Friday, 25 April 2008


Dear Readers, I will be away on holiday, next week. I will read comments and even reply but I will, most likely, not have time for any blogging. I will be back, however, the week after. Hopefully I will have time to write during my holiday so this may result in some new scribblings.

I will leave for holiday and wave a bye for now with a short story I wrote the other day. This one is quite unusual for me. In fact, I don't think I ever have written anything like it. I got the inspiration for this story from a very dear friend of mine. So, Mina, this one is for you.

She was not the first woman he had bedded, far from it. He was quite confident in that department. He knew he could charm most women and he knew he was handsome enough to not scare anyone away. No, she wasn't the first and in many ways there was nothing special about her.

Still he felt his heart beat in his chest and he was nervous and anxious as a school-boy as he stood outside her door ringing the door-bell.

She admitted him and soon they found themselves in her living room. It seemed natural that they should stand like this facing each other.

She was dressed in a black, knee long dress with wide skirt. The neck was wide but by no means plunging. On the whole it was a quite conservative dress. She wore a bright red sash tied around her waist and a similarly red ribbon held back her hair, her jet black bob that neatly framed her little face.

She was a small woman, slim and slender and not very tall. Her face was almost a little childish with a short nose and a small and delicate mouth. Her face may have been childlike but her eyes were something different. They were older, wiser and sharp as steel and bright as the stars. He loved those eyes. He feared those eyes.

'So you came!' she said, smiling with a hint of triumph in her voice.

'Yes, as you told me,' he replied and heard how obedient he sounded.

He was not used to that. He was used to be the one deciding things. In bed he used to be the man, the one who conquered and took what he needed, knowing that by taking he also gave, gave and satisfied. No, he didn't lack confidence.

'You know that you will get the horsewhip today?' she said.

'You told me so,' he said with defiance in his voice.

'Do you object?'

'Why would I let you do this?'

'That is easy,' she said, smiling, 'because I say so.'

'You can never force me.'

She stood in silence for a while.

'No, indeed, you are a strong man,' she said, 'you could do what you want with me and I could only cry out in protest. You are the stronger of us. The only reason I will get to do this is because you let me.'

She smiled again.

Her self assured smile annoyed him.

'Why would I let you?'

'Because you want to,' she said, 'it is that simple.'

He looked at her.

'Are you ready?' she asked after a while.

He looked art her and was amazed how magnificent this tiny little woman was. She was the most adorable creature he could imagine and he knew he would do anything for her, to be allowed to be with her. He loved her with all his heart and all his body. That was the truth, he loved her with all his body and at this moment he wondered in embarrassment if she could see that.

'Take down your trousers!'

Her order was sharp. He felt a sudden flash of embarrassment and anger but was amazed when he found how his hands already was unbuttoning his trousers. He knew she would see.

'And your underwear, please!'

He pulled down his shorts and his desire for her became visible as it sprung from its hideout. He resisted an urge to cover up but realised how silly that would be.

Smiling, the small woman approached him and reached out her little hand and took hold of his sex. He gasped and held his breath. Her touch was intimate, very humiliating in a way, but he wanted desperately to surrender to it.

'I can see that you are happy to see me,' she said, almost giggling.

She let go of him and he sighed with a mix of relief and disappointment. She went to a sideboard and picked up the horsewhip that had been lying there. He was suddenly shocked. He hadn't noticed it lying there. He was shocked but also terribly aroused. What he had felt before was a summer's breeze compared to the storm that now raged within him.

He forgot how he got there but next he was kneeling by the sofa, leaning his body over the armrest. She was standing behind him.

'Oh, what a mistake,' she said, 'I should have had you naked. No time for that now.'

He heard the whip through the air, a vicious hissing sound, and then the sharp report when it hit his tender skin. Words cannot describe the utter agony that made him squirm and draw his breath.

The next stroke made him almost cry out with pain. He resisted an urge to start sobbing. He resisted letting this small, tiny woman reduce him to a crying school-boy.

'I like the sound of this,' she said happily.

He cried out as the third stroke hit him.

He braced himself to take it as a man. By the sixth stroke he felt tears in his eyes and by the tenth he was sobbing. He had lost. He started to cry and in a way he felt it as a relief.

He cried his heart out as she continued whipping him. He didn't care about how humiliating it was to hear her hum a tune while she was whipping him. She enjoyed this and he had to endure but now he cried and he was relieved he did.

'Done!' she said merrily, 'you can dress now.'

He scrambled to his feet, pulling his trousers up. He felt utterly defeated and utterly humiliated. He didn't know what bothered him the most, that she had whipped him and he had cried or that she didn't want to touch him.

He turned to her and saw how she reached out her hand and stroked his cheek.

'Now, now, you have been a good boy,' she said with a very patronising voice, 'no time for pleasure. Next time, my boy.'

He almost cried at the sweetness of her touch and how utterly arousing it was to feel the presence of her body so close to his. He restrained an urge to jump at her and tear off her clothes. He thought her dress was pretty, indeed, but it sure came in the way for her small but, oh, so desirable body.

