Surrender, part 13

Back on track again. Here is more cheerful part of this story of surrender.

'We are going home to your flat,' he declared and I had to suppress my annoyance at having me get all the way to him only to go back.

As we went we walked arm in arm and I felt happy, being his girlfriend, his partner. I wasn't sure if I was but I let myself be that for the time being and I enjoyed it.

He had never visited my tiny flat and was amazed at how sparsely it was furnished. I had a kitchen table, a bed, two armchairs and a small side board. It was nothing fancy, simple design but, as I thought it, elegant.

He sat himself down in one of the dark green armchairs and accepted a glass of wine. Then he demanded I should show him my wardrobe. When I looked at him in bewilderment he explained that I should put on my clothes and show him.

I had to laugh, This was silly. I had loads of clothes but they were mostly practical things, that was good for my college but not for anything else.

He smiled but was persistent. He said we had plenty of time. So I started with my jackets. He looked at me with a straight face and made some noises when I wore something I think he at least found stylish enough.

After a while he told me that he didn't want me to disappear into the bedroom to change but I should bring the clothes to the living room and show him.

'Begin with trousers,' he said and laughed and I went into my bedroom and returned with a pile. I tried them on one by one and he shook his head. He didn't like them. The only pair he approved of was a pair of stretch jeans that clung to my legs and were quite low cut. Those were a pair Sarah, my friend, had given me because they didn't fit her but I had never used them.

Most of my skirts were too long but he liked some of the shorter ones. I had a wide, red skirt that fell to my knees that he liked, despite its length.

Tops were harder, some of my shirts were good, he told me and demanded I should show him what it looked like if I tied a knot in the front and wore the tight jeans. He liked that he could see my belly then.

Some of my other tops were acceptable, especially the ones I didn't use because they were too tight. He liked that.

He seemed to like my taste in dresses and found most of them good looking but especially the green one I had worn when I asked him to take me back. It wasn't elegant, he said but it made me look exposed.

I took off and put on my clothes in front of him and although I was embarrassed I stopped thinking about it after a while. Until it came to underwear. He was very keen on underwear.

'Throw them away,' he said about my bras, 'why would you want to wear a bra?'

'My nipples are visible if I don't wear a bra,' I said, grumpily.

'I like nipples.'

I knew my breasts were small enough to manage without a bra but it was, still, a little hurtful to be told like that.

He was quite enthusiastic when it came to knickers. He didn't demand that I tried them all on but some he wanted me to show him. Most of my knickers were cotton and quite childish, with hearts and cats on and that sort of thing but I had some that were black and smallish that he liked.

He accepted that my one piece swimsuit was elegant but he liked my bikinis better. Still he found most of them too prudish. He liked a red one I had that had low rise tie side briefs and a triangular halter neck bra, a classic but small bikini. This one I considered to be too daring to really wear at any public beach. He laughed when I told him.

When I thought I was done and most of my clothes lay in heaps and bundles on armchair and floor in my living room he rose and went to my bedroom. He wanted to check my wardrobe.

'I like those,' he said when he returned holding some of my scarves.

'Try this on,' he said and held out a very flimsy, red one with golden threads. It was made of some very thin fabric and had golden disks sewn to the ends, that rustled when you shook it. I had bought that on a trip to Cairo and I had thought it pretty but never used it.

I took the scarf and put it on.

'No, not around your neck, around your hips.'

I looked at him and tied it around my hips.

'You should learn to belly dance,' he said, that scarf gives me ideas.

I smiled at him. He was like a child, a child with some naughty ideas.

'But you can't be wearing those jeans. Take them off!'

I knew better than to protest so I unbuttoned my jeans and took them off.

'Still too much clothes, take the top off, too.'

I blushed as I stripped off my top. I felt suddenly naked as I stood before him dressed only in knickers and the scarf around my hips.

'Knickers too.'

'The scarf won't cover me.'

'I know.'

I took my knickers off and was now only wearing the scarf.

'Lower, let it hang on your hips, even below the hip bones, I want to see your belly.'

I retied the scarf and made sure it was low on my hips.

'Now stand there, weight on one leg, push your hip out, hand at your hip, let the other hang, push your bosom out, look at me, over the shoulder, straighten your back.'

I felt like I was in a photo shoot and he was instructing me. I tried to follow his orders.

