Challenge

A friend gave me this challenge. He gave it to another friend too. It was about writing a story with a certain setting. You can read it here, the setting that is. And you can read my friend's story here.

I really had no ideas at first and then suddenly this came to me. It is not really a story, just an encounter. I kind of like it, though.

And I haven't posted an original Janice story on the blog since 12 June. Have you been waiting?

'A nice figure,' I thought, as I looked in the mirror, 'nice and slender.' I believed my nice, light and green, summerdress would fit me well. It was a little daring, that is true, with thin spaghetti straps, leaving the shoulders bare, following the form of my body although not overly short.

I felt terribly provocative, wearing no bra underneath the thin fabric of my dress. And besides my knickers it was the only garment I wore. This was appropriate for what I was about to do, it was the right thing to wear when taking on the world and challenge it.

'Who am I fooling?' I thought and stared at my blushing face. Some women look sexy in whatever they wear. They can attract attention wearing a burqa. But Ms Prim would not fool anyone. I was an impostor. I knew that but I had to do this.

I turned from the mirror with a beating heart, my breast full of anger, anxiety, fear and apprehension. I put my feet in my black ballerinas and hung the bag on my shoulder, and went out.

My legs were trembling as I walked out into the sunlight on my mission. I held my head up high as I passed the street and tried my best to be proud. Inside my head I saw a frightened squirrel scurrying for cover.

No one noticed. No one saw that prudishness dared to dare the world to look at her. I was just one in the crowd.

I ended up at a café, at a small round table on the pavement just outside the entrance. I had ordered tea and the waitress brought it. I thought that wine had been better. I didn't want to find comfort in the wine, no, I didn't even like wine but it would have looked better.

My fingers felt a little numb as I pulled the book from my bag to put it on the table in front of me. I stopped and read the title, as if I wanted to make sure it was the right one: The Story of O. I turned it away from me so that anyone who approached the table could read it.

Then I waited.

I waited. And I waited. My teacup was almost empty. No one seemed to look at me or the book. A woman gave it a glance and turned away. I felt my heart beat as if I had committed some unacceptable sin by sitting there with that book in front of me.

I imagined I was sitting there to provoke a man to talk to me. But the truth is that most men are not interested in books, or even know how to read one. I sighed. Men look at women, but not at women like me. A silly book wouldn't change that.

My teacup was empty and I felt stupid and weary and was just about to rise and go home when a shadow fell on me. I looked up and was almost blinded by the sunlight that seem to shine from behind the head of the man standing in front of me. The light formed a corona around his head.

'Is this seat taken?' he asked politely.

'No, by no means, no, not at all,' I replied nervously.

The man sat down and I could, at last, see his face. He was dressed in a suit that was far too dark for the bright weather. He looked like something from an old film although he was not old himself.

He gave me a quick glance, smiled, and turned to call the waitress. While I stared at him he ordered a glass of wine and then pulled from his jacket a small and well read book and placed it on the table.

As he placed his book on the table I saw that my book was provocatively close to his place and felt an urge to move it closer to myself. But that would have been too obvious. I didn't move.

He put the book in front of him in a way so that I had to read the title upside down. It was a worn paperback copy of Justine by the Marquis de Sade. My heart beat harder.

I looked up and found myself staring into his eyes. I averted my gaze and felt how I blushed.

'Do you like it?' he said.

'What?' I blurted out, taken by surprise, 'like what?'

'The ordeals of O,' he said, his voice calm.

I looked up and saw that his eyes were grey. He looked at me and I think he smiled.

'I haven't read far,' I said and knew I was lying.

'But you have read the beginning?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'yes, I have.'

'Do you like it?'

'It is...interesting.'

He laughed a quick and very provocative laugh. It was not an arrogant laugh but it told me he didn't think that it was the whole truth.

'Have you ever tried it?' he asked.

I felt a little annoyed by his being so self assured.

'Tried what?'

I heard my voice rise a little. I wondered if he had noticed.

'In the car,' he continued, 'you have read about how O arrives at Roissy?'

'Yes, yes, that part I have read.'

'She has to remove her knickers and sit on the seat, skirts pulled up, remember?'

It was something very old fashioned in his way of saying 'knickers'.

'Yes, I remember,' I had to admit, blushing.

'Have you ever tried it?'

'No, I prefer to keep my underwear on,' I said, in something I wanted to be a stern voice.

'But if someone you trusted, or even loved, ordered you, like in the book. Would it be easier then?'

I sat in silence, unable to speak for a while.

'That would be,' I started, 'that would be, interesting.'

His reply was an amused chuckle. He made me feel like a silly school girl and that was not what I had intended or wanted. I felt intimidated by his cockiness and yet I felt no malice in him.

I looked up at him and was met by a very warm smile. I had to smile back.

'Your book,' I said, trying to take control of myself, 'is it any good?'

'It is a mad man's fantasy,' he said dismissively, 'strange but intriguing.'

'Intriguing,' I said and wondered what I meant with repeating his word.'

He laughed again.

'I have a suggestion,' he suddenly said.

'Yes?' I replied cautiously.

'We are both intrigued by our books. Let me buy you dinner and we can discuss our books and what it is that “intrigues” us with them. Or what it is that is “interesting”'?

I stared at him for a second. He had asked me to dine with him. Wasn't this what I wanted with my silly exercise? This was indeed the strangest thing. Ms Prim was about to be taken to a restaurant by a stranger.

'I would like that,' I heard my own voice reply.

'Good, excellent!' he said beaming.

He sipped his wine, then put the glass down and looked at me.

'Forgive me Ms, but I never caught your name.'

'That is because I never told you. It is Pauline,' I said.

He chuckled and raised an eyebrow, just a tad.

'Pleased to make your acquaintance, Pauline. My name is François; Donatien Alphonse François to be precise but you can call me anything.'

Sold

Right! I am a little lazy. But now it doesn't matter because I have a guest posting. Ramon send me this story which I found delightful. I decided to put it on my blog, asked him for permission and was granted it. I did edit it. I have to admit it but just a little. I changed the spelling of one word. I couldn't help myself and can only ask Ramon for forgiveness. And I said changed, not corrected.

