I think I am too serious. I should lighten up a bit. So now for some silliness. I just checked what my Elf Name would be. It is silly, don't you think?
Your Elf Name Is...
I have a cyber friend who is a real inspiration for me. She told me something that made me think of this story. I wrote it for her...and for me. She is a dreamer, just like me. She is lovely, dovely Dove and she has her own blog on the Web. Go read it! That is an order.
This story has no spankings and no naughtiness at all but I do like it. Please read it! And thank you for being you, Dove. This is for you and for all the dreamers out there.
'Don't pay her any attention,' he said, 'she's a little potty.'
Brian made a gesture to his head and smiled.
The girl had red hair, or was it auburn? He couldn't say. It looked a little tousled. She wore a light blue dress, low below her knees and ordinary walking shoes. She looked very ordinary. Still she caught his eye.
She passed by and he turned to the boys. Brian and Mike laughed at him and made gestures to their heads. Eric seemed to be occupied with something else, most likely he was staring at some of the other girls.
Laughing at him meant that he was accepted. He was part of their group now. That was good. That meant he was not alone in the new school.
He couldn't get the girl out of his head. He had hardly seen her face but he remember that she looked solemn, not sad but solemn. The way she dressed and her hair told him she was nobody. She would never get any attention. Still he couldn't get her out of his head.
He saw her later that day, alone by the main building. She was still looking solemn but as he stole some glances at her he thought that she also looked content. She didn't seem happy but content. As if she didn't mind being on her own. As if she didn't mind not being popular. Still there was this air of sadness about her he couldn't get rid of.
He kept looking for her in the school grounds. He saw her quite often, standing on her own. He didn't want to show the boys where he was looking and he never mentioned her to them. He didn't know why he looked for her. She was not very pretty, not ugly in any way but ordinary.
He saw her again. One Saturday he saw her again. He was taking a shortcut to town, walking through a tiny bit of woodlands between his street and the town centre. His bike was broken so he had to walk.
As he passed the small hill that almost was the entirety of the wooded patch of land he realised he wasn't alone. On top of the small hill there was a small clearing and when he looked towards the summit he saw someone there.
The girl moved between the trees in a strange way. She turned with every step and her hair stood out form her head as she turned and turned. He stood in silence regarding her. She was dressed in a white dress this time, its long wide skirt flowing with her movements.
She was dancing. He realised the girl was dancing. She moved between the trees and turned with every other step. There was no music but he could see she had music in her body. She moved from three to tree and her left arm encircled the trunk of the tree while her right arm was stretched out. Then she turned and moved away from the three.
She was dancing with the trees. She moved from partner to partner as a girl on a dance floor who can't decide which boy will be allowed to woo her. He couldn't see her face but he knew she was smiling. She moved with grace and beauty and although he heard no music he knew it was there.
He stood in silence regarding her, not being able to move. He felt like an intruder, as if he had come upon a great secret, a secret that was not only hers and the trees but a secret that was far, far greater than that.
He was startled as he realised that the dance was over and the girl was coming down the hill. He saw her approaching and knew she would pass him. He felt embarrassed, caught out. As if he had been doing something wrong, spying on her or been somewhere he shouldn't.
He looked at her as she passed him.
'Hi,' he said, smiling, wanting to be inviting, wanting to show he didn't think her potty or silly. Wanting her to know he wasn't an enemy. Wanting her to notice him.
'Hi,' she said, gave him a quick glance and passed him.
He stood, regarding her for a while as she walked to the buildings away from the hill. She didn't turn her head to look for him. She walked on, thinking of something else. He wondered if there had been a smile on her face.
This is something that has been on my mind for some time but I didn't know how to talk about it. I will give it a try and I will start by apologising to anyone who is offended by this. I mean no harm, really, I don't.
Language matters to me. Language is a glorious thing, a tool but more than a tool, it is the air we breathe and the water we drink. We couldn't live without it. I know we can but it wouldn't be the same.
Language matters and I use it when I write this blog. Language is the means by which you can see a little piece of what is inside my head and it is the means by which you can tell me that you have been there. It is about communication. It is through language I am not alone. It is through language I share and express myself.
Language matters for two reasons, if not more. Firstly, it is a means to express something and it is important that I can convey as well as I am able what I want to convey. Secondly, it may, at times, be a thing of beauty, this writing. There is beauty in the images that became language but also in the language itself. It is a thing of beauty at times. Not always but there are some moments of beauty and I value them.
Grammar is a strange thing. To me grammar is not the rules that guide the communication but a description of the mechanics that helps us understand each other. Grammar is important. I care about grammar.
But I am also sloppy. And ignorant. I am always unsure about what I write, 'does this sound good?' 'Does this work?'
My mind is a mind of images, not of words. I love words but I am not good with them. I don't understand written text that well. I get lost in complicated narratives. Too many characters in a story and I am lost. I need to read and reread to understand. I am a slow reader.
