Cosy Thoughts

Fantasies about getting your bottom smacked or having your clothes ripped off your body and being chained and sold are good for a lot of things. Indeed, they are and very nice on the whole. But there is one time when they are not so very useful. That is when you are falling asleep. Or rather, when you want to fall asleep. No, slave markets and riding crops and bottoms are far too exciting for that.

I know I may sound a little flippant and even a little silly but I am going to write something about nice and cosy fantasies that are good for falling asleep. I have all sorts of fantasies for that. I like to close my eyes, cuddle up to husband and just let my mind fly away.

The thing is that fly away is very much what I choose to do. I have this recurrent fantasy about flying a space ship. So when I want to fall asleep I board a nice little space ship and take off for the stars.

In my mind it may look something like the space ships in those old Flash Gordon films from the 30s. The ones with Buster Crabbe as Flash, in black and white and with silly clothes and uniforms. The space ships look fabulous and I would love to fly one of those.

I am not a very adventurous person (as you may have noticed) so there is seldom any danger connected to my space flights. No, I take off smoothly and silently (sic) in my space craft and point it towards the stars and fly away into outer space (other space...utter space....).

I don't often get very far before I leave the space ship and wander freely in the realm of dreams, real dreams, the kind that you have when you are soundly asleep.

Good night and have interesting dreams!

Horror

To cite David Bowie (again):

Inspirations have I none
Just to touch the flaming dove
All I have is my love of love
And love is not loving

Fantasies are about inspiration so this is a sad thing...innit? What to do then? I may write about something that interests me. Yes, what a splendid idea!

This is something I haven't said anything about before, I think. I do love a good horror story. Yes, that is true. A good horror story makes me fascinated, intrigued and excited. Not scared. I don't like really scary stories, the ones with blood and terrible crimes in them. I don't like gory stories. No, I like the subtle ones, the mysterious and fantastic ones.

One of my favourite authors is Howard Philip Lovecraft (isn't it a lovely surname for a writer of horror fiction?). He may not be the most brilliant writer in the sense of literary style but his imagination surpasses most writers I know about. I will not be dismissive about his writing style. It is brilliant in its own way. He is known to many people nowadays through role playing games and computer games and as the creator of the so called Cthulhu mythos. Read about it in Wikipedia but be aware that HPL never talked about a mythos and would, most likely be quite bored with it had he known about it.

His are stories about cosmic horror and the dangers of knowing too much. What we know about the world is just a fraction of what there is to know. There are hideous truths hidden and we are better off not knowing them. They are too hideous to know for human minds.

Another writer worth mentioning is Arthur Machen, a Welshman with a very vivid imagination. He thought that all good writing is about creating ecstasy in the reader. I know what you are thinking and I am sure his definition of ecstasy is more subtle. He wrote some really good stories and I can recommend The White People, without doubt one of the best short stories I have ever read.

A third name that springs to mind is Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, an Irish writer who created such stories as Uncle Silas and the short but brilliant Green Tea. If you ever want to read a great vampire story, far better than Bram Stoker and many modern writers, read Carmilla by Le Fanu.

So why haven't I said anything about Edgar Allan Poe? No, it is not because he is Merican. Lovecraft was Merican too. No, it is because he is not a particular favourite of mine. He has written some brilliant pieces, such as Ligeia and Berenice, so maybe he is worth mentioning after all.

I will stop now without telling you what it is I find fascinating with good horror stories. Maybe I will return to the subject later.

Poor, Obscure, Plain and Little

It was suggested to me that my last blog entry, the one about knickers, was a return to a core image of mine. And perhaps it is true. This remark made me start thinking, about the blog, my writing, why I blog and about fantasies. I realised that I have changed. At least my writing has changed. It started as a tribute to fantasies and fantasies that were joyful and good. The more I write and the more I allow myself my fantasies I seem to touch on darker things. I am not thinking of cruelty or wickedness but on more mundane emotions, such as loneliness and a sense of being abandoned or left out, being sad and upset.

