Thursday, 24 January 2008

In the Stable

I was inspired to write a stable yard fantasy. I do, really, have this thing for jodhpurs, riding boots and horsewhips...blushes. But I don't really know that much about it so forgive me if my ignorance shines through. I am sure you don't read this for the technical details anyway.

The sun was shining on me, this lovely August day. I was wearing too much clothes, I knew that. I was glad I hadn't taken the jacket. Now I had only a white shirt on but the jodhpurs and the riding boots almost killed me.

We were walking towards the stable, me and Lightning. He was really a sweet creature and Lightning was a silly name for someone as meek and gentle as he was. Still we were on our way home and he almost fell into a trot.

In the sunshine my thoughts wandered off towards that which occupied all the minds of all the girls in the riding class. He was young, tall, had black hair and was immensely handsome. He was as strong as the horses and as good looking as Mr Darcy, at least the one in the tv series.

He was the teacher. The girls were mostly younger than me but this didn't stop them from almost fainting when he walked by. He was older than me, below thirty, I think, but perhaps close to that. I decided he was 28. He didn't see me. He had only eyes for the horses and no matter how much we tried to impress him he was unmoved. He was above us all.

I blushed as I remembered the one time when I think he saw me, just for a fleeting moment. It was a Sunday and I had volunteered to so some cleaning in the stable. It was a hot day and I had thought I would be alone.

As I said, it was a hot day and I was sure I would be alone sweeping the floor in the stable. It wasn't a plan or anything. I had put the bikini on because it was very hot that day. I had no idea that he would walk in with an great big stallion and two other men.

They stared at me. They smiled at me. Even he smiled at me. Then it was over and I was left with my broom, my bikini and my blushing face.

I was awakened from my thoughts as I approached the stable. I saw that the gate to the enclosure was open and an ice cold hand gripped my heart. Had I forgotten to close it? Had any of the horses escaped?

I dismounted and led Lightning into the stable, removed the saddle and bits and reins and everything. I left him in his box, gave him something to eat and was about to go out and check the enclosure when I heard someone at the gate.

Doom descended on me and my heart stopped beating. It was he, it was really he and he was furious. He was terrible in his anger. I had never seen him so upset before. He asked me how I could be so stupid as to leave the gate open. And I could not answer. I had no answer to give him. I was petrified.

He threatened to dismiss me from his class, to throw me out. He had seen this happen too many times before and he was sick and tired of irresponsible girls who endangered the welfare of the animals. He must make an example of me.

I was devastated. I was to be thrown out. I would never see him again. I would never look at him and dream about him as my own Mr Darcy, my own Mr Rochester.

I pleaded with him. I lost my cool and pleaded with him. Anything but being thrown out, anything. And when I said that I meant it.

I had no idea, then, that he would take those words at face value. I was unprepared for what he was to say as he turned to me.

'There is another way,' he said and there was a glint in his eyes.

'Yes?' I said, not able to think of anything more clever to say.

'I'll punish you here and now and you can stay in the class.'

I don't know still, to this day, what made me stay in the stable that day. Stupidity reigns in the mind of a silly girl who has a crush on her teacher. I didn't run. I nodded consent.

He took me by the arm and dragged me to one of the boxes. He turned me towards one of the wooden pillars that supported to roof.

'Hands on the pillar!' he said and I complied.

I don't remember what I was thinking at that moment. I only remember that I did what he said. I stood with my hands on the wooden beam and I waited.

The handsome riding teacher took a step to the side and returned holding a very vicious horsewhip in his hand. I think I realised what it meant but my mind was still full of a sense of disbelief and a certain numbness.

'How old are you?' He demanded.

'Eight...eighteen,' I stuttered.

'Then eighteen it will be.'

There was a kind of coldness that came over me. My mind was strangely clear. The surreal sense of disbelief was not gone but I saw everything clearly. I realised he was going to whip me eighteen times with the horsewhip. I didn't run. I could have. He didn't hold me.

My mind changed as he hit me. He didn't hesitate as he let the whip land on my bottom. A horsewhip is designed to sting through the thick hide of a horse, not to be used on the soft bottom of a silly girl like me. The jodhpurs didn't seem to offer much protection.

I howled. I let go of the pillar and jumped about. I put my hands on my bottom and cried out. It hurt. I had never felt anything like this. I couldn't comprehend what had happened, the sheer brutality of it, and the pain, the agonising pain.

'Hands on the pillar!'

He looked at me, sternly.

I suppose it was in that moment I really understood and really accepted this madness.

The next whack was as brutal as the first and I bit my lip to stop me from howling.

Was it my determination or was it my stupidity that made me stay, I don't know. But stayed I did. He gave me four more excruciating whacks with that powerful and evil horsewhip. For some strange reason, I didn't scream any more but tears were welling from my eyes.

He stopped for a while and I wished it was over. I wasn't prepared for what came next.

'Take down your trousers!'

All sorts of strange thoughts tumbled through my head. There were rumours and gossip about the teachers and many times we had whispered about what we thought happened in the office behind the stable.