'There you go, very nice. You would make a lovely barbarian princess.'

'A princess with very little clothes on.'

'Or a dancer or a harem slave or both at the same time. My imagination flies.'

'Are you a barbarian king and I would sit at your feet?'

'That is not a bad idea. And maybe I should chain you. I think you would look lovely in chains, imagine the hard steel against that soft skin.'

'I feel silly.'

'Don't be, you look lovely. You should learn to dance. You are really sexy like that, exotic and sexy. I like that. Maybe I should invite all my friends to dinner and have you wait at the table, dressed like that.'

'Don't you dare.'

'Don't tempt me, you don't know what I dare.'

I was silent. I knew he spoke the truth, in a flash I imagined him really doing that. I wondered if my willingness to do anything for him reached that far.

'We have to go shopping.'

'Too little rubber pants in my wardrobe?'

'What do you mean by that,' he snapped and I felt a cold hand grip my heart.

'Nothing,' I said, my voice weak, 'I just thought, perhaps...'

'What did you think?'

'I talked to my friend, Sarah, and she thought that perhaps...perhaps you were into that sort of thing.'

'Like fetish wear, like rubber and leather, like I was part of some kinky scene, like I went to some fetish club?'

'I don't know, maybe, I did.'

'You think this is a game?'

'No, I didn't mean it like that.'

'How did you mean it?'

'I don't know, sorry, forgive me.'

'Very well, it is a mistake, easily done. I can tell you, I don't fancy rubber and I don't fancy leather and I am not part of a scene. I am me and I want a woman by my feet and you are that woman. There is nothing more to it than that.'

'I understand,' I said, 'I am sorry.'

'That's alright.'

Pride and Anger

Pride, we all have pride. Just because you have fantasies about being sold as a slave or caned in a humiliating way doesn't mean that you don't have pride. Maybe it is because you have a little too much of that, that you have those fantasies. That could, very well, be true about me.

Growing older means, among other things, you see yourself a little clearer. Never believe you know completely what you are but it slowly becomes just a tad clearer with age. You begin to know what you are good at and what you are not so good at.

I am, for example, useless with complicated plot lines. Maybe that is why I don't like crime fiction and thrillers. It's sad when you sit and watch the great conclusion and don't understand what happened. 'Why was he so angry with the brother of his boss' lover because he had lost some money on the races and was that really a reason to kill the gardener's cousin?'

I am not so good at understanding long written texts, believe it or not. And I am useless with the remote controls of the things in our home.

I am, however, quite good with pictures. I recognise patterns easily and can have a guess at who painted a certain picture because I know their style. Despite the fact that I hate logic I am quite good at it, I have a maths brain but I prefer logic and maths when it is in pictures and not in text.

Another thing I am good at is to pick apart an argument and know what people really said and see the flaws and strength of it.

Back to pride. I am old enough to be proud of my achievements and to defend my position in subject areas I am passionate about. I wouldn't pretend to know anything about quarks or renaissance poetry but I have had a fair bit of education in Linguistics and Ancient History.

In fact, language is one of those things I am passionate about and I have read enough, studied enough, to have come across most of the main areas. I don't pretend to know the field but I have been around enough to know that when I do have an opinion I know it is well thought through. And when I am certain of a fact, I know why.

One problem with Linguistics is that everyone is an expert, everyone knows the language. To some extent that is true, the intuitive knowledge of how to communicate is the very basis for what we research within Linguistics. It doesn't automatically make you an expert on language history or typology or even formal grammar, though.

Mind you, it is not Linguists who pick on grammar and write complaining letters to the Telegraph. No, those are the language police, whose ranks are filled with over confident teachers and those who struggled through the old school only to now get the chance to pick on and bully someone else. Style in language is not the same as grammar.

The other day I found myself chatting online with somebody who I had experience of being quite insensitive and prone to saying quite hurtful things to me. But I had my reasons to give him another chance.

It all ended up in a silly discussion about the history of the English language. What is truth, one may ask? At least there is often an establish theory that is accepted within the research community and when I know what that theory is and agree with it it is hard to stand down when someone just tells you, you are wrong.

When that person tells you he is a public school boy and because of that he 'knows', it feels petty to point to your years of studies at the university. I don't claim that university makes you an authority, not at all. There is a tremendous number of idiots in academia and lots you could be ashamed of. No, it was just very tempting to hit back.

