Friday, 29 June 2007

Going Away

Dear Reader, summertime and holidays and such things are generally good things, don't you think? I think they are. The downside is that I will not have time for my blog for a month (until early August). I will, really, really, miss it. But then again, now is the time to go back and read some of my earlier postings. If you haven't done that already.

I will be able to check my blog for comments and such things from time to time so if you have something to say, please do! I do see comments on older entries. Just because they are old they are not abandoned.

My hope is that holiday will bring new inspiration for blogging and writing and such things. I have felt a little uninspired of lately. I suppose this is life, you can't always be full of fascinating and inspiring thoughts. Sorry for ranting. What I am trying to say is that I love writing, I will always love writing and I am looking forward to continue blogging when I get back. Until then, dear Reader, take care and do something really nice!

Tuesday, 26 June 2007

Slave Story, part 3

This is the third instalment of the Slave Story. Things are changing for poor Calissa. Her life is changing. I hope this part will show that this will not be just another Gor rip off. It is a little longer than the first ones but the interesting things happen at the end so keep reading!

I thought about the fact that I hadn't been branded yet. I wondered if that meant that I wasn't technically a slave yet. Maybe I was still free and the process of enslaving was on its way but was not finished? Maybe I could still be freed? I felt despair since I could do nothing about it from the pens, my hopes rested with someone else. My father had sold me and if he didn't change his mind I would become a slave for real. I wanted to bring him here and beg him to take me back. If he would see his youngest daughter naked in the pens he might change his mind and set me free. I wished for that.

My father never came, no one came for me. I was left on my own, naked and deprived of everything. I cried in misery. My heart was in despair.

I don't know how long I sat there engulfed in my own misfortune but after a while I heard a rustling beside me and looked up. I saw the smiling face of another girl. She didn't say anything, she just looked at me, still smiling.

'Leave me alone!' I said.

'Hi, I am Miro, at least for the time being,' she said ignoring my words.

'What do you mean?' I said in a very unfriendly voice.

'You know,' she said, 'slaves don't really have names, your Master may change it at any time.'

'I am not a slave,' I blurted out.

'I guess you are free as a bird,' Miro replied.

This brought some giggles from the other women and girls.

I looked at her in anger and saw her still smiling. She hadn't meant to mock me, her smile seemed to tell me that. She looked kind.

'Sorry, Miro,' I said.

'No offence taken,' she said and looked at me.

She was shorter than me, I guessed, although we were on the floor. She was slim and delicate. She had black hair, brown eyes and her skin was a light olive, much darker than my pale being. As she leaned forward her tiny breasts tried to dangle but as she sat back I saw that they fitted her slim body very well. She was a very good looking young girl of my own age, I thought.

Miro told me she came from a village to the south and that she had been enslaved a month ago when her family had fallen in debt. She belonged to master Guur who was renowned for his riches and power. She had been in the pens for three weeks and didn't, still, know what fate awaited her.

She seemed not to be too concerned with being enslaved which puzzled me. How could anyone not be concerned? I imagined that some of the older girls, the ones who had been slaves for a year or more, would have become used to it and accepted it but Miro was new to it, just as I was.

Miro laughed a lot and told jokes and tried her best to cheer me up. She was kind to me and stroked the hair from my forehead as I was crying and comforted me. She hugged me and held me as we slept. At first this intimacy felt strange and frightening and something that was not to be. It was a strange sensation feeling her naked body cuddling up to mine but soon I found some comfort in her presence.

I was ashamed of being naked and felt humiliated at the thought of someone touching me. I had been a free girl and I was used to keeping my body to myself. This is not allowed for a slave and soon I was shown that physical contact for a slave was not always of the soft kind that Miro provided.

In the first evening as I sat in my place, and only a couple of hours had passed since my capture, two guards came into the big room laughing and roaring. They grabbed a set of keys on the guard's table and walked among the pens. They decided on our pen and slammed the door open. They came in and all the slaves in the pen shrunk back. One of the men grabbed a blond girl and threw her on the floor. She screamed but did not dare to fight him as he mounted her. She cried in misery as he took her as a desperate bull takes his mate. The other guard browsed the slaves and his eyes fell on Miro.

He put his arm around her waist and lifted her. He placed her on all four and knelt behind her. He grabbed her hips and took her as the dogs do.

The blond girl was some years older than me and she screamed and cried out in agony. Miro seemed calmer. She didn't smile any longer and she bit her lip as he entered her but she didn't scream or cry. She seemed calm up until the man started to groan and grunt, then I saw her face contort a little and she closed her eyes. She cried out a little as the man gave a low grunt and stopped pumping in her.

The men left and I was in shock. I looked at Miro who was lying panting on the floor. She was lying on her side, her body prostrated in quite an attractive way. She was affected but she looked content rather than horrified. I was amazed by that.