He knew he couldn't do it. He never seriously considered ripping off her clothes but he knew he could not even suggest it, hint at it or try to caress her or kiss her. No he was completely in her power and she had said he had to wait, so wait he should.

He walked from her flat with a mix of devastation and arousal and humiliation and a strange sensation of having been blessed. He was a man, he was strong but somehow he knew he had been blessed by her and he knew in his heart that he would do anything for her, anything.

Tuesday, 22 April 2008

Blogging Fatigue

Don't worry, it is not as bad as it sounds. I talked with a friend about this the other day and many people who start blogging seem to feel this at times. It is a great undertaking and it is not always easy to know what to put on the blog. You often start blogging – at least I did – because there is something you want to talk about or there is a story to tell or just to communicate.

I wanted to talk about my fantasies, full stop. I wanted to tell others about my fantasies hoping that I would find that I wasn't alone with them and that I wasn't the weird person I always thought I was. So, communicating was the reason for blogging on my behalf. I have found that my blog has become a forum for my writings. And there is nothing wrong with that. I love writing. It is something magical about writing. It empowers me and it changes me. It is a kind of therapy really, a kind of controlled madness that opens my eyes to things that roams in my mind.

It is all very self centred. I have never pretended it is anything else. Your comments really help me see things in my writing and myself that I don't always see. I never just dismiss an analysis. At least I hope I have never done that. I don't even delete comments. Unless they are commercial. Comments that are there to sell something are mercilessly deleted. I have come close with one or two other comments, for example, when I was accused of having grammar errors that weren't errors but I let it be. But on the whole, I am open to interpretations. I like them. I want to know what you think, what you see and what something I write makes you think of. So thank you all for all your comments.

But sometimes the mind just wanders and I am too busy with the other life, the ordinary, normal one, the one I don't talk about here. I don't know what to write about and the stories I have in my head are only half written. Then I feel a little of that blogging fatigue I mentioned earlier.

Sometimes I think I have fallen too much in love with the writing and I feel compelled to always have a story for the blog. That was never what I wanted. Nowadays I find I care too much about the quality of my stories. I have become a little vain and want them to be well written and interesting. I think I manage that from time to time but I know some of them are not so very brilliant. I think that is good, I think I want it that way. I want to put even the silly ones, the stranger ones and the badly written ones on the blog because this was never meant to be a story blog. It is a fantasy blog. This is about fantasies.

And I would very much like to talk to you about fantasies. Maybe I should post a question or a thought on the blog and see if you want to comment or discuss it? Maybe some of you who read but don't comment may have something to add. I have no problems with, so called, 'lurkers'. I think it is absolutely fine that you come here and just read. I gather there are some of you out there because the number of people who comments is smaller than the number of visitors per day and all of the hits can't be Web crawlers and Web agents.

So, thank you for reading, and being so immensely supportive. It means the world to me and I am not done with blogging yet, although I don't always know what to put here. My head is still full of strange and not so strange ideas.

Friday, 18 April 2008

Summer Scribblings, part 2

Here is another text I wrote last summer. This is the one I missed most when I still believed they were lost forever. I am very glad I found it. I have reread it and made some small changes but I don't want to edit it and try to make it something it wasn't when I wrote it. It is as it is and now you can read it.

In the evening we went out. The rain had ceased to fall and the mist was tumbling down from the mountain. It was a little chilly, not cold, just a little chilly. It was still a summer evening.

He went out before me, having told me it was time. I took a deep breath and followed him. He stood in front of the door for a little while, looked around and shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he found the air a little cold.

The sun was down but the evening was not yet dark. He turned to me and smiled. I looked at that smile and wondered what it meant. I knew it meant a lot of things. He loved me, I knew that. He wanted me to come with him out in the summer evening. I wondered what he was thinking when he smiled. What thoughts was in his mind as he turned to me, regarded me and waited for me.

I was dressed in a bathrobe and a bathrobe only, save for my flip flops. In my hand I held the knife. I was wrapped in thick towelling but I felt strangely naked in my robe. I was naked underneath my clothes, I always was but this evening it meant something to say that.

The chilly evening air seemed to clash with my pounding heart and my blushing cheeks. I was prepared but yet wholly unprepared. I knew what awaited me but I could not understand it, could not see it. My mind didn't want to think and see.

I looked at him. He walked in front of me and I saw his shoulders move, his feet and legs move. He was strong but not just in his body. He was strong for me. It was not because of his strength I had given myself to him. Not even because I loved him. I was his because I trusted him.

He stopped and pointed to a stand of saplings growing in a bundle. They were slender and supple and would make excellent switches. I knew what that gesture meant. I trembled as I knelt by the stand and reached out my hand, the one holding the knife.

He told me to take a couple of the sturdiest, strongest switches. A rush of blood to my cheeks told me it was not only fear I felt thinking of those switches.

As I cut those switches I felt a strange kind of tingle within me, a kind of arousal, an overwhelming sensation that whispered in my ear of the immense bravery and madness of submitting myself to what lay ahead. And of the trust and grace that was in letting this happen.

