Wednesday, 28 February 2007


I have this thing about shirts...or rather the taking off of shirts. A shirt may be removed in many an exciting way. And it is the removal of the shirt from a woman that I am thinking of.

A shirt may be slowly unbuttoned, slowly and carefully, almost hesitantly, one button after another, revealing more and more of the body beneath it. Then when the buttons are undone, when still, nothing is really shown, then the shirt is opened, slowly revealing the body. In my mind there is never a bra under the shirt. Opening a shirt means revealing your breasts. Then it can be slid over your shoulders, revealing them...exposing you.

Oh, I am getting silly. This kind of things are important in my fantasies. It is often the details, the sense of fabric gliding over skin, the sense of cool air on your body, that make me tick.

Or a shirt may be removed in another way. It may be torn open. Someone pressing you into a corner or against a wall, taking hold of your shirt and tearing it open, suddenly, in one move exposing your breasts. Violently exposing you, driven by a wild desire, an urge to look at your body, to be able to touch it, to take command of it.

Venus de Milo

It may seem like a strange thing to write about in a blog like this but it is about how I think and I think about this statue now. I think Venus de Milo is a fantastic sculpture and I have always loved it. She has no arms, that is true but the rest makes up for that. It is something about her way of being half naked that is very alluring. Her body is beautiful, that is true, but she is not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. No, the thing that attracts me, I think, is the way she wear what little clothes she is wearing. How the folds of her, what should I call it, piece of cloth is draped around her, how it hangs low on her hips. It is very exciting. In fact, I think it, really, hangs too low. It should fall down, exposing her. I have read somewhere that the theory is that she is actually holding her skirt (?) with one hand, stopping it from falling down. Since she has no arms this is should have fallen off many hundred years ago...never mind. Venus herself is very cool about it. She doesn't seem to be bothered. No, in fact, she seems to think that this is the way of wearing what little she wears. She just stands there, with her dress, almost, falling off, being extremely beautiful, alluring and sensual but she, herself, is not overly concerned. Well, after all, she is a goddess.

Thursday, 22 February 2007

An Evening in Autumn

Sorry for taking so long between my posts. The other day someone said something about my writing that threw me off balance a little. I lost my inspiration a little. Then I realised that that is not an excuse. This is not a competition and this is my blog and my fantasies. So here comes another story from my keyboard.

There I was, standing by the pillar, alone in the big room. Outside the autumn storm hurled itself, relentlessly, at the windows. The only light came from the great fireplace. The flickering light made the shadows dance menacingly in the corners of the room. The Persian rug in front of the fire glowed in the darkness. The armchairs, the table and the book shelves lining the walls seemed all dark and terrifying in the constantly moving light from the fire.

The ceiling of the big room was held up by two slender, wooden, pillars, smooth and polished by time. I was standing by one of those pillars, left alone in the semi darkness of the room.

I couldn't move. I was alone and scared but couldn't leave. I was tied to the pillar. I was standing facing the pillar my arms embracing it, my hands tied together at the other side raised above my head by a rope that ran through an iron ring. The rope was drawn tight, forcing me to stand on my toes, almost suspending me by their painful grip around my wrists.

My bonds forced my body against pillar, pressing my small breasts against its hard surface. I felt the wood against my belly and my thighs as I struggled not to think about the pain in my body.

The storm was raging outside but the room was warm and the air was soft. That was something to relish as I was naked. I had been left at the pillar, bound and naked, stripped by the man who had put me there.

He had smiled a vicious smile as he had ordered me to strip and he had seemed pleased as he tied me to the pillar. He almost laughed as he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

There I was, standing at the pillar, naked and bound, helpless and vulnerable. I could do nothing but wait.

My wait seemed endless, my agony never ending. I was waiting for him to return. Still I feared his return. I knew what it would mean. He said he would attend to me when he came back and that could only mean one thing - pain.

Fear grew in me. I feared the storm outside, I feared the shadows in the room. I feared every crackling sound from the fire and the slightest disturbance made my body shiver. I feared being left alone in this room but more than anything I feared his return. The thought of him coming back made me tremble. Still I longed for him. Still I wanted him to return, wanted him to be there with me in the room. I couldn't wait any longer.

My heart stood still as I heard him, at last, open the door. I resisted an urge to turn my head and look at him. My heart started pounding in my chest and I was overcome with fear and joy at the same time. I had longed for him to return but now I was struck with horror.

He didn't speak but I heard him breathing. I imagined a smile on his face, a glimmering in his eyes as he beheld my naked body at the pillar, stretched in agony by his command, at his mercy.

I heard him move over to a cupboard. I saw him in the corner of my eye. I knew that cupboard, I knew what was stored in it. He opened the door, stood still for a while, took something from the cupboard and closed the door.

I was shivering with anticipation as he approached me. He didn't speak. I heard him move and I saw his hand being stretched out. He wanted me to see what he had brought from the cupboard.

