Saturday, 29 March 2008

I Haven't A Clue

...what to write about. I have complained before about having no inspiration but now I really have no idea. I do have ideas in my head, tumbling around, but have not really had time to write them down. It is spring (well...almost) in Merry Old England but some of us are still a little tired after the winter. Thing is that I don't really fancy writing at the moment, or rather make the effort. I hope you will forgive me for this lack of enthusiasm.

No, I am not done with this yet. I still have things in my head that wants to become stories, I still love writing, the magic of creating texts. And I am not done with the journey it is, exploring fantasies.

I do feel a little guilty when I don't know what to put on the blog. I don't want you to think I have lost interest in it (I haven't, far from it) but when I post I do want to put something I have thought about or at least felt something for here. Someone asked if the blog was 'on hold' because I hadn't posted anything for a week. I can tell you it is not on hold. It is just that I am tired and not in the most creative mood right now.

So, this is what I do when I don't know what to write. I put up a post complaining about not having anything to write about. I just want you to know that I am still here and I still care about the blog and I do still care about you Readers. You have no idea what this blog has meant to me and, more so, your reactions to it. This is not an enormously popular blog (although I have noticed a slight increase in hits the last week) but I know you exist, dear Readers, and the fact that you are out there means the world to me.

Blogging gives me confidence to write and it gives me a sense of not being silent any more, to talk about what is inside my head. These are important things. What your reactions to it means is that it adds a sense of my texts making sense and being...well...good. I feel I participate in a dialogue with you and that we talk about those things that roam in our heads (although I do most of the talking, self centred as I am). This sense of sharing is what really drives me on when I am not always in the mood to write. And it this that makes me feel a little guilty for not having anything to put here.

Anyway, this became a long rant about not having anything to put on the blog. I have posted a picture here. This was a silly picture I drew many years ago and I don't know why I choose this one, maybe to show that I made the right choice when I preferred writing before drawing. Have a nice weekend dear Readers!

Tuesday, 25 March 2008

Scary Stories

When I started writing my fantasies I did it because I was amazed by the sense of seeing my own ideas becoming text, words on a paper, combination of letters that made up a story. It became real in a sense, like a real story and that is magic, I still think it is magic.

But there is one side of seeing it as a text, when it becomes a little more real, that is a little scary, too. Things that are ok in your imagination and even very exciting and nice can become more horrible when they become a text.

In my imagination some really harsh things can become quite exciting and even romantic when I disregard the grim reality they are similar too. There is something terribly romantic about being whipped by the grim sheik in his tent and imagining your body turning and moving under the lashes. His cruelty becomes a kind of overwhelming love and your whipping becomes a touch that excites and arouses.

That sort of thing can be quite nice in your imagination but when you write it down and then read it, you become a little removed from it. Sometimes I stumble on the imagery, getting too close to a reality that was never intended but still is there in the words, and I start to think about how cruel a real whip would be on a real body and how immensely brutal and wicked someone has to be to whip another person.

This happens with my own texts and it happens even more when someone else has written it. It doesn't happen all the time. Sometimes I am in the mood, I go with the flow, stay in the imagination, the romantic and arousing, and then it is alright, then it isn't too brutal or too cruel.

It is strange because I can sometimes find someone else's story too brutal when I am fully capable of being as brutal and harsh myself. Inconsistency seems to be the name of the game, when it comes to fantasies.

Does this ever happen to you, dear Reader? I don't think all of you write your own stories but you have your own fantasies.

Friday, 21 March 2008

Not a Story

Dear Reader, I hope you will have a happy Easter. And I hope you will have a nice time with friends and family. It may seem a little odd that I would choose this very day to show you that I can be a little cruel in my fantasies too...or at least hint at it.

It had almost been like an embrace as I encircled her wrists with the rope, drawn it tight, encircled it again and tied the rope to her. She looked on, silently, her eyes glimmering in the faint light from the candles, the light flickering across her naked skin. I saw her eyes and that strange expression on her face, content and waiting, excited and calm, determined and grave, all at the same time. Her delicate soft lips slightly parted, glistening in the light, her white teeth and her little tongue peeking out.