I want to be perfect. I know there is no perfect. I know this. Still it is a burden to want it. I want my texts to be flawless, perfect, always beautiful and always good. My worst enemy is this desire for perfection. It makes me ashamed of errors I make, it makes me ashamed of my sloppiness and if this desire for perfection was allowed to rule I would never put anything on the blog that wasn't read and reread, edited and corrected many times over. There would be no blog then. I would sit in a corner doing nothing.
I struggle with this burden every day. I decided that my blog should not be perfect. It should be a means for me to talk about what I wanted to talk about. It should never be a place for flawless writing.
I often reread my stories only once or twice before putting them on the blog. I don't want to be bogged down with questions about if it would be better to say something in another way. There would be no blog if I allowed myself to do that.
I am not proud of the errors I make, the typos, the sloppy grammar, the incorrect references. But they will end up on my blog because if I would hunt them all down I would not be able to write.
The blog was never intended to be perfect. It couldn't possible be my intention.
Someone once said to me that my writing was good but with his help it could be perfect. He then went on pointing out errors I had made. I had a terrible row with him. Partly because he was wrong about a lot of things and didn't understand (in my opinion) how language works. And partly because I found it arrogant and preposterous to think that he could make my writing perfect. And partly because I was hurt to be told I wasn't perfect.
I have a lot to learn about writing. There is no doubt about that and I want to learn. But the point with this blog is to communicate, not to be perfect.
When I write this I realise that this is a problem for me not for you. You must wonder why I rant about it. Maybe I am trying to tell myself that I don't have to be perfect. I will leave it at this and go back to writing my stories.
I am still a little upset by my ordeals in my second life. I feel a little stupid reacting so strongly but I can't, really, help it. I had decided it was story time again and was browsing through my older stories. I lost heart a little and though of one, 'no, that is too brutal', of another, 'no, too silly,' of a third, 'too badly written.' I couldn't decide. I wanted to put something on the blog today so I decided to put this story up. It is like an experiment, something I just wrote out of nowhere. I had some kind of setting akin to The Story of O in mind and perhaps it is a rip off. I am not sure I even think it is very good but some parts I like, others not. I will put it up as it is with just the odd editing. Obviously I find it good enough to put on the blog but I don't know if I mean anything with putting it here.
As I came in to my room I found the note on my bed. I took it and read it with trembling fingers. It was short but very clear:
You are to be punished.
Change to your red bikini and wait at the road.
Someone will collect you there.
My heart started pounding in my chest. I knew it would come but not what it would be. I was to be punished. But for what? I didn't know I had done anything wrong.
It was not a cold day but I shivered as I walked over to my drawer and took out my red bikini. It was the tiniest of all my swimsuits. They had chosen the red bikini because it was tiny, because I would feel most exposed in it. I put it on the bed and looked at it. The note didn't say when but there was no way for me to know and I may well be overdue already. I had to change and go out even if I would have to wait for a long time to be collected.
I started to take off my clothes knowing I couldn't be late if they were there waiting for me. I put on the bikini. I turned to my mirror regarding myself. I saw a very scared girl looking thin and very naked in a too small bikini.
The bikini was bright red and had a small but not tiny top of triangles and tiny strings. The bottom was small but not a string although there were knots at the sides making it cover very little of my body. I had never dared to show myself in this bikini. It was too revealing, I thought. I was too embarrassed to use it. I wondered if I could take shoes but the note said nothing about shoes, only about the bikini so I decided to be barefoot.
I felt naked and exposed as I walked down to the road. There were not many houses around so nobody saw me but at the roadside all cars passing by would see me. I shivered.
No one waited for me at the roadside. I had to stand there and wait. No cars passed by and I was happy about that. Still I felt naked and exposed and I shivered although the evening was soft and warm.
Three cars passed me by as I stood there. I pretended to be on my way somewhere but I noticed that they looked at me. I didn't dare to move away from the spot outside my house. I was waiting for to be collected. I don't know how long I waited but it felt like an eternity.
At last a big car pulled up. It was black and very elegant. It seemed as if the woman sitting in the back was the important passenger and the man at the wheel her chauffeur. She was elegantly dressed and seemed so posh that I was surprised as I saw her open her door and step out of the car. It seemed to be something below her dignity. She had a long black dress that had a high neck and long sleeves. She wore a small black hat and medium heel shoes. She walked up to me and looked at me. I felt terribly naked in front of her. I didn't dare to speak.
She stared at me but did not speak. She made a gesture with her hand and the man stepped out of the car and walked up to her.
'Get the tool!' she snapped at him and I saw him walk to the boot of the car with a strange smile on his face. The woman continued staring at me. I thought it inappropriate to stare back so I lowered my gaze feeling myself inferior to this beautiful woman.
I saw the man returning with something in his hand which he gave to the woman. It was a long black wooden handle with some three or four leather strands hanging from one end. The strands or strings had knots on them and with a freezing sensation I realised that it was a kind of whip. The word punishment in the note became frighteningly real at that moment.
'Put your hands on the bonnet!' the woman ordered me. There was no option for me but obeying. I walked over to the big black car and put my hands on the bonnet. It was still warm.