'Oh, no, not the whip,' I heard my thin voice say.

'Oh, yes, my dear,' he said, 'it is going to be the whip.'

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. The whip was vicious. It was evil. It was made of braided leather and had three tails. It was a perfect instrument for torture. It meant horrible, iron hot coils dancing over soft skin, my soft skin. I felt smaller than ever, hanging in my bonds, helplessly bound to the pillar.

My heart started beating as I thought about the whip. I didn't want its touch. I didn't want its bite. Still I didn't want him to leave, to leave me alone by the pillar. I wanted him to be there, to touch me.

He was going to touch me with the whip and I feared nothing more than I feared the whip but at the same time I longed for him to do it, I wanted nothing more than for him to do it, now, while he was there.

He was standing there, waiting, looking at me. I didn't dare to turn my head but I knew he was beholding me, looking at every detail of my small body, taking in every tiny movement of distress, relishing the sense of his strength and my helplessness, my vulnerability.

He had come to me fully clothed. That was the way he wanted it, him clothed and me naked. That was the inequality of it. He was clothed and protected, showing nothing but the things he chose to show. I was naked, stripped and bared, showing everything, having no choice. He could see my every movement, every reaction. I was there for him to behold. I was at his mercy and the whip in his hand told me he would not grant me any mercy.

I almost cried out as he touched me with the whip. I felt its leather lightly touching my buttocks. I knew what it meant. He was telling me where its vicious tails would land. At that moment there was nothing more unthinkable than the thought of that whip biting my naked skin.

I was holding my breath as he withdrew the whip. My head swirled and I closed my eyes. Then I heard the hissing sound in the air followed by a sharp report as from a gunshot. I heard the sound of the leather hitting my soft skin before I felt the impact. Then there was pain, white, iron hot, pain, excruciating, searing, unbearable pain.

An eternity later I started to breathe again. I was back again and I was panting and sweating and I felt the burning of the marks of the whip across my buttocks as if someone, still, pressed some hot iron against me.

I cried out as the next lash hit my body, slightly above the first. I felt my feet leaving the floor and how I hung by my wrists. I struggled for air. Then came the next lash.

I lost control. Soon I cried like a baby, letting out my agony, screaming in horrible pain. I moved as the tails coiled around my body, stinging my soft belly, sometimes biting my sex. He relentlessly whipped me, lash after lash landing on my naked body, sending pain surging through me. I was lost in my agony, screaming and crying. I danced helplessly my dance of pain at the pillar.

I heard him laugh. He was laughing at my agony. He truly, truly enjoyed himself seeing his vicious whip biting my body. My ordeal was his pleasure. I suffered for his happiness.

At last it was over. He had stopped whipping me. I was hanging in my bonds, exhausted and dazed. My whole body seemed to be on fire and aching. I was breathing heavily, not, really, believing my ordeal was over for the moment. I was slowly returning to the big room with the great fireplace. I was slowly returning to my bonds, his whip and him.

I heard him move behind me. I couldn't make myself turn my head to look for him. I sensed his presence clearly. I sensed him coming closer to me. He was standing just behind me, close to me.

I knew he wouldn't whip me any more. I knew he wanted to touch me. I held my breath. I feared that touch more than anything. I feared it and longed for it, more than anything.

Thursday, 15 February 2007

Iconic Images 1

This blog is not about images (as you may have noticed) but I don't mind a good image here and there. And images are sources for fantasies as well as many images are created from fantasies. So I have decided that now and then present an image I find special for some reason and say something about it.

This image, I believe, is from a spanking magazine, most probably its centrefold. It was one of the very first spanking images I found on the Web. In its simplicity it is a very iconic image in my mind. A man is sitting with a young woman in his lap, lifting his hand, spanking her. She is lying there, her dress is flipped up and her knickers pulled down, exposing her bottom for her spanking.

This is a typical over the knee spanking, the image that most people think of when the word 'spanking' is mentioned. Still it is a bit constructed. The woman is young, her dress, shoes and socks a bit girlish. Still she is a woman, not a small girl and the image is for to satisfy people with a desire for spanking rather than anything else. The man wear a suit, he may be a guardian or a teacher, perhaps. There are many a scenario that this image evokes and I know nothing about where it was published or what story it illustrates.

I find this picture lovely in many ways. The man is clothed and seems strict but not evil. The woman is slim and young and desirably exposed. There is an intimacy and sensuality in the image together with the strictness and neutrality that may be called for if she is a student being punished or something similar. In other words; a typical spanking picture.

Monday, 12 February 2007

A Strange Piece of Furniture

When you write down a fantasy it becomes a story and a story obeys other rules and laws than fantasies. You tell it from a certain point of view and it has a narrative in a way that many fantasies never have. It gives you an opportunity to view things from different angles in a way you may in a fantasy but is much easier in a story.