I stood up with two sturdy, long and green, very supple and strong switches. They were almost completely smooth, immensely beautiful in their slender grace and power.

Smooth was good, it meant no cutting, no unwanted side effect. Sturdy was more menacing, it meant other things. It meant unbearable. I shivered at the thought.

We walked to the stream. We stood for a while watching the unearthly beauty of the mist dancing in thin veils over its surface. The stream came from the darkness and disappeared into the unknown and on its way it passed by our little cottage.

We stood by the wooden stair that led down to the brown but clear water. I shivered a little because I knew that this was the place. He looked at me. He smiled.

I knew it was going to be unbearable but I was not angry. I was his. I was his to command.

I stepped out of my flip flops and felt how wet the grass was against my bare feet. I stood for a while overcome with the immense beauty of the evening and the fear of those switches. There was in this moment also a strange sense of my own determination, my own devotion and strength. Yes, I was strong. I had my eyes open. And what I saw was him, standing there, waiting for me. I didn't want to let him wait.

I was ready, I stood before him and now I waited. I knew what he would say but it was for him to say, not for me to anticipate, foresee. I waited.

He regarded me, smiled again. Then on his command I opened my robe and let it slip from my shoulders. I felt it caress my back and arms as it left me naked, sensing the cold air against my skin.

Baring myself for him was not easy, not something done without the turmoil of mixed and violent emotions. I never hesitated. That was his strength, to let me bare myself without hesitation.

He pointed to the railing of the stairs, the stairs that led down to the stream. That was a beautiful place for the unbearable, for my strength, for me to stand there, naked, leaning against the railing, looking out over the stream and the mist when he took the sturdy switches to me.

The wood was cold and wet against my lower belly. I was strangely aroused by sensing the hard surface press against my body at that point, at that weak and sensitive part of my body. It was as if the railing was caressing me, touching me with an intimate and arousing touch, that kind of intrusive, humiliating and immensely sensual touch a strong man uses when he will tell a woman he consider her his.

I pressed my lower belly to the railing, straightened my back, took hold of the wood with my hands and leaned forward. I was making myself ready for the unbearable.

He talked to me, told me how beautiful the night was, how immensely magical the evening was. He told me of my beauty and my nakedness and how vulnerable I was and how desirable I was. I was waiting for the unbearable. I didn't want to know how beautiful I was.

It was his call. I was there for him, on his command. I was his and I waited.

When he at last touched me with the slender and powerful switch I knew I was not prepared, I was not ready. I could never be ready. I could not prepare for the unbearable.

I heard the hissing sound of the switch through the air and then I felt it hit me, across my buttocks, my naked and vulnerable buttocks. At last my time had come, my time of strength and devotion.

The world changed. The switch had burned me and the pain was excruciating. It traversed my body and I was no longer me. I was just the pain in my body, the burning mark on my skin.

I was shivering, composed but shocked and still waiting, waiting for the unbearable to continue.

The next time the switch fell on my burning and bared skin I knew how brittle my composure was. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, I felt a flood of crying run through me and become a low moaning sound as it was let out.

The third time, I was crying. I let go of my feelings and cried. It was a relief to cry.

When the switch fell for the fourth time I felt very small and very vulnerable and very exposed. I was angry and wondered why he wanted this for me. I didn't hate him. I should have hated him but I didn't.

Then I wanted it to stop. I desperately wanted it to stop. It was unbearable and I couldn't bear it and I wanted it to stop. It was too painful, too horrible and I couldn't see the meaning of it. I had only my devotion then, only my dedication and the switch made it seem weak.

I am strong. At the core I am strong and I stay were I am. I did stay were I was. The pain was, really, unbearable and he switched me as if he wanted to tell me I wasn't strong. I had fought him, before this I had fought him, to prove he was wrong, but not any more, now I just stayed were I was. My strength was of another kind, not the kind that wanted to brag about itself, it just wanted me to stay were I was.

Then it was over. Then he stopped switching me. I was crying like a baby, no anger, no hate, just pain. Pain and devotion, and strength.

He held me in his arms. He stroked my hair. He caressed me but did not speak. He held me close and he admired me. At that moment I was the one to admire and he knew that. I was proud, not because he admired me but because I was still there.

Tuesday, 15 April 2008

Summer Scribblings, part 1

Rejoice! At least that is how I feel. Last summer I had some time for some scribblings. I could only work on an old computer and I saved my text on an old floppy disk. When I got home I could find some of my scribblings but not all. A friend said that her stories and texts were like her children and although I don't completely share that feeling I felt quite bereaved when I thought I had lost what I had written. A couple of days ago I found all the texts, they were sitting there on a flash drive and I had just missed them. I am chuffed. And because I am so happy having found those texts I will post some here on my blog. This one is just a monologue with some thoughts about fantasies of this kind.