It is quite silly to row about something that is easy to check out – Wikipedia is a good start – and I don't know why I didn't stop it there. It became nasty. I like to stay on target and when I do, I don't like to be dismissed with 'do you know irony'. Bad cop out.

Anyway, this person is now deleted from my contact list and all is well with that. Why do I blog about this? Am I petty and whining? Well, yes, that is what I am. I am angry and hurt and this is my blog. I want to be petty.

Dear Readers, I guess I wanted a sympathetic ear or just wanted to get it off my chest. Thanks for listening. I know you to be very lovely people.

Just some advice for those who may be provoked by this. Don't say I play the dumb blond or call me a foul mouthed fish wife, ever!!

Surrender, part 12

I am much more clever than you may think. There were a lot of things I chose not to tell in that last story, just to see how you reacted. Not that I know that much now, but it was still fun. Never mind, writing is not about being clever but about stories. Here is the next part of Surrender.

'How I would love to keep you here in my flat, in my bed. But you will have to wait. There is a bit left of your punishment and we will take that the next week.'

'I'll do anything for you.' I smiled at him.

'This time I almost believe you.'

'Thank you.'

'You don't have to abide by the rules.'

'Oh, thank you.'

'But I want you to do one thing for me, every evening.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Strip naked, and light a candle, and sit down in front of it. Kneel and spread your knees wide. Open your body and sit like that for a while. Remember how attractive you are and how desirable that body is. Do that for me!'

'Yes, I will, as you instruct.'

He laughed at the formality in my words and I had to giggle.

'Do you know why I was so particular about the skirt rule?' he said on the Wednesday, the next week when I had returned for the final part of my punishment. I had taken the same skirt as last time the slightly shorter of the two modest black ones.

'Because you want me to feel exposed?'

'Ah, that is true, but only partly so.'

'I don't understand.'

'You are such a child at times. Did you get anything what I told you in front of the mirror last week?'

'I don't know.'

'What did you get?'

'That you think I am attractive.' I felt how I blushed.

'And why I want you to wear a short skirt?'

'Because you think it looks better.'

'Why does a short skirt look better than a long?'

'More legs?'

'Yes, more you, more of your body is there for me to look at.'

'I see.'

'I don't think you do.'

I looked at him in bewilderment.

'No,' he said, 'I am a selfish bastard and I think women are attractive, I think you are attractive. I think your body is attractive and I want to see more of it. I want you to wear a short skirt because I, the selfish man I am, like to see more of your body.'

I blushed.

'You are cute when you blush. Take your clothes off so I can cane you.'

I was a little taken aback by his sudden change of subject. I hesitated for a second, then I began to strip off. I was amazed how easy it was, how hard it was.

There was no hesitation when I had started but his words of wanting to look upon my body burned in me. I wasn't stupid, I knew that men wanted to look at women but I couldn't imagine it was my body that attracted any of them to me.

As I knelt for the cane I was apprehensive and terrified but there was also a kind of elation that sprung from the knowledge that this was the final part of my punishment. Soon it would be over, the worst part would be over.

I was stronger this time. I began to cry after a while but I had the strength to compose myself and he didn't have to help me as much as the second time.

This time he took me in his arms as I stood on trembling legs after having climbed down from the chair. I pressed my naked body against his clothed frame and I felt both naked and very small in his embrace.

'Stay with me,' he whispered in my ear, 'stay with me tonight!'

I nodded, tears streaming from my eyes. I wanted to be with him.

I looked at him, I had to tilt my head backwards to see his face. I looked at his face and wondered about the man. He had strength and determination. Or was it just me who was weak? I felt a strange kind of admiration for him. He had whipped me, he had not hesitated. He had demanded that I bowed to his will and he had whipped me.

I could hate him, hate him for being cruel, hate him for being a devil, a selfish bastard, bent on having me as someone to rule. I was never ever again to be his equal, it was too late for that. I had accepted to be whipped by this man. I was never to be a princess with him, not a royal woman, worthy of respect. I was something else for this man, a woman, a body, a slave. I didn't know. I could hate him for that too but I didn't. I admired him and at this moment I basked in the sunshine of his attention.

