Wednesday, 13 August 2008

A Whipping Scene

Thank you for your replies to my question about fantasies. It is interesting to read your views although I am not sure I am any wiser now...smiles.

There hasn't been much writing lately so I don't have a lot of new stories. In addition, I feel that I may be repeating myself. I have a distinct feeling I have written this story before. Not exactly like this but similar.

Anyway, here is a story, a scene, a tad darker than usual but why should we refrain from being cruel in our fantasies? There is passion in cruelty and since you don't really have to feel the pain you may always allow yourself to enjoy it, if you want.

She was slender. When he looked at her back he thought that she looked like a child, like a girl. Her skin was tanned, almost olive and her dark hair kept in a ponytail.

He looked at her back and left flank and saw how the light from the fireplace made the shadows dance over her naked skin. She turned her back to him but he saw no rejection in that. She could do nothing but turn her back to him. He had tied her to the pillar in the big room, facing away from him.

He let his gaze linger on her naked body, her slim legs, her soft thighs, the round a small bottom curving, the cleft between the buttocks, her narrow hips. He looked at her slim waist, her slender back, her delicate arms that were embracing the wooden pillar and stretching upwards. He could see her right hand behind the pillar, remembering how he had tied her wrists together.

She looked at him over her shoulder and he saw her deep dark deer eyes stare at him, her full and delicate lips shiver.

He looked at her flank and her left breast, the small and round and sweet breast bulging and how it was pressed to the wood when she had to lean against it.

He looked at her and he found her beautiful, yes, more than beautiful. Her soft skin seemed to glow in the soft light from the candles and the fire. He thought about that soft skin, how he desired to touch it, how lovely it would be to trace his fingers over her curves, follow the shape of her body, feel its softness under his touch.

There was no time for touching. There would be time for that too. But at this very moment his heart burned with another kind of desire.

His grip tightened around the whip, the vicious leather whip. It was the perfect tool for his pleasure. It was hard and harsh, an instrument of torture, designed to inflict pain. It was no toy, no scary looking gadget designed to sound and seem horrible but was really meant to caress, to sting at the most, but to be sweet. No this was a real whip, designed to inflict pain. Still it was the kind that would not leave marks, would not harm or break the skin unless used with total abandon.

There was a risk for total abandon but he was prepared to take that risk. The girl at the pillar had no longer a choice.

He was almost surprised when he finally let the whip fly. He was startled by the vicious hissing sound when it travelled through the air to its intended, soft and vulnerable target, He was shocked at the loud crack, the terrible report that followed as the leather made contact with the sensitive skin of the girl's bottom.

He looked intently at her body as she drew her breath, held it and then let the air out. He watched the slight tremble in her frame as she seemed to struggle to cope with the shocking realisation that she had been whipped, that her naked and vulnerable body had been hit by the whip.

A welt was forming on her skin and he could see the mark he had made on her body. He could see the impact of his power over her, see it on her body. The power he had used to make her suffer.

Within him the joy of feeling that power struggled with the sense of the cruelty it was to hit the delicate body of this young woman with something as hard and brutal as a whip. He was struck with the immense unfairness of it all, to have this girl strip naked tie her to a pillar, deny her all possibilities of defending her body, to cover herself, and then hit her with a whip, a tool made to cause pain.

Still he liked it. He liked that unfairness, the cruelty, the meanness of it all. He liked the power he had, the power she had given him, the power to be kind or to be cruel. He loved the choosing of the cruelty, the making her suffer. He enjoyed the sense of doing it, whipping her and being so immensely unfair and cruel. He loved the inequality, the difference between them, the contrast between him, clad, protected, in power and cruel and her, naked, bound and subject to him, her having to endure his cruelty.

She didn't scream when the whip hit her again but she gasped and he heard her give up a low squealing, a sound of distress. He watched her press her small body to the wood in a pathetic attempt to get away from the whip.

He liked that. He liked watching her body move under the whip. He enjoyed seeing the helplessness, the vulnerability her body expressed with its movements when he whipped her.

The third lash made her fling her body sideways. He knew the whip had curled around her body and stung her lower belly. This was cruel. He knew that, he knew but he didn't have to feel the immense pain his whip caused when it left its burning marks on her naked skin.

That was the point, wasn't it? That he knew and could imagine the pain but didn't have to feel it. That he had the power of letting her feel it, that it was unequal, that they were different. That she was the one feeling the pain and he was the one giving it to her.

That was what he wanted, this was exactly how he wanted it. He wanted to be the one whipping and he wanted her to be the one being whipped. He wanted that contrast, that difference, the different conditions for them.

The fourth lash hit her upper thighs and this time she cried out. Her cry resounded through the room and suddenly there was a voice. They had been silent for a long time but now there was a voice. There were no words, just a cry of agony, a cry of pain.

It was as if that sound agony urged him on because he hit her again, this time across her bottom. She pressed her body against the pillar and gasped.

The sixth lash seemed to surprise her. She tore at her bonds and wriggled her body and a heart-rending wailing filled the room. He watched her body as it trembled and he heard the sobbing.

He knew she didn't fight it any more. He knew she didn't hold back any more. She didn't try to be strong any more, there was no pride there now. She just felt the pain and could do nothing about it. She surrendered to it and she cried.