She scrambled to her knees after a while.

'I am sorry, Miro,' I said.

'He is a brute,' she said, 'but some are far worse.'

'Does he do it often to you?' I asked staring at her.

'Not that often, but it happens,' she gave me a kind of smile now.

'How horrible,' I said.

'You will have to get used to it,' she said, 'a slave's body is for her Master.'

I shrugged in horror as I realised she was right.

I froze at the thought of what I had just witnessed could happen to me. I knew it most probably would but I was terrified. Still there were something in Miro's expression that told me that the pleasure had not been entirely on the side of the brute. I couldn't understand that and at that moment I almost despised her, my only friend in the pens.

Miro and the other women in the pen helped me through those first horrible days. We did nothing, just sat there and talked and waited. We were twenty three naked women and girls locked up in a cage. In the room there were seven other pens full of slaves.

My fellow captives turned out to be a good bunch of people. There was jealousy and anger between some of them but all of them took pity on me and treated me kindly. I felt a bit patronised by this but it helped me through the worst of my ordeal.

I couldn't say I got used to sitting naked on the floor of the pen but after a while the worst of the shock settled down. I was able to forget my agony for short whiles and even laugh at some jokes and enjoy the songs we sang.

Miro took a shine to me and I enjoyed her company. She seemed amazingly content and happy although I knew she missed her family in the nights when she cuddled up to me and I put my arms around her. I started to enjoy sensing her body close to mine, it gave me comfort.

I was spared the brutes. No one had me there in the pens although some of them seemed to like Miro and the other women very much. It was obvious that they had favourites and Miro was one of the most favoured. She seemed to find their attention flattering or even pleasing and I could not understand that. I was terrified some of the guards would even touch me.

There was a bit of competition amongst the girls about the attention of the guards. The blond girl who had been screaming when she was taken was new and still in shock but most of the others seemed to accept it or even want it. Some even showed off a bit, thrusting their chest out as the guards walked by. They laughed heartily at that and mocked the girls. Miro never did that. She was just herself but still she was one of the most popular.

When the guards talked about the women, which they did quite openly, they seemed to praise the fully breasted women the most and those with flat bellies and long legs. Miro was short and very slim and had only tiny breasts. Still she was popular with the guards. I didn't understand that.

I wondered a little why I had been spared and asked Miro if she thought it was due to me being quite small and slim and not having big breasts. Miro shook her head and said that she was convinced that I was off limit to the guards, that is, I was to be spared for my buyer. I shivered at her words and fell silent.

She thought that I was sad because I hadn't been taken by the guards and assured me she thought me very beautiful. I didn't believe her but her words felt good anyway.

Miro was a strange being. I came to like her more and more as the time passed. She was always by my side and she seemed to enjoy my company. I couldn't understand that since I was mostly sour and sullen and unhappy.

I found her looking at me with a strange glimmer in her eyes at times and she seemed overly happy as we cuddled up in each others arms for sleep at night. I was a bit puzzled by this but didn't think a lot about it.

One night as we were sleeping close to each other I was awaken. We were lying face to face and I saw that Miro was awake. She looked at me in silence. I wasn't really awake so I looked back into her eyes.

Then she stroked my cheek and I smiled at her, still sleepy, and finding her touch quite soft and nice. I was a bit surprised as I felt her hand move down my cheek and touch my shoulder. I was still dazed and accepted her touch. It felt nice and I think I closed my eyes and smiled.

I opened my eyes as I felt her breath on my face and I saw her face very close to mine. Then she kissed me. She gave me a soft and lovely kiss.

I must have looked puzzled and about to say something because she put her finger on my lips to hush me. She kissed me again and whispered in my ear.

'It's ok, just relax!'

She rose to her elbow and leaned forward and kissed me again. My lips responded and I felt her softness against me. She moved her body closer and I felt her hip touch my side. She kissed me again and I kissed her back.

Then she touched me. I felt her hand on my belly and I drew my breath.

'Hush, just relax!' she whispered.

I started to breathe more normally again.

I felt her hand stroke my belly and the sensation scared me. It felt very good having her hand on my body.

A part of me told me it was a dream and that I could embrace what happened. I didn't protest or move as I felt her hand move further down my body, over my lower belly and then, slowly, in between my thighs. A rush of blood to my head told me that her touch stirred up sensations in me that I thought belonged to another place and to another situation.

I was deadly scared she would touch me there, between my thighs and at the same time did my body crave it. It was very strange.

Her circling movements told me she was on her way to me and I held my breath. She kissed me again and then I felt her fingers slip into me. I froze and didn't breathe for several seconds. I was overcome with the tingling in my sex her fingers arose. Her fingers terrified me at the same time as they made me feel blessed with something strange and very pleasant.