I heard a movement behind me and the man suddenly stood close to me. I would have anticipated it but I was taken by surprise as I felt him gently grab my bikini bottom and slide it down my thighs. My heart started pounding as I heard the woman moving closer to me.
She wasted no time. I heard a hissing sound behind me and then a loud crack. My dazed mind realised that it was the whip and the sound of it hitting my tender flesh. The pain entered my mind after that. I imagined a white hot iron bar pressed against my buttocks. I held my breath.
I heard the whip hissing through the air again and had time to feel my heart stop in anticipation of the impact. The sound was brutal and the pain was beyond description.
She gave me six more lashes and I was shaking like a leaf as she was finished. My bottom was on fire and my mind was in turmoil. I had been beaten and I couldn't understand it. I hadn't screamed but I felt tears in my eyes.
I didn't dare removing my hands from the bonnet or pulling up my bikini bottom that hung around my knees. I waited in my position. I heard a sound that may have been the snap of fingers. Soon I felt the presence of the man right behind me. He moved close to me and soon I felt his body touching mine from behind. It was almost as an embrace and for a split second I felt a kind of comfort from that but my mind brought me back to reality.
I felt his hands fiddling with something below my buttocks and my heart almost stopped as I felt something soft but still cold pressed against my bottom. He directed his sex into me from behind and when he was in place I felt his hands on my hips. With the sound of my heart pounding in my ears I realised that I was being taken. I felt his sex penetrating me from behind. It didn't hurt but I was overwhelmed by the sheer force of it. I didn't dare moving my hands from the bonnet but kept in place as I felt him moving inside me.
I wanted to cry out but the silence of the man and the elegant woman made this seem extremely inappropriate. I endured his penetration in silence. He pumped in me and soon he came closer to the end. I was overwhelmed but not aroused and found the whole thing nothing but degrading and humiliating.
He came inside me and soon withdrew. I was still standing with my hands on the bonnet of the black car while my body was shaking.
'Get in the car!' the woman ordered.
I straightened my back and reached down and pulled up my bikini bottom. I was relieved to be, at least, partly dressed again. The woman had returned to the car and she had opened the left back door from inside and I stepped into the car and sat down.
The leather seat felt cold and strange against the whipped skin of my bottom, barely covered in my bikini. I felt naked against the seat and in the car and especially beside the elegantly clad woman.
As we drove off my heart started to beat slower and I took a deep breath.
'Where are you taking me?' I dared ask with a thin voice.
'You are to be punished,' the woman answered without even looking at me.
'Why am I being punished?' I asked.
She didn't answer.
I had planned to put a story up on my blog but that will have to wait. Today I want to tell you about my second life, in Second Life (SL). I have done it before but it is not often and far between times. I will tell you a little about me in SL. In that virtual world I am Janice Aldwych, also called Pipit. As you may have figured out I am a spanko and quite submissive.
Yesterday I broke up with my mistress in SL. We had been together for five months but for four days. That is quite a long time in SL, as I understand it. I took the step. I decided to leave and return my collar. That is how it is done. I felt we couldn't communicate the way I needed. I still love her and care for her and I think it was me rather than her that couldn't cope. She accepted it with grace and we are still friends. I am proud of her.
That which I want to tell you is that I am very sad now. It is strange how a virtual world can affect you...or me, at least. I think of it as a book or a film I co-write with all the other inhabitants of SL and a good book or film may move you to tears. Maybe it isn't so strange to be affected, after all.
Part of me regret leaving my mistress. I have been immensely proud of wearing her collar. It has been the most precious thing. Anyone who have read my earlier posts knows that I had a secondary owner too and returning their collar means I am not hers any more, either.
I feel naked now, without their collar. I feel lost and abandoned but I am my own now. I may find another mistress, in fact there is someone who has volunteered but we will see what happens.
I feel I am overly dramatic about this and I don't expect anyone to understand how it can affect me this way. Still I was close to tears yesterday and I am sad now as I write this. It is the end of an era and it hurts, even if that era was a virtual one.
Thank you for reading, dear Reader.
This is my century entry in my blog. My first entry was on 24 November, 2006, so I have achieved this within less than a year. Not that it means anything but I am, still, quite proud.
I began this blog in order to allow myself a space to talk about my fantasies. I felt that I needed and wanted a place for that. I decided to stay fairly hidden, thinking that it made it easier for me to talk freely. I think that has worked out well. I have been very honest with you and talked about my fantasies, shared my stories and tried to be honest about what motivates me.
It has been great. You have been great, dear Readers. The blog has turned, more and more, into a stories blog but that is not so bad. Stories and fantasies are all the same in the end. You have been very supportive and told me a lot of nice things. It boosts my confidence and now I think I have some talent for writing. Don't get me wrong! I am not as arrogant and big headed that I think I can't improve. I know there is a lot to learn, lots.
I have been honest and written the stories I wanted to read, the stories that interest me and excite me. I suppose not everyone who passes by enjoys my stories but they have been kind enough to just leave and not comment. I do like some of the things I have put here in my blog. I think I have managed to capture something of what I wanted to express. That is, really, what matters to me.