My Imagination is like a big, blossoming, green and lush forest, full of great trees and winding paths. It is like something living, something immensely beautiful, the greatest film I ever watched, or the loveliest play. It is like fabulous music or brilliant books. It is colourful and alive and there is a heart beating in it. It is alive. Not all of my fantasies are sexual but sex is a part of life, a big part, and thus, it is prominent in my fantasies. Still I love my fantasy forest, my fantasy place. It has made my life easier to live and taken me through times that have been rough. That forest is me, where I live and breathe. It is where I live and that is sad in a way. I am an observer, standing by watching things go by. Still I have my imagination and it means everything to me.

It seems as some paths in that forest lead to darker places, remind me of childhood loneliness and upsetting things. Perhaps all that humiliation and pain in the fantasies, that I turn to something arousing, are ways of dealing with that darker side.

I am very sensitive nowadays, I cry easily for things I read and hear. A song (another song, yet another and a fourth...stop it now!) can send tears to my eyes and some films touch me immensely. If I have time to spend I watch the latest adaptation of Jane Eyre on DVD, over and over again. I cry every time Mr Rochester proposes to Jane and I suffer when her wedding is turned to a tragedy.

Still I will never lose the brightness and the beauty of my fantasies and I hope I will always return to the sweet delight of enticing fantasies.

Change

The sweetest moment is also the worst. The moment that I dread most. The moment when I am most ashamed. It is also the moment when the sensation of being alive thrills me the most. When I become more than just an ordinary being.

It is the moment of revealing, of removing the veil, of taking off that which covers. It is when I become naked.

When you order me to take down my knickers and I obey you I cross a boundary, I become something different. You say it causally, 'take down your knickers!' It is nothing to you, something fun, something you can say, just like that, an order to remove a piece of clothing. It is nothing to you.

For me it is a sacred moment although calling it sacred is almost blasphemy, calling it good and noble. It is not noble. It is when I become naked and bared and prepared for your whip, your hand or paddle or whatever is your choice. It is when I am bared for my...punishment, even if it is not a punishment, no wrong being done.

Slipping my knickers down from my hips, letting them caress my skin, sensing them touch me as I move them down and away from my bottom, the part of my body you will whip, you will punish. I become yours. I am ashamed. I dread it but I also want it. I feel...sexy. That is a blessing. I am in the centre, the one to watch. That is a blessing. And a curse.

I become more naked, shamelessly naked, baring my poor, soft and vulnerable bottom, baring it for your punishment, your cruelty. There is pleasure in being shameless. And a blessing that it is a punishment. It is not I who bare myself. No, it is you who bare me, you who shame me. I am just being...punished...or used.

The thrill of the shame and the freedom of being sensual, sexy. That is what lies in the taking down of knickers. And the freedom of not being in charge. The pleasure of being watched and not having a choice. Knowing that I would never be this shameless if it wasn't a punishment.

Being watched. Knowing that someone is watching. You are watching. And perhaps someone else. As when you choose to show me off in front of your friends. When you want to show them your power over me. The power I embrace and let you have. Then I become naked before their eyes. They are allowed to see my shame. And they are allowed to enjoy it. After all, it is my punishment. And I have no responsibility. I am free. Free to enjoy it. I am just being punished.

Get It On

Yesterday, 30 years ago, Mark Feld aka Marc Bolan was killed in a car crash and the world lost a genius. No need to create myths about the man as a person, what he did and what he said, but he was a genius, a pure genius, if there ever was one. Marc Bolan used his genius to become the greatest rock star ever.

He was a troubled man, in many respects and abused alcohol and drugs and himself but he created some of the best music of the 20^th century. In his lyrics and tunes there is such beauty that it brings tears to my eyes. He created songs that made you laugh and cry and see the wonders of the world. His music always had hope and love and beauty.

