indeed did hurt someone, forgot something or just behave in some certain way is sometimes very hard. To be able to admit and face the consequences is something great and scary but it is also immensely brave and something that is really good. This is almost trivial to state, everyone knows that. What I was thinking of is the way that this enters into my fantasies.

There is a common pattern in spanking fantasies that is about doing wrong, having to face up to it, admitting it is true and then being punished for it. I know I have claimed that it is less so in many of my fantasies but the pattern is still there (more than I care to acknowledge) and it is there in many other people's fantasies. When I have been confronted with this in the fantasy world I have felt a certain thrill, not so much at the upcoming punishment but at the admitting of guilt or wrongdoing.

Here is the subtlety, it is something immensely exciting about not protesting and dodging responsibility and saying yes to whatever comes in your way, to say, 'yes, I hurt you', 'yes, I was wrong', 'yes I do have that habit'. It is not, necessarily, about submitting to someone who will guide you and correct you and make you a better person. The thrill, the excitement lies in the facing up to reality and taking the consequences. There is a subtle difference between acting like a child and allowing someone to correct your bad behaviour and just, simply admitting to who you are and taking the consequences of that.

So what about the spanking? Does is symbolise the consequences? Perhaps it does. It might be that the pattern of wrongdoing, guilt, admission and punishment is such a well known pattern that it just happens to be a spanking that is the consequence. Perhaps the consequence is painful, having to see that yes, indeed, I did hurt that person or I am not perfect, I make silly mistakes.

And I am not claiming that I have analysed the whole matter of spanking fantasies. I only wanted to talk about that thrill I sense within my fantasies that I believe is about something that is genuinely positive and that not necessarily is sexual in nature.

Monday, 19 March 2007

More About the Dark Angel...

A friend of mine, Jackie, sent me this as a response to my story, My Dark Angel. I am deeply honoured that someone reading my work takes her time to respond and add to it. And although a continuation, really, defeats the purpose of the original story, I am proud to present Jackie's addition. It is her story in italics below. Read and enjoy!

I picture you being tied with your clothes on for your horsewhipping but once restrained the dreamy boy unfastened your skirt and took your panties completely off. He then teased you about your predicament and threatened you with the worst beating you could imagine. He relished in your fear and helplessness but then whipped you somewhat "considerately," although you didn't realize it with the searing stings that made you dance and scream and feel like your skin was being stripped from you. A mild horsewhipping can leave one in a sobbing sorry state as yours did for you, until the next day when you yearned for another one.

You had the feeling that the Dark Angel was not doing this for the first time. He was too adept and too efficient.

Your wrists were tied with a very thin almost twine like rope which made the binding very snug without being painfully tight. A second long rope with a weight on the end was thrown over the beam and one end was tied to the string on your wrists. The other end was then gradually pulled downward as your arms were hoisted up and your heels left the floor and you were standing on your tiptoes. You were in the most vulnerable position and completely at the mercy of the boy who loved to punish girls.

Without a word your skirt was undone and cast to the floor. His hands slid inside the waistband of your panties and they were dragged down over your buttocks and on down to your ankles and left there. The angel knew all too well that you would soon be toe dancing out of them.

His choice of whips was one used to train ponies with. It had a long handle and a whipcord lash which dangled from the end. The lash was known for its incredible sting and the angel did explain that if it got the attention of a horse it was surely going to make an impression on your fluffy white bum.

As he approached you with the devilish instrument he explained that he was going to whip your ass to a point where it was questionable as to whether you had a white ass with red stripes or a red ass with white stripes. This was somewhere around 40 - 50 lashes depending on the girl, he commented.

Nothing in the world had prepared you for the hot, searing, stinging, biting ,burning lines of fire that the angel laid across your fair derrière. A horsewhipping made a hair brush spanking seem like a baby punishment and you had only received about ten lashes.

After the whipping it was time to go home. Janice could tolerate the loose skirt but the angel offered to put her panties in the pocket for her. She rode home kneeling on the front seat and leaning over it with her tenderized bottom sticking out. She could have endured a painful sit down but she wanted her punisher to be proud of his labors.

"Are we going to do it when we get back?" she asked him.

"If your tattered ass is up to it," he replied.

''You can put some cream on me to get me ready. That's the least you can do for whipping me like a bad pony," she joked.

