The Awakening

More from the hidden archives of my strange scribblings. This you may find a little strange but this is the right place for that, don't you think? This is a piece I wrote for myself, not really intended for the blog.

When did it start? Who knows when it started but I know when I discovered it. I was not old, not a child either. My mind was still susceptible to all sorts of strange influences, even if I thought of myself as strong willed and independent.

The change, or discovery, took place in an odd place, indeed. It may not seem an odd place to discover something crucial about yourself but, regarding the nature of my new-found knowledge, it was a strange place.

I wasn't alone when I entered the church. I was one of twenty-five others, both girls and boys. We had travelled by bus to this ancient university town and now we were taken on a guided tour through this very old church. None of us were really very interested but we had been told to behave and most of us did.

I had always been fascinated by churches and this one was very old and very peculiar. This excited me although I did my best to hide my excitement. We were taken through the different chapels and told the old stories about the students and deans that had been buried there and the saints that had been worshipped there.

In the chapel behind the high altar hung a crucifix and before it I stood as struck by lightning. No one should think that there was any kind of religious awakening that was happening. That which made me stand, as if frozen to the spot, was something completely different.

I stared at the cross and the man nailed to it. I am not religious. Still I do not wish to degrade or insult any religious belief. I know about the symbolism of Christ and the Crucifixion. I am too ignorant to know the religious significance of it all but I know about the sacrifice and how Jesus died for our sins. I know about it but it doesn't make much sense to me.

I stood there, overcome with a tidal wave of the strangest sensations. I stared at the man on the cross. It was sculpted in wood and made with much detail. It was very delicate and skilfully done. I stared in awe and amazement at the crucified man, because it was a man I saw.

The details, the intricate woodwork, made him come to life before my very eyes and I saw in that sculpture his agony and suffering. It came alive and suddenly I almost felt the nails through his hands and the strain in his body as he hung there.

In my overwhelmed mind I knew I should think of the suffering of Christ for our sins, but what I saw was the body of a man, a man they once nailed to a cross. I was staring at his body, a body that looked so real, almost as if he was alive, and I felt his suffering.

And I felt something else too, as I let my eyes caress the suffering body of the man on the cross, something that made me ashamed of being in a church, made me think I was the worst of the worst, the one in that church that should not be there.

I saw how naked he was. I saw his naked agonised body, stretched and tormented. I stared at his loincloth threatening to fall off. My mouth was dry and my head was humming as I felt how terribly excited I was at the sight of that naked body in agony.

I marvelled at the cruelty, the immense brutality in nailing someone to a cross and at the same time I felt my heart thumping in my chest for the horrible arousal I felt as I stared at him.

In my mind the agony became beauty and the suffering became passion and the nails were burning marks that filled the man with agonising pleasure. Lost was the religious meaning and left was only the blasphemous passion the sculpture evoked.

And then I took a step further. Instead of turning back, instead of sensing how inappropriate my staring at the crucified man was I choose to go deeper into my pulsating and blinding imagination.

In a flash I swapped place with him. I was the one nailed to the cross. I was the one whose naked body was stretched out and bound to the cross. It was I who was hanging there, in the church, in front of my peers, in front of all the visitors to the church.

Perhaps the cross was on a hill in the city or on the town square and all had gathered to see me crucified. and I was hanging there naked in front of them all and they could point and stare and mock and taunt me. I was helpless and lost.

And in my feverish thoughts I found I was naked, not even wearing a delicately arranged loincloth that was waving in the wind but nothing. I was hanging there stark naked, not a single piece of clothing was I allowed. And they could all see me in my misery and agony. And they all enjoyed it, laughed and watched as I hung in pain.

And as I stared out over the crowd, I knew I was not crucified for their sins, to take on me the evils of others. No, I was me, only me, naked and miserable, crucified for breaking all the laws of all the religions in the world. I truly deserved hanging there, stripped of all honour and decency.

And as I hung there looking at the crowd, knowing that they looked at me, looked at my body, I felt a thrill, a tingling in me, a strange sensation, that started between my legs, that trickled through my whole body and grew to an all encompassing wave. I knew then that what they looked at was a girl in agony, a young body nailed to the cross for her sins, a girl deserving her punishment. And I knew that they enjoyed it, I knew I was sexy.

The spell was broken as we were ushered on, to the next tomb, to the next chapel. I was shivering. I was changed. I knew then, that I was changed. I knew I had discovered a new kind of pleasure.