I danced myself right out the womb,

Of course he didn't. He was an ordinary man. But he created such lands of fantasy with his songs that you can almost believe he did dance when he was born.

Well, you're built like a car You got a hubcap diamond star halo

Silliness, some might say. Indeed, Marc Bolan was one of the silliest people you could imagine, full of his own person, his own genius. He knew he was a genius. He wasn't humble.

I come from a time where the burning of trees was a crime,
I lived by a sea where to be was a thing of true joy,
My people were fair and had sky in their hair,
But now they're content to wear stars on their brows.

Marc Bolan is alleged to have said something about not trusting a person over thirty. It sounds almost like a prophecy. He died two weeks before turning thirty.

Unhampered praise becomes silly. I am becoming silly. Still I am sad to think about the death of Marc Bolan. In my mind, he is and remains the greatest rock star and someone whose imagination and work will always remain close to my heart.

Well just because the touch of your hand Can turn me on just like a stick

(Cosmic Dancer (1971), Get It On (1971), Frowning Atahuallpa (My Inca Love) (1968), Desdemona (1967), Marc Bolan)

How Does It Work?

One thing that has always been obvious to me but is not obviously obvious for everyone is a certain distinction between fantasies and reality. It is about control and the reality I am talking about is not necessarily real reality but anything that involves others.

This was a cryptic beginning. Before I explain what I am getting at there is the inevitable disclaimer. This is how it works for me. It is my blog and I think like this. I am not saying that fantasies in general have to work like this or that other ways of seeing it is wrong. There, please, stay with me and hear me out!

The difference I am talking about is the one that exist between being on your own, in your head and interacting with others, even in the simple way of reading someone else's writing or even watching a film. The important difference that I am talking about is that in your own head you are in full control. That is quite obvious but it has some consequences.

First a reflection about fantasies in general. Many people are perfectly happy with watching Star Wars or reading ghost stories where all kinds of strange things happen. But, when they talk about sexual fantasies, it is about what you want happen and what you want to do – for real, in reality. It is like fantasies are like planning, a stage for playing out what you really want shall happen. Nothing, whatsoever, is wrong with that but it is different for me (I am sure I am not the only one). For me fantasies are like Star Wars, a place where strange things happen, things that are not real, never will be real and never was meant to be real.

And to return to the opening, In my fantasies I am in complete control and that is one thing that makes it impossible for some fantasies to become real. An example, Imagine you have fantasies about a certain rugby team. You have these images in your head of how they tackle you, form a scrum around you and, well, strip you naked and have you in the mud on the playing field. Or something outrageous like that. Kind of exciting, isn't it? This does not, I repeat, not mean that you would ever be comfortable with it happening in real life. This is stating the obvious but bear with me a little while! The important difference between the fantasy and the reality is that in the fantasy you are in control of the team. Everything that they do to you are what you decide they should do. That makes it exciting and not horrible.

This is the reason why you find stories about girls being enslaved and whipped and things like that in my blog. I find it exciting since nothing ever happen to them (or me) that I am not in complete control of.

When reading someone else's story, sharing a fantasy, roleplaying or watching a film you are not in complete control. This means that the rugby team or the slaver are not yours any more. They become something else, a tiny step closer to reality and therefore far more frightening.

This is one of the important reasons for all of you people out there who play with this, who incorporate it into your lives to ensure that there is trust between you. You can't control the whole thing and what may be nice in your imagination may be scary in reality or closer to reality. But if you trust one another then you may be brave enough to relinquish some of that control and still know that you are safe and secure.

Mind Games

'What did I do wrong this time?' she said to herself as she sat by the river. She picked up a stone and threw it in the water, in frustration, anger, fear...she couldn't tell. She clutched the lovely dress to her bosom and cried.

'Why didn't he see? Maybe he didn't want to see, my pretty, pretty dress...nothing.'

'We're playing those mind games together,' the song played in her head.