I had a crush on him but I was still convinced that it was wrong, wrong to give in to him. I wanted him to like me and love me. This was wrong.

'Why?' I dared to ask.

'So that you can take the rest on the bare,' he replied and with flashing cheeks I realised what he meant.

My fingers were numb and my head was swirling but soon I stood there, again, with hands on the wooden pillar, turning my bottom towards him. This time I had my jodhpurs and knickers around my knees.

I don't know what was worst, the humiliation of being whipped on the naked skin or the increased agony of having the horsewhip make direct contact with me. I screamed again. I cried and my tears were flowing.

He showed no mercy. He followed the first one with five more. I wasn't sure how many I had got but I knew there were some left.

Then disaster struck. I heard something at the door and I saw two of the girls from my class walk in. They stopped short. They stared wide-eyed at me, at him and at the scene before their eyes.

Then he whacked me again. I didn't scream. Nothing could make me scream. I saw the horror in the eyes of my audience. They could not move, they stared at me.

I closed my eyes for the next whack but as I looked up I saw not only horror in the eyes of the girls but a kind of cruel delight. I blushed as I realised that they enjoyed this. They enjoyed seeing me being punished.

I struggled to keep some kind of dignity, what was left of it, but the last four whacks was delivered in rapid succession and I cried out, tears flowing from my eyes and I thrust my body against the pillar to escape the brutal onslaught of the horsewhip.

Then it was over. He threw down the horsewhip and walked away. He pointed at the girls and said:

'This is what happens if you don't close the gate!'

They stared at him in terror.

I hurried to pull up my knickers and trousers. I wiped my eyes dry with my hand and hurried away. I didn't look at the girls and they didn't say anything. They were stunned and I didn't want to talk about it. I was devastated, humiliated and wanted to cry.

My bottom was still in shock. It felt numb rather than aching but a deep throbbing sensation told me that it would be sore for a long time still. I preferred to stand on the bus on my way home. People looked at me since there were free seats available.

My mind was in turmoil and I wondered how I would cope with the humiliation and shame of it. Everyone would soon know what had happened. Everyone would look at me and know that I was the one who got whipped in the stable. I would have to cope with that. I didn't know how.

Still there was one thought that seemed to drive the others away, a thought that made my lips move in a faint smile. It was the thought that whispered in my ears:

'He saw me.'

Monday, 21 January 2008

Slave Story, part 5

At last, the fifth instalment of the the Slave Story. If you have forgotten what this was about you may go back and read it here. Part of this text has been published on this blog earlier under the title Two Slaves. I hope you don't mind me reusing the text. This gives the bigger picture.

I woke up with my heart pounding. I knew that my nightmare may soon come true.

The guards came after a long while to get me. They were almost cheerful and tried to comfort me. That was unusual. It filled me with fear more than anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'She is very young.'

'She is seventeen years of age.'

'She looks younger.'

'I can assure you,' the old man said.

'No need, I believe you.'

'She is very small,' the fat man continued.

'Small but delicate,' the old man said and I blushed.

'She blushes, I like that.'

The old man looked pleased.

'She is not trained,' the fat man said.

'She is not trained.'

'What am I to say? You bring me a skinny young girl with no training. What am I to do with her?'

'She is a gift but if you do not like her we will try to sell her and you will get the money.'

I blushed at those words. I was enslaved and got nothing in return and if they sold me someone else would take the profit.

'No, no, I will take her.' The fat man waved his hand. 'She wouldn't bring much. I will have to train her myself.'

'Master Firul will be very happy that you accept his gift.'

'She is a virgin?'

'I can assure you,' the old man said.

I blushed again.

The old man pointed to the floor and I knelt trying to spread my legs as wide as the guard had shown me before. I felt embarrassed by this and thought I saw the fat man glancing at my sex.

I felt anger well up in me at this man looking so brazenly at me and not hiding his gaze. He took the liberty of looking at my body. I was not used to men looking at me like this. The men from the village would never do that.

I felt a pang of loss at the thought of the village and then I realised how futile my anger was. If I was given to the fat man he could look at my body and at my sex as much as he wanted because I was his property now and he could do what he wanted with me. I shivered at the thought of the fat man not only wanting to look at my sex but to touch it and do other things with it.

The men finished their tea and the fat man called forward a servant that bound my hands on my back and put a leash on my throat. I was led away, the property of the fat man.

I was led to his carriage and the servant helped me climb into the back of it. The fat man sat up beside the driver and we drove off. I sat in the dark of the back of the carriage among bundles of cloth and sealed pots filled with something I couldn't even guess what it was. I was placed there among the fat man's other possessions.

I heard the men talking in the front and the fat man chuckled as he told the driver about his gift.

'I really like the young ones with their perky breasts,' he said and burst out laughing. I was a bit bewildered by this since he had seemed to be so displeased with me earlier.

I leaned back and pondered on this and to my own shame I felt a tingling of pride that this fat man, my new owner, found me attractive.