He dressed me in a silk dressing gown, that caressed my skin. He sat me down on a cushion by the table and gave me food. He cooked for us and we had our dinner. I began to smile. I felt like a teenager or a child who had been on a long bike ride and was exhausted but proud of my achievement.

And when he led me to the bedroom, sat down and had me stand before him while he slipped the gown from my shoulders I felt attractive. His gaze on my body made me feel like I was beautiful. I saw in his eyes that he was proud of me.

He was gentle, thought about how sore my bottom was, gentle but determined and managed to have me in a way that satisfied both of us.

I fell asleep on his shoulder, happier than I had been for a long time.

In the morning I made us breakfast and I served it on the bed. He smiled and seemed pleased with me. For a while I felt like before, like I hadn't been whipped, hadn't knelt to this man and stripped at his command.

I knew that he would not compromise. He had made that clear. Staying with him would be at his conditions and I wasn't sure what it entailed. What did it mean to sit at his feet? What did it mean to obey him? I knew what would happen if I didn't.

I went home to change clothes before leaving for college but before I left he turned to me.

'Come back tomorrow, we'll start your training then.'

My cheeks were flashing as I walked home. 'Training' he had said, as if I was some subject of his, a trainee or an animal. Pride reared its head and I wanted to tell him I was a lecturer, a tutor and I didn't need any training.

I thought a lot about what he had said about skirts and showing of bodies. I knew he desired me, but I still couldn't understand it. It was still unbelievable. I had never been a woman who thought she was beautiful.

As a woman I thought about my appearance, how to look good and present myself. I liked clothes and was quite confident in my choices. But I knew I looked upon myself differently from other women. I knew many women were attractive to men and they knew it but that sort of thinking was a stranger to me.

I could see what it was that made them attractive. I could see that they were attractive, I felt it myself. I knew how they did it, how they showed a little bosom, or a bare midriff, or a tight top or a short skirt. But it had never been for me. I knew how to look elegant and stylish but I never dared pretend to be sexy.

I had always been amazed by young girls who browsed through the bathing suits and could hold up a tiny bikini and think about what it would look like on their own bodies. They wanted to be sexy, they wanted to show off their bodies. They enjoyed the attention and were confident that a certain bikini would give them that.

He wanted me to wear a shorter skirt because he could see more of me. That thought was shocking and new to me. The rational part of me knew I shouldn't be surprised, that I played a prim and innocent fool but the thought still was revolutionary for me. It was like a part of me that had been dormant, that had been rationalised into a desire to look right, to be proper for my job, look professional and elegant. I was baffled by how naïve I was.

As I walked to his flat in the evening I wondered what he would think of me. I was wearing a striped top I loved but thought to be a little too revealing as it clung to my body and I had donned a dark green, straight skirt that was rather short, one of the shortest I owned.

I blushed as I thought how my bare and skinny legs were on full display and I wondered what I looked like. My thoughts went back to my walk of penitence, the green summer dress and what it had looked like. I hadn't been wearing any knickers then and I had taken the dress off in the stairwell. I felt ashamed.

He had talked about training and I wondered what it meant. Was I to be trained by him? For what? What was it I was supposed to learn? To sit by his feet?

He was happy to see me. He smiled at me, hugged me and kissed me. I melted in his arms. His embrace was the sweetest thing and when he held me I truly believe I could do anything for this man.

He stood back and looked me over. He smiled that private and introvert smile I had come to love. Did it mean he liked what he saw? Or was he just amused at my pathetic attempt?

The Student

And now an original short story, a newly written Janice story. With some naughtiness in it. Hope you are well out there, Dear Readers, and not being too fed up with the long story. I know some of you like it but some don't.

The sun was setting and she lifted her eyes from her book and stared out through her window. She let her gaze jump from rooftop to rooftop, dance around the chimneys and then take to the sky over the red coloured sea, flying high above the ships of the harbour.

She closed the book that was lying in front of her, put it away on the shelf and switched on two small lamps. It was still light from the window but soon there would be darkness and she needed the electric light, although not much.

She stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. She took a hairbrush and ran it through her hair. Her hair fell to just below her shoulders, was a little red, a little blond. She gathered it to a ponytail, looked at her profile and nodded.

She took from her wardrobe a black skirt, and a striped long sleeved top. From her drawers she extracted a pair of black cotton knickers and a pair of over the knees, fishnet stockings.