'No, you are playing mind games,' she said sobbing.

But there was no one there to listen. She was alone.

'Perhaps that is better,' she said, drying a tear, 'then I don't have to guess what I am supposed to do, what I am supposed to be.'

'Why can't I just be me?' she cried out, not caring if anyone would hear her.

'Love is the answer and you know that for sure - Love is a flower, you got to let it, you got to let it grow.' The song went on in her head.

'Love is the key, love and trust,' she thought bitterly.

'One single word, one blasted little word of kindness, one little piece of certainty, of reassurance and she could have lifted the shadow, thrown away her fear, lifted the veil, one little word.'

He was disappointed, she knew that, disappointed and hurt. It meant a lot to him, that was true but it meant something to her, as well. Tears of anger welled up in her eyes. Why was she so angry? Wasn't she supposed to like it?

'I am not soulless and heartless,' she said out loud, paraphrasing Jane Eyre, her beloved heroine.

She knew the passage well, chapter 23, the best part of the whole book.

'Do you think I am an automaton? - a machine without feelings?'

And then later:

'I have as much soul as you – and full as much heart!'

She clutched her dress closer to her heart and cried. For it was, indeed a very pretty dress.

(Mind Games by John Lennon, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte)

The Street

One of those scenes again.

I was surrounded, by smells, flavours lights and sounds. My head was spinning. It was night but there were many, many lamps and torches that lit up the street. The bazaar was packed with people and wherever I turned there was something happening. Someone selling something, someone shouting something. There was the smell of oranges, bananas, ginger and fennel, along with sandalwood and rose. It was night but everything was illuminated.

The boy was only fourteen, perhaps fifteen. He guided me through the street, knowing every part of it, knowing every step he took. He chatted to the merchants and the customers alike and he was at home. I wasn't. I was a stranger, an outsider. I was guided through these strange and overwhelming streets by this boy while I was the odd one out, the one not belonging. Still I knew that this was now my world, the world I had to embrace, I had to understand.

We stopped outside a building at the side of the square. A great crowd had gathered outside the entrance to the tavern, standing and cheering and singing and looking. In the flickering light from the lamps and torches a girl was dancing in the street. The crowd was clapping their hands and a drum was beating.

She was magnificent. She wore only a red, flowing breech cloth, some golden bangles and nothing more. Her olive skin glistened in the light as she moved her slim body to the beating of the drum. She danced of a desire and lust that was deeper than the sea and far, far older than she was.

We stood and stared in awe and I blushed at her display of desire and the pride she seemed to have in her own body, her ability to enchant. The boy turned and smiled a suggestive smile and I thought him too young for this. Then he tugged me along and we walked past the tavern on our journey through the night city.

Another display came up at the far corner of the town square. Another crowd had gathered but there was no signing or clapping hands, just glee and menace. We stopped for a while and saw another girl at the centre of the crowd. This girl was naked, even less clothed than the dancer. She was tied to a pole, her small body pressed to the rough surface of the sturdy pole. A man was standing behind her whipping her exposed skin with his whip.

The girl cried in agony while the crowd smiled and nodded their heads. They enjoyed this. She was just a poor girl being punished and the crowd enjoyed her agony.

Her cries cut through the night and pierced my ears and I almost started to cry out of pity for her. Then the boy tugged at the chain and I felt the iron collar push at my neck as I was led away. I was happy for leaving the brutal scene behind.

The boy smiled a wicked smile as he led us down a narrow street. There was a great throng of people, men in their burnouses crowded the narrow alley and we had to fight our way through. I feared the crowd as I couldn't protect myself against it. My hands turned helplessly in the cuffs behind my back as I tried to free myself from their iron. To no avail. I was bound.

The boy shouted and pushed aside men in front of him and he made a passage through the mass of people. Still he couldn't stop the men from brushing against us, pressing their bodies against us. I felt even more naked as I felt the fabric of their clothes against my exposed skin.