Spanking Story

I don't know what I said that made some of you think I had some kind of writer's block. That's not what I meant. It was more to express a kind of weariness with the kind of stories I write for the blog, me being weary of my own thoughts. I am not judging kinkiness and saying it is bad or anything, I am just a little fed up with the way my own mind works.

Anyway, I have read through what I have written the last year and was especially interested in the things I didn't want to put on the blog. I decided that I should take some of the texts I didn't find suitable and put here.

I am not sure I can resist the temptation to comment on the reason why I didn't think a certain text was suitable for the blog. I know I shouldn't, it will sound too much like a disclaimer, but I think I will do that from time to time anyway.

Here is a rather long spanking story I wrote a year ago. Too many words for too little action, is my comment to it. I will put it here, anyway, as it is, how I wrote it (just some light editing).

'Do you know what this is?' he said and put his hand on the wooden pillar that supported the roof in the barn.

'A beam,' I replied looking at him.

He smiled. That smile scared me but it also intrigued me immensely. He had something in mind and I knew it wasn't just a pillar, or a beam or some piece of wood.

'It is a whipping post,' he said, his smile just a tad menacing.

I strange kind of charge surged through my body. I blushed and felt silly for doing it.

His smile changed the whole atmosphere in the room. The mentioning of the whipping post had shocked me, hit me between the eyes, made me aware of what that smile meant.

His hand caressed the surface of the wood.

I nodded.

'You see the rope here?' he said and took hold of a rope that ran through an sturdy iron ring high up on the pillar.

'Yes,' I said, unable to say much more.

The rope was smooth and rather thin, but strong enough, I was sure, to bind, to tie someone like me with. I blushed again.

'If I want to whip someone,' he said, 'I will tie them with this rope.'

There was nothing in the tone or the prosody that told me who he meant but I knew who that someone would be. I knew he spoke of me.

It could have been a silly display of a man's toys but his way of saying that he may want to whip someone made it seem frightening, rather than ridiculous.

I drew my breath. I was scared. I felt it in my whole body. The strangest of things was that I didn't fret. I was scared but I felt that I wanted that fear. Maybe it wasn't fear, maybe it was anticipation, expectation.

'If I was to whip you,' he said, his words coming closer to me, 'then I would have you stretch out your arms on either side of the post.'

He looked at me, making sure I was listening. He scrutinised me for a while as if to try to figure out what I was thinking.

'Then, you see,' he continued, 'I would tie your wrists together, with this rope, so you were standing, facing the pole embracing it.'

He looked at me. I nodded.

'To secure you to the post, I would pull at the rope so that you had to lift your arms. Maybe I would be cruel to you and pull so hard that you had to stand on your toes.'

When he talked about being cruel to me, that strange charge surged through me again. I held my breath, felt my heart beat faster, my cheeks burn.

'Then, when you were standing like that, hands above your head, embracing the post, your body pressed to the wood, then you would be ready to be whipped.'

He looked at me, scrutinised me.

'What are you thinking of?' he asked.

'How helpless you would feel,' I replied, my mouth dry.

'Indeed,' he said, 'you would. That is the very point, to tie you helpless, ready to be whipped.'

I nodded.

'A very cruel thing too,' he continued, 'to whip a person, like that. She is helpless, at your command, at your mercy and all you do, all you choose for her is to whip her. You deny her the possibility of defending herself and then you beat her with a whip, just to make her suffer. That is cruel.'

He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the thought of being cruel to someone. He enjoyed the thought of being cruel to me. I was scared but I stood there. I didn't run.

Did I want him to be cruel to me? Did I want him to tie me to that pole and whip me? In my mind all of this seemed so romantic, the passion, the whip, the agony, the ecstasy, the pain as a companion to lust. But standing by this pole, this sturdy, wooden post, with its iron ring, its ropes and with this man, it all seemed so real, so frightening, so full of real pain, real unforgiving pain, real relentless pain, pain that seared through you and was just horrible and cruel and excruciating.

'It is of course worse if you are naked,' he said.

His words brought me back to reality. It brought me back to the unforgiving pain, the cruel pain.

But his mentioning of being naked made my body shiver. There was true fear, the fear of being bared to the whip and its pain, but also the charge, the red wave that shot through me and seemed to focus between my legs.