All my stories up till now have been narrated by a first person - by me - and has had me as the receiver of spankings. This story changes the perspective, tries another point of view. It is, also, more brutal than, maybe, I have posted before but it is far easier to imagine things than to experience them and I think, honestly, that this is not something I would want to experience in real life.

Furthermore, this is an example of a story that started out as a simple story, inspired by a lovely picture by Waldo and then turned into something different. Maybe the ending seems a bit stilted and does not really fit in but it made sense when I wrote it and it tells something about the emotions involved.

It was a very unusual piece of furniture. It was made of rough planks and stood on sturdy legs. It was a torture device. There was no doubt about that. It had a flat surface, like a table but it was a quite low table. On its surface were three hinged pairs of planks, one at each end and one almost at the middle of the oblong table. Those hinged planks had semi circles in them, two in the ones at the ends and a big in the middle one. The semi circles formed circles or holes when the planks were put in place. They were like the stocks where you could put your hands or your feet through those holes and when the upper plank was secured you were stuck.

She looked wide eyed at the table. I sensed her trembling at the sight of it. I am not sure she knew the purpose of the device but she surely expected it to be painful for her. In that she was right. She turned to me and had to look up. Her face expressed fear and anticipation. I could not blame her for that. She was lovely.

She was the cutest thing imaginable, blond, slim and quite short. Her being was delicate and the room in the cellar and the sturdy table looked brutal in contrast to her soft being. She trembled as if cold in the damp air. She was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, quite ordinary, although it looked lovely on her body.

I walked over to the table and unhinged the three planks. She started to realise that my wish was for her to be fastened by them on the table. She was right in that. She shivered a little and took a step towards the table. She looked scared. She took another step.

'Ok, now', I said, 'strip!'

She looked up at me with fear in her eyes.

'Oh, no, please', she pleaded.

I just looked at her. She knew what I wanted. She knew she had to obey.

She sighed and reluctantly and hesitantly she pulled the t-shirt over her head revealing her round and tiny and very desirable breasts. I never tired of seeing her lovely breasts and it was a special joy to see them being exposed like that.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked around for a place to put her t-shirt. She found nothing and dropped it on the floor. She looked at me again but found no mercy. She sighed and started to unbutton her jeans. She seemed to have problems with that, maybe her fingers felt numb. I could understand that. She was scared and she had reasons to fear the immediate future.

She managed to unbutton her jeans and after that she wriggled them down from her hips. She was careful not to lower her knickers. She stepped out of her jeans and dropped them on top of her t-shirt. She was dressed only in knickers and shoes now. I regarded her. She trembled and looked scared. She didn't dare to cover her body.

I told her to take off her shoes and she complied. It seemed as if she found the floor a bit too cold for her liking. I smiled at that. She looked vulnerable, even more so with her feet bare.

Her knickers were pink and minimal but I think she relished the fact that she still had them. She wasn't completely naked. She knew, however, that her last piece clothing could be removed at any time.

'Ok, take off the knickers, now!' I commanded.

'Oh, please, not everything', she said.

Her pleading met with no reply. I just regarded her.

Slowly she removed her knickers. Now she was naked. I saw goosebumps on her skin. I am not sure she was cold or if she was just scared.

I regarded her. She looked down, wanted to cover up but refrained from doing that. She knew herself watched. She must have felt very vulnerable and naked in front of me.

I tapped the table and she looked at it with fear in her eyes. She moved towards it and started to climb onto it. She knew, now, that the planks were to fasten her to it. She was an intelligent girl and saw the meaning of the device. She prostrated her body on top of the table and fitted her waist into the semi circle of the middle plank and her feet in the two holes in the one end plank and her hands in the two holes in the other end plank.

I saw that the table was cold against her naked skin. She trembled and shivered as she adjusted her body to fit into the device. I walked over to her and swung the middle plank into its place, thus, securing her waist in it. I fastened the planks together with a plug, no lock was needed, she wouldn't be able to reach for the fastening device. The circle, or rather oblong opening, the both planks formed, fit snugly around her waist. I repeated the action at her head and fastened her hands in the two holes and then did the same at her feet. She was now lying, belly down, prostrate on the table with her hands and feet secured in the stocks at the ends of the table and her waist in the stock in the middle. Her feet was fastened at some distance from each other which meant that she had to spread her legs slightly, not provocatively so but enough to make her feel that anyone watching her could glimpse her sex between her legs.

'Now, you are ready,' I said and moved away from the table. I picked up her clothes, her shoes and the lamp that had dimly lit the room and moved towards the door.

'No, please, don't leave me here,' she pleaded with a hint of panic in her voice.

'I will be back', I said and smiled at her and left the room in darkness. I bolted the door, which was really unnecessary since she could not move from the table. She was naked and bound and quite helpless as she was.