In front of the mirror she watched herself transform. The knickers were tiny, not the minuscule string variety that the teenagers insisted upon believing, they would become the catch of the day. No, these were simple, low rise cotton knickers with no frills.

The fishnet stockings were extravagant but suited the knickers in a way. There were no need for garters or anything, these stayed in place by themselves.

Then she put the top on. She looked at herself and turned this way and that way, studying the shape of her body. The black and white striped top hugged her body tightly. She needed no bra and wore none. It made her breasts look softer and more natural. Some men liked that and some disliked it. Hers were small and proud enough to look better that way.

The neckline was wide and made the top want to come off her shoulders, at least one of them. The question was deciding which one. She pulled at the shirt and let it hang looser on the right side.

Then she donned the skirt. It was short and wide and came to half her thighs, perhaps a tad below half way. It was short but not provocatively short, just enough to allow her to show off her stocking clad legs without showing any bare skin.

She looked at herself and wondered what she saw. She looked ordinary, not sluttish, not held back, an ordinary girl, colours matching, fishnet stockings, a little bit of provocation but nothing too revealing. Her top was tight, hugged her body and anyone looking at her would notice her nipples. That was allowed, no one would be shocked, still a little enticing, and a little embarrassing.

She then put her shoes on, black ballet pumps, almost like slippers. They were no frills shoes, elegant and simple with a tiny little bow on the toes. They swish-swished as she moved over the floor.

From under the bed she extracted the suitcase. She put in on the bed and opened it. The crop was braided in black and white leather and quite sturdy, the two canes, one thicker and one thinner, were supple and hard. Her hands caressed the thick wood of the paddle. It was a sturdy but elegant thing, soft to the touch but heavy and hard, with holes drilled in it. There were some fine and soft ropes. Finally she took the hairbrush from the case. It had a long heavy head, with a flat surface.

She put the suitcase back under the bed and hung the tools on their designated hooks on the wall above her bed. Then she got a glass and a bottle of whine, poured some wine and sat down in the armchair, waiting.

She sipped the wine and looked at her room. It was simple and rough, had wooden floor boards and a worn rug. The wallpaper had been striped in white and gold but time and light had made them lose their lustre. At least the room was warm. She liked it, it was her hideout, her burrow.

He announced his arrival with a violent knock on the door.

'Let me in!' he roared when she didn't answer.

He banged once more on the door.

'Open the door,' he demanded.

She thought of the Queen and the Parliament and smiled to herself as she rose from her armchair.

He knocked on the door once more before she opened it. She stood back and let him in.

'Why didn't you open immediately?'

She didn't answer. He closed the door behind him. He took his coat off and handed it to her. She hung it on a hanger and took his hat and his gloves.

He was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark red satin tie. His shoes were shining. He was a pedant when it came to his shoes.

He walked in and sat down in her armchair. He looked at her wine glass, not emptied. He looked around the room and saw the tools on the wall.

'I want wine.'

She got him a glass, placed it beside him and poured some wine.

'Come here!'

She put down the bottle and stood in front of him.

'Lift your skirt!'

She lifted her skirt.

'Did I tell you to wear those knickers?'

'No, you didn't'

'And you are not wearing heels.'

'No.'

You didn't open the door. You are sloppy.'

'Yes.'

'You know what this means?'

'Yes.'

'What?'

'A punishment.'

'Indeed. I will have to punish you.'

'I understand.'

He sipped his wine, looked at her. She stood in silence.

'Go and get the cane and the ropes, put them on the bed and then get my gloves.'

She did as she was told. His eyes followed her as she softly moved through her room. He likened her to a cat. There was something graceful about her as she stretched her body to reach the ropes.

'Which one?'

'The sturdier one.'

She took the thicker cane from its hook and placed it besides the ropes on the bed.

She got him his gloves.

'The rope.'

She got him the rope.

'Turn around.'

She heard him rise from the armchair and come close to her. He encircled her wrists and tied them together. She felt his gloved hands touch her skin. He was very efficient with the rope. In an instant she was bound, her wrists parallel behind her back.

She felt him sling the rope around her arms, and how it cut into her skin as he pulled it tight. She gasped as she felt her elbows being pulled together. He spun her round and looked at her.

'This is how the Egyptians tied their prisoners, although they weren't bothered to bind the wrists.'