You could whip me. You should whip me. I think you should. Wouldn't you like it? Have me at your mercy, have the complete power over my body? The power to give me pain. You could decide if I should suffer or if I should not. Complete power, yes, that is true. You would have the power to give me pleasure as well. Of course you would. You could touch me or caress me and make me squirm with pleasure if you wanted to. But you could also use it to whip me, to make me scream and cry in agony.

I think you should whip me. I mean, really whip me. You decide of course but I think you should do it. Not just smack me, not pretend to make me suffer. I mean you should whip me, really hard, make the pain real for me.

On a sunny morning you could take me out of the house. Yes, I think it should be done outdoors. But why should I think? Well, you haven't said I shouldn't so I will allow myself to think. Until you tell me not to I will think. But when you do I will stop. That is how it should be, how I want it to be.

On that glorious morning, that sunny promise of a wonderful, beautiful day you should take me out of the house and whip me. Maybe you take me by the hand and lead me there, drag me there, with me in one hand and the whip in the other. I would know what was to happen to me, I would know I was to be whipped. You don't have to be angry, not even stern. You just have to want it.

Or you just tell me to follow and I would. Of course I would. Maybe you even tell me, no ask me, to bring the whip. Maybe you want to let me know I am to be whipped, make me help you in whipping me, make me bring the instrument of torture, the tool, the implement that is to be used on me, that is to touch my body.

You know the pole, the sturdy pole that is standing by the shed? It strikes me as a perfect whipping post. The time we arrive there, if we arrive there, it is on your command and you will have decided where and how I am to be whipped but since you haven't said anything I will think about how I imagine it.

You could bring me to the pole, the sturdy pole, the whipping post. That is a perfect place to whip me. It seems made for whippings. It just needs some preparations, a metal hook, a ring or even just a big nail will do. It has to be put high on the pole, above the height of my head, even above the height of my extended arms. That is easy. On that hook you need to hang a rope. Or maybe, even better, I could do it. What preparation, to have me prepare the whipping post? It will make me aware of its use, it will make me have to think of my upcoming whipping. I would prepare it, hang the rope on it while I was thinking, all the time, that soon would this rope be applied to my body, to hold me to this whipping post for my whipping. I would shudder and think of it, knowing that I was to be whipped.

Then, when you have brought me to the pole, the prepared and waiting whipping post you would stand me there, letting me see what awaited me. You would not have to be angry or stern. You could just tell me that it was time for it.

Then I should prepare myself, make myself ready for to be whipped. I think you should whip me for real, on my naked skin. That would be a real whipping, a whipping with no mercy, a whipping on my naked skin.

Maybe you have decided to whip my back. I would have to take my top off, baring my upper body for you. Or perhaps you want to whip my bottom. That seem suitable in a way. Having me expose my bottom. That would be even more degrading. It would bring home my vulnerability to me. Maybe you want to whip me all over my back and bottom. You could tell me to strip naked. That seems appropriate, the right thing to do, to have me naked at the whipping post.

Maybe you have told me to strip naked before, even before you walk me or drag me to the post. So that I would follow you naked and vulnerable on our way to my whipping. I would have images in my head of a walk of shame, in public, in front of the crowd, naked and on my way to my whipping, to a punishment, my punishment.

It doesn't have to be a punishment, you don't need an excuse to whip me. You can just do it. It is just that I may think of it as a punishment or that it is like a punishment. I don't have to provide you with a cause, I don't have to have sinned or been naughty. I don't have to deserve a punishment, a whipping. You just have to want it and I just have to let you.

Then it is time to tie me to the pole. I think you should do that, tie me to the whipping post. Not that I would ever try to escape, to flee from you. I am staying, that is true, so no real need for it but to a whipping post you should be tied. Tying me would be a help, a help for me. It would make it easier for me to stay put when the whipping becomes really painful and I would reconsider letting you do it, when my resolve becomes weak, when you make it weak. Maybe this will make you more reluctant to tie me to the post, the thought that I do no longer want it, that I have to be tied to endure.

This is the crucial point. I want you to weaken my resolve, I want you to overwhelm me. I want you to make me want to flee.

But there and then, when you have brought me to the whipping post and I am naked, it is for you, not for me to decide those things. You may want to test my resolve and think that tying me really is too easy for me.

If you should tie me, if you would decide to be kind to me, make it easy for me, then you should tell me to extend my arms, one on each side of the pole. Then I am to cross my wrists while you tie them together, with the rope that is hanging from the nail or hook or ring. I would be facing the pole. That is the old fashioned proper way of tying someone to the whipping post.

Then you should pull at the rope and I would have to lift my arms, to extend them and stretch my body. This would bring my body closer to the pole, even force me to press my belly, my breasts and my thighs to the pole. That would bring home my nudity to me, make me feel vulnerable and helpless. That is a part of it, me feeling weak and helpless.

I would sense the thrill then. I think I would be in a strange state of mind then. All the things before this would have brought it on, heightened the sense of it. The bringing me there, the whip in your hand, the preparations, the taking off of clothes, the nudity, your looking at me, the tying and all that. But the sensation of the rough surface of the pole against my naked body would make it very real and I would feel the thrill, the thrill I wouldn't know if it was fear or anticipation or even lust and arousal. Maybe because it was a little of everything.