I went to another room in the cellar, where a big fire heated the air and where some armchairs stood in front of a bear skin, sprawled on the floor. I put her clothes and shoes in a chest and put down the lamp. I went over to a big oaken cupboard and opened it. From the door I chose a three tongued whip. It was a real whip, not a toy. The tongues were braided and quite vicious and would cause a lot of pain. That was my intention. I wanted her to suffer.

I didn't return immediately. Instead I sat down in one of the armchairs, poured myself a glass of port and stared at the fire. I wanted to relax a bit. She could wait.

I sat down with my port and tried to relax. It was not easy. I was also quite keen. Anyway, I managed to sit for a period of time and to drink my port. When I had finished I took the whip and the lamp and returned to the chamber were she was.

I unbolted the door and entered the room with my lamp. The dim light fell on her trembling body. She had been startled by the sudden noise from the door but she seemed somewhat relieved by seeing me. That sensation was followed by an expression of panic in her eyes as she saw the whip. She knew what was coming.

She started to move about on the table almost as if she suddenly tried to escape. She couldn't, of course. I held out the whip in front of her eyes so she could see the implement that was to be used on her body. The whip was vicious and she knew that. She panicked and tried to move away from me.

'Oh, no, please,' she almost cried, 'not the whip, please, not the whip.'

'Oh, yes, my dear,' I answered, smiling, 'it is going to be the whip.'

She bowed her head as I positioned myself on her left side. The touch of the whip startled her and I could hear her moaning. She shivered as she lay, sensing the touch of my whip on her buttocks. She was bound and could not escape and her body was exposed and was vulnerable to the bite of the whip.

I let the whip fly through the air with a hissing sound and a loud crack as it hit her buttocks. The sound was provocatively loud and I saw her body stiffen and heard her squeal in a low voice. I saw her body move in agony afterwards while her skin showed the burning marks of the three tongues of my whip.

She was still moaning as the second blow hit her naked flesh. She moved her body as if she was hit by lightning but didn't give a sound. I saw her face contort with pain and only after a couple of seconds could she breath again. I saw that the pain was excruciating and this was only the beginning.

At the third blow she cried out loudly in pain. She screamed and pleaded when she came round.

'Please, please, please, I can't stand it', she wailed.

I answered her with another blow. She screamed again and I saw her body rock with convulsions as she sobbed when she started to breath again. She was crying now and she was pleading softly but without hope of any mercy.

A fifth blow made her cry out in agony and move as in disbelief. I think she felt the pain to be unbearable, too powerful to fathom, impossible to cope with. But still, she had to cope with it, she had no choice.

I struck her again and she cried in panic and fear and pain. She moved about as much as she could in her confinement but nothing could save her naked buttocks from being struck by the whip. I stood there with the power to give her mercy or to give her pain. I enjoyed denying her the mercy and giving her pain. I was in power and she was subject to that power and she had to endure the pain I chose to give to her.

I whipped her for quite a while. Sometimes I would strike four or five times in rapid succession and listen to her mounting screams and sometimes I would wait for a long time between the blows. I studied her body that moved and wriggled and tried to escape. I enjoyed watching her nakedness, her softness and vulnerability. I relished the sight of her roundness, her female forms in my bonds. Her skin glowed in the dim light and even more so as a sheen of sweat covered her.

She flung her head, and with that her blond hair, around as the whip struck home and I loved watching her body move in agony. Her pain was my pleasure and she had to endure.

I whipped her for a long time and I whipped her good. I struck her buttocks and her thighs and after a while I saw her skin covered in glowing red stripes. Some hits had taken deeper and had became bruises, almost turning purple. Her bottom was a mess, a burning painful mess and I realised that I didn't want to whip her any more. She had had her dose and for the moment I didn't want to whip her any more.

I removed the locking plugs from the stocks and unhinged them. She looked at me as if she didn't believe her ordeal was over, for the moment. She had tears in her eyes, her face was red and agitated and she trembled and was sweaty. She moved her body as the bounds were removed and she moved on to the floor with difficulty, trying not to touch the table with her burning buttocks. She moved stiffly and cautiously. I took her hand and helped her stand up. She looked at me and the expression on her face was strange. She gave me a soft look, a look of tenderness rather than hate or anger. She was exhausted, I could see that, but she seemed calmer now although she trembled still in the aftermaths of the affect.

Later, in the room with the still burning fire, she was lying on her belly on the bearskin. I was sitting in an armchair, regarding her. She was still naked. I was still clothed. Her buttocks still looked sore, very sore. She looked content, though. She smiled and seemed to be lost in thoughts. She was unbelievably beautiful and sensuous. She was a mystery.

'Why don't you run away?' I asked.

'Because I want to stay,' she answered.

'Yes, but why do you want to stay,' I continued, 'when I cause you so much pain?'

'I like it,' she said.

'I can't believe you like it,' I said, 'being whipped like that must be horrible.'

'It sure is overwhelming,' she said.

'But, what's in it for you?'

'Being overwhelmed, I suppose,' she said.

'You want to be overwhelmed,' I said, 'but by pain?'