She moved her fingers in my sex and soon I couldn't control the wave that threatened to carry me away. She seemed to know that it was on its way because her fingers felt more eager now and soon it happened. I dreaded it but it was a bliss. I almost cried out as my sex exploded and took my whole body with it. I can't describe the sensation that ran through me and overwhelmed me. I had never, ever before, felt anything like it.

As I came around I saw Miro's smiling face. She looked so tenderly at me that I almost burst out in tears. She stroked my cheek and I started to cry. She embraced me and held me close stroking my hair. It was wonderful sensing her tiny naked body against mine and at that moment I wanted to be nowhere else in the world but in her arms.

I fell asleep and as I woke up I wasn't sure it had happened at all but the look on the face of Miro told me it was for real. I saw love in her eyes and I smiled at her. I was glad that it was a girl who did it for me the first time.

I knew that such things happened, I had sensed it in the pen at nights but I didn't think I was like that. I longed for the night now when I would be lying in Miro's arms. I was ashamed and thought it a wrong thing to do but I couldn't help being aroused just looking at her. I loved her not only with my heart, now I loved her with my body as well.

I felt shame as I thought about my family and the village and wondered what they would say if they knew, but then I thought about why I was here and how my father had sold me and how I was another man's property now. Selling your daughter into slavery meant that you knew that her body would soon serve her new owner. Maybe they didn't think about how her body could satisfy her sisters in bondage. Maybe they would frown and be displeased but I didn't belong to them any more, for better or for worse.

Miro taught me how to satisfy her and I was happy to oblige. She taught me how to kiss and I soon became an eager pupil. I was still shy and very much ashamed but I liked it.

Friday, 22 June 2007

A Sad Story

Fantasies can't all be roses and, well, whatever. It lies in the power of imagination that it sometimes puts in your head stories and ideas that are a tad more serious than the ordinary spanking story.

This is a sad story about being without love. Still I like it and it expresses something about me. But, remember, it is just fiction!

'Goodbye,' he said.
Then he left.

He will never come back. I know that. Never again will I hear him come through the door, his well known footsteps on the stairs. He will never come back.

Never again will I feel his arms around me, his embrace, the touch that made me feel small an loved. Never ever again.

And here I am, in the ruins of my life. How could it fall? Why is everything dust?

'What do you want?' he said.
He always asked me what I wanted.

I could not answer. I had no answer. I was silent and he left.

If I had words. What would I say? What would I have told him? What did I want?

I would have told him how I would come to him in his dream, an Egyptian servant girl, naked save for my girdle. I would dance for him, move my body for him, please him and make him desire me. I would dance and dance. Until my feet hurt. I would move my hips, circle my breasts, snake my arms to his delight, be a fairy and a slave for him, only for him.

I wonder if he remembers the time, the only time, he laid his hands on me in anger. The time he took hold of me and shook me because I couldn't tell him, because I couldn't speak. How I cried and we made love, how I loved him with passion, the only time I let myself go.

I wish I had told him what I wanted. How I dreamt about him coming to me, in the evening, bringing his cane, for to punish me, to show me who I was, to tell me I had to be. Telling me that I could no longer be silent. Whipping the fear out of me.

The pain of that whipping would be nothing compared to the distance in his eyes when I could not speak, when I disappeared from him. How he tried to seek me out but could not find me. How his gaze tried to penetrate the darkness but could not see my light.

I had hidden it. My flickering light was so weak, so nothing. It could easily be extinguished. I had to protect it. I had to cover it.

But how I wish I could have told him how he should have touched me and nurtured me and my light. How I wanted to tell him that he had to touch my thick hide, to penetrate the darkness to reach me.

I should have told him how he had to be strong to defeat me and to reach me. How he had to punish me and make me suffer for to bring me out of my silence.

I wish I had told him to kiss me. I should have told him what I wanted. That I wanted him to take me and make me his. That I wanted to be what he desires.

Now he is gone and I never told him.

Wednesday, 20 June 2007

Slave Story, part 2

Someone wished for my story not to be too similar to John Norman's Gor stories. I hope it will not be, although it owes a lot of its inspiration from those stories. I hope this will view fantasy slavery from a slightly different perspective.

Anyway, here is the second part. Nothing exciting happens yet but it is part of the story.

'Stand up!'

I obeyed him.

He didn't say anything but took my leash and led me away from the market square. Everyone was watching me and I knew that this would be the topic of most conversations for a long period of time. I marched behind him, bound and naked and everyone in the square could see me in my shame and humiliation. I cried and lowered my gaze. I couldn't bear to see them watch me.

My mind couldn't grasp what was happening. I had been enslaved but I couldn't believe it was true. My father had sold me to Firul. But why? Did he hate me or were we poor? I didn't knew we were poor.

It was a long walk of shame for me, through the streets of our town. We left the square and suddenly I was not news any more. Someone looked up and saw me but there was nothing unusual in a slave girl being led through the streets like this. Some of the men looked me over and smiled at what they saw and others were not concerned at all. Some women looked with contempt and others with pity.