And what a coincidence that the heroine of this story is called Janice! I can assure you I had nothing to do with it...smiles. So, read and enjoy!

Janice smoothed down her faux-fur outfit, wishing her arms and legs weren't quite so exposed. She shivered, and not because of the air-conditioning in the crowded conference hall. It could have been much worse; the girl two over on her right was wearing that Arabian slave-girl costume Mary had originally chose for her; with veils transparent enough to be effectively invisible, at least to hungry eyes. Crazy Mary! Janice had laughed when Mary had first leaned over the desk they shared and told her that she had volunteered them both for the company's fund raising evening; this year an auction of office workers to the highest bidder. Of course she had flatly refused, but Mary had spent all afternoon working on her. 'It's for charity' and 'look at the homeless children, look at the poor dears' she whined. Mary had planned this well, she even had photos of hungry waifs. Finally Janice caved, but flatly refused to wear the outfit her delighted co-worker produced from under her desk. Finally a compromise was arranged; she swapped with someone whom Mary knew from another office . So instead of standing in line in front of a thousand laughing office workers as a harem girl, she was Captive Barbarian Princess from the Far Northern Steppe. Mary always had a flair for description.

Three had been sold so far, and the audience was getting warmed up. Wads of cash and credit cards were waved as the auctioneer praised the next slave's (it was the harem-girl) attributes: the length of her legs, the firmness of her torso. He didn't really have to go into much detail, thought Janice, when those veils left nothing to the imagination. It was then she noticed one man in the third row who wasn't gripped by the current item on sale. He was looking straight at her, hand to his chin as if weighing something up with a professional eye. He was weighing her up! She looked away and tugged downwards on her costume, as if she could increase the hem length by a few metres. He was probably comparing all the girls. No, a quick glance back and his gaze was still on her. His face was set. He had made a decision.

The applause from the last sale was settling down and she felt a hand in her back and was pushed forward. It was her turn already. She stared at the edge of the dais as offers started to flow in, many more than she expected. That voice was Will from accounts; she cringed to think she would have to spend the rest of the dinner with him at his table and all his rugger-bugger friends. The bids settled down, it was a battle between Will and another unknown male voice. Deeper than Will's. The kind of voice that was used to projecting across rooms, even auction rooms. Janice looked up as the final bid was cast. In the front row Will was despondent and the man in the third row was striding up the stairs to pay and take possession of her. Another shiver.

'I believe you're mine for the evening' was all he said with a smile, and lightly took hold of her upper arm. She felt his finger tips there. They may as well have been steel chains that wrapped themselves around her. 'I am', she answered.

She had never met the people at his table before but they were great fun. They and the man (Antony, he introduced himself) made her feel at ease and less self-conscious. Soon she was getting into the spirit of the evening for the first time; she laughed when Antony's friends asked his permission to pour her a glass of wine. When offered dessert by a waiter, she coyly suggested he 'Ask her master'.

'I will allow it this time', he said, and returned her impish grin with interest.

The function was winding down. Only a last few die-hard dancers were still on the floor. Antony guided her back to their now deserted table for refreshments. She was getting anxious again, but not because of the auction or her circumstances, but because of the impending end of the evening. Antony looked up at the clock, oh no, it was all about to end. He would turn to her, kiss her hand and say something about how wonderful it had all been. It would be over. No. She was a Barbarian Princess who fought polar bears and marauding Neanderthal tribes on the harsh tundra. She took chances, not like Janice the office worker.

'How long did you buy me for?' she half croaked.

He looked surprised. 'Well I'm not really sure. Midnight? I have no idea'. He did have an idea. Other couples - Masters and slave girls - were bidding each other goodnight, laughing and kissing each other.

'Its traditionally ... daybreak, isn't it...?'. Janice couldn't believe she just said that. He was looking at her very closely.

'I believe it is...I believe it is.' He wavered for a second, then his voice was suddenly very firm. 'You'd better come with me then', he said standing and taking her once again by the arm.

Janice...no the Barbarian Princess, pulsed with fear and excitement as he led her to the lifts. He pressed the 'up' button and she jerked his hand off her.

'That's no way to treat a Princess from the North' she said.

'Is that so?' he answered. '

No it is not. In my land I should have you fed to the polar bears for your insolence'. Janice pouted and thrust her breast defiantly forward. She hoped her eyes were flashing. She hoped he'd take the bait. The lift doors opened and grabbing her by the arm he pushed her in. 'Princess?' he said sarcastically. 'I have bought you at a slave action. You are a slave. My slave.' She started to fight, she wanted him to be rougher, to increase the pressure on her arm, to wrestle her to the ground. Trying to control her, Antony pressed the 'stop' button and using all his strength, grabbed her wrists and held her still. As she squirmed, he managed with one hand to undo his belt and wrap it over her torso, just under her breasts, pinning her arms by her sides. He buckled the belt tightly and smiled as he watched her struggle in the improvised restraints. She began swearing at him and he put her hand over her mouth.

'Quiet now', and she obeyed. He pressed floor 12 again, took off his dinner jacket and swept it over her shoulders, buttoning it on. Janice was amazed. To anyone waiting for the lift on their level, and there were two, she looked like a girl dressed in evening wear who had been given a jacket to wear by her considerate boyfriend against the midnight chill. They couldn't see the leather restraint underneath that kept her as his prisoner.

The people on Level 12 walked past them onto the lift without even a backwards glance, and Antony lead her to his room. Inside he unbuttoned his coat, stood back and admired her. He stepped forward, and with hands on her shoulders bent down for a passionate kiss. Not hard, but firm. Bound as she was, she felt self conscious again, but she refused to let go of the moment and returned the kiss with vigour. It was wonderful and she felt the current flow from his lips and down her spine. Then she bit his lip, not too hard but enough to surprise him,and she broke away,making a run to the door. He had her before she was half way there. He dragged her to the window, and her wondering why they were there ended when he pulled down the curtain cords. He unbuckled his belt and began binding her wrists, crossed over, behind her back.

He fought him, but he was too strong and she loved it.

'I'm sorry I have to do this', he said breathing heavily 'but you left me no option. You're mine for the night, I paid good money for you, and I'm completely within my rights to bind...' he undid his tie and cleave-gagged her, tying the knot at the base of her neck, '....and gag you'. Satisfied, he sat back on his elbows as she writhed and swore at him. After a few minutes of fruitless struggling, she lay back and glared at him. Exhausted.