She was naked. She had stripped when I told her to strip and she had done it with the confidence of someone who knows her nudity is longed for. She was shy but not meek, silent but still full of life. She had approached the pole on bare feet, her movements silent. She had obediently stretched out her arms to let them be bound.

She had sighed a little as I had pulled the rope forcing her arms upwards, pressing her naked body against the smooth surface of the pillar. She had sighed, nothing more. She had not complained or said anything. I stood back, beheld her body, naked in the flickering light of the many candles.

She was beautiful. She was delicate. Her round breasts pressing against the wood, bulging a little, her belly and her bare legs against the pillar. She was bound and helpless and very naked and very vulnerable. She was slim and very, very soft. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders and moved over her naked skin as she turned her face to look at me. Her gaze met mine and I knew she knew.

The whip was already in my hand. It was a strange contradiction. The room was proud and elegant, delicate and beautiful. The woman by the pillar was naked and soft, a strange contrast against the elegance of the room, the serenity of the candle light. The whip in my hand was a contradiction. It was the wild beast that had entered the sanctuary, this solemn place. Everything was silent and soft and dark, but the whip in my hand promised of loudness and agony and wild abandon.

The whip was brutal, unforgiving leather, a sleeping beast, a snake that would sting and burn. Something that was too brutal, too horrible for the softness of the naked woman at the pillar.

I was beyond that, beyond contradictions and reflections, beyond reasoning and compassion. I could see only the beauty of the soft woman by the pillar, her body bound in helplessness, given over to my mercy. I was beyond mercy.

She looked over her shoulder. She saw the whip. She saw the agony, the horror of it. She saw it and drew her breath, she saw it, turned her head and commended herself to it.

I was beyond the need for approval, beyond the desire for acceptance. Still her turned face reassured me. There was no stopping me now.

Monday, 17 March 2008

A Strange Story

Someone asked, the other day, if my blog was on hold. I do admit that I have let some time pass between blog posts but it is definitely not on hold.

This is just a story I wrote. Hope you will enjoy it.

'He is coming to,' said the voice.

And it was a very sweet voice. He thought it was the voice of a girl. This puzzled him. There were not often girls around when he woke up. There were seldom girls out and about in the dingy alleyways of the town where he often woke up, these days.

'Seems like it,' said another voice, as sweet as the first.

'He is rough,' said the first voice.

'Yes, but not ready,' said the other and they giggled.

He was lying there listening for a while. He decided that there were only two of them. Two young women talking about him.

He opened his eyes and felt a slight headache, or rather a shadow of a headache. He couldn't be hung over. He couldn't afford the ale any longer. Perhaps someone had treated him. Yes, that was it. He remembered someone giving him a tankard of ale.

It was light. He was in a room. Not outdoors. There was no alleyway, no dingy backstreet. He was in a light and nice room. At least it appeared to be nice. He couldn't see clearly yet.

And then he saw the girls. And he was right, there were just two of them. As his vision became clearer he could see that the girls were not just young but also very lovely.

They were so lovely he didn't think he was awake but still dreaming, he even considered being dead and being blessed with being allowed into heaven.

In front of him stood two young women and as he let his eyes wander from the features of one to the other he saw that they were the same. There stood two lovely young women so similar that he wondered if he was still drunk and there was in reality only one.

'Good morning,' said the one to the left.

'Good morning, said the one to the right, 'I am Helena.'

'And I am Hermia.'

They smiled at him and he hoped it wasn't a dream.

They were both slender creatures, slim and delicate in a way he wasn't used to. They had no bosoms, not like the curvy maidens in the taverns he frequented when he could afford it. He thought they looked like angels with their blond shining hair and their light blue flowing dresses.

As his mind cleared he thought that if he was not dreaming or dead he must at least be in some palace or the like. The room was spacious and sparsely furnished but what he saw of furniture was as delicate and beautiful as to fit the girls.

The girls explained to him that he shouldn't worry and that he would be richly rewarded if he just did what he was told and now they were going to make him presentable.

He had not been prepared to put up any resistance to these lovely beings and their beautiful smiles and gentle manners made him more than willing to do anything they asked of him.