It felt slightly easier being unknown and not noticed but I was still crying, I was still in turmoil. At one occasion we passed some older women from my village and they looked at me intensely and pointed and I heard them talking. They would surely report this to the village. I felt even more humiliated then.

At last we came to the pens. It was a big grey building encircled by a high wall and although I had often seen it and even seen the slave girls being marched in and out of it, I had never seen it from the inside. Now I was admitted through a small door and taken across the courtyard to a flanking building. The courtyard was empty except for a long row of sturdy poles set along the wall of the main building. From the poles hung heavy chains and collars. I had heard of how the pens sometimes put slaves up for sale on this courtyard and I assumed the girls then was fastened to the poles for display.

We went into the smaller building and the darkness of the room felt cool against my hot skin. I was told to kneel in front of a pulpit like piece of furniture at one end of the room and I obeyed. I remembered to spread my knees although it made me blush again. In some ways I was more humiliated by kneeling in this room in front of the men from the pen than in the open. I felt more naked and vulnerable here alone with them than in the square.

I knelt there for a long time and the man left with one of the servants leaving the other to keep an eye on me. I shivered. I was scared that the young man would take advantage of the situation and try to touch me or even worse. He didn't. He just sat on a bench looking bored.

For some reason I found this a bit humiliating and in my mind I wondered if there were many far more prettier girls that he thought of as he was guarding me, girls he rather fondled than me. The thought made me feel even more horrible although I was happy he didn't touch me.

At last an old man came in and sat down behind the pulpit. He came together with the man who had taken me from the square. He handed a bunch of papers to the old man who started reading them and taking notes on another scroll. The old man looked kind.

'What have we here, Calissa, the daughter of the blacksmith Cajol from Motilya, sold to master Firul for...' He didn't finish the sentence. It was not customary to tell an enslaved girl her price. The only ones who got to know their value was the ones sold at an auction or those who heard the men bargaining for her.

I froze. I realised that I might be sold at an auction. Everyone from the village would be there and they would see me in my shame and see me sold. My friends would take pity on me but most of the girls and boys would love to see me being sold. And if I brought a low price they would talk about it and say that I was not worth more. My heart started pounding again as I thought about being sold and how slave girls often were sold in the nude or even worse, were stripped in the presence of everyone.

'You are Calissa, aren't you?' he said in his soft voice.

'Yes, master,' I answered.

'Good,' he said, 'take her to pen 13!'

I was taken through a door and marched down a long corridor. I felt lonely and exposed and very scared as I hurried on bare feet behind the guard who lead me through the building.

We passed many doors, some guarded by men with whips in their belts. I shivered at the sight of those men and the thought that I was at their mercy now. I had seen slave girls being whipped and knew how they reacted. I had been young and stupid and enjoyed the sight with my friends although I had been scared and horrified by the brutality. Now I realised that it might happen to me and the thought was unbearable.

We went through doors and gates and down winding stairs and at last we came to the pens. We went through a big door and suddenly the sound of the pens assaulted my ears. I felt the presence of many people although it took a while for me to see where they were. The big room had pillars and aisles and parts of it was sealed off by iron bars. This was the pens. Behind the bars were the slaves. I saw dozens and dozens of women and girls, sitting and lying on the floors of the pens. Only a few of them had the skimpiest of clothes. Most of them were naked. They looked dirty and exhausted but I could see that many of them were beautiful. They were mostly young women, some of them just girls, some as young as ten, maybe. Some of them wore chains and some were bound but most of them were just naked.

My guard handed a note to another guard and then a door made of iron bars was opened and I was led through that door. My leash was removed and my bounds around my hands were cut. Then the door was slammed behind me. I was now confined in the pens.

The other girls looked at me. No one spoke. I shivered as I looked for a place to sit. I found an empty spot by a stone pillar that formed part of the wall and sat down. I crouched and hid my face in my arms and cried. I was a prisoner. I was a slave. I was property.

An hour ago I had been a young, happy girl sitting with her friends at the fountain after having run my errands and now I was naked and locked up in the slave pens. I couldn't understand it. I had been sold by my father to master Firul and now I was property. I had been the daughter of a blacksmith. I had been the daughter of a honourable man, a wealthy man. Now I was nothing, an animal, someone who could be bought and sold. I was owned. I was property. I was young and now my life was destroyed, at least the life I knew. It was gone forever. There is no way back if you once have been enslaved. You can't own anything as a slave. Everything that is yours, your clothes, your things and your body and soul belong to your owner. You are property and property may be given to someone but nothing can be given to you so you can never get your freedom back.