The canvas around the carriage was tied shut so I couldn't peep through and see were I was going and being bound made it a bit scary to move around too much. I sat down among the fat man's possessions and tried to think about my destiny. I couldn't see the future as anything but blank. The days in the pens were awful, except for Miro, but I hadn't really dared to think about what would happen to me. When I realised that I was a slave it filled me with horror and dread so my mind tended to move away from that.

It was different now. I was on my way to a new place and a new life and I had no idea what it was. I didn't even know the name of the fat man or his profession. He seemed wealthy though. I didn't doubt that he would make me work for my keep and work hard but what kind of work?

He seemed to find me, at least, a little attractive and my heart beat faster as I thought about what he might do to me. I wept as I realised that he would most likely want to use me for his pleasures at some point or let someone else do it. I had seen how the guards used the girls in the pen and I didn't think I would be spared for too long.

Still the purpose of acquiring me might be to put me to work. He had been given me as a gift but he most probably had some business that needed labourers and I assumed he had slaves for that. Now I was one of his slaves.

He looked as if he might own a wealthy tavern or be a merchant or maybe he was the head of a circus or a travelling theatre. There was an air of flamboyance around him that seemed to go together with a profession in the public eye but that was only my strange speculations. He might be anyone and do anything.

I was happy getting out of the pens though. I would get to see the light of day and I would get to move around and not be confined to one spot all the time. I knew I wasn't free but a slave in work may move more freely than a slave in the pens.

And maybe I would get clothes. The though made me cheer up a bit. I had been naked for nearly a month and had never got used to it. Girls like Miro seemed to revel in being naked or didn't seem to care too much but I was constantly aware of the fact that I was nude and that anyone could see me. I was more used to it now but it was still an ordeal. It was far worse here out in real life than down in the pens but I still had the hope of getting clothes.

Slaves most often wore clothes although more revealing than free women. It is true that a slave girl may be stripped naked any time and quite often were even in public places but most often she got to wear clothes.

Our journey didn't last long so I assumed we were still in town. As I peeped out of the carriage I saw a courtyard and some buildings around it. A young man helped me out of the carriage lifting me in his strong arms and putting me on the ground. I stood shivering trying to take in as much as I could of the surroundings.

The wall around the courtyard was high but it was crowned with ivy or something similar. A big tree gave shade and flowerpots hung from chains at the wall of the big building. This was a far more welcoming courtyard than that of the pens. Still I was a slave and still I was naked and bound.

I was led into a building that looked like a stable or something similar. There were crude beds along one wall and straw mattresses along the other. Some plates were neatly piled in one corner. The small windows had bars.

There were no one there besides me and the young man who had led me there closed the door and locked me in without taking off the ropes around my arms. I was left alone in the quarters awaiting my new destiny.

Friday, 18 January 2008

Real, Surreal

When I write stories that are set in more modern surroundings and modern times I sometimes get advice from people and suggestions that concern the realism of spankings and whippings and things like that. This makes me think about what is real and what is not real in a story. Don't get me wrong! I do want to hear from you, Dear Readers! It is just that it fascinates me why this happens only with stories that are, seemingly, set in our present world. It appears as if those stories are more realistic than others, like the ones when there is some cruel whipping in a town square.

Maybe it is the case that when the setting is a modern world or at least something that appear modern we, as readers, tend to apply modern rules and think that the story is about the real world. My position has always been that it is not and that the similarity is only an illusion. I think it is easier to accept a story about a Roman slaver who whips the living daylight out of a slave than a person who could be someone we meet in the street doing the same to someone. We may even see the exotic setting as a little romantic and a whipping as something quite exciting.

I still think that all my stories are fantasy stories, they are all set in fantasy land and they are all unreal or even surreal. They are all dreams. I have this fantasy that strikes now and then and you have seen it as an element in my stories. It is about the stranger or near stranger that without asking puts his hand down my knickers. In the real world this would be outrageous, at least in my part of if. I would most likely scream and try to punch him and be terribly upset and traumatised by it. As a fantasy, on the other hand, I may find myself surprised ans excited by it. It is the thing that breaks down a barrier and makes the world come closer to me.

Even if this is more realistic than say a spaceship or a Roman slaver and, thus, more likely to really occur, it doesn't make it more real in a story. It is still a fantasy and it is still about how I feel and how I choose to lay out the world. It is a surreal world, a world I move in when I am in my fantasies.

The bottom line is, don't believe a word of what you read here! It is all made up and it is all surreal and strange, however real it may appear on the surface. I know you know this but I can't help myself talking about this and perhaps it is a kind of disclaimer for me, that everything is fiction and not real. It is not even realistic, it is surreal.

Tuesday, 15 January 2008

Another Evening

I am back with another story. I thought I would write one of those, 'you have been naughty, you deserve a spanking, smack, smack,' stories. So here it is, a scene of domestic bliss of the kinkier kind. There is a reference to some contemporary music in this story. Have fun!

'You are late,' he said looking at her sternly.

'I am sorry,' she said, panting, putting down her bag inside the door, 'the traffic was horrible.'

'You could have started earlier,' he said looking grim although she could discern the tiniest of glimmer in his eyes.