They directed him to a bathtub filled with hot water and they gently removed his clothes. He thought that he must still be in shock since he took it so calmly to be undressed by two so heavenly creatures. He meekly accepted to be prepared and put into the bath.

He was too embarrassed to accept the help Helena and Hermia offered and preferred to clean himself. This didn't mean he was left alone. Instead the two giggling young women were standing looking at him.

As he was enjoying the bath he had time to study the two girls. They were, indeed, the loveliest creature he had set his eyes on. And he almost felt a tear well up in his eyes as he remembered his youth and the girls in his village, the ones he fancied but never got a chance to touch.

'Helena,' said the one to the left, 'I think this gentleman like your appearance.'

'No, Hermia, I think he prefers yours.'

'Don't be ridiculous, you are much more beautiful than I am.'

'Don't be silly, you are much lovelier than I am.'

'You are wrong, Helena, in fact I think you should indulge this gentleman.'

'I will do anything to make him comfortable, Hermia.'

'It is settled then, show him your bosom!'

'Do you really mean that?'

'I am in earnest, Helena, I think you should show him.'

They giggled and he realised that this was a silly game they played and felt that, perhaps, they were mocking him.

He was surprised, in fact immensely astonished as the girl to the left actually moved her hand to loosen some hook or fastening at her neck and let her blue dress slide from her shoulders to reveal the sweetest pair of breasts he had ever seen. They were round, small - that has to be said - but so soft and sweet and rosy as anything he had ever seen.

The poor man almost burst into tears at the beauty revealed in front of him. The girls smiled at him and for a moment he toyed with the idea of reaching out to touch those lovely mounds before him.

He never came close to realising this idea because they were interrupted. A great double door was opened and another woman entered the room. The two girls giggled and withdrew to the side, Helena adjusting her clothes. They showed the entering woman all due respect but they showed no fear of her.

The third woman was taller than Helena and Hermia. She was as slim as they were, although her shape was slightly more pronounced but without taking away the impression of a slender and majestic figure. She had red hair flowing over her shoulders and she was dressed in a white silk dress. She was beautiful. Where Helena and Hermia were sweet and lovely she was beautiful and proud. She was their mistress, no doubt about that.

She turned to the man in the bathtub and spoke.

'You will do something for me and if you do that you will be richly rewarded.'

He could only nod in reply.

The beautiful woman turned to the girls.

'Prepare him!'

And then she left.

The two girls giggled and set to work on him. They helped him out of the bath and dried him and dressed him in a kind of white and very long shirt. He was given slippers and an embroidered gown was put on him. All this was done while the girls were giggling and seemed very excited.

They guided him to the big double door and he felt his heart beat faster as he was to know what was his task. In his excited mind he conjured up images of him rolling around in a great big bed with the red haired woman while he pleased her with all his skill. He sighed a little as he realised that his skills in that department wasn't that pronounced.

'Now, we will take you to your queen,' one of the girls said.

He had already lost track of them and had no idea if was Helena who was on his left or if it was Hermia.

'You see,' said the other, 'this is your queen, your supreme ruler.'

Then they opened the door and entered. The room was dimly lit by a multitude of candles. The queen, the beautiful, red haired, queen stood on a low dais.

'Now, don't talk! Just do as you are told!' said Hermia, or was it Helena.

'You will do as you are told and you will be rewarded.'

'And then you forget.'

'It doesn't matter if you forget or remember.'

'No one will believe you anyway.'

'Don't disobey!'

'There are guards close at hand.'

'And then you will be dead.'

'But only after prolonged agony.'

He nodded.

The girls left him standing by the door and approached the queen. They didn't smile now but looked more serious and more determined than ever.

A strange scene unfolded before his eyes. The two girls gently undid some buttons and hooks in the queen's dress and with a gentle movement let it fall from her shoulders. The man was astonished as they revealed the queen in this way. First he stared in amazement at her upper body being stripped bare like this. He then averted his eyes.

'You may look,' said one of the girls.

'I think you should look,' said the other.

He looked. His mouth was dry but he looked. He saw the exquisite beauty of the queen being bared before his eyes. Her body was slim, her shoulders narrow. Her breasts were round and small but a tad fuller than than Helena's. Her skin was fair but not as fair as the girls'.