"I'll tell you how I felt about being whipped by you while we're "engaged". You may be surprised to hear some of what I have to say," she continued.

The end

Wednesday, 14 March 2007

Two Slaves

This is a short excerpt from a longer text about a girl who finds herself enslaved. I don't know why I choose this part but it seemed like a good one. The whole story is too long for one entry. Perhaps, I should put it up as more than one part.


I was led into a room lit by candles and lamps hanging from the walls. It was a nice room with carpets on the floor and some cushions at one end around a low table. A slave girl was standing to one side carrying a tray with glasses and a tea pot. She was magnificent. She was clad only in a kind of breechcloth with a glimmering golden chain around her hips, way below her navel. From this chain hung a long thin red silken cloth at the front. It was fairly narrow and covered only her sex although I saw that it continued between her legs and hung down behind her as well. She had a golden arm ring and a thin necklace. Her hair was arranged with pearls and gold. She was blond and tall and extremely beautiful. She had round and proud breasts that were not heavy but far larger than mine. Her rosy nipples were erect and she stood like a statue.

I was placed on my knees in the middle of the room and although I spread my legs wide the guard was not satisfied until he had gently kicked them further apart. I was completely opened up as I sat and I envied the other slave her clothes.

I lowered my gaze as the guards left the room and when I was alone with the girl I dared look at her again. She ignored me but I could not stop admiring her. She was fantastic. I knew she was a slave but she looked so proud, so beautiful. Her body was perfect in every sense. Her proud breasts looked perfect on her slim and tall body.

At last two men came in. One was the old man that had received me the first day and the other was a fairly fat man that was far younger. He was 40, maybe 50, years old and had eaten too much good food. He wasn't enormous but still you could call him fat. He was dressed in a red and golden robe and had a kind of elaborate turban on his head. He looked like a merchant or a landlord of a wealthy tavern.

He placed his body on the cushions and the old man sat down cross legged by his side. The old man signalled for the slave girl to serve the tea. She obliged with very sensuous and graceful movements. She was the perfect girl in every sense and I couldn't understand what I was doing there. I was nothing compared to her, although I knew I was the one they had come to discuss.

I lowered my gaze as I knew was expected of a slave girl. I knew very little about how slaves were to conduct themselves but I wanted to appear obedient knowing that I would most probably be punished if I was not. I didn't want to be punished. I had seen slave girls taste the whip.

The two men proceeded to talk in a friendly way as I sat there. They completely ignored me as they had their tea. They talked about politics and commerce and exchanged news. I heard and understood what they were talking about but the information seemed to mean nothing to me. Four weeks ago I would have been eager to listen and learn but now I belonged to another world. The things the men talked about was for free persons not for slaves.

Suddenly the old man addressed me. He called me slave but something in his voice told me he meant me rather than the beautiful girl standing in the corner. I felt that if he had called for her he would have said something far more delicate and soft. I was an untrained girl and needed to be addressed in a stern voice.

I looked up and saw the old man wave me forward. I rose to my feet and hurried forward. He stopped me with his hand and I stood still. I wondered if I should kneel but he seemed pleased with having me there, standing.

'So this is the slave?' the fat man said.

'Yes, she is the one,' the old man answered.

'She is very young.'


Monday, 12 March 2007

I'm Amazed...

I am amazed that so many people have a hard time telling fantasies from real life. Or, I should rather say, the meaning of fantasies from real life. What I am thinking of is the assumption that since I write about fantasies, and especially, about spanking and submission fantasies I have to be a closet spankee and submissive (or whatever label is preferred). Most people assume that I am an unfulfilled spankee and my problem is, mainly, that I lack someone to tan my behind now and then.

As a true sceptic I can't dismiss such assumptions right away but I maintain that things are far more complex than that. Here are some of my thoughts about this. Firstly, there is no one-to-one relation between fantasies and reality. Fantasies are like dreams. What you dream, during the night, does not reflect real happenings all the time. It is the same with fantasies. Fantasies represent emotions and thoughts. The thoughts and emotions (desires, wishes, fears, anxieties) are real but the images are not. They stand for something and that something is not necessarily similar to the image. Wanting to be spanked in a fantasy does not, necessarily, mean you want it to happen in real life. It might mean that, I admit that (being the sceptic I am) but it might just stand for something else.