He walked over to the wall and now I saw that this was were he kept his tools. Neatly hanging side by side on hooks were horsewhips and crops and canes and some menacing looking whips. I didn't know the names of half of them.

He took a horsewhip from one hook. Held it out, looked at it, swished it through the air. Seemed to decide it was a good tool, turned to me and approached me.

I almost took a step back as he came closer.

'Of course it seems rather pointless to allow the one you are whipping clothes,' he said, 'it seems to defy the very purpose of whipping them in the first place.'

I didn't answer. The very matter of factly way he spoke of whipping someone made it seem even crueller, even more menacing.

The idea of baring the skin, that was to be whipped, seemed logical to him, a rational part of the overall plan. But to the one being whipped, to me, if I was tied to that pole, it would mean something completely different. It would mean more excruciating pain, and the baring a deliberate and humiliating part of something immensely cruel.

'This horsewhip,' he said, 'is designed to sting through the thick hide of a horse. It is not meant for the soft skin of a woman, not the bared skin of a woman.'

He swished the whip through the air and I had to take a step back, my heart beating wildly.

'This makes it a good tool for whipping a woman.'

He looked at me.

'It must really hurt,' I said, sensing that this was a very trivial and obvious thing to say.

'It is meant to hurt,' he said, smiling.

He looked at me and I knew he was intent on hurting me, whipping me. He wanted to tie me to the post and whip me. This thought made me dizzy.

Did I trust him? Would I let him do it? Would I be sure he wouldn't harm me, hurt me but not harm me? Did I want him to hurt me?

'Are you ready?' he said.

How could I know if I was ready? Could you be ready for such a thing? The pain, the excruciating pain. And the humiliation. How helpless wouldn't you be, tied to that post, unable to defend yourself and knowing that he was to use that helplessness to make you suffer. How could you possibly want that?

I nodded.

It was easy to nod. It was easy to just tilt your head a little and set it all in motion. He made it easy. I was in the middle of a turmoil of emotions and sensations and I had no idea what I wanted, if I wanted it, what it entailed. It was easy to nod and say yes and let it happen. It was like pulling a trigger, a tiny movement of the finger that could kill someone. From this moment, from this tiny nod, he had to do it, he had to help me through. I couldn't do it alone.

'Take your top off!' he commanded.

I was shocked by his bluntness. Having me taking my top off meant he was really baring me for the whip. There would be no protective cover. He had said it would be pointless to whip a woman unless her skin was bared but it all seemed too cruel to imagine.

I slipped my top off and in an instant the scene changed. Up to this point, everything, the post, the ropes and even the whip in his hand had been something we talked about, something we imagined. We were two people talking about cruel things, or rather he telling me about them. Now I was changed.

He was still clad, in his jacket, his black trousers and his shoes. I was not fully clad. I stood there with my top in my hands and my bosom bared. I was no longer just an ordinary person listening to his talk of cruel things. I had become a half naked woman standing by a whipping post.

The room was charged with the new tension. He looked at me. He looked me over. He took his time. He smiled. He showed me he liked what he saw. His gaze lingered on my breasts, my bared breasts and he showed no hesitation, no shame. I blushed.

He took my top from my hands and put it on a crate that stood behind him. I felt even more naked as I saw my top be moved further away from me and with him standing between me and it. It was beyond reach and I was just a woman with no top on, with her breasts on full display.

I didn't try to cover up. It seemed pointless. And there was something in the situation that compelled me to accept his gaze, accept him being able to look at me. Maybe I felt as if it was a kind of punishment this would be part of it, the baring of the breasts and the man looking at them and the woman not allowed to cover up.

Standing there being looked at with no top on made me feel embarrassed, self conscious and scared but there was also a strange kind of satisfaction, a hidden excitement that lurked inside me.

'Come here!' he said as he stood by the post.

I knew it was time for me to be tied to it. My heart was beating hard in my chest.

He took hold of the rope as I approached the post and I walked close to it and stopped. I waited. I didn't stretch out my arms. I didn't know what I was supposed to do now.

'Arms!' he said.

I stretched out my arms on either side of the post. The closeness to the uneven but smooth surface of the post made me aware of my nudity. I didn't want my skin to touch the post. I don't know why I feared it. It seemed cold and unwelcoming and I wasn't prepared to feel the rough world against my skin at that moment. I knew it would come but not just yet.