It would not be arousal alone, not excitement and satisfying desires alone. Then it would be a game, a nice pastime. Then my ordeal would be only to overcome my sense of shame, my prudence. Then you would just indulge me, help me to reach a new level of excitement.

There is nothing wrong with you indulging me. Love can make you want that. But bringing me to the whipping post is about something else as well, it is about my devotion to you, my desire to give myself to you, to let you decide, to let you do whatever you want. If I let you make me suffer then I know I am yours, completely yours.

Maybe there is another, deeper, more profound motive. Maybe I want you to bring me there, strip me naked and tie me to the pole to make me feel, to make sure I feel something profound. To make me real. Naked, bound, my body pressed to the pole, being whipped I would be real and maybe that is, really, what I desire.

When you have tied me to the pole, facing it, embracing it you should pull the rope, raise my arms and press my body to the pole. You could just have me stand or you could even stretch my body further make me stand on my toes, almost hang in my bonds. That would be painful, bring my ordeal home to me. Maybe you would enjoy the sight of my body better then, outstretched, naked and vulnerable, at your command. Maybe that would be a way for me to indulge you, to be beautiful and desirable for you. I would be something for you to look at and feel you have power over.

With your strength you could even hoist me in the air, make my feet leave the ground and make me hang, cruelly, by my bound wrists. That would make my whipping to a real ordeal, make it worse, make it complete. I would stop thinking then. I would think only of the pain in my body. But I would be completely at your mercy and I would know that you wanted it, that my suffering was giving you pleasure.

Whatever you would do, have me stand on my feet, on tip toe or hang, the time would be near for my whipping. Tied naked to the pole I would be completely at your mercy, in your hands and forced to trust you. I would have to be really sure you wouldn't harm me. I would be yours to harm and be without protection.

Then you could whip me. You should whip me. I think you should. I would be naked and vulnerable and at your mercy and you should whip me. Because you could do it, because you wanted it or even because I wanted it.

It is an immensely cruel thing to do, to whip the naked body of someone tied to a whipping post. There is no struggle, no battle and no honour in whipping a helpless body, only cruelty. But you are not cruel and I don't want you to be cruel to me. Still I suggest you whip me. No, I ask you to whip me, want you to whip me.

It has to be something else than the mere cruelty of it. It has to be something beyond that. Perhaps it is the devotion, the dedication that makes it meaningful? It could be the trust, the knowledge that I am safe. Maybe it is about giving myself up to you, to let you do it and cruelty is the ultimate evidence that my surrender is complete, my belonging is profound.

Maybe it is something black, that I want to be obliterated, to be nothing, to be humiliated and punished, just to satisfy some kind of deep and hidden guilt, that I think I deserve it.

Or maybe it is just the nudity and that I think that I would look sexy, tied to a pole and writhing in pain under your whip, that you would find me attractive being at your mercy, that I would feel attractive and aroused by being naked for you, for anyone looking at me. That my vulnerability, somehow is awakening the lust in you. Maybe that I would want to be beautiful in your eyes and being naked means being me, being whipped means showing my feelings unhindered.

You should whip me, I am prepared for it and at you mercy. I think you should take the opportunity of whipping me. Maybe it would be easy for you, that you would truly enjoy it or maybe you will find it hard and you are reluctant to hurt me, make me suffer. I think you should whip me, let me have it. While I am there you should let me have it.

The whip is a cruel thing and it would hurt. Applying the whip to my naked skin would hurt. There is no doubt about that and it would hurt immensely. I would not think I could endure it. Maybe I would break down and cry and beg for mercy.

That would be a hard moment for you, hearing me begging for mercy. Or maybe you would enjoy that. Maybe that is your moment of glory. Maybe you want me to beg for mercy so that you know you have the power of granting it or not. Maybe you would grant it but not until you have made me suffer some more. Maybe you would deny me mercy and still whip me. I think, perhaps, you should. That being the whole point of it.

That could be the crucial point, where the ropes come into it. I am bound and helpless and the pain is so immense that I really, want it to stop. I can do nothing to make it stop but to plead. I may have some resolve not to plead, some pride in enduring but at that moment when I break down and plead I show you that I am really at your mercy, I acknowledge that I am yours, that I can do nothing and that you decide. I scream my plea for not having to endure. I cast away my pride and my resolve to endure and beg for mercy. That is the moment when you can decide to show me you are in charge, that I really have given you power over me, that I have really surrendered to you. If you hear my pleas and how I have thrown away my pride and still show me that you are in charge then I will know.

Then afterwards, when I am untied, unbound and it is all over, my body aching, burning with the whip marks, then I need some comforting. I need softness, need to know that there is not all pain but sweetness as well. Then I want you to hold me, close to your body. I would be unarmed, vulnerable, naked and helpless but I need your comforting, your sweetness and your love. I have surrendered to you and I would not hate you for being cruel, I would not even think of how I love you. I would be in pain and in need of comforting.