'Overwhelmed and defeated,' she said, 'that's true, I want to be defeated and overwhelmed and totally and completely lose myself in it.'

'Even if it is painful?'

'It has to be painful, it has to be something I dread or do not want or want only when I have to accept it.'

'You want to, not want it and still have to go through it?' I asked.

'Something like that,' she said.

'But there is no pleasure?'

'Oh,' she said, 'that's a hard question. There is pleasure to be had as well. Trust me, I am truly a twisted mind but I am aroused by the prospect of a whipping or such things.'

'But, surely, you can't find pleasure in being whipped in the way you were, just now? You looked so scared before and so much in pain during it.'

'You are right,' she said and looked serious, 'I was terrified by the torture table and the whipping really hurt and I can't say that I felt any pleasure at the time but, still, there is something compelling about it and the sensation of my burning behind gives me pleasure now, afterwards. No, but you're right, a truly vicious punishment fills me with dread and I want to avoid it but still I wouldn't want to be spared because there is something great and beautiful in being overwhelmed, defeated and having to endure it whether I like it or not. It is, actually, better if I don't like it, if it is really horrible.'

'But if I would tell you, now, that we were to go to the torture chamber and I was to suspend you from the ceiling in your hands and I would whip your body until you fainted, what would you say?'

'I would say, please, spare me,' she said and smiled, 'although I know it is to no avail and then I would obey but I would be terrified and still there would be a tingling in my sex that would tell me to surrender and let you do whatever you pleased with me and my body.'

'You are a strange creature,' I said.

'Not any stranger than you are,' she said, 'my Love.'

She stretched her lovely body in a catlike fashion and rolled over to her back. This made her remember her burning behind and she cried out and rolled back and lost her catlike posture. We both laughed and I looked at her and she looked at me and I think I saw love in her eyes.

Friday, 9 February 2007

In Short...

I talked with someone today who told me that my story My Dark Angel was 'immensely depressing', or something similar. It was not said in a negative way or dismissive, rather in a concerned way. Anyway, it led to a very good conversation and it made me think.

I think that fantasies are not just something that you use as a pastime, something nice and cosy or exciting that you have as entertainment. For me they touch on very many different things and I have realised that my stories sometimes turn out to be about something I didn't expect them to.

My Dark Angel touches on something darker and more sinister, that is true. And now I don't mean darker in he sense crueller or more brutal but that it is concerned with loneliness and lack of confidence. So in a way I am very honest with you, dear reader, and I show something of myself.

Still, it is an emotion, a state of mind and does not, necessarily reflect my inner desires. I am not a very depressive and suicidal person...I hope. And besides, the story is purely fictional, the main character is young and the ending is inspired by and a tribute to The Story of O.

Wednesday, 7 February 2007

My Dark Angel

This is a story I wrote some time ago. I thought it might fit into the general theme of this blog. As I read it I realise that it would probably need some more editing. But enough of excuses. Here it is:

I was nineteen at the time, studying at the university and living at my own place, very much my own. I am quite small, which, I think, makes me look younger than I am. My appearance could be said to be plain rather than special. I think I may be cute rather than beautiful but I am definitely unassuming rather than self assured and attractive.

Anyway, this summer I had just finished my last spring courses and felt as if I had a holiday. I didn't do anything special but went around town walking and shopping and going places with the friends that were still there. The summer was quite hot and relaxed.

The things that rocked my world began one warm summer night when I had joined my friends at a sort of rock club. I liked the music but the volume was high and it scared me in a way I couldn't explain. I stood back and watched the people move and talk and dance and flirt. People were quite lightly dressed, because of the heat and so was I. I looked at the young men in their jeans and t-shirts, many were dressed in black despite the summer. The girls were more colourful and less dressed. I was lightly dressed but not provocatively so, I think. I wore a short black skirt and a likewise black tight top that left my shoulders and arms bare.

That, which happened that night, happened fast. I had had a couple of beers and was a bit tipsy but not really drunk. I listened to the music with the muddled but pleasant feeling alcohol may sometimes bring. There were a lot of people and I watched a group of young men dressed in black and with heavy belts and other rocker paraphernalia. I knew a couple of them and fancied one of them a little. It was enough for me to watch them and think of the one I fancied.

Then my eye suddenly caught another young man together with that group. I can't say I was attracted to him but something in his way of moving made my head swirl and my knees weak. He wasn't handsome or attractive, the sensation I got was far beyond such things.

I stared at him as I wondered why he caught my eye. I was lost in those thoughts when I realised that the group was moving in my direction and that this, strange, young man was looking at me. I felt embarrassed and was scared that he might have realised that I was watching him.

The group came up to me and the people I knew said hello and gave me a hug and a kiss. Soon they saw someone else beside me and I found myself eye to eye with the strange young man. I think I blushed and he smiled. He seemed cocky and extremely self assured, so much that it was annoying. At the same time he seemed calm and serious, looking into my eyes as he smiled. He said something to me which I didn't hear and then he moved closer to me. I had to look up into his face and I felt, again, that swirling in my head. I felt silly and extremely shy.