He grabbed my hands and gently crossed my wrists. I held them like that when he let go and encircled them with the rope and tied them. I was bound.

It struck me that I was no longer in control of my body. Up till that moment I could have turned and run, but now I was bound. Now I couldn't even take a step back.

I thought about the fact that he had allowed me to keep my jeans on. Did it possibly mean that I was going to be whipped on my jeans, that this taking off of my top was just to make me feel more naked, more vulnerable but he would be kind enough to whip me on my jeans?

I thought of the fabric in my jeans, the denim and how much it would protect me. I supposed there would be a difference. Why else this talk about baring a woman for the whip?

Or was he going to whip me on the back? The thought startled me. After all, that was how it was done in the olden days. A real flogging was on the back. For some reason I had imagined being whipped on the bottom. You were spanked on the bottom, it all seemed natural but this may be different.

I was strangely disappointed. I was shocked at this realisation. I was really and truly disappointed. I had imagined the embarrassment and the humiliation of having my jeans being lowered, my bottom bared, being stripped naked and although I felt only shame and fear I knew, deep in my heart, that I had wanted it, had expected it.

He took his end of the rope and started to pull. I felt my arms being lifted in the air. Up until that moment I had been able to stand with my arms away from the post and my upper body some inches free. But when my arms were lifted I had to come closer. My arms touched the cold surface first and I shivered, then I had to lean my upper body against it. I struggled to avoid it although I knew it was inevitable in the end.

First my nipples touched to wood and then my breasts and then I pressed even closer. The surface was smooth but uneven and very cold. Having my arms hoisted in the air made me feel more helpless and exposed to this whipping post than before and sensing my naked skin, the sensitive skin on my breasts and belly press against its surface made me feel very naked.

He pulled me skywards and I felt the strain in my arms. He stopped just short of forcing me up on tip toes.

'Now you are almost ready to receive your whipping,' he said and I was startled by his words. He brought me back to his grim reality and all the dread of his whip returned to me.

I felt my body tremble as I prepared to feel the whip land on my back. My mind was blank and I could only think: 'now it happens, now it becomes real.'

'Just one thing,' he said, 'those jeans. I hope you didn't expect to be allowed to keep them on.'

I gasped. I was not prepared for this. I almost cried out in agony. I was trembling as I felt him approaching.

Suddenly there was intimacy. He was close to me, I felt his closeness sensed his smell, heard him breathe. He stood behind me and his jacket brushed against my naked back and it made me feel even more exposed, more vulnerable.

I gasped as I felt his hand find their way over my hips. He was so close it made me tremble. That red wave surged through me again and my cheeks burned as I felt his fingers take hold of the button in my jeans.

He worked with it, not being able, at first, to undo it. And all the time he was leaning close. I felt him close, both as a threat and a comfort. I felt naked and exposed and touched and this filled my body with a strange arousal that I didn't choose.

The button became undone and he unzipped my jeans. I held my breath as his fingers came close to my sex. I gasped as he let go and took hold of my jeans and started to pull them down from my hips.

I was utterly embarrassed as I felt him yank my jeans down from my hips. I felt exposed and wondered if this was what I wanted because I was overcome with arousal as the jeans came down over my hips.

I wasn't to be disappointed, I wasn't to be whipped on my jeans. I was to be undressed at this post and my shameful arousal surged through me and I could do nothing to stop it.

I was ashamed because I wanted to be stripped naked. At that moment I didn't care that I was to be whipped on my naked skin. I just wanted him to take my clothes off and I felt guilty for feeling like this. Maybe even the thought of his whip on my naked skin added to the sense of a guilty pleasure, something I shouldn't feel. I was frightened but that was not all I was.

He made sure I kept my knickers on. They threatened to come down with the jeans but he made sure they stayed in place. He pulled my jeans down my legs and I helped him by lifting my feet as he pulled them free. With my jeans came my shoes off and I felt how cold the floor was as I now stood on bare feet.

I was naked bar my knickers and I felt the cold surface of the whipping post against my thighs and my lower belly.

Again I went through this strange sensation of wondering if he would remove my knickers, that mixed feeling of being glad I wasn't completely naked and the disappointment that he would let me keep them on.

I figured that the thin fabric of my red cotton knickers wouldn't make much difference when he whipped me and perhaps he wanted to grant me this modesty.

Still I had expected him to expose me completely and I wondered why he let me keep my knickers on.

'Almost there,' he said, and I knew he was smiling.