Seeing she was done, Antony scooped her up and onto the bed. He kissed her legs, her shoulders, and her neck. Getting closer and closer to her lips. 'Now the evening starts, my prisoner. No don't tire yourself struggling. I can see I'm going to have to keep you like this till morning. And if you don't behave it will be the back of my hand'. Janice's eyes widened. She couldn't get free. She was his captive. And it was wonderful.

Yes and No

Dear Readers, does it ever happen to you, that your fantasies seems so very much contradictory? It happens to me a lot. I have noticed in my reactions to other people, in chat and conversations, and I have felt it in reading other's stories.

I will give you an example and I am curious to know what you think of this. So, here it goes: I like an arrogant, determined and ruthless person to overwhelm me. Right, you have read my blog. You have met him there and you know how easily my heroines bow to his or her will.

Sometimes when I chat with someone, in a chat room, in Second Life or even email, I come across someone who tells me, straight away, that they know what kind of person I am, or rather what kind of girl I am. For some reason you are always a girl for these people. Furthermore they tell me they know what I want, which is – and here follows a series of suggestions that makes my cheek flash like an alarm signal with embarrassment. I am a prude, after all.

I get terribly annoyed with these people. That they are bold and blunt may be only expected. I do have myself to blame for visiting certain (virtual, mind you, I am talking about the wonderful world of the Web, nothing else) places. No, my reaction is very negative, thinking that they have no knowledge of me and have no idea of what I want. It is easier to accept that they disregard my opinion than it is to accept that they know me.

Isn't that the kind of arrogance that works in fantasies? Why can't I play along and just go with the flow? I am not, after all, out for a relationship, just some fun and some sharing of fantasies. The truth is that I don't like rudeness and arrogance.

But, and here is the contradiction. I sometimes talk to people who are very kind and pleasant, people who are considerate and attentive and who, without doubt, are so nice that you would consider talking to them in real life. They often maintain that, for example, a spanking is about the spanked knowing what the spankee wants and providing that.

I am a little disappointed, fantasy-wise. I don't like the thought that someone is just doing what I want, and possibly, needs my reassuring words and feedback. I do like to fantasise about someone who wants me for their own sake, not just to be kind to me. I have a hard time imagining getting a spanking as an act of kindness. No, there should be some kind of ruthless self indulgence on the behalf of the spanker for it to be interesting.

So, there it is, the contradiction. Is it because I mix reality with the fantasy, that when chatting there is actually a real person, someone who may have done this in real life, someone who imagines a real relationship? Because I know and recognise that real life relationship must be very different. You have to care about each other, give and take, play your roles, be attentive and all that.

In a way I don't think my reactions are strange but I wonder (and I don't expect you to be able to answer this...smiles), if this contradiction is there in my head, in me and that I can avoid it in fantasies by putting different sets of desires and emotions in different fantasies. Today I want a ruthless brute, tomorrow I may fantasise about someone who is attentive and loving.

Dialogue

You know by now that I like dialogues. Here is a long one. I haven't even marked who is saying what and that can be, kind of, annoying. I hope it is not too confusing and the flow of the conversation is still easy to follow. You have to decide on your own what kind of situation this is and how much about me it is...but that goes with everything I write.

And I have something to celebrate, two things, really. This is my 150th blog post and the number of visitors is now over 50 000. This is not much for those who have thousands of visitors every day but I am very proud. To be honest, I am very proud of my blog. I think I have achieved something. Thank you all for reading!

'Let us talk about your fantasies!'

'What about them? I have told you everything.'

'Perhaps you have, but still, can we talk about them?'

'Sure, anything.'

'As I understand it you have different, should we call it, types of fantasies.'

'Mhm.'

'There are those about slavery, you are being a slave and you are sold and then become a slave somewhere, like in a tavern or in a palace or something, or even the desert.'

'Yes, that is one type.'

'And then there is another kind, slightly different, with more green forests and you being a captive of some man. They are quite similar but you say they are different.'

'They are very different.'

'I have noticed you call yourself slave in the first type and captive in the other. Is there a difference?'

'It certainly is. A slave is when you live in a society where a person can be a slave, when it is accepted that she can be owned and sold and that sort of thing. No one will care if you are a slave in that sort of society. A captive, well, that is more between me and him, he has captured me, taken me and he is the kind of man who doesn't care if anyone minds.'

'I see, so there is a kind of difference in how public it is, being slave being public but captive a little more private?'

'I suppose...'

'Which leads me to the third kind. It makes sense now, this type is even more private, isn't it? You are with someone, often a man and he spanks you.'

'Sometimes there are people looking. You make me blush.'

'Why do you blush?'

'Just because I do.'

'I get the impression that it is about you and some other person and they spank you. And this is often in modern time to there has to be some kind of agreement about it. Am I right?'

'Guess so.'

'A question.'

'Go ahead, ask away!'

'When, say, a man has spanked you, in one of your fantasies, what happens then?'

'I don't know, the fantasy stops there.'

'But if you try to continue, what happens after you have been spanked?'

'I see where this is going.'

'Where is it going?'

'Always a question.'

'I know, but where is it going?'

'You are wondering if we are having sex?'

'Are you?'

'Why does it always have to be sex involved? Everyone always think of sex. It has nothing to do with sex. It is a fantasy about spanking, full stop.'

'I was just asking.'

'It is not about sex.'

'Are you sure?'

'Positive!'

'May I try to convince you that it may have to do with sex?'

'Give it your best shot!'

'It is a lot about nudity.'

'Nudity doesn't mean sex.'

'That is true but it often does.'

'It doesn't have to.'

'In your spanking fantasies, it is a lot about removing clothes, isn't it? There is always something that has to be bared, you have to take down your knickers. There is a lot of knickers in your fantasies.'

'Are you suggesting that I am preoccupied with knickers?'

'Not preoccupied, just that it is an important element.'

'Which means?'

'Oh, underwear and the removal of underwear is often connected to sex. Removing clothes is the preparation for sex.'

'It also makes the spanking harder, more painful.'