Then things happened quickly. He moved closer to me and I found myself staring at his chest. I felt his arm at my head as he leaned against the wall behind me. Then I felt something else. He had put his hand under my skirt and suddenly I felt it against my belly. In the next moment he moved his fingers down into my knickers.

I froze, I held my breath. The world seemed to stop. I didn't hear anything. The only thing that existed was his fingers that not only touched my sex but now had found their way into me.

I couldn't breath as he held his hand in my sex. I couldn't think, couldn't react. I was petrified and helpless. His fingers moved slightly and I drew my breath.

He took his time, felt his way, there, in my most intimate part. I could do nothing. I just stood there. I think I closed my eyes. I don't know why. I didn't think, I didn't feel anything. I only sensed his fingers in my sex, moving slightly, touching, being there, close, inside me, intrusive and intimate.

Then he withdrew. He stepped back. I stared at him. He smiled, still. He didn't say anything.

Suddenly he moved away with the group and I was left standing there at the wall, violated, with the memory of his fingers in my sex.

I tried to gather my senses, straightened my skirt afraid that someone would have noticed. I was suddenly aware of all the people around me and thought that they all had seen the touch, seen the intrusion. I blushed and felt dizzy. I needed to go away, to get away. I turned and walked away from the club, out into the summer night, my thoughts tumbling through my head, my heart pounding in my chest.

I was not really able to think about what had happened, my thoughts were confused. I felt violated, humiliated and almost raped. I hadn't protested or said anything. I had let him do it. It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. The most confusing and most degrading of all sensations was that I was aroused. I was horribly aroused by the memory of his fingers in my sex. A part of me longed for them to come back.

The days that followed was spent in a kind of haze, a kind of detached feeling. I walked around and watched people but they seemed distant and far away. I thought that this must be some kind of reaction to what had happened at the club. I had heard of similar things happening to women who had been raped. Had I been raped? Still I couldn't get the man out of my head and I couldn't hate him. Against my conscious thoughts he became a black angel that had blessed me with his touch. Still I felt violated and humiliated. I felt dirty and horrible.

Then he came back. One evening three days later he came up to me as I was sitting in a café, alone. He didn't ask permission but sat down opposite me. I froze, again. I couldn't do anything but stare at him. He said 'hi' and I think I nodded.

As the first shock left me and I could start to breathe, he smiled at me and started talking to me. He was polite and kind and smiled at me. He looked at me and I blushed. I managed to answer him and we talked for a while. He had that sharp gaze I had seen at the club, as if he had plans or his real thoughts were somewhere else. He seemed to be that kind of person who knew what he wanted and always planned ahead, always had something in mind.

'Let's go to your place!' he said, all of a sudden.

'Ok,' I said not able to do anything else.

Despite his rough appearance he was the perfect gentleman and paid for my tea. I walked beside him with my heart pounding. I didn't know why he wanted to go to my place. Strangely enough, the most obvious reason didn't appear to me. I couldn't for anything believe that he wanted me or was in any way attracted to me. I was smitten and terrified. I would walk anywhere with that man.

We came to my place and we went in. I rented a small room that had a bed and a tiny kitchen. I told him to sit down in my only armchair while I fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seemed the natural thing to do. He watched me as I moved through the tiny room. It was at that moment I realised that things might happen. I blushed again and my heart started to pound. I was angry with myself at the same time because I knew that if he wanted something of me he would get it and I couldn't say no. The thing that annoyed me was the inequality of it. I sensed that he saw me as entertainment rather than someone to fancy.

We drank the wine, or some of it and talked a little. He told me about places he had been and music he loved. He sometimes asked me about things but didn't, really seem to listen to my answers. I was tense and apprehensive and a bit excited by his presence although I felt the sting of humiliation that came from the thought of him maybe wanting to use me for his pleasure.

Then things became strange, even stranger than at the club. He gave me a long enquiring gaze and I couldn't answer but had to look down and blush. Then he talked to me.

'Come here!' he said. It was a demand but his voice was soft.

I was puzzled but rose from the bed, where I had been sitting and walked towards him.

'Come closer!' he said.

I obeyed him with pounding heart. He demanded and I obeyed. I couldn't believe how weak I was.

I stepped closer to him and was standing in front of him. He looked at me. This time he had to look up. It didn't give me any sense of power over him, it only felt strange. Suddenly he stretched out his hands towards me. I held my breath but could not move. I closed my eyes and waited for his touch.

I was a bit surprised as I felt his hands on my hips, under my skirt. He moved quickly up to my knickers and put his fingers inside them. This time he didn't move towards my sex, instead he started to pull my knickers down.