She screamed in pain as the seventh lash hit her bottom and curled around her body. She cried when the eight hit her thighs and made her lift her legs in a pathetic dance of pain.

He trembled with the darkness that filled his soul, the dark desire that made him continue, the one that fed on her suffering, the one that forgot how painful a whip was, the one who enjoyed the effect of it but did no longer understand the pain.

She had become a tool for his desire as he continued to whip her, lash after lash. The girl squirmed and wriggled from side to side in a helpless struggle to avoid or cope with the relentless onslaught on her defenceless body.

He gave no mercy. He was close to the wild abandon he knew was not allowed. He gave no mercy as he let the whip fly, time and again and land on the unprotected body of the naked girl.

Then it was enough. Then he knew it was enough. He stopped and stood panting in the room. He dropped the whip and stared at the young woman before him.

He looked at her body, shivering, covered in a sheen of sweat, glowing in the soft light. He saw the welts, the marks of his whip, the signs of his power, the sighs of his cruelty.

He saw her beauty. He saw how sweet she was, how vulnerable she was and how cruel he had been. He felt a sudden pang of something that could have been regret or even guilt. He didn't struggle, he let it be there but he didn't give in to it. He had enjoyed it, after all.

He saw the sweetness in her body and all the joy it could give him, joy that didn't include pain or suffering for her. He wanted to touch her now, with a soft and sweet touch. He desired her and now all the wish to make her suffer was gone. He had felt his power, she had felt his power. Now he wanted sweet.

He walked to the bound woman and he heard her gasp as he put his hand on her shoulder, felt her skin hot under his fingers. This was his moment of agony, his moment of powerlessness, the moment he didn't control.

She turned her face to him, her eyes were wet with tears, her lips were trembling. She looked at him and her eyes read the question in his eyes.

He leaned forward as he saw her lips move, trying to form words.

'I love you,' she whispered feebly.

Then he knew.


Paul said...

Janice, excellent, a little on the edgy side, but the words "I love you", made it hot hot hot, especially for the sadist!
Warm hugs,

Anonymous said...

Thanks for the story, Janice. Although I enjoy complex narratives, I’m always happy with a detailed description of single scene. It’s rather like being able to appreciate both films and photographs. Does the ‘distinct feeling… [that you] have written this story before’ come from a memory of ‘An Evening in August’ which has always been among my favourite stories of yours? It is more or less the same scene but, whereas the earlier story was written from the point of view of the girl being flogged, ‘A Whipping Scene’ is narrated by the person administering the punishment.

I suppose the other major difference is that the beating itself is described in more detail in the new story. This is as it should be because the process is likely to mean more to the punisher than the punished who will be more focussed on the overall emotional impact of what is happening to her. Have I got this right?

I usually prefer this sort of story told from the point of view of the heroine rather than her tormentor (and lover) but I think that ‘A Whipping Scene’ perfectly captures the feelings of someone inflicting pain on an object of his desire. Whatever, I see ‘An Evening in August’ and ‘A Whipping Scene’ as companions rather than competitors.

One last thought: please don’t see returning to the same scene (‘not exactly like this but similar’) as a problem (‘I feel I may be repeating myself’) – one of my favourite C20 artists, Giorgio Morandi, painted virtually the same still-life (bottles) over and over, each time revealing something slightly different about his subject. That’s exactly what you have done in this story.

Hugs, Michael

Anonymous said...

How delightful to return from holiday to find such a ravishing scenario! (I do not, as you know, use the exclamation point often, dear J. That should tell you something...)

You have been exploring different points of view. From mine, you have captured the essence of dominant desire in vivid colo(u)rs.

You're so good at this I'm almost glad I've hung up the towel...otherwise I might be jealous!

Hugs (yes)

Janice said...

Dear Paul, thank you for the comment. Perhaps I dare to be a tad more edgy now. I think the ending was a little clever.

Dear Michael, yes, that was one of them. I didn't think that profoundly on this, when writing, just tried to see the scene from outside. I am glad you don't think I am repeating myself. I am sure I will return to this again.

Dear Marcus, 'ravishing scenario'...smiles, thank you. And I am glad I got it right about the dominant part. And, don't be ridiculous, you know your way around the words, more than anyone, so your praise is much appreciated.



Anonymous said...

Dear Janice

Gosh but this was a wonderful and intense read. Perhaps it is because I have read so little of anything of this nature for some time (what feels like an eternity) and it made my breath catch.

It wasn't the whipping itself that did anything it was the feelings and seeing his thoughts that really works so beautifully here. So many complex emotions and desires you brought to us in this piece and that is admirable in a short story when at times in longer work you don't find this much insight into basic human needs.

There were many lovely phrases but these words:
"This was his moment of agony, his moment of powerlessness, the moment he didn't control."
perfectly balanced with his power over her and as a woman it is a powerful moment for us, perhaps for some even the reason to endure the whip in the first place.



Janice said...

Dear Mina, this bit was important for me too. It meant that he was accepted, that she was, really, the one to say that this was mutual.



Anonymous said...

This is the first time I have read any of your writing. I must say, I am impressed! I will be looking forward to more from you, and in the meantime, I'll look for some of your other work.

Janice said...

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for the compliment. Are you just impressed or did anything of it have some meaning for you?