'That is true but why choose a body part that means you have to expose your sex when preparing for a spanking. Why not hands or feet or even the back? Why always the bottom?'

'Don't know.'

'Try to think about it!'

'I guess it is because it is there you spank, on the bottom.'

'It was quite common on the palms.'

'Maybe I didn't know that.'

'And in your slave and captive fantasies. How are you dressed there?'

'Naked.'

'Does it mean anything?'

'Well, if you are to be sold, they may want to look at you.'

'And the man who captures you?'

'Well, he is a man.'

'And why does he, as a man, wants to have you naked?'

'Alright, I see what you are getting at. But because he is a man and thinks of sex, I don't have to.'

'Tell me, what are you thinking when you walk there, by this man, bound and...naked?'

'I don't know. I guess I am thinking about the road ahead and what will happen when we get there.'

'What will happen?'

'I don't know.'

'Can't you think of anything?'

'No!'

'You are captured by a man, who has tied you up, stripped you naked, and you know he has stripped you naked because he is a man and you are a woman. Can't you think of anything that may happen when you make camp?'

'It would be logical.'

'What would be logical?'

'I guess he could be...well...interested in...well, having me.'

'Having you? Sexually?'

'Yes, sexually.'

'But that is not what you are thinking of?'

'No, I am thinking about if he will whip me when we make camp.'

'Ah, that is interesting, why would he whip you?'

'He may be annoyed with me, I am too slow or something.'

'How does that make you feel?'

'Scared.'

'Can you be more specific, try to describe how it would be to walk there, bound and naked on the way to camp and thinking about what this man would want to do with you when there!'

'You are directing me to think about sex.'

'Just a little, not very much, really. But, please, try to describe what you are feeling.'

'Alright. I am walking there. It is hot and I am tired. I know...no, I hope we will soon make camp. But I am a little apprehensive. I am scared he will whip me. It makes me feel, well, it is a kind of...how could I explain it, it is like my cheeks are hot and my heart is beating and I am upset...well...almost excited.'

'Excited, that doesn't sound like something altogether bad.'

'No, I guess not, it is not altogether bad. It is...well, rather nice, being excited. It is almost like I am looking forward to it. I am both scared and longing for it.'

'You want him to whip you?'

'Yes, yes, I think so. But no, I don't want it. It is very confusing. I both want and don't want it.'

'Where do you feel this excitement?'

'How do you mean where?'

'You know, certain sensations are sometimes connected to body parts, like you feel it in your cheeks when you are embarrassed, it is very individual, fear can make your heart beat faster and that sort of thing.'

'It is like a tickling, tingling sensation, it makes my cheeks warm and...well, my body...sort of reacts.'

'Reacts?'

'Well, yes, kind of tickling.'

'Where?'

'Alright! I am aroused. Satisfied now?'

'I am not trying to convince you you are thinking of sex. Just hinting at the possibility.'

'So being naked is about sex?'

'I would believe so.'

'So it is all about sex then?'

'No, not all, but I get the feeling it might, just might be connected to it, to some part.'

'So this kind of...joy, I am experiencing, when I...well, am being, sort of, you know, enslaved...or sold...when I...hm...am, like stripped naked...in public...sort of thing...could that...then be...like I am...aroused...I mean...a sexual thing?

'I wouldn't be surprised.'

'But I am thinking of being whipped, not having sex.'

'Well, a man is stripping you naked, beating you with his whip so you are lost in the sensation, makes you scream and cry. I wouldn't be the first one to think of it as standing in for sex.'

'But this being sold then, there is no whipping, no screaming there.'

'Just a suggestion, could it be about being seen? People are looking at you. They are seeing you as you are. You are not allowed any protection. You are naked and everyone can see you. And you experience a kind of...don't know exactly what to call it, a kind of elation or excitement.'

'Did I tell you that?'

'Not now, but I think you have hinted at it, earlier.'

'Because it is right, elation and...well excitement.'

'That is kind of strange, why would you be excited by being sold as property, unless...unless is means something else. Unless it means you are being seen by all and everyone and evaluated and, this is important, found to be valuable. But you are not just being evaluated as a worker or some field slave, no you are standing there naked, everyone can see your body and being naked may, I say may, mean that you are showing yourself as a sexual being, a body that can be desired. And you are desired, people are bidding for you, showing that you are valuable, and valuable in this context may mean attractive, sexy.'

'So this is some way for my subconscious to tell me to strip naked and be “sexual.”'

'No, not at all. It may, however, tell you that you want to be seen as attractive, and maybe that you already are seen as attractive. Or just to accept that you are a sexual being.'

'Why has it all have to do with sex?'

'It hasn't all to do with sex but a lot has.'

'So what are you saying?'

'I am just saying that you may want to try to accept that you too have desires and needs.'

'Sexual needs?'

'Yes, among others.'

'So all those fantasies, what are they?'

'Images of you, what you feel.'

'Ah, that simple?'

'Yes, that simple.'

'But not, like, straightforward?'

'No, not straightforward. Fantasies are like dreams, they have meanings but not necessarily like a whipping means you want to be whipped.'

'If I shall trust you it means I want to be fucked.'

'It is one possible interpretation. And I have never heard you say “fucked” before.'

'Gosh! Did I? Well, I did, didn't I?'

'Yes, you did.'

'What does that mean, then?'

'I think it means you are on a journey.'

'I guess I am.'

The Party, part 2

I have been very close to chicken out and not put this second part on the blog. I do blush as I read it and I suppose I at least managed to shock one person. But it is here now, the second and concluding part. The editing was minimal and you have to take it for what it is, a naughty story.

'Come lie over the armrest of your armchair!' he told her and all eyes turned to her as she squirmed in her seat. She blushed and realised that there was no escape. She slowly rose to her feet, stepped round the armchair, looked around with a worried expression on her face. She saw only smiling faces, encouraging faces, no sympathy or pity. All of us wanted to see her being whipped.

She slowly prostrated her body on the armrest as Mr Collins rose to his feet. He looked around and seemed a little nervous but all and everyone in the company seemed to urge him on.

'Lift your skirt!' he ordered, his voice excited.

Mrs Collins reached backwards and pulled at her skirt. It was wide enough to allow her to expose her bottom without lifting her body. I saw a slight trembling in her frame.