I was taken aback but didn't have it in me to protest or say anything. I was at his mercy and he knew that, I think. He pulled my knickers down to my knees and then he took my hand. He pulled me towards him but it seemed to me to be in a strange direction. My movements were awkward because I couldn't anticipate what he wanted. His hand became more determined, not brutal, but more guiding and I relaxed and let him guide me.

He wanted me to lie across his lap. Words cannot describe the sensation of weirdness I experienced as I complied and prostrated myself on his lap. The situation was strange and I couldn't understand why he did this. Was I to be touched again?

I felt him lean forward and grab something that was lying beside my bed. I felt his face close to my ear and I heard him whisper:

'Now, I am going to spank you.'

I froze, I held my breath as I so often had done when he was close to me. I couldn't believe what he said and I couldn't get myself to react to it either. I lay still, waiting.

Then he flipped up my skirt. I realised that he really was going to spank me. I couldn't understand why. Then I felt the cold surface of something hard against my naked skin. I glanced over my shoulder and realised that he held my wooden hairbrush in his hand.

Then he started to spank me. He brought down the brush on my buttocks, one cheek after the other, with great force. The sound was tremendous and it seemed as if I heard the impact before I felt it. And I did feel it. Immediately from the start the pain was excruciating. He spanked me hard with full force. He smacked me in a steady pace and there was no getting away from it.

Soon the pain mounted and became unbearable and my body tried to wriggle free from his lap. He took hold of my waist with his other arm and continued to spank me. I felt his hand touching my belly and it felt, strangely intimate. The pain was horrible and I moved around and soon I was screaming and crying. I was thinking about the neighbours but could not stop myself from making noises.

I started to plead with him but to no avail. He continued spanking me and everything started to become unreal. I didn't know where I was or who I was. I just felt the relentless smacking of my naked buttocks and the mounting pain that made me squeal and squirm.

I heard him laugh. He enjoyed himself and it struck me, in the middle of my ordeal, that I hadn't seen him show any emotions besides smiling before. Now he seemed happy.

I didn't realise, at first, that he had stopped spanking me. The pain was still tremendous. I was exhausted and sweaty. I noticed, vaguely, that he had slid down my knickers and removed them. I don't know where they went because I never found them again. I believe he kept them, as a trophy.

'Stand up now!' he said and I complied still trembling.

I was in shock and my face was wet with tears.

'Come on, dry your eyes, we're going out!' he said.

I nodded and dried my eyes while I rubbed my behind.

'First you shall do something for me,' he said.

I remember him using the word 'shall'. It was strange but seemed natural for him.

He took my hands while I was standing in front of him and he dragged me down so that I knelt in front of him, between his legs as he sat. I shivered. I didn't know what he wanted but it seemed to be something that was going to be close and intimate.

He let go of my hands and I stared in amazement as he unzipped his trousers and released his sex. It was hard and erect and seemed enormous from my position. I looked at him and he smiled.

'Kiss him!' he said. Another weird thing to say.

I was petrified but leaned forward anyway, scared of not obeying. I leaned closer to his sex and felt a fear in my heart. This was strange, this was something I wasn't supposed to do.

Then I kissed him, I kissed it. I was horrified and repulsed by the whole thing but strangely aroused.

'Take him in your mouth!' was his order.

I held my breath in horror. Then I obeyed. I opened my lips and took his sex in my mouth. My whole being protested but I obeyed. I let my lips glide over him and licked him with my tongue. I had no experience of such things but I obeyed. I sucked on him and touched him with my mouth.

'Don't touch yourself!' he suddenly commanded. I hadn't thought about touching myself but as he said it I realised how aroused I was. The command seemed to deprive me of my satisfaction and I felt my sex ache for it.

The man started to moan after a while and I felt his member move inside my mouth. I realised he was on his way. I wanted to withdraw.

'Don't move away!' he said.

I realised what it meant and I was terrified, terrified and aroused.

When he came I didn't move away. I took it in my mouth and almost choked on him.

'Swallow!' he said and I did sensing my whole body shaking in affect. It was gruesome, horrible and terribly, terribly arousing.

When I rose again I felt an ache in my sex but I didn't dare to touch myself or do anything about it.

I was still confused and only remember us leaving my flat and he locking the door and giving me the key. We walked away from the flat and I remembered as we entered the street that I had no knickers. It was a strange sensation, feeling the air against my skin and at the same time the stinging and burning of my newly spanked behind.

He took me to a café and ordered some wine. I sat down even if it was quite painful. The man was quite cheerful and talked a lot. I was still in shock and felt my sex ache for satisfaction and the memory of his sex in my mouth felt strangely exciting. I had been spanked and humiliated by this man who sat smiling in front of me and I could not, still, hate him. He was my dark, black, angel who had touched me and taken command of me and I was his devotee and everything he did to me was a blessing.

Everything I thought about him and the things he had done to me or had me do spoke against everything that I believed in or thought I was, but still, I sat there, with him, in his presence and I couldn't hate him.