Thursday, 14 June 2007

The Dungeon

This is an experiment. It began with a description of a fantasy I had with a man and a woman in an old castle. I sent this descripton to a friend who suggested I should add the woman's voice to it, what she felt and thought. Then he added the man's voice. So this is a cooperation between me and this friend from the other side of the pond (you may notice the strange spelling of it certain words...).

This piece has three voices. The first one is the narrator who casually tells about a fantasy. This part is in basic, ordinary text. Then there is the woman's voice, in italics. The third voice is the man and his text is in bolds (what else?).

A man and a woman. He is older than her, middle age to a little older, perhaps. He is dressed in dinner jacket or something of that kind, very elegantly anyway. He is the perfect gentleman. She is younger than him, smaller, more delicate in everything. She is dressed in a short, black dress, the kind that hugs her body, low cut, revealing but not vulgar, short but not without style. She is lightly dressed, shows a lot of skin but she is not tarty.

She is everything I hoped for. Wide-eyed, seeing everything. Wanting everything. She wears her clothes as if they are new. She wobbles a bit on her heels. Do I disappoint? I must play the wizened courtier, I think.

I am too lightly dressed, I am too naked compared to his elegance. I am too tarty, too revealing, to vulnerable. He must think I am such a vulgar girl.

But I thought I was dressing up, thought that I was trying to look nice. He must see how impressed I am by attracted I am. He is older and so much a stranger but there is something.

Maybe it is all wrong. I am impressed and he is such a very special person but I have no reason to think that he is interested. Am I interested? He is too old. He is such a strange man. He must think I am interested. Maybe I am and maybe I am showing him that. But if I am not. I should have dressed more conservatively.

She blushes exquisitely. At what? At something she wishes, something she sees, or senses? Is she embarrassed by her charming naivete, or sorry for me? But there are three paths to seduction: make her laugh, make her blush, make her feel her desirability. She has blushed. She is on the path. It is up to me to lead her on…

They are at his castle (and for this fantasy it has to be a real, great, old castle). He has treated her to dinner and he has dismissed the servants and now he is showing her his castle. They walk from room to room and he tells her about his ancestors and the history of the castle. She is amused and interested but he is not sure if she is polite, attracted to him or just impressed. After all, she is far younger than him.

Her eyes glitter. She is like a lucid sleepwalker. So delicate… She takes my lead, like a sensitive dance partner. Such attentiveness to my every word. But am I her gallant cavalier, or just a garrulous old fossil? Does she even notice how we descend, floor under floor? How the passages meander, how many doors are closed behind her? Does she sense how lost she will be, how lost she already is?

This castle is like a dream. It is like something from a horror film, so sinister, so old and haunted, so magical. It is a magical castle and he is such an elegant man. He is far too old for me but he is such a gentleman. He is proud of his castle and arrogant but I am not put off. Why is that? He is not handsome, he is too old but I feel like a princess in a fairytale. I am impressed. I am overwhelmed. He overwhelms me and why shouldn't I allow myself to be swept away. I am walking in a dream but why can't I have it?

The tour takes them to the dungeon and this is a real dungeon, the castle prison with heavy pillars and heavy doors of oak and iron. A really grim place and she is really out of place there, too lightly dressed, too exposed and too vulnerable.

Surely she is beginning to see. And yet she takes my arm all the more firmly. But will she, seeing, shy away? How to reassure her, despite appearances, that she is safe in a dream, a fairytale.

She is intrigued, flattered. She is intent, intense. Her questions are genuine. Is this bravado, courage. or she elect ?

The tingle, that strange tingling in my body. How come I am so excited by this. It is like walking into a nightmare but a hauntingly beautiful nightmare. I am like a tiny mouse, like a kitten or something soft and vulnerable here in his castle, in his domain, in his home of power and strength. A strength that goes back beyond anything I can imagine and he just stands there, inviting me, asks me to be a part of it. And this strange tingling sensation. He is such a man. He is old and not handsome but there is something that is older, stronger than anything I have ever felt before.

The dungeon is grim but well kept, no mildew or mould Everything is clean but, still, there are stone walls and heavy doors and well trodden stairs.

It is so old but this is not a neglected part of the castle. It is almost as if it was still in use. As if people still were held here, prisoners of that hideous strength, that iron hard will that seem to glow in his eyes. That strength that overwhelms me and makes me feel very small, very tiny, very vulnerable. But still I am invited, still I am here by his will. I am entering into his domain and I have no power here. But do I want power?

No battering ram could breach these iron doors. And no cries can escape these walls. Rather, in these hard walls, the cries, shrieks, groans reverberated. Sometimes I think they echo still.

They reach the cells of the prison and he shows her the walls where heavy chains and shackles are hanging. She walks through the cells in silence, stops to touch the chains, the shackles.

She is either bold, or trying successfully to appear casual. Does she not understand, can she not feel, the meaning of these artifacts? Is she deaf to the cries of despair? Cannot she feel the palpable pain, the agony of anticipation, the hopelessness? Doesn't she – doesn't she KNOW?