'Shall I let her keep her knickers on?' he asked in earnest.

'No, by no means, no!' my husband exclaimed encouraged by the other men.

'Never whip a woman on her knickers or on her clothes,' Mr Warwick declared, 'unless in a public space when it may be necessary to let her keep something on.'

They all laughed at that. Or at least the men laughed. The wives looked a little worried.

Mrs Collins didn't move. Although she knew by now that her knickers were coming down she was wise enough to wait for the order.

When it finally came she moved a little awkwardly as she pulled her green cotton knickers down. First just the little but when ordered halfway down her thighs.

Mrs Collins was now ready to receive her punishment.

'How many lashes?' Mr Collins asked.

'How many as you like,' said Mr Warwick.

'You decide,' said my husband.

Mr Jones nodded.

'But not less than twenty,' said Mr Warwick, 'for being late.'

'Shall she count them out loud?'

'If you want that.'

Mrs Collins wasn't used to this. She started squirming as soon as the first blow of the martinet landed on her bottom. She squealed and it took some time before she had composed herself enough to count.

'One!'

Immediately the next blow fell and Mrs Collins cried out in agony and her hand reached out to her bottom where red stripes were appearing.

'You shouldn't allow her to touch her bottom,' Mr Jones said.

'Sarah, take away your hands!'

Reluctantly she removed her hands and was rewarded with another lash.

'Three,' she squealed while her bottom was wriggling. She gasped and seemed to be in much agony. I saw her body tremble and I imagined she was wondering if she could cope with much more.

The fourth blow fell and Mrs Collins cried out and was sobbing softly before she composed herself enough to whisper:

'Four!'

'Harder!' my husband said, 'you can beat her much harder.'

'She can take much more,' Mr Warwick said

Mr Collins collected himself, took a deep breath and let the martinet swing and land with a loud crack on the naked bottom of Mrs Collins. She cried out in agony, her scream ending in a long squeal.

'Please, please,' she sobbed, 'I can't take anymore, please, no more.'

Mr Collins looked confused but seemed to take a deep breath and compose himself.

'Count!'

The men around the table nodded approvingly as Mrs Collins gasped.

'Five!'

The punishment of Mrs Collins continued with much squealing and and crying but she was disciplined and obedient enough to compose herself after each powerful blow of the martinet on her exposed bottom and count the strokes.

Mr Collins kept on whipping his wife until the counting reached 25 and after that he stopped the punishment.

Mrs Collins was sweaty, her white bottom shining bright red and blueish in places, her body trembling when she was allowed to pull her knickers up and rise from the armchair.

The very flustered and teary faced Mrs Collins sat down gingerly in her armchair as the other guests looked on approvingly. They were happy for her punishment and glad she had taken it but there was no sign of sympathy, not even from the other women.

'Wipe that smile from your face, Kate!' my husband said and I was startled feeling caught out. I guess I had been smiling, having enjoyed the whipping of Mrs Collins.

'Forgive me,' I said and bowed my head.

'I know something far better,' he said, 'something that will teach you to never forget your position.'

'Yes, sir,' I said, trembling.

'Harry, will you please give me the martinet,' he said, turning to Mr Collins.

He got the martinet as he rose to his feet.

'Kate, over the armrest!'

His order was swift and spoken in a calm voice. I knew better than to dally. I was on my feet immediately and soon I had draped my body across the armrest, bottom sticking up in the correct angle.

'Spread your legs!' he ordered'

I was blushing as I obeyed knowing that my sex was now fully visible to our guest.

'Wider!'

I did as I was ordered.

'Wider still!'

He wasn't satisfied until my feet were uncomfortably wide apart and I realised that my sex was not only visible but fully on display and wide open.

He soon proceeded to whip me. He was a master with the martinet and he didn't hold back. I squirmed as the first lash hit me across my bottom. I gasped and held my breath. I didn't have to count but I was sensing that it would be a struggle to cope with this.

He waited before he let the martinet fall again but the force rocked my body forward and I had to cry out in pain. Tears welled up in my eyes but I did not protest. I never protested.

He whipped me good, waited between lashes. But gave them to me with great force. He whipped me across the buttocks and occasionally on the thighs, choosing which one to target. Sometimes he made them long so they wrapped around my body, stinging my belly and sometimes short so they hit my tender sex making my body jump. Sometimes he hit three in quick succession and then I almost lost it and fell off the armrest.

I lost my concentration and soon I wept and cried and sobbed, worse than Mrs Collins but I never pleaded with him. I took my whipping without protests.

I got many more than poor Mrs Collins. She had endure 25, I got 75 and my husband was a better man with the martinet than Mr Collins.

I was sweaty as I fell back on my knees, spreading them wide. I looked around and saw admiration in the eyes of the guests. This was the way to whip a woman and they knew it. I felt proud of him. I knew he was good.

My whipping had the effect of not only making me suffer but it also made the arousal I had experienced grow to an almost unendurable level. The fact that I had been whipped on my sex on occasions did not diminish this sense of arousal, instead it seemed to increase it. I wanted, very much our guests to leave so we could deal with this in private.

My wishes was not to be fulfilled. Instead my husband ordered me to walk around among the guests in order to let them get the opportunity to inspect my whipped body and touch my welts.

This they did with some enthusiasm. I had to endure their hands on my hot and aching bottom. Some of their hands were cold and this soothed me somewhat but their touch was still painful. I resisted an urge to look behind and inspect my bottom. I was sure it was a mess.

Although it was smarting it was still quite numb, something I was grateful for. I knew the real soreness would come later.

Walking round among the guests having them touch my tender skin did nothing to calm my overwhelming and humiliating sense of arousal. On the contrary, although the touching was unwelcome it heightened the sense of excitement.

Some of the hands on my battered behind was quite intrusive and some felt they had the right to use this opportunity to grope me a little. Mr Warwick was the boldest and let a hand slip in between my legs to touch my sex and briefly slip into me. I held my breath but could not avoid sensing how much this stimulated my already excited senses.

The bold Mr Warwick didn't fail to notice this and pointed it out loudly.

'I think your wife enjoyed your treatment, John' he declared.