Secondly, I have come to realise that fantasies (at least in my case) often are in opposition to what my life is like. I am a quite independent person but in my fantasies I am, often, subject to others. It tells, I believe, something about a conflict in my mind but then if I am too independent in my real life, why can't it be that I am too submissive in my fantasies and that the desirable balance lies somewhere in between?

So, while the jury is out on the question whether I am an unfulfilled spankee or not I will blog about my fantasies, sharing them with anyone reading my scribblings. There must be plenty of people who are like me, fascinated by something, perhaps, at times, even obsessed with it but too shy to act upon it or thinking, like me, that the real action that the fantasies point to may be something completely alien to the fantasies themselves.

If there is someone I have spoken to and who feels targeted by this rant (most likely without intention from my side) then feel free to tell me that I am a very rude and insolent person! Perhaps you should dig deep into your minds and suggest some really nasty punishment for me. And, remember, punishments are supposed to be unpleasant!

Wednesday, 7 March 2007


The secret lies in the details. The essence of fantasies is the details. Details are ever so important in a story as well but a story is different. You need a narrative, some kind of logic to it. There needs to be a how and a why and reasons and connections between the details, the whole and everything. My fantasies are often snippets, situations and emotions and there are not always a connecting story, a logic to them. I am not saying that fantasies are surreal all the time and not contain narrative. What I am trying to say, I think, is that fantasies are about sensations and emotions and that they, sometimes, are quite patchy, in a way that is not possible in a story.

Often in a fantasy there is a situation or a sensation that is the important thing, not the how and why of it. Often there is a tiny detail that makes it important. I often want to stay in the situation, the sensation and I am not always interested in the implications.

Let me give an example! Imagine there is a sturdy pole set in the ground. At that pole there is a woman. She is bound to it, her hands tied together behind the pole. She is naked (would you expect anything else?). There may be people there, regarding her or perhaps the risk of someone passing by is great.

It is not, always, important to think about why she is put there, who put her there and why she is naked. The sensation of imagining to be the naked woman is enough for a fantasy. What would it be like, standing there, naked and bound? Would I be embarrassed? Probably. Would I feel attractive? Yes, that is part of it. Why? I don't know, maybe because I am exposed to anyone who wants to look at me and I want to think of myself as being attractive.

And there are details that make the fantasy important. Perhaps the one who tied me to the pole put a rope around my throat, pressing it to the wood. Perhaps my feet are tied too. Perhaps someone put a note above my head stating the reason why I was tied to the pole. Perhaps there was a crime and a punishment. Perhaps the note tells the passer by to take advantage of me.

The details are not just things I want in reality, things that make me aroused or excited. No, they point to things, to questions, to meanings. And I, for one, am curious about those meanings. I don't just think that being tied naked to a pole is something that I want happen to me in real life. No, I think it means something, but not necessarily a reflection of (possible) real life events. It seems more exciting and interesting to think of it as meaning a desire to bee seen, not being able to hide. Perhaps the tying of the arms means that someone else is responsible and I do not have to take the blame.

It is not always important to think about the before and the after. Often it is enough to stay in the sensation of the fantasy, just let it be there.

I know there are a lot of people interested in fantasies of this kind that care very little about analyses and underlying reasons, who are happy with their desire to spank, be spanked or maybe submit and serve. Everyone has their own way to happiness and I want to understand what moves in my own mind.

Friday, 2 March 2007

The Remedy

When I was younger the thought of spankings and punishment in general was always connected to a sense of guilt, something that had to be put right. This idea has lost much of its power over me of lately and now I can see that spankings stand for a lot of other things as well. Still I wrote this story. It was something that just happened and it is about that dreaded thing of older times, guilt.

My mind was in darkness. I had let the sun go down on my anger and I felt horrible. I had left my lover while I was angry and I had hurt him. I had been right, I think we both knew that and I had stood my ground. I had all the rights in the world to do that. No one could deny me that.

The thing I had seen on his face was hurt. I had hurt the love of my life deeply because I had stood my ground. He had been angry with me and we had argued. I was right and he was angry, angry and hurt.