It has been a journey and I am not done yet. I am not there yet and perhaps I will never be done. I will keep on blogging and we will see for how long. I still enjoy it and I still enjoy hearing from you. Thanks, dear Reader, for reading. It means the world to me. I am very happy to have you out there, reading what I am writing, listening to my stories and rants. Thank you!!
By the way, for those who wonder what the literary reference was in my story The Rug. I can tell you that it was from Heart of Darkness by the spiffing author Joseph Conrad. In that book, the main character, the narrator, travels up a river (although the book never discloses what river it is, everyone assumes it is the Congo) to bring a man, the almost mythical Kurtz, back to civilisation. He gets him on the boat but while returning Kurtz dies and his last words are: The horror! The horror! It was a very flippant reference since there were no other connection but the words.
So let me just thank you, once again, dear Readers for reading.
This is a story I wrote for a friend some time ago. The theme is not that unusual, come to think of it. Kind of romantic but a little kinkier than in the average romantic story. A fantasy that is a little brutal but sweet as a fantasy.
I am not prepared, just yet, to disclose the literary reference I used in the last post. No cleverness in this story, though. Just some brutality. I hope you like an exotic setting. I do.
Octavius had spotted her the moment she arrived at the farm. He had been standing in the courtyard, inspecting the new slaves as they arrived. He had spotted her from a distance. He didn't know why.
At first he had pitied her and thought her only a girl. Then he found she was not a girl, just very small. No, she was a woman, no doubt about that. He thought it was her blond hair that attracted him to her but he couldn't say. She was a barbarian and had nothing of the stature and beauty of the dark women of his homeland.
But it wasn't the blond hair, it was something else, something that drew him to her. She was so small, so vulnerable but that had never attracted him to anyone before. It was something else, something he could not put his finger on.
She had no name. She was simply the girl with no name so they called her Puella. She was from the North and knew just little of the language. She hated him.
He saw her defiance, the hate in her eyes. Still he was kind to her. He put her in the kitchen which meant far lighter duties than in the field. She still seemed miserable.
Octavius was a senator, a well known citizen of Rome. He was a man of the state but he preferred the life on the farm. He returned there, to his family and his lands whenever his duties allowed him.
Now he found that he longed not only for to see his family and his lands as he left the dusty and dirty streets of the City for his beloved farm. No, he often had the image of Puella, the nameless slave on his mind as he set off.
Octavius found that he was unusually kind to the tiny Puella. He often stood and watched her as she was working. He would order some slave to help her as she carried something that seemed too heavy for her small frame. He couldn't explain what it was with that barbarian girl that made him think of her all the time.
He was attracted to her. He knew that but that was nothing unusual. Octavius was a man of principles but he was no stranger to bringing a pretty slave girl to his bed when he found the urge to touch a young body.
Puella hated him. He saw it in her eyes. Had she been a dog she would have snapped at him, buried her fangs in him. That was the kind of passion he saw in her eyes. Was it hate or did she despise him? That question troubled him. Usually he could handle hate. He just didn't care. But this was different. And if she despised him?
One evening he brought her to his chamber. He was alone, just a boy to serve him wine. Two of his farmhands brought Puella to him. It looked silly with those two sturdy men bringing her to him. One of them could have taken her on his shoulder and just dropped her off.
She knelt on the floor, head hung low, dressed only in her brief garment, a dirty sleeveless and very short dress, with a a thin cord around her waist as a belt. He didn't see her eyes but he knew the hate in them. Perhaps was there fear in them now.
She must fear him. Even if she hated him she must fear him.
Octavius knelt by her side, put his hand on her head, stroked her hair. He wanted badly to touch her, to make her happy. He didn't understand this softness, this urge to caress and care. His hand touched her cheek. It was a soft and tender touch.
She moved as if he had hit her. She threw her body backwards, slumped on the floor, hid her face in her hands, cried out in agony. 'Kill me, you coward!' she screamed.
Octavius stared at her. He was stunned, couldn't think. His head was swirling. He couldn't comprehend her reaction. He had wanted to be kind to her but she had called him a coward. He was used to insolence but this was different.
Red rage took him over. He stood up. He grabbed the girl by her arms, held her in his strong arms. She was a rag doll, sobbing but did not protest or resist. It was easy for him to tie her hands with the rope and before he knew it he had pulled it tight making Puella hang in her tied wrists, facing the pillar.
He was still mad with a fury he did not understand as he ripped the clothes from her body. He stood back, held out his hand. The slave boy gave him his whip.
Puella's pathetic cries did not diminish his assault on her soft body. His whip hit her time and again, leaving red marks on her pale northern skin.
Octavius wept as he whipped the slave girl. He wept as he saw his whip hit home and saw her body move in pain, her tiny feet leave the floor.
Later they both lay on the floor. Octavius had untied the rope and Puella lay slumped in a sobbing heap at the pillar. Octavius had thrown away the whip with disgust and was reclining on some cushions.