At that moment it is better if there is no sin, no guilt, no wrongdoing and no forgiveness. I have surrendered to you, I have given myself to you but I need to know that I can be proud of it. I don't want to have to forgive you for being cruel or confirming that I deserve it. I want you to be close to me and love me because I need it and want it. I want you to touch me out of love. I don't want to have to say to you that you were right. You should be strong for me and know it yourself. You should only think of me then, how proud you are of my devotion and endurance and how strong I am for you. You should admire me then as I admire your strength as you whip me.

Yes, that is how I think of it. You should whip me, I think you should. If you want it.

Wednesday, 9 April 2008

The Square

This is just a silly little story about one of those medieval town squares that appear so frequently in my fantasies. There is nothing like some public entertainment.

The sun was shining and the town square was bustling. People had come from near and far to make business, get drunk, have a laugh or just meet others. Some had come to sell their merchandise, others had come to buy, some to steal and others to just have a look. People were merry, shouting and cheering and making a lot of noise. It was a brilliant day for a market and for some entertainment.

There were singers and dancers and musicians and even a small theatre company, all struggling for the attention of the crowd. There were jugglers and conjurers and all sorts of entertainers. It was a brilliant day, a happy day, a day to forget the struggle for survival, to think about brighter and happier things, to escape the clutches of the mundane.

And in all this chaos of people and things and sounds and smells there was a sense of expectation, as if the best was yet to be, as if the greatest event of the day had not yet come.

Something was, indeed going to happen.

When the trumpets sounded all turned their attention towards the side of the square were the Town Hall was. The crowd rushed towards the scaffold that was built in front of the building. The people were cheering and shouting as they gathered in front of the grim building, forming a mass of bodies and a sea of heads. This was the moment, now it was time for the great entertainment.

Out onto the scaffold came the clerks and the magistrates and the councillors of the city. It was a great gathering of prominent and important men on that scaffold, in their gowns and cloaks and fancy hats. There were also pages and soldiers and a big man with strange clothes and a hood.

But the crowd was not interested in them, they couldn't care less about the regalia and grandeur of those men, nor about the strength and bravery of the soldiers. No, the crowd was waiting for someone else and when they saw her a roar went up from a thousand throats.

She was dressed in white as she stepped hesitantly out onto the scaffold on bare feet. She look small and fragile besides the soldiers and when she heard the sound of the crowd she looked startled. She held her head high, not with pride, not to mock the crowd but to try to keep some kind of dignity. She looked terrified but yet solemn. She braced herself.

'Come on sweetie!' someone cried.

'Don't mock her!'

'Why do you care?'

'Don't start with that!'

One of the magistrates was reading something but no one listened.

'Get on with it!'

'Can't hear what he is saying.'

'Don't care what he is saying.'

'What has she done?'

'Who cares?'

'Get on with it!'

'Get the whip.'

The hooded man walked out on the scaffold and looked out over the crowd.

'Come on you devil!'

'Come home with me and I'll cook for you,' a woman shouted and started to laugh.

'I'll have your babies.'

The crowd stopped screaming as the young woman was ushered out on to the centre of the scaffold.

'I like it when it is a girl.'

'You pervert!'

'No, they looked nicer.'

'Poor soul.'

'Ah, she won't break.'

'Off with her clothes!'

'Why do they have to take off the clothes?'

'Can't whip someone with their clothes on.'

'Why not?'

'You just can't.'

'I like it when they take off the clothes.'

'You pervert.'

'No, why, women look nicer.'

'Well, I bet she looks better with her kit off than you.'

A mighty roar grew as the soldiers suddenly ripped the white dress from the young woman. The crowd gasped as they pulled her thin white garment from her shoulders and she in one brutal harsh movement was bared before their eyes.

'Now we are getting somewhere.'

'Poor girl.'

'Nah, she deserves it.'

'What has she done?'

'Don't know.'

'It doesn't matter, I like it anyhow.'

'This is not entertainment.'

'I like it anyway.'

'We all like it, you idiot.'

'Not her.'

The soldiers had now tied the naked woman to the whipping post and the hooded man approached her and he took out his whip.

'Oh, poor girl, I can't watch.'

'Why are you here then?'

'Whip her! She deserves it!'

'I am glad it is not me.'

'I bet you want to be her.'

'Have you staring at me, like that?'

'She is younger.'

'You bastard.'

'I can come home with you and take my whip with me.'

'Shut up and look.'

'Whip her you big fat bastard!'

The hooded man started to lay the whip on the back and buttocks of the naked woman at the post.

'Yeah, that is what I want to see.'

'You pervert.'

'Nah, he is a professional.'

'Always fascinating to see a professional in action.'

'Don't you have any pity?'

'Nah, what for?'

The cries from the naked young woman were drowned by the mocking and cheering from the crowd as the hooded man proceeded to mete out her punishment.


'You weakling, it is just starting to be fun.'

'Poor girl!'

'Harder, whip her harder, you bastard.'