The following day I lived in a kind of haze, thinking about what had passed and what to do about it. I could not say I was wrong because I wasn't and that was the problem. At least I thought it was the problem. But as the day went on I saw the face of my lover clearly in my mind and I saw his hurt.

I realised that it was not important if I had been right or not. The important thing was that I had hurt him and I had not hurt him by being right. I had all the right in the world to my opinion. That was not the point. I had hurt him by wanting to hurt him by being right and I realised that that was the cause of my misery.

I walked through town trying to delay going back to my empty flat. I went in and out of shops looking for nothing or everything. I wanted time to pass quickly so that I could go to bed and sleep my time away.

It was then my eyes fell upon an innocent item on a shelf. A flash of insight sparkled through me and with embarrassment I saw clearly what should be done. I had struggled for a long time with a sense of guilt, feeling that I had no reason for guilt. I had the right to be right and that was it. Against my will I came to realise that my guilt was at the centre of my misery and I wanted to rid me of that and that need made me embarrassed.

As I laid my eyes upon the sturdy shape of a wooden brush I realised that I needed to be punished. I blushed as I saw that. My heart started beating and I felt ashamed. That was completely against my beliefs and against anything that my reasoning could come up with. Still I knew that I wanted to be punished.

My heart was still pounding in my breast as I knocked on his door. I knew he was still miserable, still angry and hurt. It didn't leave him that easily. I waited in fear for him to answer the door.

My heart stood still as he opened the door. He looked sad and miserable. He looked at me and I stared at him.

'Can I come in?' I asked.

'Sure,' he said and stepped aside. I saw that he was still angry.

I stood in his hallway for a while before I could say anything.

'Look,' I said, 'about yesterday.'

'I am sorry,' he replied quickly, 'you were right, I shouldn't have...'

'Wait,' I said with a strange new confidence, 'I have come about yesterday, but, please hear me out!'

He looked at me slightly puzzled.

'Do you want to sit down?'

I was sitting on the edge of his armchair, like a nervous school girl. He sat in the sofa regarding me. He looked strangely worried and sad, not at all the confident self he used to be.

'Now,' he said, all of a sudden, breaking the silence, 'you were right yesterday and I know that.'

'I was right,' I answered, 'that is true but that is not the point.'

'What is the point?' he said looking even more puzzled.

'The point is that I hurt you and I don't want to hurt you.'

'But you were right.'

'Don't you see? I don't care if I was right- I hurt you with it and I did it because I wanted to and that is why I feel guilty about it.'

'You have nothing to be guilty about,' he said sternly.

'Yes I have and I don't want to feel guilty.'

'Sorry, but what can I do about that?' he said a bit defensively.

I had heard that I had been pleading with him and maybe had I even sounded a bit demanding.

'I am sorry, it is not your fault and we both know that.'


I stared at him and I felt anger well up in me. I had tears in my eyes. I couldn't explain and suddenly my bright idea was just silly.

I couldn't answer him so I opened my bag and produced the menacing looking wooden brush.

'What?' he looked at me in disbelief.

'Here,' I said holding out the brush for him.

Anger overtook me as I spoke.

'Take i!' I said, 'take it! I have hurt you and I can't make that hurt go away but I feel guilty and I want to be punished.'

'Punished?' he said, 'I don't understand.'

'I know I am completely mad, but I want to be punished and I think you should use this on me.'

'That brush?'

'Yes, this brush.'

'Like I should spank you or something?'

'Yes, just like that.'

'I can't do that,' he said almost as if he was pleading with me. He looked terrified.

'Please, spank me!' I said, 'please, punish me!'

I felt my cheeks blushing, I had never in a long time been that embarrassed.

We stared at each other. His eyes were wild. I could see that many thoughts and emotions passed through him as he stared at me.

'Give me the brush!' he said suddenly and held out his hand.

I presented the thing and I felt strange. I felt detached and removed from the whole situation and my head was buzzing.

He sat up in the sofa and I realised I had to come to him. I rose from my chair and suddenly I was standing in front of him. He looked at me but he seemed lost. He had accepted the implement but he didn't know how to proceed. I blushed as I realised I had to take command.

My fingers felt numb as I pulled up my dress. I wore a black, quite short and tight fitting outfit and it stuck to my waist as I had pulled it up. I took a deep breath as I took hold of my knickers and pulled them down to my knees.