His head was in turmoil. He stared out into nothing. He was so lost to the world that he did not notice the tiny movements in Puella's body. He did not hear how she crawled across the floor and now lay at his feet.
He heard her breath the moment before she touched his feet. Instead of moving he froze. He waited for the attack. This proud little woman would doubtlessly try to kill him for his cruelty, knowing that she would perish doing it.
He wasn't prepared for the kiss, the soft kiss she placed on his feet. He stared at her as she gently kissed him again. In amazement he regarded her naked body, marked by his whip slowly move as she placed one sweet kiss after another on his feet.
He looked at her and after an eternity she turned her red and wet face towards him. He stared at her as she looked at him. This time he didn't see the hate.
This is, indeed, a grim tale. It is an old story that I haven't written down before but one that has been in my head for a long, long time. It is about a kind of humiliation that is not so often there in such stories...I think. But then again, I don't read that many stories. I have no idea why this story came out like this. And a goldstar by your name if you spot the literary reference in the story.
It was not so long ago it happened. Counting in days and hours, it was not long ago but it could have been a lifetime.
The holiday had been brilliant. The sun was hot and we were happy, Kathy and me. We visited the temples and the museums during the hottest part of the day and spent the afternoons and evenings in the bazaar, the tea houses and the restaurants. We truly enjoyed ourselves. We had two whole weeks together and we made the most of it.
We were an odd couple. Kathy was the one who caught the eyes. She was flamboyant, beautiful and very, very sexy. She wore long flimsy skirts, a broad leather belt low on her hips and sandals with quite high heels. She had to be modest in her dressing, so there was no cleavage, no revealing tops but she managed to look sexy in her sleeveless, tight fitting shirts. She even wore a hat to cover her flowing auburn hair but still managed somehow to look gorgeous.
I was a grey mouse by her side, had always been. I was half a head shorter and always with a ponytail, the good and boring girl. I never understood why she even liked me, if she did. I hated heels and wore ballerinas the first days but realised that sandals were better, allowing the sand to escape from my shoes. The sand was everywhere. I bought that kind of ancient looking sandals that consisted of a leather sole and some bindings that made me look like someone in a film about the Romans.
I was daring and had brought a sleeveless linen dress. It was dark green and the skirt was knee length. It was more cheerful than the ones I usually wore and I felt very special and smashing in it. Looking in the mirror I think I looked timeless, like someone from ancient history. Still I was nothing compared to the flamboyant and beautiful Kathy.
I loved the bazaar, the smells, the sounds the throng of people, being everywhere and going everywhere. We found a favourite tea house and spent hours there in the afternoons and then went shopping when the sun set.
This afternoon we didn't go to the tea house, instead Kathy dragged me across the town square to a dingy looking shop on a narrow side street. She told me she had something she wanted to show me. I thought that she must have found this shop last evening when we split up and went our separate ways. I had been scared and lonely all the time but Kathy had been very pleased when we met up.
Entering the shop was like travelling in time. It was like something from Arabian Nights but more real. It was a shop full of beautiful rugs and kelims. It was dark and cool and smelled of wool, tea and sandal wood. It was magic. I had never seen a place like that.
The shop keeper was like something from a horror film, toothless, age old and wrinkly. His skin had the same colour as the sand and his burnous was dark, dark blue and very dirty. When she greeted the old man I knew that Kathy had been there the day before.
She turned to me and pointed to a big rug lying on a pile of other rugs.
'Isn't it beautiful?' she exclaimed.
'It is gorgeous,' I said touching it.
It was red and covered in an intricate pattern of blue and black. It was like a dream, like a flying carpet. It would look fantastic in her flat, in front of her sofa. I told her so. She nodded and looked happy. I could have given anything to buy her the rug in that moment.
'How will you afford it?' I asked, knowing that these rugs were very expensive even in this part of the town. Or at least, so I was told.
'I will find a way,' she said, looking a little strange.
She was serious, I realised that when she said something to the shop keeper, in his language, which surprised me. I shouldn't have been surprised. Kathy had that ability to pick up useful phrases and use them without fear of embarrassing herself. I was far more cautious. I always thought that I would say something wrong and ask for a donkey instead of directions to a restaurant or something similar. People would laugh and I would blush with embarrassment.
What she said to the old man resulted in him inviting us to an inner room. I was a little apprehensive as we entered this inner sanctum. Kathy seemed at ease and I relaxed a little. The shop keeper invited us to sit down at a low table. He clapped his hands and a young man, almost a boy, entered. He looked like someone from a romantic dream. He was a very handsome contrast to the ugly old man.
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable as the old shop keeper kept ogling me. He stared at me as if I was an animal at the zoo, or if he wanted to have me. I didn't understand why he was looking at me while I was sitting by the gorgeous Kathy who was far, far more attractive than me.
The young man, whom I named Ali in my head served tea in small delicate glasses and we sat down to negotiate. They mixed the languages and since I didn't understand the local tongue and the shop keeper was not that brilliant using our language, I lost interest and looked around the room and tried to see what Ali was doing. He was indeed a very handsome young man.