They all laughed heartily at this remark and I blushed and hoped that it would be enough but Mr Warwick was not to be dismissed that easily.

'Well Mrs, are you aroused?'

I looked in panic at my husband.

'Kate, I think you should reply to that.'

'Yes, sir,' I replied and tried to avoid letting my disappointment be heard, 'yes, sir, I am aroused.'

They all chuckled and Mr Warwick seemed very pleased with that.

'Why waste such an opportunity?' he continued.

'You are right,' my husband replied, 'Kate, go and get some ropes and the Member!'

I was wise enough not to protest. I didn't want them to get a reason to trash me any more. I walked on rather shaky legs over to the cupboard and got some ropes and the Member. The Member was the name of a very large green dildo that was kept in store for very special occasions. I would never forget the day I spent with the Member showed up my sex and how hard it was to concentrate on my ordinary work.

I presented the ropes and the Member to my husband on my knees and I felt the anticipation rise in the audience. My hands were soon tied behind my back and I was conducted to a low table where I was ordered to sit and still spread my legs wide.

I had hoped that it would not come to this. I was more embarrassed about my arousal showing than the effect of pain and suffering, I was not overly embarrassed about crying in front of others but being aroused, let alone being satisfied was utterly shameful for me.

The shy Mrs Jones was called forward and given the Member. She knelt in front of me and told where to put it. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I felt the green thing press against my sex. I felt utterly intruded upon as it slipped into me.

I closed my eyes to endure this ordeal as Mrs Jones, on the order of the onlookers started to move the Member, slowly in and out. At first it wasn't too bad and I struggled to stay calm. Soon, however, the effect of the ceaseless stimulation of my already excited sex could not be ignored. I was torn between my determination to not let this affect me and the pleasure it, really, was sensing the Member glide in and out of me.

The desire to give in to that pleasure grow strong but my resistance was likewise strong. I knew it would be so easy to give in, to let go and have it over and done with. I didn't want that. I didn't want them to watch me lose control.

Mrs Jones was persistent and relentless and soon my bound and still very naked body wriggled and twisted in the agony of this treatment. At last there was a point where I had to give in and where I felt that I welcomed its movements and where I wanted it to take me to the point where there was no return.

'Stop!' my husband said and Mrs Jones stopped. I was panting. He had spotted the very moment when I was giving in and when my mind and my body in concert desired to come.

I sat panting, lost, my body aching, wanting to come but being denied. I was devastated, I was defeated and in that moment denied the pleasure of being conquered.

They all looked at me as I sat panting, breathing deeply, calming down, just a little.

When my husband deemed the time right he ordered Mrs Jones to continue and she did. My resistance was short lived this time. His order to stop came just in the right, or, for me, the wrong moment.

This sweet agonising torture continued for a long while and I lost track of the times I was taken to the brink of an orgasm and then denied it.

There came a point when my body was not to be denied. I exploded and in that moment I didn't care if the whole world was watching. I behaved in the most degrading manner as I squealed and sighed as I came.

As I came around I found that seven pairs of eyes were fixed on me and they were accompanied by smiling faces. I saw no menace in the faces and they all looked very pleased. I supposed the mutual pleasure among them had different reasons. I assumed the men found a more simple pleasure in seeing me come like that while the women enjoyed my humiliation and the fact that they were spared, this time.

My husband walked up to me and took the Member from the hands of the still trembling Mrs Jones. He smiled at her and dismissed her. He turned to me and looked me in the eyes.

'Well done, sweet Kate,' he said as he took hold of me left nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted and turned, hard.

I cried out in pain. And sat panting as he released me from the ropes. I felt subdued as I fell to my knees again, spreading my legs wide open and taking position, yet again, with back straightened, and bosom pushed forward.

It was time to end the party and the friends seemed sad to leave but it was getting late. I followed them to the door, helped them with their coats and had to endure their goodbyes that included kissing on cheeks and the mandatory touching and the occasional slipping into me with fingers. I wasn't aroused this time. I felt just intruded upon and somehow, it brought home even more clearly than at arrival that my body was at their disposal. I knew that this was what my husband wanted.

I didn't have to put things in order after the party immediately. My husband told me it could wait and I was grateful, feeling exhausted after the evening.

We brushed out teeth together and I looked at my bottom in the mirror. The martinet always made a mess of it and I felt how the numbness was giving way to a throbbing pain I knew would make it hard for me to fall asleep. Hopefully my public display would make me so tired and relaxed that sleep would come to me soon.

I needed my sleep. I had a hard day tomorrow. There was a faculty meeting and I knew it would be an ordeal sitting through the day on my whipped bottom. Being the head of the department made it necessary that I attended and, besides, my husband would never allow me to take a day off, just because I had been whipped the night before.

Still naked I cuddled up beside him in bed.

'Are you satisfied with the evening, Fitzwilliam, my husband?'

'I am, very much so,' he replied, 'and my name is not Fitzwilliam.'

This was a recurring and very silly joke.

'I know, Mr Darcy.'

'If you are not careful, I will let you sleep with the gag.'

'That would be dreadful.' I said, yawning.

Sleeping with the gag was almost impossible for me. I panicked with the gag in my mouth and although I could get used to it, it was terribly uncomfortable and horrible. I didn't want the gag and he knew it. He would only gag me if he really wanted to make a point.

'Good night, Mr Darcy!'

'Goodnight, my beautiful pet, goodnight slave Kate!'

'Goodnight, my Master!'

'Stop giggling!'

I didn't hear more as I drifted off to sleep.

The Party, part 1

Alright, this is a blog about fantasies. I don't think this is one of my best stories but there are a lot of things from fantasies in it. I thought I would try to be a little less held back and just write and try to overcome my prudishness and be a little vulgar. Don't expect too much orgies, though! Remember it is a very prudish person writing this!

Don't worry, the second part is already written so you don't have to wait months for it.

I was standing in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to the sauce that was to be served with the roast. I had everything under control. I had worked all day preparing for the party. Some of his, our, best friends were coming to visit and he wanted it to be perfect. I had cleaned the house, shopped for all the food and I had spent hours in the kitchen preparing. I had planned it well so I had time to slip into the shower and make myself presentable.