The chamber maids proceeded to take the rest of the dress off and soon the queen was standing naked in front of him. He looked and he prayed. He wondered if he wasn't dead after all. This could not be true. This was a dream.

Then the scene became even stranger. One of the girls led the queen to a pillar in the middle of the dais. It was a slender pillar, perhaps made of wood, perhaps stone. He couldn't tell. The queen stretched out her hands one on each side of the pillar. One of the girls loosened a rope that seemed to be hanging from a ring and she gently tied the wrists of the queen together so she stood embracing the pillar.

Then the girl pulled the rope and the queen moved closer to the pillar and pressed her body to it as her hands were lifted. He watched in sweet agony as he saw her breasts press against the pillar and how she had to stand on her toes.

He knew what he was witnessing. He had seen this before. But then it had been in the central square of the town and the poor devil who was tied in place got their back flogged by the hangman. He had seen women being flogged like that and he knew how the crowd would cheer as her clothes were ripped open for her flogging.

This was different. There was no brutality, no crowd, no mocking, no cheering. But he knew that the girls were preparing the queen for a whipping. And she was naked. Not even the lowest of the low were stripped naked in the street like that.

One of the girls placed something in his hand and he realised that he had been lost for a while. He looked at the thing she had given him and he saw it was a whip. It consisted of a leather clad handle and some thin leather strands, they were not braided but single strips of leather. It was a brutal weapon, not as cruel and harsh as the whips used for punishment in the street but far worse than the switches or canes used in the homes.

He shivered as he was directed to the queen. He stared at her naked back, her bottom, the delicate shape of her body, her soft and sensitive skin. The whip was far too brutal for her.

'Now,' said the girl to the left. He thought it was Hermia.

'Now,' said Helena, 'now whip her!'

'Whip her on her bottom!'

'You can whip her wherever you like.'

'But we think the her bottom is best.'

'Her queenly bottom is the best.'

'I can't,' he said.

'But you must,' said Hermia.

'Yes, you must. It is your duty.'

'To your queen.'

'And to your country.'

'Don't worry, you will not be punished.'

'No, you will be rewarded.'

'But, why?'

'Don't concern yourself with that!'

'It is tradition.'

'A very old custom.'

He took a deep breath. He stared at the sweet body of his queen. She said nothing. She had turned her head away.

He hesitated for a long time. The girls were silent, awaiting his action, prepared to continue prompting him.

Then he let the whip swing. Not with great force but he was shocked as it hit the queen across her naked buttocks. He saw her body stiffen but she said nothing.

He stared as the marks appeared on her skin and he felt it to be such a pity to mark such lovely and tender skin.

'Harder!' said the one he thought to be Hermia.

'Much harder!'

'It is meant to hurt.'

'And it shall hurt.'

He swung the whip again and used more force this time. The queen drew her breath and lifted one foot as the whip hit her soft bottom.

He was full of the strangest sensation as he continued to whip his queen. He let fly of the whip and let it land on her naked body as his mind struggled with strange emotions. He feared he would be condemned for this, that this must be the ultimate sin, to whip your queen, but on the other hand he felt a kind of elated triumph in letting this sweet but powerful creature suffer.

He whipped her bottom but once or twice he hit her back and her thighs. He felt blood rush to his cheeks as he swung the whip time and again at his helpless victim.

The queen didn't scream but she moaned and squealed and moved in agony as the whip hit her helpless body.

'Stop!' Hermia shouted.

'Stop!' Helena said.

He stopped. He stood shivering. He let the whip fall to the floor. He stared at the queen, her sweet and naked body striped with the marks of the whip. He knew enough to see that she would heal. There were no broken skin, no wounds, so she would heal and there would be no trace of her whipping but she would be very sore, for a long time still.

Hermia gave him a goblet of wine.

'You must be thirsty.'

'Drink this!'

He found it odd that they would care for him instead of their queen but he gladly accepted the wine and drank it.

He stared for a while at the queen and wondered why Helena and Hermia still stood close to him and not attended to the poor whipped queen who was still tied to the pillar. He stared and felt a sudden dizziness. He had to sit down. Hermia directed him to a chair and his vision became blurred.