Suddenly it appeared as the deal was done. The old man clapped his hands and the sweet young Ali came in and was given some orders. He returned with the rug in a neat roll and put it down besides Kathy. The old man looked happy. I was glad we could leave.
The shop keeper didn't seem to be too concerned with my friend. Instead he kept on staring at me and smiling a very ugly toothless smile.
We rose to our feet and the deal was sealed with a hand shake between the rug merchant and my friend. It was a little odd to see her do that, using a gesture that seemed so very manly.
Then things changed. In that moment, when I was about to turn and leave this ugly man and his lovely shop assistant, things changed. Suddenly he shouted for Ali, whose real name was Hosni, while he took hold of my arm. Before I could express my disgust he started pulling at me. I turned to Kathy and was surprised as she just stood there with a stern expression on her face.
Hosni came in and he grabbed my other arm. I was puzzled and confused. This was very strange and very unpleasant. I looked at the shop keeper who had his ugly face close to mine and he smiled his horrible smile. Even Hosni smiled. I turned to Kathy and she smiled too.
'Sorry,' she said, still smiling, 'I couldn't resist that lovely rug.'
Before I could scream Hosni put his hand over my mouth. I felt a cloth being pressed between my lips. I was being gagged. The cloth was pressed down my throat and I felt as if I was choking. I struggled for air, panicking as they tied the gag in place.
As I came around I felt how my dress was being unzipped and promptly was slipped from my shoulders. I squirmed and wriggled in their grip but I couldn't stop them from slipping my dress from me. My old life was brutally but without problem stripped from me and soon I was dressed only in knickers and my bra.
I cried in agony and fear as those last items of clothing unceremoniously was taken from me. My body shivered in anger and horror as my hands were tied behind my back. I was still on my feet as the old man knelt before me, removing my shoes as Hosni held me in his strong and young hands. I looked up and saw Kathy standing there. I stared at her and pleaded with her, although no words came out of my gagged mouth. She said nothing, just looked at me. I couldn't believe she had done this to me.
There I was, the shy girl, who had almost never been kissed, standing naked in the back of a dingy rug shop, bound and held by a shop assistant. I cried and I tried to scream but to no avail.
The old man gathered up my clothes and handed them over to Kathy. I screamed as I saw that. It seemed the ultimate humiliation, that she would get my clothes, my clothes that had been ripped from my body.
She took the clothes, smiled at me and left. I was alone with the two men, naked and bound and sold for a beautiful rug. Then it became worse. The two men stared at me, smiled at me and then they touched me. I felt their hands on my body, touching, probing, caressing. I felt the rough hands of those men sliding over my soft skin, kneading my breasts, touching me belly and sliding along my legs.
The old man stood in front of me and smiled a toothless smile as he put his hand on my belly, slid it down and in between my legs. I held my breath as his finger found their wriggling way and finally slid into me, entering me. Tears filled my eyes as I felt him touch me and penetrate me with his dry fingers.
He then withdrew his fingers, smelled them and laughed with his toothless, ugly face. He dismissed me with a gesture of his hand and Hosni led me through a back door, led me away to my new life as a captive.
It was only a week ago, counted in days but it could have been a lifetime. I am now a slave, although slavery is abolished, property although a woman cannot be owned.
I am changed. Maybe I was changed in that moment, in that shop. As I was led through that door I was overcome with the shameful memory of the shop keeper's fingers in my sex and the horror! The horror! I was aroused.
...you perhaps already had figured out about Janice. This is a fascinating exercise. I don't generally talk about myself in this blog, except for what is in my head but now I give you some exciting facts about myself. Don't ask me why I wrote everything in third person! Could it be that I am in denial?
1. Janice is a prude. She is extremely embarrassed about sex. Her fantasy mind seems to be that of a thirteen year old, which means sex is exciting but very, very embarrassing. This means she is embarrassed about explicit descriptions about sex and some words. You may have noticed that there are very few explicit descriptions and not many naughty words, on her blog. That is the prude in her. This does not mean, however, that she doesn't do it and doesn't enjoy it. She is older and bolder now but she is still quite prudish. The ones who think repressed sexuality is a driving force behind her blogging may be right.
2. Apes are among Janice's favourite animals and her favourite ape is the Gorilla. And regarding the nature of this blog she feels compelled to add that she has never had any sexual fantasies including apes. Still Gorillas are very nice and interesting and they look cool too.
3. Janice sometimes hits stationary objects with her bicycle which causes her to fall off it and hurt herself. To be honest, this has only happened once the last twenty or so years. But she did stumble and take a fall on the platform of Cardiff Central some years ago. She made a fool of herself and almost lost her glasses but she survived.
4. Janice is a great fan of Bowie's and has seen him in concert five times. She thinks most of his music is brilliant and that he is a spiffing poet as well. She does, furthermore, think that his later music is as good as his earlier works. She doesn't think Bowie is just Ziggy Stardust but was Janice to become a rock star she would want to be Ziggy Stardust, despite the fact that he is (or was) a man.