'I couldn't leave work earlier than I did,' she said looking a little desperate as she took off her coat.

'Very well,' he said with a little smile on his face.

'I knew you would understand,' she said and took a deep breath and smiled.

'But you know what this means?'

'You can't,' she said.

'Can't I?' he replied.

She stopped short, looked at him, saw in his face that he was, indeed, serious.

'But the traffic,' she said.

'Don't mind the traffic!'

'It is not fair.'

'Don't mind fairness!'

'You mean it?'

'You know what it means,' he said.

She knew. She knew very well what it meant. And she knew there was no arguing, no discussion to be had. She knew what she had to do and she did it. Now she stood by the armchair with the cane in her hand, waiting.

She handed him the cane when he approached her and she started unbuttoning her jeans. He said nothing as she slid them from her hips, down her legs with a wriggling of her hips.

He stared at her amazed by the smoothness of her movements. He was fascinated by how she could make the simplest undressing to a sensual and arousing dance. His heart was beating faster.

She blushed as she pulled down her knickers and felt them slide over her skin, revealing it. She felt the impact and meaning of this, how she was revealing herself, how she was baring herself for him and his unfair punishment. Dread mixed with a soft a warm sensation in her body.

He looked at her as she positioned her body over the armrest of the comfy chair. She was naked from her waist down to her knees, her nakedness seemingly out of place in their living room. She had done this many times before but he still liked the sight of her placing herself in position for her punishment. He enjoyed watching her perform this act of obedience. There were no pleading, no protests. She was just doing it.

She felt the armrest against her naked body and felt as naked now as every time she did this. It was a familiar sensation but she thought she would never get used to it. It still meant that dreaded thrill of humiliation, that sense of degradation, that surreal feeling of her helping with her punishment, accepting it by doing as she was told. She felt her heart beat a little harder as she felt the impact of this, the meaning of it. She accepted her punishment and she gave herself to it. She accepted his punishment and told him he could do it. With her single movement she told him he could go on.

The paleness of her skin, the softness of her skin, made her look vulnerable. He could not imagine how anyone could want to harm something this delicate and beautiful. Yet he held out his cane, his cruel and hard cane and he knew that he would do it. He would let it fly and let it hit her tender skin. He felt a little dizzy as the thrill of it, the cruelty of it, dawned on him. He felt how this thrill, this amazement about his own cruelty, transformed into a red hot sensation that ran through him. He was as amazed as every time before. It was always new.

The touch of the cane against her skin made her draw her breath. She was overcome by a strange sensation of inevitability. This was happening now and this was the moment when she gave herself to him, his cane and his cruel punishment. This was the time when she paid for what she had done, when she was punished for her transgression, fair or not. This didn't matter any more. This was the moment of her surrender.

He was always terrified by the sound. He could never remember the sound. It always surprised him. He felt a surge of excitement and dread run through him as he heard the sound of pain, the sound of hard cane swishing through the air and then the sharp report when it hit her tender skin. That was the sound of cruelty. And he was always scared of and amazed by how much he liked it, how terribly wrong it was of him to like it.

The pain was always new, always unbearable, always terrible and impossible. And then, when the first shock was over, she remembered that strange sensation of realising she had survived, she had endured. This time, this whack, she had survived. And then the impossible thought of another one coming and that sense of being utterly helpless and not knowing how many and for how long. That fear of this being too much, too horrible. The horror of surrender.

He looked at her as his cane hit home, how the sound seemed to travel into her body, make it stiffen, make her draw her breath, then come back as a red stripe on her tender skin. He was fascinated by the contrast, the pleasure he felt, the sheer joy of caning her and how painful and utterly unbearable it must be for her. And then the grace he was blessed with.

She was overcome by her surrender. She felt a strange calm, a strange and unexplainable joy, the joy of surrender, the joy of giving herself over to someone, something. The pain was not less unendurable, not less painful, but she was more determined, she was more herself, more complete. She could now give in to come what may. She surrendered.

He got this strange idea that his cane was a touch, not pain but a touch and that it somehow connected them. He thought this strange. He imagined it an excuse, an excuse for his cruelty, his excuse for enjoying being evil.

He was there. He was there with his cane and she thought it odd that she so could enjoy his presence when he was causing her pain, when he was doing this to make her suffer. And suffer she did. She knew it was her suffering and her body that endured and he was strangely present in her ordeal, not as the devil who made her suffer but the one being with her in her suffering.

'Stand up!'

She scrambled to her feet.

'You may dress.'

She pulled up her knickers and jeans, this time with less grace as she felt the coarse fabric slide over her throbbing bottom.

He looked at her as she moved away from him, into the kitchen. It was her turn to cook and a mere caning should not change that. He looked at her and was amazed that this wonderful creature let him do this to her and how she even seemed to enjoy it. How could you possible enjoy it? He knew he enjoyed it and for the moment his guilt was gone. Things was as they should. He was content.