He scrutinised her, standing quite close to her, still.

'You don't have a big bosom, but it looks lovely this way.'

He smiled.

He directed her to the other end of the room, turned her round so that she faced the armchair. He then took hold of her top, pulled it up, up and above her chest, releasing her breasts.

When he thought she was quite exposed he stood back. The top was tight enough to not fall down. He stared at her breasts.

'Now, stand on your toes.'

She rose to the tip of her toes.

'Heels had made this easier. Stay there now.'

He returned to the armchair, took his gloves off and sipped his wine. He smiled and hummed a tune, took the paper from the sideboard and sat back to read.

Occasionally he cast a glance at the woman, standing, facing him, her arms tied behind her, bosom exposed, struggling to stay on her toes.

He took his time, reading, drinking his wine. He spoke to her, telling her of his day, what he had done, whom he had met and talked to, what they had said. Sometimes he asked her about her doings and she promptly replied.

The glass was empty and the paper read through and the man donned his gloves again.

'Come here.'

She walked towards him, gingerly, her feet aching.

He made her stand before him and he reached out and unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor.

'I like those knickers with lace, you know that. Still you insist on those cotton, boring ones. If you at least could wear string knickers.'

He sighed and took a firm grip on the offending knickers and yanked them down. He pulled them down her legs and down to her feet and she stepped out of them.

He rose to his feet, took a firm grip of her neck and directed her to the bed. There he pushed her down on top of it. She was lying face down with her knees on the floor.

He took the cane from the bed and swished it through the air.

'Do you want to know how many you will get?'

'Yes.'

'You will have to count them then.'

He placed the cane against her bottom and she stopped moving. It appeared to him that she took a deep breath, bracing herself.

He lifted the cane and looked at her. Then he let it fly. It hit her across her buttocks with a sharp report and she jumped. He saw her move her hands, the hands that were still held in place by the ropes.

He studied how a red welt formed on her fair skin.

'The thing about counting was an order.'

'One.'

Then he hit again and she jumped.

Two.'

He took his time. He smiled to himself as he once more placed the cane against her skin.

The third made her jump again and cry out a little.

'Three.'

The fourth made her take a deep breath and slowly wriggle her body. It took some time before she counted out loud.

After she had gasped 'nine' he stopped.

'Do you think you have had enough?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you want me to stop?'

'Yes.'

He replied with a blow of the cane.

The eleventh hit her across the thighs and she dug her face in the mattress and wailed. He smacked his lips and thought that he would direct more of the strokes to the thighs.

'Twenty-four.'

'I am quite done with this now.'

'Thank you.'

He loosened the rope around her wrists and then the one around her elbows. She moved her arms forward, shook her hands a little.

'Now, turn around but stay on your knees.'

She slid down from the bed turning around so that she ended up standing on her knees.

The man had returned to his armchair.

'Now, take the top off, but keep the stockings and shoes.'

She slipped the top from her and was now quite naked.

She let her hands hang by her sides. He saw the red marks from the ropes. He looked at her body, her small breasts and her soft belly. He liked what he saw. She didn't look at him, she lowered her gaze.

'I am in the mood now.'

She approached him on her knees and unzipped his trousers. She helped his member out. He stood to attention and she leaned forward and kissed him.

The man leaned back and closed his eyes as the woman closed her lips on his precious friend. She could hear his breathing getting heavy and a feel a slight trembling.

'Stop!'

She sat back.

The man was staring at her, something wild in his eyes. He rose to his feet, his attentive friend the only part of him that wasn't well dressed.

He pulled her to her feet and shoved her before him to the bed. He pushed her down on it, this time on her back. He took hold of her legs and stepped forward.

He wasted no time. Without further ado he entered her. She closed her eyes and so did he. She listened to his breathing as she felt her body being rocked by his onslaught.

He grunted loudly as he reached his goal. He didn't listen to her sighs. He didn't know if she was after him or before him. He didn't ask her.

He stood in silence for a while, panting. Then he withdrew. He replaced his little warrior and stood back. He looked at the woman, naked on the bed, her legs slightly parted.

He said nothing as he went to the door. The woman rose from the bed and came after him. She was still naked as she handed him his hat and helped him put his coat on. They didn't speak.

He turned to her and leaned forward and kissed her cheek, gently and softly. Then he opened the door and walked out.