'I wanted you to think that I may, just may, grant you the mercy of keeping those knickers on. But, don't worry, they will come down.'

I felt caught out, as if he had read my mind and knew about the turmoil in my head those knickers had caused.

I held my breath as he took hold of my last item of clothing and gently but swiftly slipped them down my hips and legs. I lifted my feet and stepped out of them. Now I was naked. Now I had nothing that would protect my body against his whip. I was ready.

I froze when he placed the horsewhip across my buttocks. My heart stopped beating. Now I realised that I was, really, going to be whipped. He was, really, going to hit me with the whip across my naked bottom and it was going to hurt. I knew how much it hurt to hit your own leg with a horsewhip, through the fabric of your jeans. I knew the force and power of it. Now I was going to be hit across my buttocks, my exposed and naked buttocks with the cruel whip.

'I am not,' I said, my voice weak, 'I am not sure, I can do this.'

'Take a deep breath,' he said reassuringly, 'you don't have to do anything.'

I closed my eyes as I felt the whip leave my skin. It was all silent. My mind was racing. How painful was it going to be? How horrible would it be?

I was startled by the hissing sound of the whip through the air and the sharp report when it made contact with my skin. This was the sound of a whipping, the sound of pain.

My bottom exploded. It burned with fire. I wasn't prepared for this. Nothing in my mind could have prepared me for this. I gasped. I squirmed. I couldn't believe how painful it was. It took over my body and exploded in my head. It was unbearable, unthinkable.

As I came round I felt as if a red hot iron was pressed against my buttocks. I was shocked how painful it had been. And in that moment I couldn't imagine this to happen again. Surely this was it, surely he would let me go now?

The hissing sound and the sharp report told me otherwise. I cried out in agony and shock. It hurt even more the second time. I heard myself whimper.

'Please, please, I can't take it, please, no more,' I heard the panic in my own voice as I pleaded.

'No, my dear,' he said, his voice calm, 'it is too late now.'

He whipped me again and this time I lifted my feet in agony as I cried out.

'Take a deep breath and calm down,' he said with a soothing voice, 'you are doing fine.'

I cried out in misery and at the mockery of this. It seemed cruel to say I was doing fine and to suggest how I should do to cope with it. He wanted this, he wanted me to suffer so why mock me by pretending to help me?

I cried out again as the fourth lash hit me. I squirmed in panic, desperate to get away from this. It overwhelmed me. I wanted it to stop.

He hit me again and I felt how tears came to my eyes, how I started to sob, feeling utterly helpless and miserable.

I braced myself for the sixth but when it hit home I still cried out. The seventh made me whimper. It slowly dawned on me that there was no escape. I had chosen to let me be tied and I had let him whip me and now he wasn't going to let me off the hook. I had to take whatever came my way.

Eight and nine was pure agony but somehow my mind started to settle in a kind of grim determination. I had to brace myself, I had to take this.

'And now, one on the thighs,' he said and immediately he hit the back of my thighs and another kind of pain filled my senses. I can't say it hurt more but it was different and I screamed in pain.

Next one hit across my buttocks again and I jumped.

I can't say I accepted what was happening to me but the pain swept my mind clean and I was thinking of nothing else and how to survive the next. I stopped thinking about when it would be over, I just concentrated on the next one to come.

I settled into a pattern and took what came my way. I cried because it hurt but I didn't think of the unfairness and of his cruelty. I just let it happen. I desperately wanted it to stop but I no longer expected it to stop. I was there, I was only my body being whipped and I was, in one sense, whole.

Then he stopped. I didn't believe it at first but he stopped. I hadn't counted well but I think I had got 23 or 24 plus a couple more on my thighs.

My bottom was numb and there was a certain throbbing, rather than searing pain. I knew, somehow, that when the numbness would disappear I would be very, very sore.

I gasped as I realised he was standing close to me.

'You did well,' he said as he placed his hand on my bottom.

He gently caressed my hot aching skin and it was both cool and soothing and agonising and painful.

I wasn't prepared to sense him this close and in my sobbing, sweaty and exhausted state I was unprepared for his touch.

A touch is a touch and it is sweet and in this state I didn't care who touched me. It was sweet even if it was by the one who had caused me this misery.

'Your bottom is hot,' he said, 'you won't be able to sit on this for a couple of days.'