Look how tiny her hands are, her wrists. The contrast -- does she feel it, as I do? The weight, the size, the strength. Once in these chains, she would be like a hare in a bear trap...

The irons are heavy, rough but well kept. They are heavy and grim but not rusty. He looks at her and sees the contrast between her soft person and the grim surroundings and thinks about how she is kept in the heavy iron.

She blushes as he looks at her and maybe she is thinking the same.

How pretty she is when she blushes. Such a privilege to have even this small window into her mind. What voluptuous pleasure would it be to see other her responses: her eyes widen, her first precious tear, her trembling, her words of entreaty -- and these would be appetizers, the cold soup... The main course, the game, to follow.

So here he keeps his prisoners. Here are they kept, his maidens and virgins. The girls he carries off on his raids to the villages around his castle. I can see his ancestors carrying the screaming girls to this cell, chaining them, ripping their clothes off, leaving them naked and exposed, scared and vulnerable. There are no raids and no captures any more and he is a civilised man. There is only a girl who enters of her own free will.

I can feel the iron collar around my neck, its cold and hard surface. How heavy it would be, how completely helpless I would be. I feel naked, standing here. I am just a silly girl, dressing up and showing how weak I am. And he seems so self assured, so confident. I am entering into his old age dream of capture and imprisonment, of dark cruel lust and power and being overpowered and I am just a silly girl impressed by his power.

I no longer hear the screams, but rather, I hear the calm, commanding voice, giving the order that elicits the screams.

They reach the torture chamber and this is the real thing. It is kept like a museum but the pieces are real and well kept, functioning. There is nothing of the toys and gadgets of a toy dungeon. These are real devices.

He shows her the rack, a device capable of tearing a man in two. He shows her the iron that may be heated white for branding and torture. He shows her the horse with a sharp back where the victim may be sat.

I know what he is thinking. I know why he is doing this. I know he is talking about me. I know that I am thinking what he is thinking. How painful that rack would be. How helpless I would be in its clutches. I can see it now, how the torches flicker, how I am strapped to the rack, helpless and, perhaps, naked. How he stands there, his hand on the lever, how he can make me scream by just pulling it.

The man explains every device in detail and watches her reactions. She is affected, blushes and trembles.

She reacts as she imagines she should react, or rather, she responds automatically but superficially. Will she ask more questions? Does she understand there is only one way to truly answer them?

Oh the bliss, the possibility... must not frighten the dove. And must not
break her too soon .. patience ... patience is the hardest part.

The rack fascinates her. I wonder, if I suggested she lie on it, just to experience more vividly – what would she do? Laugh it off? Take offense? Or ... once bound, I would turn the ratchet ever so slowly, slightly. Then inspect her, from her coiffure to her toes. Reality might come to her then. Or not? How long could I keep up the charade of providing an "educational" experience -- if a naughty one? Such bliss to bind her, then to kiss her fears away – temporarily.


But even as she lies, helpless but expecting release, I heat the brazier. So many opportunities. A small, glowing tip, waved close -- she becomes keenly aware, as never before, of the potential for agony in her delicate whorled ear lobe, her underarm, the hollow of her knee, her delicate arch. How long might she harbor the hope these teasing are merely jokes in bad taste?

He tells her how the pain is created and how the different parts of the devices are applied to the body.

The hot iron is too horrible. I can't think of that. His eyes are glimmering. I hope he is not thinking about the iron. The horse is magnificent. I can almost feel how it would be, sitting on it.

I would save the horse ... must not break her too quickly … but she must be well subdued before I could place her there. But, once on, hands tied behind her, weights on her ankles... a charcoal brazier, perhaps, heated, smoking, directly under the saddle? I will pretend to leave. Watch from the chink in the wall. How voluptuous...

He puts me there, naked, my exposed sex touching the harsh sharp edge, biting into my flesh. The tingling sensation, the warmth, the horrible excitement. It is a dark and dangerous dream but he enjoys it, he enjoys telling me about it. How could I ever have mistaken him, his intentions? But I am not someone he respects. I am not a woman to love and to care for. I am just a girl impressed by his power, his castle and his devices.

I am impressed and I do not care. This dream is too powerful.

His words become more explicit and he talks about the prospective victim as 'she' and 'her body'. She shivers as if cold and looks at him and his devices with awe. He becomes more and more agitated and his eyes are shining. He is like a child.

She is like a bird hypnotized by a snake. If she runs now, how far will I let her run before I catch her? Should we pretend to leave, be almost out the door -- be out the door -- before I drag her back? Or might she willingly place her hands in the cuffs of the flogging frame, just for the experience? To tell her friends how brave she was? How odd, if harmless, was that old man?