The woman turned back and stepped out of her shoes, took off her stockings. She went into the bathroom, took a long shower and then she donned her pyjamas.

Again she stood in front of the mirror and looked at the white flannel with teddy bears on. She hung the cane back on the wall and the ropes. She took the book from the shelf, slipped between the sheets and made sure the light was right for reading.

She opened the heavy book, Calculus, and began to read. She yawned a bit, felt sleepy and wondered if she would be able to pick up any of the formulas she was studying.

Surrender, part 11

I wondered what he saw in me. I was a skinny, small woman. I had no lavish bosom, no swaying hips. I had no eyes to drown in, no lush lips to kiss. I was plain and ordinary, slender and small, with a small bosom and narrow hips. My hair was a dull auburn and my eyes grey.

Maybe I was just a proud woman to break, a conquest, someone he wanted to dance to his music and when he had broken me down he would leave the bits and pieces for me to collect.

Still my heart started pounding as he phoned me on Tuesday evening and told me my punishment would continue on Thursday. I tried to ask him if I was to be caned again but he didn't answer.

Now I know how horrible a caning was, how terrible his punishment could be. I spent Wednesday and Thursday in a strange haze, my mind no present, ever wandering off to the madness that awaited me.

Sarah had said I wanted it. How could I possibly want to be caned, to be punished like that? Still it was a high price to pay for having him take me back. And what was I coming back to? I wondered if there would be more dinners and theatres or if my future with him would be a long stretch of strange and cruel demands, demands and punishments when I didn't live up to them. And was there any sweet loving in store or would he be satisfied only with having me at his feet, literally and in spirit?

He had made me feel beautiful, he had made me feel attractive and lovable. Now he made me feel small and insignificant, guilty of treason and worthy a horrible punishment.

That was it! That was why I let him cane me. I felt guilty and worthy of a punishment. I let him do it because I needed to be free of that horrible guilt, that mean betrayal of walking out on him.

But it was mad to think like that. He had demanded that I should obey him and he had punished me. He had no right to do so. No right, whatsoever. He had no right to spank me, no other than the one I gave him.

As I arrived at his flat on Thursday evening I was prepared for a caning. I was prepared for the worst. I was still trembling, still shivering with fear. I doubted my resolve, my ability to cope with another thrashing like that. It had hurt so much.

He let me in, took me to the living room, sat me down on the sofa and gave me a glass of wine. He was pleased to see me, he smiled at me and I thought for a while that this caning, this punishment was only a strange dream and that he still was the perfect gentleman, wooing me, making me feel like the princess I used to be with him.

'Do you know why you are here?'

'Yes,' I said, suddenly brought back to reality, 'I am here to be punished.'

'Why are you punished?'

'Because I walked out on you.'

'Why do you accept being punished?'

'I...I don't know.'

'You know.'

'Because you will take me back.'

'Why do you want me to take you back?'

'Because I love you.'

'Do you know what it means to be back with me?'

'I will sit at your feet.'

'Yes.'

'And you will punish me when I don't do as I am told.'

'Is that what you want?'

'I want to be with you.'

'Even if I punish you?'

'Yes, no, I don't know, please, I don't know.'

'I am glad you came back.'

'Are you?'

'Of course I am.'

'Thank you.'

'You will be caned again.'

'Like last week?'

'Yes, at least as long as last week.'

'Yes,' I said, my voice trembling, 'longer than last week?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

'I...I am not sure,' I said, tears starting to run down my cheeks, 'I am not sure I can take it.'

'I know you can.'

'I am so scared.' Now I was crying. I was overcome by emotions, couldn't control my tears. I was crying like a child.

'I know you are scared. I will help you.'

In that moment I looked at him and wondered what devil he was. He demanded that I should be whipped and at the same time did he comfort me. Did he enjoy this? Did he find pleasure in seeing me cry?

Still I leaned on him, still I found comfort in his words. He was there for me in this moment of agony. In that moment I knew what it was to bow to his will. I could not understand his thoughts, his determination. I could only accept it and hope he made it possible for me to go through with it.

'I am ready.'

'Good, will you prepare?'

'Like last time?'

'Yes, like last time.'

'Now?'

'Yes.'

I rose to my feet. This time I wore a red, long sleeved top and the shorter of my two modest black skirts.