He had, yet another, thing up his sleeve to humiliate me. As the waiter moved away he leaned forward and whispered in my ear to pull up my skirt so my skin was in contact with the chair. I remember staring at him in disbelief and then thinking about how to do that without anyone noticing it.

I managed to pull up my skirt pretending to straighten it. I gasped as I felt my naked skin touch the chair but then I was concerned with arranging my skirt so that it would look natural.

The sensation of my naked skin directly in contact with the seat of my chair was overwhelming. It made me feel naked and exposed. It made me aware of the fact that I had no knickers. And the fact that I knew that he knew made me terrible aroused, aroused and ashamed.

We sat for a while drinking our wine, he leaning back in his chair and me sitting straight in mine, sensing my nakedness against it. It was late when we left and he said he was going home. He didn't want to go somewhere else and he didn't want to take me or have me. He could have done that if he had wanted it. He could have taken me anywhere, he could have spanked me on my aching bottom or he could have stripped me there in the street and I would have allowed him to do it. Instead we parted and that weird, sacred and special night came to an end.

I knew, in my heart that I would never see him again. I don't remember if he told me he should go away or if my intuition told me that but I cried as I walked home, naked under my skirt, newly spanked and humiliated. I cried in my bed and I cried in my heart for many days after that. I missed him so.

I cried during that summer even if I realised that it was not him I missed but the things he did to me. I cried for the things that he made me realise about myself. During those few days he made me understand that in my heart I longed for to surrender myself completely and helplessly to a man like him or if not to him to the things that a man like him might want to do to me. I desired nothing more than to wipe out what and who I was and become something, someone that could only obey, that had no will and whose body was for someone else to be pleased by. I wanted to disappear, to be immersed in something else, be a part of everything but without a will of my own. I felt so alone.

Monday, 5 February 2007


What does it mean to be submissive? Is it something you are, as a person, something that captures how you react to things? Or is it a reaction to a certain situation so that you are passive and submit in one situation but active and dominant in another? I believe in the last definition.

There are so many patterns that tie in with this, when you are active or passive, extrovert or introvert. When someone gives you and order, at work, for example, and you say, yes. Aren't you submitting to someone then? When a man holds a door open for a woman or pay for her at the restaurant, he is, to some extent, dominant and she, who accepts it a little submissive, accepting the offers, the suggestions.

There are situations when submission is called for and generally accepted, such as in the military and perhaps in religious life (in many cases). I don't think anyone would call a soldier submissive.

And being a soldier is something very manly, at least in a traditional sense. Other kinds of submission is more associated with being a woman. Whatever view one may have regarding equality between the sexes there is a pattern, (at least) in western society, of female submission and male dominance. Even if it is only expressed in the way we date and treat each other in public life. And only in certain situations. It seems more acceptable for a woman to be a little passive, a little submissive than for a man. In addition, a man is often required to be active and dominant rather than passive and submissive.

I often wonder about myself. What am I? Am I a submissive person or a dominant person? Reading my blog you would probably say, definitely submissive but that is only part of it. I am another person in reality. I can be active and determined in certain situations, like when my work is concerned, and then, for example, when my very special touches me, I can be very meek and passive, maybe a little submissive even. And you know that I enjoy fantasies about submission.

The truth is, I suppose, that there is a little of both in all of us, like there is a little Yin in Yang and vice versa.

Thursday, 1 February 2007

Slaves, Some More...

It is something intriguing about the fantasy of being a slave, being someone's property. In my romantic mind I tend to think about strange exotic places for my slavery. I am captured in some remote and fantastic place and there to be enslaved. It is a warm place so there is nothing strange in that I am kept naked or only scantily clad most of the time. And the sensation of degradation is overwhelming. Especially when you are sold.

The public auction of slaves is common in my fantasy and often have I stepped out on the platform, the stage, only to be sold to the highest bidder. A great crowd has gathered to enjoy the display and selling of the slaves. I walk out on the platform in front of that crowd who may see me and bid on me. It is a great stage and all eyes are on me. They can see all of me, how I move, how I breathe and how scared I am. I am already naked or maybe the seller strips me, there on the stage, in front of everyone. Then they can see every tiny movement of my body, every breath I take, every shiver in my frame.

Still I am vain, still I want them to like me, to find me exquisite, beautiful, attractive and lovely. I want to be sold for a high price, showing that I am, indeed, valuable. Nothing of the money that is paid for me is given to me. I am given nothing. I am only property and I can't own anything. I have been taken, my freedom stolen and my captors get the money from their theft. Still my vanity wants me to be a valuable slave.

My emotions are mixed as I stand there, naked, on the platform, the crowd bidding for to own my body, my person. I am humiliated, ashamed and scared, but at the same time there is a stirring within me, a tingling in my body that tells me about the other kind of sensations that threaten to overwhelm me. I want them to look at me, I want them to desire me and I want them to overwhelm me.

That is the essence of my slave fantasy.