I felt a strange tingling in my body but I could not possibly admit that it reminded me of another kind of tingling that I used to get with him. I approached him as he was sitting and I was about to place my body in his lap when he interrupted me.

'You like this, don't you?' he said with a tint of anger in his voice.

I stopped short, embarrassed.

'You get off on this and you are using me,' he continued.

There was a moment of silence.

I don't know if I like it or not,' I said trying to be as composed as was possible with my dress pulled up and my knickers around my knees.

'I only know that I am terrified and that I think you should do it,' I said.

He stared at me for a second, then he tapped his knee and I positioned myself in his lap. This was it. I was going to be spanked. I had asked for it and it was happening. I was scared.

I felt a strange sensation as he placed the cold wood on my bottom. It was a kind of excitement and at the same time determination and horror. The closest thing to this was sitting in a dentist chair. You are determined even if you know it will hurt and you feel a kind of excitement that may very well be fear.

Then he smacked me. He hit me on my right cheek and it hurt. I felt the pain and at the same time I realised that he had not used his full force. It was a meek tap compared to what a man like him was capable of. I knew that but still it hurt.

Then he hit my left cheek and I was surprised by the pain. He hesitated for a while and then he smacked me again and again. He took his time but he smacked me one cheek after the other but not very hard. It still hurt.

I felt I could cope although it was unpleasant. My bottom started to feel warm and tender but he continued smacking me. I felt my body move, instinctively trying to get away.

Then he stopped. I took a deep breath overcome with emotions.

'You asked me to spank you,' he said, 'do you regret that now?'

'No,' I said, hearing how weak my voice was.

'Do you want me to stop?'

There was something strange in his voice, a hint of triumph, maybe anger, I couldn't tell.

'It is not for me to decide that,' I said meekly.

'Right you are,' he said and now it was definitely something in his voice that seemed like triumph.

He started to smack me again and this time harder. I wasn't prepared and cried out. He smacked me harder and faster and I was not sure I could cope any more. It hurt too much and it was too horrible and I was too overcome by it all.

He didn't care and relentlessly he let the wood hit my tender bottom. I cried out and felt a bit of panic overtaking me. I didn't want this. It hurt too much.

He stopped for a while. I lay panting in his lap fearing he would continue. I almost started pleading with him.

Just as I was about to tell him that it was enough, that it hurt too much and I felt silly and embarrassed and in pain, a thought struck me. This is what it was like being punished. He spanked me and it hurt and that was right. It was supposed to hurt. I wanted to be punished and I was being punished and if it hurt that was my punishment. I had to go through with this.

Then he started spanking me again. He knew how to do it now. He used a lot of his strength now and he smacked me with vigour. It was far more painful than before and I started crying. I didn't plead but I moved around and squealed and cried. Still there was something that held me in place, a deep conviction that I had to do this. I couldn't go back now. I had to do it.

In my agony I heard him as he smacked me. He laughed. He enjoyed this. He was happy spanking me. I screamed now and was in pain. He spanked me relentlessly and it hurt.

Then it was over. He had spanked me enough. He was satisfied. He told me to rise and I complied. My knees were weak as I rose to my feet. He stood up too, facing me.

Suddenly we were there, facing each other, close. I saw that he was no longer angry. He looked content. I saw that through the tears in my eyes.

I was subdued, overcome with the whole matter but I felt that something had changed within me. I had subjected myself to this painful ordeal and something had changed.

He held out his arms and I pressed my body against him. He held me close not because he wanted to comfort me but because he loved me. I loved him too and felt safe in his arms.

His touch did not only made me feel safe. His body was close to mine and that made the tingle grew stronger. I remembered that I had not pulled up my knickers and that I was naked below my waist. I felt the fabric of his trousers against my belly and I was suddenly aware of a strange sense of vulnerability. That made me feel even more aroused.

Later he looked me in the eyes and I looked back. He was not angry and I was not angry and I felt no guilt any more. He smiled at me and I felt that things had changed.

'When you spank me next time,' I said.

'Will there be a next time?' he asked.

'When you spank me next time, will you grant me a wish?'

'What is that?'

'Don't make me have to ask for it!'

'How will I know, then?'

'You will know,' I said, 'it is for you to decide.'