She walked gingerly away from the living room, sensing every step as something scratching her raw bottom. She felt his presence indeed. She felt herself punished. She didn't care if it was fair or unfair. She felt that he had asserted himself and become a little clearer to her eyes. She felt his presence on her smarting bottom and she smiled to herself feeling a little more loved and little more seen and touched. The order had been established and she felt she wanted to be were she was. She let him rule but she knew the land was hers.

Thursday, 10 January 2008


Naked, taste the word! Its meaning is simple, it means no clothes, no covering, to be bare. Still there is magic in a word. It conjures up ideas, images, excitement, resentment, anger, humiliation, desire, lust, pleasure. It means almost nothing without a context but it can be the magic of a text.

Naked, nude, bare, unclothed, stripped, uncovered, unclad. Words that are similar but mean slightly different things, used in different ways. To be naked is not exactly the same as being nude. The artist model is nude, not naked. A nude is someone in a painting, in a gallery. There is something elevated something acceptable in the word nude. It is nakedness being cultural and grand.

Scholars and art critics and educated and sophisticated people can look at nudes in paintings by great artists and find it aesthetic and an expression of pure and fine emotions worthy of the greatest minds. A nude doesn't conjure up the sensations and thoughts that without doubt lurks at the bottom of the finest minds.

Naked, on the other hand means something less sophisticated. Something more direct. Naked means being without clothes, your body uncovered. That is what it means to be naked. That is simple.

There are so many kinds of nakedness. There is the proud kind. The one you see in glamour models who wear there nudity as clothes of the grandest kind. Their bodies are a source of strength, a target of desire and show the power they have over the poor onlooker. They say, 'look at me, I am worthy of praise, I am beautiful and now I allow you to look at me and my body.'

There is another kind of nudity, when you are devoid of clothes, poor and pathetic and just vulnerable and ugly and helpless. That kind causes pity or even worse. That is the kind of nakedness that makes you ashamed and hurt. The one that shows how weak you are. No one wants that...except for others.

But there is so much more in between. There is a kind of nudity that means you are stripped, bared and seen. You may be ashamed, even humiliated by it. It definitely makes you feel vulnerable and defenceless. It is the kind that makes you feel that your whole person is on display, that the one watching you can

That kind of nudity may also carry the promise of pleasure for what you display may be desirable, what you bare may be touched and loved and you open yourself for scrutiny but also for pleasure. That is a kind of nudity to desire.

Naked is also pure, natural, not concealing anything. It means to enter into something without anything in the way. It is to strip off what is old and touch what is new and beautiful.

But you are also vulnerable and easy to hurt. Baring the skin may mean making you feel a touch more but it is also the humiliating preparation for the whip to bite harder.

I think a simple word like naked, used in a story, in a fantasy can mean some of these things, all of them and most likely a lot more. And that is what makes stories and language and fantasies so amazing and powerful. It means so much, so many different things and all at once and a little at the time and different things for different people.

Tuesday, 8 January 2008

Shocked, part 3

The third and final instalment of this story. Now there will be some caning. Quite brutal, I must say, maybe a little too brutal but I got a little carried away whilst writing it.

She froze as she felt the cane being placed against her buttocks. It was strangely cold and she was amazed how shapeless it felt. She could hardly sense it. It felt like an odd presence more than anything.

Without a word he removed the cane. She knew it was time. She knew he was going to hit her. She was amazed how calm she felt, how matter of factly she thought about it. She didn't notice that her heart was beating hard. She imagined herself calm.

She heard the hissing sound of the cane through the air quickly followed by a sharp report, like a gunshot, like something very sharp and dangerous. A sound that didn't, really, remind her of soft skin.

The pain was excruciating. It made her body tense, as if a bolt of lightning had travelled through her body and tensed all her muscles. She held her breath, not comprehending the immensity of the sensation.

She was utterly in shock. She could not imagine something hurting like that. She squirmed and tried to gather her thoughts. She started to breathe as she felt how numbness gave way to a burning pain, a hot band across her buttocks.

So this is what it was like being punished. Her head felt dizzy. She draw her breath and froze again as she realised that there was another one coming. She was to be hit again and her whole being protested. She couldn't understand how it was possible for her body to endure another of those whacks.

Then the hissing sound and the sharp report. She cried out this time. It was as if the brutality of the cane forced a scream over her lips. It felt good to cry out as the pain made its way to her brain.

The third whack brought tears to her eyes and she screamed again. She squirmed as she tried to cope with that she couldn't cope with. She wanted to run, to turn away and just flee. She couldn't. She felt as if she was tied to the armchair. She had no choice. She was at his mercy.

'Please!' she heard herself plead. That was all she could do. She was helpless.

When he hit her the fourth time she was crying and squirming, overcome by the humiliation of this pain being inflicted deliberately. She cried in agony as she knew he hit her only to make her suffer. He wanted this. He hit her with the cane and wanted her to suffer.

She felt no hate. She felt only humiliation. She cried out as the fifth stroke hit her naked skin and left a burning band of pain on her buttocks.

She cried like a baby as he caned her. Time and again did his sturdy cane hit her soft and tender skin and she could do nothing but scream and cry. She was helpless and powerless as he whipped her.