There were faces and bodies around me, smiling faces, evil faces, lustful faces and there were hands that stole a touch, stroked my body, squeezed my breasts.

I was almost screaming in panic as the crowd opened up. The ordeal was over. The boy told me we were close as he led me down a narrow and dark street.

We stopped outside a door and the boy knocked on it.

'Welcome to your new home, meet your owner!' he said with a beaming face.

Have Fun!

Dear Reader, I have been bad at blogging of lately. Too little time to think and use my imagination. I am sorry for that and I am sorry I have nothing to say right not. I know, however, that given a little spare time my head will start to fill with strange thoughts, strange imaginations (that may not be so strange after all).

I do love to hear from you although I don't want to put any pressure on you. I happy with having you as a dear Reader. I feel encouraged by your comments about my post Where to Go? Those of you who have spoken to me have encouraged me to continue what I am doing and that makes me happy. I may even continue with my boring stories...(smiles a wicked smile).

Anyway, have a great weekend and if you live in the UK you can enjoy all sorts of entertainment. The rugby world cup is on its way, the last in the one day international cricket series against India will decide who wins the series on Saturday and on Sunday we will see if Lewis Hamilton will take another win in the Italian Grand Prix.

I bet you didn't know I cared about sports and maybe I do, maybe I don't. Take care, dear Reader and have a spiffing weekend!

Tied Up Women

I guess you have seen them too. While trawling the Web and especially the kinkier side of it I have come across quite a few images of women tied up and hanging from the ceiling in some uncomfortable way, or tied down to some vile device penetrated by some strange machine or the like. I have chosen to illustrate this post with a drawing by Gnarly Thotep but most often these images are photographs, taken in some garage or basement, the men clothed, casual, the women always naked and in peril, fastened or tied or chained in new and ingenious ways.

I am not writing about them because I enjoy them but because I find them interesting in many ways. And this time interesting is not necessarily equal to enjoyable, so lets stick to interesting. There are two points I want to make, here.

The first is about men and their hobbies. Why is it that so many men (and mostly men) are so immersed in their hobbies, be it angling, trains, big cars or bondage? These men seem to be totally and completely fascinated by whatever they are interested in and can't stop caring about all the gadgets and equipment that comes with it.

It seems to me to be something in these images that show that type of fascination with the hobby itself. There is a wide variety of devices, ropes and chains that are used to tie these women up and new and ingenious ways of arranging their bodies. The men seem to excel in the use of their equipment on these women. They seem to try to find always new ways of tying a woman up in a humiliating and painful way.

The thing is that I wouldn't be surprised that if two of these men should meet they would indulge in a long (and for others quite boring) conversation about the quality of different ropes or which types of shackles are best to fasten a woman to one of their favourite devices.

Forgive me if I sound a little dismissive but I can't help being fascinated by it and thinking that there is a risk of a certain nerdiness connected with this. A disclaimer is called for. I don't know any of these men and I do not participate in such play so I can truly believe there are a lot of other issues that are far more important than the ones I have pointed to.

Secondly I am utterly and totally fascinated by the women in those images. How do they survive and endure such treatment? While the men use their imagination to find humiliating and uncomfortable ways of tying women up, these women have to undergo it all and concentrate on enduring.

I know that there are some women who really enjoy this but I would not be one of them. My thoughts are my own and I do not claim to talk for these women. So allow me my outside view on this and don't be offended or think I am dismissive towards masochistic women. It would be far from my mind.

The thing is that I can fantasise about being chained and even tortured but I would not want it in real life. These women, in the photographs are actually and really subject to it and I admire them their resolve and endurance. I do hope they are well paid or of the kind that really enjoy what they are going through.

Please, remember, dear Reader, that I really think that anyone should be allowed to pursue pleasure in whatever way they want without harming others so I have nothing, whatsoever, against the men and women in those pictures. These are just my own thoughts.