I sighed at this remark. It seemed so deliberate, so cruel to point it out, to talk about the obvious, as if he enjoyed the fact that I was marked, the fact that I would feel this whipping later. It was as if he was happy and proud he had whipped me. I had suffered and he had enjoyed it. The unfairness of it made me whimper.

But that was not all I felt. This strange cruelty, this unfairness made my body react. His words sent the red wave through me, it started where he touched me and it surged through my body to end between my legs. I trembled.

His hand travelled over my hip, forward, onto my lower belly. I held my breath while his hand moved over my skin. It started fires in me, fires I couldn't resist.

I wondered if his hand would go upwards or downwards. I feared downwards but was still disappointed when it went upwards. It stroked my belly, a finger in my belly button and I gasped as he caressed my breast.

I heard him humming. He liked this. He enjoyed first whipping a woman and then caressing her.

I held my breath as his hand went down my body, over my belly, over my lower belly and in between my legs.

I cried out as his hand rested on my sex, held me there, made my heart beat faster. Then he slipped his fingers into me and invaded me.

I was helpless and I felt ashamed and humiliated by his touch, still I wanted it, still I yearned for it.

I lost track of time but I don't think he held his fingers in my sex for a long time. Still the red wave surged powerful through my body. It was as if the whipping had not brought just pain but also this readiness to being touched. It surged through me and down to his fingers and I couldn't stop it.

As if I had waited for a long time and the mere touch brought it to a conclusion I came with his fingers in me. I whimpered and gasped as I came, still bound to the whipping post. My legs were weak and I was hanging in my bound wrists.

As I came round he was standing by the rope, ready to untie it. He waited for me to stand on my own legs and when he saw I did he loosened the rope.

I stood trembling as my arms were no longer stretched above my head and when he untied my wrists. I still shivered as he turned me to him and took me in his arms.

I found it strange that he would embrace me, he who had whipped me, and I found it strange that I would find comfort in his embrace.

Still I cried against his shoulders while he held me and told me how brave I had been. I didn't feel brave. I felt small and whipped. But I cried.

'You may dress now,' he said, after a while when he sensed that I had composed myself.

As I walked over to my clothes I felt as if the world was returning to me. I started to see the things around me. I started to return to myself.

Gingerly I donned my clothes and when I was done I turned to him. He smiled. He seemed happy, almost cheerful. I found this reassuring and I felt no bitterness. He had whipped me and he had been cruel to me but I felt no bitterness. I wondered why?

I wondered why I had let this happen, why I had let him whip me. Did I want it? I couldn't possibly want it. Why did I let him do it? Maybe I did want it. No one forced me. That must be it. I wanted it. I know I wanted it. I had gone through with it and I had survived.

I looked at him and felt a kind of tenderness for this man. He was handsome and very attractive but I didn't love him. He had done something for me, with me, and maybe I had done something for him.

'I will be here if you ever wish to come back,' he said.

I nodded. Then I turned and went, out into the world. I think I had a faint smile on my face. I think I had.

After Story Blues?

Dear Readers, as you may have noticed, I haven't been blogging much, lately. I don't really know why. It's just that my mind hasn't been set on travelling through fantasy land for a while. Reality – or what to call it – demands my attention, I have felt a kind of distance to fantasies, especially of the kinkier sort.

I feel a little fed up with my stories and my constant returning to the same themes. How many times can you vary a spanking story? I have spoken about darker thoughts but when I sit down to write they don't transfer to words on the screen.

Maybe I am blocking my own mind, maybe I am scared? I don't know. I do love writing still but I do love kinds of writing that don't always seem to fit this blog. Sometimes when I read stories I have written I can feel that I really like parts of them, enjoy a description of a person or the interaction between characters. Sometimes I find the spanking or the naughtiness it leads to a bit alien to the rest of the story.

I have become more and more focussed on the underlying emotions, the mindset that makes people do the things they do in kinky stories. Like I am fascinated by dependence, vulnerability and even submission but not necessarily in the dungeon of some master or mistress but rather in everyday relationships.

The truth is that I don't know what I want to do with this blog at the moment. I know, for sure, that my mind will return to the thrill of fantasies but at the moment there is a kind of low in that area. I want to continue writing, to continue exploring my thoughts and emotions but in areas that are a bit removed from the fantasy worlds I have come to share with you, dear Readers.