He waited between the whacks. He let her compose herself just enough to feel the next one with full force. He kept her on the verge of collapse, almost breaking her down but she seemed always to be able to take another breath and endure another hit with the cane.

The relentless whipping of her naked bottom was grinding her down. She lost count, she lost track of time. She only lived to endure the next stroke. She didn't think any more. She just felt the pain, the searing pain that seemed to drive the screaming voices in her head away, all of them but one, the low murmuring voice of red desire. That voice grew stronger.

Then it was over. She didn't realise it at first. She drew her breath and waited but there was no more caning. She took another breath and she knew that he had stopped. She felt the sweat on her body. She felt the relief of no more new pain. She didn't dare to hope it was over.

'You may rise now!' he said.

She heard his voice as if it was coming from a distance. She didn't comply immediately. She drew some deep breaths, composing herself. Her head was empty.

'I have been punished,' she said. Her words seemed strange.

As she rose to her feet she felt the armrest against her lower belly and felt how she had been grinding her body against it. She felt the warmth from it and blushed as she felt how aroused she was.

She got to her feet and looked at him. She looked at him and felt how naked she was. She wanted him to touch her, to comfort her. She knew she could cry on his shoulder. She had been crying but of pain. Now she wanted to cry because it was over.

He didn't comfort her and she knew it was not for him to comfort her. He had punished her. That was what he had to do.

He left the room without a word and she was left on her own. She felt naked and was overcome with a sudden desire to put her clothes back on. She wondered if she should ask him. She didn't.

She took her clothes from the table and dressed. She dressed quickly, eagerly, wanting to be on her way before he came back into the room. She was clumsy and almost started to cry because it was so hard to dress.

He didn't come back and she didn't see him again. As she stumbled out into the deserted street she wasn't sure what had happened was real. She put her hand under her skirt and felt her buttocks. The welts were real and the pain was real and the heat she felt was real.

She walked slowly back to the pub. The cool night air made her thoughts a little clearer. She wanted to go home but she had to see some familiar faces and hoped her friends were still in the pub.

She had to put on a brave face as she met them and she felt she was succeeding. They knew something had happened but they also knew she didn't want to talk about it. They asked her about the man, who he was. She just shook her head. They said that they had never seen him before and wondered if he was one of her friends. She shook her head and they knew she didn't want to talk about it.

She sat in silence, happy to be among her friends, disregarding the worry that was on their faces. She didn't care. She could not explain. They would not understand. She felt that they could wonder. She didn't care. She knew she was changed. She knew she had been shocked.

Friday, 4 January 2008

Shocked, part 2

Here is the next instalement of the story. No spanking in this but some nudity...giggles. There is a third part but you will have to wait till after the weekend. Anyway, here it is.

'Why have you come?' he asked looking at her, a smile on his face.

She was startled. why would he ask that?

She didn't reply at first and when she did she was surprised by her frankness.

'To let you have me,' she said.

He looked at her, not smiling any more.

'No, you didn't come for pleasure,' he said.

She stared at him, then withdrew and looked down, her humiliation still burning.

'You came here to suffer,' he said.

Fear ran through her body. Her heart started thumping. She froze.

'You want me to punish you,' he continued and his words was another punch. She almost lost her footing.

He was another of those who 'knew' what she wanted, who could give her what she 'needed'. She felt a sudden surge of rage run through her body and she felt her fists clench.

Then she knew. She knew he was right. The insight made her almost slump. Her body felt heavy and she felt betrayed and defeated. Her fists unclenched and she felt a tear in her eye.

'I will punish you,' he said and she felt the smile in his voice.

She could only nod. She had no power left. She was utterly and completely lost.

'I want you to prepare for your punishment and take your clothes off,' he said calmly. His words felt like a slap in the face but she also felt a strange relief that he was giving her orders. She hadn't known how she could cope with being punished but now that he gave her orders she felt that he helped her, made it easier for her.

A part of her brain wondered what happened, why she was there, what she was doing. That part drowned in those other voices that screamed in her head, the voices of humiliation and agony that threatened to take her over. And that little red voice in her belly, the one that spoke with a voice that was hot and red and reassured her about its strength, that voice which she knew was the strongest, the one who would win in the end.

She was already barefoot. She didn't remember taking her shoes off but she knew she was barefoot. A strangely calm and rational thought in her head told her that she was wearing exactly three items of clothing and without them she would be naked. She wondered in which order she should remove them.

She decided to start with she skirt. That seemed appropriate. That seemed the right thing to do. Her fingers moved to the button at the side of her lovely black skirt. She had felt a little daring donning a wide and short skirt like that but a black one always seemed more stylish than any other colour.

Now she felt it slide down her legs. She stepped out of it and held it in her hand, looking around for a place to put it. She put it on the small table in front of her. It looked like a table where a book or a paper should be lying, not a skirt. It looked oddly out of place on the table.

She knew he could see her knickers and she wondered if he had known they were black when he touched them, an aeon ago, outside that pub. She wondered if she should ask him if she could do the stripping in the loo and return when she was naked. She knew those thoughts absurd and dismissed them.