I was part of the party in his mind and I had to be clean and sparkling like the furniture. I spent a good hour in the bathroom, showering and preening myself, making myself look the best. I had donned my best dress, a black, very clinging thing, shorter than made me feel comfortable. The kind of dress that showed off every curve, every little part of my body, the kind you had to wear string knickers to. I had no bra and was concerned that my nipples would be on full display whenever they decided they had to stand to attention.

I was in full control of the situation, still my heart beat a double beat when I heard him open the door. I greeted him in the hallway and he looked pleased with me. I told him about all my preparations and he smiled approvingly. I loved that smile. I needed that smile.

He went into to the bathroom and had a shower. There was still time for that. I hummed a tune while I was checking everything for the dinner. The wine was there, the cutlery was there, the food was prepared or ready to be cooked. Everything was in order. I liked it to be like that. He liked it that way. I knew he would show me if he was displeased with anything.

When there was just some fifteen to ten minutes before the guests were to arrive he came into the kitchen. He was dressed in a shining white shirt and looked ever so smart. I gave him a kiss. He deserved it. I wanted him to know how gorgeous I found him.

Then he turned to me and said:

'Guest will soon be here, you'd better go change!'

'I thought I would take this dress.'

'No, I have changed my mind. Put on the Girdle and the ankle chain and the big bangle!'

I gave him a look. My heart was beating faster.

'If not the dress to that, what then?'

I anticipated the answer but I wanted him to say it. I didn't want to get such a thing wrong.

'Nothing,' he said, and smiled, 'nothing at all.'

'Knickers?'

'When I say nothing, I mean nothing.'

'But the Warwicks don't know us that well.'

'They know me.'

'They don't know me.'

'Go now!'

I sighed and went into the bedroom. I quickly stripped off the dress, the dress I had found to be too revealing, to exposing. How I missed it now that it lay on the bed. I kept my knickers on while I put on the bangle on my left wrist and the ankle chain on my right. The Girdle was a girdle in the ancient meaning of the word, really a kind of belt consisting of a gilded chain with golden disks, half an inch wide, some two inches in between. I wore it on my hips or, rather below my hips.

I always thought it made me look like some Egyptian dancer or the like. It was something very exotic and strange about wearing a chain low on your hips like that.

The moment of truth had come. He had said 'nothing' and he meant 'nothing.' I took a deep breath and slipped the knickers from me. I felt bereaved as they slipped down my thighs and left me naked. The Girdle and the bangle and the ankle chain didn't cover me. I was in all aspects naked, stark naked. And the guest would soon be here.

'Hurry up!' he shouted and I hurried from the bedroom.

'Marvellous,' he said smiling, 'they will be here any minute now. Just one thing to attend to.'

I saw that he was holding the riding crop in his hand.

'What have I done?' I gasped hearing the panic in my voice.

'Questioning my judgement.'

'You can't think it strange that I wonder.'

'Don't argue now, we don't have time for that. Lean over!'

Leaning over meant me standing with me hands on my knees, sticking my bottom out. It was the quickest and easiest punishment position.

I took my position and braced myself for the whip. I wished it wouldn't be too bad. I wasn't prepared for it. I wasn't sure I could cope with it.

The horsewhip was bad. It was harsh, designed to sting through the thick hide of a horse. Now it was going to be used on my sensitive skin, on my exposed bottom. And the marks would be fresh and visible as the guests arrived.

I almost cried out as the first blow hit me across the buttocks. I wasn't prepared for the pain. How could you prepare for something like that?

The second blow had me struggling to keep my hands on my knees. I knew that letting go meant more whipping, immediately or later.

I was given eight in all and I had tears in my eyes as he was done. But I had manage to take it without letting go of my knees. I was proud.

My bottom was still smarting as the doorbell rang. I knew I had to answer it. I was still flustered and affected when I rushed into the hallway. The good thing with the quick whipping was that I didn't have time to fret about being naked as I went to answer the door.

Meeting the Warwicks in the door, who were dressed in very smart clothes, taking their coats, brought home to me with all too much clarity how naked I was. The man smiled broadly and let his gaze linger on me. I assessed me, let his eyes stay on my bosom, taking in the fact that my nipples were standing to attention. He then let his gaze sweep over my body and I saw his eyebrows rise, just a little as he realised I was naked, completely naked.

I blushed as I was assessed this openly. Mrs Warwick was an auburn woman, good looking and dressed in a knee long, satin dress. How I had wished I could have been allowed something like that.

She was beautiful and she looked happy as she saw my nudity. Something glimmered in her eyes as she looked me over and tried to decide if I was more or less beautiful than she was. She smiled, so I assume she thought me less worthy. She gave her husband a worried look, however, and that pleased me somewhat.

My husband came out in the hallway and greeted the guests.

'Welcome, good to see you again. Say hi to my wife.'

Mr Warwick gave him a strange gaze and my husband nodded.

'It is allowed,' he said.

Mr Warwick then turned to me, put his left hand on my right breast, kneaded it, felt my hard nipple in his palm before he let his hand slip to my shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed my cheek and I gasped as I felt his right hand touch my sex, stay there for a second and then quickly slip into me.

I held my breath as his fingers quickly moved inside me and then, as causally as they had entered withdrew. He smiled at me and then turned to his wife.

'say hi to Kate you too!'

Mrs Warwick leaned forward and touched her cheek to my cheek while she too slipped her fingers into my sex. I gasped again as her quite cold fingers slipped in and out of me.

My husband looked a little annoyed and I knew that my gasping and showing surprise at the unexpected intrusions didn't please him.

'My wife doesn't show my guests the proper respect they deserve. I can whip her if it pleases you.'

He then looked at me.

'Please forgive me for being disrespectful,' I said and curtsied.

'Don't worry dear,' Mr Warwick said.

'No need to whip her more,' he continued, turning to my husband, 'I can see she has already displeased you.'

I saw an expression of disappointment flicker through the face of Mrs Warwick. I was sure she would have enjoyed seeing me get the whip.

I showed the Warwicks into the living room and offered them something to drink. They smiled and accepted a glass of port.

Two more coupled arrived, the Collins and the Jones. All of them greeted me the same way but now I was prepared and endured the touch without giving any sounds of distress.