He woke up in a dingy alleyway. His head was humming and there was a shadow of a headache. He started slowly to remember what had happened but decided soon it was a great dream. He was dressed in his ordinary dirty clothes and he was lying in a place where he had been many times before.

As he struggled to his feet he felt he had to tell someone his dream. They would have a laugh and maybe someone would buy him a tankard of ale for the story. It was then he felt something heavy at his belt.

The purse was full of coins and they were not ordinary coins. They were gold coins. He promptly decided he should not tell anyone about his dream. In fact, he never ever told anyone.

It is said that the man returned to his village and bought some land and then married one of the girls there and lived a very ordinary and virtuous life. How this came about no one really understood but they were happy to see a drunkard turn farmer so no one really asked about it.

Wednesday, 12 March 2008

What is it Like?

I am slow these days. I was inspired by a picture I saw and wondered a little, 'what would it be like?' So I tried to imagine it and this is what I wrote.

My hands are behind me. I have to keep them there. You have placed them there, encircled them with iron, manacled me and made me keep them there. I turn my wrists, move my hands, try to pull them forward but the cold iron won't yield. My wrists are kept in your iron.

I struggle a little, feel a kind of panic flow through me. I know I am manacled but my body wants to move. I can't do anything but struggle against the iron, the iron that encircle my wrists. I am helpless and I have to defeat that wave of panic. I am manacled.

I can't even move my hands up or down or to the side. They are encircled by iron that is locked to another band of iron. This other band encircles my body. Around my waist there is a band of iron, locked in place as much as the manacles are locked around my wrists.

The band around my waist is tight, too tight. It presses on my belly. I can feel it when I breathe, as a restraint, as something that stops me from expanding my lungs.

I know I must not try to breathe that much. What I can do is enough and if I try to breathe deeper I will only panic. I don't want panic. I can avoid panic.

This sense of needing to keep my reactions in check makes aware of being bound, being in iron. Or rather it brings it home what it means to be in iron.

My feet are in shackles, shackles as close and locked as the iron around my waist and wrists. There is a chain between the shackles. I can walk but I can't take long strides. I hear the rattling of the chain as I move, in short steps.

I stand on a beach. And I am not alone. You stand behind me. I am not looking at you. I know you are there. You would never leave me alone on a beach in iron.

Unless you wanted me to feel left alone. You could do something like that. I know that. But you would never forget about me.

The sun is sinking closer to the horizon and the shadows are becoming long. It is still a hot day. There is sand on the beach but there are no one else here but us. That is strange but good. I wouldn't want someone to see me in iron like this. They would try to free me.

I look down on my body. I see my bare feet encircled by the heavy shackles. They look vulnerable and helpless. I look at my legs and my belly. I see the iron press into my flesh. That looks cruel. My soft skin encircled and held by hard iron.

I am startled by your touch. At first you place your hand on my shoulder. Then you place your other hand on my hip, just below the iron. You hold me and I feel how cold your hands are. I want you to touch me but your hands are cold and I shiver a little.

I am helpless. My reaction is to protect my body, not let your hands touch me. I don't mind the hand on the shoulder or on my hip but I fear you will move them, touch some other part of me. I want to protect myself from that. It is beyond my will. It is like when you protect yourself when someone tickles you, even if it is your loved one.

But I can't protect my body. I can't move my hands to take them away. I can move a little and I do but you hold me, keep me in place. There is a short struggle, a battle between wills.

I stop struggling. I am defeated. We both know that. I can't struggle and I don't want to struggle. It was never meant to be a struggle and I hear how you smile and I smile too.

You do move your hands. The hand on my shoulder move down, forwards and over my breast. I gasp. The other moves forwards, downwards, across my belly and down between my legs.

I hold my breath as you put your hand over my sex. There is nothing to protect me from your touch. Only the iron. No clothes are there to interfere. I am naked, wearing only the iron you have locked in place on my body. And the iron doesn't protect.

There is a moment, a reaction, that speaks of defiance, of a will to protect myself, a desire to choose when and where. But that moment is brief. I yield to your touch. I draw my breath and I surrender to your touch.