5. Janice loves cats, not only kittens but cats in all shapes and forms (almost). She once had two cats, one white and one black. The white one went missing and the black one moved to another place. Both of them were stray cats. The oddest thing happened when Janice moved places. The black cat, then living at a neighbour (this was in the country and the neighbour actually lived a mile away) and not showing herself for Janice or her partner for many years, suddenly appeared and ran along the car the last time they left the old place. It felt as if she came to say goodbye.
6. Janice is married and happily so. It is, of course, stupid to pretend that everything is nice and cosy always but she loves her husband to the extent that she feels bereaved whenever he is away and can't sleep well and is generally unhappy when he is not by her side. And she also feels more loved and cared for than ever in her life. Although she has been together with her partner for many a year she has been married to him for less than a year.
7. Janice is extremely embarrassed about her body and is very uncomfortable in places where she is supposed to show it, like on the beach. Although she loves swimming, this makes it a little awkward to do that. It is not because she feels ugly or is too fat or too thin or anything. She feels ok and knows herself to be attractive to some degree. It goes back to childhood and a sense of being ashamed of her body, not because it was anything wrong with it but just because it was like that. This may be the reason why there are so many women getting their clothes off in her fantasies. It may have to do with the mixed feelings she has. Nudity is embarrassing, degrading and generally humiliating but nudity also means a lot of exciting things, like showing off, being who you are and, of course, sex. Those mixed feelings are always present in her writing and seems to be the driving force behind a lot of her fantasies.
8. Janice loves art from the Victorian era. Her favourite painters are Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones (nice long name, eh?) and John William Waterhouse. She doesn't think Picasso was a genius, the opposite actually. This does not mean, however, that she despises all kinds of abstract art. She thinks Mondrian was a brilliant painter. That is how she is, Janice, full of contradictions.
9. Janice likes computer games. She is not very good at them but she enjoys them from time to time. It may surprise you a little that meek and silly Janice actually enjoys killing people and monsters in games. She does like to play nice games too, like the ones where you build things up, cities and settlements and such things.
10. Janice has never been spanked. Not in childhood and neither later in life. She has no real idea of how it would be to be spanked but her vivid imagination still returns to the subject. She is quite fascinated by the fact that she seems to describe emotions that people with real knowledge about spankings experience. She thinks this is due to the fact that we are all humans and think alike and that the imagination plays an important role even for those who have hands on bottoms experience, so to speak.
Well, alright, eleven things...
11. At this point, about here, Janice's blog contains slightly less than 85 000 words. A normal page in an ordinary novel contains some 300 words. This means that Janice has written text corresponding to some 280 pages. That is a novel in less than a year.
12. One of Janice's favourite pastimes is kite flying. She owns several kites with her husband and loves to go and fly them when the winds are right. Her favourite kite is a sports kite with two lines and she is getting quite good at making it fly in circles and figures but still has a lot to learn. She feels strangely happy as the kite pulls its lines and almost appears as something living, something with a mind of its own.
13. Janice's husband took her for a trip to Bristol for her birthday to attend a kite flying festival and then to the zoo to say hello to the Gorillas. She truly enjoyed her weekend in Bristol and was amazed by the skill of some of the kiters (is that a real word?).
Ok, that was thirteen things.
Bonfire Night. Boring me will most likely stay at home but that is how I am. The rest of you, go out and have fun!
Anyway, I found a text I wrote some time ago, I think in April this year. It came about during a conversation I had with a friend (who has featured on this blog and who has a blog of his own). So there is a lot about me trying to pinpoint a feeling and a little of how I saw him putting questions to me and how he expressed how a dominant person might act. There was never that kind of relationship between us. He was not the one in the story and I was never the girl in the story but still it is something of me in it and something of how I see him. The text is still all mine so it is all about me expressing things and how I see it and never forget, it is only fiction, not for real!
'Why have you come?' he said, 'why do you disturb my peace?'
'I have come for to talk,' she said.
'We have talked.'
'I have come to talk about me.'
He hesitated, waited.
'So, you will tell me what you want?' he continued.
'Yes, I will tell you what I want.'
'I am here.'
She stood for a while, looked at him, hesitated, a frightened look on her face. He thought she looked like a little girl at that moment.
'I will talk,' she said, stopped short, waited.
'I will tell you what I want,' she continued. 'I want you to...want you to...'
'Who am I?' he asked.
'You are the one.'
'Who is that?'
'Just the one, the lover, the part that completes the whole, the Yang to Yin.'
'I am not,' he said.
'But if you were, then this is what I want.'
He looked at her intently, he saw her struggle, her fear.
'I want you to be the one that push me against the wall,' she said, 'the one who desires me, the one who tears my shirt open, the one who slips my dress from my shoulders, the one who puts his hand under my skirt, the hunter who takes his prey, the one who conquers and takes, the one who takes from me what he wants, the one who makes me know I am valuable, worthy of being taken, worthy of his attention.'