I know all this sound very dramatic but don't take me too seriously, please. I just feel that I have tendency to keep a distance, to talk through my stories rather than address you directly. I thought I should talk to you and tell you what is really on my mind, at least regarding the blog.

This blog is about fantasies, not about stories and if you want, I would very much want to hear from you, about those fantasies, what they mean to you, what you think they are trying to tell you, how they work, what's important in them. They are important, we all know that.

I have been blogging for almost three years now and it has been a great time. I see no reason to stop now but I know I have to figure out what I want to do with it all, the writing and the blogging.

I promise I will post any stories or thoughts that are suitable for the blog, or perhaps even if they aren't. Even if my mind is a little empty at the moment, I will not abandon the blog. Take care.

Surrender, part 23

Here it is, the last episode of this story. I have finally managed to write a longer story to the end. I hope I still have managed to surprise you a little.

Returning home was strange. It had all come so easy to me during the trip. There had been so little reluctance, so little protest. I wanted it. That was the truth I had begun to live with, I wanted it.

We had a rather blessed month. He was home a lot and I spent most of my time in his flat. I was naked a lot, I knelt a lot and somehow this made it easier for me. The formality, the positions, the poses, the movements and the words, all seemed to make it normal and acceptable to be what I was, or had become. I was his slave.

It was a silly word. I knew all about slavery, the social context and the implications of it and what I experienced was nothing compared to that. Still there was something of a truth in calling me a slave.

I did accept it, I was the one allowing it, so in a way it was by free will and by definition a long way from slavery. But inside that bubble, in the context of being with him, it was still true. He commanded and I obeyed, he used me and I provided what he wanted, I pleased him and did what he required of me.

There was bliss in that. It was good to be free of the responsibility and I had showed myself and him that I was prepared to go through a lot of ordeal to live up to his expectations.

It was no smooth sailing. He sometimes wanted to assert himself, to show me who I was. Sometimes he just fancied it. And this meant spelling out on my body the truth of my position, it meant him taking his whip to me.

It was all part of the deal, part of being loved by him and loving him, trusting him and being with him. In some strange way, I was happy those weeks.

It all changed. It didn't happen in a sudden but the change was still dramatic.

It all started one evening, when I had gone to his flat after my lectures. As ordered, I stripped off in the hallway and put away my clothes. I went into the flat, naked, and looked around to make sure that everything was in order.

I didn't know when to expect him so I couldn't start cooking for him and the rooms were meticulously cleaned. I saw that the flowers needed water so I attended to that.

This was not as easy as it may sound. It meant standing in the window for some time and expose myself to anyone who happened to be watching. I know he liked that and wouldn't mind the rumours but I was still embarrassed.

When I was done, I sat down to read. I had to wait for him quite a while and when he finally opened the door I was bored. I flew up and hurried into the hallway to greet him.

He smiled at my 'welcome home, Sir' and took his coat off and gave it to me.

It was then it happened. I held the coat close to my face and smelled it, a silly gesture of affection.

My heart started beating. I had smelt something new, someone new. I was quite sure it wasn't a man.

Smell is strange. It is one of the most powerful senses there is, yet it is illusive. I wasn't sure I could pinpoint the smell, still I knew I had felt something different.

My mind started racing, my heart was beating hard. I gathered myself and asked him what he wanted for dinner.

I didn't much like the sense of distance I felt between us, the question marks that seemed to stand before me. I had to ask him, my trust in him demanded it.

'Sir?' I said, a little later.

'Yes, what is it?'

'Do you have someone else, besides me?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, do you have other women?'

'You are my one and only.'

'I am glad, Sir.'

I felt calmer. I trusted him. Still I couldn't get the nagging feeling out of my head. I felt as if I betrayed him by thinking like that and thought that I probably was.

I had managed to forget the whole incident until one evening when he took me to a party. It was a quite formal thing, with black ties and cocktail dresses.

As usual I was dressed in a short clinging thing that made me feel naked. I had come to almost enjoy this sensation. It was as if the dress was the sign of ownership, like it showed me off as his woman, his slave.

He introduced me to a colleague of his, a woman dressed in a red dress, less revealing than mine but still quite stylish and attention seeking.

She seemed really happy to see him and hugged him closely. In her friendliness and perhaps as a token of her appreciation of him she hugged me too.

I knew in that instance who she was. I knew she had hugged him before. How much do you have to hug a man to leave your scent on him? More than a friendly embrace, surely.