It was time for her top. She wore a striped top, black and white and quite tight fitting. She was a prude but she knew how to dress. She always felt very brave as she put on a top like that, a top that showed off her shape.

She realised in a sudden flash how sexy that top made her feel. She felt it as a touch, as if his fingers were back inside her. She held her breath and almost doubled up as if she had been hit. She also felt how much she desired to take it off. She felt how much she wanted to be naked, to be undressed and sexy. How much she wanted him, anybody, to look at her, to see her and want her.

She was trembling as she slipped the top over her head. She felt it brush her breasts and how naked it made her feel and how utterly exciting it was. She felt a wave of excitement run through her body, a wave that she could no longer control. She felt the utter absurdity of the situation but she didn't care.

'No, wait!' he said as she moved her hands to her hips to slip off her knickers. She stopped and was disappointed. She felt how much she wanted to strip and how much she wanted to be naked. She was angry that she was not allowed and her body ached in frustration.

And suddenly she felt ashamed of herself. She felt how horrible she was. She felt caught out with some naughty thoughts of nudity. She felt like a little girl who had taken her clothes off in the sun, in the woods when she thought no one was watching and now she was found out.

'In the cupboard,' he said, pointing towards the corner of the room, 'there is a cane. Get it for me!'

She was trembling. She had been brought back to the living room. She felt naked. She felt scared again. The word 'cane' had hit her across the face and now she felt ashamed.

She walked to the cupboard, opened the door and saw a cane hanging on a hook on the door. It was a sturdy cane. As she took it down she realised that she had never seen a cane this close. She knew what it was for. She knew what it was.

She moved with caution as she carried the cane back to him. She knew what it was and what it was for but she couldn't think about it. She wanted to know what was happening but her mind went blank. She knew he would use it on her but her mind could not think about it. She wondered if that maybe was a good thing, that she could not think about it.

When he sat there in the armchair with the cane in his hands she knew he was going to hurt her. She knew she was going to suffer. She knew she was to be punished. The realisation that she was going to be punished overwhelmed her. It made her feel naked. This time her nudity didn't mean pleasure, it was not a shameful promise of pleasure but a humiliating realisation of how vulnerable she was.

Her bared skin meant only one thing, that she had been bared, that she had prepared her own body for her punishment. Her naked skin meant that her body was not protected, that it was given over to her punishment, to the cane without mercy. She had stripped off her clothes to make her punishment worse, to make the cane hit her harder.

She froze as she looked at the cane in his hands. She trembled as she knew, rather than thought of, how the cane would hit her.

'Take down your knickers now!' he ordered and her heart stopped beating.

Her fingers felt numb as she slipped her knickers down from her hips, sensing them caressing her skin. This was a sensual, sexy movement but now she only felt stripped and exposed.

She was naked. She stood before him naked and waiting. She knew not how she had got here. She knew only that she was going to be punished.

He rose from the armchair and she felt a sudden urge to turn and run. She didn't and wondered if it was the fact that she would look silly in the street all naked that kept her from running.

He gestured to the armchair.

'Now, lie over the armrest!'

She felt an odd sensation of being comforted by the order to lie down. She knew it would bring her closer to her punishment but she still felt it as a relief.

The armchair was covered in a velvety green material and the armrest was like a cushion, soft and nice. She had never done anything like this before but she seemed to know exactly how to place her body. As she leaned forward she felt the armrest against her lower belly. The pressure on her soft skin made her realise how utterly aroused she was. She was overcome with the sensation of being shamelessly aroused by what was happening.

She felt ashamed, she felt caught out again, as if she was doing something she shouldn't. She was doing something she shouldn't. She was naked with a man she didn't know and who was going to cane her. She was lost in her sense of shame, her sense of shame and arousal.

She didn't know where to put her arms and how to lie in the armchair. She took hold of the other armrest and let her lower belly rest on the other. She stretched her body between the armrests and kept her feet on the floor. She was concerned with her bottom sticking up as it should, intuitively knowing that it should be easy to reach with the cane. She blushed at her thoughts, blushed at her troubles helping the man cane her.

He didn't say anything but patiently waited as she adjusted her body and found a way to stay still. She seemed to understand that she had to keep her position during her punishment.

At last she stopped moving about and seemed to have found her position. She lowered her head, knowing it was time. She didn't want to wait. She wanted it to happen now.

Wednesday, 2 January 2008

Shocked, part 1

And a Happy New Year to you all!

I am back and I will start with a story in three parts. This time I will just post them one after the other with not much delay. It is an old theme, another point of view but still the same. There will be spankings in this but not in this instalment.

'Shock me!' she used to say to her friends. Sometimes she even said it to those who wanted to be her lovers. She prompted them to do something that shocked her, that made her uneasy or transformed her world, a little - if only a little.

It never worked. They often told her some story about something that was supposed to leave her with disbelief or wonder. Some of them, most often the men, the ones who aspired to her affection, tried to say something intellectual, something clever, tried to appear wild and crazy. Those of them who didn't just shrug their shoulders and laughed. She found them all silly.