He is like a child. This is his dream, his fascination, and I am just a part of it. I know he wants to do this to me. I know he wants to use his devices on me. I am just one of the girls that his robber baron ancestors have captured. I am just some stupid young person who walks into his dream.

This tingling, this strange excitement. His words touches my ears like vinegar on a wound, like something bitter and yet sweet touches your tongue. It is his play, his dream and I have a part in it. How sweet is not that part. How sensational is not my surrender to his childish delight.

She walks around, touches the devices, almost caresses them, thinking that it is her body that will be fastened and tortured there. It is still a tour and he is just talking about his castle but both of them know that they are talking about her being tortured by him.

I shudder to think of her in this place. Yet I exalt. I see that she, too, feels the unspeakable horror and irresistible attraction of this place, of these instruments that have been waiting, so many centuries, to taste her.

They both know it and they both know that he will do it to her. She knows but she does not run.

Perhaps this iron will hold my body. How will it be to be held, to be captured by unyielding iron? Iron that won't let me go. I will lose my freedom and I will be just a captive. I will have to trust him. I will have to hope that he will not harm me, that he will not injure me.

I have always done what I want but lying on that rack or sitting on that chair, in iron I will no longer be free. I will change, have to trust, have to be where I am put. I will have to endure.

I know that he will not just keep me there. I know he will make me suffer. I know I will suffer. I know he will grant me pain.

What will it be like? Will I endure? Is there, really, room for my tingling sex in his dream. Will I enjoy it?

Her destiny and my ancestry intersect here. Such a lovely girl, such a beautiful doom. I shall relish every sigh, groan I wring from her. I shall cherish her, even as… I shall honor her, as she honors me.

He sees her affect, her fear and her fascination. She sees his immense pleasure, his childish enthusiasm, his joy at the prospect of torturing her.

Should I ever hesitate I have only to look at his face. How could I deny him that pleasure. I am privileged to be allowed to enter his dream to, enter his dungeon. Come what may!

What is this?

Is it possible?

All things are possible....

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Slave Story, part 1

I posted a part of a longer story about a girl who was enslaved earlier. Perhaps it is time to return to the theme again and return to what I do best; stories (I am not saying I am good just that it is what I do best).

This is the story from the beginning. I have written quite a lot but it is far from finished. You have to imagine the setting yourself, an ancient looking fantasy land with people and places with silly names. And yes, it is very inspired by the Gor stories by John Lange (aka John Norman). I think my world is a little less brutal, though, but we'll see.

It was a beautiful day, the day I was taken. I had gone to the market with my friends as we often did in the morning. I knew nothing about what would occur, everything was decided without me knowing anything. It was nothing unusual in that. This kind of matters were never discussed with girls like me. Even if it would affect you profoundly.

I was together with my friends sitting by the fountain relaxing a little after having finished the shopping. As always we had lots of things to carry home and the road was long so we thought we deserved a short break with our feet in the cool water. We talked and giggled and sang as young girls always do when together. I was happy at that moment. Not a worry in the world.

I didn't notice the men who walked up to us. I didn't notice until I herd a harsh voice calling my name.

'Calissa! For you are Calissa, the daughter of the blacksmith Cajol?'

I stood up as a young girl should do in the presence of men.

'I am, master' I answered sensing my heart beating in my chest. The fact that this man addressed me indicated something bad, I knew that. I wondered what I was accused of doing. I took for granted that there was some wrongdoing being done and that I had been accused of it. I could not imagine the real reason for this man talking to me.

I was soon to be told the grim reason for his address. He didn't give me much time for preparations.

'Strip!' he ordered with his stern voice.

I was bewildered.

'But, why, master?' I managed to ask.

'You are to be taken to the slave pens.'

'No, master, that must be some mistake, I am free.'

I felt my cheeks blush.

'You are the property of master Firul and will be taken to the slave pens on his behalf.'

'I am not the property of master Firul, master, that is a mistake.'

'Will you strip or shall I order my men to strip you?'

'But, please, master, I do not understand.'

'The papers are in order,' he replied.

He didn't prove it by showing me the papers. I could read, it was not that. It was, simply not done.

'But, master, who could have...?'

'Strip now, girl!'

'My father can't have. Please, master, do not tell me, my father has sold me!'

'I think he has. Will you strip now?'

I was overwhelmed, distraught. I sat down on the fountain and covered my face in my hands, weeping. I couldn't believe what was happening. My mind was in turmoil.

I heard the men in the company of the master who had addressed me, obviously his servants, approach me. I immediately stood up. I realised I had to comply. Nothing could be more embarrassing than having those men strip me there in the street.

'Please, master, wait, I will do as you wish.'

The man held back his servants with a gesture of his hand.

I looked up at the man in despair. My fingers fumbled with the cord around my waist. I felt numb.

'Please, master, can't I take my clothes off later?'