I looked into her face and she smiled at me. I knew she had been with him, she told me as clearly as if she had spoken the words.

I had to ask him. There was no other way. I simply had to find out.

I tried to think about what it meant if he really was intimate with this woman. Did I have the right to keep him for myself? If I really was his slave, his woman, who was I to demand that of him? I didn't know how I would react but I needed to know.

The whole evening my head was full of strange images of this woman coming home to his flat. In my mind she sometimes sat in the sofa with him and I hurried around, naked, waiting on them, or she watched when I was whipped, maybe she even touched me. Maybe I had to watch them kiss, or worse. Sometimes I saw her with pulled up skirt, knickers around her knees, getting the cane.

I tried to calm my beating heart and thought that this was my next ordeal, my next test of loyalty.

'Sir,' I said, as we returned to his flat, 'you have had that woman.'

'What makes you say that?'

'I know you have, Sir.'

'What if I have?'

'It is true, isn't it?'

'Only a couple of times. It doesn't change anything.'

'Sir, it does.'

'No, it doesn't, I have never promised to be faithful, what makes you think you have exclusive rights?'

I stood in silence for a while, looking at him.

'You don't get it, Sir.'

'No, I don't get it, what's the matter with you?'

'You told me you hadn't been with her.'

'I didn't want to hurt you.'

'You lied to me, Sir, you lied when I asked you a question. You don't see what you have done, do you?'

'What have I done?' He looked annoyed and a little bewildered.

'You have wrecked it all, that is what you have done. You don't get it, why would you? You went off with another woman, and I have tried to get my head around what it would be like sharing you with someone else. I know I would be jealous, angry, hurt and envious but I think, no, I know you would help me with that, maybe the whip would come in handy for jealousy, and I think, I really think that I could cope with it. I have gone through so much with you, been forced to accept and like things I never thought was possible, never thought I could cope with. You have helped me through it with carrot and stick, literally, so why wouldn't I manage this too? No, I am sure I would. But that is not the point. I obey you in everything and the one thing I need from you, the only thing that has to be firm and constant, the only thing that matters at the end of the day, that is trust. I don't know if I could live without being loved, maybe it would be possible but I know I have to trust you. And now you have broken that trust. You have lied to me. It's over, it was sweet, but now it is gone.'

I turned around and opened the door. He said nothing as I went out into the night and left him behind.

I walked through the streets, in my clinging dress, in my thin shoes, crying like a baby. I didn't care. It was over. I didn't know why I was so sure. I just knew I couldn't be with him if I couldn't trust him.

I don't know how I got through those days. Sarah, dear Sarah helped me. She held me and let me cry, she didn't try to talk and give advice, no she just stayed there and held me close.

He contacted me. He wanted me back. Maybe he understood what he had done, maybe not. He didn't apologise and I am not sure it had made any difference.

I crashed this time too, as I always did when a relationship didn't work out. And again I got my feet back on the ground, slowly.

I was back at work and I knew I loved it. I was a changed person though. He had added something, or opened up a passage to a part of me that had been hidden.

I didn't stop my research, I stuck to my guns, I was still the same. The difference was that now I knew what I longed for. I still blush when I think of it, how I long to kneel naked at someone's feet.

Not My Kink

After the last blogpost someone commented and said that something in the story wasn't their kink. A little later some other person asked me 'what if he had suggested so and so'.

This started a train of thought in my head. Thing is, I don't mind that it isn't someone's particular kink (and I know for sure that this person wasn't complaining) and I wouldn't mind including whatever the other person suggested even if it isn't my kink.

When writing a short scene, when you jump into the action, it is often easier to stay close to the fantasy, to play out something the intrigues you or excites you, it is often my kink, there, in those stories. But writing is a strange thing, the characters come alive, they get histories, desires, thoughts and such things. Stories tend to be about something that isn't always that obvious.

The Surrender story, for example, is about just that, surrender, or submission or what to call it. If it is true to some of my kinks it is that one. This means that if the heroine of the story surrenders to the man, she can't expect to stay within her comfort zone. I have at least tried to describe a situation where she doesn't.

It is true, however, that I often stay within my comfort zone, fantasy-wise, but it doesn't mean I have to. So back to the beginning. What happens to the heroine in the story, isn't necessary her kink, neither does it have to be mine.

So the reply to the first comment is, 'I don't think it is hers either,' and to the other comment, 'why not'.