She wasn't experienced in life. She was even quite innocent. But she was a thinking person, a reading person and knew the world through others. Nothing shocked her any more and she wanted that. She wanted to be shocked, to feel awe, to be surprised and scared. She wanted someone to rock her steady little boat.

Until it happened. She thought she wanted to be shocked but when it happened she wasn't so sure.

He wasn't even good looking. He was a little older than her but she didn't mind. He looked at her and that was something she wasn't really used to. The men who had wooed her didn't look at her. They glanced at her, talked about beautiful things but never dared to look at her. And when they turned their eyes towards her they didn't see her. They claimed they saw her mind but not even that could she believe.

He looked at her and she felt uneasy. She thought she wanted a man to look at her, to assess her body, to linger on her breasts and neck, to caress her midriff and hips, to see her body, as a woman. This man looked at her but it didn't feel like she had imagined it. She didn't even see the desire she had longed for. He simply looked at her and she was scared.

They spoke. He was a friend of a friend but she wasn't really sure who the friend was and how that person related to her. They spoke anyway. And he shocked her. Not at first but later, after they had been introduced and the attention of the others had turned somewhere else and their conversation was theirs alone.

'You want me to give you something that you know I can give you,' he said and she was shocked.

She didn't answer at first. She just stared at him. She didn't know why she just didn't say something witty, or even something dismissive. He was arrogant. She felt that it wasn't appropriate to say such a thing. It was not simply done. It was rude. She was quite upset. It felt as if he had punched her and she couldn't understand why.

'Do I?' she replied trying to be as arrogant as he was. She heard her voice being weak. She hated when she was weak.

She looked at him and thought that she had met him before. He had been sitting in the pub, next to her and had started to talk to her, being a little tipsy. He had thought her prude and prim and in the need of some loosening up. He knew he was the man to make her feel better, he and his manhood, he and his experience. Oh, yes, she had met him in more than one disguise, sometimes fat and balding, sometimes short haired and muscular, but always arrogant, always with that ugly drink induced confidence, always wrong and always disgusting.

No, he wasn't that man, not any of them. He was different. But she didn't know how he was different.

'Come with me!' he said and put his hand on hers, quickly but without hesitation. He didn't grab her arm, just touched it, held it for a second. He rose to his feet and turned around and went to the door. He turned around and looked at her, turned away and opened the door and went out into the night.

Her heart was beating heavily. She told herself not to have fear. Fear! Why should she be scared?

She blushed as she excused herself to the others and left the pub. She didn't care if some of them would realise that she went after the man. She just didn't care. She was scared but she didn't care. He had shocked her and she didn't know what to do.

She looked around outside the pub and for a moment she couldn't see him. She felt relief. He was gone and she could go home.

But he was there. He stood some way away from the entrance and when she saw him, her heart stopped beating.

Her heart started thumping in her chest as she approached him.

She stood close to him, uncomfortably close. He knew he was smiling but she couldn't see it. She felt it. She felt his arrogant smile in every bone of her body, burning on her cheeks as if he had slapped her. She felt humiliated by his invisible smile and she knew she had humiliated herself by walking up to him.

She felt the connection between them. She felt it like a piece of string tied to her body. Her end of the string was fastened to her soft body, to her sensitive skin and to her bones. She imagined he was holding his end in his hand.

He sealed the connection. She felt a movement and was scandalised as she felt him lift her skirt. She felt him put his cold hand inside her knickers, down her lower belly and enter her. She held her breath.

She looked desperately around and wondered why she was more concerned with anyone seeing him putting his hand down her knickers than with screaming for help. She was violated, there in the street and her thoughts were about who might see it.

He just held his fingers in her and she imagined how he was holding that string between his fingers and how it continued into her and was divided in many strands, each and everyone tied to a part of her soul.

Then they were gone and she sighed. She sighed but but not with relief but with her loss, with missing his fingers. He looked at her, still standing close, very close. And her body ached of his touch. She could not speak.

'Come with me!' he said, 'I live around the corner.'

She followed him. They did not walk side by side. He was half a step in front of her. She followed, like a devoted wife in the old days. Her cheeks were burning with the humiliation.

His flat was small and very neat. It was well cleaned and very dark. She could hardly see the furniture. She was standing in the small living room. There was an armchair, some wooden chairs and a small table. He had no tv set, but there was a radio on a small sideboard. There were bookshelves and many books and a Persian looking rug.

He didn't offer her a seat. She was standing as he sat himself down in the armchair. She thought it very rude but she was beyond caring about rudeness. She was standing because he had not told her to sit.

He had shocked her and he had rocked her secure little boat. She was humiliated and scared. He had slapped her face and shown her how wrong she was, how uptight she was and how prudish she was. He had not hit her for real but she felt him like a slap in the face or a punch in the stomach.

And her sex was aching. Instead of screaming she had let him touch her and now she could not deny that her body wanted more. She wondered why he was sitting down, why she was standing. She wondered why he waited. She was there and she knew he could have her.