Your hand gently caresses my breasts and I feel how my nipple hardens in the palm of your hand. I feel as if it betrays me.

Your other hand starts moving and I feel an itching desire for your hand to do more, to touch me more.

You do. You let your fingers slip into me and I let out a sigh. The fire is awakened and I am helpless. You have touched me and I am in your hands. I am naked and in iron and now you have made my body hunger for you.

Then your fingers are gone. Your hand that caressed my breast is gone. I am not touched any more. I stand trembling and realise, again, that I stand naked and in iron on a beautiful beach in the light of the setting sun.

I know this is only the beginning. This will be a long night.

Wednesday, 5 March 2008

Waiting, part 2

Dear Reader, I do apologise for keeping you waiting. But at last, here is the second part of the story Waiting, a story I didn't know had a continuation. I think, perhaps, that this one may require a third part, more than the first part required a second.

The car engine was purring as we road down the road. I looked out on a landscape of rolling hills, green and lush and immensely beautiful. I could have let my mind drown in the magnificent view, let my eyes linger on the greatness of what was there outside the car window. I couldn't, my mind was in turmoil.

The car was enormous, elegant, overwhelming in its powerful stylishness. The woman in the black dress was the queen of this domain. She was at ease, here. She looked out the window, her mind far away. I didn't think she enjoyed the view. No, she was planning something, thinking of something.

I was there and I could do nothing else but sit there. I felt the seat against my body, the body that was exposed to this strange and overwhelming environment. I felt naked. I was naked, almost naked, barely covered in a pathetic red bikini.

I felt silly, wrong, in the wrong place. The elegant woman must laugh at the bad taste of the silly girl sitting next to her, in her silly little red bikini. I blushed.

And I was scared. I knew I was being taken to a punishment and I still didn't know where, why and what.

We drove through a set of imposing gates and up to a very imposing manor house, a palace. I sat in awe staring at the magnificent building in front of me. It was a Pemberley to my imagination but I was no Lizzie. I was just a silly girl in a silly red bikini and who was come her to be punished.

The woman finally turned to me and told me that I was to be taken to a room and there I should take a bath and prepare for the dinner. I was to wear what would be placed on the bed for the dinner.

The woman left the car and went into the head entrance while I was gently escorted to a door at the left side of the house.

I was taken through the kitchen and up the servants stairs but then into the palace proper. I was shown into a large bedroom and to a grand and imposing bathroom were a bath was prepared for me. The servant girl who had escorted me left me. I was alone again.

I took off my tiny garments and slipped into the bathtub. It was heavenly. For a brief moment I could relax. I could forget for a moment where I was and why I was here. I truly enjoyed my bath.

I stepped out of the bath, dried myself and dared look at myself in the mirror. I saw the tiny woman that was me staring back. I felt brought back to reality. I set to work on my appearance. I brushed my hair, arranged it in a nice but plain pony tail. I looked at my face and decided it would be ridiculous if I pretended to be able to make it look beautiful. I applied some mascara and a brief touch of colour to my cheeks. No lipstick, no eye-liner, no nothing.

Then I saw a pair of earrings lying on a small table beside the mirror. It made me realise how tense I was, that I hadn't noticed before. They were a pair of elegantly worked silver drops. I felt almost a princess wearing them.

I turned around and looked at myself. I was clean, as clean as I could be but my bottom was still red. I saw the criss-cross of nasty red marks from the whip on my buttocks. It was still hurting. I wondered if my punishment would mean that they would get more company.

I went into the bedroom to don what was given me. I stared in disbelief at what I saw lying on the bed. I looked around but found nothing. I even looked in the drawers and cupboards but they were empty. I went back into the bathroom and found that even my skimpy bikini had been removed.

I sat on the bed and put on the black stockings. They were stay-ups not requiring any garters or anything. I put on the shoes. They were black ballerinas, made of the softest leather almost like slippers. I took up the black and long gloves and put them on.

That was it. That was what was on the bed. No dress, no skirt, no shirt or blouse. Not even knickers. I was clad in shoes, stocking and gloves as I sat with pounding heart awaiting the call for the dinner.