However prepared I was, I couldn't avoid the strange and unwelcome sensation of arousal that already Mr Warwick had evoked with his touch and each consecutive intrusion only added to the heat and ache I experienced.

As I walked among the seated guests, offering port and other refreshments I knew I was flustered and I knew my nipples were erect and I felt their eyes upon my body.

The men seemed pleased with my nudity and seemed to find some satisfaction in letting their eyes linger on my exposed body as I moved among them. Their eyes burned me and I knew myself beheld. But it has to be admitted that this kind of attention was in all its humiliation also a source of some pride. Their smiles told me that my appearance was pleasing to them.

The women, however, seemed to enjoy my nudity for completely different reasons. Their expressions spoke of a satisfaction that seemed to stem from the humiliation they imagined I must experience. They looked at my face, tried to assess my reactions and when I blushed or showed signs of being ashamed they seemed pleased and satisfied.

The women also looked at my body and I imagined they wondered how they compared to me, smiling when they realised their bosom was bigger and seemed displeased if they thought that my frame was more slender or the like.

Dinner came and the guests sat down to eat. I served the appetiser and watched them eat. I then served the soup and then I was allowed to sit down to eat myself. I was not allowed at the table but had to kneel on the floor by a sideboard.

I had hardly time to kneel down before I had to rush up to fetch this or that or arrange for something other.

Soon it was time for the main course, the roast and I served that too. I cut the roast and put the meat on the plates and I had to lean in over the table, my naked body brushing against their clothes, my breasts hanging close to the table, being vulnerable to their touches should any of them desire that.

I wasn't spared. Many of them couldn't resist the temptation to pinch my nipple as it came close and more than once I felt a hand slide up between my thighs from behind. I got many a slap on my buttocks as I moved between the guests and my fresh whip marks never ceased to amaze them.

All this attention, all this focus on my naked body, and the fact that I was different, naked and the servant, the one who had no right to be respected only heightened my sense of vulnerability and made me more and more aroused. I wanted desperately to suppress this reaction, feeling that my nudity was enough exposure for the moment. I didn't want to offer them my arousal too. I was too shy for that.

Dinner was over and I cleared the table as the guests sat down in sofas and armchairs. As soon as I was done with the table I had to serve tea and biscuits and sherry and whisky.

As they all had been supplied with something to munch on and something to drink I was ordered to kneel on the floor among them.

The order was given by my husband without a sound. He just pointed to the floor and I knew I should kneel. He pointed with two fingers that he suddenly parted. I blushed as I understood the order. It meant I was to kneel with my knees apart.

I had never done that before, except with my husband, never among others. There was no disobeying so I turned to the guests, fell to my knees and obediently opened my thighs as I sat down.

I knew I had to do it properly and no modesty was allowed so I did my best to open up my knees real wide. Suddenly I sat there, on my knees, my sex wide open and exposed, facing the guests.

I think that sitting down among them, still naked, and with knees apart made me fully aware of how utterly naked and exposed I was.

As appropriate for this kind of kneeling, I pushed my breasts forward, straightened my back and let my hands hang loosely by my sides. I felt how my breasts were heaving, my nipples were hard and how my open and exposed sex was aching. In all this serving and shame and naked humiliation I could not deny that my body was reacting to all that happened around me. And sitting down after rushing around gave me time to think about it and experience all the mixed emotions.

'Do you whip her often?' Mr Jones asked.

'Yes,' my husband replied, 'she needs to be shown her place, quite regularly.'

'What do you use on her?' Mr Collins wondered.

'The horsewhip, the belt and the fish slice. Anything, really, that can be used on her.'

'I like to use the cane on my dear Elaine,' said Mr Warwick.

I saw how his wife, suddenly blushed.

'Isn't that so, my love?'

'Yes, that is true,' Mrs Warwick had to admit.

'I have found something interesting,' Mr Jones, said, 'I find it interesting that my Claire seems to be happier and more cheerful when I have whipped her. And more so when I have whipped her good. It is almost as if the harder I whip her the calmer and more content she becomes.'

'I have noticed that too,' Mr Warwick admitted, 'my Elaine seems happier when I use the cane on her, than when I just smack her with the hairbrush.'

'Kate is like that too,' my husband said, 'and I have found that she needs a real good thrashing now and then, the kind that makes her cry.'

I blushed as I heard him talk about me like that.

'What do you say, Eric,' Mr Warwick asked.

Mr Collins seemed a little confused.

'I haven't been married to my Sarah, that long. I haven't noticed that, really.'

'It will come,' my husband said.

'In fact,' Mr Collins said, 'Sarah is in for a spanking when we get home. She was late to work this morning. Can't have it like that. Any suggestions?'

'So many ways of punishing a woman,' my husband said looking quite pleased with himself, 'but late to work is serious so nothing too easy. The martinet perhaps.'

'Yes, the martinet is good,' said Mr Warwick, 'that will get her attention.'

'The martinet or the horsewhip,' Mr Jones said.

I shuddered at the mentioning of the horsewhip and my eight lashes earlier started to burn on my skin.

'The martinet sounds good,' replied Mr Collins, 'that is good. What do you say, Sarah?

He turned to his wife, a cute blond woman with her hair in a ponytail, dressed in a light summer dress. She blushed and lowered her gaze.

'I think it is good,' she mumbled.

'If you want you could do it now,' my husband said, that will cheer us all up.

'That is a brilliant idea!' exclaimed Mr Warwick.

Mr Jones nodded.

'Why not?' said Mr Collins and smiled with relief. 'What do you say, Sarah?'

'It is not for me to say,' she whispered, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

'Good reply,' said my husband, 'but you should get rid of that habit of asking her. Get used to just telling her.'

'I'll do it!' Mr Collins said, 'do you have a martinet?'

'Sure I have! Kate, go and get the martinet.'

'Which one, Sir?'

'The blue one.'

I rose to my feet and hurried to the cupboard where we kept all the instruments for my discipline and got the blue martinet. It was the more vicious one, the one that would hurt the most.

I knelt again, spread my knees, straightened my back, pushed my breasts forward, bowed my head and presented the martinet to Mr Collins. He took it with an expression of delight and surprise.

I glanced at his wife and saw her face turn white. She stared at her husband and the martinet in his hand.