I slipped the top over my head, removed my bra, took my skirt off and stepped out of my shoes, all the while he was watching me. I placed the chair in its position and then I got the cane. It was lying on the oak table.

When I had given him the instrument of my punishment I knelt on the wooden chair and stuck my bottom out. I was ready. Tears were still running down my cheeks and I felt deflated and very, very scared.

It was a strange experience being caned by him, this time. He talked me through it. He comforted me and encouraged me. I vacillated between a sense of being taken on a ride, with him, that this was something we did together and a strange, intimidating sensation of how utterly cruel he was to whip me and comfort me at the same time.

I cried my heart out and squealed. I had no defences left for him. I sobbed and wailed and sometimes I begged him to stop. I was lost in my own agony and felt a kind of numbness, not in my body but in my mind. I pleaded from time to time but I didn't believe in the possibility of getting away. I was stuck in the moment and I seemed to accept it in a way I didn't last time. There was a strange kind of calmness at the core of my soul, a sensation of accepting what was happening, although my body suffered.

There seemed to be no end to it. One whack to my naked bottom followed another and my body was rocked by the impact. My new found acceptance didn't stop my body from trembling and my fingers from clutching at the back of the chair.

At last it was over. I stood trembling on my aching knees, sighing with relief as he told me it was done for the time being. I stood down from the chair and felt how weak I was in my knees. I was sweating and trembling and my bottom was as numb and throbbing as last time.

When I turned to him I expected him to be calm and collected, maybe even smiling but what I saw was something else. He had something haunted in his gaze and looked bewildered and upset.

He didn't take me in his arms this time and as I remembered how good it had been last week I felt a terrible longing for him, for his body next to mine.

The bewilderment was gone in a second and a kind of grim determination took its place. He took me by the hand and led me away.

'Come, there is something I want to show you.'

I could say nothing. He led me to his bedroom and turned me towards the great mirror. I saw him, dressed in black trousers and white shirt, a little flustered but smart looking, tall and dark, the gorgeous man he was. And then I saw myself, naked, small, pathetic and bare standing beside him.

'What do you see?'

'I see you.'

'And more?'

'I see me.'

I looked away.

'Look!' he snapped.

I had to look up.

'Look at you!'

'I am looking.'

'What do you see?'

'A skinny, naked woman.'

'Do you have any idea why I do this, why I punish you?'

'Because I disobey you.'

'Lots of people disobey me.'

'Please, I don't understand.'

I felt his hand on my aching bottom. His touch burnt my skin but it was still sweet. He let his hand caress my buttock and I held my breath. I trembled as I felt it move down and towards the centre. I blushed as I felt him trace the crack between my buttocks with his fingers.

I gasped as he let his fingers slide down my bottom and in between my legs. I almost cried out as I felt his fingers enter me. I looked up and saw my body cringe as I struggled with my emotions, the sudden intrusion, the pleasure of being touched.

'Please, I can't...'

'Hold on a little longer. For me.'

I struggled. He touched me where I wanted him to touch me and where his touch sent sparks of fire through my body.

'You wonder why I punish you. See this body! See this lovely, sweet
body! I desire it more than anything. I desire you more than anything.
This lovely, delightful body is too beautiful not to be mine. I want
it more than anything. I want it for me. I want it to be all mine, not
yours. I want your body to belong to me and not to you. I want to own
it and have it and have access to it. I punish you to show you that
I want to be in control of this body. I want your body to be my lovely possession and that it is always and ever subject to my will. I want to show you that you belong to me.'

I was speechless. I was held by his fingers inside me. I squirmed. Then I took a deep breath and spoke.

'You don't have to punish it to have it, I want to belong
to you anyway, I thought you knew that.'

'And this is what I wanted to do to you.'

His fingers snaked inside me and I sobbed as I tried to hold back, desperate, aching, terrified.

'Now, my dear, come for me.'

I let go and was overwhelmed by the sheer power of my orgasm. I stumbled, my legs became weak and I sank to my knees, my body trembling.

I crumbled up on the floor overcome with the aching delight of my long longed for orgasm. I had never experienced anything this violent and overwhelming before. It was so powerful it almost hurt.

'Thank you,' I whispered as he leaned over me. He smiled at me and kissed my cheek. My body relaxed and I felt weak and exhausted.