'It is not customary,' he answered and I knew he was right.

I looked around and my friends watched in horror. I felt their sympathy to be another burden for me.

I untied the cord around my waist and hesitated. The man looked annoyed but he didn't say anything.

'Please, master.'

The man didn't answer but gestured with his hand and his servants started to move.

'Wait, wait, please, master, I will obey.'

He held them back.

My hands trembled as I slipped the dress from my shoulders. There was a sense of loss as I felt it slide over my body. I held it as it slipped from me and then I stepped out of it. The man held out his hand and I gave him my dress and the cord that used to hold it in place.

For a while I just stood there, feeling utterly naked, blushing, my heart pounding in my chest, full of shame and anguish.

The man didn't say anything, he just pointed at my hip. For some reason I didn't dare to protest. My fumbling fingers untied the knot at my hip and I slipped off my minimal breech cloth. Now I was naked.

'Now, girl, kneel!'

I fell to my knees and hunched my back, trying to cover up, overcome with shame and embarrassment.

'Straighten your back!'

I did as I was told. I sat up and suddenly I saw all the people who had gathered around us. It was a bit of entertainment to see a girl being enslaved like this. I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to look calm.

'Knees apart.'

My heart beat and extra beat at hearing this. This was the ultimate shame, having to kneel like a slave.

I obeyed him while my whole body trembled.


I cried as I obeyed him.

My head swirled and my cheeks were hot as I knelt on the cobbled street in front of the fountain, naked and with knees apart like a slave girl.

The man knelt behind me and took my arms and crossed them behind my back. He then bound me and put a rope around my neck as a leash.

Friday, 8 June 2007

Iconic Images 3

Dear Reader, if you have read my blog you may find this iconic image a little different from the ones I usually post here, a little more brutal, a little more degrading, perhaps. Maybe you will find the earlier ones more stylish and lighter than this. Still there is something about this image that draws me in.

It is made by a person who call themselves Gnarly Thotep. This character has come and gone, reappeared and gone again on the Web. There is still a gallery of their work, here.

The name sounds a little ancient Egyptian to me and perhaps this is intentional. Although it should, really, have been Gnarlyt Hotep to be Egyptian, ''hotep' being a common element in names, meaning an offering to a god or a goddess.

Enough of that. Why have I decided to put this image on my blog? It is a horrible image in many ways. A naked woman is hung upside down, her arms tied behind her back. She is not only suspended in the air but hanging in her toes. That must be excruciatingly painful. She seem to react accordingly, her face contorted in pain and agony.

There is a man, clad in what seems like a leather jacket crouching by her side. He seems calm and composed. The impression I get is that he is responsible for her ordeal. He seem to relish the situation in a way she does not.

This is really a common theme, not only in the fantasy world of bondage and torture but also in mainstream media. A person in peril in the hands of another. The one in peril is often a woman and the one in control a man (but there are many varieties).

I do find this image both exciting and intriguing. It is something about the contrast between their situations. He is in control, clothed, calm and at ease. She is bound naked, in agony and very much not in control. He has everything and she has nothing. She is totally in the hands of the man.

It is exciting to see this contrast even if I would never ever consider hanging in my toes without clothes, head down in the presence of a man in a leather jacket.

And there is something in the way the artist has rendered her. The lines of her body, the composition of the picture that is, actually, quite beautiful.

Have you noticed one thing? I am very distanced in my way of talking about this image. It may have to do with the fact that I am embarrassed that I find this cruel image both beautiful and sexy. Analysing and being intellectual about it is a way of keeping the distance.

The image is both horrible and sexy, cruel and beautiful. That is the truth. And I dared say it.

Monday, 4 June 2007

Oh, dear!!!

All work and no play, makes Janice a dull girl. Anyway, this silly variety of the famous proverb is the gentle introduction to more frivolities. Yes, more silliness from me. This time it is about Second Life. I guess you know what it is. Otherwise you may read about it here. I can say this: it is a virtual world where you can go, create your own avatar and wander around meeting people and indulge in all sorts of activities.

It is not such a bad place for someone like me who, at least, is interested in things that cannot be called vanilla (to use the popular term). Anyway, I have created myself a persona that does not, really, look like me but represent me in Second Life. I have met some lovely people and I have experienced a lot of interesting things.

I choose to illustrate this blog entry with an image from Second Life where yours truly gets her bottom tanned by another resident of Second Life who had the kindness of not asking whether I had been naughty. I hadn't of course, since I am a good girl.

I have met this woman who has promised to teach me about submission and I spend my lessons with her kneeling at her feet. I wonder why it is so much easier to be obedient and polite and well behaved in Second Life than in real life.

I bet you didn't think me that kind of person to indulge in virtual experiences but I am. And if anyone of you reading this also has a second life then feel free to email me with your name and I may, just may, come visit you when in Second Life.