'Don't mock him, he is a professional.'

The hooded man stepped away and folded his whip and put it away. The soldiers untied the woman and ushered her from the scaffold. The crowd fell silent. The show was over.

'That was that.'

'I want a pint or two.'

'Yeah, whippings make you thirsty.'

'They don't last long.'

'Ask her about that!'

'Hangings doesn't even last this long.'

'No, whippings are better.'

'No, hangings are better.'

'You have a twisted mind.'

'Poor girl.'

'She won't sleep well.'

'What was she punished for?'

'Have no idea.'

'Who cares?'

And the crowd went back to their vending, shouting and drinking having had their fill of whippings today. There would always be whippings, there would always be entertainment.

Friday, 4 April 2008


Fantasies tend to move in certain directions and come back to certain favourite events and themes. At least mine do. So, here is another take on one of those favourite themes. This doesn't mean I have yet covered all my ideas and have to go back to the old one. Far from it. There are still strange imaginations left.

I dreamed a strange dream tonight, I dreamed I was a captive, that I was captured.

I woke up on a great, green, endless stretch of undulating low hills. The sky was blue, the air was mild and I was alone. Besides the sky and the green grass it was only me, still clad in my nightgown.

I rose to my feet and looked around. I was scared of being alone in this vast land. It was a beautiful land but I was lonely, miserable and lonely.

Then the man on the horse appeared. He suddenly appeared from behind a hill. He was dark, his clothes were dark and grey and his horse was black. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark. He carried a sword by his side. It was, indeed, a strange dream. And as he approached me I felt naked and helpless. I had no sword, I had no protection and my nightgown was my only cover.

He spoke to me and asked me questions and I replied truthfully. We spoke in a strange tongue, a language of the dreams. He nodded his head and looked at me. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned to ride away.

Fear filled my heart, I had thought he would help me but he was to leave me alone among the hills. He was a stranger but he was alive and I didn't want to be alone. I knew I would perish if I was alone.

I ran after him and begged him to take me with him. He looked at me and sighed and said he was going to make camp anyway. I saw that the sun was sinking and the sky had already turned red.

We made camp in the shade of a big boulder and a dry bush gave us enough wood for a small fire. He cooked some beans and some strange leaves and gave to me.

I asked him what he would do in the morning and he told me he would ride on. I asked him to take me with him but he shook his head. He had no use for a girl like me. I couldn't come with him and my heart sank. I pleaded with him.

He sat in silence for a while and then he turned to me and said he had no use for me, I would be a hindrance. I couldn't come with him...unless...

'Unless what?' I asked ready to agree to any terms or conditions.

'Unless you become my captive,' he said.

'Your captive?'

'Yes,' he said and looked at me.

I sat in silence but I knew already that I had no choice. I had only to accept it. I turned to him and nodded.

'I am your captive.'

He told me then to take off my nightgown and trembling I did so. I slipped it over my head and sat there by the fire as naked as I was when I was born. He told me to throw it on the fire and I did. We sat in silence and watched my nightgown burn.

I knew then that I had accepted his terms, I had burned my freedom. He looked at me with his dark eyes.

He was not old, nor young. He had a face that was not bitter but had seen much, done much. His eyes had seen the world. He was stern but did not seem cruel. I wondered about those things as I sat there, naked, by the fire, his captive. I knew I would find out.

He tied me hand and foot and put a blanket over me and I fell asleep. It was strange to fall asleep in a dream but I thought nothing of it then.

We woke up and I was stiff and sore after having slept bound like that and the morning was chilly. He released me and told me to make our meagre breakfast. I did as I was told and he showed me how he wanted it. I shivered in the cold morning and I looked with envy at him as he pulled his coat around his shoulders. I was still naked and I was cold.

Thus began my captivity. We travelled far. He was always moving, riding somewhere. He was not a warrior and not a merchant. I think, perhaps, he was a magician. I followed him wherever we went, over plains, through thick and lush woods, over mountains with cold and biting wind. I walked naked by his horse, sweaty in the hot sun and freezing in the cold wind.

The first time he tied my hands behind my back and a rope around my neck and led me like an animal. He tied me hand and foot in the evening. He wasn't afraid of me running away. I think he wanted to show me I was his captive.

He was a hard man, a survivor, a man strong enough to cope with whatever fate throw in his wake. But he was also gentle and kind. He laughed with me and sang by the camp fire. He told me stories and taught me songs.

I never ever doubted I was his captive. He had a whip hanging by his saddle. He didn't hesitate to take that whip to my body when I displeased him. Many an evening did I sit and tended to that whip, keeping its strands smooth and clean. I shivered as I sat, naked by the fire and worked on the whip that was to be used on my body.

I did never forget I was naked and I became even more aware when we entered a village or a town and we where greeted by the towns people and the children ran beside us and cheered and laughed and pointed. Then I knew I was a captive.