'I don't understand,' he said, 'what is in it for you, why do you want that?'
'I want to be touched. I want to be had and moved and done things with. I want your attention, your love and affection, your desire. I want to be the target of your wishes, the one you desire more than anything, the body you want to touch, the person you like for your pleasure.'
'But if I hurt you?'
'The pain will make me real. I don't desire it but if it takes pain for me to know I am real then be it. I want to be valuable, loveable and real.'
What will you do?'
'I will hold on, reach out my hands and cling to you for all I am worth, scared of losing you, losing it, your attention, your desire.'
'You want to have my desire but without having to do anything yourself but hold on?'
'I want no guilt, no blame, no pressure, no demands. I want to be a child, a nothing, a something that is touched and taken but have no will of her own.'
'This is silly, that is not really losing control. That is a dream, your dream.'
'I know,' she said, 'but I said you'd be the one, the one that makes the broken whole, the one that brings love and only good things. It is a child's dream an unreal desire.'
'As you said, It can never be real.'
'I know, but still it is there, still it has a hold on me, keeps me in its grip.'
'But what would you do, I mean, really do?'
'I would move, I would move my body, perhaps, in a dance, in a movement that expresses everything, my fears, my desires my whole. I would move to show everyone who I am, what I desire, what my wishes are. I would show my sorrow, my hurt, my anger, my fears and my pride. I would show my strength, my devotion, my determination to prevail, to live and survive.'
'Perhaps you do that already,' he said, looking at her.
She stood before him, agitated, blushing, fear was in her face but he saw something else as well. He saw strength and a will to live, to be part of it all and not stand beside it.
'But what do you really want?'
'To be touched.'
Firstly, thank you, Dear Readers, for your comments on my Gothic horror fantasy, The Dream. I am a little disappointed, though, that no one spotted the cleverness that was in the text. A gold star by your name if you find it.
The other day a friend posted on his blog a story or rather a scene where he let go of some of his inhibitions. In this text the narrator is rather cruel to some women. This person is far from the narrator in this story but to some extent, I think, it expressed some of his feelings. Some of his readers were a little taken aback by this story, as I understand it.
This prompted a discussion in which I participated and it brings up a very important issue: the difference between fantasy writing and ordinary writing. I don't want to make too much of it but there is a kind of stories, call them surreal, dream stories or fantasies that are a little different from just writing about something, whatever it may be. The difference lies, among other things, in how the main character, the one which the story is about, relates to the what is around them.
This may sound a little cryptic but what I am saying is that if you write a text about a subject, be it religion, a place, an event or whatever you write about real thing. If you say something about Africa you are stating something about Africa or if it is about angling, or Christianity or some person. If you write about a fantasy of yours, however, you are writing about yourself. If you describe a dream or a fantasy and you find yourself in Africa or in a church or together with some people, the story is not about Africa, that church or those people. In a dream story, the stage is yours, and all yours. Everything besides yourself (even in the disguise of some hero or heroine) is there for you.
So when this friend was cruel to those girls in his story there were not really anyone he was cruel to. He didn't state anything about how to treat girls or even about how he want to treat girls. He wrote about a fantasy, about an emotion. Perhaps he was angry or just didn't want to care about others and this was expressed in a cruel story.
I am not writing this to defend this person. He is capable of doing that himself. No, it is to point to something really important about fantasy stories. That they should be free. We should write them and read them for what they are. They are not statements about something or the world in general. They are a statement about a state of mind that is expressed in a symbolic way in the story. Killing someone in a dream story means, perhaps, anger, not a genuine wish to kill.
I do this all the time and I am sometimes reluctant to write freely, fearing I will be misunderstood. I do have settings that are vaguely Middle Eastern with people who look like Middle Eastern people. I fear that someone will construe them as being racist if some of them are cruel to me in my story, as if I am making a statement about people from the Middle East. I am not. It is a setting from my romantic store of settings, perhaps inspired by some film or by Arabian Nights or something like that. Or if I was abducted by black savages in Africa. That kind of image stems, I think, from Tarzan films from childhood and does not reflect my ideas about Africa. But in my imagination I do want them to be cruel and wild and very different from me. It is not about them but about my imagination and my emotions. They are not there to represent anything that is real. They are there to play a role in my fantasy.
I can understand the argument that this imagery stems from racist films and notions but I can't do anything about that now. It is too late. They are there from childhood and they form a part of me and if I am to let my fantasy be free and not comply with political correctness it will turn out some images that are not very nice should they represent real opinions. But they don't represent real opinions. That is my point.
And to return to the cruel imagery of some stories. I have them too and I am reluctant to write about it even here, in my blog, the blog that was supposed to be free. I have fantasies that are not always nice, about rape and humiliation and even cruelty, disturbing images that are both horrible and exciting. They point to emotions and thoughts that are contradictory, they represent, I think, conflicts in me and maybe they are even a way of dealing with very unpleasant memories. But they are there and I am reluctant to share them even if I think I should be honest and open.