We travelled far and although I saw many strange lands my world became smaller. The stern man, my captor, was the centre of my world and I grew accustomed to him. I was miserable when he was angry and my heart sang when he laughed. I was proud when I could please him and I felt worthless when I got it wrong. When I displeased him I longed for him to whip me, to get rid of the guilt. And when he smiled at me I felt as if the sun came out again.

Still I was his captive, I was not free. I knew in my heart that I was me and that he was a stranger. He had taken me and although I wanted to please him I was not free.

He did not use me as a man may use a woman. He looked at me sometimes as I emerged from the river having bathed in the clear water or when I stretched my body and yawned by the fire. Then he looked at me in a way that made me feel less like a servant and more like a woman.

He told me at times how pleasing it was to have a woman to look at and I blushed. I started to think, in my simple mind, why he did not touch me if he was pleased with me. I thought that a man would want to do something like that with a captive woman, especially a naked, captive woman.

One evening I realised he had only been biding his time. In the night, by the fire and under the full moon he called me to him. He commanded me to my knees and then he approached me from behind. My heart was racing because I knew, in my heart, I knew, what was going to happen.

He put his hands on my body and he entered me from behind. I was astonished how strange it was. How much I had longed for it and how much I had dreaded it. I had no choice, no say in this but still I had longed for it. I hated myself for my weakness but welcomed his intrusion.

His sex in my sex and I was lost. I knew then how much I had become his captive, how much I wanted to be his captive. His presence broke down my last defence and there and then I became his.

I woke up in my bed and sat up, startled. My heart was beating hard as I looked around and saw my bed, my room. I felt my body and felt my nightgown, the one I had burned so long time ago. I felt my body and there were no marks of the whip. It was a dream, just a dream.

I laid back on my pillow, heart still beating, gathering my senses. I knew I was back in reality but I feared I had lost my heart in that dream.

Tuesday, 1 April 2008


I wanted to start April with an experiment. This is not an ordinary text and I assume it is not that easy to read. Just got it in my head to try this, experimenting a little with the form. It has all been done before so this is nothing unique. Anyway, here it is, my little text experiment.

It's happening now, how did it happen? not sure, I wanted it, did I want it? I wanted it, yes, I did, although I am ashamed, so ashamed, words cannot show how ashamed I am, cannot do it alone, he has to be here, he has to do it, I want it but I can't do it. His hand, I look at his hand, the tiny hairs on his fingers, manly hands, not strong but strong enough, a man's hands, his hands, those are hands that can caress, that can touch and be gentle, but they are strong, strong enough to hurt, he chooses that for me, I have chosen that for me, he takes his hands, the hands that can caress, and hurts with them, that is what he chooses for me, that is what I get, that is what I want, do I want it? He speaks to me, he talks to me, he says things to me but I am far, far away, I am alone, he lets me be alone, he keeps me there and alone, I trust him, I do trust him, do I know him? how could I know him? can't really know anyone, but he keeps me there, he lets me be alone, alone with myself and alone with what is happening. He has his words, words that make sense to him, to make this mean something to him, I don't understand them all, they take me there and that is enough, do I have to understand everything? I don't understand much, I don't even know what I want, but it is happening now and I am here and far away and now he speaks to me. Punishment, that is what he calls it, but there is no crime, shouldn't punishments be for crimes? Crimes and punishments that is what it was like, what is no more, not for me but for him but I know it's just a game, but it is not just a game, his hands are not a game, his hard, hard hands are real, those hands that can caress, those hands that choose not to. His words are good, they take me there, where I can't go, where I want to go, I trust him to take me there, that is good. He wants the ritual, the form, the words in a special order, the commands, the responses, they are just words for me, the words that beckons and calls and helps and prompts me to go forward, I am grateful for those words, I couldn't go there without them. Hands are moving, my trembling hands are moving, taking hold of fabric of clothes, cotton, I like cotton, smooth and nice and not silly, he likes black and lacy, sliding over skin, how come those moments are so special? that a movement like this can make a wave through my body, a bolt through my mind, through my sex, that pans out on my cheeks, cotton sliding over skin and becoming naked, not naked, bared, partially naked, nude and stripped and bare. Preparing, that is what he calls it, preparing for the punishment, that is what I do, I help, that is his ritual, but I really do, I bare, I move, I do the things his words make me do and I want to do but can't, not without his words, helping is such a bad thing to do, to help, to bare to make it easier, make it worse, that is what I do, I make it worse and I do it, he speaks but I do it, worse for me, baring skin to make it worse. Knees are hurting, hard, hard wood is hurting and this is the worst, the thing that makes my mind wander, makes my knees hurt, that takes away the magic, not thinking of it, thinking of him, thinking of knickers on my thighs, makes me tingle, tingle is better than hurting knees. His hands, his hands, those hands of strength that can caress but chooses not to, holding the handle, the black, leathery handle of that dreaded crop, that terrible thing that he will use when he chooses not to caress me, the thing I have been waiting for, longing for, fearing and dreading and that which I cannot meet, that cannot touch unless he speaks his words, unless he decides, it is so good he decides, that I don't, makes me stay and wait. Now I am waiting.